Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

IMPERIAL CREED

Prologue

Observe and Learn

The Golden Vales of Lom

The Cry

The Discomfort of Questions

The Waters of Mistral

The Piercing Thorn

The Advent

The Festival of the Emperor’s Light

Undermined

The Great Rain

Move and Counter-Move

The Exercise of Authority

The Crest of the Wave

The Brittle City

The Dagger

Reversals

The Need to Know

Karrathar

The Herald

Cyclone

Epilogue

THE PYRES OF ARMAGEDDON

Tears of the Emperor

Claw of Desolation

Planetfall

The Race

Tempestora

A Small Sacrifice

Prelude to Volcanus

Between the Claws

The Annihilation Brigades

The Streets of Volcanus

Redemption and Shame

The Nemesis Crusade

The Cry

Hades

The Death Barrens

Negotiations

What Is Necessary

Von Strab’s Legacy

Ugulhard

Epilogue

CHAINS OF GOLGOTHA

Ascending

The Grand Illusion

Trampled

Arrogance

The Well

The Shape of Redemption

Desperate Glory

Inflexible

The Run

Crucible

The Valediction

A PLAGUE OF SAINTS

THE WRECKAGE

EVIL EYE

THE GALLOWS SAINT

SACRIFICIAL

SARCOPHAGUS

About the Author

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.

IMPERIAL CREED

Prologue

The doom began with Mistral. It would reach far beyond that system, and there are those of us who feel its effects to this day. But it began with Mistral. It began ten years before the arrival of a freshly minted commissar named Sebastian Yarrick.

Throne, was I ever that young?

The vector of the doom was Preacher Guilhem. Called to the Ecclesiarchy from birth, he had ministered to the manufactorum workers of Mistral for more than a century and a half, moving from one baronial holding to another. Only rarely did he preach in the chapels of the homes belonging to the great families. In all those decades, he had never sought advancement, and it had most certainly never been offered. He was one of the anonymous millions of low-level servants of the Adeptus Ministorum, those priests whose lives are a single, unending sacrifice to the glory of our God-Emperor. This did not make him a saint. I never met him, but Rasp would come to hear much about the man. He was a vicious old bastard. Defending the faith against the heretic and the xenos demands an indomitable rigidity, but Guilhem had reached a point in his life where holy dogmatism had become little more than bitterness and a generalized resentment towards anyone whose behaviour rubbed him the wrong way. Which, by now, had come to mean everyone. The men and women who worked the weapon forges of Mistral were drones, so exhausted by the end of their shifts that their demonstrations of faith, however honest, lacked the fire Guilhem demanded, and any shred of intellectual engagement. He responded with sermons whose spiritual worth had, over the years, been eroded a grain at a time until they had been reduced to a core of hectoring abuse. He had lost his calling, but he did not know it yet.

On the day Guilhem took the first steps that would lead to the deaths of millions, he spent twelve hours preaching to rotating shifts of workers in the chapel of Vahnsinn Manufactorum 17, on the edges of Hive Arral. It took the full twelve hours for him to remind every worker of that forge of the duties of faith and the unworthiness of the individual. Twelve hours of sermons, of projecting his voice to the back of the nave without the aid of a vox-speaker. It was deep night when, his responsibilities to Vahnsinn 17 discharged for the week, he set off on the long hike from the chapel to the hab complex where he would sleep for a few hours before heading off to the next manufactorum, there to begin the cycle again.

The paved route to the habs was circuitous, winding between several open-pit mines and immense materiel warehouses. Guilhem took a shortcut instead. He scrambled over slag heaps and wandered through a wasteland of dark red rock and eternal, corrosive wind. About a kilometre from the chapel he was walking over a flat, scoured plain, squinting against the incessant sting of dust. He’d taken this route before. The area wasn’t a well-frequented one – the seams had proved unpromising. Because little work had been done here, he had no reason to believe the ground was unstable.

On this day, it was. The rock beneath his feet vanished, leaving only air. He dropped down a narrow chute. The walls battered him from side to side as he fell. He heard cracks that he would not know until afterwards were his left arm being smashed like porcelain. His head took so many blows, coherent thought was so much broken glass when he hit the bottom.

He lay where he had fallen for a long time, writhing. His lungs were flattened, and it was half a minute before his screams had any sound. Then they bounced off the rock, distortions of his pain coming back in his face. Hours passed, perhaps even a day, and the truths sank in one by one. No one would find him. Death would not be quick, but it would come, and it would be painful.

If he had not taken that shortcut, if he had walked two paces to the right over the plain, if he had broken his fool neck on the way down… So many ifs, so many moments that could have prevented the damnation to come. But of course he took that path. Of course he fell. Nothing was avoidable. Everything was preordained.

I’ve seen too much to have any real faith in chance.

I don’t know how long it was before he heard the whispers. He must have been down there for a considerable span, lying broken in the endless night. I know something of what he went through. I have weathered my own such fall. What I don’t have for him is sympathy. He was the voice of the Imperial Creed in that small corner of the Imperium on that particular day, and his responsibility to remain true to it was no less than that of the Ecclesiarch himself. He failed in his duty.

Dereliction disgusts me. There is only one answer for it. And every fool who resents the role of the Commissariat should look to the example of Preacher Guilhem. He was one man. He was insignificant. Yet his failure had an incalculable cost.

His failure was not that he heard the whispers, but that he listened to them. Perhaps they had always been present on Mistral, waiting for a receptive ear. Perhaps they were called by the desperation of a weak man. What I know, and what matters, is that they offered Guilhem a bargain, and he took it. The man who had blustered and browbeaten all within earshot gave up everything he was sworn to uphold when faced with his own death. He was rotten, hollow, and his will snapped as easily as his bones.

He was also a fool. He gained nothing in the bargain. When he emerged from the pit, his body renewed, he had bought himself very little more time. He would be one of the first to die in the name of his new mission. And with every step he took towards the hab complex, the doom came marching for us.

CHAPTER 1

Observe and Learn

1. YARRICK

I watched the deployment embarkation as if seeing one for the first time. There was a strong element of truth to that impression. During my years as a storm trooper I had taken part in many mobilizations, many invasions, but I had always been in the midst of the troop formations – one cog among thousands of others, marching into the drop-ships. Now, briefly, I stood apart from the great mass of the troops. I was on a balcony overlooking the loading bay of the Scythe of Terra. For the first time I saw the full spectacle of a regiment about to enforce the Emperor’s will. The perspective drove home the magnificence of the engine of war that was the Imperial Guard. Below me was the 77th Mortisian Infantry Regiment. The sons and daughters of the dying hive world of Aighe Mortis stood at attention in phalanxes of geometric perfection. They were no longer individuals. They were a collective entity, a massive fist as clockwork and unwavering in its precision as the limb of any Titan. I saw and understood how right and proper was the anonymity I had known before. I had been completely replaceable. I was still, only now I was required to understand why.

This was what I was learning from my new vantage point, in my new identity, in my new uniform. The peaked cap and the greatcoat with its epaulettes creating an imposing silhouette, the colours of authority and discipline embodied in the dress black and the crimson collar: this apparel obliterated the identity of its wearer as surely as had my storm trooper armour, or the khaki fatigues of the Mortisians. But where the troop uniforms merged the self into a force-multiplying whole, my garb stood out. Visibility was vital to the commissar. He had to be seen in order to inspire courage and fear. The clothes were the symbols of authority, of righteousness, of discipline. They were what bore the meaning of the rank. The actions that were carried out when they were worn had to be worthy of them, and were crucial to maintaining their power and honour. The actual individual under the cap was irrelevant.

So I thought.

I was not alone on the balcony. I was there with Dominic Seroff. Together we had been the terror of our dorms at the schola progenium. Smiling fate had seen us in the same platoon, inflicting terror of a different sort on the heretic and the xenos. Now, as I answered the calling I had felt for as long as I can remember, Seroff too had donned the black coat. I on the right, Seroff on the left, we flanked a legend. Lord Commissar Simeon Rasp had summoned us to witness the final minutes before embarkation. On a grand podium opposite the hull doors, Colonel Georg Granach held forth to the soldiers of the regiment, praising their faith and zeal, and prophesying martial glory.

‘Tell me what you see,’ Rasp said.

I glanced away from the troops, and caught Seroff looking my way. Each of us was inviting the other to speak first and get it wrong. The set of Seroff’s mouth told me he was willing to let the silence stretch to embarrassing lengths. I knew his canniness. He knew my eagerness. I had already lost. It was simply a matter of recognizing that fact.

Seroff looked too young to be a commissar. He had somehow made it through our dozens of battle zones without picking up a single scar. He still had the face of a joker. With his blond curls struggling to push his cap off his head, I wondered how seriously troopers would take him as a commissar. I sometimes wondered how seriously he took his role himself. The contrast with Rasp bordered on the grotesque. The lord commissar waited, impassive, for one of us to answer. His eyes did not move from the floor of the bay, but I knew he was watching us both. His hair, now invisible under his cap, was a close-cropped and dirty white. His angular features had a youthful strength thanks to juvenat treatments, but they had also been sharpened by long experience. He did have scars. The most noticeable was a harsh ‘V’ that ran the length of his cheekbones, coming to the point just below his nose. It was a souvenir of an encounter with the eldar. The xenos who had branded him had not survived.

I took a breath, bowed to the inevitable, and answered. ‘I see what I did not fully understand before now,’ I said. ‘In the Guard, the individual is irrelevant. It is the mass–’

Rasp raised a finger, cutting me off. ‘No,’ he said. His voice was quiet but drew attention with as much force as if it were drowning out the colonel’s vox-amplified speech. ‘If that were true,’ Rasp said, ‘there would be very little need for commissars.’ He pulled his bolt pistol out of his holster. Holding the barrel in his left hand, he placed the stock in his right, keeping his fingers open. ‘Not one of my fingers is strong enough, on its own, to hold this pistol and fire it.’ He closed his fist, lifted the pistol one-handed. ‘With all of them working as one, I am lethal.’

Seroff frowned. ‘Isn’t that what Yarrick said?’

Rasp shook his head. ‘You are both missing an essential element. If I were to lose even one of my fingers, I could still fire the weapon but my accuracy and my speed would be compromised. Lose the thumb or the forefinger and I will be hard-pressed to do more than simply hold the gun.’ His eyes, a cold blue so pale they were almost white, flicked over each of us in turn, judging whether his instruction was sinking in. ‘Am I making myself clear?’

‘The collective strength is created by that of individuals,’ Seroff said.

‘Ignore the importance of specific positions at your peril,’ I added.

Rasp returned the pistol to his belt. ‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘It falls to us, to you, to preserve the health of the whole by ensuring the proper functioning of the part. And should the finger be gangrenous…’

‘Sever it,’ I said, ‘and take its place.’

Rasp gave a single nod. The lesson was over.

We listened to the rest of Granach’s speech. He had moved on from broad considerations of regimental honour to the specifics of the mission. Or at least, he had pretended to do so. What he said was little different from any number of commanding officer exhortations I had heard, back when I had been one of the thousands on the embarkation deck. Granach struck me as working from a script, one he had trotted out many times before. He spoke with energy and enthusiasm, but his delivery was over-rehearsed. The more I watched him, the more I saw a man discharging a difficult but necessary duty, one he would be happy to see over and done.

Rasp grunted. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I hope you’re noting the colonel’s oratory. I have the greatest respect for his tactical prowess, but he is no rhetorician. What, in your estimation, is the problem here?’

‘Too familiar,’ I said.

A thin smile from the lord commissar. ‘Precisely. How many times have you both heard the same vague thoughts, assembled with very similar words?’

Seroff shrugged. ‘Isn’t it all an inevitable but necessary ritual?’

A single shake of the head, as precise and emphatic as the one nod earlier. ‘Is it necessary that the troops be addressed? Yes. But the address should never be ritualized. Its truth becomes robbed of urgency. It fails to inspire. Have you read the Legomenon Victoriae of Lord Commander Solar Macharius?’

I had. Seroff hadn’t. He tried to bluff by looking very focused and interested, as if he were comparing a Macharian address to Granach’s current effort and would come up with a cogent answer in another few moments.

Rasp wasn’t fooled. ‘Correct that lacuna, Commissar Seroff. You will see the true art of the military speech. Read but one address and you will be already well launched on a new crusade. When you stand before warriors, you must inspire them.’ He made a sweeping arm gesture towards the deck. ‘I know, as do you, that too many of those soldiers are, whether they know it themselves or not, politely waiting for Colonel Granach to finish so they can get on with it. That is not how it should be.’ He favoured first Seroff and then me with a hard look. ‘That is how it must never be when you speak. Your authority will inspire fear in the troops who fall under your eye. This is right and necessary, but it is not enough. The mere sight of you must grant them fire. And when they hear you, they must be happy to give up their lives.’ He paused. ‘At great cost to the enemy, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I agreed.

Rasp listened to Granach a few moments more, then grimaced. ‘Word for word,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘These generalities are death,’ he told us. ‘Except in cases of necessary secrecy, tell these loyal servants of the Emperor why they are about to kill and die. Let them know the stakes. Give them a sense of purpose. Tell them why we are here. You heard General Rallam’s address to the commanding officers. His style is rather too clipped, but he was precise.

‘Commissar Yarrick. Tell me why we are here.’

‘We have come, at the request of Cardinal Wangenheim, to suppress a heretical uprising led by Baron Bartholomew Lom of Mistral.’

A snort. ‘True, but rather bluntly put. If you were speaking to your charges, you would find more of the poetry of war in your soul, I trust. I once heard you when I visited the schola progenium, Yarrick. I know what you are capable of. But yes. We have come to quell the turbulent Baron Lom.’

Rasp looked up, away from the assembly. His gaze drifted to the outer hull doors. He seemed to be staring through them, as if he could see Mistral turning below.

‘Lord commissar?’ Seroff asked.

No answer at first. There was a faint tightening of his jaw, the only sign of an internal debate. Finally, he said, ‘You are political officers. You know this, but I wonder if you have grasped the full implications of that fact. Your duties are to guard against deviation. The realities will mean rather more. Necessity will drive you to swim in murky waters.’

He fell silent. He hadn’t disclosed anything truly revelatory. He had articulated that which was never said, but understood by all but the most naïve. There was something else he was on the verge of saying. I hesitated before speaking, but as the seconds mounted in silence, I realized that the moment was slipping away. I decided to be direct.

No, that’s a lie. I didn’t decide. I have always been direct. That is my special curse. It is also, I know, why I have been seen as a curse myself. That’s a thought to keep me warm at night.

‘Are the waters of Mistral murky?’ I asked.

Rasp made a noise in his throat, a stillborn laugh. ‘So the local expression would have it. It’s been years since I last set foot on its surface. But I would be surprised if matters have changed for the better since then.’

‘They can’t have,’ Seroff said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’

‘True. And yet…’ Rasp frowned. He thought for a moment, and then his expression cleared. He had come down on one side of a hard deliberation, and was now at peace with his conscience. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this mission appears to be very straightforward – an insurgency that is beyond the abilities of local forces to contain, but that is nevertheless limited in scope. Our rapid triumph is a certain conclusion, and is therefore not to be trusted. When matters are at their most cut-and-dried is when you must be most wary.’

‘On Mistral?’ Seroff asked.

‘Anywhere,’ Rasp answered. ‘Everywhere. But today, yes, on Mistral.’

I ran through questions in my mind, examined angles. I applied the lessons of my mentor. Assume the hand of political manoeuvrings, even and especially where none seemed present. What was the context lurking behind the rebellion? Why would Rasp be uneasy? He had been here before. That was an interesting piece of data. What did that tell me, then? A possibility dawned. ‘Is Baron Lom known to you?’ I asked.

The corner of Rasp’s mouth twitched. He was pleased. Not just with his student, I think, but also with the opportunity to speak further. ‘I have met him twice, and then only briefly,’ the lord commissar said. ‘But I was impressed. The family has a storied history of service in the Imperial Guard. I believe that certain off-shoots have even produced some inquisitors.’ He had continued to stare at the far wall as he spoke, but now he finally faced us. And there was the hard, unflinching, evaluating gaze. It was perhaps the most visible expression of the qualities that had made him pre-eminent among commissars. Nothing escaped those eyes. Nothing was beyond their judgement. When I was pinned by that gaze, I knew to listen to his next words as though my soul depended on them.

‘Heresy has no respect for reputation or family,’ he said. ‘I have seen it take root in the heart of individuals who had, until that very moment, been so free of taint as to be saints. No one is beyond its reach except the Emperor Himself. No one. So I do not suggest for a second that Baron Lom is somehow above suspicion. But…’ The finger held up again, emphatic as an enforcer’s power maul. ‘But… the fact remains that Lom’s profile is not the usual one for a heretic. And the political waters of Mistral are of the very murkiest.’ He clasped his hands behind his back. ‘So, fellow commissars, my final command before we head into battle – eyes open. Always.’

Down below, Granach had finished his address to the regiment. The phalanxes turned and began to march into the drop-ships. It was time to go.

2. SAULTERN

He never liked the descents. Buckled into his seat, held in place by the impact frame, he was just another egg among a hundred others, waiting to be smashed if the landing went wrong. And every drop felt like it was going wrong. There were no viewing blocks in the passenger hold of the drop-ship, no way to tell when the ground was coming up or what was happening outside. The journey from low orbit to ground was a prolonged violent shaking in a metal box. All of that was bad. The worst, though, was the helplessness. He understood that the immobility was necessary to prevent a broken spine or worse, but his instinctual reaction was to revolt against the perceived imprisonment. For the length of the descent, he had no agency. His life was in the hands of forces beyond his control, beyond even his knowledge, and he wasn’t even granted the illusion of having a say in his survival or fall.

Logan Saultern, Captain of Third Company, 77th Mortisian Infantry Regiment, liked this descent even less than the dozen other drops he had taken. That was because he was seated opposite a commissar. The man’s name was Yarrick, and the fact that he was young as political officers went was no comfort to Saultern. He had those commissar eyes. If anything, he was worse than the usual watchdog. His stare was direct, unwavering, unblinking, and did not move until he had seen whatever it was he wished to see. Yarrick didn’t look at Saultern for long. One glance, not much more than a second, and that was it. Saultern watched the commissar eye every other trooper visible from his seat. Yarrick favoured a number of them with an evaluation at least twice as long as Saultern’s.

He was so caught up in parsing what that might mean that, for once, Saultern barely noticed that the drop had begun. He withdrew into a sty of bitter self-loathing. That’s how much I’m worth, he thought. A quick oh-it’s-you and then we move on. He had no illusions about his ability to command, just as he had no illusions about how he came to be a captain. The last of the great mercantile families had long since fled the decaying, played-out Aighe Mortis, but the children of some of the more clandestine relationships remained.

Occasionally, a flare-up of paternal guilt or some other sudden excess of sentiment would lead to random acts of largesse and the bestowing of favours. That had been Saultern’s luck. Swept up by the last founding, his training had mysteriously been redirected to the officer class. He didn’t even know what faction of old Mortisian money had ties with him. He didn’t care. What mattered was that he had no business being an officer. He had survived the streets of Aighe Mortis by being as nondescript as possible, and he resented having that camouflage stripped away. The men he commanded made him uneasy. The sergeants terrified him. One, Katarina Schranker, was a veteran sergeant. Covered in the tattoos and scars of dozens of battlefields, her grey hair shorn to stubble, she made him feel like his actions were being watched by a compact tank. He had muddled through his missions until now, but he had been part of rear-line reserves in minor engagements. This time, he and his company were being sent out in the first wave. Intimations of mortality fluttered in his chest. Yarrick’s lack of interest was further confirmation of his approaching demise. He knows I won’t be around long enough to matter, Saultern thought.

The landing was a violent jar. The captain’s teeth slammed together, and he bit through his lip. Blood poured down his chin in a humiliating rivulet. The bow of the drop-ship opened, becoming a ramp the width of the hull, while the impact harnesses retracted. Cursed, kicked and howled at by sergeants, men and women leapt up from their seats, grabbed their packs and pounded down the ramp into the early morning light of Mistral. Yarrick was among them. Saultern had no idea how the commissar had moved so fast. One moment he was sitting there, impassive, then Saultern glanced down to wrestle with unbuckling his straps, and when he looked up Yarrick was gone.

Saultern hurried to catch up. He wasn’t the last out of the drop-ship, but was still far enough back from the main body of soldiers for his uniform to feel like a costume, not a mark of rank. Then, as he descended the ramp, he encountered Mistral’s weather, and for a few moments all thoughts of shame and inability were swept away.

Mistral’s rotation was very rapid. Saultern knew this. He also knew that the planet’s days were only eighteen hours long. He hadn’t realized what one of the other consequences of the rotation would be. He hadn’t counted on the wind. It rushed at him from the west as he left the shelter of the drop-ship. It almost knocked him over. Close to a gale force, it threw him off balance, pushed and kept pushing. Its howl was a mournful white noise. There were very few gusts, just a constant battering, a stealing of breath and of sound. Everything else was muffled. Even the Leman Russ tanks rolling out of the next ship to the right had lost the intimidating power of their engines’ roar. Saultern’s vision was reduced, too. He had to squint to keep his eyes from watering. Each step was a struggle to move forwards in a straight line, and not stumble sideways. How do I command in this? Saultern thought. Throne, never mind that. How do I fight in this? It felt as if the wind were blowing through his head, rattling concentration. He clutched his cap, as if to keep what sense he could make inside his skull. He reached the bottom of the ramp and looked around.

The regiment was disembarking on a wide plain that extended south and west to the horizon. Its tall grasses bent and whispered eternal obedience to the wind. To the east, the land rose until it became a mountain chain whose peaks had been weathered into distorted columns and agonized claws. To the north were low, rolling hills. Into those hills was where the regiment was headed. That was where he was supposed to lead.

Waiting at the base of the hills were the locals: small contingents sent by the loyal barons. Altogether, they didn’t appear to Saultern to add up to much more than a company. There were enough family liveries and colours to make the Mordian Iron Guard look drab. These men were parade soldiers, Saultern thought. They were nothing but plumage. They looked as ridiculous as he knew he was.

He saw Yarrick standing at the head of his company. For a moment, Saultern thought the commissar had already deemed him unfit and removed him from command. But the commissar was not charging into the hills. He was standing still, waiting. Saultern felt the man’s eyes bore into his soul from hundreds of metres away. Still clutching his cap, he ran forward, shoving his way through lines of mustering soldiers, until he reached Yarrick.

‘Captain Saultern,’ Yarrick said. The greeting was clipped, formal, as iron-spined as the man who spoke. He saluted.

‘Commissar.’ Saultern returned the salute.

‘Are you ready?’

Saultern wasn’t sure, at first, that Yarrick had spoken. The words were so soft; how could he have heard them over this wind? But the commissar was watching him, waiting for a response. He was horrified to hear himself answer honestly. ‘No.’ He waited for the bolt shell that would terminate his command.

Yarrick did not move. His expression, such impassive stone for a young man, did not alter. He spoke again, still quietly, projecting his words over the wind to Saultern’s ears alone. ‘Are you willing?’

‘Yes.’ To Saultern’s surprise that was the truth.

‘Then lead.’

The two words were an absolute imperative. Saultern could no more disobey them than arrest Mistral’s rotation. When his full consciousness caught up to his actions, he was marching up the slope of the first hill, his company behind him, Chimeras on either side, the tanks of Colonel Benneger’s 110th Armoured Regiment chewing up the terrain ahead. The wind battered him from the left, while a stronger wind, given a shape in cap and coat, stalked at his shoulder and held him to his course.

3. YARRICK

It was easy to despise Captain Saultern. It would have been too easy to dismiss him. I hadn’t expected the strength of my office to be needed so soon. Shoring up a quailing officer before the first shot had been fired was a bit much. The first shot could easily have been my own, putting down a coward. I’m not sure what made me pause long enough to think and look clearly. It might have been Saultern’s absurdity. I do know that what saved him in the end was his honesty. Whether he intended to speak as he did or not, he did not dissemble, and to speak that one word, no, to a commissar, took courage, even if it was of an unconscious kind.

Rasp wanted me to keep my eyes open at all times. To be a good political officer meant having a deep understanding of actions and consequences. So he taught, and so I believed. His views were not shared by all the members of our order. There were plenty whose approach began and ended with merciless disciplinarianism. Rasp, however, was a lord commissar. Achieving that exalted rank meant being more than a blunt instrument. Seroff and I were privileged to receive his wisdom. We were learning that being a commissar meant reading currents.

It meant seeing what was really before me, not what I expected to see.

So Saultern was still drawing breath, and, for the moment, behaving like a captain of the Imperial Guard. Was sparing him wise? I still had my doubts. He was convinced that he was unfit to lead. If he was correct, was I condemning troopers to a needless death by leaving them in the command of an incompetent? I was trusting my instinct, which was telling me that a man with so few illusions about himself was less likely to act stupidly than an officer with delusions of superiority or, Emperor save us, a belief in his own immortality.

I had made the decision. I would accept the responsibility for it and for its consequences. I would learn from what followed. That was the only way, Rasp said, to fulfil one’s duty, to become a commissar in the truest sense possible. Observe and learn. Observe and learn. The mantra spun through my head, a resolution and a comfort.

Observe and learn.

We crested the hill. Beyond it, the land dropped sharply until it was well below the level of the plain. We descended into a valley only a few kilometres wide. The two linked Vales of Lom were an oasis in Mistral’s desert of wind. Here, in these deep, sheltered declivities, the topsoil was not blown high into the atmosphere at the first hint of cultivation. Better still, rich nutrients carried on the winds for thousands of kilometres ran into the wall of the Carconne Mountains, and accumulated on the valley slopes. The vineyards had first been planted there twenty centuries ago, and the amasec they produced was the finest in the subsector. It was at least as big a factor in the Lom fortune as the family’s industrial holdings.

The wind diminished as we moved lower down, but suddenly became shrill. It keened. Then I realized I wasn’t hearing wind. Two of the tanks exploded ahead of me. The grey air was stained with the black teardrops of incoming heavy mortar shells.

My mantra changed.

Fight or die.

CHAPTER 2

The Golden Vales of Lom

1. RALLAM

War, General Allek Rallam had opined more than once, did not have to be complicated. Stripped of all distracting inessentials, it was no more than a simple exercise in arithmetic. ‘Whatever force the enemy throws at you,’ he explained whenever and to whomever he could, ‘hit him back with that plus more. That’s all you need. Don’t come babbling to me about fancy-named gambits. Bunch of sad old tinsel covering up the fact that you don’t know what you’re doing, or don’t have the salt to get it done. The plus-more is all you need. Nail the bastards with your plus-more.’

Today’s assault was a perfect example, one that he looked forward to shoving into the face of that overthinking bookworm General Medar the next time they met. Medar would have to appreciate the conditions: the heretics confined to a clearly delineated geographical location, nothing coming in from the outside to add any variables to the demonstration. The territory of Lom consisted of two long, narrow valleys bounded by hills to the west and south, and to the east and north by the Carconne mountain range. There was only one practical route in, and that was from the south, driving the spear tip of his plus-more over the lower hills, down into the first of the valleys.

Inside his Salamander command, behind the rear lines of the advance, Rallam leaned over the hololith table. Black icons of his forces were updated in real time as they moved over the three-dimensional representation of the topography. The enemy’s positions were still speculative, appearing as translucent red. Rallam considered his opposition: one deluded aristocrat and the forces he could muster to his aid, backed into valleys with no easy retreat. Laughable. Barely worth the expense of the fleet’s travel to this system. His regiments would roll over Lom and his heretics, crushing them like ants beneath the blade of a land crawler, scraping the ground free of their filth. And then he would have a tale with which to beat Medar over the head.

Two Leman Russ icons vanished. The vox chatter erupted. Rallam looked up. The noise leaking from the vox-operator’s headphones sounded like screeching static. Lieutenant Jakob Kael, Rallam’s adjutant, spoke briefly to the operator, then joined Rallam at the table.

‘Well?’ Rallam demanded.

‘Mortar fire, general. Griffon shells, from the sounds of it.’

So the enemy had some heavy ordnance vehicles. Well, now. Rallam thought about that for a minute. Really, he couldn’t say that he was surprised. Mistral did produce artillery vehicles along with infantry for the Guard, after all. To be expected that the heretics would find a way to get their clutches onto some choice equipment. It didn’t change a thing. Not one. Too late to make any modifications to the main thrust of his strategy, anyway. His forces were committed.

He had a sudden mental picture of Medar laughing. He could hear the man’s supercilious, more-educated-than-thou chuckle, saw him tapping the side of his nose the way he did when he really wanted to grind someone’s gears. Rallam shoved the image away. ‘The advance continues,’ he told Kael, then addressed the vox-operator. ‘Get me some Lightnings over those Griffons. I want those hills levelled if that’s what it takes, but the advance does not stop.’

2. YARRICK

Every battlefield becomes an outpost of hell. Between the churning of tank treads, the trampling of boots and the cratering of artillery, the longer conflicts last, the more their landscapes come to resemble each other. But they do not all begin as devastated grey. It can be easy for soldiers to forget this, as they move from zone to zone, seeing nothing but eternal struggle, ruined cities, and ravaged, bleeding earth. They are reminded, though, on those occasions when they are present for the birth of war, when they are in the vanguard and arrive on the field of battle that, for a few precious moments, is still only a field.

I saw that on Mistral. I don’t know if I can call it a privilege. I saw the Vales of Lom before they were destroyed. I saw the vineyards. The vines were huge, their grapes hanging several metres from the ground. They were planted in rows so regular and groomed they resembled oil paint brushstrokes. Their leaves were a deep yellow so rich that it graced the eye in the same way the amasec of the grapes would bless the tongue. I can imagine standing on the floor of the valley, looking up at slopes that had been transformed into art. I imagine the pleasure it would have been to take in this sight, and how restorative the memory of such an experience could be. I can imagine these things, but I don’t know them. I never experienced them. I was among the last to see Lom’s beauty, but there would be no recollection in tranquillity of those images for me. When we witness the destruction of beauty, it is the destruction that we remember, that will forever remain the defining impression of a location. The beauty that came before becomes nothing more than the prologue to horror.

The shells walked the line of our forces. Geysers of earth and bodies shot skyward. Smoke rose from the slopes on either side as the Griffon mobile mortar platforms fired from camouflaged positions. A terrible hail fell, rocking the ground with concussion and flame. There was no shelter. There was no hiding from the mortar barrage. There was only speed and retaliation.

Fight or die.

The tank companies turned east and west. They brought their guns to bear on the Griffons while creating an avenue through which the more lightly armoured Chimeras and the infantry could flow. The cannons opened fire. They blanketed the slopes with shells. Fire raced down the vineyard rows. Smoke roiled, turning day into a twilight lit by the muzzle flare of great weapons.

I ran forward with Third Company. There was nothing for us to fight yet. The only strategy open to us was to get clear of the ambush’s kill zone as quickly as possible. So we turned Lom’s strategy against him. We were rushing towards him even faster than before. I glanced at Saultern. He was running hard, face set with the tunnel vision that comes with pushing through blind terror in the name of duty. He was being a Guardsman, but not a captain.

There was a slashing roar overhead. A squadron of Lightning fighters screamed past, the streaks of Hellstrike anti-tank missiles lancing the air. I saw a Griffon explode as it tried to evade its fate. It rolled down the slope, a burning metal ruin. The Leman Russ counter-barrage added to the toll. The mortar fire tapered off.

But not all at once. A shell hit close. The blast threw me off my feet. I landed face-first on broken ground. Wet things rained down around me. I was splattered by the life of the men in the centre of the blast. Skull ringing, cheeks scraped open, I pushed myself up. Saultern was nearby, sprawled flat. I hauled him up by the collar while Sergeant Schranker led a squad forward. Chimeras roared past us on either side. The air was thick with dust, smoke and exhaust. It was hard to see, hard to hear, hard to think. None of that mattered. The troops around us were staggering, trying to shake off the effect of the explosion.

‘Lead,’ I hissed at Saultern.

He blinked at me. I wasn’t sure if he understood. Then he pulled his pistol from its holster and held it high. ‘Third Company,’ he yelled. ‘To me!’ He did well. His voice was loud. He was heard. He gave me the look of a man desperate to prove himself, to me, if to no one else, and he headed off, weapon still raised. The company reformed in his wake and followed.

I realized, at that moment, that Rasp’s injunction to observe and learn extended also to myself. I had to know the nature of my own power in order to use it, and use it well.

The tanks caught up and passed us again as we reached the valley floor. The Griffons had fallen silent. The slopes had become an inferno. Fire had spread from vine to vine along stalks as dry as kindling. There was a new roar in the valley now, and a new wind. They were the progeny of the growing firestorm. It was its own force, and raced ahead of us, devouring centuries of the vintner’s art, exulting in its release by the genius of war.

Lom had drawn first blood. We had not been slowed, we had hit back, and his fiefdom was being consumed. As we approached the upward slope that would take us out of the first valley and to the yet-narrower pass that led to the second, we finally had our first sight of the main body of the enemy forces. They waited on the high ground, line upon line of infantry backed by tanks and armoured personnel carriers. The soldiers’ uniforms bore the livery of the Lom family: a deep vineyard-red, marked by a diagonal slash in yellow and green. They carried the Lom banner: yellow sceptre and blade crossed over a field of green. It was, I knew from the background data, the same standard that had flown over the family’s estate for millennia. Even from a distance, the numbers looked higher and the heavy support more substantial than we had expected. Lom was strong.

He wasn’t nearly strong enough.

A taste flooded my mouth when I saw the traitors. It was sour, bitter-ugly and lip-curling. It was the taste of hatred. I felt a rush of energy, brought on by the need to bring the enemies of our God-Emperor to heel. It gave me the breath I needed to call out as I ran. ‘Third Company!’ I shouted, zeal sending my words soaring over the promethium growl of engines and the hollow, crackling voice of the fire. ‘There stands the heretic in all his arrogance! Will you let that stand?’

‘No!’ cried the men and women of Third. The heretics’ flamboyance was a contrast to the drab khaki of the Mortisians, but the nondescript nature of that uniform was misleading. Simply to survive the hives of Aighe Mortis was a victory. To leave their filth, corruption and poverty, and fight across the galaxy with discipline was an honour beyond compare. The Mortisians regarded any sartorial display of pride to be meaningless vanity, and beneath contempt.

In this instance, they were certainly correct.

‘Will you let even a single soul among them draw one more breath?’ I asked.

‘No!’

‘Then drive them from this place! Drive them from existence! Drive them from the memory of man!’

I knew that my voice only reached so far. But as we surged forward, tearing up the hill as if we were the fire itself, I felt like a ferocious electrical charge had seized the entire company, and beyond it the regiment, and even farther beyond it, the armoured brigades. It was as if the tanks themselves understood what was being asked of them, and leapt forward with ravening eagerness. It had to have been an illusion, my own crusader ecstasy finding itself reflected in everything and everyone around me. And yet, even as I abandoned myself to the fury, there was an analytical sliver of my mind that took note of the events, and was satisfied with my work.

Tanks exchanged fire. We had the greater number, but the narrowness of the valley here meant that we could have no more abreast than did the foe. For the moment, the degree of high-explosive devastation was equally shared. We took what cover we could behind the Leman Russ chassis. There was a deafening boom, and the tank before me halted. I threw myself back just before it exploded. The heat burned my face. Three soldiers didn’t move fast enough. They were shredded by massive pieces of shrapnel. But there were always more of us, and we moved on, manoeuvring around the wreckage. The losses kept coming, and so did we.

Halfway up the slope, the charge came. Infantry from both sides poured out from the shelter of the tanks. The battle was primeval. Though we butchered each other from a distance with las-fire and tank shell, we ran for our foe as though we were armed with clubs. The tactic was war at its most basic and brutal. It was barely a tactic at all. It was a clash of animals, of insects, the pure collision of two forces. In the slaughter that followed, the only thing that mattered was simple physics. The Lom forces had the advantage of high ground. It gave them speed, and they hit us with greater force. But we had the numbers.

‘Now!’ I roared to the troops within earshot. ‘We are the Hammer of the Emperor, and there is no resisting the force of our blow.’

They slammed into our wall, and we smashed their advance. We kept pushing and pushing and pushing forwards, our thousands and thousands giving us a momentum that could not flag.

Off to the side I saw Seroff urging on Seventh Company. And then I found myself in a hell of struggling bodies. I fired my bolt pistol point-blank into enemy faces, saw their heads disintegrate when struck by the mass-reactive shells. The fray became so thick, reloading was impossible. I used my sword. It was a good blade, of strong steel and vicious edge. It killed well. I moved forward through slashed throats and severed limbs. I was drenched in gore. I was barely sentient. I was savage, pure predator. The only reason I existed was to kill. I was making no speeches now. I was using my voice, though. I was venting an inarticulate howl, raging into the faces of my enemies as I tore them apart.

It is easy, in the heat of battle, at the height of righteous frenzy, to feel invulnerable. What foe, the warrior thinks, could stand up to such an unstoppable force as myself? What foe would dare? The delusion is a necessary one. It keeps us fighting. It makes us throw ourselves into situations where every instinct for self-preservation is crying out in horror. It is also dangerous, and it will get us killed if it lasts long enough. Often, it is the duty of the commissar to nurture that delusion in the troops. The soldier convinced of immortality will fight with a furious abandon. Enough such troops will overwhelm the more cautious fighters. And so there is a certain truth to the delusion. The collective is invulnerable. We were the Emperor’s Hammer. We battered the enemy. We pushed him back. We were invulnerable.

The individual was not.

I was not.

My delusion was punctured when I slashed the throat of a Lom fighter and he fell, revealing another man behind him with lasrifle up and barrel aimed between my eyes. My knees buckled on instinct, and I dropped to an awkward crouch just as the soldier fired. The shot went over my head, killing the man behind me. My balance wavered. If I fell over, I was just as dead as if I had remained standing. My left hand held my empty bolt pistol. I jabbed it into the ground, barrel first, and pushed, giving myself just enough impetus to launch myself forwards and up, sword extended. I plunged the blade into the gut of the heretic. As I stood, I cut him open from stomach to chest. The lasrifle fell from his fingers as he slicked the ground with blood and organs. I yanked the blade free and strode forward over his body.

I was still fighting, but I had been jolted out of my battle trance. Details of the struggle began to register. I saw some similarities of design between the standards of Lom and those carried by the troops sent by the other barons to serve at our sides. The finery made the soldiers look ornamental, but they fought well. As they grappled with the enemy, the collision of colours drove home the fact that this was a clash of kin, and those were never simple affairs. There would be anger, confusion and betrayal beneath the surface of physical violence. And I was struck again by the size of the Mistralian contingent. It was too small to be effective on its own. Why such a tiny mobilization?

Rasp’s words came back to me. Murky waters indeed. I had observed, and I would have to learn. There would be more questions to come, and I would seek answers to them all, but not now. There was a wounded Lom trooper before me, pulling out a frag grenade in an attempt to make himself a martyr to his cause. I sliced his hand off at the wrist, grabbed the frag and hurled it back towards the enemy lines. I heard the explosion and screams, but was already hacking at another foe.

We crushed them. The movement was slow, a gradual climb to the top of the pass, but we never took a step back. We crushed them as a glacier crushes the land beneath its weight. As we reached the mouth of the second valley, the inevitable turn of the war came faster. The Lom forces still fought, but they were in retreat. They were down to a handful of tanks. We had the higher ground now, and we pushed them harder, grinding over their bodies with treads and boots. The retreat became a rout.

They fled.

We saw them stream away: a clutch of doomed vehicles, and a large but diminished force of infantry. The sight fed our ferocity. Our cries grew louder yet. They were the roars of carnodons as they took down prey. We descended into the valley, pushed by the winds of judgement. The flanking inferno was those winds given form. We could taste victory. We saw the fire stretch ahead as if to capture our foe in its jaws, and we knew the hand of the Emperor was at our backs.

Before this spectacle my doubts, for the moment, evaporated.

We gave chase, cutting their rearguard down. I saw Rasp, standing in the turret hatch of the Leman Russ Iron Mercy. The tank was a Punisher variant, its primary weapon a gatling cannon. It was a vehicle designed to teach a terrible lesson to any infantry who had the temerity to defy the Emperor’s will. The cannon’s fire was a deep, rapid chudchudchud rhythm that scythed the enemy like wheat. Rasp was a statue in black, seemingly forged of the same metal as the tank. His sabre was drawn, and his outstretched arm appeared to be commanding every flesh-destroying round that spat from the cannon’s muzzle. I couldn’t hear what he shouted as the Iron Mercy thundered past. I didn’t have to. I could feel the exhortation I saw him mouthing. His presence alone was inspiring. I knew all the hard duties that fell to a commissar, but before me was the epitome of what that office meant: to be the living exemplar of the honour of the Imperial Guard.

The upper Vale of Lom had a higher elevation than the first, and ended not in a gradual slope but in a cliff wall as the Carconne range hooked north and west. A waterfall plunged from the ridge a thousand metres up, falling with gossamer delicacy to disappear in an underground river at the base of the cliff. Lom Keep was nestled against the rock palisade. The wall around its grounds was a semi-circle, and the buildings appeared, from a distance, to be carved out of the mountain itself. The front gates of the wall were open, and the Lom forces passed through them. Our Demolisher tanks moved to the fore, their siege cannons already blasting chunks out of the barrier.

We maintained close pursuit of the retreating forces. I could see inside the gates. There was nowhere left for the heretics to run. They turned to make their last stand. This was where they would be exterminated. I expected the gates to swing shut at any moment, sacrificing the Lom stragglers to give the bulk of the troops what shelter the walled grounds could provide. They did not close. They remained wide open. For a moment, I laughed at the incompetence of the rebels. Then I realized that nothing they had done thus far had been stupid. They had, albeit briefly, held our hugely superior numbers at bay. Whatever I was seeing, it was strategic.

The enemy troops had left most of the space before the gate clear. The surface there was not rockcrete. It was metal. For perhaps five seconds there was a pause. Then the rumble began. It was a sound of the earth, lower, more profound than the surface trembling caused by our vehicles. Inside the wall of Lom Keep, vast blast doors, large enough for a hangar, rose from the ground on hydraulic lifts. They parted on either side, opening the way for the thing below to emerge.

A few seconds later, our tanks began to die.

CHAPTER 3

The Cry

1. RALLAM

He had come to watch the conclusion of the exercise. At this stage of an operation, when the inevitable was occurring, and everything was moving towards the foregone conclusion, a certain space opened up that Rallam was loathe to miss. For a few minutes, he barely needed to issue any commands. All the gears had been engaged. The machinery was running. Everyone, from regimental colonel down to squad trooper, had an assigned role and was carrying it out. And when the enemy was on the run, then there was nothing to interfere with the performance of Rallam’s war machine. He could then allow himself the luxury of enjoying the spectacle of victory.

The Salamander Command vehicle had followed the infantry and heavy armour through the Vales of Lom. He rode outside the hatch, taking in the roar, smoke and fire of the conflict. He knew what Medar would say: he would go on and on about the artistry of war. Rallam found the man’s intellectual disquisitions tiring, but in these moments, these special moments, as ephemeral as they were exquisite, he had to admit Medar had a point.

Midway along the downslope of the second valley, Rallam ordered a stop. They were a few thousand metres from the keep. From this distance and height, the general had a commanding view of the endgame. Rallam climbed out of the hatch and stood on the roof of the chassis. ‘Lieutenant Kael,’ he called. ‘Join me, will you.’ When Kael clambered up beside him, Rallam spread his arms wide and said, ‘Well?’

‘Very–’ the adjutant began, then stopped. ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at the grounds of the keep.

‘Throne of Terra,’ Rallam muttered. He said nothing else, and he did nothing. The seconds marched by. He and Kael stood in silence. Rallam had had the sickening sensation of being witness to another rare moment, one so rare he would not live to see the like again. And there were no orders to give. There was no action to be taken. The machine was running.

Something was lumbering out of the ground. It was a good twenty metres high. Rallam did not know what it might be called. It had a vague kinship to a Titan, but it was no more one of the god-machines than were the ork grotesqueries Rallam had witnessed hauling their destructive bulk over the more nightmarish battlefields of his experience. It was, he thought, a madman’s dream of a Titan. Mistral had heavy industries, but it was not a forge-world. The thing that rose before the Mortisian forces was precisely the kind of abomination the Adeptus Mechanicus’s monopoly over technology was designed to prevent. It was what could happen if the attempt was made to construct a Titan without the proper resources, without the necessary components, without the knowledge, blessings and rituals of the Mechanicus.

The thing was not a Titan. It was a gargoyle.

It walked on four legs, jointed like those of a reptile. The legs supported a massive trunk. It had no head, though the top was rounded, suggesting the stump of a neck emerging from broad, monumental shoulders. Anti-air turrets surrounded the stump. Massive exhaust pipes festooned the torso like quills. There were four arms, one extending from each quadrant of the symmetrical main body. Its hands were weapons, and even from this distance, Rallam could make out that one set of fingers had the familiar silhouette of an Earthshaker cannon. The beast was at least partly forged out of the pieces of other vehicles. Rallam could almost understand how the idea of the monster could come into being. But the Mechanicus would never allow such a patchwork nightmare to be built. Yet there it was, real, functional, deadly. If the Mechanicus was not involved, how had this thing been born?

The speculation and the horror ran through his mind in the time it took for the walker, with ponderous, macabre majesty, to emerge from the ground. The seconds were sluggish. The event seemed to last far longer than it did. But when Rallam blinked his way out of the trance, barely anything else had moved other than the monster before them.

‘Your orders, general?’ Kael whispered. There was desperation in his tone, but no hope.

‘Kill it,’ Rallam said, almost as softly.

The walker’s torso spun on a vertical axis. The hand with the single, massive cannon pointed uphill.

‘Earthshaker,’ Rallam said sadly. It seemed to him, even at this distance, that he was gazing straight down the barrel.

The gun fired. A piston movement of the walker’s arm absorbed the recoil. Rallam saw the flash of the muzzle. He heard the scream of the shell. For a fraction of a second, he felt the explosion that killed him and his vehicle.

That was a rare moment, too.

2. YARRICK

The monster walked out of the estate. The gate wasn’t wide enough for it, and it took a section of the wall down on either side. It spun again, bringing a different arm to bear. This one had six fingers, and each finger was a Leman Russ battle cannon. It fired two at a time. The sound was the beat of a giant’s war drum: buh-boom, buh-boom, buh-boom. There were double hits on three of our tanks. Two of them died smoking and crumpled, the shells coming in diagonally on their weaker upper armour, punching in and killing the vehicles with internal blasts. But the third tank was a Hellhound. Its chassis disintegrated in the explosion. The inferno cannon spun end over end over the field, a crushing baton. Flaming promethium splashed wide. It was a fountain of agony, and the area for a dozen metres around became a hell of fire and screams.

I heard a new rhythm, a faster one. The anti-air cannons on the monster’s shoulders had roared to life, sending up a cloud of flak at the Lightning squadron as it made its attack run. One fighter caught a round in the engine. It was blown to the left as it disintegrated, and cut its wingman in half. The others reached their target. The sacrifice was useless. The fighters had exhausted their Hellstrikes on the Griffons. The fire of their wing lascannons and fuselage autocannons glanced off the walker’s upper armour as if they had been shooting a hill.

Another spin, and another arm. This one was upraised. It fired a single rocket. As the missile shot skyward with no apparent target, I had a moment of incomprehension. I’m not sure if I really didn’t understand what I was seeing, or if a horrified subconscious blocked the knowledge for mercy’s sake. But then I realized what was going to happen next, and why the rest of the Lom troops had not emerged from the cover of the estate walls, and how few seconds stood between us and annihilation.

‘With me!’ I yelled, and raced for the walker. The gambit was desperate, perhaps lunatic, but there was nothing else to try. There would be no other chance, no cover, no escape from what was coming. I had never run faster. In the corner of my eye I saw Saultern sprinting beside me. Good. Both of us moving meant the rest of Third Company reacted instantly.

Eyeblinks after the launch of the rocket, troopers were converging towards the heretic machine. The movement was rapid. I wished I could hope that it was quick enough. In the sky, the rocket arced down and split into multiple warheads. It was a Manticore’s Storm Eagle, an infantry-killer. If we were caught in the open, that would be an end to us.

The cluster-bomb payloads hit just as I was passing beneath the main body of the walker. There was a series of blasts in such close succession it sounded like a stubber the size of a mountain being fired. The world was filled with fire and wind. The kill was huge. It extended for hundreds of metres back up the slope. For a moment, the vineyard inferno seemed to stretch across the breadth of the valley, its two halves meeting to become a single gigantic conflagration. Then the flare of the explosions was succeeded by the shock wave and the choking cloud of debris. When the echoes faded, entire companies were turned into meat.

In less than a minute, our triumph had collapsed. Our lines were a butcher’s leavings. Still behind the walls, waiting to follow the walker, the Lom soldiers resumed fire. What would have been a threat a few minutes before was little more than a distraction compared to the menace of the great machine.

I didn’t think about the cost. I didn’t think about where we stood. I thought only about what had to be done now. I fired upward with my bolt pistol, straight into the belly of the beast. Every soldier there with me started shooting, too.

Seroff had made it to our doubtful cover, and he shouldered his way to my side. ‘Do you have a plan, Sebastian?’ he asked. ‘Because this feels like spitting at the sun.’ He kept firing, though.

Of course we couldn’t do any damage to the walker. I was taking another gamble. Whatever team was piloting the monster could not possibly have prior battlefield experience with its operation. Mistakes would be easy to make. Mistakes I hoped to trigger. ‘The sun can’t be distracted,’ I answered. ‘This can be.’ There were no leg turrets. The walker’s only weapons were the heavy guns and rockets of its arms. It had no standard anti-personnel measures. The mind behind its design had been thinking of large-scale attacks on distant armies, and had given no thought to close quarters. The machine was invulnerable to our small arms, but if we attacked as if it weren’t, we might infect the humans inside with doubt.

Saultern, a few metres away, shouted, ‘Betzner, light up one of the leg joints!’

‘Sir!’ the hulking trooper acknowledged. He shouldered his missile launcher, aimed, and let fly. The rocket streaked to the leg and exploded on the inside of the knee. I saw no damage, but there was a pause in the walker’s actions. It hadn’t fired since we had begun our attack.

Deklan Betzner waited while his loader readied another rocket for him. His eyes were flicking across the bulk of the walker, hunting weaknesses. Betzner’s focus had an almost feverish intensity, as if the mere existence of the machine were causing him pain.

‘Captain,’ I called to Saultern. I gave him a quick nod of approval, then pointed at a new target.

He grinned. To Betzner, he said, ‘The hand next, trooper. Take out the battle cannons.’

The Leman Russ survivors were firing at the walker now, and Betzner fired his other missile just as the monster’s cannons opened up once more against our tanks. The rocket hit. It destroyed one cannon, and damaged the others. They fired anyway. My jaw dropped at the foolishness of the walker’s crew. In the next second, the monster held a massive fireball at the end of its arm. The light felt like the Emperor’s blessing.

The monster made a noise. I tried to tell myself I was hearing horns, sirens, some kind of mechanical alarm warning of damage. This was not one of the holy god-machines of the Legio Titanicus. There was no sacred machine-spirit to anger or wound. This was a heretical mechanical construct, gigantic in size and power but also deprived of the Emperor’s blessing, gigantic in flaws. I knew all this. But the sound belonged to a wounded animal. It was a screech that resounded over the valley, drowning the din of the guns and firestorm. The obscenity started walking again, and its movements, too, were those of a frantic beast. The steps were unpredictable, their jerkiness clear even in a creation this size. We had to run to avoid being trampled, but we weren’t being targeted. The walker was turning to flee.

It stumbled back through the gates, collapsing still more of the wall as its arms waved in panic. The wailing continued, sounding more and more like a voice. The guns of the 110th Mortisian Armoured Regiment battered the monster. Our tankers had its measure now, and were exacting their vengeance. I heard the deep-throated note of the Demolisher cannon. Its blow smashed a great hole in the walker’s armour, dead through the centre of its torso. The creature stopped cold, just inside the gate. Smoke and flame shot out of the rent and exhaust pipes. The monster’s scream rose in pitch, and I couldn’t pretend I was hearing anything other than true agony. My being thrummed with religious horror. There was a mortal instinct to cover my ears. Many of the troops around me were doing so, and there was no shame in that action. There was, rather, a shunning of the unclean. I resisted the urge to block out the sound, sensing a greater duty to bear witness.

Observe and learn.

To serve the Imperium and its Creed, I had to know the enemy.

But when the thing came that was worse than the scream, we all heard it. It was so loud. It was so big. We heard the monster speak. The voice was broken, distorted, dying, and it was human. But what it shouted was not human at all. It came from a place of madness. It was language twisted against itself, words that tore the very idea of meaning asunder. To speak the words was worse than a crime, and to hear them was to experience a danger worse than anything else on this day.

The ripples of the words were so immense that the metallic groan of the walker’s collapse and the explosion of its core seemed insignificant. Those events, though, did have meaning for the Lom troops. Many were crushed as the monster fell forward. Still more were immolated in the grounds-filling blast. My eyes were dazzled as if I had been staring at the sun. But I didn’t notice.

I was rooted to the spot. The echoes of that cry seemed to grow louder by the heartbeat as my soul filled with holy dread.

CHAPTER 4

The Discomfort of Questions

1. YARRICK

And when we broke from the paralysis into which that hideous prayer had plunged us, we slaughtered them. The final minutes of that war were a crushing victory, but we would never celebrate them. We might have toasted the actions that brought down the walker, if even they hadn’t been tainted by the machine’s death cry. But there was nothing song-worthy in the extermination that took place on the grounds of the keep. It was necessary, deeply so, on a number of levels. There was the strategic concern: the enemy had to be destroyed. There was the moral imperative: the heretic cannot be suffered to live. But in the burning intensity of the moments after the cry, we were, all of us, to the last soul, driven by something far more primal. Horror, disgust, revulsion, terror – they were all at play. Our deepest selves had been raked open by syllables beyond our comprehension. We had heard something we could not face, yet would always remember. Those words cast mountainous shadows over our psyches. They pushed us to seek salvation through annihilation. Perhaps, in the venting of our fear and rage upon the final defenders of Lom, we would calm the mounting spiritual storm.

I say ‘we’. I say it with confidence. I saw my own terrified rage reflected on the face of every trooper and officer. I saw it on Seroff’s. I even saw it on Rasp’s as his tank roared through the gates. There are some passions that no amount of discipline can conceal. Though we killed with brutal ferocity, it would be wrong to say that we were like animals. No matter how frenzied the savagery of beasts, it pales before a killing motivated by religious fear. That is the special province of the human. I wonder if even the Adeptus Astartes know what it is to fight like we did during those terrible minutes. I have served for more than two centuries, and I know them capable of unspeakable carnage. I have seen the Blood Angels in combat. I have seen the aftermath of the Flesh Tearers’ massacre at Gaius Point. But they do not know fear. We humans, we pitiful, weak mortals, we know fear. We know it intimately, in all its richness of texture and nuance. And we knew it that day. It gave our assault a quality of desperation. We weren’t desperate to win. We were desperate to kill as brutally as possible, as if we could drown the memory of that awful cry into the blood beneath our boots.

We couldn’t, of course. The cry would be with us forever. But we tried. We surely tried.

I barely used my bolt pistol. When I had relied on my sword earlier, it had been because of the near-impossibility of reloading in the worst of the close quarters fighting. Now was different. I could use the pistol. I could reload. The Lom forces were resisting, but the death of the walker had decimated them. The combat was not difficult, yet I chose to use my sword. I made the battle more of a struggle so I could exhaust myself with the killing of my foe. I had to feel the impact of blade against bone, the splash of traitor’s blood in my face. I had to strike my horror down with hacking slashes. I saw many troopers using bayonets instead of las-fire. We finished the Battle of Lom in the ugliest way possible, yet I would never look back on that terrible hour with shame. It is not one that I look back at willingly, but what happened was necessary. We cleansed the land of the heretics. Then, in the calm that followed, there was space for us to find our centre again before we confronted the next shock. And we knew there would be a next one.

Smoke covered the aftermath of the struggle. It came from burning engines of war, and from the conflagration of the vineyards. It hovered over the valley, turning sky and air a grey-brown. It filled each breath, but stopped short of becoming choking. Our forces took the time to re-forge organizational units, tend to the casualties, and get a sense of where we stood. Granach, the most senior of the colonels, replaced Rallam as mission commander. And once we had found our footing, it was time to face what we had defeated.

The enginseers were the first to move forward again. The walker, though an insult to their creed, was also an irresistible temptation to their curiosity. They swarmed over its carcass, forcing it to reveal its secrets. Rasp stood with Granach near one of the legs. The lord commissar had his hands clasped behind his back. His left hand opened and closed twice. It was a signal for the benefit of Seroff and myself: Come close enough to overhear, but do not intrude. Once again, our mentor wanted us to observe and learn.

Seroff and I advanced to within a few metres of the two men. We faced away from them, looking towards the keep, and shared a tabac while we listened.

‘A decisive outcome,’ Granach was saying.

‘You don’t really believe that, colonel, do you?’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Granach sighed. When he spoke again, I heard no trace of the rote, mechanical orator from the Scythe of Terra. He had been given the freedom to speak his mind by one of the Imperium’s most feared political officers, and so he did. ‘I wish I could,’ he said. ‘We have completed the mission assigned to us. We have crushed the Lom rebellion. Is it wrong to want that to be the end of the matter?’

‘No,’ Rasp said. ‘Not wrong. Human. But this is Mistral.’

Granach cursed. ‘I know it.’

‘The mission was never going to be as simple as winning this battle.’

A mirthless laugh from the colonel. ‘Your pardon, lord commissar, but that became clear to me back on the ship, the moment I clapped eyes on you.’

‘My presence is not exactly the harbinger of good news, that’s true,’ Rasp said ruefully. ‘A simple mission would be a waste of my time, and for that, colonel, I apologize.’

‘I’d rather receive an apology from the bloody-minded old bastard who almost ran us into oblivion.’

I took a quick glance over my shoulder and saw Granach pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as if warding off a headache. Then he straightened his head, adjusted his cap and squared his shoulders. He had allowed himself a moment of exhaustion and perhaps worse. Now he was ready to lead again.

‘What are your orders, colonel?’ Rasp asked.

‘You’re asking me?’

‘You are the commander of these forces.’

‘Yes, I am. And unlike the late General Rallam, I think I can tell when a simple application of force is not going to be enough to solve the problem.’

‘Rallam would say there isn’t one,’ Seroff whispered to me.

I grunted in agreement. Lom defeated, job done. Time to go. We would already be leaving Mistral, having treated a symptom but not the disease. The existence of the walker meant things were far more complex than a simple rebellion. But Rallam had not been a man fond of complexity. He would not have been able to deny the monstrousness of the construct, but its total annihilation would have been sufficient to declare victory, as long as there were no other signs of something worse. Even though I knew better, I still found myself seeking comfort in the fact that the Lom soldiers had shown no sign of being corrupt beyond the fact of the rebellion itself.

‘Your advice, lord commissar, would be most welcome,’ Granach said.

‘We should learn what we can here,’ Rasp said. ‘Then… Well, we’ll see where that leaves us.’

‘Colonel,’ a voice called. It was loud, but not because the speaker had shouted. It was amplified electronically, and buzzed with distortion around the edges. I looked to my left and saw Enginseer Bellavis approaching the two men. The tech-priest was a veteran, long in the service of the Mechanicus. Very little of him was still human. His carapace sheathed prostheses, not flesh and bone. Most of his face was metal. His eyes looked like multifaceted jewels, and moved back and forth independently of one another, like those of a fly. The right side of his mouth was a grille, but the left was still flesh, and moved with a disturbing naturalness, though there was no longer a human tongue or teeth behind those lips. His lower jaw, though, was still untouched by bionic augmentation. It was a sinewy, leathered, jutting monument worthy of the most thick-necked, bull-headed sergeant. It occurred to me that if ever there were such a thing as an enginseer who enjoyed a good brawl, Bellavis would be it.

He approached the colonel and Rasp, the hum of servo-motors accompanying his metronome-regular stride.

‘What is it, enginseer?’ Granach asked.

‘We have gained access to the control node,’ Bellavis answered, pointing up at the hump on the body of the walker.

‘And?’

‘I believe you and the lord commissar should see what we found there.’ His manner of speech was human enough, at least when it came to his diction. But there was the same mechanical precision to his enunciation as his gait, and there was no inflection. He sounded like a machine imitating a man.

The colonel nodded. He and Rasp followed Bellavis. As they started off, Rasp called to us as if just noticing that we were nearby. ‘Commissars,’ he said. ‘Join us, if you please.’

Bellavis took us to the far end of the walker. There, when the monster had collapsed, a leg had ended up stretched forwards. It created a gradual slope up to the top of the machine. It was climbable. Bellavis’s servo-arm gripped a ridge that ran the length of the leg. Thus secured, he ascended as easily as if he were walking level. He looked back at the rest of us. We had to scramble, and even where there were metal spurs or pockmarks of damage to act as handholds, it was hard going. With a short burst of binary static, Bellavis said, ‘Apologies. The interior of the device is very badly damaged. The routes its crew would have used to move around are no longer viable.’

‘That’s all right, enginseer,’ Granach said. ‘We’ll manage. Just show us what you’ve found.’

He led us to the structure in the centre of the trunk. From a distance, the hump had appeared featureless. Up close, the welding seams on the metal were clearly visible. A strip of tinted crystalflex ran all the way around, providing a view of the outside world to the occupants. The quality of work was impressive, in a distressing way, in that such a thing had been created. But it was also slipshod in comparison to the magnificence that emerged from the forges of the Mechanicus.

One side of the raised structure had been ripped open by the enginseers. Bellavis led us inside. There we found a throne. Or what passed for one, at any rate. It held the position of a throne, but was more like a black metal plinth about two metres high and one wide. A tangle of cables linked it to the panels and control surfaces. Emerging from the top of the plinth were a human head and shoulders. They were all that remained of the man’s body. The rest had been replaced with the mechanisms of the throne. The effect was so bizarre, I thought for a moment that I was looking at a flesh-coloured bust sitting atop the throne. Mechadendrites ran from the man’s head to the plinth and the walls of the command centre. There was so little of the human being, the creature might almost have been a servitor, but the agonized rictus on his face told us otherwise. He had died in great pain, and it was clear that the anguish had been more than physical. I was looking at the frozen moment of a soul in final torment.

‘Colonel,’ Rasp said. ‘Commissars. Allow me to introduce Baron Bartholomew Lom.’

Granach stared back and forth between the head and the lord commissar. ‘That is Lom?’

‘None other.’

‘But what...’ The colonel flailed for his question.

‘An involved procedure,’ Bellavis said, interpreting Granach’s sputtering as a request for information. ‘He has been made into the equivalent of a princeps for this machine. The work is substandard.’ I thought I detected a hint of emotion in the enginseer’s words, as if he were disgusted by the slipshod craftsmanship on display. ‘It is effective nonetheless, and was done beyond the aegis of the Mechanicus. It is an affront to the Omnissiah, and will be destroyed in due course.’

‘Did he undergo this voluntarily?’ I asked.

‘An important question,’ said Rasp.

‘I cannot say,’ Bellavis answered. ‘However, the only signs of violence are the trauma inflicted during the battle.’

‘He was lord of this region,’ Seroff put in. ‘He commanded the rebellion. Who could force him to do this?’

‘Or persuade him,’ I said. That one of the nobility of the planet could be made to spend the rest of his life as the governing intelligence of this monstrous device was a disturbing prospect. But the implications were worse yet if he had chosen to do this blasphemous thing.

‘This is Mistral,’ Rasp reminded us. ‘The waters will be murky.’

I saw more clearly what Rasp meant. We were confronted with irrefutable evidence that the roots of the rebellion ran deeper than the Vales of Lom. That the abomination before us was the idea of the dead baron, and him alone, was impossible to believe.

‘There is this, too,’ Bellavis said, and moved behind the plinth.

We followed him. There, in a vertical line down the centre of the plinth, were runes. They began at the base of the throne, engravings running all the way to Lom’s neck. They continued up to his shaven skull in the form of tattoos. They were unpleasant to look at. There was something inhuman about their shapes, something more and worse than xenos. If I gazed at them too long, it felt as if something were squeezing my eyes. If I did not look elsewhere, my eyes would be crushed.

‘There is our heresy,’ Seroff said. He stepped around the side of the plinth, so he wouldn’t have to see the runes.

‘Further proof of its existence, yes,’ said Rasp. ‘But as to its full reach, and whether we have extinguished it or not, and why we find Baron Lom like this, this tells us nothing.’

‘We should see the keep,’ I suggested.

Rasp nodded. ‘My thoughts exactly. There is no more to be learned here.’

Granach turned to Bellavis. ‘When you’re done here…’ he began.

‘We shall destroy everything,’ the enginseer reassured him.

We left the walker and made our way to the keep. The main door had been blasted open by a stray rocket during the fighting. We entered in the company of a squad led by Captain Saultern. The troopers swept each room ahead of use. They found no hold-outs. The fortress was deserted.

Though it presented an aggressive exterior, its walls high and forbidding, its turrets plentiful, Lom Keep’s interior was that of a home rather than a redoubt. This was the first time war had come to the vales in many centuries. The Lom family had lived as merchants, not warriors. This was the residence of wealthy landowners and flourishing vintners. Though the murder holes of the walls admitted very little daylight, plentiful lumen strips and glow-globes kept the atmosphere cheerful. Thick, hand-crafted carpets covered the stone floors. In the great hall, tapestries hung on the walls. Some dated back centuries, others were far more recent, but no less exquisite in their artistry. The repeated theme was the light of the Emperor shining down on the bountiful production of amasec.

Between the tapestries were portraits of the barons of Lom, going back dozens of generations. The family resemblance was striking: proud, narrow features that would have seemed haughty but for the kind, searching eyes. Most of the full-length paintings portrayed their subjects in the uniform of officers in either Mistral’s militia or its regiment of the Imperial Guard: the Mistralian Windborne. As Rasp had suggested, there was one figure clad in the robes of Inquisitorial office.

The furniture, too, was extraordinary. Each piece was as meticulously wrought as any of the tapestries. Great hall, library, smoking room, bedrooms: they held a record of generations and centuries of refinement, with each new acquisition chosen for the grace of its relationship with the pieces that came before.

‘Where’s the corruption?’ Seroff said softly.

‘Well hidden,’ I answered, more confidently than I felt. I was having trouble reconciling this home with the terrible thing in the grounds.

We examined the books in the library. We found historical treatises, family biographies and devotional works. There was nothing heretical in the spiritual texts. I had read a few of them myself. I held up a Life of St Cecilia to Rasp and raised my eyebrows in a question. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know. We keep looking.’

On the ground floor, at the opposite end of the keep from the main entrance, we found the chapel. Its doors were closed. Seroff and I waved Saultern and his men away and moved forwards to grasp the ornate brass handles. The rank and file had seen much of the ground floor, but it was better, from this point on, that we restrict whatever remained to be discovered to a select few eyes. I exchanged a look with Seroff, and we hesitated a moment before pulling. I wasn’t sure what concerned me more: that we would encounter monstrous heresy on the other side, or that we wouldn’t.

We hauled the heavy doors back and went inside.

The chapel was a large one. There were pews enough to seat hundreds. An entire family and its retinue could worship here, along with a sizeable body of men-at-arms. It was easy to picture an important contingent of the Lom forces worshipping here before heading out to battle. The thought made me squirm. It was the iconography that bothered me. I had expected more runes like those we saw in the walker. I had expected desecration, sacrilege, the unholy spoor of heresy. Instead, a gigantic, magnificently crafted gold aquila rose above the altar. It had not been defaced. There was nothing in the décor of the chapel that was anything less than perfectly orthodox.

I picked up one of the devotional books that sat on the ledges on the back of each pew. I opened it at random. I recognized the hymns. I examined the book’s binding. It was old, cracked and creased from decades of use. The pages had the musty smell of age. It had clearly been here long before the rebellion, but why had the heretics not replaced it? Why was everything here entirely devoted to the worship of the God-Emperor? My unease deepened.

‘Throne,’ said Granach. He whispered, but the acoustics of the chapel picked up his words and amplified them. ‘What have we done?’

‘Our duty,’ Rasp snapped. ‘Whatever we see here, remember what the lord of this house became. Remember that. Things are not what they seem.’ His voice was strong, but I didn’t believe he wasn’t feeling some of the same disquiet. Between what lay outside the keep and what we saw inside, a gulf yawned. It was so wide that we were finding it impossible to draw the two together. But there was no ignoring the unholy runes on that plinth and on Lom’s skull. There had to be a way of explaining the paradox, even if everything we had seen thus far only deepened it.

‘There is nothing to be gained by lingering here,’ Rasp announced. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the chapel. The energy of his action broke the rest of us from our distressed trance, and we followed him.

‘It’s the winds,’ Rasp said conversationally as we mounted a spiralling marble staircase to the upper floors of the keep. ‘They say the winds of Mistral blow the sense out of one’s skull. Did you know, colonel, that there is an unusually high incidence of madness on this planet?’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Granach muttered.

‘We would do well to bear that in mind. The winds of Mistral confuse, and the waters are murky. But that doesn’t make night into day, or black into white. There is an explanation for what we are seeing.’

I spoke before I realized what I was saying. ‘That explanation may be far from reassuring.’

Seroff stared at me as if I had, indeed, surrendered to Mistral’s winds.

Rasp didn’t reprimand me. He agreed, which was almost worse. ‘Very likely so.’

The upper floors of the keep were given over to sleeping quarters. Still we found nothing unusual. Once again, we were confronted with the luxurious quarters of the rich in wealth and taste. The pious rich. It was only when we reached the uppermost chamber of a narrow tower rising above the rest of the fortress that there was any break with the mundane. The room appeared to be a study. It had two windows, one looking south over the expanse of Upper Lom, the other facing north, opening up on the waterfall, which fell so close that the glass dripped with spray. The ceiling was reinforced crystalflex. A telescope stood in the centre of the room. Shelves lined the walls. They were full of astronomical and astrological texts. A massive fireplace, almost large enough for a man to fit inside, dominated the west wall, while a handsome antique desk sat beneath the vale-facing window.

Seroff walked the length of the shelves, his head cocked so he could read the spines of the books. ‘Rather esoteric,’ he said, ‘but nothing heretical. Nothing on any index, as far as I know.’

‘There are more indices than are known to us,’ I pointed out.

‘True,’ he admitted. ‘Still…’

Rasp blew dust from the telescope’s lens. ‘This hasn’t been used in a long time,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we will find clues to the nature of the baron’s heresy in his stargazing hobby.’

I walked over to the desk. Its dark, polished surface was clean. There were no papers, no data-slates, no jottings, nothing. Not even a stylus. I opened its drawers. They were built of a dense wood, but came out smoothly. They were empty. ‘This is odd,’ I said. As the others joined me, I bent down to look more closely at the top of the desk. There were grooves on the work surface, the scars of centuries of use. I ran my finger through one, came up with a black smudge.

‘What is it?’ Seroff asked.

‘Ash,’ I said. ‘Something was burned in this room, and there are no personal documents of any kind here.’ I looked back at the fireplace. ‘The fire was here, at the desk. Not on the hearth.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Seroff asked. ‘Plans for that walker? A heretical manifesto?’

I shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I’m more interested in why he chose one spot for his fire over another.’ I crossed the room and looked down at the grate. I could see the spotless stone beneath it. The metal of the grate gleamed as if new. I stepped inside the hearth and looked up into the darkness of the chimney. There was no draft. I pulled out my sword and poked upwards. Just at the edge of my reach, my blade scraped against stone. Sealed. ‘This fireplace has never been used,’ I announced.

‘That’s a very large ornament,’ Seroff said.

‘Precisely.’ I tugged at the grate. It was bolted to the floor of the hearth. I stepped out of the fireplace and felt along the top of the mantle.

‘What are you doing?’ Granach asked.

Seroff joined me at the wall. ‘Looking for a switch,’ he said.

We couldn’t find anything. I was sure I was right, though. The artifice was too big, too elaborate to be anything other than camouflage. But the wall was smooth, and none of the fireplace’s stones were loose.

‘A false fireplace that is a secret door?’ Granach protested. ‘Seriously?’

‘The history of the Loms shows them to be a family with a deep respect for tradition,’ said Rasp. ‘I would be disappointed if a home of this vintage were lacking that quaint touch.’ He strolled over to the desk. He crouched, looking at its massive feet. ‘This has been fastened to the floor,’ he announced. He straightened, and pulled open the drawers on the left and the right. ‘A family of this standing would not have to fumble along a wall.’ He reached into the right-hand drawer. There was a click.

Unseen gears engaged with a barely audible hum beneath our feet. The fireplace swung out from the wall. The workmanship was superb. The join between the wall and hearth was seamless. The movement of what was now revealed as a massive stone door was graceful, as if it did not weigh several tons. The opening behind it was the height of a man. Lumen strips lit the way down a spiral flight of stairs.

‘The credit for the discovery is yours, Commissar Yarrick,’ Rasp told me. ‘Lead the way.’

‘Please do,’ Granach muttered. His invitation was not meant as an honour. He sounded disgusted and dismayed in equal measure by the deepening complexity of the revelations.

I cocked an eyebrow at Seroff, and he grinned at me as we started down the stairs. There was nothing amusing about the situation. Our exchange was a pretence. For all our training, we were also young, and not above the bravado that was sometimes the necessary support to morale. The corrupt thing outside cast its shadow over us once more. Depths, physical and spiritual, awaited us. I did not keep them waiting, and began the descent.

The staircase coiled through the centre of the tower, dropping through the heart of the keep and continuing down through the level of the cellars. The walls and stairs were damp and ancient, pitted by the centuries. But the lumen strips were new. I wondered about that. They suggested that Lom had only started using this region of his home recently.

The smell reached us well before we arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Blood,’ Granach said.

Yes. The stench wrapped itself around us like miasmal fingers. It grew stronger with every step.

‘Finally,’ I muttered. There was a dread satisfaction in at last encountering evidence of the corruption of Lom Keep.

The stairs ended at the beginning of a long corridor. There were doors on either side. We glanced inside the rooms as we walked past them. They were empty spaces, long disused to judge from the dust visible within the glow of the lumen strips. These continued straight down the corridor, which ended at a closed iron door.

‘What were these rooms used for?’ Granach wondered.

‘Storage and living space,’ Rasp answered. ‘The baronial wars of Mistral’s past were long, painful ones. The need for a secure, hidden refuge was real.’

‘And this?’ Seroff asked as we approached the door.

‘A place of worship was also necessary,’ Rasp said softly.

The smell of blood was overpowering. I didn’t hesitate as we had above. I grasped the handle and yanked the door back. It hit the wall hard. The hollow boom echoed up and down the hall like a knell.

As the lord commissar had guessed, the space beyond had once been a chapel. Before me was what I had been expecting since we had first crossed the threshold of the keep. Anticipation did nothing to dull the horror. A faded outline of rust marked where an aquila had once graced the far wall. In its place, daubed in drying blood, was a flowing symbol. It was the curved tear shed by a lunatic eye. I looked away from it, lowering my gaze to the altar. The marble slab had become a butcher’s block. Blood, both blackened and fresh, coated it. Streams had run down its sides and pooled on the floor, covering the flagstones as far as the first three rows of pews. Bits of flesh and muscle and fragments of bone stuck out of the coagulated flows. The walls on the left and right were covered in runes. After a quick glance, I kept my eyes on the floor. The traces of blood sacrifice were a sight less harmful than the silent, jagged whispers scratched into the masonry.

‘Throne.’ Granach’s voice cracked.

‘We’ve seen enough,’ Rasp declared. ‘Shut the door.’

The others stepped back. I hesitated. I stared at the altar. I wasn’t satisfied. We had confirmation of dreadful heresy, but how were we any further ahead than we had been in the courtyard? There was something more here. I would find it. I would force knowledge from this place, knowledge we could turn against the forces it had come to serve.

Observe and learn.

I could feel dark meaning stretching out from the walls, scratching at the corner of my eyes, seeking purchase on my soul.

‘Commissar!’ Rasp snapped.

I saw it.

‘This sacrilege is recent,’ I said.

‘What?’ Rasp was interested now.

I walked to the altar, wincing at the filth that swirled in the air around me. I tried to narrow my vision to the small detail that had caught my attention. I pointed to a spot on the front of the altar, careful not to come into contact with the defiled stone. ‘This blood is old, but not that old. Look at the flesh.’ A strip of skin dangled from the lip of the altar. Much, but not all, of it was crusted in gore. There were patches still open to the air.

‘What about it?’ Seroff asked.

‘It hasn’t rotted away,’ I answered.

‘Nicely spotted, commissar,’ Rasp said. ‘Now kindly remove yourself from there.’

I obeyed. When the door shut behind me, I breathed more easily, even with the stench of blood still thick in my nostrils. We all did.

‘So the decomposition is not total,’ Granach said as he strode forward, leading the way down the corridor and back up the long spiral. ‘How is this useful?’

‘It means that the cult activity here is recent,’ Rasp told him. ‘It means that we might have crushed this heresy in its early stages.’

‘Really?’ Granach paused and looked back over his shoulder. The light of hope flared in the colonel’s eyes. The man was perhaps a more careful thinker than General Rallam, but in the end, he thought like a soldier. He wanted the disturbing elements of this mission swept away so he could leave Mistral and be given another enemy to hammer. ‘Then we have ended the threat.’

‘I suppose that will be up to the Inquisition to determine,’ I said.

Granach glared at me, hope dying as he realized we would not be putting Mistral and its murky waters behind us so soon. He faced forward again and took the stairs two at a time, his anger clear in the very slap of his soles against stone.

‘Yes,’ Rasp agreed. He laughed. It was a single bark of gallows humour. ‘Colonel,’ he said. ‘Commissars. We have done good work here today.’ He paused. ‘And all good work on Mistral is met, in the end, by a just and true punishment.’

CHAPTER 5

The Waters of Mistral

1. YARRICK

‘I hate you,’ Seroff said to me. ‘I hate you so much, right now.’ He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes straight ahead, his posture at parade attention.

‘I hate me too,’ I assured him. A little less attention to detail on my part, a little less initiative, and perhaps he and I would not be standing here now. If it had fallen to Rasp to find the site of heretical worship, Seroff and I would not have to receive any honours. We would have been spared what we both knew was just the first of our ordeals in the thick of Mistralian politics.

We were standing in the reviewing line along with the high-ranking officers of the Mortisian strike force. We were arrayed along the magnificent central staircase of the Ecclesiarchal palace in Tolosa, the capital of Mistral. Granach and Benneger, along with Rasp, were at the head of the stairs, the first to be thanked and congratulated by Cardinal Wangenheim on behalf of the people and legal authorities of Mistral. He was followed by a retinue of lesser ecclesiarchs, and then by a contingent of Mistralian nobility.

I call the staircase magnificent with a certain degree of irony. Magnificence was certainly the intent of its creators, and was even more so the desire of the mind who commissioned it. But it was so ostentatious that it had pitched into the grotesque. It was thus in keeping with the character of the palace. The staircase appeared to be made of gold. The illusion was so convincing, I half expected to feel the steps give when we mounted them. They did not. They were, I realized, gold-leafed marble. They blazed with the light of chandeliers a dozen metres in diameter. The columns supporting the ornate vault had gold spiralling up their height. There was no gold on the walls, but they were so encrusted with jewels, they seemed to be frozen cataracts of riches. The ceiling was a series of frescoes depicting the Ecclesiarchy bringing the Emperor’s truth to the multitudes of Mistral. Unlike the tapestries of Lom, where the light that blessed the figures was clearly a gift from the Emperor Himself, here the illumination came from the figures of the cardinals and bishops, and was rarely a blessing. In almost every case, it was smiting the heretic.

I took in the strident glory around us and felt ill. The refracted light, bouncing off countless facets and reflective surfaces, was trying to make my head pound. More sickening than that, though, was the deeper meaning of the display. Nothing I saw glorified the Emperor. It was all a celebration of the men who lived in this palace, and therefore ruled Mistral. As Wangenheim descended the staircase, coming closer to my position, it was hard not to imagine that he had commissioned every stone of the palace. He hadn’t. It had been built centuries earlier. But there appeared to be a tradition of what I could only think of as ecclesiastical corruption here, and Wangenheim showed every sign of maintaining that tradition. The palace was not a shrine to the Emperor. It was a celebration of its inhabitant.

Wangenheim made his way down the staircase closely, pausing on each step to speak to the officer before him. When he reached me, I performed the proper obeisance. I did well in hiding the contempt I felt. Wangenheim wasn’t a tall man, but he took up a lot of space. He was obese, and the robes of his office billowed about him like sails. A halo of cherubim fluttered over his head. A soft plainsong chanting emerged from their bionic voice boxes. I couldn’t make out the words. I suspected the hymns were in praise of the man, and not the god whose will he was supposed to enact.

Wangenheim’s lips were thick and unpleasantly moist. His face was pockmarked and bore the ravages of luxury. There was something of the amphibian about him, and when he took my hand in both of his, my skin crawled as though I’d been given a handful of worms. His grip was dry, though, and powdery. ‘I have been told of your actions on the field of battle, commissar,’ he said to me. ‘And I understand that it is you who discovered the heart of the foul heresy that had been attempting to sink its noisome roots into the sacred soil of Mistral.’ His voice was smooth, a baritone syrup. In his youth it might have served him well, but all I could hear was a man enamoured by the sound of his every utterance, a man convinced that he had the instrument to shape language, hearts and minds to his will. ‘The Emperor will bless you for your fidelity and devotion to duty.’

‘Thank you, your eminence.’

I was young, but I was not entirely stupid. I could see what kind of man stood before me. He was the most powerful authority on Mistral, appointed so by the Adeptus Terra. We had come to this planet to uphold the order that he represented. He was not worthy of his position. A child could have told that at a glance. As a thought experiment, I told myself that perhaps my first impression was wrong, and that this was an able administrator and holy man. I dismissed the idea before it made me laugh. But I knew my duty, and I was bound to honour and protect the office that Wangenheim held. I would not help anything by acting with any disrespect. So I swallowed my distaste. I played the part of the lowly officer in the presence of a great man.

I don’t do that any more.

Wangenheim moved one step down, to my right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seroff go through the same charade. I knew how he was keeping himself focused. ‘At least there will be amasec later,’ he had told me as the ceremony began. ‘Good amasec. Lots and lots of very good amasec.’

The bishops blessed us in turn as they made their way down. Many of them appeared to be cut of the same cloth as Wangenheim, but there were others who struck me as more sincerely committed to their calling than to its rewards. The nobles shook our hands. They were less unctuous. They praised and flattered, and while both they and the ecclesiarchs used the stock phrases that were inevitable at events such as this one, I could tell that Wangenheim and his subordinates were genuinely pleased with the battle’s outcome. The barons said they were, but there was something rote about their reactions.

As the last of the official party moved down the staircase, Seroff spoke to me again, still without breaking his formal stance. ‘I don’t think the nobility is all that happy to see us.’

‘I noticed,’ I whispered back. There was movement in the gallery at the top of the staircase. I caught a glimpse of a man withdrawing into the deeper shadows. I had a brief impression of the swirl of a cloak, and that was all.

‘So?’ Seroff went on. ‘Heretics, every one of them?’

That seemed unlikely. ‘Nothing so easy.’

‘A split between them and the Ecclesiarchy?’

‘Maybe.’

I couldn’t tell, staring straight ahead, if Seroff had just winced. The silence made me think he had. ‘Throne. I hope you’re wrong.’

‘So do I.’ That possibility raised uncomfortable questions about our mission. Had we been used as pawns in a game that was ultimately an internecine squabble? No, I told myself. A simple political schism would not explain the runes on Lom’s skull, or the walker itself.

Too many questions. We had only just arrived in Tolosa, and already I was feeling myself sink beneath those murky waters.

2. WANGENHEIM

He took a few minutes for himself between the ceremony and the reception. He stood in an observation room and looked down unseen on the gathering in the hall below. He waved his hand, and his cherubim ceased their song of praise. The winged servitors were, in almost every sense that mattered, his children. He had provided the genetic material that had been used to grow them in vats. They were an extension of him, his will, his glory. They were not, as far as he was concerned, an indulgence. They were a comfort to him, and a reminder, forceful and constant, of his importance to all who saw him.

The reminders were necessary because there was no rest at the top of the Mistralian power structure. There was no question that the cardinal held supreme authority over the citizens of the planet. But who the cardinal was – that was subject to change by assassination or manufactured downfall. That was how he had reached the pinnacle. He had forged the evidence that had sent his predecessor to the dungeons of the Ordo Hereticus.

Then there was the aristocracy. The secular powers were not without their own strength, and he knew it was their hope to reduce his role to that of a figurehead. He should perhaps be grateful to Baron Lom. His rebellion had given Wangenheim the means of providing an object lesson to Lom’s peers. Do you see? This is what happens when you forget your place.

Well and good. But had the nobles learned the lesson? That remained to be seen. He would school them further, until he was sure they were properly pacified. Until the last irritant was stamped out, he would keep the Guard on Mistral. The discovery of an actual heretical cult, limited though it seemed to have been, was a gift. There was much he could do with a threat, especially if it had been reduced to a phantom one, to be deployed according to his needs.

There was a subtle clearing of the throat behind him. Wangenheim turned. Vercor, the palace steward, stood in the doorway. She was a tall woman, thin and hard as cable. Her face had all the colour and expression of bone. Her lank dark hair hung down to her neck, and covered her bionic ears. They functioned as directional microphones. She could isolate a conversation from the other side of a crowded room. What was spoken in the palace was heard by Vercor.

‘What have you learned?’ Wangenheim asked without preamble.

‘The barons are surprised by what was found, your eminence.’

‘They had not suspected Lom of heresy?’

‘It would seem not.’

That was good news. More evidence that the corruption had not had a chance to spread beyond the Vales of Lom. If the cult were not a phantom, it would be much harder for him to use. ‘Was there any sympathy expressed?’ he asked.

‘None. Only disgust.’

That was a shame. On such evidence he could smash a few more families, bring the rest to heel. Still, there was time yet. The fall of Lom had made sure of that. ‘All right,’ he said. He turned back to the view of the gathering below. ‘I should go down. You have listened well. Continue to do so.’

‘As you command, your eminence.’ Vercor withdrew.

Wangenheim signalled to the cherubim, and they began singing again. Bathed in the exaltation of his power, he prepared to play the good host.

3. YARRICK

The reception was held in a ballroom. I had never before heard of a ballroom being present in an Ecclesiarchal palace, but there was no mistaking this hall for anything else. There were more of those huge chandeliers. While not quite as colossal as the ones over the grand staircase, they were big enough. There was more of the omnipresent gold leaf, too. On the walls, this time, in between massive framed mirrors that multiplied the crowd to infinity. The ceiling frescoes here were non-representational. They featured groups of interlocking swirls. They suggested the movement of dance, without actually depicting it. The materialism of the palace was so ostentatious that I wondered why anyone bothered being coy about the nature of the room.

There was no dancing here tonight, at least not yet, though a chamber orchestra was playing at one end. Servants in what I learned later was the livery of Wangenheim’s family moved through the crowd, presenting silver plates loaded with appetizers. Seroff’s hoped-for amasec arrived, and we were soon toasting the death of Baron Lom with the product of his own vineyard. I wondered, as I downed a glass, if we were drinking the last that would ever be brewed. The thought was unpleasant, but I let it go as I savoured the drink. It more than lived up to its reputation.

Rasp had Seroff and I stay close. He was teaching us to swim. We watched Wangenheim work the room, stopping first at one group of officers, then another, sharing a joke with nobles whose laughter was just a bit forced. He gradually moved closer to our cluster. With us were Granach and Colonel Benneger. The latter looked like the tanks he commanded. Massive, square of shoulders and head, he had been a faithful disciple of Rallam, and mourned the loss of the general. He was from the same school of the direct application of brute force as Rallam, and would surely be even less happy about the prospect of a prolonged post-victory stay on Mistral than Granach. But the amasec had softened the worst of his edges. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He downed another drink, then stared at his crystal goblet as if puzzled to find it empty. A servant appeared at his elbow with a decanter and averted tragedy.

Pleased, Benneger slapped me on the shoulder. ‘So, commissar,’ he said, ‘you finished this war for us. Well done. Impressive first duty.’

‘I beg your pardon, colonel?’

‘Found that den of hell, didn’t you? We killed them all. This place is sorted.’

‘May the Emperor grant that you’re right.’ Granach’s prayer was heartfelt.

I bowed my thanks to Benneger, but said nothing. I was pleased to receive a superior officer’s praise, but the memory of the desecrated chapel was a raw one, jagged and bleeding. ‘I agree, colonel,’ I said to Granach. To Benneger, I said, ‘I hope you are right, sir. Nothing would please me more than to be worthy of this praise. I fear, though, that the determination is not ours to make.’

Benneger glanced sideways at Wangenheim. The cardinal was, by stages, making his way towards us. ‘If he has his way,’ he muttered, ‘that holy man will have us here forever.’

I was startled. I saw Rasp’s mouth twitch in the momentary trace of a smile. I didn’t know which amused him: Benneger’s lack of diplomacy, or my surprise at his acumen. Perhaps it was both.

‘That may be so,’ said a new voice. ‘But there are more serious concerns here than political desire. And you are quite correct, commissar. It is not within the purview of the Imperial Guard to determine the level of heretical threat.’

We turned. We had not heard the man approach. He was of average height, but carried himself with an air of haughty command that made him seem to tower over us all. The impression was intensified by his way of holding his head back slightly, so that he appeared to gaze down his nose at whoever stood before him. He was young, close to my age I guessed. His attire was formal, elegant yet severe, with a dark cloak over a waistcoat, trousers and boots whose magnificence made our own ceremonial uniforms look shabby; yet the way he carried himself suggested that this was what he wore onto the field as well. Every thread of his clothes, every swept blond hair on his head, was subject to the same unforgiving discipline. Even if I hadn’t seen his pendant, the iron skull-within-the-I, I would have tagged him as Inquisition. I found myself tense up, as if I were an animal reacting to the presence of a rival.

‘No one here would imagine, or hope, that the situation were otherwise,’ Rasp said smoothly. He bowed. ‘Lord Commissar Simeon Rasp, at your service, inquisitor...’

‘Hektor Krauss, Ordo Hereticus.’ He returned the bow. The movement was a short, quick snap. Somehow, he seemed to be watching us all even in the moment his head was down.

‘I’m sure I speak for my colleagues when I say how pleased I am to see the Inquisition has matters in hand,’ Rasp continued.

‘I am not really interested in formalities or pleasantries, lord commissar,’ Krauss answered. ‘You will forgive me for being blunt.’

Or else, I thought, and I did so with Seroff’s voice in my head. I made sure I did not look at him, but I could sense him bristling.

‘Of course.’ Rasp’s smile was untroubled.

‘This event is distasteful,’ said Krauss. ‘It accomplishes nothing, and is premature in its triumphalism. I would, with all my heart, be elsewhere.’ His contempt was genuine, yet his appearance was so perfectly composed that I suspected that, at a level even he did not suspect, Krauss was being less than honest with himself. There was no way that he could lavish such care on his appearance and not be responding, however unconsciously, to a context just as perfectly arranged.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Benneger said. His grin faded when the inquisitor did not return it. He seemed to wilt beneath the younger man’s gaze.

‘Has your mission on Mistral been a long one?’ I asked, drawing Krauss’s attention to me.

‘Some months,’ he answered. ‘Since shortly after the first instances of armed rebellion. Cardinal Wangenheim suspected the presence of a cult from the first.’

‘And?’ Rasp asked.

‘Nothing concrete until your discovery.’ If Krauss felt any discomfort over his lack of progress, he hid it well.

‘Then perhaps we are done?’ Granach ventured.

‘I cannot answer that,’ said Krauss. ‘I must visit Lom Keep. I will be interviewing your men, colonels. Especially those who came into contact with the walker.’

‘Of course,’ Granach replied. Benneger nodded. One never said anything else to an inquisitor.

Krauss nodded. ‘Good.’ Wangenheim was drawing near. The inquisitor’s lip curled in distaste. He nodded once more, then strode off.

‘Manners,’ Benneger muttered at his retreating back.

‘Oh, shut up,’ Granach told him.

And now the cardinal had come among us. ‘The Emperor’s light shine upon you all,’ he said. He gave his words the special emphasis that comes naturally to those who deeply admire their own sincerity. ‘Mistral owes all of you a debt of gratitude for your efforts in eradicating a cancerous heresy.’

‘Inquisitor Krauss is far from sure that our work is done,’ Rasp said.

Wangenheim nodded. ‘I share his doubts. The Hammer of the Emperor has done great work for Mistral, but its labours are not yet at an end. There is unrest still, and where there is rebellion, there is heresy.’

No one answered that comment directly. Its self-serving nature was obvious. I saw Benneger fighting to keep from frowning.

‘Where will you need us to deploy next?’ Granach asked.

‘Ah, colonel, I wish matters were so straightforward. We are facing something more amorphous, and far more insidious, than merely an armed rebellion. I called the heresy cancerous a moment ago, and a cancer is what it is. It is eating away at all levels of Mistral’s society, and, like all beliefs of cowards, does so in the shadows.’

‘That is work for the Inquisition, surely,’ Rasp probed. ‘A hammer is a poor tool for such an operation.’ Granach and Benneger brightened at his words.

‘There is no doubt that the scourge of the Inquisition shall be used,’ Wangenheim said. ‘And I have made other arrangements that will, I am sure, guide the weak of our flock back to the true path.’ He smiled and winked, very pleased with himself. ‘But you must understand, lord commissar, colonels,’ he clasped his hands, ‘the presence of a large strike force on Mistral is invaluable not only for crushing a rebellion, but for discouraging it from happening in the first place. Do you see?’ He smiled and parted his hands, palms up. The gesture made me think of a conjurer’s. It was as if we were expected to gasp at the logic suddenly unveiled before our marvelling eyes. ‘With you here, we now have time to use other, subtler means to exterminate the heresy.’

‘Your eminence,’ Benneger said, his voice tight with frustration, ‘that would seem to mean that our stay on Mistral–’

‘Will be of indefinite duration. Yes, colonel, that is so.’ Wangenheim smiled that moist smile. ‘You and your men will be well looked after, have no fear.’

Granach began, ‘We should return to the Scythe of Terra until–’

The cardinal interrupted him. ‘Oh, I think boots on the ground within easy reach of Tolosa will be precisely the deterrent we need. Don’t you?’

Granach hesitated. He had authority in tactical matters, but there was no actual conflict at the moment, and he had just been given what amounted to a directive by a high-ranking representative of the Adeptus Terra. He nodded. ‘As you say, your eminence.’ He sounded like a man condemned to hard labour. I shared his dismay. We were facing the prospect of a prolonged mission with vague parameters, and no clear possibility of a decisive victory. It was a fate no army deserved.

On the other hand, however much I disliked Wangenheim, and could see that we were becoming pawns in his political game, none of this changed what had happened at Lom. There had been a threat far beyond simple rebellion there. There had been a cult. Until we were certain that it had been annihilated, we had a duty here. Coming from the mouth of the cardinal, the truth sounded like lies, but it was still the truth.

Wangenheim brought his hands together again in a delighted clap. ‘Splendid! You’ll see, colonel. The heretic will soon be purged from our midst. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

His work done, his will enforced, the cardinal moved off. The colonels stared morosely into their amasec goblets. Rasp watched Wangenheim walk away, but then I saw his attention fix on something else in the ballroom. He left the officers to the contemplation of our collective fate, and signalled for Seroff and me to follow. He walked slowly, as if sauntering through the crowd, but there was purpose in his gaze.

In the centre of the room, we were accosted by one of the nobles. During the presentation on the staircase, he had been the first of the nobility in line after the Ecclesiarchy. After a moment I recalled who he was: Rayland, Baron Vahnsinn, chair of the Mistralian Council. He was first among the secular powers. ‘Your pardon, lord commissar,’ he said.

‘Baron Vahnsinn.’ Rasp gave him a rigid half-bow.

‘I thanked you earlier on behalf of the Council,’ Vahnsinn said. ‘I would like to offer a more personal thanks to you and your officers,’ he nodded to me and Seroff, ‘in recognition of your accomplishment on the battlefield.’ His politeness was so formal it was moribund. ‘I wonder if you would do me the honour of attending a late supper at my Tolosa residence.’ He did not sound like we would be honouring him at all. He sounded like he was obliged to ask us to burn his house down. The ice of his manner was underlined by his physical presence. He was tall, trim as wrought iron. His bone-white hair was cut so short it was only one step from having been shaved off altogether. He was clearly a veteran, and of the Imperial Guard, I surmised, rather than of the militia. His face was lined with heavy experience. Scar tissue descended from his right ear, down the side of his neck.

Rasp accepted the invitation with the same grace with which it had been given: none. He nodded once. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘The honour would be ours.’ Now his house was the one being burned to the ground.

‘In an hour, then?’ Vahnsinn asked, but walked away before Rasp could answer.

There was something about the exchange that struck me as off. It had a rehearsed quality, as if the two men had been partners in this dance of mutual hostility before.

‘We’re not going, surely?’ Seroff said. He was incensed.

‘We’re going,’ Rasp informed him.

House Vahnsinn had properties across Mistral. The family seat was the Karrathar fortress, in the mountains beyond Tolosa. When duty called him to the capital city, he stayed at Grauben Manor. The home was modest in comparison to the Ecclesiarchal palace, but only in comparison to that monument. Tolosa was laid out in rough concentric circles around a central hill, retaining much of the street plan that dated back to the fortified city’s founding during the Age of Apostasy. The citadel at the peak of the hill had been transformed, expanded and remade as the Ecclesiarchal palace. Other than imposing size, it had long ago lost its original architectural character. But many of the other buildings in Tolosa were reminders of how ancient the city was.

Grauben Manor was one of those reminders. It was in the ring immediately below the summit. We walked there from the palace, Mistral’s wind howling through the narrow streets, pushing against us so hard it felt like we were being hit by ocean waves. Grauben’s stone walls had turned black with millennia of grime. Its narrow stained glass windows admitted little light, and when we stepped into the entrance hall I was momentarily taken aback to find that the interior illumination was provided by glow-globes, and not by torches. The décor made me think of Lom Keep. In both homes there was a powerful sense of tradition extending back countless generations, a tradition whose preservation was the responsibility of the current baron. A responsibility that was, it seemed clear, regarded as a privilege.

As a valet led us forward, Vahnsinn’s voice boomed out of a doorway on our left. ‘If there is one thing I cannot abide,’ he said, emerging into the hall, ‘it is people who accept invitations that are not meant to be accepted.’

‘And what I cannot stand,’ Rasp retorted, ‘are the insufferable twits who issue those invitations.’

Silence as the two men regarded each other, then us. Then they exploded with laughter and embraced. It was the greeting of comrades who had been separated by years and distance, but not in affection. After a moment, they held each other at arm’s length.

‘Simeon,’ Vahnsinn said, still grinning, ‘you’re a fool to have come to this planet.’

‘Rayland,’ Rasp replied, ‘you live here. What does that make you?’

‘The biggest fool,’ the baron said, and his smile vanished for a moment. Then it was back, and he was ushering us into the room.

It was an intimate space, one used for quiet evenings with friends, rather than for feasting. The table was a square, large enough for four people to stretch out their legs comfortably at their seats. A painting of Karrathar hung over the fireplace, where a fire had been built up. The flames danced and roared as the wind snuck down the chimney to toy with them. The stained glass window rattled in its casing. The panelling on the walls was the same dark wood as Lom’s desk. The effect of the room was one of solidarity and comfort, a bulwark against the winds outside. The meal was a rich stew of cubed grox, potatoes and an amasec-based sauce. We sponged it up with peasant bread that was so dense it threatened to sit in the stomach like a lead ball, but was impossible to set aside. It was a deliberately informal repast, and a welcome corrective to the excesses of earlier in the evening.

‘How do you come to know each other?’ Seroff asked as we took our seats.

‘I served as commissar for the Mistralian Guard,’ Rasp said. ‘I put it down to the inexperience of my youth that I didn’t shoot this reprobate in the skull many times over.’

Vahnsinn laughed, and the anecdotes and war stories began. Seroff and I listened and asked occasional questions, the expected ones whose function was to elicit the climax of a tale or the punch line of a joke. As our supper ended and we were moving on to liqueurs, I shifted the ground to more immediate concerns.

‘That charade back at the palace,’ I said. ‘That wasn’t only for my and Commissar Seroff’s benefit, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rasp replied.

‘There are ears everywhere in those halls,’ Vahnsinn added. Both men were serious now.

I thought for a moment. ‘May I speak frankly?’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Rasp told me.

‘It seems, then, that you have both conspired, in however minor a capacity, to deceive the Ecclesiarchy.’

The silence that followed was broken by Seroff’s coughs as he choked on his drink.

Vahnsinn said, ‘Tell me, Commissar Yarrick, what was your impression of Cardinal Wangenheim?’

‘I believe he is self-regarding, power-hungry and a disgrace to the office he holds.’

‘You are quick to judge on a brief acquaintance.’

‘You disagree with my evaluation?’

‘Your judgement is also extremely perceptive. No, I do not disagree. I have known the cardinal far longer, and the only difference between your evaluation and mine is that I would be unable to express myself without resorting to obscenities.’

‘So what is really going on here, Rayland?’ Rasp asked. ‘I know Bartholomew Lom was a good friend of yours, but he was clearly involved with something deeply heretical.’

‘What are you hoping to achieve?’ Vahnsinn countered rather than answering. ‘You know how things work on Mistral. Things only get worse here, never better.’

‘I have a duty, and I will follow it. What I want is the information that will allow me to fulfil that duty.’

Vahnsinn nodded. ‘That’s fair. Well, what we are currently experiencing might be the unfortunate confluence of two events. I do hope I am wrong. One of those events is a divide between the nobility and the Ecclesiarchy. The other is perhaps the heresy.’

‘The barons are leading the heretics?’

Vahnsinn grimaced. ‘I pray not. Not exactly.’

‘Not exactly?’ Rasp exploded. ‘Do you hear what you are saying?’

The baron held up placating hands. ‘Let me finish.’ He paused for a moment, organizing his thoughts. ‘The conflict between my peers and Wangenheim is, at basis, about power, not faith.’

‘Go on.’

‘The cardinal keeps increasing the tithes. They’ve become crippling. Wangenheim isn’t trying to feather his nest at our expense. He already has more riches at his disposal than he will ever be able to spend. But if he forces us into insolvency, we shall be at his mercy. We will, in the long run, be unable to act in our own interests. Already, half a dozen estates have fallen under direct Ecclesiarchal control. The cardinal will be satisfied by nothing less than absolute rule over Mistral.’

‘So the barons are pushing back,’ I said.

‘As much as possible. But any real resistance will be branded as heresy by Wangenheim. To stand up for yourself means, almost inevitably, going to war.’

‘You haven’t reached that stage,’ Rasp pointed out.

‘No. I can still afford to pay the tithe. So can the other major houses. But only just. We’re running out of room to manoeuvre. And time.’

‘That was why there were so few baronial forces assisting in the fight against Lom,’ I said. ‘The cardinal doesn’t want you to have the opportunity to engage in any large-scale mobilization.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’m confused,’ Seroff said. ‘You make it sound as if there is no real heresy. Resistance to the cardinal’s ambition is simply being branded as such. But that makes no sense. What Baron Lom did–’

‘Yes, that was true heresy, clearly,’ Vahnsinn broke in. ‘What is running through the streets, in sympathy with the barons, is a rejection of the cardinal and his works.’

‘That is a rejection of the Ecclesiarchy,’ Seroff said.

‘No,’ Vahnsinn corrected, ‘of Wangenheim. He would claim that is a distinction without a difference, but I disagree.’

‘This is Mistral,’ Rasp said quietly.

‘Yes,’ Vahnsinn agreed. ‘It is. Wangenheim is abusing his authority, and bringing disrepute to the Ecclesiarchy.’

‘We do not choose our leaders,’ I pointed out. ‘It is not for us to question what decisions led to his placement here.’

‘We don’t have to,’ Rasp said. ‘He has come home.’

‘The cardinal is Mistralian?’ Seroff asked in surprise.

Vahnsinn nodded. ‘He knows how to swim in our waters. That is why I did not take his blustering about a heresy seriously. There were too many other, drearily mundane reasons for unrest, all of his own making.’

‘But there is a heresy,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ The baron’s eyes were sad. His voice was exhausted. ‘But perhaps it is no more.’

‘The signs of corruption were recent,’ Rasp told him.

‘Throne, let that be so.’

‘Do you believe we have destroyed it?’ I asked.

‘I very much want to. I fear for all of Mistral if you have not.’

‘I doubt the cardinal is in any hurry to declare the threat extinguished,’ Rasp mused. ‘Though if the crisis drags on too long, he will appear weak.’

‘The threat of heresy will end with resistance to his rule,’ I said.

‘Very likely,’ Rasp agreed.

‘And if the cult is still active? If the threat is real?’ Seroff asked.

We were silent. The light in the room seemed to dim, as if falling into the shadow of Vahnsinn’s fears.

‘Tell us what lies ahead politically,’ Rasp said to the baron.

‘There is a Council meeting at the end of next week. The hope is that the cardinal can be made to see reason.’ It was clear from Vahnsinn’s tone that the hope was a forlorn one. ‘If that happens, I believe that I can ensure the loyalty of the barons.’

‘And if not?’ I asked.

‘Know this, commissar,’ Vahnsinn said gently. ‘If the cardinal is not amenable to reason, if he pursues his power grab, then heresy or no heresy, the barons will revolt in desperation. There will be nothing I can do to stop it. And we will have civil war.’

The window rattled again. Outside, the wind of Mistral scoured the street. It sounded like Fate, blowing events from the hands of pitiful mortals.

CHAPTER 6

The Piercing Thorn

1. YARRICK

Wangenheim offered us accommodation in the palace, along with the senior officers. Vahnsinn invited us to stay at Grauben. Rasp thanked both, declined both. He chose a nondescript inn halfway down the slope of Tolosa’s hill, and took three rooms for us there. They were comfortable enough, but a far cry from the luxury that could have been ours at either of the other locations. Seroff was clearly disappointed. I appreciated the strategy, but wondered how effective it could be.

‘We aren’t really safe from spies, here,’ I said to Rasp as I wrestled a west-facing window shut that I had made the mistake of opening. As I lowered the window, the wind shrieked its displeasure at being expelled from a room it had barely begun to upend. On the outside wall, the shutters slammed back and forth. I would fight with them later.

‘Of course we aren’t,’ Rasp said. He leaned against my doorway, arms folded, an amused look on his face. ‘But it will take them longer to get themselves organized. We’ve made things a bit more difficult for them. We have also levelled the playing field. If we had accepted either of our invitations, we would have been assured of being watched by only one set of spies. That would hardly be fair. This way, they’ll be competing against each other, too.’

‘You expected spies at Grauben, too?’

‘Of course. The baron would be failing in his responsibilities if he didn’t have us watched.’

I wondered if there was a cautious way of asking what I was about to ask. I decided there wasn’t, and forged ahead. ‘Do you trust Baron Vahnsinn?’

‘He is one of my oldest friends. We have saved each other’s lives many times over.’

He hadn’t answered my question. ‘But?’ I prompted.

‘But he is Mistralian, and must swim the same waters as do all who live on this planet. Indeed, we must, too, though I know you would like to believe otherwise.’

I grimaced. ‘I would like to, yes. That does not mean that I do.’

‘Good. Then you might survive, and you are learning that to think like a commissar and to act like one are sometimes two different things.’

The shutters banged, insistent.

‘You’d better see to those,’ said Rasp.

I sighed and raised the window again. The wind whooped triumphantly into the room. I leaned over the sill, reaching for the shutters, and felt like I was going to be sucked out of the room and hurled, end over end, down the length of the street. I seized the shutters and yanked them closed, then lowered the window. Outside, the wind moaned, disappointed. A thought struck me. ‘I’m curious,’ I said. ‘You said that the expression about Mistral’s waters was a local one.’

‘It is.’

‘I would have expected the metaphor to be more…’ I gestured at the window. ‘…wind-based.’

‘You haven’t looked much outside the walls yet, have you?’

‘I saw there was an important waterway system.’

‘“Important” hardly does it justice. At any rate, the expression incorporates the two constants of life on Mistral. The full meaning is that if even the winds of Mistral cannot clear the waters of its politics, then they must be murky indeed.’

‘I see.’ That made a depressing amount of sense.

He left, then. Our conversation came back to me the next day. I was shown that it did not matter whether or not one was native-born to Mistral. Everyone on the surface of the planet struggled not to drown in the currents of its politics. There were no exceptions.

2. VERCOR

She waited for the cardinal outside the doors to the Ecclesiarchal palace’s Chapel Majoris. It dominated the west wing, large as a cathedral in the lesser cities on Mistral. It was more recent than the Chapel Minoris, which nestled at the heart of the palace, a relic of the original citadel. The Minoris was rarely used now. It was completely inadequate for the size and splendour of the services conducted. Over the course of the last few centuries, some cardinals had used it as a more private sanctuary for prayer and meditation. Wangenheim did not. If the Chapel Majoris was suitable for public displays, it was suitable for solitude as well.

He was engaged in such a moment of recollection right now. There was no sound from beyond the massive, closed portal. The cardinal, Vercor knew, would be kneeling before the grand altar. Distance and the thickness of the doors blocked even her hearing from picking up on the whispers of his prayers. That was as it should be. But she heard his footsteps as he walked down the nave, and she signalled the guards. They pulled back the double doors just as Wangenheim reached them.

His robes concealed his feet, and he pulled a long train behind him. He moved slowly, and he reminded Vercor of one of the freight-laden boats that plied the network of rivers that surrounded Tolosa. There was no grace in his step, but there was an unhurried stateliness, and an inexorable momentum. He nodded to her to accompany him, and set off down one of the palace’s grand galleries that opened onto the palace’s main cloister.

‘What news?’ the cardinal asked.

‘The lord commissar and his two men dined with Baron Vahnsinn last night.’

‘What did they discuss?’

‘I don’t know. There were too many of the baron’s forces about for me to get close enough to hear.’

‘That is unfortunate.’ Wangenheim thought for a moment. ‘Vahnsinn was being careful, which suggests he has something to hide. Are they staying at his home?’

‘No.’

Wangenheim nodded. ‘Good. I would be concerned by signs of any strong ties.’

‘There has been no unrest in Baron Vahnsinn’s manufactoria,’ Vercor pointed out.

The cardinal brushed away her observation with a wave of his fingers. ‘I am not interested in his apparent loyalty. Whether he intends to revolt or not is irrelevant. What matters is his inability to act in any way that is contrary to the edicts of the Holy Ecclesiarchy. And we have yet to reach that moment.’

Vercor picked up on the phrasing. Wangenheim was preserving a thin veneer of propriety over his own ambition. She gave a mental shrug. He didn’t have to do so for her benefit, but he was being cautious in all things. He was a careful man, and so was a successful one. That was all that mattered. Her family had served his for more generations than could be traced. Historically, the first-born of each generation bore no given name, becoming the incarnation of the family identity, the Vercor that walked the shadows for the Wangenheims. During the last few centuries, the Vercor line had changed in nature. She had borne no children, but her genetic material had been harvested, and her successor grown in a vat, awaiting decanting when her tasks came to an end. Violently, as had ever been the case.

And yet, through the centuries that the Wangenheims had been served by a Vercor, it was never anything as fragile and intangible as loyalty that kept the two families linked. Success was the bond. As the Wangenheims climbed the rungs of the Imperial hierarchies, the Vercors benefitted. The current bearer of the name held no sentimental illusions about honour or tradition. Nor did the cardinal. He knew, as had his ancestors before him, that failure would sever the bonds instantly. This fact kept the Wangenheims honest. If they planned well, and acted wisely, then the shadows at their sides would be invaluable tools.

Vercor flexed her bionic fingers. Servo-motor vibrations ran up her arm. The sensation was a fine one. It was the hum of a strength that could shatter bone. She could do far more than listen. She asked, ‘Does your eminence wish action taken?’

Wangenheim took his time answering. They had reached the end of the gallery and turned left into the next before he spoke again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The Guard is here now. That should be enough to keep order, at least until the Council. The relic arrives today, and the festival will be held the day after the Council. That will be decisive. We’ll know then if we need to act, and we will be in a position to do so with finality. It would be better if Vahnsinn and the barons accept the inevitable. Perhaps they shall. If not…’ He parted his hands and looked up, as if appealing to the judgement of the Emperor. ‘Then we cannot be answerable for the foolishness of the misguided.’

‘Very true,’ Vercor agreed. Strategically, bringing the barons to heel without violence was preferable. That was a more controllable method of ending the unrest. But a little bit of violence, properly applied, could be of great assistance, too.

She was growing tired of simply listening.

3. YARRICK

Cardinal Wangenheim was true to his word. To a point. Comfortable quarters were provided to the regimental officers. But Tolosa did not have the means to billet the entirety of the expeditionary force. So the colonels resided in the Ecclesiarchal palace, while the captains remained with their companies beyond the city walls. There too, logistical problems arose. There was no room for an encampment in the immediate area.

Tolosa occupied almost the entirety of the island on which it was situated. The dozens of rivers and tributaries that cut across the great Mistralian plains were fed by the Carconne range, rising about a dozen kilometres to the east of the city, but they appeared to radiate from Tolosa itself. They were the original arteries of trade on the planet, and Tolosa was the heart that pumped the flow to the other lands. Though hundreds of ships, from private barges to freighters owned by the great families, anchored at city docks every day, much of the transportation needs were now met by the immense maglev network that cut directly across water and land. The rails met in a junction several kilometres wide just outside the north gates, constructed on the one large spit of land on the island that was not contained within the city walls.

The 77th and 110th could not sleep on maglev tracks. So a bivouac was established in the Carconnes. The land belonged to the Trenqavels, a minor family with distant connections to the Vahnsinns. They were exclusively traders, having no military force of their own, and had been among the first to fall under the thumb of Wangenheim. Rasp declared himself impressed by Granach’s choice, and I could see the political logic at work. The Trenqavel land was as close as one could come to neutral territory in Mistral’s fraught atmosphere. There were, officially, no sides to be taken. But everyone on the planet knew the situation was more complex than that, and Granach had placed the Mortisians so as to signal the simple fact that the Guard was here to ensure the order of the Imperium was maintained.

The site was a good one in purely military terms as well. It was a shallow valley, wide enough to support the encampment. It provided some shelter from the constant wind, though the tents still shook, their canvas rippling and snapping in the gusts. A maglev line ran through the valley, and there was a station. It was possible to requisition a transport train and have several companies’ worth of troops arrive at the city within two hours. There was also an actual road running, via numerous bridges, from the Trenqavel holdings to Tolosa.

An army in limbo presents its own challenges. Tolosa was not at peace, so the 77th and 110th could not head to the next theatre of war. But neither was there any combat to be had here. The unrest was, for the time being, limited to the occasional riot or isolated assaults. These were the purview of the enforcers, and they were managing. So the regiments were held in a state of tedious, indefinite inactivity. Idleness is not the proper state for a soldier. It breeds discontent, lack of discipline, and a lack of readiness. It is a state of false security, and thus high vulnerability. And so, after the first night in Tolosa, Rasp sent Seroff and me back to the troops. He remained in Tolosa. He would monitor the pulse of the intrigues. We would work to inoculate the regiments from the toxins in the waters of Mistral.

By mid-afternoon, I had visited more than a dozen companies. My voice was hoarse from leading calls to vigilance, but I was pleased by what I had seen. Morale was strong. Granach had managed to keep the more disturbing discoveries of Lom Keep from filtering down to the rank and file. The monstrosity of the walker was overshadowed by the triumph over its destruction. The novelty of rest had not yet worn off. I had found very little need for discipline. Still, I was prepared for some challenges as I approached the tents that housed the men and women of Third Company. They were the ones who had been closest to the walker. Theirs had been the full measure of victory, but they had also been the closest witnesses to its horror.

The company’s tents, the same khaki as the Mortisian uniform, were in a quadrant on the south-east corner of the encampment. As I approached, I saw a figure pacing back and forth in the wide lane created by the separation between the shelters of Third and 15th Companies. It was Captain Logan Saultern. He hurried over when he saw me. He had been tempered well by the battle, but I saw in his gait and his eyes a return of some of the anxiety that almost cost him his life at the start of the campaign.

‘Captain,’ I said.

He spoke quickly, sweat on his brow. ‘I’m sorry, commissar, I don’t know if I should be speaking to you about this, I mean he is who he is, and I know I shouldn’t question, but these are my men, and–’

‘Captain,’ I said again, more sharply.

He took a breath, stopped, straightened. ‘Commissar.’ Another breath, and he remembered once more that he was an officer. ‘Your pardon. I’m troubled, and I forgot myself.’

‘Do not do so in front of your troops,’ I warned. If he made me regret my act of mercy, that would be his last mistake.

‘I won’t, commissar. But if I spoke badly, it was motivated by concern for my troops. They deserve better treatment.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why are they being interrogated?’ he pleaded.

The light dawned. At the same moment, I heard a man’s scream come from deeper in the camp. ‘How long?’ I asked.

‘For the last hour. He’s had five brought before him so far. He’s been with this man for more than twenty minutes and–’

I was already striding past the tents. The scream repeated, and I homed in on its location. It came from the command tent. Saultern had been displaced, his site of command turned into a source of humiliation for him, and of terror for his troops. I brushed through the flaps. I knew I was taking a risk. It was one I believed to be correct. My stride was sure. My vision was crystalline with anger.

Hektor Krauss stood in the centre of the tent. It took me a moment to recognize the soldier slumped on the stool before him. It was Deklan Betzner, the trooper whose missiles had crippled the legs of the walker. The big man looked shrunken before the inquisitor. His face and his left hand were bloody. So were some of the tools on the table beside Krauss.

‘I do not appreciate interruptions, Yarrick,’ said Krauss. The omission of my rank was a reminder of who held the power in this tent.

‘I don’t particularly care,’ I said.

He was startled, and was unable to hide it. I don’t think he had ever been defied before. I believe I did him some good that day. We should all be challenged. Only the God-Emperor is beyond all question.

Krauss turned to face me. Behind him I saw Betzner sag a little more, now with relief at having the inquisitor’s attention removed from him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Krauss hissed.

‘Interrupting something pointless and counterproductive.’ I held his gaze. I knew he had the authority to kill me where I stood. Or worse. Perhaps I had been so disgusted by the need to accept the flagrant abuses of Cardinal Wangenheim that my tolerance had no room for any further misuse of authority. Perhaps my instinctive dislike of Krauss had the better of my judgement. Whatever the reason, I regarded the threat of what he could do to me with disinterested contempt.

The moment was very good practice.

I saw Krauss weigh his options. He could try to browbeat me, but he was not a stupid man. That approach would not work, and would serve only to undermine him before Betzner, setting back what he was trying to accomplish here. He could try to kill me. He might succeed. He would have received training far beyond mine.

But then again, I had already surprised him once.

His face reddened. It was good to see that perfectly groomed sleekness turn ugly. ‘Outside,’ he said. It must have been hard to speak with his jaw clenched.

Without a word, I took a step back, and held the flap open for him. I waited, watching his complexion shift from crimson to purple. I am not proud that I took a certain pleasure in the moment. But I am not ashamed, either.

He stormed past me, and I followed. We stopped on the other side of the tent. We spoke quietly as we faced each other, both conscious of the importance that our conversation not be overheard.

‘You have no authority to interfere in these matters,’ Krauss began.

‘No, but I have a duty to do so.’

‘Duty?’ Krauss spat the word. ‘What perverse conception of duty is this?’

‘The same duty you have: to your office. I will preserve the morale of these soldiers, and I will have them fight to the last drop of their blood. So I will fight anything that interferes with their duty.’

‘The last of their blood might well be shed on this soil if I do not find the truth about the heresy on Mistral.’

‘Then seek it. If there is still a cult in existence, you won’t find it here.’

‘This regiment fought a cult. This company was in direct contact with a heretical device. There is information for me here.’

‘Then ask for it!’ It was difficult not to shout. ‘No one here has anything to hide.’

‘Oh?’ His voice was so low, I could barely hear it, but that single syllable held a wealth of menace.

I was overreaching. ‘No,’ I conceded. ‘We all have something to hide.’ I lowered my voice too. ‘Don’t we?’ Before he could be certain if I had truly threatened an inquisitor, I resumed in a more normal tone. ‘But about the battle, there are no secrets. We are happy to tell the Inquisition whatever it wants to know. We know our duty there, too.’ I pointed at the tent. ‘There is no need for what I saw in there.’

‘I am the fit judge of such matters.’

‘That man was instrumental in bringing down the enemy machine,’ I protested. ‘He fired missiles at its legs. That was the sum total of his contact with the walker. Why torture him?’

‘He knows something.’ Krauss’s conviction was absolute.

‘Nonsense. He is not an enginseer. He was not in the party that entered the machine, and he didn’t set foot in the keep.’

Krauss shrugged. Even that gesture had a contemptuous elegance to it. My words meant nothing. I realized that here was a man impervious to appeal. My role was not a merciful one, but it was pragmatic. There was nothing pragmatic about Krauss. There was only dogma, and in this he took great pride. But perhaps because of this rigidity, he was very good at what he did. ‘You disappoint me, commissar,’ he said. This time, he used my rank, as if he felt the need to remind me of who I was. ‘I know you were trained in matters of Chaos. We have both been formed by the schola progenium. So I know that you know that these forces work more insidiously than through simple contact.’

‘The walker was made by human hands,’ I told him.

‘Of course it was. But how?’

‘There is no shortage of heavy industry on Mistral.’

‘You are being ridiculous. I am not talking about means. I am talking about knowledge. I have seen the hololiths. It is not the product of any Standard Template Construct known to me. Or am I foolishly ignorant? Am I wrong?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘You are not.’ No STC had ever made such a monster, especially one whose throne was a terrible mockery of the principles that animated Titans.

‘So how did Lom acquire the knowledge to construct this weapon?’

‘That changes nothing,’ I protested. ‘This has no bearing on the troops who fought and destroyed the walker.’

‘It changes everything. They saw it. More to the point, they heard it. I am told it cried out as it fell.’

‘Baron Lom did,’ I corrected.

That shrug again. ‘The two were one at that point. What matters is what it said. Words are potent weapons. The right ones have a great power of corruption.’

‘This company is not corrupt,’ I insisted.

He looked at me steadily. There was a cold pity in his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe it is.’

‘Yet you subject its loyal soldiers to torture.’

‘You do me an injustice. I am not a cruel man.’ I didn’t believe a word, though he clearly did. ‘I was able to see after a few minutes of unforced questioning that there was nothing to be learned from the first few subjects.’

‘But Trooper Betzner is different, is he? He is corrupt?’

‘He knows something. One does not imply the other, but certain measures become necessary.’

‘And how did he come by a special knowledge that passed over the rest of us?’

‘Did I say he was the only one? I have not completed my investigation. But of this much I am sure: he knows something.’

His certainty made me hesitate. I didn’t trust his easy recourse to extreme interrogation, but I didn’t feel that this was a liar or an incompetent before me. It would have done my pride good to be able to dismiss the inquisitor. But by the grace of the God-Emperor, even as young as I was, I was not that foolish. ‘Will you give me a moment alone with him?’ I asked.

Now he paused, thrown by my cessation of hostilities. He looked at me closely for several seconds. Then he gave me a single, curt nod.

I returned the gesture, and made my way back inside the tent. Betzner had not moved. ‘Look at me,’ I told him. My tone was clipped, and I did not crouch before him. He would have seen me as his rescuer when I burst in on the interrogation. It was important now that he understand his fate rested with me, and in the answers he would give. With an effort, Betzner raised his head. One eye was swollen shut, but the other gazed at me first with hope, but then with desperate pleading.

‘Inquisitor Krauss has made a serious charge against you,’ I said. ‘And Inquisitor Krauss is not a man to do so lightly.’ That was a lie. I was quite ready to believe that Krauss would condemn a hundred innocents sooner than risk the escape of a single guilty soul. I was no more willing than he was to let the corrupt escape punishment, but there were other means to the same ends. ‘The inquisitor is also a man who knows what he is doing,’ I went on, and this was a perfect truth. ‘Do you understand?’

Betzner had to clear his throat and spit up some blood before he could speak. ‘Yes, commissar.’

‘He says you know something more than you are saying about the weapon we encountered at Lom.’

‘But I don’t.’ His mouth worked as if he were trying to find the words for an even more emphatic denial, but then he shook his head and was silent. The agony in those three words had been eloquent, though, and he did not avert his gaze.

I looked at him long and hard, evaluating. Betzner’s conduct on the battlefield and off spoke volumes for him. My instinct was that he was being truthful. Yet I knew I could not trust my instinct alone. Worlds and more had been lost because of misguided trust. I could not discount Krauss’s judgement and experience.

But this battered soldier was not a heretic. He was not corrupt. I was sure of this. And my earlier impulse to spare Saultern had been proven correct. Though that first act of mercy was making me weigh matters very carefully now. These were my first true tests as a commissar. Was I perhaps failing them? Was I giving in to a soft-hearted impulse? Did I have the necessary will to do the hard thing? Could I imagine turning Betzner over to Krauss’s tender mercies, or putting a bullet in his head myself? I pictured myself removing my bolt pistol from its holster, placing the barrel against Betzner’s forehead, and, with him still looking at me, pulling the trigger.

I experienced no disquiet. I would do my duty, whatever it called upon me to do. I felt a greater clarity, and I left the tent again to rejoin Krauss. He said nothing, waiting for me to speak first. I chose my words carefully, conscious that there were two aspects to this test. One was making a decision about Betzner. The second was dealing with the inquisitor.

Political officer, indeed. A momentary nostalgia for my days of service as a storm trooper washed over me. I dismissed the unworthy sentiment. I had been summoned to act as commissar, and so I would. I embraced the honour of duty.

‘I am not saying your judgement is mistaken,’ I told Krauss. It was difficult, with that inflexible, superior face before me, to choke back my antipathy. ‘But I am convinced that Trooper Betzner has no conscious awareness of the knowledge you believe he has obtained. What use, then, is putting him to the question? You will gain nothing.’

Krauss’s eyes focused on a spot just over my shoulder. I could see him thinking. It seemed I had found the correct approach: not to challenge his goals, but to suggest there might be a better way of achieving them.

‘I am sure,’ I continued, ‘that if there is a threat on this planet as serious as…’ I caught myself before I said you think, ‘it appears there is, then we will need our regiments united and strong against it.’

‘I never said otherwise,’ Krauss answered.

‘Then let them fight. Ask what must be asked, but if we sow the idea that there are those among us who have been secretly corrupted, we shall reap a harvest on behalf of Chaos.’ We, I said, and said it twice. I wasn’t sure that he would respond to that ploy, but then he nodded. After all, how could any faithful servant of the Emperor disagree with this inquisitor?

He thought a bit longer. I waited, immobile. At last, he said, ‘It is true that my interrogation was not proving fruitful. It is also true that Trooper Betzner did not appear to be holding back. Perhaps you are correct. Perhaps he has no conscious awareness of what he knows.’ His eyes grew hard again, his voice challenging. ‘But I also am correct. He does know something.’

‘Then we will watch him, and help him reveal that information to himself as well as to us,’ I proposed.

‘You understand the responsibility that you are shouldering?’ he asked.

‘I do.’

‘I do not consider you immune to corruption, commissar.’

‘You would be derelict in your duties if you did,’ I told him.

‘I would not hesitate to kill you.’

‘Good. As I will not hesitate with Betzner.’

Krauss made his decision. ‘Take him out of the tent,’ he said. ‘I have further interviews to conduct.’

‘Coercive ones?’

‘I don’t expect them to be.’

‘Thank you, inquisitor.’

As I walked away, he called out, ‘You care for your charges, commissar. That is dangerous.’

‘It is necessary,’ I replied, though it occurred to me that we might both be right.

In the tent, I lifted Betzner to his feet. ‘You have not suffered any injuries to the spine or your legs, so you will walk out of here unaided,’ I informed him.

‘Yes, commissar.’

‘The only value your life has ever had is in service to the Emperor and his Imperium. So it is for us all.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But now, you must justify your continued existence. Do you understand? Your fidelity must blind us with its truth. At the first hint of a shadow, I will kill you. Do. You. Understand?’

He did, and there was no fear in his damaged face. There was determination. And there was gratitude.

Two hours later, Seroff and I received the summons from Rasp to return to Tolosa. There was an event approaching, one he wanted us to witness.

‘Any ideas?’ Seroff asked as we boarded the train along with a handful of the more senior captains.

‘Only premonitions of doom,’ I answered. I was joking, but I was not lying. If what was coming would have an impact on the troops, it seemed unlikely that it would be anything good. Not on Mistral.

‘The joys of being a political officer,’ Seroff muttered, and I blinked at his echo of my earlier thoughts.

I should not have been surprised. He had heard the same lectures, and the same warnings from Rasp. ‘A commissar is a political officer,’ he had emphasized on more than one occasion. ‘Remember that designation. It is specific, in that it names a duty unique among officers in the Imperial Guard. Every solider is a politician to some degree. The higher the rank, the greater the degree. But only the commissar is specifically tasked with those concerns. If you think that your role is simply a guardian of orthodoxy, then you are a fool, and of no use to anyone. The decisions, the prejudices and the clashes of the powerful will resonate down to the lowest trooper. Observe and learn.’ A pause. A grim smile of weariness and determination. ‘Develop the art of anticipation.’

I anticipated nothing good.

In Tolosa, we met Rasp at the Ecclesiarchal palace. He led us to the Chapel Majoris. ‘A service?’ Seroff asked.

Rasp shook his head. ‘No. A reception of a kind. This time, we are among the spectators, instead of being the spectacle.’

I said, ‘You aren’t going to tell us who the spectacle is, are you, lord commissar.’

‘I have made an educated guess, based on some hints the cardinal has been tossing around, but I have no certainty.’

The chapel was full. Wangenheim’s bishops sat in the choir. In the front pews were the two colonels of the Mortisian regiments, guests of honour no doubt because of their great utility to the cardinal. We took our seats just behind them. Next came the barons. I had never seen so many faces held in so studied a neutrality. The very lack of understandable curiosity told me how much hostility and worried suspicion were being kept just barely in check. So the nobility was in the dark, too. Vahnsinn looked straight ahead, not even glancing at us as we passed him. The rest of the seats were pews filled with the lower ranks of the clergy and palace functionaries. I suspected they were here as props. The spectacle, it occurred to me, would be twofold. The cardinal was planning to cow the nobility with the new arrivals, but he evidently wanted to impress whoever this was. There must be no empty seats.

The doors to the chapel closed with a boom. The air grew thick with incense. Wangenheim appeared at a lectern just before the altar, rather than in the pulpit that jutted out from the left-hand pillar at the transept crossing, and that would have had him gazing down at the congregation from six metres on high.

‘This is a great day,’ the cardinal began. ‘I stand humbled before you, grateful merely to be the messenger of the news I bring you.’

I swallowed hard, and mimicked the barons in holding my face in studied blankness. Wangenheim’s shameless use of this holy place disgusted me. His humility was as false as his palace was opulent. I had no reason to doubt his faith in the God-Emperor, but his self-interest was obscene. This space should have been given over to the sole purpose of turning our hearts and souls to the praise of the Master of Mankind. Yet it was now a stage for this strutting would-be potentate.

‘These are troubled times on Mistral,’ Wangenheim said, deep sorrow giving his voice just the right hint of a tremble. ‘I know that most of our fellow citizens are steadfast in their allegiance to the Imperial Creed. But none of us can afford to be blind to the toxin of doubt that has infected the land. We have seen a great tragedy enacted in the Vales of Lom. Even as I speak, the enforcers in Tolosa and elsewhere are struggling to quell a heretical unrest. None of us can remain idle in the face of such spiritual jeopardy.’ He nodded a few times, as if the barons had just applauded. ‘And when our world has a sickness of the soul, it is my responsibility above all to find the cure.

‘We need,’ he declared, ‘a great renewal. And we need a tangible symbol around which to rally. We need it to be known that the God-Emperor protects Mistral. And soon, indeed, all shall know. It is with brimming heart that I can announce that a great relic has come among us. I present to you…’ he swept his arms wide, ‘the jawbone of Saint Callixtus!’

The rear doors of the chapel opened once more, admitting a procession down the nave. Leading it was Bishop Castelnau. He was a thin man, and shorter than Wangenheim. He had all the presence of a faulty servitor. His voice was reedy and weak, and even my brief conversation with him at the reception had been an agony of tedium. His sermons, I imagined, must have inspired the wrong sort of martyrdom. But for all his physical weakness, he was not without political power. This he wielded with all the special vindictiveness of the true coward. He was Wangenheim’s chief cat’s-paw, slavish in his loyalty, and rewarded in consequence. He walked down the nave with imagined dignity, a ridiculous figure drowning in his robes. His mitre threatened to slip down over his eyes. It would have been very easy to laugh. It would have been a mistake to do so.

The bishop bore a violet cushion before him. Resting on it was an ornate, cylindrical reliquary of gold and stained glass. Knowing what lay inside drained all humour from the situation. Grotesque as Castelnau was, he carried a piece of a great man, one of the finest cardinals ever to serve the Adeptus Ministorum, a holy man who had been born and raised on Mistral, and gone on to become a great hero during the Redemption Crusades.

The gesture was inspired: the current cardinal was bringing another one home. The naked political calculation was so disgusting, it would have taken a great effort of will to remain quiet. I say would have because I had no difficulty biting my tongue. Bishop Castelnau did not walk in alone. With him came the escorts who had seen the relic safely to Mistral. There was nothing ridiculous about them.

Walking behind Castelnau, dwarfing him, was a squad of the Sisters of Battle. The standard borne by the rearmost warrior announced them as belonging to the Order of the Piercing Thorn. On a field of gold, an iron thorn was wrapped with a spiral of crimson that could have been blood or wire. Their power armour reflected the same colour scheme: black with a spiral of red, framed by golden capes. All the members of the squad were tall, but the sister superior who led them was a giant, the equal in height to some of the Adeptus Astartes. She was young, but her face was as unyielding as the standard’s emblem.

The clank of armoured boots echoed off the marble of the chapel floor until the doors closed again, and the great organ began playing a majestic processional. The music reached a crescendo as the ten Adepta Sororitas and the bishop arrived at the altar. There, Castelnau placed the cushion and its reliquary. He stepped back, head bowed, then knelt just in front of the pews. The Sisters of Battle stood before the altar. Wangenheim stood beside it, on its dais. Even with the extra height, he was still shorter than the sister superior. He held out his hands, and there was just enough of a pause before he started to speak that I found myself wondering if he had expected the women to kiss his ring of office.

‘Sister Superior Setheno,’ he said to the leader, ‘I welcome the warriors of the Order of the Piercing Thorn to Tolosa, and thank them for ensuring the safe homecoming of Saint Callixtus.’ He looked out to the congregation. ‘Our Emperor is generous with Mistral. He showers us with good fortune. With this sacred return, we now find ourselves hosts to the hammer of the Imperial Guard, the vigilance of the Inquisition, and the militant faith of the Adepta Sororitas. Our trials are surely at an end. Shall we not celebrate?’

‘All praise to the Emperor,’ the bishops intoned in unison.

‘I said that Mistral needed renewal. It shall have it. We have a great coming together with the planetary Council next week. What more auspicious occasion might there be to rejoice in our brotherhood beneath the eye of the Emperor?’

I saw Seroff’s jaw drop. He caught himself, and he closed his mouth with a sharp click of his teeth.

‘All praise to the Emperor,’ said the bishops.

‘And so,’ Wangenheim concluded, ‘I am declaring that a great Festival of the Emperor’s Light shall commence the day after the conclusion of the Council. It shall last a week, and begin with the permanent installation of the holy relic in this chapel, after a procession through Tolosa, that all may see it and draw together in worship.’

‘All praise to the Emperor,’ said the bishops.

I prayed to the Emperor as well. I prayed that we might all be delivered from the machinations of a madman.

CHAPTER 7

The Advent

1. YARRICK

‘He isn’t mad,’ Rasp said.

Seroff and I were on the streets of Tolosa with Rasp, Granach and Benneger. We were bending into the wind. Conversation was difficult with the words being whipped from our mouths. Listening in would be even harder, given we could barely hear each other. We were walking some of the possible routes that the relic’s procession would take, trying to get a better sense of the lie of the land. The colonels needed to know what troop dispositions would be needed to maintain security during the festival. We had every reason to be exploring the field of operations and discussing it with each other. We seized the opportunity to speak with less fear of spies.

Tolosa’s character made me think of the ripples in a pond. The palace was the centre of the city’s life in every possible sense. It was the splash that determined all else. The larger, more clearly defined ripples close to the palace were made up of the administrative centres and the homes of the aristocracy. The further out one went, the more broken up and ill-defined the ripples became. Power, influence and wealth drained away. Population density, on the other hand, grew enormously. Major avenues and inner defensive walls helped create the overall pattern of concentric rings, but the smaller streets were all part of a tangled maze, and the confusion only got worse in the poorer districts. It was easy to get lost. As long as I could see the palace gleaming at the top of the hill, I had some sense of geography. But whenever we lost sight of it, walking down roads barely wider than a path between the grey stone habs on either side, disorientation set in. Granach frequently consulted a map on his data-slate, and just as frequently cursed its inaccuracy.

The buildings were ancient, like the rest of the city, most no more than four or five storeys high. Their facades were almost completely blank, the windows sparse and narrow. I had seen why back at the inn. The streets rarely ran straight for more than a block, creating windbreaks with the buildings themselves. Even so, the wind found its way through. Sometimes we would walk in relative calm for a hundred metres, only to be met with a ferocious gust and a phantom wail at the next intersection.

We soon found that no one strolled in Tolosa. There were no parks, no sites of outdoor recreation. Everyone on the street was striding with a single purpose: to reach a destination as quickly as possible.

‘How can he not be mad?’ Granach demanded. ‘He is opening the door to civil war. Or have I misread the political situation here that badly?’

‘You haven’t, colonel,’ Rasp assured him. ‘The cardinal is taking a huge risk. If he loses, then yes, Mistral descends into war.’ He raised his hands as he shrugged with theatrical despair. ‘Perhaps that is inevitable no matter what happens next week. War may very well be exactly what Cardinal Wangenheim wants.’

‘So he is mad,’ Granach insisted. Benneger grunted in agreement.

We paused at another of Tolosa’s concentric walls. The road, already narrow, became even more constricted as it passed through the barrier to the next region of the city. There were a dozen such bottlenecks along the circumference of the wall, and the pattern was repeated in each ring of fortifications. They had clear value for controlling the flow of the crowds, but they would also hamper our ability to move across the city quickly.

‘With respect, colonel,’ I said, ‘he may be reckless, but I agree with the lord commissar. The cardinal’s decisions are too strategic to be insane. If war is inevitable, it is to his advantage that it comes when the forces of the Imperium are assembled and poised for action.’

‘So we do his dirty work for him,’ Benneger grumbled.

Rasp gave him a lopsided smile. ‘So it would seem.’

Granach was still looking at the wall. Seroff asked, ‘Is something troubling you, colonel?’

‘The route of the procession,’ Granach answered.

‘Wangenheim is still working on it,’ Benneger told him. ‘I asked a few times. Keeps revising.’

‘He wants the display to be seen by as many people as possible,’ Rasp said.

Granach sighed. ‘Will he take any of our recommendations, do you think? How are we expected to maintain security for every street in this maze?’

‘He will expect us to do nothing more than our duty,’ Rasp answered. It was hard, over the howl of the wind, to catch his bitter irony.

2. CERNAY

It was late, hours past midnight, when Nikolas Cernay left the tavern. He didn’t know what time it was. His chronometer had been smashed in a short brawl a good four bottles ago. His head swam with the sick fumes of cheap amasec. He could have afforded better. He could have chosen a more salubrious drinking establishment, too, closer to home. But he liked the Flagellant’s Remorse. His family name meant nothing there. No one cared that he headed the Cernay trading concern, or if they did, they were more likely to resent him than play sycophant. As merchants went, he and his family were far from being major players on Mistral. Their grain business was almost entirely limited to Tolosa and its environs. But they lived well, and he had to spend more than enough time at the right occasions, courting the right people. Sometimes it was good to descend a few rings down Tolosa’s hill, into the regions where the only wealth that mattered was the weight of a fist.

Two fights tonight. Along with the chronometer, he’d lost a tooth, and won some bloody knuckles. A fine evening.

The wind blasted the worst of the fumes from his head as he stepped out into the street. His gait steadied after the first block. He kept his guard up. There were few exterior lumoglobes in this neighbourhood, and many of those were broken. It would be easy to trip and fall. Easier yet to be jumped. He walked down the middle of the street, buffeted by gusts, avoiding the darkest shadows between buildings. He swung his arms, held his hands open, and struck the cobbles hard with the heels of his boots, announcing his readiness to tackle all comers. If he had to smash another face or two on the walk home, he wouldn’t complain. The sound of nose cartilage hitting stone had a charm of its own.

There were other people still out at this hour, but not many, and they kept to themselves. No one approached. Half an hour later he had reached Tolosa’s middle ring, where the Cernay residence stood. The more respectable the neighbourhoods became, the more deserted the streets were. There was no reason for people to be outside their homes. All the dining and drinking establishments had been closed for hours. By the time he reached his sector, he was alone.

He was less watchful now. No reason to expect a fight. There was only the eternal struggle with the wind, which always seemed to be blowing against him, no matter what direction he took. There was greater illumination here, but he stayed in the middle of the road. There was no traffic, and he found it easier to walk on the wider surface than on the narrow pavements. He squinted as a particularly powerful gust hit him full in the face, and so he almost didn’t see the figure.

He did, though. There was movement to his left, and when he looked, eyes watering, he saw a blur retreat into the darkness of a tiny alley. He frowned, rubbed his eyes and peered at the alley as he went past. No one emerged. He walked on. After another twenty metres he looked back. Was there someone there again? Yes, he thought there was. He had the impression of a robed shape moving in the shadows of the façades.

He walked faster. He could feel his heart beating, and his head was clearing as his mouth dried. He was only five minutes from home. When he spotted a second figure up and to the right, it felt like hours to go.

The other shape stood in a shop doorway, almost hidden in the shadows, but it was not quite hiding, as if it wanted him to notice. He peered at it as he drew level. He couldn’t tell if he was looking at a man or a woman. There was only the suggestion of robes and darkness. The figure did not move. But when he had gone past, and he looked over his shoulder, the stillness broke. With a jerk, as if suddenly released into life, the figure began to follow. It flowed from shadow to shadow, a cowled grace. Neither it nor the first hunter seemed to be hurrying. They weren’t trying to catch up, but they weren’t letting him put any distance between them, either.

He ran. His gaze jerked from side to side. He started seeing movement in every darker pool of the night. The wind raged against him, its idiot roar blocking the sound of pursuing footsteps. It hurled a scrap of parchment his way. He yelped and jumped aside, seeing in the sudden motion the flap of robes, the rush of an assassin.

He ran faster, but already his lungs were protesting. He tried to think who would wish him harm. The Cernays had many competitors. Their hands were not clean. No merchants’ were. Violence between the concerns happened. It was also limited. Unrestrained war would profit no one, and would draw the ire of the more powerful forces of Mistral. Shipments were destroyed. Some were stolen. Accidents happened, sometimes fatal ones, sometimes to important figures. But rarely. And there was an art to it. A way of bringing an end about that permitted everyone to maintain the pretence that nothing had happened.

He did not think such an accident awaited him. This was something else. These people wanted to frighten him. They had done so. Would that be enough?

‘What do you want?’ he gasped. The wind stole his words. Even he couldn’t hear them. He tried again. He didn’t slow his pace. His lungs were ragged, and he could only shout a single word with each breath. ‘What… do… you… want?’ The effort scraped his throat. I’m frightened, he thought. You’ve done well. You don’t need to do any more. He took a breath and screamed, ‘I’ll give you anything you want!’

The effort winded him. He stumbled, lost his footing and crashed to the ground. His nose smacked the paving stones. He heard the music of breaking cartilage after all. Gagging on his own blood, he scrambled to his feet. He looked back, expecting the figures to be upon him. They had stopped. But now there were four, and they were standing in a staggered line across the street. There couldn’t be faces inside those hoods, he thought. There was only concentrated darkness. At the moment he started moving again, they advanced once more.

The way was uphill now. He was running again, but it felt like he was trudging through quicksand. The thought came that there was no point to his struggle. If his tormentors wanted him, they could take him at any time. He kept looking back, risking another fall. They were coming still, neither closing nor falling behind. Their robes were long, and he couldn’t see their legs. They seemed to float effortlessly up the road. And though they were brazen now, they were still hard to pick out in the darkness, as though the shadows travelled with them.

He called for help, but he couldn’t shout any longer. A desperate croak was all he could manage. The wind swallowed it. On either side of him were closed shutters and blank walls. The city had turned its back on him. He was alone.

He whined in terror. Then he was over the top of the hill, and his heart was hammering still harder, now with agonized hope. His door was less than fifty metres away.

A surge of adrenaline gave him a burst of speed. He was going downhill, and the wind’s tyranny lost its grip. He had his key in his hand. Another glance back, and the figures had not yet reached the crest. The illusion of having outpaced them gave him the extra strength he needed. He flew over the last few metres and reached the door.

It was iron, set into a featureless wall. Beyond it was a courtyard, and then the house proper. He inserted the key, turned it, and pulled the door open.

Leap over the threshold. Slam the door. Lock it again. The actions were simple, and would have taken less than five seconds. He did not have those seconds. Hands grabbed him. He was hauled away from the door. He struggled. He knew how to fight. He had hurt people very well earlier. But his skills and the ferocity of his fear did him no good. The hands that held him were strong too, and there were too many of them. Two of the figures wrestled him to the ground. They pinned his arms behind his back. He felt rope cinch his wrists, the violent friction burning. A hand gripped his hair and held his head up. He was forced to watch as the other two figures went through the doorway. He didn’t hear any screams, but he knew there must have been. The wind keened over the shrieks as his wife, his brother, his parents and his children were dragged, one at a time, out into the street, bound and hooded. His house was emptied. Almost. His aunt, who held a controlling interest in the concern, was not captured. Even through his fear, he wondered why not. Had she hidden? Was she dead? Was she being spared? If so, maybe this was a simple kidnapping. Maybe one ransom later, he would be safely home.

One of the figures closed the door, locked it, then walked over to Cernay and crouched before him. It touched a finger to his lips. It spoke, and its voice killed his hopes. The sound was androgynous, rough and painful, as if the speaker had a mouth lined with barbed wire. Cernay couldn’t tell if he was hearing a man or a woman.

‘Be silent,’ said his captor. ‘Save your screams. You will have much use for them later. So will we.’

3. YARRICK

Eight days after our reconnaissance of Tolosa, the High Council of Mistral convened. The chambers of the Council were in the Ecclesiarchal palace. The location was telling. They had once had their own building, still within the central ring of Tolosa, and adjacent to the palace. But the needs of the Ecclesiarchy had grown with its political strength on Mistral, and the Council House had been demolished three centuries ago to make way for the expanding east wing of the palace. The chambers were handsome, spacious, as expensively wrought as every other aspect of the palace. They were also very clearly an annex. Every time the nobility of Mistral gathered, it was reminded of the limits of its political power. Vahnsinn was nominally the Imperial Commander of the planet, but that title had withered in actual importance as the cardinals had asserted their dominance.

Seroff and I met Rasp and the colonels outside the stairs to the public gallery. Though seating was reserved for us, we would be mixing with the good citizens of Tolosa today.

‘Well?’ Granach asked.

‘Ten more abductions last night,’ Seroff reported. ‘That we know of,’ he added.

‘If one happened, we know about it,’ I said. ‘Everyone does.’

The mood on the streets of Tolosa was a tinderbox. Families were vanishing. In every case, one member of the household was left behind to bear witness to the assault. As a result, rumours were spreading like a firestorm. All the stories agreed that the abductors were clad in dark robes. Who they were, and what they wanted, varied according to the prejudices and sympathies of the speaker. But the other point of agreement was the need for justice.

The street was terrified. It wanted blood. If blood was not given, it would be sought.

I dreaded the cardinal’s festival.

Granach sighed. ‘If only we had arrived here a bit sooner.’

‘I don’t think so, colonel,’ Rasp told him. ‘The cult is far more entrenched than we thought. The timing of the attacks, and their visibility, are not the result of a recently improvised plan. There is a systematic project of destabilisation at work.’

‘Working very well, too,’ Granach spat.

Since the abductions had begun, the colonel had brought in more troops within the city walls and instituted an intensive programme of night patrols. But there were too many streets, too many alleys, too many shadows. The Mortisian effort was proving futile.

‘At least the Inquisition is finding that too,’ Benneger said.

That was true. If Krauss had been having any success in rooting out the leaders of the cult, he was keeping it to himself. The attacks had also diverted his attention from the troops for the time being.

Granach nodded. ‘And the Adepta Sororitas haven’t involved themselves.’

‘Yet,’ Rasp amended.

We filed up the staircase. In the public gallery, the lord commissar and the colonels took the front row. Seroff and I sat behind them.

‘Are you ready to be edified?’ Seroff asked me.

‘I already have been,’ I said, taking in the architecture of the rectangular hall. The spectators were settled in tiered pews at the rear, overlooking the U-shaped configuration of councillors’ seats. Between the horns of the ‘U’ was a dais two metres high. On it was the cardinal’s throne. Behind it, rich violet curtains covered Wangenheim’s entrance to the chambers. His route to the meeting was elevated in a literal sense. He would not have to mix with profane powers sitting below.

‘And your conclusion?’ Seroff said.

‘These are very comfortable surroundings in which to declare war.’

‘No reason not to mark the event in style. No chance of things turning out otherwise, you think?’

‘How could they?’ Wangenheim would push. The barons would resist. And there was no more room to manoeuvre. Vahnsinn had told Rasp as much, when they had met the night before. The baron, Rasp had told us, had looked exhausted.

Ten minutes after the last of the barons arrived, Wangenheim graced the assembly with his presence. For the first half-hour, the Council was a turgid dance of formalities, rituals of mutual respect that had become shapes without substance. Then the grievances began.

‘Your eminence,’ Vahnsinn said. He sat directly below the gallery, in the seat that most centrally faced the throne. ‘We must turn once again to the question of tithes. There is a petition before you…’ He paused while a page emerged from the curtains to place a scroll on the ornate table before Wangenheim’s throne. ‘It is signed by the unanimity of this Council. The present demands are unsustainable, and some compromise must be reached for the sake of the continued… well-ordered… governance of Mistral.’ With his hesitation, he signalled that well-ordered meant peaceful.

Wangenheim did not lean forward to pick up the scroll. He looked down at where it sat on the table as if he were eyeing a dead rat. ‘The barons’ concern for the wellbeing of our planet is noted,’ he said. ‘It is also appreciated. That is why I have no doubt that they will understand and support the measures it is incumbent upon us to take.’

‘Here we go,’ I whispered to Seroff.

A trio of aides entered from the chamber’s side doors. They moved to the centre and distributed vellum sheets to each of the barons. I noticed the seals affixed to each sheet. ‘Those are not proposals,’ I said. ‘They’re proclamations.’

‘So he’s not even pretending to have a debate. Is he trying to provoke them?’

‘I’m sure he is.’

‘We are,’ Wangenheim said, ‘in a time of crisis.’

‘What is this?’ Baron Eichen interrupted. He looked up from the vellum to glare at the cardinal. His hands were shaking. He was a big man. His collar was too tight, and dug into his fleshy neck. His face had been flushed from the moment he had entered the chamber and settled himself with a wheezing, groaning sigh in his seat. Now he was a violet almost as deep as the curtains.

‘It is,’ the cardinal began, ‘what the situation calls for. It is–’

‘It is a lien!’ Baroness Elleta Gotho exploded. ‘A lien on all land, property and holdings! You are trying to destroy us!’

Wangenheim pressed his lips together. He looked like a displeased amphibian. But his body, I noticed, was relaxed as he held up a hand to silence Gotho. His anger was a show. The truth, I guessed, was that he was very satisfied with the way the meeting was going. ‘I am doing no such thing,’ he said. ‘I am acting as a defender of the sacred Imperial Creed. It is under attack, as I hope my friends before me have noticed.’

‘Of course,’ Vahnsinn said. I heard now the exhaustion Rasp had mentioned. This was a man who knew how the game was going to be played, had no taste for it, and had no choice but to assume his allotted role. So he made his futile gesture towards keeping the peace. ‘We are of one mind with the Holy Ecclesiarchy in rejecting the heretical crimes that have been committed.’

‘I am relieved to hear that.’ The corners of Wangenheim’s lips turned upwards. The effect was even more batrachian. ‘Then there can be no objection.’

I winced. Seroff put a hand to his forehead. The chamber erupted as the barons shouted over one another. Baron Maurus, who was a placid-looking man, more clerk than aristocrat, had the loudest voice of them all. His cry of ‘Thief!’ cut through the hall. The silence before a storm descended.

‘You will wish, of course, to reconsider that outburst,’ Wangenheim said. He spoke quietly. The air filled with ice.

Maurus hesitated. I watched him glance around the chamber at his peers. His fury was reflected a hundred times over. He turned back to the cardinal. ‘I will not. If we accept these terms, we will no longer have any independence of action. We will be entirely dependent upon the pleasure of the Ecclesiarchy.’

‘Quite so,’ Wangenheim answered with a calm perfectly calibrated to infuriate. ‘We have indisputable evidence now that the heresy infecting Mistral was not limited to Baron Lom. Drastic measures are required.’

‘You accuse us of collusion with heretics?’ Vahnsinn asked. He spoke not with anger, but a profound sorrow.

Wangenheim said, ‘Is there any other conclusion available to me?’ He performed his own sorrow well. I didn’t believe in it. I saw and heard the actions and words of a man whose blood was cold. He should have been sunning his bloated carcass on a rock, not draping it in the finery of his holy office. ‘I am charged with the protection of the Creed. I perceive the threat. I have no choice but to place this world under the direct, unwavering protection of the Adeptus Ministorum.’

‘You mean under your personal control,’ Eichen barked. He had turned a still-darker shade. I wondered if his heart would survive the session.

Wangenheim shrugged. ‘You cannot refuse,’ he told the barons.

Vahnsinn stood up. ‘But we do.’ He had shed the fatigue and the sorrow. His three words were determination itself. The man who spoke was a leader. He would not lack adherents to his cause, now that he had declared it.

I checked my chronometer.

‘What are you doing?’ Seroff whispered.

‘Noting the moment that Mistral went to war,’ I said.

Wangenheim gazed at Vahnsinn for a long time before speaking again. He seemed to be taking the full measure of his opponent. When he spoke, it was with a chilling honesty. ‘I will make you comply,’ he said. He might have said, You will be made to comply, and preserved the illusion of being the reluctant enforcer of laws that had nothing to do with his own agenda. But he didn’t say that. ‘I will,’ he emphasized. I. Not we. The actions, the desires, the will, the threat – they were all his.

‘He doesn’t care who knows what he’s about, does he?’ Seroff said, full of wonder at the cardinal’s colossal audacity.

I looked behind me, at the gallery full of gaping spectators. To a soul, they understood the import of what they were witnessing. I saw many faces, but not the ones I sought. I faced forward again. ‘The Sisters of Battle are not here,’ I told Seroff. ‘Perhaps he cares just a little bit.’

‘Smart man.’

Down below, Vahnsinn was nodding. ‘You are welcome to try,’ he said to Wangenheim. He turned around, and looked up to the gallery. ‘Citizens of Tolosa,’ he said. ‘People of Mistral. You see what corruption has wrought. Ask yourselves where the true heresy lies.’ Then he strode out of the chamber, the other barons close behind.

The gallery was in an uproar now. I could barely hear Seroff’s slow whistle. ‘That was smartly played,’ he said.

Rasp twisted around on his pew and faced us. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Have you ever seen such grand theatre?’

‘I wish we hadn’t,’ I said.

Wangenheim stood up suddenly. ‘Indeed!’ he shouted, silencing the crowd. ‘Indeed,’ he repeated, far more softly. ‘Ask yourselves that question. Where does the heresy lie? You should always be asking yourselves that question. Our vigilance against corruption must never falter. Ask yourselves the question again tomorrow, when our great celebration begins, and you turn to face the Emperor’s light anew.’

And then it was dusk on the eve of the festival, and I walked the streets of Tolosa, accompanying Logan Saultern as he inspected Third Company’s security preparations. The captain’s troops had responsibility for the southern quadrant of the central ring, beginning just beyond the great square before the palace. They were out in force. Over a third of the regiment now patrolled Tolosa, coordinating with the muscle of the Adeptus Arbites. We could have had every Mortisian on the planet in the city, with the logistical nightmare that feeding and billeting such a number entailed, and we would have been no better off, accomplishing little more than diluting our strength among Tolosa’s millions.

We could not protect every street and home. I knew there would be further abductions in the night to come. The cult was growing bold, and with good reason. There had been no apprehensions, and there was no safety. No one walked the streets at night any longer, but that made no difference. The citizens cowered in their houses when darkness fell, clinging to the comforting illusion of refuge, even though all the victims had been dragged from these very homes. Whether they were poor, rich, serf, or minor nobility made no difference. The cult had use for them all, it seemed. The more troops Granach committed to secure the streets, the more futile the effort appeared. The only effect was the growing resentment of the Tolosans. The soldiers who could not ensure their safety became instead the objects of their wrath.

Wangenheim had, at least, settled on a procession route. It snaked through almost every neighbourhood on his quest for maximum exposure. The only positive thing that could be said about it, from a security standpoint, was that it was no longer subject to change. Maintaining complete overwatch along the entire length of the route was impossible. Instead, Granach had established a multitude of checkpoints. Some were at street-level. Others were on the roofs. All of them had been manned continuously since the cardinal had finalized the plans two days ago. Vehicular traffic was now banned along the entire route. During the procession itself, a large escort would travel both with the relic and in parallel. The great square and its environs, meanwhile, would be under heavy protection. This was where the crowds would be at their largest, and where relic and dignitaries would remain in one place. It would be the most inviting target of all.

The warriors of the Order of the Piercing Thorn claimed for themselves the responsibility of protecting the relic itself during the procession, and of the platform during the ceremony. The rest fell to us, though I knew very well that Krauss or his agents would be present too, travelling a web of shadows according to his own particular agenda.

The Sisters of Battle. The Inquisition. The Adeptus Arbites. The Imperial Guard. Each force with its own agenda. The territorial responsibilities overlapping. I wondered if Wangenheim had truly thought through all the consequences.

Saultern and I moved from station to station. Each had at least two troopers. The area was as locked down as it was possible to be, as far as I could tell. ‘Has one of the colonels been by?’ I asked.

‘Yes, commissar. Colonel Benneger. He said he was pleased.’

‘Good. Where did you pick up these strategic skills, Captain Saultern?’

He smiled with a pleased modesty. ‘I cannot take credit for what you see, sir. I spoke to my sergeants and followed their advice.’

‘You did well, in that case.’ A commander who wasn’t afraid to listen to subordinates with more knowledge than he had. I congratulated myself on sparing the man’s life.

‘My one hope is to do well tomorrow.’

‘That is true of every member of the companies assigned to this action, captain,’ I told him. ‘I know we shall do well.’

That was an easy sort of confidence, and a truth that was so partial as to be almost a lie. Of course the men and women of Aighe Mortis would do their duty. But I said nothing about their odds of preventing the procession and the ceremony from being disrupted. The more I thought about it, the more I was reconsidering Rasp’s claim that Wangenheim was not mad. Staging such an event in the immediate wake of pushing the barons to the brink was beyond reckless. Even if he expected an attack of some kind, even if he wanted such an eventuality, if he thought he could control everything that would follow he was a fool. The mood of the citizenry was too volatile. The cardinal was letting his ambition take him into the realm of lethal hubris.

We approached a scene that confirmed my suspicions.

‘Not again,’ Saultern said.

Ahead of us, as we walked towards the west, the block ended at a wide intersection. The street we were on, one of the major arteries that circumnavigated the ring, crossed the even wider boulevard that led to the great square. Guard posts protected by prefab plasteel barricades had been established at all four corners of the intersection. Crowds of men were gathering around each of the posts. Most of the men were young, the same age as the uniformed warriors who stared back at them. There were a few older faces in the mix, displaying the thuggish pettiness of the frustrated leader. All the expressions were hard, eager for any excuse to engage in violence. What surprised and alarmed me was the range in clothing. I saw labourers, merchants’ sons and even a few aristocrats. They had come from all regions of the city, from all the strata of its society. They were united by resentment, I guessed, and also fear. But there was desire there too. They were looking for someone to hit, and so ease their own terror.

‘How much of this have you encountered?’ I asked.

‘More and more,’ he said. ‘But no one has done more than stare or yell from a distance. This is new.’

I walked faster. There was no danger of the troopers coming to harm. They were armed, the crowd was not, but a slaughter would not help anything.

I was still a dozen metres from the intersection when a towering figure arrived from the direction of the square. Setheno said nothing as she approached the nearest group. Deklan Betzner was one of the troopers in the guard post, and even he seemed small next to her. She stood before the civilians, face impassive. The men backed away. She took a step towards them. They stumbled into the centre of the intersection. The other groups noticed what was going on. They all moved to the centre. Setheno now faced a single large group. Still she said nothing. Her silence stilled all conversation.

I slowed down, watching. I held up a hand, but Saultern had already stopped walking. He understood. The scene needed no disruption from us.

The force of her presence was formidable. It was due to much more than just her height and her power armour. I had heard of venerable prioresses whose mere glances could strike entire companies with the sense of their unworthiness, but Setheno was no ancient. She must have been a veteran of some experience to be a sister superior, though she was young enough that I guessed her ascension to that rank was recent. She had, certainly, the air of sanctity, of an utterly impermeable faith, that was common to all the Adepta Sororitas. There was something else, though. She radiated an aura of extreme threat.

If the crowd had attacked the Mortisians or Setheno, the result would have been the same. I think the troops seemed like closer kin, more human, and so the mob could imagine attacking them. The Sisters of Battle had not been transformed into something beyond mortals like the Adeptus Astartes, but they were still profoundly other, and the fact that they were still unenhanced humans made their difference from the common woman or man even more stark. The people resented the Imperial Guard, but they feared Setheno.

Still not a word. She stood motionless as the crowd became more compact. Swaggering bravado and free-floating anger evaporated. In their place came the need to stand close to one another. Setheno’s hands were at her sides, relaxed. Her stance was neutral. Her white hair and pallor only made her seem like a marble statue clad in crimson night. But she was a statue that could burst to violent life. The wind tossed her hair and cloak as if trying to goad her to war. I was suddenly very aware of the pommel of her sword.

She took another step towards the crowd. I heard the faint jingle of the icon chains that hung from her breastplate. The men backed up in perfect unison. This was a dance now, its steps preordained. Setheno cocked her head. Perhaps the men did not flee at that moment, though my memory may be far too charitable. They did leave. Quickly. Within seconds, the intersection was clear of civilians.

I walked forward again. ‘That was an impressive demonstration of herding, sister superior,’ I said.

She turned to me. This was the first time I had been close enough to see her eyes. They were unusual: an almost translucent grey flecked with gold.

She still had visible pupils then. And the man speaking with her still had two arms.

‘Thank you, commissar,’ she said. ‘Though it would have been preferable if my intervention had not been necessary.’

I bristled. ‘These soldiers do not require your protection.’ Behind me, I heard Saultern’s intake of breath. I think he expected me to be bisected where I stood.

‘Not my protection, no.’ She looked away from me and swept her gaze over the streets. ‘I was referring to their ability to maintain security.’

‘We know our duty, sister superior, and we know how to perform it.’

‘Really.’

‘Yes,’ I said simply, biting off a host of retorts.

Several seconds passed. She appeared to be taking the measure of the Mortisians and the territory it was their mission to hold. ‘We shall see tomorrow, won’t we?’ she said, walking back towards the square.

‘Would you have preferred a massacre?’ I called after her. ‘On the eve of the festival? Would that have improved security?’

‘You speak as if a massacre were avoidable,’ she said without looking back.

When her figure had dwindled sufficiently, Saultern asked, ‘What did she mean?’

I wasn’t sure. Was she presuming the Imperial Guard’s incompetence? Or was she commenting on Wangenheim’s folly? Both? ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. I faced Saultern, but I spoke so to all the troops at this station. ‘What of it?’ I asked. ‘Does the opinion of the Adepta Sororitas matter so much to the warriors of Aighe Mortis? Will you accept the judgement of others? Or will you impose the truth of your worth through glorious action?’

The roars that greeted my questions were gratifying. Good. The Mortisians had something to prove. They would need to do so tomorrow.

Saultern and I continued on past the intersection. There was one more post at the end of the next block, and one more beyond that. The procession would not pass this way, but this close to the square, Granach wanted the security cordon to have a wide margin.

A hundred metres from the position, I heard running footsteps behind me. I whirled.

Betzner was sprinting towards me. He flew down the narrow pavement faster than a man half his size. Saultern gaped. I saw the urgency on Betzner’s face. I realized he was responding to a threat. There was no cover where we stood. ‘Run!’ I yelled at Saultern, and we pounded towards the guard post.

Betzner ran faster yet. As though carried by the wind, he caught up to us. A massive weight hit me, and I went flying. In the same instance I heard the energy burn of a las-shot. I struck the ground. My lungs were flattened, but I rolled and rose to my knees, ready to act even as I struggled to draw breath. The pavement where I had been a moment before was scorched from the las-strike. Betzner was standing just past the burn, firing his rifle at the rooftop of the apartments opposite us. Seconds later, the troopers at the posts at both ends of the block followed his example. I could see no one up there, knew that I been in the sights of a sniper. The enemy let off a couple of shots in response to the storm assaulting him, but they were wild.

The firing continued until rockets rose from two directions. A fireball engulfed the roof. The top of the building collapsed onto the floors below. The wind spread the smoke and dust over the city to the south. Whoever had been up there was dead now.

I stood up. ‘I am in your debt, Trooper Betzner,’ I told him.

‘No, commissar, I am in yours.’

‘You just saved my life.’

Betzner waved his hand at the demolished roof. ‘From a sniper. You saved me from the Inquisition. No contest, sir.’

I squinted at the building, then looked back at Betzner. ‘Your eyesight is remarkable,’ I said. ‘Someone was evidently up there, but I never saw him.’

The big man looked uncomfortable. ‘I didn’t see him, exactly,’ he began.

‘Then how did you know he was trying to shoot me?’

‘I… I’m not sure.’ Betzner went from uncomfortable to anxious.

‘But you knew.’ Krauss’s insistence on Betzner’s uncanny knowledge rang in my ears.

The trooper nodded.

‘Perhaps you saw the flash of the scope,’ I suggested, offering him the bait of a plausible lie.

He did not take it. ‘No, commissar.’

Betzner would bear watching, then, as I had pledged to Krauss. But he had not given me any reason to question his loyalty. To the contrary. ‘All right,’ I told him. ‘Resume your duties, trooper.’

There was a cascading series of cracks. Stonework gave way, and more of the apartment collapsed. It had lost half its original height. The fires started by the initial explosions were now burning out of control. At least the buildings that lined this street had been cleared of inhabitants. No one was permitted inside any structure that overlooked the procession or the square. At this moment, that felt like a small mercy.

I doubted that I had been personally targeted. I was an officer, and so my death would have served to send a message. The enemy was growing brazen. We should dread the events of the next day.

Message received.

CHAPTER 8

The Festival of the Emperor’s Light

1. RASP

In the hour before dawn, Rasp went to Grauben. It was a gamble. He wasn’t sure the baron would still be in the city. As he walked he saw no one, but he was sure eyes followed him. Reports of his walk would reach the ears of the barons and the Ecclesiarchy, no doubt. Perhaps he could just as well have made the visit in broad daylight, but there was no need to make the job easy on the spies. He took from them the cover of crowds. Let them hide on deserted streets. Let them run afoul of each other. Those thoughts amused him, and there was so very little amusement to be had as Mistral toppled into civil war.

Rasp took his small joys where he could find them. The galaxy refused to offer him anything more. And it was important, he believed, that he not neglect them. If he did, it would be easy to drown in the darkness of endless war. His life was a mosaic of battlefields. He had no idea how many thousands of soldiers he had come to know and seen die. If he was to be equal to his calling and to his duty to the Emperor, his morale had to be a model for the troops and officers he would inspire. A finely developed appreciation for the absurd had served him at least as well as his pistol. Of his two protégés, Seroff was the one with the more vigorous sense of humour. If he shaped it properly, it might sustain him through the long hells of war. Yarrick was a harder read. He was too intelligent not to see the absurd when he encountered it, but his response seemed to be to focus with even greater ferocity on the duty before him. Rasp had seen the man smile, but not often. The young commissar’s intensity would be, Rasp thought, either his making or his damnation.

There were no lights visible through the shutters of Grauben. The house was asleep. Rasp pulled the chain that hung to the right of the iron door. The bell that rang inside the house had a deep resonance. When the door opened, Rasp was surprised to see Vahnsinn himself.

‘Have your serfs deserted you?’ he asked.

‘I was expecting you,’ the baron said, shutting the door behind Rasp.

‘You were so sure I’d come here?’

Vahnsinn shrugged. ‘I was hoping, then.’

Rasp looked at his tired eyes. ‘You haven’t slept.’

‘No.’ Vahnsinn led the way to his study. The room was larger than the one where they had dined with Yarrick and Seroff. It had much of the same warmth and intimacy, though. It was more library than den. Bookshelves were floor-to-ceiling. Many were free-standing, occupying most of the study, leaving just enough room for a desk and, facing the fireplace, two armchairs. Vahnsinn touched a decanter on the desk. ‘Will you drink?’

‘Thank you, no. Why didn’t you sleep? Are you expecting something to happen today?’

‘Aren’t you?’ Vahnsinn tapped a finger on the desk, then sat heavily in the left-hand armchair.

Rasp took the one on the right. The chairs were angled towards each other. Rasp watched his friend. The baron studied the flames. Rasp said, ‘I expect that I will be surprised unpleasantly many times today.’

‘That is wise.’ He clasped his hands. ‘So, Simeon. Why are you here? What have you come to ask of me?’

‘I want your help.’ Vahnsinn winced, but Rasp carried on. ‘How large a contingent of your forces do you have in the city?’

‘A small one. The token permitted by Wangenheim.’

‘Even a small one can be very useful.’

‘To what end?’ Vahnsinn sounded reluctant even to ask the question.

‘To help keep the peace. And to restore it, when the need arises.’

‘In other words, to make war against my fellow nobles.’

‘They are on the brink of treasonous rebellion,’ Rasp reminded him.

‘Are they? Has the Ecclesiarchy been officially recognized as the sovereign authority over Mistral?’ Vahnsinn did not hide his bitterness. ‘I am the Imperial Commander. Does that count for nothing?’

‘Of course it matters.’

Vahnsinn did not appear to hear. ‘I answer to the Administratum, and ultimately to the Adeptus Terra, not to the Adeptus Ministorum.’

‘Rayland,’ Rasp said. ‘No one has said otherwise.’

‘Haven’t they? You saw what happened at the Council. You saw what Wangenheim did. You know he’s in the wrong. And now you come here, asking that I help suppress the righteous anger of my fellows.’

‘That’s right. I am.’

‘Why? By the Throne, why? Is the Ecclesiarchy above all sin?’ He pointed to a bookcase past Rasp’s shoulder. ‘You know I’ve always loved history. The books behind you have a great deal to say about the Age of Apostasy. I think Wangenheim might be a fellow student of the past. I think he might be taking more than a bit of inspiration from Goge Vandire.’

‘Careful,’ Rasp warned. Vahnsinn was close to crossing a very dangerous line. The baron reined himself in. Rasp sighed. ‘There is nothing just about the situation,’ he said. ‘But there I have no choice in the matter, and neither do you, really.’

‘Of course I do.’

‘No. I feel nothing but disgust for what the cardinal has orchestrated, but I have to acknowledge its success. He has placed you in the wrong. Especially now – he is the protector of the Imperial Creed, and if the nobles revolt against him, what does that make them?’ When Vahnsinn kept silent, Rasp continued. ‘And this cult, not only is it a real threat, one that must be dealt with, but its heresy has been directly linked with the nobility. Your position is untenable, and that’s putting it in the best light possible.’

Vahnsinn glowered at him. ‘So my choice is to be a heretic or a powerless figurehead. Shall I hand over the keys to Grauben and Karrathar to the cardinal at the ceremony this evening?’

‘I’m not suggesting that,’ Rasp protested.

‘Oh? You have something to offer me?’

Rasp nodded. ‘It isn’t perfect. But it’s better than nothing, I think. If you help us–’

‘If I betray my friends, my conscience and my interests, you mean.’

‘If you take the one action open to a loyal subject of the Emperor,’ Rasp corrected, merciless, ‘you will be well-placed when the conflict comes to its only possible conclusion. What do you think is going to happen? We will crush the barons’ rebellion as it draws its first breath. If your colleagues feel hard done by now, afterwards they will be destroyed, their homes burned, their families destitute if they are not imprisoned or worse. Do you think that even Wangenheim would have no room in the new state of things for the nobles who proved themselves true defenders of the Creed?’

‘Are you making a guarantee?’

‘You know I’m not. I’m speaking as your friend, and your friend is apparently able to see the realities here a bit more clearly than you can. If you stand with Wangenheim, do you think that, politically, he would be able to discard you afterwards?’

‘Politically, he will be able to do whatever his heart desires,’ Vahnsinn muttered, but he looked thoughtful.

‘There are no guarantees,’ Rasp said, more gently now. ‘But there are good possibilities, and terrible certainties. Also, you know what is right.’

Vahnsinn made a face. ‘Negotiating with a friend isn’t fair play.’

‘I do what I must.’

‘I’m sure you do, lord commissar.’ But now Vahnsinn wore a smile, a small one. His face became serious again as he studied the fire for a minute more. Then he looked at Rasp directly. ‘If something happens today…’

‘You mean “when”. We do each other no favours pretending otherwise.’

The baron nodded. ‘When something happens, I will be ready. I won’t be at the ceremony. I won’t toady to Wangenheim. I can’t. But I will assign a detail of my guard to work with your troops. And when the need arises, come here. Let the request come from you, please, Simeon. Not from that reptile.’

2. KRAUSS

He could hear the tumult of the crowd gathered for the procession. It would be passing along a boulevard a few streets over from where Krauss stood before the outer door to the Cernay residence. He hammered against the iron, and waited.

He had already spoken to Louiza Cernay. He had already gone through the house. He had learned and found nothing. That had been the case at the scene of every one of the abductions. The single survivors of each household did not know why they had been attacked. It was clear that they were hiding nothing. Krauss had never encountered people so happy to see an inquisitor, so desperate to tell him everything that came to their minds. They would have been happy for any explanation he could give. Even the darkest rationale would be a foundation upon which they could recreate some order in their lives, some sense and meaning in the world. Anything was better than the purely random. There was no protection against that.

No one uttered the word ‘Chaos’. The victims lacked the knowledge that would take them to that conclusion. Krauss did not enlighten them, but he could see its corrupting touch sinking deeper and deeper into the fabric of Tolosa. The attacks, lacking any clear purpose, could mean anything, and happen to anyone. If their only purpose was to generate fear, their goal was more than accomplished.

Krauss refused to accept that there was no deeper goal. The heretics were still human, and there were, he believed, limits to human beings’ willingness to engage in the purely gratuitous act, especially one that involved many people, careful planning and precise execution. The success of the attacks pointed to a level of organization. There was order here, and where there was order, even of the most toxic kind, there was an endgame.

It was possible that the targets were chosen by sheer chance. The spread of terror might be the actual tool, and so the vectors of its creation were unimportant. But Krauss had hit a dead end. He was no closer to rooting out the heresy now that it was boldly announcing its presence than when it had concealed itself behind political divisions. So he was going to revisit ground he had already covered. He would talk to Louiza Cernay again. He would seek a reason why this house, and not the ones next to it, had been attacked.

No one came to the door. He knocked again. Five minutes passed. Nothing. The silence beyond gathered force. Krauss snorted. He removed a thin cylinder from his belt. He tapped one end and it began to hum. When he inserted it into the lock, the micro-force field that the master key generated conformed itself to the shape of the tumblers. He opened the door and strode through to the courtyard.

It was evening, but no lights shone through the slits in the shutters. The courtyard was sheltered from the wind, and the ground-floor windows were unshuttered. They, too, were dark. Krauss didn’t bother knocking on the house’s door. He unlocked it, and let himself inside.

The interior had the stillness of absence. But there was also the stench of spoiled presence. Breathing through his mouth, knowing what he would find, he climbed the stairs. At the top he found a corridor whose walls bore portraits, going back generations, of the patriarchs of a comfortable merchant dynasty. Doors to the left and right opened into bedrooms. Krauss headed for the end, barely glancing in the rooms he passed. He stopped in the far left doorway. The space beyond was furnished with a bed, cabinet and dresser that were old enough to have been purchased at the time of the house’s construction. They were still in fine condition. No doubt the contents of the jewel box on the dresser was of similar vintage and quality. Krauss didn’t have to look inside the case to know that every gem, ring and bracelet would still be present. Theft had not come to this home. Murder had.

Murder and corruption.

Despite her grief for her family, her terror for her own safety, and her anxiety about speaking to the Inquisition, Louiza Cernay had greeted Krauss upon his first visit with a resilient dignity. She was an old woman, reaching the outer limits of what juvenat treatments on Mistral could accomplish. Her gait was stiff, her hands held by arthritis in a permanent curve. She moved with an elegance of care.

There was no dignity now, but there were the inscriptions of pain and fear. She lay in her bed, her throat cut, her eyes gone. Her hands were raised, clenched into sharp claws. The walls were painted in her blood, patterns forming words that Krauss could not, and would not, read, but that spoke of revels and torture and blasphemy. The blood on the wall had dried, but the smell of death was moist. The crime was quite recent. The display, Krauss thought, was for the benefit of the killers themselves. They did not expect anyone to see this.

The last detail Krauss registered before he turned from the scene was Louiza Cernay’s eyes. They were not missing. They were simply not in her skull any longer. They had been cleaned and placed on the dresser beside a hand mirror. They had been orientated to stare at the ceiling. Krauss did not look at the rune up there again. Once was enough. When he had glanced at it, he had begun to hear a sound at his back. It had been both laughter and the snapping of bone.

He had his confirmation. The attack on the Cernay house was not random. The cultists had returned. There must be a reason to finish off the last of the Cernays in secret. Krauss made his way back down the corridor, paying more attention now to the other rooms. He saw nothing out of place. Dust was already settling in the unused spaces. On the ground floor, more of the same: the everyday had been suspended, but not disrupted.

The house was clean, its larder well stocked. In the dining area, the table had been set for a breakfast for one. Krauss ran a finger over the silverware, wondering who had laid it out. There were serfs’ quarters at the back of the house, but they were empty.

He found his answer in the wine cellar. The household staff were stacked against the wall, hacked apart by the blows of heavy blades. Krauss pulled his needle pistol from its holster. He stalked between the ceiling-high racks of amasec, his footsteps silent. He didn’t think he had living company. He did not rule out the possibility. There were more blood runes on the walls, and there was another smell here: a warm harshness to the nose and the back of the throat, as if the air had recently been filled with powdered stone and sawdust.

In the middle of the cellar, the racks had been destroyed, the bottles smashed. Krauss eyed the pile of smashed wood. There didn’t seem to be enough of it. He tried to equate the theft with the murders, came up with mere absurdity. The pile sloped upwards towards the centre. He stepped forward to see if it concealed something.

The wreckage gave way beneath his weight. He fell into darkness, striking his head with an echoing crack against the lip of the cellar floor. Stunned, he was dead weight when he hit the ground three metres down. The blow knocked the air from his lungs and the pistol from his grasp. Consciousness dimmed. The world grew ragged at the periphery. Someone very distant from him, who nonetheless bore his name, had fallen into an underground tunnel. He wanted this person to get up. He tried to shout a warning, but he was too far away. The dark behind his eyes melded with the darkness without. He struggled against the fall of night. He managed to raise his head. But then he was no longer alone. He was surrounded by figures, and they kicked him into oblivion.

3. YARRICK

The procession was a triumph of Wangenheim’s aesthetic, and his taste reflected the traditions of the Mistralian cardinals going back centuries. The gaudy Ecclesiarchal palace seemed to have sprung into being at the behest of its current occupant, but the accumulation and shaping of such excesses took generations. Now that aesthetic walked the streets of Tolosa. The reliquary containing the jawbone of Saint Callixtus was housed inside a huge chest. It appeared to be of solid gold, and encrusted with diamonds the size of my fist. The chest was mounted on a wagon pulled by grox draped in ceremonial rugs that resembled waterfalls of silver. The wagon was covered by a crystalflex cube of near-perfect transparency. The corners of the cube were ornamented by yet more diamonds. A thousand preachers, representing every region of Mistral, marched in parallel lines with the wagon at their centre. They carried metal poles three metres long, at the end of which multi-coloured lumoglobes dangled from short chains. The globes rocked back and forth with the gait of the clerics. The entire spectrum of light waved, shifted and danced over the diamonds of the cube and the chest.

The effect was impressive, if vulgar. The announced goal was to invoke the name of the festival. In this, the procession was a failure. What it really did was remind all who gazed upon the parade who it was who had brought the relic back to Mistral, who it was who had willed this spectacle into existence. The sun that shone upon the city that evening was the munificence of Cardinal Wangenheim.

I walked with the mobile troops, moving on a parallel course with the procession. The people of Tolosa lined the streets ten deep. We marched behind them, watching at ground level for anyone paying attention to something other than what was passing by. A full platoon on either side of the road was going from rooftop to rooftop, securing that possible ambush site.

The procession had begun at Tolosa’s southernmost gate, just as dusk had begun to fall. Three hours later we were, by my estimation, about two-thirds of the way back to the palace and its great square. All the time, wind had raged against the display. It tried to yank the lumoglobes from their chains. It howled at the spectators, and snatched their hymns from their lips. Its efforts were in vain. The crowds wept and cheered as they watched the chest go by. For a few moments, the people forgot the nightly abductions and the political turmoil.

Setheno and one other Sister from the Order of the Piercing Thorn walked on either side of the chest. I wondered what they thought of their duty today. Did they appreciate the way the art of the reliquary had been submerged in the crude and the grandiose? Did they feel they were performing a useful service? Or did they feel manipulated? I did. So did Seroff and Rasp. So did the colonels. They had all said as much. So had some of the braver troopers, though I had shut those conversations down whenever I had encountered them. The sentiment was present, though, and I had no doubt that it ran throughout the regiment. We were being used by a man who turned all offices and all duties, holy and secular, to his personal use.

We approached the square, and the procession had been almost without incident. There had been a few arrests, but the detained were drunks, not cultists. Mobile duties complete, I joined Rasp on the officers’ viewing stands that had been constructed to the left of the main platform. Seroff arrived shortly after.

‘Anything?’ I asked him.

‘No.’

‘Almost enough to make one feel optimistic, isn’t it?’ Rasp said.

‘Should we be?’ Seroff asked.

‘What do you think?’ Rasp sounded grim.

The question was rhetorical, but I answered all the same. ‘I think someone is trying to lull us into a false sense of security.’

‘Commissar Yarrick,’ Rasp said, ‘you are a cynic.’

‘I prefer to think of myself as a realist, sir,’ I told him.

He gave his short, mirthless bark of laughter. ‘Very laudable, Sebastian. Now behold the spectacle presented for our edification. Tell me, are we in the realm of realism here?’

‘Yes,’ I said without hesitation. ‘Without a doubt.’

‘Well done,’ Rasp said. ‘Well done indeed. How very clear-sighted of you. A necessary quality. You may have a long life ahead of you.’

‘But it isn’t the only necessary element,’ Seroff put in.

‘What’s another?’

‘Knowing how to act realistically.’

Rasp looked surprised. ‘That is a rationale for corruption, Commissar Seroff.’ His use of Seroff’s rank at that moment sounded like a rebuke.

‘I misspoke,’ Seroff said. He was not abashed. ‘Knowing when and how to be realistic,’ he amended.

I would have sworn that Rasp winced at that moment. ‘True,’ he said. He began to say something else, but he was drowned out by a sudden, deafening hymn.

The magnificat of the relic had begun.

When I had told Rasp that what I saw before us was realism, I was being honest. But not irreverent. I had seen enough of Wangenheim’s machinations now that, though I did not doubt his faith, I was convinced that it was surpassed in intensity by his ambition and self-regard. But even if he was using a sacred display for his own political purposes, the sacred was still present, and it awed. The Ecclesiarchal palace, looming in the background, was a folly of vulgarity within its walls, a testament to the vanity of its inhabitants. Its exterior, however, was majestic. Soaring hundreds of metres into the sky, it imposed awe through size alone. It dwarfed all who gazed upon it, reminded us of our insignificance compared to the Father of Mankind. The palace was squat in its construction, and the newer wings made it even more massive. It spread out for more than a kilometre in either direction, embracing all vision. Despite its horizontal reach, the palace sent the eyes and heart skyward, thanks to the fluting that marked its entire façade. Thousands of lumoglobes illuminated the exterior, bathing it in a warm, orange light. As night fell, the colossal building detached itself from the dark. It was the strength of faith given form in stone.

In the square, the platform picked up on the multi-coloured play of lights of the procession, and intensified the effect. There were more lanterns, more powerful. Their wind-driven dance created colliding pools of light. The platform shimmered in an excited aura. Its banners flapped, crackling. Wangenheim stood in the centre, resplendent in robes so heavy they resisted the wind. The platform was covered in material that was the same white-violet-gold colour scheme as the cardinal’s robes. The filigree seemed to flow from Wangenheim to spread across the entire surface of the platform. The intended implication seemed to be that he was the centre and source of everything on Mistral. My outrage at the hubris was tempered by the fact that the design also made him look like a spider in its web. His display spoke the truth in defiance of his will.

The Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn lined up in front of the platform, and faced the crowd. The square was filled with tens of thousands of worshippers. The Adepta Sororitas squad numbered ten. The crowd appeared to take a collective step backwards, leaving just a bit more space between the unwashed and the holy warriors.

The wagon stopped a few metres short of the platform. Wangenheim raised his arms, and the crystalflex cube over the golden chest opened and folded itself back. Six preachers to a side climbed into the wagon and grasped the chest by its handles. It must have been equipped with an anti-grav field for it to be possible for those old men to move that mass. They did not so much carry it as guide its floating journey off the wagon and up the fifteen steps of the platform.

All the while, vox-casters had picked up the hymns of the clergy, and broadcast the chants over the square and to the city beyond. In the pause of each verse, I could hear echoes in the streets behind us. The amplified praise overcame the wind.

Wangenheim lowered his arms. He kept them outstretched as the chest was brought up to him. The preachers dropped to their knees. Whoever it was – an enginseer I imagined – who had sent the signal for the crystalflex shield to disassemble, and for the anti-grav to trigger, now conjured another theatrical miracle. The chest’s lid, sarcophagus-massive, opened and fell back. Wangenheim took a step forward, leaned over and reached into the chest. Then he straightened, and raised the reliquary high above his head.

‘Saint Callixtus!’ the cardinal shouted. The vox-casters made his voice the father of thunder. ‘You have come home at last. Will you honour us this day with your blessing?’

An answer came. For a frozen, irrational moment, I thought that the light that burst from where he had been standing a few moments before was a piece of Wangenheim’s spectacle.

The concussion of the blast proved me wrong.

CHAPTER 9

Undermined

1. YARRICK

The central portion of the platform blew skywards. Wood and metal and rock debris showered down over the square. Wangenheim went flying forwards. Setheno caught him before he hit the paving stones. One of her Sisters snatched the reliquary as it tumbled through the air. The grox lowed and turned violently from the stage. It overturned the wagon, crushing Bishop Castelnau. The roar of panic rose from the crowd, thick and loud enough to be a physical sensation pressing against my ears. Then the second bomb went off.

The explosion happened at the main entrance to the square. It wasn’t huge. It sounded muffled, as if it were punching through a thick obstacle. It was still bad enough. It scattered bodies, and pieces of bodies. Blood splashed into the square. The worst damage was the psychological effect. With blasts going off both in front and behind, the crowd became frenzied. The roar became a great shriek. People ran from the platform, and they ran from the entrance. They collided. They clashed. They tore at each other. The trampling began.

And then, to the north and south, where secondary streets met the square, more blasts. Just big enough to seal the fate of every soul in this space.

On the viewing stands, we were standing on rocks surrounded by frothing rapids. We were helpless. I had seen routs on the battlefield, but before me was the total absence of any form of discipline. Fear turned human beings into blind, mad animals. We drew our pistols and shot anyone who tried to climb the stand. It was that or be dragged into the maelstrom of panicked flesh. There was nothing to save here except the command structure of the regiment.

By the wreckage of the platform, the Adepta Sororitas had formed a circle with the cardinal at the centre. They presented an impregnable ceramite barrier. They began to force their way towards the palace gates. By sword and gun, they cut down threats to the safety of Wangenheim and the relic.

The riot of panic forced the hand of the Imperial Guard. The largest concentration of the Tolosa-based Mortisians had been gathered around the square as the procession had completed its route. The troopers’ mission was to maintain the security of the area. Now, as the soldiers already present in the square were joined by the reinforcements pouring in from the adjoining streets, that mission forced them to kill the people they had thought to protect.

There was no choice. There was no reason left in the civilians. They trampled and clawed and killed each other as they fled in all directions and none. Order could be restored only through the peace of the dead. Even so, the Mortisians did fire one great warning volley into the air. It was not heeded. The herd was too far gone. So the lasrifles were lowered, and the culling began. I grimaced. We were trapped in an ugly business. There was no glory, and precious little honour to be had, in the deaths of civilians. There was only brute necessity. The Hammer of the Emperor had the unalterable duty to smash His enemies. To find the ones responsible for the madness unleashed in the square, we had to survive it. And so the Hammer was called upon to sacrifice some of the Emperor’s faithful.

This would not be the last time I was party to such a merciless calculus. Neither would it be the worst.

The Mortisians moved in from the perimeter of the square. The squads linked up with each other, forming a lethal cordon. They marched forwards. The killing was methodical. The Guard advanced, paused, fired, and advanced again. The beats of the march were the pauses during which the civilians had the chance to rein in their panic.

They never took it. What followed was not a slaughter. It did not have that intent. We would have stopped shooting at the first opportunity. No, I will not call what happened a slaughter. It was a massacre. It left me with indelible memories of its every detail. It does not haunt my dreams, though. We acted as was necessary. And its shadow has been swallowed by the darkness of events so much more terrible that any attempt at comparison is an obscenity.

Gradually, the numbers of shrieking, clawing civilians around the viewing stand thinned. At length, they stopped trying to climb up. The killing ended with a few hundred survivors, traumatized into catatonic silence, gathered in shivering groups in the centre of the square. The site of the festival’s great climax was carpeted by bodies frozen in contortions of agony and terror.

‘Get me a vox!’ Granach ordered. His rage barely masked his horrified disgust. He and Benneger descended from the viewing stand. Rasp, however, climbed to the top row of seats. ‘Soldiers of Aighe Mortis!’ he called. His voice rang over the square. I saw thousands of faces turn his way. ‘I salute your commitment to duty!’ he shouted. ‘I salute your actions, which shall yet prove to be the salvation of Mistral! You have preserved the discipline and integrity of your regiment!’ He understood that the action had come at a cost to morale. This had not been combat. It had been the hard labour of executioners. ‘Thanks to you,’ Rasp continued, ‘the enemy’s attempt to topple Tolosa into disorder has failed! His blow has fallen short, but ours shall not. Forward now to vengeance!’

I listened to Rasp turn the massacre into fuel for victory, and I learned.

Seroff and I moved among the troops, reinforcing Rasp’s message. The faces of the troopers around us were tight, their eyes narrowed against the grim demands of the night. I passed Saultern and clapped him on the shoulder. He gave me a quick look of gratitude, then turned with rapt attention back to the lord commissar’s speech. The rhetoric soared, and my own blood responded to its strength and truth.

I saw Granach and Benneger conferring at the nearest blast site. I approached, and looking at the small crater, I understood how the security sweeps had missed the bomb. It had somehow been planted beneath the street itself. That was why the sound had been muffled. The force of the blast had had to punch up through the cobbles. The pit had collapsed in on itself, destroying the evidence of how the saboteurs had achieved this feat.

Then, even as Rasp was still speaking, I heard more explosions in the distance. They came from every direction. There were so many, it was hard to distinguish the blasts from their echoes. And when those echoes faded, in their wake came the rising clamour of riot.

2. SETHENO

‘Is that what they call maintaining security?’ Sister Cabiria asked.

‘I doubt they call it that at all,’ Setheno answered. They had, at his insistence, escorted Wangenheim back to his private quarters. He had been jumpy even after they had reached the safety of the palace, not relaxing until they had reached his doorway, where he was greeted by the palace steward. Vercor had bowed to the Sisters of the Piercing Thorn, showing due respect, while making it clear that her obeisance was a question of etiquette, rather than an acknowledgement of superiority. The steward was a weapon in the clothing of servitude. Setheno had given her a curt nod. She had no doubt the woman was skilled, but she was a killer, not a warrior. Setheno had restrained an outward show of her distaste. Just.

Now she was standing on a balcony at the other end of the hall from the cardinal’s chambers. He was still sequestered in there with Vercor. Setheno gazed down at the great square. The Mortisians had left, and the enforcers were doing what they could to restore a semblance of order after the massacre. This sector of Tolosa now had something like calm. But beyond, Setheno could hear the rumble of rising madness and conflict. She tapped a finger against the balcony’s stone balustrade.

‘You think we should be out there, sister superior?’ Cabiria asked.

‘We are where we should be,’ she answered.

‘But you wish otherwise.’

Setheno could have rebuked her for insubordination. She did not. She did not think she would be honouring her newly acquired command by disciplining the truth. Nor would she be honouring their friendship. They had entered the Order of the Piercing Thorn within a few months of each other. Cabiria knew her too well for Setheno to pretend she was not chafing against the limits of their mission. Inaction did not suit her. She accepted that she and her Sisters were not here for riot control. They were to protect the relic, and combat any threats to the Emperor’s Church. So they had done, rescuing both relic and cardinal. Their duty was to remain on site. But Setheno did not like the sense of being useful to the cardinal. The man was a politician, not a theologian, and his politics were grubby. And Setheno could not shake the intuition that the conflict spreading through the city’s streets had an acute spiritual dimension.

She looked at the shattered platform again. It looked as if a Titan had stepped on it. She wondered how the enemy had managed to place a bomb underneath. She had no faith in the Mortisians, but even they did not seem to be that incompetent. As she watched, the wreckage stirred. Robed figures emerged. They were fast. They were firing lasrifles at the Arbites within seconds of appearing. More and more of the enemy poured out from under the platform like a stream of shadows. A large group made directly for the palace entrance.

‘Sister superior?’

‘Yes, Cabiria. To war.’ She turned from the balcony and ran down the hall, joined by her Sisters. They passed the cowering bishops, and headed for the staircase to ground level. Setheno did not smile. She did feel satisfaction. She was rushing to righteous combat. She would clean her blade of civilian blood by washing it in the vitae of heretics.

As the squad approached the main doors, they shuddered with the impact of a heavy blow.

3. WANGENHEIM

The boom reverberated through the palace. The floors remained firm. The walls did not vibrate. But the sound carried, and it also carried meaning. It felt like a hammer striking Wangenheim’s bones. He froze, his words to Vercor forgotten. ‘What was that?’ he gasped. The words had the shape of idiocy in his mouth. His mind was filled with the vision of an iron battering ram smashing against the palace door. His reason knew such a tactic was futile. But his reason was a slave to his panicked imagination in this moment.

‘A rocket, I think,’ Vercor answered.

That was not reassuring. ‘Will that work?’

‘If they have more than one.’

A second explosion resounded.

Wangenheim looked around frantically. He didn’t know what he was seeking.

‘There is a squad of the Adepta Sororitas protecting you, your eminence,’ Vercor reminded him. ‘No one is crossing the threshold of this palace.’

That was reassuring. He choked down the instinct to flee. This conflict is what you wanted, he told himself. It is here, the situation is volatile, but the conclusion is preordained. The forces he had gathered in his corner were overwhelming. The barons would be crushed. The cult was so easy to tie to the nobility, to use as another club against them, and it too would be exterminated. It could not have the strength to oppose him. It had not had time to sink roots into the soil of Mistral. The evidence at Lom was proof of its recent emergence.

Only Baron Lom had used a corrupt machine of tremendous power.

And the growing mayhem in Tolosa looked like much more than a terrorist attack. It looked like war. Worse: it looked like control slipping from his grasp. No, he corrected. It was not slipping away. It was being taken. He had an enemy. A strong one.

‘Do you have orders, your eminence?’ Vercor prompted him.

He looked at his steward. Her stance was hungry. Very well. She would be fed. ‘Can you leave without alerting the Adepta Sororitas?’

Vercor didn’t answer. She was clearly offended by the question.

Wangenheim cleared his throat. ‘Do so,’ he said. He tried to put the iron of authority back in his voice. He had been weakened on all fronts this evening. ‘Go to Vahnsinn’s home.’

‘You believe he is working against us?’

‘I don’t know. But someone is coordinating these attacks. If he is the enemy, kill him.’

4. RASP

He was back at Grauben. He had hoped not to return so soon after his last visit. He was not surprised to be disappointed.

As Rasp waited outside the mansion’s door, he heard another wave of explosions, a crump crump crump of concussions that came so close together, they could have passed for artillery fire if they had not been so spread out geographically. The blasts were hitting every few minutes all over the city, turning Tolosa into a cauldron of blind, instinctual terror.

The door opened, this time by one of Vahnsinn’s serfs. He gave Rasp a precise bow. ‘The baron expects you,’ he said.

‘I imagine he does.’

The serf led the way up the stairs, past the mansion’s upper floors to the roof. There was no shelter there, only crenellations about a metre high. The wind was ferocious. Vahnsinn stood by the southern edge, looking down the slope of Tolosa. It was a good vantage point from which to witness the city’s torment.

The serf waited halfway out of the trap door while Rasp joined Vahnsinn. There was a pulsing glow in the distance. The baron nodded towards it. ‘A fire,’ he said. ‘It spread quickly. The wind, you know.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard, but it still sounded flat to Rasp. It was the voice of a man who had moved beyond despair and into exhausted apathy.

‘There is more than one kind of fire out there,’ Rasp said. ‘We need to put all of them out. We need your help.’

Vahnsinn shrugged. ‘I said you would have it, and it is yours. I don’t see what good it will do.’

‘Your troops are familiar to the populace. That will help restore calm.’

‘I admire your conviction,’ Vahnsinn said, but he turned around. ‘Our entire contingent is to be placed at the disposal of the Imperial Guard commanders,’ he called to the serf. The other man nodded, then closed the trap door behind him.

‘Are you keeping a reserve to protect your home?’ Rasp asked. ‘The situation is ugly. It will get worse before we can contain it.’

Vahnsinn shook his head. ‘I’m leaving Tolosa.’

‘Abandoning ship?’ Rasp was disappointed.

‘Leaving Wangenheim to his games. I will be found at Karrathar when sanity is restored.’

‘That will not happen without your help.’

More explosions in the distance. The glow of the fire flared.

‘Will it be worth it,’ Rasp asked, ‘for sanity to reign over ash?’

5. VERCOR

The wind and the sporadic percussion of bombs did her no favours, but Vahnsinn and the lord commissar were speaking in the open air. Standing in the shadowed entrance to an alley between two mansions across the boulevard from Grauben, Vercor fine-tuned her hearing. She caught the gist of the conversation between the two men. She weighed options. Vahnsinn had made his opposition to the cardinal clear at the Council, but he had done nothing more. She did not doubt that he would jockey for more power, but he was saying nothing to suggest he was going to move against Wangenheim. His apparent neutrality could lead to him being even more dangerous once the current spasm of violence subsided, if the people saw him as an orthodox counter to the Ecclesiarch’s rule. There might be some value in his unexpected death during the confusion of this night.

Only Wangenheim had not authorized such drastic action. Not unless Vahnsinn presented an immediate threat.

Threat. There was one. Not the baron. Coming up behind her. Soft leather muffling footsteps, sound hidden by the constant moan of the wind. Hidden to all but one with her hearing. She did not turn. She waited, letting the hunter draw closer. She held her hands loose at her sides, revelling in the subcutaneous hum of the servo-motors preparing for action.

Two more steps. One.

Now.

She whirled, arms outstretched, palms flat as blades. She caught her robed attacker in mid leap. Her blow struck him in the sternum. She heard the crunch of bone. She created movement where none should be. The man flew off to the right side and smashed into a blank stone wall. He slid to the ground, jerking as if electrocuted. His hands clawed at his chest, but only for a few seconds. His bones had punctured his heart. While he twitched his last, Vercor picked up the blade he had dropped. It curved twice. In the faint light that reached the alley from the street, she saw a hint of runes on the metal. She curled her lip. The weapon was unclean, and she hurled it away into the night. She turned her attentions to the corpse and pulled back the man’s hood. His hair was patchy, his skin a network of tattoos, scars and scabs. His mouth was hanging open, and Vercor saw that all his teeth had been removed. His gums had been sheathed in metal that came to a razored edge. His tongue was scored with deep cuts.

Vercor stood up from the corpse. The extent of the heretic’s corruption was worrying. It had not happened overnight. The abductions had left no doubt that the cult was still active, but if it had been so for longer than suspected, the roots might run very deep. Wangenheim’s game with the barons suddenly looked less like a calculated risk. For the first time in her decades of service, Vercor suspected the cardinal of recklessness.

More stealthy footsteps. More than one person this time. Moving past the mouth of the alley, but not heading her way. She advanced to the edge of the shadows to watch the street.

It took her a few moments to see them. Even then, she wasn’t sure she had spotted them all. Hooded figures, men and women, emerging from the shadows as if born from them. At least a dozen. They converged on Grauben.

Vercor hesitated. Her instructions were only to observe. But what she saw closing in on the baron’s mansion was an enemy who transcended factionalism.

She emerged from the alleyway at a full run. She hit the nearest cultist and knocked him to the ground. She stomped once on his skull, hard, then turned to the next. As she killed him, she spotted more robed figures approaching the mansion. There were far more than a dozen.

6. YARRICK

We fanned out across the city. No one was easy with the division of the forces, but the attacks were too numerous to be dealt with one at a time. The reports that Granach was able to piece together suggested small commando raids. He responded in kind. He wanted speed, and that was what we gave him. I travelled with Saultern’s company to the southern end of Tolosa. We rushed towards the glow of the flames. The night sky was flickering, becoming tainted by the fires below. The burn was a big one.

As we reached the gates to the ring, we were joined by a hundred of Vahnsinn’s guard. So Rasp had been successful. Knowing that these forces too were being shared among the Mortisian contingents, I was surprised that their numbers were as high as they were. Vahnsinn had somehow managed to hold a greater force within the city walls than I would have guessed.

We moved quickly despite the growing riots. We ploughed through panic and anger. People fled destruction and turned on scapegoats. Most retained enough presence of mind to flee the path of armed soldiers.

Most, but not all, and that was regrettable.

Much of the lowest ring’s southern quadrant was aflame. The buildings were packed together, huddling close in their poverty. The construction here was mostly wood. Old, dry timbers had needed little excuse to combust. A firestorm was forming. Unchecked, its embrace could encompass the entire ring, surrounding Tolosa with a wall of fire.

Saultern stood as if mesmerised by the towering blaze before us. The heat from the engulfed buildings baked our exposed skin. I saw the hesitation of his inexperience again. There was no visible enemy to fight, and he was paralysed. ‘Captain,’ I snapped. ‘Firebreaks.’

He blinked at me. There was a second of incomprehension. Then his face cleared. He sent the Vahnsinn guards west, while he took his company east. ‘Find the limits of the fire,’ he said. ‘Bring down the buildings there. Smother the flames’ advance.’ He glanced at me for confirmation. I did not undermine his command by nodding. Instead, I moved off with the troopers, leading the charge to comply with his orders while burning cinders fell from the sky and smoke choked the streets.

About five hundred metres on, past flame so intense it was forming whirlwinds, we found the storm’s edge. A narrow street ran between the conflagration and the tenements it was just beginning to lick. No lights shone from the broken windows. The block looked as if it had been abandoned by even the most desperate some time ago. It would take little to knock it down. Saultern sent a demolition team in. They worked quickly. Five minutes later, while the block still resisted the flames, the charges went off. The walls blew in, and the structure collapsed in on itself. The wind caught the billow of dust and hurled it into our eyes. When we could see again, we had our firebreak.

Something about the way the tenement block died bothered me. The rubble was too sunken, as if the ground had tried to suck the buildings down. I walked towards the collapse. I clambered over the shattered beams and masonry. The destruction sloped towards the centre. This was too much like a crater for my liking.

‘Commissar Yarrick?’ Saultern called.

‘I need to satisfy my curiosity, captain.’ A moment later, I realized someone else had joined me. I glanced to my left and saw Betzner. He was staring towards the centre of the collapse, frowning. ‘Do you see something, trooper?’ I asked.

‘No, commissar. Yes. I mean, I’m not sure.’ He pointed.

I saw nothing but the play of shadows in the wavering light of the flames. We moved further down. Midway to the centre I saw what Betzner must have been indicating: the shadows under leaning slabs of floor were too dark, too deep. Betzner could not possibly have seen them from the top of the slope. He was right, though. ‘Get your captain,’ I said softly. ‘Tell him what we see.’

Betzner scrambled away. He returned with Saultern and the bulk of the company. I didn’t have to say anything. Saultern needed no prompting. He sent a dozen troopers forward while the rest trained their weapons on the shadows. The soldiers pulled, dug and hauled at the wreckage until the truth of the shadows was revealed.

Tunnels.

7. SEROFF

Captain Monfor saved Seroff’s life. He did so in the simplest way possible: he was a full head taller, and the las-fire hit him first. It came from two angles. It burned his skull apart. Seroff dropped flat. There was no cover. The company was caught in the open.

The Mortisians had quelled the riot in this south-central quadrant of the city, and had reached one of Tolosa’s rare squares. It had once been a market, but had fallen into disuse when a more sheltered one had been constructed to the south. It was a windswept expanse of cobbles that had seen a crowd for the first time in a generation when the procession had passed through. The people had remained after the relic had moved on, celebrating the journey of the saint until the bombs had gone off. The stampede had rushed along the main avenue leading east from the square, smashing all before it, until it had run into the disciplined fist of the Imperial Guard. Monfor had led his company to the source of the blasts. He had taken the square with caution. Roofs were checked for snipers. Troops had moved around the periphery of the square, kicking in doors and smashing open shutters. The buildings had seemed deserted.

And then they had reached the site of the explosion. They had seen the tunnel. Monfor had cursed. And then he had died.

The cultists attacked. Many still wore the uniforms of the baronial houses they served, but Seroff thought the colours and banners looked more degraded than at Lom. Even more of the wretches wore dark robes now. They streamed out of the buildings to the left and right of the crater. Too many to have been hiding when the patrols had checked the ground floors. The tunnels fed into the cellars, and the Mortisian company was caught in a closing pincer attack. Seroff rose to a crouch, returning fire with his bolt pistol. With no cover, he resorted to quick, unpredictable sprints. He shot and ran, shot and ran.

The unit cohesion of the company was shattered as the casualties mounted. The soldiers who held their ground died where they stood. They took numbers of the enemy with them, but the cultists stayed mobile as they drew the cordon tighter. Seroff couldn’t spot a surviving officer. He heard no orders being issued. Had every lieutenant and sergeant been cut down? The answer didn’t matter. He knew his duty, and he should have already been exercising it. ‘Keep moving!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let the heretics–’

A frag grenade went off to his left. Others saved his life again. Two troopers disintegrated, sliced into jagged bone and meat. The force of the explosion lifted him off his feet and pitched him over the lip of the crater. His head was ringing before he hit the ground. He smashed into a pile of broken paving stones. His vision blurred. He lay on his back at the bottom of the crater, and his body refused to obey his brain’s commands. He couldn’t draw a breath. His ears filled with the sounds of defeat as he blacked out.

8. RASP

‘Your home is under attack.’ Rasp looked down into the street. He saw a struggle, guessed that one of Vahnsinn’s guards was putting up a fight. But many figures were rushing the door to Grauben. It would not withstand the siege for long. He pulled his bolt pistol from its holster.

‘Simeon,’ the baron said, ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to have thrown my lot in with you.’

‘Better death than heresy,’ Rasp snapped. Vahnsinn’s dry levity was misplaced.

Vahnsinn nodded. ‘Come with me.’ He turned away from the edge of the roof.

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Not being cornered on a roof, if it’s all the same to you. As heroic as such a last stand might be, I would rather choose a more effective strategy.’

‘Agreed.’

Rasp followed him to the trap door. Vahnsinn led the way down to the ground floor, where the halls shook with the battering of the front door. There were only three guards waiting before the entrance.

‘They won’t hold the enemy back long,’ Rasp said.

‘They won’t have to.’ Vahnsinn dragged open a door at the other end of the hall. A stone staircase descended into the cellar. Damp air wafted into the corridor.

‘Your alternative to being trapped on the roof is being trapped below ground?’

‘Trust me. I’m not an idiot.’

Rasp heard the sound of wood splintering from the mansion’s entrance. He shrugged and started down the stairs. He did trust Vahnsinn’s tactical judgement. It had been unerring in their years on the battlefield together. Behind him, the baron swung the door closed with a scrape and bang. The steps descended two landings before ending in an empty wine cellar. Rasp looked around in the light of dim lumoglobes. He saw archways leading off the cellar in every direction. ‘Which way?’ he asked.

‘The eight-fold way,’ said Vahnsinn at his back, voice sepulchre-dry, and sepulchre-cold.

Rasp turned. Vahnsinn had stopped three steps from the bottom. He held a laspistol trained at Rasp’s head. The lord commissar glanced down at his bolt pistol, aimed at the ground. He knew what would happen if he tried to raise it. And now he heard footsteps. Many. A moment later, robed men and women emerged from every one of the vaults. He was surrounded by more than fifty cultists. They were all armed. He knew he couldn’t move fast enough to shoot Vahnsinn, but perhaps he could take one or two heretics before they killed him. His death would have that much honour.

‘Simeon,’ Vahnsinn said. ‘Don’t be wasteful. Throw the gun away.’

Rasp didn’t answer. He spun, firing into the cultists. He couldn’t miss. Every pull of the trigger sent another figure to the ground. Between the reports of the pistol, he heard Vahnsinn yell, ‘Take him alive!’

The crowd rushed him. He killed three more before he was overwhelmed.

CHAPTER 10

The Great Rain

1. YARRICK

The cultists started firing almost as soon as we uncovered the tunnel. They had been waiting for us either to find the entrance or move on and leave ourselves open to a rear-attack. Their numbers appeared to be similar to ours. The stream of las-fire that shot out of the tunnel hit us hard, but we answered in kind. The Mortisians had the benefit of discipline. There was a raggedness to the volleys from inside the tunnel. Either the traitors were not a military unit, or they were a patchwork of elements lacking a unified command. Saultern’s company spread out, using the rubble for shelter, and fired into the tunnel at all angles. We couldn’t see the enemy. There was no need. If our shots went in far enough, they hit a target. The tunnel’s walls amplified the screams of our victims. That was a good thing.

‘Grenades!’ Saultern yelled. Frags bounced into the darkness, lit it up with sudden flashes and painted the air with the shrieks of the wounded.

‘Push them back, soldiers of the Emperor,’ I called. ‘Push them back into their darkness, and exterminate them all.’

We began to tighten the cordon, closing step by step on the bottlenecked heretics, driving them back with fire and explosives. Another few metres and we could deploy the flamers.

‘Grenade!’ Betzner yelled at my left, and it was a warning. I whirled in time to see the frags arcing through the air towards us, over the rise of the collapse, coming from the direction of the street. I jumped over the slab behind which I crouched, and lay flat, taking my chances with the suppressed, disorganized fire from the tunnel. The explosions kicked up a storm of shrapnel, shredding troops apart. Our assault faltered. The enemy fire from within the tunnel strengthened. And over the rise, having slaughtered our rearguard, came the Vahnsinn forces. I experienced a moment of furious disbelief at the depth of the deception. Then I realized I was on the verge of hurling myself at the traitors as if I could tear them apart with my hands and teeth. I suppressed the instinct, held fast to reason.

We were pinned. The Vahnsinn guards closed with us just as we had with the cultists. The Mortisians were firing as best they could in both directions, to little effect. None of us could do more than stay flat on jagged rubble, and shoot blind. The jaws of the trap closed on us. The Vahnsinn troops would overrun our position in minutes.

I scanned the terrain for a better position. Nothing that would stand up to more than a few seconds of concentrated fire. Then I noticed a depression about ten metres beyond Betzner, a bit further downslope from us. Another tunnel entrance, I hoped. ‘Betzner,’ I yelled. ‘Drop a frag there.’

I pointed. He understood. Still lying flat, he pulled a grenade from his belt and tossed it. The throw was awkward, but accurate enough. I shielded my face from the explosion. When I looked up, I saw the opening of a shaft. It was narrower than the one we had been assaulting, less than two metres across. Perhaps the cultists were not watching the secondary egress points. Perhaps they did not have the numbers to do so. Perhaps I was living in futile hope.

It was the only hope we had.

No way to signal except through example. No way to be the example except through risk.

My duty to the Emperor.

‘To me!’ I roared. I rose to my feet and pounded towards the shaft. The wind was at my back. I leapt over wreckage, sprinting with no thought to falls or broken limbs. Las streaked the night around me. I ran a web of death. I snarled my defiance. I would reach the target. Duty would permit no failure. I would show the way and run through my own death in the name of that duty.

The Emperor protected. It cannot be luck that preserved me in those few moments. I am not so proud as to believe that my own speed was sufficient to throw off the aim of our foe. The Emperor sent the dark, the confusion and the surprise to be my shields. I made a last leap and dropped down the shaft. I banged my shoulder on the way down, and landed awkwardly. The fall was less than two metres. There was just enough illumination from the burning city that I could see crude handholds carved into one side of the shaft. I climbed back up, bolt pistol in one hand. I popped my head up and provided what covering fire I could as Betzner made his run. Behind him, the rest of the company was rising up and charging this way.

We lost many, but we saved more. The last of the Mortisians to reach the shaft did so only a few seconds ahead of the Vahnsinn force. We had lost close to half our strength, but what we had was enough to hold the enemy at bay for the moment. Saultern ordered lumen tubes triggered, and we saw that we were in a tunnel that sloped downward for twenty metres before hitting a T-junction. We moved down quickly, Saultern and myself in the lead. We were just arriving at the intersection when our own tactics were used against us again. A pair of frag grenades tumbled down the shaft. The concussion of the blast knocked the air from my lungs. The entrance to the tunnel collapsed, burying another three troopers.

‘We won’t be going back that way,’ Saultern said, sounding worried.

‘Nor should we,’ I told him. I raised my voice. ‘The only way forward is through the blood of traitors and heretics.’ I found that the rhetoric of victory came easily to me. I hadn’t thought of myself as any kind of preacher while I had been a storm trooper, but my training for my new post had shaped me more completely than I had guessed. The words were there for me to weave my exhortation. More important yet, I believe, was the strength of my faith. Thanks to it, I articulated my duty with fervour. I began to grasp the idea of rhetoric as a blade of tempered steel plunged into the guts of the enemy. Speaking just to Saultern again, I said, ‘They’ve done us a favour. There will be no further attacks from that direction.’

He nodded. Then he gave me a look that was very close to pleading. ‘Commissar,’ he said, for my ears alone, ‘I would welcome the insight of your experience.’

I looked at him. The captain was only a year or two younger than I was, but an unbridgeable gap of the lived lay between us. He was doing himself credit as an officer, but he had the haunted look of a man seeing the horrors of the battlefield for the first time. Each atrocity we encountered was new to him. His system was taking sudden, repeated shocks. If he survived the initiation, he would, I thought, do well. But his inexperience was real. At least he had the humility to admit he wasn’t in any position to replace a general, even if he was ordered to do so.

I thought for a minute, but decided not to relieve him of command. He was giving me cause to do so. He was indicating a reluctance to lead. But he was being honest with me about reaching the limit of what he was capable of as an officer. ‘We’re going to use the tunnels against the enemy,’ I told him. ‘We find the cultists, kill them, then return to the surface for Baron Vahnsinn’s guards. Clear?’

He nodded.

‘Announce our strategy,’ I told him.

He hesitated.

‘Announce it,’ I insisted. ‘Proclaim it as if it were your own.’

‘But–’

The Emperor protect me from honest fools, I thought. ‘Do it,’ I said.

He did, and we moved on, taking the left-hand branch of the intersection. A few dozen metres further on, we hit another junction, this one with four branches. And then another. I paused. I exchanged a look with Saultern. He didn’t need prompting. ‘Anyone with mining experience?’ he called out.

‘I do, captain.’ The man who shouldered his way forward was Sergeant Kortner. ‘My family is from the Deeps.’

The Deeps. The played-out mines of Aighe Mortis that had become habs plunging as far into the crust of the planet as the hives above-ground reached for the sky. Entire generations never saw the light of day. Kortner had the fish-belly skin tone of that segment of Mortisian society. He had always struck me as having a perpetual squint, but now that we were in tunnels, he seemed more relaxed, his eyes open to take in the minimal lighting.

‘Can you take us to the enemy’s position?’ I asked.

He grinned. ‘Watch me.’

Without hesitation, he took the second passage to the left. At each intersection, he listened closely, but when he made his choices, he was definite. As we marched down the tunnels, I saw him examining the walls. He ran his hands over the stone.

‘What do you notice, sergeant?’ I asked.

‘These aren’t cellar tunnels. They can’t be. And they weren’t constructed by our enemies. Or very few of them were, at least.’

‘Oh?’

He shook his head. ‘The system is too big. There are too many branches and side tunnels. I think it goes on for hundreds of kilometres. It can’t have been dug simply for a military campaign.’

‘Impossible to keep work on this scale hidden,’ I said.

‘Exactly, commissar. And look.’ He aimed his light at the wall. ‘This was a mine. The excavation was done centuries ago. Some of the connecting tunnels are new.’

‘The enemy just modified the existing network.’

‘I believe so.’

Kortner’s conclusions were cause for both dread and hope. If such a vast warren existed under Tolosa, then the enemy could reach any point in the city undetected. Cutting off this avenue of attack might well be impossible. On the other hand, it would be no more feasible for the enemy to control the entire network. Our foe was as vulnerable to ambush as we were.

‘Why weren’t we told about this?’ Saultern asked.

Because the cardinal is a political strategist, not a military one, I thought. Because it never occurred to him that the threats he was exploiting to his own ends were real and dangerous. What I said was, ‘Attacks on this scale using sewer systems are beyond unusual. And we don’t think about what lies beneath our feet unless we are forcibly reminded of it.’ That was all true enough. But only partly. In my head, I cursed Wangenheim.

‘How well can you navigate?’ I asked Kortner.

‘Well enough.’

I waited for Saultern. He started thinking like an officer again. ‘Bring us to them,’ he said. ‘Then, find an exit to the street and we’ll take the Vahnsinn force.’ He couldn’t keep his eyes from flickering in my direction. I kept my nod almost imperceptible.

‘Yes, captain,’ Kortner replied. He took point, an alpha predator in his element. The further we went, the more speed he picked up, as if the scent of the enemy’s blood were calling him. He never hesitated for more than a second at each junction. I tried but failed to spot the cues he used, but the nuances of direction, slope and currents of air were too subtle for me. After several minutes he slowed, his steps growing quiet. A moment later, the rest of us could hear the echoes of marching feet. The sound was confusing as it bounced and multiplied. I had no idea how close we were, or whether or not the foe was approaching. Saultern held up a hand and signalled silence.

Kortner stopped a few metres from the next junction. A larger tunnel ran from left to right ahead of us. He looked back at us and nodded, then crouched and raised his rifle. The troops at the front of the advance followed his example. The next in line remained standing. We were three abreast in this tunnel. We waited to reveal the Emperor’s anger.

The enemy marched past along the major passageway, oblivious to the danger in the side tunnel. Saultern held the company back. I felt the energy build around me. There was a collective need for vengeance, and the prospect of imminent satisfaction took the shape of a vibrating, silently snarling joy. It coursed through my own blood. At the same time, I concentrated on what I was seeing. We had the chance to see the enemy.

Observe and learn.

The fighters who passed us were a disparate group. Many, but by no means all, wore robes. I saw the livery of all the baronial houses of Mistral represented. The parade of heresy revealed just how wide and deep the treachery ran. Some of the uniforms were still in parade-worthy condition. Others were just visible beneath the robes. Still others were ragged, defaced by twisted runes. I saw, in this patchwork army, the full extent of Wangenheim’s folly. For all his megalomania, I did not doubt his faith. I could not blame him for the arrival of the cult on Mistral. But his political machinations had pushed the barons to the point that legitimate grievance had found common cause with darkest heresy. He had wanted a war. That was clear. Well, he had one. And like every other fool who thinks he can make flames dance to his will, he had lit a fire that might burn everything down.

We would extinguish those flames, I vowed. And we would begin by extinguishing the wretches before us.

As the last of the heretics passed through the junction, Saultern chopped his arm forwards. We opened fire. The quarters were close, the range short. The slaughter was great. We cut down the rear elements in seconds, filling the dank underground air with the stench of scorched flesh. Confusion spread through the enemy ranks. The lack of a unified command made itself felt. I heard calls to attack, and others to retreat. For a few seconds, the cultists did nothing but collide with each other. That was long enough for us to hurl grenades around the corner into their midst. We backed away, and still felt the explosions in our bones. The blasts were murderous in the confined space. They sounded muffled, surrounded by all those bodies.

We charged, bringing our wrath down on a stunned enemy. We ran through a swamp of blood and shredded flesh. The remaining elements tried to muster a defence. We smashed it with contempt. We overran them with the same disregard for weapons fire as when we had run for the shaft. But now we weren’t individual warriors evading death. Now we were death itself. The butchery was total. An errant shot burned across my right epaulette. We lost two other troopers. But the enemy lost everything. The heretics were reduced to writhing, dying worms.

Drenched in the blood of the foe, we paused. I looked at Saultern. There was a wild glint in his eye. He was being shaped by war, its blows and cruelty pounding out the son of weakness. With every hit that did not break him, he was forged a little more surely into an officer of the Imperial Guard. I watched him closely. He blinked a few times, and tried to wipe the worst of the blood from his face. He looked strained, but rational. He turned to Kortner. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘lead us to our next battle.’

He grinned, the old hand deciding that this inexperienced captain might have some mettle after all.

We moved off. As before, Kortner chose the tunnels as if he had known them all his life. We were fast, rushing to complete our act of justice. We ran past at least two sets of handholds leading upwards to street or cellar. Kortner ignored them. He found a slope. Even I could tell it was a new dig. He was leading us up one of the enemy’s points of rapid exit.

The slope became a ramp that took us into a warehouse. The building was empty, a mere shell. Its function now was to conceal attackers until the moment they burst from its doorways and struck. My mouth filled with the iron taste of anticipation.

But as we reached the doors, a new sound began. Huge. Terrible. I recognized it. I knew what it meant. It meant disaster.

2. VERCOR

The battle did not end in victory or her death. Instead, it melted away before her. She grappled with another cultist, a man who relied on his size and strength to compensate for his lack of combat skill. He rushed her, striking like a battering ram, knocked her back into the alley and against a wall. She punished him for his stupidity by reaching up and snapping his neck. She looked past his toppling corpse for the next foe. There was no one. Startled, she padded out of the alley. The street beyond was deserted. The door to Vahnsinn’s manor was damaged, but still stood.

Vercor had the dizzying sensation of walking an abandoned stage. Everything about the last few minutes rang false. She shook her head. She had been deceived, but the contours and the reasons for the deception escaped her. She felt a professional shame.

She examined the façade of Grauben. The great house was silent. No light filtered out from between the shutters. She knew it was as empty as the street. Perhaps, she thought, the theatre she had witnessed had not been mounted for her benefit. She might even have advanced the object of the spectacle by taking part in the combat.

She had been a pawn, a superfluous one at that, not even important enough to remove from the board once the round of the game was complete. Now the game had moved on, and she was forgotten. The insult was humbling. The implications were worse, as the scale of the cardinal’s miscalculation was revealed. She felt her confidence in the power of her patron waver further. At the abstract level, she had known that no family was forever, that falls came in time to all but the Emperor. But she had never contemplated the possibility that the Wangenheims might stumble during the term of her existence.

For the first time in centuries of service, a Vercor began to re-examine the calculus of loyalty.

The street vibrated. Something mechanical, something under power, passed by beneath her feet.

Then came the great noise.

3. SETHENO

The heretics did not enter the palace. The Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn burst through the great door, throwing back the startled besiegers. ‘The way is clear!’ Setheno taunted the heretics. ‘Is this not what you wanted? Why do you not claim your prize?’

The cultists tried. They hesitated before the holy rage of the Adepta Sororitas, but then they attacked. Some kept their distance and fired their rifles. They wore recognizable uniforms, ones that marked them only more clearly as traitors. Others risked being cut down by their own comrades and charged. These were the most degenerate of the heretics. Their robes were tattered, and so was their flesh. They pulled their hoods back, revelling in the blasphemy of their faces. They had mutilated themselves in the grip of a dark ecstasy. Sigils spiralled from cheek to eye, leaving trails of dried blood. Bisected tongues tasted the air like serpents’. Howling a hatred that had moved beyond articulation, they ran at the Sisters, brandishing blades. Setheno noted the weapons. They were twisted, fantastical creations, many of them multi-foliate. They had been forged with a perverse care. The cult that was now showing its hand had had time to prepare its weapons and to degrade many of its converts to subhuman levels. The noxious weed had deep roots. Uprooting it would be a great task.

It was past time to begin.

Setheno ignored the las striking her armour. She and her Sisters strode forward, and the cultists hesitated as punishment came to meet them. Then the clash came. Setheno swung her sword in from the side. She struck a heretic in the gut. The force of her blow cut all the way through to his spine. His mouth dropped open in shocked pain. His lips moved as if he would utter a curse. With a jerk and a lift, she severed his backbone, splitting his body in two. She completed the movement, raising her blade high as the corpse fell apart. Another cultist came at her, howling. She brought the sword down. She felt the crunch of his skull shattering. There was a satisfaction in the brutality of the execution. She drew her blade out, smearing its length with the man’s brain.

The enemy’s charge faltered. It was nothing more than a race to the slaughter. To Setheno’s right, Sister Liberata sang the Hymn of the Eternal Purge, her voice a crystalline razor slicing through the bayings of the foe. The squad moved down the length of the porch, and nothing that approached them survived. Heretic blood spread over the marble and cascaded down the steps. The unholy would not defile the Ecclesiarchal palace on this night. Setheno matched the rhythm of her kills to the beats of Liberata’s song. She performed the liturgy of murder.

Within its first few minutes, the result of the engagement was inevitable. Setheno saw the enemy’s rearguard falter. Those soldiers, more sane than their brothers, had realized the futility of their effort. Vitae was pooling across the square, and none of it had come from the Sisters of Battle. The traitors tried to retreat. As one, Setheno and her squad sheathed their blades and raised their bolt pistols. The square rang with precise, merciless fire, until the ten women were the only living beings within its confines.

Bloodied silence fell over the square. The distant reports of combat in the rest of the city were audible once again. There was the long rumble of a collapsing building. It sounded quite close, likely no more than a thousand metres to the south. Removing her helmet, Sister Genebra cocked her head in the direction of the collapse, then looked at Setheno. ‘What are your orders, sister superior?’ she asked. It was clear she hoped to engage further with the enemy.

Setheno listened to the sounds of the convulsing city. She still wore her helm, and so she was able to conceal her grimace of frustration from Genebra. She had the nagging sense of revelation hiding just over the horizon. She knew there was a game being played. She knew she and her Sisters had been placed on the board by Wangenheim. But the cardinal had an opponent at least as subtle. The game had slipped from his control. Setheno could not see its contours. She saw only the limits of her own position. She knew just enough to be conscious of her own blindness. What good, she wondered, was insight, when all it revealed was its failure?

The desire to see beyond limits was dangerous, and she suppressed it. Still, she could not erase the residue of frustration it left behind.

Because she was deprived of clarity, she had no choice. ‘We are a single squad, Sister,’ she told Genebra. She was aware of the others listening. ‘We cannot be everywhere in this city.’

‘We could be,’ Cabiria put in. ‘Just add one of us to each company of the Imperial Guard.’

The idea had appeal. It would mean taking the strength of faith beyond the confines of this square. But it would also mean submitting the squad to the same dilution of force that was afflicting the Mortisians. It would mean, she suspected, being the good pawn for one of the players of this game.

So much she did not know. But she did know what her vows dictated.

‘No,’ she said. ‘We could be leaving the sacred relic unprotected.’ She gestured at the Ecclesiarchal palace. ‘This is the redoubt of the Adeptus Ministorum. This is what we guard. Not the city.’ Even as she spoke, she heard the short-sightedness of the pronouncement.

‘If Tolosa falls…’ Cabiria began.

‘It hasn’t.’

Then the air itself denied her words. It trembled. It was filled with a vast percussion. The beats of this rhythm dwarfed anything that had come before. This was not the sound of individual explosives and of street-by-street combat. It was the thunder of bombardment. It was gigantic. It was a city’s doom.

4. VAHNSINN

He was proud of the maglev. All of the modifications of the tunnels beneath Tolosa had taken time, and keeping the work secret had required an effort whose challenge had been equalled only by its expense. But the track was his signature. It was a monumental excess. It was not necessary. He could have made do with a tunnel leading from Grauben to the exterior of the city’s walls. But the risk of doing too much had been irresistible. And now he sped beneath Tolosa, undetected, unstoppable. Perhaps he would reach the surface before the great spectacle had begun. It would be a shame to miss it.

The train had almost reached the limits of Tolosa. He knew this because, as a further gesture of excess, he had ordered the caves that marked the limits of the walls painted red. He would be at the surface very soon. Then Vahnsinn heard the destruction begin. So he would miss the opening bars of the symphony he had devised. He almost closed his eyes so that he might visualize the event with greater clarity. But he knew each moment of the song by heart. He smiled at Rasp. The lord commissar sat, arms and legs manacled, on the bench opposite him. ‘Do you know what that is?’ he asked. He felt the vibrations from the explosions as a hum in the metal floor of the train.

‘Enlighten me,’ Rasp conveyed contempt and disinterest very well for a man who had only just regained consciousness.

Vahnsinn leaned forward. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘That is the sound of education. Cardinal Wangenheim is learning what it means to make an enemy of my house.’ He smiled. ‘Your troops are receiving instruction too, I’m afraid. They are answering for the colonel’s mistakes. Yours too.’

‘Answering for our loyalty, you mean.’

The irony struck Vahnsinn with such force that he wanted to dance. Could he laugh with his entire body? Yes, he did believe he could. The faith revealed to him by Preacher Guilhem was a perpetual unfolding of wonders. He laughed again as he thought about how many more wonders and transformations awaited. ‘No,’ he said to Rasp, calming himself. ‘That is, in this instance, the least of your mistakes.’ Anger replaced laughter with an abruptness that caused him physical pain. ‘You underestimated us,’ he said. ‘How could you have so little respect for our strength? You know what our forges are worth. You have used their issue often enough.’ Rasp said nothing. ‘How many Basilisks do you think fire at my command? How many Griffons?’

‘I never questioned your strength,’ Rasp said quietly. ‘I never questioned your loyalty, either, and I should have. That is the crime for which I will seek penance. After I see what is left of you once the Inquisition has done its duty.’

Vahnsinn snorted. ‘You’re a bore, Simeon.’

The train slowed.

‘Good,’ Vahnsinn said. ‘We’ll be at the surface soon. Then you can see. You will be enlightened.’

5. BELLAVIS

It was the way in which Veteran Sergeant Katarina Schranker was standing that drew his attention. As he had given up more and more of the flesh and its reflexes, Enginseer Bellavis had found himself becoming more interested, in a detached fashion, in the intricacies of human body language. About a hundred metres from the rows of Leman Russ tanks, she was looking at the command tent. Schranker was the sort of soldier who appeared to be rolling from one battle into another, even when none was around, and pleased to be doing so. At this moment, she was still, her focus intense, as if in actual combat.

Bellavis walked over to her. ‘Something?’ he asked.

She nodded at the command tent, fifty metres away. ‘The captains just went in there. All of them.’

‘War,’ Bellavis said.

‘War,’ Schranker agreed. She hailed another sergeant who had just emerged from between the ranks of tents on the right. ‘Strauss,’ she called. ‘Better start stirring bodies. Something’s coming.’

And then the night made her words true. Bellavis heard the bombardment start up. His bionic ears parsed the sound of the distant storm. He calculated how many hundreds of artillery units were firing. He distinguished the voice of the Earthshaker cannon of the Basilisk from the Griffon’s heavy mortar. He determined how far the units were. The Griffons were much closer than the Basilisks. They had been moved into position on top of the ridges overlooking the Trenqavel land. From that height, the Mortisian encampment was well within range.

All of this took less than a second. For another fraction of a second, Enginseer Bellavis assessed the information with academic interest. He discerned trajectories, whether the barrage was aimed at one target or several. And then, faster than calling to the tent, he was contacting Captain Ledinek over the vox-unit embedded in his throat. He reported to the commanding officer of the base that the entire area was about to be blanketed by shells and heavy mortars.

He spoke automatically. His mind had already formulated what he had to say, and had moved on. He had reacted quickly to the reality of threat, but could do nothing to neutralize it. What remained was to seek cover.

Before he had finished speaking, sirens began to wail, drowning out the endless howl of the wind. The men and women of the 77th and 110th regiments would not die in ignorance, then. That much, he had accomplished.

Schranker was racing for the tanks, yelling that they be started up and spread out. Bellavis had spoken so she could hear him, and so she knew as well as he did that there was no time to take any meaningful action. But the attempt needed to be made.

Bellavis had made his. He finished his survey of the camp. There was no cover. There was nothing to be done in the final seconds except wait. A vestigial instinct, a trace of the man of flesh and emotion he had once been, reacted with the ghost of anger. The impassive consciousness that was the greatest part of his identity regarded the response with distant interest, and made a note to consider the phenomenon at greater length, should he survive the next few minutes.

Then came the whistling. The sky was torn by tears of iron. Bellavis dropped to the ground. He tucked his servo-arm against his body. He covered his head with his arms. The camp exploded. The barrage was massive and sustained. The ground erupted as if a volcano beneath it were waking from a nightmare. Earth erupted skyward in huge fountains. Tents and soldiers disintegrated with every strike. Vehicles turned into flying scrap metal. On the landing pad, the Lightnings blew up, their munitions adding to the destruction. The noise was an overwhelming staccato thunder, and Bellavis’s bionic hearing shut down to protect him from the noise. A shell hit a few metres to his left. The explosion lifted him into the air. He came back down hard. Beside him now was a crater. He rolled into the depression. The cover was symbolic. He was seeking shelter in probabilities. It was all he had.

He lay curled and motionless while the world around him tore itself apart.

6. YARRICK

We pieced together the larger picture afterwards. At the time, none of us knew more than our tiny portion of the destruction. The disaster was heralded by the illusion of victory: the cultists vanished. In some cases, they were annihilated by Imperial forces. In others, they melted into the night. The Vahnsinn guards were among those who slipped through our fingers. I knew even then that they must have taken the tunnel network. The warren was so extensive, two armies could cross paths, ignorant of each other’s presence. Of course there had been a signal. Of course the heretics had known what was coming. To this day, I am not sure if the signal had been sent by the forces in the city, calling in the bombardment because we were beating them, or if the artillery strike had always been inevitable. Though I have no proof, I am convinced of the latter case. Vahnsinn divided our strength by forcing us to respond on multiple fronts. He eroded our smaller units. He even destroyed some of them. But we had the numerical superiority inside Tolosa, and when the tide turned, as it must, he withdrew and punished the city.

I curse the day the traitor was born. The consequences of his crimes were, I am sure, beyond his most fervid dreams. His memory should be expunged from the galaxy, but I will never forget him. He taught me as surely as did Rasp. He taught me that treachery and tactical genius could coexist. He taught me the danger of underestimating a foe. I have no doubt that he always planned to rain hell upon Tolosa, but he held off until his artillery would have the greatest impact.

The forges of Mistral had been labouring towards this day for years. Many loyal citizens had worked unknowingly on the weapons that would be put to monstrous use. And now the guns roared. The barrage was divided between two targets: the regiment’s encampment and Tolosa itself. The blow that fell on the more concentrated space of the Trenqavel valley was like a meteor strike. What hit Tolosa was closer to a hail, one where each stone was an explosive shell designed to shatter fortifications.

The shells came down on us. There was no point in seeking shelter. The shells gutted every building they struck, the explosions blasting stone across the streets. There was no shelter at all. The warehouse was hit seconds after we emerged from the doors. It blew apart, knocking us down like leaves. Blood pouring from my ears, covered in powdered mortar, I forced myself to my feet. I could barely think. Two needs forced me on: preserve unit integrity, and defy Vahnsinn’s devastating move in any way I could.

I wavered for a moment as my head spun. What did I think I could do? Another shell landed fifty metres away, blowing a deep crater in the street and shattering the façade of a group of abandoned shops. The earth lurched. I staggered, but my duty and my hate grew in tandem. What did I think I could do? I could stand. And in standing, perhaps I could share some of the strength of purpose I felt with the company.

Become a symbol, I thought. Become a symbol.

I spat out dust and shouted, ‘Stand fast, Third Company! Stand with me! Stand with each other! Stand with the Emperor!’ I don’t know if a single soldier heard me. I couldn’t hear myself over the shattering booms of the shells and the ringing in my ears. But they could see me. Saultern was their captain, but it fell to me to be a symbol. I was a political officer, and I had seen enough of politics to know how easily the image became the reality. Mistral was awash with toxic images, rotted by false loyalties and opportunistic uses of our most sacred Creed. Enough.

I strode to the rubble of the warehouse and climbed the heap until I was a few metres above street level. I disdained useless shelter. If a second shell fell on this spot, it would kill me whether I stood defiant or crouched, cowering. I chose to stand. My personal survival was unimportant. The individual commissar meant nothing. There was exhilarating freedom in the fact that it was the office itself that mattered, and the role it fulfilled. I pointed at the sky and channelled all my hatred in a throat-tearing laugh. ‘Is that the best our enemy can do? Does he think this will make us bend our knee?’

And then, by the Throne, this happened: a shell dropped where I pointed. I reacted without thinking, and brought my arm down as if directing the fall of the high explosive. It landed on the other side of the street, directly across from me. In the fraction of a second before the blast, I had time to think, stand fast. I knew how important it was that I not fall. My exhortation became a roar, as if I were shouting down the explosion. I was struck by a wall of heat and wind. Stone shrapnel tore my face, shredded my coat. I stood in a gale of war. Below me, the troops were bowled over. Somehow, I stood. The true defence of the Imperial Creed demanded that I stand, and so I did.

The wind and the fire abated. I could feel blood flowing down my face. Its warmth soaked my neck and chest beneath my uniform. I ignored it. For the moment, the shells were hitting further upslope from our position. The shrieks of their descent were just distant enough that I could make myself heard. I must not waste this window. ‘You see?’ I called to the Mortisians. ‘The heretics can do nothing against us! Shielded by our faith, we are invincible!’ I faced south. ‘It is from there that the enemy attacks with artillery. When he is done, and the heroes of Aighe Mortis still hold Tolosa, what will he do? He will hurl himself against the walls. And what will he find there? Death!’

‘Death!’ came the cheer.

‘We should thank our foe for this gift!’ I gestured behind me at the explosions and smoke. ‘Because now we know where we must meet him, and give him his reckoning!’

‘To the wall!’ Saultern shouted. He stood directly below me now. He, too, was becoming what he needed to be.

‘To the wall!’ I repeated. I strode down the rubble. I could not hear the shouts of the troopers, because the shells were falling close again, and the world was shaking once more. But we were a unit consumed with purpose and righteous fury, and the devastation only spurred us on. We moved off at high speed, heading further downhill, towards the outer fortifications of Tolosa. We ran as if to meet the shells.

The artillery did not let up. The shells hammered down on the city. I began to think of them as the blows of a monstrous, petulant infant. There was no consistent pattern to the devastation. This was not a walking barrage. Its only goal was destruction. It had a strategic value: the damage to the city would hurt our efforts to counter-attack. But with his forces withdrawn, Vahnsinn had no way of pinpointing the Mortisian emplacements. He was throwing a massive expenditure of ordnance at the city to uncertain effect. There was more than a military goal here. There was more even than punishment. The act was excessive, and that, I realized, must be its value for Vahnsinn and his allies. I stored the insight away. I felt that I had come to understand something important about our foe. Perhaps we might use it against him. The excess was irrational, and that was fertile ground for mistakes.

Less than a thousand metres separated our position from the city’s battlements. We seemed to be making no progress. The journey was an endless race through the shrieks and thunder of shells, and the explosions of buildings and roads. The civilians of Tolosa cowered in their rooms, and they died as surely in their homes as they did outside them. The streets were strewn with corpses. We passed fallen buildings from which issued cries of pain and moans of desperation. Still the hail fell, punching new, bleeding wounds in the city. The night shattered. It became a mosaic of jagged shards. And through it all, we moved with purpose. We were what remained of order in this region of Tolosa, and we would be enough. There was no alternative.

We reached the battlements. They had taken some direct hits, but had weathered them well. The wall was rockcrete, fifty metres high and thirty metres thick. Some portions were slumped, but there were no outright breaches yet, at least in this quadrant. We climbed the nearest staircase. Atop the wall, we looked south.

The sky was greying with dawn. Before the gates of Tolosa lay the great maglev junction. It was intact. As far as I could see, not a single shell had fallen here. There was still strategy behind the mad excess of the heretic bombardment. Vahnsinn wanted the use of the rail network. He would need it. The bridges and roads that were the other land-based approaches to the city were too eccentric in their advance, and too narrow, to allow the rapid deployment of an army.

Near the horizon, I could just make out the muzzle flashes of the great Basilisk guns. Ahead of them, a stain as dark as treachery spread over the land. The contagion travelled over road and track and waterway. Siege was coming to Tolosa.

CHAPTER 11

Move and Counter-Move

1. YARRICK

Saultern stared at the junction. Its implications had seized his attention more forcefully than the gigantic array of forces in the distance. As it should. When he turned to look at me, his face was an agony of uncertainty. He was showing more and more promise as a captain, but he was now faced with a decision far beyond the authority of his rank. ‘Should we destroy it?’ he asked me.

Who did he think I was? What magical prerogatives did he think I had? I doubted we had the means to destroy the transportation hub – the wall’s turret cannons would have to be lowered below the horizontal to fire at such close range, and it seemed clear that the defences had been designed with the express purpose of preventing that form of self-inflicted wound. Even if we could manage it, that action was no more mine to order than it was his. Yet, even as I acknowledged these truths, I found myself thinking beyond my immediate duties, and about the sheer imperatives of war. If I could see a way to ruin the tracks, would I? Yes, I would. Without hesitation. Damn the consequences that might befall me.

The individual is unimportant. The symbol is what matters.

None of what flashed through my mind was of any use to Saultern, though. He needed to be decisive, and to be taking action. He needed my help. ‘No,’ I told him. I was not expressing a belief. I was reminding him of simple realities. Did he think we could wreak any meaningful destruction with the few rockets and grenades we had left? ‘We need to reach Colonel Granach and inform him of the situation. Get our vox working, captain. Nothing else matters now.’

Behind us, the shells continued to fall upon Tolosa as if the enemy would flatten the city and spare himself the need to take it. The deafening rhythm made it difficult to speak. I looked back up the hill of the city while Saultern and Trooper Guevion, the vox-operator, struggled to establish communication. We didn’t know who was still alive. I imagined the worst as I watched Tolosa burn and fall, the awful light of its martyrdom even now brilliant against the strengthening dawn. If the colonels were dead, I wondered, if we were all that remained, what then?

Then we would descend to the wall and take the junction, and when the heretics arrived, we would do terrible things to them.

The dome of the Ecclesiarchal palace was a proud silhouette against the sky. It was shrouded in smoke, but its symmetry was unharmed. It was riding out the bombardment. Either all shells had missed, or it had shrugged off their impact. Its massive shape dominated the city, and called us all to duty and belief. My heart swelled. The building was more important than the venal fool who dwelt in it and believed it to be his home. It was our faith given architectural form. It was the unwavering will and vigilance of the Emperor. It could not fall, and so neither could we.

‘I have someone!’ Guevion shouted. She clamped the earpiece to the side of her head.

‘Colonel Granach?’ Saultern asked.

‘No, sir,’ Guevion said after a moment. She looked up, uncertain. ‘Sister Basilissa, speaking for Sister Superior Setheno.’

‘How can we possibly be reaching them?’

‘They have set up a listening post at the top of the dome. Less interference.’

‘Better equipment too,’ Kortner said without bitterness.

‘Can they reach our other units?’ Saultern asked.

‘I think so, sir.’

Saultern nodded, and gave Guevion a short sitrep to relay. Neither hesitated, but I saw a flicker in their faces. I knew what it was, because I felt it too: swallowed pride. It was an unwarranted luxury, but it was real all the same. It was an article of faith that the Adepta Sororitas and the Adeptus Astartes looked down on the humble soldiers of the Imperial Guard. The ferocious sanctity of the Sisters of Battle and the genhanced physiology of the Space Marines raised these warriors beyond the realm of the merely human. Setheno and her squad had done nothing to dispel this impression. Now we had to confirm their judgement that the Guard could not be trusted to complete its mission without the help of its superiors.

The wound of shame passed over the company, a shared wince. Perhaps there was an anticipation of humiliation to come, once the war was won. I will affirm that, at that point, there was still no question in any of our hearts about the inevitability of our victory. We had been hit hard. The barons had the initiative. None of that mattered. The simple fact was that we would defeat the traitors. The alternative was unimaginable.

We didn’t know everything, then. There were things that we couldn’t imagine, but they awaited us all the same.

Step by step, we re-established communication with our scattered forces. Step by step, the coordination of our strength returned. Step by step, we discovered silences. There was no word from Seroff.

And step by step, something worse than a siege approached.

2. RASP

He saw enough from the windows of the maglev train. Vahnsinn made sure of that. There was no secrecy, no concealing of tactics. Vahnsinn was proud of his war, and he appeared certain that Rasp would never be in a position to act against him. The train’s route took it first across the great alluvial plain, racing towards the bulk of the baronial forces. For the first few hours Vahnsinn kept them in the rear car, where panoramic windows and ceiling revealed the full spectacle of the savaging of Tolosa.

‘I’m glad you could see some of this while it was still dark,’ the baron commented. He gestured at the late-morning sky. ‘We lose many of the best colours in the day.’

It was a taunt, of course. Rasp didn’t want to give Vahnsinn the satisfaction of responding to it, but he had to understand what had happened to his friend. The better he knew the type of man Vahnsinn had become, the better his chance of fighting back. As much as his anger demanded answers, though, so did his grief. It wanted an accounting. It wanted to know how the soldier he had counted as his comrade on dozens of battlefields had transformed into a man who judged the aesthetic value of the deaths of thousands. A man who had managed to wear the mask of what he had once been so convincingly. So Rasp said, ‘Why?’

Vahnsinn turned from the burning city. He cocked his head. ‘Why? Have I been that unclear?’

‘I know why you’re at war with Wangenheim.’ Though he wondered if that were really true. He suspected that the politics of Mistral had provided the means, and not the cause, for the conflict. ‘But what you just said…’ He paused, more for effect than out of genuine puzzlement. ‘A few days ago, you made a plausible case for a rebellion that would still be faithful to the Emperor Himself. I see and hear nothing but obscenity now.’

Vahnsinn regarded him steadily, his smile growing broader until it seemed his skull itself was showing through his flesh. ‘What do you call that, Simeon?’ he asked. ‘Was that supposed to be subtle? Were you trying to anger me? Or trick me into a revelation?’ He approached, then leaned forward until his face was inches from Rasp’s. He continued to speak through the dreadful grin. ‘I don’t have to defend my reasons,’ he snarled. ‘I’m proud of them. And there will be no secrets between us, old friend. No need for tricks. Not any more. You want a revelation? I’m going to share many with you.’ He straightened, and moved back to the window. He looked out over the rushing landscape. ‘We’re coming very close to the time for the first,’ he said. He glanced over his shoulder at Rasp. ‘Aren’t you curious about what it is?’

‘You’ve made it clear you’re going to tell me.’

‘And so I will.’ He went to the door leading to the next car and rapped on it once. It opened, admitting two guards. They wore the livery of House Vahnsinn. Rasp examined it closely as they unshackled his legs. Though the two men were not wearing cultist robes, there was still something disturbing about their uniforms. It took Rasp a few moments to realize what it was. They bore the Vahnsinn coat of arms on their chests: three vertical spears before a mountain background. The spears drew Rasp’s eye. The design of the shafts had been altered. The work was detailed, precise, and from a distance, invisible except for the unease it created. Up close, Rasp could see that the shafts were no longer simple, bold lines. A spiral moved up their lengths. They were twisted. They were, Rasp thought, the perfect symbol of what Vahnsinn had become: a mask of loyalty and faith concealing deep, terminal corruption.

Once he could see the alteration, it seemed to Rasp that the threads were spreading out from the spear shafts, as if the rot were reaching further and further. The shadow that had fallen over Vahnsinn and the other barons was progressive, he realised. Perhaps some of the men who fought under these banners still believed themselves to be faithful servants of the Emperor. Others had fallen far from His light. The insidiousness of the symbolism disturbed Rasp. Vahnsinn might stylize himself the leader of the barons’ war, but Rasp doubted he had instigated the process of rebellion. There was another force at work here. It had taken Vahnsinn. It was using him, as surely as he was using those beneath him.

The guards hauled Rasp to his feet. His legs were numb from being seated in the same position for hours, and he almost fell. His arms still chained before him, he was taken through half a dozen cars, all loaded with men-at-arms and cultists, towards the front of the train. Vahnsinn led the way, accepting the salutes and bows as his due. The lead car was nearly the same as the rear one. It was prepared for the comfortable seating of the baron, and the shackling of his prisoner. The upper half of the car was clear plasteel. The only difference was the discreet steering console. Another guard stood before it, facing forward. He was so motionless, his presence faded from existence.

Rasp’s escorts fastened him to his seat, and now he was looking towards the army. Vahnsinn spread his arms to embrace the perspective of his might. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is the harvest that fool cardinal has reaped.’

It was on the tip of Rasp’s tongue to call Vahnsinn a liar, but there was, to his surprise, a ring of truth to the baron’s words. Perhaps, Rasp thought, Vahnsinn had fooled him so completely because he had said a great deal that wasn’t a lie at all. Perhaps Wangenheim’s power play had pushed Vahnsinn to rebellion and heresy, or at the very least weakened his resistance.

Whatever the cause, the train was passing over the result. The army advanced towards Tolosa. It was coming not from the mountains, where most of the baronial redoubts stood, but from the direction of the great manufactorum hives. The massive industrial output of Mistral had been turned against its political and spiritual centre. Hundreds of artillery guns were spread across the plain. They advanced over the fertile land, their treads scarring the soil, leaving it ruined mud in their wake. Troops in the thousands beyond counting marched between the Basilisks. Rasp saw little discipline. There were no formations. As the train sped overhead, he saw a blur of banners, and a motley collection of uniforms and robes. He was looking at a mob, not an army. But the mob had a single goal, and its collective being marched with grim purpose.

Rasp reached for his contempt. ‘Do you call that an army?’

Vahnsinn was untroubled by the insult. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I call it a tide. The Imperial forces on Mistral are going to drown.’

And there he’d said it: the Imperial forces. The perspective was telling. He saw the Imperium as Other. Rasp found the clarity helpful. His enemy was defining himself. ‘I think we will surprise you,’ he said, making the we a declaration.

Vahnsinn cocked an eyebrow, amused. He gestured at the ranks of Basilisks. ‘I grant that our manufactoria are limited to the production of artillery. Our few tanks have been difficult to acquire. But I have destroyed your base. Your tanks are gone. So is your air support. You have nothing but infantry left, if that. Your defiance is engaging, and I would expect nothing less from you, but really, do try harder. The Imperium has lost, and you know it.’ He spoke with no trace of boasting, but with the patience of an instructor dealing with an ignorant pupil.

‘Oh? And if you take Tolosa, what then? Is that an end of it? Mistral is yours?’

‘It already is.’

Rasp had no doubt that, on one level, this was true. Though the Ecclesiarchy had extensive land holdings, they were given over to agricultural and mining concerns. There were no settlements on them. Mistral’s population lived in baronial territory. Rasp did not want to believe that the entire civilian population had been corrupted, but the dominant authority in the lives of the average Mistralian was the nobility. The hand of the Ecclesiarchy was felt at a distance, and its effective power would vanish quickly if the nerve centre of Tolosa was neutralized. Its spiritual influence had already been weakened, thanks to Wangenheim himself, and would wither further without enforcement. Rasp did not trust the faith of the masses.

But none of that mattered. Mistral could not remove itself from the Imperium without consequences. ‘How long do you think that you will reign here?’ Rasp said. ‘How long before skies are dark with landing craft and drop pods? What you have begun this day will not end here.’

‘Of course it won’t.’ For the first time, Vahnsinn spoke with fervour. His eyes shone with a believer’s fire. ‘This is just the start. There is truth on Mistral, old friend, but it must not remain here. Whoever the Imperium sends here will spread the truth across the galaxy.’

‘What truth?’

‘You’ll see it. In due course.’ Vahnsinn turned to the guard before the steering console. ‘The next junction,’ he said, and the guard nodded. Vahnsinn looked back at Rasp. ‘We have to continue your education.’

The guard pushed some levers to the right. The train rocked as it took a sharp bend. Now it was travelling west, and then north-west. It was heading back into the mountains.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Home,’ Vahnsinn answered. ‘To Karrathar. There is so much truth to show you.’

3. YARRICK

‘No,’ Granach said, ‘we don’t blow the junction. We might need it ourselves.’ He pointed at the stain that was creeping towards us over the horizon. ‘Besides, the enemy isn’t using it.’

True. The infantry was advancing on foot, keeping pace and providing escort to the creeping artillery guns.

‘We don’t know if that’s the totality of their forces,’ Benneger pointed out.

‘No,’ Granach agreed, ‘we don’t. But if it isn’t, sending an advance force by maglev isn’t going to be of much tactical use.’

‘What about their supply lines?’ I asked. I understood Granach’s desire to preserve the hub. It could be very useful for mounting a counter-attack. We still had not been able to make contact with the base. We didn’t know the status of the bulk of our forces, but if we still had some capabilities there, the means to quickly link up would be invaluable. And yet I couldn’t help but see that eventuality as a distant hypothetical, an expression of hope rather than a strategic possibility. The reality was that a siege was almost upon us, and the besiegers had a massive network of rail lines to keep them reinforced with troops and materiel. ‘Colonel, none of the shells are falling close to the walls. The enemy clearly does not want to risk accidentally damaging the rails. This hub is of great importance to the barons.’

‘It’s a risk,’ Granach admitted. ‘One we’ll take.’

‘I disagree, colonel.’ Setheno’s voice came from the vox. We were standing around the transmitter to include the Sisters of Battle in the decisions being made regarding the city’s defence. Most of the city’s contingent of the regiment had now gathered at the wall. There was still no word from Seroff. No one had seen anything of Inquisitor Krauss since before the procession. The Sisters of Battle remained at the palace. Duty to the relic, the sanctity of the location and its strategic importance dictated that necessity. I could hear Setheno’s frustration. It was only in part because of Granach’s decision. She had no wish to be behind the front lines.

‘I’m sorry that my decision does not meet with your approval, sister superior,’ the colonel said. I was astonished by how close he came to outright sarcasm. ‘But this is my determination.’ He received silence in response. He cleared his throat. ‘Meanwhile, we have another problem.’

‘The tunnels,’ said Benneger.

‘Precisely. The heretics left by that method. They can come back the same way.’

The tank commander drummed his fingers against his thigh. His body language was tense. Deprived of his vehicles, he was adrift. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked Granach. ‘Go underground and wait for them there?’

I said, ‘With respect, colonel, that would be impossible. There are hundreds of kilometres of tunnels. They cannot be held.’

‘Then we’re wasting our time,’ Benneger declared. ‘There is no keeping the enemy out, so let him in.’

‘Abandon the city?’ Granach was horrified.

‘A tactical withdrawal.’ Benneger looked restless, ready to leave on the instant. The big man was vibrating with nervous energy. ‘There is no sense in trying to defend what is already lost. We leave the city, make for the base, regroup, and bring the wrath to these vermin.’

‘We have no way of knowing the base still exists,’ Granach reminded him.

‘The city will not be abandoned,’ said Setheno. ‘Do as you will, soldier.’ It was clear she was speaking to Benneger, stripping him of rank and pride. ‘But be prepared to answer for your actions, either through shame in this life, or in judgement after its end.’

Benneger kept his reaction down to a twitch of his fingers.

‘We will keep the city,’ Granach told him, speaking as softly as he could over the constant drumming of the artillery.

‘How?’ Benneger demanded.

‘Seal the tunnels,’ I suggested.

‘Oh?’ Benneger rounded on me. ‘Do you know the locations of all the entrances, commissar? No? I’m sorry. For a moment, I thought you’d said something useful.’

‘He’s right,’ said Setheno.

‘Thank you, Sister,’ Benneger began.

‘Not you,’ she corrected.

While Benneger sputtered, Granach said, ‘I don’t see what choice we have. Tolosa is the only thing like a defensible position we have. But we can’t have the enemy coming at us from beneath our feet.’

‘These won’t be small incursions,’ I said. ‘The enemy forces won’t be engaged in sabotage. This is an invasion. They need to get large numbers of troops into position quickly. The smaller tunnels won’t be of any use to them.’

‘At least initially,’ Granach agreed. He turned to Benneger. ‘Take three companies. Search every likely basement. Move up the slope. And spread the word in the civilian population. They’ll be taking shelter in the lower levels of the buildings anyway. Maybe we can find the underground routes in time.’

‘A search during a bombardment.’ Benneger gave him a sick smile. ‘You’re a bastard, you know that?’

‘I’m a bastard with seniority.’

‘And so am I.’ Benneger jabbed a finger at my chest. ‘You’re with me, Yarrick,’ he said. ‘Come and reap the rewards of your bright ideas.’

4. SEROFF

When he came to, he was surrounded by thunder. A giant was hammering the ground. The blows vibrated in his bones. Seroff opened his eyes, blinking against the sunlight, and got to his feet. He winced at every shell impact. They were coming frequently, and in a cluster nearby. He started climbing out of the crater. The fighting here was done. He was alone. Corpses lay scattered over the terrain. He had almost reached street level when he looked back and noticed that the rear wall of the crater was vertical. He was looking at the remnants of the building that had stood here before the cultists had blown it up. There was an opening in the wall. Giving in to his hunch, Seroff worked his way back down over the rubble and walked across the crater floor to the opening. It sloped steeply down into the earth. At first, Seroff thought it was perfectly black. He had nothing to light his way, and was about to turn to go, but then his dazzled eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw that there was a faint light coming from the interior.

He had no unit and no orders, but there was something here that called to his curiosity. So he followed it.

He made his way down by measured steps, right hand on the wall of the tunnel. After a minute, his eyes began to adjust. After a few metres, the passage opened into a much wider tunnel, one with multiple branches leading back to the surface. This, he realized, was how the cultists had hit the Mortisians from so many angles at once. Ahead, the main tunnel curved to the right. The light came from around the bend.

Seroff made his way forward. Walking was easy. The surface was level, cleared of obstructions. It would be possible for a large contingent to move fast down this route. Past the curve, the light came from a single lumen strip on the roof of the tunnel. It provided just enough illumination to show the way ahead. In the distance, he saw the glow of another strip.

Something else began here, too. There was luminescence on the walls, so weak that he could only see it in his peripheral vision. He picked up impressions of lines, runes, serpents, the ghost of movement. They made his head hurt, and they chilled his blood. The construction in secret of this passage was disturbing in itself. That the time and effort had been taken to apply ritualistic markings to the walls was even worse.

There was no point going further. He had to link up with the regiment again, and sound a warning. He stopped walking, and was about to turn around when he heard a gasp. The sound echoed down the tunnel, pain hollowed out by repetition. Seroff waited. After several seconds, the gap between two very slow and laboured breaths, the sound was repeated. It came from a darker patch on the left-hand wall. Seroff approached. There was another side passage. He peered inside. The light from the lumen strip barely leaked in. He was staring at a world of deep grey, but at last he made out a room. There was a man’s body on the floor.

Seroff thought for a moment, then crouched. He found the figure’s shoulders, and dragged the man into the main tunnel. His arms and legs were bound. His clothes and reflective armour were in tatters, and the face was such a confusion of blood and bruises that it took Seroff several seconds to recognize Krauss.

The inquisitor was barely conscious. Seroff undid the rope, hoisted Krauss over his own shoulders, and staggered back towards the light of day. By the time they reached the surface, Krauss was beginning to function again.

‘Put me down,’ he said.

Seroff did. Krauss clutched a slab of broken rockcrete to steady himself. He was a far cry from the figure he had presented at Wangenheim’s reception for the Mortisian regiments. His nose was broken. His left eyelid was so swollen, Seroff wasn’t sure there was still an orb beneath it. He spat out some blood, and a tooth bounced off the ground. He looked as if he had been worked over with a power fist. But when he straightened, the arrogance of his bearing was undiminished. His right eye blazed.

A shell shrieked in and blew out the façade of a building half a block down. Seroff winced. Krauss took in the ongoing devastation of the war as if it were a personal slight on his honour. ‘Tell me what is happening,’ he said.

You’re welcome, Seroff thought. ‘I’ve been unconscious,’ he said. ‘We were fighting small-scale insurgencies before I was struck.’

‘Where is the rest of your unit?’

Seroff gestured at the corpses. ‘Everywhere.’ He looked back at the tunnel entrance. ‘Where does that lead?’

‘I don’t know. Though its purpose is clear.’ Krauss paused as the bombardment hit another crescendo in the near vicinity. ‘No vox, I suppose.’

Seroff shook his head. ‘And I have no idea where the rest of the regiment is.’

Krauss limped back towards the tunnel. ‘Then we have little choice. Come.’

The inquisitor’s presumption of command was repulsive. Seroff bit his tongue as he followed. Krauss was right. The tunnel was big. They had to know the nature of the threat, and neutralize it if they could.

Back inside, they paused to let their eyes adjust. ‘You resent me,’ Krauss said.

Seroff knew better than to lie. ‘I don’t see the relevance.’

‘Anything I wish to know is relevant to me.’ He started walking again. ‘You did not answer my question.’

It wasn’t a question. ‘Forgive me, inquisitor,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine that this is a novel experience for you.’

‘I don’t expect to be liked. I do expect to be feared. I am not pleased, but not entirely surprised, when an individual who imagines himself in authority resists me, such as your comrade Yarrick. I sense something else from you. You will tell me what it is.’ He kept his voice barely above a whisper.

‘I shouldn’t be resentful,’ Seroff answered, surprised by his own willingness to indulge in sarcasm with this man. ‘After all, what I am, I owe to the Inquisition.’

They reached the bend and moved towards the first lumen strip. The runes were waiting.

‘I don’t understand,’ Krauss said.

‘I was privileged among my fellows at the schola progenium. I had clear memories of both my parents. I was six when they died…’

‘I still don’t–’

‘… in the prisons of the Inquisition.’ They were moving past the room where Krauss had been left. The markings on the walls, pulsing grey at the edges of Seroff’s vision, were sinuous, stretching without interruption into the gloom ahead. He felt like he was walking into an embrace. He looked straight ahead, rejecting the contamination that sought to erode his soul. His distaste for Krauss gave him a focus around which to consolidate and shield his identity.

‘I’m surprised you were admitted to the schola,’ said Krauss. ‘I find it hard to imagine a place would be found for the offspring of heretics.’

‘None was. My parents were not heretics. This was confirmed after their deaths.’

‘Are you saying their arrest was an error?’ For Krauss, that implication seemed to be the true outrage.

‘Not at all. I have too much respect for the Inquisition’s skills. I’m saying that they ran afoul of the wrong political faction at the wrong time.’

Krauss grunted. ‘You have never exercised the special sanctions of your rank, have you?’

‘No. This is my first posting. And what does that have to do with anything?’

‘I wonder if you are capable of doing so. You are predisposed to seeing innocence instead of guilt.’

I have no difficulty finding you guilty of arrogance and fanaticism, Seroff thought. ‘I know my duty and my oaths,’ he muttered.

They passed under the second lumen strip. The designs on the walls were no longer an embrace. They were a tangle. Seroff’s shoulders tensed. It was as if the lines were closing up the way back behind them.

Krauss held up a hand. Seroff froze. After a moment, he heard it too: an echo reaching them of the sound of marching boots. Many of them.

And something else.

‘Is that an engine?’ Seroff asked.

CHAPTER 12

The Exercise of Authority

1. YARRICK

Back into the city we went, back under the worst of the shells. The walls would receive their measure of hell, I knew, once the enemy was close enough to target them with accuracy. For now, they were protected by their proximity to the maglev junction. But the iron rain continued to smash Tolosa. With Benneger in command, we began our search. We tried to move quickly, but we had to be systematic, or the mission was futile. And so we advanced, a phalange of order hammered from above by an agent of Chaos in the form of destructive chance.

Beneath our feet, the ground’s vibration was continuous, whether the faint thrum of the most distant strikes, or the violent shake of the nearby impact. As we moved building by building, street by street, the city eroded around us. Homes, businesses and chapels exploded and collapsed. History was being pounded to dust. Sometimes, a structure we had just searched was reduced to rubble moments after we left it. At least the wasted effort was balanced by the buildings that were destroyed before we could enter them. The waste that was not balanced was the lives lost when shells hit mid-search.

We found small entrances to the underground network, and we sealed them with grenades and mines. After the first two hours of the search, there was still no sign of a major access point. I could feel time slipping through our fingers like water. Every minute, the enemy drew closer. Every minute, the division of our forces presented a greater danger. And we had no choice.

I felt more than just time was being stolen from us. So was morale. We were at war, reeling under the blows of our foe, and unable to hit back. When we had left the wall, the infantry was still just a spreading, corrupt stain near the horizon. It had not yet resolved into soldiers we could kill. And there was no retaliation against the shells that fell, and fell, and fell. They were the new reality of Tolosa. After hours of bombardment, it seemed that they had always been the reality of Tolosa.

I moved from squad to squad. I was fighting two intangible battles. I took part in the searches, forever prepared for an absent target. And I fought the despair that ate at the purpose of the troops. Be the symbol, I thought. Be their anger. Be the image of the fight. ‘We are at war with cowards,’ I said, and because no more than a handful of soldiers could hear me at any one time, I repeated myself until I was hoarse, and when it felt like I could no longer speak, I made myself shout all the louder, because that was what duty demanded of me. ‘They do not dare depend on meeting us in open combat,’ I said. ‘They assail us from a distance, because they know what will happen when we are face to face. They compound their crimes, adding cowardice to heresy, and murder to cowardice. They massacre the citizens of this city, and to what end? Are we killed? No. Are we less resolute? No. Have they stoked the fires of our righteous vengeance? Yes. Oh, yes, comrades, in that they have surpassed themselves!’

The words came easily. Soon I was barely aware of speaking them. The content of the individual sentences became less important than the belief and the determination they conveyed. I had to incarnate the rage of the Imperial Guard. I had to be purpose made flesh. If there were enemies before us, our anger would have a target. But we were commanding human beings to go against every instinct for self-preservation and expose themselves to manifest danger for an end that was nebulous.

We were searching a vast area for something whose existence we could only surmise. We were dying for a hypothesis.

Tolosa’s concentric rings were losing definition. The walls were coming down. These older barriers could no more withstand the direct hit of Earthshaker ordnance than the houses they protected. When the invasion came, it would be stopped at the outer wall, or it would not be stopped at all. We approached a gateway between the first and second rings up from the base of the city’s hill. The passage had collapsed. It was impassable, but there were massive breaches on either side. There was nothing but low mounds of rubble to impede passage. As we passed over the wall, the perversity of war struck. A shell fell on the wall again, only a few metres from the damage. It was, in effect and horror, what every soldier must hold to be impossible, for the sake of sanity: a second strike to the same spot.

I had already crossed the wall, and rejoined Benneger. At our backs, the world shattered. Wind, sound and force fused together. A battering ram the size of the war itself smashed into us. I was walking, and then I was flying. I heard only the blast, saw only the blur of stone and fire. I slammed into the facade of a building on the other side of the street. I fell to the ground, gasping. My mind registered that I felt like a sack full of shattered bottles. I forced the realization down before it swamped my consciousness. There was duty before all else. If I fell unconscious, I was failing in it. The roar of the explosion had not yet started to fade and I was rising to my feet. If my legs were broken, I would fall, but if I did not fall, then I had no excuse not to act.

I was yelling something. I don’t know what it was. I couldn’t hear myself. No one could. My thoughts weren’t coherent. I was little more than pain and the drive to do what I must. I suspect that what came from my throat was nonsense, a shout that was an end in itself, my anger hurled back at the explosion. The smoke was whipped away by the Mistralian wind, whose cry was even more eternal than the bombardment, and whose breath was pushing us all ever deeper into the terminal maelstrom of battle. The ruins of the wall were splashed with blood. I saw troopers burned by the blast, torn to pieces, crushed by stone and rockcrete. Everywhere were the walking wounded, military and civilian. Most of our force had already crossed when the shell hit, but there had still been the best part of a company either still going over the wall or in its close vicinity. The losses were terrible.

The sound faded. The wind blew the dust into my eyes and mouth. I coughed, choking mid-yell. I doubled over, spat out a wad of thick, bloody phlegm, then straightened. ‘For the Emperor!’ I tried to call. I heard only a hoarse croak. But I was still standing, and my fist was raised in defiance. Men and women were staggering to their feet, and they were looking at me. I doubt most of them knew who I was. I was caked in dust, and I gradually realized that the warmth I was feeling on my nose and cheeks was blood streaming from a reopened gash in my forehead. I would have been barely recognizable to those to whom I was most familiar, and many of these squads had been under Rasp’s supervision. Perhaps my uniform was still clear enough. Perhaps even that didn’t matter. I was standing. I was fighting. The effort to be the symbol was killing. Each step sent the shards of broken glass clattering up and down my spine and legs. But move I must, and so I did, and I began to cut through the stunned fog that surrounded us.

I say that the effort to be a symbol was killing. There was a blessing, though, in the fact that the symbol swallowed the man. My own weaknesses were irrelevant, harmless as long as I could keep the shape of the symbol animated. Sebastian Yarrick could bleed, and he could wince, and he could wish for – though not succumb to – oblivion. But the commissar walked, and exhorted, and challenged, and was unbowed.

Being a symbol is nothing. Being a legend… I accept the burden laid upon my shoulders by the will of the Emperor, and it is an honour that I am deemed worthy to carry it. But I will shed no tears when he declares my duty done, and calls me to the Golden Throne.

I looked for Benneger. We needed the symbolism of my role, but we also needed leadership. We needed to move forward, and do so quickly, before a fatal inertia set in. I spotted him a few metres up the road. He’d been thrown at a different angle from me, as if we had been struck by a hand as capricious as it was violent. He was sitting with his legs out before him. As I approached, he was giving his head a single, convulsive shake every few seconds.

I was careful to crouch before I came too close. It was important that no one be seen to loom over the commanding officer. ‘Colonel?’ I said. I wasn’t shouting, but my voice was still a rough, painful whisper.

There was no answer. Just another shake of the head, hard enough to make his shoulders twitch.

‘Colonel?’ I tried again.

He turned his head towards me. He blinked. His eyes didn’t want to focus. He seemed to be looking in two directions at once. I don’t think he entirely knew who he was.

Once more, more quietly, for his ears alone, but with the crack of a whip. ‘Colonel Benneger. Sir.’

His eyes cleared. He frowned. ‘Yarrick,’ he said. ‘What…’

‘A shell, sir. Are you injured?’ I could see that he wasn’t. He wasn’t even bleeding. But I wanted him to realize that for himself.

He lifted his hands, appeared to recognize them as belonging to him. ‘No,’ he said.

‘What are your orders, sir?’ Another reminder: Command us. I couldn’t use intimidation on him, as I had with Saultern. But neither could I allow too many more seconds to go by. Captains and sergeants and troopers would be watching. In another few moments, they would also be wondering.

A shell landed three blocks down. The road heaved with the shock. The jolt rocked Benneger to his feet. He brushed himself off, grunting his displeasure. He squared his jaw. It struck me that the colonel must, in his more private thoughts, picture himself as kin to the tanks he commanded. I thought the conceit was ludicrous, but if it gave him some forward momentum, let him have his indulgence.

Benneger cleared his throat. ‘Mortisians!’ he called. ‘We move forward!’

‘The search,’ I reminded him.

He looked more anxious than displeased. He wanted off this street. I understood the impulse, but we were no safer between the next row of buildings than we were here. We could not allow instinct to govern our strategy, or we would be giving up our lives for nothing. Benneger gave me a brusque nod and called again. ‘Forward to discover!’ he said. ‘I want this street cleared in five minutes!’

It took three times that. We were lucky it wasn’t more, as the troops shook off the blow from the explosion. We raced. We looked. We found nothing, and still the shells fell, and still time fled from us. Benneger contacted Granach on the vox as we moved to the next street. The report from the wall was bad. The main body of the enemy was mere hours away. Meanwhile, we were hundreds searching a city of millions, searching for a phantom whose reality could announce our defeat.

Every fall of a shell was now the count of iron time, beating out the moments to disaster.

2. SEROFF

They ran back to the entrance. Adrenaline flushed the pain from Seroff’s limbs, and he moved fast. So did Krauss, whose injuries were worse. He reached the exit ahead of Seroff, his face contorted by more than bruises, his open eye consumed with an urgent hate. But once they were in the air again, amidst the devastation, the bombardment battering the city near and far, they paused. Seroff felt the same need for action as a moment before, but what action?

‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

Krauss looked around as if the answer would present itself. He seemed just as stymied. He said nothing.

‘We have to contact the regiment,’ Seroff insisted.

‘Agreed,’ Krauss said, his sarcasm etched with acid. ‘How?’

Seroff’s mind raced. How much time before the enemy reached the surface? Impossible to tell, but not long enough. No vox, and no sense of where the rest of the forces were. ‘A signal,’ he said. ‘Some kind of signal. Something that can be seen from a distance.’

‘There,’ said Krauss. He pointed at the street, at the remains of the slaughter. Many of the dead still had their weapons. Seroff saw the rocket launcher, and ran for it.

‘You’ve used one before?’ Krauss asked.

‘I have.’ He yanked it from the dead man’s arms, praying it was undamaged. It was. ‘Any others around?’ he asked.

‘I don’t see any.’

Seroff grimaced. ‘Just one shot.’

‘Lots of rifles.’ Krauss grabbed the nearest lasgun and started firing into the air.

Seroff leaned the launcher against a doorway, looked for anything else that could draw attention. Along with more rifles, he found some grenades and demolition charges. Captain Monfor still clutched his bolt pistol in his fist. Seroff tossed it to Krauss, and pulled his own from its holster. The total weaponry at their disposal was pathetic beside the artillery thunder. ‘How will we be heard over this?’ he wondered.

‘Pray for a lull.’

They fired everything they could find. Seroff held off on the rocket, waiting for seconds of calm. He and Krauss staged their own little war. They didn’t worry about alerting the approaching foe. If they didn’t catch the attention of their own forces, their deaths would be inevitable and meaningless.

Hear us, Seroff prayed. This is the sound of combat, not artillery. Hear it. Hurry.

And he did as Krauss said. He prayed for a fragment of silence.

3. SETHENO

She stood in the study of Wangenheim’s quarters and looked down at the cardinal. ‘Would you please repeat that?’ she asked. She used no honorific, because she had heard him perfectly well the first time. She simply wanted him to utter those shameful words again. She wanted to see if he had any awareness of what he was doing. She was giving him the chance to repent.

He did not take it. ‘We must leave,’ he said. ‘We cannot have the relic exposed to such risk. We must take it and withdraw to your ship until the situation has stabilized.’

Setheno took her time in replying. The density of absurdity in Wangenheim’s demands made it difficult to know which idiocy or crime to address first. The delay gave her the time to master her fury. She had no more illusions about how and why she and her Sisters had been brought to Mistral. If the man before her had not held the rank he did in the Ecclesiarchy, she would have already killed him. But he was who he was, and that stayed her hand. So she took something very like pleasure in her answer. ‘What ship?’ She bit off each syllable, her jaw tight with cold hate.

Wangenheim’s mouth fell open. He could not process her words. The game had slipped from his grasp. He was good, she thought, at the considered, long-wrought plan. But when contingent events deviated from his schema, he was at a loss. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Your ship. The ship that brought you here.’

‘We are a single squad. What do you imagine? That a cruiser of the Order of the Piercing Thorn has remained on station for our convenience? The order has other duties in this system. The Laudamus departed after we debarked from the shuttle.’

‘Isn’t it coming back?’ He was becoming stupid in his fear.

‘It is. In time.’

‘When?’

‘In time,’ she repeated.

The cardinal stared at her as if she had begun speaking a xenos tongue. Then he shook his head in a general denial, and stalked towards the study’s balcony. It looked south, and offered a fine panorama of the madness he had helped to bring about. He stopped a few paces from the doorway. Setheno could see his body shrink on itself before the spectacle of whistling shells and billowing smoke. There had been three close hits in the great square, but the palace was still unharmed. Setheno could think of no clearer sign of her duty than that. In this, she found the certainty she needed in the midst of Mistral’s political winds.

‘What do we do, then?’ Wangenheim asked.

She knew he was speaking to himself, but she answered anyway. ‘What we must. The Imperial Creed is under siege on this planet. We will fight for it until we have shed the last drop of heretic blood.’

‘Or our own,’ he muttered, miserable.

She fought again with the instinct to strike him down. ‘Yes,’ she said.

He cocked his head, as if a thought had occurred to him. He looked back at her for a moment, and she thought there was a gleam in his eye, whether of hope or cunning, she wasn’t sure. She was coming to accept that in Wangenheim’s case, the two were indistinguishable. ‘Where is the relic?’ he asked, turning away from her again.

‘In the crypt. With the icons. It is safe.’

‘Is it? Is anyone guarding it?’

She refrained from sighing. ‘The palace guard.’

‘Not one of you?’

‘We are where we can see the flow of the battle, so that we can act as needed.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I wonder if that is the wisest decision in our power.’

‘Meaning?’ She could sense a web of words and logic being woven, and resented being dragged into its coils.

‘The situation is fluid. A crisis could come at any moment, and the relic is an obvious target for the heretics. The symbolic value of its destruction would be immense. I do not doubt the faith or loyalty of the guards, but could they defend against a concerted attack on the crypt?’

‘The walls and doors are strong.’

‘Strong enough?’ He shook his head, still looking away from her. ‘And the crypt is the first place they would look. We must do better. The Emperor demands that we do better. The relic should be under your direct observation and protection.’

She said nothing. She knew that self-regard motivated every syllable he uttered, but that didn’t make them lies.

‘I shall send for it,’ he said. Now he turned to face her. ‘I shall guard it with my own life.’ His smile was beatific and brave. Of course it was. He wasn’t arranging to protect the relic. He was arranging for it to protect him.

‘That decision is in your power to make,’ she replied. She still withheld the word cardinal. She would see him dead before she again granted him the rank he was dishonouring with his every breath.

‘Yes,’ Wangenheim said, ‘it is.’ There was the savagery of cold-blooded calculation in his tone. There was triumph in his stance as he straightened, already feeling the shield of the Sisters of Battle extending to his person.

As if shamed by the spectacle, the war fell silent. A shell exploded to the south-east, and then, for a few seconds, there were no other strikes. Setheno saw the streaks of more ordnance rising into the sky, but for a few moments, a bloodied calm fell over the city. From the midst of the false peace, about midway down the hill, a rocket shot upwards. Its flight was vertical. It had no target. It was a waste of ammunition.

Unless it wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, and left the cardinal without a word. ‘Sister Basilissa,’ she spoke into her vox-bead, ‘contact Colonel Granach.’

4. YARRICK

We didn’t see the rocket launch, but at the bombardment’s intake of breath, we heard the explosion of grenades. I had just emerged from another fruitless search, this time in a ravaged jeweller’s on the north side of the street, with troops from Saultern’s company. We looked at each other. All viable units had been accounted for, so who was fighting? A hundred metres to my right was the next major intersection, and Benneger was already starting to lead the march up to the next avenue. I ran to intercept him. The shells were already landing again, and he didn’t hear me approach. He looked startled when I stepped in front of him. That worried me. His mind must have been elsewhere. He was not being properly aware of his surroundings.

‘Did you hear that, colonel?’ I asked.

‘Hear what?’

More bad news, but then Guevion came running up with the vox. ‘Message from the wall, sir. They think someone has tried to signal us to the north.’

Benneger glanced in that direction. He looked irritated. His reactions were off. He seemed disengaged with the events happening around him. ‘Where, exactly?’ he asked. When Guevion gave him the coordinates, he said, ‘It will be hours before we reach that sector.’ He marched on, as if dismissing Guevion’s news. Its importance was lost on him. It was something he would re-examine later.

‘Colonel?’ I walked beside him. I spoke clearly. ‘Did you understand? Someone has tried to signal us.’

‘I heard. We’re not done here, and if we leave now, we’ll never remember where we left off.’

I looked back at Guevion. She was still with us, vox mouthpiece in one hand, looking worried and confused. Benneger’s responses were clearly not ones she wanted to convey. ‘What was the signal?’ I asked her.

‘The launch of a rocket, commissar.’

‘That is urgent,’ I said to Benneger.

‘Yes,’ he said.

There was agreement, at least, but no action, no command to deal with it. ‘Get Captain Saultern,’ I said to Guevion. ‘Tell him we’re taking a company to investigate the signal.’

‘No,’ Benneger said. My oblique attack on his pride woke him up. ‘No, we must all go.’

‘We must hurry,’ I said, picturing the desperation such an act implied.

The colonel nodded, and then he was calling us all to mission. He turned back into the tank commander as the need and the mission sank in. I was worried, though. It should not have been that difficult, and should not have taken that long, to convince him.

The companies moved through the streets. We covered ground quickly. I saw morale shoot up. There was a grim pleasure to the run. We were no less vulnerable to the shells than before, but the psychological effect of the forced march was powerful. We felt that we could outrace the doom that rained from the sky. It was an illusion that served us as well as a reality. Even when its falseness was revealed, it lost none of its worth. A line of buildings to our right was hit. Wreckage blew across the street, a storm of brick. I winced, turning my face away from the shrapnel. I winced again when more troopers died, but I did not turn my face away from their sacrifice. Others were wounded, and the ones who could not walk we left behind. We took no pleasure in doing so, but nor did we grieve. There was a goal ahead. There was, we believed, an enemy ahead. So there was retaliation ahead, and it pulled us forward. Its gravitational force was the exhilarating promise of combat. Those who fell along the way weren’t unlucky. They simply had not been fast enough.

There was nothing rational about this belief. I knew it was nonsense. I’m sure every soldier around me knew that too. But our bodies believed. The part of our minds that hurl us into battle believed. The conviction of personal immortality is engrained in the human condition. Thanks to it, we commit acts of madness, but also of heroism.

We were less than a thousand metres from our goal when the bombardment stopped. This was no random pause. The sky cleared of shells.

‘The tide is turning!’ Benneger shouted, triumphant. To me he said, ‘A good sign, Yarrick.’

I could still hear the booming of guns. ‘The target has changed,’ I said. The wall, I realized. The enemy was nearly there, and close enough that the guns could hit it and still preserve the junction. I didn’t share my thoughts with Benneger. He had just become even stronger. I didn’t want to jeopardize that.

Then I realized something else: if the rest of the city was suddenly being spared, the situation within the walls must also have changed. There must be something that needed preserving.

I didn’t have to wonder long. We heard the sounds of gunfire ahead. War had entered Tolosa, and we rushed to welcome it.

There was no time to form a strategy. The only option was the infantry charge. We tore up one more northward street, then west onto a wide avenue. The former market square was ahead of us, now a space of slumped wreckage. The enemy was spilling into it like insects from a nest. The forward elements of the heretics had already reached the entrance of the square and were moving down the avenue. Retreating along the same route, ducking from doorway to doorway, firing all the way, were Seroff and Krauss. They could do nothing to slow the cultists, but they provoked retaliation. They were using the heretics themselves as a signal.

Our advance reached them, and they joined us, charging back again towards the foe. Funnelled by the width of the street, the two forces collided. They came at us with rabid fervour. The veneer of order that had been present in the Vales of Lom was gone. The corruption of Chaos had had that much longer to do its work. The disguise was gone. These men and women attacked in the name of the cancer in their minds. They embraced death, and did not care whether it was ours or their own that they celebrated. Less than twelve hours before the street had resounded with the cries of worship. It did so again, but a different faith was staining Tolosa with its presence.

Our attack was different. We, too, knew hatred, and ferocity, and the driving compulsion of faith. But we had the added might of righteousness. And yes, we had desperation, which I would hurl against eagerness in any war.

Above all, we had the Emperor. We were His hammer at its most raw and brutal. We smashed into the foe with all the force of His great will. That is a power that nothing in the galaxy can withstand. It falls only to the faithful to have the wisdom to wield it.

I had my pistol and sword drawn. I fired as I rushed forward. The shock of the collision came, and I was in a sea of struggling bodies. Hands grabbed my legs. A cultist already being trampled, already dying, still reached out with his madness to pull me down. I kept firing as I fell backwards. Heads exploded at point-blank range. I was splattered by heretic gore. Still firing, creating a bloody gap in the creatures surrounding me, I slashed with my sword and severed the wrists of my assailant. My feet slipped on blood. My clip emptied, but I found some leverage and shot to my feet. Another second and I would have been buried. I retaliated with renewed fury. I cut faces in half. I spilled intestines to the ground. I slammed forward, never giving the scum another chance to strike at me.

More illusion, of course. But I acted as though it were the truth, and tore through our enemies. My comrades in the hundreds were at my sides. We fought as if there were not enough foes for us all. The vortex of battle devoured us. We were one undifferentiated mass against another. We had but one thing to remember: to advance. As long as we were moving, we were prosecuting the war. Our fury was the greater. And despite Wangenheim’s manipulations, our cause was holy. And so we moved forward. Leaving behind a wake of mutilated corpses, the righteous and the heretical alike reduced to ragged slabs of meat, we pushed the cultists back towards the tunnels.

They cut us down. We were as fragile in the face of steel and las as they were. We died by the scores. Nothing kept any of us alive except luck and the special dispensation of the Emperor. But we hit them harder. Within the first minute of the battle, we were advancing over the bodies of their dead, and we were pushing the living backwards.

I began to feel I would be trampling bodies forever. There was another strong surge of cultists, and though I was still advancing, I couldn’t see more than a metre ahead. There was nothing but the grasping, clawing, hungry hands.

We reached the square, and the density of the enemy grew worse yet. The bodies were packed in tight as the new arrivals tried to shove their way out of the tunnels. Then I felt heat. I heard flames. I smelt burning bodies, and I was glad. Our troops bearing flamers had managed to move to the front lines, and they brought their weapons to bear. Flaming promethium arced across the cultists. So much flesh incinerating in such close quarters, and I learned something new: the stench of screams.

We fired through the flames and advanced again, pushing harder still, barely waiting for the burn to die down. We threw them back. At last cultists were withdrawing faster than we could kill them. They were retreating.

The roar that went up from the Mortisians filled the world with triumph. ‘For the Emperor!’ I shouted, and in that glorious moment I was not a symbol. I was not a commissar. I was simply Sebastian Yarrick, a man exulting in his faith and the holy struggle for the Father of Mankind. I did not have to inspire anyone. We were all possessed by the spirit of war. We ran down our foe, chasing him back into his hole.

But then another roar drowned out our own. It came from the tunnel. It sounded like the warning of some beast from the swamp of myths. It was an engine, but it had a rage that went beyond the mechanical. My conscious mind took over again, breaking the trance of combat. I reacted to imminent danger, stopped running forwards and threw myself to the left. I wasn’t alone. Our charge split as soldiers sought to evade, racing to either side of the street, while others, caught in their own unstoppable battle momentum, kept going.

The monster exploded out of the tunnel, smashing through the rockcrete of the narrow exit. It was another unholy creation, forged by the same hellish conception as the horror we had fought at Lom. It was constructed around a Basilisk chassis. A battering ram, shaped like a massive spearhead, was mounted on the front. The Earthshaker cannon had been replaced with two turrets, one a flamer, the other a heavy stubber. And the beast had arms. They were attached like sponson turrets to the side of the chassis. They unfolded until they reached across the full width of the square. They were articulated, and ended in gigantic barbed hooks. The battering ram had been engraved with snarling jaws. The machine was black, but streaked with crimson that appeared to flow, as if the chassis were bleeding. And covering the entire monstrosity were runes and sigils. They tortured the mind. They sang a keening, ululating wail heard only inside the skull. They carried the darkness of the tunnel into the brightness of the day. The light seemed to dim around the tank. And for many of the Mortisians of the 77th Infantry Regiment, the light failed completely.

Dozens of our comrades fell under the treads. The arms reached out to either side, flailing with slow, mechanical hunger, scything, crushing and impaling. The flamer and stubber opened up, and completed the rout. Our charge had shattered like glass. We were scattered to either side of the tank. We were running and dying. Soon, we would only be dying.

I ducked low as I ran, and the tank’s arms passed just over my head. I barrelled through an open doorway. I took the stairs of the residence two at a time. Behind me, I heard troopers following me, and then the grinding crash of the front wall being ripped open by the tank’s arm.

I found a trap door up to the roof, raced to its edge and hunkered down. In the square, the slaughter was terrible, but I saw soldiers gathering on the tops of the buildings to my right and across the way. We weren’t out of the fight yet. Las streaked down, punishing the resurgent cultists. The tank ignored the retaliation. It turned to the building opposite me, both its arms flailing at the ground floor until the entire structure collapsed.

I had lost track of Benneger in the melee. I found him again, one roof over from me. I ran across to the next building. The colonel was gesticulating violently. I did not want to believe what he seemed to be signalling. Guevion was crouched over her vox-transmitter before him, looking uncertain.

‘Colonel?’ I said.

‘I’m going to order a retreat. We cannot hold.’

‘Hold?’ I said, stunned. ‘Sir, it is not a question of holding. We must stop them. Destroy them utterly.’

‘We cannot hold,’ Benneger repeated, as if I had not spoken. He was staring past me, his eyes locked on the machine below. ‘We must retreat.’

‘If we retreat, the city is lost.’

He shrugged with one shoulder. ‘Regroup with the regiment. Consolidate at the base. Get some heavy armour into the field.’ He nodded. The gesture was automatic. I don’t think he believed what he was saying. I’m not sure he was even aware of his words. ‘We cannot hold,’ he said again, turning the sentence into an incantation. ‘Trooper,’ he said to Guevion, ‘reach who you can on the vox. Let Colonel Granach know we are pulling back.’

‘No,’ I said to Guevion. She looked relieved to have her hesitation justified. ‘Colonel, your duty is to command this operation, and our mission does not allow for the possibility of retreat.’

Across the square, another building collapsed.

‘We have no choice,’ Benneger insisted. He never took his gaze away from the tank. He was mesmerized. His eyes were twitching back and forth rapidly, as if they were tracking the convolutions of the runes on the hull.

I stopped in front of him, blocking his view. ‘Colonel,’ I said, trying once more. We had no time. The Mortisians were fighting desperately, but getting nowhere. Benneger was right: we could not hold. Direction was needed, or we were lost. ‘Issue new orders,’ I said. ‘We cannot retreat. Lead us. Now.’ My gut twisted as I realized what was coming. I did not want it. I would not shirk it. Only one of us would fail in his duty on this roof, and that failure was about to end.

Benneger’s eyes cleared. He looked directly at me, and I saw a man who had capitulated. He had led armoured divisions with honour and heroism, but in this moment of great need, he crumbled. His orders would only damage the war effort further. I raised my bolt pistol, aimed it between his eyes. ‘Colonel Jozef Benneger, I find you derelict in your duties to the 110th Aighe Mortis Armoured Regiment.’

‘Don’t be silly, commissar,’ he said.

I shot him. His head vanished. His final expression had been of arrogant cowardice. He had dishonoured his own record. After this battle, his body would vanish into the anonymity of rubble. It fell to me to give his death meaning. His memory deserved nothing, but the soldiers under his command would sell their lives for victory.

Even as the war between the rooftops and square raged, even as every soldier with a clear line of fire was killing the enemy, a stunned pause fell in my vicinity. Most of the troops around me were part of Saultern’s company. They knew me, or thought they did. I was the officer who had saved the life of Betzner. For Saultern, I was the merciful commissar. Now I had just executed a colonel. Saultern had turned white beneath the dust and blood that begrimed us all. No doubt he had a sudden, acute insight into how close to the same fate he had come.

‘In accordance with my authority as commissar, and in the furtherance of my sworn duty, I am taking command of this mission.’ I swept my eyes around the roof. ‘We do not retreat!’ I shouted. ‘Relay the news,’ I told Guevion.

Now I had a tank to kill. Its weapons had exterminated almost all of our forces still on the ground. It was demolishing the entire north side of the avenue, killing the Mortisians with their very shelters, burying them under tonnes of rubble. As it worked with battering ram and arms at yet another building, I saw the streak of a rocket launcher. The missile struck the hull. It did not appear to cause any damage, but the tank reacted like an enraged beast. It brought its stubber to bear, and raked the roof. Rockets would not be enough, but they held the attention of the vehicle’s operators.

My path became clear.

‘I want a demolition charge,’ I said. Three troopers stepped forward. I grabbed the charge from the nearest, then knelt beside Benneger’s corpse. ‘Make yourself useful one last time,’ I said and stripped him of his belt. I called out to Betzner, ‘Hit it with a rocket. Let that blasphemy know we are worthy of notice here too.’

He fired before I had finished speaking. The blast engulfed the rear of the tank. I had a delirious hope that Betzner had found a weak spot, but I didn’t wait to see. I dropped through the trap door and thundered down the stairs to the second floor. I entered a bedroom whose shattered window overlooked the square. The tank was crossing the pavement. I waited until it had almost reached us before I leapt through the window. I dropped to the roof of the chassis just as the tank slammed into the wall with its ram. Masonry fell on me, knocking me from my feet. Clutching the demolition charge with my left hand, I reached out with my right. I missed the handhold on the hatch. I tumbled from the roof, but grasped the base of the port limb. The yank almost tore my arm from its socket. The mechanism rose to smash the upper floors of the house. It lifted me up, and I let myself fall back onto the tank.

Cultists in the square spotted me and started shooting. The movements of the tank and its arms, and the tumble of wreckage spoiled their aim. I crouched over the hatch, battered again and again by the rain of brick and timber. I tried not to focus on the runes, but I could feel them focus on me. They squirmed beneath me. The metal of the chassis felt like oiled skin. I was atop a beast, one that wanted my corruption even more than it wanted my death. I hissed defiance. I would not let the illusions of toxic art deflect me. I used Benneger’s belt to strap the charge to the hatch. Something jagged and heavy hit me in the head, and I swayed, vision blurring. I fought the grey, secured the charge, and triggered it.

Seconds now. I let myself be thrown off as the tank jerked back for another charge at the wall. I tumbled over the front of the chassis, bouncing off the battering ram. The blows were now just more brushstrokes on the canvas of pain. When there was nothing but agony, all I could do was ignore it. I scrambled over a heap of rubble, knowing I was too slow, but knowing too I had already won.

The charge went off. The device wasn’t precise. It relied on sheer power to destroy bodies, vehicles and walls. Heat and wind washed over me. It burned and battered, but I lived. The tank did not. The explosion peeled back the top of its armour and incinerated the cultists inside. The engine screamed, sounding even more like an animal, and then died. I crawled away, and another of Betzner’s rockets slammed down into the great wound I had opened. The tank rocked with the second explosion, and then again, and again, as promethium and ammunition reserves ignited. The monster’s death was not quiet.

Nor was my triumph.

I forced myself up. Be the symbol. I charged out from the ruined house, bolt pistol firing. ‘Soldiers of the Imperium!’ I howled. ‘With me!’ I cut the nearest cultists down. The response was ragged. The heretics were being slow to deal with the death of the tank, and their frame of reference could not encompass my continued existence. They had thought fear was their special province, theirs to inflict upon us. I had taught them how wrong they were.

I learned something too, though the full lesson would take a lifetime. I am still learning it today: one must be the symbol for the enemy too.

I called the Mortisians to be with me, and they were. The rooftops erupted with renewed fire, while the rest of the troops stormed down from the buildings that were still intact. We were no longer in retreat. We had the initiative, and we had the high ground. The cultists were cornered. They tried to retreat, but the emergence of the tank must have wrecked the other entrances to the tunnel. I saw heretics rush into doorways, then come back out. They had no options left but to fight.

They sold their lives with fury. They made us bleed still more. But they were lost. They knew this, I believe, at every level. There is a special resilience that comes from fighting for a just cause. In the face of certain defeat, it is in the strength to reject that end with such will that sometimes an impossible triumph occurs. There was none of that in our enemies on this day. There could not have been. Their cause was rotten, and so were their spirits. So we broke them. We made them pay for every drop of Imperial blood they spilled.

In the end, the square and the street became a charnel house. Corpses were piled on top of each other. There was so much blood, it was like walking in a muddy field. In the closing moments of the battle, we were standing on bodies as we fought. And when the heretics were all dead, we rested for the space of one long breath.

But the war did not wait for us. I listened to the deadly call-and-response of duelling artillery guns. There was no time to rest, or to take in the full meaning of what had occurred here. ‘Mortisians!’ I hailed. ‘We have done well. We have saved Tolosa. But our God-Emperor has need of us still on this day. Are you with me still?’

They were. With a shout, and with thunder, we raced for the outer wall.

CHAPTER 13

The Crest of the Wave

1. RASP

Lom was a residence. It had its walls, but it was a home built for commerce and luxury, not war. Karrathar was a fortress. It rose from an isolated, stony, vertical peak in the Carconnes. It was a squat mountaintop, several hundred metres above the valley floor. It looked down upon all approaches by land. To the north, south and west, it presented sheer cliffs. The single road up was a rough, steep series of uneven switchbacks on the eastern face, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. Though the walls themselves were carved from the living rock of the mountain, it had taken the lords of Vahnsinn three generations to haul everything else that had gone into the construction of Karrathar up that roadway. They never improved it, keeping the surface in a state of barely arrested decay. One did not storm Karrathar. One drew near on bended knee, at its sufferance. In three thousand years, it had never been taken.

The only direct access was by maglev. The track hugged the bottom of the valley until just before the mountain, at which point it rose in a dizzying climb to the base of the walls. The rail was supported by a series of slender pillars of ever increasing height. The last was almost five hundred metres tall. The construct was an engineering feat, and a prodigious folly. But every move that had come close to bankrupting the Vahnsinn family had, in the end, preserved it. The stability of their power had kept the Vahnsinns at the top of the Mistralian nobility century after century.

Once inside Karrathar, Rasp had only his faith to sustain him. Vahnsinn blindfolded him before taking him off the train. He was led, stumbling, through the castle. He heard the echoes of stone beneath his boots. He felt a damp chill against his skin. He was in a place of strength and age, not comfort. Then there were stairs. Many, many stairs. The air grew damper, colder. Down, down, down. He tried to measure the descent, but lost the count after the first few hundred steps.

‘This would be easier if I could see where I was going,’ he said.

‘Yes, it would,’ Vahnsinn agreed.

The blindfold remained in place. ‘What are you risking?’ Rasp asked.

The baron sighed. ‘I won’t insult you by assuming you would not attempt an escape at the first opportunity, so please don’t insult me, either.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be giving me much by way of opportunity.’

‘Quite.’

They said nothing else. The journey became an abstract conception, the idea of descent with no beginning, and no terminus. Rasp felt as if he were walking through a dark limbo where worlds and meaning had died. But then the descent did end. Now he was in a place of smells. There were currents of heat wafting through the cold. Rasp’s face was touched by the foetid warmth of opened bodies. There were sounds, too: the grinding of gears, snaps and tearing that were sickeningly wet. There were screams, there were pleas, and there were noises that no human throat should have been able to utter.

They walked for five minutes more. Then Rasp’s guards jerked him to a stop. The blindfold came off. His eyes adjusted slowly. He looked around. He was in a vast hall. Stone pillars rose to rounded vaults. It was a cathedral-like space, lit by torches that smoked with human fat. Rasp stood at the centre. Before him, where the altar would be, was a raised platform that could have been a dais or a stage. On all sides, stretching as far into the gloom as his eyes could penetrate, was the theatre of atrocity. Engines of torture laboured to transform the human frame into the purest expressions of agony. They were tended by robed executioners, who performed their tasks with a care that belonged to religious ceremonies. As they worked they spoke to the small groups of cultists who stood, watched and listened. There were lessons being taught, Rasp saw, to students willing and unwilling.

In the centre of the dais was an iron chair. Shackles hung from it, but it seemed to be an instrument of restraint, not torture. The guards hauled Rasp onto the platform, sat him down, and attached the chains. They stepped back off the dais, leaving its surface to Rasp and Vahnsinn. Other cultists gathered along the periphery. Rasp felt that he had become both audience and spectacle. He glared at Vahnsinn. ‘Well? What now?’ He let the baron hear only anger in his voice. He set horror and revulsion aside. He would not grant this terrible place any satisfaction.

‘Now you will be instructed.’

‘I can see what is here, thanks. It has nothing to tell me.’

Vahnsinn’s smile was tight-lipped. ‘You’re wrong, Simeon. You’re wrong about so much. I was too, you know.’

Rasp’s mouth dried. ‘Save yourself the bother. Kill me now. You’ll be wasting your time otherwise. You’ll never convert me.’

Vahnsinn crouched in front of him, his face serious. He spoke quietly, but with urgency. ‘You will see the truth.’

‘There is no truth here–’

‘There’s no alternative,’ Vahnsinn cut him off. ‘You will see what I saw. Then we’ll have a different sort of conversation.’ He looked almost wistful for a moment. ‘Bartholomew Lom and I used to have such wonderful ones. I do miss them.’

‘Yet you turned against him.’

Wistfulness shifted towards a snarl. ‘Did I?’

‘You could have had your rebellion sooner. Instead, your troops helped us put him down. Why?’

‘Bartholomew’s brilliance with machines of war gave him ideas above his station. I won’t tolerate rivals. I really won’t.’ The snarl faded, replaced by something very like hope. ‘I know things will be different with you. We’ve been friends for much longer.’

‘I will not betray my Emperor.’

‘Not today you won’t. Not today. But we have time.’

‘You’re going through a great deal of effort,’ Rasp told him. ‘I’m flattered, but am I really that important?’

Vahnsinn did not answer. He stood up. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he said. ‘I have to see to some preparations.’ The grin came back. ‘I have something special for Tolosa.’

2. YARRICK

My body had been battered into a single contusion. With no broken bones, it was physically possible for me to keep moving, and so I did. If I stopped, I would fall. But duty kept me going, because we were needed at the wall. And victory kept me running. We had given the enemy his first real defeat. Wangenheim was not calling the beats of this war, but neither was Vahnsinn. The taste of retaliation was delicious. We returned to the wall eager for more.

There, the war was taking on the shape of a prolonged struggle. The city’s turrets were at last giving answer to the baronial artillery. Our cannons were not as numerous, but they were just as powerful, and the sheer number of the enemy guns made them easier targets. The advancing infantry carpeted the ground, and were impossible to miss.

The indiscriminate bombardment had stopped. Each time a Basilisk sent a shell our way, it had been aimed with care. The junction had to be preserved. The Earthshakers battered the wall. They damaged it. They did not, however, bring it down. Tolosa’s outer defences had been designed with the planet’s own military production in mind. The Mistralians knew themselves and their politics well. The waters were murky, and the winds were the threat of inevitable storm. Civil war on Mistral was as certain as the seasons. Provisions had been made. The wall was a good one. So were its cannons. Artillery alone would not overthrow Tolosa.

Neither would it suffice to save the city.

Colonel Granach waited for me at the foot of the wall. He took me aside as the troops I had been leading climbed the steps to the parapets. ‘I have fought by Colonel Benneger’s side for years,’ he said. ‘He was a good, sound officer.’

‘I don’t doubt that he was, colonel. But today he wasn’t.’

‘I see. His past counted for nothing before you executed him?’

‘In that moment, no, it did not. Before you ask me, colonel, I regret the necessity of my action, but not the action itself.’

‘I would not presume to question a commissar on these matters.’ He spoke more quickly than he had done before. He was, I thought, more than slightly afraid of me. This was not something I had experienced with high-ranking officers. I did not let the novelty give me pause. We all had to act in the best interest of the missions we were given. That was all.

I said, ‘I didn’t think you were. I do think that it is important for you to know what happened and why, colonel. But what matters most is the result.’ I shifted the conversation to the issue that mattered. ‘We shut down the enemy strike into the city itself. The heretic losses were total. The tunnel is sealed.’

‘Is it the only one, do you think?’

‘The only tunnel of any kind? No. It will take us a long time to find all of them. There will be more incursions. But the construction of this one was a major undertaking. They brought a tank underground. Commissar Seroff and Inquisitor Krauss told me what they saw down there. I would be surprised if the enemy had the resources to spend on a second such approach.’

He nodded. ‘Good. That is something tangible.’ He headed for the staircase up the wall. ‘Well, Commissar Yarrick, shall we?’

On the parapet, we crouched behind the battlements and watched the next steps of the dance become clear. The artillery duel had reached grinding stalemate. We were punching craters in the infantry, but the cultists were like insects, instantly filling every breach in the advance. The barons’ foot soldiers had almost reached the junction. They would be closer than the minimum range of our guns. There would be nothing to prevent them from establishing the base for their siege.

‘Are you planning a sortie?’ I asked Granach.

‘No. We don’t have the numbers. They would finish us.’

I grimaced, again wishing he had chosen to destroy the junction. The heretics were about to have a valuable resource at their disposal. ‘What do you propose?’

‘We need to grind them down. We need them to break against our defences. Their numbers aren’t infinite. We just need to withstand the attacks long enough.’

He was going to lay siege to the besiegers. The logic was sound. Our options were limited, especially since we had to assume we had lost the greater portion of the regiments and all our heavy armour. There was a passivity to the strategy that displeased me. We were handing all of the initiative to the enemy, even if that included the privilege of making mistakes first. I doubted, though, that Granach was any happier. For the moment, at least, there were no other choices.

The cultists reached the junction. For the next several hours, the war paused. The guns continued to pound at each other, but our troops waited while theirs consolidated their position. There was an open space between the wall and the transportation hub, interrupted only by the rail lines feeding into the city, and by the road that finally completed its convoluted journey over lakes and rivers of the plain. Before long, it would be filled with enemy forces.

‘I would give much for a minefield down there,’ I said.

‘I would give much to be shut of this planet,’ Granach muttered.

Risking snipers, I looked over the battlement at the outer face of the wall. The heretics were not going to have an easy climb. It was sheer, fifty metres high. It was pockmarked with shell damage, but none of the holes went all the way through, or would provide attackers with anything like a useful way up. The poisonous history of Mistralian politics had created a civilization of first-rate fortifications.

‘Will it hold?’ Seroff had joined us.

‘We will make it hold,’ Granach said. ‘I look forward to our stand together, commissars.’ He moved off to inspect the lines.

‘Lost your inquisitor friend?’ I asked Seroff.

He snorted. ‘Headed back into the city. Not enough shadows around here, no doubt.’ His face became troubled. ‘He saw what happened with Colonel Benneger.’

‘Oh?’

‘We were on the other side of the square. Too far to make out any details, but I think he realized who had been shot when the tank blew up.’

I shrugged. ‘Then he knows I acted with good cause. Not that this falls within his purview.’

‘He has a very broad idea of what his purview is, wouldn’t you say?’

‘He does. He’s welcome to his opinions, and he can keep them to himself.’

Seroff raised his eyebrows. ‘Strong words.’

‘I mean them. I respect his oaths of duty, and his commitment to them. He can do us the same courtesy. Perhaps that would free him up to pursue the real enemy a bit more, instead of persecuting the faithful.’

Seroff nodded, but his attention had already wandered. ‘What you did,’ he said. ‘I don’t know that I could have done the same.’

‘Of course you could.’

‘Maybe. But so quickly.’

‘There wasn’t time for a debate. There never will be.’

‘You don’t think he could have redeemed himself?’

‘Then and there, no. He was going to lead us to defeat. We would have lost the city. Redemption is fine in the abstract. What the colonel might or might not have done in the future, though, was irrelevant. We had to win. He was in the way.’

‘Captain Saultern has redeemed himself,’ Seroff pointed out.

‘He was lucky. There was opportunity for him to do so.’

He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Seb, but I have to ask. What if you hadn’t killed him? What if you had just gone and destroyed the tank while he was still calling for the retreat?’

His question stopped me cold. It was the one I had felt coiling at the back of my mind since the battle. I had managed to keep it at bay. No longer. I faced it. Before I answered, I prayed to the Emperor that I was being honest with both Seroff and myself. ‘There would have been confusion in the ranks. Some would have joined me. Others would have obeyed the colonel. Confusion. Division. The enemy wouldn’t have needed the tank to finish us off. That’s why our position exists. We preserve the purpose and unity of the regiments.’

‘And we judge.’

‘If the Emperor wills it.’

‘Do you trust your competence in these matters?’

‘I have to.’ My answer didn’t enthuse me, but it was the truth.

‘So how are we different from Krauss?’

‘We aren’t looking for reasons to put a shell through someone’s brain,’ I said. ‘Now shut up, political officer, or I will have to shoot you.’

I was joking, but his doubts were troubling. They stayed with me as the day slipped towards night and I made the rounds of the wall, exhorting, encouraging, disciplining. I knew I had been right to kill Benneger. Our victory was proof of that. Still, the unease lingered. Would you shoot him again? I asked myself.

Yes. Yes, I would.

There would be other Bennegers to come. I would shoot them too. But I would hold onto my doubts. That, I wanted to tell Seroff, was the other thing that distinguished us from Krauss. He had no doubts in himself. I did not think that made him a better servant of the Emperor.

The attack came at nightfall. There was something almost ceremonial about that, as if there were certain observances of war that must be obeyed. We knew the heretics would come then. I don’t for an instant believe they thought we would be surprised. The moment the last dregs of sunset bled from the sky, the wind gusted with an exultant blast. There was a roar of thousands of human throats forming words never meant to be spoken, and the enemy charged.

Arc lights speared down from the wall, painting the ground below with a stark, white glare. The road and the grasses of the plain turned the colour of bone. The heretics came on, first a darker shadow spreading out beyond the junction, then outlined as the vermin they were when they hit the light. The enemy Basilisks fell silent. Though I doubted the commanders had the slightest regard for the lives of their troops, shelling them along with the wall would serve no tactical purpose. Our cannons continued to fire, booming into the dark. Our gunners no longer had the barrel flashes to guide their aim, but explosions revealed the silhouettes of the targets, and little by little we exacted a toll.

And now the wall’s other turrets spoke in anger. Heavy stubber positions had been built every hundred metres. They opened up, and to the deep, heavy beats of artillery was added rapid, grinding percussion. Bullets ripped cultists apart. The death-white of the ground was stained with the glistening black of spilled vitae. No ammunition was wasted. The enemy came in such numbers that every bullet hit.

The charge did not slow. The cultists ran over the bodies of their fellows, and they reached the base of the wall. They were firing at us the whole time, to little effect. The wall was too high. The occasional lucky shot struck home. We suffered a few casualties. Not many. I strode along the parapet, making myself visible, but moving fast enough to be a difficult target. I rained contempt on the forces below. ‘Are you laughing, Mortisians?’ I asked. ‘You should be. What did they expect? That we would tremble before their show of running and shouting?’ The massed shriek of the heretics had been disturbing. The howls continued to be. They were weapons more insidious, and more dangerous, than lasguns were at this moment. We had to respond with faith and resolve. I gave our troops the weapon of ridicule. The cultists wanted us to fear them. We would reject that fear with rage’s laughter. The Mortisians responded well. They howled and hooted right back at the cultists.

I knew that there were forces that had to be taken seriously. But that was knowledge harmful to morale, vital to be withheld from the untrained soldier or civilian. I, at least, had been prepared.

So I thought. When I remember that young man, I want to throttle that naïvety from him.

‘Let the heretics know what they are up against,’ I thundered. ‘Teach them what fear really is before you send them to hell.’

Cheers, shouts, warrior laughter. I recognized many faces from the battle in the square. Those soldiers looked at me in a way that implied my words carried special weight with them, and not simply because of my rank. That made me uncomfortable, but if they fought well, the reasons for their resolution were not important.

The battle was one of attrition. As the wind of Mistral eroded home and hill, so the heretics tried to take the wall. Neither they nor we had the weapons to shift the siege from its ancient foundations. They could not go through the wall. Their only way forwards was over it, their only tactic the escalade. The barons knew Tolosa and its defences, and had prepared well. We had shut down their attempt to circumvent the wall. So they came at us with siege ladders. Hundreds of them. We concentrated our fire on the ladders, trying to destroy as many as possible before they were even raised, then blasting apart those that touched the wall. But there were so many. It seemed that there was a ladder for every Mortisian. We couldn’t smash them all. A few, perhaps enough, rose against the wall.

The cultists climbed. The suppressive fire of those on the ground became more and more effective. The sheer volume of las and bullets pushed us back from the battlements. Every time we lost stubber gunners, we also lost the precious seconds it took to replace them, and the heretics climbed higher. We had to shoot blindly over the wall. It was impossible to miss, but harder to kill the right enemy.

Granach kept the turrets going, but pulled the rest of us back. We formed a solid, double line, shoulder to shoulder, the forward troops crouched to leave clear shots to those behind. The first of the heretics reached the top of the battlements. They faced a wall of gun barrels. The parapet erupted, the night torn by a storm of las. We sent the enemy flying back into the dark. As the bodies rained onto their comrades, the suppressive fire stuttered. Granach sent us forward again, and we hurled the ladders back.

And then the dance repeated.

Back and forth, back and forth, advance and repulse, over and over as the eternal wind howled. The smoke-deepened night was a limbo of fragmented time. There was no going forward. There was no leaving this present of repeated, endless slaughter. There were minor variations. The heretics began to target the lights. The battlefield became a million still images in the searing, jagged illumination of las. As they neared the top of the ladders, the cultists hurled grenades over the battlements, tearing brief holes in our defence. In this way, some of them actually set foot on the parapet. They died for their temerity, and we hit the bases of the ladders with our own grenades.

Back and forth. We killed far more of them, but they did kill us. And their numbers seemed infinite. The hours wore on, and the steps in the dance became automatic. I fired my pistol with so regular a rhythm, I might have been a servitor employed at a single, mindless task. So many faces shot away, so many skulls exploded by bolter shells, the killing turning into an abstraction. I was no longer reducing humans to pulp. I was taking shapes apart. It was hard to hold back the numbness that would dull my reactions and be my death. When we were pressed hard, I spoke to every trooper within the sound of my voice, calling the men and women of Aighe Mortis to save the soul of Mistral. I don’t remember the words I used. I forgot them as soon as I spoke. But I did feel the fire. It coursed through my blood, and I burned with the strength of the Imperial Creed. Heresy would not stand.

We smashed it down.

Back and forth. The dance wanted us as its slaves forever, but the slaves, Imperial and heretic, were human. I have since come to know what a truly endless war looks like, but the holocaust of Armageddon was centuries distant from me yet. Dawn came, reluctant and ugly, smelling of burned flesh, blood and fyceline. It signalled the end of the dance for now. Exhaustion had come to both armies.

The heretics withdrew to the area around the transport hub. We tended to our wounded and our dead. We had lost some turrets, too. Most were intact, though, or could be repaired. I joined Granach where he stood, just to the left of a functioning turret, watching the enemy.

‘A good fight, colonel,’ I congratulated him.

‘Thank you, Yarrick.’ His voice was flat with fatigue, and grim. ‘For all the good that does us. We haven’t advanced.’

‘Every day that the besieged hold out is an advance,’ I said.

He snorted. ‘Commissar, you don’t have to worry about my morale. You can drop the rhetoric.’

I nodded. ‘The situation could be worse, colonel. We pushed the traitors back. We will again tonight.’

‘True. And the following night, and the night after that. But…’

He didn’t have to finish his thought. It had already occurred to me. ‘Numbers,’ I said.

‘Numbers,’ he agreed.

And as we stood there, we saw the first of the resupply trains arriving. Everything we had taken from the heretics during the night was being replaced.

‘You were right,’ Granach said. ‘We should have destroyed that hub.’

The shelling of the city resumed. The martyrdom of Tolosa continued.

CHAPTER 14

The Brittle City

1. YARRICK

The first incursion happened just after dawn. The cultists came out of the cellar of an icon dealer in the south-east sector of the second ring. A patrol of enforcers was able to kill the invaders before they had gone far. Granach had dispatched one company to keep searching for tunnel entrances, but the enforcers had largely taken over that mission. Krauss had declared all their other duties secondary to this task. No one had questioned his authority to do so.

The military impact was nil. What mattered was what happened afterwards. Krauss arrived on the scene. He investigated the bakery. Its owners had been slaughtered, but that did not, in his eyes, make them victims. It was impossible, he declared, that these citizens had been unaware of the excavation going on beneath their feet. A tunnel to their cellar constructed without their collusion? No, he said. Before the tunnel was sealed, he traced the extent of the new dig running from the pre-existing network. It ran under three habs and a merchants’ diversorium. Krauss hauled out everyone who owned or lived in all four. He set the buildings on fire. And when most of the immediate habzone had turned out to see what was happening, even with the occasional shell still landing nearby, he lined his detainees up in the street and shot them.

He then spoke to the spectators. Every citizen of Tolosa had a duty of vigilance, he announced. The word had been given the day before that the tunnels must be sought. If any were not found by the civilians who should have discovered them, those same civilians would be deemed traitors and heretics, and executed.

The story spread from the enforcers to the Mortisians within the hour. An hour after that, I was arriving at the Ecclesiarchal palace. I would be speaking for Granach. ‘You’ve already had your run-in with the inquisitor,’ he told me. ‘And there will be the cardinal and the Adepta Sororitas to deal with too, I’m sure. This is your domain, Yarrick.’

‘Politics,’ I muttered.

Granach gave me a pitying, but no less amused, grin. He was finding his humour where he could.

As I left the wall, Seroff called my name. I looked back. He was on the stairs, halfway down. He saluted. ‘Better you than me!’

‘I hope so,’ I returned. ‘I wouldn’t trust you not to have us all clapped in irons before the end of the day.’

The shelling was more sporadic than it had been the day before. Perhaps we had destroyed enough Basilisks to make a difference. I still had to be careful, ducking into doorways to avoid the worst of explosions in the streets, eyeing the sky every time I heard a shrieking whistle. By the time I reached the palace, there had been another tunnel found, again by the enforcers.

More executions.

I didn’t know about the second find until the conference began, but I witnessed its impact. I was one ring to the south of the palace. I rounded a corner and saw a crowd in the street before me. It was furious. The air was filled with shouts and screams. A man, his face streaming blood, burst from the crowd and started to run further up the road. The mob pursued and brought him down.

‘It isn’t a tunnel,’ I heard him scream. ‘It’s just a storage–’ And that was all. The people kicked him to death. A smaller group ran into a house on the right-hand side of the street, a couple of doors down from where I stood. A minute later, they came running out again. There was a small, muffled explosion, shattering the glass of the windows, blowing the shutters wide. Flames licked out from the ground floor.

The arsonists looked at me as they went by. They paused. They were wearing similar uniforms, and bore Administratum name badges. One of them, a middle-aged woman with worried eyes, said, ‘It could be a tunnel, couldn’t it?’ When I didn’t answer, she went on. ‘We’re doing what is expected of us. We aren’t being negligent. Please believe me. This street will be sanitized before nightfall. Do you think there will be an inspection?’

The crowd was beginning to thin. The object of its ire was motionless in a deep pool of crimson. With the man’s death went the unity of the mob. The people were eyeing each other with caution. They were, I knew, wondering if the man had had collaborators. Before long, caution would turn to suspicion, then to fear, then to hatred. ‘No,’ I told the woman. ‘I don’t think there will be.’ I would be surprised if the entire street was not burning before sunset. Perhaps, I thought, a shell might fall here. That would be a mercy. The more limited destruction might disrupt the collective psychosis.

The scene stayed with me the rest of the way to the palace. Once there, I was met by the steward. Vercor’s formal livery didn’t fool me. The hardness in those eyes was not acquired by supervising serfs. I had seen that look only a few times before. Before ascending to the Commissariat, Seroff and I had fought in a mission to pacify an uprising on the hive world Turbella. Deep in the underhive, our commanding officers had forged an alliance with the strongest of the gang leaders. The most powerful of them had the same eyes as Vercor: survivors, fighters, mercenaries. The eyes of rats.

‘How is it looking?’ she asked. She was leading me towards the Council chamber.

‘We have thrown the enemy back,’ I said. I was not going to offer anything else. If someone deemed this hired gun worthy of detailed military intelligence, that someone could fill her in.

‘For now, you mean,’ she said.

I didn’t answer. I became aware of a faint hum. I glanced down, saw the faint, restless flexing of Vercor’s fingers. I had mistaken prosthetics for gloves.

We reached the door to the chamber. Vercor paused before opening it. ‘Holding the enemy at the wall won’t be enough,’ she said.

I know, I thought, but remained silent.

The eyes watched me closely. They were calculating, evaluating. She was searching for something. I waited. ‘You must be a good regicide player,’ she said.

I shrugged. ‘Indifferent. I don’t play it much.’

She grinned. ‘Liar. You’re playing it now.’ She pushed open the door to usher me inside. ‘I’m good too.’

I entered the chamber. Vercor had sent me a message. I wasn’t sure how to interpret it, though I had my suspicions. I filed the problem away. There was something there that would have to be dealt with, but not now.

Vercor was right that a game was being played. Before me was the table where the barons had sat. There were only three of us in the space now: myself, Krauss and Setheno. Neither the sister superior nor the inquisitor had taken a seat. Krauss was pacing up and down the centre of the chamber, within the ‘U’ of the table. His face was still a mass of scars and contusions, but he had replaced his clothes, and he had lost none of his imperious, unbending charisma.

Setheno stood behind what had been Vahnsinn’s chair. She was still, an armoured impassivity. Though her face was calm, she was looking up at Wangenheim’s throne, on my left, with an iron focus. I saw a greater frustration in that gaze than in Krauss’s constant movement.

‘Welcome, commissar,’ said Wangenheim. The cardinal had not been present when I stepped in, but now he arrived, close enough on the heels of my entrance to be startling. He claimed the initiative of the meeting, and settled himself in his throne. He looked down at us as if expecting us to take our seats.

Krauss stopped pacing, but he barely glanced at Wangenheim. ‘Good,’ he said to me. ‘We can begin.’ The slight was obvious. Krauss wasn’t fighting the cardinal for control of the proceedings. He was simply ignoring Wangenheim altogether. ‘What are Colonel Granach’s plans?’

‘For the moment, to hold the line.’

‘Is that all?’ Wangenheim asked.

Before I could answer, Setheno said, ‘More is needed.’

‘We would welcome the Adepta Sororitas at the wall,’ I said. Welcome was perhaps an exaggeration. But their strength would be an asset.

‘No!’ Wangenheim snapped. ‘I’m sorry, commissar, but the Order of the Piercing Thorn is needed here.’

Krauss gave a half shake of his head, as if shrugging off an annoying insect. ‘Your presence will be most useful in the streets of the city,’ he said to Setheno. ‘I have a patrol route in mind that will maximize the impact of your visibility, it–’

‘Inquisitor,’ Setheno interrupted, ‘you overstep your bounds.’

From Krauss’s silence, it was clear that he had never been challenged so directly. Though I had locked horns with him, I had not rejected his authority.

Setheno went on. ‘My Sisters and I are not yours to command.’ Her outrage was palpable. I wasn’t sure if it was Krauss’s presumption alone that had incurred her wrath, or if it was the last of a series of insults that had now tried her patience too far.

Krauss glared at her. ‘My authority–’

She cut him off again. ‘Is no concern of mine. You are, of course, free to attempt to prove me wrong.’

‘Precisely,’ said Wangenheim. ‘The Sisters of Battle are an arm of the Ecclesiarchy, and our first concern must be the preservation of the visible manifestations of the Imperial Creed. Without faith, we are nothing.’

Setheno did not respond. She did not look at Wangenheim. I thought I saw a finger drum once against the pommel of her sword. I wasn’t sure.

‘I see,’ Krauss said. ‘So the forces of the Ecclesiarchy will remain behind the walls of this sanctuary and wait for the struggle in the streets of Tolosa to be won by other means.’

‘And what other means are those?’ I asked. ‘Setting the citizens at each other’s throats?’

‘We have been brought to this pass by a lack of vigilance,’ Krauss told me. ‘I am ensuring we will no longer fall victim to this trap.’

‘There’s a difference between vigilance and madness,’ I said. ‘What I saw out there was the latter. What do you think you’re accomplishing?’

‘The people of Tolosa are watching for the enemy.’

‘They are doing the enemy’s work for him. They are killing each other, not the foe.’

Krauss nodded. ‘Yes, they are killing each other. But you’re wrong if you think the enemy doesn’t already have his agents among them.’ He swept his arm, taking in the Council chamber. ‘Or perhaps I’m mistaken. Perhaps the Imperial Guard knew and was never fooled by the barons at all.’ His threat was clear. ‘Are there innocents being killed out there? No. All the citizens of Tolosa are guilty for having let the heretic cancer grow in their midst. The ones who die are reaping the price of their negligence. The ones who live should not consider themselves absolved.’

‘Then what are we fighting to save here? Why not cut our losses and let Tolosa burn?’

Krauss cocked his head. ‘That is a question,’ he said softly.

I gaped. I looked at Setheno. ‘Do go on,’ she said. ‘Both of you. This is most instructive.’

I didn’t know what to make of that. Were the common people an irrelevance, their weakness casting them beneath the notice of the Sisters of Battle? Or was she judging the two men before her?

‘The question is not a serious one!’ Wangenheim protested. He leaned forward in his throne in an effort to project his presence more forcefully into the chamber. He looked petulant and scared. ‘The enemy will not cross the boundaries of this city. We will repel him, and then we will crush him.’ He spoke as if his words could make his will reality. Just a day ago, that might have been true. No longer. What power he still had was due only to his position, and the authority that granted him over Setheno and her squad. Even there, I suspected his hold was fraying. I noticed now that he had brought a reliquary into the chamber with him. It sat on the right arm of his throne, and he kept his hand on it at all times.

Setheno said, ‘Commissar, you haven’t told us your evaluation of the front.’

‘It’s a stalemate for the moment. The enemy can’t get past our defences.’

‘How long will that state of affairs continue?’

‘Not indefinitely. They are being resupplied as we speak.’

‘The situation is not tenable?’

‘In my opinion, it is not.’

‘Then Colonel Granach’s strategy is unacceptable,’ Wangenheim announced.

‘It is, for the moment, the only one open to him.’

‘The current configuration of our forces make it so?’ Setheno asked.

‘Yes.’ Beyond the fact that I believed what she said to be true, I had a sudden intuition of the importance of agreeing with her at that moment.

‘Then your colonel is going to have to be a bit more creative,’ said Wangenheim. ‘I see no change possible in the various deployments. Perhaps the Mortisians could be reinforced with the enforcers–’

‘No,’ Krauss said.

‘Then that is where we are. And it is clear to me that, in the short term, Tolosa will be lost. Commissar, I think it advisable preparations be made for a new base of operations to be established aboard the Scythe of Terra.’

To his credit, he kept a straight face throughout his craven speech. His tone was reason itself. He was the adult, explaining the facts of the situation to unruly children. From his position atop the dais, he was able to look down even on Setheno as he sat forward with an air of patronising concern.

To my credit, I did not shoot him. But I took more pleasure than was seemly when I said, ‘That is impossible.’

His face cracked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We have no landing craft in the city.’

‘There must be some way.’ He sounded desperate now, like the coward he was. He turned to Krauss. ‘Your lighter is on the palace landing pad. I’m sure that–’

‘No,’ the inquisitor repeated. He did not even glance at Wangenheim.

The cardinal swallowed. ‘Then…’ He tried again. ‘Then…’ There were no words left. Rhetoric had carried him this far. It had given him power, and it had given him his war. Now it abandoned him. It could not save him.

‘Then we triumph,’ I said, ‘or else we die.’

2. VERCOR

She waited outside the cardinal’s chambers while he wailed a litany of complaints at the sister superior. Vercor listened with increasing disinterest. Wangenheim had misplayed his hand. He could not see his way through to winning the game any longer. He was, Vercor thought, a sorry product of his line. It was her misfortune that her term of service had fallen under his reign. That service, though, was a contract, not a duty. It was revocable. No Vercor had ever felt the need to abandon a Wangenheim. But no Wangenheim had ever thrown away his political capital on such a folly.

The dialogue in the cardinal’s study was one-sided. Vercor didn’t hear Setheno say a thing in answer. But there were long silences after some of the cardinal’s more lunatic demands, followed by awkward stuttering from Wangenheim. Most of what he said was one fanciful scheme after another to get himself off-planet. When those came to nothing, he said, ‘We must have the regiment pull back to the palace. Their forces will be more concentrated here.’

At last, Setheno spoke. ‘I’m sure Commissar Yarrick will be happy to relay your thoughts to the colonel.’

‘They won’t listen. You’ll have to force them.’

There was the sound of armoured footsteps walking towards the door of the study.

‘Where are you going?’ Wangenheim’s voice was growing shrill. ‘Your duty is to protect me!’

The steps did not pause. ‘My duty, cardinal, is to the Ecclesiarchy. You are making the path of this duty clearer, for which I thank you.’

Vercor stepped aside as Setheno exited the study, and closed the door on Wangenheim’s shouts. The Sister of Battle gave the steward a long look. Vercor was decades older than the young warrior, but she felt herself diminished by the strength of conviction before her.

‘So?’ Setheno asked. ‘What sort of traitor are you?’

‘None. The man in there has betrayed himself. Among others.’

Setheno surprised her by nodding in agreement.

‘Changes are necessary if we aren’t all going to die stupid deaths,’ Vercor said.

‘And which ones are you going to make?’

‘I’m waiting to see what is called for.’

Setheno’s lip curled. ‘As opposed to how you are called upon.’

‘I lack your fervour, sister superior.’

‘Don’t wait too long to make your decision, mercenary. You may find–’

An explosion cut Setheno off. It came from deep below. The sound was muffled, but its force vibrated through the stone of the palace’s walls and floors. There was something wrong about the sound. Vercor suddenly felt sick, as if something vital had torn in a soul she had forgotten she still had.

‘Stay here,’ Setheno ordered. She drew her pistol as she ran down the corridor.

‘Why?’ Vercor called after her.

‘Protect him. For your own sake, if not for his.’

3. YARRICK

I was still arguing with Krauss as we left the palace. ‘You’ve made your point,’ I told him. ‘The people are terrified. Their vigilance is so high that it has become paranoia. The only tunnels that won’t be discovered within the next few hours will be the ones in habzones that have been shelled flat.’

‘I don’t know what you’re asking of me.’

‘Continued executions are unnecessary.’

‘If there is no enforcement, there is no fear.’

I waited for the echoes of a shell explosion two streets over to pass. ‘You’ve already shown the citizens examples of that enforcement. Word has spread. You know it has. Anything further is unnecessary.’

‘Unnecessary? Punishment for treason and heresy is unnecessary?’

‘You’re putting words into my mouth, inquisitor.’ I was offended. ‘Every punishment is necessary for those crimes. But the killing of the ignorant and the innocent is not.’

‘Your definitions are not mine,’ Krauss said.

As we crossed the square, we were met by Saultern at the head of one of his squads. I was surprised to see them. ‘What’s happened?’ I asked Saultern.

‘Nothing, commissar. At least, we hope not.’ He glanced uneasily at Krauss. The inquisitor’s interest was in Betzner, who kept his gaze on me, afraid of what would happen if he looked to my right.

‘Then what…?’

Betzner said, ‘The lower levels of the palace. Have they been searched for tunnels?’ It was brave of him to speak up. He took a risk in doing so. It did him honour.

‘You were the one to think of this?’ Krauss asked.

Still looking at me, Betzner said, ‘Yes, inquisitor.’

‘Has the palace been searched?’ I asked him.

‘It has. There was nothing.’

‘You’re sure? In a place this size?’

I looked at Betzner. The big man was worried, clearly uneasy to be voicing any opinion whatsoever in the presence of Krauss. He was also, I could see, consumed by the urgency of his mission. Betzner’s insights worried me. They were becoming unhealthy in their frequency and specificity. What worried me most right now, though, was their accuracy. ‘We should look again,’ I said.

Krauss nodded. The speed of his acquiescence boded nothing good for Betzner, but that was a concern for later. We went back inside the palace. We descended level after level. I did not put Betzner in the lead, but I took cues from him. Where he looked was where we headed. I half expected to find ourselves in the crypt. Instead, we moved deeper and deeper into storage areas, descending through an archaeology of Mistral’s discarded history. Crates upon crates upon crates of paintings and furniture, and documents, records, sermons, edicts. We were heading into rooms whose function was to preserve memory, but had been forgotten themselves.

We didn’t need Betzner to tell us when we had arrived at our goal. The atmosphere in this storage chamber was different. The temperature plummeted. My teeth were suddenly on edge. There was nothing to see: just rows and rows of more crates. But a great wrong was at work here.

‘How was this missed?’ Krauss muttered angrily.

‘The threat is new,’ I said. ‘Can’t you feel it?’ The toxic sensation was growing worse by the second.

We followed the growing dread. It led us to the far wall, and another stack of crates. Unlike in the rest of the chamber, there was no dust on these.

‘Move those,’ Krauss ordered.

Saultern’s troops stepped forward.

‘Wait,’ I said. The air was suddenly a riot of ozone, blood and acid. The edges of the crates glowed, outlined by corrosive energy. Reality stretched, thinned, turned brittle and frayed. There was no need to shout a warning, because we all felt the coming rip, and there was no time to retreat because the horror was already here. An iron drum was struck, reverberating throughout the palace. We threw ourselves to the ground as the crates exploded.

Jagged splinters of wood embedded themselves in the stack behind us. Flakes of parchment filled the space, falling and spinning like burning snow. The tunnel entrance stood revealed, its walls and archway covered in runes painted in blood. It sloped steeply off into the darkness. Cultists charged up from its depths. They ran though the dying flames of the explosion, already firing.

We lost two of the Mortisians immediately. We were on the defensive. We were slow in firing back, because we were human. The cultists had the initiative because they surprised us, and because of what arrived with them.

It was tall, larger than a man. It leapt and giggled. Its gait was an uneven, hopping gallop. It was the glistening pink of exposed muscle. It was all strength and flow. There was just enough of a trace of the human frame in its shape to perfect the obscenity. It propelled itself on powerful, clawed legs. Its three arms were half again as long as they should be, reaching out to grab the ground and launch itself into the air every few steps. Its face shifted and travelled, caught in a flux of permanent becoming. The gaping jaw and python tongue were never truly in one spot of its massive frame. The snarl would gape forth from the flank, then be staring straight up, then facing us with eyes the yellow of bad faith. Always there was greed, always hunger, as if there were no deciding which portion of the world to devour first.

Daemon.

I knew there were such things. At the schola progenium I had learned of their existence. I had been taught about Chaos itself, and about the forms it could take. The knowledge was a poor preparation for the reality. I found in this moment that despite my training, I had still, at a deep, instinctual level, believed in the fundamental solidity of the world. My soul could not conceive of the existence of the thing that came at us. Even now, I tried to deny it, to take refuge in the idea of my own madness. On either side of me, soldiers reacted as I wished to. They curled up, shrieking in horror.

This was not a xenos beast. This was a nightmare come to savage them.

It made another leap, and landed with a squelching thud ahead of the heretics. It reached for us. Krauss and I rose as one. His face mirrored my own horror. Our minds wanted to flee into the balm of oblivion, so our training took over, and we attacked. Bolt and plasma pistols fired. I punched a crater into the straining, slithering flesh. He vaporized a chunk of what, at that moment, might have been a skull. Both wounds filled. It jabbered and lashed out. I ducked below the blow. Krauss danced out of the way, and its fists smashed into the crates behind us.

We were fighting. The daemon was fallible. That was enough. The rest of the squad pierced the soul-eating terror and fought back. Las-fire streaked between them and the cultists. The enemy had the numbers and the momentum. The Mortisians had the training. For the moment that made the difference, and the heretics began to die.

Still crouched, I drew my sword and lunged upwards inside the daemon’s reach, cutting into the arm where it joined at the trunk. The limb was corded, powerful, and yet there was no bone. My blade sliced through flesh and gristle. The arm fell to the ground, where it dissolved into bubbling ooze. Another arm burst out of the centre of the torso. It hit my chest and sent me flying. I landed in a tangle of smashed wood and torn vellum.

The daemon’s third arm snatched to the side and grabbed Trooper Karetzky. Then its jaws were on that side, and they crunched down on the soldier’s head and chest. There was a ghastly harmony of snapping bone, spurting blood and a ragged, slashed scream.

Krauss fired again, this time disintegrating the daemon’s left leg. The creature fell his way. It used its arms to turn the tumble into a controlled roll. It had already regrown its leg as it reared over him, gaping wide to feast on his blood and soul.

I fired off four shots in quick succession as I got to my feet. I took out both the legs. I bought us nothing but seconds, but the daemon slumped backwards as it regenerated.

Krauss shouted something incoherent. He hit the daemon with another blast of plasma, keeping its attention, and started running. It followed.

More seconds. We used them well. A cultist leapt at me, a sickle in each hand. I straight-armed my sword through his neck. As the weight of the corpse lowered my arm, and the heretic slid down the blade, I fired to my right, and blew a hole the size of a plate through another of the vermin.

Two more troopers went down, killed by las and gutted by blades. Behind us, the stack of crates that ran the length of the room had collapsed, and we pulled back behind the rough shelter, drawing tightly together, focusing our fire, while the cultists continued to charge as if the only thing that mattered was death, ours or theirs, as long as it was ugly. Perhaps they were right.

As we fought, I could hear the crashes of the daemon pursuing Krauss. Though those noises were pulling away from us, the obscenity’s laughing, snarling jabbering seemed to be with us still. It was a voice that was just behind my ear, no matter what direction I was facing. The daemon was conversing with itself, with me, with the world, and with something unknowable beyond. The syllables it uttered were words, yet they tore the very concept of language apart. Guttural yet sinuous, they rasped and coughed and coiled. The survival of sanity demanded that they be sounds without meaning. The truth was worse. The words did have meaning. It was a meaning that hovered just out of reach, yet distorted the world with the force of its gravity. As I valued my soul, as I had faith in my Emperor, I must never learn what these words said, and my being revolted at the mere idea. But they had teeth, and they ground at my consciousness, they ground at my hope, and they ground at everything that made me human and rational. With every syllable that was uttered, reality became a little bit slicker, as if a coating of slime were accreting over everything around me, and everything inside me.

The heretics had human tongues, not the shifting, twisting, appearing, disappearing thing in the daemon’s maw. Yet they were barely more coherent. They were shouting hymns of praise to the dark entities they called gods. Their rants were mixtures of Low Gothic and another language, one that should have been lost to all human memory. The cultists added their dark ecstasy to the babble of the daemon. They exulted in the massacre, in the energy it fed to the forces that had summoned the daemon to the materium. Even if we killed them in battle, we might not defeat them. Every death was a welcome act of worship.

We had no choice. We fought them. We killed them. I tried to drown out the chants with prayers to the Emperor. ‘Our Emperor is our strength!’ I called to my comrades. ‘Hold fast to your faith, and it shall uphold you!’

The others prayed too, and we cut the heretics down with as much dispassion as we could muster. Our defensive posture became a tight circle, with the frenzied traitors hurling themselves at our blades more than they were shooting. They found, I think, insufficient blood in las. There was precision to our combat, and we exterminated the last of the cultists with only one other casualty of our own. That was a young man, Lingen, and it was the daemon’s litany that killed him. I hope it was just the madness of the words that was too much for him. I hope that he hadn’t begun to understand them. I hope he was granted that small degree of mercy. But he dropped his lasrifle, and shoved his fingers into his ears hard enough to draw blood. A heretic stepped in and gutted him before any of us could help. The heretic, at least, did not have the chance to revel in the death. Kortner decapitated him with his bayonet.

The death of the last heretic was no victory. The daemonic words still spread their poison. The nature of being was becoming worn, fragile. I grabbed a frag grenade from Betzner and ran towards the sounds of the hunt. The daemon was demolishing the stacks by running through them, and in its wake it had left a near-impassable heap of debris. I took the other way around the periphery of the chamber, racing to intercept the chase. The Mortisians were a step behind me.

I was two-thirds of the way towards the other end of the hall and its entrance. Krauss rounded the corner at full tilt. He was no longer firing. Behind him came the daemon. It laughed as it loped and hopped after him. It was toying with him, chasing its prey to exhaustion, and now it bellowed laughter as the game brought it back to us all.

No game for Krauss, but no flight, either. He had bought us the time to kill one enemy. He didn’t have the means to destroy the second. I didn’t know if any of us did. I ran straight for the daemon. As Krauss and I passed each other, we exchanged a look. His face was grey with more than exhaustion. His training gave him the means to withstand the exposure. His discipline gave him the will. He was human, though. We all break. I picked up the torch for him and charged the pink madness.

The face appeared in front of me. The jaws stretched wide in welcome. The laughter reached into my skull. My vision began to swim with worms. I dropped, sliding forward, and hurled the frag at the maw. My aim was true. The daemon swallowed. Its face actually showed confusion for a moment. I rolled between its legs. The proximity was enough to erode my self. I rose and staggered away, repeating my name in my head, fighting the rot of all I knew.

The grenade went off. The explosion was a muffled, wet concussion. The daemon’s central mass burst open. The glistening viscera of Chaos flew in all directions. The monster’s knees buckled. It slumped to the ground. Its mouth opened at the top of its trunk. It loosed a scream that spread a network of cracks across the stone floor, walls and ceiling of the chamber. We were all on our knees now, hands pressed to our ears, trying to block out that shriek and the claws that came with it. The daemon writhed. Its torso bubbled and bled. It twisted a full three hundred and sixty degrees, and then kept going. The scream continued, rising and falling in registers impossible for any material throat. The mouth worked, chewing the real, spreading ever wider. And then tearing.

The daemon’s muscle-flesh pulsed, its colour darkening as if being flooded with bad blood. It began to split down the centre. The mouth became two. The noise was a scream and snarl at the same time. The voices collided and fought. The colour darkened further. More limbs sprouted. The daemon’s flesh changed from the pink of a raw wind to the blue of an angry bruise, and it ripped itself in half.

Now there were two. They were smaller than the original creature, and faster. The diseased humour had vanished. The words were just as toxic before, but now they were howling complaints. The two daemons vented fury and grief at each other, but they lunged at us. One bowled into Saultern and his troops. Arms multiplied, snatching soldiers. The daemon was no larger than a man, but its reach was long, and its strength vicious. It was too greedy to focus on a single victim. It snapped a leg of one, ripped out the spine of another, yanked off the arm of a third. It spread a gospel of agony.

The other daemon had only one target. I knew there was no evading it. It was on me in two leaps. I emptied my bolt pistol into its face. I barely slowed its charge. What passed for its head flowed around the shell holes. I had my sword extended, and it impaled itself as it slammed into me. It knocked me down. The flesh of its trunk held my sword fast. I tried to saw the blade, felt it cutting sinew. The daemon snarled. It leaned down, and all I could see were teeth and darkness. Fangs were already tearing into my soul.

Then the crushing weight on my chest lifted. The daemon was hurled back. The air was filled with a new sound: the clean, metronomic punishment of boltguns. This was so much more than the individual beats of my pistol. This was the music of relentlessness. The shells hit in a directed storm, and they did not stop. The Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn had come, and as I crawled out of the path of fire, I saw the true image of armoured faith.

It was a moment of realization. The contempt that the Adepta Sororitas felt for us sad, weak specimens in the Imperial Guard, and the resentment we returned, were almost articles of unexamined faith in themselves. But now I felt humbled. The ten women had not donned their helms, and their faces were ablaze with something that went so far beyond simple zeal, it should have burned all who gazed upon it. Krauss was dogmatic, and his inflexibility had served him well in this dark place. I would have shot anyone foolish enough to question my own devotion to the Emperor.

But the force that marched towards the daemons crackled with a different order of faith. These warriors were touched with sanctity. They hammered the daemons with bolter fire, and they filled the room with a fury as pure as it was limitless. They had no room in their hearts or minds for doubt. They confronted the existence of the daemons with holy rage.

The daemon absorbed the first few shells, but the blows kept coming, and overwhelmed it. With a final gibbering whine at the injustice visited upon it, the being fell apart. Its form vanished. It became a writhing puddle, and then that evaporated back into the void with an echoing moan.

The other daemon had just grabbed Betzner by the throat. The trooper was transfixed by the shape of his death. His arms had fallen limp. But as its twin disincorporated, the daemon dropped Betzner, twisting around in pain and rage. The bolter shells hit it too. It advanced against the onslaught, flowing and leaping, taking the hits but still holding onto its grip on the materium. It closed with the Sisters of Battle. They had to choose their shots carefully while the Mortisians and Krauss moved out of the way. Then the daemon was already there. Setheno was in the lead. She met the thing with her blade, bringing the sword down in an overhead swing that sliced through a third of the daemon’s trunk. She immobilized it. Hands with too many fingers grasped her arms. Claws scraped against ceramite. She did not move. The daemon wailed. The rest of the squad surrounded it and shot it into oblivion.

The silence that followed was startling. The voices were gone. Reality reasserted its stability. I joined Saultern’s squad. The daemon had killed three, crippled two others. But even those who had escaped physical injury had still been harmed. Saultern was staring at the spot where the second daemon had vanished. His eyes were blank with horror. Betzner was sitting where he had fallen. He was perfectly still. He had withdrawn into himself. I did not think he was exploring anything pleasant. Kortner stood to one side, clutching his lasrifle with whitening knuckles. ‘What was that?’ he kept repeating. ‘What was that? What was that?’

‘A xenos obscenity,’ I told him. ‘The traitors have allied themselves with a degenerate race. The creatures are dangerous, clearly. They can also be killed. Clearly.’

‘But,’ he began. One hand moved towards his head, then his heart. He was trying to express the spiritual wounds he had received. At some level, he knew he had encountered something far more insidious than a powerful xenos beast. It was necessary, though, that this knowledge remain vague. There were no such things as daemons. To believe otherwise would be harmful to the faith of the untrained individual. To be certain would be even worse.

‘What else could it be?’ I said.

He looked at me. So did Saultern. So did the rest of the squad. All the survivors except Betzner. ‘Nothing else?’ Kortner whispered.

‘Nothing else.’

I walked over to the Order of the Piercing Thorn squad. Krauss was already there. ‘My thanks, sister superior,’ I said to Setheno.

She nodded. If fighting the daemon had caused her strain, I couldn’t see it, unless it was in the blaze of her eyes. She and her Sisters looked hungry for battle, as if the taint brought onto Imperial land by the incursion would not be expunged until there was a mountain of heretic corpses that reached the sun. She said, ‘This changes everything. Our enemies are not just treacherous and heretical. They are witches. They consort with daemons. This is a threat of a very different order.’

Krauss nodded. It was the first time the three of us had agreed on anything, other than our unspoken contempt for Wangenheim. ‘We will seal this entry point, but these attacks will not stop.’

‘The fight must be brought to the enemy.’

I looked at Setheno. ‘I don’t think this incident is likely to change the cardinal’s mind.’

She holstered her bolt pistol. ‘That is no longer my concern. My first duty is always to the faith. The need to stop a daemonic manifestation supersedes any other consideration. We need to break out of the city.’

‘To do that, we must lift the siege.’ Krauss was pointing out the obvious.

‘That falls to the Imperial Guard,’ Setheno said, not without sympathy. ‘Until there is a way forward, my Sisters and I must protect the palace.’

‘That’s all right.’ I shrugged. ‘Meaning no disrespect to your abilities in combat, sister superior, but the addition of your squad would not be sufficient to defeat those numbers beyond the wall.’

‘I didn’t think we would be.’

Krauss gestured at the wreckage around us. ‘A small force, in the right place, can make a difference. This attack was meant to decapitate the leadership of our forces.’ He grimaced, frustrated. ‘Would that we could do the same.’

He was right. A thought struck me. ‘Perhaps we can.’

‘How?’ Krauss protested. ‘Do we even know where Vahnsinn is based?’

‘I’m sure the cardinal does,’ said Setheno.

‘What good will that do when we are besieged?’

‘None,’ I answered. ‘So we break the siege. You were right, inquisitor. A small force can do this. Like a dagger to the heart.’

The idea crystallized, and I was smiling.

CHAPTER 15

The Dagger

1. SETHENO

Clarity. Setheno had never thought that was too great a hope to have. She did not believe it was hubris. To desire to know how best to serve the Emperor, how could that be a sin? It wasn’t. Yet it eluded her like forbidden fruit. She had thought, on the day that she entered the convent of the Order of the Piercing Thorn, that clarity would come to her as a matter of course. How could any Sister of Battle have any doubt as to the correct path of her duty?

She had been very young. That was her only excuse for her naïvety. For not even thinking the word politics. She knew better now. She had experience. She still hoped for clarity, though. She hoped that enough experience would allow her to slice through the fog of competing agendas and factionalism within the Ecclesiarchy, and see, always, and beyond any doubt, how she was called upon to serve.

Mistral was not helping in this quest.

As she, Yarrick and Krauss made their way back up through the levels of the palace, they walked a dozen steps ahead of the others. The rest of her squad helped the Mortisians carry the wounded, and she listened to the commissar’s proposal. It was a good one. It had a high risk of failure, but it was a good plan. There was clarity in its purpose, and, if it succeeded, clarity in its implications. She approved. She said, ‘Do it.’

‘Your participation would be helpful.’

She was about to agree when the fog closed in again. Wangenheim would protest with all his might, and the daemonic incursion into the palace, for the moment, strengthened his hand. ‘The terms of the conflict have changed,’ she said, and then sighed. ‘But until we can counter-attack, they only reinforce the need to defend the palace. The siege must be lifted first.’

Yarrick nodded. ‘I appreciate your position.’

I wish I did, she thought. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to feel less bound by duty. And in that moment, she was granted a sliver of clarity. The insight was distasteful. It was also unarguable. As they reached the ground floor once again, she said to Yarrick, ‘You must speak with the cardinal’s steward.’

2. YARRICK

Vercor was still outside Wangenheim’s chambers. She grinned when she saw me. It was like seeing a knife smile. ‘Are you here to invite me to a game?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said, and turned around. Not on those terms, I thought. Never on those terms. I didn’t want to work with Vercor. I didn’t like the idea of having my back turned on her. I could tell, though, that Vercor had skills useful for what I had in mind. She also knew how Mistral worked. But I would not play the game. I was not Mistralian. The rules of this world had led it to perdition. I’d had enough. I would complete the mission without her.

I walked away, and I was not bargaining.

‘Wait,’ she called.

I stopped, turned around. I said nothing.

‘Tell me what you want,’ she said.

‘If anything goes wrong, to get us all killed. This isn’t an opportunity to hedge your bets, mercenary.’

She thought for a bit, then walked towards me. ‘All right,’ she said.

‘Why?’ I asked.

She glanced back once at the closed door. ‘Because you’re not a fool.’

3. BELLAVIS

The bombardment had left very little in its wake. As he salvaged who and what he could, Bellavis noted the precision and thoroughness of the work. The enemy’s strategy was beyond reproach: canton your foe in a contained, known location, then blanket the area with high explosives. The surprise had been complete. The regiment had been decimated.

Decimated. Not destroyed.

Even as the bombardment was still ongoing, the Mortisians had made for the mountains. There had been no order possible to the evacuation. No companies or squads had been on the run. Only individuals. When the shelling finally stopped, the troops had been scattered over the slopes.

Bellavis had begun the gathering process. He was shielded by his carapace armour and by the fact that he had long ago shed most of his humanity and its attendant weaknesses. He had recovered quickly. So he had started looking, and gradually, the remains of the regiments had coalesced.

It had taken a day for anything like a fighting force to exist. Over the course of the second day, the Mortisians left the ruined Trenqavel valley and headed in the direction of Tolosa. They stuck to the mountains, moving through narrow passes. They had few vehicles left. The tanks and Chimeras that still functioned travelled along rough parallel routes. Forced to use actual roads, they were more vulnerable to a second attack. At least, with the infantry split off, a new bombardment would not finish everything off.

The Carconnes came to an abrupt end at their western edge. Bellavis stood on a wide ledge high on one of the last peaks. Below him, the chain slumped into foothills, and then, after only a few kilometres, the plains. With the magnification of his ocular lenses on high, he watched Basilisks manoeuvring towards the south, moving ever closer to the walls of Tolosa.

‘How long do you think they can hold?’ Schranker asked.

Bellavis visualized the battlefield reduced to vectors of force. His calculations were rendered imprecise by the uncertainty of random events. It was one of the great frustrations of his existence that war was an art instead of a science. ‘The enemy has lost a large number of guns,’ he said. ‘Many remain to him, however. Bringing them all in so close will lead to even greater losses. He appears to be gambling that he will be able to ride out those losses, and maintain a concentrated, precise artillery barrage on the wall long enough to bring it down. The gamble has merit.’

‘So?’

‘Much depends on the inherent strength of the outer wall. The fact that it is still standing speaks well of it. If all of the enemy’s resources were already deployed, I would find the outcome, in the short term, difficult to extrapolate.’

‘You’re about to give me some bad news, aren’t you, enginseer?’

Bellavis pointed. ‘Do you see the train?’ It was many kilometres to the south, on a track that crossed more water than land.

‘Yes. It’s too far for me to make out any details.’

‘Some of its cargo has cannons.’

Schranker sighed. ‘They’re replacing more than troops, then.’

‘So it would seem. I am willing to grant the city another night of successful defence. I say this, sergeant, with more hope than confidence.’

‘When a tech-priest starts using words like hope, I get worried.’

‘I cannot alter the facts before me, though I can wish them otherwise.’

‘You still wish?’

‘It has been known. I am not a servitor, sergeant.’

‘Point taken.’ She shielded her eyes with a hand, watching the train. ‘Be nice to change those facts around a bit.’

‘Agreed. Do you have orders?’

She grimaced when he asked that question. She looked very tired. Her wounds, Bellavis knew, did not make her new responsibilities any easier. She had been burned along her left side when a Hellhound had exploded. She had been running past the tank when the shell had made a direct hit, and the immediate area had suddenly been awash with ignited promethium. The field dressings on her face, neck and arm needed changing, but medical rations were in short supply. So were officers. The command tent had been hit by one of the first shells. None of the captains had escaped. Schranker headed a squad of soldiers who, like her, had survived so many battlefields that their scars had become a form of armour. She was the most senior sergeant still mobile. The leadership of the devastated regiment fell to her. What Bellavis had begun, she had completed, forging a coherent fighting force out of the fragments, and bringing the troops this far.

‘The orders are what they’ve always been,’ Schranker said. ‘Fight the enemy. Stop him. Kill him.’ She grunted. It was her version of a laugh. ‘Well, we can fight and we can kill, tech-priest. How would you rate our chances of stopping him?’

Her body language had become harder to read since her injuries. Bellavis wasn’t sure what response was required. ‘Was your question rhetorical, veteran sergeant?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘It was irrelevant. The odds don’t matter.’

‘And if nothing of the regiment survives? The Imperium must learn of the situation here.’

‘If we vanish, the Imperium will know soon enough. We aren’t heralds. We’re soldiers.’

Bellavis bowed his head. ‘Merely a question,’ he said. ‘Not my desire.’

She arched her remaining eyebrow. ‘Your desire?’

‘To serve the Omnissiah.’ He unfolded his right arm and extended the multi-jointed probe that had replaced his index finger. He pointed towards Tolosa. ‘And to kill the enemy.’

‘Good. I have a plan, then. It may not be good, but it’s the only one open to us. And it is simple. An infantry charge.’

‘That will be our strategy?’

‘You see another option, let me know.’

Bellavis saw none. He kept his silence.

‘Delaying the inevitable,’ she said, disgusted. ‘If that’s all we can do, we still have to do it. If Colonel Granach tries any sortie, he’ll need our support. Plus I want to see plenty of heretic blood on my boots before it’s over.’ She turned away from the edge and began making her way down the slope to where the regiment waited. Bellavis followed.

‘When they attack, so do we,’ Schranker said.

‘That will mean crossing a great deal of open land with no shelter.’

‘And crossing lots of rivers quickly. I know. Gets better all the time, doesn’t it?’

‘Just like home.’

That stopped her. She looked back. Her body language was easy to read there. She was startled by what sounded to her like wistfulness. ‘Doing what we have to, and never mind hope,’ she said. ‘Yes. It is like home. You’re a surprise, tech-priest.’

‘I remember what I was.’ He showed her his bionic left hand. ‘I lost this flesh long before I entered the Adeptus Mechanicus. It was taken by a rival underhive gang.’

‘One that you had to fight, outcome be damned.’

‘That is correct.’

Schranker smiled. The expression was a promise of violence, it was pained, and it was eager. ‘Yet here you still are,’ she said. ‘Here we all are, and no regrets. So let’s go give these traitorous scum a regret or two.’

4. YARRICK

Granach didn’t take much convincing. ‘I think you’re insane, commissar,’ he told me. ‘I also think nothing less than insanity is called for, at this moment.’

He passed me his magnoculars. I looked through them at the junction. I saw the Basilisks being unloaded from the freight cars. ‘Those guns will be inside our minimum range,’ I said.

‘Exactly. We can take down many of the others, but once they are close enough, they will be able to hit us with impunity. We’ll have to attempt a sortie.’

‘That will be a massacre.’ I handed back the magnoculars.

‘There will be a choice of massacres. I prefer the active one. When will you be ready?’

I would have liked another day. If Tolosa could make it through one more night, I would be able to get my team into position under the cover of darkness. We would have the luxury of attacking a target of choice, rather than of opportunity. I would have liked these things. I wished for them, before I answered Granach.

I do not wish for the unattainable any longer. I do not wish I had two arms. I do not wish I had two eyes. I try.

I said to Granach, ‘We are ready now.’

There were five of us: Vercor, Krauss, Betzner, Kortner, myself. Seroff wanted in.

‘Granach will need you on the wall,’ I told him. ‘Without the lord commissar…’

He nodded. ‘Any word?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You think Vahnsinn killed him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m not sure what to hope for,’ Seroff admitted, his eyes pained.

‘Neither do I.’ Our mentor’s death or capture filled me with different shades of helpless rage. I kept the emotion at bay by focusing on destroying those responsible.

We turned the enemy’s tactics against him and went underground. Vercor took us to a disused sewer access in the north-west of the city, a couple of blocks from the outer wall. Though the enforcers were sealing off every enemy-constructed tunnel they could find, it was impossible to close off the underworld. The town’s defence had to rely on the interdicted routes stymieing the cultists by throwing them into the full maze, and on the war being a brief one. If our mission was unsuccessful, the war could well be over come the dawn.

Once into the network, Kortner took the lead. Vercor told him what our heading should be, and he headed off into the tunnels as if born to them. His sense of direction was eerie. There was no direct path, and in the switchbacks, serpentine curves and multiplying junctions, I lost my bearings within the first few minutes. So did Krauss. ‘How can he know where we are?’ he asked.

‘A life in the depths,’ I answered. ‘We all must learn our environments if we’re going to survive.’

We spoke quietly. We had travelled under the defences. We were under the enemy’s feet. The journey took close to four hours. It was early evening when we neared our goal. Though the main docks were along the western wall of Tolosa, on the great Garan river, there were other major trade arteries here, with other docks. Flowing almost perpendicular into the Garan was the Tahrn. It ran almost due north for hundreds of kilometres, fed by dozens of tributaries on the plain, and was the route used for almost as many manufactoria as the Garan. A maglev track ran parallel to it.

We were in former mining tunnels for the last leg of the trek, and Kortner took us into a channel that had been used to pump water and waste out of the mines and into the Tahrn. The rusted remains of the hydraulics hung on the walls: massive, flaking brackets, and the fragments of pipes. The channel ran in a straight line for several hundred metres. We saw the exit from a long way off. The light was fading from the sky as we reached it.

The lower portion of the outfall opening was covered by high reeds. I joined Kortner at the front. We waited five minutes, watching. We saw no one. All of us then emerged into the last of the day. We climbed the bank, and stopped at the base of one of the rockcrete pillars that held the maglev track. We were a few kilometres north of the rail junction. The rear elements of the heretic army were a comfortable distance away. They had moved that much closer to the wall.

‘Is this far enough?’ Krauss asked.

‘Not much of a margin,’ I said. As if to prove the truth of my words, a train passed overhead. We watched it slow as it arrived at the hub. I timed it with my chronometer. ‘Not much at all.’ I asked Vercor, ‘Was that the sort of train we wanted?’

‘No.’ She pointed at the cars. ‘Those are troop transports.’

‘Will you be able to recognize what we want in time?’

‘Yes.’

I looked at the pillar. There were rungs for maintenance workers embedded in the rockcrete. I estimated how long it would take us to climb the twenty metres to the track, then looked north. No sign yet of another train. No matter how fast a schedule the barons sought to maintain, there were still limits. Derailments would do them no good.

Nor us, for that matter.

‘Forward,’ I said. ‘Let’s get as much distance as we can.’

We moved at a quick march from pillar to pillar, pausing at each one to watch for an approaching train. The wind’s constant roar meant that we would not hear the train until it was almost upon us. An hour passed, and we put another few thousand metres between us and the hub. I felt the Emperor’s blessing on our enterprise.

Then another hour ticked by. Twilight dropped towards full dark. I began to worry that there would be no further arrivals until the next day. Behind us, the war began again. Beneath the booming of the guns, I could hear the uproar of human voices. I thought of the squealing of thousands of rodents. My lips pulled back in loathing. I would crush the vermin. I would see them destroyed this night. I would accept nothing less.

I stopped at the next pillar. ‘This is far enough,’ I said. I grabbed the first of the rungs and started to climb.

‘And where is our train?’ Krauss asked, sceptical.

‘It will come,’ I informed him. I would summon one through sheer will, if necessary.

We climbed. At the top there was a narrow steel catwalk running on each side of the track. The hand rails seemed fragile, no thicker than my thumb, no security at all against the violence of the wind gusts. We split up, Betzner and Kortner taking the east side of the rail. We took up our positions, a dozen metres between each of us, crouched low, and waited.

The train would come. I had felt the Emperor’s blessing earlier, and I would not doubt it now. The train would come. I repeated that certainty to myself until it became a prophecy and then, after a quarter of an hour, a reality. We saw its headlight pierce the growing gloom. Then the silhouettes of the cars became visible.

‘Well?’ I asked Vercor.

‘Yes.’

‘Do it,’ I told Betzner.

He took out a canteen filled with promethium, lit the rag that hung from its mouth, and tossed it onto the rail, as far as he could to our rear. Flames spread over the track, a bright flare in the dark. There would be no damage done to the rail, but the effect was impressive. We needed the train slowed, not stopped.

We flattened ourselves on the catwalks. The train rushed towards us, a bullet hundreds of metres long, weighing thousands of tonnes. I kept my head down until the locomotive passed us. When I looked up, the train’s speed was bleeding off.

I jumped up. So did the others. The cars slowed further. They stopped being blurs. I glanced at Vercor. I could just make her out beyond Krauss. She was pointing at a car four down from us. It was a cylinder. This was what we wanted. I braced myself.

The car passed Vercor. She grabbed the ladder that ran up the side of the cylinder. She climbed it with the litheness of an insect. Then it was Krauss’s turn. Then mine. The train was already starting to speed up again, and the jerk of grabbing the ladder was violent. My legs flailed. I hung by my arms for a moment before I managed to haul myself up.

I climbed the ladder. Betzner and Kortner had come up the other side. When we were all gathered on the top of the tanker car, we took stock. The rear of the train was now just shadows in the night, its configuration impossible to make out, though I could see light shining from the rear car. To the front, there was more light coming from the engine and the first car. Enough for us to manoeuvre.

Betzner rapped a fist against the roof of the tank. ‘Promethium,’ he said.

I nodded. Good. ‘Is the rest of the configuration what you thought?’ I asked Vercor.

‘Yes. Troop transports front and rear for security. Everything else is cargo. Mostly munitions.’

Perfect. ‘Let’s go.’

Vercor in the lead now, Krauss and myself just behind. I knew it was killing the inquisitor not to be running the operation. That gave me more satisfaction than it should have. It was also necessary. We were in Vercor’s territory now, and our opening shots would be the acts of an assassin, not a judge. At least his pride was not so powerful as to blind him to the demands of the mission.

Kortner and Betzner brought up the rear. They moved slowly, going backwards as much as they could. I warned them whenever we approached the end of a wagon. We reached the last munitions car, then paused before the troop transport. Vercor leapt across the gap between the cars. She landed with feline grace and padded across the roof. She crouched before the locomotive. I squinted, and could just make out the movement when she turned her head to look at us.

Our presence was about to become known. We were ready. I signalled to her with my arm.

She dropped below the roof. Krauss raced after her. I gave him until he reached the far end of the car, and then the rest of us followed. We ran, and I knew our steps were thunderous. I didn’t care. We were done with stealth. What mattered now was speed and strength.

The two troopers stopped just before the end of the troop car, got down on one knee, and aimed their rifles forward. I looked at the locomotive. The engine’s rear door was open. There was a body just inside, a man’s boots sticking out into the night.

There was a ledge between the cars. I lowered myself to it, then crossed into the locomotive. There were three bodies here, and the sounds of a struggle ahead. I drew my sword, unwilling to risk bolt shells in the confined space. I moved down a narrow corridor. There were storage compartments on either side, and small sleeping areas for the crew and security detail. The fighting was up and to the right. It was an armoury. There were three guards, grappling with Vercor and Krauss. Close quarters, no one firing. I grabbed the nearest one by the hair, hauled him back, and thrust the sword into his side. Krauss was wearing spiked gauntlets. With one hand, he knocked the guard’s bayonet to the side. He made a fist with the other and punched spikes into the man’s eyes. Vercor had her right hand around her opponent’s neck. He was turning purple, had dropped his weapons and was clawing weakly at her arms. She squeezed until her fingers met. There was a lot of blood.

The corridor ended at a closed door. I could see, through the armourglass, the control console. There were two men in there. One was at the controls. The other, to my surprise, I recognized. It was Baron Maurus. He looked much less like a clerk now. He wore carapace armour, and carried it well. He had his lasgun trained at the door. His face was dark with rage, and he was shouting something I could not hear through the steel between us.

To the rear, the sounds of combat began. The other troops had been alerted. Another minute or two, and we would all be dead, and the train would have arrived at the hub.

My bolt pistol could shoot through the armourglass, but I didn’t dare fire. If the driver hit the brakes, and I damaged the controls, the mission would fail. ‘Mercenary,’ I said.

Vercor strode up to the door. She cocked a fist. She snapped it forwards and back. The act was a blur, a serpent’s strike. The window shattered. Maurus fired. Vercor pulled back, but the shot clipped her shoulder. She grunted, staggering for a step as she ducked below the height of the window. Krauss and I moved to the wall on either side of the door.

‘No damage,’ I cautioned Krauss.

He nodded, pulling out his gun. He had replaced his plasma pistol with a needle gun. I had a flash of envy for his private arsenal. He held the weapon with both hands, waiting. Maurus kept firing, scoring walls and the far end of the corridor with burns. His every pull of the trigger ate away at precious seconds.

A pause. Krauss rotated and fired a burst through the aperture. Maurus shot again. The las struck Krauss’s reflective armour. It knocked him back, his chest smoking, but he still stood. On the other side of the door I heard the thuds of heavy weights hitting the floor.

‘Both of them,’ Krauss said.

I reached my arm through the window and unlocked the door. ‘I’ll catch up,’ I said.

Without a word, he and Vercor headed off towards the battle at the transport car.

I stepped over the bodies of Maurus and the other heretic. Krauss’s needles had struck the baron in the eye, the driver in the back of the neck. Lethal neurotoxin had paralysed their arms, legs, necks and eyes. Their chests. They were still alive, suffocating. That was still more mercy than they deserved.

I approached the controls. There were readouts and adjustments I didn’t understand. I didn’t have to. There was a throttle, and that was all I cared about. I pushed it to full. I almost put a shell through the brakes, but decided against it. I might trigger a fail-safe.

The train shook as it picked up yet more speed. I looked ahead. The lights of the battle were drawing closer. We had almost won. All we had to do was keep the heretic troops, who must outnumber us five to one, away from the controls a little while longer, and then leap from a speeding train without spreading ourselves across the landscape.

Nothing could be easier, I thought. I gave a short bark of laughter at my own gallows humour as I picked up Maurus’s lasgun and ran back down the length of the locomotive. I tossed the rifle to Vercor. She and Krauss were crouched before the rear door. He was shooting into the open door of the transport car. He was choosing his shots well. The return fire was fierce, but his needles were just enough of a threat that the soldiers in the car weren’t mounting a charge. Two of their number lay still in the doorway. Vercor opened up with the lasgun. I took a knee and squeezed off shots with my bolt pistol. I aimed with care. I couldn’t risk derailment. So I shot straight through the benches. One shell to blast a hole through the thin steel. A second shot through the hole to shatter the flesh on the other side. And then again. At the periphery of my consciousness, I was aware of the struggle happening on the roof of the car. The heretics were going out the rear of the transport, climbing up, and running into the barrage laid down by Kortner and Betzner.

A little bit longer, I thought. A little bit longer. The train tore up the track as we fought. Now time worked against the heretics. Every second we held them back brought them closer to their great doom.

I checked my chronometer. Based on where we had boarded the train, we were only a few seconds away from the victory line. One of the enemy must have realized what we were attempting, and chosen the death of the train and all aboard it over a much greater loss. A frag grenade was hurled from inside the transport car. It sailed through the door, over our heads, and bounced on the floor behind us, rolling into the control compartment.

No, I thought. I threw myself after the grenade. One, by the Emperor. I didn’t even know how long the explosive had cooked in the foe’s hand. I didn’t care. If I did not try to counter this threat, all was lost. Two, by the Emperor. I picked up the grenade. There was no time to get back to the other end of the locomotive. Three, by the Emperor. ‘Go!’ I shouted at the others as I fired through the locomotive’s windshield and threw the grenade forward at the same time. The wind hurled shards of plex-glass into my face. Four, by the Emp–

The frag exploded. Flash of fire and shrapnel. The blast and the wind knocked me back. Jaggedness cut my flesh and uniform. The cabin was filled with the sound of injured metal. The control panel shorted. Sparks flew. Smoke billowed at me.

But the train did not slow.

Now. Now, now, now!

I looked back. Vercor and Krauss were gone. Heretic troops were crossing between the cars. No getting out that way. I jumped up onto the burning and steering console, choking on smoke, and pulled myself through the shattered windshield. I was pushing against a hurricane blast. My eyes were stinging, tearing, closed. I had no time. I had no choice. I had only my faith as, with all my strength, I leapt to the right.

It was a good jump. The train did not clip my heels and send me spinning. I plunged, eyes still sealed. Perhaps I was falling into my final darkness.

When I think about this moment, I sometimes believe that I had a shiver of premonition. It seems to me that there are, in my life, currents of call and ever-greater echo. Did that fall whisper to me of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka dropping me down that infernal well? I don’t trust my memory here. It may be distorted by my need to see purpose and patterns. But I have also experienced foreshadowing of an incontrovertible nature. So I do think I was touched by a presentiment of a worse fall to come.

This one was bad enough. I knew nothing but the roar of wind and the speed of flight. I braced for an impact I couldn’t anticipate. It came. I hit water. It felt like slamming into steel. It was a steel that gave, and made a fist, and squeezed me as it battered. But it was the pain I had hoped for, and I was ready for it. I rode it out, took the battering and spread my arms, slowing, then arresting my descent. I made it back to the surface, choking and gagging, and relieved to be so. I swam for the shore, where I saw four figures, all moving. Waterlogged, staggering, I didn’t stop when I reached land, but climbed up the riverbank. I needed to see what we had wrought. The others followed.

The full length of the train had passed us. It rocketed to the junction. There was nothing that could stop it. The heretics aboard, and those in the junction, would know what was upon them. This pleased me.

It began with the sound of the impact itself, a heavy, grinding, raging clash of metal on metal and rockcrete. Speed and mass turned on each other. The din of war was drowned out by the thunder of the wreck, a thunder that built and built and built. The sheer length of the crescendo inspired awe and fear. I saw the train whiplash off the track like a thing alive. It was a dark miracle. No mass that great should move in this way. And still the sound grew, torturing the night itself, reaching across the plain, crying an agony that must be expressed before the greater thing happened.

Then it came. The promethium ignited first. The tanker car exploded. A liquid sun screamed to life in the junction. Its birth seared the eye. It spread a parabola of fire. As the streams of flame made landfall, the munitions cooked off. The chain of explosions was a second crescendo. It was the great fanfare in a symphony of destruction. Multiple sharp blasts merged into a single k-k-k-k-krak, and the finale was so huge it smashed everything. There was light and there was sound, but all contours ceased to exist. I was blinded by my own creation. The shock wave came. It shamed the Mistralian wind, and knocked us flat. The new gale howled. Within it were other shrieks. Things were bending, things were burning. Metal tore. Rockcrete shattered to powder. The world was without form, and void.

And we had done this.

The light and the sound faded. Dazed, half-deaf, I stood up. The landscape was lit by the glow of a hundred fires. There was nothing left of the junction. It was a crater, filled with twisted iron. The tracks leading to Tolosa now ended in contortions like gnarled claws. The enemy guns had vanished. From this distance, I could not tell, through the smoke and fire and wreckage, how many of the enemy infantry had been destroyed, I could but guess.

The sounds of battle had not ceased. The struggle at the wall continued. I heard a distant roar now. It was a human shout. It was the exhilarated triumph of the besieged descending upon the besiegers.

And then, in the dark behind us, came an answering roar. I had a moment of despair, thinking another massive troop reinforcement had arrived, and we had accomplished nothing except to lure our own troops out to be slaughtered. But then the advancing force became visible. The light from the great burning revealed the standards of Aighe Mortis. Kortner and Betzner started cheering. The surviving rumps of the 77th and 110th regiments were about to join together, crushing the heretics out of existence.

To my right, Vercor chuckled. She clapped her bionic hands together, very slowly. ‘Commissar,’ she said, ‘you do play the game well. Never believe otherwise.’

I didn’t answer. She was still wrong. I had not played a game. We had upended the board.

CHAPTER 16

Reversals

1. RASP

There was another level, deeper yet, to hell. It took Rasp hours into his captivity to notice that Vahnsinn, when he visited, did not always leave in the same direction. After Rasp had first been shackled, Vahnsinn headed off to the left to make ready his mysterious threat against Tolosa. But with increasing frequency, he was going right. The beatings, the whippings and worse resumed as soon as the baron turned his back, so it was difficult for Rasp to see where he went. But once, in a well-timed pause as a torturer pulled his arm back for another blow, he saw, deep in the shadows to the right, Vahnsinn begin a descent.

In those moments where the pain dulled enough to let him think, Rasp wondered what was down there. Whatever Vahnsinn was doing, it was having a visible effect on him. His visits were irregularly spaced, but there were many of them. He wanted to talk. He seemed as shackled to his need to taunt Rasp as the lord commissar was to the chair. He ranted. He mocked. Sometimes, his confidence cracked and strange anger and desperation leaked through. Rasp hoped this meant the war was going against the barons. Even if it was, that didn’t account for all that he was seeing in Vahnsinn. Each time he returned from the lower level, he had decayed.

Rasp’s body was being taken apart, one blow, one cut, one branding, one shock at a time. His nose and cheekbones were broken. He could not see out of his swollen right eye. He had lost the fingernails of his left hand. His ribs moved when he breathed. Most of his joints had been dislocated, reset, and dislocated again. The warmth of the blood covering his face and chest, and running down his limbs, was almost a comfort. He no longer recognized his physical self as an integral whole. It was a collection of autonomous agonies. And still, he could see enough through the haze of pain to be shocked by Vahnsinn’s changing appearance.

The disintegration was rapid. The baron was already almost unrecognizable. It was as if the cultured, refined figure of sanity he had presented in the lead-up to the war had been a shell preserved through artificial means. Now the rot, held off too long, was claiming its due. Some of the changes appeared to be self-inflicted. There were cuts on his face, knife slashes as savage as they were complex. He had shaved his head, and the cuts extended over his entire skull. The patterns were runic, yet they were also something greater, and far more toxic. They were beyond a foul language, beyond representation. They did not just hold a dread meaning. They were the result of direct contact with that meaning.

His skin, under the scarification, was changing tone. It was the white of ancient death, mottled with the yellow of bad teeth, the green of festering sins. He had exchanged the uniform of his House for robes. Traces of the Vahnsinn livery were visible on them, as were echoes of all the other noble families of Mistral. They were woven together into a sinew of symbolism that was dominated by repeated images of a sinuous emblem that seemed to be both teardrop and blade.

Every time he reappeared, the robes were altered. They were rotting too, despite the obvious richness of the material. They were not tearing or fraying, but there was something curdled about them. The colours were growing darker, murkier. Sometimes, when Vahnsinn gestured, the sleeves did not ride up his arms as they should, as if the flesh and the cloth were merging.

Vahnsinn hurled insults and curses at Rasp. He blasphemed. He ridiculed the efforts of the Imperial Guard. He was also cajoling, arguing, preaching. He kept pausing after questions, clearly waiting for the moment when at last Rasp would concede, and speak the yes of moral surrender.

‘Why do you care?’ Rasp finally said. It was difficult to speak. Several teeth were missing, and his tongue had been burned and pierced. ‘What are you hoping to achieve with me?’

‘Hoping?’ Vahnsinn asked, genuinely puzzled. ‘There is no hope in this place, Simeon. Hope is forbidden. Hope is dead. There is truth, here, though, and you will accept it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I did!’ The howl exposed an abyss of pain, but no regret.

Rasp gaped. Was Vahnsinn that consumed by his own ego? Did he think he could accept his own damnation if he dragged Rasp down with him? The triviality and expense of the endeavour were astounding. ‘Kill me now, you deluded idiot,’ Rasp said. ‘You’re wasting my time and your own.’

Vahnsinn was suddenly transfixed by a point in space above and behind Rasp. ‘No,’ he said, his voice dull. He cocked his head, still staring. Then he nodded. ‘Your destiny,’ he said. He kept nodding, agreeing with an invisible interlocutor. ‘You have appointments to keep.’

Rasp’s blood no longer warmed him. Cold, purposeful and unforgiving, spread from his heart to his fingertips. He didn’t understand what Vahnsinn was talking about, but what he heard in that dead voice was not belief or certainty or faith, but simple fact. ‘You know nothing of my destiny,’ he whispered. Even to his own ears, his denial sounded too much like a plea.

Vahnsinn blinked several times, his eyelids an insect-wing blur. He looked down at Rasp, his eyes clear again. ‘What did you say?’

‘I won’t have you speaking of my destiny.’

Vahnsinn frowned. ‘Why would I? It isn’t mine to determine.’

Before Rasp could answer, another figure joined them. Baroness Elleta Gotho wore robes similar to Vahnsinn’s. Hers, too, were diseased. She, too, had shaved her head. She was one of the most elderly of the nobles, and she walked with a cane. It seemed to grow from her palm. It was a dark fusion of bone and petrified serpent. She mounted the dais, but waited a step away for Vahnsinn to notice her. The other aristocrats, it seemed, had learned from Lom’s mistake, and knew their place.

‘What is it?’ Vahnsinn asked without turning around.

‘Tolosa is lost.’

‘Good. We can–’

‘To us,’ she corrected.

Now Vahnsinn faced her. ‘This is definitive?’

‘Yes. Our forces were exterminated.’

Vahnsinn was surprised, but did not appear enraged. ‘How?’ he asked, then waved a hand. ‘Never mind. It isn’t important.’

The absence of rage unnerved Rasp. The ember of triumph that had flared in his chest now flickered.

Vahnsinn turned back to him. ‘Unchain him,’ he ordered the torturers. He smiled. The deep cuts to his lips made his mouth hang oddly.

The shackles fell away. Rasp was hauled to his feet. He could not stand without help.

Still smiling, Vahnsinn said, ‘You think this makes a difference? That something important has happened? You’re wrong.’ The grin became wider, and more awful. It was the leprosy of joy. ‘But something important is about to happen. Come and see.’

They blindfolded him, and he was dragged off the dais. Once more, he was hauled through the clamouring space of Karrathar, up stairs, down corridors, through the stench and cold of corruption. Then a door opened, and he felt the wind against his face.

Vahnsinn removed the blindfold. They were standing on a small balcony jutting out of a turret. Below them was an enclosed courtyard. It was dominated by a single missile and its launch mechanism. ‘Do you know what that is?’ the baron asked.

Rasp stared. The hope he had been nurturing so carefully was smothered. The rocket was huge, and it did not belong on Mistral. Rasp knew that the planet did not have the Standard Template Construct for this weapon. The missile must have been acquired through theft or black market trade on a scale he did not want to imagine, and whose implications reached far beyond Mistral. The launcher was not, as it should have been, a vehicle. It was clearly improvised, designed for this one location, and for a single target. Cultists swarmed over the machinery. The work was not yet done. The rocket could not launch. But if Vahnsinn was showing him this, the labours below must be almost complete.

Rasp understood Vahnsinn’s sanguine reaction to the defeat at Tolosa. Perhaps the baron had always hoped the need to fire the rocket would come. Or perhaps it was not a question of hope or eventualities. Perhaps he had always planned to commit this crime.

‘You recognize it,’ Vahnsinn insisted.

‘Yes.’ Rasp barely heard his own voice. It was a broken whisper, whipped away in tatters by the wind.

‘Name it.’

Rasp did. He spoke two syllables, and learned the sound of his own despair. He said, ‘Deathstrike.’

2. YARRICK

In the streets of Tolosa, in the great square outside the palace, the people were celebrating. They had died in the thousands. Entire habzones had been destroyed. On every street, the scars of the shelling still smoked. There were countless victims still trapped beneath the rubble of collapsed buildings. Even as the rescue parties continued digging, the people danced. The explosion of gratitude was orders of magnitude beyond what Wangenheim had been able to conjure for his festival. If he had managed to orchestrate events so that he appeared responsible for the end of the siege, the people of Tolosa would have been his forever. But he had been invisible during the entire conflict. The citizens had been aware of two forces in their streets: the enforcers, and the Imperial Guard. The Ecclesiarchy had been absent. So now there was celebration, and all gratitude flowed directly towards the Emperor, as it should.

In the Council chamber, the mood was different. We knew the war was not over. We had won a battle, and the chance to take the fight to the enemy. And the configuration had changed. The Sisters of Battle would be at our sides.

That prospect terrified Wangenheim.

‘How can you go?’ he demanded. He still sat on his raised throne. He still laboured under the illusion that any of us cared about his wailings. We were all free of him, now.

Setheno did him the courtesy of answering. I suspected this would be the last such favour that she would grant him. ‘The daemonic influence must be purged from Imperial soil. We now have the opportunity to strike that enemy. Our duty is clear.’

‘But–’

‘So is my conscience.’ And she turned her back on the cardinal.

We ignored him for the rest of the conference. He became nothing more than a background irritant. His time had passed. Tolosa was his to govern as he chose, and as he was able. Our concerns reached beyond the city now. The momentum was ours. But we had to know where to strike.

‘The Vahnsinn holdings are extensive,’ Krauss said. ‘Numerous estates, dozens of manufactorum concerns. There are a few fortified locations, some of them strategically placed in relation to the manufactoria. The–’

‘Karrathar,’ Vercor said. ‘He’ll be at Karrathar.’

The steward had, at my suggestion, been invited to attend the Council. ‘She seems to know everything about us,’ I’d told Granach. ‘We might as well learn a few things from her.’ He didn’t argue the point. I’m sure the cardinal’s stuttering outrage at her inclusion helped strengthen my argument.

‘Why there?’ Granach asked.

‘It’s within easy reach of the city. More importantly, it’s where the Vahnsinns have always gone to ground. Once they are inside, no one has ever been able to make them come out.’

‘Then we will make history,’ Granach said. ‘We’ll pry the coward from his hiding place, or we’ll bring it down around his ears.’

Vercor nodded, but her expression was amused, sceptical.

Setheno was watching her closely, too. ‘With your assistance, of course,’ she added.

Some of Vercor’s amusement drained away when she faced the sister superior. ‘Of course,’ she repeated.

An hour later, we mustered outside the walls of Tolosa. The regiment was a fraction of what it had been when we had made planetfall on Mistral. But we were still the Hammer of the Emperor, and we would shatter the enemy. We had dealt him one terrible blow. In that smoke-filled afternoon, standing on the blasted field of battle, not one of us doubted the outcome of the war.

The conduct of the war, though, was a bone of contention. The Sisters of Battle were not satisfied with the idea of the campaign being spearheaded by the Mortisians, or led by Granach. Seroff and I stood to one side with Captain Saultern and Veteran Sergeant Schranker, commanded to keep quiet, while Granach confronted Setheno.

‘There are dangers ahead, colonel,’ she said, ‘that you do not have the training to confront. These are matters that go beyond commonplace faith.’

‘Are you doubting my faith?’ Granach demanded. ‘Or that of my troops?’

‘That it has the required strength, yes,’ she said, as if she were surprised by the question.

I fumed, grinding my teeth in the effort it took to remain still. Seroff whispered, ‘Your fault, you know.’

I looked sideways at him, at some level grateful for the distraction. ‘What?’

Seroff shrugged. ‘That little operation of yours.’

‘What about it?’

‘A bit too brilliant, Seb. And she knows it was your idea, not the colonel’s.’

‘So I’ve somehow undermined his authority?’

‘For those willing to find fault in him, yes.’

I was about to protest the illogic, then thought better of it.

‘All politics, even now,’ Seroff added.

‘No,’ I said. ‘This isn’t just political.’ The battle in the depths of the palace rose before my mind’s eye. Seroff didn’t know. He hadn’t seen what I had. For him, the daemonic still existed at an abstract level. ‘They really don’t think we’re strong enough.’

‘Aren’t we?’

I hesitated. The fact that the Adepta Sororitas had some basis for regarding the Imperial Guard as a collection of weaker vessels did not make their view any easier to accept. ‘We’ll find out,’ I said.

Urgent whispering behind me. I turned around. Kortner had arrived. He was speaking to Saultern, but kept glancing at me. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Trooper Betzner,’ he said. ‘Something’s happening to him.’

Saultern looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Where?’ I said, seized with premonition.

He led the way at a run. Saultern followed close behind. Deep in the ranks, a circle of witnesses had formed around Betzner. He had collapsed to his hands and knees. He was shaking with such violence that I feared for his spine. His teeth were chattering hard enough to split. He was gasping, and as I pushed my way through the uneasy troops, I thought I heard him trying to form words.

I knelt before him. He clutched at my coat. His grip was unbreakable. His face was grey, sheened with sweat. His mouth worked, struggling. There was an immensity inside him, and it was trying to burst him apart.

‘What is it, trooper?’ I asked.

‘Fire…’ he managed. He drew a grinding breath. ‘Go…’ The word was a plea. His eyes bulging, he said, ‘Now…’ That was a plea, too. And consuming terror.

‘We will,’ I told him, and that shred of reassurance was enough. He collapsed, still shaking, but no longer struggling. He had done his duty, and was now riding out the seizure. I stood and turned to Saultern. I did not have the authority to order him, but I told him what needed to be done. ‘We have to leave,’ I said. ‘Immediately.’

He nodded, and he was already mobilizing his company as I ran back to Granach. He and Setheno were still at loggerheads, though they had paused in their argument, startled by the sound of rapid activity in the troops. ‘Colonel,’ I said, ‘if we don’t move out now, we never will.’

‘What has happened?’ Setheno asked.

‘It hasn’t, yet.’

I hoped she wouldn’t ask more. There were questions surrounding Betzner, questions I could no longer avoid, but now was not the time. Setheno turned away from us and signalled to her Sisters to move out.

That was enough for Granach. He gave me a hard look, but he issued the orders, and the regiments lurched into movement.

3. WANGENHEIM

He commanded that the doors of the Chapel Majoris be opened to all. The citizens were exuberant, and he should harness that energy. With the most powerful military levers of his power leaving Tolosa, Wangenheim had to leverage the means still at his disposal with care. To be part of the celebration was a first step. To be seen to be leading it was the second, and so he performed the Great Victory Mass.

So many people came, their numbers spilling out of the chapel, through the halls of the palace, and out the main entrance. The scene was too great a gift to be an accident. It was the Emperor’s will. The population had come to him after all, and he seized the opportunity.

He conducted the mass in two parts, beginning with what he described as a private benediction to the huge crowd in the Chapel Majoris. Then he moved to the balcony over the palace’s main entrance. There he preached his sermon, his voice resounding from vox-casters on the palace walls, retransmitted to speakers across the city. The square still bore the scars and bloodstains of the massacre, but that was nothing in a city that had been so profoundly battered. Below him were the thousands upon thousands, packed even more tightly than the night of the festival, their joy unfettered, their enthusiasm beyond anything he had ever been able to manufacture. They had come to pray, and he was their cardinal, and so the people were now his as they had never been before.

Their rapture became his. The city became his. As he spoke, he revelled in the irony of his triumph. In the end, the barons had played the role he had assigned them, and done so with a hundredfold more force than he had ever dared to hope.

He drew the sermon to an end, and thought about vengeance. The barons would be annihilated shortly. They were no longer his concern. He had never seen them as loyal to begin with. The disloyalty of those he should have been able to trust, though, was a different story, and warranted a different sort of punishment. Vercor had betrayed centuries of tradition. Time she was ended, and her replacement decanted. That was a simple matter. More complex was what to do with Setheno. The Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn had failed him, and by extension the Ecclesiarchy, at a moment of great need. They would all be censured, but the decisions were Setheno’s. What was called for, he thought, was a long, slow, painful fall from grace.

The idea made him smile. He let the prospect of retaliation fill him with beatitude as he finished the mass. He spread his arms to embrace the people, his cherubim singing with joy. The people embraced him back with a roar of thanksgiving and triumph. The roar built, louder and louder, wave upon wave. He stood with his arms spread, head back, feeling a new apex of power. He saw a streak of fire piercing the clouds, and for a moment he conceived of it as the physical manifestation of his will.

But then he realized the absurdity of the fantasy. The reality of the fire struck home. And then the terrible seconds began. They were an eternity during which he had all the time he needed to see what was coming, to know that this was a missile from which there would be no running, and no shelter.

Below, the people looked up at him, and no higher. They did not see what was coming. They celebrated, and their happiness was a grating irony in his ears.

All his glory, all his power, and all his plans fell away from him, like water through his hands.

And though the seconds were eternal, still he was not granted the blurring comfort of tears before the fire came.

4. YARRICK

We made for the mountains at forced-march speed. They were our target. I didn’t know if they could be our refuge. I didn’t know what we were rushing towards, or fleeing from. I don’t know if my word alone would have convinced Granach to act as quickly as he did. But Setheno took me seriously, and that was confirmation enough. The regiments moved with purpose and speed. With an urgency that none of us fully understood, we put several kilometres between ourselves and Tolosa.

And then…

The missile was a great howl. I looked up. Its passage was a sword wound in the sky. I knew what it must be. I knew that this was the shape of Betzner’s terror. I controlled the impulse to run blindly. My reason knew what the animal within me did not: nothing I did now would make a difference.

Except…

Be the symbol.

My mind flew to this conclusion in a fraction of a second. In the moments that remained, I stopped walking, and turned, standing straight, to face Tolosa. Unbowed, I thought. Unbowed. Unbowed. Unbow–

The Deathstrike hit. I shut my eyes for the moment of impact. The flash was still blinding. I looked again to see the light of day become a paltry thing before the killing glare of the plasma detonation. The fireball expanded, boiling, furious, to consume all of Tolosa. I forced myself to watch, forced myself to understand the full horror of what I was seeing. The city was in the heart of a star. Down every street, superheated incandescence raced. It devoured everything. Some buildings disintegrated. Others, a little further from the zero of the blast, collapsed. All were destroyed.

Tolosa was scorched from the surface of Mistral.

The fireball continued to expand. It reached beyond the city walls. It was a tide of fire coming for us. Had I been proud of my works when the train had exploded? That event was wretched and puny compared to this.

The shock wave reached us. I could not stand when it hit. I was slammed to the ground. The force swept over the regiments like a scythe through wheat. We were flattened. Setheno managed to remain standing, faith and will refusing to bend the knee before anything except the Emperor. But then she too was lifted into the air and hurled down. Then came the wind, and then the heat, the stages of destruction familiar from the night before, but a thousand times greater.

I forced myself to my feet. I would not stay down before the enemy’s blow. I would stand. I leaned into the battering wind. I faced the spectacle of absolute waste. I stared down the fire that reached as high as the clouds.

The great thunder came, and when it passed, the fireball gave way to a cloud of smoke and dust whose mushroom shape triggered an atavistic despair. It was the shape of all things ending. I stared at this too. I made myself understand all the implications of this immensity. This was Vahnsinn’s act. He could do this huge thing. This was the measure of our enemy.

We could so easily have been there. Of all the horrors before me, what most disturbed me was the horror that had not occurred. The regiments had survived, and the reasons for their survival smacked of capricious luck. If that fit had not come upon Betzner, if he had been ignored, if he had been killed on the train the night before, if Setheno had not agreed with me, if… if… if…

I wanted to point to a decision that had followed a chain of logic and evidence, and say here, this moment, right here was what saved us. But there was only the symptom of a single trooper, a symptom whose only explanation would open the door to another form of darkness. There was no good reason for any of us to be alive. No strategy or perceptiveness had come to our aid. Only chance. Only…

The answer came, as it should have at the start, had I not been weak.

‘The Emperor protects!’ I shouted, renewed in strength and faith. Only the soldiers in my immediate vicinity could hear me, but I spoke in the certainty that my words would spread to all – not because they were mine, but because they were a simple truth.

To my right, I noticed that Setheno was standing, her presence so emphatic I wondered if I had truly seen her fall. She was watching me. I knew she couldn’t make out what I said. I knew that didn’t matter. ‘Look at what the enemy has done,’ I continued. ‘Look and feel no fear. Feel hatred. Feel the need for revenge. Fuel the fire with which you will burn the heretic. Tolosa is destroyed. You may think that everything we have fought and bled for these last few days has been lost. This is not so! We do not fight for land, or buildings, or a city, or even the millions of lives therein. No, not even them. We fight for our Emperor. We fight for our Creed! It is greater than any of us, and what more proof do we need of the inevitability of its victory than the fact that we still live? The enemy sought to immolate us with the greatest of his weapons, and he has failed. Let us march on, our purpose forged anew in this furnace. We are the sword point of the Creed, and it is time for the infidel to taste our steel!’

No one cheered, which was as it should be. Vahnsinn had struck us a hard blow. But despite the magnitude of his crime, it was militarily insignificant.

No. That wasn’t true. The annihilation of Tolosa had great significance. I saw it in the eyes of the troops after I had finished speaking. We had nothing left to defend on Mistral except for the Imperial Creed itself. Now Vahnsinn would learn how dangerous he had made us.

CHAPTER 17

The Need to Know

1. VAHNSINN

In the chapel, Vahnsinn raged. ‘How could we not know?’ he demanded. The other barons said nothing. As he stalked the circle, his robes flapped in odd ways. They were becoming too heavy, as if they were made of leather instead of silk. He had not removed them since his return to Karrathar, and now they tugged and pulled at him. He was finding it difficult to walk as he once did, and that did not help his mood. He rounded on Eichen. ‘We should have known! Why didn’t we?’

The big man took a step back. His flesh wobbled when he did so. He had grown much heavier over the last few days. His complexion was now permanently the dark red of cardiac arrest. Layers of folded skin like melted wax spilled over the collar of his robe. He was losing form. ‘Bad luck…’ Eichen began.

Vahnsinn backhanded him. His knuckles were ragged and bony. They tore gouges across Eichen’s cheek. The blood was thick, dark, slow. ‘What have we been learning? Why have we presented burned offerings? Luck shouldn’t hold any mysteries for us any more! If you can speak those words at all, you are unworthy of the revelations we have received.’

Eichen cringed. On his knees, he begged forgiveness. He kept swallowing his words. He sounded like bubbling tar. Perhaps he was the weak link. Perhaps he was why they had not known the Mortisians would leave Tolosa before the Deathstrike arrived. Vahnsinn thought about ripping his head from his shoulders. Instead, he turned away in disgust. The problem was deeper than one fool.

The chapel was directly beneath the torture hall. Sigils were engraved with deep channels into the floor. They were fed by gutters that ran down the walls, drawing blood from the torments above. Around the periphery, remains were stacked. These were the sacrifices used to augment the constant flow of death. They should have been sufficient. The war should be over.

‘Get out,’ he told the barons. When they had left, some of them shuffling, at least one hopping instead of walking, he turned to the altar. It was a deceptively delicate construction. It was made of wrought iron and the treated bones of Preacher Guilhem, the man who had first spoken the words of truth in Vahnsinn’s ear. He had almost turned Guilhem away the day he had first appeared at the door of Grauben Manor. The man had been ragged of clothing and flesh, his eyes filled with madness. But he managed to talk his way past the serf at the door and into Vahnsinn’s study, and there begin speaking to the baron. Vahnsinn could no longer remember what Guilhem had actually said that evening. The words had vanished back into the warp. He remembered only their effect. He had been transfixed by their revelations. He had not left the house for the next three days, doing nothing but listen to the gospel of patterns, of weaving, of change.

Though the truths were now branded on his soul, only one word from his time of conversion remained lodged in his memory; it was a name, and one he had never spoken aloud: Ghalshannha. It was a sharp lash of barbed wire across his cortex. Whenever he thought that name, the world seemed to come apart and re-knit itself in ways both surprising and inevitable.

His new faith had taught him about the nature of change. It had taught him to embrace it, to revel in mutability and corruption. And it had taught him the concrete rewards of worship. He had known every one of Wangenheim’s steps before the cardinal had even conceived of them. But the rewards had a cost, and the first to pay the price was Guilhem himself. The preacher had done more than accept his fate. He had insisted upon it, even when the skin had been stripped from his skeleton. He had screamed then, but he had also laughed in the ecstasy of a prophecy fulfilled.

Vahnsinn had taken his bones and used them as the heart of the altar. It was a framework whose shape was different depending upon the angle from which it was viewed. From the side, it resembled a box within a box. From the front, it was a long, serpentine coil. It was black with pain and old blood.

Why had the foresight failed him? He had not anticipated the derailing of the munitions train. And he had been just a few hours late with the Deathstrike. Were the gifts not sufficient? ‘What more do you want?’ he asked the metal and bone.

Silence.

He stalked to the rear of the chapel, where prisoners were held in cages with razored floors. He selected a man and a woman, both former serfs who had refused to convert. He hauled their mewling, bleeding forms to the altar. He chained them to the construct. ‘What do you want?’ he asked again. He had a long knife with a triple-curved blade at his belt, but he did not draw it. Instead, he went to work on the sacrifices with his hands and with his teeth. When he had done tearing, the floor was awash with vitae. The air was thick with humid stench.

‘What do you want?’ he cried.

The whispers began at last. The voice at the base of his skull told him what he must do. He nodded. He stepped forward until he was touching the altar. He drew his blade. He began to saw.

He started with his nose.

Shortly after, the voice told him what he needed to know.

2. SETHENO

The Chimera jounced over huge ruts in the road. It jolted to a halt for a moment as its wheels spun for purchase. They found it, and the vehicle jerked forward again. Inside, its passengers were knocked around the compartment. Setheno kept herself grounded and did not move. She stood over Granach’s makeshift command table, studying the hololith of approaches to Karrathar. There were three. The primary one, which still appeared to receive some use, ran in parallel to the maglev track. The other two had once, millennia ago, been caravan routes through the mountains. Granach had sent diversionary forces along the main approach and the more direct of the disused trails. The bulk of the regiments was taking the slowest, most tortuous path. It was in a state of ongoing disintegration, falling apart like fragmented memory. It went much higher than the other two approaches, climbed and dropped abruptly through sharp turns. At times, it seemed to disappear entirely. It was miraculous that the Chimeras were still able to advance.

Granach’s strategy made sense, though. Vahnsinn could not interdict all the routes without spreading his forces too thin. So the Imperials would draw his attention on the other routes, giving the true army the chance to get that much closer to Karrathar. It was the next step that didn’t satisfy her. The Mortisians were not equipped for a long siege, but Vercor’s descriptions of the fortress’s emplacement did not suggest any ready alternative.

Except perhaps a small insertion force.

She turned her attention away from the map. Yarrick was speaking quietly to Granach. The commissar had mentioned an insertion earlier. His instincts, she thought, were sound, though he showed signs of excessive tolerance. She had questions about one of the troopers under his jurisdiction. The questions would wait, for the moment, but not much longer.

In the far corner of the compartment, Vercor was leaning against a bulkhead, her face blank. The mercenary had been subdued since the annihilation of Tolosa. She had dropped her posture of amused cynicism, answering the colonel’s questions with flat, precise disinterest.

Setheno brushed past the command table and approached Vercor. ‘You are troubled,’ she said.

‘I’m not interested in your sermons,’ Vercor answered.

‘I do not preach.’ She left that to others. ‘I chastise.’

A flicker of the amusement returned. ‘I can well imagine. With gun and blade.’

Setheno said nothing. She stood before Vercor until the other woman sighed and said, ‘I am the end of my family’s history.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My genetic succession was stored in the Ecclesiarchal palace. The name of Vercor now ends with me.’

This type of concern was mysterious to Setheno. She knew it existed, particularly in aristocratic families. Even the Adeptus Astartes knew a form of it, given the importance of their own genetic continuity. The Sisters of Battle had no issue. The only continuity was in the life of the orders, and in the perpetuation and defence of the Faith. Still, she was curious. The woman was a good fighter. Setheno needed to understand whoever she might be alongside in combat. The mercenary was distasteful, but could not be ignored. She said, ‘What does that name mean?’

Now Vercor was silent.

‘It meant nothing,’ Setheno pursued. ‘You have lost nothing. Now you are part of an honourable struggle. You should be giving thanks.’

Still nothing.

The Chimera stopped again, less suddenly. ‘The road’s out,’ the driver called back.

‘I’ll have a look,’ Yarrick said. He dropped the rear loading ramp. He stepped outside.

And then war roared, and the Chimera was turning end over end.

3. YARRICK

They knew. My mind shouted the words as I was hurled to the ground. They knew where we were. They knew. They knew. They knew.

It began with another artillery barrage, and it was unnaturally precise. Fired kilometres away, from positions we could not possibly see, the shells came down to punish us for daring to think we could trespass on Vahnsinn territory. The impact was devastating. I was surrounded by flame, explosions, fountains of earth and rock, and the hurtling, shredded death of soldiers. I was thrown down. Before me, like a series of still hololiths breaking into static, I saw the Chimera topple into the crevasse before it. I saw it tipping forwards. I saw it nose down, near vertical. Then it was gone.

We were in a narrow pass. The slopes on either side were steep, but they weren’t cliffs. I staggered to my feet, deafened by blasts. Flying rock struck the side of my head. Dazed, I plunged to my right, charging up the mountainside in a lurching, hunch-backed run. At a barely conscious level, I attempted to use the very accuracy of the bombardment to my advantage, reaching for a higher ground that was not the target. And I was right. Though the world-ending sound of the shells still hammered at my skull, the explosions were behind and below me.

They knew. They knew. They knew.

I drew my sword and pistol. I charged at nothing at all, tilting at fate, my throat tearing with a roar I could not hear. I defied the disaster. I denied it. I demanded an enemy I could kill, and the Emperor provided. The shelling ended. The next phase of the ambush began. The heretics burst from camouflaged emplacements on the mountainside. Vahnsinn was not relying on the remote destruction of artillery. He wanted to do far more than smash our advance. He wanted to exterminate us. And now his mad army raced down, towards me, towards our savaged regiments, with ecstatic fury.

I matched their rage. I surpassed it. For all I knew, I was the only one on these slopes, but I ran upwards even faster, though my lungs were ragged with effort and smoke. I fired at the first glimpse of the foe, and the different pain in my chest told me that I laughed as a cultist’s head exploded. If I was about to die, I would do so bringing the fight to the enemy, teaching the vermin that though we might be killed, we could never be defeated.

I was not alone. Las-fire streaked past me. I did not look back, but I felt the strength of my fellow troops behind me. We stormed up the slope. The enemy had the higher ground, but he was abandoning it in favour of a massive charge. In the end, that only brought the heretics faster into the teeth of our wrath.

The two forces hit. Combat was awkward on a gradient so steep. It took little to be knocked to the ground, and falling meant never rising again. I grounded myself, planting my blade in the scree when I felt my balance going. I fired shells in quick succession, sweeping my arm in an arc. Every trigger pull sent another cultist to damnation. After the fury of the initial charge, I entered a cold, mechanical detachment. Like a cogitator slaved to a servitor body, I did nothing but pick targets and take them down. The heretics obliged me. Their numbers made them impossible to miss, but the nature of their attack also delivered them to my lethal mercies. I saw fewer and fewer traces of the original uniforms and liveries. As the appearance of the traitors fell deeper into Chaos, so did their tactics. They cared for nothing except to surrender to their bloodlust. After the uncanny precision of the ambush came the tumult of the mob. The cultists were a tide that could sweep us away. So we would have to be rocks.

It was hard to believe these creatures were still human. They were feral. Many of them didn’t carry rifles. Some carried no weapons at all, and hurled themselves at me, seeking my eyes with their fingers. When my pistol needed reloading, I switched to two-handed sweeps with my sword. I hunkered down, immovable. I gutted, dismembered, decapitated. A mound of bodies accumulated around me. Blood ran in streams down the mountainside. Soon there were enough corpses to give me cover. The heretic army flowed around me, carried down by its momentum. The worst of the fighting shifted to the gutted road. I cut open another traitor, and I suddenly had a moment of breathing space.

I reloaded my pistol. I took in the full picture of the battle. My instinct was to plunge back into the thick of the slaughter, but I forced myself to think of the mission instead of the immediate moment. We had to reach Karrathar. We could easily bog down here.

The road ahead was gone. The crevasse that had swallowed the Chimera ended on the right-hand side. We could advance by taking the slope. I looked higher. The ridges of the mountains were inviting. We were only a few kilometres from the target. We could make it there on foot. But we had to extricate ourselves from the ambush.

The cultists’ numbers were too great. Even if killing them were a simple process, it would take too long. I felt myself grow sick as I realized what I had to do. I had to reverse the equation. We were not being bogged down by the enemy; he was bogged down with us. That meant I had to regard the largest part of the regiments as the means to that end.

Sickening implications unfolded before my mind’s eye. I was consumed with self-loathing at the same time that I realized I had no choice, if there was to be any chance of winning the war. I shook the thoughts away. They could paralyse me. I started moving again, committing myself to whatever destiny awaited. The entire decision process had taken only a couple of seconds. That was still too long. I had to move quickly.

The troops who had been the first to follow me up the slope were all from Saultern’s company. At the time I put this down to lucky coincidence. I was naïve. I had been putting so much energy in to fulfilling the commissar’s symbolic duty, and yet I was too young, too blinkered to understand the consequences. These soldiers didn’t just happen to see me. They had been looking for me.

Now they were turning to head back into the fray. With them was Seroff, who had been outside the Chimera.

‘Dominic!’ I shouted.

He turned and looked back at me. I could see his blood-spattered face clearly in the moonlight. He was puzzled about why I was standing there. I shook my head. If there had been more of us, perhaps a pincer movement would have made sense. It would serve no purpose now. I said, ‘We have to try something else.’

He hesitated, but not long. He started back up the slope. I called to Saultern and gestured for him to follow. For the first time in my life, I turned my back on a struggle. I knew Saultern’s troops would feel the same reluctance. I prayed I was not leading them to damnation.

In the maelstrom of the conflict below us, there was an eye of order centred at the crevasse. The Sisters of Battle had assumed a defensive posture along three sides. They were an impregnable wall of ceramite and bolter fire. The crevasse was at the formation’s rear. As I drew parallel with their position, I saw that they were protecting the Chimera. The crevasse was deep, but narrow. The command vehicle had fallen about ten metres before becoming wedged between rock walls. Three of the Sisters were finding their way down to help. Setheno was already out and climbing back to the surface, punching rock to create handholds. Krauss was not far behind her. Granach emerged from the upended carrier. He leaned on Vercor.

I called to Setheno. She did not look at me. I tried again. This time she looked up. She saw me. I made no gesture, trusting her to understand. Granach did. He nodded. Setheno didn’t respond, and I couldn’t afford to wait. From my decision to this moment, less than half a minute had passed, but the roil of combat was moving up the slope again. We would be sucked in, and all would be lost.

I pointed up, at the ridge. ‘There!’ I said. ‘We take that route. We take any route necessary. We make for Karrathar, and we bring this to an end!’ I didn’t know how we would end the war. But I had the will.

Thirty strong, we made for the ridge, and we were unopposed. The enemy was consumed with the fight on the road. I pushed away the knowledge that I was using my comrades as sacrifices. I focused on the mission. All of us, on the slope or in the fray, had only one true duty in this moment, and I was following it. I looked when we were almost at the top. The Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn were following us. The heretics could no more stop them than they could the rotation of Mistral. I was glad for Granach’s understanding. With the Adepta Sororitas present, the outcome of the struggle in the pass would be assured, but the greater need for the Sisters of Battle was elsewhere. They were coming with us. So, I saw, was Krauss.

Vercor was with them, too. I didn’t try to fathom her motivation. But she was useful.

The ridge climbed over a low peak, then went downwards to a pass a hundred metres lower than the one we had left behind, and running east to west. It, in turn, was intersected by a shallow gully that ended at another peak. We were working our way through a maze of geology. There was no direct route. I tried not to think about what time remained to us.

The wind shrieked between the peaks, carrying ragged echoes of the battle. As we advanced, some of the gusts brought us sensory fragments of the hell we sought. There was a stench of bad pain and worse deaths. And though it was impossible, there were sounds, too. Perhaps they were not true sounds. Perhaps they were another thing that slithered into our minds and tricked our ears. The look Seroff gave me told me that he heard the same thing I did. The closer we came to Karrathar, the more we heard its screams.

CHAPTER 18

Karrathar

1. VAHNSINN

He collapsed against the altar. The stream of future events slipped from his grasp. His own blood and that of a hundred prisoners had been exhausted. But he had been granted the knowledge he needed, and had acted upon it. He had learned the route that the main force of the Mortisians would take. He had been told where best to set the ambush, and when to launch it. He had learned of the advance of the diversionary forces, and how much of his own strength it would take to counter them. He had learned much. He was drained. It cost him much to be in that state of awareness, to hear the whispers that spoke of unfolding time, of actions yet to be, of destinies and of dooms, and still retain enough of a stake in the here and now to issue commands.

Vahnsinn brought a hand up to his face. He touched the novel absence where his nose had been. Only hanging scraps of flesh there now, and a jagged point of cartilage. He let his finger explore the edges of the new gap in his face. If he grabbed the flesh and pulled, would he yank the rest away? Would he strip himself of all disguises, and be the exposed skull? He imagined the terror he would inspire, and the pleasure of the image gave him the energy to rise.

He made his way out of the chapel. In the Hall of Truth above, the other barons, his fellow disciples of change, were on the dais, gathered around Rasp. They were hard at work. With blade, with hammer and with bare hands, many of them were taking prisoners apart, making them into object lessons of the slow death. Others were giving Rasp a more direct experience of that promise. They attacked his nerve endings with fire and cold. They bled him. They marked him with hair-thin trails of acid. All the while, Elleta Gotho leaned on her cane and spoke to him. She told him stories. She recounted parables that were all the more potent for being actual events. She was revealing the wonders of Chaos to the lord commissar. She was instructing him on the underlying fabric of the universe: tormenting change.

The barons parted as Vahnsinn approached Rasp. Gotho ceased speaking and stepped back. Vahnsinn stood over his friend. He was hard to recognize, though he was still fortunate. He still had all his limbs. ‘So?’ Vahnsinn asked. ‘Now, do you see?’

Rasp groaned. He said something, but his syllables were bloodied mush. Only the denial came through.

Vahnsinn frowned. He no longer had eyebrows. He felt the puckering of his scarred, scabbed skin. ‘Why are you fighting me, Simeon? What point is there in doing so?’

Another answer of soft, wet sounds that once were words. Even so, ‘Emperor’ came through clearly. Rasp hadn’t broken yet.

Vahnsinn grabbed Rasp’s hair. He yanked the lord commissar’s head to the side. ‘You will see,’ he said. ‘You will kneel.’ The urge to start chopping off fingers and legs was strong. A small lapse, and he would kill Rasp. And that was forbidden.

When the voice whispered, there were things it did not tell him. There were lacunae in his understanding of the future. Vahnsinn knew enough to make his plans, but what he did not know troubled him. He didn’t know if it was being withheld from him, if there were aspects of destiny so contingent as to be completely unknowable. There were costs to his ignorance. He hadn’t been able to wipe out the Imperials along with Tolosa. He was not allowed to kill Rasp, and he did not know why. There was a role being reserved for Rasp. Vahnsinn could see that. He resented the importance it must have. He worried about what his ignorance might portend. But he also knew better than to disobey.

Well. The more Rasp resisted, the greater his suffering. And now Vahnsinn could add to his burden of despair. ‘The war is over,’ he said. ‘Colonel Granach marched for Karrathar, and he has failed. He tried to come at us where we could not see him. That isn’t possible. I see everything. Do you understand?’ He gave Rasp’s head another shake. ‘There is nothing left of the regiments. You are alone.’

What was that sound this time? Still a denial, yes, but was it defiant? Or was it the cry of a man whose days now extended into grinding night?

Vahnsinn smiled, enjoying the sensation of loose, shifting lips. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You aren’t lost. You’re where you were always meant to be.’

2. YARRICK

The maglev bridge was above us. We had emerged on the valley floor from a cleft in the mountains so narrow that we traversed it in single file. Under the shadow of the bridge, we stood a decent chance of reaching Karrathar’s peak undetected. The problem was climbing that peak, and entering the fortress. As we crossed the valley, I worried over my lack of inspiration. To our rear, we heard the sounds of three separate battles. Perhaps our forces might yet punch through, but the best I could hope for was that the bulk of Vahnsinn’s army was occupied.

As we neared Karrathar’s forbidding rise, Krauss said, ‘There is no going up that road without falling to enemy fire. We should have taken the bridge. There is still time.’

‘We would be even more exposed there,’ I said. We were repeating an argument an hour old.

‘Speed,’ he said. ‘We could move quickly, straight into the heart of the fortress. We would be difficult targets.’

‘They wouldn’t have to target us,’ Setheno told him. ‘They could simply blow the bridge. That is their security’s obvious weak point. Do you think they would not have it properly defended?’

‘And what we are doing, how is it better?’ Krauss demanded.

It wasn’t. It simply brought us closer. I had no answer. Neither did Setheno. In another few minutes, we would be facing the choice of taking a death-trap road or attempting a vertical climb. I was faced with the possibility that perhaps there were no good choices. Perhaps there was only a selection of defeats.

I turned away from that darkness. I refused to believe it.

We drew closer still, and we were already engaged in a struggle. Karrathar’s initial defence was its identity. The fortress’s corruption spread over the land, through the air, and into our souls like a slick of oil. The architecture was ancient. Karrathar had seen centuries upon centuries of service, and its masters had been faithful to the Imperial Creed. But now, some subtle alteration must have happened to its form. It was darkness built of stone. Its towers and battlements seemed twisted slightly out of true, so little that we still saw vertical lines, but enough that our spirits recoiled. And the stench was growing stronger, the screams more continuous, more insistent, more sinister. The wind might have been filled with the howls of human pain, but the cries might also be imitations. Mockeries. The Sisters of Battle took point, marching against the toxic miasma. Their faith seemed to conjure a shield that blocked the worst of the despair from infecting the rest of us.

Seroff moved up beside me. ‘What are we going to find in there?’ he asked, keeping his voice down.

‘Nothing good.’

‘And rather more than nothing.’

I nodded. ‘Yes. I fear so.’

‘What you encountered in the Ecclesiarchal palace…’

‘It was bad, Dominic.’

‘Was our training adequate?’

‘For dealing with what I saw? No. For being able to continue to act? Yes.’

‘Then I suppose that will do.’

‘It must.’

By bringing up that battle with the daemonic, Seroff put an idea in my head. ‘Give me a minute,’ I said, and worked my way back along the line of troops. I found Betzner. He was looking at Karrathar with loathing. His face had turned grey. We were all feeling the effects of this unholy place, but his suffering was the most pronounced. I knew there was a reckoning coming with Betzner. I did not question his loyalty. I also knew that I could not protect him from his waiting destiny. Aware that I might be making matters worse for him, I said, ‘Where is the problem, trooper?’

He blinked at me. ‘Commissar?’

‘Focus on your distress. I know that everything about what we are approaching is corrupt, but it is not featureless, is it?’

He closed his eyes for a moment. He shook his head.

‘Learn from it, Betzner.’

‘Yes, commissar.’ His voice was a whisper. Something dark was taking a toll on his physical strength as well as his soul. He kept up the pace of the march, though, and his grip on his rocket launcher never wavered. His eyes were open now, but lost focus. He was looking at something that I, thanks be to the Emperor, would never be able to see. After a minute, he gasped in shock. At the same time, I thought I heard, faintly, the sound of running water. ‘Oh no,’ he groaned.

‘What is it?’

‘Close. There.’ He pointed to a spot at the base of the mountain, several hundred metres to the right of where the road began its zigzag up the slope. It was very close to the last of the valley floor’s maglev bridge pillars. ‘Commissar,’ he said, ‘I don’t think I can go there.’

‘You can and you will, trooper. We will all be asked to make sacrifices before this day is done.’

He did not argue, and fell into a tortured silence. I moved forward to the front lines, and spoke to Setheno. She made for the spot. We drew near, and I heard rushing water again. The sound repeated at irregular intervals. Then we were close enough to see the cause, and I understood Betzner’s pain.

Nestled into the cliff face was a sewer outflow. The effluent poured into a narrow canal that drained away to the south along the base. There was another discharge as we arrived. The water was thick with blood and a slurry of human remains.

‘Throne,’ Seroff muttered.

‘What is this?’ Vercor asked. For the first time, I heard her express a genuine emotion: horror.

‘There are shadows darker than yours, mercenary,’ Setheno told her.

The pipe was a couple of metres in diameter. There was a grille over its mouth.

‘This is how we get in,’ I said.

Enginseer Bellavis came forward. The plasma cutter on his servo-arm sliced through the bars of the grille along the circumference of the pipe. It took him less than a minute to open the way. I approached the noxious opening. Bellavis shone a light into its depths. It sloped upward at a steep angle. Not so steep that we couldn’t take it. The air inside was humid, foul, tainted in ways I preferred not to contemplate.

This was my gamble. I climbed in first, before Setheno or Krauss had a chance. Morale was not an issue for the Sisters of Battle. They would be eager to face the horrors that awaited us, and purge them with righteous anger. The men and women of the Imperial Guard were no cowards. Nor did they lack faith. But unlike Krauss, the rank and file were not trained for what was coming. They were, I was sure, going to encounter things they should not even know existed. While Bellavis had been at work, I had seen dread sinking deeper and deeper roots into the faces of all the soldiers around us.

No military force, human or xenos, would give the Mortisians pause. But those who do not worry for the wellbeing of their souls are fools. And there were no fools in our company.

So I made an example of myself. I walked in first, showing my comrades my eagerness for battle, my mockery of the poisoned atmosphere. ‘The foulness is only air,’ I called out. ‘What harm can it do us?’ Plenty, of course, but I wished to hold onto an illusion of normalcy for as long as possible.

We climbed, with the Adepta Sororitas in the lead once more. The dark was clammy, moist. Breathing was uncomfortably like chewing. Every few minutes, we had to pause, gripping the walls as best we could as we weathered another flash flood of bloody water. Setheno and her squad were immovable and unmoved, the filth splashing against their armour and sliding off, helpless to besmirch their sanctity. The rest of us were drenched in gore. Setheno looked back at one point, taking in the mere humans who willingly struggled to reach the darkest of battlefields. She wore her helmet, but in the cock of her head, I imagined that I saw a glimmer of sympathy.

Krauss was level with me. About half an hour into our ordeal, he favoured Betzner with a pointed look, then said to me, ‘You are playing with fire, commissar.’

‘Oh?’

‘The means by which you found our way in are dangerously close to witchcraft.’

This is your concern now? I thought. Here? I bit back what I wanted to say. ‘I disagree,’ I said. ‘Would you prefer us to have been gunned down on that road? I used the resources of our forces.’

‘That is sophistry, and you know it. There is no allowance for expediency in matters of heresy.’

‘If Sister Superior Setheno is able to tolerate the help of Trooper Betzner in this operation, inquisitor, I would think that should satisfy you.’

It didn’t. In the dark, covered in filth, his inflexible pride shone like a cold beacon. I had no doubt that Krauss was an aristocrat by birth, but he was also an aristocrat of faith. Those beneath him were lesser in all things, including orthodoxy. From an Inquisitorial perspective, that made them criminal.

That he was so unwavering in his duty made him an exemplary inquisitor of his kind. In this moment, his dogmatism made me grind my teeth.

Krauss said, ‘There will be a reckoning.’

‘I know. And there is another approaching. Would it be all right if we took them in order?’

He didn’t bother to answer my retort, which was his equivalent of largesse. ‘You cannot protect him any longer.’ That was his equivalent of sympathy.

‘If you think I would do anything to violate the laws of our Creed, inquisitor, then you still know nothing about me.’

We fell silent.

Up. Deeper into the mountain. The sewer curving, joined by other, smaller pipes. Darkness behind us and before us. We moved in a bubble of our own light, sustained by duty and faith. We knew that we were making progress because the stench grew worse, as did the shrieks. And then, at last, the screams were real sounds. They bounced down the tunnel, hollow pain distorted by distance. They summoned us. We moved closer and closer to the heart of agony.

Then there were new sounds. We heard the clank of chains, snatches of conversation, threads of chanting. We were close. Saultern and I sent hand signals down the line of troops: silence. Another few dozen metres, another curve, and the slope became more gradual. The pipe ended at what appeared to be a metal wall. There were sloshing noises on the other side. After a minute, the wall rose, a shutter, and released another flood. Setheno and Sister Liberata stepped forward and held the shutter up while the rest of us passed through into the space beyond. It was a reservoir of death’s leavings. It extended for hundreds of metres, farther than our lights could reach. The ceiling, supported by squat brick pillars, was low enough that we had to duck our heads. Setheno was forced to crouch.

Perhaps, before corruption had come to the Vahnsinns, this had been the means of clearing away the waste of everyday life in a fortress of this size. Now blood and worse trickled in through dozens of grilles set into the low ceiling. Water streamed in from the other side of the chamber. It came, I supposed, from an aquifer. When the levels rose high enough, the shutter was activated, sending the sins of Karrathar down into the valley.

The grilles were irregularly spaced. Dim, flickering, unhealthy light filtered through them. I pictured the reservoir occupying most of the space beneath the lowest levels of the castle. Each room would have its own sluices. We had to pick our point of entry. I spotted a cluster of grates. Perhaps an important chamber lay above them. I waded over to the cluster. I crouched just to one side of the grates, avoiding the fall of blood. It was difficult to see anything, but there were more voices here. I pointed upwards.

Krauss, Saultern, Kortner and Bellavis joined me. While the Sisters of Battle aimed their bolters, Kortner and the enginseer prepared demolition charges and affixed them to two grilles a few metres apart. While they worked, the chanting rose in volume. It gathered definition. It was incomprehensible, but I kept hearing a repeated group of syllables: Ghalshannha.

Saultern looked at me with a kind of pleading. I saw the maturing officer feeling himself devolve back into the untested child of privilege. He seemed willing to defer all command decisions to me. That would do none of us any good. I risked a whisper. ‘You will be strong enough, captain,’ I told him. ‘You will do your duty. You did in the Ecclesiarchal palace.’

‘That was different.’

‘No. This is just more.’

He grimaced. ‘Thank you, commissar. I am comforted.’ The irony was a good sign. He was steeling himself.

Behind him, Krauss eyed our exchange. His contempt was obvious.

The charges were ready. We backed away. We readied our weapons. I nodded at Bellavis.

The detonation brought down the entire section of the ceiling between the two grilles. It collapsed in a jumble of stone. Some robed figures came with it, killed by the explosion or crushed by the rubble. The Mortisians sent up a suppressive barrage of las-fire as we climbed up the broken slope.

We emerged at one end of a gigantic hall. Though I had led us here, knowing that bringing the fight to the enemy would mean travelling to the heart of hell, I was staggered by the reality. This was where Karrathar’s twisting out of true found its source. We were in a place where darkness and torchlight smeared together. The walls and pillars were still stone, but they moved behind one’s back, and were on the verge of taking their first breath.

Cultists were here in their hundreds, and they were outnumbered by the victims. Stacked along the walls, beside pillars and next to torture devices were rows of cages. Many of them were empty, but there was still a near-infinite supply of fresh meat for the sacrifices. The prisoners howled and gibbered, their minds already given over to hopeless madness. There would be no rescue for these souls. They were nothing more than fuel for obscenities present in such numbers that they were becoming a single crime so massive that it was dissolving the borders of the materium. We had stepped into a world of blood and screams. That blood was an offering, those screams were a communion, atrocity was worship, and everything was tilting into a maelstrom of endless, horrific change.

Acts of murder and torture blended together around the pillars of the hall. At first, there seemed to be no pattern, just a vast riot of death. But my eyes were drawn with such force towards the centre of the space that I realized I was looking at a spiral. The madness had a shape, and a growing strength.

The heretics close to us were still dazed from the concussion. We started killing them. We brought order to the death in the hall. We also brought purity. We would cleanse this place. We would scour it from the eye of the galaxy, in the name of the Imperial Creed. The Sisters of Battle punched through the cultists like a ceramite fist. We spread out behind them, killing everything that stood, extending the radius of clean, lethal justice as more of our force climbed up from below.

The moment of surprise ended. The cultists retaliated. They rushed at us with a delight ferocious as a welcome, glad we had come, and intimate as hunger. They were making noises that were part shriek, part laughter, part something else. Their tongues had been altered. They gabbled words that sounded like nonsense, but whose awful meaning was eroding reality around us. Their hoods were thrown back. They were proud of what had become of their faces. I could call them human only because that was what they had once been, and there was no name for what they were becoming. They were scarred and mutilated with runes carved all the way down to the bone. They were mutating, too. The skulls of some were sprouting tumours of bone. Others had elongated jaws, teeth that were growing into tusks, skin that hung from their scalps all the way down their backs, eyes that were stretching across their foreheads to meet as one. They came to drag us down into the cauldron of their change.

We cut them down, firing faster than they could close with us. Within seconds, we turned our immediate area into a slaughterhouse. I was aware of a growing desperation in the retaliation of the Mortisians. I understood. The ones who had fought in the depths of the Ecclesiarchal palace had encountered and survived the taint that was reaching for us. They knew its full danger, and did not want to face it again. The others were even more terrified as their understanding of the universe crumbled. They fought to deny, to kill a form of knowledge that was purely and simply damnation.

Yes, I understood. But terror and desperation were fuel for Chaos. ‘Hold fast!’ I called. ‘Be strong in your faith! Purge the heretic with anger, but also with discipline.’ I stepped outside of the line, grabbed the first heretic that came near and threw him to the ground. I brought my sword down on his neck, severing it, then strode away from the body in contempt, putting a shell through the next attacker. ‘They are less than nothing!’ I said, and I knew what I said to be true.

What I did not know was just how dreadful that truth was.

We formed a wide wedge behind the Sisters of Battle. We advanced towards the centre of the great hall of madness. The heretics threw themselves at us, but without firearms, they could not come near. We smashed engines of torture. Two of the troopers had flamers, and they unleashed a cleansing incineration. We were midway to our goal. I couldn’t identify any of the figures on the dais. All I could make out in the gloom from this distance was a high level of deformity. The very air was distorting like twisted glass, but we kept moving forward, and all around us the cultists died.

Still they came at us. Still they howled and chanted and raged and… and called. They called. The repeated syllables gathered meaning about them. Ghalshannha. Ghalshannha. Ghalshannha. It was a name. It was an invocation. The call was answered. The cultists were less than nothing, just shapes. Empty vessels, waiting to be filled. So now they were. Some of the wretches ran towards each other instead of at us. They collided. They tangled. They fused. They screamed, first in the ecstasy of their dark faith, then in agony. Then their voices were replaced with a single one that merged laughter with mad sermons. The bodily forms melted together and grew, monstrous pink tearing through robes and the degraded remnants of a noble house’s livery. The materium wailed as daemons tore through its veil. To our left and right they came, loping and hopping. They were the same species as the daemon in the palace, but they had their own form of fluid identity.

There were four of them.

Their mere existence was the first great blow. It had still been possible, for the average trooper, to cleave to the perception that the heretics were human. Now the order of things had been rent asunder. ‘Destroy the xenos filth!’ I thundered. My order was a lie, but one hurled against an even greater one. We fought a lie that sought to render everything about the Imperium senseless. And if my lie gave our soldiers a fraction more strength, then it was a worthy one. Perhaps I granted some of them a few more seconds of sanity. Others were beyond saving. They shrieked at what came for them. They stopped marching, dropped their weapons, and stood there, mouths agape, minds gone. They were nothing now but screams made of flesh.

Beside me, Seroff had gone still. He muttered fragments of prayer. Still firing, I grabbed his arm with my left hand. I shook him. ‘Commissar Seroff!’ I yelled. ‘Recall yourself. You are needed.’

His litany became a groan of horror, but he shook himself free and raised his pistol again.

The mad were the first to die. The daemons were upon us in two more leaps. Their cackling sermons intertwined, forging a rope of meaning that tightened its noose around my consciousness. More troopers descended into madness. The daemons scooped up their prey. A doomed soldier in each hand, they took their time, smiling and speaking to their victims with their flowing, shifting mouths before they began to eat. They began with the arms. Blood and horror rained down on the rest of us.

The Mortisians fought back, Saultern leading the attack with such desperation that it was clear that violent action was the only thing keeping him sane. The daemons grumbled in irritation. Not pausing in their meals, they danced away from the las-fire, then rolled back in, sprouting new arms to smash away the resistance. At their feet, the cultists rejoiced. They surged forward with renewed ecstasy. Our defences were shattered. The heretics fell upon us like a wave. We pushed back, firing at both daemons and humans, but the attack was overwhelming. Even as I shot an arm off the nearest daemon, freeing one of the troopers in its grip, another Mortisian to my left was brought down and ripped apart by three heretics. I ran them through with my sword with three quick thrusts. The daemon regenerated its arm, flesh and bone sprouting with a sickening series of liquid cracks, and grabbed itself a new plaything.

The reversal had taken seconds. The retaliation was as quick, and as brutal. The Sisters of Battle ceased their advance. They split into two groups, and came back along our flanks. They hammered the daemons with bolter fire, overwhelming their ability to maintain coherent form in the materium. With their helmets on, the Sisters of the Order of the Piercing Thorn were other than human. They were the strength of faith made manifest. They waded through the heretics, ignoring the assaults. Setheno towered over the other humans as if she were as much a myth as the monsters she fought. She trampled cultists beneath her boots, using the weight of her power armour to snap limbs and crush skulls with every stride. As she passed me, she said, ‘Win this war, commissar.’

I was already using the momentum she and her Sisters had returned to us. ‘Forward!’ I cried. No speeches, then. The only goal was victory, so my only thought was to be the example, to be the symbol. If I fell, it had to be in the act of giving our charge an impulse that could not be arrested.

Reality was collapsing around us. Chaos had found a home in Karrathar, and it was reshaping the very stones of the fortress. Nightmares were ripping us limb from limb. We were only human, but we were the children of the God-Emperor, and we were His hammer, and that was enough. It would forever be enough. We stormed towards the dais. The daemons staggered under the onslaught of the Piercing Thorn. The cultists tried to drag us down. We stabbed and shot as we ran, and they could not slow us. Again I heard the roar of flamers. Their heat was the Emperor’s blessing at my back. Their fire was wings, spreading through the enemy and propelling us on.

We were almost at the dais. I somehow recognized the figures on it as the ruling nobility of Mistral. Their robes still bore distorted parodies of their heraldry, just as their faces had just enough of their original appearance to make the transformations all the more monstrous. They were gathered around a bloodied victim shackled to an iron chair. Rasp. He was even harder to identify, not because of any mutation, or even because of the mask of blood concealing his features. It was his slumped, broken posture that turned him into a stranger. If not for the remains of his uniform, I would not have known who the victim was.

I fired as I ran, aiming for the barons to the side. Eichen’s head exploded. His massive, bloated corpse collapsed, rolls of fat slapping against the dais like an upended cart of fish. Vahnsinn snarled. He moved away from Rasp, towards the front of the dais. He spread his arms as if to welcome our charge into his embrace. ‘To me!’ he bellowed. The sound was ghastly, a bubbling, slippery roar emerging from a face that was little more than gaping absences behind torn draperies of flesh. He was a raging skull, his lidless eyes round with unending, furious madness. At his cry, the other barons joined him. They linked hands on either side of him. They took his.

I was only steps away. What happened took three beats of my pounding heart. Yet my memory has chosen to wallow in the dark luxury of the event in its every detail. The electric jerk that ran from Vahnsinn, through the other barons. The flowing of flesh, turning clasped hands into a single limb. Gotho’s cane, a muscle-covered bone, becoming a third leg as her body lost definition. The barons deflated. Their obeisance to their leader took on its ultimate form. They had acted in accord with a single will since they had sacrificed Lom. They had been one in mind and spirit. Now they were in body. I have wondered since if Gotho and the others understood what they were surrendering to Vahnsinn, if they really knew the terms of their bargain. Had they planned to abandon all identity in the service of the forces they worshipped? I cannot believe that they had, at least at the start.

Of course, at the start, they had likely wanted nothing more than a redress of grievances. They had turned from one turbulent priest to another, and so brought an end to themselves and the world they ruled.

Vahnsinn gasped in triumph. He grew to twice his original height. His arms were monstrous, tongue-coloured tentacles four metres long and ending in grasping talons. From them hung what was left of the other barons: pennants of flesh on which things like faces snarled. He swept his arms together. I saw the spikes of bone protruding from the skin. I ducked and rolled beneath his grasp. I rose to a crouch and shot upward. The shell tore through Vahnsinn’s torso and kept going, blasting stone chips from the ceiling. The baron’s being, though more stable in form, had some of the same mercurial properties as that of the daemons. His flesh was changing, failing and reforming from one moment to the next. It was both cancer and river, and my shots caused nothing more than ripples.

Behind me, I heard the chunks of punctured flesh and shattered bone as some of the other soldiers were not fast enough. Seroff hit the floor beside me with a thud. His scalp hung in a flap down the right side of his skull. Krauss grunted. Vahnsinn lifted him high, the claws of one hand digging through the inquisitor’s armour. Krauss fired his needle gun into the arm. Vahnsinn hissed. His arm lost strength. He began to lower Krauss. He pulled back his other fist to the full extent of his reach, then sent the barbed horror smashing into Krauss’s face. The puncturing crunch was horrific. Krauss slumped. Vahnsinn jerked his hand free. Krauss’s head rolled forwards, pouring blood. Vahnsinn pulled his fist back again. A shadow leapt up and grabbed it. Vercor’s bionic grip crushed the baron’s fingers together. She shattered the shape of the fist and arrested the movement of the blow.

Snarling, Vahnsinn snapped his arm like a giant whip. He threw Vercor against the ceiling. He caught her in a constrictor coil as she dropped, stunned. He squeezed. And I leapt onto his back and rammed my sword through his skull. At first, his grasp on Vercor didn’t weaken. He cursed me, his words still almost human. He jerked his head to the side. I moved with it, keeping the blade through the centre of what had been his brain. I sawed back and forth, twisted the blade. His ranting stuttered. His movement became erratic, jerking. He dropped Vercor. He tried to shake me off. Moment by moment, his flesh shifted, but at every moment, the sword was there, always tearing, always severing. He twitched, then fell to his knees. His spasms were so violent, it was as if he were losing fragments of time, the transition between one position and the next vanishing. At last, his head twisted all the way around. There was nothing that could be called a face there any longer, though there were eyes, and there was a mouth.

The eyes, blood-shot, crazed, focused on me. They seemed to clear. They shifted to a sight beyond the veil of the materium, and they filled with a tragically human understanding. The mouth worked. Through blood and muscle Vahnsinn said, ‘Oh. Now I see.’ Though the man I had met in Tolosa resurfaced at the last, there was no repentance. There was, instead, a renewed commitment to the cause he had embraced. ‘I am yours,’ he said to a god false and dark.

His eyes went dull. He was dead, but he did not fall. His body began to tremble. The fabric of reality, already badly frayed, began to rip apart. The wound began inside Vahnsinn. I felt the build-up of energy. The change of Vahnsinn’s being did not stop with his death. It accelerated, racing towards revelation. I had just yanked the sword from the baron’s skull when the first shock hit. I flew backwards, struck by a coil of unlight that slashed out of Vahnsinn’s body like a scorpion’s sting. I travelled through alternating frames of the real and the immaterium. Pieces of non-time tried to tear my being apart. I felt the ripple travel through my frame. I had a consciousness of my every bone and cell, and if I did not hang onto each individually, they would be ripped from me. The self that was Sebastian Yarrick came under attack. It would have taken very little to lose it all. It took much to keep it. But I was here for the Emperor, and I would not fail Him. My sense of mission unified my sense of self.

All of this while I was in the air. Time starting and dying. The world existing and squirming. Then I hit one of the support pillars. The pain of the impact was a relief. It was real. I was winded and stunned, and those were conditions of the materium. I knew how to struggle with those. I rose, ready to fight. Krauss and Vercor were unmoving. In my near vicinity, the Mortisians were sending the cultists to oblivion, though the tide of enemy filth had not yet ebbed. There was a demented howl of frustration as one of the daemons disintegrated, its material form hammered to nothing by the Sisters of Battle before it could split into two creatures. There were losses on both sides, yet in this moment, we were the ones clawing towards victory.

But the true enemy still had not arrived on the battlefield.

CHAPTER 19

The Herald

1. YARRICK

The dais stormed with corrupted lightning. I could see nothing but a vortex of colours, colours with teeth, colours that devoured each other, colours that were disease itself. The lines between possibility and paradox collapsed. For a moment, we were all breathing blood and bone. I stared at the ecstatic murder of meaning, and I fired at it. I pulled the trigger to affirm my belief in the battle. If I struggled, I declared my faith. I did not rely on my own strength, but on the undying power of the Emperor. I fought for Him, and so I pulled the trigger. The bolt shells evaporated on contact with the vortex. I had known they would. I was defiant. That was enough. And I would kill whatever emerged from that storm.

The sight that tore at my eyes and soul was the storm of thought itself. My mind recoiled as pieces of concepts and snarling abstractions whirled past. Then the gale coalesced. It was no less violent, but it was taken in hand, forced into a coherent form. There was a sudden contraction, and the enemy stood revealed before us. It shone the same toxic pink as the other daemons. Its flesh rippled and flowed as theirs did, but on a frame that was more defined. Where the other daemons were amorphous, their arms too flexible, this one had a frame with the angularity of bone. Two massive horns, almost as long as its torso, jutted from the top of its skull. It was robed. Its finery was far beyond what even the nobles had been wearing. The being had pride.

For a moment, I was reminded of Wangenheim’s elaborate Ecclesiarchal attire, and the war in Mistral resolved itself into the struggle between two priests. But Wangenheim, though faithful, in his way, to the Imperial Creed, had only truly been concerned with his own secular power. The garb of the daemon meant something real. It was a much more committed servant of its obscene god than Wangenheim had been to the Emperor, and we were all paying for that difference. The designs on the daemon’s robes were also far more intricate than any human could achieve. They were a river of patterns, pulling the viewer’s eye from one change to the next. They hinted at great knowledge.

If one could follow the pattern, one would read of changes to come. In one hand, the daemon carried a long staff. It was metal, segmented, and ended in a U-shaped clockwork, with arrows pointing in conflicting directions. Suspended at the centre of the mechanism was the tear-shaped symbol I had seen in Lom’s hidden chapel. Some deep, primeval instinct reacted to the sight of that staff, and I knew the device was not for the telling, but the foretelling, of time. Another hand held a book. This was a massive tome, ornate, bound in skin. Living skin, for at the centre of the cover was an eye that always looked in the opposite direction of the daemon’s gaze. Its third hand was free, and grasping.

The dais, too, had transformed or been replaced. The daemon still stood on a circular platform, but this one was alive. It was a quivering, flattened, slavering thing, bound by metal, surrounded by blades.

All around us, the cultists screamed the daemon’s name. Ghalshannha, Ghalshannha, Ghalshannha. Those three syllables were the only things they seemed capable of uttering now, as they threw themselves at us with renewed ecstasy. Even the other daemons joined in the chant, and for the first time, I found, to my horror, that I could understand their babblings. Ghalshannha, Ghalshannha, Ghalshannha.

The snarling disc rose. Ghalshannha raised its arms high. It spoke. It spoke to every breathing soul in the hall. It spoke to the entire galaxy. Yet it also seemed that it spoke to me, and to me alone. Its voice shook the walls, and it whispered deep inside my ears. ‘There is no chance!’ it cried and murmured. ‘There is only the unfolding of inevitable change. You have walked towards this moment since your birth. You swam a green tide to reach this glory,’ it said, and though I did not understand the words, they jabbed at something in my subconscious. ‘Accept what is destined. Revel in the ephemeral. The only eternal is transformation.’ It looked down at Rasp, still shackled, though the chair was now as much cartilage as it was iron. The daemon wrapped a fist around him.

Still reeling from the double blow of my brush with warp energy and my collision with the pillar, I had been sinking into a morass of slowed time. Rasp’s scream shattered the spell. I leapt forward again. The disc caught my chest as it rose. I was lying between the saw-edges of metal teeth as long as my arm. My elbows were on the leathery hide of the monster. The weight of my legs tried to drag me back down. The teeth sliced through my coat and my flesh, cutting towards my ribs. Blood poured down my lower torso. I kept my grip on my pistol and sword, and used my arms to drag myself forward.

Ghalshannha looked down at me as if I were an amusing species of insect. The disc began to spin. The daemon cocked its head in mocking challenge. It tightened its grip on Rasp. The lord commissar’s shrieks were no longer human. They were the embodiment of madness itself. The daemon did not appear to be injuring him physically. It was hurting him in some other way, subjecting him to a torture that transcended the body.

The disc spun faster. It made snarling, screeching noises, and I believe that it was laughing at me, at all of us who thought we could defy its master. The battle in the hall whirled past me with increasing speed. I caught glimpses of war and hell. I was shown what was promised to the entire galaxy. I saw the torture garden that the warp would make of the materium, the incandescent insanity that would be added to the nightmare of war. Chaos would come to teach us a new definition of the sublime, and no mind or soul would survive that revelation.

The cultists kept coming at the Mortisians, a flood of rats swarming over angry dogs. Another daemon was overwhelmed by the Sisters of Battle, but not quickly enough, and it split into the lesser blue creatures. One of them opened a mouth over a metre wide. It leapt at Sister Genebra. The disc whirled me away from the tableau. When it flashed the sight before me again, Genebra’s decapitated corpse was falling slowly to its knees, while the daemon laughed with its mouth full. Around again, and Setheno was riddling the abomination with bolter shells at point blank range while she hacked at it with her sword.

I dragged myself forwards. The teeth scraped away at my flesh. My centre of gravity tilted towards the disc. My legs were no longer heavy enough to pull me off, so I raised my pistol and fired at the arm that held Rasp. I emptied half the clip. The daemon’s tissue was a mixture of warp-stuff and the raw material of Vahnsinn. Ever changing, ever flowing, it was held in shape by a hideous will. Powerful as it was, the will was not strong enough to stand up to the repeated impact of the shells. It parted. Something that pretended to be bone shattered. I severed the limb at the joint. The forearm fell to the disc. It released Rasp and writhed as it evaporated. Rasp hit the edge of the teeth, rolled once, sliced and gouged, and fell to the floor of the hall. He lay still.

Ghalshannha roared. In pain? I don’t know. In anger, certainly. I had enraged the daemon, and that was already a victory. My triumph lasted only long enough for me to realize it had happened. The stump of an arm withdrew into the daemon’s torso. The book snarled. A new arm burst out of the centre of Ghalshannha’s chest. It seized me and lifted me high.

The universe opened up before me, and I knew why Rasp had screamed. To touch the daemon was to touch the skein of time, and now the skein was a noose around my neck, throttling me with ultimate revelation. The course of all that was to come assaulted me. At first, there was only the battering so overwhelming that it numbed. Hit with too much knowledge, my mind rejected all of it, and turned towards the salve of oblivion. But there were no screams to be had there, no delights for my torturer. And so the events acquired focus. They became the history that would make sense to me. I was shown my future, and that of the Imperium.

I was shown, but I did not look. As the visions gathered precision, as the battering became a stiletto, I realised what was coming. I refused it. With all the strength of will and faith, I refused. I denied. I turned my face away. It was like moving a mountain with my bare hands. The weight was beyond measure. The force was a law of the universe. My being wavered. The power was too great. I was only a man. What could I do against change? Who, apart from the immortal Emperor Himself, can resist it?

No one. But what need was there for someone else? The Emperor is without change. He is our bulwark eternally, and He was mine then. I did not ask that He shield me from the knowledge that sought to claw me apart. Nor did He. But He was the reason for my battle. From my earliest memories at the schola progenium to the agonies of Armageddon and beyond, I have devoted every iota of myself to the preservation of the Imperium and to unwavering service to the Emperor. I had come in the name of the absolute truth of the Imperial Creed, and what could this monster’s lies matter to me? I found the will. I turned to the Emperor. I embraced the great virtue of ignorance. I shut my eyes to the cancer of knowledge.

I. Will. Not. Look.

Futures possible, impossible and inevitable came at me. They laid siege to my defences. I knew I must fight back or fall.

Fight it. Fight the unholy thing and its visions.

I resisted what would be shown to me, reducing it to slivered, rampaging glimpses. But I could not see the world. I could not see to fight. I could not act. I wasn’t strong enough.

What is Will but the strength of Faith? What gives Faith its strength if it is not Will?

Not strength of will, I realized, but strength in will.

Become Faith. Become Will.

Yes.

Dimly, I could see the physical world. My body, Ghalshannha, the hall: they were all the ghosts of traces. Still, I could see them. And there was something I could see with greater clarity, something that had a presence in both the world of sequential time, and the hell in which I was held. In the centre of Ghalshannha’s forehead, between the horns, an eye had formed. The iris was black, the pupil crimson, and that pupil was an abyss, a vortex of bleeding pasts and martyred futures. It looked into me, and it wished to devour me. If I fell, it would be into that molten centre.

Fight.

Become Will.

Yes.

I.

Will!

I raised my right arm. I tightened my finger on the trigger. I fired into the pupil of that eye. I shot first with desperation, and then, because I had fought, could fight, did fight, I shot with exhilaration. I emptied my clip into the accursed gaze. I blasted knowledge to nothing.

Perhaps the shells themselves were able to cause physical damage now that the monster had manifested itself in the materium. Perhaps they were simply symbols of my will. No matter. Dark ichor erupted from the eye. Ghalshannha screamed. Screamed. I exulted, and perhaps in doing so, I let my defences down a fractional amount. Something got through to me. My left eye and right arm exploded in agony. Glowing steel in the eye, a monster’s jaws on my arm. The pain was ice and fire and lightning and terrible absence. It was, at that moment in my life, the most intense torture I had experienced.

But the pain I had caused the daemon was greater. It threw me to the ground. It shrieked its outraged injury, and through my own wounds I let out a single, harsh bark of laughter. I had forced the daemon to break contact with me.

‘An end to gifts!’ Ghalshannha roared. ‘An end to all!’ It rose higher. Its anger and pain made the air brittle. The erosion of Karrathar accelerated. The pillars wavered. They began to melt. The ceiling glowed with a spider-web of cracks. Chunks of stone fell. The fragments were wet with deliquescent reality. Still raging with pain, Ghalshannha raised the book and staff high. A wave of force rippled out from the disc. It struck us all. It was wracking change. My skeleton tried to wrench itself free of its shape and fall into endless becoming. I held myself in, growling between gritted teeth. I fought off the mutating blast.

Many of us did. Many didn’t. Mortisians and cultists alike fell, their shapes exploding in protoplasmic chaos. Heads became tails. Fingers turned into arms with fingers that turned into arms and so on, until a forest of limbs covered entire sections of the floor before falling to undifferentiated nothingness.

The Sisters of Battle resisted the change, but the blow staggered them, and another, Sister Marica, fell, crushed by the sudden, concerted rush of the two remaining daemons. Betzner dropped to his knees. His mouth was open in an unending, silent scream. His rocket launcher slipped from his shoulder. His hands rose to either side of his head. He clawed at something invisible, hovering a few centimetres from his skull. He was a saint trying to tear away his halo. Then his scream found expression in something other than sound. The halo became real. His head was surrounded by a massive ball of lightning. Energy sparked and crackled. His hands bracketed the lightning. With a reflex action so violent it dislocated his shoulders, his arms shot forward. The lightning followed his gesture and arced from him to Ghalshannha. It struck the daemon’s book. Violet flames erupted from the tome. The book screamed as it vanished back into the immaterium. Ghalshannha echoed it with rage, and the disc’s movement became erratic. It came closer to the floor.

Betzner collapsed. His body was wracked by micro-tremors.

The hall smeared. The cracks in the ceiling widened. Above the daemon’s head, the stone began to twist.

‘Feed me!’ Ghalshannha commanded. It looked down as it spoke. Where the dais had been was a circular hole several metres in diameter. I realized that some of the chanting that still resounded throughout the hall came from there. I stumbled forward. The daemon was beyond my reach, but there was something important to it below. I stared into the sickly glow of a phosphorescent blood mist. I saw a chapel. I saw an altar that was constructed of barbed-wire thoughts. And I saw heretics sacrificing a line of chained victims. They were not simply butchering the martyrs. There was a ritual of some kind. Runes were being cut into the prisoners until they died.

A stream of pain and dying. Constant sacrifice. Something the daemon needed.

A weakness.

I lurched backwards, reaching for Betzner’s rocket launcher. Behind me – and around me, and inside my head – Ghalshannha hissed satisfaction. It was wounded, but it was being fed. I had to starve the obscenity. I was too slow.

Setheno pounded past me, a blur of sanctity and force. The mutating floor shook with her footsteps like a frightened beast. ‘Stand fast, abomination!’ she shouted. Her sword and pistol were sheathed. The daemon, greedy for the great prize devouring her would be, brought the disc in low and reached out all three arms. It clutched the sister superior in a murderous embrace. She closed her gauntleted hands over two of the daemon’s arms. Ghalshannha’s growl was triumphant, but when it tried to move, she held its arms still. It reached out with its central one and wrapped its elongated fingers around her gorget. She began to tremble. Her entire frame vibrated. But she did nothing except clutch the daemon in an iron grip.

She was tearing time from the monster’s clutches.

I had the launcher. I raced back to the hole. Every movement was a conscious, willed effort. Just as I reached it, a cultist hit me from the side. I fell. He clawed for my eyes. My body had been punished to the point of collapse, but I could not allow it that luxury. I would fight until the war was won or I was dead. Any other option was a defeat and betrayal of my oaths of office. I told my fingers to form a fist. I ordered the fist to swing. It slammed into the bridge of the wretch’s nose. He howled and rocked backwards. I hit him in the throat, rendering judgement. He fell, mouth opening and closing like a fish, dragging for air that would never be his again. I left him to die and crawled to the edge of the hole.

Setheno’s trembling threatened to send her armour flying apart. She was silent. Ghalshannha was laughing. Snakes of eldritch energy arced from the daemon to the Sister of Battle. I had torn myself from the creature’s grasp, refusing its vision, but Setheno’s refusal was to release the daemon. A terrible price was being paid a few metres from me.

I raised the rocket launcher to my shoulder. I aimed at the altar, at the greatest cluster of cultists and victims. Reality swam before me. My left eye was watering from the stabbing pain, but the flux was more than my own damaged vision. The stability of the materium was flowing away from Karrathar and into the form of Ghalshannha. Vertigo seized me. I was standing on the edge of a maelstrom. In another moment, it would take all my will just to hang onto the integrity of my being. Movement would be impossible.

But in this moment, movement was imperative. It was duty. I willed it. I thought past the agony of my right arm. I pulled the trigger.

The rocket flashed into the chapel. It struck the base of the altar. The blast concussion rocked the hall, and the floor heaved. A fireball filled the confined space as flames erupted from the opening. Heat and force smashed me to my back. The blossom of fire engulfed the disc; it shrieked and plummeted to the floor, spilling Ghalshannha and Setheno. Raging, burning, the daemon raised Setheno high and hurled her away. Setheno’s death grip tore the daemon’s right hand from its wrist. She collided with an ornate torture rack, smashing it to bits. Her trembling ceased. She lay still.

Smoke poured from the daemon’s body. So did vapours of another sort. Its scars were not healing. Its movements were jerky. I had destroyed its nourishment, and it was losing its hold on its material form. My legs had become a foreign country, but my hands were not so distant that I couldn’t still command them. My left hand fumbled at my belt for a fresh clip. My fingers were clumsy, drunk. The clip tried to slip from between them.

Ghalshannha turned its furious gaze from the fallen Setheno to me. Its torn limb did not heal.

I tried to slap the clip home. I missed.

The daemon took a step towards me. Its teeth were bared in rage. But it was also looking at me with something like curiosity. ‘You are not his hand,’ it hissed.

The clip went in. Shoot, I told my right hand. But the pain was turning into paralysis. The absence was growing. There was nothing below my right elbow.

‘You will not be his hand,’ the daemon promised.

My teeth clenched with effort, I fought the lie of the paralysis. I did have an arm. I raised it. I wrapped my left hand around my right, numbness clutching a phantom. I squeezed. I could not feel the trigger.

Ghalshannha reached out with its chest arm. Its massive claws came at my head. No games now. No dark mysteries to reveal. Only violent death.

I squeezed again. The pistol fired. The shells blew the hand apart. A pink miasma of warp matter shrouded me, crackling. I squeezed again, fired again, and again and again. The daemon stopped, jerked and rocked, its mass real and solid enough to trigger the explosive damage of the shells. I shot away chunks of its body. I injured it.

Be the symbol. Be the example.

‘The foe will die!’ I shouted. ‘Now! All of us, now!’

I was heard. As I fired, another stream of bolter shells punched into the daemon’s form. Setheno had risen to her knees. Her attack was eerie, as if a mortuary statue had joined the fray. And then my call was answered by every warrior of the Imperium still drawing breath. A barrage of shells and las struck Ghalshannha. The attack was a storm of light and rage and faith. The daemon tried to take another step. It raised its staff as if to call our doom down on our heads. We denied it everything. We did not falter, though we paid for our singleness of purpose. Heretics still attacked. There was still another daemon present, and it pressed its advantage as the Sisters of Battle ignored it in favour of the greatest enemy. Adepta Sororitas and Mortisians died, but they died in a moment of selfless pride. They were martyrs to a victory against a force that had held the fate of an entire planet in its grasp.

Ghalshannha screamed. It burned and shrank. Its staff shattered. Its legs gave out. It collapsed to the ground. For one last time, it glared at me. For one last time, it spoke in my head.

‘You are his hand, then. He did not let me see. Do you think you will see, at the end?’

It rocked its head back. I shot away its lower jaw. Its scream changed into something greater, more awful, and final. It became the howl of dreams and reality dying together. A light, dark as rotting blood but bright as agony, grew at its core. It burst out of the daemon. It engulfed its form. With a final cry, Ghalshannha was devoured by its own Chaos, and fell back into the immaterium.

The daemon was gone. The howl was not. It grew. The light reached up to the ceiling. The twist in the rock accelerated. It spun itself into a funnel that reached down into the consuming light. The damage done to Karrathar was irreversible. A storm in the real had formed. The hall began to whirl around the vortex that would swallow the war.

CHAPTER 20

Cyclone

1. SCHRANKER

The scream hit the battlefield. It struck all the combatants. Veteran Sergeant Schranker knew this because when the claws of ice plunged into her soul, and brought her to her knees, she was not killed by a heretic in the next second. She gasped in pain, helpless for a full second, but in the next she fired her shotgun into the crush of the foe before her. She couldn’t see until the second after that, as she struggled to her feet. She hadn’t seen her targets, but she had killed them anyway. They were as prostrate as she had been. One no longer had a head. They were not fighting back. They were writhing on the ground, clawing at their own faces. She holstered the shotgun, revved her chainsword, and waded in. There was no resistance to her slaughter. In some faces, she thought she might even have seen a hint of relief as the blade cut through soft tissue and bone to shred vital organs. Around her, the other Mortisians were picking themselves up and washing the slopes of the pass with the blood of the foe.

Until the scream the battle had been a quagmire. Schranker had lost all sense of direction. But now she could see that she had advanced towards the end of the pass. Further ahead, Colonel Granach walked from cluster to cluster of prone wretches, pumping bullets into their skulls. His gait was stiff from his injuries, and he lurched from the dizzying blow of the scream. But he was walking. She decapitated the last of the heretics near her and struggled to his position, negotiating a terrain knee-deep in bodies, most dead, some still squirming. All those she crossed were still after her passing.

A nucleus of organization was forming around Granach when she arrived. There were a few other surviving sergeants. The regiments were shaking off the worst of the scream, and finding that victory had arrived with as much surprise as the ambush.

‘Our comrades have completed their mission,’ Granach announced.

Schranker looked at the fallen heretics. ‘But how–’ she began.

Granach cut her off. ‘Don’t ask.’ More quietly, he said, ‘By the Throne, sergeant, don’t seek answers to this. I promise you they won’t be healthy.’

‘Yes, colonel.’ She rubbed her head. ‘I can still hear that… that sound.’

‘So can I.’

‘Do you think…’ She trailed off as a glow in the sky caught her eye. She realized that the echo she heard wasn’t in her head.

‘Sergeant?’ Granach asked.

She pointed, but he had already turned. He saw it too. Everyone did. Over the nearest line of peaks, where Karrathar waited, the clouds were glowing with the reflected light of corruption. Their rotation was already violent. The formation was both storm and wound.

‘Well?’ Granach called. ‘What are you all waiting for? There lies our new battle.’ He gave a brief, despairing laugh, and then he said, ‘To war, Mortisians! If we’re going to die, hadn’t we better spit in the enemy’s face?’

2. YARRICK

Get up.

I couldn’t. I’d had enough. The foe on Mistral was dead. That was enough, wasn’t it?

Get up.

The intensity and movement of the light increased. A great wind roared through the hall towards the heart of the wound. The hall was spinning, spinning, spinning, and it was no illusion, no vertigo.

Get up. You are not relieved of duty.

I rolled onto my side, then onto my knees. My eye and arm still throbbed, but the paralysing absence was fading. I had the use of my body again, and I stood. I would not die here. I had not finished my fight for the Emperor. And I was not a lone soldier. I was a commissar. I had charges. I would not let the warp devour them.

Fighting Mistral’s darkest wind, I staggered to Rasp’s side. I knelt beside him. He was still breathing. I draped one arm over my shoulder. A few metres away, Seroff had found his feet. Blood still coursed freely down his face. I could see bone showing at the top of his skull. His eyes were glazed, but he moved to Rasp’s other side. We began to drag him away.

The retreat from the vortex began. The heretics lay everywhere. The psychic feedback of their false god’s dissolution had killed them. The nearest bodies began to slide along the floor, caught by the gravity of the storm. But there was still one daemon. It moved to block the exit to the upper levels of the castle. The way we had come was already closed to us. As the floor shifted and flowed, the collapse had become a site of foaming stone. We would be crushed if we went anywhere near that uproar.

The daemon’s lunatic babble was inflected with desperate rage. It attacked with the fury of a combatant who knows its war is lost. It would make our victory a bitter one. It rushed forwards. Sister Basilissa was too close. She had barely turned from adding her fire to the banishing of Ghalshannha when the daemon was upon her. She put three bolter shells into the monster before her clip ran dry. She slashed at the daemon with her blade, roaring her defiance, and then it rolled over her. It knocked her down. Its entire lower half turned into jaws that snapped over her power armour. Ceramite and bone crunched. Her fellow Sisters tried to help. The daemon absorbed shells, weathering damage and refusing to release its prey. Then there was the muffled crump of an explosion. The daemon and Basilissa were torn apart. She had fought the daemon with the same final ferocity that it had used against her. She had managed to pull the pin on a frag grenade in her belt.

The way was clear, only nothing was clear. Perspective spun and tilted. My centre of gravity shifted with every passing moment, and it was always towards the vortex. Stone was screaming as it was pulled into the maw of unreality. Rock bled. Corpses cracked and crumbled. There had been such extremity of suffering here that it had permeated the walls and floor and ceiling. Karrathar itself was a final, worthy sacrifice to the hunger of the warp. I had to focus on each step to make sure that Seroff and I were moving in the right direction, and not walking back to our dissolution.

The funnel of light and destruction grew in size and power. It wrapped us in the chains of its attraction. It sank hooks deep into us and pulled. I could see the steps up from the dungeons. I knew we were closer, yet they seemed further away, as if Karrathar were stretching out as its interior spun around the grasping wound. The corpses of the heretics tumbled past us. The taint of Chaos was everywhere. We were wading through a surging torrent of the irrational, and it continued to take its toll. More of the dwindling number of Mortisians had their victory stolen from them as their sanity died. They stumbled, and then were dragged wailing to the centre of the end.

Ghalshannha’s scream had jerked Vercor and Krauss back to consciousness. They were just ahead of us, able to move on their own, though not much faster than Seroff and I could with our burden. Kortner had Betzner slung over his shoulders. He staggered under his weight, but kept his feet. Setheno was just behind me. She had the mechanical gait of a damaged servitor. She still wore her helmet. I did not know what damage she had suffered from being in extended contact with the daemon, but I was surprised she could walk at all.

We reached the stairs and started up. At first, the narrower confines of the staircase made the world a bit more stable. But as we climbed, the infection spread, the vortex spun, and the steps twisted until we were on a serpent’s skeleton. Anyone who fell could bring down the rest behind. As we neared the first landing, the stairs rippled, and two more of the Mortisians lost their footing. They came down like a rockslide. They were dead after the first few bounces, their necks snapped. I shoved Seroff and Rasp towards the wall. The bodies fell past. A leg caught me with a hard blow. My balance crumbled, and I dropped to one knee. I felt the warm pulsing of stone. Our burden slid. I managed to keep my grip on Rasp, found the direction of the wall, and leaned back towards it. Then I could stand again.

We worked our way up from the dungeons to the ground floor of Karrathar. Though we moved further and further away from the heart of the corruption, we did not reach sane ground. By the end, Vahnsinn had turned all of his family seat into a carnival of depravity. The signs of torture dripped from the walls of every room and every corridor. Rituals had carried on even during the battles down below. Furniture had been stacked, smashed and burned. The portraits on the walls had been defaced with sigils that now glowed like phosphorescent bruises. In every large space, there had been gatherings. Mutilated bodies were chained to the floor, arranged around thrones and lecterns. The teachings of Chaos had come through words and actions, and Karrathar had learned them well.

Reality spun faster yet. The storm followed us as it grew. When I risked another look behind us, what I saw was not the interior of a fortress. It was a tornado. The funnel was unlight, the colours of death and shrieking stone. It devoured the blood and latent agonies of the fortress. And we, who still lived, were the most succulent of prey.

In the entrance hall, we encountered two exits. To the left, a bay opened onto the maglev station. Straight ahead, the main doors to the courtyard and the road down the mountainside. Some of the Mortisians were already heading for the door. I looked at the tracks. The train was already rippling. It would be unusable. But the tracks would still get us away from Karrathar faster than the alternative.

At worst, we might fall to our clean deaths.

‘Left,’ I tried to shout, but my voice was too weak. Setheno heard me. She repeated the command through her helmet’s vox-caster. Even allowing for the electronic distortion, her voice was wrong. It was the sound of an empty tomb. Bellavis picked up and amplified the command with rote, near-mindless repetition. His movements and reactions were so mechanical, I didn’t know if anything of the human or sentient still functioned inside his bionics.

We struggled through the pitching, spinning real and through the hangar doors. The track was buckling, but we took it. At our backs, the agony of the dying real was the howl of a wounded beast, big as a Titan. I did not look back. I did not dare, but Sister Gema did. What she saw rooted her just long enough for it to seize her.

We tried to run. Seroff and I stumbled faster. My legs were foreign to me again. All my body was. The torn lungs, the beaten frame, the full weakness of flesh pushed too far – none of this belonged to me. It was a vehicle for my will, and it demanded the body keep going.

The track stretched out ahead of us, gradually descending towards the valley floor. It was impossibly thin. It was a ribbon of squirming metal. It would throw us to the void below. We had no choice, and we took it. The roar behind us was deafening. It was eagerness and greed, anger and desire, terror and pain, and the molten fragments of every annihilated future. We were going at a crawl. The coming destruction was a wave. I could feel its shadow towering over us. The next second would be our last.

It wasn’t. The next second took us out of the shadow. We were beyond the splashed aura of blood sacrifices. There came the greatest howl yet, and though its echoes still come to me in moments where I make the mistake of imagining myself at peace, it pleases me to think that I heard frustration in that terrible warp-throat.

The maglev track snapped. To the rear, it was whipped into the vortex. Where our party struggled, it coiled over itself. The surface beneath our feet lifted. We fell. I dropped Rasp’s arm and tumbled forward. Kortner was thrown sideways. Betzner slipped from his shoulders as he pitched over the edge of the track. I managed to grab Betzner, the strain sending a burst of pain through my right arm again. Kortner was just out of reach. I saw his face in that last moment. He was proud of his fight. I hope that pride stayed with him all the way to the ground.

There was no more running. There was only the reckoning. I looked back. I watched Karrathar’s death. The vortex reached from the centre of the mountain to the clouds. The outer walls of the castle bent, melted and flowed into the funnel. A dream of pure Chaos had come to Mistral. The storm spun on itself, a dance of final destruction. The howl was heard across the planet. It was the apotheosis of wind. It was culmination. It was judgement. It was the final consummation of the works of Vahnsinn and Wangenheim.

And it consumed itself. The fuel of sacrifice and unholy martyrdom ended. The materium reasserted its dominion as the cyclone grew thinner, wavered, shrank to a line, and vanished.

We were left with the night, the shattered mountain, and the wind. Always the wind. It pushed against us, an endless war, and it felt nothing at all like victory.

Epilogue

I was alone in the chapel tent when Setheno entered. I was sitting in the front pew, staring at the shrine to the Emperor, weighing choices.

We were bivouacked on the great plain, a short distance from the Carconne foothills, and midway between the ruins of Tolosa and the now-silent Vahnsinn manufactoria. The remnants of the 77th and 110th regiments awaited their relief. It was coming in the form of the 252nd regiment of the Armageddon Steel Legion. The cruiser Scouring Rain was already in-system. Granach would shortly be handing over military command of the planet. I wondered about his career. There would be little thanks coming his way for a victory such as this.

Nor would all the decisions regarding Mistral be in military hands. The final word would fall to Krauss. Once he had sufficiently recovered, he would evaluate how widespread Vahnsinn’s toxin was in the rest of the population. From what I knew of that man, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ordered Exterminatus.

I thought about the civilians of Tolosa. Millions of the Emperor’s faithful. Not a single one saved. Would our bitter victory now be extended to the entire planet? That was not the choice I had to make, but I felt its shadow all the same. If I held a world’s fate in my hands, I wanted to believe that I would not seek its salvation through its annihilation. I wanted to believe that I would find a way to fight on. To fight harder.

Setheno sat beside me. ‘A Black Ship is coming,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ I had expected as much. Betzner was a psyker. There was no choice in the matter. ‘I’ll speak to the trooper myself.’

‘He won’t resist?’

‘He can barely move. But no, I warrant that he won’t resist.’

‘Very well. I have requested that you be kept informed of his fate, should he survive the scholastica psykana.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There is another matter.’

I turned my head to meet her gaze.

‘You know what you have to do,’ she said.

This was the first time we had spoken since the retreat from Karrathar. She had been in isolation, under the care of her surviving Sisters. Her armour had been cleaned, though the damage had yet to be repaired, and I could hear some grinding of servo-motors. Physically, she had recovered strength, but she had not emerged from her struggle with Ghalshannha unscarred. There was a new stillness to her face. She seemed to be denying herself all forms of emotion. The great wound was in her eyes. Her features were still those of the young woman she was, but the eyes were inhumanly ancient. They had once held flecks of gold. Now they were nothing but gold. They were filled with terrible knowledge. ‘You looked, didn’t you?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘I did.’

‘Why?’

‘I have always sought clarity to know how best to serve the Emperor.’ She paused, then pronounced a sentence of enormous darkness: ‘I have it now.’

I said nothing, but I understood. We had both fought the daemon with supreme exercises of our will. We had simply chosen different paths for the struggle.

‘You must have seen some of the futures,’ she said.

‘Fragments. Much I don’t understand.’ Mirror shards tumbled before my mind’s eye. On many of them was the suggestion of a huge, hulking form. There were no details. It was a blurry shadow. It troubled me with intimations of intelligence and savagery on an unimaginable scale. I flexed my right arm. It was still sore.

‘Some you do understand, then.’

I didn’t want to answer.

Setheno said, ‘Lord Commissar Rasp broke.’

‘Did you hear him renounce the Emperor? I didn’t.’

She shrugged. ‘His fidelity is not the issue.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘You must kill him.’

‘I didn’t pull him from Karrathar to put a shell in his brain.’

‘Then you made your decision when we were in the keep.’

The flap of the tent parted and Sister Cabiria stepped in. Setheno acknowledged her, saying, ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Sister.’ She watched Cabiria as she withdrew, and for a moment, her face convulsed into a mask of pain.

‘I am sorry about your Sisters,’ I said. Less than half her squad remained.

‘Thank you,’ she said distractedly, and I realized she wasn’t thinking about current losses. She rose to leave.

‘Free will still counts for something. We are not foredoomed,’ I told her.

She said, ‘We must act as if we were not, true.’

‘I don’t believe that you saw only one future. Or all possible ones.’

‘Nor do I.’ Her face was still again, her voice that of a warrior as determined as she was implacable. ‘But we must be certain we can live with the consequences of the ones we help bring about.’

‘I am. I will give the lord commissar the same chance I choose for myself.’

‘Be well with your choice, Commissar Yarrick,’ she said. ‘We shall speak again.’ She left, walking a path shadowed with the deepest clarity.

I prayed before the shrine a few minutes more, then stepped out of the tent and into the Mistralian twilight. It seemed to me that the wind had a hollow tone. It had nothing but ruins to blow through now. The planet had lost its politics.

I made my way towards the medicae tent. I would spend some time by my mentor’s side. As I walked, I saw Saultern speaking to the officers of the watch. The sight of the captain reminded me that I had begun my mission on Mistral with an act of mercy. I would be concluding it with another. I entertained the idea that the symmetry was a hopeful one. I allowed myself this luxury for several seconds before dismissing it, returning to the strength of my prayers, and to the truth that would sustain us all.

The truth was this: the Imperial Creed is a faith of many facets. It is a faith of discipline, of fire, of vengeance. Of will.

It has nothing to do with hope.

THE PYRES
OF ARMAGEDDON

CHAPTER 1

Tears of the Emperor

1. YARRICK

The return to Armageddon was a hard one. As we made our way back from Basquit, the warp convulsed. Waves of insanity slammed against the Glaive of Pyran. The Lunar-class cruiser was a good ship, strong in hull and crew. Even so, cries echoed down its length. Some were the wailing of tocsins as the Gellar field’s integrity was strained by the currents and tides of the immaterium moved to anger. Others came from the Glaive’s astropathic choir and navigator. In the troop holds, we felt the cruiser shake as its reality came under assault and the certainty of its path eroded. At one point, the walls reverberated with a groan that was too deafening to be human, and too agonised to be metal.

And yet this was not the storm. This was the storm building. The Glaive of Pyran held true to its course, and when it exited the warp, we were in the Armageddon System.

‘A rough passage, Commissar Yarrick,’ Colonel Artura Brenken said to me in the shuttle that carried us from the cruiser towards Hive Infernus. There was a jolt as we began re-entry. My grav-harness held me in place as the fuselage shook.

‘Very,’ I agreed. I raised my voice over the violent rattling caused by the atmosphere’s turbulence. ‘I doubt many more ships will be able to enter or leave the system until the storm passes.’

Brenken gave me a sharp look. ‘This storm worries you.’

‘All warp storms do.’

‘This one more than others.’

I gave her a crooked grin. She knew me well. She should, after so many decades. We had first met shortly after my initial mission as commissar. After serving on Mistral, I had been seconded to the Armageddon Steel Legion for the first time. She had been a sergeant, then a captain, and had been a colonel now for over seventy years. She would have made a fine general, and in my more cynical moments, I sometimes thought that was precisely why she had never reached that rank. She was a superb soldier, but a poor politician – an officer who became more uneasy the further she was from a battlefield.

She wouldn’t make general now. She was near the end of her career. We both were. We were old. Juvenat treatments had kept us physically viable, but her face, like mine, had been moulded by the decades upon decades of war. The unnatural smoothness of her augmetic lower jaw stood out in stark contrast to the landscape of wrinkles and scars on the rest of her clean-shaven skull.

No, colonel would be the peak of her ascension in the ranks.

But she had ascended. I was still a simple commissar.

We both had debriefings to attend. She, as commanding officer of the 252nd Regiment of the Armageddon Steel Legion, would be due for official commendation, following the success of the campaign against the ork raiders. My day would be less pleasant. Seroff would see to that.

Brenken prodded me. ‘What is it about this storm?’

‘Nothing definite,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t like its conjunction with what we found on Basquit.’

‘Orks…’ Brenken began, but was interrupted by turbulence.

I was sitting next to the viewing block and looked out at our descent through the cloud cover of Armageddon. The air was dense and filthy as an oil slick, lightning flashing between roiling fists of brown and yellow. Then we dropped below the cover. The air was still far from clear. I looked out through the eternal layers of grit and banks of sluggish, low-hanging smog. Corrosive rain streaked the viewing block, blurring my first view of Infernus. At this distance, the spires of the hive were indistinguishable from its chimneys. It was a hulking mass of black, filth-crusted iron and rockcrete surging up from the planet’s surface, forever surrounded by the choking aura of its industry. It was nestled between two mountain chains – the Pallidus to the west, and the Diablo to the east. The winds of the Season of Fire buffeted the shuttle, but did nothing to clear away the smog. The bowl between the mountains held the poisoned air trapped over the city.

Brenken tried again. ‘Orks are a threat, but hardly an uncommon one. And we purged them from Basquit.’

‘But what were they doing so deep into Imperial space?’ I asked. ‘And where did they come from? There aren’t any ork-held worlds in any proximity to the Armageddon sub-sector. And then there is what we heard.’

She looked troubled at that reminder. ‘You think there’s a connection?’

‘I don’t know. I hope not.’ I tried to imagine what a link between orks and warp storm could mean. My failure did not reassure me.

The shuttle brought us to a landing pad that nestled at the base of the cluster of spires that housed the government of Infernus. The uppermost reaches were also, at this time, the residence of the ruler of Armageddon. Brenken and I disembarked. A staff officer stood on the pad, waiting to escort her to the debriefing. When she saw who was waiting for me, Brenken gave me a sympathetic nod. ‘We’ll speak later, commissar,’ she said.

‘Until then, colonel,’ I answered. I walked across the pitted rockcrete to where Lord Commissar Dominic Seroff stood at the edge of the landing zone.

‘Sebastian,’ he said. The familiarity was an expression of contempt.

‘Lord commissar,’ I answered. I kept my tone neutral, greeting formally correct. I would not begin the hostilities. I left that to Seroff.

His once-blond hair had turned a blind white. It had receded from the top of his head, but the fringe that ran from ear to ear still had pronounced curls. There was something a bit comical in its refusal to be tamed. More than a century ago, Seroff’s eyes had shone with a sense of the comic too, but they hadn’t for a long time. They were cold. His face was pinched with bitterness. I was in no small way responsible for the officer Seroff had become. I did not regret the decisions I had made, or the actions I had taken. They were necessary. They were correct. But I had been suffering their consequences for much of my life. Seroff was one of those consequences.

‘The 252nd returns in triumph,’ said the lord commissar.

‘It does.’

‘Congratulations are in order.’ His mouth, pursed, tight-lipped, twitched in the right corner.

‘Thank you.’ I had just seen what passed for a smile on Seroff’s features. The day was going to be worse than I had expected.

Behind me, the shuttle lifted off again. Seroff said nothing while the roar washed over us. Even after the sound of the ship’s engines had faded into the distance, we stood in silence. The rain pattered against my cap. It ran down my greatcoat. I felt the faint tingle of its acid as it dripped from my hands. Seroff was savouring the moment. I did not grant him the satisfaction of showing impatience or confusion.

‘Your actions on Basquit have received the attention they deserve,’ Seroff said at last. ‘Overlord von Strab wishes to see you.’

Ah. Light began to dawn. I had a good idea which of my actions would have drawn the interest of von Strab. ‘I am at his disposal,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Seroff said. ‘You are.’

My formulation had been an expression of civility. Seroff had underscored its brutal truth. I was not, strictly speaking, under the authority of the overlord. I was, though, under Seroff’s, and he had just told me that he would see von Strab’s wishes concerning me carried out.

‘When, lord commissar?’ I asked. Still neutral. Still correct. Did Seroff seriously hope to see me worried? If so, that was disappointing. He knew me better than that.

‘He’s waiting for you now,’ Seroff said.

I nodded. I almost thanked him for delivering the message, but there was nothing to be gained with the slight. I had no interest in the trivial games of personal pride that were consuming Seroff’s energy. They were another source of disappointment. I understood why Seroff hated me. But I had once believed he had more discernment. I had once believed he would have made a superb commissar. Instead, he had become an excellent politician.

I made the sign of the aquila and walked towards the spire doors. Seroff remained where he was, preferring to stand in the rain than appear to act as an escort. No doubt he imagined himself a forbidding figure, alone on the landing pad in the rain. I’m sure he was, for the rank and file. But we wore the same uniform. We had come up through the schola progenium together. The more he tried to intimidate me, the more he diminished himself.

I didn’t look back. ‘Throne, Dominic,’ I muttered. ‘Have a little dignity.’ We were much too ancient for such sad games.

I had never met von Strab, and I had never been to the overlord’s Infernus residence. My dealings with all of the governmental bodies of the hives had been limited. I knew who the governors were, though. And I knew my way around the administrative centres. I had been attached to the Steel Legion long enough now that Armageddon was as close to a home as I had ever known. Seroff in his animosity kept me from the centres of the decision-making, but he had not prevented me from learning where those centres were, and who inhabited them. My first duty was to the Emperor, and the more I knew about Armageddon, the better I could serve the Father of Mankind.

I had learned the cost of ignorance long ago, on Mistral. Lord Commissar Rasp, my mentor and Seroff’s, had warned us that what we did not know of a world’s political currents could be deadly. He had been correct. Even forewarned, we had stumbled. Our ignorance had almost killed us all. I had taken the lesson to heart.

So I had come to know Armageddon. Over the years, I had come to know its spires and its depths. And they knew me.

I navigated the halls, stairs and lifts that would take me to von Strab’s quarters with confidence. I would not appear at his door like a lost supplicant. I had my pride, too, no matter how much Seroff worked to trample it in the mud.

The higher I went, the more luxurious my surroundings became, though the grime of Armageddon was always present. Even scrubbed by the ventilation system’s filters, the air tasted of grit, and had the faint smell of sulphur. The stained glass windows were darkened by the smoke and ash of the atmosphere. They also bore other, more symbolic stains. They paid tribute to the accomplishments of the planet’s ruling families. There was a grim continuity to the lineages pictured. On the surface, Armageddon’s politics had been characterised by remarkable stability for centuries. The same families had governed the hives for generations, and the von Strab dynasty’s rule of the planet had been unchallenged for as long. Beneath that surface was a history of rivalries, assassinations, treachery and corruption. The von Strabs embodied that tradition better than any of the other families, which was another reason they had ruled for so long. Their line of succession was neither patrilineal nor matrilineal. It was homicidal.

The corridor I was in branched. To the right was the gateway to the quarters of Erner von Kierska, Governor of Hive Infernus. I went left. The hall ended after a few metres at an ornate iron desk. Behind it sat a serf in the livery of the von Strabs, and behind her was a bronze door engraved with the family’s coat of arms: eight spears, one for each of the great hives of Armageddon, held by a mailed fist. I presented myself to the serf, who ushered me to the door. She pulled the lever beside it, and it slid open, granting me access to the lift to the final reaches of the spire.

For all the luxury on display, this was still Armageddon, still an industrial world. The machinery of the door was not smooth. It ratcheted with age and rust. The lift’s cage was unadorned, and it shook and screeched as it carried me upward. It sounded like the leavings of industry and the blood of politics had caked its gears. The bangs and mechanical stuttering lasted several minutes, and then the door opened again.

I entered the vestibule to the overlord’s quarters. At this height, the rockcrete of the walls, floor and ceiling had been given a cladding of gold-veined marble. The impression created was that here, thousands of metres up, was where the construction of the hive had begun. Despite the taste of the air, the stone was clean. The windows were larger and more elaborate than those below, though just as darkened by the outside ash. They suggested, without actually tipping into the heretical, that the von Strabs had been given explicit dispensation from the Emperor to rule over Armageddon in perpetuity. The chamber was a large one, and empty except for another desk. It was made of the same marble as the cladding, and appeared to grow out of the floor. There was nothing else in the vast space. The excess of luxury was ridiculous. It radiated vanity and waste. It was very difficult to take the power behind this lavish display seriously.

Failing to do so, however, would be a mistake. One that others had made. Fatally.

The serf rose from his desk as I approached. His expression was a smooth sculpture of servility and superiority. ‘Commissar Yarrick,’ he said before I could speak. ‘Thank you for coming.’ As if I were waiting on his pleasure. ‘The overlord is expecting you.’ He barely repressed his amusement.

I couldn’t help myself. ‘You mean he won’t be surprised?’ I said as I walked over to the desk.

The serf paused, blinking, his hands on the gold-leaf-encrusted double doors in the centre of the far wall. He looked back at me, confused. I was not showing the required anxiety upon meeting the Great Man. I stepped forward and returned his stare. He swallowed, looked away, and pushed the doors open. He announced me and withdrew, closing the doors behind me as I stepped through. The boom of the doors bounced around the chamber in which I now found myself. I assumed the intended effect was more deliberate intimidation.

The overlord’s Infernus throne room was twice the size of the vestibule. It occupied the entire width of the spire. The east and west walls were gigantic stained glass windows. Mirrored heroic portraits of von Strab in military uniform towered above the room, a colossus with his feet planted on the diminished orb of Armageddon. There was far more gold in the marble cladding. It twisted around pillars, exploded in convoluted webs from the keystones of the vaults, and covered the throne itself in such a profusion of leaves that it looked like a disease. At regular intervals around the periphery of the chamber stood the honour guard clad in black armaplas and ceramite armour. Over the heart on the carapace was the von Strab coat of arms, but otherwise there was little adornment. The soldiers were equipped in an attempt to resemble the Tempestus Scions, the resemblance enough to cow the citizens of Armageddon. Only the effort involved impressed me. Well protected from standard-issue M-35 Pattern rifles, they were only exceptional as a piece of theatre.

On the throne, Overlord Herman von Strab presided in all his glory. The fourth son of Overlord Luther (deceased), younger brother of Anton (deceased), Otto (deceased) and Vilhelm (deceased), he was a squat man, almost as wide as he was tall, fat enough to look stronger than he was. He wore the same uniform as his image on the windows, darker than the dirty ochre of the Steel Legion trench coats, though its cut was similar enough to declare von Strab as the supreme commander of the regiment. He was bald, with a heavy brow that shadowed his sharp gaze. A bionic monocle sat over his right eye. A thin mechadendrite ran coiled from the lens around his skull and rose over his pate to bury itself in his forehead. Information boosts to his frontal lobe, I guessed, amplifying his ability to foresee consequences. All the better to plan and scheme.

Given what happened to Armageddon, the widespread belief is that the monocle was a spectacular failure. Given what happened to von Strab, I’m not so sure. I think the device could only have strengthened what was already present in that devious mind.

On that day, however, I was less concerned with the function of von Strab’s lens than with doing what I could to prise something useful out of this meeting. I didn’t know what von Strab had in mind for me. My duty, at this moment, was to express my concerns. I knew in my gut that something was coming. But if I wanted von Strab to listen, I would have to find a better way of communicating a sense of urgency than intuition and foreboding.

‘Commissar Yarrick,’ von Strab said. ‘Welcome. I’ve heard many startling things about you. Very busy on Basquit, weren’t we?’ The voice that emerged from his thick lips was deep and nasal. It was oiled with a self-satisfied attempt at charm, but edged with a perpetual, defensive petulance.

‘We were,’ I answered. ‘The 252nd distinguished itself in heroic combat.’

‘So I’ve heard. So I’ve heard.’ He drummed the fingers of his right hand on a data-slate perched on the arm of the throne. He didn’t look at its screen. ‘A great victory, you would say.’

‘I would. The orks on Basquit have been exterminated. However–’

He cut me off. ‘Be that as it may, the victory was not without sacrifice.’

‘No war is.’

‘Basquit lost its overlord.’

‘True. But Albrecht Meinert wasn’t killed by orks.’

‘No. My cousin was murdered by his successor.’

Ah. I began to see where I stood. ‘I heard the rumour,’ I said, non-committal.

‘And you let such treason stand.’

The remarkable thing was von Strab spoke without a trace of irony. I responded in kind. ‘My duty was to rid the planet of orks, not to police its internal politics.’ All of which was true, but I was allowing myself the small pleasure of being as disingenuous as the overlord. Meinert had been an active hindrance to the Basquit campaign. He had insisted that the bulk of the troops be held in the defence of land and homes of the agri world’s ruling families. Lord Berthold Stratz had shown himself to have a much more realistic grasp of military necessities. He had also had designs on Meinert’s throne. While Brenken turned a blind eye, I had met with Stratz. We had spoken in bland, unobjectionable circumlocutions, and Stratz had departed convinced that the Imperium would welcome a new regime on Basquit with himself at the top. Within a day, Meinert was dead, Stratz was overlord, and the 252nd had been freed to bring the battle to the orks.

‘Your duty was to protect Basquit,’ von Strab said. ‘The orks were defeated, but there were incalculable losses of land and property.’ By which he meant the nobility’s holdings. Those lush valleys had become the battlefields where we had trapped the orks and exterminated them.

‘I did whatever I felt was necessary in the service of the Imperium.’

Von Strab smiled. ‘Of course you did. As do I.’

He meant the last statement as a threat. I used it instead as an opening. ‘Good. Then I must inform you that I am greatly concerned that the ork raid on Basquit was just the first sign of a much larger threat.’

‘Oh?’ Von Strab leaned back on his throne, signalling just how ready he was to take me seriously.

‘An ork incursion this deep into Imperial space is already one thing, but we have no adequate explanation for how they arrived there. We had no warning of any sort of approaching fleet. There were no ork vessels in orbit over Basquit.’

‘The greenskins travel the immaterium too.’

‘Indeed. And the reports I gathered on Basquit imply they fell planetside in a space hulk. But it was a small one, just large enough to hold the force we encountered. It may have come out of the warp, but it would have been too small to survive there for any length of time. I believe it was a fragment of something larger.’

‘I didn’t know you were given to such unsupported speculation, commissar.’

Not as much as I am given to hopeless tasks, I thought, but I forged on. ‘There is more. During the battle, I heard the orks chanting.’

Von Strab was looking more and more amused. ‘And what was it they were chanting?’

‘It sounded like Ghazghkull.’

‘You speak greenskin, don’t you, commissar?’ He spoke as if that made me as contemptible as the orks. ‘What does it mean?’

‘I believe it is a name.’

Von Strab shook his head. ‘So the brutes shout the name of their warlord. Please tell me you don’t believe that to be unusual.’

‘What was unusual was the depth of their fervour.’

‘Their fervour? You read the greenskins’ minds now? Are you a psyker, commissar?’ He laughed, pleased with his joke. An appreciative, dutiful snicker did the rounds of the honour guard.

I knew how this would end, but I did not give up. I would see my duty through. The odds against its success were irrelevant. I ignored von Strab’s jibe and summarised my position. ‘Orks attacked a planet in a strategically critical sub-sector. They were, I believe, united in their fervour for a single warlord. They must have emerged from the warp. There is a warp storm brewing. The conjunction of these factors should not be ignored.’

Von Strab regarded me for a few moments. ‘Are you done, commissar?’

‘I am.’

‘Then I thank you for this diversion. I hope you don’t mind if I turn to the reason I sent for you.’

My jaw clenched. I swallowed my rage. It would serve no purpose. ‘You are taking no action at all?’

‘About what you have just told me? Of course not. You are aware that the Feast of the Emperor’s Ascension is almost upon us? You know the scale of the celebration. I have enough to think about without indulging in surmise and fantasy.’

The fingers of my left hand twitched. The movement was very slight. I was barely conscious of it myself. Von Strab saw it, though. The monocle whirred faintly, and his eyes narrowed. He smiled again, much more broadly than before. ‘What are you doing, commissar? Are you reaching for that bolt pistol? What are you thinking? That I am guilty of dereliction? Shall I be executed? By you?’

I said nothing.

He laughed, enjoying himself. ‘We have much in common, don’t you think?’ He paused just long enough for my silence to turn into an insult. ‘No?’ he continued. ‘It’s true, though. We are both willing to do what is necessary. Without exception. Well, almost. I believe you are betraying your own principles at the moment. If I should die, why am I still speaking?’ The smile grew broader yet. I could see his teeth. They were yellow.

Whatever else von Strab was, and whatever his catastrophic weaknesses, he was a superb politician. A politician of the most leprous sort, but a brilliant example of his species. At this moment, he was demonstrating the skills that had made him overlord of Armageddon, and had kept him alive. Not only was I stymied, it was all I could do to keep my temper and not have myself gunned down.

In the years to come, I would ask myself if I made the right decision by staying my hand. I would wonder if events might have turned out differently. The questions still come to me during sleepless hours. If I had drawn my pistol, I would have been dead in the next second. But might I have been fast enough? Could I have killed von Strab then and there? Would my sacrifice have been worth it? Was there any chance it would have saved billions of lives?

I believe I made the right choice. The coming agony of Armageddon cannot be put down to the incompetence and venality of a single man. The Enemy racing our way was far too strong.

Even so, the questions still come.

I didn’t answer von Strab. I clasped my hands behind my back and waited.

When he saw I wasn’t going to be goaded, von Strab chuckled. ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘Well then. Enough of that.’ As if the conversation had been nothing more than banter between old friends. ‘The reason you are here, commissar, is to reap the rewards of your efforts on Banquit.’ And he had already made clear what he thought of those efforts. ‘Indeed, the rewards of your exemplary career.’ His bottom lip glistened with contempt.

‘I see.’

‘You have earned your retirement, Commissar Yarrick, and I have wonderful news.’ A pause and a quick, pursed grin. ‘I have intervened on your behalf with Lord Commissar Seroff. He has generously acceded to my request that we retain your services here on Armageddon. For the remainder of your service, you will have the honour of overseeing recruitment in Hades Hive.’

So he was ignoring my concerns, and putting me out to pasture. There was a role for political officers in the process that led to the formation of regiments. New recruits needed reminding of the singular purpose of their lives. Whether from the more privileged strata of society or from the depths of the underhive, they had to feel the impact of the commissar before the battlefield. They had to fear someone more than their sergeants.

But the role von Strab was assigning me was one normally reserved for commissars convalescing from war wounds. Officers temporarily unfit for combat. Such tours of duty rarely lasted for more than a few months. I didn’t believe the narrative von Strab was presenting, but I did believe he and Seroff had contrived this punishment together. Between them, they would ensure that I would spend the rest of my days in the most menial fashion possible.

I gave von Strab a crisp nod. ‘I see. Will that be all, overlord?’

‘You are dismissed.’

I turned on my heel and left the chamber. I was supposed to feel humiliated. I was enraged, but not because of my punishment. I was sure that something infinitely worse was coming to us all.

2. MANNHEIM

He woke with thoughts of burning. A single, fading image from his unconscious lingered before his mind’s eye: a flare of suns.

Princeps Kurtiz Mannheim of the Legio Metalica Titan Legion sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for his head to clear. He cursed the softness of the mattress. He was, at the insistence of Herman von Strab, quartered in a guest chamber one level down from the overlord’s residence. Von Strab wanted all the senior military currently stationed on Armageddon to be on hand for the feast day. Mannheim despised the posturing spectacle. But it would be over in two more days.

He stood and walked to the half-circle window in the east wall. The stained glass was black with night. He could see nothing out of it. Even if he could, the staging grounds of the Legio Metalica would not have been visible. His Iron Skulls had a base on the outskirts of Infernus many kilometres to the west. He hadn’t had sight of Steel Hammer for three days now. The absence of connection to the Imperator-class Emperor Titan was an acute spiritual pain and growing weakness, like a slow loss of vitae. The implants at the base of his skull had no surface feeling, yet he experienced a phantom lack. That was a distress he expected, though. It began whenever he uncoupled from Steel Hammer. Something more had jolted him to consciousness. His frame tingled with a sense-memory of pain and an anticipation of disaster.

He moved to the footlocker beside the bed. He had no choice but to accept the overlord’s hospitality. That did not mean he had to indulge in the decadence of too many members of Armageddon’s ruling class. He would not insult his uniform by placing it in the chamber’s armoire. It was a bronze monolith, its size dictated, as far as Mannheim could tell, by the need to support the heraldry of both the von Strabs and the von Kierskas. The more Mannheim had to do with the nobility, the more disgusted he became, and the more fervently he clung to his faith in the Imperium’s structure. The chain of command and the oaths that held it together were stronger than the unworthy leaders who weakened individual links. Mannheim had no respect for von Strab, but he would give his life for the order that dictated he obey the overlord’s commands. The Emperor was at the top of that order. Mannheim would rip out his implants before he challenged a state of being dictated by the Father of Mankind.

He opened the footlocker and began to dress. The unease of his awakening refused to fade. It lay over his thoughts like a slick of promethium. He could not ignore it. So he would seek clarity. There was someone he could consult.

He wondered if her sleep had been as broken as his.

3. YARRICK

The librarium was a few dozen levels down from the peak of a spire just to the south of the one housing the overlord’s and governor’s residences. It was still above the thick of the hive’s population cauldron, though there was little of the luxury here that surrounded von Strab. The librarium was clean enough, but its air was stale with neglect. The shelves had grown shabby with age, the rockcrete floor webbed with hairline cracks, and the stacks of volumes and scrolls smelled musty. It was not a place many went. This was not surprising. Armageddon was not a planet where life was conducive to study, and this librarium was not connected to any of the major chapels in the hive. It was almost forgotten.

Meeting here felt clandestine. That worried me. It had since the morning, when Brenken had found me and asked me to attend the gathering.

I was greeted at the door by a scribe as faded and mildewed as his archive. He didn’t speak. He bowed, gestured down the main aisle for me to proceed, then withdrew into the shadows.

The others were waiting for me in the small rotunda at the centre of the librarium. With Brenken were Kurtiz Mannheim and a woman I had not met before. Her red robes, trimmed in yellow, white and black, declared her service to the Legio Metalica. She was a psyker, with a serpent coil of mechadendrites around the back of her skull. The use of her powers had withered her physical form. Her skin was tight against her bones, thin, brittle, a translucent yellow. Her eyes glittered with the intensity of her vision. She sat at a small reading table just behind the two officers.

Mannheim nodded in greeting. ‘Thank you for meeting us, commissar,’ he said. ‘Colonel Brenken spoke to me of your concerns.’

‘She said you share them.’

‘I do. Especially after last night.’

‘What happened?’

Mannheim turned to the psyker. ‘This is Scholar Arcanum Konev. I consulted her after I experienced…’ He searched for the words, then admitted, ‘I don’t know what I experienced.’

‘The tempest in the immaterium is growing worse,’ Konev said. Her voice rasped like sand over bones. ‘The ripples are reaching many.’

‘I asked Scholar Konev to draw from the Emperor’s Tarot,’ Mannheim said.

‘And?’

‘The Great Hoste, reversed,’ Konev recited, hoarse tones taking on the rhythms of a chant. ‘The Despoiler, reversed. The Shattered World.’

I felt the sickening tightness in my chest of the worst being confirmed. I was no psyker, and I was no reader of the Tarot. But I had a rudimentary knowledge of the cards, and I could tell that what Konev had read was nothing good.

‘A great enemy is coming,’ she said. ‘His forces are overwhelming. This is a foe such as the Imperium has rarely seen. What lies in his path will be smashed, and we are in his path.’

Konev would be choosing her words carefully. A great enemy, she had said. Not the Great Enemy. The dark forces from the Eye of Terror were not on the march, then, at least not here. But that was little comfort.

‘Can this still be orks we’re talking about?’ Brenken asked. ‘Their threat isn’t exactly rare.’

‘This one must be,’ I said. ‘We must never underestimate the orks. There’s a good reason we have been forced to fight them on so many fronts: they are very successful in spreading their plague. But in this case…’

‘Would you tell me what you told the overlord?’ Mannheim asked. And after I had done so, he said, ‘If you’re right that we face a greenskin threat, then it must be incredible for it to be of an order to generate this reading.’

‘The warp storm is part of this,’ I said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘A worrying conjunction,’ Mannheim admitted.

‘What is our course of action, then?’ Brenken asked. ‘Other than to increase our level of preparedness.’

The question fell into a silence leaden with our own powerlessness. The threat was still too vague. There were no countermeasures to take against it.

Mannheim sighed. ‘Scholar Konev and I will speak with von Strab. Perhaps this reading, and a reframing of Commissar Yarrick’s points, will convince him at least to build up the defensive posture of the hives.’

‘Warn the other senior officers too,’ I said. ‘Before the overlord explicitly forbids doing so. And what about the Navy?’

‘I have an acquaintance with Admiral Isakov,’ Mannheim said. ‘I’m sure the warp storm is already a point of concern for him. I’ll speak with him.’

The actions felt inadequate, but I could not see much else to be done at this point. ‘We should also send out an alert beyond the system,’ I said. ‘If the warp storm grows much worse, we will be cut off from the rest of the Imperium. If no one thinks to look this way during that period…’ I left the thought unfinished.

Mannheim nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘There is something else that concerns me,’ I said. ‘Why did we meet here?’

‘For discretion,’ said Brenken. She gave me an apologetic shrug. ‘Word of how you stand in von Strab’s eyes has spread quickly.’

‘I imagine he made sure of that.’

‘If the overlord knows we’ve had this conversation, he is less likely to listen to Princeps Mannheim.’

‘Of course.’ To Mannheim and Konev, I said, ‘I wish you luck. I hope my toxicity doesn’t prevent your message from being heard.’

The precautions were futile. Von Strab had no more time for Mannheim’s warning than he did for mine. I sought out Brenken in the barracks of the 252nd later in the afternoon. The regiment was preparing for the march through the streets of Infernus the following day as part of the observance of the Emperor’s Ascension. I found Brenken on the parade grounds, inspecting the companies. The losses on Basquit were already being filled out with new recruits. Brenken spotted me at the entrance to the barracks. The slight shake of the head she gave me told me what I needed to know.

Disgusted, I left the barracks, plunging into the streets of Infernus. I pushed my way through the crowds. The streets at ground level were fifty metres wide, and too narrow for the flow of foot traffic. Vehicles moved at a crawl. On either side, the monolithic slabs of manufactoria rose for hundreds of metres. The air was grey with smoke and exhaust. Tomorrow, this and other major thoroughfares would be cleared for the marches and religious processions. All the quadrants of Armageddon’s hives would pause in their industry to observe the solemn day. This was true of even some regions of the underhive. Von Strab’s enforcement of the Feast, however, had more to do with emphasising his authority than his piety, such as it was.

I pushed my way forward, walking with energy but no direction. I was trying to burn off frustration. Inaction before a threat was unacceptable, yet it was the position in which I found myself. My vision was filled with the smug features of von Strab. I barely saw where I was going. It was several minutes before I realised that something had changed in the foot traffic. More and more people were moving in the same direction. Over the snarl of vehicle engines and the deeper rumbles from within the manufactoria walls came the rising murmur of distress and wonder.

I snapped to alertness. My hand brushed my holster, but there were no sounds of combat. And the people were heading towards the source of the disturbance, not fleeing it. I let myself be carried by the current of bodies.

Whatever the rumour was, it had travelled far, wide and quickly. Hours passed. The collective anxiety around me intensified. People were swept up in anticipation and ignorance. The perpetual twilight of the lower streets of Infernus was darkening towards real night when I reached the square outside the Cathedral of Infinite Obeisance. It was one of the principal houses of worship in Infernus. It was gigantic, its portico alone almost half the height of the flanking manufactoria. Two Warhound Titans could have passed side by side through the open doors. The massive flying buttresses appeared to have shouldered aside the manufactoria to make room for the great bulk of the cathedral.

The people flowed through the doors. The volume of the wailing and prayers I heard coming from inside could not be explained solely by the acoustics of the blackened stone.

I moved forward with the crowd. Once past the threshold, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom, and it was still another half hour before I had gone far enough into the cavern of the nave to see the cause of the anguish. Behind the altar was an immense pict screen, worthy of a battleship’s oculus. It had been erected as part of von Strab’s determination to have all of Armageddon celebrate as one on the following day. All of the major chapels would be linked by vox, and the congregations in the pews and in the streets would see their fellow celebrants by pict feed.

The screen was active now, a day early. It showed a single exterior view, the colossal statue of the Emperor in Hive Helsreach.

The statue was weeping blood.

Crimson streaks ran from the corners of both eyes and down the noble visage. As I watched, a thick tear formed then trickled down from the right eye. It hung suspended for a moment from the statue’s lower jaw before falling into space. The crowd gasped when it dropped, and the wailing surged once more.

I approached the screen, mesmerised. When I was level with the altar, a voice at my left shoulder said, ‘Overlord von Strab will ignore this omen too. You know he will.’

I turned my head, tearing my eyes away from the pict feed. Canoness Errant Setheno stood beside the altar, towering over the shuffling crowd. The people flowed around her like a stream parted by a pillar. When I first encountered her, on Mistral, she had been a Sister Superior of the Order of the Piercing Thorn. We had both changed much since then. Her power armour was the most visible alteration. Once black, wrapped in a fine, rising spiral of red, for some time now it had been the grey of tombs. Her cape was grey too, instead of its former gold. There was no longer an Order of the Piercing Thorn. All trace of it, down to the heraldry on her armour, had been expunged. By her command, and at her hand.

The change in the armour, though striking to the few of us who had known her since those early days, was a surface transformation. The most profound alteration was in her face. Her eyes had been an unnerving, uniform gold since our struggle against the daemon Ghalshannha on Mistral. That was the first of the deep changes. They had continued, slowly, but inexorably, reaching their climax in the wake of the tragedy of the Piercing Thorn. Her face had been blasted of emotion as completely as her armour had been of colour. It was immovable as stone, cold as the void. Instead of altering her features, time and darkest experience had hardened them, like metal folded and hammered and refolded in a forge of war. There was more forgiveness in the faces of the sculpted saints in the cathedral.

Setheno was a powerful ally in combat. But I could not say her presence was welcome. It was yet another omen of disaster. After the destruction of the Piercing Thorn, she had become the canoness without an order. I wasn’t sure if the journey she had embarked upon was penitence or a crusade. Perhaps both. The experience was certainly a penitential one for those who crossed her path, or that of her ship, the Cobra-class destroyer Act of Clarity.

‘Canoness,’ I said. ‘I hesitate to ask what brings you here.’

She watched the statue weep. ‘Signs and portents,’ she said. ‘A disturbing reading of the Emperor’s Tarot aboard my ship, among others.’

‘We have had one here, too. When did you arrive?’

‘At dawn. I was very nearly lost in the immaterium.’

‘The storm is worse, then.’

‘No vessels have translated in-system after mine.’

‘So we are cut off.’ I hoped Mannheim’s alert had been sent in time. ‘You have met with Overlord von Strab?’ I asked.

‘Briefly. He was not receptive to what I had to say.’

Von Strab’s will was impressive. I could think of very few individuals capable of being dismissive of Setheno. I cursed. ‘You’re right. He will find a way to rationalise the omen of these tears.’

‘It may be that the Emperor weeps because of von Strab’s intransigence.’

I sighed. ‘I’ve been unable to think what our course of action must be.’

‘If anyone could find a solution, commissar, it would be you. You are unable because there is none. Overlord von Strab is immovable. What is coming is inevitable. We cannot stop it. All we can control is how we respond when the enemy arrives. But the first move belongs to the foe.’

I thought about the chant I had heard on Basquit. Ghazghkull, Ghazghkull, Ghazghkull. Then, the word had meaning only for the orks. Now my dread was that it would soon have terrible meaning for the Imperium. We had lost the initiative. I knew this with the certainty of faith. I met Setheno’s cold, golden stare and said, ‘Then we must pray that the first move is not the decisive one.’

CHAPTER 2

Claw of Desolation

1. ISAKOV

The battleship Reach of Judgement was a cathedral of war. Over ten thousand metres long, and two thousand abeam, it may have been more the size of a city, even supporting its own chapel rising from the stern end of the superstructure. And yet, it was a cathedral. Every weapons battery, every Fury interceptor, Shark assault boat and Starhawk bomber in its launch bays, every member of its crew of one hundred and fifty thousand, even every bulkhead and rivet – they made up a whole whose immensity was devoted to a single, sublime act of worship: war in the Emperor’s name. Along its length, above each gun port, statues of saints stood guard, each thirty metres high. Its great arches and its stained armourglass were one with the cannons. No city could boast such unity of force and purpose. It was the massive embodiment of sacred war.

It also had the gravitational force of command. The cruisers and escorts that made up the battle fleet moved in concert with it. Together they were a collective fist that could smash civilisations to ash. The Reach of Judgement was a ponderous vessel. It was slow to turn and to accelerate. But once it was set on its course, nothing could stop it. For Admiral Jakob Isakov, his vessel travelled along the straight line of the Emperor’s will.

And now, at the centre of the fleet, it manoeuvred to create an impassable barrier against the enemy heading for Armageddon.

On the bridge of the Judgement, Isakov sat on the command throne in an elevated pulpit set against a massive pillar in the the rear of the bridge. The pillar rose to meet the point of the Gothic vault forty metres above. Levels upon levels of work stations surrounded the deck in arched galleries. Over a thousand crewmembers and servitors powered the nerve centre of the battleship.

‘Mistress of the Augur,’ Isakov said, ‘what are the readings?’

‘Increasingly unreliable, sir,’ Eleza Haack answered. ‘But the displacement is unmistakeable and growing.’

‘Can you extrapolate its size?’

‘It is massive. We can say nothing more precise.’

‘Very well. Orders to the fleet: maintain formation. Weapons free. As we have no information of an Imperial force approaching the Armageddon System, our visitors are presumed hostile. When they translate, open fire.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Vox, send a message to Princeps Mannheim. Tell him he was right.’

2. YARRICK

Mannheim turned from the vox operator to me. ‘The credit is yours, commissar.’

I shook my head. ‘The effort was collective. And there is no credit to be had before the enemy is stopped.’

We had been in the augur station of Infernus’s spaceport, at the western edge of the hive, since before dawn. It was a circular space occupying the peak of a tower overlooking the landing pads. The stained glass of the lower floors here gave way to an armourglass dome sprouting antennae like spines. The tower was far from the tallest in the hive, but the transmissions were received through the sludge of cloud cover clearly enough. That was more than could be said for astropathic messages. The choir of Infernus was located in the midpoint of the tower. I had stopped there before joining Mannheim and Setheno in the station. They had attempted to send the Princeps’ message. Master of the Choir Genest was doubtful about their success. What little they were still receiving was so fragmented and distorted by the storm that it caused psychic wounds without being interpretable. Genest looked worn, even by the withered standards of an astropath. His face was wary too, as if he guessed that he was being used to go behind von Strab’s back, and very much hoped not to have confirmed that suspicion.

My presence in the augur complex was not official. I was there thanks to Mannheim’s invitation and under the auspices of Setheno’s unofficial but powerful authority. It would take the direct intervention of the overlord to counter any demand she made.

And while we waited for Isakov to confront the enemy, each of his messages taking hours to reach us from the edge of the system, the Feast of the Emperor’s Ascension was under way across Armageddon. I could guess with what fervour and solemnity the rites were being observed this year, as the statue in Helsreach continued to weep blood. While the processions and prayers filled the streets and chapels of the hives under constant reminders of the overlord’s beneficence and vigilant eye, von Strab was using one of the most sacred traditions of the Feast to his own benefit. It is said false judgements are impossible on this day. The practical result of this belief is the irreversibility of pronouncements made during the Feast. My faith in the Emperor is absolute, but I have seen too many crimes committed in his name. Von Strab used the tradition of infallible justice to settle scores real and imagined. His grip on the planet was so strong it could hardly be consolidated even further. But he still used the day to underscore the futility of challenging him.

At least he was busy. His attention elsewhere, we had some room to act.

The vox operator reported that the fleet had completed its manoeuvres. It was in position at the Mandeville point.

I became conscious of Setheno’s gaze. ‘You don’t believe this will be enough, do you?’

‘No. Do you?’

She shook her head. To Mannheim she said, ‘Have you long been acquainted with Admiral Isakov?’

‘I consider him a friend.’

‘Then I am sorry.’

‘He isn’t lost yet,’ Mannheim said, though there was little hope in his voice.

Setheno didn’t answer. I watched the banks of augur stations. I willed the news to reach us faster.

Though I dreaded what it would be.

3. ISAKOV

In the Reach of Judgement’s great oculus, Isakov saw the void tear. The wound was greater than any he had ever seen. No single ship could cause such a rift. No fleet would need one. It slashed across the real space, jagged and blazing with the blood of the materium. The flesh of the void peeled back, and the raging non-light and anti-colours of the warp burst across the blockade. And still the wound widened.

Isakov winced. He clutched the arms of the throne, his fingers whitening with tension. Cries shook the bridge as a wave of pain crashed through it. It was a torment of the soul, a response to a greater agony. The warp itself was screaming, as if the thing that had traversed it wounded even that infernal realm, and must be expelled. There was a final blast, a final shriek of tortured materium and warp, and the enemy had arrived.

The space hulk was immense. A moon had appeared before the fleet, dwarfing the warships. It was a world of twisted metal, forged of uncountable vessels. Freighters, colony ships, cruisers and transports had been fused into a mass that was graveyard and fist. The ships were barely recognisable, but portions of superstructure and shattered bows emerged from the conglomeration, fragments of identity drowning in the mass. The hulk looked as if a great fleet had been caught in the grip of a terrible gravitational force, and the moment of collision had been frozen in time. The surface of the misshapen behemoth was a patchwork of mountain ranges and canyons, all of them metal. The ship carcasses had been twisted by the warp into melted, writhing shapes. But the hulk itself was not dead. Furious energy boiled out of canyons. New constructions, crude but indestructible, pushed upwards between the iron ruins. Barbaric icons with snarling, fanged visages thousands of metres across gaped in hunger at the Imperial fleet. It was a thing of creative destruction, all of its grand deaths transformed by a savage vitality.

‘Orks!’ someone called out.

‘Orks…’ Isakov muttered, transfixed by the icons. He had never seen a hulk like this. More than the size chilled his blood. In those icons, he saw signs of an ambition and ability many orders of magnitude beyond what he knew of the greenskins. He had the unshakeable conviction that these orks had not just traversed the warp, they had enjoyed it.

And now they came for Armageddon.

‘Uncatalogued space hulk detected,’ came the dead voice of a servitor slaved to a cogitator. ‘New designation to be assigned.’ There was a brief pause as the cogitator combed through databases and arrived at the correct nomenclature for the monster. ‘Space hulk designated Alveus Alpha Alpha Sextus.’

Isakov grunted. So dry a name. So harmless. It was a serial number. It did not reflect the horror he saw closing in on the fleet.

Alveus Alpha Alpha Sextus was so huge, Isakov did not realise at first how fast it was moving. There was a slight impression of increasing size, but it filled the void as if it were a planet. Then the tocsins blared, and the shouts came from stations across the width and height of the bridge. Calls of horrifying readings of mass, of dimensions, of speed, of proximity, of direction. The portents of doom.

‘Fire,’ Isakov roared. ‘Fire, by the Emperor!’

The order was unnecessary. The fleet was already acting on his prior command. Every forward-facing battery on every ship had opened up. A swarm of torpedoes streaked towards the hulk. Isakov listened to simultaneous countdowns. One marked the progress of the ordnance towards the enemy. The other tracked the shrinking gulf between the beast and the fleet.

Seconds to go before the shells struck. High explosives many metres long, hurled in such profusion that they would have gutted any capital ship. Kill it, Isakov willed. Kill it now, and I will rejoice at the consequences. The destruction of something so vast would take out much of the blockade too. Perhaps all of it. There would be no evading the cataclysm. But the sacrifice would be worth it.

‘Vox,’ he said, ‘remain in constant communication with Infernus. Let them know everything that happens.’

The cannon fire hit Alveus Alpha Alpha Sextus. A few seconds later, so did the torpedoes. Hundreds of explosions peppered the surface. The holocaust that erupted was of a scale that beggared comprehension. The firestorms would have wiped great cities out of existence. Thousands upon thousands of tonnes of metal melted and vaporised. The bones of once-proud vessels spun off into the void, torn free of the space hulk’s gravity. This was not destruction: it was cataclysm. An entire Imperial Navy fleet had fired on a single target.

Some of the fires spread and kept burning. Others winked out. The space hulk kept coming.

The fleet kept up its barrage. The bridge of the Reach of Judgement shook with vibrations so deep they rang like thunder.

The space hulk reached the forward elements of the blockade: the Dictator-class cruiser Cardinal Borza and two frigates. There was no possibility of evasion. Isakov even saw the engines of the Borza flare brighter, Captain Hella von Berne turning the vessel into a five-thousand-metre battering ram. Alveus Alpha Alpha Sextus hit the cruiser a few moments before the frigates. The Borza’s bow disintegrated. Its midsection broke in half. Its engines burned a moment longer, slamming the stern of the ship forward into its own immolation. The warp drives ruptured, and the void was torn again by the light of absolute destruction.

Isakov looked away from the oculus, dazzled, as the flare reached into the bridge, stabbing eyes and soul. ‘Full power to forward shields!’ he called, and braced for the shockwave. It came, and there was another flare, this time from the Reach of Judgement’s void shields. They stood for a full second against the Cardinal Borza’s death cry. Then they collapsed, their failure cascading back along the length of the battleship. The Judgement shook like a city in an earthquake. A chorus of flat servitor voices began reciting damage reports. Something exploded in the corridor leading off the main doors to the bridge. Isakov smelled smoke, and the sharp jab to the nose of ozone.

And the fleet kept firing. Shells and torpedoes were launched into the searing white curtain of a plasma and warp drive fireball. That anything could survive being at the centre of the cruiser’s destruction seemed impossible, but the barrage must continue until either the enemy or the last hope was no more.

The light faded. The space hulk stormed through fire and death. It was shrouded by flame, a comet of fire. It was shedding fragments kilometres long. The Borza had inflicted massive damage, but the blow was meaningless. The hulk was too huge. Nothing short of a planetary mass would halt its journey.

Seconds had passed since the initial impact between the hulk and the blockade. Seconds remained before the end. Alveus Alpha Alpha Sextus filled the oculus. This close, it was doom the size of a world.

There was nothing left to try. There could be no victory. There could be no flight. All that remained was the gesture, to seek honour in death, and curse the monster with a new name.

‘Full ahead!’ Isakov ordered. Von Berne had shown the way. Isakov and his hundreds of thousands under his command would shed more ork blood as their own boiled into the void. ‘Vox, tell Armageddon. Tell them the Claw of Desolation reaches for them. Tell them to fight hard. In the name of the Emperor.’

Then he stared at his killer as if his hate itself could stop it. Through smoke and flame, he saw its surface draw near. A graveyard with tombstones the size of hive spires rushed forward to surround his ship.

He saw Death.

Kilometres distant from the bridge, the bow of the Judgement struck the ruined superstructure of an embedded colony ship. The two vessels melded in a storm of wreckage. Then the great explosions began.

Isakov saw the end come in a triumph of fire. The moment before agony was full of awe. But his final thought was bitter, because the sublime destruction meant nothing.

4. YARRICK

The sudden silence from the fleet was followed by silence in the augur station. It lasted almost a full minute, beginning with the final transmission from the Reach of Judgement until the augur operator called out that all contact with the fleet had been lost.

‘What about the Claw of Desolation?’ I asked. I honoured the admiral’s last gesture. What had entered the Armageddon System must be known for what it was, not hidden behind a cogitator’s cataloguing designation.

‘Still a unique, coherent signal,’ one of the augur operators said. ‘The space hulk is intact and moving deeper into the system.’

‘Its course?’ Setheno asked.

We waited as trajectories were recalculated.

‘No deviation.’ The operator’s voice was awed. He was an old veteran, younger than I was but someone who had never had juvenat treatments. He had lost his legs, and his upper body was fused with a mobile plinth. He had seen much. But nothing like this. ‘Its course will intersect with Armageddon’s orbit in less than twelve hours.’

‘So fast,’ I said. I looked at Mannheim. ‘You must warn the hive garrisons.’

‘He will not,’ said a voice behind me.

I turned. Flanked by two of his honour guard, von Strab stood in the entrance to the station.

‘I am surprised to see you here,’ Setheno told him. ‘Shouldn’t you be presiding over the celebrations of the feast?’

Setheno was the only one present who did not fall under von Strab’s authority. The only one he couldn’t order shot for the insult. So he pretended to ignore the slight and responded as if her question had been a genuine inquiry. ‘I am where I need to be. Word has reached me of a crisis. Despite the efforts of those who do not appear to have a proper respect for the chain of command.’ He strode into the centre of the station. His voice echoing beneath the dome, he announced, ‘Let this be understood by all. There will be no operations undertaken without my authorisation. I am the supreme commander of all forces on Armageddon. The defence of our world is in my hands.’

And with those words, the agony of Armageddon began.

CHAPTER 3

Planetfall

1. KOHNER

‘Our orders are to make ready,’ Sergeant Hugo Kohner of the Tempestora Hive Militia announced. ‘So make ready we shall.’ He led his squad at a quick march from the barracks towards the hive’s outer wall.

‘Make ready for what, sergeant?’ Bessler asked. Of course he did. He couldn’t just take an order and shut up about it. He was older than Kohner by a good decade and he had resented the younger man’s promotion over him for at least that long.

‘If you’re not told, you don’t need to know,’ Kohner snapped. ‘You do as you’re told. Clear enough? Or do I have to ask a commissar to come calling?’

‘Clear, sergeant,’ Bessler said.

‘Good.’

In truth, he was venting on Bessler his own irritation with the vagueness of his orders. He’d asked the same question of Captain Wendlandt, who had been more forthcoming than Kohner could afford to be. ‘They’re not telling us,’ he’d said. ‘An enemy landing of some kind. Nothing more specific than that.’

‘So what are we supposed to do?’ Kohner had asked.

‘Stand vigil on the walls.’

The order lacked shape, but it was still an action to be taken. So Kohner led his squad with the other soldiers of the militia towards the wall. There were two regiments of militia: twelve companies, over four thousand troopers. They marched through streets reeking of burned excess promethium and coated in the perpetual rain of ash sent up by the Tempestora East and Morpheus manufactoria complexes. They were slowed as they ran into masses of celebrants still marking the Emperor’s Ascension.

A step behind Kohner, Bessler grumbled, ‘Why are all these civilians still out here?’

Kohner said nothing, but he agreed. More signs of conflicting messages coming down from on high. Prepare for an enemy. Honour the Feast. Was no one stopping to think how those two commandments interfered with each other?

His jaw set in frustration, he bulled through the crowds. A preacher cursed him when a jostled procession almost overturned the idol of the Emperor they transported over their heads. Kohner twitched at the near miss with blasphemy, but he kept going.

The outer wall was less than two kilometres from the barracks, but it was an hour before Kohner began to climb one of the iron staircases that zigzagged up its surface, taking him the hundred metres to the parapets. He was out of breath when he reached the top. So were the other squad members. He envied the Steel Legionnaires their rebreathers. The militia troopers took the unfiltered air of Armageddon into their lungs, cutting down on their stamina as well as their life expectancy. Their uniforms were the same ochre as those of the Steel Legion, but lacked the greatcoats. The militia troopers wore the reminders of what they should aspire to become, but were not yet.

Kohner looked east over the parapet. This was not the Ash Wastelands to the north of the hive, though the land was harsh enough. It was a dry, poisoned plain broken up by gullies that had run dry centuries before, and the topsoil had blown away not long thereafter. The few rivers that still flowed north towards the Boiling Sea were sluggish and brown with contaminants. Thorny scrub grew along their banks. The only vegetation stubborn enough to cling to its hold in the region, it was tall and sharp enough to disembowel the unwary. Even through the ashfall and overcast, Kohner could see dozens of kilometres into the grey distance. The land was empty. No enemy approached.

Two hours later, Bessler came and said, ‘So? What now? How long do we stare at nothing?’

‘Until there is something, or we are commanded otherwise,’ said Kohner. He turned his head to glare at the militiaman. ‘How is this so difficult for you to grasp?’

Bessler didn’t answer. His head tilted up and his eyes snapped wide. His face, always pinched in resentment like an arthritic fist, went slack with awe and paled. Light seemed to shine from it.

No, that was wrong. The light shone down on it from the sky.

Kohner looked up to see the fire descend.

2. YARRICK

Claw of Desolation’s arrival was visible across Armageddon Prime, and as far east into Armageddon Secundus as Infernus. I remained in the augur station after von Strab took over the operations. He withdrew to his quarters, summoning Mannheim and the commanding officers of all Steel Legion regiments to attend his pleasure. He had no use for me. So I stayed to bear witness to the coming of the space hulk.

As the augurs tracked the Claw of Desolation’s trajectory, a terrified quiet descended on the station. Since the warp storm had begun, the flights to and from the spaceports had been reduced to a fraction of their usual rate, being limited to in-system traffic only. Now all ships were grounded, and vessels in near orbit were ordered to maintain their positions unless they were in the path of the hulk. Many of the monitoring servitors lapsed into quiescence, their particular stations having gone dark. The sentient technicians gathered around the augurs that followed the voyage of the intruder. The old veteran at the augur called out the shrinking distance. His gravelly voice rang through the air of the station like the countdown to an execution.

I stood at his shoulder and watched his pict screen. The figures dropped steadily towards zero. As the final hour began, the fear around me turned the air sour. The operator opened his mouth to announce the Claw of Desolation’s latest position and I interrupted him. ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

‘Kovacz, commissar.’

‘You served with the Steel Legion.’

‘I did. Gunner in the 158th Armoured.’

‘Then you’ve killed your share of greenskins.’

He grinned. His teeth were stained yellow from lho-stick use. ‘I have, commissar. They didn’t get my legs cheaply.’

‘I don’t think they’ve finished paying for them. Do you?’

‘No.’ The grin became tight-lipped. His gaze hardened.

‘No,’ I repeated, raising my voice. I looked around the station. The sounds of other activity had diminished even further. Attention was centring on me. ‘You are citizens of Armageddon,’ I said to the entire station. ‘Remember what that means. The steel of this world’s legions does not come from lasguns and tanks. That is common to all regiments of the Astra Militarum. The steel is in the soul of its heroes. I say that that steel is the birthright of every son and daughter of Armageddon. Will you contradict me?’

A few shouts of ‘no’ answered me.

‘No,’ I said again. ‘And that is the steel the enemy will encounter. If I had room in my hate, I would feel pity for the xenos mad enough to set foot on the sacred soil of this world.’

A servitor jerked to life. ‘Orbital defences acquiring target,’ it announced in flat tones.

‘Perhaps they’ll stop it,’ said another operator from across the room. He was much younger than Kovacz. He sounded more frightened than hopeful.

‘No, they won’t,’ I said. ‘Not if the Imperial Navy failed. The Reach of Judgement alone had several times their firepower. We must have no illusions. The enemy will come. The xenos will not be stopped on our doorstep.’ I waited, giving them no comfort in my gaze. Nothing but the coldest truth would serve. There had been too many lies. I had to pierce through von Strab’s veil of self-serving confidence. If the people of Armageddon believed he knew how to deal with orks, then the planet would fall. As yet, I had no true measure of the might of the enemy, other than immensity. Between the omens, the energised orks of Basquit and the devastation of the fleet, I expected a challenge unlike anything we had ever encountered.

I was naïve in my optimism.

‘Our test,’ I resumed, ‘is in our response. Will you despair before the battle has even begun? Will you surrender Armageddon out of fear?’

‘No!’ The answer was staggered, a mix of desperate bravado and hesitation.

‘Will you yield to the greenskins?’

‘No!’ Stronger now, more unified.

Good. ‘Then make ready to fight,’ I said. ‘And prove yourselves worthy of the Emperor’s protection.’

There was fatalistic determination in the faces around me. That was a start. I concealed my own sense of helplessness. There was nothing more I could do until the enemy’s first move.

‘Atmospheric entry,’ said the servitor.

We all looked up through the armourglass dome of the station. We stared at the turgid, discoloured sky. There was nothing to see at first. A minute later, the fire came. It streaked across the zenith, a sword of flame blazing through the overcast, the hulk itself still concealed behind the clouds. I squinted, dazzled by the glare. A wide swath of the sky burned, but there was no sound for several seconds. The Claw of Desolation was still in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, the great fire the sign of its distant passage, the flames streaking to the west and disappearing beyond the horizon.

The thunder came now. It reached us through the armourglass and the rockcrete of the tower. It was the deep howl from the throat of a beast as big as the world. It came in a rapid crescendo. It beat at the dome, at our ears, at our souls. It was an endless rage. It was both the shriek of the wounded planet, and the hungry snarl of its tormentor. The entire tower vibrated. I felt the thrum in my bones. People were screaming, but I couldn’t hear them.

I did not cover my ears. I walked to the west side of the augur station, keeping my stride steady even though the floor shook and the structure swayed. I set the example. I glared at the enemy in the sky. I knew my role. I had played it for well over a century. I presented the image of the will to fight.

From the distant west came a still-greater thunder. Then night rose to the clouds, and reached out for us.

3. KOHNER

The fire and the great shape it enveloped fell to earth just beyond the eastern horizon. Kohner screamed ‘Down!’ as he threw himself flat. His warning came too late for anyone who wasn’t already taking shelter behind the parapet. The blast wave hit Tempestora. It came ahead of sound, and it banished sound. It was a wall of heat and force. It was a thing beyond wind. It slammed into stone and rockcrete and shook them to their foundations. The air filled with glass as every unarmoured window in the hive city exploded. The troopers too slow to duck, who were foolish enough to stand and watch, were flicked off the battlements like insects. Their uniforms were blasted from their flesh. Their bodies splattered against the higher walls behind.

Sound returned, and it was the boom of a planet being struck with a hammer. Blood flowed from Kohner’s ears. The hurricane tried to lift him from the wall. He curled tighter against the parapet, clutching at the rockcrete. He heard a sharper, shattering rumble and he looked up. A few hundred metres from the outer wall, a towering hab block collapsed. It fell in on itself at first, and then toppled to the west. It brought other structures down with it, destruction rippling across the streets of the hive.

The winds and the thunder went on and on. Kohner lost track of time, but when the darkness came, it was too soon. Night fell in a rush, and it was choking. Millions of tonnes of pulverised rock, had been kicked up to the clouds on impact. A blanket of dust spread across the sky. In the lower reaches, it sandblasted the stones of Tempestora. It mingled with the ash. It stung eyes and smothered lungs. Kohner coughed up thick, blackened phlegm.

When the wind at last dropped to a mere gale shriek, he rose. He leaned into the rage blowing from the east. There was a glow in the distance, a burning dawn that would never become day.

The troopers of the Hive Militia regained their footing. Shouting over the wind, Bessler asked Kohner, ‘That must have come down close to Uffern?’

Kohner nodded. Uffern was a minor hive, more of an industrial satellite to Tempestora. Its population was a mere ten million.

‘What now, sergeant?’ Bessler asked. He was not complaining now. He wanted guidance.

So did Kohner. Already hundreds of his comrades lay dead. ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he said.

He was right. Almost as soon as vox communication was restored, the order came to march.

4. YARRICK

I left the spaceport right after landfall. Overhead, the dust turned the clouds black. When the next morning came, I was sure, no corner of Armageddon would see a true day. With the coming of war, the world had fallen into a cycle of twilight and night.

I made my way by maglev train back to the barracks. When I arrived, the parade grounds were full of mustering troops. The regiments of the Steel Legion present in Infernus were making ready. I was puzzled, though, as to why the tanks were still in their hangars. There did not appear to be any mobilisation of heavy armour at all.

I found Brenken in the officers’ quarters. She was in her chambers, sitting on a metal stool, staring at a map of Armageddon on the table before her, but not looking at it. A muscle in her cheek twitched as she clenched and unclenched her jaw. She was lost in anger.

I rapped on the doorway. ‘What mad order has he given now?’ I asked.

She blinked and focused her attention on me. ‘Our only mobilisation is defensive.’

‘What?’ Von Strab overseeing the efforts against the orks filled me with dread. I could foresee only disaster in his leadership. But I hadn’t imagined even he would order that nothing be done. He was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. Or so I had believed until this moment. ‘He wants us to wait for the orks to come knocking?’

Brenken’s grin was ghastly. ‘Not quite. He’s ordered Hive Tempestora Militia to mount the offence.’

‘They’re leaving the hive to fight the greenskins?’

‘Yes.’

Von Strab’s decision was mad on such a colossal scale that for a few moments, I couldn’t shape a question capable of dealing with it. At last, I could muster nothing better than, ‘Why?’

‘He believes most of the orks must have died on impact. He thinks this is a mopping-up operation.’

Put thus, I could see the overlord’s logic. The entire planet had felt the reverberations of that blow. It was difficult to imagine any being inside the space hulk having survived such a landing. ‘He thinks the militia is going to find a crater and nothing else,’ I said.

‘That’s right. You don’t believe that, do you?’

‘No. This hulk is gigantic. It destroyed the fleet. It came straight for Armageddon. What are the odds against such a direct hit being due to chance?’

‘Astronomical,’ said Brenken.

‘The statue of the Emperor was not weeping over dead greenskins. The Tarot did not warn of a simple disaster.’ I shook my head. ‘How was von Strab’s theory received?’

‘Mannheim thinks it’s ridiculous. The other colonels are doubtful, and definitely not happy about being held back.’

‘But the hive governors fell into line,’ I guessed.

She nodded. ‘And they’re happy at the prospect of having their territory protected.’

‘What about General Andechs?’ He had overall command of the Steel Legion regiments on Armageddon, though his authority was limited by the overlord’s supremacy over all armed forces. He was also a member of Armageddon’s nobility, and his family had a long history of political alliance with the von Strab dynasty.

‘He is cautious on both sides of the issue.’

‘In other words he’s equivocating,’ I said. Brenken had to respect her commanding officer. I had to follow their orders unless they were derelict, and I enforced the chain of command. But I didn’t have to grant my respect to anyone who hadn’t earned it. Andechs was a competent officer, but a better politician, and his elevation to general owed more to the latter quality than the former. ‘So what do you plan to do?’ I asked.

‘I can’t do much more than what has been ordered. We prepare to defend Infernus.’

‘I think you should make ready to head for Armageddon Prime. We’ll be sent there soon, whatever von Strab believes right now.’

Brenken stood. ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘The militia is going to be slaughtered.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It will be exterminated.’

5. KOHNER

Uffern was gone. The space hulk had come down only a few hundred metres from its eastern edge. Entire neighbourhoods had vaporised and in their place were the sloping walls of the huge crater. The blast had flattened the rest of the city. Where spires had stood, there was only rubble. A few shapes reached upwards like broken fingers. They were fragments of towers, hollowed-out shells, a brittle trace of the city that had been.

The Tempestora Hive Militia skirted the southern edge of Uffern’s grave. The land over which the columns marched had been scraped bare to the bedrock, and the new surface was rippled and cracked. Kohner had to watch his footing. It would be easy to break a leg in one of the jagged crevasses.

True night had fallen during the march from Tempestora. Whatever dawn could still come to Armageddon was still a few hours away. The militia’s advance was limited to the speed of the infantry. Though there were Chimeras and Tauroxes in the field, the militia had no heavy tanks, and its artillery consisted of fixed emplacements at the hive. The militia was not the Steel Legion. Its function was defensive, and it had not left Tempestora to engage in battle for centuries. Kohner didn’t even know what its last campaign had been. There were rumours that it had been expunged from the historical record.

Defensive or not, the militia was on the attack now. It was the largest mobilisation Kohner had ever seen. As far as he could tell, the entire force was marching with him. No, he thought. We aren’t the Steel Legion. But we know how to fight. They were disciplined, well-armed, and numbered in the tens of thousands. We know how to fight, he thought again. Then he called to his squad, ‘Are you ready to show the greenskins a proper Tempestora welcome?’ The shouts that came in response were picked up by other squads. The sound was a good one. He needed the reassurance as much as anyone else.

Beyond the city, a monster loomed. From a distance, in the night, it resembled a new mountain. Its flanks still glowed from the heat of its passage through the atmosphere. There were many dark patches, as if portions had fallen away. Or had opened. The wind was no longer the wrath of a wounded planet, but it still blew from the east. It carried the sounds of a great clamour. Voices and machinery, guttural and savage, blended together into the low grumble of xenos thunder. The stench of ork bodies and smoking engines squeezed Kohner’s lungs.

‘Purge the alien!’ Captain Wendlandt cried. He was riding in the top of a Chimera a short distance to Kohner’s right.

‘Purge the alien!’ Kohner echoed.

‘Purge the alien!’ Thousands calling for blood now. Thousands united in their determination to defend their world. Thousands shouting to drown out the unclean snarl from the east.

For a few moments, they succeeded. Kohner was surrounded by human rage. He was buoyed by the collective power it represented. He was hungry for the clash. The Tempestora Hive Militia would exterminate the greenskin survivors, and for once the glory of victory would not belong to the Steel Legion.

He was still shouting when the orks roared. They swamped the human cry. The roar was huge as a wall, crushing as a fist. It went on and on and on, louder and louder, hideous in its eagerness and joy. It was not the sound of the battered survivors of a disaster. It was the triumphant exhilaration of millions.

Kohner’s mouth went dry. The rallying cry choked off in his throat. Terror sank fangs of ice into his gut. The roar was something monstrous, beyond his comprehension. The thunder of the space hulk’s impact had been shattering, but he had understood what it was. This was something else again. It was exultation, an emotion rare enough on Armageddon. Kohner had a vision of bestial jaws opening wide, wide enough to swallow the sun, about to snap down and devour everything human.

Caught by the headlamps of the Taurox following close on the Chimera, Wendlandt’s face was a skull, a thing of stark light and deep shadow. He was shouting something, but Kohner couldn’t hear him over the orks. He was gesticulating, waving forward with his laspistol, a desperate marionette. The order was clear: advance, attack.

In the name of the Emperor, attack.

Kohner tightened his grip on his lasrifle, but there was nothing to shoot yet. How far were they yet from the enemy? He didn’t know. The space hulk was kilometres distant, but the roar had seemed close, a beast’s breath on the back of his neck.

He picked up his pace. He shouted, and couldn’t hear his own voice, but his squad joined him in the charge forward. The thousands of the Tempestora Hive Militia rushed to meet the foe. To think was to despair, so the only choice was to attack with speed, with ferocity, with desperation.

The orks were faster. More ferocious. Even more consumed with the need to engage. The roar became the clash of arms and the snarl of heavy vehicles. Kohner was a third of the way down the columns from the front ranks, far enough away that at first he didn’t know why the advance had stopped, why he could no longer run because the man in front of him had stopped running too. Then he made out the sounds of war. In the near distance, las flashes strobed in the night. The ork guns barked, so many of them that their reports blurred into a long rattle. Kohner could just make out hulking shapes and flashes of xenos hide. The beasts were taller than men, and wider. They were easy targets to hit, hard ones to drop. They walked into las fire and punched forward, eating into the column, stopping it dead.

Kohner aimed high, firing over the heads of his comrades. He got off four shots, and four hits. He knew this because he could see the ork he was aiming at more clearly with each pull of the trigger. The orks had hit the front ranks so hard they barely slowed in their charge as they cut down Tempestora’s warriors. They were close enough for Kohner to see the viscous saliva drooling from their tusked maws, to see their corded muscles, and to feel his blood chill before the wave of greenskins. The blades they brandished were as massive, crude and varied as their armour. Some were defended by nothing more than a few pieces of scrap metal attached to their rough leather clothing. Others, much larger, advanced in massive suits, terrifying patchwork constructions of plates and spikes. The orks had draped themselves with trophy skulls of humans, eldar and other races. Raised above the horde was a forest of iron hacked into icons of horned bulls, serpents, blazing suns and more.

Kohner’s target fell, and he took heart in the knowledge that the orks were mortal. ‘They can die!’ he shouted, though only he could hear. ‘They can die!’

The orks died, but they seemed immortal, and for each one that fell, the rest came on with greater frenzy. With the militia’s advance halted, Kohner took the time to steady his aim, and place each shot carefully into the skulls of the greenskins. The nearest brutes were only a few dozen metres away from him.

The ork engines drew closer. There were two registers: the deep clanking of heavy armour, and the furious, giant insect rasp of bikes. Kohner looked to the right. Along the edge of the militia formation, ork bikes screamed past. Flames shot out of their exhaust, and from the muzzles of their forward-mounted guns. Their engines spewed dark, noxious clouds over the militia. Kohner choked, his nose and throat raked by the smell of burned, barely refined promethium. The riders butchered at high speed, scything through the human flanks, and they kept going. If it weren’t for the sheer number tearing past, Kohner might not have known what hit them. The warbikes disappeared towards the rear of the column.

‘Where are they going?’ Bessler was wide-eyed. He fired pointlessly at the bikes before shooting towards the front again. He wasn’t aiming, wasn’t thinking. He was a single shock away from panic.

‘To the rear,’ Kohner told him. ‘They’re going to surround us.’

The battlewagons followed the bikes. The war’s flames leapt higher, and Kohner could see further into the dark. The ork tanks were an unending stream of metal, a bellowing, clanging, booming sea of destruction. They jostled against each other, too many huge vehicles fighting for the privilege of smashing the humans. The Chimeras and Tauroxes moved outwards towards the flanks, bringing their guns to bear against the ork machines, using their armour to stop the massacre of the flesh. The ork cannons dug huge furrows into the lines. The ground beneath Kohner’s feet vibrated with the impact of ork shells and solid rounds. A massive volley smashed into the side of a Taurox twenty metres to the rear of Kohner’s position. The hits were a series of rapid concussions, a doom-doom-doom-doom-doom punching through the armour, tearing it open, pulverising the soldiers inside. The Taurox exploded, and the fireball washed over the infantry surrounding it.

Wendlandt’s Chimera blasted the driver’s compartment of one battlewagon. Still moving fast, the enemy vehicle veered wildly, grinding militia troops beneath its spiked wheels before it collided with another ork tank. The two were moving fast, and they were top-heavy with armour and guns. The first battlewagon flipped onto its side. The other, its front built up into a battering ram, drove into its chassis. The two vehicles fused. Metal scraped over rock, becoming a single burning scrap heap. The battlewagons came to a stop, blocking the path of the vehicles behind them. The flow of the ork monsters slowed as the other tanks manoeuvred to pass.

Kohner experienced a surge of crazed, irrational hope. The destroyed battlewagon meant nothing beyond a minor inconvenience for the orks. Ten killed tanks, twenty, fifty… all meaningless. The army that roared past the militia column defied counting. Kohner knew how this must end. But for a few moments, he managed to push that knowledge away.

The human ranks became more serried. There was no question of an advance. As the warbikes and battlewagons receded towards the rear of the lines, retreat became impossible too. The struggle now was to hold the orks back.

Crackling green lightning blew the wrecked battlewagons apart. All along both flanks of the column, salvoes of the green energy struck. The orks had set up artillery beyond the path of the vehicles, and they unleashed the guns now. A storm of explosions fell on the militia. The barrels of the cannons were long, tapering conglomerations of coils coming to a three-pronged end which created a blistering nexus. The guns were not accurate. They weren’t even stable. Several blew up as they fired. The orks’ self-inflicted casualties didn’t matter. The power and the volume of the salvoes were overwhelming.

Kohner’s senses were battered by the energy gale. His comrades became silhouettes backlit by searing green flashes. The explosions came from all sides. The incinerated corpse of a militiaman knocked him down. When he staggered up, he had lost all sense of direction. He was surrounded by destruction. He tried to locate Wendlandt. He spotted the captain, still riding in the hatch of the Chimera, just before a direct hit disintegrated both.

To Kohner’s right, three ork cannons exploded in quick succession, leaving a gap in the artillery line. He could see a glimpse of the night through the emerald maelstrom. ‘This way!’ he shouted. He didn’t know if anyone could hear. He had no reason to believe his action would serve any purpose. But he saw a gap, and he took it. He would fight the greenskins. He refused to wait for their gunfire to come for him.

Whether his comrades heard him or saw him, or acted on the same desperate instinct, he was not alone as he made his run. His squad and others followed him. They charged over terrain littered with charred corpses and smoking wrecks. Kohner clambered over a slag heap that had been a Taurox. At the top, he fired into the dark. Dazzled by the bombardment, he could see no targets. He knew they were out there, though. And they would know he was here.

Ahead of him, more of his comrades were making the same rush. He started moving again, and he was part of a concerted attempt to escape the noose the orks had thrown around the Tempestorans. To the east, the ork infantry continued to press forward, heedless of the danger as they headed into the region being hit by their own artillery. To the west, the battlewagons drove over the militia, their siege shields grinding the humans to bloody smears on the ground, their guns blasting the rear-guard defenders apart. In the south, the energy cannon’s barrage went on unbroken.

The column bulged to the north. In a matter of seconds, the struggle to break out involved thousands of combatants, backed up by the armour that yet survived. The Tempestorans shouted their rage as they stormed into the night. Kohner’s voice was part of the great shout. He ran faster. Over death and the rubble of a devastated land, he ran. He fired. His hatred was such that he could smash through the ork lines alone, and he was far from alone.

At his left, he saw Bessler, as driven and enraged as himself, his mouth wide in the shout.

Are you ready for this, xenos? Kohner thought.

They were. Just as Kohner began to wonder about the enemy’s silence in this one area to the north, just as he began to suspect the sudden hole in their lines was too good to be true, the orks struck. They had been waiting behind the destroyed gun. They were an army larger than they had appeared to the east. They had been standing in silence, weapons up, letting the humans run forward and take the bait. Before they fired, they roared again. Kohner was suddenly running against a sound so huge it was physical. Hope drained away, leaving only horror.

How could orks show such discipline? The question tormented him even as the orks attacked. They fired, and the rounds were another storm, destruction so concentrated that there was no longer any air to breathe. There were only bullets and shells. Then the orks came on, an unbroken mass of brutal muscle and armour.

The Tempestorans fell. The rout was beyond massacre, beyond extermination. The orks stampeded over the humans without stopping. The eastern and northern infantry were battering rams. They came together, annihilating the Hive Militia. The artillery bursts died down as the human force vanished.

Kohner saw the slaughter before him, but he kept moving forwards. There was nowhere else to go. He drained his rifle’s power pack firing into the unstoppable tide. He reloaded, and looked up to see a giant heading his way. At the head of the orks attacking from the north was a warlord almost twice his height. The beast wore a horned helmet, and from its back rose a towering icon of iron, also horned, a crimson bull, almost as tall again as the ork. The monster wielded a power claw and a handgun whose barrel was as thick as Kohner’s arm. The warboss barely glanced at Kohner’s squad as it waded through. It clamped the claw over Bessler’s head and torso. The trooper’s blood sprayed over Kohner’s face.

Kohner fired up at the ork’s head. It looked down at him and shot him once, hitting Kohner in the chest. It felt like a pillar of burning stone, and he stopped running, unable to feel his legs. His head rocked forward and he saw the hole in his body – his core was now gone.

His legs folded and he fell. He lay on his back. His arms flapped on either side, dragging his splayed fingers over the jagged bedrock. The ork stopped to watch. Its minions held their position, awaiting its pleasure. It raised and lowered its arms, mimicking Kohner’s movements. It laughed, a braying, savage noise. The other orks joined it. The sound of mockery travelled across the battlefield, a contemptuous farewell to the dying humans.

Somewhere beyond Kohner’s fading sight, a voice barked an order. The voice was gigantic. It had to come from a chest as big as a mountain. It silenced all the orks.

The warboss turned around. It looked back. It looked up. It growled an acknowledgement, and when it did, Kohner understood he had heard something new in human experience: an ork expressing awe. Kohner knew he was dying. He was moving beyond pain. And still he was terrified.

There was an ork out there much larger than the monster that had killed him. An ork whose existence made him weep. He wasn’t crying for himself, or even for Armageddon. He wept for the Imperium. He prayed for mercy. He prayed the darkness would take him before this terrible being came into sight.

His prayers went unanswered.

CHAPTER 4

The Race

1. YARRICK

I stood up from my seat in the forward area of the heavy lifter’s troop compartment and joined Setheno at a small viewing block in the port side of the fuselage. Most of the Steel Legionnaires travelling with us were seated. The few who moved around the compartment gave the canoness a wide berth. We could speak without being overheard.

Below us, the terrain of Armageddon Prime rolled past. The Equatorial Jungle was far behind us. Our air armada of lifters was less than an hour from Hive Tempestora.

Setheno nodded at the lifters visible off the port wing. They were fat-bodied beasts, their hulls disproportionately large, making their wings seem stubby despite their hundred-metre wingspans. Each lifter carried a full company, the ones that weren’t transporting our heavy armour. ‘Half a regiment,’ she said. ‘We fill the sky.’

‘Are you suggesting the response will be sufficient?’

‘Hardly. I was making an observation of scale. We fill the sky, and that is not enough.’

‘You think we are flying to our doom?’

It is not possible to shrug in power armour, but the slight tilt of her head suggested the gesture. ‘It is our duty to ensure that we are not.’

‘I agree. I will not let Armageddon fall while I draw breath. But Overlord von Strab appears to be doing everything in his power to engineer our defeat.’ I shook my head. ‘A single regiment as a response.’

‘Are his actions treasonous?’ Setheno asked.

Her question was not an idle one. I thought carefully before I answered. ‘I don’t believe so. They are ill-judged. I think he’s motivated by a combination of over-confidence and excessive political calculation. He still doesn’t believe the orks are the threat we know them to be.’ Before our departure from Infernus, Brenken had played for me the few vox transmissions we had received from the Tempestora Hive Militia. We hadn’t been able to glean many details about the disaster. We had a rough idea of where the Claw of Desolation had landed. We didn’t have anything that even approached an estimation of the size of the greenskin army. What we had were recordings of panicked screams and pleas to von Strab and to the Emperor. And we knew the timeline. We knew how long it had taken the orks to obliterate the entire Hive Militia.

Not long.

Not long at all.

In response to the massacre, von Strab had ordered the 252nd Regiment to deploy. The orks were most likely making for Tempestora, but Volcanus was also within reach. Brenken was leading half the companies there. Dividing our already inadequate strength troubled her, but we could not leave either of Armageddon Prime’s principle hives undefended.

‘The overlord’s sense of the situation is either naive or delusional,’ Setheno said. ‘In the council, he remarked that no matter what happens in Armageddon Prime, the Equatorial Jungle will prove an impassable barrier for the orks, especially since we are on the eve of the Season of Shadows.’

I snorted. ‘I wonder if even he is that stupid. He might have been speaking for the benefit of the hive governors.’

‘I’m sure he was. The defensive measures he has ordered suggest his confidence in the jungle is not absolute. Even so, he is determined to remain in Infernus.’

If the orks reached Armageddon Secundus, Hive Infernus would be the first major centre in their eastward march. ‘If he leaves now, he shows weakness,’ I said. ‘And keeping the other regiments stationed in the hives will keep the governors in line.’

‘Herman von Strab is a skilled politician,’ Setheno said. She spoke as if she were proclaiming his death sentence. ‘He should have been dealt with before now.’

‘True,’ I said. I thought again of that moment when I had considered putting a round through von Strab’s head. I grimaced at the possibility that the missed opportunity had led to the present pass. Though I have come to terms with my decision, and believe that it was, in the end, the correct one, I had no way of taking the long view in that moment. In the short term, von Strab’s survival was one of the greatest tragedies of Armageddon’s history. As we flew to Tempestora, I sensed the curtain rising on that tragedy, and I knew I had to accept the role my decision had played in bringing it about. ‘The overlord is beyond our reach now,’ I said. ‘He is running the campaign. It falls to us to make it a successful one.’

‘You speak without irony.’

‘Because what I say is true.’

She bowed her head once in acknowledgement. She glanced back at the ranks of steel benches where the company sat. ‘You have seen Captain Stahl in combat,’ she said. ‘I have not. Your evaluation?’

‘A skilled officer.’ Brenken had given Stahl the overall command of the companies bound for Tempestora.

‘Not the most senior, though.’

‘No. But the right choice, I think. He doesn’t avoid hard decisions, and he can think well on his feet.’

‘I saw resentment in the faces of some of his fellow captains. The older ones.’

‘We might need to reinforce his authority.’

‘If he proves worthy.’

‘If he proves worthy,’ I agreed.

Emerald lightning lashed upward. It sheared off the starboard wing of the lifter closest to us. The aircraft went into a spinning dive and veered our way. Setheno and I remained motionless at the viewing block as the collision loomed. Thousands of tonnes of high-velocity metal rushed together. Our engines screamed as the pilot, Rhubeck, pulled us up. The stricken craft dropped beneath us and spiralled towards the ground.

More lightning reached upwards for the fleet. Two lifters took direct hits to their fuel tanks and exploded. I was thrown against the fuselage wall as Rhubeck tried to manoeuvre defensively. The effort was pointless. The lifter turned slowly, and the energy beams came in such profusion and in such wild arcs that there could be no anticipating them. I staggered back to my seat and strapped myself in. Setheno followed. The weight of her armour gave her greater stability as the lifter rocked back and forth.

‘We are under fire,’ I called out. ‘Prepare yourselves! We will be hit, but the Emperor protects!’

We had need of his protection. Our turn to be hit came a minute later. There was a green flash to port that shone through the viewing block with the intensity of a sun. Metal shrieked. A blast close at hand, and then we were going down.

The drop was fast. My feet rose from the deck and I was weightless for several seconds. We tilted sharply to starboard as the dive steepened. It neared the vertical, and I felt the sickening momentum of a spin building. The engines screamed, and they rushed us still faster towards the ground. I bit back a snarl of rage that the end should come in so pointless a fashion. I kept my face impassive. Beside me, Setheno stared straight ahead, her eyes cold as the fate before us. I prayed to the Emperor that I would yet be allowed to fight in his name. This death would be wrong. Plucked from the sky, trapped in the giant, tumbling sarcophagus, this end was tantamount to dereliction of duty.

The Emperor protects. There was a great shuddering, and the lifter’s dive began to level off. We came out of the spin. The engines whined even higher, and there was a second explosion, this time on the port side. The aircraft jolted, but its nose continued to even out. Over the din of the howling lifter, from behind the door to the cockpit, I heard a scream, as if Rhubeck were dragging us out of the plunge through will alone.

He did well. We were almost horizontal when we hit the ground.

The impact shattered my perceptions. Time broke into a jumble of splinters. Blows hammered me from all sides. Reality was a tumbling, rolling blur of thunder and metal and pain. The lifter slammed belly-first into the ground and ploughed a furrow through earth and rock. I heard the cracking of rock, the disintegration of steel, the cries of the dying, the blank roar of fire. I don’t know if I lost consciousness. The line between awareness and oblivion vanished. There was only the crash, the great rending of the world, the smashing and hurling of my body. My restraints tore and I flew.

I knew nothing, but I still knew pain.

And then it stopped. The stillness was so sudden, it was its own form of trauma. I lay on my back, blinking through a haze of confusion and agony. Everything was motionless. Everything was silence.

But no, that was a lie. I grunted. I tried to sit. I succeeded. No bones were broken. The ringing in my ears and the fog before my eyes faded. The violence of the world returned. The silence gave way to the hiss of leaking promethium, the crackle of flame, and the earth-shaking pounding of more and more aircraft hitting the ground.

I managed to stand. My left leg tried to give out beneath my weight. I allowed myself to stagger a single step, no more than that. The Emperor had heard my plea, and my duty to him called with a voice louder than the white noise of our catastrophe.

I had been thrown free of the lifter in the last moments of the crash. The wreckage was strewn across a thousand metres of ground: smashed engines sat in pools of burning fuel, the wings had broken off on impact and the fuselage had broken into three large pieces. They had more or less held their shape, though there were huge rents in their sides. The one I had been in was twenty metres long. The nose was crushed. No one in it could have survived, but Rhubeck had saved many of us. As I gathered my scattered thoughts and took stock of the situation, Setheno emerged from the fuselage, followed by Steel Legionnaires. Her forehead was bleeding, but she moved easily. The troopers who stumbled out behind her were in much rougher shape, but they were mobile. That meant they could fight.

To the east, the orks’ green lightning still streaked to the sky, felling the armada. There was such a concentration of fire, across such a wide area, that it was impossible to avoid. We had flown into a wall of devastating energy. I had encountered this form of ork artillery before. It was volatile, inaccurate, but devastating. I had never seen it deployed in this kind of strength. The greenskins had the means for a massive invasion, and the cunning to use them well. The ground shook, and shook again as more lifters crashed. Some managed to land without disappearing into balls of flame. Others disintegrated, leaving nothing behind but tracts of blackened metal and unrecognisable flesh.

Setheno joined me, along with Captain Stahl. His face was turning purple and black from a mass of contusions. One eye was swollen shut, and he was favouring his left arm. He gazed eastward in horror.

‘A powerful enemy,’ Setheno said. ‘Von Strab is not alone in underestimating them.’

‘We are guilty too,’ I agreed. As we would be again. And again. No matter how desperately we struggled against making that mistake.

His voice cracking with awe and despair, Stahl said, ‘They’ve finished us before we even started.’

‘What do you mean?’ I snapped.

He looked at me in surprise, puzzled that I couldn’t see the scale of our defeat. ‘They countered our response,’ he said. ‘They’ve taken us out before we could even reach Tempestora.’

‘Are you dead?’ I asked.

‘I don’t understand, commissar.’

‘You’re still drawing breath.’ I pointed to the soldiers still emerging from the fuselage, and then at the survivors I could see gathering outside the other pieces of the lifter. ‘So are they. We are only defeated when we are dead. If even then.’

I glared at him until I saw determination take hold once more. He nodded and marched towards his troops. He began to call out orders, and the dazed crowd took steps towards becoming a military force once more.

‘You’re thinking of a run to Tempestora?’ Setheno asked.

‘Yes.’ I looked towards the ork lines. The enemy was not coming for us yet. The orks were content for the moment to shoot us out of the sky. The gauntlet had taken almost all the lifters now. The crashes covered a wide area, but many aircraft, including our own, had still travelled many kilometres as they fell. We had a lead on the orks. Perhaps enough to win the race, if we started soon.

‘We cannot save Tempestora,’ Setheno said. I would have punished any soldier who spoke those words before an engagement. Coming from the canoness, however, they were nothing more than cold-eyed clarity. And she was right.

‘I know,’ I told her. ‘But we can damage the enemy. And the longer we hold the orks there, the better Brenken can prepare Volcanus.’

‘Agreed.’

Over the course of the next hour, we worked with Stahl and the other officers still alive to re-forge the companies into something coherent and capable of fighting. We had lost almost all our vehicles in the crashes, and at least half the troops. We were still many hundreds, and as we started the march to Tempestora, we were an army, not a rabble. The Steel Legion trenchcoats bore the burns of the disaster. Many of the rebreathers were damaged or unusable. But this was a regiment that had fought well for its colonel, its home world, and the Imperium. It would not stop now, especially when the home world itself was under threat.

We gathered the companies for as long as the orks continued to fire at the sky. When the green energy bursts ceased, we were out of time. Some of the lifters had come down too far for us to reach. I saw one near the northern horizon that looked remarkably intact. There could be more survivors there. But we could not afford the delay in hooking up with them. To the west, Tempestora’s silhouette bulked towards the clouds. To the east, a dust cloud was rising. The orks were on the move.

Stahl voxed orders to all survivors to make for the hive. Some answered his call. Perhaps there were others who heard and could not answer. There was no way to tell. And there was no choice.

In the clammy heat of the Armageddon Prime day, we began the forced march to Hive Tempestora.

2. SEROFF

In the reception hall of von Strab’s quarters, Dominic Seroff savoured his amasec and waited for the evening to end. The reception was a show of confidence. Under the pretext of honouring the Feast of the Emperor’s Ascension despite the recent events, von Strab was reassuring the hive governors of Armageddon Secundus that the situation was well in hand. The reassurance was also reinforcement. The overlord’s authority was absolute. Even now.

The amasec was good. Too good, Seroff thought, for Armageddon. The taste had a nuance of flavours, a subtlety at odds with the industrial brutishness of the world. Von Strab must have it imported from elsewhere. The bottles, though, bore the overlord’s family crest. Vanity, pretence and power came together in that lie. Seroff shrugged and took another sip. The amasec’s provenance was irrelevant. What was true of the vintage was true of the overlord. Von Strab was powerful, effective, and his grip on Armageddon unchallenged. His corruption and venality were irrelevant.

His competence as a war commander was a question. Seroff was sceptical about von Strab’s assertion that the Equatorial Jungle would stop the orks. But if the overlord was wrong, then a strong defence of the hives was paramount. He understood why Mannheim was upset about the size of the force sent to defend Tempestora and Volcanus, but he also understood the expediency behind von Strab’s decision. He didn’t like the idea of Armageddon Prime already being as good as lost, but the possibility was a real one. It had to be faced.

Seroff finished his amasec. He signalled a passing serf for another drink, and then found von Strab at his elbow. The overlord had been in conference with Governor von Kierska a few moments before. His movements could be stealthy for a big man.

‘I hope you’re enjoying the evening, lord commissar,’ von Strab said.

‘I appreciate its necessity and execution.’ He had no reason to play the toady. His remit extended far beyond Armageddon itself. Von Strab was a useful political ally, not his master.

Von Strab smiled, unoffended. ‘I just received some news about the 252nd. The airlift to Tempestora has been lost.’

Seroff looked at von Strab for a long moment. ‘Lost?’ he asked. ‘Completely?’

‘We’re waiting for more news. But all the lifters have fallen off the augurs.’

‘You don’t seem overly concerned.’

‘We don’t know everything yet.’ He made a show of sighing. ‘Losses are inevitable in war. Regrettable. But there we are.’

‘You aren’t worried,’ Seroff repeated.

‘I have no reason to be. If the orks had landed on the eastern side of the jungle, I would be concerned. They did not.’

‘We may yet lose Prime.’

‘We’ll reclaim it in time.’

Seroff couldn’t decide if von Strab was more naïve or more pragmatic than anyone he had ever met. The thought that he might be both was chilling. Seroff dismissed it.

‘There is something I wanted to ask you,’ von Strab continued. ‘I’ve been wondering why you raised no objection to Commissar Yarrick being part of the expedition against the greenskins. You made it very clear that you wanted him sidelined after Basquit.’

‘Was he part of the Tempestora contingent?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If he was, I haven’t done him any favours by allowing his participation in the campaign.’

Von Strab smiled like a happy predator. ‘Pure conjecture, lord commissar. And you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Sebastian Yarrick has no conception of loyalty,’ Seroff said. He bit off the syllables of the man’s name. Speaking it left a foul taste in his mouth. ‘He deserves the worst humiliation, and a dishonourable death.’ Wounds more than a century old bled as freely as the day they had been inflicted. ‘But he’s skilled. He’s strong in the field. Which is why that should be taken away from him. Unless he’s useful.’ He drank from his refilled goblet. The amasec was bitter now. ‘Today he’s useful,’ Seroff finished.

‘I see,’ said von Strab. ‘And there’s the chance he could die being useful.’

‘You said it yourself. There are losses in war.’

3. YARRICK

The warbikers came for us. I heard the high-pitched growl of the engines and looked back through the dark grey of Armageddon’s new form of day. The sound grew louder, redolent of brutish speed. I saw dots at the horizon, pulling ahead of the main ork force, whose trace was still just the dust cloud. Warning shouts rang out along the length of the column.

Setheno and I were in the front ranks, leading the way forward with Stahl. He cursed when he heard the bikes. The walls of Tempestora were still kilometres away. The orks would be upon us in under a minute. Stahl looked at the broken plain before us. ‘We have no defensive position,’ he said.

‘We cannot afford one,’ Setheno told him.

‘If we let the bikes stop us,’ I said, ‘they’ll hold us until the rest of the greenskins arrive. They will destroy us in the open and then take Tempestora unopposed. We must keep moving.’

I saw the implications of our position sink into Stahl’s eyes. A running battle on open ground against warbikes would exact a heavy toll. But he had to understand that a defensive response would do nothing but buy a little more time before a worse disaster. He looked to the west, where a befouled river flowed on a parallel course to ours. The bikes would not be able to follow us there, true, but we would be handing high ground to the orks, who would not find it difficult to push us into the water.

I was pleased when Stahl shook his head. He was thinking his decisions through. He wasn’t about to lead us to oblivion.

‘Vox!’ he called, and a trooper ran up with a field unit. ‘Double-time march,’ Stahl ordered. ‘We’re about to be raided on both flanks. Heavier weapons to the edges. Take out the enemy vehicles.’

‘Sir,’ the trooper responded, then spoke into the handset.

Setheno nodded to me before she donned her helmet and moved towards the right flank. We would have need of someone with power armour against the ork vehicles. I headed left. I belonged wherever fighting would be most intense.

A long line of warbikes raced up the length of the column. The orks strafed us hard. Their bullets blew apart troopers on either side of me. Rounds dug up the ground as I jogged, and something hot and lethal burned through the left sleeve of my greatcoat and grazed my arm. The bullet was so big, even that glancing blow was almost enough to knock me down. I kept my feet and fired my bolt pistol. ‘Aim for the lead bikers!’ I shouted, and then led by example when one of my shots took off the head of a rider. The ork’s bike cartwheeled end over end. The greenskin coming on behind jerked right so fast that its nearest brother went out of control trying to avoid the collision. That brute went into a long skid. It rose and started to right its bike, but now it was an unmoving target. Concentrated lasfire burned it where it stood.

The stream of bikes streaked past the fallen riders and reached the front of our column. They cut in close, their guns punching holes into our ranks. The bikes from the left and right flanks joined up. They didn’t slow down.

We ran into a thresher of metal and gunfire.

4. SETHENO

This was not the battle that had drawn her to Armageddon. This was not the disaster foretold by the Emperor’s Tarot. This was a skirmish, a mere prologue. Armageddon’s true ordeal had yet to begin. That was when she would understand her purpose here. The forces that would shape the war were still gathering, still aligning. The war was embryonic. When it had grown to its full storm, she would see how best to use her strength. She would see with the clarity that had been her gift and her curse since Mistral, so long ago. It didn’t worry her that she had no definite role yet. Recognising the early, rapid unfolding of battle as an avalanche of contingency and accident and randomness was another form of clarity. The fools were the ones who thought they could foresee and control the outcome.

Her immediate path was clear: reach Tempestora, and ensure that the sacrifice that followed was as damaging as possible for the orks.

As the warbikes screamed up the right flank of the Steel Legion companies, she charged out of the column. She brandished Skarprattar. Saint Demetria’s relic sword was a daemon bane. It would end xenos abominations just as well.

An ork biker veered towards her, the brute’s features stretched wide in the ecstasy of velocity. Setheno braced. The ork rose in his seat, brandishing a shaft of pipe topped by a massive head of twisted, jagged scrap metal. Setheno sidestepped the blow and swung her blade against the ork’s back, severing its spine. The bike tumbled away, bouncing over the rocky plain. Setheno turned to counter the next bike. A stream of bullets slammed into her breastplate. The impact knocked her back, though the ceramite held. She raised her bolt pistol and shot the ork through the face. The body convulsed. So did the bike. It remained upright, its course wildly erratic, its guns still blazing. Disorder rippled outward from the bike as the other riders fought to steer around its death-ride.

A gap opened up in the orks’ strafing. The Steel Legion poured fire into the breach, and more riders went down. The flow of the bikes stuttered, a river of savage iron running dry. Multiple flamers lit up the bikes that came too close. The bodies of legionnaires were spread on the plain, but the column retained cohesion, and kept moving forward.

Setheno pounded over the earth to intercept a bike that was charging straight at the column. Focused on the humans it was mowing down, the rider didn’t see her until she brought Skarprattar down in an overhead arc. The blade’s aura shone blue as it cut through the bike’s front wheel. Setheno leapt back, out of the way of the wreck as the bike flipped over and crushed the ork beneath its weight.

Then there were no more bikes coming from the east. But the forward movement of the Steel Legion had slowed. Setheno ran to the west, towards the front of the lines once more, towards the snarl of butchery.

5. YARRICK

A biker came too close and ploughed into the column. It ground troopers beneath its wheels. The crush of flesh slowed it down. The bones of dead and dying comrades crunched beneath my boots as I launched myself forward and plunged my blade through the driver’s throat. The ork gurgled, blood jetting from its neck and mouth. It tried to beat me away. I dragged the sword back, sawing through muscle. The ork’s head flopped backwards and the bike fell over.

Stubber rounds from more bikes beat against our ranks, and I had to duck behind the vehicle I had just stopped. We were moving at a crawl. Two clusters of warbikes kept crossing each other’s paths ahead of us. The strafing was continuous. I could hear Stahl shouting to be heard over the hammering of the guns. He was urging the troops forward, but that wasn’t enough. Advance was impossible. The orks were putting up a fast-moving, lethal wall.

Multiple flamers opened up from the captain’s position. They sprayed burning promethium over the nearest orks and punished them for their approach. Troopers at the front dropped to a crouch so their comrades behind them had clear shots. Sheets of las reached out for the orks. Our attack was disciplined and relentless, but it wasn’t enough. The smog of exhaust and the speed of the bikes made them difficult targets. Vehicles and riders were resilient to las, soaking up damage. We were still stymied. Rocket launchers had taken out a few of the bikes on the flanks, and we needed them now at the front.

A fireball bloomed to my right when ork rounds punched open a trooper’s flamer reservoir. A second tank went up. Our response faltered. A rocket launcher team arrived at my left. They loaded the weapon but were cut down before firing.

I dragged the launcher away from the bodies. I checked that its payload was a krakk missile, and then looked over the mound of the wrecked bike. The two streams of orks had finished crossing. There would be a slight pause as they reversed direction, and then we would get their redoubled fire once more, coming in at a murderous cross-hatch of angles.

I saw a chance.

‘Grenade launchers!’ I shouted. ‘Lascannons! To me now! To victory!’

Three troopers carrying launchers and a brace of two-man teams converged on my position, crouching low.

‘Fire at my target and on my signal,’ I said. ‘Not before.’

I coughed on the choking air. On either side of me, rebreather-clad heads nodded.

The strafing started again. The warbikes converged.

‘Lead bike on the left,’ I said. I shouldered the missile launcher. I stayed low. The ork bullets passed just over my head. ‘Grenades, now!’ I shouted.

The grenades arced towards the point where the two streams of bikes would meet. As they came down, I launched the rocket and said, ‘Las now!’

Grenades, missile and las burst hit the lead bikes at the same moment. The explosion took out three ork vehicles instantaneously, and ferociously. Their ends were more blasts, heavy shrapnel flying out at eviscerating speed. The chain reaction was huge. The orks were going too fast, and there was no way to avoid the growing collision. The view ahead of me disappeared in a maelstrom of metal carnage, flame and roiling smoke. I heard Stahl shouting, and though I couldn’t make out the words, I saw the effect. The companies poured their firepower into the spreading devastation.

There was sudden movement to the far right. Setheno led a charge straight at the stalled orks. Her towering figure in grey armour was the inevitability of death coming for the enemy. She was followed by the roar of soldiers hungry to carve their vengeance into the flesh of the foe. The orks didn’t wait for their arrival. Some turned bikes around to fire at the rush, and others mounted a counter-charge.

But now we had the advantage of firepower.

Stahl kept up the punishing las volleys. He pinned the orks and gave some cover to Setheno’s run.

The greenskins tried to regroup to meet our right flank. They moved away from the burn we had created. They weren’t paying attention to our left.

I seized on their mistake. I raised my sword high and vaulted over the wrecked bike. ‘For Tempestora!’ I shouted. ‘For Armageddon! Our path is over the bones of the greenskin!’

We charged, our numbers counting for something now. We had the momentum, and the orks were caught in the middle of our twin hammers. The rebreathers turned the men and women who ran with me into identical creatures, a legion of predators with insectoid skulls. A wave of ochre hurled itself against the green tide.

The orks fought as long as they could. The bikers were not the biggest of orks, but they were big enough. They were brutal masses of rage and muscle. A single blow from their axes or clubs or machetes imploded skulls and shattered spines. But we hit them harder, and we hit them more. I brought my sword down on the skull of one brute. My blade was embedded in his forehead, but he swung at me with his axe. I dodged the blow and finished him off with a bolt shell to the neck. I pushed the body down, yanked my sword free and rushed forward to the next one. I killed as fast as I could. I was drenched in xenos blood. I fought as if the annihilation of this small band of the enemy was the key to victory.

I knew this was not true. I knew we were fighting simply for the chance to fight again, to do something more than retreat from the orks’ march. But at a more profound level, there was a darker truth to how I fought, and I knew it too. If we didn’t attack the orks as if every struggle was the turning point of the war, then we would be defeated.

I killed each ork with the energy built up from a lifetime of hate. And it still wasn’t good enough, because I still didn’t realise what led them. I did not know what Ghazghkull meant, though these orks were chanting it too, and I sensed its great importance.

We cut the orks down. A few escaped. They tore off on their warbikes, filling the air with their guttural curses. I knew orkish. The howls were threats of retribution and return. So common that I paid them little attention.

There was one sentence, though, that chilled me to the bone. The clouds of exhaust had faded, and the way to Tempestora was clear. The battered companies of the 252nd cheered our first triumph against the enemy. I nearly missed what the last ork snarled as it retreated.

As we regrouped and moved forward again, I thought about what I had heard. I said nothing to Stahl. But Setheno saw. She always did.

‘What did you hear?’ she asked, keeping her voice down.

‘The ork said the Prophet will wear our skulls.’

I was precise in my translation.

Not warlord.

Prophet.

CHAPTER 5

Tempestora

1. YARRICK

The governor of Tempestora, Lady Ingrid Sohm, was at Volcanus, being hosted by von Strab and reassured that nothing would threaten her hive. We were met by her lieutenant, Relja Thulin. I was prepared for the worst as we marched through the main gates, into the huge, rockcrete-paved square beyond, and Thulin walked forward to greet Stahl. Setheno and I followed a pace behind the captain.

‘He is tired,’ Setheno said, observing Thulin.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. I was relieved. Thulin’s robes were excessive finery, out of place in the ashy grey of Tempestora, but they were filthy. They looked as if they had been slept in. Another good sign. I took the corruption and venality of Armageddon’s ruling class for granted. No honest administrator would have survived the first year of von Strab’s rule. The question that concerned me was Thulin’s realism. And what I saw in the thin, greying nobleman before us was a man who fully expected to die.

‘You are most welcome, captain,’ he said to Stahl. ‘We feared we had been abandoned, and when we saw the fleet brought down…’

‘The Steel Legion is a ground force, Count Thulin,’ said Stahl. He gave the viceroy as confident a smile as his exhaustion permitted. ‘The foe who shoots us out of the air is just calling down our anger on his head.’

Setheno’s eyes narrowed slightly. The captain’s bravado did not please her.

Stahl glanced up at the battlements behind us. There were no patrols on the parapet. ‘What defensive capabilities do you still have?’ he asked.

‘Our guns,’ said Thulin. ‘The ones in fixed emplacements, that is. But we have no one to fire them.’

‘No one?’ I asked. I had hoped von Strab’s mad order hadn’t been followed down to the very letter.

‘No one,’ Thulin repeated. ‘We lost the entire militia.’

Stahl winced. The twitch in his eye was subtle, but I caught it. ‘I see.’

Thulin hesitated, then asked, ‘The greenskins are heading this way?’

‘They’ll be here before nightfall,’ I said.

‘Will you have enough time to prepare?’

‘For what must be done, yes,’ Setheno said.

‘Praise the Emperor,’ said Thulin. ‘I was…’ He trailed off as the ambiguity of the canoness’s words sank in. ‘What must be done?’ he asked, barely whispering.

‘Tempestora has a hard task ahead,’ Setheno told him. ‘Sacrifice.’

‘Sacrifice.’ Thulin spoke the word as if he was unsure of its meaning, but the shape of its syllables hurt his tongue. He swallowed. ‘What kind?’ And then, his voice whipped away by the wind, ‘How large?’

‘We will have the answer to that shortly,’ I said. I wanted to speak with Setheno before she announced Exterminatus for later that afternoon. The situation was desperate, but I rejected her instant fatalism and apparent willingness to throw Tempestora to the orks. Stahl looked distressed as well. He had no more illusions about the capacity of our reduced companies to hold off the orks than I did. But we still had orders. We still had a mission. We still had a duty.

Setheno gave a slight nod.

‘We need to inspect the defences,’ I said.

A few minutes later, the three of us stood on the ramparts, alone except for the other surviving captains. Gunzburg, Boidin and Mora were the only other company commanders to have made it through the fall of the lifters. In the east, the dust cloud of the ork army drew nearer.

‘Tempestora will fall,’ Setheno said.

‘Its walls are strong, canoness,’ Stahl began. ‘Breaching them won’t be easy.’

‘Your lack of confidence in the enemy’s means does you no credit, captain.’

He coloured. ‘You have none in the Steel Legion?’

I was impressed. I had seen very few individuals brave enough to challenge Setheno’s position so directly.

‘I have every confidence in it,’ Setheno answered. There was no anger in her voice. Only the calm of the sepulchre. ‘But even without knowing the full strength of the enemy, I can see where we stand. We cannot defend Tempestora. The siege will be a brief one.’

‘You are asking a great deal,’ I said to her. ‘You are asking soldiers to abandon their mission.’

‘In the service of a greater one,’ she said. ‘It is Armageddon that must be preserved, not an individual hive.’

‘Defeats have a way of accumulating.’

She cocked her head. ‘You surprise me, commissar. Do you believe we can hold the orks here?’

‘No,’ I admitted. The admission caused me physical pain. I had seen battles lost before. I had been on worlds that had fallen to xenos threats or the Ruinous Powers. Each defeat was a stain on my soul, and to concede the end before the battle began was abhorrent. Every clod of earth lost to the Imperium goaded me to fight ever harder for the preservation of the whole. The word no was a stiletto jab to my gut. But the canoness was right. The regiment, cut in half, and then in half again, deprived of all its heavy armour, might be able to delay the orks a short while. Nothing more. I could accept the necessary sacrifice. It was the pointless one I rejected.

Setheno had spoken of sacrifice. But not the Steel Legion’s. Tempestora’s.

‘What is the city going to give up?’ I asked.

‘Everything,’ she said. ‘You already know that, commissar.’

I did. ‘Then its sacrifice must be a true one,’ I said. ‘One with meaning.’

If Tempestora was going to die, it would be for the salvation of something real.

2. BRENKEN

The outer defences of Hive Volcanus gave Brenken hope. They were incomplete, but work was progressing quickly. Count Hans Somner, the lieutenant of Lord Otto Vikmann, was a veteran of the Steel Legion, a former colonel himself. He was a grox of a man, and walked with such a wide gait that he seemed broader than he was tall.

Brenken waved to take in the network of trenches and earthen barriers that stretched for thousands of metres beyond the main wall. ‘How much of this is recent?’

‘The basics were there already. Disused canals, old fortifications. But we’ve been working hard since the warning came.’

‘At least Vikmann took it seriously.’

Somner snorted. ‘I made sure he did. The old toady was swallowing Herman’s swill, believe me. I just frightened him more. Told him some good stories. Voice of experience and all that.’

‘I wish the overlord was open to that voice.’

‘Only one he hears is his own.’

Brenken grinned. ‘You aren’t shy about giving your opinion. You aren’t worried I’ll relay it up the chain of command?’

Somner started to laugh, then broke into wracking coughs. He spat a wad of blackened phlegm and blood on the ground. He tapped his chest. ‘He’ll have to move fast if he wants to kill me before what’s in my lungs does. Anyway, I know a real soldier when I see one. I’m a politician now, and we all have to swim in Herman’s mucky swamp, but a good fight will make honest soldiers of us, wait and see. We shoot straight or we die. That simple.’

Brenken smiled, but she didn’t share his optimism. She had seen plenty of corruption strong enough to survive the most unforgiving of wars. Somner’s confidence surprised her. Instead of agreeing, she said, ‘How close are the defences to being complete?’

‘Still some work to do. Need to link up and reinforce some trenches. Some of the barriers are just dirt. We have rockcrete blocks on the way. Don’t worry. We have all the workers we need. The job will be done. Now that you’re here, we’ll show the greenskins what it means to attack one of our cities.’

Brenken heard it this time: the brittleness of Somner’s bluff certitude. He was clinging to the belief in easy victory because the alternative terrified him. He was working too hard to keep up his façade. He wasn’t lying, though, at least not to her. He couldn’t afford to have the slightest doubt about what he was saying.

‘We’ll teach the orks a few things,’ she said. She could promise that much. She could not promise that six companies would be enough for more. Three companies of armour and three of mechanised infantry had raced across the wastes of Armageddon Prime without rest, crossing the Plain of Anthrand and reaching Volcanus in two days. They had seen no sign of the orks, confirming that the landing point had been far closer to Tempestora. No ork forces had yet been detected outside that hive’s vicinity.

That much was hopeful. But in the first day of the run to Volcanus, the six airborne companies had gone down. Contact had been lost for several hours. She had feared the worst. The news of their condition, when it reached her, was better than the worst, but not by much. And now Somner’s boasts were making her uneasy. There was a difference between determination and delusion. If Somner hadn’t lost the ability to make that distinction, he was well on the way there.

‘We’ll set up our tanks and artillery outside the main gate,’ she told Somner.

‘Good, good,’ the old soldier said. ‘And we’ll have so many guns in the trenches that we’ll shred them before they even reach the walls.’

That was a good dream, Brenken thought. It was the best plan available. She didn’t think it was a realistic hope.

Kuyper, her vox operator, came pounding down the path that zigzagged over the rims of the trenches. ‘Colonel,’ he called. He held up the handset. ‘I have Commissar Yarrick for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, and accepted the unit from Kuyper. Her tone was clipped, but she was relieved to be able to speak to someone who had a clear-eyed view of where the regiment stood. ‘Commissar,’ she voxed, ‘where do things stand with Tempestora?’

‘Not well. We have a few hours at best before the orks are at the gates.’

‘And?’

‘The siege won’t be long.’ The old war-dog’s voice rasped with frustration, and Brenken knew how much it cost him to admit a battle could not be won. ‘What is your situation?’

‘Uncertain but better. I hope we’ll be ready in time.’

‘We will buy you a few hours,’ Yarrick told her. ‘Perhaps as much as a day.’ His tone was clipped, matter-of-fact.

Brenken sensed something terrible behind the words. ‘How?’

‘We’ll hold the orks’ attention. We can do that much. And we’ll bloody them too.’

‘At what cost?’ Brenken asked, though she already knew.

‘Tempestora will be lost. But if its sacrifice can save Volcanus, then its fall can have meaning. Tell me you’ll be ready, colonel.’

‘We will be.’

‘What about the Hive Militia there?’

‘At full strength, and Count Somner has ordered weapons distributed to all citizens.’

Somner nodded, happy to be part of the good news. The manufactoria of Volcanus produced rifles for export across the Imperium. Supplies were limitless. If the preparations could be completed, the orks would encounter a civilian army tens of millions strong.

‘That’s good,’ Yarrick said.

‘Commissar, is part of Tempestora’s sacrifice going to be half my regiment?’

‘No. We will hold the orks, and then we will reinforce you.’

‘Even better would be to catch them in a pincer attack.’

‘That is our intent.’

Brenken thought about how it would be possible to delay a much-larger army, and still be able to move quickly over the distance between the hives. There were many details she didn’t have, and they were unnecessary. All that mattered was how Yarrick’s plan would affect Volcanus. Even so, she could see the cost that would be paid. There was no choice, but they would all have blood on their hands before the next dawn. She accepted the necessities of war, but she did not revel in them. ‘The overlord will have much to answer for,’ she said.

‘Quite,’ Yarrick replied. He sounded as if he planned to put the questions to von Strab himself.

3. YARRICK

I knew Tempestora well. I knew all of Armageddon’s hives. I had served long enough with the Steel Legion that the planet was the closest thing I had to a home world. I had learned from the beginning of my career as commissar, as far back as Mistral, the value of being familiar with any world to which duty called me. I knew Tempestora’s geography, its industrial capacity, and its particular strengths. I knew exactly how best to kill it.

I had Thulin bring me to the northern docks. Great tankers sat in their berths. They might be useful, but I was more concerned with the pipelines. Wide enough for a Leman Russ to drive through, there were twenty of them, emerging from the Boiling Sea to then split into a network of smaller pipes. They carried the one great resource of the scorching, uninhabitable land mass to the north, beyond the sea. The promethium deposits of the Fire Wastes were among the greatest of any in the Imperium. Lines fed the manufactoria of Tempestora, ran outward from the hive towards the other industrial centres of Armageddon, or flowed to the spaceport where orbital lifters would carry huge reservoirs up to the waiting mass conveyors, which would take it out to the endlessly thirsty Imperium.

‘We will have to open all the valves,’ I said. ‘And where there are none, the pipelines will have to be breached.’

‘Ah.’ Thulin’s grunt didn’t mean anything. It was an expression of pain. He was pale with horror. Disbelief had robbed him of speech.

I sympathised. But there was no time to manage him. If his ability to listen fled as well, I would have to make sure Tempestora had a functional acting governor.

We were standing on a pier, its rockcrete stained black. We were in the perpetual shadow of the pipelines over our heads. I looked up and traced their path back to the hive. I thought about the most comprehensive way to accomplish our ends. I had accepted the necessity of Tempestora’s sacrifice. Doing so before the first shot had been fired still rankled, but there was no point kicking against reality. Having committed to this course, I would make it count. I would do whatever was necessary to give Volcanus a fighting chance. And I would hurt the orks to the greatest extent possible, by whatever means necessary.

‘We’ll need a greater distribution of the promethium,’ I said. ‘We’ll need a team of welders.’

‘You want to divert some of the flow from the pipelines?’

The deputy governor was articulate again. Good.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘To the Khatrin complex.’

Thulin managed to grow even paler. ‘If we flood the water purification plant with promethium…’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’ll be sending promethium instead of water throughout the hive. That is my intent, Count Thulin. That is what must be done.’

‘But the damage… If it should ignite…’

He wasn’t thinking clearly.

‘Of course it will ignite,’ I told him. ‘That is the point. The damage is the point.’

Thulin stared into an absence in the middle distance. He could already see the flames. He tried again. ‘The people…’

It was the first time since the Claw of Desolation had been detected that I had heard such a concern expressed. I tried to remember when I had last heard any politician on Armageddon worry about its citizens. I failed.

I blinked, surprised. Then I showed him how misplaced his priorities were. ‘The people will be fighting, or they will be dying, and nothing that we do here will change the end result. The fate of Tempestora’s citizens is secondary to the strategic situation. That is how it must be, count. I take no pleasure in this truth, but that doesn’t make it any less valid.’

He said nothing. He stared at the spires of the hive, no doubt already seeing the smoke. He didn’t dispute what I said. He didn’t even question why a commissar was ordering him to burn the city under his charge, and why he should give my words the force of law. Stahl had command of the military operations in Tempestora. But he had looked to me when Setheno had begun to speak of the sacrifice. I did not have the seniority of rank. But I did have well over a century of experience. That came with its own weight of authority. It was not a formal one, but it was felt.

So many wars. So many sacrifices.

At length, Thulin said, ‘We don’t have enough weapons. Not nearly enough for the population.’

He looked at me, hoping for something. He had, in effect, abdicated in my favour. What was coming was beyond his competence, and he knew it. I suspected that his pliability made him well-liked by those higher in the hierarchy of Armageddon’s ruling class. But today that made him one of its more valuable members. If he was not quite willing to do the unspeakable thing, he was willing to let others do it.

Right now, though, he was desperate for anything at all that might give him the hope of sleeping again at night. Even if he had little hope of seeing another night.

‘Tell me what you want to do,’ I said.

‘Order an evacuation.’

‘Of fifty million people? And to where?’

‘Away from the orks.’

I didn’t bother to tell him that if the orks were not stopped, there would be nowhere to fly from them. In the meantime, though, that meant heading north. ‘Into the Ash Wastelands?’

He nodded. ‘As many as there is time for.’

I stared at him. ‘Do you understand what you will be telling them to do?’

‘Yes. And so will they. They will still prefer to run, commissar.’

‘Very well,’ I said. If we hadn’t already committed ourselves to a path that meant the loss of the city, I would have given him a different answer. I would have made every inhabitant of the hive fight to the last drop of blood. They owed the Emperor that and more. But any further sacrifice there was pointless. If the people of Tempestora preferred a slower death in the Wastelands, I would not stand in their way.

Thulin was right. The word went out, from the spires to the underhive, that the orks were coming, and the decision to be made was death or flight. The choice was a false one, but I let it stand.

The Steel Legion companies spread out, at squad level, across Tempestora to oversee the sabotage of the pipelines. Some of the Tempestoran work teams resisted the destruction they were ordered to prepare. They did not accept the coming sacrifice. And the legionnaires had to move from overseers to enforcers. Setheno and I divided the key points of the pipeline between us.

We oversaw the enforcers.

I encountered the greatest reluctance at the Khatrin plant. The foreman of the shift raged against the desecration of his sacred trust. At the far end of a vaulted enclosure a thousand metres long, he stood on a dais before the primary controls, unarmed but calling a mob of workers to his side. The idea of turning the hive into a trap for the orks had no purchase for them. All they could understand was that we wished to replace the city’s water supply with promethium. When I arrived, a squad led by Sergeant Loxon was positioned at the other end of the room, rifles aimed at the workers. They had not yet fired on the people they believed we had come to save.

I walked down the platform that ran the length of the enclosure. On either side were gigantic reservoirs of water undergoing filtration and desalination. I kept my weapons holstered. I strode forward in silence. I stared at the workers who blocked my path, one at a time, until they stepped aside. In a few minutes, I mounted to the dais and confronted the foreman.

‘What is your name?’ I asked.

Seeing my uniform, he had hesitated to launch into a tirade. My question further took him aback. ‘Heinrich Groete, commissar,’ he said.

‘Very well, Groete. You believe in duty, I see.’

‘Yes, commissar.’ He stood taller. He was a big man, wide of shoulder and generous of stomach. His hair and beard were untrimmed. He was so grease-stained, it was easy to imagine he never left his domain of huge iron wheels and levers.

‘I believe in duty, too. Mine is to defend the Imperium at any cost. Sometimes that cost is very high.’ I spoke so my voice echoed across the space. ‘The cost gives me no pleasure, but nor do I have a choice. You do, however.’

‘I do?’

‘You can help me in the performance of my duty. You can help fight the xenos plague. Or you can perform your duty as it has always been. To the end.’

He swallowed. ‘This has been the purpose of my life,’ he said quietly.

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I respect your decision.’ And I did. But I really did have no choice. I pulled out my bolt pistol and shot him.

The other workers backed away in fear.

The ruin of the water supply proceeded smoothly.

I was fortunate that on this day I did not have to enact judgement on any troopers.

Later, as the rumble of the orks’ approach grew louder, and their stain covered the plains to the east, I stood on the northern ramparts with Setheno and watched the stream of the desperate. They flowed out of the gate, their fear greater than their speed. The gate was hundreds of metres wide, and that was too narrow. The people pressed against each other with such urgency that hundreds were being crushed and trampled to death with every passing minute. The exodus fanned out across the blasted land. Marching feet raised huge clouds of cinders. The twilight into which the Claw of Desolation had plunged Armageddon did little to diminish the heat of the day. The Wastelands were a panorama of grey desolation. Dunes of ash rolled towards the shores of the Boiling Sea. The accumulation of millennia-old industry had smothered all trace of life. The north-west reaches of Armageddon Prime were a shifting, smothering desert, a dead foretaste of the Fire Wastes.

‘It is possible,’ Setheno said, ‘that the evacuation may be of some use after all.’

‘They may hold the orks a little longer,’ I said. There had been nothing in the Wastelands to draw the greenskins. But now there was an invitation to slaughter.

‘The enemy will be amused for a few hours.’

That might help a little. I wasn’t convinced it would make a significant difference. ‘Perhaps a final struggle in the open will be a mercy,’ I said.

‘Mercy would be better earned if they ran towards the orks,’ she replied.

‘I will not ask that of civilians when we will be retreating.’

‘Can we afford such a luxury, commissar?’

‘I don’t believe it is one, canoness.’

She pointed down at the fleeing hordes. Their anxious howls reached up to us. From this height, and in this light, the people were an indistinguishable mass. A swarm of frightened insects. ‘Look at the weakness of their faith. They deserve no compassion.’

‘They are receiving precious little,’ I said.

‘You think me too quick to choose the monstrous act, don’t you?’

‘I think we will all be forced to make that choice soon enough.’

As if in answer, the thunder in the east resolved itself into the enemy’s laughter.

CHAPTER 6

A Small Sacrifice

1. YARRICK

By nightfall, the orks were at the gates.

The companies under Stahl’s command stood guard on the east wall. After the crashes and the fight against the warbikes, we were fewer than five hundred strong. Over the length of the wall, we were stretched thin, and our numbers seemed even smaller.

Stahl seemed very conscious of our weakness as he looked to his left and right. ‘What kind of defence is this?’ he asked me. ‘So much of the wall is undefended.’

He was right. Our guns were trained only on a few hundred metres above the main gate. If the orks chose to breach or ascend the wall at another point, they would encounter no resistance. And perhaps they would. Their army was so vast its flanks were invisible in the darkness. Even so, their interest appeared to be the gate. ‘Our defence is exactly what it needs to be,’ I told Stahl. ‘We don’t intend to keep them out, do we?’

‘No,’ he admitted with effort. The nature of the operation offended the officer’s soul.

‘Remember what we’re doing, captain.’

‘I know.’

His voice sounded faint, demoralised, even though he had to shout. The clamour of the orks on the verge of attack was tremendous, a constant roar forged from currents of savagery and excitement. It grew louder by the second. There was no room for more orks to arrive, but the ones before the wall were working themselves up to paroxysms of war frenzy.

We held our fire. We would have precious little time to strike the enemy. We would make our opportunity count.

I heard how battered Stahl’s morale was. I hoped he was, in the end, worthy of Brenken’s trust. The war was only beginning. There were many blows to come.

Though none, I dared to hope, on the scale of the self-inflicted wound we were about to suffer.

Some distance to my left, almost disappearing into the darkness, Setheno stood motionless, a forbidding grey statue. She had expressed no satisfaction as the preparations for sabotage had been completed. Neither did she show regret for the looming cost. We had known each other for over a century and a half, and I still found myself wondering about the nature of her faith. In her youth, it had always been stronger than adamantium. But since the destruction of the Order of the Piercing Thorn, and since she had blasted all colour from her armour, its strength had been so cold I had trouble distinguishing it from despair.

Of us all, she was the one who had the most intimate acquaintance with sacrifice.

The bellowing of the greenskins changed. It continued to grow louder, and now it took on a shape. It ceased to be the roar of thousands upon thousands of savage throats all trying to shout over each other. They found unison. They chanted. The word I had first heard on Basquit resounded once more. It beat against the walls of Tempestora as if those two syllables alone could smash the rockcrete.

Ghazghkull Ghazghkull Ghazghkull.

Louder, louder, a chant of praise, of war, of the victory of the green tide. It hammered at my mind. It dug claws into my soul. The ancient pain in my right arm, a legacy of Mistral, began to throb with renewed ferocity. I could not shake the irrational conviction that something prophesied to me long ago was coming to fruition.

GHAZGHKULL GHAZGHKULL GHAZGHKULL.

The word was a sound I had never heard from the orks in a lifetime spent fighting them. I recognised it all the same. It was a sound that should never be made by these xenos abominations. It was the sound of faith.

And then it stopped. The quiet that descended was uncanny. A single ork that did not shout was far more disturbing than a thousand roaring brutes. And in this moment, all of them were quiet. I leaned forward, staring down into the night, fruitlessly attempting to see what had silenced the orks.

Then I heard it. The voice rumbled over the plain. As it spoke, it rose from a deep, guttural snarl to bellowing exhortation. This, then, was their prophet. This was our enemy. I listened, conscious of the importance of the moment, and responding to a deeper intuition that the importance was even greater than I knew. The prophet called his forces to conquest, and promised endless spoils and endless battle. He paused, and the horde answered with terrifying unity, and in their violent joy gave me the full name of the prophet.

Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka.

I marked the name. This was our target. This is the ork we must kill, I thought.

I peered into the dark. I caught a glimpse of a massive shadow moving through the ranks of the orks. I could make out no features, nothing but a vague, hulking shape that drew the eye with inexorable gravity.

Ghazghkull spoke again, invoking the crude names of the gods the orks worshipped, and raging about a destiny of interstellar conquest. The words chilled my blood. They were not mere bluster. This ork had forged a fanatical unity in his kin. If he was not defeated here, on Armageddon, how far might his influence spread? I had a vision of a monstrous will uniting orks across the galaxy, launching a xenos crusade the likes of which the Imperium had never faced.

Stop him, I thought. Stop him.

I was the only soul on the walls of Tempestora who could understand what was being said. The only one who heard more than brute growls and roars. The only one who realised that I, too, had underestimated the threat that had come to Armageddon.

And I would still make that mistake. I don’t think I truly understood just what Ghazghkull Thraka was until that day, years and billions of lives later, when he spoke to me in High Gothic.

I looked at Stahl. Though he didn’t understand the full import of what was happening, what he grasped was bad enough. Even in the poor lighting on the wall, I could see how taut and brittle his expression was.

‘Let me speak to the companies,’ I told him.

He nodded and summoned the vox operator, Lorenz, who took me to a node next to the nearest gun turret and plugged the unit in to the wall’s vox-casters.

‘Soldiers of the Steel Legion!’ I said. My voice bounced off the façades of Tempestora. It was loud enough to be heard over the ranting of Ghazghkull. ‘The enemy is below us, and his numbers are legion. Is this a revelation? It is not. His strength is not a surprise. The surprise will be ours. Can the greenskins possibly imagine what we are about to do to them? Do you not wish you could see their brutish faces when the trap falls on them?’ I paused so the troops could hear their own cheers. ‘We will not end the threat this night. But the orks will remember what happens at Tempestora. They shall behold the will of the Armageddon Steel Legion.’ More cheers. There was iron in them. ‘Remember what you fight for: you do not fight for a single hive. You fight for the entire world. You fight for the Imperium. So fight well!’

The cheers were strong, and then kept going. I walked back to Stahl, and he gave me a grateful look. The shouts turned into jeers directed at the orks. We were mere hundreds taunting untold thousands, and that was a triumph in itself.

With a roar so huge it hit us like a wind, the orks charged, stampeding over the narrow strip of plain that separated their front lines from the gate.

‘Fire!’ Stahl shouted. ‘All guns fire!’

The turrets opened up. Autocannons rotated back and forth, strafing the ork lines as they approached. The larger, fixed mortars and modified siege cannons fired into the main body of the greenskin army. The great cannons all fired at once, and a wall of explosions lit the night. Chunks of ork bodies flew high, and a pall of smoke and dust spread over the field.

The orks didn’t slow. The gaps in their ranks filled with even more eager brutes. By the time the next round of the barrage began, they slammed into the gates. Over the howling of the infantry, I heard the buzz of more warbikes somewhere off to the north, but almost nothing in the way of heavy armour. It was as if Ghazghkull thought so little of our defences that he didn’t care to commit anything more than footsoldiers to take the walls. What chilled me was that he was right.

I didn’t know if the tactic was an act of contempt or a gift to the individual orks on the ground, a chance to strike the first great blow of the siege with their own muscle.

Leading the charge was a huge, heavily armoured warboss. It trampled over any subordinate that made the mistake of rushing in front. When I saw its power claw, my right arm gave a momentary throb and I pushed away the distraction of the ache. Our second volley blasted craters in the horde, but the warboss ran through the explosions without slowing. If I didn’t know about the still greater monster in the darkness, I would have guessed this beast was leading the army.

The autocannons, now aiming straight down, hammered at the orks closest to the gates. The entire line of the Steel Legion fired at the besiegers. We managed a solid rain of las and bolt shells for several seconds before the orks showed interest in us and responded. A storm of bullets and rockets hit our position. We took shelter behind the battlements. Not everyone was fast enough, and a few of the more powerful rockets disintegrated rockcrete crenellations. One of the siege cannons exploded. An autocannon turret was blown off its base and fell down the outside of the wall. I hoped its gunner would be dead before he landed.

The orks concentrated rocket fire against the gates. A massive drum began to beat as explosive after explosive battered the metal. The wall shook.

We fired a third volley, and sent clusters of frag grenades sailing over the parapet. We were buying seconds. The length of time was irrelevant. What mattered was the show of force and the deaths. We needed the orks driven to paroxysms of violence, uncaring of anything except the rampage and the pursuit of their opponents into the hive. They were an incautious race, but not without cunning. Even they would be suspicious if they entered Tempestora unopposed.

So we fought as if there were a real chance of defending the hive. We drew the orks’ attention to the main gate. We kept the huge mass of their infantry concentrated. That was an accomplishment.

At least it felt like one.

Streaks of fire lit the night from dozens of positions. The orks unleashed a barrage of rocket attacks. Deep booms followed. Metal screamed. The thousand-year-old gates, as thick as the body of a Leman Russ tank, fell.

The orks laughed, and though I had expected this moment, though I had counted on it, I grimaced in pain and hate as the fall of a great Imperial city began.

All the while, the streets of Tempestora ran deeper with promethium.

2. THULIN

The rebreather was old, and not up to the task. It was clogged with ash. Thulin gasped, his lungs clawing for oxygen. He yanked the rebreather off his head, stumbling forwards as he gagged, coughing up a soggy cud of cinder and dust.

‘Count Thulin?’ Countess Zelenko asked.

‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Keep going.’

He was trudging across the dunes with the rest of Tempestora’s nobility. The rich and the powerful looked like neither. Their robes were ragged, soiled and grey. So were their faces. Their eyes were hollows of fear. They had stuck together throughout the evacuation, bunching close during the horrific passage through the north gate. There had been no option but to use the same egress as the lower classes, and Thulin had seen many acquaintances and relatives fall during the stampede and be trampled into the mire of other victims. He didn’t think any of his friends had died, but that was because he regarded so few of his peers as his friends.

There was little room for trust under the reign of Herman von Strab.

Thulin had never thought of himself as an idealist. His existence had been an exercise in pragmatism, of establishing himself as useful but unthreatening to those more powerful than he. But without his conscious knowledge, he had acquired a sense of duty. When the threat to Tempestora had become clear, his chest had constricted, pained by the danger to something he loved.

Now he had abandoned the city. He still had a duty to the millions of refugees staggering through the Ash Wastelands. But there was no way to perform it. There was no mechanism of government now. Most of the forces of the Adeptus Arbites had remained to fight alongside the Steel Legion, and those who accompanied the exodus could do little in a movement so gigantic. There was no order. There was only flight. And suffering.

The winds here desiccated and choked. They blew cinders into his eyes, his nose and mouth. Breathing hurt, and his eyes watered constantly. The land swallowed the humidity of Armageddon and radiated heat. Thulin’s exposed skin was baking. His face felt as if it would curl off his skull. Every breath damaged his lungs further. He couldn’t see more than a few steps ahead. The torches he and thousands of others carried struggled to pierce more than a few metres of night in any direction. They were dying embers of Tempestora’s hope, smothered by the dead land.

Thulin crested a dune. He followed the slope down because the people in front of him were doing the same. He climbed the next dune for no better reason. There was no destination. The population of Tempestora travelled north, inching towards the Boiling Sea. There would be nowhere to go from there, but Thulin found it easy not to worry about the decision to be faced then. Making it that far was unlikely. What mattered was to keep going north. He and millions more were alive for now. Far behind, the evacuation continued. He did not expect it to be complete before doom struck the hive. He found that thought harder to suppress.

The Wastelands devoured the refugees. People dropped, overcome by heat and dehydration in a matter of hours. The dunes swallowed others. The ash heaps shifted according to the whim of chance and wind, and rolled over their victims, smothering them with silence. An hour after leaving Tempestora, a man five paces ahead of Thulin disappeared into a crevasse hidden by a thin crust of cinders. Thulin walked more slowly after that. He shuffled, kicking up puffs of ash. He let himself believe he would feel the void beneath his feet in time to leap backwards.

Cannons boomed. Thulin looked back. To the east, white flashes lit the wall of Tempestora. The barrier seemed very small from this distance. Yet the city was a mountain, looming so close it was as if he had been standing still all these hours. The windows of the spires were still illuminated, the lights of the hive another lure for the enemy. Thulin’s eye traced the shape of the buildings behind the artificial constellations. He saw the silhouette of the charge he had abandoned.

He turned his back on Tempestora and walked on.

‘What’s that?’ said Zelenko. She was still looking south and east.

Thulin listened. Guns in the distance, hammering the night again and again. The rumour of a multitude of savage throats. And there, coming closer: engines, high-pitched and hungry.

‘Run,’ Thulin said. He tried to do as he said. His legs were exhausted from hours of walking over the soft terrain of the dunes. He could manage no more. ‘Run!’ he pleaded with his body. No more thoughts of duty. No empathy for the millions with him. Only the desperation to break through the sluggishness of nightmare.

His fellow evacuees also tried to move faster. Most fared no better than he did. A few found the energy to lunge forward a few metres. Then the cries began. Of terror, of despair and, further away, towards the sound of the engines, of pain and death.

The ork vehicles closed in. Thulin refused to look, but he couldn’t block out the sounds of massacre. At the top of the dune, he tripped over his feet and fell to his knees. He whimpered and looked back.

Vehicle headlamps and spotlights illuminated the landscape. Thulin gaped in incomprehension. He could not process the scale of the atrocity.

There were too many vehicles to count. They were battlewagons, bristling with jagged armour. Lethal metal plates sliced apart anyone who came into contact with their flanks. Mounted on the fronts were bladed siege shields and spiked cylinders. They slammed through the refugees, crushing and gutting, raising a wake of blood and ash.

And that was not the worst. In twos and threes, and even a few groups of four, the battlewagons were linked together at the level of the chassis by tangled nets of barbed and razor wire. As the vehicles advanced, they created a line a thousand metres wide of mutilation and death. There was no escape from the absolute slaughter. The ash turned to mud, soaked by the murder of thousands.

Thulin pushed on, found his footing and stumbled down the dune. The massacre was out of sight now, but he could hear it. He could hear it approaching. He could hear his end close in.

He could run now, finally, when nothing mattered any more. The guns fell silent, and he wondered, bitterly, why he had chosen to die in the wastes. What use was the Steel Legion?

Why had the Emperor abandoned them?

A great light answered.

3. YARRICK

The time for retreat had come. The orks were through the gates, into the staging grounds beyond, and pouring through the streets. They were looking for a fight. Against all the urging of our training, we would not give it to them.

We retreated. We ran. That this was the plan did nothing to quell the stab of shame. Never again, I thought as I pounded along the battlements, heading south. We had several kilometres to cover until we reached the Morpheus manufactorum. To reach it, we had to rely far too much on luck. We needed the orks to be more interested in the city itself than their defeated opponents on the wall. We needed the right collision of violent elements, one that would give us time rather than cut it short.

Too much left to chance.

Too much shame.

Never again. Never again.

To my right, the orks rioted through the streets. They roared their challenge, and when it was not answered, they laughed at our cowardice. Glass shattered and stone shattered as the plundering began.

The entire promethium output of Tempestora’s refineries had been diverted. It flowed back into the hive now, and through perforated pipelines. The crude fuel arriving from the Fire Wastes joined it. Black rivers and fountains filled the streets. Sources that should have provided drinking water delivered more of the promethium. It was everywhere, running down corridors and façades, falling in cascades from walkways, its fumes making the atmosphere almost unbreathable. On the outside wall, the winds blowing towards the Ash Wastelands kept the worst of the poison from our lungs. I hoped they would also spare us from the cataclysm. With every step, I waited for the spark.

So much reliance on luck.

It was several minutes before the inevitable happened. We had made good progress towards the Morpheus plant. The manufactorum and its environs, on the south side of the hive, was the one region we had been careful to spare from the promethium flood. We were still a distance away, but at least we had put space between ourselves and the gate.

The fire began to the north. I guessed the orks had used open flame near the north gate. There were still citizens fleeing the city. Millions still. I reminded myself that they were doomed to brutal deaths no matter what action we took. Setheno would have remarked that their continued presence in the city was useful. They gave the orks something to kill. A reason to use their weapons deep in the city. An invitation to flame.

Whumpf whumpf whumpf whumpf behind me. Fire exploded into being, triggered more fire, and more, and more. Explosions built on explosions. I heard them, and then I felt the heat as the conflagration raced from its origin and reached across the city. Light came. It burned the night away. It spread faster than any being could run, but several minutes passed before the flames drew abreast of my position. Minutes that brought us that much closer to Morpheus.

The roar of the fire reached me. The city came to violent life as it died. On my right, the streets ran with liquid flame as if the upper spires had become a volcano. Fire spewed from the windows of hab blocks. It embraced the towers. It rose higher by the second. The flames reached for the heavens. They became a tortured, roaring, writhing wall. The side of my face burned with a stabbing pain.

The orks howled with rage and pain. So many were caught, so many were dying, that their cries were even louder than the rising thunder of the firestorm. We had bloodied the foe. Our first solid blow.

All it had taken was the sacrifice of an entire city.

The towers were torches now. The conflagration generated its own wind. The city was becoming a vortex, and it pulled at us. A powerful gust hit us, and the trooper in front of me stumbled. Off-balance, he was pushed towards the inside edge of the wall. I reached out and grabbed him by the trench coat before he fell. He gave me a nod of thanks. Like most of his comrades, he had pulled off his rebreather in reaction to the heat, and the fire shone in his eyes. He kept glancing towards the destruction as if it were an act of sacrilege.

‘We have done good work on this day, soldier,’ I told him. ‘The xenos is burning.’

He looked even more grateful now, and we ran on, keeping close to the crenallations.

My lungs were burning from heat and exhaustion. They felt like bags of blood and embers. Augmetic surgery and juvenat treatments kept me in the battlefield, but I was an old man, and every step reminded me of that. I wanted to stop and catch my breath, but there would be no breath to catch. There was only the heat, and if I paused long enough, even on the wall, I would become part of the city’s cremation.

Setheno caught up to me just as a massive explosion shook a spire midway up the bulk of the hive. It collapsed into the flames, its rumble lost in the roar of the storm.

‘It was necessary,’ the canoness said. She kept up a steady pace in her power armour.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, speaking between breaths. ‘It was necessary. But the destruction is ours. We will carry a stain.’

‘We have before. Our hands are dark with blood, commissar. That is our lot.’

‘We have spread the blood widely.’

‘That was inevitable.’

‘Yes, but there will be consequences. We must be mindful of them. We can carry the burden. Not every member of the regiment will be able to.’

‘Some will break.’

‘They might,’ I said.

Flames billowed close, and the heat made it too painful to speak.

We ran. On and on. Slower, the distance between us and our destination becoming greater as the fire grew stronger. Eventually none of us could run any longer. There were too many kilometres to cover, and we were trying to flee the rage of a newborn sun.

At least it was only the fire that pursued us. Our retreat from the orks appeared to be successful. There was no way to know how many had been caught in the trap. The numbers were high, to judge from the howls we had heard at the start. But what proportion of the army? And what were they doing now? The fire obliterated knowledge as it did Tempestora.

At last, the wall ahead began to curve. We were almost at the south-east end of the hive. I thought I saw darkness beyond the flames. Perhaps we were fortunate, and our efforts to preserve the Morpheus complex had been successful.

‘The Emperor protects,’ I muttered.

Then it seemed His eye turned from us. The winds of the firestorm spun with such violence that they formed a funnel of flame. Twisting and sinuous, it filled our ears with the din of a gigantic engine. It passed between towering hab blocks and hurled its wrath against the wall just ahead of me. It swept troopers up with fire and wind. They flew like burning angels. I dropped and rolled against the parapet. So did all the other legionnaires in my vicinity. I turned my face into the rockcrete. Setheno crouched one pace ahead, helmet on, a ceramite barrier. The heat was an agony, shrivelling my lungs. The wall was an oven, cooking me through my uniform.

The great, hollow, raging shriek of the fire vortex came closer. There was nowhere to run. There was no counter to this force we had unleashed. There was only luck now. Or the benevolence of the Emperor.

We were calling too much on his help. We were not serving as we should.

The roar came closer. The agony covered my body. The smoke had the stink of charred flesh. I could believe it was my own. I braced for the greatest pain, and my fists clenched with my own anger. My duty to the Emperor was not yet done. To die so pointlessly, with so much work left unfinished, was intolerable.

If the flames reached me, I would stand and fight. I would not die on my knees.

4. THULIN

He waited until he reached the top of the next dune to look back. The light grew stronger, and soon he didn’t need his torch to light his way. Ahead, other refugees had stopped to stare. Even with the ork slaughter machine drawing close, they paused. When Thulin turned around, he too was mesmerised. The sight turned him to stone.

Tempestora blazed. The mountain of manufactorum chimneys, cathedrals, hab towers and Administratum spires was alight. Its entire height roiled with flame. The destruction struck Thulin with religious awe. His hand was in this horror, but he saw only divine wrath. The event was too gigantic, a single fire that burned the clouds. The shapes of the city poked through the flame, black on red, like the bones of an immolated corpse. The holocaust dwarfed everything. For a few moments, the massacre became trivial. The orks’ vehicles were insignificant objects moving through a carpet of insects. The death cry of Tempestora swept across the Ash Wastelands like a great tide. It washed over Thulin and kept coming. He stared at the end of his city. The event was so huge, it should have stopped time.

But orks smashed that illusion too. The battlewagons kept coming. Their engines made themselves heard over the great fire. So did the screams of the dying. Thulin blinked as the line of vehicles crested a dune less than a thousand metres away. Their approach made no sense. Didn’t they see what was happening? How could they still be intent on such meaningless carnage?

The machines came on. Unwavering, unstoppable. They were close enough now for Thulin to see the orks riding on their roofs. They shouted with gleeful savagery. And now the scything line seemed even longer to Thulin. A second tide was racing towards him, a tide of blood and severed limbs, driven forward by the wall of grotesque vehicles and an inescapable net of killing steel.

The flames of Tempestora burned higher. The city was disappearing into the inferno. The orks ignored it. Their casualties must have been high, Thulin had to believe that. He needed some meaning left to his final moments. But the orks did not turn back, and they did not look at the fire. They advanced, celebrating, as they exterminated the population of Tempestora.

Thulin broke free of his hypnosis. The burning hive receded to the background of his consciousness. The grinding machines and the sea of blood were closer yet. There was no hope of escape, no point in running, but he ran anyway. He turned his back on the ork line and fled. He moved with the current of the panic. He was surrounded by fellow refugees, and he was alone. He had lost track of Zelenko while he gazed at Tempestora. She might have been running beside him, but he didn’t know and didn’t look. The only thing that mattered was his own terror.

As long as he didn’t look, he could believe that he would still be alive in the next second. He could believe he could keep running, that as long as he did, the battlewagons wouldn’t catch up.

Shadows beside him and before him. They were other people, and they were screaming. He tuned them out. His perception narrowed to the next few metres, and then the metres after that. His world became a small portion of ash. All he had to do was cross it. He sank to his ankles in the grit. Each step kicked up more fine, choking powder. Every step felt like the last he could take. But he kept running. He would run to the shores of the Boiling Sea, and he would swim the waters, because he would never look back, and he would never cease his flight as long as he heard the terrible engines behind him.

Louder. Louder. He could hear the orks shouting to each other. His feet splashed through muck as the blood flowed past him over the ash. Louder. The engines were so close they were in his head.

He would not look back. He must look back.

But they were so loud, and the snarls of the orks were beside him now, and that could not be because he had been good, and he had not slowed down, and he had kept running, but he broke the rule and looked back now.

The shadows of mechanised horrors on either side, rollers puncturing and crushing bodies. And coming at him, so fast, the weave of razored iron.

There was no time to pray. No time to scream. But there was so much time for pain as the taut metal cut through flesh and severed bone.

5. YARRICK

The bellow of the vortex faded. I looked up, staring into the blaze. I only managed a second before I had to look away again. The funnel was losing coherence against the wall, the wind blowing inward to the city again. The flames lapped at the battlements, then withdrew. We stood and moved forwards over scorched rockcrete. The fiery tempest had not thrown all its victims into the air. Carbonised bodies lay in contorted positions.

More losses. This time not at the hands of the orks.

I told myself that the sacrifice was not in vain. That the orks had taken heavier casualties. That we were doing what must be done to save Armageddon.

A stretch of the Morpheus river was within the outer wall. On its banks was the Morpheus manufactorum complex. It was a cathedral of industry. A dome sixty metres wide, and one hundred and fifty high rose from its centre. Eight chimneys, almost as tall, surrounded it. There was no smoke from the chimneys, no lights coming from the open bay doors. The manufactorum had its own power plant, but there could be no reason to attract the orks. The Morpheus had gone dark shortly before the greenskins had arrived. The complex was one of Armageddon’s main production centres for the Chimera. Tempestora didn’t have the means to arm all its citizens, but it could provide its defenders with the means to depart at speed.

This is not a true retreat, I told myself. This is a reorganisation of the battlefield. We do this to hit the orks all the harder. The truth had rarely felt more false. It was brittle, thin. It would gain strength only if it was justified by future events.

The Chimeras were ready. Their drivers had started the engines as soon as the fire had begun. They were lined up on the bridge crossing the river and on the road leading to the south gate. We came down from the wall and boarded the vehicles. After the losses in the lifter disaster, and the warbike raid, and the siege, we finally had a gain. There were enough Chimeras available for every surviving trooper. We had become a mechanised infantry.

I spoke to the companies over the vox as the armoured carriers started forward and our exodus began. I told them what I had been telling myself. I did so with more conviction. ‘This is not a retreat. We have struck a first great blow, and shown the enemy there is nothing we will not do to safeguard the Imperium. Now we look forward. Forward to Volcanus!’

I rode in the roof hatch of the second Chimera. Stahl was in the lead one. He was looking back. I shook my head at him and gestured for him to face forward. He hesitated, then did as I said.

He had given the orders, but the stain of Tempestora’s death was mine and Setheno’s. I would relieve the captain of as much of it as I could. To command, he had to look forward. He must not let the decisions of the past cast a shadow over the choices to come.

I turned around. Setheno was in the next vehicle. She faced forward, a silhouette of dark sanctity. She was shouldering the burden of the fire as though she felt nothing. Many believed that to be the truth. I think, rather, that the burdens she already carried were so great that one more mattered little.

I watched the blaze. I took in its full enormity. I counted the cost, and accepted all responsibility. Now that you know what it is to destroy a city of the Imperium, I thought, do you stand by your choice?

Yes, I decided.

Yes. It was the only option. We had hurt the enemy. We had bought ourselves time.

But this sacrifice would not be necessary again. We had done this terrible thing to ensure the defence of the other hives.

I stared at the city I had turned into a pyre.

We passed through the gates, onto the plain. The convoy headed south towards Volcanus. A few minutes beyond the wall, we saw a single ork battlewagon by the side of the road. It was quiet, its engine off. It seemed abandoned. Our guns were trained on it, but Stahl ordered fire to be held. We did not want to announce our position by engaging in combat with an empty vehicle. We drew even with the battlewagon, and its crew appeared. They jumped up on its roof. Instead of firing, they did something far more damaging.

They laughed.

The turret of Stahl’s Chimera fired its heavy bolter, splattering the orks.

Ghazghkull had struck back, and hit hard. We had burned Tempestora and thousands of his troops. He had anticipated our next move, and sent us a message.

He was amused.

CHAPTER 7

Prelude to Volcanus

1. YARRICK

We rode hard. There would be no rest until Volcanus, and none then either. The troopers slept on their benches. Drivers took shifts. The convoy travelled without stopping. The flames of Tempestora followed us through the rest of the night and were still bright in the dim morning. Before the hive disappeared over the horizon, a cloud of dust rose next to it. The orks were on the move again. Our lead was a small one.

Setheno and I met with Stahl and the other captains in the lead Chimera. We examined the map of Armageddon Prime on his data-slate, and raised Brenken on the vox.

‘How are the defences?’ I asked.

‘Progressing well,’ she said.

‘Will they be finished?’

‘I could do with an extra year. But they’ll be as finished as time permits. Your actions bought us several new tunnels and a completed redoubt. That’s valuable. You have my thanks.’ She knew there were other soldiers present, and was speaking for their benefit. ‘Captain Stahl,’ she added, ‘well done.’

Mora, a florid-faced officer with greying stubble, frowned but held his peace. The rest of the officers did not react to Brenken’s reminder of which captain had command. I made a note to watch Mora.

‘Thank you, colonel,’ said Stahl. ‘What are your orders? We are currently making all speed to reinforce your position.’

The vox spat static while she thought.

‘The Chimeras will be welcome,’ she said. ‘But given our casualties, we have to consider what will be the most effective use of our strength.’

‘A few hundred bodies added to the main force won’t make a significant difference,’ I said.

‘I’ll rely on your judgement,’ said Brenken. ‘Can you slow them down still further with harrying attacks? More time at this end would help.’

I exchanged glances with Setheno and Stahl. They looked as doubtful as I felt.

‘We still don’t have a clear idea of the enemy’s strength,’ the captain pointed out.

‘Beyond the fact that it is considerable,’ Setheno said.

‘The ork warlord held back much of his strength at Tempestora,’ I said.

‘He did what?’ Brenken sounded as alarmed as she should be. ‘What kind of ork does that?’

‘He is called Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka,’ I said. ‘We would do well to remember that name. His destruction will be key to ending this threat. The danger he represents is something we have never encountered before.’

‘Then reconnaissance is our best move,’ said Brenken.

‘It is.’

‘Captain,’ she told Stahl, ‘learn what you can of the enemy heading for Volcanus. We’ll decide on our course of action based on what you learn.’

Surveillance meant giving up our lead. The loss wasn’t a great one. We were a few hours ahead of the orks, a few hours that had no clear tactical value, and that could be taken from us if it turned out that the orks had any form of air support.

We were on the main highway linking Tempestora to Volcanus. Though repair crews worked on its length constantly, Armageddon’s brutal climate and the heavy volume of traffic that normally travelled it had left its surface cracked, pitted and uneven. The flaws meant little to the Chimeras. Eight lanes wide, the road also served well for the rapid transfer of military force from one hive to the other. The orks would find it to their liking. It would be a gift to the warbikers. We abandoned it to them, pulling off onto the rough surface of the plains. We had to slow down now. The land was rocky, ridged and uneven, broken up by gullies and narrow crevasses. The orks would have no concern about excessive velocity leading to a loss of vehicles. We did.

We moved off at a sharp angle to the highway. We would need enough distance between us and the greenskin army that it wouldn’t divert and wipe us out, but not so great a gap that we couldn’t observe the enemy force. We were helped by the stoniness of the terrain. As sparse as the vegetation was east of Tempestora, here we were in a desert of rock, scoured bare by millennia of wind blowing over dead earth. We would raise no more dust than if we had stayed on the highway.

We kept going until we hit a wider gulley. Its banks were rounded with erosion. It had once been the bed of a wide river, gone for centuries or more, and it ran more or less parallel to the highway. Stahl sent the other Chimeras on ahead. The command vehicle stayed behind. We left it at the bottom of the gulley and climbed back up the bank. We lay prone and watched. It was morning, but it was twilight. It was dark, but the heat was as suffocating as if Armageddon’s sun shone unfiltered by clouds and dust. Stahl had a pair of magnoculars. He passed them around, though we didn’t need them to see when the army drew near.

The sound came first, almost familiar now: the blended thunder of engines, boots and brutish snarls. Then the army came into view. Thousands upon thousands of footsoldiers. Uncountable. A tide untouched by the flames of Tempestora. Warbikes and battlewagons, hundreds of them. Mobile artillery and other motorised weapons whose function was obscure from this distance. It was possible that they did nothing at all, or would explode at first use. Ork technology could be as deadly for the greenskins as for their enemies. But it could also be powerful in lethally unexpected ways. The horde was endless. It seemed we could stay here for weeks and never see it all, the rear guard still leaving Tempestora while the front ranks besieged Volcanus.

I took Stahl’s magnoculars to focus on the leading elements as they passed us. Riding atop a battlewagon was the same warboss I had seen commanding the assault on Tempestora’s gates. The beast had survived the fire, though its armour had been burned black.

‘We achieved nothing,’ Stahl whispered.

I lowered the magnoculars. I was about to answer Stahl when a distant shadow caught my eye. I raised the lenses again and trained them on the north-east. I was looking in the direction of the Claw of Desolation’s landfall. The space hulk was over the horizon, tens of kilometres from our position, and dust it had thrown into the atmosphere reduced visibility. But there was something. It was too far away for details, too far even to be anything more definite than a vague shape in the grey. I saw it again. I fought with the magnification. Stubborn, it remained a blur. But it was gigantic. And it moved. Then dust and distance hid it from view again.

‘What do you see?’ Setheno asked.

I handed her the lenses and pointed. ‘It’s gone now.’

She looked for a minute before giving up. ‘What was it?’

‘Something very large. The size of a Titan.’

Mora started. He peered back along the passing army. ‘Nothing like that here,’ he said.

‘That’s the problem.’

‘They’re still holding back,’ said Setheno.

‘I think so.’

‘Where was it heading?’ Stahl asked.

‘Impossible to say. Not this way.’ I shrugged.

‘Then whatever it is, they aren’t using it against Volcanus.’ Gunzburg was grasping for hope. He was the same age as Mora, but thinner, and more worn. His family was minor nobility, enough for him to hold a product of the manufactoria like Stahl in deep contempt. At this moment, though, he seemed to have little interest in moving up the chain of decision making.

‘What they have isn’t enough?’ Boidin asked. He was the youngest of the captains. Low-born, ambitious, he was a compact brawler. He had led his company well, but he too had been shaken by the siege of Tempestora.

‘We did nothing,’ Stahl said again.

‘Nothing?’ I snapped. ‘Would you add thousands more greenskins to that mob? Is the time we held the orks occupied pointless? Your colonel’s gratitude is empty? Is this what I should understand?’ I directed each question to a different officer.

‘No, commissar.’ Stahl reddened with shame. The other captains shook their heads.

‘Safeguard your faith,’ Setheno warned them.

The four men eyed us both warily.

‘We are outnumbered so badly that our survival alone is miraculous,’ I told them.

‘The Emperor protects,’ Setheno said. Her cold tones made the words truth and threat.

‘We have hurt the orks,’ I continued. ‘And now we know what is heading for Volcanus. That puts us far ahead of where we were even a day ago.’

But a day ago we had not sacrificed a city. The smoke was a huge black cloud rising in the north. ‘We did nothing,’ Stahl had said. He was wrong. What gnawed at me was the possibility that we had done worse than nothing.

I stamped down my doubts with the same anger I had turned on the captains. What mattered was Volcanus.

We watched the army pass for hours more, and at last it did have an end. The orks were not infinite in number. There were other forces out there, but they were heading elsewhere.

I saw an opportunity.

We spoke to Brenken again as the Chimera caught up to the rest of the companies and we continued to shadow the ork advance. We described what we had seen.

‘Hit and run attacks would be pointless,’ I said. ‘The enemy contingent is too large for us to slow by such means.’

‘But it could be by other means?’

‘Slowed, no. Defeated perhaps.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Ghazghkull has divided his army. Its full strength is not heading for Volcanus.’

‘What is coming is bad enough.’

Brenken was careful not to state that we could not defend the hive. The conditions as they stood, however, were not hopeful. ‘It is a major assault,’ I agreed, ‘but your defensive position is much better than the one we faced in Tempestora.’

‘It is,’ she said.

‘We just have to hold them long enough for reinforcements to arrive. A strong counterattack, delivered swiftly, trapping the orks between Princeps Mannheim’s hammer and our anvil would take out one ork army. The initiative would be ours at last. The greenskins would be forced to react to our moves.’

‘Much depends on the overlord changing his mind,’ she pointed out.

‘It will require a strong voice, true. We have one now. Tempestora cries for justice.’

I hoped that cry would be enough.

2. MANNHEIM

The Claw of Desolation had smashed Armageddon’s orbital defences. Some remote augurs still circled the planet, though. What they could transmit of events on the planet’s surface was fragmentary. It was tactically insignificant. But the death of Tempestora registered. The fire was visible through the atmosphere as a bright red wound. Mannheim saw the picts in the command centre of the Legio Metalica. He stared at them while he spoke with Brenken over the vox. He transferred them to his data-slate and kept looking at them as he made his way to von Strab’s quarters. They were an obscenity. One that could have been avoided. They must be the goad to preventing other disasters on this scale.

He carried his data-slate because he would not allow von Strab to look away from the results of his military leadership. Mannheim knew the overlord would have seen them. But there would be refuge in a pretence of ignorance.

Von Strab had turned his throne room into a centre of operations. Lithographic tables radiated outward from the throne. Rows of pict screens had been installed on the periphery of the chamber. The hive governors were in attendance, as were the Steel Legion’s regimental colonels and General Andechs. The room buzzed with debates and arguments. Ingrid Sohm of Tempestora, looking grim, was speaking with von Strab. The overlord had composed his face into a careful facsimile of sympathy.

Mannheim stopped beside Andechs while von Strab listened to the governor. The general stood beside the largest of the tables. A lithograph of the western region of Armageddon Prime glowed from its surface. It showed the latest reported position of the orks and the companies from Tempestora. The hive appeared as it had before the disaster. ‘This map is out of date,’ Mannheim said pointedly.

The general sighed. ‘We know.’

‘And?’

‘No one expected anything like this.’

‘We should have. Commissar Yarrick tried to warn us.’

‘I don’t recall his saying anything about the destruction of an entire hive by our own troops.’

‘Circumstances,’ Mannheim said.

‘Yes,’ Andechs conceded. His experience in the field was more limited than the princeps considered adequate for an officer of his rank, but it didn’t take many battles to appreciate the perversity of circumstances. It usually took only one.

‘Princeps Mannheim,’ von Strab called out. He left the throne and walked over. ‘Dark news from Tempestora, isn’t it?’

He did not sound concerned. Mannheim couldn’t tell if he genuinely wasn’t, or was keeping up a front of absolute confidence for the benefit of the other governors. Perhaps von Strab didn’t know either. Appearance became reality. The façade became the soul. Worry might imply doubt in his strategy, and that would be a sign of weakness. Von Strab had not shown weakness once in his adult life. Take note, Mannheim told himself. Be careful how you try to convince him.

‘Desperate measures, I agree,’ he said, even though von Strab had mentioned nothing of the kind. Mannheim hoped he could lead von Strab to a decision in such a way that the overlord believed it to be his idea. Or at least that others would. ‘The enemy surprised the regiment.’

‘I expect better from my officers,’ von Strab said.

Mannheim fought to keep from grimacing in anger. ‘So you should,’ he said, half-choking on the words. ‘And I have good news. The regiment has found its footing at Volcanus. Colonel Brenken has a plan that, in theory, could turn the tide in our favour.’

‘Princeps, you are a welcome presence here!’ von Strab exclaimed. He slapped Mannheim’s back. ‘Tell me more!’

Mannheim’s right arm trembled. Striking von Strab would save his honour, but not the planet. His conversation with the overlord was drawing a crowd now. That might help his cause. ‘Half the regiment has established a strong defensive position at Volcanus,’ he said. ‘The remainder is tracking the enemy’s advance. The orks have divided their strength. They have left themselves vulnerable to a pincer attack.’

Von Strab nodded approvingly. ‘Excellent. Precisely what I would have had our forces do.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, overlord. Then shall I tell Colonel Brenken–’

Von Strab cut him off. ‘To proceed as planned. Yes. Better yet, I will speak with her myself. She should know that Armageddon thanks her. She will redeem her failure with this action.’

No, Mannheim thought. No no no. The exchange was slipping from his control. Von Strab had taken the initiative, as if he had guessed what Mannheim was trying to suggest. The princeps tried to reclaim some ground. ‘I will prepare the Iron Skulls for immediate departure,’ he said. He turned as if the conversation were over and he had been given his orders.

‘You’ll what?’ von Strab said. ‘One moment, princeps. You have misunderstood me.’

‘I beg your pardon, overlord,’ he said. He looked at Andechs. ‘And yours, general. It is, of course, only right that the glory of this battle belong to the Steel Legion. Which regiments will you be sending?’

Andechs coughed, buying himself seconds before an answer.

‘He won’t be sending any,’ von Strab said.

Mannheim cursed him, and he cursed Andechs. If the general had committed to more regiments, any number, it would have been difficult for von Strab to contradict him. Did Andechs feel he owed von Strab this much deference? Was he so incapable of initiative? What Mannheim knew of Andechs’ record away from Armageddon suggested he knew what he was doing in the battlefield. But so close to the reason for his elevation, he was passive. Von Strab controlled the conduct of the war, but that did not mean Andechs could offer nothing.

Except it did.

Caught between despair and rage, Mannheim played his role in the black comedy to the end. ‘None?’ he asked.

‘I have assured the governors that the Steel Legion will stand guard over the hives of Armageddon Secundus. The regiments have their assignments.’

‘But if you’re right that the orks will not be able to cross the Equatorial Jungle, why keep the Steel Legion locked down?’ He thought von Strab’s faith in the jungle was ridiculous, but he tried to engage with the man using the terms of his flawed logic.

‘The jungle will keep them from us,’ von Strab asserted. ‘But we must be prepared for all contingencies. The last few days have brought us some unwelcome surprises, after all.’

‘Then we should surprise the orks.’

Von Strab patted his arm with genial condescension. ‘And so we shall, princeps. So we shall. You said yourself that the two cohorts of the 252nd Regiment are in the correct positions.’

‘Yes…’

‘Then Colonel Brenken is to go ahead with the attack.’

‘Without reinforcements?’

‘From what you have said, her tactical situation is superb. Now is the moment to act. If we ask her to wait, the window of opportunity will close.’ He shook his head. ‘No, princeps, we cannot delay and risk defeat.’

The reasoning was astounding in its perversity. Mannheim felt numb as he tried to refute it. ‘With respect, overlord, the orks outnumber the regiment many times over.’

Von Strab raised his eyebrows in mock dismay. ‘You do the Hammer of the Emperor an injustice.’

‘I have the greatest respect for the abilities of the Steel Legion.’ Mannheim nodded to Andechs, as if there really was a chance he had given offence. He didn’t know why he was still playing this charade. He had lost. But he couldn’t retreat from any field of battle. Not even this false one. ‘I respect them enough that I will not ask them to perform the impossible.’

‘Are you so reticent in the demands you make of the Legio Metalica?’ von Strab asked.

‘I…’ Mannheim began, then stopped. He had no good answer. He and the Iron Skulls would fight against all odds until they had won or had shed their last drop of blood. But the idea of defeat when he was one with Steel Hammer was absurd. The Steel Legion had tanks, it had artillery. It was a formidable fighting force. But there was a great difference between even a Baneblade tank and the God Machines. And the 252nd was not equipped even with the super-heavies. Courage and determination were irrelevant in the face of the numbers Brenken was reporting. Von Strab was going to abandon the regiment to a slaughter, and with it Volcanus.

That would leave Hive Death Mire. If the expeditionary force failed, Mannheim could not imagine von Strab sending any help to Death Mire. Apart from its militia, the hive would be defenceless. The orks might have full control of Armageddon Prime early into the Season of Shadows.

Von Strab wasn’t finished. ‘You know what you are about, Princeps Mannheim. But believe me, demanding the impossible of your troops is an excellent way of achieving just that.’ He smiled like the veteran commander he most certainly was not. ‘Besides, the 252nd will not be fighting alone. Volcanus is an important centre of armament production. Brenken will have more volunteers than she could possibly need.’

‘Untrained ones,’ Mannheim pointed out.

Von Strab shrugged. ‘If they can aim and pull a trigger that will be enough.’

Mannheim looked around the chamber. Otto Vikman of Volcanus and Dirne Hartau of Death Mire were looking at him anxiously, hoping he would carry the day. But they weren’t speaking up. The others were very happy to accept the protection von Strab was providing. He was turning Secundus into a fortress, and abandoning Prime. No one was going to stand up against the overlord.

‘Have faith, Princeps Mannheim,’ von Strab said. ‘There is nothing to be gained by sending Colonel Brenken help she does not need that would reach her when the battle is already won.’

‘And if Volcanus falls?’

Von Strab looked serious. ‘I hope General Andechs’s colonels are more competent than you seem to be implying.’

Andechs winced as any defeat that occurred suddenly became his responsibility. Mannheim was disgusted by von Strab’s rhetorical strategy, but it was as brilliant as his military moves were dismaying. You could have spoken up, general, Mannheim thought. Too late now.

‘But the fate of Volcanus has no bearing on Armageddon Secundus,’ von Strab continued. ‘I think I’ve made that clear.’

He had. His delusion was unshakeable. The overlord’s faith in the barrier of the Equatorial Jungle was bizarre, Mannheim thought. He guessed it was a result of his refusal to conceive of a threat to Secundus. Von Strab could not or would not credit the idea of his reign overthrown by orks.

‘I understand,’ Mannheim said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, overlord.’ The battle was over. There was nothing to be gained here. He took a step away from the table.

‘Where are you going, princeps?’ von Strab asked.

Mannheim stopped, but he answered without looking back. ‘I have duties I must attend.’ He had cursed Andechs. Now he cursed himself for his vague answer, and he cursed the need to give one. Von Strab was rotting the soul of every warrior on Armageddon.

Von Strab saw through the evasion. ‘You aren’t planning to take the Legio Metalica to Volcanus?’

Mannheim turned around slowly. He glared. ‘I am.’

Von Strab shook his head. ‘No. Your duty is here, at Infernus. You will stay, Princeps Mannheim. That is an order.’

Mannheim would enjoy killing him. War was a duty, not a pleasure, but at this moment he would relish the bloody execution of this ridiculous man. He entertained a vision of Steel Hammer unleashing its full power against a single man, vaporising him in an excess of fury. There would be enormous satisfaction in that moment.

It would also be a crime. Von Strab was unworthy. He was dangerous. But he was the ruler of Armageddon. Mannheim’s duty was clear: he owed von Strab his loyalty and obedience. He dreaded the path down which von Strab had them all marching, but he could not step away from it without breaking his oaths of service.

‘Let me make myself clear,’ von Strab said, raising his voice to be heard across the chamber. ‘There will be no reinforcements sent to Volcanus. Of any kind.’

Vikman looked ill. Hartau little better. Still they said nothing.

‘I think we understand each other,’ von Strab said to Mannheim.

‘We do, overlord.’ Mannheim tasted something unfamiliar and vile at the back of this throat. It was defeat.

CHAPTER 8

Between the Claws

1. YARRICK

‘There will be no one,’ Brenken told us.

Stahl blinked. He stared at the vox unit. ‘No one until when?’ he asked.

Brenken laughed without humour. ‘Until we have won, captain. The glory will be ours.’

Gunzburg had stepped in as vox operator. For now, the only occupants of the lead Chimera’s troop hold were the captains, Setheno and me. We had guessed we would have the need to speak freely when we heard back from Brenken.

‘This is…’ Mora began. He stopped at a look from me before he said the word ‘hopeless’.

‘It is unacceptable,’ Setheno said. ‘Though unsurprising. Overlord von Strab is unfit for his office and should be removed.’

The officers cringed. If they had spoken those words, they would have been guilty of sedition. Setheno’s moral authority was such that her utterance had the force of holy writ. I agreed with her. If von Strab had been in our presence at that moment, I would have acted. But he wasn’t. And though Setheno could act with impunity, her legal authority was limited. She was a force unto herself. She could no more order an assassination than I could command the Legio Metalica.

But the force of her commands was dangerous. If her words reached Infernus, someone might act. ‘There is nothing to be done,’ I said.

‘You surprise me, commissar.’

‘Why? Would you have any of us break our oaths?’

‘No,’ she said. She did not pursue the point.

I was glad. I was the only one present who could, without rupture to the institutions of the Imperium, kill von Strab. In Infernus, Seroff could do so, though I knew he would not. Even if I were in von Strab’s chambers at this moment, I wasn’t sure what I would do. Regardless of the legal ramifications of his disposal, creating a power struggle at the top of Armageddon’s ruling class in the middle of a war could lead to even greater disorder and catastrophe.

So I thought then. I would hold to that belief for some time to come. Was I right? I’m not sure, and it hardly mattered when I was in no position to act one way or the other. The war would reach a juncture where the desire to preserve order, an order that corrupt, was wrong. But by then it would be far too late for all of us.

We were all silent for a few moments. The Chimera bounced and shuddered over the rough terrain. We were still shadowing the ork army. Volcanus had appeared over the horizon. We were only a few hours from the beginning of the siege.

‘What are your orders, colonel?’ Stahl asked.

‘To act as we planned. Our positions haven’t changed, even if we won’t have the resources we would have liked. Captain, you will attack the orks’ rear flank. We will hold them in our defences and wear them down until there is nothing left.’

‘We look forward to meeting you in the centre,’ I said. ‘With the greenskins crushed between us.’

I had no illusions about our chances. But we would allow the orks no illusions about our will.

2. BRENKEN

She could see the orks now in the weak dawn. Snatches of their barbaric chants reached her ears. Brenken stood on the roof of her command vehicle, the Chimera Sword of the Wastes. She was forward of the defensive network, along with her artillery company and three tank companies. Hans Somner stood beside her.

For the moment.

His eyes were wide as he gazed at the incoming tide. ‘How many…?’

‘Plenty. As ever, with greenskins. I’m sure you’ve fought them during your years in service.’

‘Yes. But…’

Again, he didn’t finish. Brenken heard his unspoken words all the same, but not like this. He was right. Most of what they knew about the enemy was based on the reports from the Tempestora companies, but even an untrained eye could see that something massive was heading their way.

Brenken knew she had never faced orks like this either. With no reinforcements beyond what she could get from Volcanus. She had integrated the hive’s six militia companies into her infantry, and they were stationed in the trenches and redoubts. The distribution of weapons to the general population was still ongoing. There was a corps of volunteers standing by within the walls. Once she had to call on them, though, the situation would be desperate.

Even so, she couldn’t resist poking at Somner. His instincts for the field appeared to have atrophied since he had become a politician. His earlier bluster had withered the moment the orks had come into sight. ‘Are you sure you won’t join us in the charge, Count Somner?’

He cleared his throat. ‘I fear I’m needed back at the wall. The people have to see me. A question of morale, you understand.’

‘Of course. Don’t let me keep you, count.’

He watched the enemy for a few more anxious seconds, then said, ‘The Emperor protects, colonel. May he do so for us all today.’

‘The Emperor protects,’ she replied, regretting her jab. He was right. Though she had her doubts regarding his ability to galvanise the masses.

Somner retreated. Brenken opened the roof hatch of Sword of the Wastes and settled into position with the pintle-mounted storm bolter atop the multi-laser turret.

‘Kuyper,’ she called down. ‘Get me the vox.’

She watched the greenskins draw closer, chanting and growling. Behind her and on either side, the Leman Russ tanks rumbled, the hammer of the Steel Legion ready to be unleashed. Further back, the line of three Basilisk squadrons waited for her word. The fumes of the heavy armour’s exhaust stung her nostrils. It was the hard, honest smell of Imperial war.

Kuyper handed her the handset. She gave the word. ‘Comrades of the 252nd,’ she voxed, ‘it’s time to punish the greenskins’ arrogance. Artillery, commence fire. Armour, advance.’

Sword of the Wastes and the tanks lurched forward. They tore over the gradual downward slope. The engines sounded hungry to Brenken. There were scores to settle for humiliations handed to the other half of the regiment.

The Basilisks opened up, their barrage grouped by squadron, buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom. Just enough of a stagger so the first squadron was ready to fire again right after the third. Buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom. A good thunder, vibrating her rib cage with its force. The Earthshaker cannons hammered at the ground twice, first with the report as the huge shells were launched at the enemy, and then again, after the terrible whistle of descent, with the great explosions.

The blasts chewed up the leading ranks of the enemy, and the blasts kept coming, a steady rain of high explosives, the orks running into fire and smoke and earth in upheaval. And they kept running. The ork front was a thousand metres wide. The Basilisks battered the centre, slowing it. The flanks were untouched and they started to pull ahead.

That was a start, Brenken thought. A first disruption, however small, in the ork formation.

Buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom, buh-buh-boom. Relentless, punishing, the rhythm unbroken even as the ork artillery now returned fire. The blasts were wild. There was no discipline or accuracy to the volleys. There were vastly more ork guns than Basilisks, and the green energy bursts blanketed the Volcanus defence network. Brenken heard explosions. She hoped the walls of the redoubts were thick enough, and that the trenches escaped direct hits. The ork barrages missed the narrow target of the artillery line. The beat of Imperial anger continued without pause, and the two forces raced towards their collision.

‘Battle tanks,’ Brenken said, and they began to fire. Three companies of armour. Nine squadrons of three tanks each. Every cannon fired at once, and Brenken grinned at the devastation. The explosions were a wall of fire, their force punching deep into the centre of the ork mass. The flanks had come so far forward that they began to move back towards the centre, lured by the narrower Imperial formation. Collisions began as orks ran into each other’s path. The formation’s advance became more and more confused.

It did not stop, though. It was too huge.

Bullets screamed past Brenken’s head. There were countless flashes ahead as the ork infantry fired on the tanks. She hunched low over the heavy bolter and pulled the trigger. The Chimera’s multi-laser flashed, incinerating clusters of the foe.

Moments before the collision now. The Basilisks kept up their barrage, the shells now falling deeper into the mass of orks. An entire cohort of greenskins was caught between the charge of the tanks before them and artillery devastation behind them. Battlewagons and armoured trucks were racing forward, but they were hampered by the infantry. The orks were a mob, a pell-mell rampage with vehicles and footsoldiers arranged by chance and enthusiasm. Their vehicles were legion, but they weren’t in a position to counter the unity of the Imperial armoured attack.

The ork flanks were on either side of Brenken. A confusion of anger came for the Steel Legion’s tanks. But the humans struck first. Cannons blazing, the squadrons slammed into the green tide.

We will hold you back, Brenken vowed, and the muzzle of the heavy bolter glowed red.

3. YARRICK

Our signal was the artillery barrage. We heard the stuttering booms, and the horizon flashed with lightning. ‘Now!’ Stahl yelled into the vox. His cry was unnecessary: every soldier present knew what the cannon fire meant. His cry was vital: it was the call to retribution, the moment for the companies of Tempestora to restore their battered honour.

When Stahl shouted, the Chimeras halted and their rear hatches slammed down. Troopers poured out, and then the vehicles charged across the barren ground to attack the rear of the ork army. Multi-lasers lit up the gloom, attracting the attention of the orks further forward even as they incinerated the last in line.

The rest of us moved diagonally up the orks’ right flank. We were the second prong of the rear attack. The tactic was a calculated risk. Rather than engage the orks from a distance, we were going to charge them. The lack of ground cover meant that even with the greater accuracy of our guns, the orks had the numbers to batter us from a distance and regain the initiative with a rush of their own. But if we hit them hard and fast, cutting their ranks, we hoped to crush a large portion of the rear guard between our infantry and the Chimeras. Then we would move forward again, destroying from the rear while Brenken’s armour moved in from the front.

That was the ideal, and the last of my illusions about the realisation of ideals on the battlefield had died long ago. It was also the only option that did not guarantee disaster.

As soon as we were close enough, we started shooting. Lasfire and bolt shells cut into the orks. They now had attacks coming from several directions at once. The advance slowed. The green tide became a turbulent river. Currents swirled into vortices as groups of the brutes turned to face a multitude of threats. There was no order to their response. Disorder and anger spread. The shouts and laughter we had heard before gave way to snarls of frustration and rage. Bikes and battlewagons collided. Footsoldiers went under wheels. The confusion granted us precious seconds to draw closer. There was no cover between us and the orks. If discipline asserted itself before we reached them, they could destroy us utterly. But discipline was impossible.

The Chimeras drove into their midst, using their mass as well as their turrets. They moved dozens of metres into the mob, then turned to cut through to the left flank. Most of the orks went after the armour.

We used the time well, sprinting over the gap. The orks were so numerous and so packed together that there was no need to aim. We could sprint while firing, and be sure we never missed.

I was with the forward squads. Setheno took the rear. We split the companies between us so every soldier who tried would be able to see one of us. We were symbols. The soldiers understood what I represented better than what she embodied. By training and by experience, they feared the commissar’s uniform, and knew to follow it. By training and by experience, it was the commissar’s duty to inspire no less than discipline, to be the spirit of the regiment’s hatred of the enemy, and to ignite the fervour to stand with the Emperor. For over a century and a half, my mission had been the perfection of the symbol. No mortal could be the ideal itself, but the closer I could reach that impossibility, the better I could inspire, and the better I fulfilled the purpose the Father of Mankind had given my existence.

For the soldiers who beheld her, Setheno was an unknown. The Adepta Sororitas were a forbidding enigma to the rank and file of the Astra Militarum. The Sisters of Battle embodied a piety that seemed beyond human, a sanctity of ceramite, iron and fire. The Canoness Errant was a further mystery, grey faith shorn of any trace of mercy, the Emperor’s wrath turned frozen as the void. She did not fit into what they knew. She was a sign, a terror, an omen, and where she fought, they were driven to redouble their efforts.

Different symbols with the same result: the greater slaughter of the foe.

Setheno’s power sword was a firebrand in the morning’s gloom. It and her power armour marked her as an inviting foe to the orks as they responded to our flank attack. More fire went in her direction. She ran into the bullets. She was shield and sword. Fewer rounds sought out the troopers with lighter or no armour. The difference was slight but it still mattered. Steel Legionnaires fell, massive rounds punching holes through heads and limbs. The air thrummed with projectiles. But not enough. And so we reached the ork lines.

‘For Tempestora!’ I shouted. ‘For Armageddon!’

We hit with las and bayonet and bolt pistol and sword. The impact was oblique, a diagonal charge through the sides of the orks, stabbing forward and towards the centre. Our formation was tight, every trooper fighting with comrades on either side. We were plunging into a xenos ocean and no one would have to fight alone. At each loss, we contracted, keeping our force concentrated. Our options for attack had come down to a choice of insanities. We had taken the most direct, the most satisfying. The most effective, if it worked.

Survival was not a consideration. Only victory and honour.

Captain, sergeant, trooper – there was no longer a distinction in the solid mass we had become. Our enemy was storm and wall, and whirl of ferocity and terrible density of muscle. They fought with an explosion of violence, corded arms wielding massive cleavers and axes. Even the smallest, most crudely armoured could break a human in half with its bare hands. Some of them attempted to do just that. They failed. Many continued to use firearms at close quarters. Our discipline and coherent formation meant every one of our shots hit the enemy. But the orks killed each other in their fury to get at us. They responded to our multiple strikes by lashing out in every direction. They amplified the wound.

At the centre of our formation, the specialist weapons teams moved up. Flamers washed death over the orks. Burning xenos, screaming rage and pain, were unable to retreat. Their fellows pushed them deeper into the flames. And closer to us. I breathed the sickening sweet, acrid and charcoal smell of bodies on fire. The heat was ferocious. It was an echo of Tempestora’s doom. It fuelled other flames – the ones of our rage.

I put two bolt shells into the skull of a brute half again my height. Blood and brain matter slapped against my face. The ork died, but did not fall. I fired to the left and right of the body, taking down a pair of smaller greenskins that squeezed around it. Still the corpse didn’t drop. I couldn’t see what was holding it up. Then it was tugged away by a cluster of gretchin. It would take much to push the small, verminous creatures to the front. I hacked at them with my sword, and as the big corpse finally went down, I yelled a warning and crouched. Behind the body was the barrel of an energy cannon. The beam flashed over our heads. Searing green lit the world. The air was sharp with ozone. Dazzled, I pulled a krak grenade from my belt and hurled it at the base of the gun.

‘Back back back!’ I yelled.

We retreated, running and shooting. Orks rushed around the cannon in pursuit. The grenade went off, melting through plating. I could barely see its flash through the mass of the enemy. The gretchen tried to fire the gun again. It exploded. A blinding emerald lightning storm erupted. It took out another cannon nearby, and then nearby munitions. A chain reaction built, feeding on too many unstable weapons in close proximity.

So many storms, so much thunder. Justice falling on the orks.

We were far from done.

We pulled back as long as the explosion grew. I changed my pistol’s clip. The instant the glare faded and the fireballs began to contract, I turned and ran at the orks once more. The cohort charged with me. I could hear nothing except blasts and gunfire, but I saw Stahl shouting, and pointing forwards with his blade. His face was contorted by a desperate, hope-filled rage.

Hope. It did not seem mad. Hundreds of orks were dead and dying before us. There were thousands more, but the gap was not filled immediately. Our blows were keeping them off balance, and now the great eruption had come from inside their ranks. More confusion, more unthinking weapons fire. All order, even the ork conception of order, was breaking down.

To the rear, the Chimeras surged forwards in an unbroken line, unleashing a massive stream of las. It burned through the orks. The enemy between our position and the Chimeras dwindled. For the first time since the Claw of Desolation had entered the system, an ork contingent was falling.

To the south, the great drumming of artillery and tank shelling went on. I could hear engines, and saw the shapes of ork vehicles ahead in the distance, but they were not heading our way. The ork armour was engaged with Brenken’s squadrons, leaving the infantry at this end of the army alone against us. It was a mistake, and we were making the orks pay for it.

A consistent flow returned to the greenskins. They moved south. Away from us, towards Volcanus. Their rear guard was ragged. They returned our fire, but it was defensive.

We had thinned them out. Our casualties were light. We pursued.

The direction of the ork march was towards their goal. But the greenskins in our sights were not advancing. They were retreating.

4. BRENKEN

On the left, Lord Marshal Berrikan blew up. Brenken didn’t see what hit it. The main body of the Leman Russ burst apart. Hurled aloft by flame, its turret flipped over and landed on top of a battlewagon, crushing the orks on its roof. Sword of the Wastes was close enough for Brenken to feel the heat of the blast, and hear the laughter of greenskins as amused by their own casualties as they were delighted by the human loss. Cursing, she strafed left with the storm bolter.

Before her, more and more ork armour was closing with the tanks. The infantry scrambled to avoid death by wheel and tread. Many were too slow. A few trucks and battlewagons slammed into wrecked vehicles and became stuck in a tangle of smoking metal. Warbikes circled further out, their access blocked by the heavy vehicles.

‘Kuyper,’ Brenken shouted. ‘Give the signal. We’re withdrawing.’

The Chimera jerked hard as the driver, Spira, braked, then reversed. It pulled back in unison with the tanks. The guns never stopped. Shells and las burst against enemy shielding. Another ork truck died, turning into another barrier.

Oily smoke wafted over Brenken. She coughed. Her eyes watered. She blinked away the sting and held her finger down on the heavy storm bolter’s trigger. There could be no relenting now, during the most delicate stage of the manoeuvre. The thrust into the enemy’s front had been just the start, a blow to enrage. A goad.

Bait, which the orks took.

The greenskin machines battered their way through and over the wreckage. Their weapons weren’t as powerful as the Leman Russ battle cannons, but the volume of their fire was taking its toll. Brenken’s squadrons on the left and right flanks now concentrated their efforts on holding off the wave of vehicles as the orks attempted to encircle them. The guns roared, shooting to cripple, blowing away axles and wheels. Many of the targets were top-heavy with armament and shields. The orks drove them at such speed that well-placed shots sent them into shattering rolls.

Some got through. A truck careened into the far right of the Imperial line. The shells from its stubbers and the guns of its passengers bounced off the plating. Rising from the centre of the vehicle was an articulate crane arm. A huge spiked mass hung from a chain at the end of the arm. It swung wildly with every bounce and jerk. The truck slammed into the side of Lord von Karden, hard enough to rock the tank up on its side for a moment. The giant flail came down with a colossal crash. It crushed the turret and lodged itself in the tank’s armour. Justice in Hate, to the immediate left, blasted the truck at close range. The enemy vehicle exploded, but it did not lose its grip on von Karden. Human and ork vehicles were locked together. Lord von Karden tried to pull away, but it was dragging the truck with it. It lurched back and forth, trying to shake the parasite, and meanwhile other battlewagons were closing in. Justice in Hate slowed in its retreat.

Brenken dropped down the hatch and grabbed the vox unit from Kuyper. ‘Sergeant Eichel,’ she called to the commander of Justice in Hate, ‘what are you doing?’

‘If we can hold the enemy off von Karden…’

‘Maintain your speed,’ Brenken told her.

‘But…’

‘That’s an order. Lord von Karden is lost. Do not compromise the manoeuvre or I’ll blow you up myself.’

‘Yes, colonel.’

Brenken climbed back up top. She ground her teeth in frustration and resumed firing with the heavy storm bolter. She wished she could kill the orks with rage alone. She had hated giving Eichel that order. Leaving comrades behind while they still fought was abhorrent to her. She had no choice. Any break in the formation could shatter the whole. Lord von Karden was an amputated limb. The main body of the tank corps was still intact. So it must remain.

The squadrons moved closer and closer together as they retreated. Behind them, the Basilisks pulled back as well. The width of their barrage narrowed as they moved down the safe channel through the defence network. The artillery and tank shells hit in the same region, turning the gap between the armoured company and the orks into an inferno of erupting earth and flame. The destruction bought the tanks enough time to reach the channel.

The route between the trenches, mine fields and redoubts was wide enough for two vehicles at most. It appeared to run straight back towards the gates of Volcanus, but only the first twenty metres were safe. Beyond that, the first of the turns began, and the direct route was mined.

After the first sharp right, the routes narrowed still further and split. They became a maze of dead ends and choke points. The squadrons split up, tanks taking up positions in support of the earthen-and-rockcrete redoubts. The transition from assault to ambush was complex, and it had to be performed backwards under enemy fire. The channels were deliberately not wide enough for armour to turn around. Brenken had run multiple drills during the preparations, and they paid off now.

Her company moved into the defences faster than the orks could advance. The greenskins collided with each other as they drove towards the lure. The highway from Tempestora passed between two rounded hills. The mounds were hollow, the packed earth a camouflage. A crossfire of multi-lasers cut into the battlewagons. The artillery shelling fell on the same region, cratering the surface, hammering the enemy vehicles to burning scrap.

From her position behind the first line of tunnels, the Chimera stationed just behind a forward redoubt, Brenken dismounted from the vehicle and entered the fixed emplacement with her command staff. The interior was rough rockcrete slabs and packed earth. A pair of heavy bolters on tripods guarded either end of the forward-looking slit. A second entrance to the left led to the trench network. Through the slit, Brenken saw the smoke, fire and dust of the outnumbered Imperium stopping the ork advance. She allowed herself a moment of pride. It was no salve for the loss of Lord von Karden. But she took a measure of satisfaction in seeing how they were making the enemy pay.

Stubborn, the orks began to advance into the defences. Enough vehicles kept coming that the bombardment couldn’t hold them all back. Infantry stormed the fortifications and silenced the multi-lasers. Battlewagons shouldered through the wreckage and bounced through the craters. The leading ones drove straight into the minefield. They met their end out of Brenken’s sight, off to the right. She heard the mines go off in a rapid-fire k-k-k-k-k-KRAK, followed by a deeper blast as ordnance and fuel tanks erupted. Smoke filled the defences. Visibility dropped to metres. The battlewagons became snarling, ill-defined hulks. Easy targets, even in the gloom.

Kuyper was at her side, vox ready. Brenken spoke to combined regiment and Volcanus Hive Militia. ‘Constant fire,’ she said. ‘Any target, take it. Don’t give them a chance to get their bearings. This is where we stop them.’

She would have preferred to take one of the heavy bolters in the redoubt, but now the reports were coming in from scores of positions, and she had to concentrate on monitoring the entire battlefield. She stood with Kuyper near the left exit, ready to descend into the trenches and move to the next command point as needed. The air stank of fyceline. It choked with dust and ash. She hardly noticed. The vox crackled with the sounds of vengeance.

The ork battlewagons had come in first. In so doing, they had crippled the greenskin advance. The heavy vehicles were now caught in the web. They could not turn around in dead ends, and ambushes destroyed the following tanks, trapping the leading ones between wreckage and mounds too steep to climb. Reckless drivers overturned in trenches. Collisions multiplied as the battlewagons struggled to manoeuvre and change direction in constricted spaces. The ork tanks became obstacles, blocking more and more of the channels towards the wall. The warbikes would have been able to navigate, but by the time they arrived, every route was now jammed solid. The bikers were deprived of speed. Bolter shells pinned them as they stalled. The infantry had to squeeze through the interstices. The mob was thinned, transformed from a flood into a stream. The militia fired from the trenches. It was the orks who were vulnerable now, exposed to heavy, interlocking las fire. The more vehicles came, the more they slowed the advance, and the infantry added their corpses to the barricades.

Brenken had Kuyper make numerous attempts before they finally reached Captain Stahl’s contingent. The captain came on the vox. He was breathless, but excited. ‘We have them on the run, colonel,’ he said. ‘They’re charging your way and we’re hitting them hard.’

‘How fast?’ she asked.

‘Fast. It’s a job to keep up with them.’

But at this end, the advance had stopped. The implication made Brenken grin. ‘Thank you, captain.’ She switched to the regimental channel to announce the news – they were doing more than slowing the orks. They were killing them.

The green tide was receding.

5. MANNHEIM

He knew what von Strab would say. A glorious day had dawned. His every tactical decision vindicated. The surface import of the latest vox-transmission from Brenken seemed to be in support of the overlord’s position. But Mannheim knew the fluidity of war. The situation on Armageddon Prime had changed suddenly. It could do so again. The momentum the Steel Legion had seized was fragile. There was no depth to the 252nd’s strength. It had suffered too many losses, and had been an insufficient response in the first place. For this gain to be real, it had to be consolidated immediately.

Mannheim ran through the corridors of the Hive Infernus governmental seat. There was no point speaking to von Strab. But there was Seroff. Mannheim had noticed how the lord commissar appeared to have the overlord’s ear. The chance was a small one. It might already be too late.

The chance was still an action Mannheim could take. He controlled a power that levelled cities, but he had been reduced to irrelevance while a xenos warlord stretched his claw over the planet Mannheim was charged to defend. He had to pursue any path that might end the madness.

Seroff’s staff directed Mannheim to a study. It was lined with bookshelves, and the worn spines of the volumes suggested heavy use. It was a small chamber, far less ostentatious than anything of von Strab’s. Even so, it was unusual. Seroff did not quarter with the Steel Legion. There was an air of permanence to the chambers he occupied. It was not unheard of for commissars to have long postings with a given regiment. Yarrick had also been serving with Armageddon for many years. But by basing himself here, Seroff linked himself with the governing establishment of the planet. It was an effective strategy for the consolidation of personal influence. Mannheim was uncertain what value it had for the actual duties of a lord commissar.

Seroff stood on the right-hand side of the chamber. He had three leather-bound volumes in his arm, and was just pulling down a fourth. ‘Good morning, princeps,’ he said without turning around. He carried the books to his desk. ‘What news?’

‘The attack is going well for the moment.’

Seroff looked up. He smiled, and Mannheim thought he looked genuinely relieved. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.’

‘You and I both know how tenuous such progress can be.’

‘True.’

‘Then will you speak to the overlord? He must be convinced to reinforce the 252nd’s efforts.’

Seroff hesitated. He drummed his fingers on the top book of the stack. ‘You think he’ll listen to me?’

‘More likely you than anyone else, as far as I can tell.’ Why that was, Mannheim could not guess. He didn’t care about the reasons today. What mattered was the result. ‘This isn’t a question of the loss of a single hive,’ he insisted. ‘This could be a turning point. If we act now, we might secure Armageddon.’

Seroff nodded, and Mannheim’s hope flared. ‘Does this request come from Colonel Brenken?’

‘She has been asking for reinforcements since the beginning. What she and Yarrick have accomplished is miraculous, but–’

‘Yarrick?’ Seroff interrupted. ‘He survived Tempestora?’

‘He did.’

The temperature in the room plunged ten degrees.

‘I’ll speak with Overlord von Strab,’ Seroff said. ‘I think that you overestimate my ability to persuade him, though.’

‘Thank you for trying,’ said Mannheim.

Seroff was lying. The words were hollow platitudes designed to satisfy Mannheim and send him on his way. Mannheim was sure that Seroff had been on the point of agreeing with him. He was an intelligent officer. He couldn’t have had any more confidence in von Strab’s conduct of the campaign than Mannheim did. Yet at the mention of Yarrick, the about-face had been instantaneous.

Defeated again, Mannheim left. Under his breath, he uttered a prayer for the 252nd and for Armageddon.

6. SEROFF

The books were treatises on loyalty, honour and sacrifice. These subjects had been robbing Seroff of sleep again, and he had turned to the wisdom of saints for help. He needed support for his decisions. They were correct. They had to be. They placed him opposite Yarrick.

Loyalty. Honour. Yarrick had betrayed both. Which made sacrifice necessary.

Seroff sat at his steel desk long after Mannheim had left. The books remained stacked, unopened. He stared at his folded hands. For the hundredth time, he worked through his choices. He had been truthful with von Strab when he had recommended authorising Yarrick’s deployment to Armageddon Prime. He knew what Yarrick was worth. When it came to loyalty, nothing. In the field, much. The limited deployment was a mistake. Yarrick’s skills could help mitigate it.

When he had heard of the double disaster of the airlift and Tempestora, he had presumed Yarrick was among the casualties. He should have known better.

And now? Was he letting his hatred for the commissar cloud his judgement?

Where did his own loyalty lie?

It lay with the memory of the great man Yarrick had betrayed. The official memory of Simeon Rasp was a travesty. The lord commissar deserved better from the Imperium and from the officers he had guided.

And his loyalty lay with Armageddon. He believed this to be true. Perhaps he should have tried to convince von Strab to send more regiments to Tempestora and Volcanus. ‘Pointless,’ he murmured. Von Strab’s mind was set. The overlord was a contradictory mix of overconfidence and paranoia. He believed the orks could never touch Secundus, yet he barricaded all the hives this side of the Equatorial Jungle with troops. He was contemptuous of the orks, yet he retreated into a defensive mode. Pointless to try to shift that kind of a mind.

Pointless.

Just as it was pointless to attempt to reinforce Brenken at this stage. The 252nd would stand or fall on its own merits before any help arrived.

He had made the right decision. His judgement was sound. He had no cause to question his motives.

Even so, he pulled the books towards him. He began to read, seeking reassurance from the long dead.

7. YARRICK

The victory fever spread. Even those who weren’t near the vox could see the difference we were making. We were driving the infantry forwards into a hell of paralyzed armour. Our pincer attack should never have worked. But it had.

We were marching in line with the Chimeras now. We were running to keep up with the armour and the retreating enemy. We had been fighting for hours now, but the troopers around me showed no signs of exhaustion. Their body language was one of exhilaration. They tasted the blood of the enemy. If the orks had not feared the masked face of the Steel Legion before, they would from this day forward.

That was what I told the troopers around me. That was how I fired their ardour even higher. That was what I wanted to believe.

The faster we moved, the more uneasy I became.

I kept firing, but I glanced around for Setheno. She had walked fifty metres to my right. I moved to join her, still shooting, still killing the enemy. The orks’ return fire was becoming more and more haphazard as they focused all of their attention on the obstacles ahead of them.

Setheno turned her head towards me. The howling visage on her helmet felt like an answer to my question before I spoke. ‘The numbers are wrong,’ I said.

‘This is not a force on the same scale as the one that took Tempestora,’ she agreed.

We would never have been able to whittle that army down as quickly as we did this one.

Yet the army we had been shadowing had been huge. Its length had never diminished. It was only now that it seemed diluted.

Where had the rest of the orks gone?

As soon as I asked myself that question, others arose. It wasn’t just numbers that were missing. I knew the greenskin’s habits, his foul beliefs, and his way of war. The makeup of the army was wrong. There was not enough variety. The vehicles and energy cannons, and the desperation of our charge had distracted me from this critical truth. The infantry was weak by ork standards. It was composed entirely of the lower castes. Their leaders, though large, were fewer in number than they should have been, and their armour was lighter, less elaborate, less adorned than that of the powerful bosses. Their weapons were mundane.

‘Where are all the warbosses?’ I asked.

Setheno’s helmet turned my way again. She said nothing. I had conjured a shadow too great for an answer.

Still moving forward, I looked behind us. The summoned shadow was approaching.

Looking through my magnoculars I saw a second ork force approaching. It was far enough away that its clamour was obscured by the din of the one we were pursuing. It was eating up the distance quickly, though. Already I could make out some of its shapes. There was no mistaking its nature.

More battlewagons, much larger than the ones Brenken was fighting. Waves of them, stretching out of sight in either direction, an engulfing sea of metal great enough to encircle the hive. Marching with the vehicles were footsoldiers of a very different order. I saw the bulk of heavy weapons and the silhouettes of monsters, their outlines made even more massive and angular by plated armour. Warbosses at last. The infantry had its leaders.

And further back came other shapes, wider than the battlewagons, towering over the battlefield, rocking back and forth with the slow steps of giants. A hell of myth and iron was shambling towards Volcanus.

We had not caught Ghazghkull in a pincer attack. He had caught us.

CHAPTER 9

The Annihilation Brigades

1. YARRICK

I heard Ghazghkull’s laughter as we ran. It did not resound from any one throat. It was forged from every voice of the hundreds of thousands of orks heading our way, and from the rumbles of every engine of the uncountable vehicles, and from the vibrations of the earth beneath our feet as it trembled under the tread of the invader. It was the sound of an army, but it was still the laughter of a single being. Ghazghkull was laughing at his great joke. He had fooled the weak humans. He had done more than turn the tables on us. He had given us hope. Deliberately. So he could have the pleasure of snatching it away. The move had cost him troops, and the sacrifice meant as little to him as Tempestora was traumatic for us. This was the message: our great sacrifice had meant nothing, while his minor one would tear us apart.

I knew these things with absolute certainty. I knew this was more than just a devastating counter-move, one too far-sighted for any ork. As terrible as that fact was, there was also the laughter. Ghazghkull was playing with us.

How did I know this? It was more than an instinct, more than a hunch. I had studied orks for much of my life. I understood their ways, and the way they thought. Ghazghkull broke from any pattern I had ever encountered. But in breaking from the pattern so radically, he taught me something. I was doing more than realising the danger he presented. I was getting to know the mind of the enemy.

There was value in that. Though I was barely conscious of it as we fled from the advance, and the information would have value only if I survived to put it to use. There was no dignifying what we were forced to do with the word retreat. It was flight, pure and simple. There was no dishonour in it because there was no choice. But there was still humiliation. We ran as if from a mountain collapsing into a valley. To pause before the avalanche would mean being crushed beneath millions of tonnes of rubble. To hesitate before the orks would mean the same obliteration.

We pulled away from the retreating ork cohort. We ran in a rough parallel to the advance, rushing for the trenches around Volcanus. The Chimeras did not react at once. They continued to fire on their original targets. Their drivers and gunners did not know what was closing in from the rear.

I found the vox operator. Lorenz was running a dozen metres behind the rest of Stahl’s command squad. ‘Warn the Chimeras,’ I told her. She nodded and voxed the alert without breaking stride.

The effect was immediate. Multi-lasers still blasting the enemy, the vehicles began to move our way. Their rear hatches opened, ready to retrieve us while still in motion. Stahl saw what was happening and waved the companies to the Chimeras.

The air screamed. The green blasts of the ork artillery hit the armoured carriers. The barrage fell on a large area to our left. We were blinded by an emerald storm, deafened by explosions and the crackle of energy. Shock waves knocked soldiers off their feet. I blinked away the dazzle. When my vision cleared, the Chimeras were melted slag.

The companies had escaped the worst of the destruction. We had lost a few more troopers, the ones nearest the blast zone. The others were staggering, stunned by impact and loss. We were losing precious moments. An immense xenos force was coming closer, and we were inviting obliteration from another artillery salvo. ‘Come with me,’ I told Lorenz. I raised my blade high and strode through the soldiers towards the front. ‘I am not done with the greenskins!’ I shouted. ‘I will fight them yet, and I will find the means to do so! They lie ahead of us, in the trenches and beyond the city gates.’

Only the troopers nearest could hear me, but I was visible to the others. I gave them the image of a warrior advancing, not retreating. A lie covering a truth. We were in flight, but we had to survive if we wanted to strike back.

The lying truth worked. The Steel Legionnaires rallied. They followed me. I picked up the pace. Once again we were gaining distance on the withdrawing orks. I kept my sword high. Lorenz kept pace. I looked at Stahl. He was as focused on the run as any of his troops. He was leading only in the sense that he was in front.

‘Captain!’ I called.

He glanced my way quickly, a minimal acknowledgement.

‘The colonel must know,’ I said, giving him the chance.

He took several more steps before reacting. Slow. And I shouldn’t have had to prompt him. But he did what was necessary. ‘Vox the colonel,’ he told Lorenz. ‘Let her know we’re coming. We need a way in to the defences.’

‘Sir,’ Lorenz responded, and did as ordered.

I had some doubts about Stahl’s leadership. Nothing critical yet, and the other captains weren’t shining any more brightly. The situation didn’t permit much. But more was always expected of officers. I had never seen Brenken falter in this way.

Behind us, the rumble of the ork army pursued us. The land groaned beneath their treads and boots. The wall of sound came closer, but need gave us speed. After that first salvo, the ork artillery launched its blasts further ahead, targeting Brenken’s guns.

At last we saw a flare, before us and to the right. There was a pause, and then two more. Brenken’s signal to us. It pulled us forward, gave us energy and the closest thing to hope still possible on this battlefield. Another few hundred metres, and we were at the beginning of the defence network. The flares had come from a camouflaged redoubt. It appeared to be a low earthen barrier, running east and west, for at least a kilometre in either direction. A door had opened in its face. Through it was a short ramp down to a tunnel. A sergeant was waiting at the door, directing us east. I waited with the sergeant while the rest of the companies rushed in. Setheno was among the last to arrive. When she was through, two troopers used plasma cutters to fuse the door shut.

‘Colonel Brenken is moving operations back towards the wall,’ the sergeant said.

‘A fighting retreat?’ I asked.

‘Yes, commissar, for as long as possible, the colonel says.’

That won’t be long, I thought. What I said was, ‘Good.’

As we hurried along the tunnel, Setheno said to me, ‘You know what is coming.’

‘I will not accept it.’

‘You will not be given a choice.’

‘We sacrificed Tempestora to preserve Volcanus.’

‘That was always a faint hope. With no reinforcements, it is impossible.’

‘You think Brenken’s requests have fallen on deaf ears.’

‘Don’t you?’

I did. ‘The Hive Militia is here,’ I said. ‘And an armed population.’

‘Will that suffice against what approaches?’

‘It will have to.’

‘Your determination is admirable, commissar. It is also misplaced.’

‘Is it?’ I asked her. ‘If Volcanus falls, then the loss of Tempestora has no meaning. What purpose did our actions there have? And if we cut our losses here, what then? Shall we do the same with Death Mire? And then Infernus? Hades? Acheron? Where do we make a stand?’

‘Von Strab has prevented us from doing so here.’

I snorted. ‘His strategy will prevent us from doing so anywhere. I will not surrender this time.’

‘The hive is already lost.’

‘I will not surrender.’

‘So you do not disagree.’

I couldn’t. That changed nothing. I had my fill of defeat. ‘I must fight,’ I told her.

‘As will I. But when the end comes, how will we use it to save Armageddon?’

I didn’t answer. If I did, I would already have given up on Volcanus. I had not. I would make the orks bleed for every stone they claimed of the city.

2. VON STRAB

He could speak more freely with Seroff than with any other soul on Armageddon. More freely. That was not the same as being free. He was still careful. He didn’t trust the lord commissar. He would never tell Seroff anything that might appear as a weakness. But von Strab found a kinship in the other man, even if Seroff would deny its existence. Von Strab recognised obsession and ruthlessness. They were good qualities. Worthy of respect. He and Seroff could discourse, if not as friends, as two men who understood each other.

They did so now, walking the hall towards the throne room. ‘Can they hold?’ von Strab asked.

‘No,’ said Seroff.

‘You’re certain.’

‘You’ve seen the same reports I have. Armageddon Prime will fall.’

‘I thought preserving morale was one of the duties of the commissariat,’ von Strab joked.

Seroff ignored him. ‘The greenskin threat is severe,’ he said. ‘Greater than any of us suspected.’

‘Even Yarrick?’ The old commissar had been tiresome in his predictions of doom.

‘I believe so.’

‘Then it’s a good thing we held back the greatest part of the Steel Legion’s strength.’

‘The orks will cross the jungle.’

Von Strab sighed. ‘None of you will be satisfied unless that actually happens, will you?’

They had almost reached the doors to the throne room. Two guards stood ready to open them. Von Strab paused. He smiled. Never show weakness or uncertainty. Even in situations where only the mad remain confident. The appearance of insanity was another weapon. It created uncertainty in others. Threw them off balance. Do you know the secret to my long reign? von Strab was tempted to ask Seroff. It’s very simple: all you have to do is be the only certain human being on the planet. But the secret was too precious to share. As precious as the other secret he had begun to think about. A much more concrete secret. So he said, ‘Lord Commissar Seroff, I do know what I am about. Trust me when I tell you that the only mistake made has been by the orks in invading Armageddon.’

‘You know something I don’t.’

‘I do.’ He turned from Seroff and walked the rest of the way to the door. Seroff took the hint and headed off. The guards opened both doors at once, then closed them behind von Strab.

Today, as he had commanded, none of his retinue was in the throne room. It was empty except for the lone tech-priest. Enginseer Alayra Syranax stood motionless, facing the throne, as if waiting for von Strab to materialise in his seat. Her servo-arms were folded against her back, iron insect limbs at rest. Von Strab walked past her and mounted the throne.

‘Well?’ he said.

Syranax raised her head. There was no flesh visible beneath the hood of her robes. The faceted lenses that had replaced her eyes clicked as they focused on him. The cluster of mechadendrites that coiled from the lower half of her skull flexed, stirred by mental impulses. Her voice was an electronic construct, toneless, grating, rusty from disuse. ‘The vaults have been opened,’ she said.

‘The measures will be ready?’

‘Ready,’ she repeated. ‘The term is imprecise. Will you define a time frame?’

‘No. How soon can they be deployed?’

‘Once proper testing, rituals and triage have been completed–’

He raised a hand, cutting her off. ‘Your precautions could take years. That is not what I asked.’

In the silence that followed, it seemed to von Strab that he could hear Syranax thinking. Her frame hummed as circuits opened and closed, and servo motors adjusted to minute shifts in her position. ‘Implementation is conceivable within one hour of your command,’ she said.

Good. Von Strab settled back in the throne. You know something I don’t, Seroff had said. Von Strab chuckled. Very true, lord commissar, he thought. Among other things, I know that I can end this war in an hour.

3. YARRICK

Many of the trenches were blocked. They were filled with ork bodies and wrecked vehicles. Even so, we could still travel the defence network. The cumulative work of centuries and the hurried additions of the last few days had created a system both complex and flexible. Enemies trying to use the trenches would be lost in the maze of dead ends and branches. Tunnels ran within the earthworks and underneath the trenches. As the orks had moved deeper and deeper into the defences, Brenken had broken down the Steel Legion and Volcanus Hive Militia companies to the squad level, then unleashed them in the warren. The force was mobile, fluid. Wherever the orks tried to make headway, a counterattack hit them from out of nowhere.

The strategy had eroded the first wave of orks. It would not be able to counter what was coming.

Brenken was still in the forward command redoubt when Setheno and I reached it. From the bunker’s viewing slit, we could just make out the front of the coming wave. ‘Is it as bad as it looks?’ Brenken asked.

‘Worse,’ I said.

‘They will surround Volcanus,’ Setheno added.

Brenken nodded. ‘I thought as much.’

‘How much are you pulling back?’ I asked.

‘I had hoped to slow them down,’ she said. ‘But if they can approach from all sides, there’s no chance of that. We need to concentrate our strength.’

‘Everyone, then,’ I said.

‘Everyone.’ She shook her head. ‘If we had reinforcements coming, we might try to slow them down.’

‘Then von Strab said no.’ I had expected this. I would have been shocked to hear otherwise. Even so, I felt a new flare of anger.

‘Our battles are being chosen for us,’ Setheno said.

‘This one is not done, canoness,’ Brenken told her.

‘If we engage in futility, we risk still greater losses.’

‘This is not Tempestora,’ Brenken insisted. ‘We have resources.’

‘The population of Volcanus will fight,’ I said. A way forward became clear. I knew where my immediate duty lay.

‘The longer we fight, the better we will be able to measure the strength of the enemy,’ Setheno conceded.

‘We will do more than that.’ I would not be satisfied with such a paltry victory. Setheno spoke from her position of terrible clarity, not pessimism. Even so, I was determined to challenge the doom she saw coming. ‘We have defeated the impossible before,’ I told her.

‘Yes. But not always.’ I saw the pain that flickered through her gaze. It was quick, a fracture that came and went in a blink. I doubt anyone else would have seen it. But I knew its source. I too remembered the Order of the Piercing Thorn. I remembered her battle sisters. I remembered what had happened.

She was right. Sometimes the impossible was impossible.

‘Not always,’ I agreed. ‘But I will fight for it.’ I turned to Brenken. ‘We can’t slow the greenskins…’ I began.

‘But we can hurt them,’ she finished.

A fighting retreat, then. It involved minimal delay. The orks were minutes away from the outer rings of the defences. It was a question of balance: holding back just enough troops to strike from the tunnels and trenches, and knowing when to pull back completely. We would stab at the belly of the enemy as he advanced. We would make him pay for every metre. Even though the ork force was too vast to slow, we could wound its core. Every blow we landed would count. Every dead ork, every ripple of confusion we could spread through the xenos ranks.

I was thinking in terms of a war of attrition. I was right to do so. But the full truth of that form of struggle was yet to come. Ghazghkull was set on denying me that contest here.

The front ranks of battlewagons hit the defences. Within seconds, they reduced our strategy to ash. Their massive siege blades and battering rams shattered the walls of the redoubts. They hit the earthen barriers with enough force to scrape the ground clear and hurl the debris into the trenches behind them. A huge dust cloud erupted at the edge of the network. The ork engines screamed, pouring more power into the hulking machines. The battlewagons bulldozed their way forward. Through the slit, I could just make out their shapes in the dust. The vox erupted with cries of alarm.

Brenken seized the handset. ‘To the wall!’ she ordered. ‘And hurt them as you go!’

We left the bunker. The rear hatch of Sword of the Wastes was open, the Chimera’s engine idling and ready for departure. ‘We’ll need all the armour we can salvage,’ Brenken said.

‘Your driver has the skills?’

‘She does.’

‘Then we’ll meet again beyond the walls,’ I said. Brenken was needed in Volcanus to hold what strategy we still had together. My place was with the troops.

Brenken nodded. She and her command squad boarded the Chimera.

Setheno and I ran past the tank and dropped into the trench a few metres beyond.

We became a part of a flow of rats. I saw no shame in the comparison. We kept low, we were fast, we survived, and we bit. Squad structure still held. Fire discipline was solid.

The roofs of the tunnels shook and dropped dust as the ork armour thundered overhead. When we were in the trenches, we were rushing through canyons whose cliff faces were moving iron. We did what we could. Heavy weapons teams launched rockets at the battlewagons. The troopers who still had krak grenades tossed them at the wheels and treads. We killed some vehicles, and immobilised others. There was still some infantry from the first cohort that hadn’t been destroyed by the initial defence. We killed some of these footsoldiers, but more we had to ignore. Three quarters of the way through the warren, in a trench between two tunnels, I stopped a squad from shooting at a cluster of orks running on the ground ahead of us. They had their eyes on the walls of Volcanus, and weren’t looking down.

I seized the sergeant’s arm as he was about to give the signal to shoot. Startled, he whirled on me, then stumbled back a step when he realised he had almost struck a commissar.

‘Too many,’ I said. ‘We don’t want them in the tunnels with us.’

We could damage vehicles without slowing down. Pitched infantry battles would keep us from the walls, where we would be needed soon enough. I could hear the scream of las and the rattle of ork stubbers some distance from our position. The greenskins were into the network already. I had to hope they hadn’t infested it.

Sometimes, small hopes are met. We had a clear run the rest of the way to the wall. Setheno and I were among the last of the troops to make it through before the narrow passages through the rockcrete were sealed. There were still troops out there, and they were fighting. But because they would not make it to the wall before the main force of the orks, now they would never reach Volcanus at all.

The hive was like all the others on Armageddon in that it was as dense with industry as it was with inhabitants. Millions lived to toil, but their toil shortened their lives. The air was filled with toxic grit. Where the atmosphere of Tempestora had been harsh with the stench of promethium, Volcanus was overheated by the abundance of its forges. Its particular specialty was guns – everything from small arms to artillery, lasrifle to Earthshaker. The rockcrete of its walls was stained like those in Infernus, and Tempestora, and Hades. Its gutters ran with the half-molten detritus of the city’s production. The streets were narrower than those of Infernus, and the arches higher. Flying buttresses soared from chapels, habs and manufactoria. The density of construction was such that it was difficult to determine which support was part of which building. The honeycomb of walkways further fused the structures together. The hive was a dense maze in three dimensions. Its character might be an advantage.

Most of the regiment’s battle tanks had completed the retreat. After the few Chimeras that could be salvaged had arrived, the main gates were shut and reinforced. The barrier was strong. If Volcanus withstood the siege, it would be no small task to open those gates once more. Brenken deployed troops along the ramparts to every point the orks were approaching. The arc of the siege extended over almost a third of the circumference of Volcanus. When Setheno and I joined Brenken above the main north gate, the army stretching left, right and before us appeared infinite.

The minefields were minor irritants. Ghazghkull had so many vehicles that the orks simply rode through the traps, losing as many tanks as it took to clear the explosives. We made sure he lost many. Now positioned on the inside of the wall, the Basilisks added their cry to that of the rampart guns. Shells blanketed the land before Volcanus. Fire and explosions wracked the battlewagons, but the orks continued the operations without pause. The tanks shrugged off all but the most direct hits by the biggest ordnance. They advanced at full charge, destroying obstacles, levelling the terrain.

The advance was relentless. It was also selective. The bulk of the army, a sea of giant shapes and swarming troops, waited beyond the outer defences. For now, the orks attacked the defences with obsessive purpose and alarming specialisation. The battlewagons carrying out the demolition were not troop carriers. Their reinforced armour, their siege blades and their rams made them perfect for this goal. They drew fire and they resisted it. Few of our salvoes reached to the rest of the army. We had no choice but to concentrate on the immediate threat.

‘We’re doing exactly what they want us to do,’ I muttered.

Brenken gave me a sharp look. ‘Orks with strategy?’ she asked, sceptical.

I pointed. ‘The evidence of your eyes, colonel. They’re using a specific tool for a specific job.’

As the battlewagons drew closer to the wall, ork footsoldiers moved in behind. Red icons in the crude likeness of a horned bull rose from the black plates of their armour. They wielded flamers. Hundreds of jets of flame pierced the gloom. The orks were purging the trenches.

I swept my gaze over the panorama of eruptions, demolition and fire. And in the distance, the greater strength of the army waited for the first act to be completed. ‘They’re levelling the ground,’ I said.

‘And losing armour.’

‘Not enough, and they have plenty to spare. They’re preparing the terrain for something. When have you ever seen orks mount a siege like this?’

‘Never,’ she admitted.

I couldn’t guess what was coming. I knew it would be devastating. We had limited time to prepare, and doing so involved more than physical reinforcement of the wall. I would prove Setheno wrong. I refused to concede to the inevitability of the hive’s doom. But sooner or later, the orks would breach the walls. We had to be ready for that.

‘Where is Somner?’ I asked.

‘Overseeing the distribution of weapons,’ said Brenken. ‘Getting ready to address the people too, I would think.’ She directed me to the Kasadya complex, a manufactorum a kilometre uphill from the main gate. I moved as quickly as I could through a dense crowd of armed civilians. They were pouring out of the bay doors at the base of the building. It was one of the main production sites of lasrifles in Volcanus, and a massive storehouse. Across the hive, the scene was being repeated. The entire population had been mobilised. There hadn’t been time in the few days since the start of the crisis to arm every citizen, but millions had been. Many had never held a gun before, though the more desperate knew their way around weapons. I found myself hoping that the dwellers of the underhive had been among the first to reach the armouries, and that they had not been turned away. They had no love for the authorities of Volcanus, but they would have still less for the invader.

The crowd parted. My uniform drove a wedge of fear before me. I reached the base of Kasadya. The aquila spread iron wings fifty metres wide above the vaulted doorways. From the roof, between smokestacks, rose a Departmento Munitorum tower. A wide balcony jutted out, supported by the aquila’s heads. Hans Somner stood there, arrayed in the finery of the nobility, now adorned with his medals and seals of service. With him was a tech-priest who was making adjustments to a bank of devices set up on the right side of the balcony. As he worked, feedback whines echoed in every direction.

A mass vox-caster. Good.

I made my way through the frenzied activity in the Kasadya complex and up the tower. The tech-priest had finished as I arrived on the balcony. He stood to one side, servos clicking. Somner was motionless. I thought he was staring at the vox unit on the stand before him. When I reached him, I realised he was gazing beyond the wall at what was coming. The wall seemed smaller from this perspective. Weaker. The ork horde was a massive claw making ready to crush Volcanus.

Somner looked at me. His lips pulled back in a rictus. ‘I can’t find the words,’ he said. The admission was code for a greater failure. He was cracking. The hive was his responsibility. He retained enough instincts from his days as an officer to know his duty, and to realise he was failing it. ‘Will you speak?’ he asked.

He was ceding his authority to me. Whether that was an act of dereliction or realism was not something I had to decide on at that moment. I gave him a curt nod and took his place.

‘Citizens of the Imperium,’ I said. My voice, amplified by thousands upon thousands of vox-casters in every corner of the hive. Below, I saw the crowd look my way. ‘Today you are the defenders of Volcanus. Today you become heroes of Armageddon!’ The cheers began. ‘I am proud to stand with you. The Steel Legion is proud to stand with you. You stand with the Emperor, and you will hurl his anger on the heads of the xenos foe.’ A great shout answered. For a brief moment, it drowned out the artillery. ‘The greenskins dare to set foot on this ground? On a single stone of Volcanus? Will you show them the scope of their folly?’ Another shout, louder yet, a massive YES that rolled up the sides of the buildings, a wave ready to sweep away the orks. ‘Every street!’ I shouted. ‘Every doorway! Every window! Every roof! There we will be, with our guns and our wrath. The orks will pay with their blood for every step they take!’ I paused. ‘I call on you now! By will, by flesh and by faith, transform Volcanus into a great weapon of war! Make it the death trap that ends the arrogance of the greenskin forever!’

The shout, the roar, the wave rose past me. It climbed to the dust-laden clouds. It was a determination born of fear. It was a collective strength forged in a desperate search for hope. The people of Volcanus would fight. They had no choice. But they had each other. And they had weapons.

If there was to be sacrifice here, it would be in battle.

The shout faded, and so did the sounds of battle. Our cannons did not let up, but the ork battlewagons were withdrawing. They pulled back to the edge of the defences.

‘We haven’t beaten them,’ Somner said, hoping I would contradict him.

‘No,’ I said. The prologue was done, that was all.

For the space of one long breath, the ork army was motionless. Then its war beat began once more. Hundreds of engines snarled with growing anticipation. The earth began to shake with the pounding of monstrous footsteps. The high shadows I had seen before gathered definition as they moved forward and began their ponderous advance towards the city wall.

Stompas. Clanking, grinding embodiments of ork aggression, grotesque expressions of their unholy faith, belching smoke and fire. They were twenty metres tall, and they were squat and wide. They had none of the majesty of Titans, but as they marched, the air cracked with terror. They were taller than the wall. They were monsters come to break everything down.

The stompas advanced along a wide arc. They were separated by hundreds of metres. Each could only be targeted by one of our primary turrets. And they left the approach to the main gate clear for something else.

Far to my left, an Earthshaker cannon struck a vulnerable point in a stompa. The machine burst apart in a fireball so huge I could feel the heat from this distance. The monster’s limb weapons tumbled through the air end over end. The crowd below cheered at the sound of the blast. They could not see what was almost upon us.

When the stompas were mere steps away from the wall, a pair of heavily armoured vehicles came up the slope and stopped about halfway to the gates. They were behind the mounds of smashed redoubts, difficult targets for our guns, and the stompas were the more obvious, oncoming threat. What I could make out of the vehicles was strange. Their upper portions were huge, doubling the size of the battlewagons. They were enclosures, slapped together with welded metal plates.

Brenken must have realised their importance as I did, because shells landed near the tanks. Close hits, but not close enough. And there was only time for that salvo. Then the disaster began.

The attack came on so many fronts I didn’t know where to look. Yet it had the unity of a single will. It was a masterpiece of coordination. No ork should have even conceived of it. But this ork achieved it.

The stompas assaulted the wall with wrecking balls larger than Chimeras. With each blow, rockcrete exploded into powder. Cracks became breaches.

From behind the massed ranks of battlewagons, troops shot upward. Strapped to their backs were the ork versions of jump packs – flaming hybrids of rockets and engines. The devices were crude, barely controlled. They should have killed their riders on lift-off. But they worked well enough for the orks, and their howls of glee merged with the shriek of propulsion. The trajectories were high. The assault troops would come down well inside the wall.

A column of battlewagons raced forward. They came for the gate in a straight line. They would hit it at high speed. I had a blessed moment to think Ghazghkull had made a mistake. The gates were strong. They could withstand the ork battering rams, and the chain reaction of collisions would create a greater barrier to the enemy.

The battlewagons drove up between the two stationary vehicles. The covers of these blew off, revealing what had been concealed, and mocked my faint hope. Each vehicle sported a huge rear-mounted turret. The weapon arm was as long as the wagon. It ended in an eight-pronged claw surrounding an energy node.

The weapons were already powering up.

‘What…?’ Somner whispered.

‘Tractor beams,’ I said.

The synchronisation of the components of the attack was perfect. In the midst of my horror, I felt the stab of envy. The tractor beams fired. Crackling, coruscating beams lashed out and struck the gates. A foul nimbus enveloped them. Troops on the ramparts scrambled away. Steel ten metres thick screamed. The tractor beams wrenched the gates from the wall.

The battlewagons stormed through the breach, guns blazing.

Once more, the cacophony of war resolved in my ears into a single sound: the laughter of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka.

CHAPTER 10

The Streets of Volcanus

1. YARRICK

For several hundred metres up the main road from the gates, the only resistance the battlewagons encountered was from the sheer mass of bodies they crushed. They came in such numbers they had to split up. Even the principle thoroughfares in Volcanus were too narrow for a mechanised force on this scale. The lead tanks began to slow, pushing through the corpses of thousands. Others headed up other roads, grinding other crowds into the pavement. Behind the tanks, the infantry rushed in.

In the first few seconds of the flood, the return fire was haphazard, confused. The people tried to retreat from the huge vehicles, their guns and the terrifying, toothed visages of their siege blades. At the wall, the Steel Legion and militia were struggling to respond to the multiple attacks.

And further into the hive, the greenskin jump troops were coming down. They were out of my sight, but I could picture the panic as they began their massacre.

Beside me, Somner was slack-jawed with shock. On the far right, the tech-priest had turned from the devastation, shutting it out, and was adjusting his vox banks with the fixation of a mind whose courses of action have been reduced to none. Instinct urged me to head for street level and engage with the enemy. Reason held me where I was. ‘Keep the vox working,’ I told the tech-priest.

I used the only effective weapons I had at my disposal: my voice and my mind.

‘Get off the streets,’ I ordered. Amplified by every vox-caster in the hive, my words were still drowned by the thunder of the ork war machine. ‘Get off the streets,’ I said again. I repeated the order until I saw movement in the citizens nearest the Kasadya complex. They had heard and were trying to obey.

‘Citizens of the Volcanus, you number in the millions, and you are armed. You are more than the orks. You are greater than the orks. From the high ground, in ambushes, from dead ends and byways, you have the strength to turn the streets into killing zones. You will stem the green tide.

‘By your numbers, you must stem the tide.

‘In the name of the Emperor, stem the tide.’

I had the voice of a god. My commands were heard by every soul in Volcanus. Yet I felt helpless. Below, the battlewagons were sweeping their cannons back and forth. People ran for the doorways. Bullets and flamers cut them down. Articulated arms swung out from the tops of the vehicles, battering facades and destroying ground floors. I repeated my speech, and then again, and again. For several minutes, all I saw was slaughter and the endless flow of enemy strength into Volcanus.

Then the 252nd Regiment’s counter attack began. Rockets and cannon fire cut across the gap in the wall, hammering the flanks of the battlewagons. The miracle began a few minutes later. I heard las fire. For it to be audible over the booming reports of the ork weapons, the roar of the engines and the howling, thundering inferno of the stompa assaults, the las had to be coming from a tremendous number of rifles. The citizens of the hive were fighting back.

My role was clear, then. I stayed where I was. I repeated my call. I summoned the spiritual fire of millions. I sought to inspire the ingenuity of desperation, and the fury of urban warfare. I could only guess at the levels of success. Higher up the honeycomb, the people would have more time to prepare for the orks. Closer to my position, as long as I could hear the bursts of las fire, I knew the fighting was not over, and that was a victory.

I was barely aware of Somner. I hadn’t given him a thought since we had last spoken. But now he clutched my shoulder. I blinked. Trying to hear and visualise a battle stretching over many kilometres in three dimensions, I had withdrawn my attention from the immediate area. The orks had been concentrating their fire on the ground level.

Somner was pointing in horror to the right, east of the Kasadya complex. I looked. One of the stompas had broken through the wall, and it was shouldering its way between the towers, heading our way. The street was too narrow. It pushed between the buildings, caving their walls in. It left a wake of collapsing structures, mountains of rockcrete falling against each other, breaking apart to rubble and clouds of dust. The crack and roar of shattering buried the screams of the thousands who died with every step. Rubble bounced off armour the colour of old blood. The wrecking ball limb smashed the walkways that blocked its path. Our balcony was level with its shoulders.

Its right limb was a cannon half as long as the stompa was high. The barrel came up. It pointed at the balcony.

We started to run.

The weapon powered up with a hum so great it shook the walls of the manufactorum. My teeth vibrated. I tasted blood.

There was a great flash. It tore the world asunder.

2. SETHENO

She was to the west of the gates when they were destroyed. Brenken was on the other side. The energy discharge of the tractor beams scrambled the vox in the immediate area, and Setheno lost track of the colonel. But the regiment responded quickly. It fought back hard. It made the orks pay.

Yarrick’s voice rang from every tower. His call to action became the voice of Volcanus itself.

Heroic gestures. Handfuls of water scooped from an ocean. The fall of the hive had begun. Determination and luck might see the resistance hold out as much as another day. No more. She was in the midst of an effort grandiose in its futility. She could see the end coming with the certainty of nightfall and dawn. Not for the first time, she envied Yarrick. He was not blind. He could read the signs as well as she did. But he could hope, even when that hope was a form of denial.

She could appreciate the confrontation with the impossible. She valued the miraculous.

There would be no miracles in Volcanus on this day.

Even so, she fought. She battled the orks with as much fury as she would if she felt hope. She had a role to play on Armageddon. The planet must be saved, and she must follow the dictates of fate. She could not see where her path led, but it had brought her here. The crucible of another defeat might show the way. In loss there might be a key, as yet obscure, to victory.

So she killed the orks, and bought Volcanus what time she could. She was not hoping, but she was seeking, and that was enough. It was what had sustained her since the end of the Piercing Thorn.

She was still on the ramparts, firing down at infantry as it passed through the gap in the wall. She placed the bolt pistol shots with precision, drilling through the skulls of the greenskins. Many of the most heavily armoured orks wore no helmets. They were taller than any human. As if they feared no attack from above, only their throats and lower jaws were protected by huge, fanged gorgets. Setheno punished their arrogance, splattering their brains across their massive piston-driven armour. When they fell, their followers howled and fired wildly, disoriented by the sudden death of their chieftains.

She slowed the tide by an infinitesimal degree. But there were more of the beasts, always more, and the tide still rose.

A great thunder from uphill. A stompa had reached the Kasadya manufactorum. There was a flash, and a massive concussion blast. Then the long, rolling, escalating crash of an edifice falling.

Yarrick’s voice was silent.

Something hit the wall behind her, shaking the ramparts hard. Setheno turned. One of the stompas had not ventured into the city. It was advancing along the wall, smashing more of it down with every step. For the moment, the orks were bottlenecked by the width of the breaches. The stompa was removing even that limitation.

Clarity. Her curse and her blessing. The ork menace was so vast, the developing war so gigantic, the contingencies too many. So much of her path was dark.

But not now. Not in this instant.

She holstered her pistol and ran towards the stompa. She prepared for each strike of the wrecking ball, adjusting her balance. She did not stagger or lose a step. She eyed the stompa’s arms, evaluating. The confusion of the battle receded, the din and smoke fading to the rear of her consciousness, to resurface only in the event of a more immediate threat.

She moved through a crystalline series of elements. Her speed. The rhythm of the stompa’s movements. The swing of the ball. The threat of the right limb, a flamer whose jets shot over the wall and drenched the faces of the hab towers with liquid fire.

She knew what she must do. She knew when to do it. This was her gift of perfect clarity, and before her were mere orks.

No, she thought, seconds now from her encounter with the stompa. Not mere. These orks were led by a power that, if it were not stopped, could shake the Imperium.

She was in the shadow of the stompa. Its wrecking arm came down. The spiked sphere slammed into the ramparts a few metres in front of Setheno. The crash was deafening. A storm of debris struck her armour, but she kept her footing. The ball buried itself deep into the wall. The surface beneath Setheno’s feet heaved and cracked. Another collapse began.

Setheno leapt forward. She landed on the wrecking ball. Now a few seconds marked the difference between success and death. She took three steps towards the huge chain. It grew taut. She jumped again and wrapped her arms around a link.

The arm began to rise. She climbed from link to link. The arm lifted the ball free from the wall and it began its swing upwards. The chain flew outwards. It was horizontal. Then it was vertical.

She released the chain. She dropped towards the upper segment of the limb. She hit, landing in a tangle of cables wrapped around a piston two metres thick. She seized the cables. The arm began its descent. She braced herself. Above her, orks on the stompa’s shoulder turrets tried to shoot her down, but their vehicle’s own movements made her too erratic a target.

The wrecking ball hit the wall again. The impact travelled up the arm. It shook her every bone. The mass of her power armour gave her enough inertia to keep her grip. If she had still been on the chain, she would have been snapped in half.

In the brief pause before the arm rose, she climbed. As the limb reached the horizontal, she stood and ran the rest of the length, balancing on the pistons. At the moment of descent, she made still another leap, and landed on the stompa’s shoulder plating. The metal was smooth. She was on a slope. Her boots slipped. She dropped to her knees and in a single movement drew Skarprattar and stuck the blade through the plate. It arrested her fall. She yanked herself forwards and up, stabbed into the shielding again, and timed her next lunge with the lateral rocking of the stompa as it took another heavy step. Momentum propelled her to the top of the shoulder. A boxy turret rose from the surface of the shield. Metal struts supported it. Setheno used them to work her way towards the head. The turret’s heavy stubber rotated back and forth, angling down, strafing the ramparts. Setheno paused at the right-hand strut, pulled out her pistol and fired into the stubber’s barrel until her shells punched through, distorting the bore. The gunner kept shooting until the weapon exploded. The turret bulged along the seams from the force of an internal blast.

The head of the stompa was surrounded by a crown-shaped collar. Setheno climbed over it. A huge, grotesque metal face in yellow and crimson towered before her. In the centre of its jaws, on an elevated turret, an ork sat at the trigger of a cannon whose barrel protruded over the collar. The greenskin snarled when it saw her. She put three shells in its skull before it could bring the cannon around.

Sword and pistol drawn, she ran past the turret and through the gaping jaws of the idol. She entered a dim, clanking, superheated space overflowing with levers, valves and wheels, stinking of promethium and ork bodies. Beyond the weak light entering from the graven image’s eyes and jaws, the only illumination came from sparking machinery and momentary jets of burning gas. In the centre, a greenskin engineer stood on a raised platform and roared orders at its minions. Menial orks and gretchin scrambled over the controls, rushing back and forth to pull levers, release pressure, throw switches and turn the grinding wheels. There was no sense to what Setheno saw. There was only a mechanical frenzy, an ecstasy of invention and violence.

The engineer saw her. It howled and pointed. The massive harness it wore, sparking with diodes and electrical coils, lit up, casting a shimmering force field around the ork. A horde of greenskins swarmed her. When the orks abandoned their controls, the stompa’s movements became more jerky and erratic. The deck heaved back and forth. Setheno took a wide stance, shifting her centre of gravity with the wild sways. She fired her bolt pistol into the attacking crew, shooting to kill, but also to damage mechanisms. Orks fell. Control surfaces erupted. The engineer howled and stamped its feet with anger. She swept Skarprattar wide and gutted the clutch of gretchin that were trying to scuttle around her back. Two larger orks slammed into her, wielding wrenches big enough to crush a human skull with a single blow. The blows rebounded off her power armour, but they drove her back and to the side.

Something large, heavy, metallic and edged began to grind against her armour’s power pack. The two orks were pushing her into the huge gears to the right of the idol’s jaw.

Setheno drove her blade through the neck of the ork on her right. It gurgled and slumped against her. The other took a step back and charged. She shoved at the corpse and fell to the side with it. The attacking ork’s momentum carried it over her and into the huge cog wheels behind. It screamed, eaten by the machinery it had served.

Before Setheno could rise, an explosion lifted her and threw her into a tangle of levers. The orks near her were torn apart by shrapnel. The engineer raised another grenade. She jerked free of the metal just as the frag weapon went off. The blast knocked her forwards, teeth of metal digging deep into her armour. She fired at the engineer. The bolts ricocheted off the force field and smacked explosively into the walls and gears.

Smoke filled the idol’s skull. The stompa walked on, its rocking becoming more and more violent.

The engineer threw another grenade, killing more of its crew and setting cables on fire as it sought to destroy the invader. Setheno ducked around a half-exposed cog wheel that protruded from the deck and was almost as tall as she was. The ork hurled another grenade. She raced out of shelter and forward, inside the arc of the throw, charging the engineer with Skarprattar before her. The explosion at her back lit the crowded space with flame. Machinery screamed. The wild rocking of the stompa propelled her forward and she vaulted onto the engineer’s platform. Her relic blade and her power armoured momentum crashed her through the ork’s force field. The feedback of energy blew up the coils on the ork’s back. Energy lashed out, surrounding the ork, striking every corner of the stompa’s skull. The engineer’s eyes widened in distress.

The blast smashed Setheno through the jaws of the idol and propelled her through the metal shielding. She slammed up against the teeth of the collar, all that kept her from taking a twenty metre fall. Before her, the skull blew up, the greatest force shooting straight up like an incandescent geyser.

The stompa was decapitated. Elsewhere in the huge body, orks still operated limbs and pulled triggers, but all direction was gone. The huge flamer spread destruction in a circle as the stompa whirled. The turrets fired in at every point on the compass. The wrecking ball went wild. Out of control, it came flying back at the body and battered its way through the stompa’s midsection. The frame shook with more explosions. The rocking became even more severe. As they panicked, the orks created more and more extreme movements. The arms waved. The stompa took a step first one way, then another.

The balance tipped.

Setheno shook off the stun and pulled herself to her feet. The stompa leaned forward. She looked over the collar. The ramparts were below.

The stompa began to rock back.

She jumped, sliding down the front of the stompa’s skirt. As she reached the level of its chest, she pushed out with her legs. She fell away from the stompa, dropping through the air. She hit the top of the wall and rolled. The battering stopped just short of shattering her bones. She came to a halt, straightened out of a ball of pain and forced herself to her feet.

She ran.

Behind her, the huge war engine screamed with madness and anger. The shadow of the stompa loomed over her. It stretched further and further ahead.

The stompa did not rock back this time.

Explosions behind her. The shriek and crack of something very large and vital being severed. The shadow growing, spreading night.

She ran faster, ceramite boots cracking rockcrete with every step, racing for the edge of the shadow. It pulled further ahead. Through pain and raw lungs, she gasped prayers of faith and service to the Emperor. The prayers granted her the speed she needed. She ran out from the shadow moments before the stompa crashed down atop the wall.

The barrier held the body up for a few seconds. Then, weakened by blows and the gaps in its integrity, it collapsed. Stone and metal fell together, embracing their mutual destruction. Inside the stompa, power sources, munitions and fuel reserves were crushed and breached. Explosions wracked the length of the vast body. The largest bathed the wall in fireballs and hurled giant metal plates hundreds of metres.

Setheno staggered forwards until she reached the smashed gates. She looked around. The stompa was down, but the damage to the wall was enormous. More and more and more orks were storming into Volcanus. Tanks and stompas brought havoc to the streets.

She began to climb down a slope of wreckage. Below, the Steel Legion was leaving the wall for the interior of the city.

There was nothing more to defend here.

3. YARRICK

The stompa’s cannon took out the front half of the manufactorum. Facade and walls and floors disintegrated. I had a wall behind me when the orks fired. That was as far as I had run in the few seconds granted to me. That was as much as I accomplished in the aid of my survival. The rest was in the hands of the Emperor.

The Emperor protects.

Force and stone hurled me forwards. Something splashed against my back. Beneath my feet, the floor dropped away. I moved forwards and down, a leaf of flesh in the grip of wind and gravity. Sound and flame filled my senses. I put my arms over my face and held my head. I did not fight my trajectory. My body went loose and took the blows, but my will was iron.

Do not die. Not now. Not here. Your work is not yet done.

My thoughts were not so coherent. They were a wordless roar of refusal. But it had meaning.

I flew and I fell through heat and dust and battering stone. I tumbled and bounced, dropping with the collapse of the manufactorum. Time shattered into nonsense. I fell for an eternity and for mere seconds. Then there was a blow that felt like a power fist to my spine, and I was still.

Several seconds of sheet lightning agony passed before I could draw a breath. I coughed. I spat out dirt-clogged phlegm. The air was thick with dust, but enough weak daylight reached me that I could see where I was. I had landed on a large, canted slab of rockcrete. Below me was a jumble of rubble sloping towards the street. Beneath it, hundreds of thousands of citizens had been crushed to nothing. I looked up and saw jagged floors and twisted rebar. The lower half of the Kasadya complex, reaching far into its heart, had undergone a total collapse. The upper tower still stood for now, but I could see it sway.

I sat up. I left a bloody smear on the slab. The blood was not mine. Somner, I realised. He had been a few steps behind me and been disintegrated by the blast. Of the tech-priest there was no sign.

The stompa took a step backwards. Then another. It was going to fire again and finish the job.

I stood and made my way down the rubble. I moved with speed that would have been reckless if hesitation hadn’t been even more lethal. I leapt from slab to slab. I angled my way towards the feet of the stompa. I was placing my faith in the orks’ skill. I was trusting them not to bring the tower down on their heads. It was a weak form of trust. It was the only move open to me.

The rubble shook with the tread of the stompa. The curtain of dust turned the stompa into a mountainous silhouette. I reached the ground. I became aware of other shapes in the dust running in every direction. ‘With me!’ I shouted. My voice was raw and cracked. Some of the shadows heard me. They followed, perhaps blindly, on instinct, obeying the first voice they heard. No matter. They might survive. I called again. More figures ran beside and before me through the maelstrom of grey.

The stompa’s feet were a few dozen metres ahead. The monster stopped walking. Its turrets chattered in the gloom above, attacking the walkways that were still intact in the vicinity. The orks ignored the fleeing insects on the ground.

I was close enough. Still shouting, though it took precious breaths to do so, I angled to the right, where, beyond the stompa, I saw the dark path of a narrow alleyway between towers. I called once more before the cannon fired again.

The earth shook. The deep, harsh, broken shout of the dying tower washed over me. A huge wind blew, as from the throat of a mythical beast. The dust roiled, thickened, became blinding. I choked. I could no longer see the shapes of the other runners. My voice was buried beneath the monstrous sound. My alley goal vanished. I kept moving, slowing just enough to avoid breaking an ankle on the broken surface of the street.

The alley reappeared a few steps before me. I plunged into the shadow. Other bodies followed me. I moved in deeper, to where the dust was less thick. I stopped to catch my breath. Perhaps twenty civilians had joined me. There were also two Steel Legionnaires. They approached me and saluted, identifying themselves as troopers Wyda and Delschaft.

‘The rest of your squads?’ I asked. I coughed again, and envied the soldiers their rebreathers.

‘We were trying to flank the ork column when the Kasadya fell,’ Wyda said. ‘We lost them in the dust cloud.’

‘But you know where you were heading.’

‘Yes, commissar,’ she said.

‘Then we have a direction. I need a working vox.’ I turned to the civilians. They were dust-caked wraiths, clutching their lasrifles and staring at us, waiting for any hope we could offer. I gave them purpose instead. ‘We will take the narrow passages,’ I said. ‘Do not engage with the enemy except on my command.’

We left the stompa and its rampage behind. The alley branched into others. Some were no more than accidental spaces created by the density of architectural growth. I took us uphill, deeper into the city, following the sounds of combat. I stopped a few times to listen carefully, wary of the difference between an ork column firing with impunity and an actual struggle. Sustained bursts of las fire called to me. So did the honourable boom of Leman Russ guns. It took very little training to distinguish Imperial cannons from the undisciplined, excessive concussions of ork weapons.

The alley curved ahead. An engagement was nearby. Las, solid rounds and ork snarls of rage echoed between the walls. The las fire was coming from above. On our right, iron steps zigzagged up the side of the hab block, leading to the arch of a walkway.

We went up, the sound of battle covering the clatter of our footsteps. On the walkway, a full squad of the Steel Legion was firing down on a large column of orks. They had taken down numerous footsoldiers. ‘Follow the example of your comrades,’ I instructed the civilians. ‘Whatever these warriors do, do likewise.’ Twenty more guns joined the assault. Lack of training was no issue. The enemy was impossible to miss. All the citizens had to do was aim down.

I found the sergeant. His name was Reithner. I drew him and his vox operator aside and we crouched low on the walkway. While the trooper worked to contact Brenken, I asked Reithner what he intended.

‘Kill the greenskins until their big guns arrive,’ he said. ‘Then we get out fast. Hit them again as soon as we can.’

‘Good,’ I said. I gestured to the civilians. ‘These people are now under your command. As will be any others who join this group. You aren’t just leading a squad now, sergeant. You have a company. Are you up to the task?’

‘I am, commissar.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Reithner moved back to the parapet to resume command of the firefight. His trooper handed me the handset. ‘The colonel,’ he said.

‘Commissar,’ Brenken’s voice was muzzy with static, but clear enough. ‘I’m glad you’re alive.’

‘I’m as relieved to know you are,’ I said. ‘What is the situation?’

‘We’ve lost the wall. We slowed them for a bit, but they have total freedom of entry now.’

‘You’re moving to the interior?’

‘Yes. Street by street interdiction now.’

‘I’m afraid not, colonel,’ I said.

‘You’re siding with the canoness now?’

‘No. But we can’t block their access to the hive. They will advance no matter what we do. So let them. Draw them in. The ways of Volcanus are narrow. The deeper they go, the more spread out they’ll become. If they try to bunch together, they’ll slow down. The tanks will be limited in their range. With the citizens of Volcanus in the fight, we have the numbers. Draw them in,’ I repeated. ‘Draw them in and grind them down.’

‘Do you believe this can be done?’

‘I believe it is what we must do.’

‘We’re already having to break down into squad level,’ Brenken said. ‘That will give us more speed and flexibility of movement.’

‘Have them lead groups of civilians where possible.’ I was already seeing the multiplication of force that could occur.

‘Where possible,’ Brenken repeated, grim.

‘I know,’ I said. There would be hard decisions. There would be massacres. Endless massacres. They were unavoidable. The best we could do was make the orks pay with their own blood for the slaughter.

I have never enjoyed deciding how people will die. Neither have I turned from the necessity of doing so.

‘Well,’ Brenken said. ‘The Emperor protects.’

‘The Emperor protects.’

As I signed off, Reithner shouted a warning. The ork tanks were here. We ran to the far end of the walkway, furthest away from the arriving heavy armour. The entrance to a chapel awaited us. We were barely inside when the guns took out the centre of the walkway. The entire span collapsed a moment later.

We were inside the Chapel of Sacred Obedience. Its base straddled the roofs of three hab blocks. We had entered the north side of the transept. At the eastern door to the nave, stairs led down the habs. Reithert gestured in that direction. ‘We can reach the street that way.’

I shook my head. We were beside the steps leading up the north spire. More walkways led off it from the level of the bells. ‘The orks don’t hold the higher elevations yet,’ I said. ‘Use that advantage. We can pick our targets.’

And through a day of burning grey, and a roaring night, we did. We moved from point to point in Volcanus, hammering the orks’ infantry at choke points, ambushing them from above and moving on. By the time they had brought their heavy weapons to bear, we were gone. Civilians stumbled from shelled buildings and joined us. Before dawn, our group was two hundred-strong. Our wake was bloody. Morale was strong.

And as dawn broke, I knew we had lost.

CHAPTER 11

Redemption and Shame

1. YARRICK

The spires were coming down. Ghazghkull had tired of street battles. He wanted Volcanus to fall now. The orks are not a patient race. But they are also stubborn, and will persist in a task beyond all bounds of reason. The combination of those two characteristics makes them ferocious enemies, and their sieges are savage affairs. What was different and dangerous about Ghazghkull was his adaptability. His tactics were complex and fluid, and his armed might was overwhelming. If he wanted to bring the siege to an end, he had the means to do so.

And so the spires came down. The stompas became more coordinated in their assaults. They grouped in pairs, blasting the base of one tower after another. Any building where resistance was strong, or where there was even the potential for a real struggle, was felled. The dust clouds covered all of Volcanus. I felt the cannon blasts in my chest, and the vibrations of each collapse through my boots. Instead of fighting for control, the orks were simply razing entire areas of the city.

‘I’m sorry, commissar,’ Setheno said.

We were standing beside Sword of the Wastes. Brenken’s driver had managed to negotiate some of the narrowest streets of Volcanus and keep the colonel’s command post mobile and intact. Brenken had moved upwards with the flow of the war. Despite everything we could do, the orks had taken more and more of the city. Their tide had risen, unstoppable.

We were stationed in the lee of the burned out rubble of a hab block. The orks had already passed through. The location was a point of calm in the conflict, a purged wasteland. Brenken had called us here to face the unspeakable.

Less than a thousand metres away, the tower of Saint Pausanias, an Ecclesiarchal monastery, buckled and folded in on itself. Caryatids, stained glass and columns splintered like powdery twigs. Vaults gaped like screaming maws. Its base was three quarters of the way up the architectural mountain of Volcanus, and its spire had reached the cloud-brushing heights of the hive’s peak. Its death brought an end to many other structures. The collapses multiplied. A great rockslide rolled down the slope of Volcanus, killing orks and humans alike, but many more humans than orks. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. The echoes of the fall had not faded when, further up and to the west of our position, another tower shook, battered by cannons and wrecking balls. It leaned. It leaned too far.

And down.

‘I know you take no pleasure in this,’ I said to Setheno. ‘But I wish you had been wrong.’

‘So do I.’

I was holding down the full scope of my frustration and rage. Two hives. Two defeats. I had known the odds were against Volcanus. The end had been preordained. And yet… And yet… We owed the Emperor the impossible. It was little enough to give the Father of Mankind. I had succeeded in doing so in the past. Now, when the need to do so was as urgent as it had ever been, I had been found wanting.

Over the course of the night, the orks had taken away the high ground. The squads of jump-packed greenskins had flown to the walkways, laughing as they tore through the defenders of Volcanus, knocking them over the parapets to their deaths. What the jump troops ignored, the tanks blasted apart. And then the felling of the spires had begun. Our every strategy was countered by a gigantic response.

‘If we had had the troops…’ Brenken had muttered a few minutes ago.

The thought was tempting and frustrating. There was truth in it. Von Strab had crippled our response. Had he doomed us from the start? Yes, he had.

But that was not a complete truth.

I should have done more. Somehow, I could have done more.

I would yet.

Brenken called to us from the interior of the Chimera. ‘I have Mannheim,’ she said.

Setheno and I boarded through the rear hatch as Kuyper left, giving us privacy. None of Brenken’s surviving captains were present. They would hear of the orders that would come out of this meeting. But only the four of us would know what was said.

‘How secure is the channel?’ I asked Brenken.

She shrugged, her face lined with exhaustion and despair. ‘The princeps is speaking to us from Steel Hammer. As secure as possible, I would say.’

We could not rule out the possibility that von Strab had found a way to monitor even that frequency. That changed nothing of what we would say. We had run out of options.

We approached the vox unit on the tactical table. ‘We’re here, Princeps Mannheim,’ Brenken said.

‘Volcanus is lost to us, then?’ Mannheim said.

I answered, speaking my shame. ‘It will be by the end of the day. At best.’

‘And then the orks will come for Armageddon Secundus.’

‘I suppose they might amuse themselves with Death Mire for an afternoon,’ said Brenken. ‘They’ve already shown they enjoy the entertainment of slaughtering our hive militias.’

‘What are the dispositions in Secundus?’ Setheno asked.

‘Unchanged,’ said Mannheim. ‘Entirely defensive.’

I clenched my fists. ‘That’s madness. The orks will take Armageddon down one hive at a time. They have to be countered by a unified force.’

‘I don’t disagree, commissar. But that is the situation we face.’

‘Not to be changed while von Strab is overlord.’

‘As you say.’ Mannheim’s response was careful, avoiding outright mutiny.

I thought about the regiments cantoned at Infernus, Hades, Helsreach, Acheron, and Tartarus. I doubted von Strab had concerned himself with the minor hives and other settlements. I pictured the combined strength of the Steel Legion and the Legio Metalica. Would even that be enough against what Ghazghkull had at his command? I knew enough now to speculate. And the question was moot. Von Strab had sabotaged any such effort. ‘We need help,’ I said. ‘We need the Adeptus Astartes.’

‘Von Strab has forbidden requests for aid,’ Mannheim said. ‘And then there’s the warp storm. But if you think the effort must be made…’

‘It must,’ I told him, ‘but not by you. We can’t risk von Strab relieving you of command. Short of execution, he has nothing left to use against me.’

‘He might well do that.’

‘Let him try.’

‘You will come to Infernus?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll do what I can to clear the way for you to the astropaths.’

‘Thank you, princeps.’

‘I’ll go too,’ Brenken said. ‘My command is ending with the regiment.’

‘You have my sympathy, colonel,’ said Mannheim.

‘We’ll be travelling by Chimera, if we’re lucky,’ I said. ‘That will barely keep us ahead of the orks. We need time. We have been fighting a reactive war, and losing it. We need the space to make some moves the orks cannot counter. Princeps, can you arrange for a Valkyrie to extract us once we’re away from Infernus?’

‘Should I speak to General Andechs?’

‘No,’ Brenken said quickly. ‘Where is Colonel Helm stationed?’

‘Hades Hive.’

Further than ideal, but if Brenken trusted Helm, then so be it.

‘Speak to him,’ Brenken said. ‘We’ll contact you later with our location. If we lose the vox…’ She looked down at the map. I pointed to a spot and she nodded. ‘We’ll make for the eastern side of Irkalla.’

The settlement had been abandoned for centuries. Records on Armageddon going back more than five hundred years were very unreliable. Much was missing, especially around 441.M41. Next to nothing was known about Irkalla beyond its name. The reason for its end had fallen into shadow. All that remained were the ruins of what had been a sub-hive city. But it was a landmark, and there was nothing there to attract the orks. It lay southwest of Volcanus, towards the Plain of Anthrand. Death Mire was northeast. We stood a decent chance of reaching Irkalla unchallenged.

I tried not to think of my course as another flight. I tried to think of it as a countermove. What my reason knew to be true, and what my soul believed were two very different things.

‘Time,’ Setheno said, musing. ‘Armageddon needs time.’ She nodded to herself. ‘I think we can gain another day. Not for Volcanus, but we can hold the orks here a little longer.’

‘What are you thinking?’ I asked.

‘Nemesis Island.’

I grimaced at the bleak humour of our situation. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘You aren’t offering salvation for Volcanus.’

‘I have no time for lost causes, commissar.’

‘Armageddon is not one.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘Not yet.’

2. SETHENO

She reached the docks in the late afternoon. Movement through the hive was more and more difficult. Many of the maglev tracks had been destroyed, and power had failed over most of the city. Setheno descended into the underhive for part of her journey, and in its upper reaches she found a train that took her several kilometres in the right direction. But even here, below the surface, the damage was severe. Tunnels had been compacted by the fall of towers. Foundations had pancaked.

On the streets, what the orks did not hold they had reduced to rubble. Setheno stuck to the shadows, crossing heaps of wreckage, passing between burning towers. She went alone. She was beneath notice, a single figure slipping through the blasted landscape of Volcanus.

The dockside region was relatively intact. Warehouses had been incinerated by ork artillery, but the greenskin army was still concentrated in the centre, north and east of Volcanus. Most of the damage in its west end had been caused by panic. Not all the citizens had stood loyal to the Emperor. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, had turned to flight as soon as word spread that the siege was going badly. And with the end looming, millions were joining the exodus. They streamed out of all sides of the hive, the shattered walls letting them out as they had let the orks in. The west, though, was the site of the first great panic. It was natural for people to run here, far from the initial greenskin breaches. There was a choice of escape: on land, circling south away from the enemy army, running up into the Volcanus Mountains; or by boat, into the archipelago in the great bay beyond the hive.

Most had chosen the mountains. There was something in the islands almost as frightening as the orks.

It was Setheno’s destination.

The docks swarmed with activity. There were still thousands upon thousands of refugees here, seeking any means of escape faster than foot. Few of the berths still had ships. In the near distance, the hulls of overloaded, capsized ships lay in the torpid waters of the bay.

Setheno pushed her way through the crowd. She had removed her helmet, and the people who met her gaze shrank away. They felt her judgement. Good. They should be fighting. They should be dying to buy Armageddon one more second with which to prepare its retaliation against the orks. If time weren’t the precious resource it was, she would have brought punishment to the cowards.

She strode to the far end of the docks, past freighters and oil tankers turning into passenger ships, past empty moorings, and through the haze and smoke and dust. There were no refugees on the westernmost pier. The ship there was not one they would ever willingly board, no matter how desperate their circumstances.

The Iron Repentance was a mid-sized transport. Its hulk was dark grey, rusted, its only adornment a massive relief sculpture of the fist-and-scales of the Adeptus Arbites. Two troopers stood guard at the foot of the ramp leading aboard. Setheno stopped before them.

‘You remain at your posts,’ she said, approving.

‘Until our orders change, canoness,’ said one. He was a small, thin man, bulked out by his armour. His partner, average in height, appeared much taller in contrast. Setheno towered over both.

‘They have changed,’ she said. ‘You will take me to Nemesis Island.’

To their credit, they hesitated. They would not disobey her command, but she was not part of their power structure.

She relieved their uncertainty by gesturing back at the burning city. ‘You have no other charges on the way. Your fellow Arbites are fighting and dying in the struggle against the greenskins. Honour their sacrifice. Honour the Emperor.’

They bowed, and led her aboard.

The crew worked fast. In a few minutes, the Iron Repentance left Volcanus behind. It steamed through the dense archipelago. The water depth varied wildly, the shoals were lethal, and the ship’s labyrinthine route took it through narrows so tight, the hull brushed against sheer cliffs on either side. In the background, the bleak music of the war continued, the dull beat of guns punctuated by the harsh crack of falling towers.

Grey afternoon had become grey evening when Nemesis Island came into view. It was a brutal uprising of rock, thrusting straight up from the sea. Its high basalt cliffs had been, through the industry of machines and serfs, rendered smooth as obsidian. They could not be climbed.

At the top were jagged battlements of rockcrete and steel. On the south side of the island, a crooked inlet, no more than a crack in the forbidding mass of the cliffs, led to the tiny port. The pier had room for a single ship. The Iron Repentance was the only vessel that ever plied its dark waters.

The boat docked. Setheno disembarked. The pier, wide enough for hundreds of souls, ended at a massively armoured guard house. Beyond that bunker, an iron door was set into the cliff wall. It was thicker than the gates of Volcanus.

An enforcer emerged from the guard house to meet Setheno as she drew near. The woman’s lantern jaw tightened at the sight of the canoness. ‘Has the war come to Nemesis Island?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Setheno said. ‘Nemesis is going to the war.’

3. STRIBOLT

The Nemesis Island Penal Facility burrowed deep into the rock. In the centre was a huge circular space ringed by a hundred levels of cells. A warren of tunnels spread out from the central block. The prison was also a mining complex. The hard labour of the prisoners expanded the facility with every passing day. This was necessary, because even with the high mortality rate, the population kept growing. New inmates arrived on the Iron Repentence every week. The pits went deeper, the tunnels became darker, and in time there was no reason to go through the trouble of transporting the prisoners who worked the farthest ones all the way back to the overcrowded cells of the centre. The abandoned slept and ate where they worked. There was little food. Even less sleep. There was the back-breaking work using only the most primitive tools. There were the hours upon hours, sometimes multiple days, of digging ore from the walls and loading it into the carts. For those chained to the carts, there was the long journey hauling the loads to the vast bay where the ore would be transferred to containers awaiting transport by lifter to the mainland. For those left behind, during the brief periods when the guards did not use shock mauls to force them back to work, there was the brutal struggle for survival, the scrabble for food, for dominance, for the illusion of safety in the death of hated enemies.

Sometimes, new arrivals would try to conceal themselves in the ore containers. If they weren’t crushed by rock, they were purged by the security procedures. On their way to the landing pad on the south end of the island, the containers passed through a great furnace. They and their contents were heated to a temperature just shy of molten. Nothing organic survived.

In the exhausted seams, inmates remained. Food and water came more rarely. The struggle for survival became more savage, and then exhausted, and then silent. Mummified bodies, crusted in their dried blood, lay in heaps in the corners of endless darkness.

Stribolt knew what happened in the dead seams. He knew to remain chained to the carts. As long as he was one of those who returned from the depths, he had his cell in the central block. It was a few metres on a side, and he shared it with ten other prisoners. They slept in shifts. They were among the fortunate of Nemesis Island.

Keeping his privileged position meant killing. Stribolt had no objection. He was good at killing. It was murder that had brought him to the island. There was nothing unusual about murder in the underhive of Volcanus. Nothing unusual about running gangs, either. But he had run too close to the surface. He had harmed those who would be missed. He had warred against larger gangs, whose leaders had sympathetic ears just that little bit further up from the depths of the hive.

He had been on Nemesis Island for years. He still had his cell and his limbs. By the standards of the facility, he was thriving. And he would strike down any challenger to his position. As he was doing now.

He’d had his eye on Platen for several cycles. The new arrival was a head taller and very muscular. He had the loud voice and swagger of a man who intended to carve out his place as fast as possible, before the prison eroded his strength. Today, in the basin of the central block, where the prisoners assembled to drag the carts or follow them, Platen had stepped in front of Stribolt and picked up the bracket at the end of a chain.

‘Fits my chest better,’ he said to Stribolt.

Stribolt punched him in the throat. Platen coughed and dropped the bracket. Stribolt picked up the chain, ducked around Platen and wrapped the chain around his neck. He hauled back. The big man bent backwards, choking. Stribolt pulled harder.

No one intervened. Nearby guards and inmates watched the fight with mild interest.

Platen reached back and clawed at Stribolt’s face. Filth-encrusted nails gouged the flesh from his cheeks. Stribolt jerked his face away. Platen’s gagging was sounding liquid.

And then the voice came.

It spoke from the vox-casters spread around the entire block. The effect was not unusual. This was how the many announcements, pronouncements and sermons of the warden, Mierendorff, reached the ears of the inmates. The difference was the voice. It spoke with a chilling authority far beyond Mierendorff’s fondest hopes. The first words froze Stribolt.

‘You are the damned,’ the voice said, and the truth hammered his chest with a spike of bone.

Stribolt staggered back from Platen. The other man fell to his knees, gagging, but he stared in the same direction as Stribolt. So did all the inmates in the central block. Midway up the height of the huge space, a platform projected into the air. It was attached to the warden’s offices. Instead of Mierendorff, a warrior of the Adepta Sororitas stood at the platform’s edge. She paused before speaking again. She turned her head slowly. Her gaze swept all the rings of cells, and all the prisoners on the floor. She was too far for Stribolt to see her features clearly, yet he knew when her eyes fell on him, and he felt her judgement. For the first time in his life, he felt shame.

‘You are the damned,’ she repeated, and despair drove Stribolt to his knees. ‘But even the damned have their use. The Emperor calls, and you will answer. The orks walk upon Armageddon with impunity. You will rise against them. You will take up arms, and you will follow me into battle. You will seek redemption in the faithful death, and this is already more than you deserve.’

The Sister of Battle’s words scoured Stribolt’s soul. She was a figure of grey terror. He would do anything. To mitigate the judgement of ice, he would seek the absolution of fire.

4. YARRICK

The refugees streamed through the south gates of Volcanus. We were among them. Defeat, rage, impotence – they were a single mass, a weight of molten lead on my shoulders. Breathing was difficult.

Brenken sat in the top hatch of Sword of the Wastes. I crouched beside her on the roof, holding the heavy bolter turret for stability. I had to see everything. I had to see the full extent of the loss. I had failed, and I would not allow myself any grace. I would not turn away.

The Chimera moved slowly through the countless thousands of civilians as we passed through the gates. We were concerned with stealth more than speed at this stage. We did not want to attract the attention of the orks. For the time being, they were ignoring the refugee columns. There was still enough resistance in the city to keep them interested. When the last of the combatants fell, the orks might well make sport in slaughtering these masses.

Not yet, though. The tattered remains of the 252nd and the Volcanus Hive Militia fought on. As did any citizen who wasn’t fleeing. I looked at the refugees with pity rather than hate. They weren’t cowards. There hadn’t been time to arm every inhabitant of the hive. Millions fought. Millions more had a choice of deaths. Some had hidden, paralyzed with terror, in their homes. I couldn’t guess how many were still alive, and how many had been crushed as the orks toppled the city. If they survived, they would become slaves. I knew what that meant. It was survival only in the most perverse sense of the word.

The masses that fled were looking at a future that was no better. They had no destination. There were no settlements within a few days’ walking distance. The closest were too small to provide for such numbers. And there would be little desire to make themselves obvious so close to the ork army. Perhaps the refugees had the vague hope of reaching Armageddon Secundus. It was the land over the horizon, as yet untouched by the orks. It was where protection could be found.

Illusions. Delusions. The people would die of hunger, thirst and exposure before they had traversed the Plain of Anthrand. They would never even reach the Equatorial Jungle. If chance and cruel fate took any that far, their journey would end in its dense, verdant, predatory dark. Von Strab was wrong about the jungle holding back the orks. Desperate, weakened humans were another matter. It would strip the flesh from their skeletons.

We left the wall behind. I turned around to look at it, as I had during the retreat from Tempestora. Smoke rose from a hundred positions, forming dark columns rising to the low clouds. The echoes of combat followed me, accusing, drawing blood from my spirit.

Brenken stared straight ahead. Neither of us had spoken since we had boarded Sword of the Wastes. ‘Will we find forgiveness?’ she asked.

‘From whom?’

‘From our comrades. From the Emperor.’

‘We are doing what we must to save Armageddon,’ I told her. ‘Von Strab is the one who should seek forgiveness. He won’t find it.’

She nodded. She looked as unsatisfied with my answer as I felt. She had left a question unspoken, and I had left it unanswered.

Would we find forgiveness from ourselves?

I didn’t know.

Away from the gates, Spira manoeuvred the Chimera out from the edges of the crowd. We picked up speed.

The molten lead pressed harder on my back and on my mind. I spoke in answer to its constricting weight. ‘No more,’ I said. ‘Not one more.’

‘Commissar?’ Brenken asked.

‘No other hive that I defend will fall. By the Throne, this I vow.’

I might not find forgiveness, but I would bring an end to shame.

CHAPTER 12

The Nemesis Crusade

1. STRIBOLT

There was a lifter on the landing pad. This time, the containers it carried were full of live prisoners. It transported them to the docks of Volcanus. Stribolt was among them. His forehead still burned. A guard had branded him with the sign of the aquila as he had entered the container. The same mark was on all the other prisoners travelling with him. It was the sign of allegiance to the crusade, and of their fallen state. All who saw them would know them to be the damned on the final march to redemption.

Stribolt arrived at the docks ahead of the first load brought back by the Iron Repentance. The lifter came down vertically, turbo engines blasting at the ground. The massive clamps that ran the length of its fuselage released the tanks two metres above a wide expanse of rockcrete before the dockside warehouses. The containers dropped with a crash. The jolt of the landing would have knocked Stribolt off his feet if there had been room to fall. The prisoners were standing, packed so tightly he could barely breathe. Front and rear hatches popped open. Stribolt shoved his way out of the stifling darkness of the tank and in to the waiting grey of the Volcanus day. It was the first time he had been in the open air in five years.

The lifter was already flying back to Nemesis Island for the next cargo. Over the course of the next few hours, it would make multiple trips for each one the ship managed. The docks filled with thousands of inmates. They crowded the refugees off the docks. They were herded by enforcers. We’re an army, Stribolt thought. Male and female, they were shorn of hair and wore the same ragged grey tunics. Stribolt saw the terror in the faces of the refugees as they beheld this army, and he grinned.

Setheno was visible, marching back and forth on the roofs of the warehouses. Word filtered through from the prisoners closest to the civilians: Setheno had ordered the refugees to fight or drown.

One, weeping, had begged the canoness to tell them how they should fight without weapons. Stribolt laughed when he heard that. No inmate would have asked such a stupid question. Hands, nails, teeth, feet – he had killed with them and nothing else on plenty of occasions over the years.

But Setheno signalled to an enforcer, who rolled up the door to the warehouse on which the Sister of Battle stood. The building had become an armoury. Stribolt guessed it had been stocked with whatever caches were nearby and still outside the zones of combat. He ran forward with the rush. There were thousands more prisoners than weapons, and they pushed and kicked their way ahead of the refugees. The lasrifles were gone before Stribolt could get through the doorways, but he grabbed a bayonet. He savoured the weight of a real weapon as he shoved against the flow of the mob and back outside.

Setheno made them wait until the docks could hold no more. ‘We advance in a single mass,’ she announced, her vox-caster reaching out from the roofs, the command picked up and repeated until it had spread across the docks.

Stribolt waited, impatient, desperate for the fight, desperate to prove himself before the unbending, merciless saint that had come among them. Then the order came. Setheno leapt from the roof to the ground and led the charge into the streets of Volcanus. Stribolt lost sight of her. He ran to see her again. He feared to fall under her gaze, yet he was desperate for a blessing, however painful, however fatal.

He ran towards the absolution of fire.

Consumed by the terror of faith, the mob moved up the widest avenues towards the maelstrom of war. To the rear, the lifter and the Iron Repentance continued in their tasks. The charge picked up momentum, and Stribolt had a sense of the limitless force of the crusade. He raced past the dark windows of the hab towers. On another day, the inhabitants of those blocks would have hidden, driven mad with fear at the sight of tens of thousands of Armageddon’s damned loose and rampaging. On another day, Stribolt would have shown them how justified their fears were.

But not today.

Today the only target was the orks. Today there was only the sacred fire.

Setheno took the crusade right at a major intersection. Stribolt heard the shriek of voices human and xenos, the chatter of guns, the rumble of engines. He took the turn without slowing. He ran straight into the full battle. Setheno had brought them against a large contingent of orks. There must have been thousands of ork footsoldiers. Stribolt saw only a solid mass of the enemy filling the street, and moving through them the ugly, savage bulk of battlewagons. The greenskin infantry greeted the swarm of humans with snarls of delighted rage.

Some of the prisoners broke and tried to run. So did a larger number of refugees. The grey saint had foreseen the cowardice, and placed enforcers at the rear of the column. They turned their shotguns on the deserters. They blew the heads off the first to run. The others, wailing, turned back to the fight.

The orks waded in with crude, heavy blades longer than Stribolt’s arm. The tanks opened up with their turret guns and cannons. Their huge, articulated claws swung through the mass of combatants. Orks and humans both fell. The greenskins with armour heavy enough to save them laughed at the enormous massacre.

Stribolt howled to drown out the mockery. The bullets were thudding into the bodies ahead of him. He found himself in the midst of a confusion of orks and humans. There was no order, only the cauldron of struggle. He stabbed and slashed with his bayonet. He opened one ork’s throat, then jammed the blade through another’s rib cage. It stuck in the bones. The brute wailed but did not fall. It raised its own weapon. Stribolt leaped at the ork, sailing over the brute’s cleaver swing. It snapped at him with its jaws, tearing a chunk of flesh from his right calf. He swung himself around its neck and jabbed his thumbs into its eyes. The ork shrieked. It waved the cleaver blindly, trying to slice him from his perch. He dropped down and rammed his shoulder into the orks’ legs. It fell and was trampled.

A stream of blood splashed against the side of Stribolt’s face as he snatched the ork’s cleaver from its broken fingers. He turned. An ork with arms like tree branches had ripped the head off an inmate with its bare hands. It grinned through the fountain of vitae. It brought its huge shotgun to bear. Stribolt dropped low. The shot blew apart two inmates.

Stribolt lunged through their falling bodies. It took all his strength to wield the cleaver and he brought it down on the ork’s wrist. He cut most of the way through the limb. The hand dangled. Startled, the greenskin dropped the shotgun. It stared at the wound, offended. It bent down to retrieve the weapon. Platen grabbed it instead. He shoved the muzzle in the ork’s face and pulled the trigger. The shotgun exploded, shredding Platen’s torso and face. The ork stumbled back a step, laughing at the mishap, and Stribolt slammed the cleaver through its throat. He sawed until the greenskin fell. Then the press of more and more and more bodies carried him forward.

Stribolt was part of a wave. The prisoners pressed against the orks and held them. The tanks were immobilised by the crush. They had no room to turn. Their cannon fire stopped as ork footsoldiers jumped aboard to beat down gunners with too indiscriminate an aim. Stribolt had a glimpse of Setheno atop one of the tanks. She cut a gunner down with her power sword and threw a grenade inside the turret. The melee obscured her from his sight in the next second, but he heard the explosion. He jumped onto the shoulders of another ork and brought the cleaver down on its head, bashing at the beast’s helmet. On both sides, for thousands of metres in either direction, the street convulsed with struggling bodies. More orks were arriving to combat still more prisoners.

In this corner of Volcanus, the orks had ceased to advance.

The ork threw Stribolt before he could sink the blade in its skull. He flew through the air and came down on another ork that was spraying a cluster of prisoners with flaming promethium. The ork stumbled forward. Stribolt straightened from his landing and jabbed the blade into the fuel tanks. It stuck. Promethium jetted uncontrollably. He jumped to the side and pushed through the crush. Human and ork bodies shielded him from the worst of the explosion, but liquid fire splashed against his chest. He beat at the flames. They seared through his prison tunic. His flesh burned. The pain made him scream.

It was an ecstasy.

It was an absolution.

Vision smeared by agony, he lunged at another wall of green flesh. He clawed and beat at the ork, half aware of the shapes of fellow prisoners hailing blows on the same target. His eyes were filled with tears of pain and tears of fervour. Did the saint see? Did she see the sacrifice? Did she grant him redemption?

The ork went down beneath the fists and boots of a dozen humans. Stribolt kept hitting with all the fury of his torment. He looked about, blinking away the tears. Where was Setheno? He had to see her. He had to know if he had earned a new judgement.

A huge shadow fell over him. He looked up. The claw of a battlewagon reached down to gather and crush. In the final moment before the iron fist closed on him, he shrieked his plea for redemption.

‘Do you see me?’

His answer was the darkness and the shattering of bone.

2. YARRICK

We spoke to Mannheim once on the journey between Volcanus and Irkalla. We let him know we had left the hive and were making for the extraction point. That was an hour after we had left the hive, when we were still in the rolling terrain before Anthrand. We could still hear the war. We could still smell the smoke. We could even hear the greenskin army, but we could not see it. We had put a horizon between ourselves and the enemy. So we spoke to Mannheim.

Once.

After that, we dared not. The orks kept encroaching over the horizon. Spira detoured as best she could while keeping us on track. All day and into the evening, we caught sight of infantry and heavy armour movements. None of it was towards Volcanus. On several occasions, a deep insect snarl drew our eyes skyward. Squadrons of bombers flew just beneath the clouds. Some headed northeast, in the direction of Death Mire. Others went due east.

‘They’re heading for Armageddon Secundus,’ Brenken said.

‘Or preparing to, at the very least.’

‘How big was that space hulk?’

‘Too big.’ We were seeing more and more signs that Ghazghkull had committed only a portion of his forces against Volcanus. He had more, much more, at his disposal and was not being idle during the siege of the hive.

We maintained vox silence. Colonel Helm’s pilot would know where to find us. We were a single vehicle travelling a landscape that had become occupied territory. If we were discovered, we were lost, and so, perhaps, was Armageddon.

Night was falling when Irkalla appeared before us. We saw it first as clusters of huge, broken silhouettes. They gathered definition and mass as we closed in, but not life. They were the ghosts of buildings: collapsed façades, eroded towers, chapels sunken in on themselves. Violence, its nature obscure, had brought history in Irkalla to a stop. Wind, the driving dust of storms and acid downpours were eating at the ruins. The city was a cemetery now, interring its own memory. Its homes and manufactoria were its gravestones and monuments. They were all crumbling. Eventually, a night would fall over Irkalla, and no dawn would find it.

Spira drove straight through. Even the echoes of the engine were muffled as if the walls they bounced off were soft, growing and insubstantial. The orks, as we had guessed, were not here. They were not as far away as we would like, though. We saw occasional flashes of light to the north and the east. We heard the distant growl of huge engines.

‘Still laughing at us,’ I muttered.

‘Commissar?’

‘Nothing.’

The roads of Irkalla were broken. Many were stretches of clay between buildings, all traces of pavement long gone. Others had become deep, narrow canyons. They were traces of the convulsion that had been the city’s doom. We crossed Irkalla without incident, but it weighed on my spirit with the force of an omen. This was the future Ghazghkull sought to bring to all of Armageddon. I prayed Tempestora and Volcanus would rise again. If I kept my vow to let no other hive fall, perhaps they would.

I rejected the omen. Instead, I read Irkalla as a goad.

On the other side of the city, the Valkyrie was waiting for us.

‘Helm is a good man,’ I said.

Brenken nodded. ‘Mark him down as one to trust.’

‘I shall.’

The pilot’s name was Wengraf. He marched forward from his craft to greet us as we pulled up. ‘Colonel Helm said I was to take you to Hive Infernus,’ he said.

‘To the staging ground of the Iron Skulls,’ Brenken said.

‘Yes, colonel.’

‘We should take advantage of being in the air,’ I said.

‘True.’ To Wengraf she said, ‘We’ll make this a reconnaissance flight. Take us as close to the enemy formations as possible. Carefully.’

Neither of us wanted to be shot down a second time.

Wengraf performed his mission well. The orks made it easier by being utterly unconcerned with concealment. Flames and bursts of energy lit up their encampments. The construction of their mad inventions continued without cease. Shields were piled upon shields on the vehicles. In the forges of the night, there were new weapons being born. Some would kill their creators. The ones that did not would bring grief to us. But on this night I was grateful for the greenskins’ mania. Looking through the Valkyrie’s viewing blocks, Brenken and I put together our most complete picture yet of the ork campaign.

There were some regions Wengraf dared not approach. He had to be wary of aircraft. And he gave a wide berth to stable, unmoving lights suspended many metres above the ground. We didn’t need to get any closer to know those were the signs of immense war machines.

The worst thing we saw was, far to the northeast, a fiery glow on the horizon. Death Mire was already burning. Brenken and I exchanged looks. We said nothing. What use were words? We saw what we had known was going to happen. It had come sooner than expected. That was all. That was bad enough.

‘There are several distinct armies,’ Brenken said a few hours into the flight.

‘Each strong enough to take a hive, or at least one without adequate defence.’

She snorted. ‘And what is adequate?’

‘More than what we were permitted on this continent.’ I looked out the viewing block again. I saw a flash bright enough to be an ammunition dump blowing up. If it was an accident, it revealed an entire line of stompas. Whatever loss had just happened, the orks would regard it as nothing more than a stumble. ‘They’re much further towards Secundus than we had thought.’

‘How long until they reach the jungle, do you think?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. None of these armies appear to be on the march.’

‘Camped for the night?’

‘Perhaps, but all of them?’

‘True, that doesn’t sound like orks.’

‘Nor does this level of coordination and discipline,’ I admitted. ‘But there it is.’

‘So they’re waiting,’ Brenken said.

‘For Volcanus to fall. Ghazghkull is going to take all of his armies through the Equatorial Jungle at once.’ Then the deluge would descend on Armageddon Secundus. Every sight before us on this night had underscored the importance of our mission. I saw also a minute glimmer of hope. ‘If they are waiting,’ I said, ‘the hours the canoness buys us will make a difference.’

‘A tactical mistake at last?’ Brenken said.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps not.’ The strategic benefit of hitting Secundus with everything was obvious. ‘It will be up to us to turn the decision against him.’

3. SETHENO

Setheno’s crusade held the orks in the south-west quarter of Volcanus for hours. The greenskins sent infantry in greater and greater numbers to confront the prisoners. And meanwhile the lifter and the Iron Repentance continued to empty Nemesis Island of its charges. Inexhaustible numbers of animals tore each other to pieces. Justice was meted out in the midst of war, and minute after minute was gained for Armageddon’s counterattack. Individual units of battle-weary Steel Legion troopers joined the battle. Their platoons smashed, they were driven ahead of the orks. Here they fought back, and around them the mob gained direction and focus. Desperation for honour, for redemption and for life fuelled the struggle, and the legionnaires, prisoners and refugees hit the orks all the harder.

And still: stalemate. Massive as the charge was, it could not drive the much greater force of the orks from the hive. But it drew the invaders’ focus. It tied up resources. The orks could not resist the kind of challenge presented by the damned. The savagery was too familiar.

Setheno concentrated on the battlewagons. She moved from tank to tank, ducking under fire and then climbing aboard to strike down the vulnerable crews. She turned the heavy armour into flaming pyres. From their roofs, she praised the Emperor’s name, amplifying her prayers through her helmet’s vox-caster. She held Skarprattar high before each strike, so the prisoners who could not hear her would see her, see the light of holiness, and be called upon to renew the fury of redemption.

The battlewagons were inviting targets. The more the ork footsoldiers rushed to the fight, the more they hampered the tanks. The vehicles laid waste to all within the reach of their articulated arms. But barely able to move, they became fixed gun emplacements. They fell to her attacks. The streets roared with their flames.

The western sector of Volcanus was a tight, expanding, burning knot of war. Its density achieved a purity of murder. No step could be taken except through the flesh of an enemy. The grey of her armour was slicked with a wash of crimson. She waded through blood, she cut through bone, and she left a wake of fire and faith.

Where she walked, the prisoners howled prayers as they fought. They were deathbed conversions, but they had seen the truth she had brought to them. They felt the touch of her clarity. They embraced their sacrifice.

Perhaps they purchased some benefit for their souls. On that count, she had no insight. Nor did she care. All that mattered was the tactical value of their martyrdom. All that mattered was the hours they bought.

Time blurred. The battle was a storm of blood. Setheno’s awareness of location faded. Her focus was on the next step, the next blow, the next kill. An ork came at her with a chainaxe. She shot out its throat. On her right, she sliced the fingers off another’s hand before it could fire a rocket at point-blank range, and then she drove the power sword’s point up through its chin and out the top of its skull.

But when the pounding of great footsteps began, the new necessity drew her attention to the wider view of the street. The stompas were coming. The stalemate was drawing to an end.

But not yet, she thought. Not just yet.

Two stompas appeared, one at either end of the avenue. They were as tall as the lower hab blocks, and so wide they blocked the streets completely. They were the walls of a vice, coming together with a steady, inexorable pace. Combatants fled from their heavy steps, but even the time between each slow stride was not enough. Running was impossible. Orks and humans were crushed beneath the massive feet. The stompas fired, but only with the shoulder turrets. The gunners were attempting some degree of discrimination in their targets. More evidence of the unusual discipline imposed on the greenskins by their prophet.

The discipline worked against the orks. Setheno was hurling an army against them that was destined from the first to be sacrificed. On these streets, the tactics of orks and humans were reversed. The greenskins had more interest in preserving the lives of their kin than did the humans.

The situation would not last. The orks’ bloodlust would dominate, and their restraint would vanish.

A few more minutes. A few more small victories.

‘We force the xenos to extremes,’ Setheno announced. ‘Strike now. Strike hard. Find redemption now or be lost to the Emperor’s sight forever.’

Around her, the frenzy intensified. She saw the spiritual desperation in the eyes, and in the faces, and in the gestures of every human within the reach of her voice. They attacked the orks with the full fury that came of the fusion of spiritual terror and spiritual hope.

And they pushed the orks back. To Setheno’s surprise, there was movement. It was possible to move forward, to pick up speed, to run. The orks were falling…

No. They were pulling back.

Even as she riddled more greenskins with bolter shells, Setheno looked up and down the street. She saw organised movement, not a rout. The stompas had reversed course. Even more slowly than they had advanced, they walked backwards. They left open space. The remaining battlewagons drove through the infantry battles towards the gaps. They mowed down many of their own troops, but the more valuable resource was preserved. The heavy armour disappeared, pulled away down the sidestreets. The footsoldiers followed. Orks in power armour, who had just arrived on the scene, disappeared next. Setheno had the impression of the sudden withdrawing of a tide. The withdrawal that precedes the arrival of a great wave.

Two more stompas appeared at the far ends of the street, and then two more. They went to work with cannons and wrecking balls. They resumed their strategy of the night before. They blasted at the base of towers. Tall ones. Spires that stretched for thousands of metres.

The work of destruction took seconds.

Instead of a warning, Setheno shouted a promise. ‘Your reward comes now!’ she pronounced, and pointed at the swaying tower before her.

The base disintegrated. The stompas disappeared behind the sudden billow of dust and rockcrete powder. Bracketed by other structures almost as tall, the tower began its fall. Its shadow fell over the avenue. The network of walkways shattered like icicles. Their fragments fell before the huge monolith. To Setheno’s rear, the other tower began to fall towards its brother.

The prisoners and the orks still in the street froze before the vastness that came for them.

Setheno ran for the side of the street. She knew how long she had. She would not reach an intersection. She smashed through the nearest door without stopping.

Seconds slipping away. The shadow followed by the mass. A cracking thunder announced the end of the crusade.

She was in a hab. She turned left and banged open the door to the stairwell. She heard voices above and below. There were still people here, citizens crying out in terror.

She had used up her allotment of regret decades ago.

Final seconds. In her mind’s eye, she saw the great eclipse of the joined shadows. She jumped over the railing. She dropped straight down the shaft formed by the spiral of the staircase. She fell towards darkness. She grabbed a landing three floors down, arrested her fall with a jerk, let go to plummet a few more, stopped herself again, dropped again, and then darkness swallowed the whole of the staircase. Millions of tonnes of rockcrete hit the street, and took everything with it.

The impact of her landing and the blows of the collapse knocked her unconscious. When she woke, Setheno was surrounded by the deep silence of vast death. The hab’s roots went as far as the upper reaches of the underhive. She sat up. Her armour’s servo-motors caught and whined. Waves of pain collided across her frame. But she could move.

She turned on her helmet’s light. Where there had been a shaft, there was now a solid mass of rubble. The vault of the sublevel buckled. The groan of settling rubble disrupted the silence. Dust fell in steady streams on all sides.

The crusade was finished. She had done what she could. She had held the orks in Volcanus past its fall, keeping them anchored to the hive into another night. Whether that would suffice was up to Yarrick now.

She stood. She turned around until she spotted a grating in the floor. She tore it up. The drain went deeper into the underhive. Her path was clear: through the underhive to the docks once more, then commandeer the lifter back to Hive Infernus.

Above, the men and women who had followed her into combat had found their annihilation. Did they find redemption in the end?

That was not her concern. Her duty had been to push the condemned to seek absolution. She had done so, and they had met their final judgement.

The damned had their uses, and she had used them.

She made her way deeper into the darkness.

CHAPTER 13

The Cry

1. YARRICK

We reached Hive Infernus in a dim, crimson dawn. The Season of Shadows had begun. The winds of the Season of Fire had dropped, but now a deeper flame had kindled. In the Fire Wastes, the volcanic chains were in full cry. Their ash clouds joined the dust already blanketing Armageddon. The distinction between day and night was fading. We had entered a time of perpetual lightning, of a roiling sky glowing like a furnace, lit by the rage of the mountains. Our days and nights would now be shadows of red and black. We would be fighting beneath an endless fury.

Mannheim met us at the landing pad in the Legio Metalica’s staging ground. ‘We won’t have much time,’ he said as we walked towards the command block. ‘If von Strab doesn’t already know you’re here, it won’t be long before he does.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘So we won’t try to hide.’

Von Strab’s blind spot concerning the orks was immense. It was also one of his rare ones. His eyes were everywhere. Whether his tools were human, servitor, pict-feed, one way or another, there were few corners of Armageddon into which he could not see, if he felt the need. Even in the underhives, he had his spies. But he couldn’t look everywhere at once. The intensity of his surveillance increased in direct proportion to his presence. His physical safety was his paramount concern. This was followed by the need to know of anything that might conceivably offer a threat to that safety. Around his quarters, nothing moved without his knowledge. That was not my destination. The astropathic choir of Hive Infernus, housed in the control tower of the spaceport, was kilometres away from the administrative centre. But it was an important lever of power. I had no hope of reaching Genest, the master of the astropathic choir, without being seen by one of von Strab’s creatures, organic or bionic.

‘Your presence here will be notable,’ I said to Brenken. ‘If he sees you and Princeps Mannheim approaching, his focus will be on you. I’m hoping he won’t hear what I’m up to until it’s too late.’

‘Should I have my pistol drawn?’ Brenken asked, half joking.

‘No,’ I said. ‘But keep it visible. Make him wonder.’

Mannheim and Brenken left the staging area a few minutes ahead of me. I gave von Strab time to notice them, and to busy himself with preparations for the encounter. Then I began the journey to the spaceport. I made good time. I took the maglev transports. There was no stealth to be had, but speed mattered.

It was all a gamble. I couldn’t know if our diversion was working. I watched for von Strab’s security forces. I watched the people around me. I had hopes that von Strab was in the dark about my presence. Even if he was aware of me, I didn’t think he would order an attack. He had no reason to. Not unless he guessed where I was going and why. I did not give him that much credit. Even so, I prepared myself for the worst. I was ready to kill anyone who tried to stop me from reaching the astropaths.

No one did. I was at the spaceport in less than an hour. In the tower, I rode the rattling lift up to the midpoint. It deposited me in a vast scriptorium filled with clerical clamour. This was where the messages to be sent were prepared, and the messages received were annotated. Distortions and misinterpretations were not unusual. The astropaths themselves were the ones who had the training and the knowledge to decipher and interpret the visions that reached them from the warp, and to encode the outgoing messages into the psychic forms that would travel the immaterium. It was the duty of this army of scribes to cross-reference, catalogue, contextualise and prioritise the communications. It was up to them to ensure the messages found their way to the right hands. The warp storm had cut message traffic to nothing, but there was still a large backlog to work through. Messages of vital military importance always received attention first. Trade queries and the like were dealt with in order, as time permitted. It did so now. There would be a great deal cleared. Assuming the orks left the scribes to work in peace.

I walked between rows of high standing desks. Few of the scribes even looked up from their data-slates and parchments. The air of the scriptorium was filled by the sounds of rhythmic tapping, the scratching of vellum, low whispers sounding out and discarding fragments of sentences, and sporadic coughs. There were perhaps a hundred scribes. Each individual seemed silent. Collectively, they created a constant susurration.

At the far end of the scriptorium was a pair of bronze doors engraved with the eye of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Two guards stood outside. They did not wear the uniform of von Strab’s retinue; they wore the sashes of the Telepathica. Their loyalty should be to the choir beyond the door rather than to the overlord. On Armageddon, that meant little. It was entirely possible, even likely, they had been suborned.

I did not draw my bolt pistol as I walked up to them. I gave them the chance to show where their allegiance lay.

‘I must speak with Master Genest,’ I said.

On my left, the male guard said nothing. On my left, the woman said, ‘He is meditating. He can’t be disturbed.’

‘He will have to be.’ Was she lying? I was unwilling to guess.

The guards looked at each other.

The male said, ‘I will announce you, Commissar…?’ He waited for my name.

I ignored the question. ‘That won’t be necessary. Let me in. Close the door behind me.’

They hesitated, then acquiesced. They pulled the doors open, then shut them with a clang after I passed through.

The choir was held in a nautilus spiral of depressions in marble. Each astropath sat on a small pew in a narrow cleft in the stone. Only their heads were visible above the surface of the floor. Their eyes were closed in a false semblance of sleep. The psychic energy in the room made my skin crawl. I forced my eyes to circle the spiral all the way to the centre. There Genest sat with his head bowed. I walked the circles, twisting and turning until I stood at the centre. I knelt and placed my hand on Genest’s shoulder. ‘Master Genest,’ I said, ‘the Emperor calls to you. More urgently than at any time of your life. Will you heed Him?’

I waited. After a minute, Genest raised his head. His eyes searched mine. ‘What does He require?’ he croaked.

‘You tried sending a plea for help earlier. You must do so again, to specific recipients.’

‘Which ones?’

‘The Blood Angels. The Ultramarines. The Salamanders.’ Those were the three Chapters who had forces close enough to the Armageddon System that they might be able to aid us in time.

‘We have been unable to send or receive any messages since the warp storm began,’ Genest said. ‘You understand, commissar? The last thing to enter the system was the Claw of Desolation.’

‘I understand, Master Genest. Before you tell me, I also understand that Overlord von Strab has forbidden any calls for help.’

‘We are fortunate he didn’t detect the one we sent on behalf of Princeps Mannheim.’

‘And it is tragic no one else did.’

Genest’s blank eyes stared straight ahead. The walls of his stone cocoon were inlaid with gold. The lines formed runes and occult patterns. They dragged at my awareness. I could only imagine how effective they must be in drawing Genest’s consciousness into the folds of the immaterium. His eyes were blind, but I had no doubt the runes blazed before his inner vision. Genest said, ‘How bad is it?’

‘Very. The orks have conquered Armageddon Prime. They’re on their way here. Von Strab’s response has been disastrous, and there is no reason to believe he will suddenly show wisdom. Even if he did, the threat is far worse than I imagined.’

‘You think we can’t win.’

I hesitated, torn between my vow, my faith, and cold reason. I knew Armageddon could fall, yet I would not let it. ‘We will win,’ I said. ‘We will win by doing what must be done. And we must summon the help of the Adeptus Astartes.’

‘And if we can’t send our plea through the storm?’

‘You will. Because you must.’

Genest turned his head to face me. The white eyes seemed grey. His skull was brittle. The lines in his face were deep canyons. Wisps of colourless hair, insubstantial as hope, floated out from beneath his hood. ‘You ask much.’

‘I ask nothing. The situation demands this of you. Your duty to the God-Emperor requires it. And we have always owed Him everything.’

Genest nodded. ‘Are there any details you hope to convey?’

‘No. Keep things simple. This is a cry for help from Armageddon. That will suffice.’

‘If we’re interrupted…’

‘I know. You won’t be.’ We both knew von Strab would stop the choir if he realised what was going on. I expected he would. Brenken and Mannheim’s diversion would grant me only a limited head start. It would be my task to ensure Genest completed his.

I stood up. ‘There may be noise beyond the doors.’

‘We won’t hear it. What’s important is that we not be disturbed physically.’

‘I’ll see that you aren’t. Thank you, Master Genest.’

‘No, commissar. Thank you.’ The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. ‘I know you’re right. Accepting the whims of the overlord as a necessity has been a burden. You’ve recalled me to the path of my vows. I feel the burden lift, and that is a gift. This is the form my war will take. I am satisfied.’

‘You’ll have earned your place in the song,’ I said.

Genest laughed. The sound was dry, pebbles in leather. ‘And will there be any singers left, commissar?’

‘There will,’ I promised, and left the chamber.

2. MANNHEIM

‘I’m surprised to see you, Colonel Brenken,’ von Strab said. He sat on his throne with the air of offended virtue. While expressing surprise, he was doing a masterful job of concealing it in his face. If he had been startled by Brenken’s return, Mannheim thought, he had already moved on to calculating his response.

‘You were expecting me to die?’ Brenken asked.

‘No. I just never imagined you would be capable of dereliction. But I expect you had bad advice.’

Brenken stiffened. Mannheim felt his own muscles lock in solidarity. On the way to von Strab’s quarters, Brenken had spoken about what it had cost her to leave behind the tiny fragments of her regiment.

‘What were your last orders to your captains?’ Mannheim had asked.

‘To fight as long as they could, then go to ground.’

‘You’re hoping for an extraction? Helm was lucky that single Valkyrie wasn’t shot down. Von Strab was shouting about its flight minutes after it took off.’

‘I won’t have my troops thrown away,’ Brenken had replied.

Now the colonel said, ‘The 252nd has done all that was possible and more. I’m here to organise the rescue of my remaining troops, overlord.’

‘Your return was unauthorised.’

‘And,’ Brenken continued as if von Strab had not spoken, ‘I am here to report to you, in person, about the threat we face. Overlord, if we do not act, all of Armageddon is at risk.’

‘Oh? What would you have me do?’

‘A massive counterattack. Gather the regiments of the Steel Legion. March with the Legio Metalica. If we hit the orks as they’re crossing the jungle, we can keep them bogged down until reinforcements arrive.’

‘You agree with this proposal, princeps?’

‘I do,’ Mannheim said.

‘So we should leave the hives undefended?’

‘If we allow the orks to reach Secundus,’ Brenken said, ‘our defences will already have been breached.’

Von Strab smiled. ‘But the jungle will not allow the orks to reach Secundus.’

‘Overlord,’ Brenken said, ‘I assure you, they will cross the jungle. If they haven’t begun the process already, they will very soon. I am as sure of this as I have been of anything in my entire career.’

‘Given your lack of success in Tempestora and Volcanus, I’m sceptical of your judgement,’ von Strab told her. He shrugged. ‘But we can all be wrong. I have a better approach in mind. If the orks set foot on Secundus, they will find our cities well defended and they will be repulsed by the Legio Metalica.’

Mannheim blinked. The fate of the Iron Skulls was now in play. It had been torn from his grasp. His proud legion was suddenly the plaything of a petty tyrant’s whim. He saw a new disaster taking shape. Von Strab was ready to repeat the mistake that had doomed Armageddon Prime. Piecemeal, he was engineering the loss of the planet. ‘I must warn against such an action,’ Mannheim said.

‘Duly noted, princeps. My confidence in your abilities appears to be stronger than your own. No false humility, please. This is hardly the time.’ Von Strab began to form his unctuous smile, then stopped. He frowned. ‘What reinforcements?’ he said.

‘Overlord?’ Mannheim asked.

‘Colonel, you mentioned reinforcements.’

‘Yes, because we need them.’

‘We do not, and we cannot have them.’

‘We do and we must,’ she replied.

Von Strab stared at her. ‘You’re very certain.’

‘I am. We–’

He cut her off. ‘Did Commissar Yarrick survive?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He arrived with you, didn’t he?’ Again, he didn’t wait. He rose from the throne. His retinue clapped their gauntlets against their rifles. ‘Get to the spaceport,’ he ordered. He glared at Mannheim and Brenken. His face and scalp had turned purple. It was the first time Mannheim had seen him enraged. It was, he realised, the first time he had seen von Strab feel threatened. ‘I will not be humiliated,’ the overlord said.

‘It is odd,’ Mannheim replied, ‘that you would prefer to be annihilated.’

3. GENEST

The rest of the choir had remained silent during his exchange with Yarrick. They had heard, though. And when Genest said, ‘We have work to do,’ the prayer that greeted his words was heartfelt.

It was a prayer for the strength to complete the task. It was a prayer of gratitude that they were taking meaningful action. It was a prayer for protection against what they would now encounter.

‘Speak through me,’ Genest told the choir. ‘In the name of the God-Emperor. Be His words and His will.’ He opened his inner eye. Slowly. Even before he began, the warp storm tore at him. It had become the fanged backdrop to his awareness, gnawing at his edges, waiting for him to turn its way, hungry for his mind and soul, and for the minds and souls of all the astropaths in his charge.

And now he turned.

Chaos raked him with claws. Pain stabbed into the core of his identity. It tried to pry him apart with lightning. A cacophony of half-formed ideas, broken language and molten dreams poured into him. His perception fell into a whirlpool, was shattered by eruptions, swept up in a hurricane. If he had been alone, his identity would have been whipped to shreds. But the choir was with him, and he with it. The telepathic song was a collective strength, a core that preserved. It held fast in the face of the storm, but Genest was just at its edges. He had to go deeper. He had to work his way through the vortex.

The message was simple. That was a mercy. It was direct, urgent, impossible to misinterpret. Genest forged a psychic impression as dense and focused as a bolter shell. It was as immune to distortion as any astropathic communication could be. Now that he was committed to this action, the message was vital to Genest. He shared the cry of Armageddon. He had not witnessed what Yarrick had in Secundus. But he felt the warp storm. He knew its corrosion. And he knew it was not a simple coincidence. Somehow, it was linked to the orks. They had not willed it into existence. That was impossible. But orks did have a psychic force of some kind. A threat as monumental as Yarrick described would have an effect on the materium. Perhaps the warp storm was one such effect.

Collective will, collective urgency, collective desperation. They gave direction to the choir. A unity of iron to pierce the chaos, to batter through the wall of howling disorder surrounding the Armageddon System. Genest directed the blows, and he was one with the blows. His identity had a single purpose, and the goal preserved him. The talons of unreality raked the flesh of his soul, the choir’s soul. The choir bled, and he bled. The storm would tear them to tatters.

Forward. Deeper. And the storm reaching deeper into him. Entropy was insistent as acid.

Coming apart. Eroded. Disintegrating.

But though he was fraying, he held the shape of the cry. He forced it through the storm. Then he and the choir, mortally injured but fused in duty and need, hurled the cry to the galaxy and Armageddon’s need shrieked across dreams.

4. YARRICK

In the scriptorium, I spoke with the two guards. The woman’s name was Dreher. The man was Fertig. ‘The choir is calling for aid,’ I told them. ‘The overlord will send forces to stop this message from being sent. Anyone who joins in that attempt is turning against the needs of Armageddon, and of the Imperium itself. I will use lethal force. Stand with me, leave, or fight me now. Decide.’ I left my pistol holstered. I wanted their decision to be a truthful one.

‘I am with you,’ Dreher said. Fertig nodded.

‘Good.’ I turned to the ranks of scribes. A few of the nearest had raised their heads to watch our exchange. The others worked on. I raised my voice. ‘I am suspending work in this chamber,’ I announced.

A startled silence followed. An army of confused faces turned my way. Nothing in the memory of these faithful servants had ever interfered with their duties, least of all the commands of a military officer.

‘Leave,’ I told them. ‘Immediately.’

They did, quietly, quickly, without question. They did not understand, nor did they wish to. They believed their ignorance would shield them. Perhaps.

Even before the scriptorium was fully vacated, I began overturning the desks and benches. Dreher and Fertig joined in. We threw together two makeshift barricades, one in front of the elevators, and a larger one, over two metres high, before the bronze doors, with room behind it for us. The rest of the chamber’s furniture we threw to the floor, denying any clear run to the doors to the astropathic chamber.

The lift clattered to life.

‘Get ready,’ I said. We took up our positions. We aimed bolt pistol and lasrifles at the elevator and through the stacked desks. ‘Hold fire until my order,’ I said.

The doors opened. Men wearing von Strab’s colours collided with the first barricade. They climbed on top. There were a dozen of them, their weapons drawn.

‘Fire,’ I said.

We shot them before they had a chance to descend. We caught them in the open, vulnerable, surprised. They had not expected to be opposed. They had not believed it possible for anyone to fight the edicts of Herman von Strab. In those first few seconds, four of them were killed by their presumption. Two more dropped to the front of the barrier. They scrambled for non-existent cover. We took them down too. The others fell back to the other side, and they returned fire. Las burned though iron and wood. It chipped at our shelter, but couldn’t reach us. Not yet.

‘Stay down,’ I told Dreher and Fertig. The pile of furniture was no barrier to my bolt shells. I aimed at the movement by the elevator and shot a man through the midsection.

We traded fire for a few minutes. Von Strab’s men ran back and forth, making my shots difficult. Fertig took a hit to the right arm. His breath whined. He could no longer raise his rifle. He perched it on a broken desk and kept firing.

I killed two more, then reloaded. The elevator doors opened again, unloading reinforcements. Numbers gave the von Strab troops courage, and they changed their tactics. They pushed against their barricade. The heap moved forward along the floor for almost two metres before it collapsed. The overlord’s faithful rushed us. They ran into our fire, and we took some down, but there were only three of us. Their shots kept us down, seeking the thicker portions of our shield. Dreher’s luck ran out. Las came through a gap and seared her through her throat. I killed two more of the enemy, and they were down to ten by the time they reached the barricade. Half of them fired low into the desks. The others began to climb. I jumped up, held the leg of a chair and kept my feet a metre off the ground, avoiding the incoming fire. I fired up and through the barrier, spreading my shots. Bodies fell. Fertig tried to scramble up too, but his arm was too weak. Las took him down at the legs, and when he fell, he was burned.

I was alone against seven. I threw a frag over the barricade and jumped back. It was a short toss. It came down on the other side, too close to be safe. I crouched against the doors. The las-fire stopped as the grenade landed. There was a half-second of shouts of alarm, then the blast, the wind of shrapnel, and the screams. A portion of the barricade blew my way. Jagged metal and wood slammed against bronze. They cut through the back of my coat, lacerating my flesh. I felt a hard punch against my spine. It knocked me forward, but did not impale. I stood, turned and charged back, pistol firing and sword drawn. I plunged through the burning gap in the barrier. Splintered wood gouged my face and smoke enveloped me as I ran. On the other side, blood slicked the floor. Men with no faces and missing limbs writhed. One of the enemy, his uniform torn, his chest bleeding, lunged at me. I hacked at his neck with my blade. He staggered back three steps, vitae fountaining over me, and then collapsed.

Two left standing, still stunned by the blast. One raised his rifle. I blew the right side of his skull away. The other backed away from his gun, arms up. ‘Your actions betray Armageddon and the Emperor,’ I said. I shot him in the face, obliterating a traitor. Then I took my sword to the injured troops, finishing them off. I struck without mercy, but as punishment.

Silence, then, dusted with the creaks of settling debris. It lasted a minute before the elevator rumbled once more. There was no shelter now. I advanced to the doors and pointed my bolt pistol, ready to fire. The doors ground open. Von Strab stood with five of his retinue. Brenken and Mannheim were there too. I lowered my weapon quickly before his men had an excuse to shoot.

Another moment when I might have killed von Strab passed. I had not sought it, but the opportunity had been there. A squeeze of the trigger, one simple act, and we would have both been absent from the rest of the war. Let the chroniclers decide if my decision was the correct one.

I stepped back from the elevator. The guards emerged, rifles trained on me. Von Strab waited until they had me surrounded, then stepped out. ‘Disarm him,’ he said. His voice snapped with anger. His right cheek twitched. His mask of control had slipped. I was pleased. I had never seen a blow land against his power before, and I am human. I was happy to be the author of his discomfort.

His guards hesitated. I holstered my pistol and sheathed my sword. I stared at them, daring them to come for my arms. They stood fast, guns unwavering. They did nothing more. Von Strab walked away as if his order had been obeyed. He kicked his way through the wreckage towards the far doors. ‘I will not be defied,’ he announced.

Brenken and Mannheim came up behind the guards. They said nothing. Their rank spoke for them. The guards took a step back from me.

Von Strab was a few steps from the door. ‘You’re too late,’ I bluffed.

He looked back. ‘You should pray I’m not.’

He was bluffing too, I thought. He walked forward again. He reached for the door.

The scream came.

It was a single voice and many. It was a mosaic of psychic pain. It wrapped itself around our souls. It savaged us with the shrapnel of minds. The guards dropped their guns. All of us clapped our hands to our ears as if we could keep out the cry. It rose, it twisted, it drew itself out to a ragged scraping of high notes. At the end, I thought I detected, buried in the horror, a note of triumph.

The cry ended. Von Strab had fallen to his knees. He stood up and hauled open the doors. We followed him into the astropathic chamber.

The choir was shattered. Several of the shapes in the marble cocoons were still. Others twitched, their mouths slack and drooling. A few wept. Master Genest turned his head at the sound of our arrival. Blood ran from his eyes, from his ears, and from a hole that had opened in the centre of his forehead, as if a predatory animal had gouged him with a claw. His face had turned white veined with rotten green. I wondered if he could hear us. Yet his blank eyes were trained on me. With a voice that seemed to come from the depths of the void, he whispered, ‘It is done.’

CHAPTER 14

Hades

1. YARRICK

If Mannheim and Brenken hadn’t been witnesses, von Strab would have had me executed. And even their presence would have been insufficient if Genest had been unable to complete the call for help. But Armageddon’s silence was broken. Its plight was known. Von Strab had to factor into his political calculations the arrival of other parties. So he publicly washed his hands of me. He had his guards escort me to Seroff’s quarters.

The lord commissar stared at me. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Not enough greenskins out there for you? You felt the need to kill men engaged in the loyal execution of their duty?’

I snorted. ‘Can’t you do any better than that, Dominic? I was doing what you should have done.’

‘You really believe that working at cross-purposes to the supreme commander of Armageddon’s defence is helpful?’

‘You really believe that following his lead is?’

‘I don’t have to answer to you.’

‘No. But in the end, you will be called upon to answer for your actions. Whether or not any of us survive this war.’ His new defensiveness was telling. He had to be uneasy about the conduct of the war. Seroff was no fool. I thought he was also uncomfortable about his alliance with von Strab. ‘You’re better than von Strab,’ I said. ‘We are beholden to the Emperor, not the corrupt.’

I had given him a way out. He refused it. His features darkened with his hatred of me. ‘The disloyal have no lessons to teach about corruption.’

I shrugged. ‘Very true.’

He took my agreement as an insult. Which it was.

‘So?’ I asked. ‘What now?’

‘I want you out of my sight,’ he said.

But not dead, and not in prison. He had the official authority to see to those fates, but not the moral one, and he was conscious of Mannheim, and, like von Strab, of who might be on their way to Armageddon.

Seroff and von Strab had made their decision even before the guards had brought me to the lord commissar. They sentenced me to my original punishment. They banished me from the seat of power. And so at last I came to Hades Hive.

I flew out on the same Valkyrie that had brought me to Volcanus. Wengraf was heading back to rejoin Teodor Helm’s command. I sat in the cockpit with him. At the first sight of the hive, I winced. My right arm throbbed again. I rubbed it, though the pain ran deeper than the muscles. My shoulder tensed as if caught in a vice.

Wengraf noticed. ‘Commissar?’ he asked.

I flexed my arm. The pain flared into a bright shock, jerking me to the right. Then it faded. ‘I’m all right,’ I said. ‘An old wound on an old man.’

Through the armourglass canopy, I looked at Hades as I had not in the past. In the pursuit of my duty to the planet, as I endeavoured to become familiar with all of Armageddon, I had been to Hades before. Not for long periods, but long enough to know my way around. Like all of the world’s great hives, it was a sprawling, mountainous concatenation of manufactoria and habs, each blending into the other. From this distance, spires and chimneys were indistinguishable in the shroud of black smoke. Hades was different from the other hives because of its decline. Its governor, Lord Matthias Tritten, had the least influence of any of his peers, and thus was one of the most beholden to von Strab. Hades’ principle industries were mining and the refining of ore. Its output was measured in the millions of tonnes every year, but every year, the production decreased. One seam after another was exhausted. A massive, interconnected tapestry of mines spread from the city walls. The mixture of surface and sub-surface operations had turned the landscape outside Hades into a hollowed-out moonscape. The search for more deposits spread the mark of the hive ever further, but the last few decades had made it clear the richest reserves in that region of the continent had already been found. There was still work for millions of Hades’ citizens.

And there was only desperation for millions more.

That desperation, I thought, would be useful. We were all desperate now, even if not every inhabitant knew it yet.

Hades Hive was distinct from the other hives in another way – its mountain of spires was hollow. The towers, manufactoria, chapels and winding, labyrinthine streets surrounded a structure so massive, it was the size of a small city on its own. The inner fastness of Hades was an indestructible relic of its history, of its former wealth, and of other wars, millennia past, on Armageddon. The hive had grown up around the great fortress. It was a squat, boxy monstrosity. It had been an attempt to create an entirely self-sufficient, unbreachable arcology. Ore refining, administration, worship, habitation – they were all contained within its gigantic rockcrete-and-iron walls. The fastness was a folly, suitable only to a state of war. Inside, there were more and still more barriers, a concentric retrenchment that envisioned the need to pull back and back and back, until only the most vital elements held out in one final keep. Life confined to its interior was intolerable. Even the governor’s palace was a recent addition, built up on the fastness’s roof. It was not a structure anyone inhabited or worked in by choice. For the hundreds of thousands inside, there was no choice.

On this day, I saw it with new eyes. I thought it was beautiful.

I looked down at the terrain, at the vast pits, the sinkholes, and the pinpricks of shafts. This was a network of hollowed out land that put the trenches of Volcanus to shame. I saw potential there too.

Wengraf descended to a landing pad inside the east wall. A wide road and rail network led to the main gate on this side. Transport vehicles and ore trains were still making their runs. They would do so until the threat was imminent. Inside the gates, the road traffic was re-routed around the tanks and artillery of the 33rd, 97th, 110th and 146th Regiments. Helm, overall commander due to seniority, had his troops on high alert, and his defence was ready for the enemy. The road would be the most inviting approach for the orks. I pictured the tactic used at Volcanus, and imagined the furious speed the battlewagons could achieve on that pavement. Helm had his heavy armour prepped to deny Ghazghkull this entry. As we landed, I saw plenty of activity on the walls. Good signs all.

A sergeant greeted me when I disembarked. ‘Commissar Yarrick,’ he said. ‘Colonel Helm would like to meet you.’ The soldier was an old veteran, long of arm and short of leg. His narrow face looked incongruous on his broad shoulders. He grinned as he saluted, and he kept grinning.

‘What’s your name, sergeant?’ I asked as he led me from the landing pad.

‘Lanner, commissar.’

‘You seem amused, Sergeant Lanner.’

He nodded. ‘Heard some good stories. Heard you don’t put up with what that fat turd keeps shovelling our way.’

I managed to keep a straight face. Lanner’s effrontery was astonishing. It was also bulletproof. I would be a hypocrite if I denied the accuracy of his evaluation of von Strab. I was also stunned any trooper would spout such blatant sedition to a commissar, never mind one he had just met.

I was caught off guard.

I liked the man immediately.

‘I sense you’re not one to conceal your opinions.’

Lanner chuckled. He tapped at his copious facial scars. ‘I didn’t come by all these in the battlefield, commissar. Amazing how many people object to a fellow being frank with them.’

‘Amazing,’ I said dryly.

His grin was huge now. ‘It really is.’

The command tent was set up midway between the landing pad and the lines of tanks. Lanner pulled the flap back, announced me, carelessly saluted and sauntered away. I stepped inside to find Teodor Helm who was alone. Though younger than Brenken, Helm was old enough and not new to combat. He was wiry, of medium height, and had eyes of a grey so pale they seemed translucent. ‘I’m glad to meet you, commissar,’ he said. ‘I thought it best we had our first conference on our own.’

‘I agree. Let me begin with my thanks,’ I replied. ‘Those of Colonel Brenken too.’

‘How is she?’

‘As well as a colonel whose command has been thrown away by a fool can be.’ If Helm had sent Lanner to greet me, it was clear we were going to understand each other.

‘Has any of the 252nd survived?’

‘In Volcanus? We’ve heard nothing. We can hope. The Emperor protects.’

‘The Emperor protects,’ he repeated, heartfelt.

I glanced around the tent. Its contents were minimal: a vox unit, a single chair, a table with maps of Hades and its environs. ‘May I ask why you’ve set up command here?’ There were plenty of buildings overlooking the traffic node he had turned into staging grounds.

‘More central,’ he said. ‘When I have to move, I expect I won’t have much time.’

‘Very true.’ Everything I learned confirmed Brenken’s judgement of Helm.

Helm picked up a data-slate from the table. ‘I have orders concerning you, commissar.’

‘My guess is my original assignment as recruitment overseer has changed.’

‘It has. Somewhat. I’m instructed to assign you as political officer to whatever company will be first out to meet the orks.’

‘Those orders are subtle in their intent.’

‘Quite. I am also to keep you far from the levers of command.’

‘I appreciate your candour.’

He tossed the data-slate back on the table. ‘I have no intention of following orders so idiotic.’

‘Do they come from General Andechs?’

‘Ostensibly.’

‘You are showing little respect for the chain of command,’ I reminded him.

‘As a commissar, it is not just your right, but your duty, to remove unfit officers from their position.’

‘It is.’

‘By extension, and in the absence of said unfit officers, it could be argued it becomes your responsibility to set aside their unfit orders.’

‘So it could be argued, yes.’

He spread his hands. ‘Then the matter is in your hands. Commissar, I have reason to doubt the validity of these orders.’

We understood each other. ‘Tell me where things stand in Hades Hive,’ I said.

‘I have integrated the Hive Militia with the regiments. That has gone smoothly. But based on what you saw at Tempestora and Volcanus, are we strong enough to repel the orks?’

‘No.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘You think they will take Hades?’

‘They will not. We will hold. And the citizens must fight with us.’

‘As they did in Volcanus?’

‘Yes. With full regiments and more time to prepare.’ And my vow.

Helm nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We do not have the armoury of Volcanus.’

‘We’ll manage. What is your take on the governor?’

‘That you should meet him for yourself.’

‘I see. He’s back, then?’

‘Yes. Von Strab sent them all back to their respective hives yesterday. Governor Tritten is weak politically. The extent of the poverty here…’ He shook his head.

‘I know. And the underhive?’

‘Tritten can barely keep a lid on it. He would quarantine it if he could.’

The situation had been bad when I had last been here. It had gone downhill since. I would find a way to use it all. I would fashion Hades into a weapon with which to smash the orks. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I should see the governor.’

‘Sergeant Lanner’s squad will escort you. He’s inspecting the battlements.’

‘Will he rally the people?’

Helm grimaced. ‘You should see him,’ he repeated.

‘I see.’ I turned to go. At the flap, I paused. ‘Colonel,’ I said, ‘Hades will not fall, because we will not fight a defensive war. We will go on the offence. This hive will be our counterattack.’

Matthias Tritten was not where Lanner had expected to find him.

The sergeant looked up and down the ramparts. There was no sign of the governor and his retinue. He asked the troopers stationed nearby. Tritten had left not long before, descending to the streets. They didn’t know where he’d gone, but it couldn’t have been very far.

‘Not like him,’ Lanner said. ‘He likes to be visible, that one.’

‘You’re not new to Hades,’ I guessed.

‘Born and bred,’ he said with rough pride. ‘Underhive rat, me. I remember Tritten’s father. Haven’t been here that much since I was tithed, but enough. Wants everybody to know he’s the great man, does our lord governor.’ He snorted. ‘When he’s out and about, you always know where he is and where he’s been.’

So Tritten’s absence was significant. I walked to the inward edge of the rampart and looked out at the streets. They were crowded, too much so. The pedestrian traffic was interfering with the movement of military convoys. Tritten, or his proxy during his absence, should have already converted the entire hive to a war footing. I was seeing citizens attempting to continue with their lives. Already, this was a significant failure of leadership.

I put my displeasure aside. Where would a normally ostentatious governor go that would draw little attention?

I pointed to a large chapel about a thousand metres away, just visible between soot-blackened hab blocks. ‘Let’s try there.’

Lanner grunted in the affirmative. We made our way down from the wall and through the choking traffic to the Chapel of the Martyrs Militant. The church was a good symbol of the decay of Hades Hive. Its architecture was grand, and the grime that covered its facade was no different from what was the case in the other hives. But the rose window had lost many of its panes of stained glass. Some had been bricked up, but there were gaps too. Inside, the pillars and vaults were rough with layers of dirt and acid erosion. The floor crunched beneath my boots, the rockcrete flaking. The tapestries and banners had grown threadbare. The grime was so thick it obscured their subjects, and they gleamed slightly, as if slimy to the touch. The foul wind of Hades blew in through the gaps in the window, filling the nave with the sulphur-and-diesel stink of the hive. The banners moved sluggishly.

The chapel was empty.

Lanner said, ‘Usually somebody here.’

I agreed. Even between services, it was very odd to see pews completely empty in any public place of worship. ‘Unless they’ve been made to leave,’ I said. I moved down the nave.

At the transept crossing, we heard the echo of footsteps on our right. We stopped and waited. The doors to the crypt were in the north transept. After a few moments, the lord governor of Hades Hive emerged through the doors, accompanied by a squad of his personal guards. They wore the deep blue Tritten livery. Their uniforms were stained, unkempt. They looked more like bored, hired guns than loyal servants of the family.

Matthias Tritten was a soft man. His contours lacked definition. Middle-aged, of average weight and height, his robes of office seemed too heavy for him. He hesitated when he saw us, then swept forward, doing his best to look imperious. He failed.

‘I ordered the sanctuary cleared,’ he said as he neared us.

Ignoring him, Lanner said, ‘Commissar Yarrick, Lord Tritten.’

‘We were looking for you,’ I said. ‘We understood you were inspecting the defences.’ I made a point of glancing around the space of the chapel. ‘How do you find them?’

I made no attempt to hide my contempt. Instead of trying to have me arrested, Tritten became defensive. His eyes jumped about the room, hunted prey. He had none of von Strab’s deftness in calculation. ‘I saw what I needed to,’ he said. ‘There are some aspects which Colonel Helm should see to, and I will bring them to his attention.’

‘He’ll be grateful, yes he will,’ Lanner said. I shot him a look and he took a step back.

Again, Tritten did not retaliate. Instead, he said, ‘Good.’ Clearly, he did not feel himself to be in a position of strength. For a governor, that was pathetic.

My estimation of the man fell even further.

Tritten went on. ‘I felt the need for prayer and reflection to prepare for the time of trial awaiting us.’

‘Quite,’ I said.

Tritten glared, and something cleared in his eyes. ‘Yarrick,’ he said. ‘Overlord von Strab sent me word about you.’ His master’s voice gave him courage. ‘I see you have already forgotten your place. We have nothing to say to each other.’ He turned away, drawing his robes closer. He stalked off. His guards followed. They looked less bored than before, but uninterested in throwing their weight around in the defence of their lord.

‘The roads are clogged with traffic,’ I called to Tritten.

He stopped. ‘And?’

‘Play your role, governor. The citizens need direction. They are as much a part of the campaign as we are. Whatever you may hope, the xenos threat is coming here. The Steel Legion will fight to the end. And so must every citizen of Hades. Do you understand? Or do you expect to hide and pray and expect the Astra Militarum to make the nightmare go away?’

‘I’ve heard enough.’ He started walking again.

‘Lead, and lead well,’ I warned him.

‘What makes you think you can give orders?’ he snapped.

‘What makes you think you can ignore them?’

He didn’t answer.

I waited until the chapel doors boomed shut behind him and his escort. I made straight for the crypt stairs. ‘We need to see what he wanted down there,’ I said.

‘Don’t think he was praying?’ Lanner asked, playing at innocence.

‘Not for a second.’ Tritten struck me as the sort who would plead to the God-Emperor with all his strength when all else had failed, but until then any expression of faith was a show. He was a coward, with a coward’s pragmatic corruption. Something he valued greatly was in the crypt.

It didn’t take us long to find his secret. One of his guards must have heard us enter the chapel, raised the alarm, and they had left quickly. There hadn’t been time for proper concealment and the attempt that had been made only served to draw my attention. The lumen strips at the far end of the crypt had been destroyed. The dim lighting gave way there to pitch black. One of Lanner’s troopers flicked on a torch. We walked down a narrow lane between the marble sarcophagi of ecclesiarchs. At the end was the largest and most ornate. It was the tomb of Saint Karafa. The details of the cardinal’s heroism were part of the hidden period of Armageddon’s history, but if it had been decreed that his deeds be forgotten, it had also been commanded that his name should be immortalised. The sides of the huge marble sarcophagus were carved into a tangle of shapes that suggested holy struggle without representing Saint Karafa’s foes. The cardinal stood tall in the centre, radiating sanctity and the Emperor’s light.

On the far side of the tomb was a door. Its outline was a rectangular seam cutting through the sculpture. I pushed. It swung open with the scrape of stone on stone. The tomb had been hollowed out. My jaw tightened at the sight of the desecration. In the glow of the torch, I could see the marks of tools and the damage done to the art. The work was not original to the tomb, yet it did not seem recent.

Inside the monument, a ladder descended a shaft. The beam of the torch could not reach the bottom. I crouched at the edge and peered down. No way to tell at a glance where someone starting down the ladder would end up, but the purpose of the shaft was clear.

Escape.

Lanner whistled. ‘Doesn’t do cowardice in half measures, does he?’

‘He does not.’ I straightened. ‘We need to know where this goes.’

Lanner nodded. ‘Gaden, Tetting, you’re volunteers. Off you go.’

The two troopers began the long climb. We watched until they were just the sparks of two torches far below.

‘What do you think, commissar?’ Lanner asked.

‘I think Lord Tritten was checking on a dynastic legacy.’

‘Aye to that. Generations of cowards. Well, they were never loved, that family.’

‘An escape route of this sort would have to be a last resort,’ I reasoned. ‘One to use when a shuttle flight away from Hades was impossible.’

‘Must go far, then. No point popping up in front of the gates.’

‘Yes. My guess is your men will find access to disused mining tunnels, and those won’t surface until well beyond the walls.’

‘As soon as they’re back, we’ll do some demolition.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘This could be useful. Post guards, though. If anyone with a title tries to use it, shoot him.’

2. MANNHEIM

Setheno returned to Infernus, and she bore tidings: the orks were crossing the jungle. Mannheim was there in the throne room when she presented the news to von Strab. He was there to see the overlord’s face when he heard what Setheno had seen from the lifter – the orks tearing through the natural barrier with fire and abandon, towering machines of war levelling trees, smashing a trail through for the rest of the army to follow. He finally saw terror etch its mark on von Strab’s face.

I have lived to see that, he thought. It was not despair that made him think he would not live to experience much more satisfaction. It was realism.

‘But the Equatorial Jungle is slowing them,’ von Strab said, as if stating his wish with enough force would make it a fact.

‘They were making good time,’ said Setheno. ‘The challenges of the terrain and the wildlife appeared to be inspiring them to greater efforts. They will arrive the stronger for their journey.’

‘How long…?’ Von Strab did not complete the question. Even now, he would not articulate what he had so vehemently declared was impossible.

Setheno finished the sentence for him. ‘Before they reach Armageddon Secundus? A few days. Maybe less.’

‘Well then,’ von Strab said. ‘Well then. I see.’

Meaningless words, Mannheim thought. Sounds made to buy some time, to save face, to pretend there was a simple solution to the catastrophe.

‘Measures must be taken,’ von Strab said, managing more than a two-word sentence. Then he looked at Mannheim. The next sentence he spoke was fully developed. It was articulate. It was full of meaning. And it was completely mad.

Now, walking across the vast pavement of the Iron Skulls’ staging ground, Mannheim found he could not remember von Strab’s precise words. Though he had expected them, the scale of their folly was so vast the rational mind refused to preserve them. He had to live the insanity of their meaning, though.

The stretch of rockcrete covered many square kilometres. It was beyond the outer wall of Infernus. The hive’s density was too great for a flat, open space this vast. And it was home to colossi that towered over the battlements. Humans moving on foot were insects, their existence rendered trivial by the immense figures of war. The God Machines were motionless, statues of destruction rising to the sky. They were not silent, though. On all sides, Mannheim heard the powering up of reactors.

A wind of fire was coming into being.

Setheno and Brenken accompanied Mannheim on the journey to Steel Hammer. The Imperator’s shadow fell over them, the twin cathedral spires rising from its shoulders pointing accusatory fingers back towards the heart of Infernus.

Brenken was swearing under her breath. ‘Sending the Iron Skulls out with no support,’ she said. ‘He must know he’s repeating the mistake that lost Primus.’

‘He doesn’t believe that was a mistake,’ Setheno told her. ‘It failed because of your incompetence. You did not carry out his orders as required. But now he uses his great weapon.’ She spread her arms to take in the Legio Metalica.

‘His,’ Mannheim spat the word’s bitter taste from his mouth.

‘Your pardon, princeps,’ said Setheno. ‘That is how he views you, and all of us. Every soul on Armageddon exists for his benefit.’ The cold, gold eyes looked at something beyond the horizon. ‘Our tragedy is to have the truth of our debt to the Emperor so distorted. Its correct application would be our salvation.’

‘What are your plans?’ Brenken asked Mannheim.

‘My orders don’t give me much room to manoeuvre. We are to march to meet the orks. So we march.’

‘But without any support…’

‘I know.’ His Titans would smash the crude ork machines. That was a firm article of faith. But the Legio Metalica represented one particular form of warfare. The God Machines were not designed to combat the mobs of smaller foes. They would inflict terrible losses on infantry and fast vehicles, but they could no more block their advance than a pillar could stop a tide. While they fought the ork gargants and stompas, they would be vulnerable to the waves of ork tanks.

‘The orders are without merit,’ Setheno said. ‘They are given by a creature even more worthless.’

‘But he is overlord, and I am no mutineer. I have given my oath of service, and I will keep it. If I break it, I am guilty of treachery and heresy.’

‘Von Strab’s command has no legitimacy,’ Brenken said.

‘On the contrary,’ Setheno replied. ‘Legitimacy is all it has. And there is a mechanism to remove that.’

Brenken picked up on the hint. ‘Lord Commissar Seroff hasn’t shown any interest in exercising that sanction.’

‘I doubt he could even if he had the inclination,’ Mannheim said. ‘Von Strab is a miserable supreme commander, but he is very good at personal survival. His personal guard is good. His security precautions are strong. Seroff would have to be willing to die in the attempt.’

Brenken sighed. ‘I’ll try speaking with General Andechs, but he’s beholden to von Strab.’

‘I will pray for your success,’ Mannheim said. They had reached the feet of Steel Hammer. Valth and Dammann, his moderati, stood at attention by the entrance to the right leg, waiting for him. ‘I will pray for us all,’ he said. ‘The Emperor protects.’

‘The Emperor protects,’ Brenken and Setheno returned. They left him then, and he turned to Steel Hammer.

The elevator carried Mannheim and the moderati up through the leg and into the Titan’s pelvis. There they walked through the corridor of vaulted metal, past rushing steersmen and tech-priests, to the core, and another elevator took them to the height of Steel Hammer’s head. As they rose higher, Mannheim felt the clammy grasp of Armageddon’s politics slip from his spirit. He and his troops were about to live consequences of those foetid intrigues, but they would do so with honour and in the certainties of battle. If von Strab’s lunacy was leading Mannheim to death and defeat, he would encounter both with honour. He would confront the inevitable, and do all in his power to send it fleeing.

In the skull, Mannheim stood beside the command throne for a few moments before beginning the linking ritual. He looked out of the armourglass eyes. Before him was the crimson and gold might of the Iron Skulls. The Titans stood in a wedge with Steel Hammer at its point. Three Warlords. Behind them, eight Reavers. Then a row of a dozen Warhounds. A respectful distance behind, but ready to race ahead if given the order, were the ranks of the Skitarii Rhinos. Valkyries sat on landing pads to the left and right. All the great engines of war faced the Imperator as if awaiting its inspection.

Everywhere the banners of the Legion flapped in the smoky wind of Hades. The winged skull on a field of red and the black aquila on yellow, side by side, the fury of the Iron Skulls fused to the cause of the Imperium.

The fury that could smash civilisations was ready to be unleashed.

The control of that power was still a new sensation. Mannheim was acting commander of the Iron Skulls. A new Grand Master had yet to be formally named. The previous one’s sudden death gnawed at Mannheim. He had questions, all unanswered. He had speculations, all unsupported. Had the old man been assassinated? Had he defied von Strab in some way? Was Mannheim betraying his memory by remaining true to his oath? He couldn’t know. He had no evidence, only hunches and a distrust of coincidences.

And he had his oath, his honour, and the unity he had preserved in the Legio Metalica.

‘Let us begin,’ he said to Valth and Dammann. He sat in the throne. Its mechadendrites uncoiled. They reached for the implants in his skull, his neck, his spine. Clamps held his arms and legs in place. In the last moment before the contacts were made, he bid farewell to the weak meat of his human self. He opened himself to the embrace of Steel Hammer.

He felt the wrench, a disorientation so great it was a perfect agony as his perception became that of a god. His body was in the cockpit, and it was also a hundred and fifty metres tall. His arms were human, and they were the instruments of final judgement. He was motionless in the throne, and he bore a cathedral on his shoulders. He was mortal, and he was the eternal embodiment of Crusade.

Steel Hammer’s machine-spirit fused with his consciousness. He and the Titan were both one and distinct. The rage of war became his passion, his one desire to strike the enemy with all the terrible force contained within his body. His reason was still Mannheim, and he checked Steel Hammer. He channelled its rage.

The actions of the crew were the circulation of blood through the great body. And in the cathedral, the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus prayed to the Omnissiah, and the work to preserve the soul of the machine began.

He opened a channel to the vox-network and the vox-casters that lined the spires. When he spoke, his voice was heard by every member of the Legion, and it became a thunder that rolled over the streets of Hades.

‘Iron Skulls,’ Mannheim said, ‘the xenos threat hurries towards Armageddon Secundus. It is our sacred task to punish their transgression. We march alone, but who shall stand before us? We march alone, but the Emperor marches with us. So let us march, and shake the sky itself.’

The war horns of every Titan sounded, and the sky did tremble, blasted by a long, drawn-out fanfare of the end of worlds.

Then Steel Hammer moved. It turned. With each step a great blow upon a divine drum, the Imperator began the march.

CHAPTER 15

The Death Barrens

1. YARRICK

In the late afternoon of my second day in Hades, Helm sent for me. I expected to meet him in the command tent, and was surprised when Lanner brought me to one of the bunkers atop the outer wall. It was a hardened communications centre next to an artillery turret. Helm was alone once again, and he sent Lanner away. The bunker’s slit looked out over the eastern approach to the hive. Inside, there was a stone bench built into the rear wall. A ledge, also stone, projected out of the right corner. The vox mic sat on the ledge.

Helm looked grim.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘The overlord has sent out the Legio Metalica to take on the orks.’

‘Without support.’

‘Yes. Princeps Kurtiz Mannheim wishes to speak with you. You won’t be disturbed here.’

In other words, we would be free to speak about subjects Helm suspected even he should not hear. ‘Thank you, colonel,’ I said, impressed.

Helm nodded and left. I sat. I reached to my right, to the vox bank on the wall and flicked the switch to open the channel. ‘I’m here, Princeps Mannheim,’ I said. ‘Are you already within sight of the orks?’

‘Not yet. Our reconnaissance flights have spotted them. We will meet no later than early evening tomorrow. Commissar,’ he said, ‘it has occurred to me that of us all, you are best positioned to have a positive effect on the outcome of this war. You have the experience of Armageddon Prime. Based on what I know of Lord Tritten and Colonel Helm, you have greater latitude for action than von Strab expected when he exiled you. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hades will not fall while I live.’

‘Then I will ask you to bear witness to our struggle. I’ll leave this channel open during the battle. I’ll relay everything I can. May it prove to be useful.’

‘You don’t expect to survive,’ I said.

Mannheim didn’t answer. His silence spoke for him. It spoke of insane decisions and of vanity taken to the point of treason. I seethed at the thought of all the Steel Legion regiments held idle at Infernus.

‘General Andechs still refuses to stand up to von Strab, then,’ I said.

‘Colonel Brenken tried to convince him to break with the overlord. He’s hiding behind the chain of command.’

Enough. The scale of Andechs’ craven inaction meant I could finally do something to halt some of the madness. ‘You’ll hear from me again shortly,’ I said. ‘There is something I must do now.’

2. BRENKEN

She entered the general’s quarters in the company of Setheno, Colonel Kanturek of the 167th Regiment, Colonel Vollbrecht of the 203rd, and Taliansky, one of Vollbrecht’s vox operators. Taliansky looked nervous, as if he’d sensed being asked to accompany these senior officers was not going to be a simple honour.

Andechs stood up from behind his desk. He’d been studying a map of the western reaches of Armageddon Secundus. Envisaging the sites of the coming conflict, Brenken guessed. And little else. Andechs had not indulged in luxuries. The office he used in the administrative tower was large but spare. Shelves of maps and reports, a row of devotional texts, a personal shrine. The map on the desk was unmarked. There was no data-slate.

He was doing nothing.

‘General,’ Brenken said, ‘we have come to urge you, once more, to order heavy armoured support of the Legio Metalica.’

‘Our regiments are ready for immediate deployment,’ Kanturek said. She and Vollbrecht looked like the tanks they commanded. They were solid, square, bull-necked officers and were as honest as they were stubborn. They lived for the forward momentum of battle and were straining against the leash imposed by von Strab, and held by Andechs.

‘The overlord has made his campaign plan clear,’ the general said.

‘The overlord is wrong,’ said Brenken. ‘You know this, sir.’

Andechs sighed, tired of them all. He turned back to his map. ‘There is nothing more to be said. Leave now.’

‘No,’ said Brenken.

Andechs looked up sharply. ‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Taliansky,’ said Vollbrecht.

The vox operator shuffled forward.

‘Turn it up,’ said Vollbrecht. There was no joy in his tone, but there was the satisfaction that came of knowing justice would be done.

Taliansky adjusted the volume. Static spat. Brenken said, ‘You heard, commissar?’

‘Yes.’ Yarrick’s voice crackled from the speaker. ‘General, you are abdicating your responsibilities. In this time of war, that is desertion.’

‘Is this your excuse to have the Adepta Sororitas do your dirty work, Yarrick?’ Andechs was staring at Setheno.

‘I am here as a witness,’ the canoness said.

‘We are here to follow the laws of the Astra Militarum,’ Brenken said. She unholstered her laspistol. She trained it on Andechs. She accepted what might happen yet, but she still hoped it would not come to pass.

‘This is your chance for repentance,’ Yarrick said. ‘Will you deploy in support of the Legio Metalica?’

‘No. Colonel, lower your pistol. This is mutiny.’

‘No,’ said Yarrick. ‘I am empowered to sanction any officer, of any rank, who fails in his duty to the Imperium. General Andechs, you are following the orders of a man who is manifestly unfit for command. If you continue to do so, you prove yourself unfit as well. For the last time, deploy your troops.’

‘Lower your pistol, colonel. That is an order.’

Brenken’s aim held steady. The only sound in the pause was Taliansky’s gasp.

Yarrick said, ‘Colonel Brenken, I find General Andechs has failed in his duty, and turned his back on his oaths of office. Shoot him.’

The las struck Andechs in the centre of his forehead. It burned his brain to a cinder. He toppled forward. His head cracked hard against the edge of the desk on the way down.

‘It’s done,’ Brenken said.

‘Colonel Brenken,’ Yarrick said, still speaking formally, still passing sentence. ‘You are the senior-most colonel. In the absence of other generals, I declare you commander of the Steel Legion regiments on Armageddon.’

‘And so I have witnessed,’ Setheno said.

‘So witnessed,’ said Vollbrecht and Kanturek.

Brenken holstered her pistol. To Taliansky she said, ‘Go. Get a detail in here to remove the body.’

‘What are your orders?’ Kanturek asked.

‘You know what they are.’

Vollbrecht grinned. ‘We leave at once.’

3. MANNHEIM

At first, it seemed that a mountain chain advanced over the horizon and into the Death Barrens. At this distance, the gargants were conical silhouettes. They rocked from side to side with each step. The smallest were twenty metres high. The largest were as tall as Steel Hammer, but much broader at the base.

And there were so many.

Closer, and the details of the stompas and gargants became clearer. There were different colours to the armour, and different icons mounted atop the monsters. Most common was a deep rust associated with a horned symbol, but there was a foul yellow too, and icons of sunbursts and moons. There were several ork clans in the host before him, Mannheim realised. They were marching with a unity of purpose that was monstrous to behold.

‘Are you there, Yarrick?’ he said.

‘I am, princeps.’

‘You were right. We have never seen orks like this before.’

After the savage excess of life that was the Equatorial Jungle, the orks were now in a land of heat and ash and rock. There were no settlements here. There was no water and no life for hundreds of kilometres. This was the dead land, the great emptiness to which all of Armageddon advanced, year by year, as it was consumed by the needs of the Imperium. To attempt a crossing of the Death Barrens on foot was not an act of folly – it was an act of despair. It was suicide. But the ork infantry was a carpet spreading across the barren terrain. The footsoldiers swarmed between and ahead of the gargants and stompas. Even from this height, even from this distance, where the individual orks were insects, dots on the landscape, Mannheim knew that the infantry would cross the Death Barrens and reach Infernus not weakened, but hardened by survival and eager for war. He could see the monstrous energy of the greenskins in the movement of that carpet. The orks were running. They did not see a desert. They saw a wide, unobstructed path to rampage.

‘They don’t know despair,’ he muttered, forgetting he’d left the vox channel open.

‘No, they don’t,’ Yarrick said. ‘As a race, they’re incapable of it. Which isn’t to say they can’t lose morale.’

‘I will choose their outright extermination.’

Ahead, the battlewagons and warbikes raced past the infantry. The vehicles too were beyond counting. Mannheim turned his eyes from the tide of smaller enemies. In those numbers, they were threats too. But he could not let his focus be taken away from the gargants.

He changed vox channel and hailed Kanturek and Vollbrecht. ‘How far are you?’ he asked.

‘We are closing,’ Vollbrecht answered. ‘We caught our first sight of Steel Hammer a few minutes ago.’

‘We are out of time,’ Mannheim said. ‘I suggest you begin your artillery fire now. We will provide you with coordinates.’

The orks were already unleashing salvoes, whether their weapons had the range or not. The biggest cannons did, though their accuracy was poor. Their shells chewed up the land before Steel Hammer, punching craters as if an invisible force slouched towards the Iron Skulls.

Mannheim looked straight ahead. ‘The gargant in a straight line from us,’ he said. ‘Plasma annihilator.’

‘As you command,’ said Valth.

Mannheim’s muscles flexed to raise his right arm. Held fast to the throne, it did not move. The Imperator lifted its right limb in its stead. The moderatus’s will worked in tandem with his own, and the weapon charged, pulling directly from the Titan’s reactor.

Blood from the heart.

‘Fire,’ Mannheim said, and the machine-spirit roared.

The plasma annihilator launched the rage of a sun. The red-tinged darkness of the afternoon flared savage white. The ork lines were etched with jagged shadows. The beam hit the core of the gargant.

‘Fire,’ Mannheim said before the glare had faded.

Drawing from the reactor, the plasma annihilator was capable of salvoes in quick succession, though speed came at a price. The energy feed to the Imperator’s other systems fluctuated. Steel Hammer slowed in its stride. But the gun fired, and the great light came again, and the beam hit the gargant in precisely the same spot.

Steel Hammer’s blow could have punched through the armour of a cruiser. The gargant’s explosion was so huge, and so bright, the ork lines vanished for a moment.

Mannheim savoured the beautiful illusion.

The Iron Skulls wedge spread out behind him. The Titans unleashed a salvo that would have reduced a hive to cinders. Volcano and melta cannons, multiple rocket launchers and gatling blasters, and more; the full range of the Imperium’s greatest weapons of terrestrial war turned their anger on the orks. The greenskins, as eager and wrathful, sent a storm of missiles and shells and energy beams towards the Legion. The space between the lines of god machines became an inferno. Steel Hammer marched forward through the explosions and fire. The slow, rhythmic sway of its gait was untroubled by the holocaust. The Imperator was majesty itself. As ever, Mannheim felt the awe of the mortal before its sublime power, and he felt the wrath of the machine-spirit as it advanced towards its prey. The void shields flashed, spiking towards their limits. They held.

The intensity of the firestorm faded long enough for Mannheim to see the state of the battlefield. More gargants were burning. Several were smoking, blackened wrecks. One took one last step and succumbed to a chain reaction of inner explosions. Flames burst from the jaws of its idol skull, and it came to a halt, sixty metres of dead metal in the barrens. Craters were spread over the landscape, and Mannheim saw a dull gleam where the weapons had melted rock into glass. Countless ork infantry and smaller vehicles had been destroyed.

But there were countless more, screaming towards the Iron Skulls as if nothing had happened. The Skitarii Rhinos drove forward to meet them, but they were a sword blade striking at an avalanche. One Warhound had vanished, and a Reaver to the right was badly damaged on one side. Its left arm was twisted slag, and the left leg moved in fits and starts. The wedge was still intact.

The gargants and stompas marched past their wounded or destroyed kin. Behind them, still more arrived. And behind them were more shadows, silhouetted by the angry red throb of the sky. Mannheim now understood the scale of the battle. The orks had hundreds of their barbarous god machines.

After the two quick shots, he had to let the plasma annihilator cool. But the Imperator’s shoulder-mounted missile pods were armed and ready. Mannheim raised the left arm. Its extremity was formed by the five barrels of a Hellstorm cannon. ‘Dammann,’ Mannheim said.

‘Charging period complete.’

Then, into the breath between the two lines’ salvoes, a devastating artillery barrage fell. It blanketed the ork advance. Battlewagons exploded. Bikes sailed end over end through the air, disintegrating as they flew. Huge holes opened up in the infantry.

The armoured regiments of the Steel Legion had spoken.

‘Princeps,’ Vollbrecht voxed, ‘we will be with you soon.’

‘You will be welcome,’ Mannheim said.

The inferno returned to the Death Barrens. The Iron Skulls advanced with measured, even relentlessness. The huge strides of the Imperator and the Warlords were timed so as not to outdistance the Reavers and Warhounds. The Legion was a single unit, its attack a precise, target projection of immeasurable force. The orks were a vortex, a chaotic burst of all-consuming destruction.

The Hellstorm fired. The gargant in the centre of its blast became a cascade of molten metal. It poured itself halfway to the ground before its armaments exploded, spreading the devastation still farther. The beam scythed stompas to the left and right of the gargant. They flew apart as they were caught in the death blast of their larger brother.

The vox filled with shouts of damage reports from the other princeps. The volume of ork fire overwhelmed void shields. It battered open the armour of more of the smaller Titans. Mannheim sensed a sudden wave to the right. His body registered the explosion as if the pressure and the heat were against his own flesh. The Warlord Fornax Mortem had exploded. Its plasma reactor, fatally breached, had melted down. Where the Warlord had stood, now a mushroom cloud rose, its anger a mirror for the crimson fury of the sky above. Somehow, the crew had managed to direct the worst of the blast forward, wreaking still more havoc in the ork ranks. It also incinerated several Rhinos. The shock wave crashed through Steel Hammer’s void shields. The shields tried to distribute the energy evenly, but even then it was too much and overwhelmed the system. Mannheim’s teeth slammed together as the shields collapsed and the power feedback flooded back into the Titan, jolting the machine-spirit with agony.

The shields rebuilt, but before they did, ork missiles slammed into Steel Hammer’s torso. The armour held. Shells the size of tanks struck the left-hand spire of the cathedral. Iron and stone shattered. Mannheim gasped in pain and outrage. The rubble fell past the eyes of the Titan. The bodies of tech-priests, killed at prayer, tumbled by, bouncing limply off projections.

The war horn raged. The shields came back.

‘Princeps,’ said a voice from the torso of the Imperator. ‘I have a damage report.’

Mannheim barely listened. He knew it was not critical, except in the outrage committed. He thought of the scarred place of worship, of the dead above, and retaliated in kind. Plasma annihilator and shoulder rocket launchers ripped into another gargant. The lower half of its skirt disintegrated. The towering monster tottered, stability gone. It crashed to the ground, crushing hundreds of orks beneath it.

The artillery barrage continued. The precision of Vollbrecht and Kanturek’s troops was exemplary. The rain of shells advanced ahead of the Titans, pounding the greenskin mechanised infantry. Some of the enemy forces had gone around the Iron Skulls’ formation, coming up behind. They were hit by the tanks of the 167th and 203rd as they came closer yet to the battlefield.

The distance between the two lines of colossi diminished. Short-range weapons came into play. The speed of the battle and the intensity of the bombardments increased. The brilliance of destruction swallowed the armies. Mannheim marched Steel Hammer through an unbroken maelstrom of energy and projectiles. The light was blinding, obscuring, annihilating. He heard more of his troops fall. Some had time for a brief valediction before the silence took their feed, but two more, a Reaver and a Warhound, died as Fornax Mortem had. Those ends were sudden and destructive to all.

Far more gargants and stompas fell than Titans. The orks had more, and still more, but they were fighting the Legio Metalica on its terms. The Imperial fire hit what it was aimed at. The artillery and tanks prevented the other ork elements from tackling the Titans while they were engaged against the gargants.

The ork advance slowed. Momentum bled away. The gargants walked to meet the march of the Iron Skulls, but though their numbers were greater, they did not use the advantage to flank the Imperials. They converged on the conflict, and the storm of annihilating fire became ever stronger. Footsoldiers and vehicles went in circles, caught between the iron rain of artillery and the iron wind of tank shells.

More ork machines died before the Iron Skulls. The enemy losses mounted faster than those of the Legion. The monsters of war were almost within striking distance of each other.

‘Maintain formation and keep up the pressure,’ Mannheim ordered. ‘Coordinate fire. Our priority is always the nearest target.’ The ork power fields absorbed punishing damage, flaring with emerald light. When they went down, though, they stayed down, and the gargants’ armour was weaker than the Titans’. Their patchwork excess was no match for the divine forgework of Mars. As the range shrank, the orks brought more and more weapons to bear. The closer they were, the more dangerous they became. So keep them at bay. Blast them to slag, make their deaths destructive to others.

And still the wedge advanced. And still the gargants came, endlessly emerging from the smoke and flame, trudging behemoths in the shape of raging idols. In the aftermath of another blast of the Hellstorm cannon, when the destruction was so pure it cleared the air for a space, Mannheim saw the largest gargant in the middle distance. It was as tall as Steel Hammer, and was so wide it travelled on tracks. It was a tank grown to godlike proportions. Mannheim promised it a suitable end.

I am coming for you, he thought, and the machine-spirit rejoiced.

On the vox, voices screamed. There was something new in the field.

The artillery barrage stuttered.

The ork machines tightened the noose around the Iron Skulls.

4. VOLLBRECHT

Two waves of metal surged around the vast line of the Titans. Spotters called them in. Vollbrecht climbed out of the hatch of the Leman Russ Reach of Morpheus. He raised his magnoculars to his eyes. The Irons Skulls’ formation was thousands of metres wide, but the expanse of the Death Barrens gave the ork tide all the space it needed to manoeuvre. The Titans had drawn the force of the foe inward. Now a command had been given, and the orks were flanking.

With claws.

The waves crashed together. They became a great crest. The foe came in such numbers that Vollbrecht had a momentary impression of iron insects scrabbling over each other. Then the scale registered. His throat constricted.

Not a stream of insects. A flood of degraded Dreadnoughts.

He was looking at a mob of armoured monsters. The smallest were three metres tall. They were cylinders on articulated legs, waving pincers and guns on the ends of arms almost as long again. They came in swarms, clustered together like iron maggots come to devour Imperial flesh. Pushing through the swarms were squads of much larger monsters. They were much closer in size to the Dreadnoughts of the Adeptus Astartes. They were in the form of orks, recreated as bellowing metal giants. There were even larger engines, walkers more massive than tanks, taller than Sentinels. Their claws alone were the size of the smaller engines. Vollbrecht had seen those walkers only once before. He had been present when concentrated shelling had killed one and torn it open. Impossibly, the giant weapon had been operated by a single ork.

So was every monster descending on the regiments. A mass of infantry, every soldier transformed into a battle tank.

‘Taliansky!’ Vollbrecht shouted into the interior of Reach of Morpheus to the vox operator. ‘All tanks fire at the new threat. Basilisks, maintain support for the Iron Skulls.’ The ork engines were too close to be tackled with artillery.

The cannons of the Leman Russ lines lowered their aim. Shells flew at the enemy. They ripped into the clusters of small walkers, each direct hit blasting the cylinders to shrapnel. The walking cans nearby stumbled away from the destruction, arms waving in panic. The bigger engines marched through the cannon fire. Some slowed when hit. A few stopped. The giants shrugged off the hits. The shells only dented their forward armour.

The wave was close now. The orks sprayed the Steel Legion with twin-linked stubbers, flamers. They did little damage and were not quite in range. The cannons and rocket launchers were much worse. A tempest of high explosives tore into the tanks. The world erupted on all sides of Vollbrecht. He climbed back down and slammed the hatch shut behind him. Bullets clanged off metal where his head had been moments before.

Reach of Morpheus shook as the cannon fired again.

‘Tell me that’s a kill,’ Vollbrecht said.

‘Yes, colonel,’ said the gunner, Strobel.

‘Good.’ To Taliansky, he said, ‘Tight ranks, fire forward, drive forward.’ His driver, Koch, acknowledged. ‘We’ll cut their ranks in two.’ Vollbrecht gave the order as if it were possible. He had to believe it was. ‘Get me Colonel Kanturek,’ he said after Taliansky had relayed his commands. The tank shook again, battered from outside. Vollbrecht felt like a stone in a can. The blow almost knocked him out of his seat.

‘She’s waiting to speak to you, colonel,’ Taliansky said and passed the unit over.

Kanturek had issued the command to close the spaces in the formation. She was riding in General Walpurga, a hundred metres back from Reach of Morpheus. ‘Vollbrecht,’ she said, ‘it won’t work.’

‘It’s the only move we have.’

‘We’ll be throwing the regiments away. We have to pull back. I can’t see the other side of that force.’

‘The Iron Skulls–’

‘Will be on their own if we are utterly destroyed too. We have to salvage something.’

Shattering explosions outside. Vollbrecht cursed his blindness. The gun boomed. ‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘We can’t–’

‘Throne!’ Kanturek shouted in alarm. ‘Vollbrecht! Break right! Break right! Break–’

Koch had swerved at the same moment as Kanturek’s warning. There was a huge crunch and Reach of Morpheus tilted onto its side. Armour plating tore. The walls caved in. Taliansky screamed, caught in the compacting interior. Vollbrecht lunged for the hatch. The tank tilted higher. A monstrous claw broke through the armour. Vollbrecht got the hatch open and started to crawl out.

One of the giant walkers had seized the tank. It was crushing the hull with its claw. It shook the Leman Russ like a Grox tearing into prey. The movement hurled Vollbrecht from the tank. He hit the blasted ground hard, snapping his left arm. He staggered up and away from the destruction. The ork flipped the tank over and pounded on the hull, caving it even as the explosions within jetted flames through the splits in the armour.

Flames and explosions everywhere. Disoriented, in shock, Vollbrecht stumbled on. His breath was a harsh echo in his rebreather. The ork Dreadnoughts were smashing the formation to bits. Kanturek had been right. But it was too late for anything. The small walkers clustered around crippled tanks, carrion-feeders. They ripped rents wider. They turned their flamers on the interiors or reached in to bludgeon the crews to pulp. One of the ork-shaped engines seized a cannon with two claws and squeezed at the very moment the gun fired. The front of the tank blew up. The walker waved its claws in joy, brandishing the severed gun like a club.

The ork engines were a mob, and it had stormed the Steel Legion. It overwhelmed with numbers and power. Vollbrecht’s disorientation ceased to matter. There was nowhere to turn. There was nothing to do. Monsters of iron rioted through the regiments. The tanks still fought. The air shook with the concussion of human and greenskin weapons. Ork walkers blew up. The smallest were crushed beneath Leman Russes. And none of the struggles mattered. There were always more walkers. The mob was without end.

Vollbrecht moved through a landscape of flame and embodied violence. Ork and human wreckage surrounded him. Tanks charged their opponents. Monstrous walkers welcomed them with stubbers two metres wide, shrieking energy weapons, and always the giant claws.

Beneath the cacophony of the battle, the rhythm of the Basilisks had continued. Now the rhythm slowed. Gaps opened up. Then it stopped completely. The mobile artillery had no defence against walkers.

Vollbrecht discovered he had drawn his laspistol. He squinted at it. He didn’t know why he held it.

Something huge roared behind him.

He turned, raising the pistol because he must still fight. He fired at a crimson leviathan. It didn’t notice his shots. It didn’t notice him. It marched on, a wall of metal, its head unleashing howls of triumph. The wall loomed over Vollbrecht. It cast him into the night.

5. MANNHEIM

After the screams, the silence. All communication with the 167th and 203rd Regiments ceased. So did all supporting fire. It took only a few minutes. The Iron Skulls were alone on the field against the orks.

For a short period, the difference was minimal. The ork infantry and armour in the near vicinity of the struggle between gargants and Titans was caught in the crossfire. Anything on the ground was obliterated.

Even so, Mannheim foresaw the end.

‘Yarrick,’ he said. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I am.’

‘The Steel Legion regiments are gone.’

‘I understand.’

‘I will do what honour requires.’

‘I know you will.’

As he spoke, the end drew nearer. The Warhounds reported attacks by massed ranks of smaller walkers. The mobs destroyed the Skitarii Rhinos. They joined with the stompas and the gargants, and there were too many foes for the Warhounds. They began to go down.

The wedge formation became untenable. The Legio Metalica’s advance stopped. The gargants came at the Imperials from all sides.

We came this far, Mannheim thought. He turned Steel Hammer in a ponderous circle. Valth and Drammann fired the Hellstorm and the plasma annihilator as fast as they could. The draw on the reactor was fierce. Mannheim gave the annihilator no time to cool. The risk of catastrophic overheating was real. He and the moderati knew there could be no sparing of the weaponry. Perhaps they also knew, as he did, that soon there would be no more risks to consider.

The Hellstorm beam overloaded one gargant’s power field and disintegrated its top half. Two more leaned in to take its place. The tracked monster was close now. It flew banners and savage icons, a barbaric mirror to the glorious pageantry on the peaks of Steel Hammer. The multiple missile platforms echoed the towers of the cathedral. Nemesis, Mannheim thought. I will see you destroyed.

The giant gargant’s missiles flew for the Imperator. A few exploded against other ork machines. Others lit up Steel Hammer’s void shields. Another gargant struck with a limb that had been fashioned into a chainsword twenty metres long. The void shields could do nothing against that weapon. It cut into the armour. Mannheim brought the Imperator around and slammed the mass of its own limbs against the gargant. The blow shattered the blade and hurled the gargant back.

More rockets hit the back of Steel Hammer. So did shells. So did energy beams. The shields collapsed. The damage stabbed deeper and deeper. Mannheim registered the damage reports as background. The Titan’s movements became sluggish. The crew was dying. Flames shot through the corridors. The cathedral had taken so many hits it was a grand ruin, fire and smoke billowing from its broken walls.

The machine-spirit wailed its fury and its agony. It strained against the reins of Mannheim’s control. He held fast. He directed its rage. He made its retaliation count.

Soon there would be an end to all doubt. In the small corner of his mind that observed the struggle with dispassion, Mannheim granted himself the luxury of final questions. He did not ask for peace or absolution. He would be satisfied with the conviction he had been true to his oaths, to the Imperium, and to the Emperor.

Should he have done more to stop von Strab’s madness?

He could have. He could have turned the Legio Metalica against the overlord.

And in so doing, he would have broken his oaths. The oaths had sustained him and shown him his purpose his entire life. There were those who could bring judgement to von Strab within the laws of the Imperium. He would not harm that which he had devoted his existence to preserving.

Yet the doubts remained. So be it. Let them be his punishment. And let the Emperor judge his deeds.

The Father of Mankind would not have long to wait.

Mannheim brought Steel Hammer around to face the supreme gargant once more. It fired a huge energy weapon in the centre of its torso. The beam was a lightning helix of crimson and emerald. It struck the core of the Imperator before the void shields could recharge.

The chatter of tech-priests updating damage ceased. There was a ferocious power surge and Mannheim jerked in the command throne. Blood filled his mouth. It ran from his eyes and ears. The machine-spirit howled. There was a crack, a breach, a loss most vital.

Tocsins sounded. Breathing heavily, Mannheim shut them off.

‘Princeps,’ Valth said. ‘The plasma annihilator…’

‘I know,’ Mannheim rasped. The primary weapons had both shut down, protecting their own systems from the building catastrophe. The reactor had received a mortal blow. It was going into meltdown. The radiation levels throughout the Titan were soaring. He felt his skin begin to burn.

The machine-spirit had gone mad. All coherence was breaking down. Mannheim’s sense of the great body turned into a collection of fragments. There were legs. There were arms. There was a head. They had no relation to one another. He stared through armourglass at his killer. It was a mountain. Its armour was red, the red of blood, of the burning sky, of the pain that wracked his frame. The jaws of his huge skull were open in an eternal idiot grin.

‘Nemesis,’ Mannheim hissed. ‘You die with us.’

His fraying awareness found Steel Hammer’s right leg. He lifted it. He jerked it forward. Sheet lightning tried to split his skull in half. The Imperator took a step. It rocked towards the gargant.

Rocket and energy blasts hit on all sides. More wounds, more fire. They didn’t matter now. Mannheim sought the other leg.

He moved it.

Another step.

Almost there.

Time falling away, his skin reddening, his body failing, all strength turning to ash, flowing away to the Barrens.

He voxed whoever was still alive to hear him. ‘Iron Skulls, these are my final orders. I command you to withdraw, if you can. Live to avenge the Legio Metalica. Live to preserve the Legio Metalica.’

He sounded the battle horn one last time as Steel Hammer toppled against the gargant.

And then, in the midst of the ork triumph, he became the heart of a sun.

CHAPTER 16

Negotiations

1. YARRICK

Lanner and I went alone to the underhive. Helm was right – we might not come out again. The risk was worthwhile. My mission was delicate. It required a light touch, a nuanced sense of the emotional and political currents, and the split-second decision to kill. Each person who accompanied me multiplied the possibility of error. I wanted Lanner, who knew the territory, and he carried a portable vox unit. That was all.

I was searching. I didn’t know who I was looking for, nor where I could find them. I trusted they would find me.

We went deep, to the regions from which hope had long since been banished. There was no true name for the spaces we found. They were far below the foundations of any structure. Biological and industrial effluent formed their rivers. There were tunnels that might have seen maglev trains in the early years of Hades, or they might have been constructed for that purpose but never used. There were the remains of mining pits, the last of their ore extracted many centuries past. The larger caverns had walls and roofs that were mixtures of natural stone and rockcrete. I was in the land of detritus of all kinds. Especially the human form.

‘Been a long time,’ Lanner said.

‘Since you were in the underhive or since you were the comms trooper?’

‘Both.’

‘Nostalgic?’ I asked him.

He growled.

There were eyes on us during my entire journey. A commissar stood out in any civilian environment. The further down we went, the more of notice I became.

Good.

The awareness needed to keep from being ambushed held thoughts of Mannheim’s loss at bay. I understood what had happened. I understood its import. I denied myself the hope that the cataclysm of Titan reactor meltdowns had diminished the orks’ force. Hope was forbidden until Armageddon was liberated. So was despair. Until the triumph, there could only be determination.

We reached a zone of eternal night lit by wavering, scavenged glowstrips and burning torches. We pushed through crowds of the most desperate of Hades’ denizens. In the narrower passages, they pressed together like maggots. They had the pallor of maggots too, where the colour of their flesh showed through the grime and the ritual scarification. We walked until the space opened up. A patchwork metal bridge stretched over a chasm into which sewage fell in a cataract. In the centre of the bridge I brought us to a halt. I rested my hands on my holster and the pommel of my sword. I waited.

It took less than five minutes for the first gang to approach. The bridge traffic thinned to nothing, then, from each end, a group of five men and women walked towards us. They wore crude armour fashioned from scrap metal. They carried axes and cleavers just as crude, but clearly effective. Their faces looked as if they had been caught in frag grenade explosions, the shrapnel still embedded in their cheeks and forehead after leaving long scars. It was a good illusion. I was sure it impressed many of their enemies and all of their prey. It made me optimistic that I was not wasting my time.

‘Say and do nothing,’ I warned Lanner.

The largest thug had embedded large metal fragments in his chest. He grinned, showing drill bits instead of canines. ‘Trespassing, old man.’ The hardware in his mouth gave him a lisp.

‘I don’t think I am. The Emperor reigns here as he does above, and I go where my duty takes me.’ Before he could follow up with another taunt, I said, ‘We don’t have time for posturing. The orks are coming, and I have business with the gangs. All of them. So you need to prove to me that you’re worth speaking to, or you fetch someone who is.’

The thug snarled and took a step forward.

‘Excuse me,’ I said. I pulled out my bolt pistol, whirled and put a shell through the head of the man who had been creeping up behind me. Then, to make myself clear, I turned back and shot a second thug, one standing just to the right of the leader and looking on with anticipation. The reports of the shots bounced off the walls of the cavern.

In these depths, pushed to the worst excesses merely to survive, humans began to resemble orks. And I understood orks.

‘Now,’ I said, ‘I will repeat myself just this once. Prove you’re worth my while.’

The leader’s eyes had widened, and he had lowered his axe. ‘Name’s Beil. I speak for the Heirs of Grevenberg.’

Grevenberg. The family had been nobility once, or so the legend went. The truth behind its fall was buried as deeply as the criminal who laid claim to the name. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘There is war coming, and you have a role to play.’

He snorted. ‘You think we care what happens above?’

‘You will when the greenskins come to destroy what little you have and kill you for sport. The orks are coming to Hades, and if we don’t stop them together, we will die together. Tell me, do you think the people of the hive above have what it takes to stand against the xenos?’

He laughed. So did the others. I had asked an absurdity.

‘Then someone has to lead them,’ I said. ‘Someone who knows Hades well enough to use it against the greenskins.’ What I said was the simple truth. The recruitment of the civilians in Volcanus had been necessary but insufficient. We had to keep the Steel Legion and Hive Militia units intact and focused. If the civilian forces could operate with something like effectiveness on their own, then their numbers might truly count for something.

And the gangs knew the subterranean paths of Hades. That too, was crucial.

The gang chieftain wasn’t laughing now. ‘Keep talking,’ he said.

I smiled. I had told Helm I would turn the hive into a weapon. This was another step.

2. VON STRAB

The governor of Infernus walked with von Strab onto the upper spire landing pad. The shuttle was ready. There was a conversation von Strab was eager to have aboard. He had no interest in what Erner von Kierska had to say. But in a few minutes von Strab would be on his way to Hive Tartarus. He could afford the illusion of patience.

‘I still don’t understand why I must stay,’ von Kierska said.

‘You would abandon your duty?’ von Strab asked, finding the right mixture of shock and implied punishment.

‘Or course not. I just think in Tartarus I would be able to make decisions in a more sober fashion. Mistakes happen in the heat of the moment.’

The argument was almost plausible. Von Strab countered with one even stronger, and just as much a lie. He put his arm over von Kierska’s shoulder. ‘The people need you here, Erner. They need to see you standing with them. Leadership is from the front.’ He smiled. ‘If you try to leave, I’ll have you executed.’ He kept smiling until he was sure the threat had registered. Then he extended mercy. ‘Don’t think you’re being abandoned. There is something I must do in Tartarus that will turn the tide of the war in our favour once and for all.’

‘Really?’

Von Strab almost laughed at the idiot hope on Kierska’s face. ‘Yes.’ This was very close to being the truth.

‘How long will it take?’

‘A few days, I think.’

‘The orks will be here before then. What do I do?’

‘You don’t believe the Steel Legion will hold them back?’ The outrage came so easily. It was a gift.

Von Kierska’s fear of the orks overrode his fear of von Strab. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

They had reached the shuttle. The hull door was open, waiting. Von Strab put a hand on the ladder to the passenger compartment. ‘Then it falls to you to be creative where Colonel Brenken fails.’ Her name curdled on his tongue. Since taking over from General Andechs, she had wrested more and more of the control of the Steel Legion from von Strab’s hands. Her death would be helpful to him. Based on what had happened to Mannheim, that death would not be long in coming. ‘What is needed is a dramatic move. No one has tried negotiating with the enemy yet.’

‘Negotiation?’

‘It’s a thought.’ He climbed into the shuttle and slid the door shut against von Kierska’s entreaties.

Inside was a squad of his bodyguards. Alayra Syranax sat in a seat close to the cockpit, next to the luxurious travel throne reserved for the overlord. Von Strab settled himself in it. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘They’re almost ready,’ Syranax said. ‘The degradation over time has been considerable.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Proper functionality cannot be guaranteed.’

Von Strab waved the problem away. ‘Then we’ll deploy them all. Enough will work.’

The shuttle’s engines rumbled and the hull vibrated as it lifted off. Von Strab glanced through the viewing block. Infernus dropped away. Von Kierska was a forlorn figure on the landing pad. Von Strab thought about what he had said to the governor, and hoped von Kierska would do as he suggested. The longer the orks remained concentrated in the vicinity of Infernus, the better.

He felt no regrets. The only ones he had ever experienced involved missed opportunities. The campaign decisions he was taking came easily. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as a difficult choice. This was the mark of a born leader.

He turned back to Syranax. Time to work out the details of the orks’ extermination.

3. WISMAR

Von Kierska called the mission an honour. Edgar Wismar had his doubts, though not his choice. The Arvus Lighter he piloted felt thin in a way it never had when he had flown the governor from one hive to another in the past. Then, he had been pleased by the political doors opened for him by the skills he had learned during his service in the militia. His days as a combat pilot had ended over half a century ago now. His family connections had been enough to find him a first position in the periphery of the Lord von Kierska’s retinue. He had spent years establishing his reputation for discretion, loyalty and moral flexibility. He was a politician, but one who could fly on his own, if necessary. And discretely, if desired. Von Kierska had found him to be valuable, and Wismar had moved closer and closer to the inner circle. He had never thought about his training with anything other than pride.

Until a few hours ago. When von Kierska had approached him with the most important mission of his life, Wismar had thought for several minutes about blinding himself. In the end, he had lacked the courage. He didn’t think he had the courage for what he was doing now. Only a sense of unreality was keeping him on course. This could not be happening. He wasn’t flying west of Infernus. He wasn’t really about to attempt this madness.

The Pallidus Mountains were off his starboard wing. He thought about turning north. He was beyond von Kierska’s reach at this moment. No one could stop him. But where would he go? He pictured landing in the Fire Wastes, and how long he would survive after landing.

No. He had no choice but the mission. Von Kierska must see some hope in it.

Wismar saw the orks sooner than he had expected. They were so close. At most a day’s march from Infernus. The army stretched further than he could see into the perpetual crimson night, a mass of soldiers and war engines no force could hope to stop. Wismar brought his aircraft in lower. He thought he should find somewhere to land.

Because he had to make a decision, and because he had to take action, his mind went blank with terror. His hands froze on the controls. He stared through the canopy as if he could arrest time and hold the landscape motionless. But it continued to move.

The aircraft dropped lower. The orks were closer.

Squadrons of bombers flew by, and he screamed. He screamed again when jump-packed orks streaked up from the ground. One landed on the canopy. It grinned at him.

For some time then, the only thing he was aware of was screaming. But his body must have remembered the necessary skills. He did not crash. When he stopped screaming, his aircraft was motionless and on the ground. It was surrounded by the jump troops. They were doubled over with laughter. He stared at them, and at last recalled his mission. He hadn’t been shot down. The orks hadn’t ripped the canopy off. His continued existence was cause for hope, though it was also a source of terror.

He raised the canopy. He climbed out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground. His legs collapsed under him. He grasped the landing gear to pull himself up. The gale of the orks’ laughter was a physical blow. When he stood, he tried to take a step forward. He could not. His hand was welded to his craft’s gear. The orks stopped laughing and stood in a semi-circle before him, grinning, waiting for him to entertain them again. These greenskins were different from what Wisbar knew of the xenos. Their armour and equipment appeared to be well maintained. It gleamed. The icon on their chest plates was a fanged skull over two crossed axes.

Wisbar cleared his throat. He cursed von Kierska as he prepared to end his life in a state of abject fear and humiliation. Now the moment had come, the ludicrous nature of his mission was apparent, as it should have been all along. But he had no course of action other than to follow this path until its end. He said, ‘On behalf of Lord Erner von Kierska, governor of Hive Infernus, I have come to discuss terms.’

The orks waited, their grins growing wider all the time. There would be laughter again, and that would be an end to him.

Wisbar sobbed, and then he started to laugh himself. ‘Of course you don’t speak Gothic,’ he said.

But they did.

4. YARRICK

‘Who are your primary rivals?’ I asked Beil.

‘No one.’

I gave him the flat gaze I would to an insect pest. ‘I have no use for the delusional.’

He looked away from my stare. ‘The Rachen,’ he said.

‘Time for a parley. You’re going to take me to them.’

‘Why?’

I was honest. ‘Because I am not making you lord of the underhive. And because alliances will be necessary. Whatever your conflicts are, they are now irrelevant.’

He said nothing, looking sullen.

I leaned towards him. ‘Do it.’

He glanced at the other gangers. They were looking at me with a mixture of curiosity, respect and alarm. I was a mad old man, and clearly dangerous. I also had authority. I could do things for them.

Beil nodded.

I pointed at his troops. ‘They’re with us only to the edge of Rachen territory,’ I said. ‘We’re already fighting one war. Anyone who tries to open a second front I shoot on the spot.’

Beil grimaced, but again he nodded. He was young, faster than I was, and stronger. But I would have killed him. He knew it.

We descended lower. We took forgotten shafts and crevasses between collapsed foundations. The stench and the darkness thickened together. The shadows of ruins became more jagged and less defined. We entered a world of refuse hills, swamps of waste, and the broken bones of the city’s beginnings. We passed a heap fifteen metres high of gears, whose teeth were as long as my arm. Just beyond them, a huge wheel turned above our heads. It had lost its purpose centuries ago, yet it ground on, an idiot leviathan drawing on the power of the grid, even this far down. It marked a boundary. Beil’s troops stayed on the other side.

The temperature climbed. An amber glow pushed back the night.

‘What is that?’ I asked.

‘The leavings,’ Lanner said. ‘The Emperor grant the containment holds.’

‘Doesn’t,’ Beil said. ‘Not always.’

We moved on, and the source of the light became clear. The molten spillage of Hades’ hundreds of foundries flowed down the channels to these depths, cooling but still liquid. It collected in reservoirs created by design and by chance. As we advanced deeper into the heat, I saw evidence of construction work on all sides. The reservoirs would fill, I realised, and there was no way to empty them. So the routes of drainage would have to be altered, channelling the lethal rivers to new containment ponds. For several hundred metres, we walked along the iron wall of one makeshift reservoir. It throbbed with sullen light. The sides were flaking. Lanner’s concern was more than justified.

Past the reservoir we started down a narrow passage between huge plates of iron. They might have been intended to be the cladding of void ships. A cluster of shadows waited for us.

‘Atroxa,’ Beil said, in warning and acknowledgement.

The shadows moved into the beam of Lanner’s torch. They were more degraded and more savage than the Heirs of Grevenberg. They were barely human. Things of grey and muck. Some had filed teeth; others had their mouths lined with jagged scrap metal. The tips of their fingers ended in rusted, curved barbs. Atroxa was a hulking figure coiled in muscles and barbed wire. Her lips were pulled back in a permanent snarl over iron fangs. Her face was a gargoyle of overlapping scar tissue, spikes and blades. ‘Beil,’ she said. She spoke with difficulty, and her voice was a harsh rasp, iron dragging over a tomb.

I have heard some, who should know better, say that the most degraded humans muddy the distinction between themselves and the orks. This is a lie. The difference is there, always. I was about to use it.

‘Do you fight well?’ I asked Atroxa. ‘I think you do. Time for you to shed blood. The Emperor commands it.’

5. SETHENO

The vox-casters across Infernus were appealing for calm. They should have been calling for action. Instead, von Kierska’s nasal voice intoned platitudes about faith in the Emperor, the time of trial, and the patience to see it through until the coming of the dawn.

Something was very wrong.

Setheno moved along the Avenue of Labour Repentant. It spiralled around much of the middle height of the hive, linking manufactoria. The traffic along its length was normal. Von Kierksa’s speeches urged the citizenry to continue in its duties. There was no sign of the Hive Militia.

Setheno saw the shadow of Armageddon Prime fall over Infernus. The regiments at Brenken’s disposal were insufficient. The destruction of the 167th and 203rd armoured was a grievous loss. There was also confusion among the officers regarding the chain of command. There had been unhappiness with Andechs’s subservience to von Strab, but there had also been clarity. Now Brenken and the overlord issued conflicting orders. Von Strab demanded all regiments but one to depart for Tartarus. Brenken commanded they stay. The four remaining colonels split, each faction convinced it was serving loyally. The 46th and 73rd mechanised infantry had stayed.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Setheno had left Brenken and the outer defence preparations when she heard the vox-casts begin. She had been waiting, sceptically, to see what von Kierska would do to galvanise the population. What she now heard and saw was worse than she had expected. She was surprised. The sensation was an unpleasant novelty.

At last she spotted a militiaman. He was standing near the open gates of a manufactorum. He was being a visible presence of order for the flow of workers entering and leaving. Nothing more. Setheno strode towards him. When he saw her coming, he backed away until he was against the building’s facade. She loomed over him. ‘What orders are you following?’ she said.

‘We were instructed to stand down, canoness.’ His voice was barely audible over the pedestrian and vehicular traffic. His shoulders were hunched, anticipating her blow.

‘By whom?’

‘Lord von Kierska.’

‘You obey a coward,’ she said. ‘Or worse.’

Then she was running, making for the high-speed funiculars to the spires. She voxed the regiments. Brenken came on after a few minutes. ‘Von Kierska has demobilised the militia,’ Setheno told her.

‘Throne,’ Brenken swore. ‘Why?’

‘I will know shortly. Von Strab’s hand is in this, I’m sure. Be prepared for the worst.’

‘Which would be what?’

Setheno didn’t speculate. The possible answers were many, all of them bad.

An hour later, she was in the administrative spire. Even with so many of von Strab’s personal staff gone since he shifted Armageddon’s seat of power to Tartarus, the halls were too empty. The few serfs Setheno saw fled behind closed doors or down side passages as soon as they saw her. Von Kierska’s weak gruel of a speech followed her from floor to floor. The content appeared to have looped to the beginning once more. Setheno thought she was hearing a recording, but then von Kierska coughed, cleared his throat, and resumed. The spineless hope was mind-numbing.

Setheno slowed as she walked down the main corridor of the governor’s quarters. There was one person visible. He sat outside the council chamber. Setheno recognised him as a minor noble, one of von Kierska’s coterie of sycophants. His arms were wrapped around his knees. From his throat came a single, high-pitched keening note, a whining ‘Eeeeehhhhhhhhnnnnnnn.’

The man twitched at the sound of her boots. He scuttled to one side, arms up to ward off the world. Setheno drew her bolt pistol. ‘What has happened?’ she asked.

‘He gave me orders,’ the man sobbed. ‘I followed them. That’s all. I had a mission. He promised… He said it would all…’ The cry began again, louder, more despairing, ‘Eeeeeeehhhhnnnn!’

Setheno pushed through the door to the council chamber.

The entrance was at the bottom of an inverted amphitheatre. Concentric, narrowing curves of benches were laid out on a rising slope. The higher the seats, the greater the importance of the councillor. The governor’s lectern was at the peak. Von Kierska was there, speaking into a vox horn. He read from a sheaf of vellum he held. His hands shook.

There were orks in the room, lounging on the benches, watching the governor squirm. There were three of them, one half-again as large as the other two. They wore light armour painted with double-axe icons.

As soon as Setheno opened the door they reacted, spinning and hurling cleavers at her position before they had even properly seen her.

They used the wrong weapons. The blades clattered against her armour. She charged forward and fired her bolt pistol at the largest ork. She blew off its right hand as it pulled a sticky grenade from its bandoliers. It snarled in pain and alarm and jumped away from its severed limb. The grenade went off with a blast of flame and oily smoke that hurled chunks of wood and stone across the chamber.

The other two orks trained their shotguns her way. They ducked behind benches for shelter. Setheno drew Skarprattar. She fired to the right, suppressing that ork while she ran straight for the other’s position. It popped up as she jumped onto the row of benches one down, and then leapt again. The report of the shotgun was huge. The burst hit her right leg, pitting the armour, striking with enough force to throw her jump into an awkward spin. She brought Skarprattar down and cleaved the ork’s skull in two as she fell. She hit the ground hard enough to have broken the bones of an unarmoured human. The other ork fired its shotgun, keeping her down. The chieftain barrelled through the pews, unfazed by burns and amputation. Setheno waited. More shotgun blasts chewed through the weak barricade. The weapons were ferocious in strength. A few direct hits could well punch through her armour.

The shots stopped. Setheno jumped to her feet and brought Skarprattar up. She sliced into the chieftain’s stomach with the power blade. The ork’s eyes blazed with rage and frustration, then dulled. It slumped against her, almost knocking her over with its huge mass. She threw the corpse aside. She fired her pistol again. She had the luxury of time now, so she aimed carefully. The bolt shells first decimated the ork’s cover, then its body.

Von Kierska was screaming. He had covered his face with his hands. The pages of his speech were strewn about the chamber. The vox horn was still on, relaying his screams to all of Infernus.

Setheno walked up the slope to him. ‘What. Have. You. Done?’ she hissed. Her only answers were screams. The governor’s quivering servant on the other side of the doors had told her enough. The treason was believable in a creature so weak.

She reached the lectern. Von Kierska stumbled back, still with his hands over his face.

No, she thought. No, you don’t hide from judgement. ‘Look at me!’ she ordered.

His hands dropped from his face. His expression went from pleading to a fear that reached far deeper than a superficial terror of death. When she was sure he knew the risk to his soul, Setheno swung her blade, decapitating him.

She called for Brenken on the vox again. ‘The orks are here,’ she warned the colonel. ‘Von Kierska betrayed…’

She trailed off. She recognised the sound coming off the vox. It was the deep, treachery-filled grinding of the gates of Infernus opening wide.

CHAPTER 17

What Is Necessary

1. YARRICK

For the second time in days, I heard of the defeat from afar. First the Legio Metalica, then Infernus. I mourned the loss of Mannheim and the decimation of the Iron Skulls. But there was honour in that tragedy. The orks had suffered for that victory. I did not know whether they had paid enough to make a difference. I could not afford to be optimistic.

About Infernus, though, I felt only rage. Though vox contact with the retreating Steel Legion elements was sporadic, I had spoken with Setheno and Brenken. I knew what had happened. I knew of the treachery. I knew of the events of the rout. Ork commandos, given access to the city by von Kierska, opened all the gates. At the same moment, a rapid strike force of warbikes and battlewagons raced up the western highway. This time, Ghazghkull didn’t even need to force the walls. The orks were inside before the Steel Legion could respond. Bombers flew out of the blood skies and hit at the same time. The battle was a rout long before the first stompas and gargants appeared. All that was left for Brenken to do was extract what she could of the regiments before they were annihilated.

The orks were sacking Infernus. Once again, refugees spilled out in desperate convoys from the city. Once again, they had nowhere to go. The Diablo Mountains were as inhospitable as the Ash Wastes and the Plain of Anthrand. Millions fled, and millions would die with or without being harried by orks looking for sport. What remained of Brenken’s forces were heading for Helsreach. They were leaving the refugees behind, even those who had decided to travel in the same direction.

The cold pragmatism of the move was Setheno’s doing. Brenken had been born on Armageddon. She was one of the finest commanders I knew, and she believed that when she defended the Imperium, she was defending more than an abstract concept. She was defending its people. Abandoning a third population must have been agony. Her instinct would have been to provide some aid to the people fleeing for Helsreach. Understandable. And wrong. Without exception, every human on Armageddon was a tool of the war effort. We were all only valuable to the degree we damaged the enemy. Brenken knew this. She also experienced doubts in a way Setheno could not. What was simple clarity for the canoness would appear as cruelty to others.

Today, that cruelty was necessary.

The events at Infernus precipitated another necessity.

I entered the Chapel of the Martyrs Militant. Lanner had sent me word that Matthias Tritten was there. He had been seen going in, though he had not, as yet, descended to the crypt. So he was still alive.

The chapel was empty of civilians once more. Tritten’s bodyguards were seated in the rear pews. They looked at me. I stared back. They turned their heads to face forward. They would see what there was to see, but they had no desire to interfere. I made a mental note of their apathy.

I found the governor in the chancel. He knelt before the altar, head down, hands crossed over his chest in a pious aquila. The great skull of the altarpiece looked down at him in judgement. He looked up at my approach. The brittle arrogance of the earlier meeting was gone. In its place was animal fear. He was sweating. He licked his lips every few seconds. Tritten was a weak man, easily broken. He was broken now.

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

He licked his lips. ‘I didn’t go down there,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even try. I’m telling you the truth.’

‘I know you are. Why are you here?’

‘Praying for guidance.’

‘And has the way to your duty been revealed to you?’

He nodded. He looked eager now. ‘Yes. Yes it has, commissar.’ He was still on his knees. ‘I had a decision to make. I had to know if I could best serve my people by being far from the site of immediate danger.’

‘No,’ I told him.

‘No,’ he agreed, nodding vigorously. ‘I can best serve them by removing the danger.’

‘Which is impossible. We are at war.’

‘Precisely.’ He smiled. The smile was unhealthy. His eyes glittered with the ecstasy of desperation. ‘We remove the danger by ending the war.’

I sighed. ‘You hope to negotiate.’

‘Yes!’ Tears trickled from his eyes. ‘I didn’t think you’d understand.’

His gratitude was revolting. It was worse than his arrogant incarnation. ‘I understand perfectly,’ I said. My tone was level, neutral. I wanted him to be open with me. ‘What stage have the negotiations reached?’

‘They haven’t begun,’ he said, and he sounded ashamed. ‘I told you. I was praying for guidance.’

‘So you haven’t sent an envoy.’

‘No.’

‘You have one selected.’

He nodded. He looked back at the bodyguards. ‘Seitz,’ he said. ‘He volunteered.’

‘I see. Come with me.’

‘You know the best way?’

‘I do.’

He followed me back down the nave to his guards. I said, ‘Seitz.’ The youngest, hardest-looking of the group looked up. ‘Out,’ I said.

The three of us walked out the doors of the chapel. The rest of the guards followed a few moments later.

Outside, Helm and the senior officers of the Steel Legion regiments waited just below the top steps of the porch. Below them were a few hundred troopers. A crowd of civilians had gathered. After hearing from Lanner, I had asked Helm to gather witnesses.

All of this was necessary.

Tritten blinked at the faces looking up at him. The harsh glow of the street torches turned them into pale skulls. ‘Citizens of Hades,’ Tritten called out. Then he fell silent. He didn’t know how to continue.

‘Tell them what you have planned,’ I prompted.

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

Seitz’s eyes widened in alarm.

‘Citizens of Hades,’ Tritten began again. ‘I will spare you the terror of war and the misery of a siege. I will negotiate with the orks.’

He waited. He expected cheers. Instead, the civilians muttered anxiously. The legionnaires stood in silence.

‘I…’ he tried again.

‘That’s enough,’ I said. I drew my bolt pistol.

‘But…’

I raised the pistol to his face. ‘Matthias Tritten,’ I said, raising my voice so it carried down the steps and into the street below, ‘you admit to conspiracy and treason. You are unfit to lead, and you deserve no mercy.’ I pulled the trigger. Before the echoes had faded, I turned to Seitz and shot him too. Then I stood, bracketed by the corpses, and addressed the people below. ‘Citizens of Hades, you are children of Armageddon. You know the easy path is an illusion. War is upon you, and the orks will be soon. You have been betrayed by your governor, and I have acted in accordance with my duty. My name is Sebastian Yarrick, I am a commissar of the Imperium, and having imposed the ultimate sanction on this traitor, it now falls to me to act in his stead.’

I let my last pronouncement sink in before continuing.

‘Hades Hive will not fall,’ I said. ‘I have vowed this, in the name of the God-Emperor. Now I call upon you to join me in this vow. Hades will not fall. Hades will not fall!’

I paused. Helm led the troops in answering. ‘Hades will not fall!’

Then the people responded, swelling the choir. ‘HADES WILL NOT FALL!’

‘The struggle will be hard,’ I said. ‘We will fight, we will sacrifice, and we will bleed. Every wound will strengthen our resolve. Every death will feed our vengeance.’ I pointed to the corpse of Tritten. ‘Every act of cowardice and thought of treachery shall be punished by immediate execution. This end is dishonour. But every death in combat will sweep you to the Emperor’s Throne. That end is glorious.

‘Tell me your vow.’

‘HADES WILL NOT FALL!’

‘Though the orks shatter the sky itself,’ I said, knowing full well the gargants would appear to do just that, ‘Hades will not fall!’

‘HADES WILL NOT FALL!’

Over the course of the next few hours, I repeated my speech. It was broadcast over the vox network. I made sure it was heard in every corner of Hades Hive. When I spoke, I was burdened by the ghosts of Tempestora and Volcanus. Nothing I had said in either locale had come to pass. But this time was different. I knew what was coming. I had time to prepare. The orks stopped here.

2. VON STRAB

The vault was deep into the Ash Wastes to the east of hive Tartarus. Until von Strab had ordered its excavation, its precise location had been a secret guarded by his family. For generations, it had been regarded as the last resort. Usable only once, it was the tactic to be reserved for when the von Strab hold over Armageddon was under mortal threat.

Such as now.

Inside the vault, von Strab stood with Syranax in a vaulted gallery overlooking the main floor. The overlord gazed left and right. This was the first time he had set eyes on the means of his victory. He was awed and proud. The space was huge. He had not expected all the weapons to be in one place. ‘Isn’t this dangerous?’ he asked.

‘The question lacks meaning,’ Syranax said. ‘It ignores the decision that precedes it. Once the determination is made to proceed with this course of action, consideration of safety becomes irrelevant.’

‘I disagree,’ said von Strab. ‘I plan on being very safe before, during and after the deployment.’

‘As you say.’ It was impossible to tell with her metallic rasp of a voice if she was being sarcastic.

Enginseers moved with reverent solemnity between the weapons. Their chanted prayers floated up to von Strab. The ones who were not part of the ritualistic parade toiled at work panels in the side of the weapons, mechadendrites coiling through the ancient mechanisms. The air roiled with incense.

‘The orks are at Infernus now,’ von Strab said. ‘This is the moment to strike.’

‘Impossible,’ said Syranax.

‘That was not a suggestion. Implementation within an hour of my command, you told me. I am giving that command.’

‘With apologies, overlord, further complications have arisen.’

‘When, then?’

‘Another few days.’

Von Strab’s mouth dried. How fast would the orks sweep east? Tartarus was the hive furthest away from the front. Could he count on wiping out the greenskins before they were at his door?

East of Infernus, Hades was on the north coast of Armageddon Secundus, with the Diablo Mountains between it and Infernus. Helsreach was on the south coast, across more level terrain. If the orks kept up with their established pattern of attack, they would lay siege to those hives, and then Acheron, before turning on Tartarus. That was good.

And Yarrick. Yarrick was at Hades; though stubborn, he had his uses after all. He might hold the orks’ attention another day or so.

Yes, yes, there was still time. Von Strab breathed more easily. The victory was still his. The plan required some fine tuning. ‘Very well,’ he said to Syranax. ‘Let me know the instant they’re operational. We will be using multiple targets.’

3. YARRICK

The orks amused themselves for a few days at Infernus. When their forces moved on, they left behind a contingent at the hive, as they had at Volcanus. They were beginning their occupation of Armageddon. We received fragments of vox transmissions from the captured hives. One of those came from Captain Stahl in Volcanus. He still lived. There was resistance in those cities, though I feared it was more entertaining than threatening for the orks.

Helm sent out reconnaissance flights, and we learned the greenskin army had split into two. One force made for Helsreach, the other for Hades. Their advance was quick, but the geography of Armageddon came to our aid all the same. The orks could not defeat distance merely by willing themselves to their next target. They had to cross the mountains and the desert. We had some time. In Hades, we used it well.

We also spoke to the other hives. Or we tried.

In Tartarus, Colonel Yurovsky had command. In Acheron, Colonel Morrier. And in Helsreach, Colonel Rehkopf. In Helm’s tent, we set up vox communication with all three.

‘I wish you luck,’ Yurovsky said. ‘We will listen for your news with interest. But Overlord von Strab’s orders are explicit. I will not challenge them.’ He had left Infernus after Brenken’s takeover. Von Strab had rewarded his loyalty by giving him control over the combined regiments in Tartarus.

‘General Andechs also chose not to challenge those orders,’ I pointed out. ‘We might have been spared this disaster if he had.’

‘Really? Things went better for Infernus under Colonel Brenken, did they?’

‘That is how you’re interpreting what happened there?’ Helm was floored.

‘I wish you all well,’ Yurovsky repeated. ‘The Emperor protects.’ He signed off.

‘He has a point,’ said Morrier.

‘Where?’ Helm demanded. ‘On his head?’

‘The chain of command is vital,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have to remind you.’

‘Agreed,’ said Helm. ‘The higher up the rot goes, the more urgently correction is required.’

‘Is that what you are doing, Commissar Yarrick?’ she asked me. ‘Because what I see is a coup. Ordering the execution of a general and killing a governor involve very generous interpretations of your remit, don’t you think?’

‘I act according to my duty, and I will do whatever I must to save Armageddon.’

‘Convenient that this mission of salvation means installing yourself as ruler of Hades Hive.’

‘Whatever is necessary, colonel.’

‘You mean whatever is opportune, I think. Lord Commissar Seroff was right about you.’

I sighed. ‘This serves no purpose, Colonel Morrier. The orks don’t care about our political differences, though our divisions are paving the road to conquest for them.’

‘You’re right,’ Morrier said. ‘This serves no purpose. I will not be fuel for your ambition, Yarrick.’ And she was gone too.

‘Colonel Rehkopf?’ Helm asked. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’

‘Just thinking. So Yurovsky and Morrier are leaving it up to us to stop the ork advance?’

‘So it would seem,’ said Helm.

‘Commissar Yarrick,’ Rehkopf said, ‘with the orks dividing their forces, do we have the means to stop them? We have many times the resources you had on Armageddon Prime.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Ghazghkull used a fraction of his strength on Tempestora and Volcanus. Conventional means and conventional tactics won’t be enough. Total mobilisation is necessary, and we have to hit the orks in ways they won’t expect.’ I grimaced. ‘Like they’ve been doing to us.’

‘I don’t understand how they keep surprising us, and I’ve fought my share of greenskins.’

‘We have an enemy who knows us better than we do him,’ I said. ‘We have to disabuse ourselves of the idea there are tactics too sophisticated for this warlord. Colonel, this threat is historic. We are defending more than Armageddon. We are standing between Ghazghkull Thraka and the Imperium itself.’

After a moment, he said, ‘I believe you’re right.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Has there been any news from Colonel Brenken?’

‘Yes. She expects to be in Helsreach within the day. She has a few hours’ advance on the orks.’

‘Not much,’ Helm commented.

‘We haven’t been idle.’

‘Assume the worst,’ I told Rehkopf. ‘Assume the orks will breach your walls. The terrain outside Hades gives us some advantages you lack.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘The hive must be your weapon, colonel. Find its blade.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Your docks,’ I said. The inspiration was grim, but it made me smile all the same. ‘Your docks have powerful blades.’

4. BRENKEN

Not enough, she thought. The gargants were already silhouettes against the red horizon. The war was closing in on Helsreach. Rehkopf had done well, and he was showing her what was being prepared on the docks.

‘If the orks make it this far,’ he said.

‘When they do,’ she corrected.

Rehkopf pressed his lips together, but he didn’t contradict her. He rubbed an augmetic ear. ‘When they do,’ he said.

‘I’m no defeatist, colonel.’

‘I know you aren’t.’

Not enough, Brenken thought again. She gazed at the piers, looking for more to do. Helsreach was prepared in a way Volcanus had not been. The defences were deep and strong, but so was the readiness for street warfare. The population was more than braced. Brenken swept her gaze over the piers. The echoes of Setheno’s exhortations reached the water, and the canoness was igniting religious anger. The orks would be met by fanaticism.

Still not enough.

It was the cry of the millions of dead of Tempestora, of Volcanus, of Death Mire, of Infernus. It was the pain of the uncountable refugees, abandoned to their fates in the wastelands of Armageddon, dying of exposure, of thirst, of heat, or run down by the exuberant warbikers. She had heard the cries as the Steel Legion regiments pulled ahead of the southbound refugees. Were any of them still alive? Unlikely. The orks had come behind them, the great tide of boots and wheels and treads. Brenken pictured what must have happened: the huge sound of the approaching army, the panic, the hopeless flight. The trampling.

She had heard their cries, and she heard them still.

Not enough.

Setheno’s brutal sanctity made her incapable of empathy. Brenken did not consider herself a sentimentalist, but prolonged exposure to the Canoness Errant’s void of mercy had made her more conscious of the doomed populations. She would never let civilian concerns affect tactical decisions. At the same time, there was worth in saving the citizens of the Imperium where possible.

Brenken pointed to the great tankers that brought fuel and water to Helsreach. They were docked and idle. They should be useful instead. ‘Colonel,’ she said to Rehkopf. ‘We need a civilian construction detail. I want those ships converted to take passengers.’

‘For evacuation?’ He looked towards the streets and towers where the rage to kill was being stoked.

‘Anticipating a partial one. The people will fight, but not all of them can. If we wait until a retreat is necessary, it will be too late.’

‘Where would they go? The Deadlands?’

Brenken shrugged. ‘Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps they’ll be able to return. At least they’ll be out of the greenskins’ path.’

Rehkopf nodded.

Brenken wondered if he could hear the cries too.

5. VON STRAB

He was dining in the company of Lord Erich Rittau, the governor of Tartarus, and Seroff when the message came from Syranax. A serf, one of the Rittau family retainers, entered the dining hall with apologetic bobs of the head. All the guards in the room were von Strab’s. He nodded to them, and the serf approached with a data-slate. Von Strab took it. He read the message. He grinned.

‘Good news?’ Rittau asked from the other end of the table. There were no other diners at present.

‘Very,’ von Strab said. He read further. He started to laugh. ‘Very good indeed.’

‘Oh?’ said Seroff.

‘The orks are at the gates of Helsreach and Hades.’

Rittau’s fork trembled against his plate. ‘How is that good news?’

‘Because I can now put an end to this troublesome war.’

Seroff gazed into his amasec. To von Strab’s disappointment, he didn’t ask how the miracle would be accomplished. He had the air of a man who was unhappy with the path he had chosen, yet would react with fury against anyone who suggested an alternative.

Von Strab shrugged. He tapped a reply to Syranax’s message. It consisted of a single word.

Launch.

6. YARRICK

As soon as the orks came into sight, I headed underground. The enemy was where I had expected. After crossing the Diablo Mountains, the orks had used the Eumenides Bridge to the east of Hades Hive. Now they moved towards the gates along the highway. We could have slowed them down by blowing the bridge. At most we would have gained a few pointless hours. We were as ready as we would be. Leaving the bridge intact was an invitation, one the orks accepted. For the first time in this war, the enemy had done as we desired. We had the initiative.

The troops were already in place, a company of the 97th mechanised infantry led by Captain Genath. Lanner was heading one of the squads. The legionnaires weren’t alone. The Heirs of Grevenberg were part of the trap too. There were more than a hundred of them, headed up by Beil. They wore armbands bearing crude aquila designs, the sign that I had deputised them. The measure was provisional at best. The urgency of the moment was ensuring a guarded cooperation between the Steel Legion and the Grevenbergs. I could count on a united effort against the common foe. But I had a great task ahead of me. I had to forge the Grevenbergs and the other underhive gangers into something more coherent and more permanent. There was no chance of a quick victory against the orks. Our only hope, then, lay in a long campaign. That meant using the gangers. They knew the underground warren even better than the likes of Lanner. So now, while Helm oversaw the initial defence of the walls, I would be at the forward emplacement, ensuring the first joint operation of the Steel Legion and the underhive denizens was as lethal to the orks as it should be.

I descended into the crypt of the Chapel of the Martyrs Militant. The Tritten family’s escape route had turned out to be much more developed than we had expected. It must have been expanded and refined over the course of generations. It seemed Matthias Tritten’s duplicity and cowardice was bred in the bone. Not only did the tunnels at the bottom of the shaft lead to a network extending through the underhive and into the mining complexes outside the walls, a surprising number of corridors in the web appeared to have been built for this express purpose, rather than adapted from existing passages. It was possible to go from the chapel to any of a score of exit points, some far on the other side of the Eumenides River, without ever being seen in either the mines or the underhive. There was even a maglev track. Its train, no more than a platform with benches, could carry up to fifty passengers. The Trittens had planned to escape with a full retinue, whenever the time to run had come. The preparations were so involved, I was surprised they had never been used. I wondered if the last Lord Tritten’s ancestors would be pleased that he had decided to remain in Hades to the last, or if they would be disgusted by his stupidity.

Now I rode their train. Rather than escaping, I was travelling towards war. The journey, a rattling, jinking trip through total darkness, took less than half an hour, and gradually headed uphill. I used the train’s simple lever control to stop it at our ambush point, just to the west of the bridge.

I ran down mining tunnels until I reached the company and the gang. The troopers and underhivers eyed each other suspiciously, but they hadn’t come to blows. More troopers than Lanner had their roots in the underhive. There was likely old and bad blood in the air. But no one was acting on it. I had made it clear anyone who chose a target other than an ork would become my target next.

The cave we were in was not part of the Trittens’ private warren. It was part of the mine. It ended at a wide crevasse descending hundreds of metres into the dark. A rung ladder in the wall to my right climbed up a shaft to the surface ten metres above.

Captain Genath came to meet me. ‘The charges are ready,’ he said. He had to shout. The rumble of the start of the orks’ passing was tremendous, and the long-range guns on the walls had begun their bombardment.

‘Good,’ I said.

‘So we attack?’ Beil asked.

‘When we can do the most damage. Wait for my word.’ I climbed the ladder. My right arm was still shooting with pain, but I moved fast, an old man energised by righteous war. The ladder ended at a hatch set at an angle into the rock. I slid it to the side.

I was looking out of a low rise towards the highway a few dozen metres away. Ork infantry and transports rolled by. My instinct was to attack at once. Even a single step the xenos took towards an Imperial city was intolerable. But these targets weren’t important enough. Our attack had to count for more than a few battlewagons. I looked to my right, east along the endless stream of greenskins. As I waited for a worthy victim, I heard the chanting of the orks. They repeated the same guttural syllables again and again. A name gave rhythm to their march. Not Ghazghkull this time.

Ugulhard. Ugulhard. Ugulhard.

One of the prophet’s lieutenants. A warlord strong enough to lead an army of this size. But not Ghazghkull. If I am honest with myself, I was disappointed. I wanted to come to grips with the orks’ prophet. I wanted to destroy the beast that had brought devastation, humiliation and shame to Armageddon.

Emerging from the gloom, I saw the great hulks of gargants. They had cleared the bridge, though they were still some distance from our position.

A bright streak against the sullen red of the clouds caught my eye. Then another. They were arcing contrails. Whatever it was appeared to be heading towards Hades. I frowned. It did not come from the orks. The other end of the contrail disappeared beyond the horizon to the south-east.

Human missiles?

Launched from where? By whom?

Von Strab.

I slammed the hatch shut and climbed down the rungs as fast as I could. ‘Missile attack!’ I yelled. ‘Get back down the tunnels! As deep as we can!’ I jumped from the last few rungs. The company and the Grevenbergs were already moving. ‘Vox!’ I shouted.

I didn’t know how long we had. Minutes at most, and the seconds were flooding away.

What kind of missile? What has von Strab been hiding?

We pounded down the tunnels, taking the first slope down. A vox operator caught up to me. I grabbed the unit and contacted Helm. ‘Missiles incoming,’ I warned him. ‘Get to shelter. Get everyone to shelter.’

He was shouting orders before the connection broke.

We ran into darkness. The slope was steep. We put tonnes of rock between us and the surface.

I imagined the worst. I imagined a forbidden, lunatic deployment of Deathstrike missiles.

I had already underestimated Ghazghkull’s intelligence. Now I had underestimated von Strab’s madness.

CHAPTER 18

Von Strab’s Legacy

1. YARRICK

It would be months before I pieced together all the details of the horror. Some knowledge came quickly, though. I would realise the nature of the weapon when I first saw the aftermath of the bombardment. When I saw the swamp of liquefied flesh.

Virus bombs. That deluded, treacherous, megalomaniacal scoundrel unleashed virus bombs. Weren’t the orks bad enough? Even they must have been taken aback. Even they stopped short of such suicidal folly. In the history of the galaxy, has any sentient being other than Herman von Strab unleashed an Exterminatus-level attack while still on the very planet being attacked?

And while having dinner, no less.

The origin of the vault to the east of Tartarus is lost in the shadows of Armageddon’s history. It was there for millennia, and I am grateful for its great age. The Emperor protects, even when mankind does all it can to strip itself of His protection. Von Strab ordered every rocket launched. The targets were the hives either captured or under siege. He reserved one each for Tempestora, Volcanus, Death Mire and Infernus, but he decided the greatest number should be hurled at the locations under siege, where the greatest concentration of the orks would be found.

I can follow his logic to that extent, mad though it was. If the virus bombs had functioned as designed, von Strab would have done more than end the war. He would have scoured Armageddon clean of all life. And he stood on a balcony to watch the launches. He stood outside, with the wind blowing against him. His survival on that day is one of the more malevolent quirks of fate of that war.

The Emperor protects. Not all the missiles launched. The enginseers working at von Strab’s behest had laboured hard, but what he asked of them was impossible. There were flaws deep within the mechanisms thousands of years old. I wish with all the hatred I bear for von Strab that the faulty rockets had been the first to launch. When their engines ignited, they exploded. I don’t know if it was one missile or several that malfunctioned. The result was the same. The fuel detonation incinerated everything and everyone within the vault. Von Strab might have been able to see the fireball from where he stood. If he did, he saw his burning salvation. The explosion destroyed the virus. In the region of Tartarus, the destruction was limited to the vault. Beyond it, all was ash. There was nothing there to kill.

The other missiles flew. The guidance of the one heading for Death Mire failed. It fell to earth in the Plain of Anthrand. Tempestora and Volcanus were out of range for the degraded engines.

The Emperor protects.

Infernus, Hades and Helsreach were hit. Those impacts would have been enough to destroy Armageddon, but it was not only the casing, mechanism and fuel of the missiles that had degraded. So had the virus. It was a faint echo of its original potency. And that was disastrous enough.

I heard the crump of the air bursts. The sound was deceptively faint. That it reached us at all through the rock meant the blast was massive. A deep thrum ran through the tunnels. In the light of our torches, dust fell from the ceiling. We knew nothing more of what was happening on the surface. We kept going down, and waited for word from Helm.

The missiles struck just to the west of our position. They spread their cloud for thousands of metres in either direction. A grey mist descended on orks and hive. At full potency, there would have been no protection against the virus, except being in a shelter completely sealed from the outside world. But the Emperor protects. The payload of at least one of the missiles was inert. Underground, we were safe. In Hades, most of the defenders were able to reach shelter before the blast. Most, but not all. Some were too far from a refuge, some were too slow, and others never heard the warning. For once, the corrosive nature of Armageddon’s atmosphere was a blessing. Few of Hades’ streets ever saw daylight. Much of the city was enclosed. The stink of industry was inescapable. The air was close to unbreathable even with filters and scrubbers at work. But it was enough. The worst of the virus fell against the walls and roofs of Hades, an invisible slick of death sliding down the facades. Where the virus did not find organic material, it died immediately.

It did find victims, though. Many. On the ramparts and in the streets, in gun turrets where the viewing slits were open, and wherever the wind could reach, the virus took its prey. A cry rose from the rockcrete canyons of Hades. It ended quickly. All organic matter broke down. Flesh and organs and bone deliquesced. People convulsed in agony and fear. They had the time to know they were rotting inside and out. They had the time to experience the full horror of that end. Human beings turned into dark muck.

Orks did too. They had no shelter. In the region of the blasts, from the gates to a few hundred metres east of the ambush point, their casualty rate was total. Infantry on foot and in transports disintegrated into green sludge. The battlewagons stopped dead, turned into tombs for their passengers. A stompa caught at the edge of the cloud lost its crew. It kept walking until untended machinery blew up and it toppled over, blocking a portion of the highway.

It was here, then, at Hades, that von Strab’s action caused the greatest enemy losses. He succeeded in destroying that portion of the ork army that I had decided was unworthy of the potential of our ambush. It was a contingent I knew the conventional defences on the walls could handle.

At least the ork dead outnumbered ours.

Helsreach was not so fortunate.

2. SETHENO

She was facing west, within sight of the outer wall. She was standing in the balcony of the Chapel of Sacred Mortification, in mid-exhortation. That was when she saw the contrails. The orks had begun the siege with their leading elements, but the stompas and gargants were still some distance away. Setheno called a warning. It went out over the full expanse of Helsreach. She saw troops and civilians scramble for cover, but there was too little time. She stayed where she was. The kind of blasts she expected would kill her or not regardless of whether she was on the other side of armourglass doors.

The explosions were something different. They unleashed clouds that reached like claws over Helsreach. The wind from the west pushed them far into the hive, away from the orks. The clouds descended, tendrils trailing over the streets and habs like the fingers of a sickly, murderous god. At their touch, Helsreach erupted with a wet scream that became a choking gurgle, and then a sudden quiet. The wave of the cry swept towards Setheno, and she knew what had come upon the hive. She left the balcony. She closed the doors behind her, and put on her helmet. There was no other precaution she could take.

She waited.

She could hear the rise and fall of the liquefying shriek through the armourglass. She watched the mist drape itself against the door. She breathed evenly, waiting for the end, and cursing von Strab for hurling Armageddon into defeat and extinction. The end did not come. The wave of cries moved on, fading. Setheno gave thanks her war for the Emperor was not finished. She did not move yet. There was something else to come. Though the virus had lost the potency that struck through all but the most hermetic seals, the death toll on the streets had been massive. Hundreds of thousands had perished. The roads were awash with the thick stew of broken down bodies. The air was charged with the instant decomposition’s sudden release of gas.

The inevitable took almost a full minute to arrive. The orks nearest the gates had losses of their own, she guessed. They regrouped. The attack resumed. A shell landed over the wall. Its explosion was more than enough. The gas ignited. A wall of flame erupted before Setheno as the western region of Helsreach became an exploding caldera. The heat shattered the chapel’s armourglass. The flames roared through the doorway. They swept through the gallery behind her, incinerating carpets and tapestries. The fire enveloped her. She stood her ground. Her power armour absorbed the heat, absorbed still more, and then its warning runes began to flash.

She withstood the heat. She stared through the inferno. The conflagration was more intense than the death of Tempestora. This was a single, raging eruption, all the fuel combusting at once. Setheno saw nothing but the roil of flame. Helsreach had vanished, consumed in light and heat.

Setheno walked forward through the fire, back onto the balcony. She advanced until she bumped against the parapet. She met the flame with the ice of her rage. Von Strab had doomed Helsreach. But there could be no further retreating. The fight for the hive was foredoomed, but it would be long. It would cost the orks. She would make certain of that.

‘Canoness?’ Brenken’s voice came over her suit’s vox. ‘What is happening? We’re seeing flames and I’ve lost all contact with the eastern division.’

So the clouds had not covered all of Helsreach. There was a battle yet to be had. Good.

‘We have lost the east, colonel,’ Setheno said. ‘Von Strab has taken it from us with virus bombs.’

There was a long pause during which Setheno watched the storm and billow of the flames. So much was burning there. So much had been burned. Her existence since Mistral had been a series of pyres, an endless purgatory where hope and illusion burned together, and in their ashes were revealed to be one and the same. And here was another pyre, another cremation, and did fate think it had anything left with which to surprise her? The fires were all one to her now. They had been since the one that had consumed the Order of the Piercing Thorn.

The flames were nothing. The screams had been nothing. The losses were just another vector in the flight of war.

‘Why are we still alive?’ Brenken asked finally.

‘I can only speculate the virus has lost strength with age. The missiles were not launched from orbit, colonel. For von Strab to have access to such weapons, their existence had to be a secret, and so they must have been here a very long time.’

‘You’re sure it was von Strab?’

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Brenken said after a moment.

The flames began to die.

‘Make ready,’ Setheno said. ‘The orks are coming now. There will be no siege.’

‘We’re ready,’ said Brenken.

The shape of the city became visible again. So did what was at the gates. The gargants had arrived, and there was no one on the wall to oppose them. The guns were silent. Without slowing, the first of the gargants smashed through the gates. Its war horns sounded. They were the triumphant roar of a great beast. Behind it, more of the huge engines marched into Helsreach. At their feet, the green tide surged.

Setheno turned from the balcony. She descended the steps of the spire. Her path was as clear as it had ever been. She would douse the flames with greenskin blood.

3. YARRICK

We waited beneath the surface. The rumble of the missile blasts passed. The vibration in the stone did not return. After a few minutes, before restlessness set in, I started back. Both contingents followed. Captain Genath caught up to me. So did Lanner. The sergeant was grinning.

‘You look pleased,’ I said to Lanner.

‘Just looking forward to what’s next, commissar,’ he replied.

‘Why is that?’

‘Won’t be dull.’

I laughed. ‘No, I don’t believe it will.’ To Genath I said, ‘Have you had contact with the other positions?’ Ours was but one portion of the ambush. The operation was a large one. We had been preparing it since the day after my arrival in Hades.

‘I have,’ Genath said. ‘All but one company reporting back. They survived whatever that attack was.’

‘Have them get into position.’

We returned to the near-surface cave. I climbed the ladder once more. I grasped the hatch. I listened. I heard the movement of troops once more. It was the first time in my life the sound of orks meant a danger was over. I opened the hatch.

The terrain was covered by a stinking, dark green muck. I recognised it as organic. Part of my mind understood what that meant, and filed that knowledge away for later wrath. The rest of my consciousness focused on the actions of the enemy.

The orks were marching forward with even more energy. They had been bloodied, and hungered for retaliation. They splashed through the morass that had been their fellows. They were chanting again – Ugulhard, Ugulhard, Ugulhard. Faster, louder, riding the energy of ferocity. More infantry, more vehicles. Mobile artillery too, pounding the walls with shells and explosive energy blasts. A fallen stompa was an obstacle to the advance, but a platoon of battlewagons was shoving it to the side with their siege blades. Other stompas were taking their ponderous steps towards the wall. To my right, gargants twice their size rocked forward. There were three of them, a mountain chain advancing earthquake by earthquake. Flames gouted from chimneys on their shoulders, distant torches in the eternal red night. I was an ant at their feet, beneath notice, irrelevant.

I smiled.

I climbed a few rungs down and called to Genath. ‘Alert the other positions. It’s time.’

I moved back up. With Lanner in the lead, troopers climbed the ladder behind me. I heard Genath giving orders. We were ready. More than ready. I watched the gargants, and they couldn’t come fast enough. The orks loved war, but so could we. I drew my bolt pistol, and it seemed to me I was holding the lever of a huge machine.

The first of the gargants drew level with my position. I waited, my finger tightening on the trigger. Then the second. I counted the steps. I counted the seconds. Each huge boom of the gargant’s strides was a pendulum swinging closer to vengeance.

I savoured those moments. I was not above bloodthirsty anticipation. I feel no shame in that memory. I take pride in it.

I raised my pistol. The target didn’t matter. I gave myself the luxury of aiming at a chieftain standing atop a battlewagon driving on the highway’s edge, keeping even with the gargants. The beast’s armour was redolent of savage arrogance. Plates were piled upon plates. Joints sprouted saw blades. The ork wore a necklace of human skulls, and it had the temerity to leave its own unprotected.

The third gargant was one stride away.

‘Now!’ I shouted. I leaped out of the shaft and fired. The bolt shell blew off the top of the ork’s head. The brute’s eyes widened in surprise at the sudden loss of its brain. Rigid as a statue, the corpse toppled from the battlewagon.

A few seconds passed between my command and its effect. It had to be relayed. Actions had to be taken. Fuses lit. The blow came at the precise moment I had anticipated. That it occurred as the ork boss hit the ground was a pleasing coincidence.

In the caverns beneath the highway, clusters of meltabombs went off. Rock turned molten. A stretch of road hundreds of metres long fell into the earth, into the abyssal crevasse below. The demolition was colossal. We had planted bombs along the cavern walls too, making the collapse even greater, widening the gap into a canyon. The middle gargant dropped into the void. Huge as the war machine was, the crevasse swallowed it whole. It had taken centuries to exhaust the ore here. The fall was thousands of metres.

The first and third gargants were caught at the edges of the collapse. They teetered back and forth. On the weapon platforms, orks gesticulated in alarm. The crews inside panicked, as I had known they would. Instead of immobilising the gargants, they tried to move forward or back, away from the danger. Each gargant raised a foot. The loss of stability was fatal. Gravity won. They toppled to their dooms.

The colossus at the far end of the gap from my position somersaulted down. The sight of a construction so huge dropping that way was awe-inspiring. A mountain fell as if it were a tree. It pushed a strong wind my way. Then it too vanished. A cacophony of crashes and explosions accompanied it all the way down, the sound of a hurricane made of metal. The earth shook. Further tonnes of rock followed the gargant, widening the pit even more, crushing the dying machines below.

An even bigger explosion followed and the deep reverberation knocked me off my feet. I stood as the last gargant fell forward. The crevasse was not as wide here. The monster wedged itself partway down. It was lying on its side, tilting down, its head suspended over the pit. Its right flank and limb were still above the surface. The arm, a claw twenty metres long, flailed. The crew was trying to use it to find purchase, a futile attempt to raise that gigantic mass out of the trap. The movement created the disturbing illusion of life, as if a death world behemoth were struggling in the grips of a tar pit. The vast sweeps of the arm did even more damage to the enemy. Where it hit the ground, it caught infantry and vehicles. A giant scythe, it carried them over the edge and into the dark. Hundreds of footsoldiers and dozens of vehicles had fallen in the initial moments of the collapse, and the gargant’s throes created a continuous rain of tumbling greenskins.

And as they fell, so we rose. On either side of the pit, the Armageddon Steel Legion burst from concealed mining shafts. Troopers took up positions behind the shelter offered by the boulder-strewn terrain. We lined the highway and caught the orks in a kill zone too long to flee. Enfilading las, stubber and rocket fire cut the greenskins down or forced them into the pit. Genath’s company concentrated its fire on the gargant. A missile platform was partially visible from our angle. We fired down at the rockets, hammering them with hundreds of hits in only a few seconds. Either we damaged a launch mechanism, or an enraged ork did the most foolish thing in its power. The missiles fired straight into the canyon wall. The fireballs washed back over the gargant and a huge rockslide pounded the machine, setting off more blasts. More and more of the wall fell away. The pit widened. Burning, venting black smoke, wracked by internal detonations, the monster finally dropped into the darkness. Its monolithic claw grasped at air to the last.

To the west, the forward elements of the orks were trapped between the walls of Hades and the pit where the highway had been. Even with stompas, they didn’t have the strength to punch through the defences. This was not the fragmented force they had faced at Tempestora and Volcanus. There was no betrayal from within as at Infernus. Hades stood united and determined against the xenos invader. The entire 33rd infantry regiment of the Steel Legion, supported by the Hades Hive Defence Militia, punished the ork footsoldiers with a hail of las so intense it resembled a continuous barrage of sheet lighting. Earthshaker and Demolisher cannons combined their fire on first one stompa, then another. The impact of that many shells overwhelmed the stompas’ power fields and blasted through their armour. The stompas died explosively, blown apart by our ordnance and their own. As each died, it took battlewagons down with it. Waves of flame rolled over the green tide.

At the ambush point, we directed our fire at the orks on the other side of the gap. They were caught in their own bottleneck. The Eumenides Bridge narrowed their formation, slowing the advance. Once over the bridge, they had to stick to the highway. The ground was treacherous. It was porous with mines and traps. Our defences there were simple – rough camouflage concealing deep gullies. In some spots, all that had been necessary was to sabotage the structural supports of shallow tunnels. The closer the mines were to Hades, the more likely they were to have been exhausted, but not before becoming highly dangerous. The orks wandering off the safe route of the highway fell prey to the dangers that had killed hundreds of thousands of serfs. Already, numerous greenskin tanks were caught, upended, wheels and treads spinning in helpless anger.

From behind the hive’s wall, the Basilisks of all four regiments rained shells on the narrow strip of land. They cratered the highway, threw body parts aloft and turned vehicles into rolling firebombs. Our horizontal fire chewed into the advancing lines. The orks retaliated ferociously, but at last the advantage was ours. The smoke, fire, dust and bursts of the artillery blinded them. Their fire was wild, undisciplined, random. It was powerful, and it was devastating when it struck home. But we never let the orks zero in.

I was surrounded by weapons fire. The world was a violent mosaic of energy bursts, las scars and explosions etching the red blackness, a storm of fire raging in through a night made of war. My eyes were dazzled. When I blinked, I saw the negative image of the battlefield. The orks seemed to advance in a rapid succession of still tableaux. I found my targets all the same. I put shells into skull after skull. Every time I pulled the trigger, I exacted a measure of justice for the dead of Armageddon.

I was shouting too. In the roar of battle, only those nearby could hear. ‘Strike with fury!’ I cried. ‘Burn the xenos with the justice of our guns. The Emperor’s spirit marches with us. We have smashed the greenskins’ idolatrous engines. Now smash the orks themselves. Drive them back into the void and the flame. Let them learn the price of defiling Armageddon.’

The miracle began slowly. At first, I didn’t realise it was happening. I was too consumed by the slaughter. On the other side of the Eumenides, several kilometres distant, were the broad, conical shapes of more gargants. They had stopped advancing. And then, as I began to understand what I was seeing, they turned around.

Heedless of the enemy fire, I stood up and leapt to the top of the boulder before me.

‘The enemy retreats!’ I yelled. I pointed forward with my sword. ‘Behold the works of faith and steel! Comrades, we have humbled mountains!’ I jumped from boulder to boulder, racing after the orks as if I would harry them into the Eumenides gorge myself.

My actions in those moments were as conscious as they were driven by instinct. When I had executed Tritten, I had in effect taken his place as the ruler of Hades Hive. To do what had to be done, it was crucial that I be seen not just as the leader by default, but as the leader Hades needed. So I would make use of the power of the commissariat. I had to be the symbol to rally the people. When I spoke, they must obey.

To become the symbol, I had to be seen, and be seen to inspire.

So I stood tall in the face of ork fire. I led the charge, an old man transformed into retaliation itself.

So I knew what I was doing. But I was also transported. I was transformed. I had endured defeat and defeat and defeat. We had been outnumbered, outmanoeuvred, and outthought by Ghazghkull Thraka at every turn. Now, at last, we turned the orks back. At last, they tasted defeat. The burning air of Armageddon, the stink of fyceline and promethium, and the unrelenting gale of our fire pushed me forward. My age fell away. I had the strength of a Titan. I pursued the orks, and they fled before my wrath.

The enemy’s covering shots dropped away as the army pulled further away. I stopped in the middle of the highway, pistol out, sword held high. I was vaguely aware of dull throbs in my ribs and my shoulder, and burning on the side of my neck. I was injured.

A trivial fact.

The shelling and the gunfire stopped, but there was still a huge noise. It had a two-beat rhythm. It kept repeating.

It was a shout from thousands of throats.

It was my name.

CHAPTER 19

Ugulhard

1. YARRICK

We had a breathing space. Yet I felt time slipping away even more quickly than before. There had been many days between my arrival at Hades and the first attack. We had used that gift of time well. The trap had worked better than I could have hoped, but the great blow was not one we could replicate easily. I had controlled the narrative of the opening act of the siege. I had anticipated how the orks would approach, and despite the disaster von Strab had unleashed, used their tactics against them.

Now I had to envision the orks’ counterattack, and how to block it. I didn’t have days. I might have hours. But I didn’t know. The orks had retreated out of sight of the walls, behind the curve of the hills of ejecta. The new eruption could come at any time. I had to be ready.

The breathing space was a lie. It was a held breath. An exhalation of fire was imminent and unpredictable.

I had to be ready. I was thinking more and more in those terms: I. I had to plan. I had to anticipate. I had taken on a duty by executing Tritten, affirmed it by devising the strategy we had employed, and consolidated it during the ambush. I had control of Hades, and Helm was backing me by deferring to my tactical decisions. Any leader is symbolic, and a commissar is a symbolic leader even when the chain of command is intact and functioning well. My role in Hades was evolving rapidly. Capitalising on it was imperative. I had vowed Hades would not fall. Its responses to the ork siege would have to be quick, nimble, decisive, unified.

Tens of millions would have to act with one will.

My word had to be law.

I was taking steps to making this necessity a reality. I prayed I was moving fast enough. I feared I wasn’t. I wanted to be everywhere. I could not.

After the ambush, I joined Genath and the other captains at the head of the Steel Legion companies. We marched back to the gates, triumphant. The victory was a brief one, I knew this. I did nothing to check the celebration. Not yet. I let the spirits rise. As we came closer to the wall, the voices of my comrades joined those of the defenders on the ramparts.

And there was my name again, turned into a chant, into a shout of defiance aimed at the enemy. I let that happen too. It was necessary. I had to become something greater than Sebastian Yarrick. The hand and the eye of Commissar Yarrick had to be felt at every height and every depth of the hive.

The celebration had spread far beyond the wall by the time I met up with Helm. He and his fellow colonels greeted me atop the main gate, where I was visible to as many troops and civilians as could gather in the streets below, and at the windows of the hab blocks.

‘I wish the overlord had listened to you from the start,’ said Helm.

I grunted. ‘Though I’ve made my share of mistakes. I underestimated the enemy too. No more.’

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Now we prepare for much worse.’

Helm had ordered vox casters brought to our location without my prompting. He knew the value of the moment. He was taking an active role in the shaping, the creation of my myth.

I stepped up to the vox and looked out at Hades. I had spoken to all of Volcanus. Then I had been a veteran commissar. Now I was engaging in a wilful transformation.

Whatever is necessary.

‘A victory,’ I said. I sharpened my gaze. It was directed at every soul who could see me. Yes. I am looking at you. I am judging you. ‘You witnessed a victory today, didn’t you?

‘No. You witnessed a reprieve.

‘Are you looking at me, and at the heroes of the Steel Legion, and thinking that we have the orks well in hand? Are you? Then you are beneath contempt. You are abandoning your fellows, and Hades, and Armageddon. You are abandoning the Emperor.

‘This was a reprieve, and a chance. You see what can be done. Know this now. You will stand with us. You will fight. In all the days of blood ahead, you will fight, or I will execute you myself. Do this, and victory will come. What is victory?’

I paused.

‘What is victory?’

Again I waited.

‘Victory is when all the greenskins lie dead on the soil they profaned!’

The cheer came. It began with the troopers, who understood the battles, but it spread to civilians, to the streets, to the interior of the arcologies, to the manufactoria, to the chapels and cathedrals. The hive city called for blood.

In Volcanus, the people had been ready to fight. That was not enough. The orks had become an extension of their prophet’s will. I made no heretical claims for myself. We were all bound to be extensions of the Emperor’s will. But I would see his will enforced by any means necessary.

‘Hades shall not fall!’ I shouted, and the cheer became a roar.

Time slipping away, each unused second lost to the enemy. Each second, the orks were preparing. Each second, their second attack was closer. Were we using the time we had well? Was I?

When the seconds ran out, I would know.

We sent scouts out to the edges of the mines on all sides of Hades. They came as close as they could to the ork encampment. We knew where the greenskins were, but I would not assume they would attack along the same route. We watched, and we prepared. The citizens’ militia grew. Each company was attached to a squad of the Hive Militia, and their sergeants reported back to the Steel Legion. The organised defence of Hades grew and grew. There would be no refugees. There would be no flight.

No sunrise, no sunset, no cycle of light on Armageddon now. Only the crimson dark, its intensity rising and falling by the whim of the wind and storm and eruption. Could I say a day passed? Thirty hours did. And then the orks came again.

The distant thunder of their march gave us ample warning. They were heading back down the main highway.

I stood with Helm on the wall. The enemy had not come into sight yet, though we could see the flashes of energy discharges over the hills.

‘No change at all?’ Helm asked.

‘Something will be different,’ I said. What, though? The pit in the highway was a major obstacle. The rocky slopes on either side were steep. There was no roof for the largest ork war machines to get around. Battlewagons and the small walkers would manage, but in narrow columns. They would be at a disadvantage against our wall turrets.

The leading edge of the orks came into sight. Helm squinted. He raised his magnoculars. ‘What am I seeing?’ he said.

He saw huge rectangular shapes transported by the vehicles at the head of the column. As far as I could tell, they were simply gigantic metal slabs.

‘Shields,’ I realised.

‘What?’

‘The orks are attacking on two fronts.’ I turned to go. ‘I’m taking Genath’s company down below. Stand fast, colonel. Hit those shields and hit them hard. The Emperor protects.’

2. HELM

The ork artillery barrage began moments after Yarrick headed for the underhive. The assault was massive, though most of the energy blasts fell short of the wall. The damage to the hive and the defences was minimal. But the explosions filled the region immediately east. They were blinding. Helm could see nothing of the ork force beyond. The cannons had to fire in the rough direction of the enemy. The shots were best guesses. Helm couldn’t tell if they were hitting the orks in any way that mattered.

The barrage was another shield, he realised. The orks were using annihilating force as a cover.

‘Lower the aim,’ he ordered. ‘Fire at our near approach.’ He would make the land before Hades a hell for any being trying to draw near.

The shells added fireballs and fountains of earth to the emerald screams of the greenskin artillery. The war became a spectacle. For over an hour, a battering storm raged that served no end, as far as Helm could see. Both sides poured destruction into a space that neither occupied.

The absurdity made him uneasy. The orks’ tactic gave them the upper hand. They knew where the wall was. He had no idea where they were, or what they were doing. He hoped the Earthshakers had hit the shields. He had to assume otherwise.

His hands clenched. The monstrous pyrotechnics mocked him with failure. There was no action he could take except to continue his own bombardment, aimed at nothing. He prayed Yarrick was faring better.

He realised he was counting on the commissar’s success. He understood Yarrick’s political strategy. He approved and supported the moves. But there was more. The success of Yarrick’s ambush inspired awe. Three gargants had fallen to human infantry. The immensity of the sight had almost driven Helm to his knees. Hades needed Yarrick. Armageddon needed him.

The artillery bursts stuttered for a moment. Helm saw through the gap. The orks had erected the metal slabs as blast shields on the near side of the pit. One of them was destroyed, revealing the greenskin tactic.

Using dozens of siege ladders, the ork infantry was descending into the crevasse. They were opening a second front underground.

3. YARRICK

War in the underhive: a battering of sensations so utter it eroded reality itself. Flashes in the dark. The shriek of energy and the boom of gunfire bouncing off walls. Shrapnel, bodies and wreckage flying through the air, hurled by the wind of battle. We fought by instinct. If we stopped to reason, we would die.

Yet reason was necessary. If we fought the orks on their terms, savagery for savagery, we would lose.

The Heirs of Grevenberg were already fighting when I arrived with Genath’s company at the level of the pit. Beil tried to kill the orks as they descended the walls of the pit, but he didn’t have enough guns or troops.

‘Lure them down,’ I ordered. ‘Lure them down all the way.’ To the domain of the Rachen and all the worst vermin. ‘We have to keep them together.’ Once the orks started spreading through the underground warren, we would never get them out. They would infest the foundations of the hive. But if we could keep them bunched together, there was a chance to purge the city of them.

The legionnaires opened fire, spreading the shots wide, drawing the attention of every ork on the ladders.

They pursued us, and we moved down. We maintained a constant fire, whether there were orks in sight or not. We were the moving target, the bait.

The Grevenbergs took the lead, taking us through mining tunnels, tilted ventilation shafts wider than a Leman Russ, and passageways formed by the random encounters of collapsed walls and sunken foundations. We put some distance between ourselves and the horde. The orks were having to feel their way through the labyrinth, but our clamour gave them direction. I had full confidence in their ability to find us.

My faith was justified. We reached the Rachen’s hills of detritus. By the boundary of the great wheel, we began the fight in earnest. The legionnaires formed tight squad formations with overlapping rows of fire. The Grevenbergs spread out along the flanks, disappearing into the heaps and angles of the dark world.

‘Rachen!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve brought you a worthy enemy.’ There was no answer. I took their presence on faith too.

It was a day that rewarded the faithful.

The orks spilled out of multiple conduits and tunnels in a wide arc before us. They plunged, roaring into the pathways between the heaps. We cut them down as they appeared. The Grevenbergs hit them from the sides, leaping from the dark with weapons as crude and lethal as the orks’. Squad by squad, we retreated into the amber hell of Rachen territory.

Atroxa’s monsters attacked once the orks were past the wheel. Improvised explosives blew out the sides of the heaps. Metal fragments as a big as a man hurtled across the pathways, slicing orks in two. Rachen burst from the rubble-strewn ground, driving blades and claws into greenskin throats. The struggle turned into a savage melee. Gretchin swarmed over the heaps like vermin, overwhelming gangers with their numbers.

The orks were much larger than the human brutes, but the gangers were just as savage. During the slow butcher’s journey towards my goal, I saw Beil wield his blade as both sword and axe, disembowelling and splitting skulls. Atroxa punched eyes out with spikes embedded through her palms, then tore throats out of her blind prey.

I noted them both. If they survived this day, they would become more and more valuable in the struggles ahead.

I was with Lanner’s squad. We backed up beyond what appeared to be a low wall. It fell, releasing a wave of brackish, debris-filled water. The torrent foamed through the narrow passageways, knocking the orks down, drowning the armoured greenskins while the Rachen swam for the surface.

Many of the Grevenberg drowned too. If they saw the tactic as a betrayal, they showed no sign. They continued their flanking attacks, two or three or more attackers working in concert to take a single ork down.

‘Spread the word,’ I said to Lanner’s vox operator. I ducked as ork bullets whined over my head. They ricocheted off the shattered metal and rockcrete. ‘Move towards the glow. Find high ground. And I want rocket launchers ready.’

Lanner said, ‘Commissar, you’re mad.’

‘Objections, sergeant?’

‘None.’

Flames erupted forward and to the right of our position. They squeezed through narrow gaps in the heaps and filled a tight passageway. Humans and orks screamed. More humans than orks. The greenskins with flamers were pushing forward, purging their path of enemies. I took a frag grenade and sent it bouncing around the corner with the flames. We backed up quickly. The grenade’s explosion became a larger fireball, then another, then more, a chain reaction of death. Following each other too closely, the flamer orks blew up in sequence.

The blasts toppled a pile of girders. A cluster of brutes turned from the flames and ran through our lines, their shotguns chewing up legionnaires and troopers. I shot one through the mouth. Teeth and grey matter exploded. We retreated faster. I couldn’t see the rest of the company but I trusted they were moving in the right direction too.

I looked behind, towards the glow. The terrain was as I remembered it. We were about to pass through a triangular arch formed by two sunken foundations leaning against each other. Beyond that, there was relatively open ground before the right half of the reservoir receiving the molten cast-offs. On the left-hand-side were unstable-looking mounds, bristling with edges and spikes. They were death traps. On the far right was an almost vertical wall. Ten metres up, a wide ledge gave access to more tunnels. A slope of smaller debris lay in the corner formed by the wall and the side of the reservoir. It would do.

‘With me!’ I yelled. ‘Climb or die! Judgement is at hand!’

The rush to the wall was disciplined, even with three disparate forces. The fighting retreat gave me hope. We had order even here. The Steel Legion company assembled at the base of the slope. Each squad as it arrived provided covering fire to the other elements. The archway and the narrow passageways kept the greenskins bunched together. Our guns were more effective while they were unable to use the advantage of their numbers. The gangers scrambled up the slope. The Rachen went up it like arachnids, reminding me this was their home. I was surprised by how many emerged from the dark and flew to safety, already disappearing down the tunnels. Atroxa, though, remained on the ledge, the beast surveying this region of her lair for the last time.

Some of the Heirs of Grevenberg, either through impatience or hostility towards the Rachen, broke left and climbed the other heaps. They paid for their error, impaled and sliced wide open by the vicious edges and points. A few made it to the top, perching like vultures.

The Steel Legion squads were next. The troopers were slower, weighed down by their weapons and uniforms. The orks shot back with ferocity, blasting troopers on the ground and on the slope, and gangers on the ledge. Heavy bullets chewed up the debris on the ground. They slammed into the reservoir wall, and I winced. The painful heat at my back seemed to increase. It was an illusion, and it was a reminder of how little time separated massacre from victory.

I was among the last to climb the slope. I moved up with the troopers carrying the missile launchers. I scanned the floor of the cavern. There were still humans locked in struggle with the orks. I was sorry for them. They were beyond our help, and I could not delay.

Pushing forward against our las, the orks spilled into the open space. In moments, the volume of their fire would overwhelm ours, and then they would wipe us out.

The troopers were above me. The rockets were ready. I was a few metres yet from the top. Ork bullets chewed at the debris and I slipped back. No more time and no choice. ‘Fire on the tank,’ I called.

One trooper hissed through his teeth, unable to believe the folly of what I had asked him to do. But he launched his rocket too. I was obeyed without pause. The missiles streaked into the tank and the cavern lit up with the blossoming fireballs. With a great cry of dying metal, the reservoir released its flood. A cataract of molten ore burst into the cavern. The breach was a hundred metres from me. The heat and light stabbed my eyes and face. I held up my arm as a shield, but I watched. The ore hissed and roared as it hit the floor. It carried the scrap metal before it. The orks stopped firing. They saw the wave of liquid fire rushing at them. They tried to run, but the rest of their force was still trying to push through the archway. There was milling chaos.

The wave hit. I savoured the screams. I had toppled the arrogance of the ork power with the gargants. Now I finally heard greenskin pain. It was a good start.

The ore covered the floor. It ate at the debris. The slope trembled. I snapped out of my fascination and climbed the rest of the way to the ledge. I stood. I pointed at the writhing, burning, drowning orks. ‘We will purge the xenos from Hades,’ I shouted.

Across from us, the debris mounds collapsed and were swept away by the hell torrent. The gangers clutching to the peaks shrieked. They thrashed in transcendent pain, and disappeared beneath the bright death.

The killing wave crashed against the archway. It flowed through, submerging the orks beyond. The tide of fire rose and rose. Searing daylight filled the underhive. Death spread farther and farther. The orks had come down into the ground by the thousands. Now, crowded in narrow, twisting paths through high walls of metallic ruin, they blocked their own escape. The cries rose, almost drowning out the roar of the cataract. More hills fell, and then came a deep, loud, crumbling crack. The archway trembled. I watched calmly. There was no time to run. If the end was coming for us as well as the orks, then it would find me standing tall. Undermined by the ore, the leaning foundations lost their strength. They fell. With them, on the other side, came millions of tonnes of rockcrete. The rumble was as vast as worlds in collision. A god’s fist smashed the rest of the orks to nothing. The contrast with the molten light of the ore was complete. Night itself had extinguished the region beyond the open cavern.

A new reservoir had come into being, and we were inside. The ore rose, lapping at the wall. The heat, already intolerable, shrivelled the lungs. My eyes were dry as stones. It was time to leave.

I did not hurry. I turned around. I faced legionnaires, Grevenbergs and Rachen. They stared at me as if the metal and stone had answered my will alone. I regarded them all in silence, then marched through the ranks and took the first tunnel I reached. Inside, I found Lanner, Genath and a vox operator. I saw awe even in Lanner’s eyes. Then I saw the terror in the vox operator’s eyes, and realised the looks I saw in these three had another source. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘They’re calling for you on the wall,’ said Genath.

‘Who is?’

‘Everyone,’ Lanner said. ‘The people. The army.’ He swallowed. I hadn’t seen him nervous before. ‘The orks.’

The chanting grew louder as I neared the wall. I ran through a battle of fanaticism. On this side of the wall, our forces were calling my name. As I climbed the steps to the battlements, I heard the countering cries of Ugulhard from the orks beyond. And at the top, just to the south of the gate, I heard a guttural, booming, inhuman voice snarl, ‘Yarrrrick.’

I stepped into a tableau of suspended war. The ramparts had been battered. Smoke rolled over the wall. Several cannon turrets had been demolished. On the far side, the ground was a patchwork of overlapping craters filled with the wreckage of ork guns. Thousands of ork foot soldiers crowded forward to climb siege ladders. The defenders destroyed the ladders as they appeared, and the orks fired upwards, clearing the way for more ladders to rise.

A stalemate.

A few orks had reached the top of the wall. I found myself in their midst. Before me, barely more than five metres away and striding back and forth on the section of the battlements he had claimed for himself, was the giant who roared my name. He was summoning his rival to combat, and he had already dismissed Helm as being unworthy of that claim. The colonel was slumped against the wreckage of a cannon just on the other side of the warboss. He was moving, but weakly. His right arm was hanging at a strange angle. Blood soaked his face. Orks lined both ends of the warboss’s territory, echoing each of his shouts.

I knew what beast this was, and I spat his name back at him.

‘Ugulhard.’

The warboss turned. His pistol was larger than a heavy bolter. His right arm was encased in a power claw. I recalled seeing this ork leading the first charge on Tempestora.

Did silence fall over the battlefield at that moment? I don’t trust my memory on this point. All my focus was on this foe. But I have a sense of orks and humans pausing as two symbols clashed.

I knew what was at stake. I’m sure Ugulhard did too. He looked down at me, and I saw disappointment in the glitter of those red eyes, ridiculously small in that giant skull. Ugulhard had come to fight the leader who had destroyed his gargants, and found a human no larger than any of the others, and much older. He snorted contempt.

I drew bolt pistol and sword.

Ugulhard grinned. He raised his claw and stepped forward to crush me with a single blow. I charged him, coming in under the blow. The claw punched and missed. I fired bolt shells into his chest plate and stabbed to the right, jabbing my blade into the meat of his gun arm. Ugulhard snarled and staggered back a step. He turned the gun on me. I fired straight into its barrel. The massive pistol blew up. Ugulhard hurled the twisted mass at me and it smashed my shoulder hard enough to spin me around. I moved back, putting some distance between us. He watched me, and his grin was pleased. I was giving him a fight.

The ork’s ruined pistol had struck my left shoulder, but it was my right that ached. The throbbing was back, worse than ever. It threatened to dull my reactions. And when Ugulhard advanced again, each step had a dark familiarity, as if our every move had been choreographed, and I had seen it all before.

Reaching out from a century and half, the winds of Mistral blew against my neck. I felt the grip of the daemon Ghalshannha tighten around my soul. I had lived these moments before. In fragments and premonitions, they had stabbed into my dreams. Now the mosaic was coming together.

Ugulhard swung his claw again. He was slow. I jumped back and stepped to the left. His swing pulverised a crenulation. His momentum kept him turning, and now his back was to me. It was too heavily armoured. I raised my blade to cut through his left arm again.

There was a blur, and Ugulhard whirled around, laughing. His sluggishness had been a ruse. He seized my sword arm with the power claw.

Dream and physical agony merged. I convulsed and dropped my sword. Ugulhard straightened to his full height. He stretched out his arm to show my dangling body first to one army, then the other. He roared his triumph. He clamped down.

My bones cracked. Blood burst from between the halves of the claw. My lips drew back in pain and hatred. My teeth ground together. I hissed in rage, and did not cry out. Laughing, Ugulhard held my left shoulder with his other hand. He cocked his head, waiting to see that I had understood what he was about to do.

He pulled. He crushed. And I came apart.

The pain flared white and ultraviolet. At its centre, as muscle shredded and bone splintered, there was an uncanny liberation. The moment in whose shadow I had lived since Mistral had come, and it could wear at me no longer.

The light of the pain turned to darkness. Unconsciousness came for me, but I rejected it. I had nothing now but my will, and with it, I would kill this monster.

Ugulhard dropped me. I fell into a crouch. Blood jetted from my right shoulder, soaking my flank. The warboss examined my mutilated limb in his claw. I was beneath his notice.

My sword was within reach. I seized it with my left hand. I grasped the steel. I took my pain, and all the agony of burning Armageddon, and I forged them into a single action.

I rose. ‘Ugulhard!’ I shouted. He looked down, surprised. I thrust the blade between the rough seam of his armour and all the way through his throat. His eyes glazed with shock. His knees buckled. I sawed the blade back and forth. His wet choking gave way to the powerful spray of vitae. It fountained over me. Still I sawed, cutting through gristle and bone and my pain and weakness.

I cut all the way through.

I could no longer feel my body. My fingers were growing clumsy. But I held off the black. I dropped the sword and seized the huge skull. I carried it to the edge of the parapet. Now I held my trophy high, brandishing it before the orks.

‘I am Yarrick!’ I shouted in the greenskins’ barbaric tongue. ‘I look upon you and you die!’ And then in cleansing Gothic, I howled my defiance of the great enemy. ‘Do you see, Ghazghkull Thraka? Hades will never be yours! Armageddon will never be yours! Here is where we stop you! Here is where you fail!’

I hurled Ugulhard’s head from the wall. The orks cried out.

And they turned.

And they fled.

And then, at last, I let the dark come.

Epilogue

Months now. Months of fighting above ground and below. Hades burned. It bled. It screamed. But it stood. It would continue to stand. I had vowed it would, and my vow is iron.

I moved through the disused ventilation shaft with Lanner’s squad and the Rachen. There was a nest of orks close by. Their snarls reached us through the wall of the shaft. The maze of the mines and the underhive was a weapon for both sides of the conflict. We moved beneath their camps. They infiltrated the hive.

We had come to punish their temerity once more.

I stopped walking and listened. The orks were just on the other side of the curved wall of the shaft. ‘Remember,’ I whispered, ‘leave one alive.’

‘Why?’ Atroxa grumbled.

‘So it can spread the tale.’

I raised my right arm. My powerful arm. Ugulhard’s claw. With a single blow, I punched through the metal and burst through the pipe. The orks reared back in alarm. The monster had come upon them.

Be the symbol. The needful role of the commissar. I learned that lesson early. But in Hades, I had to be more.

Be the legend.

And now I knew that my name must have meaning for the enemy as well. The orks had their prophet. I would be something else.

I crushed a greenskin skull with the claw. I glared at the stunned brutes.

And as my eye blazed with killing ruby light, I became their nightmare.

CHAINS OF GOLGOTHA

Prologue

Ascending

The creature climbed the shaft of its prison. Every step of the ascent was hard-won, and the creature’s breath rattled from its lungs in a feral snarl. The sound was swallowed by the splashes and struggles of the scavengers in the depths below. It became one more echo in an eternal, reverberating song of violence.

The journey was slow. The creature didn’t care, for time had no meaning in the well. Here were only darkness, the clash of tooth and claw, and the choking embrace of water thick with the decaying remains of the fallen. The creature was one of the victors. It had beaten down its rivals, always risen to be the predator and not the prey, and now it had risen again, using the bodies of its enemies to make its way up the shaft.

It had prepared its climb with a patience that had nothing to do with enduring the passage of time.

There was no time. There were only teeth. Claws. Meat. Bone. War.

Patience was the embodiment of necessity, of survival. It fought, killed, and worked in the unending night until it was ready and, by feel alone, began its journey.

The creature’s ascent was so painstaking, so gradual, that if it had been seen, it would not have been a threat. But it was not seen. It rose, metre by metre through Stygian black. It had climbed before. It had made too many attempts to count (and counting was meaningless), and on each occasion, it had reached a bit higher before it had had to return to the roiling depths. But this time was going to be different. This time, events would begin once again. The creature would reach the top, and it would bring with it the tearing and death from below.

Black became grey. Above, a circle of dim light grew wider and brighter. The creature’s breathing grew harsher from the strain of effort and the eagerness of rage. It no longer moved solely by touch. It could see. In jerking, spasmodic movements, clumsy but inexorable, it reached the lip of the well. There it paused. It waited, quieting its breath, holding back its snarl even as its killing impulse became so powerful that its entire frame vibrated. It listened to the guards. It tracked the sound of their movements as they strolled back and forth, trading bored insults.

The moment came. Time began. The creature surged out of the well. It roared as it plunged claws into flesh, and feasted on the panic of the guards.

Chapter 1

The Grand Illusion

1. YARRICK

I should have expected the Stompa would charge. There were so many things I should have expected. So much for which I will have to answer, on the day the Emperor finally releases me from my service and calls me to His Throne. Most of all, I will have to atone for the sin of underestimating the enemy. This is the very sin I condemned so freely in others, the sin that had almost doomed Armageddon. How could I have failed to heed my own warnings?

I deserve no mercy. But I won’t be alone. There is very little mercy to be granted for the errors of that day.

The clouds were low over the Ishawar Mountains. The clouds were always low on Golgotha, but tonight they had an extra weight, and pressed down on the peaks like an upended sea of tar. They heaved and bulged with the sick promise of dreadful storms. They pulsed with a red glow, and their force was coming down to crush the army of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka from above, just as mine would on the ground.

I rode in the open turret of the command Chimera. The wind had dropped, the atmosphere holding its breath in advance of the coming storm, and my rebreather was able to keep the worst of Golgotha’s crimson dust from my lungs. We were moving into the foothills of the mountain chain. We had been pursuing the orks for days, grinding at them, pushing them deeper into the Ishawar range, into ever narrower valleys and passes. Open terrain was where their numbers, still greater than ours, could be most effectively brought to bear against our armour. So we didn’t give them a chance. We blasted through the plains and plateaux, a storm of fire and steel that never stopped, never let up. We had the greenskins in retreat. I was coming for Thraka. Years after he had profaned Armageddon, I finally had him cornered. Years of searching, years of being just a step behind him, hitting planet after planet just days after he had departed, world after world that had nothing left to devastate. But I had caught up to him. He was here, on Golgotha, leading the routed horde ahead. I knew he was.

He had to be. This was my last chance to stop him.

He. Him. Thraka had long since ceased to be an it in my mind. To reduce him would be to underestimate him, and underestimating him had one guaranteed result: doom. I had seen what he was capable of on Armageddon. I had seen what he had done since, as I followed his trail of devastation through the galaxy. It was an article of faith that the orks were unthinking brutes. It was one of the human race’s sole consolations when faced with their numbers, their strength and their endurance: at least the orks were stupid. But not Thraka. The invasion of Armageddon had not been a simple-minded affair. Some of the strategies Thraka had employed had been brilliant. Inspired. And he had made moves since then that not only might as well have been signed, they had been aimed at me, personally.

I had a nemesis. We were facing each other over a regicide board the size of the galaxy.

To admit this was disgusting. To deny it would be criminally foolish. And utterly political.

For the political mind, the years of my search had been an eternity. Attention is difficult to sustain, and easy to lose to the next new and urgent conflict. Each new emergency obliterates the memory of all others. Every year that passed without a new attack on Armageddon meant the danger was that much more remote. There were so many other urgencies of war calling. Spending time, treasury and men in the pursuit of a spent force was nonsensical.

It was perfectly true that there was no shortage of dire threats to the Imperium. I would never be so foolish as to minimise them. But it was perfectly false that Thraka was a spent force. It was suicidal to think so. He was a threat that was unlike anything else in the galaxy, and the fact that we had driven him away from Armageddon changed nothing. He had almost hammered a spike through the heart of the Imperium. That should have been reason enough to devote all necessary resources to his elimination. But what was worse, if such a thing were possible, was that if there was ever to be an ork warboss who could unite the entire barbaric species, then Thraka was that ork. As much as it disgusted me even to articulate the thought, there was a monstrous truth that had to be faced: Thraka had the potential to become the ork emperor.

That possibility should have been obvious to the greenest trooper. It probably was. But for too many in the high places, whether lords or admirals or generals, it seemed to be a possibility too awful to contemplate. Better to pretend it did not exist. Easier to believe it was impossible that the orks would ever follow a single leader, and so destroy us all. So much nicer to bury your head in the sand, and avoid all the fuss and bother of actually doing something about Thraka.

I had to fight tooth and nail for every tank, every rifle, and every man of my army, every single day since the enthusiasm for the crusade had evaporated in its second year. Somehow, I found men of will, intelligence and vision. But they weren’t enough. I also needed men of influence, and for the sake of a mission so important that no compromise should have been brooked, I had been forced to do just that. There were many – too many – colonels with me who held their ranks by the sole virtue of their noble birth. Our venture had been plagued by mistakes, accidents and idiotic judgement calls. But numbers, faith and weaponry had seen us through. Even Golgotha, which waged war against us with dust and storm as viciously as any greenskin horde, could not stop us.

Now the orks were running. Now Thraka was at bay.

Thunder, deep-throated as an earthquake, boomed in the distance ahead. The Baneblades were unleashing hell upon the orks. The flashes of their bombardment were bigger and brighter than the anger in the clouds. I wanted to be at the front with those magnificent tanks. When we had mustered on the Hadron Plateau, I had climbed on top of one of them to address the regiments. Vox-units relayed my words to the entire army, but the image I presented to all within viewing range was important, too. Throne, but I knew the importance of image. I also knew its curse and its weight. Doing what had to be done, I chose the Fortress of Arrogance as my pulpit. Even among the glories of the Baneblades, it stood out. It was a weapon of peerless art, a masterpiece of war. In keeping with its name, it disdained camouflage. Instead, it was black as the void. It was the very idea of power, summoned into material being and given metal form. It even had a true pulpit on its turret. When I stood there, I felt the strength of the tank surging through my blood. When I spoke, it was with the fire of true inspiration. I descended from the Fortress of Arrogance with a regret that bordered on bereavement.

Now I gazed with longing in the direction of the choir of tanks. But the Chimera had been outfitted for mobile command, and it was not strong enough to be at the tip of the spear. Communications on Golgotha were difficult at best, and I had to remain within the limited vox-range of as much of the force as possible. So I had to content myself with seeing the flashes of our strikes, and hearing the booming drumbeat of our advance.

I was not content. But I was satisfied. Baneblades were a rare prize, and the mere fact that we had more than one was a significant victory in itself. They more than justified every deal, compromise, and soul-wearying bargain I had made. They were turning Thraka’s army into pulp and cinder. The orks had nothing that could stand up to them. Not here, anyway. Not within useful range.

More war thunder, like an answer to the Baneblades, both larger and more distant, and this time from behind. I looked back the way we had come. Kilometres beyond the marching troops and growling vehicles, beyond the line of hills we had crossed hours before, visible only as blurred silhouettes in the grit of the Golgothan atmosphere, gods clashed. Our Titans grappled with their debased ork counterparts. The official designation of the ork machines was Gargant. The word was ugly, dismissive, and deliberately so. The Officio Strategos did not seek to dignify the enemy, nor should it have. But there was nothing to dismiss in the danger that the Gargants represented. They were colossal totemic monsters. As the Warlord-class Titans were to men – the human form rendered sublime in size and destructive power – so the Gargants were to the orks. They were tributes to the savage gods of the greenskins, towering, lumbering, barrel-shaped mountains of steel and cannon. They could have reduced all of our regiments to ash. The Titans had engaged them, and the giants had been locked in hellish stalemate for two days now. We had moved through that battlefield like a trail of ants. I had felt insignificant, my actions a trivial grace note to the awful symphony of the giants. I had been privileged to witness, once more, the struggle of myths, and had been humbled. To see the Warlords stride over our columns was to feel an awe so great, it moved many troopers to tears.

We had pushed past them. We needed momentum above all. If we could take out Thraka, the ork resistance would collapse. So we had left the god-machines behind. The fury of their war followed us, light and sound rolling over us like the death-cries of suns. But theirs was not the vital heart of the war. Their battle, in the end, was a parenthesis. Thraka was not there.

With me, backing up the Baneblades, were three regiments. Immediately behind the superheavies came the 52nd armoured regiment of Aighe Mortis. Following them, scouring the planet of any remaining xenos trace, were the 117th Armageddon mechanised infantry and the 66th Mordian infantry. Hundreds of vehicles, thousands and thousands of men, the pride of the Imperium marching with purpose and discipline, exterminating savagery with faith. They were a sight that could move a stone to song. When I close my eye, I can still see them with a clarity as sharp as pain.

The waste sickens me.

There was a tap on my lower leg. I dropped into the Chimera’s compartment. Space that would normally have held twelve troopers had been cut in half by vox-equipment and map tables. Even with the powerful units here, communications were hit-and-miss. Golgotha’s dust eroded transmissions the same way it did lungs and engines. Anything farther than a few thousand metres, perhaps a bit more with exceptional line of sight, was hopelessly unreliable. It had been necessary to establish a relay system stretching all the way back to the landing site on the Hadron Plateau. It was a precarious line, ridiculously stretched and vulnerable, but there had been no time to come up with an alternative. It was working, though. Imperfectly, but with just enough reliability to make coordination of the entire expedition possible.

‘It’s Colonel Rogge, commissar,’ vox-officer Lieutenant Beren Diethelm told me.

‘Here we go,’ Erwin Lanner, at the Chimera’s steering levers, called out.

I made sure the vox-unit wasn’t transmitting as I took it from Diethelm. ‘Sergeant,’ I told Lanner, ‘you are displaying appalling disrespect for a superior officer.’

Over the vibrating rumble of the engine, I couldn’t hear Lanner snort, but I knew he had. He was a short, squat man with arms whose strength and reach had been the doom of many an ork and unthinking sparring partner. His face was narrow, and his features had been sharp until accumulations of scar tissue had turned them into a gnarled fist. He had been with me since Armageddon, and his insubordination was matched only by his loyalty. I had never met anyone less intimidated by a commissar’s uniform. He had no reason to be. If every Guardsman were equal to Lanner in bravery, skill and faith, we would have cleansed the galaxy of our enemies centuries ago. He should have risen far beyond sergeant, but he had refused to leave my side. The idea of someone else driving my conveyance, whatever it might be, was, for him, a personal affront. He had turned down one promotion after another, and when he was not given a choice, he indulged in such egregious misbehaviour that not only did he ensure that he remained as he was, only my intervention saved him from summary execution. For my pains, my reward was a barrage of outrages too studied to be real. They were theatre for my benefit, and it was a theatre that I needed, especially since Armageddon. It was one thing to be aware of one’s own legend. Lanner made sure I didn’t believe in it.

The sergeant had no faith in Colonel Kelner Rogge. I understood. Rogge commanded a fourth regiment, the rearguard of our principle advance. The Aumet 23rd Armoured had been acquired at a price, and being saddled with the inexperienced sixth son of High Lord Gheret Rogge of Aumet was that price. Colonel Rogge had been with us a year and he had, to my pleasant surprise, acquitted himself well. Lanner remained sceptical, but I knew he would never forgive Rogge the sin of his noble blood. What even Lanner could not take from Rogge was his commitment to our cause. I had assumed, during the negotiations with the father, that the Lord of Aumet’s goal had been the prestigious placement of a son who was far enough down the line of inheritance that his loss could be risked, but whose path still had to bring honour to the family name. Within minutes of meeting the colonel, I realised that I had been wrong. He wanted to be part of my crusade as much as I needed Aumet’s tanks. Kelner Rogge believed in what we were doing. He didn’t have the experience, but he had the fire.

The rearguard mission might not have been the sort that would stoke that fire, but it minimised the risk that a novice colonel presented to the rest of the army. We had a large reserve of Leman Russ battle tanks to draw upon, and all I asked of Rogge was that he keep pace and protect our rear. Lanner, I knew, was expecting Rogge to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory at the earliest opportunity. He hadn’t yet. But the sergeant’s view of things was, on a number of fronts, so close to my own that I couldn’t avoid a slight wave of apprehension as I spoke into the vox. ‘Go ahead, colonel.’

‘Commissar, I’m sorry, but we’ve run into bit of a delay.’

Those words will never leave my dreams. They announced the loss of an entire planet.

2. ROGGE

‘If you can’t fix it, get it out of the way,’ Rogge told Captain Yann Kerentz. ‘Blow it up if you must.’

Kerentz blinked at the suggestion of wilfully destroying a Leman Russ. ‘It’s only the treads–’ he began.

‘Which we can hardly take the time to deal with at this moment, and certainly not in this place.’ Did the man not understand the meaning of the word ‘urgency’? The Aumet Armoured had a mission, and it was not going to be stymied by the stupid mechanical failure of a single tank. Its treads had disintegrated at the worst possible moment. It was the lead vehicle of the lead column, and the route led through a narrow canyon pass before opening up again. There was barely room for two vehicles abreast, and this one had not only stopped right in the bottleneck, it had swerved sideways. ‘The wheels can’t find any traction at all?’

Kerentz shook his head. ‘No, sir. We might be able to push it with a dozer blade–’

‘For the length of the pass?’ Rogge poured on the scorn. The defile was two kilometres long. ‘And then what? We’ll have to abandon it anyway. No. Destroy it now. I want us on the move again in five minutes.’

From the turret of his Leman Russ Vanquisher, the Condemning Voice, Rogge watched Kerentz walk back towards the front of the line of vehicles. The captain’s gait was stiff with displeasure. Rogge grimaced. It was his duty to make the hard decisions. He had made the correct one. Every second, the main body of Yarrick’s force was widening the distance between them. The commissar had been clear: the advance would not stop, not pause, not even slow. The momentum was with the humans, victory loomed, but the orks would seize on the slightest hesitation. Rogge had his mission. It was his responsibility to complete it.

So he would.

Kerentz carried out the order. There was a distant crump of the tank’s destruction. But it was ten minutes, not five, before the tanks were moving forward. Rogge cursed under his breath. He did not drop down into the turret basket. He stared into the night ahead, at the vehicle lights turned into dirty smears by the billowing dust, and tried to master his fraying temper. He didn’t want his crew to see him off his stride. All he could think about was the lost time. They would have to step up the regiment’s speed by a large measure to catch up. The thought that he would be found wanting tortured him.

There was also the terror of arriving to find the war finished. Son, his lord and father would ask, what role did you play in the Golgotha crusade? And he would answer, Father, I had a nice drive in my tank.

His face burned with the anticipation of shame. He willed the regiment forward. Forward to Yarrick, forward to triumph and the glory of Aumet and the Imperium. Forward to the proof of his worth.

The Condemning Voice emerged from the pass. Like all the regimental command vehicles, it was in the middle of the advance, so communication with the entire regiment was, if not assured, at least as solid as possible. There was still half the regiment back in the pass, and the leading units were slowing down again. Rogge pounded the roof of the turret with his fist, winced, then lowered himself into the basket. The interior of the tank was a din of engine roar and vibrating metal, but it was easier to listen to his ear-bead here than it was outside. He was about to bark for Kerentz to be put on the line when the captain addressed him first. ‘Colonel,’ Kerentz said, ‘we have just encountered a branching path going deeper into the mountains.’

‘How wide?’

‘Good for three vehicles, maybe four.’

‘Signs of activity?’

‘None, sir. But the pass makes a sharp turn. We can’t see very far down it.’

Rogge hesitated, torn between two necessities. He couldn’t protect the army group’s rear if he didn’t catch up, but he wouldn’t be doing his duty, either, if he ignored the pass. The delay in following that route, and for the Emperor knew how long… ‘All engines stop,’ he ordered. ‘I want complete silence.’

The convoy of tanks halted, coughing fumes as the engines shut down. In less than a minute, the entire regiment was motionless, and the only sound was the ticking of cooling metal.

‘Kerentz,’ Rogge voxed. ‘I want a full auspex scan, and I want you to listen. If there are greenskins up that way, we should be able to hear them.’

‘Sir, with respect, the wind and atmospheric conditions–’

‘Those are my orders, captain. Execute them.’

Rogge waited, picturing the war he was missing, willing the orks to be sensible and be off with the rest of their fellows. The more he thought about it, the more he realised he was wasting time. Even if there were a few of the beasts hiding in ambush, what could they hope to achieve? The vast bulk of their army was in pell-mell retreat.

Kerentz checked back in. ‘No readings, no sounds, colonel. But–’

‘Good.’ No orks. And even if there were, they were showing half a brain and staying put. And even, even if they were stupid and attacked, they couldn’t amount to a threat. It simply wasn’t possible. The decision was easy. There was only one to make. ‘Move on,’ he said. ‘Full speed.’ Risky, at night, but the way was clear, the rocky valleys giving them a clear shot toward the rest of the war.

The eerie quiet of the stilled regiment erupted with the battle-hungry roar of a hundred tanks. The sound echoed off the surrounding cliff faces, turning into a massive, formless din. Aumet’s sons surged forward. Rogge climbed back up through the hatch. He sat behind the turret’s heavy stubber and watched the craggy landscape roll past. He saw the break on the right, in the north cliff. His gut churned, just a little, as he passed it. It was a passage into the empty, crimson night of Golgotha, and was swallowed by darkness after a few hundred metres. He stared into it with what he felt was righteous confidence. He had made the right and only choice.

Still, as the gap fell behind, he turned and watched until it dropped out of his sight. He continued to face back until he judged that the last of the regiment had passed the defile. Then he turned to look forward again, and wish that anticipation alone could accelerate the armoured march. He should contact Yarrick, he thought. Let him know that they were coming.

The vox exploded. Reports and curses came in at such a flood over his ear-bead that meaning broke apart, becoming fragments of panic. Rogge whirled around. At first, he could see nothing wrong. The line of tanks stretched out behind him into the night. But then he heard it. He heard the enormity of his mistake. Its sound was that of a mechanised avalanche, rising above wind and engine, clutching the entire regiment in its grasp. It filled Rogge’s ears and his mind. It filled his soul. And as it hammered at his chest, drawing closer and closer, it became visible. He saw the avalanche of metal and brutes chew its way up the regiment.

As the horror drew closer, the din acquired meaning. The rampage of xenos and guns and machines sounded horribly like laughter.

Chapter 2

Trampled

1. ROGGE

The force that stormed out of the pass and onto the Aumet regiment was no mere ambush party. It was a horde such as Rogge had never imagined. He had no idea of its full scale, but the war machines that led it would only be in the service of a full army. Brushing aside their smaller brethren, crushing any of their own infantry who didn’t move fast enough, were superheavy tanks. Battle fortresses. They were as large as the Baneblades, but were twisted, vulgar monsters. Bristling with secondary guns, they were also festooned with pipes belching oily black smoke, as if a manufactorum had turned itself into a rolling harbinger of doom.

Lumbering behind the battle fortresses came worse monsters. Stompas. Rogge had heard the designation often enough, and laughed at it every time. He had seen hololiths of the machines, and laughed then, too, at the crude design: the slapdash overlapping of the metal plates into a monstrous skirt, the redundant piling on of armament, the pitifully savage attempts at art that gave the things horned visages in the image of the greenskin gods.

He wasn’t laughing now. Though the Stompas were smaller than the Gargants, he had only seen the truly titanic machines from a distance. The Stompas were close. They were here. And there were no Titans anywhere in sight.

As the green tide clanked and roared toward him, a psychic wave of ork presence rushed ahead of it. It was overwhelming. It shut Rogge down. His limbs tingled, then went numb from anaesthetising terror. He seemed to float out of his head. He observed his reactions with a stupefied detachment. His jaw sagged open. His eyes widened. His hands hung limply at his sides. His strings were cut, and he could do nothing but watch as the greenskin wave washed over his forces. The night shook with the deep, battering rhythm of obliteration.

There was another noise, much smaller, but somehow more irritating. Rogge realised it came from his ear-bead. The vox-network was screaming. Orders to retreat collided with orders to counter-attack. He heard his name over and over again, in transmissions that were first questions, then pleas, then curses. He blinked several times, reintegrating himself. He shook away the lethargy. ‘All units,’ he began. He found the steel and determination his voice needed. He did not find the decision he needed even more. ‘All units,’ he said again, with such force that a command must surely follow.

He saw three tanks attempt a coordinated response to the nearest Stompa. They were the Extirpation, the Final Toll and the Advent of Silence. He knew the crews well. They were all far more experienced than he was. He had worried they resented his command. Now he blessed their initiative. They were still moving away from the ork forces, but had swivelled turrets to the rear. They fired in such close succession, it was as if the shells were a single blow against the greenskin machine. The Stompa rocked back a single step. Its front armour dimpled. Then it moved forward again, shaking the earth with its steps. Its left arm was a cannon, and it now spoke its fury. The shell punched through the top of the Final Toll. The interior explosion was followed by an even bigger blast as fuel and ammunition cooked off. The tank blew apart.

Even as it fired its cannon, the Stompa swung its right arm at the Extirpation. At the end of the arm was a chainfist larger than a Space Marine. It sliced into the flank of the Leman Russ. The shriek of metal cutting metal scraped the night raw and bleeding. Rogge gazed in horror, his reactions slowing to a crawl as the images of war overloaded his senses. The Stompa butchered the Extirpation as if it were a living thing. The tank shuddered and bucked as though in pain, and then the chainfist found the flesh inside. The screams of men joined the choir of tortured metal. Blood splashed out of the vehicle.

The Stompa didn’t bother with the third Leman Russ. An onrushing battle fortress had rammed it with such force, it had knocked the Advent of Silence on its side. Ork infantry swarmed over the crippled tank, bashing futilely at its armour until one of them arrived with an armour-piercing rocket.

‘All units,’ Rogge said again. His throat was dry. He was whispering. ‘All units…’ He trailed off. He had nothing to say.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing to say. The horde rolled over the regiment, crushing, annihilating, as if the Ishawar Mountains themselves were delivering the blows. Rogge pulled the vox-bead out of his ear, blotting out the cries and demands. Resistance to the orks sprang up at the company level, but it lacked coherence. Those companies were stones against the tide. They could not stop the flood. They simply survived a bit longer.

The storm surge reached Rogge. He was distantly aware that his crew was firing the Condemning Voice’s gun. He didn’t care. As a shambling monster twenty metres high loomed over him, he was granted a sliver of grace: he was too numb to feel shame.

2. YARRICK

Our advance slowed. For less than one minute, I had the luxury of believing that we had the greenskins boxed in, and that the end was on the horizon. Then vox-traffic from Rogge’s regiment turned to chaos. And then we stopped.

The vox-unit convulsed with static and cacophony. The messages, each more urgent than the others, smeared into white noise. I let Diethelm do his job, a sick certainty growing in my chest. The word from the forward regiments was easy to sort out. The orks had stopped running. At the precise moment of the vox meltdown at Rogge’s end, the orks had turned and hurled themselves back against us.

Colonel Sinburne, commanding the Mortisian 52nd, tried to sound hopeful. ‘It’s a final stand, commissar,’ he voxed. ‘They’re desperate. They know this is the end.’

‘Is it?’ I asked. I wanted the truth, not a fantasy.

‘They’re hitting us hard,’ he admitted, ‘but–’

I cut him off. ‘Listen to the foe, colonel. What do you hear?’

He came back after a few seconds with the answer I expected and dreaded. ‘They’re laughing,’ he said.

The situation to our rear took longer to establish. ‘Colonel Rogge is not answering, sir,’ Diethelm reported.

That, in itself, told me that things had gone awry. But I needed to know why and I needed to know how. ‘Then find me someone who is.’

Diethelm did. He performed well, and there were enough officers with the Aumet 23rd who knew their sacred duty. Many of them died letting us know what was happening. Their transmissions were fragments of tragedy.

‘… we don’t know if we’re retreating or counter–’

‘… multiple Stompas and battle fortresses, we can’t–’

‘Who is in command? Who is in command?’

‘There’s nothing left! Throne take that bastard! I’ll feed him his–’

I stared at the map table as Diethelm called out the updates. Like a hololith gathering dimension and resolution, the picture formed in my mind’s eye. I felt my lips pull back in a grimace as I realised how badly we had erred. The force that was tearing up the Aumet tanks was an army fully as large as the one we were chasing. Thraka had managed to keep this second deployment hidden in the mountains, secret from us. We had blundered into one of the greatest ambushes in the history of the Imperium. For all my preaching, for all that I knew better, I had underestimated Thraka. Once again, the ork had outplayed, had out-thought, we humans.

We were caught in a pincer manoeuvre. The valley in which the bulk of our forces now advanced was long and wide, but it was still a valley, with orks coming at us from both ends. Even the foothills of the Ishawar were high enough that we couldn’t go over them. We were boxed in. Thraka had done to me precisely what I had thought I was doing to him.

We had a chance only if the frontline units could bring the war to an immediate end. I could read the signs, and knew the odds were the same as my growing a new right arm, but I spoke to Sinburne all the same. ‘Colonel, do you have any expectation of being able to kill Ghazghkull Thraka in the next few minutes?’

‘With the blessing of the Emperor, there is no telling what we might–’

‘Do you even know where he is?’

‘No,’ Sinburne admitted.

I could hear how frustrated he was. He was grief-stricken at the idea of having to give up so close to the goal. But the reality was this: we had not been pursuing Thraka. He had been reeling us in. Unless Sinburne had the ork lined up within the sights of a dozen tanks, there would be no defeating him this day. ‘Disengage, colonel,’ I said.

‘Commissar,’ he began.

‘We will need you here.’

There was no response. Static scraped at my ear, formless sound shaping a bad truth. I had Diethelm search channels until he found me a tank company captain. It was Captain Hantlyn, and he rode the Baneblade Fearful Sublime. ‘Captain,’ I said, ‘you now have command of the armoured regiment.’ And I gave him the last orders any soldier wanted to hear.

There was no choice. Going forward was suicide: the chain of valleys led only to a cul-de-sac, the end-point where we thought we had cornered the orks. We had to retreat, and we had to punch our way through the second army. There was no question of hope, only of necessity.

Gather our strength, then. By now, Diethelm had all the regimental commanders on the vox. ‘This is no fighting retreat,’ I told them. ‘You are to return with all speed and prepare to re-engage at the rear.’ With the Baneblades, we might stand a chance, not of victory, but of successful retreat.

Might.

We began the murderous process of reversing the direction of an entire army. Thousands and thousands and thousands of men and vehicles, a sea of war power that would stretch to the horizon on an open plain, now had to arrest all momentum and turn back the way they had come. The perfection of discipline kept the disorder to a minimum. Unforgiving reality meant there was still plenty to go around. The worst was the vehicles. Leman Russ and Manticore, Chimera and Basilisk, they all had turning circles and little room in which to make them. Even with the priority being granted the HQ Chimera, it took us a full minute to re-orientate. Where before the Imperium’s might had flowed across Golgotha like a roaring cataract, now there was nothing but eddying molasses.

I knew that my commands had been death sentences for countless loyal Guardsmen as the greenskins pressed their advantage. I wished again to be at the front. Before, I had wanted to witness Thraka’s end. Now, I would have shared the awful moment of retreat with men who had given everything to this cause. I owed them that much.

I owed the Imperium more, though. Every human alive did. And at this juncture, my sacrifice would serve no purpose. I would be failing in my duty to serve the Emperor. The romantic gesture, then, would be nothing less than treason.

We were disciplined but slow. The orks were beings of speed. Discipline was a barely grasped concept for them. There was nothing to slow their advance except the mire of human blood beneath their feet. And so it happened. The armoured regiment had not reached the new front line yet, the rest of the army had not even begun to march in its new direction, and the ork onslaught fell on us. I had climbed through the Chimera’s hatch again, and though I was thousands of metres from the initial collision of the armies, I heard it. I felt it, too: the entire floor of the valley vibrated from the shock of the impact.

We began to move forward, and we were marching into the jaws of a meat grinder. But the choice now was to advance and die, or wait and die. We advanced, the only route of honour, and the route of our only hope.

A hope that took us through battle fortresses and Stompas. I had to stifle bitter laughter.

‘If we find Colonel Rogge,’ Lanner’s voice crackled on my ear-bead, ‘please grant me the privilege of killing him myself.’

‘That honour will be mine,’ I snapped. We needed armour to fight armour, and we had already lost the regiment that should have been, at the very least, holding back the orks long enough for the Baneblades to arrive. Mechanised infantry was nothing against what Thraka had unleashed.

And still we headed for the slaughter, picking up speed. Within minutes, I could see the shapes of our destruction. The Stompas towered over our forces. A Titan would have blasted the monstrosities back to scrap metal, but our god-machines were still distant, still caught in unwavering stalemate. And here, the Stompas were the kings of the battlefield. They were horned beasts, with pipes jutting up from their shoulders, spewing smoke. At irregular intervals, taking turns, they would shake the valley with a deafening sound, part howl, part furnace roar, part raging horn. Every time a Stompa roared, the swarming foot soldiers took up the cry and hurled themselves at us with renewed war-fever.

My Chimera reached the fullness of the chaos. The green tide lapped at the vehicle’s treads. I manned the turret’s stubber. I was an awkward gunner, with only one arm, but with the harness holding me firmly to the gun, it turned where I did, and it was impossible to miss. I pulled the trigger and scythed down the rushing beasts. My body shook with each shell, the rapidly heating gun burned my hand, the acrid stink of fyceline fumes stabbed my nostrils, and it was all good pain, honest pain, the purging hurt of war that meant my enemies were dying. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an ork boss flank the Chimera and launch himself towards the roof. A quick twitch to the right and I would have cut him in half. But suddenly that wasn’t good enough. I was thrumming with hatred for Rogge, for myself, for the orks. The xenos filth were revelling in their triumph, and I would be damned if I did not make them suffer. So I let the boss land. I unhooked myself from the harness as he took a step towards the turret. Then I jumped up from the hatch and stood on the roof, too, making myself as visible as possible. I raised my right arm, brandishing the battle claw that had been mine since Hades Hive. ‘You dare?’ I shouted. ‘Do you know who I am?’ I was Yarrick, who had sent the orks fleeing from Hades. I was Yarrick, who killed with an evil eye. And so I did.

The ruby laser from my bale eye pierced upward through the ork’s gaping maw and blew off the top of his head. The beast’s jaw sagged with idiot surprise and the body twirled heavily before toppling from the Chimera. I turned my gaze on the orks below. They knew me, and they hesitated. Lanner drove through that hesitation, crushing greenskins to paste beneath our treads. I took the stubber again while the gunner, a trooper by the name of Koben, opened up with the cannon. We blasted our way clear. We created a path to our doom.

But I would not accept that conclusion. Nor would my crew. Nor would any of the men who marched with us. We were not Space Marines. Individually, we were nothing. Collectively, we were the will of the Emperor, and His will acknowledged no obstacle. We would smash through the orks.

That is, if will alone were enough.

We closed in on the full crush of the battle, and it spread to envelop us. I was surrounded not just by the green tide, but by the rising, turbulent flood of war itself. In that vortex, organisation broke down, giving way to the random, the chance, the improvised, the chaotic and yes, sometimes, the fated. But the vortex didn’t mean the abandonment of strategy. I looked ahead, at the reality of the orks’ giant war machines, and sought my strategy, because, by the Throne, I would find one.

I saw it. The exit from the valley, the route we had to follow, lay to the east. A Stompa, striding off the pace from the others, blocked the path. Between it and the Chimera, there was a company of Basilisk mobile artillery platforms. Their earthshaker cannons might penetrate the Stompa’s armour. But they weren’t tanks. Their own armour wasn’t designed for front-line combat, and they were open-topped. I could see that their crews were trying to manoeuvre them into firing positions, dropping the cannons for short-range destruction, and the orks were hitting them hard before they could become a threat. The air was thick with rockets. Several of the vehicles were already burning wrecks. The crews of many others were being cut to pieces.

‘Make for the Basilisks,’ I told Lanner. ‘To all within reach,’ I spoke on the regimental channels, ‘protect the artillery crews. Give them the chance to save us all.’

Infantry and Chimeras converged on the Basilisks. Men ignored their own safety to gun down the orks clambering over the gun crews. But the orks were numberless, and a cannon-boasting battlewagon smashed into the fray. In the time it took our vehicle to arrive within range, the artillery company had been decimated. Vehicles, the battlewagon among them, were massive, twisted metal corpses. The shafts of the guns reached, useless and mute, for the blind heavens. Ahead of us, the men of one of the last Basilisks grappled with the orks, their doom a simple matter of seconds away.

Koben fired. The Chimera’s main gun was as nothing beside a Leman Russ’s battlecannon, but it still packed an explosive punch, and the shot was a colossal risk. He could have finished the orks’ job for them. But he placed the shell with a precision that showed there had never been a risk after all. There was a geyser of shredded greenskin bodies a few metres from the rear of the Basilisk. The orks just beyond the explosion staggered, stunned. The artillery crew pushed their besiegers back. Stubber rounds and las-fire slashed in from all sides and cut deeper into the ork assault. Then the Basilisk’s gun was trained on the Stompa.

The report was deafening. The recoil was a giant’s blow on the ground, and the Basilisk jerked back a few metres. The shell was designed to shatter bunkers. Even so, against this kind of a foe, we needed something very close to a miracle. We received one. The Emperor’s hand guided that shell. It hit the Stompa, and I blinked as day seared the night. There was a gigantic bloom of fire, as if a volcano had erupted over the battlefield. The upper half of the Stompa vanished. Chunks of metal, and some of flesh, rained down. I called for a concerted rush at the gap we had created. The order was hardly necessary. The moment of victory called all eyes and hearts. A roar of hope and faith louder than the orks’ rabid howling came from the men of Armageddon and Mordian and Aighe Mortis. With the strength of desperation and renewed purpose, we pushed the larger ork army back. We pushed through the orks. The speartip of the infantry reached the mouth of the valley.

And ran straight into a battle fortress.

The ork superheavy’s arrival had all the grotesque flair of that race. It charged in from the pass faster than any tank should move. It was as if a voidship engine had been mounted in the vehicle. Its front actually rose in the air as it crested a low rise, and didn’t descend before the fortress had raced over another several dozen metres. Men vanished beneath it and were smeared over the crude teeth of its front armour. I found myself staring straight at the mouth of its immense turret gun. The cannon dwarfed the Basilisk’s weapon, and it gave us the ork answer to our blow.

Day again, much closer. I was in the heart of day, and the boom of the cannon was so huge it seemed to issue from inside my head. The blow felt like air that had turned to granite. I was flying. The world spun. I couldn’t think. Everything was fire and wind and hammering. I hit the ground as if dropped from space.

Chapter 3

Arrogance

1. YARRICK

Pain was a million jagged fragments. I took a breath, inhaling scorching heat and dust, and the fragments glowed red. Get up, I told myself. This is nothing. You’ve known worse. You aren’t going to let a minor irritant stand in the way of your duty. Now get up!

I staggered to my feet, squinting at the maelstrom around me. The battle fortress’s shot had blown away the central core of the Chimera and knocked the transport end over end. I had been thrown clear. The vehicle was on its back, its flanks gaping with fire, its front armour buckled and torn like tin. The Basilisk had vanished. Where it had been, there was now a field of warped and blackened sculpture. Flames guttered on all sides. Bodies of men and orks lay burned, smashed and torn. The air was still filled with the din of combat, but in this space, in the hundred or so metres in any direction, there was a pause. It was the peace of the murdered, the quiet of scorched earth. The battle fortress had come to a stop when it fired. Its turret swivelled, looking for new meat, but here and now, there were only tiny figures like me scurrying around. Nothing of interest. The engine rumbled as the gigantic tank’s attention turned to fresh killing fields.

I scrambled through the blazing hell to the Chimera. There would be nothing to salvage there but lives, and likely none of those, but I had to try. My duty, in this moment, had shrunk to the few metres around me. They were all I could reach, along with, Throne have mercy, maybe some of the men who fought by my side. As I came up to the wreck, I saw Lanner fighting his way out of the hole in the front armour. I rushed to him and pulled him out. The right side of his face was burned, and he was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but nothing was broken. He took a few steps away from the Chimera. I turned back to it.

He stopped me. ‘There’s no one else, commissar,’ he said.

I turned to face him. ‘Down!’ I yelled. Lanner dropped flat. The charging ork swung a massive chainaxe, missed, and overshot, momentum carrying the filthy xenos to me. I hit him in the face with my power claw. I punched clean through his skull.

The corpse fell. Behind it, I saw the battle fortress. It had not left. It was heading for us, gun at the ready. I remember that I wondered, sourly, why we were worth killing. Perhaps the crew had recognised me, and I was the recipient of a grotesque honour.

The turret erupted. But not because it had fired. A massive armour-piercing round had struck it. Flames shot out of the hatch, and the gun was suddenly askew. I whirled around. A shape burst through a wall of flame. It was as huge as the ork tank, its treads alone as high as a man. It was a shadow made of steel. It was death.

The Fortress of Arrogance fired again, catching the battle fortress in the flank, tearing open a gaping hole in the armour. The tank ground to a halt. Unbelievably, the turret rotated, the torqued gun aiming at the Arrogance. Even the orks weren’t stupid enough to attempt a shot, I thought, even as I realised that they were easily stubborn enough to do so. I hit the ground beside Lanner.

Time and again, I have seen ork technology that functioned for no other reason than the sheer belief of the greenskins that it would work. But even their mad confidence couldn’t overcome this basic a physical reality. I heard a muffled fffwhump, and the entire battle fortress shook with the force of the blast that was channelled back inside the tank. Then two more explosions, gigantic concussions as first ammunition, and then the engine, blew up. The pressure wave of the superheavy’s destruction pressed us hard into the red dirt.

Then we were up, sputtering, before the ringing had faded from our ears, or the dazzle of the glare from our eyes. The Fortress of Arrogance had stopped. Its hatch opened for us as we climbed up. As we did, I noticed that the Baneblade bore some wounds of battle. Its armour was gouged and scorched, and had been penetrated in at least one spot. Inside, there were more wounds. An ork shell had pierced the Arrogance’s hide and, fortunately, gone right through the other side without detonating. But it had killed the driver, and the tank’s commander, Sergeant Hanussen, had taken the controls. He relinquished them to Lanner with visible relief. Lanner was a man in love as he settled into his seat.

I turned to Hanussen. ‘How are our communications?’

‘Spotty, commissar, but workable. I have already sent out word that you are alive.’ When I nodded for him to continue, he said, ‘There are at least three more Stompas and an equal number of battle fortresses against us. Some are already in the valley, and some are still coming up the pass.’

I grunted. ‘We can’t fight them there. Too confined. We’ll have to wait for all of the primary threats to reach the valley, and try to break through. How are the other Baneblades faring?’

‘The Final Dawn is still fighting. We’ve lost the others.’

I cursed. The Fearful Sublime was gone, too, along with Captain Hantlyn. The leadership of the regiments kept being decapitated. ‘Who took command?’ I asked.

‘I did,’ said Hanussen.

And he had made it this far. ‘Good.’

‘There’s more, commissar. Colonel Helm has been trying to reach you. Something about orbital bombardment.’

I frowned. ‘What are we targeting?’

‘We aren’t the ones doing it.’

I grabbed the vox. Seconds we didn’t have were slipping away. But I put my trust in the men in the fray while I learned the broader situation. The curse of seeing the greater panorama of war is that one can never look away.

Static of one relay after another, the chain still blessedly functioning, and I was through to the Hadron Plateau and speaking to Helm. ‘What is happening, colonel?’

‘Commissar, the orks have a space hulk.’

It took an effort not to close my eye in despair. I kept my face rigid. A space hulk? When we had arrived in-system, the orks had had only a few transports at high anchor over Golgotha. We had summarily dispatched them. The orks had no forces except the surface ones, so no reinforcements, no resupply… Only they had. Thraka had a space hulk. It was one of those monstrous agglomerations of stolen and salvaged ships attached to an asteroid core that had been the primary source of troops and materiel for Thraka’s invasion of Armageddon. We had destroyed it, and so dealt a crippling blow to his power.

We’d been naïve. It seemed that we were always so when it came to that ork.

He had another. It was a chilling testament to the extent of his power and influence that he could have two such bases. And that he had managed to conceal it until now, hitting us on yet another front at the worst possible moment, was an even more frightening sign of not just strength, but skill.

Helm was still speaking. ‘The fleet is being hit hard, sir. We don’t have the ships to fight something like that. It’s also bombarding the surface, primarily the sites being contested by our Titan forces.’

‘What is your evaluation?’

‘Sir, we are losing.’

There was a charged quality to his silence as he waited for my answer. To speak so openly of defeat to a commissar was normally suicidal, and I have shot men for expressing sentiments much less definite than that. It took a brave man to be honest at such a high risk to himself. But I had asked him for the truth, and he had given it to me. Helm had proven himself an officer of integrity on Armageddon, when he had risked his military career and worse by standing against the treacherous idiocies of Governor von Strab. I appreciated that he was just as willing to tell me what I did not wish to, but absolutely must, hear.

In this case, he told me what I had already deduced. The facts were horrific in their simplicity. With a space hulk, Thraka had more than the upper hand. The outcome of this war was decided. The only question that remained was what, if anything, we could salvage. The next words I spoke tasted like ash and deadened my soul. They hurt all the more for the ultimate responsibility I bore. This was my crusade. I still did not doubt its righteousness or its vital necessity. But I had led us here, to Golgotha. It was under my command that disaster had befallen us. Whatever the role individual officers had played (and I did wonder about Rogge’s total silence), this was my war, and the hated words were mine to speak. ‘I am issuing an order for immediate evacuation. Colonel, take the men and materiel you can and abandon the Golgotha system. Do it now.’

There was a pause. In it was the weight of Helm’s despair. Then he said, ‘Commissar, the men will refuse to leave without you.’

I was simultaneously honoured, humbled and outraged by the promise of disobedience. I knew better than to bluster or threaten. The situation required a solution, not a tantrum. ‘Have any transports landed in the last few minutes?’

‘Three,’ he answered.

‘Then I was aboard one of them. I am directing the evacuation. I am departing with our heroic troops. Understood?’ There was no answer except a disbelieving silence. ‘Understood?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, commissar.’

‘Maintain the fiction as long as you can. I’m sorry, Teodor.’ I was ordering an honest man to lie. And the poor bastard was going to be stuck with the responsibility of preserving my legend longer than I would be. ‘The Emperor protects.’

‘The Emperor–’

A huge burst of static that became an unending gale. There would be no further contact with Hadron Base. Outside the Fortress of Arrogance, I heard another kind of gale build to a frenzy.

2. HELM

Teodor Helm threw down the vox-unit and ran from the communications centre of the Hadron garrison. He didn’t know if the static meant that Yarrick was dead. He had been unable to regain contact with any of the vox-relay posts. The entire network was down. Between Golgotha’s electrical storms and its dust, vox-traffic was immediate area only. The Hadron Plateau was cut off from the rest of the army.

Helm mounted the steps of the fort’s outer wall. He looked north, in the direction of the Ishawar Mountains. Even if it had been day, the chain wouldn’t have been visible from this distance, but Helm could see more than enough evidence of the unfolding disaster. Before him, at the base of the plateau, the horde had gathered. These were not orks from the Ishawar. They had been gathering for hours. Transports arrived like black hail from the space hulk, dropping down just out of range over the horizon to disgorge their war-fevered cargo. And so a third ork force had entered the war, yet another obeying the will of a single warlord. The unity was terrifying. And here was the irony: the more everything went catastrophically wrong, the more Yarrick was being proven right.

The perpetual cloud cover raged and flashed, but not all the fury was natural. There was the glow and the rumble of the transports as they cut through the overcast on their final approach. And there were the fires: streaks of flame that flashed above like wounds in the sky. The bombardment had spared the plateau so far, but the lethal rain was falling heavily in the direction of where the Titans fought their ork counterparts. The ground shook faintly from concussions hundreds of kilometres away. The orks sending death from the heavens didn’t care if their kin were vaporised. Nothing mattered but the destruction of the foe.

Then there were the traces of the other war, the one in the heavens. Sometimes there was no more than the light. Other times, the debris was large enough that it did not burn, but hit the ground with cratering force. Helm could follow this war only through the occasional, fragmented transmission. He hoped some of that wreckage was from ork ships.

But even as he watched, there in the distance, so far away that it was nothing more than a lonely, broken silhouette, and visible only because it was wreathed in the fire of its death, fell a shape that stabbed at his heart. Shattered though it was, he still recognised the lines of the ship on which he had travelled so long that it was home at least as much as Armageddon itself. No longer. The Firestorm-class frigate Harrower was making planetfall unseen and unmourned by anyone but Helm. It disappeared in the polluted night. The thunderclap of impact was muted, but it had the resonance of a single, massive beat on a funeral drum.

Helm looked back at the orks below. Hadron Base was built to withstand sieges, but no fortress could do so indefinitely, and there was no reason to make a stand. The commissar had ordered everyone here to depart. If they did not do so soon, they never would, and the defeat on Golgotha would be total.

With a curse, Helm turned away from the spectacle of loss. As he descended the staircase, he shouldered the mantle of the commander who would oversee one of the most humiliating retreats of the millennium.

3. YARRICK

There is something freeing about hopelessness. I knew that we would not live to see the dawn. So did the crew of the Fortress of Arrogance. Suddenly, there was no destination to reach, no goal to slip from our grasp. There was nothing left except the honourable death. As that certainty sank in, I saw smiles on the faces of the tank crew. I believe there was a real lightening of their spirits.

I have told myself this many times since then. It is important for my own soul that this be true.

I felt no lighter as I climbed out of the Arrogance’s hatch and took up position in its pulpit. The failure to stop Thraka would mean no peace for me as I fell to the night of the grave. Even so, I had new energy. Something very like exhilaration coursed through my blood. If death was upon me, I was going to meet it with all the fury my faith would grant me, and exult in every ork I killed between now and my last moment.

‘Warrriors of the Imperium!’ I called. I was speaking over the vox, but as the energy flowed, it seemed to me that my voice itself carried over the battlefield. ‘Tomorrow will be our day of days, for we shall have rejoined the Emperor in glory at the Golden Throne. Tonight is our night of nights, for it is now, in these very moments, that we earn the glory that will carry us to the Throne.’ I paused as ork stubber fire ricocheted off my claw. In response, I stood higher. ‘The greenskins outnumber us. They laugh that we have nowhere to go. They think they are triumphant.’ A large blast to my left: a Leman Russ torn open by multiple rocket blasts. A Hellhound avenged it by incinerating its killers. ‘Show them that they are wrong. Show them that they have nothing to celebrate. Show them that they are trapped on this planet with a foe who will never leave. Teach them what triumph really means! Become the true wrath of Golgotha!’

I could not hear the response any more than I could truly hear my own shouts. But as I could feel my exhortation in the rasp in my throat, as if it were a primordial beast’s roar, so I could feel the spirit that rose to my call from the Emperor’s legions. Locked in combat, dying and killing, they all heard my words, and they responded. For all that the valley floor was very quickly becoming a savage melee on a monumental scale, with regimental cohesion breaking down in the collision between two vast forces of war, we acted as one, striking with renewed fervour, our hearts filled with something that was at once a song of praise and a howl of undying rage.

As the Fortress of Arrogance leapt forward, I raised my claw in defiance of the ork machines that bulked in the night ahead. A Stompa and another battle fortress were barrelling forward to meet us. Their guns and ours flashed-burned the dark. At the same moment, there was a jerk as Lanner took the Arrogance through a sudden course correction. The movement was sluggish by any normal standard, but was preternaturally nimble for a Baneblade, and was just enough to spoil the orks’ aim. Their machines turned, far more slowly. Distracted by the inviting target we presented, they ignored the other cannons aimed their way. A unified barrage crippled them.

I became aware of concerted, organised movement on all sides. With the Arrogance as focus, the regiments were reforming. Our casualties were horrific. The landscape was strewn with the corpses of men and vehicles, but was also alive with an army reforging itself into a mailed fist.

‘Commissar!’ a voice called to me.

I looked down. A Steel Legion trooper was running alongside the Arrogance, so close he was a single wrong step away from being dragged under by the treads. He didn’t care, but not because he had succumbed to despair. There was a spring in his step. ‘Yes, soldier,’ I said.

‘It’s Hades Hive again, isn’t it?’

‘You were there?’

‘Yes, I was. The greenskins are in for another surprise, aren’t they? Going to rip Thraka’s head off, commissar?’

I opened my claw. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll crush it instead.’

The trooper laughed, saluted, and moved off.

Doesn’t he realise? I wondered. Of course he does. This was our final assault, and we all knew it. Every man was charging for the salvation of his soul, for the bond of comradeship, and for the glory of the Emperor of Mankind. In the hellish strobes of the stubber, las and cannon fire, the gleaming elegance of Mordian uniforms mixed with the Armageddon trench coats and the industrial-grey Mortisian fatigues. And we were all moving toward the pass.

We plunged back into the sea of orks. We punched forward, always forward, though there was nowhere to advance except deeper into the enemy’s midst. ‘Stop for nothing,’ I called down to Lanner. In answer, he drove the Baneblade even faster, crushing orks by the score. For a moment, the treads spun in the morass of corpses, and then the Arrogance roared on. I snapped my claw closed, as if tearing out the collective throat of the foe. I sent a mental challenge to Thraka. Here we are, I thought as I cut down greenskins with my bolt pistol and my eye. Do you dare face us? Do you?

The orks fell back before our fury. But only so far. They bunched up, then gathered courage as something colossal loomed out of the pass. It was a Gargant, fifty metres tall, come from the battles with our Titans.

Hanussen, who was manning the main gun, realised what its presence implied. ‘What happened to the Legio?’ he voxed.

‘That is not our concern, captain,’ I snapped. ‘Our concern is what happens to that abomination. Destroy it.’

Hanussen lined the cannon up and fired.

If the Gargant had not been fresh from another battle, our gesture would have been pointless. But I could see that it had already sustained serious damage. There was smoke pouring out of its neck, and what looked like a fault line running down the length of its frontal armour. Our shell hit at the base of the head. Hanussen must have loaded an armour-piercing round. There was no explosion, and for a moment, it seemed as if we had wasted our blow. The Gargant took one more step, then rocked forward. The head slipped from the shoulders and plummeted to the ground. The giant leaned deeper. Then gravity took over, and the slow bow became a sudden drop. The monster crashed to the ground, crushing hundreds of orks and spreading panic far beyond the immediate reach of its destruction. The superstitious dread spread before the Fortress of Arrogance too. The orks could see who rode the tank that had felled a Gargant with a single shot, and they could believe anything of me.

My bark of laughter lacerated my throat.

We surged towards the pass. We punished and slaughtered. The greater the number of orks, the greater the number of kills. The Arrogance shouted its voice of justice, and though a crew of brave and skilled men operated her, the tank felt like an extension of my will, as much a part of my body as the bale eye and power claw. The Arrogance and I were one, the iron spear-tip that was tearing open the belly of the orks.

‘Here come more playmates,’ Lanner drawled.

Emerging from the night ahead was another Stompa with a battle fortress. Was there no end to the orks’ supply of these engines? I pushed the irrelevant question away. We were committed to the pass, so we had to destroy the ork superheavies. That was all.

‘Take them!’ I cried. I was speaking to the crew of the Baneblade, but I saw the infantry around us charge the monsters, too. I thought there might even have been some uncertainty in the orks. The psychic oppression that accompanied their presence seemed lesser to me. And why not? We had felled a Gargant with a single shot. We were unstoppable.

Then something changed. Something else had entered the field. I couldn’t see what it was, but the atmosphere of the struggle gathered a new, crackling charge. The orks hurled themselves back against us. They hit with renewed will, and with something else. The panic had evaporated, replaced with orkish exuberance at its most insane. The monsters were laughing, just as I had been, but with a terrible delight. Their joy in battle and indiscriminate death had returned with a vengeance, and their laughter was undiminished whether they witnessed the bloody end of a human or an ork.

The Stompa charged. It actually charged. Fire and oily clouds pouring from its smokestacks, it pounded towards the Arrogance. The valley floor shook beneath its monstrous piston feet. It was not a creation that could move fast, nor did it now, but there was a massive build-up of momentum to its advance. ‘Captain,’ I voxed.

‘I have it, commissar,’ Hannussen replied. He fired, hitting the Stompa dead centre. But this time, the armour held, and the monster came on. It launched a rocket that struck the front of the Baneblade. Flames washed over the top, and I ducked down beneath the pulpit. Lanner didn’t slow, and the Fortress of Arrogance rushed out of the flames to meet the challenge.

Another exchange of fire, cannon against cannon this time, and impossible to miss. The armour of the behemoths buckled, but did not give way. And then there was no more time or space. It seemed to me that the totemic face of the Stompa was roaring. I was, my face almost torn wide by the adrenaline-fuelled cry. The giants slammed into each other. The impact should have shattered the world. The Arrogance’s treads rode up the Stompa’s plating. The walker brought its arms in as if to embrace the tank. The chainfist screeched against the left flank. The tip of the blade whirled teeth the size of my hand just over my head. A geyser of sparks streaked the night. On my right, the Stompa’s cannon was aimed point-blank at the join between turret and hull. ‘Burn!’ Hanussen screamed. The cannon boomed. The explosion engulfed the Arrogance and the Stompa’s arm. I was shaken like a pebble in a tin, and lost my grip on the pulpit. I slid down the length of the hull and landed on the ground, an insect to be trampled by the giants.

I looked up as I staggered to the side. The blast had peeled back the Arrogance’s side armour and shredded the Stompa’s arm. Metal flaps from both war engines were tangled together, and the giants were locked in their dance of death. The Baneblade’s treads were still turning as if it were trying to force the Stompa to the ground, but the walker’s centre of gravity was so low that it couldn’t be toppled. The Arrogance’s turret was askew, the gun pointing to the clouds. The sponson-mounted lascannons and bolters had fallen silent.

Head ringing, still half-deafened from the report, I yelled Lanner’s name into my vox-bead.

‘Commissar,’ his voice came back, hoarse and strained.

‘Are all of you still alive?’ I couldn’t see how.

They weren’t. ‘Just me,’ Lanner croaked. ‘And a shot ready to go in this gun.’

The Demolisher cannon protruded from the front of the hull, and could be fired by the driver. Its muzzle was only a few metres from the Stompa. The shot would be even more insane than the one the orks had taken, and Lanner’s protection had been badly compromised. But I did not tell him to stop. I did not tell him to abandon the tank. I would not deprive him of his honour. And I would not deprive the Imperium of one more victory, however pyrrhic.

‘Glory to the Emperor,’ I said.

‘Glory to the Emperor,’ he returned, and fired the gun.

The Stompa’s chainfist broke through to the Arrogance’s munitions at the same moment.

The shockwave lifted me off my feet and hurled me end over end. I slammed into a wall of oncoming metal. I was boneless, a broken toy. As I slumped, something grabbed the bottom of my coat. I was yanked to the ground, dragged along the stony surface, and finally came to a stop in a painful, half-reclining position. I had been caught by the treads of the battle fortress. If the tank had not stopped, I would have been ground to mulch.

My vision began to grey, growing black around the edges. I blinked, keeping unconsciousness at bay. I could not move, but I could see. I saw everything. I saw that the Stompa was no more, but the majestic Fortress of Arrogance was mortally injured. It crashed back down and was silent. It was only inert metal, now.

I saw the end of our war. The soldiers fought heroically, but the end was preordained. The orks simply kept coming until they overwhelmed. Their triumphant energy turned them into an unstoppable wave. Then, finally, I saw what had changed. I saw what had entered the battlefield. It came charging through the swirling melee of combatants, knocking orks aside and splattering humans. The silhouette was so massive that for a hallucinatory moment I thought I was seeing a Dreadnought of the Adeptus Astartes. It wasn’t a Dreadnought, nor was it one of the ridiculous weaponised cans that were the orks’ debased versions of those living martyrs.

It was too big to be either.

It was an armoured shape, and it was rampage personified. It tore through the night faster than anything that big should move, leaping from cluster to cluster of struggle, annihilating Guardsmen with a massive stubber in its left hand, crushing them to nothing with an equally colossal power claw on its right. Every movement, every roar was an expression of rage, glee and messianic fervour. A terrible perfection of destruction had come among us.

Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka was here.

He was smaller than the Stompas. But his presence was so immense that he appeared to tower over the mountains themselves. I was sick to the soul at the threat he represented to the Imperium and I struggled to tear myself free. I had no leverage. I was bound fast. But I still had one weapon. What I could see, I could target and kill. ‘THRAKA!’ I howled with every ounce of strength I still possessed.

It should have been a futile gesture. He shouldn’t have been able to hear me. Not in the cacophony of massacre. But he did. I understand now that destiny decreed that he should know I was there. It seems to me, in my darker moments, that the perfect agony of the galaxy is shaped to no small degree by the crossing of our paths. So he heard, and he came pounding toward me, running faster as he recognised me, his footsteps leaving a trail of small craters behind him. Like me, he only had one natural eye, and my bionic one focused on it. He came up so quickly, I had trouble acquiring the target. I had him as he reached me. I glared at him with the hatred of complete righteousness.

Before I could fire the laser, his claw swung into my face. The blow was no more than a slap. It was like being struck with a meteor.

My last sight before oblivion was of that obscene face contorted with delight.

Chapter 4

The Well

1. ROGGE

They didn’t kill him. They took him instead. They dragged him away, along with the other ragged survivors the orks chose to enslave rather than slaughter. He didn’t struggle. There was no point. Quite a few of the captives did. Very few of them were killed. Instead, the orks jabbed them with shock poles and hauled them onward while they were still convulsing. So Rogge did nothing. He walked where he was led. He squeezed into the suffocatingly overcrowded hold of the slave transport. Second by second, step by step, he felt the last dregs of his honour drain away. The pain of his failure was so profound, he didn’t even have the strength to howl.

When he stumbled out of the transport, into the greater hell of the space hulk, he felt that he had been reduced to a body surrounding a core of nothing. The numbness was a relief.

It didn’t last.

2. YARRICK

I woke to agony and an immediate temptation to despair. I was suspended by chains that hung from a ceiling in darkness above me. They were wrapped around my upper arms, holding them out from my body, crucifying me. The pain, like clusters of daggers stabbing my flanks, shoulders and back, was so savage that at first, I wasn’t aware of how I’d been mutilated. Then, as awareness sharpened, I felt the losses. My bale eye was gone. So was my claw.

My right arm.

I twisted in the chains, snarling, transmuting the pain into rage. I cast about with my remaining eye, taking in my surroundings as I sought what had been taken from me. I was in a large metal chamber. It was about a dozen metres on a side, and lit by flickering, dingy glow-globes along the walls. The only exit was sealed by a massive iron door. At the other end of the room was a large metal table. It was surrounded by instruments that erased the difference between surgery and torture. The light was dim, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the overlapping bloodstains on the table. The floor around it was slick with obscene debris. The stench was slaughterhouse-thick.

Beneath my feet, there was no floor. I was being dangled high over a circular shaft. It was about two metres wide, and the gaping black of great depth. Sloshing, scrabbling noises echoed up from the darkness.

There were three orks standing guard. When they saw that I was awake, one of them dragged the door open and left, sealing the chamber off again with a bang. The other two watched me closely, growling as if warning me not to try anything. Thinking clearly was difficult through the haze of pain, but I noted their wariness. I had worked hard to create a fearsome legend for myself among the orks. Here was evidence of my success. I wondered how I might use this fact.

After a few minutes, the door banged open as if a giant had kicked it. One had. Thraka strode into the chamber. He stopped at the edge of the pit. Our heads were almost level, and we exchanged a long stare. Thraka’s face was the purest essence of his benighted race. It was the monstrousness of war at its most savage – pure beast made more hideous by a crosshatching of scars. It was a leathered palimpsest of wounds. Some I had given him, and they were insignificant. The only wound that mattered was the one that had almost stopped him, but instead, following the dictates of perverse destiny, had been his making. The top of his skull was adamantium. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to the brain beneath to transform him into a prophet of orkish victory, but the claws that had operated on this ork’s mind were stained with the blood of billions.

Thraka watched me closely. He watched me quietly. He was studying me. I was suddenly drenched in a sweat that had nothing to do with physical discomfort. The only thing worse than being face-to-face with a raging, howling ork is being face-to-face with a quiet one. So many human victories have depended on the orks’ tactical simplicity. They charged until they died, and that was all. But an ork who watched and learned, planned and strategised, an ork who meditated, and kept his thoughts to himself – there could be nothing more dangerous.

Then the silence was broken, and to my eternal dishonour, it was I who broke it. ‘Filth!’ I yelled. ‘The Emperor’s wrath will blast you and all your accursed kind to the warp!’ My hatred burst the bonds of language, and in the next second I was baying an inarticulate ‘Rahhhhhh!’ at the beast. He continued to watch quietly.

The irony of that moment does not escape me.

After a few more shouts of incoherent, impotent rage, I calmed enough to speak again. ‘I will kill you,’ I hissed. ‘I make you that promise.’

No reaction. Still that unnerving studying. I didn’t know what he was looking for, or whether he saw what he wanted in my face, but he stepped back after an eternal moment. The guard who had fetched him took that gesture as permission to have at me. It laughed and gave my left arm a hard yank, almost pulling it from my shoulder. There was a blur of movement from Thraka, and he stood with the guard struggling in the grip of his claw. The ork whimpered. Its feet pedalled air. Thraka held the other ork over the pit. His eyes, one real, one a targeting bionic, never left my face. His mouth spread in a grin of predatory challenge. Then he dropped the guard.

The ork howled as it fell. The acoustics of the shaft turned its cry into a choir of hurt. The sound of impact was wet, and a long time in coming. The howl stopped.

Thraka reached above me and took the chains in his claw. He was no longer smiling. The gaze of that eye was penetrating, evaluating. There was also a complicity, which I rejected with all the hatred of my own look. He gave a slight nod. To me? I was imagining that, surely. I prayed to the God-Emperor that I was mistaken. Then I heard the deep, final chunk of the claw slamming shut and the chains parting.

The terrible pull on my upper arms ended, and with freedom came vertigo. I fell into darkness, into my final seconds and into a strange peace. There was nothing I could do. Nothing to struggle against. For the first time in my living memory, I was absolved of all responsibility. Duty ends only in death, and I had been vouchsafed a few moments to experience the release from duty. I commended my soul to the care of the Emperor, and went limp. I plunged into terrible sounds. A thick wind screamed against me. I saw nothing but the dark, and after the first second, it seemed that I was flying, not falling.

I felt the pain of unfinished tasks. I hoped for forgiveness. I thought that there were worse deaths.

I had the luxury of several long seconds to think these things. And even now, there are moments of marrow-deep exhaustion when I look back on this tiny sliver of rest with something like nostalgia before shame corrects my thinking.

It was not shame that recalled me to duty on that day. It was the brutal but non-lethal impact of my landing. I did not hit metal. I hit liquid. It hurt like being slammed into brick, and then it took me down, smothering and choking. I had been limp. Now I thrashed in the foul blackness. I had no sense of up or down, no concept of anything at all except universal pain and, overriding even that, the divine command to resume my struggle.

My agonised chest demanded I draw a breath. Filth flowed into my lungs instead. I spasmed, and I broke the surface of the stagnant water. I choked up the sludge in my lungs and flailed forward. My feet struck bottom almost right away, sliding on a slick pile that might have been stones and might have been skulls. The pile sloped up. Within a few metres, I was out of the water and crouched against the curved, slimy wall of the shaft. Breath heaving in and out of my lungs like a handful of claws, I turned around to face the darkness.

I was almost overcome by a sense of total helplessness. I was not alone in this space. I could hear large bodies struggling and splashing nearby. But I could see nothing, I had no weapons, and I had only one arm. I braced myself and waited. After a minute, my eye adjusted, and I saw that there was faint illumination coming from phosphorescent fungi on the walls. The shaft had dropped me in one end of what seemed to be a large cave. It stretched out into the deep gloom before me, twisting out of sight. There were narrow banks along the walls. I felt the surface of the wall at my back. It was porous stone, not metal. I realised where I must be: in the lower reaches of the space hulk.

The fact that I could breathe was another hint of Thraka’s enormous power. Space hulks were not uncommon among the orks. Once a Waaagh! reached a critical mass, the hulks were a favourite method of conveying war from one system to another. Many, but not all, used a planetoid as the core around which the patchwork collection of ships was assembled. This rocky core had an atmosphere in its interior. That necessitated a care and effort far beyond the norm for orks. I could feel Thraka’s presence and strength of will even down here.

The struggle I was hearing came to an end. There was a high-pitched chittering that somehow conveyed fatal agony. For a moment, there was silence. Then splashing started again, drawing nearer. A large bulk was approaching, leaving a wake behind it. I looked about me, desperate for a weapon or a means of escape. The wall was unbroken, and there were no handholds. But just to my right was the half-submerged body of the guard. The greenskin had landed on this spur of rock, and been impaled through the neck. I knelt and searched the corpse. The ork’s gun had shattered, but the brute’s blade was still in its sheath. The weapon was a crude, massive cleaver. It was an awkward weapon for a human to wield, especially one-handed. It was also a gift from the Emperor Himself.

And from no one else. No one.

I remained crouching, clutching the blade, listening to the approach of the predator. The splashing became shallow, and then there was an explosive scrabbling. I whirled, weapon extended. It met a shadow twice as thick and long as a man. The blade sank between chitinous plates. The weight of the beast knocked me against the wall. My feet lost their purchase and I slid down. The creature was propelled by dozens of tiny legs, and they clawed at me, shredding and tangling in what was left of my coat. Tusks like sickles snapped at my neck. The thing pushed its head down, trying to reach my throat, impaling itself more deeply on the cleaver. The mandibles brushed my skin. I pushed up with all my strength, my arm trembling with the effort. I cut through something important and was drenched in a flood of blood and other noxious fluids. The monster collapsed. I squirmed out from under the dead weight. I examined the creature as best I could in the dim light. It appeared to be a species of squig. It had the spines and wide jaws of those beasts, but its long, segmented body and exoskeleton owed more to the arthropod. Its tail ended in a straight stinger half the length of my leg. I could hear more of its kind not far away, and I was about to kick the corpse into the water when, on impulse, I hacked off the stinger. I turned the corpse over to its fellows and, stinger tucked under my arm, moved away from the eating frenzy.

I kept to the wall that extended up the shaft. I made sure that I wasn’t about to be attacked, and then began pounding the stinger against the wall at about knee height. The stone was weak, the stinger strong. After a few hits, the tip gouged a hole a few centimetres deep. I held the stinger in place by squeezing it with the stump of my right arm. I hammered it into the wall with the flat of the blade. I kept at it until just over half of the stinger was wedged between rock. I stood up. Holding onto the wall with my left hand, I climbed onto the stinger. The footing was treacherous, but the stinger felt solid. I stood there for five full minutes, much longer than I should have to if I attempted what I was contemplating. The stinger held. My balance felt sure enough, if I leaned against the wall, to pound in another spike.

It could be done. I could build a ladder for a one-armed man to climb. All I needed was enough stingers.

I looked up towards the invisible mouth of the well. How far was there to go? A hundred metres? More? No way of knowing. I thought about how many stingers I might need. How many of those monsters I would have to kill. How endless my escape attempt would be.

How easily I could die in the process.

I thought about all of these things. Then I stepped back down to the ground, tightened my grip on the blade, and made my way toward the thrashing movements.

I don’t know how long I was down there. In perpetual night and perpetual struggle, time was not even a concept. There were no cycles, only pauses of unpredictable length between convulsions of bloodletting. Survival necessitated absolute focus, and it wasn’t long before I was a creature of instinct and mechanical habit. I could afford no thought that might distract me. There was no space for either hope or despair. I fought, I killed, I sliced off stingers, and I built my steps. When I grew hungry, I ate the bitter, fatty meat of the creatures. It could easily have killed me, but I had no other choice. I was lucky. It kept me alive, and as rational thought shut down before animal need, I shed the pointless luxury of disgust.

I scavenged a belt from the dead guard. It was so huge, I had to cut it in half. Then I had somewhere to sheathe the cleaver, and free up my hand.

I became the most dangerous predator in that world. The squig-things were larger and stronger than I was, but they were mindless and incapable of learning. I grew adept at catching them from behind, leaping onto their heads and sinking my blade between the skull and the first segment of the armour, killing them before they could bring their stinger to bear. I killed, and killed, and killed, was wounded again and again, but was always triumphant. I like to believe that it was my faith that gave me the edge in those moments when my life teetered on a knife edge. I could barely articulate a prayer, but the knowledge of the Emperor’s protection was always there, as basic a fact of my existence as breathing.

Sleep was the risk, the enemy, and the terrifying necessity. I did what I could to protect myself. I sacrificed precious stingers by planting them in an outward facing semicircle around the base of my ladder. I scattered armour plates in loose piles beyond my rough palisade, so I might be woken by the approach of an enemy. I slept in light, broken snatches, jerking awake at the slightest sound. Sometimes there was nothing there. Sometimes there was. My body learned never to do more than doze.

More than hunger or pain, exhaustion became the rock against which my strength was eroded. But duty only ends in death. I was not dead. My duty was clear. I followed the path. I built my path. Step by step by step, hammering in one stinger at a time, rising one half-metre, then descending to kill for my construction material. The ladder rose, and it took me longer each time to climb up and down. My task became more and more difficult, dangerous and tiring the closer it came to completion.

The effort to keep going required such extreme tunnel vision that I almost didn’t notice when I was within reach of the lip of the well.

I killed the first guard with a single horizontal slash of the blade. It was no longer an awkward xenos weapon in my hand. It was my tooth, stinger and claw. It tore the ork’s throat wide open. Its head flopped backward. The ork gurgled and staggered forward, then back a step, its blood jetting over me. The beast hadn’t collapsed yet and I was already attacking its fellow. The other ork was staring at me, its jaw hanging low with incomprehension and panicked indecision. The greenskin started to respond, reaching for its own blade, but it was too late. I rammed the cleaver deep into that maw. With a crunch, the blade came out the back of its neck. The guard stumbled away, choking. It clutched at the blade, slicing its hands as it tried to pull the cleaver out of its head. The ork slumped to its knees, dark blood pouring down the length of the blade, slicking it. The guard managed to grasp the hilt and yanked with stupid strength. The ork pulled the blade out, killing itself.

I checked the guards for firearms. They had none. I picked up my blade and approached the door. I placed my ear against it, but could hear nothing on the other side. No way to know if the guards’ death cries had alerted others.

Nothing for it, then. I sheathed the cleaver, grabbed the door handle and leaned back. The door opened with a screeching grind. There was a corridor on the other side. It ran about twenty metres, and then opened into a wider space. There the light was brighter, and I squinted in pain, half-blind after so long in the darkness. There was noise ahead, a lot of it. Ork snarls, clanging, human moans. The sound of a crowd.

There were no options. There was no plan. There was nowhere else to go. I had nothing except my will, my struggle, and my Emperor.

They would suffice.

Blade out, its weight a strain to hold one-handed, I walked down the corridor and into the light. Before me was a vast open area filled with cages. The slave pens. Waiting for me, as if I were late for an appointment, stood a squad of jailers, my new chains in their hands. I launched myself at them, and I did manage to cut the hand off one of them before they subdued me.

As they dragged me off to a cage, there was a guttural laugh to my right. I knew whose laugh it was, and was sickened by the knowledge that by having survived the well, all I had done was entertain Thraka.

Will, I told myself, fighting despair. Struggle. Emperor.

They will suffice.

Chapter 5

The Shape of Redemption

1. ROGGE

It took Rogge a minute to recognise the new prisoner. Like the rest of the male captives, his hair and beard were shaggy. They were an iron grey beneath the encrustation of filth, and that was unusual. Older slaves did not last long. Nor did the disabled, and this one was missing his right arm below the elbow. It was only when he saw that the man’s left eye was also gone, and what blazed in his right, that realisation dawned.

The temptation was to withdraw deeper into the cage and the anonymity of mass misery. But that was only delaying the inevitable. And it was not the path he had sworn to himself he would follow, if given the chance. So he shuffled forward. ‘Commissar?’ he said.

Yarrick turned that gaze on him. It scanned Rogge, seeing everything. Rogge knew the ork superstition about the power of Yarrick’s look. In this moment, he absolutely shared their belief. ‘Colonel,’ Yarrick acknowledged. He turned away from Rogge and moved to the bars of the cage. Rogge saw that eye flicking over the space of the slave pens. ‘Tell me what I need to know,’ he said.

Rogge swallowed. No judgement, no condemnation, no demands for an explanation. Instead, a simple request for information, spoken with the confidence of a man who had no conception of surrender. Rogge stood straighter even as he felt the temptation to weep with gratitude. He had his second chance. Redemption would be his. ‘There is no pattern to the shifts,’ he told the commissar. ‘We never know how long we will be held here. When we are taken out, we work until we drop.’

Yarrick nodded. Rogge watched him touch the bars of the cage, testing their strength. The soldering was sloppy, the construction of the cage crude, but the enclosure would have been strong enough to hold orks, let alone humans. There would be no breaking out from the cage itself.

Yarrick grunted and looked beyond the bars at the huge space of the holding pen.

‘A former cargo hold, I think,’ Rogge said. For all the encrustations of ork scaffolding, totemic sculptures and savage graffiti, the human construction of the walls and floor was still evident. They were inside a captured freighter, of that much Rogge was sure. Continual modifications by the orks had blurred the boundaries between this ship and the adjoining ones, fusing them into an indistinguishable hell of metal and refuse.

The slave cages had likely once been freight containers, and they were stacked in ziggurat formations on all sides of the hold. Ramps granted access to the upper levels. A large mustering space occupied the centre of the floor. There, slaves were gathered, organised, sorted, abused, tortured, killed. The orks didn’t allow the other slaves to clear away the dead until the bodies had piled up to the point that they were a nuisance. Rogge had seen many shifts pass with a dozen or more bodies left to be trampled into pulp. The cage he and Yarrick shared was on the floor level, and blood sometimes seeped in through the bars.

There were some yells and scuffling behind them. They turned around. A few of the prisoners were staring upward, spitting and cursing at the cage’s ceiling. Rogge pointed. ‘Cal Behriman,’ he said with all the contempt he could muster. Sitting on top of the centre of the cage was a second, smaller one. It held only one prisoner. It contained no luxuries except space. The man inside ignored the taunts. He sat, impassive, eating something rank from a metal bowl.

Yarrick was frowning. ‘Why is he isolated?’ he asked.

‘He’s our overseer,’ Rogge explained. He pointed back outside the cage, at the other small boxes scattered around the hold, all of them sitting on top of other, larger containers. ‘There’s one for every dozen or so enclosures, as far as I can tell. These orks like seeing us whipped and prodded by one of our own. The traitor is given a bit more food and space, but has to sit and hear what we think of him.’

Yarrick was shaking his head. ‘Too elaborate,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘By ork standards, that’s a very sophisticated bit of cruelty.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Just another example of the strength of our enemy, colonel.’

Rogge curled a lip. ‘He’s a little tyrant,’ he said. ‘A ship’s cook with dreams above his station.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, I hope he enjoys his reign while it lasts.’

Yarrick said nothing in reply. He watched Behriman for a moment more before turning his attention to their fellows in the cage. ‘All the prisoners are human?’ he asked.

‘Everyone I’ve seen,’ Rogge confirmed.

‘Good.’ The commissar took a breath, and seemed to grow before Rogge’s eyes. When he spoke again, he was taller than the cage. ‘Fellow children of the Emperor,’ he began, ‘you should feel no despair. Prepare yourselves for struggle and sacrifice, but also for victory. The orks have brought us deep within the heart of their power. We should thank them for the opportunity. Let us thank them by showing them what a terrible mistake they have made.’

Rogge stared at him, dumbstruck. They had been speaking quietly, but now Yarrick was orating for the benefit of the entire hold. His voice echoed off the walls.

Orks came running.

2. YARRICK

The beating was a small price to pay. I had new bruises in the shape of boot soles on my torso, and my face was a swollen, bleeding mess. Trivial matters. Less trivial was the question of why the orks had held back. By their standards, I hadn’t been beaten – I’d been gently admonished to behave myself. Why I was not broken or dead was a disturbing question. But I could not be distracted by it. What mattered was that I had spoken, and I had been heard. I didn’t know how I was going to strike against Thraka, but strike I would. To that end, it was necessary that the slaves think of themselves not as prisoners, but as combatants. I wanted them predisposed to struggle. They should be thinking about strategy and retaliation instead of their own despair. I had no illusions. Whatever happened, it was very unlikely that any of us would be leaving the space hulk. But we could still achieve victory. The goals on Golgotha and here were the same: the end of Thraka. It didn’t matter who the prisoners were. That ork was a threat to every human life, so it was the duty of every human to fight him to the death.

I didn’t expect a mass uprising, which would be useless and suicidal. What I wanted was to see who would respond most concretely to my exhortation.

In the cage, as the hours passed, and we waited, too packed in to crouch or sit, they spoke to me, and made themselves known. They had all been part of the Golgotha Crusade, but in a variety of capacities. Lieutenant Benjamin Vale had been the pilot of the lighter Inflexible. The vessel had been captured as it left Golgotha and tried to rejoin the departing fleet. Two troopers from the Armageddon 117th, Hans Bekket and Hadrian Trower, had also survived that last flight and been taken alongside Vale. These men were soldiers. I salute their courage in stepping forward, but I would have expected nothing less.

There were two others who approached me during my first hours in the cage. I would have their valour noted. Aranaya Castel was a medicae who had been caught when Hadron Base itself was overrun. She had combat training, but had never served on the front lines. Now the orks were amusing themselves by forcing her to work in their grotesque surgeries. These were not places of healing. They were houses of pain. The orks who ruled them delighted in experimenting with scalpel and syringe, and Castel’s shifts were spent in hauling away the bloody detritus of those experiments.

Then there was Ernst Polis. He, too, had been on the base, and was a Munitorum logistician. He had no training at all, and had simply been planetside to assist the coordination of our supply lines when the disaster had struck. He was one of the most cursed men I had ever met. He had an eidetic memory, and had never experienced combat until Golgotha. Every atrocity and monstrosity he witnessed, he retained with perfect clarity. I don’t know what this balding little man had been like before his capture. I imagine a rather tiresome obsessive consumed by minutiae. Now his eidetic memory had become a curse. He was barely sane. Trauma had produced a deep autism that was the only thing keeping him alive. He held awful reality at bay by erecting a screen of itemisation. He catalogued and numbered everything he saw. It was possible to converse with him, but only just.

When, muttering and counting, he squeezed his way past the larger prisoners to tell me, eyes on the ground, that he wanted to help, I said, ‘Tell me how you can.’

‘What do you want to know? There are between twelve and fifteen orks guarding the hold at any one time, approximately a hundred prisoners to a cage, but twice as many prisoners in total than are in the hold right now because there are two shifts, and both shifts are never present at the same time, and when it is our shift we will be taken to work salvage in one of four ships in the immediate vicinity, away from this Carnack-class transport, but all salvage returns to this hub–’

He went on without taking a breath. I broke in a few times to ask about the other ships he had seen. His memory did appear to be perfect. As fractured as he was, his ability to remember anything he saw was a useful one. He had also managed to scavenge, from a captured trader’s ship, a scrap of vellum and a stylus. The orks didn’t care that he had these objects. I did. We began work on a map.

As for Rogge, I wasn’t sure. I did not know what had happened when that second ork army attacked our rearguard. Perhaps no commander would have been able to stop, or even slow, that strike. But from the look of hungry guilt that gnawed his face, I judged that he had failed his men and the rest of the crusade. He was hoping, I thought, to wipe away that guilt through redeeming action. If so, then his guilt might be useful.

I didn’t know yet if the man would be.

Three people died at Behriman’s hands during my first shift. Five the next one. Come the third, I gave serious thought to killing him. But there was no opportunity. I was always too far from him, and fell under the whip of an ork or one of the other human overseers. Those traitors, too, deserved my special hatred, but Behriman, perched above my cage, was the perpetual presence. He was also the most savage. The others did not spare the lash, but they did not kill. They left that to the orks.

Before I had a chance to close with Behriman, I no longer knew how many shifts I had worked. As in the well, time had smeared, become senseless. Our duties were salvage. It was killing work: disassembling what was indicated, hauling machines and scrap and whatever eccentric piece of material was desired in crude carts that were hard enough to push when they were empty. Whenever we left the cage, we moved through a cyclopean collage of metal fused with stone. For the most part, what I saw was a labyrinth of corridors and holds. Ragged tears in bulkheads and hulls created links where none should be. Waste, grime and orkish scrawls were the universal constant, erasing the differences between the ships. I passed through one set of corridors a half-dozen times before I noticed that the construction beneath the ork improvements was not human.

Sometimes, I would haul my load past a viewing block, and see the exterior of the space hulk. It looked like a city in earthquake. Ships of every make and size were crammed together, their sterns sunk into the planetoid. They slanted crazily this way and that. The longer they had been part of the hulk, the more they had melded into each other, losing their identities as voidships. Some structures no longer resembled vessels at all, if they ever had been. Towering over the rest of the fractured skyline was a massive shape, a broad-shouldered monstrosity that must have absorbed a dozen freighters as it thrust its way into being. The peak was in the shape of a gigantic ork skull. It gazed down upon the rest of the world with snarling satisfaction. Lights blazed perpetually inside its eyes. It was a temple to savagery.

We dragged the salvage to an enormous pit to be sorted according to whatever madness moved ork technology at any given moment. The path to the depot passed through what had once been a launch bay. Upended, all of its equipment and shuttlecraft had wound up as treacherous hills of debris on the new floor. It was here, in the space between the mounds of broken angles, that I had my opportunity.

I was about three cart-lengths away from Behriman. He was whipping an older man. The slave was younger than I was, I think, but his hair had turned the white of dirty snow. I had seen him a few times, noticed the way his shoulders sagged under invisible lead, and known that he would not last much longer. His eyes had the lifelessness of clay. Perhaps his end would be a mercy. Even so, when he stumbled, and Behriman laid into him, I let go of my cart. There were no other overseers nearby. The path took sharp corners around the heaps a half-dozen metres ahead and behind. I guessed that I had time to come up behind Behriman while he was busy and kill him before an ork saw what I was doing. In my load of salvage, I had been careful to add a large shard from a mirror that had been in the stateroom of a one-time civilian luxury yacht. I grabbed the shard and started forward.

The old man collapsed. The other slaves looked on as I closed in on Behriman. They kept dragging their carts. I was less than ten paces away. Behriman dropped the whip and crouched over the slave. He wrapped his arms around the man’s head and neck. I raised the glass. Then I heard Behriman whisper. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I heard the old captive’s response: ‘Yes.’ He spoke with relief. And gratitude.

And I think, perhaps, joy.

Behriman snapped his neck.

He straightened and turned to face me. He said nothing. He didn’t raise his whip. He waited.

I lowered my hand and returned to my cart. I began hauling it again. Behriman was already bawling invective at a slave whose pace had slackened. Behind us, an ork driver appeared, laughing as Behriman dished out encouraging blows.

At the end of a shift, exhaustion was so total that we would fall asleep as soon as we were packed back into the cage. Since we couldn’t lie down, we slept standing up, leaning against each other. This time, though, I forced myself to stay awake a little longer. I made sure I was standing directly beneath Behriman’s cage. When the rest of the prisoners were unconscious, I said, ‘What did you ask the old man?’

He didn’t answer at first. He was sprawled on his back on the mesh floor of the enclosure, and I wondered if he was asleep. He spoke after a minute. ‘I asked him if he desired the Emperor’s peace.’

‘You presume much.’

A tiny movement of his shoulders, as if he’d shrugged. ‘The man had served to the limit of his body’s strength. He was as loyal a servant of the Emperor as any decorated officer. He deserved mercy, and a moment’s dignity to compose his soul.’

‘And who are you to grant such gifts?’

‘I’m the one who is there.’

I nodded to myself. I was impressed. The man was unafraid to be completely despised in order that he might do what was necessary. He had what he saw as a sacred duty, and he was being true to it.

Here was a rare find.

‘What do you know of this sector’s layout?’ I asked. I had only seen the same narrow routes again and again.

‘Quite a bit. Why?’

‘Because I think we have bided our time long enough.’ It was time to strike.

Chapter 6

Desperate Glory

1. BEHRIMAN

He lay on the floor of his cage for another hour, listening to the clangs and snarls and wails that filled the air of the space hulk. He thought about the conversation he had just had with Sebastian Yarrick. He thought about how he had brutalised the bodies of others and his own spirit in the service of a greater mercy. He had carried the burden of this duty so long that he could barely remember his life before his capture. Now that weight was at last about to be lifted from his shoulders. He allowed himself a single, body-shaking sob.

2. ROGGE

The commissar spoke. The prisoners listened. Rogge listened. His soul burned with purpose.

Yarrick didn’t orate as he had when he first arrived in their midst. He didn’t draw the orks’ attention. He spoke quietly, to one small group at a time, and what he said spread in whispers during the shifts until, Rogge was sure, every human in the hold knew, word for word, what the commissar had said. Yarrick spoke of war. What Rogge heard, what he was sure all heard, were words of hope. They were going to be leaving this hell. The breakout was imminent.

3. YARRICK

‘Where do we go?’ Rogge asked, his eyes bright with fervour.

‘The Inflexible,’ I answered. I gestured to Polis.

The little man nodded, and continued to nod while he spoke. ‘I have been past the Inflexible three times during the last eight shifts, during which time I walked 20,235 steps, including the return trip, which ended the shift…’ He caught himself, closing his eyes tightly with the effort. ‘The Inflexible does not appear to be significantly damaged or fused beyond basic docking apparatus to this construct.’ He clamped his mouth shut so tightly his teeth clicked, and he stopped talking. Purpose was mending him.

‘And we have our pilot,’ I said. Vale nodded.

‘What if he’s killed?’ someone asked from the deeper shadows of the cage.

‘I can fly it,’ Rogge answered.

That surprised me. He was a tanker, not Navy. ‘Since when?’ I asked.

He gave an embarrassed shrug. ‘Since home. My father’s private yacht.’

‘Hardly the same thing,’ Vale protested, offended.

‘No,’ Rogge began, ‘but the basic principles–’

‘Are sufficiently similar,’ I broke in, ending the argument. ‘A pilot is a pilot, and a ship is a ship.’ If Rogge’s privileged background proved useful, then we were the better for it. ‘At the start of the next shift,’ I said. ‘That’s when we hit them.’

There was no cycle of night and day in the hulk, just perpetual grimy twilight lit by torches, flickering glow-globes and filthy biolumes. We didn’t have the luxuries of such concepts as ‘morning’. People just rested as well as they could until it was time to work again. And no one could be said to be alone when one could barely move for the crowding. All the same, I was given a form of privacy as everyone in the cage fell into uneasy dozing. Everyone but Castel, who was still jumpy after her latest stint amidst the horrors of the ork surgeries.

‘None of us will leave this place alive,‘ she said.

‘More than likely,’ I agreed.

‘Then why give us false hope?’

‘I haven’t. I never said we would succeed in escaping. Even if we can launch the lighter, it will be recaptured or destroyed before we get far.’

‘Then why even try for it?’

‘If it becomes possible to escape, that will be the most likely means. More importantly, an operational ship could do a fair bit of damage, especially if we choose the target wisely.’

‘You have a target in mind,’ she realised.

‘The temple.’ So much work had gone into constructing that massive ork head. The structure was a symbol of power. That was where I would find Thraka.

Castel was silent for a moment. She was thinking. Finally, she said, ‘Commissar, despite what you said, you must realise that most of the people here are thinking of escape, not war.’

‘I do.’ That was regrettable, but unavoidable. What mattered was that they were stirred to action. Even if people died fighting for a selfish reason, their struggle would still be serving the greater cause. They would die with more honour than they had now. ‘What will you be thinking of?’ I asked.

‘These creatures have profaned every aspect of my calling,’ she spat. ‘I will be going to war.’

‘Then I will be honoured to fight alongside you,’ I told her. Though she had been unafraid to ask me hard questions a moment before, I felt the pride radiate from her now.

She had been praised not by a fellow prisoner, or simply a fellow human being. She had been praised by an idea, a myth called Commissar Sebastian Yarrick. Ever since the battle for Hades Hive, his legend had shadowed my every act and utterance. I was very conscious of this man’s existence, but I wasn’t sure that he and I were truly one and the same. The legend was a useful tool. He inspired men and he was feared by orks, and rightly so. But his continued existence depended on my being worthy of him.

I would do that the only way I knew how: by acting for the good of the Imperium. And I would accept the responsibility for however many deaths such action would entail.

Our shift began. We shuffled out of the cage as the returning slaves staggered in. We moved towards the main exit from the pen. It was directly across from the one by which I had first arrived. One group of prisoners edged towards the left-hand wall. There was another, smaller doorway just beyond the last of the terraced rows of cages, near the corner with the far wall. Ork guards came and went though that passage. There was also a pipe that emerged from its ceiling and ran as far as was visible down the corridor. It was an ork modification of the original structure, and like all such ork construction projects, it was sloppy, clumsy, and arrogant in its invitation to catastrophe. Promethium dripped from numerous joints and splits. Combustible pools spread on the floor.

Behriman snarled at the wayward group and whipped them. His bluff worked because his blows were real. The guards paid him no attention. He was part of the routine. They didn’t notice that he was herding his charges closer to the pipe. Leaning against the wall to the right of the doorway was a bored guard. He had his prod tucked loosely under an arm.

The prod was electrical.

I slowed my steps, braced for action.

Behriman snapped his whip around the guard’s neck. The ork choked on his surprise. He grabbed at the coil around his throat. He dropped his prod. A slave grasped it. The man’s name was Averon, and I celebrate his memory. He lunged for the doorway and stabbed up with the prod, jabbing into one of the weak joints of the pipe. There was a flash and sizzle, and a shower of sparks.

As the fuel ignited, the pipe bent and arched like a tormented serpent. For a long second, it contained the fire within itself, but there were too many little fissures though which air and combustible met. A fountain of liquid fire burst out into the corridor. It gathered strength and momentum. It became a blinding storm that raged out of the doorway. Orks and humans scattered. Behriman sprinted to one side. The grasping flames missed him, but the rest of his group was bathed in incandescent death. They greeted their reward for their heroism with screams to haunt a guilty conscience. Most fell, writhing, but some ran. They actually sprinted as each breath sucked flame into their lungs. As I saw these martyrs rush with open arms to fall unerringly on orks, spreading the contagion of their doom to their captors, I knew that I had done the right thing. If I had in any way inspired that woman, who had become a howling, whirling torch with flames leaping three metres in height, to incinerate not one but two greenskins before she perished, then I was following the true path of my duty.

Not far down the corridor, around the first bend it must have been, the inferno found something even more nourishing than the orkish promethium. It was, as we were about to discover, an ammunition cache. It must have been large. There was a boom deep enough to shatter breastbones. The floor heaved, knocking us off our feet. The left-hand wall bulged for a moment before it peeled back, the blossoming of a steel flower. The fireball roiled out and filled the upper half of the slave pen, a sudden sun baking our flesh. Below the deep thunder of the explosions came the high-pitched shrieks of ricochets as small arms ammunition cooked off. Then came the smoke. It was oily, thick, strangling, smothering. It was a cloud of black wrapping itself around eyes dazzled by the fire. A few moments later, I heard the groaning roar of tons of metal collapsing, sealing the hole again to everything but smoke.

The slave pen was a maelstrom. There was no order, only panic mixed with rage. Humans and orks ran and fled and clashed and died. Coughing, eyes streaming, I couldn’t see more than a few bleary metres around me in the erupting, cacophonous murk. I rose to my feet. Hand over mouth, I took as deep a breath as I dared, and then, before the hack in my chest silenced me, shouted, ‘With me!’ I sensed the presence of followers as I stumbled towards the smouldering corridor. The flames were little more than fading glows in the smoky night there now. The floor was hot under the tattered soles of my boots, and I stepped on things that crunched and cracked like burnt wood, but that I knew them to be something far grimmer.

I was coughing all the time now. My chest was being scraped by burning nails, and great, wracking heaves were trying to toss my lungs up my throat. My head was being squeezed by a mailed fist. But I pushed deeper into the billowing smoke, crouching as low to the ground as possible. This was the one direction I could be reasonably certain the orks would not be going.

The corridor hit an intersection, and the left-hand passage was a ragged funnel into the devastation of the munitions depot. The fires were still fierce there. They filled the space with a pulsing, wavering red glow. The whines and reports of detonating rounds were still frequent, but I led the way in all the same. The warped floor was covered by burned things that had once been orks, but were now little more than organic shrapnel. The hold was a big one, and while to the left there was only the impassable collapse, the explosions had also blown out the decks above, so the air was a little clearer. It was like breathing inside an oven, but at least I was breathing. And I could see who had followed me.

Rogge, Castel, Bekket, Trower, Polis, Vale and Behriman. A small group, and I saw no others coming up in the corridor. Perhaps there were slaves even now storming down the other corridors. Perhaps indeed, but only in dreams. More likely, the orks were already regaining control. No matter. We who were free to act were what mattered, and I would make sure we mattered to Thraka in the most lethal ways possible.

‘Find weapons,’ I told the others. ‘There must be some that are still usable. Do it quickly.’

They did. As I scavenged for myself, I saw the group act with a directness and efficiency of purpose that would have done credit to a well-drilled infantry squad. There was something rather like joy in their determination. I have seen the phenomenon many times before. When people have been deprived of ability to act, they will respond to leadership with gratitude and vigour. To have direction becomes a form of salvation in its own right. Harness this human characteristic, and there is very little that you cannot accomplish.

The ork weapons were massive, clumsy, untrustworthy horrors. But there were stolen Imperial arms here, too. I found a laspistol and a sabre. The pistol was no storm bolter. It was here, though, so it would do. My companions also armed themselves with blades and guns. Most of them had found lasrifles, but Castel held an eviscerator. In her choice of the two-handed chainsword, I saw the final repudiation of her previous calling. The orks had turned her into a butcher. Well, I would let that be added to the greenskins’ debts. We were now a war party. My troops awaited my orders.

I thought for a moment. To venture into the corridors would be pointless. We needed another way to move through the space hulk and reach the Inflexible. I led the way through the heaps of guttering wreckage to the wall opposite the collapse. It seemed stable, though it, too, had been damaged. The metal had been punched open, but not all the way through. I looked into the wall, saw a tangle of struts and, further up, accessible though a bit of a climb, a duct. I pointed. ‘We go there,’ I said. ‘We will destroy the greenskin filth from within.’

Grand words.

And I meant them. Absolutely.

Chapter 7

Inflexible

1. YARRICK

We became worms, tunnelling our way through the darkness of the shafts, ducts, and access hatches that linked the component ships of the space hulk. We were blind, and for the first while, we did not even have a sense of the direction of our movements. We went down blind alleys, where ventilation shafts ended against exterior hulls, and had to retrace our steps and try other routes at random until we found one that took us to a connecting breech in the vessel skins. We could hear orks on the other side of the walls wherever we went. The sounds of the pursuing greenskins chased us down the byways of our journey. Sometimes the sounds of clattering boots and shouted, alien threats were distant echoes. At other times, capture seemed imminent. But the apparent distances were all tricks of the pipes, the random vagaries of acoustic perversity. Some metal arteries down which we travelled were large enough to walk in. Most were no more than crawl spaces. After about an hour, when I judged that we had left the slave pen safely behind, and were beyond the reach of any likely pursuit, I let us travel toward a light source. We had to take stock of where we were.

The light came from a split in an elbow of the shaft down which we crawled. I put my ear to the crack. There was no sound of nearby orks. I twisted until I was lying on my back and kicked out at the split. The noise of my banging sounded huge to me, and I stopped after every half-dozen kicks to listen again. No greenskin came to investigate. Another minute of blows and the shaft parted enough for me to poke my head through. I was looking down from the ceiling of a nondescript corridor. In the direction I was facing, the passageway ended about six metres further on at a bulkhead. In the corridor’s right-hand wall I could see a viewing block.

I withdrew, kicked the opening wider, and dropped down. I asked Polis to come with me. We made our way to the viewing block. The temple dominated the scene. I watched Polis take in the angle of our perspective on that structure. His lips moved in silent calculations. His eyes glazed. After a minute, they cleared and he looked at me.

‘Do you know where we have to go?’ I asked.

He nodded. He looked faintly ridiculous, clad in his Munitorum rags and clutching his lasrifle. He was a little man playing at war, and desperately afraid of the game. But he continued to function, and when I said, ‘You’ll have to lead us,’ he nodded again. That agreement made him perhaps the bravest member of our group.

We returned to the gap in the shaft. Behriman and Bekket hauled us up. Polis took point. The nature of our journey changed. Though Polis had to pause often to get his trembling under control, he changed our wandering into an advance. We were no longer worms. We were spiders, the shafts and connections between ships the strands our web. We were tracing the links that would, I vowed, bring an end to Thraka. Three hours after Polis’s single look at the world outside our scrabbling, crawling, climbing darkness, we reached light again, and another tear in a hull. Polis squeezed to one side so I could see what waited for us.

I choked back a bark of bitter laughter. Before me, across a few hundred metres of open space, stood the Inflexible. Polis had been right: very little attached it to it other ships. It was resting on its landing gear. Rough scaffolding rose from the floor, going as high as the canopy. There didn’t seem to be anything affixed to the lighter that would stop it from taking off.

Except for one thing: the Inflexible wasn’t tied to other ships because it was inside one now. I should not have been surprised. The lighter was too small to be used as anything other than what it was. The orks were modifying the craft, making it into their own creature, and had surrounded it with slapped-together scaffolding. The space before us was another cargo hold, a vast one, kilometres high. The ceiling was invisible, and I didn’t wonder that Polis, in his state, had mistaken the darkness above for the black of the void itself. The obstacle might not be a fatal one, I thought. If the Inflexible were still armed, it might be possible to blast an escape through the hull of this freighter.

I could see a half-dozen orks at work on the Inflexible. The rest of the floor, the decking which had been a bulkhead before the ship was upended, was a scrapyard of miscellaneous construction projects in various stages of assembly and disintegration. Glow-globes, fuel drum fires and flaring welding torches illuminated another ten or twenty ships, all about the size of the lighter. Towards the far end of the hold, I could see the mangled outline of a Thunderhawk, and I shuddered at the tragedy that its presence implied. New, roughly assembled catwalks lined the walls starting about thirty metres up. They went past entrances leading elsewhere in the giant ship’s hull, but I saw no stairs down. Either the catwalks were no more than observation platforms, or they were part of a larger construction project that was abandoned out of boredom.

I pulled back inside the shaft to speak to the others. We didn’t have to worry about being overheard. We were given cover by the noise of endless perverse construction. I outlined the vessel’s situation. ‘We’re almost there,’ I then said. ‘But to reach the Inflexible, we will be exposed.’ We could minimise the risk by hugging the wall some of the way, but at the last we would have to cross open ground to the ship.

Polis trembled, but was the first to nod. The gesture might have been a nervous tick, but it made sure the others followed with alacrity. I motioned Vale forward with me. We paused at the exit from the shaft so he could get a good luck at his ship. ‘A shame we’re at the wrong end,’ he said. The engines faced us, not the cockpit.

‘Will it take off?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘Its flight-worthiness doesn’t look like it’s been attacked. I can’t know until I try to leave.’ He looked around. ‘Commissar, are you sure we can get out of here at all?’

‘No. But I am sure that the attempt is necessary.’

‘I see,’ he said quietly.

I believe that he truly did see. I believe that he already knew the path that lay ahead of him.

He turned to me. ‘Commissar,’ he said, ‘with your permission, I would like to lead the way.’

‘That is your right,’ I told him. ‘You are our pilot. Yours will be the honour to take us from this place.’

We both knew that we were talking about a different sort of honour entirely. The set of his jaw was grim. His eyes were hard, sharp, edged iron that had been tempered to the strength that would sustain him in the coming minutes.

We watched the area near our refuge. The shadows were deep here, and there were no construction materials of particular interest. After several minutes, no orks had passed through. I slid out, feet-first. The drop was less than two metres, and it would be harder to climb down with one arm than simply to let myself fall. The others followed, and Vale headed off, glancing back to make sure we were staying close.

Rogge was eyeing the Inflexible with a sick intensity.

‘Something wrong, colonel?’ I asked. There was no concern in my tone.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said again, as if he hadn’t believed himself the first time.

Trower snorted. I turned my eye on him, and he cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, commissar,’ he said.

I held his gaze a few moments more before releasing him. I would not have dissent and disrespect in our numbers. We were still soldiers of the Imperium. We would conduct ourselves as such. I expected the men under my watch to maintain the same discipline even as they arrived at the Golden Throne.

We moved in single file, hugging the wall, draped in shadow. We weren’t spotted. After a few hundred metres, Vale stopped and crouched behind a pile of scrap metal. He was staring fixedly at the Inflexible. His lips were curled in pained anger. When I saw what he was looking at, I felt an answering pang of fury. The forward half of the starboard engine, which had been hidden from our view until now, had been partially dismantled. Its casing was open, and even my untrained eye could see there were important elements missing. There was too much empty space there. But the engine had not been removed altogether. I did not want to imagine what would happen if someone attempted a take-off. I did not want to, but forced myself to do so.

And then there was a cry. It did not come from any of us, but was on our side of the hold. I looked up in time to see a figure plummeting from the catwalk above us. The ork hit the ground with a heavy, sick crunch. I heard a few braying laughs, but no other reaction from the creature’s fellows. It lay still. A weapon had fallen with it: a rifle with a long barrel. I had never heard of ork snipers – it wasn’t in their nature to fight at such uninteresting distances – but that was a weapon that could have hit targets at a considerable range.

At least as far as the catwalk to the ground.

The back of my neck tensed. I felt the phantom kiss of a round that had never been fired. We scrambled back against the wall, seeking cover in the deeper shadows. I craned my head back, peering into the flickering gloom. Through the slats of the platform, I had a vague impression of a gigantic shape moving away. Metal creaked under heavy footsteps. Then nothing more. I looked back down at the corpse of the ork. How had it fallen? I couldn’t see how even a greenskin could be that clumsy. It hadn’t been under fire. There wasn’t anything going on up there.

Somehow, the ork must have slipped. That was what I told myself, and I sensed that there was a vital imperative that I believe it. There was no other possible explanation. None that fell within any sane conception of the universe.

We waited, weapons at ready. Our position was bad. The only cover was the scrap piles, and the ones nearby were no more than chest-high. If an attack was coming, we had no time to move to better ground. Across the breadth of the giant hold, the distinctly orkish work that erased the difference between construction and demolition continued uninterrupted. We had not been spotted.

Vale had turned his attention back to the Inflexible once more. He said, ‘There are only three greenskins working on this side. Do you think you can give me cover while I board?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I did not try to talk him out of what he was planning to do. His action would, at the very least, have a strategic benefit.

Beside me, I heard Rogge gasp.

2. ROGGE

Vale was mad, and Yarrick was worse. The revelation was painful, terrifying, and unavoidable.

When the state of the Inflexible had become clear, Rogge had felt the cancerous grasp of despair. The ship was supposed to have been his means of salvation. In co-piloting the craft, he would strike back at the orks, restore his honour, and leave this terrible place. But the lighter had been mutilated by the enemy. There was no hope here, and so there was no hope anywhere. What could Yarrick’s little band accomplish beyond distinctly messy suicide? Rogge had thought the renewal of honour needed the commissar’s respect. But the high regard of a madman was worthless. Vale was about to march to his death, and Yarrick was going to help.

Rogge remembered his offer to co-pilot, and feared that he was about to receive his orders. Yarrick didn’t glance his way. He and Vale spoke quietly, as if what was about to happen was a rational, strategic operation. Rogge looked back and forth between the two men and the wounded ship. He saw nothing but madness, and the worst of it was not what was going to happen when Vale went running off to meet the orks on his own, but why he was about to throw his life away. Vale was going to die because of Yarrick.

Rogge felt as if a blindfold had been torn from his eyes. He had been as dazzled by the commissar’s reputation and force of personality as everyone else. But now he could see the man for what he was: a tyrant who played lethal games with the lives of others because he had the power to do so. On Golgotha, he had sacrificed a magnificent army to his obsessive pride. Now he was repeating the pattern. How many prisoners had died in that little uprising? And where would that one-armed, one-eyed monster of war take them now? How would he choose to feast on the deaths of his new followers?

He won’t feast on mine. But on the heels of that thought came another: What do I do now? He had nowhere to go. He took in the faces of his other companions, and their unthinking commitment to Yarrick’s leadership. There was no help or sense to be found there.

Yarrick spoke to the entire group. His voice was low, and would be inaudible only a few metres away, but it filled Rogge’s consciousness as utterly as if blasted from banks of vox-casters. Yarrick’s face was half-hidden by months’ growth of hair and beard. Hunger had made it gaunter than ever. Bruises and wounds bit into its flesh, and the eyelid over the empty socket did not close all the way, revealing a slit of darkness. Yarrick’s was a face of weathered crags, a map of decades of war in all its forms – glorious, brutal, desperate, triumphant, annihilating. It was, Rogge thought, a face that no longer knew anything but war. Rogge flashed on his memories of luxury and pleasure back on Aumet. Some were still quite recent, fresh enough to inspire the hope that they might not be the last of their kind.

But though Rogge stared at Yarrick and feared him, that voice and the fire that fed it were mesmerising. Yarrick said, ‘We will strike here, and we will hurt the greenskins.’ And Rogge felt a dangerous excitement in his chest. Yarrick said, ‘While the orks struggle with this wound, we will take the battle to the heart of this abomination, and they will fear us before they die.’ And Rogge felt a sense of mission flare.

Then he remembered how that mission must surely end, and regained his senses. There was no way off the space hulk. The only true mission was to stay alive from one moment to the next.

Yarrick turned to Polis. ‘Can you guide us to the temple?’ Polis nodded, rapid bobs like a rodent. His lips were moving in an unending, inaudible commentary, but his eyes were clear, shining with deadly fervour. To Vale, Yarrick said, ‘How long once you’re aboard before you can take off?’ He spoke, Rogge thought, as if the lighter really would be able to fly.

‘Not long,’ Vale answered. ‘How much time do you need to get clear?’

‘Polis?’ Yarrick asked.

The Munitorum gnome scanned the wall behind them. He pointed to an opening about a hundred metres on. Unlike the one from which they had emerged, this was not a tear in the skin of the vessel. It was an actual doorway, now tilted on its side. ‘There,’ Polis muttered. ‘There.’ He cleared his throat, his lips moving all the time. ‘A good start, good start, find the vectors from there, yes yes, kill the temple, twenty metres to Inflexible, three visible enemy, disassembled engine cowling a product of Armageddon manufactorum Megiddo III…’ His muttering faded back into mouthed silence.

He’s getting worse, Rogge thought. The extended journey through the walls, with no greenskin encounters, had calmed him. But since that ork had fallen, his incessant cataloguing had started up again. He wasn’t trembling, but his eyes had the shine of the Yarrick fever.

‘Understood,’ Vale said.

You understand nothing, Rogge thought. Mad. Mad. All of you.

And he had no choice but to follow for now.

Still crouching behind the pile of discarded metal, Vale faced Yarrick and made the sign of the aquila. Yarrick returned a one-handed version. That was all. There were no further words exchanged. Rogge felt the blood drain from his face at the matter-of-fact manner with which Vale accepted his imminent death, and the ease with which Yarrick sent him to it.

Vale leaped over the cover and sprinted toward the Inflexible. Yarrick trained his pistol on the orks. The others raised their firearms and took aim. ‘Wait,’ Yarrick said.

They held their fire.

3. VALE

He had been freed. He had been given the gift of knowing his destiny and final duty. His captivity was over. His mission was glory and flame. His heart leapt, so consumed with violent joy that his body could barely contain it. His limbs were infused with an energy that he hadn’t felt since the forced landing. He wondered that his feet touched the floor of the hold at all. He was flying. Suddenly there was wind. There had to be. He could feel it whipping past his face as he bore down on the orks and the ship. The greenskins weren’t aware of his approach. He almost laughed. The eye of the Emperor was upon him as he ran towards his apotheosis, and it rendered him unstoppable. He could tear the orks apart with his hands, but the Emperor’s fire was coming for them.

One of the orks spotted him and shouted. The others turned and reached for their weapons. Now Vale did laugh.

At his back, his allies opened fire. One ork dropped, his throat torn out by a well-placed round. The other two shot back, yelling as they did so. Vale saw another ork round the nose of the Inflexible at a run. He crashed to the ground, head blown apart.

Something brutally hard, round and burning cold slammed into Vale’s left thigh. He glared in outrage at the ork who had shot him. His leg lost its strength. His sprint broke down into a hopping limp. Fractal pain shook his frame, radiating out from the wound. The final metres to the lighter stretched. He clenched his teeth and hauled the dead leg forward. When he put weight on it, the world flared white. He bit his tongue, and blood poured down his chin.

Three more steps. The other two orks died. There were many more coming. The hold was in uproar. Orks were firing at the Inflexible, at Yarrick’s position, at Vale. The shots were still scattered. There were still precious seconds before the orks made their numbers felt.

He reached the Inflexible. The canopy was open. He hauled himself up the ladder left by the orks and kicked it away as he dropped himself into the cockpit. A few seconds more, and the canopy lowered as he powered up. He killed the fuel line to the starboard engine. Not yet, he thought. The port engine whined with pent-up rage. He checked the weapons. Still present, still active.

The pain in his leg had numbed. Something worse than pain spread from the wound: a lethargic, creeping darkness. ‘Not yet,’ Vale muttered, tongue thick, breath hissing. He looked to port. The others had left their cover and were running for the opening in the wall.

The darkness spread down his arms to his hands and fingers, leeching strength and dexterity. His vision dulled to a grainy, grey tunnel. No more time. Now, he thought. His hands did nothing. Night was falling behind his eyes. He found a last cry. ‘Now!’ he howled, and hands responded.

The Inflexible lurched forwards. Vale changed the vector of the thrust. Now he let promethium flood into the starboard engine.

No more darkness. Only light and heat and pain, and seconds of the most awful, sublime joy he had ever known.

Chapter 8

The Run

1. YARRICK

A phoenix rose behind us. It shrieked justice at the heavens as it filled the hold with the hell of its birth.

We had barely reached the opening when the Inflexible began its final strike. I paused as the others ran down the narrow, upended corridor. I looked back to bear witness to Vale’s sacrifice. The lighter lifted off the ground, climbing vertically. It kept climbing even as it burst into flame. At the same moment, its lascannon fired and its Hellfury missiles launched. The air of the hold was redolent with spent fuel and carelessly spilled flammable materials. The missiles slammed into other ships. The Inflexible spun wildly in the air, still firing the lascannon as it transformed into a fireball. It hung in the air another few seconds before it smashed into the deck. It crushed. It incinerated. Fire rushed through the space of the hold with the roar of a hurricane. It drowned out the screams of the burning orks. It grew into a towering wave of fire, and now I ran.

There was a wind in the corridor as air was sucked into the inferno. I had almost left it too late. Heat followed at my heels, carrying the promise of burning death. The passageway ended at a T intersection. I broke left. Behind me, there was a roaring, as if one of the Inflexible’s engines had entered the corridor. Just ahead, the others waited for me on the other side of a bulkhead. I leapt through. Trower and Bekket slid a steel door shut. With the ship’s new orientation, they had to lift it up rather than pull to the side, but they managed to close and latch the heavy steel before the flames reached it. The barrier became warm to the touch within seconds, and we moved on quickly.

Polis led the way again. I was relying heavily on the little man, and he was rewarding my trust. He was a prodigy. Given time, luck and room for error, we would eventually have found our way to the temple without his help. It was so huge, it was the one destination on the space hulk that could always be found. But we would not have made such good time, and in such relative safety. His fear was a boon. At the slightest noise, some of which only he could hear, he would change route. Whether all of the threats we avoided were real or not, he was keeping us out of unnecessary engagements, saving our striking power for when we reached our goal. His sense of direction was uncanny. Wherever possible, he took us out of the corridors and into the networks of ventilation shafts, crawl spaces, access hatchways, and all the myriad byways of a voidship’s circulatory system. No matter how many times the path twisted, no matter how many branches we took, he always knew where we were. We made good progress. Whenever we passed a viewing block, I saw that we were drawing closer.

We were very close, and crawling through the abandoned guts of a freighter. We were slick with grease, feeling our way through the dark over coiled pipes, fragmented gears that could slice off a finger if touched too suddenly, and funnels like cathedral bells. ‘We need to reach the top,’ I whispered to Polis. ‘Can you get us there?’

‘No,’ he said, then repeated himself, becoming his own stuttering echo: ‘Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-no. No connecting structures, commissar. It’s isolated.’ His muttering moved off-subject and rasped against the blind metal shapes.

‘Then how do the orks have access?’

‘Below.’ Echo: ‘B’low-b’low-b’low.’

I realised that we had been crawling along a downward slope. After another few minutes, the iron beneath my hand gave way to cold stone. For the space of a twitch, I was back in the well. But there was no water, and gradually the slope levelled off. Then we could stand, and the way ahead of us was showing grey. There was a light source not too far away.

We were in a tunnel beneath the surface of the planetoid. Once more, I was astounded by the discipline necessary to have orks take the trouble to create a stable, breathable atmosphere down here. I would have thought they lacked the patience to pull off such a feat of engineering. You also never imagined being outmanoeuvred on the battlefield, I thought.

The tunnel was part of a network of intersecting caves. We were moving through a high-ceilinged warren, one that would take orks quickly from one sector of the space hulk to another. Now it would deliver us into the heart of the construct. There were no more shafts or crawl spaces for us. We had to travel the same routes as the orks, and every second increased our risk of being discovered. So we ran. We ran to keep ahead of our luck, and we ran to fulfil our duty.

We were fast, but our luck still caught us. We flew across an intersection. Trower, who was bringing up the rear, shouted a warning at the same moment as the greenskins snarled and started firing. We ran harder, and Polis tried to shake the pursuit by taking what seemed like random choices at the next few junctions. It wasn’t enough. I could hear the pounding of boots coming closer, the sound bouncing off the stone like hammer blows.

We went around a sharp bend to the left, and I paused. ‘They must be stopped,’ I said. ‘Slowed, at the very least.’ They would catch us in the next minute, otherwise, and if they didn’t, their uproar would draw other patrols down on our heads.

Bekket turned back to the bend and crouched. Trower joined him. He remained standing. He would shoot over Bekket’s head, and they could provide each other with some degree of covering fire. ‘We thank you for the honour, commissar,’ Bekket said.

‘You will be remembered,’ I promised them.

The rest of us ran on. Behind us, I heard gunfire. First the isolated reports of Bekket and Trower’s guns, then the rain of counter-fire from the orks. The two men wouldn’t last long, but every moment they gained us was precious. The echoes turned their shouts of defiance into the battle-cry of a regiment. Their screams, when they came a couple of minutes later, were even greater.

Polis had taken us through several more tunnel crossings by then. Trower and Bekket had played their part. So, by the Emperor’s grace, would we all.

2. ROGGE

He had abandoned them. Not a blink, not a pause, just a quick commending of their souls to the Emperor, and then off. Rogge fought the urge to vomit. His skin was prickling with fear and horror. He didn’t know who held the greater terror for him now, between Yarrick and the orks. They were almost the same thing, just machines of senseless death. He ran with the rest of the party because he was caught in Yarrick’s undertow, and there were no other options open to him.

No options yet. For the first time, the idea of surrender occurred to him. The orks had kept him alive once. They might do so again. They would be short a few slaves. The idea didn’t horrify him the way it should have, the way it once would have, before he had seen the truth of Sebastian Yarrick. There was no honour in following a madman, or dishonour in turning his face from him.

There was no dishonour in staying alive.

But the madness still held him as they ran through the warren of stone. The walls were damp and cold. Some of the tunnels were natural formations, while many more bore signs of having been hewn by the slaves. Here and there were the bones of captives who had been left to rot where they fell, their remains gradually trodden to dust. Enough traces remained to show there had been men here, men who had been forced to give up their lives for glory of the ork warlord. More glory. More senselessness.

Thraka and Yarrick deserve each other, Rogge thought.

The tunnel they took now ran straight and up. They had left the sounds of the greenskin patrol behind, but there were other noises ahead. Polis slowed, and whispered something to Yarrick. The commissar nodded. While Polis huddled close to Castel, Yarrick and Behriman took the lead. None of them glanced his way, and Rogge felt warring impulses of relief and resentment. He fought them both down and moved up to learn the worst.

The tunnel sloped up sharply for the last few metres, ending in a jumble of boulders at the entrance to a large, echoing cave. Rogge had to crawl his way forward. Polis was curled up a length back from the opening, keeping within the comfort of full shadow. His eyes glittered with terror, but he still clutched his gun, and he was still looking ahead, waiting to be given his orders of martyrdom. Yarrick, Behriman and Castel were crouched behind the last line of boulders. As Rogge joined them, Castel gave him a look. Her contempt was clear and cold and precise. How does she know? he thought. And then: Know what? There’s nothing to know. He looked away, suddenly finding it quite easy to stare straight ahead, and learn his fate.

The cavern was a natural one. It extended about a hundred metres to the left, right and forward of the entrance. The ceiling was invisible in the gloom, but Rogge guessed it must have been at least twenty metres up. Off to the right, a smaller tunnel dropped into darkness. There was a large squad of orks milling about, guarding the far wall. This one was not stone. It was metal. It was part of one of the hulls used in the construction of the temple. There was an entrance here, and it wasn’t original to the ship, nor was it an improvised breach. It was an actual gate, festooned with crude ork faces, jaws agape in roars or laughter.

After a minute’s observation, Yarrick and his two acolytes pulled back to where Polis hid. Rogge followed, dreading what was about to be decided.

‘Can we fight them?’ Castel whispered.

Yarrick shook his head. ‘Too many.’

Behriman said, ‘We need to draw some of them off.’

Yarrick nodded slowly. He almost seemed reluctant. ‘You realise…’ he began.

‘Of course I do.’

Polis uncurled with a snap. He sat bolt upright, staring at Yarrick and Behriman. His lips moved, shaping the cascade of silent words. He arrested them long enough to speak. ‘No,’ he said. ‘My mission is accomplished. I am expendable.’ And then he was up and scrambling over the boulders.

Castel stood up a mere beat behind him. ‘Commissar,’ she said, ‘make them suffer dearly.’

‘I swear it,’ he answered.

She took off after Polis.

Drawn to the spectacle of mad self-sacrifice, Rogge moved forward behind Yarrick and Behriman. They paused at the entrance to the cavern. Rogge saw everything. He saw the insanity of blind faith. Polis ran through the cavern, shouting its dimensions and numbering the days of his captivity. He fired his gun, but hit nothing. He did draw the orks’ attention. They didn’t react at first, staring dumfounded at the lunatic human. Polis was halfway across the cavern toward the other tunnel before one of them moved. While its kin laughed, the greenskin came up behind Polis. It had its cleaver drawn. It hauled its arm back.

It didn’t land the blow. Castel sprinted over the space between them. With a rasping ‘Hhhhaahhhh’ of hatred, her arms straining, she swung the snarling eviscerator into the back of the ork’s neck. It was a good blow, one born of rage, a repayment for all the atrocities she had been forced to witness aboard the space hulk. The chainsword sank in almost to the width of the blade. The ork collapsed, its spine severed, blood spraying over Castel, slicking the floor of the cavern. The medic, triumphant in her butchery, jumped over the corpse and caught up with Polis.

The laughter stopped. The orks yelled, and all but a handful took off after the two humans. They were a mob of muscle and aggression, coming to rend their prey into shreds. Castel and Polis had a lead measured in seconds. They didn’t pause, didn’t fire again. Their last mission consisted in nothing more now than staying alive long enough to be a useful distraction. They disappeared down the tunnel. Polis’s litany was multiplied by echoes, merging with the snarls of the orks. The sounds of the pursuit receded, plunging into darkness and silence. Rogge didn’t hear a scream.

Yarrick and Behriman exchanged a look, then readied their weapons. There were only four orks left guarding the gate. Yarrick turned his gaze on Rogge.

The silence from the other tunnel wrapped a frozen grip around his soul. There had been no ending, no final agony, only the drop into the unknown. A terrible vision unfolded before him, a vision of an endless flight through the undermaze of the planetoid, with nothing to anticipate except the delayed, raging inevitable. The image was a nightmare whose waking was worse, and Rogge wanted no part of it.

He ran. He ran back down the way they had come. He ran towards the certainty of capture. He ran from the judgement of Yarrick.

He ran towards surrender.

Chapter 9

Crucible

1. YARRICK

And then we were two. A mutilated old man and a cook. Behriman and I grinned at each other. I was as aware of our absurdity as he was, and he knew our strength like I did. I don’t think either of us had expected Rogge to be true to his oath. I wasn’t surprised when he ran, but I was still angered. Betrayal and cowardice should always be met with immediate, unalterable justice. Rogge had confirmed my worst suspicions about what had gone wrong on Golgotha. That we had been outmanoeuvred by Thraka was still my failing to expiate, but more might have been saved if not for Rogge, a link weak with the rust of selfishness. If there hadn’t been the mission before me, I would have tracked the colonel down and put a bullet in the back of his head. I found satisfaction in the certain knowledge that he was running to a fate far less merciful than the worst I could do to him.

We were the stronger for his absence. We could have used the fire of Castel, Bekket and Trower, but we still had the synchrony of warriors focused on a single task. Our goal awaited, and there were only four orks standing in our way. I was still grinning as I took aim from behind the boulder. I was eager for what was coming. I heard Behriman snort, unable to hold back violent mirth.

I squeezed off three shots from the laspistol. My target jerked twice, hit in the neck and chest, and then a third time as the centre of his face imploded. I jumped out of cover and ran forward as Behriman fired behind me. He had a rifle. It had a lot more punch, and needed it. His target was the leader, a massive brute made bigger yet by the spiked plates of his armour. A fanged metal jaw protected his neck and lower face. Behriman’s first shot glanced off the jaw as I closed with the nearest greenskin. He did better with the rest of his salvo. The second shot took out the ork’s left eye. The monster roared agony and rage. The slug had to have penetrated his brain, but he wasn’t dead. He struck without sight or thought, his gigantic axe decapitating the ork in front of him. I dropped to a crouch, and my opponent’s blade swished the air just over my head. I fired up, draining the rest of the power pack. The greenskin’s chin and nose exploded. Blood showered down on me as the ork rocked back and forth on his heels before toppling over on his back.

There was only the leader still moving. He was an automaton, whirling and slashing at nothing with every random step. I scrambled back, out of the way. It took Behriman another seven well-placed shots to drop him.

The battle had taken seconds. No alarm had been raised. Shots being fired were too mundane an occurrence in ork life to draw attention. The rest of the squad hadn’t returned from chasing Castel and Polis. I muttered a prayer under my breath for the medic and the clerk. I stopped to loot the nearest ork corpse of ammunition. Behriman joined me and did the same. We found a few power packs that fit our weapons. We found long-handled grenades. Then we turned to the gate. Its mechanism was basic. It was an effective barrier only if it had guards to back it up. Otherwise, it might as well have been nothing more than a morbid bit of sculpture.

We opened the gate. We entered the temple.

Here I am, Thraka, I thought. Are you still enjoying this?

We walked down a long, straight, low-ceilinged corridor. Behriman and I both had to hunch down to avoid banging our heads. It must have been an infuriating passageway for orks. After about fifty metres, it opened up onto the central shaft of the temple. The space was circular, about fifty metres in diameter, and many times that in height. A central column ran an iron elevator car up and down. Spiralling up the walls was a rough metal staircase. It had no railing. It was no more than an endless series of metal planks welded to the wall. There were no exits off the shaft. Stairs and elevators went from the ground to the distant ceiling with no interruptions.

The elevators were in use, but there were no orks on the stairs.

‘Well?’ Behriman asked.

‘To the top,’ I said. ‘If he’s here, he’ll be there.’

We ran to the wall. We began to climb the stairs that would take us to the heart of power.

2. ROGGE

He didn’t run long. He fled for about a minute, taking tunnels at random. He was not being tracked by their earlier pursuers. He knew that much. He didn’t hear anything in front of him. So when he ran into the patrol, he was more surprised than they were. He had intended to present his rifle to the first ork he encountered, and so signal his submission to slavery. Instead, dumb instinct betrayed him, and he raised the gun, finger on its awkwardly placed trigger.

The lead ork batted the rifle out of his hands, and backhanded him on the return swing. His left cheekbone and nose shattered. The pain filled his eyes with a sudden nova. He fell into darkness with something very like relief.

The greenskins denied him the refuge of oblivion. Rough shaking woke him. His head jerked back and forth so hard it felt like his spine was going to snap. He howled, and the shaking stopped. He fell to the ground. The jar of impact rattled the length of his frame. He looked around, blinking rapidly. He was still beneath the surface of the planetoid, still in the warren of tunnels. The space was an intersection of several passages. It wasn’t as large as the cavern before the temple, but it was big enough to contain the monsters that towered over him. They were laughing at him. Tears of hopeless frustration sprang to his eyes. He couldn’t even succeed at surrender. They were going to kill him now.

Only they didn’t. The ork who had been holding him looked back over its shoulder. It grunted, the noise sounding to Rogge like a mixture of religious fear and religious joy. From behind his captors came booming, metal-on-stone footsteps. Something was coming that could crush worlds beneath its tread. The other orks parted, making a wide berth for the being that strode forward. Rogge whimpered as Thraka, bent forward to fit in the tunnels, loomed over him. The ork prophet leaned down. Thraka eyed him dismissively, then began to turn away.

He was going to leave. Suddenly, Rogge feared Thraka’s departure more than his presence. If he was beneath Thraka’s notice, he wouldn’t be worth sparing. ‘Wait!’ Rogge cried.

The ork couldn’t have understood Gothic, Rogge thought. But he seemed to recognise desperation. Thraka turned around. Rogge was abruptly conscious of the silence of the orks. That such a thing was even possible terrified him. He found himself thinking in a new way about the warlord. The idea at the forefront of his mind was propitiation. He was face to face with a terrible god, and he was desperate to give the deity what he wanted.

What did Thraka want?

‘Yarrick!’ Rogge gasped. ‘I can give you Yarrick! I know where he is!’

Thraka continued to regard him. The hideous face, that primitive savagery made more brutal by adamantium skull, didn’t alter its expression. Thraka was waiting.

How do I make you understand? Rogge thought. He stood and pointed down the tunnel that his instinct chose to believe was the way back to the temple. ‘Yarrick,’ he kept saying. Did the orks even know the commissar’s name? Rogge tucked his right arm in and flapped his elbow. Thraka let out a short bark of amusement. A mountain laughed. Rogge quailed. He fell to his knees. Thraka’s troops followed the cue of their ruler and fell about with cruel guffaws. But Thraka only laughed the once. His single real eye looked in the direction Rogge was pointing. Yes, Rogge thought. Yes, that’s right. You know what I’m trying to tell you. I can take you to Yarrick. Let me show you the way. He forgot, in his need, that he didn’t know where he was.

Thraka’s gaze returned to Rogge. The ork’s jaw split into a smile, the kind of smile that accompanies the torching of solar systems. Rogge did his best to return it. Thraka delighted in his effort, and the ork’s grin grew wider yet. The monster nodded, once, and then turned to speak to one of his underlings. Thraka’s voice rumbled and sawed at Rogge’s ears. The ork language could only have been produced by throats gargling glass, rage and broken bones. Rogge had no idea what was being said, but he heard a pattern of syllables repeat a few times. It sounded like ‘Grotsnik.’ Rogge hoped this was a good thing.

His answer wasn’t long in coming. After a minute, a different ork battered his way to the front. Anyone who didn’t move from his path quickly enough was sent flying by his grotesquely huge power claw. His presumption of superiority ended only when he drew abreast of Thraka. He abased himself before his lord, and growled something interrogative. It occurred to Rogge that the word he had heard was a name. His hopes frayed.

Thraka pointed at him. Rogge now saw the massive syringes that Grotsnik kept stored in bandoliers and in his flesh itself. He saw the scars and the sutures. He remembered Castel’s stories of ork surgeries, and of the vanished line between experimentation and torture. He took a step backward.

Thraka reached out with his claw. He picked Rogge up by his arms. The colonel whimpered as he felt his shoulders dislocate. Thraka tossed him into the arms of Grotsnik. The ork medic laughed. Rogge began to scream.

For all the terror he had experienced, it was a fact that Rogge had never screamed before. Now, he would never stop.

3. YARRICK

I don’t know if I can say that we were lucky. I don’t know if I can say that luck ever had any role in the Golgotha catastrophe. I can see too much destiny at work in the events of those days. There was also too much will. I will not blaspheme and pretend to know the Emperor’s, but mine and Thraka’s decided much, and destroyed more.

So I don’t know if Behriman and I were lucky or cursed. But we were better than halfway up the height of the temple’s central shaft before the klaxons started. We had done well to make it this far without incident. But we were both winded. My legs were heavy with pain. Even in the dimness of the shaft, I could see Behriman’s face looking pale and shiny with exhaustion. But then the warning sounded – a brain-shredding, metallic roar that rattled in the chest. Seconds later, orks streamed in through the ground floor entrance. While most of them pounded up the stairs after us, a small group waited for the elevator. Within seconds, there were over a hundred greenskins in pursuit, and the Emperor knew how many in the upper levels of the temple, alerted now and waiting for the mad little humans to show themselves. We had no hope. None at all.

The feeling was oddly liberating. It gave free rein to our determination. Behriman’s face hardened with a cold exhilaration. I know what he felt, because the same dark fire suffused my being. We ran. Adrenaline from some hidden reserve coursed through my veins. I pushed through pain, exhaustion, and the impossibility of what we were attempting. We had no chance of breaking through to kill Thraka even if he was somewhere above us. But we would try, and we would fight. I knew my duty to my Emperor and to my species. There was no price too high to be paid, by me or by anyone within my reach, in the execution of that duty. To know this, as I did, was to render irrelevant such concepts as hope and probability. The way forward was clear. That was enough.

Up, faster somehow, but the goal stubbornly refusing to come any closer. The orks shot at us, but they were running as they fired. The distance was still too great. The rounds whined against the metal wall and left us untouched. But now the elevator was rising. It would reach us in less than a minute. If it could be brought to a halt, the greenskins inside would be within a few metres of us. Their fire would rip us to pieces.

I shoved my pistol into my belt and grabbed a grenade. I kept climbing, taking every granted second to take another step up. Behriman followed my lead. He didn’t wait for the elevator cage to arrive. He tossed his grenade behind us. The explosive flew in a fine, long arc. It exploded as it hit the stairs, blowing open a gap several metres across. ‘The xenos filth are adaptable,’ he wheezed between ragged breaths. ‘Let’s see them grow wings.’

I grunted approval, but didn’t answer. He was younger, had more breath to spare. He was also more right than he knew. The orks were adaptable. They wouldn’t learn to fly, but they would find some way over the gap.

But maybe not before it was too late.

My eyes flicked back and forth between the rising cage and the stairs before me. If I tripped, I would fall, and if I fell, it would be off the stairs and into the void. I had already experienced the death comfort of a great plunge. I had no need of its touch a second time. I maintained the careful rhythm of my climb. I defied the exhaustion of my ageing flesh. I moved up and up. I let the cage rise closer. I waited as it began to slow and the orks fired through the bars. I waited as Behriman cursed and we both crouched and ducked. The rounds were a hard danger now. But still I climbed. Still I waited.

The elevator cage stopped. Its door opened. The cluster of ork guns looked close enough to touch. I gave them the grenade. I threw it to the back of the cage.

The orks in the front had time to squeeze their triggers once before they realised what I had done. Behriman gave a liquid curse as a round tore through his cheek. It spun him round and he crashed against the wall. He stumbled, sagged, but did not collapse, and did not stop moving. The burn of a shell slashed at my scalp. I took pride in the pain. I kept moving.

Movement, too, in the cage. The movement of panic. Orks jumped, some trying to reach the staircase that was close, but not that close, some forgetting they were well over a hundred metres up and simply jumping from one death to another. Then the grenade went off. It blasted the cage away from its pillar. The metal crate shot forward, smashed into the staircase, and fell. It turned end over end, banging against the wall, smearing some orks and dragging others off their perches. The shaft echoed with the crash of the tumbling cage and the howls of the plunging orks. The elevator hit the ground floor with a satisfying impact.

The howls grew louder, now the rage of the frustrated horde. Gunfire sought us, an insect swarm of rounds blackening the air. Sheer volume overcame inaccuracy. If I still had a right arm, I would have lost it again. A shot exploded off a step as I brought my foot down. I stumbled, lost my footing. I threw my weight to the left, and slammed against the wall instead of hurtling into space. The instinct was to curl into a ball, to be the smaller target. The instinct was as cowardly as it was wrong. I dismissed it and started moving again. Neither Behriman nor I could run anymore. My legs were columns of lead. They felt as useless as the twisted wreck of the elevator column. I moved them by will alone. I was in the well again, rising endlessly through a nimbus of pain and exhaustion. It would have been easy to fall into a numbness, to keep going by detaching myself from my agonised flesh. But I had to remain alert, had to be ready to counter the next threat.

Below us, the orks raged, their anger louder than the report of their guns. Behriman used two more grenades, destroying more of the stairs behind us. The orks were hauling lengths of scrap metal from the destroyed elevator and were using that to cross the first of the gaps, but the process was eating up time. We were pulling ahead.

I looked up for the first time in a century. The stairs ended at a landing. We were there. A few more steps, and the climbing would end. Relief turned into a last shot of strength to my legs, and I started running again.

The rocket hit the wall just beneath the landing. It tore the world apart. I was flying, eyes filled with light, ears stuffed with sound, mind battered empty of anything except a furious denial. I would not surrender to such a perversity. I reached my arm into the heart of the dragon’s breath that enveloped me. I closed my fist, expecting nothing but fire, air and defeat. I found metal. I gripped with the ferocity of rage. The blast washed over me, the jaws of the dragon clamping down hard on my bones. Then the dragon departed, leaving behind pain and, with the return of conscious thought, despair.

I was holding on to a strut sticking out from the damaged landing. The stairs beneath me had vanished. The explosion had pushed me out, and I was dangling off the projecting lip of the landing. There was nothing below but the long fall and final rest.

And Behriman had caught my leg.

He was heavy. But perhaps, despite the added strain, he would be the salvation of us both. ‘Climb up,’ I rasped through clenched teeth. If he could use me to reach the platform, then haul me up after him…

Behriman tried. But as soon as he moved, we started to swing, and my grip slipped. He stopped. His features seemed to relax. His gaze shone with gratitude. ‘We’ve taught them a thing or two,’ he said. ‘Commissar, will you finish the lesson?’

‘I swear I will.’

He nodded, satisfied. He let go, spreading his arms wide to embrace his flight. He smiled as he dropped into freedom.

I looked away from his fall. I focused all of my attention on my goal. I shut out the din of the orks, the whine of the stray rounds, the possibility of another rocket. I confronted the hopeless. I had only the fading strength of my one arm. There was no purchase for my legs. There was nothing for the stump of my right arm to lean on and give me purchase. I squeezed tighter on the strut, imagined my fist as welded to the metal. It could not let go, but by the grace of the Emperor. I did not just tell myself this. I knew this. And when I knew it, I began to lift.

One arm for the weight of a battered old man. The pain exploded from my shoulder and upper arm. I could not acknowledge it. I believed only in the simple fact that I could lift this one object. If I did so, I would not fail my Emperor. Desperation can grant miraculous strength, and I was well beyond desperation. I become nothing but will. My arm was folded now, and my head and upper chest were above the lip of the platform. I rocked forward before I could think of the risk. My chin smacked metal. My stump shoved against it, giving me that tiny bit more momentum. My fist turned around the strut, and my grip was suddenly something that could be broken. I pushed down, gasping agony. My strength fled, but not before I straightened my arm, propelling myself forward. I cried out as I let go. Gravity tugged at me. It failed. From the waist up, I was lying on the platform. I rested for a moment, then squirmed and scrabbled until I had pulled myself up the rest of the way.

My body cried out for sleep. I stood up, wavering. I staggered forward. The landing had been buckled by the explosion, and the door wrenched partly out of its frame. I could, I thought, just squeeze through the gap. I reached for my pistol. It was gone, lost in the rocket strike.

‘The Emperor protects,’ I whispered. ‘The Emperor provides.’ I had faith that He would. It was all that I had left, and it was enough. I leaned into the door, pushing the space between it and the wall open a few more centimetres. I crawled through.

Thraka was not waiting for me on the other side. No orks were. The room was large, but not as huge as the grandiose exterior had suggested. I was at the very peak of the temple. I had expected a shrine to the savage greenskin gods, perhaps some mark of Thraka’s command. Instead, I found command of a much more practical kind. I was in the control centre for the space hulk. I was surrounded by the ork version of consoles. They were massive, and risibly simple by human standards. Each console featured only a single button: huge, red, central. In the middle of the floor, a block of stone served as a dais. It was wide enough and massive enough to support the monstrosity of Thraka. He would stand there, I thought, and give his orders, which would be carried out from these consoles. No one was here now because the space hulk was not on the move. The tedium of remaining at an inactive station would have been beyond comprehension to the ork mind.

I was alone, but would not be for long. Between grenades and rocket, the way up to the nerve centre had been destroyed. But the temple was a fusion of ships, and thus a honeycomb of passageways. I could hear the orks forging a new path. The wall to my right reverberated with the shrieking of tearing metal and the crump of explosive charges. They would be here soon. What I would do, I had to do now.

One side of the chamber was given over to enormous windows. They were the eyes of the ork idol that glared over the wreckage-scape of the space hulk. As I thought about how the construct travelled, and what damage I might do here, I noticed for the first time what nestled between the clusters of upended ships: engines. Huge ones. None from anything smaller than a cruiser. Some belonged to ships that had been grafted nose-first to the planetoid. Others had been dismounted from their original vessel. They were all lower than the surrounding structures. I looked at the scattered disposition of colossal motive power, put it together with the consoles, and understood how the space hulk navigated: one button per engine, each engine propelling the hulk in a different direction. Simple to the point of imbecilic, too crude for any precision, but the orks had no need for precision.

The wall shrieked. The orks were on the other side. I heard the sound of chainaxe teeth grinding into metal. Behriman, Castel, Polis, Bekket, Trower, Vale: their sacrifices had purchased a few seconds. I owed them the honour of using that time well. I ran from console to console, slamming my fist down on all the buttons. I would destroy Thraka with his own weapon.

One after another, the engines blazed to life. Immense forces strained against each other. As the first punctures appeared in the wall, the shaking began. It was as if the space hulk were being hit by an earthquake, one that would not stop, and just kept building in strength. Thraka’s base became a perpetual collision between voidships. Stolen fusion reactors lit up the night of the void. Forces beyond the tectonic buckled and twisted the space hulk. Plumes of stolen promethium shot up from the multiplying breaches in the fuel lines.

The shaking grew stronger yet. It knocked me off my feet, and I crawled to the windows to look upon my work. The construct was starting to break up. Ship hulls wrenched free of their foundations. Some fell, crushing smaller structures, setting off more explosions, gouging open deeper wounds. Others were blasted away from the main body, re-launched into the void by a force more powerful than the construct’s artificial gravity. Twisting, rattling, whiplashing, the world was tearing itself apart with thunder and flame, and it was glorious.

There was an eruption at the base of the temple. A tower of flame roared skyward, all-consuming, all-purifying. The world beyond the windows disappeared in a glare of incandescent red. The structure groaned, dying, and it lurched to one side, as though trying to walk. The floor heaved.

The wall came down all at once, and the orks stormed in. But they were too late. I saw Thraka pound forward, trampling his minions. Then the floor heaved again, split, and collapsed. I fell, slipping from Thraka’s grasp as he lunged for me. I plunged into a chaos of flame and tumbling metal. In the last moment before I was battered into darkness, I saw Thraka, above, in the exploding ruin of his domain. He was roaring, arms raised high. He was raging, I thought.

But he looked exultant.

Epilogue

The Valediction

I woke, and I was complete. I knew, before I opened my eye, that what had been taken from me was mine again. My right arm felt heavy, lethal. I looked. My claw was there, as it should be. There was no power flowing to it, nor was there to my bale eye. Still, their presence was reassurance enough.

But how had I been rescued?

I sat up, taking in my surroundings. I was lying on an operating table filthy with blood and reeking with the stench of a thousand atrocities. I was in a medicae bay, but the tools that I saw would have horrified the most fanatical chirurgeon.

I had not been rescued. I was still on the space hulk. My claw and eye had been reattached. Correctly. The two realities were incompatible at so fundamental a level that their co-existence made my skin crawl.

I swung my legs over the edge of the table and stood. My injuries had blended into a general wash of pain. Nothing was broken, though. I was intact. I could walk. I approached the door.

It opened. I stopped. Beyond it, orks lined both sides of the corridor. They had been watching for me. The moment I appeared, they roared their approval. They did not attack. They simply stood, clashed guns against blades, and hooted brute enthusiasm. I had been subjected to too many celebratory parades on Armageddon not to recognise one when it confronted me. I went numb from the unreality before me. I stepped forward, though. I had no choice.

I walked. It was the most obscene victory march of my life. I moved through corridor, hold and bay, and the massed ranks of the greenskins hailed my passage. I saw the evidence of the destruction I had caused around every bend. Scorch marks, patched ruptures, buckled flooring, collapsed ceilings. But it hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough. Only enough for this… this…

I was living an event that had no name.

At length, I arrived at a launch bay. There was a ship on the pad before the door. It was human, a small in-system shuttle. It was not built for long voyages. No matter, as long as its vox-system was still operative.

I knew that it would be.

Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka awaited me beside the ship’s access ramp. I did not let my confusion or the sense that I had slipped into an endless waking nightmare slow my stride. I did not hesitate as I strode towards the monster. I stopped before him. I met his gaze with all the cold hatred of my soul. He radiated delight. Then he leaned forward, a colossus of armour and bestial strength. Our faces were mere centimetres apart.

My soul bears many scars from the days and months of my defeat and captivity. But there is one memory that, above all others, haunts me. By day, it is a goad to action. By night, it murders sleep. It lives with me always, the proof that there could hardly be a more terrible threat to the Imperium than this ork.

Thraka spoke to me.

Not in orkish. Not even in Low Gothic.

In High Gothic.

‘A great fight,’ he said. He extended a huge, clawed finger and tapped me once on the chest. ‘My best enemy.’ He stepped aside and gestured to the ramp. ‘Go to Armageddon,’ he said. ‘Make ready for the greatest fight.’

I entered the ship, my being marked by words whose full measure of horror lay not in their content, but in the fact of their existence. I stumbled to the cockpit, and discovered that I had a pilot.

It was Rogge. His mouth was parted in a scream, but there was no sound. He had no vocal cords any longer. There was very little of his body recognisable. He had been opened up, reorganised, fused with the ship’s control and guidance systems. He had been transformed into a fully aware servitor. I promised myself he would be one forever.

‘Take us out of here,’ I ordered.

The rumble of the ship’s engines powering up was drowned by the even greater roar of the orks. I knew that roar for what it was: the promise of war beyond description. In silence, I made the orks a promise of my own. They were letting me go because I had lived up to my legend. I would do more than that when they came again to Armageddon. Legend would clash with legend, and I would bring them more than war. I would bring them more than apocalypse.

I would bring them extinction.

A PLAGUE OF SAINTS

I used to believe there was a romance about command. I was young, then. A few of my illusions hadn’t been burned away. There were still some figures who seemed to embody an ideal, as if command were something that could take on human form. It was not something I sought for myself. It was a role that kept falling upon me, but one of my youth’s illusions was the belief that the role would always be temporary. I was a commissar, a political officer. I commanded morale. I did not lead companies or regiments. If I removed and replaced an unworthy commander, it was my pleasure to turn over the reins of power to the deposed officer’s more deserving successor. I wonder now if, at some unconscious level, I believed that I was the guardian of an ineffable, sacred essence, preserving it from unhallowed hands.

Did I believe that command should somehow be passed to the care of a military saint? I hope not. I bow to no one in the strength of my faith in the God-Emperor. But I am painfully aware of the weaknesses of the poor vessels that carry out his will. And I choose to believe that, even in the early period of my service as commissar, I could make that distinction.

‘Commissar Yarrick,’ Artura Brenken said to me as we approached the leadership of Molossus, ‘do these people look pleased to see us?

‘They do not.’

We were walking across a landing pad atop one of the upper spires of Hive Pyrrhus. At our backs was the lighter that had brought us down from the frigate Castellan Belasco. Brenken was captain of the Armageddon Steel Legion’s Sixth Company of the 252nd Regiment. The Belasco waited at low anchor to deploy the full strength of the company. For now, the landing party consisted of the two of us and a handful of sergeants. Brenken had been of their number until very recently, and she still carried herself like one of them. She had not yet grown comfortable in her new uniform. Her close-cropped hair and augmetic lower jaw marked her as a veteran of the field, at home in the foxhole, out of her natural habitat in an officer’s quarters. But she knew her duty, and she was performing it well. She had replaced an unworthy captain. She had, by taking back the captured vessel at the same time as her superior was failing in his duty, proven herself deserving of the promotion. Crucially, she had also proven herself to the rest of Sixth Company. The previous captain had been weak, but he had also been popular.

This was her first deployment as captain, back in that time before the Second War of Armageddon, when the Steel Legion still brought its might to bear on battlefields across the Imperium. The company and the ship, battered by the events that had elevated her, had been restored in strength. If this mission went well, morale too would be reinforced. In a just universe, we would strike the enemy on Molossus a decisive blow and leave the planet renewed of purpose and confidence. In a just universe.

‘This isn’t going to be simple, is it?’ Brenken muttered.

‘It never is.’ I was still learning too, but that lesson had been branded into my soul on Mistral.

We were thousands of metres above the planet’s surface. The wind at these heights was a desiccating furnace blast. It ripped our words away. We could barely hear each other, so there was no danger of being overheard by the group that had come to greet us, even though they were only a few paces away now. At the head of the party was Lord Governor Hartwig. I had reviewed the man and the world he ruled during the journey here. There had been little of note. He appeared to be one of those aristocrats who was closer to being a functionary, despite the finery of his robes. Molossus paid its tithes punctually and was an entirely unremarkable world. It had never drawn attention to itself until now. It was a rough, baking rock of a planet, so close to its sun that it teetered on the edge of being uninhabitable. Hive Pyrrhus was its lone population centre, and it had arisen around the immense refinery that was, in the end, the closest thing the planet had to a point of interest. It was rich in mineral resources, but most particularly it had vast reserves of promethium. The refinery’s output was prodigious. The sudden falling of its exports was at least as responsible for our presence here as the call for help that had been transmitted by the system’s defensive array.

If Hartwig’s expression was anything to go by, the call had not come from him, and that put me on my guard before the first words were spoken. His was frowning and his lips were pressed tight in anticipation of gross inconvenience. His face was florid, soft and weathered. He had the features of a man who had known hard labour, and had, by whatever means necessary, risen to a position where he could enjoy the luxuries of a sedentary life, and was doing so with a vengeance. His robes of office were lavish but crude. This was not a planet of artisans. I guessed that his pleasures were expansive as they were unrefined.

He was followed by five other people, and as I had a better look at them, I grew uneasy. They varied in age, body type and degree of augmetics. They walked like they could take care of themselves in combat, but that wasn’t what was drawing my attention. It was their eyes, I decided. They were looking at Brenken, at the sergeants, at me, at everything around them with the superiority that comes from a sense of one’s own absolute sanctity.

Though their piety was ostentatious before they uttered a word, they were not ecclesiarchs. They wore loose, dark clothing: tunics, breeches, boots and long coats. I could see weapon holsters beneath the flaps of the coats. There were no designs on the clothing, no ribbons or ceremonial sashes, but I knew I was looking at uniforms of some sort. The three men and two women wore silver chains around their necks, but the pendants were concealed beneath the tunics. A halo of servo-skulls floated around them.

Inquisition, I thought. I couldn’t guess what Ordo.

Brenken and Hartwig greeted each other. Breken introduced our party. Hartwig was more reticent about his, giving us names but no mention of rank or reason for the presence of these individuals. The obvious leader of the party was Askonas. One of the men, Brand, looked so much like the woman called Schenk that I strongly suspected they were siblings. They both had the same pronounced brow, and eyebrows that arched downward into a permanent frown. The other woman was Ehrar, and the man Meinhardt. They might as well have been kin. Like the others, they had shaven skulls. While Ehrar’s complexion was darker than Meinhardt’s, they were twinned by the expressions of self-satisfied piety.

Inquisition, without a doubt.

‘We appreciate the aid,’ Hartwig began, and it was clear that he appreciated nothing of the kind. ‘We aren’t convinced that the situation warrants an intervention on this scale.’ His tone was cold, but there was a slight twitch about his eyes. He was conflicted about his own lies.

‘The request for help was a formal one,’ Brenken told him.

‘It did not come from me.’

‘With respect, governor, the authorisation for deployment is dependent on the situation, not you. The details of the crisis were quite specific: your underhive is experiencing a full-scale uprising.’

‘We have a militia–’

‘Which, according to the report, is overwhelmed.’ It took a bullheaded confidence for a captain to contradict a governor, let alone interrupt him. Brenken was showing a total disregard for politics. That wasn’t the shrewdest strategy as far as her long-term career prospects were concerned. For this, I saluted her. She had done enough time in enough trenches that, for her, the concept of long term was meaningless.

‘We made a preliminary survey of the hive’s perimeter on our approach,’ Brenken continued. ‘Governor, there is a lot of smoke rising from the lower levels. We can see at a glance that your problems are becoming worse, not better.’

Hartwig opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by Askonas, who stood at his right shoulder. ‘There is nothing to be gained by standing on a point of pride, governor,’ he said. ‘We should be grateful that help has come in our hour of need. We see the hand of the Emperor Himself at work here.’ Though his words were conciliatory, the flatness of his delivery rang in my ears as anger far beyond the reluctance Hartwig was displaying. And yet, when he spoke of the Emperor, his eyes gleamed with faith, and the anger was tempered, as if we had been sent specifically to him as a spiritual test.

Askonas was tall, and the hang of his thin face suggested that he had, at some point in the distant past, been gaunt. His frame was massive. I wasn’t sure how much he still possessed of his original body. He wore gloves, and the full extent of his bionics was hidden by his clothing. But when he folded his arms, the material of his sleeves stretched over ridges, suggesting an exoskeleton. His movements were easy. He had the assurance of a man who knew how to fight and how utterly he would smash anyone who stood in his way. Though he must have been undergoing extensive juvenat treatments, his prominent cheekbones and hollow eye sockets meant that he had been born looking middle-aged.

‘Of course,’ Hartwig said. ‘Of course. We really are grateful.’ More slight tremors around the eyes. He was still lying. At least now it was clear to me that his role was that of figurehead. However indirectly, Askonas was the one with whom we would be dealing. What I wanted to know was what interest the Inquisition had in so mundane a world as Molossus.

Hartwig led us off the landing pad and towards the governance chambers in the uppermost spire. I kept my eyes on the servo-skulls. I waited until the inquisitors had entered the tower, taking their auto-scribes with them, before I spoke to Brenken. ‘We should know who called us,’ I said.

She understood. ‘I’ll start troop deployment immediately.’

‘Thank you, captain.’ The sudden, massive influx of personnel would be disruptive to the order of things in Pyrrhus. There would be, I hoped, enough genuine confusion for me to pursue some lines of inquiry without drawing the eyes of Askonas and his cohorts.

Brenken did well. A few words with Riebauer, the commander of the Castellan Belasco, were enough to trigger the action. Hartwig had barely finished giving us a briefing when the skies above Pyrrhus darkened with the flight of Navy transports. The landing pads of the hive’s spires became a mosaic of landing zones. Hundreds of troops poured through the corridors of the towers.

Hartwig’s order broke down. It had already been overwhelmed by the struggle in the lower reaches of the hive. All contact with the underhive was lost, and information coming about the situation for the next ten levels about it was fragmentary. As the uprising gained ground, the populations in the invaded zones fled, and the pressure of their movement spread the disorder further. Space and resources were insufficient. Pyrrhus was inching toward total systemic collapse.

Now, with the influx of troops to the upper levels, the technicians and bureaucrats who answered to Hartwig had no idea where to look. Pyrrhus was governed from chambers that were more administrative than political. The hive’s industrial focus was evident here. Hartwig ruled in a control centre, not a palace. His robes of office, which would have been laughable in more ornate surroundings, seemed closer to a work uniform when he was surrounded by work stations. Banks of pict-screens displayed images of a multitude of sectors of the hive. The ones that should have been monitoring the underhive had gone dark. So, curiously, were most of the screens linked to the refinery, though Hartwig assured us that the rebels had not taken the vital heart of Pyrrhus. It was still operational. The extraction and processing functions of Molossus were untroubled. It was getting the promethium off-planet that had become a problem: the spaceport had been stormed by an enormous mob early in the uprising. Ships had taken off and collided with each other. The port was only flames and wreckage now.

Hartwig’s power was a fiction. It had been for some time. What mattered more to me was how well Askonas and his group were functioning. I didn’t expect them to be paralysed by the arrival of the Steel Legion. I did count on their monitoring abilities to be compromised. I had said very little during the initial encounter, hanging back with the sergeants, and I made sure Brenken was the face and voice of the company. I tried to look dull and a little bored. I honoured the rank of commissar, but I knew there were some of my brothers who hardly lived up to it, seeing it more as a vehicle for their own aggrandisement or the wielding of petty tyrannies than as the calling it was. Brenken shot me a wry glance now and then to let me know how much she appreciated having the spotlight to herself, which was not at all. But once more, she demonstrated a canny sense of strategy. She played up her authority, much to the quiet amusement of the sergeants.

I couldn’t know that the inquisitors had dismissed me as irrelevant. I had to hope that they had, and act as needed. We were heading into a war whose full nature was being withheld from us. This was unacceptable.

The briefing that Hartwig gave Brenken improved nothing. ‘What is the cause of the uprising?’ she asked.

‘We don’t know,’ Hartwig answered.

‘Have there been no demands?’

‘None. Only the violence itself.’

‘There is no reason behind heretical disobedience,’ Askonas put in. ‘It is the very definition of unreason.’

Brenken didn’t argue the point. I wasn’t sure whether Askonas was lying or naïve.

In the hours that followed our first landing, the command centre grew crowded with logistics personnel. I moved through the increasing uproar, speaking to the Pyrrhus staff. I kept my questions general, innocuous. If Askonas listened in, he would hear me asking about the operation of the refinery, the day-to-day governance of the hive, the volume of exports. If I asked about the conflict, I looking into the morale of the serfs, ensuring that their heads were held high, that their hearts were full of faith in the Emperor and in the Imperial Guard to enforce His will and bring the rebels to heel. What I wanted to know was who worked off-world communications. I wanted to know who had called for help.

I noticed that one of the technicians, a harried woman named Fenner, was dividing her attention between two stations. ‘You appear to have more than your share of work,’ I commented.

‘Just until Ledinek’s replacement is chosen, sir.’ She gave the left-hand station an exasperated glare.

‘Where is this Ledinek when he’s needed?’

‘He’s dead. Killed in the fighting.’

‘Really?’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘What was he doing on levels that far down?’

She hesitated, eying my uniform, looking at the skull on my cap as if it, and not I, were the one truly asking the questions. Then, deciding that sharing gossip with a commissar was likely to be a point in her favour, she leaned towards me, making us conspirators. ‘That’s what we all want to know,’ she said. ‘He had no business down there. None honest, at least.’ She gave me a knowing nod.

I smiled at her and nodded back, lingering a bit longer. While she was busy at her station, trying to make herself understood over the vox to someone based at one of the landing pads, I casually tapped at Ledinek’s data-slates. Their content was sparse. Too much so. They had been purged.

Two hours later, I approached Hans Ledinek’s quarters. Finding the coordinates of his compartment hadn’t been difficult. Reaching the location had taken a bit longer. It was many levels down from the command centre, in the main mass of the hive. If Pyrrhus had little outright nobility, it nevertheless had plenty of rich merchants and industrialists living in the luxury of the upper spires. In the city proper, I was the realm of the crowds, though I was still far above the underhive, which was the domain of the mob. Hab piled atop hab in Pyrrhus, the city growing on itself until, from a distance, it resembled a single metastasized structure. The difference between interior and exterior, street and corridor was erased. The sky was visible only in brief snatches that became more and more rare the deeper I went. Thousands of kilometres of plumbing and ventilation piping defied any dream of thorough maintenance. Leaks and dripping condensation took the place of rain. In some spots, water had pooled on the rough rockrete surface to the point that I splashed ankle-deep through it.

Ledinek lived above a vender of grox jerky. His home was a door and a single shuttered window in a grey façade that was a long row of twenty identical abodes. I wasn’t subtle about my entrance. I was in the middle of an endless stream of humanity. My long coat and cap granted me a slight degree of elbow room as people tried to avoid direct contact with me, but I could not possibly get in unobserved. The question was whether anyone who witnessed my actions would care. A little while longer beneath the inquisitors’ notice would suit me well, but I would not flinch before them if their gaze did fall on me now.

The door was a simple affair, corrugated and hinged. Three kicks and I was in. Though the simple fact of extreme population density made the passages and building faces of Pyrrhus squalid even kilometres away from the true desperation of the underhive, the interior of Ledinek’s home was well kept. The floor was swept. The furniture – cot, iron chair and table, metal shelving – was pulled away from walls, where the rockrete was slowly crumbling from damp and the acidic atmosphere.

There were two more data-slates on the table. I gave them a cursory glance. As I suspected, these too had been wiped of anything but the most anodyne material. Did Askonas expect anyone to believe that Ledinek kept nothing but shift times and weather reports on his slates? The answer, I knew, was that the inquisitors didn’t expect anyone to be curious enough, or brazen enough, to look. The data purge was just thoroughness.

I turned to the shelves. The books were all devotional texts, their leather spines cracked from heavy use. I picked one at random, The Admonitions Against Tolerance, and flipped through. Many passages were underlined. Notes in cramped handwriting filled the margins. The book had not just been read; it had been studied. I took down Lachrymosa de Profundis. More annotations in the same hand. So these were likely Ledinek’s own thoughts. The picture coming together was of a very devout man, and one whose lot in life did not permit ambition, nor its attendant corruption. In Askonas, I saw the signs of crusading fervour. As I continued to leaf through Ledinek’s books, the impression formed of an individual whose temperament bordered on the monastic. ‘You were a quiet man, Hans Ledinek,’ I said aloud. ‘But I think you might have some interesting things to say, all the same.’ The sort of faith I saw demonstrated here could run deeper and be formed of a tempered steel even stronger than Askonas’s aggressive form.

It was in the first volume of the Inquiry into the Vigilance of Martyrs that I found something different. Certain page numbers were circled, but were otherwise free of notations. I flipped through the book, noting the other occurrences. I frowned. There was significance here, but I couldn’t see what it was. I scanned the shelf again. The other two volumes of the Inquiry were filed at random between other books. I took them to the table. I opened Volume II to the same page that had been circled in the first. In the margins, along with the usual amateur exegesis, were dates. The pattern repeated on the other pages. I followed the same key in third volume, and found clusters of numbers scribbled between the lines. Ledinek’s handwriting here was so microscopic, it was barely legible, and was hard to pick out from the printed text. If I hadn’t been looking closely, I wouldn’t have seen anything. That was, I knew, the idea. Which meant these numbers were likely the most important piece of the code, and the biggest risk Ledinek had taken. I stared at them for several minutes before their pattern clicked. They were coordinates, marking locations in the hive.

I went back and forth between the dates and the coordinates. My sense of the layout of Pyrrhus was still crude, but I was able to get a rough idea of what Ledinek had recorded. The hive levels indicated varied greatly. The early ones were in the upper reaches of the spire. Those corresponding to the later dates were so far down, they were close to the underhive. Despite the wide range of the levels, all of the locations appeared to be near the core of the hive. The refinery, I realized.

The last entry had a question mark. That was speculation, then, rather than something he had witnessed. I wondered what he had seen. It had to be something dangerous for him to know, but that he felt he had a moral obligation to track. And now he was dead.

Had he been following the inquisitors? That would explain the caution. It would also explain his death. The last coordinate would have brought him close to the fighting. No one would be surprised if he were killed taking such a foolish risk. It was possible that that was indeed what had happened to him, but there was a convenience to that solution that I distrusted.

I looked up from the books, thinking through my course of action. A commissar had no right to question the Inquisition. But I had no qualms about questioning the actions of individuals. Any human institution was prone to corruption. Only the Emperor in His divinity was beyond such flaws. At that time, I had barely begun to explore the full breadth and richness of the tapestry of moral rot, but I had still seen enough to be inoculated against most forms of naiveté. My experiences on Mistral had been of great, bitter help in that regard. If Askonas was acting in ways inimical to the good of the Imperium, then I would fight him.

I had few certainties to go on, but those were rare luxuries in war. I had confidence in my guesses. Hartwig was under the thumb of Askonas. Therefore, it was Askonas who was most displeased by the intervention of the Armageddon Steel Legion in the Pyrrhus upheaval. Ledinek had felt driven to investigate something, and was now dead. I had no idea what the inquisitors’ agenda was, but I could see enough to feel that it was toxic. The duty of Sixth Company on Molossus was clear. If Askonas opposed it, then I would oppose him.

I replaced the books and stepped out of Ledinek’s quarters. I pulled the battered door shut, as a gesture of respect for a man who had tried to do what he knew to be right, and had died in that effort. I would honour him further by not letting his death be in vain.

I had done what I could here. It was time for battle, and I knew that my war would be on two fronts.

I ducked behind the wall. Las streaked past the spot where I had stood a moment before.

Brenken cursed as she waited for her plasma pistol to cool down. ‘More rifles,’ she said. Her voice was muffled by her rebreather.

I nodded. ‘They’re getting them from our dead.’ My own voice echoed oddly in my ears. The weight of my rebreather tried to pull my head forward.

‘So now we’re arming the rebels. Wonderful.’

‘No glory without struggle, captain.’

She grunted, then whipped around the corner and fired. The superheated plasma vaporized three rebels. The rushing mob fell back. Reloaded, our squad rushed on them, pouring fire into their bodies. The rebels had the numbers, but not the weapons. They had some, scavenged not only from our dead but from the defeated militia and lower level barracks. Most of the rebels, however, carried nothing more lethal than lengths of pipe. The passage we were in was narrow, its length jinking every ten metres. The rebels couldn’t advance more than three abreast. As we pushed forward, the crowded conditions worked against the rebels. They weren’t soldiers. They had no discipline, no skills to draw on beyond raw survival. They collided with each other. They panicked. Some tried to run. Others, further back, who couldn’t see what was happening, were still trying to advance.

Screams shifted from rage to pain and fear as we cut the enemy down. We waded into a mass of writhing, struggling bodies. We were slowed by the need to clamber over a hill of dying meat. We kept marching, and we kept killing. For the moment, our squad had the momentum.

‘Is this what you meant by glory, commissar?’ Breknen shouted over the din of the massacre.

‘All duty is glory,’ I told her. I meant it, but I also understood her distaste. We would have to fight hard to win the war, but individual battles were little more than the extermination of vermin.

And vermin was what the enemy resembled. The men and women were ragged, feral. There was a certain universality to the denizens of underhives across the Imperium. No matter the world, when conditions were at their worst, the final reaches of desperation seemed to produce similar endpoints of human regression. I saw sharpened teeth, nails turned into claws, ritual scarification that turned faces into howls of twisted flesh. Wire, spikes, and broken glass merged from palms, cheeks, arms, shoulders. As the rebels died, flesh and scrap became confused. I didn’t know if the crunch beneath my boots was from bones or inorganic detritus.

I was not without sympathy for the most abandoned inhabitants of hive cities. My training as commissar had required that I know all the hells that might birth the troops whose morale would be my responsibility. But I felt no pity here. The rebels had risen like cancerous froth, slaughtering everyone in their way. They deserved nothing but the same in return, nothing but the most brutal annihilation.

We kept moving forward, over and through the bodies of the enemy. Ahead, the passageway straightened for a longer stretch. The filth-stained habs on either side rose twenty metres to the next level. Crumbling rockrete walls, millennia-old, leaned towards each other. A few lumen globes dangled from the roof like moons turned cold and brown from distance. The air that I breathed tasted both stale and sharp, like old rubber on the verge of combusting. It was foul, but it was clean. Without the rebreather, I would be taking in the sludge that passed for an atmosphere in these depths. The greasy smog was breathable, just, if one didn’t mind a life that was really just a gradual poisoning.

For the Steel Legion, it must have felt just like home.

I looked to my right and saw the way that trooper Lommell was hacking at the enemy with her sword. She struck with a special ferocity. There was anger there, and a hatred that was personal. She was a product of the underhive of Tartarus on Armageddon. This must have been even closer to home for her. She attacked as if she imagined that by sheer brutality she could send her own past back into the darkness below. She was punishing the rebels who had not earned, as she had, their place above the ground.

The mob thinned as we cut our way through to the rear elements. I had holstered my bolt pistol. I used my sword too. We all did. There was nothing to be gained in wasting ammunition on a rabble that had, for the moment, lost the will to fight. Most had their backs to us now, and were clawing at each other in their hurry to retreat. A few still attacked, though. One came at me with the ends of his fingers replaced with metal hooks. I brought my sword up in a diagonal slash. I chopped through his left wrist. I threw off his attack, but not the arc of his flight, and we collided. He was malnourished, wiry, and grappled with rabid fury. He sank his claws into my shoulder and used his stump like a club. He lunged his head forward, snapping at my throat. He had replaced his rotted teeth with jagged iron. My rebreather’s tube blocked the attack. My right arm was still extended, and I brought the pommel of my sword down on his forehead. There was a sharp crack at impact. I felt something give. Blood poured down his face and into his eyes. He uttered a cry as wild as it was despairing. His entire body shook, his motor control abandoning him. And yet somehow he attacked again. Something beyond reason, some drive that seemed beyond even the logic of death, pushed him forward. I snapped his head back with my left hand, kept my gauntlet on his face, exposing his throat. I slammed the pommel on his windpipe, crushing it. He fell, his claws tearing furrows in my coat. He hadn’t hit the ground before another rebel just behind swung a nail-studded pipe at my head. I ducked beneath the blow, reversed my sword and plunged it into my new opponent’s belly. I pushed, driving the sword deep even as I stomped on the other man’s neck, snapping it.

Dead weight on the end of my sword. I pulled it out of the body, and now the rout was total. What was left of the mob was in full retreat. We pursued, and started firing again. There was no pride to be taken in gunning down enemies in the back, except the pride in doing what was necessary. If we left any alive, in another minute they would be back, attacking either here or somewhere else on this hellish battlefield.

I couldn’t call it a front. There was no front here. Only the boiling struggle of insects.

We were still in part of the hive city proper, but the underhive was spreading its infection, collapsing already porous boundaries. When I wasn’t walking over bodies, my boots were squelching in a mulch of composting waste half a metre deep. In these far reaches, it seemed that the rebels weren’t rising, but that they were dragging the rest of hive down into their netherworld.

The war for Pyrrhus was a stinking mass of contradictions. The battles raged over a large area, yet they were all struggles in narrows passages, cul-de-sacs and tangles of iron and rockcrete fragments that were either collapsed structures or buildings that had been left unfinished and forgotten for tens of centuries. Brenken had had no choice but to divide the company into autonomously operating squads, each striving to pacify one small area of this warren. There were thousands upon thousands of rebels, many times more than we had troops, but the cramped quarters worked against the full unleashing of a mob’s strength. The rebels had overwhelmed an untested militia for whom city warfare had been, until now, only a theory. Against even a single company of the Armageddon Steel Legion, they could do little. Shrouded by trench coats, all human features concealed by helmets, visors and rebreathers, the troopers weren’t individuals. They were a collective engine of death that ground the flesh of the enemy into muck.

The rebels were terrified, and well they should be. This arena of war had deprived the Steel Legion of the use of its Chimeras. There could be no mechanized infantry charge here. But the hives of Armageddon were as hellish as its landscape. Lommell was among those who had grown up in the worst of the pits, but every Steel Legionnaire had a deep instinct for urban warfare. On that world, a citizen learned how to navigate a hostile environment, or did not reach adulthood. Against such a force, the rebels had only one weapon: sheer multitude. Trooper Versten, the vox operator, relayed a constant stream of updates to Brenken. At every corner, the Steel Legionnaires were crushing resistance. Yet there was no sign of victory. We killed the rebels, and they kept coming. They retreated, then surged forward again. We were wrestling with a tide, and our numbers were being whittled down. The rebels could not fight an entire company, but a regiment would not be able to stop the gradual advance of the uprising.

Askonas and his team had joined us. They had been as eager to join in the fray as they had been chilly about our arrival. I didn’t believe that they were putting on a show of enthusiasm for our benefit. The inquisitor has not been born who gives a moment’s thought to the esteem of the Imperial Guard. I chose to believe that their zest for battle was genuine. Somehow, the battle was useful to them.

I wanted to track them. In this maelstrom, there was no way I could keep them under observation if they chose to vanish. But so far, they had kept in constant touch, alerting us to their movements, and helping direct our efforts against larger concentrations of the rebels. They knew the hive intimately, and could guide us around obstacles and along short cuts that did not appear on the outdated maps and schematics of the hive.

I noted that fact. It meant that they had been here for some time. They weren’t locals, though. None of them spoke with the slightly nasal accent of Molossus.

As we pursued the final remnants of the mob we had just broken, another message came from the inquisitors.

‘Captain,’ Versten called. ‘There’s a more open space not far from here.’ He rattled off the coordinates. ‘Askonas says there is a large gathering of the rebels. They will meet us there.’

‘Presumptuous fool,’ Brenken growled. But she couldn’t deny the tactical importance of the information. ‘Which way?’

He repeated the coordinates. ‘We keep heading in our current direction.’

‘Interesting,’ I said.

Brenken turned to me. ‘Why is that, commissar?’

‘We are, with help from Askonas, consistently moving toward the hive core and the refinery.’

‘The complex’s protection is a priority.’

‘These coordinates are also getting closer to the ones Ledinek recorded.’ I had told her what I had found in the books. Though I did not share my suspicion of who Askonas and the others were, I knew that she didn’t trust them either. That was good enough.

‘You think we are being led?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps. We might be a useful escort. They would find it difficult to get to these areas on their own.’

‘Why would they wish to?’

‘That is the question.’

The current path ended at a blank wall. We headed left and found an even narrower passage with our original heading. From there, we travelled by whatever means we could towards the coordinates Askonas had given Versten. We climbed over rough barricades, through the gutted shells of habs. When we passed beyond the feeble illumination of what lumen globes and strips there were, the guttering flames of war and riot gave us just enough light to make our way forward. Here and there, details of the detritus would leap out at me. A child’s shoe. A water-stained, fungus-covered book. A frying pan. They were fragments of domesticity, reminders that, until a few weeks ago, there had been another struggle in this part of the hive: the struggle to live with even the smallest trace of normality. This would always have been a zone of rampant, random violence, but not of war. Most of the inhabitants had fled the advance of the rebels, putting great strain on the levels higher up. But once we crushed the uprising, the people would return here. This fetid, disintegrating maze of endless night was their home.

Home.

Not for the first time, I was glad that the word held no meaning for me.

‘We’re close,’ Versten said.

We worked around a tumble of derelict shaftwork, and found a route that might almost have been a street, if it hadn’t been for its large pools of stagnant water. It ran between two walls whose thin windows appeared only every five metres, and in a single row halfway between the ground and the ceiling. Then there was an open space before a large building. The route went straight towards its central doorway, one large enough for vehicular traffic. I was looking at a warehouse, I realised, though I was sure that it had not been used in that capacity for a very long time. The people at these levels were menials of the lowest sort. Nothing of any worth would be stored here anymore. The hive had grown above the warehouse and beyond its utility. I didn’t need to guess what the warehouse had become. I had seen the same phenomenon many times. Prior to the uprising, it would have been shelter for the least fortunate of these regions of the hive – a vast, crowded, stinking store of sleeping, breeding, fighting, miserable, desperate bodies. For many, however nightmarish the conditions inside, it would have been their last fingerhold before a slide into the underhive.

It wasn’t a refuge now. At the doorway, I saw the inquisitors. They were raining fire into a huge mob. A massive concentration of rebels was trying to escape from the warehouse. I wondered why they were inside in the first place. Had they been herded there? I couldn’t see how. Were they using it as a staging ground? That seemed just as unlikely. What I had seen of the uprising so far was just a riot on a vast scale. There was nothing organized about it. The enemy force was a mass of individuals who happened to share the same desperate goal.

The inquisitors were being forced back as we came up behind them. The mob was too huge for five people to contain, though not for lack of skill or equipment. They were all brandishing bolt pistols, except Askonas, who was actually wielding a bolter. There was a pile of the dead before them. The mass-reactive shells had left enormous wounds in the corpses. Many of the bodies were missing heads. I saw more skulls vaporized as we arrived. The inquisitors wore reflec armour beneath their robes. Askonas, again, was the exception. He had power armour, the endo-skeleton linked to the huge bionics of his arms. With his war gear, he was even more massive than when I had first seen him.

I realized that I was evaluating him as a potential adversary. This did not please me. But it didn’t surprise me. Askonas glanced my way as we approached. The look was meant to be dismissive, but I returned his gaze and forced him to hold it a beat longer than he had intended. If he knew what I had been investigating, and had intended to send me a message, I sent him one in return.

He was a poor judge of character if he thought I would be intimidated. If his actions could hurt the Imperium in any fashion, then he did not yet know the meaning of contempt.

The inquisitors no longer appeared to be concerned with discretion. Whatever they were playing was reaching its endgame. Brenken and the other Steel Legionnaires took in the Inquisitorial insignia on their weapons, the great skull on Askonas’s breastplate. They said nothing, showing instinctive wisdom. They might not know exactly what authority was vested in these men and women, but the quality of the equipment and the imperiousness of their attitude left the soldiers in no doubt that these people represented real power.

Brenken had a dozen troopers in her squad. They added their fire. Las and bolter shells stopped the rebels’ advance. We pushed forward with the inquisitors, and closed in on the warehouse entrance.

‘Why have they gone in there?’ Brenken asked Askonas.

‘They didn’t go in,’ he said. ‘They’re coming out.’

We reached the doorway, and saw what he meant. The warehouse was gigantic. It must have had twenty or thirty levels, each over ten metres in height. We were at entrance to the top one. The warehouse reached down and down and down. Large portions from the centre of the floors were missing, though wide strips along the perimeter were still intact. The floors had been metal grating, and must have been scavenged for scrap. Now the building was a vast hollow shell, a conduit up from the underhive. The ladders between the levels were still intact, and the rebels were swarming up them. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. The ground floor, barely visible in the light of makeshift torches, writhed with the struggling crowd. From this distance, the rebels resembled a carpet of maggots.

We blasted another cluster of rebels before us. There was no more room for them to retreat. As their corpses fell back, they knocked their fellows off the ragged ledge of the floor. Scores plummeted, shrieking, into the depths. There was a gap, then, as more scrambled up the ladders to the top level. We had a few moments to breathe and plan our next move. It was difficult to look away from the grim multitude. The task before us had no end. The sight was an invitation to despair.

‘Too many,’ Trooper Rohm muttered. His grenade launcher sagged in his arms.

‘There is no such thing as too many,’ I snapped. ‘Not when there is a duty to fulfil. We are here, we are called to serve, and we are the hammer of the Emperor. That makes us legion. We are too much for the enemy.’

Rohm straightened. ‘I apologise, commissar.’

I gave him a curt nod.

‘He’s right, though,’ Brenken said to me, too softly for the other to hear. ‘We can’t fight them all.’ She looked around. ‘We need an alternative.’

I turned to Askonas to see if the inquisitors had anything to propose. This, it seemed, was where they wanted to be. They weren’t paying any attention to us. Their focus was entirely on the rebels. They kept firing, at the ladders and at the groups that rushed along the periphery of the level. But they seemed at least as interested in studying the rebels as they were in killing them.

I resisted the temptation to do the same. No time. If I could steal a moment later, perhaps. Now we had to act before we squandered the opportunity before us. This was by far the largest concentration of rebels we had encountered. If we could find the means to crush them here, then…

‘Crush them,’ I said, repeating my thought. ‘Like insects.’

Brenken turned to me. The inspiration striking her too, she tilted her head back. The ceiling was a ribbed vault. It had long since lost whatever pretence of grandeur it might once have possessed. The fresco had flaked away, leaving only the black smear of centuries of oily smoke. The pillars at the four corners of the warehouse were pitted, rotten rockcrete. ‘Risky,’ Brenken said. The ceiling was also part of the ground for the next level of the hive. If we brought it down, we might trigger a pancaking collapse.

‘Necessary,’ I replied. The next few regions above us were as derelict as this one. Those who could flee the fighting had done so. However, the monstrous density of Pyrrhus meant that there was there was no room for everyone to go. Many of the wretched still cowered in the dank, fetid blocks that erased the distinction between habs, prisons and hells. The avalanche could kill them. Though the decision was Brenken’s, I took on the responsibility. The idea was mine. The innocent blood to be shed would be on my hands.

Brenken thought for another few seconds. She shot more rebels down. The pressure of the rising tide was growing. We wouldn’t be able to contain the situation here for much longer. ‘Kaldis, Rohm,’ she called. ‘Demolition charges on the pillars to our right and left. Grenade launchers, concentrated fire on the supports opposite. Everyone else, we hold the enemy inside.’

‘A sound decision,’ Askonas said. ‘This ground is contaminated with sin. It must be purged.’

Brenken grunted in reply. She didn’t look at the inquisitor. We didn’t need his approval for the action, though he was giving it to us all the same. He turned from the hordes long enough to smile at us and nod his head. There was no mistaking his gesture. He was blessing us. Behind my rebreather, my lips pulled back in distaste. The man was so convinced of his own spiritual purity that he was starting to behave like an ecclesiarch. The Inquisition’s powers were vast. They did not, however, extend to the care for my soul.

Rohm and Kladdis shouldered their lasrifles and ran to the corners, already pulling demolition charges out of their backpacks. We redoubled our fire to keep the rebels clear of our side long enough for the explosives to be planted. It took the two men less than a minute. On the other side of the warehouse, grenades blasted chunks out of the pillars. Rohm and Kladdis returned, and Brenken signalled the withdrawal. We backed up slowly, never letting up the barrage. Las, shells and grenades shredded the rebels. My bolt pistol clicked empty. I grabbed a krak grenade from my belt before a new clip. I rolled the explosive on the floor before us. It went off at the head of a ladder. Floor and rungs melted and dropped, taking with them the burning corpses of rebels. The rush in our vicinity slowed by another small increment.

The inquisitors withdrew too, but a bit more reluctantly. I noted again their intense scrutiny of the rebels. This is important, I told myself. Their interest could not be strategic. There was nothing of note in the way the mob attacked. It was a simple, savage rush. Whatever held Askonas’s attention, or whatever he was looking for, was something else.

We were shooting into a solid wall of bodies. There was no way to miss. Without taking my finger off the trigger, I turned my head to study the inquisitor’s face. He eyes were flicking from rebel to rebel.

I looked back at the enemy. This mob is different, I thought. Find the difference.

The raggedness and the crude body modifications were not unusual. Nor were the signs of mutations. These people were not heretics. They were in revolt, but they were not cultists. There was no fanaticism in their faces. They were afraid.

Afraid.

I had thought, earlier, that the rebels feared us. Now I saw that I had been mistaken. Every wretch that climbed and ran and lunged in our direction bore the same rictus of fright. Terror was at the root of the uprising. These people were not launching an invasion of the upper reaches of Pyrrhus. They were fleeing the underhive.

I felt a brief spasm of sympathy. I crushed it. My discovery did not change the need to shatter the rebellion. Whatever their motivations, these people had disobeyed Imperial law. The source of terror would be dealt with, but order would be restored. By any means necessary.

We had backed out of the entrance now. Only a few metres separated us from a large crush of rebels. The mob pressed forward harder and harder. The people at the front slowed and died, but the push from those coming up was relentless. We could not force any kind of retreat. The mass of desperate humanity advanced with hydraulic inexorability. Only sudden, mass death would stop the mob now.

The lead rebels reached the doorway. We gunned them down, but they were the first to die outside the warehouse.

‘Run!’ Brenken shouted.

A final volley of grenades held back the mob for a few more seconds as we fled back towards the habs and the hope of shelter.

We reached a narrow passage. ‘Do it!’ Brenken ordered.

Rohm squeezed a detonator. There was a rippling krump from inside the warehouse of the charges going off and stone falling. The structure lost all vertical strength. It collapsed all at once, its shape vanishing in a roar of rubble and billow of choking dust. The roof fell, and with it everything it had been supporting from the level above. A terrible chain reaction took hold. The cascade of wreckage escalated, as if the entire hive sought to pour itself into the funnel of the warehouse. The fall spread over our heads. Stone and metal rained down. The ground shook with impacts. A crack opened before my feet, and I imagined this level too collapsing to the ones below, crushing us in its death throes. A chunk of rockrete the size of a man bashed back and forth between the two walls, breaking itself into pieces just before it flattened me. We pushed deeper into the space between buildings. We were shielded from the worst of the debris, unless these habs collapsed too.

The roar above us faded, and we stopped. I turned around to face the direction of the warehouse.

The dust blotted out all light. I did not taste it with the rebreather, yet my lungs still wanted to labour. The thunder of the destruction was deafening, so I could not hear the screams. With the blindness of the dust, I could not see any victims. Some might have considered this a mercy. I refused it. I made myself think about the victims, whether rebels or blameless. Tens of thousands of rebels had just died. How many loyal citizens of the Imperium had also met their end? No way of knowing. It would have been easy to take refuge in that ignorance. I confronted the cost. I would be failing myself and my duty if I tried to ignore it, if I tried to do anything other than acknowledge the full reality of my actions, and the consequences of my decisions. Telling myself that this had been Brenken’s call was dishonest. I had thought of the strategy, and I had urged it.

Never look away, I told myself.

I was, at that instant, learning a lesson. It is one that I am still learning, so many decades and dark choices later. Though I am not glad of the innocent lives I sacrificed that day, I am grateful that I had the wisdom to recognise the importance of the moment, and what I should take from it. I am grateful that I had the strength to do so. I am grateful that my reaction was not to recoil in horror, and vow never to take such action again. I knew that I would face these choices anew. I did not welcome them, but I did feel ready for them.

The roar of the collapse faded. The dust lingered. It slowed the progress of the battle. The sound of struggles in other quarters of the level diminished as the cloud choked and blinded the rebels. It was several minutes before we could see again. We stood in an oasis of calm. All the enemies in our vicinity had been annihilated. The quiet was, I knew, temporary. The sense of victory was an illusion. For the time being, we had stymied the rebel advance in this quarter. Nothing more. At best, that bought us some time and some choice.

We returned to where the warehouse had stood. The shattered bulk in its place was just beginning to become visible through the dust.

‘Where’s Askonas?’ Brenken asked.

I looked around. The inquisitors had vanished. ‘Pursuing an agenda,’ I said.

‘Try raising him,’ she told Versten.

Versten tried, but received nothing back on the vox.

‘What agenda, do you think?’ Brenken said to me.

‘I don’t know. But it is linked to the uprising. Askonas was looking at the rebels as if they were specimens.’ I thought for a moment. ‘I believe he and his group have headed further down. Becoming part of this mission gave them the opportunity to study the uprising at close quarters. We may have just opened the way for them to go much deeper.’

‘But why, in the Emperor’s name, would they want to?’

‘The fact that they do is reason enough to learn for ourselves.’

I couldn’t see Brenken’s face behind her visor and rebreather, but the tilt of her head was expressive. She was less than overjoyed by the political slant her operation was taking. ‘Would you have us fighting another official branch of the Imperium, commissar?’ Her question made me wonder how much she guessed about who Askonas might be.

‘Not if it can be helped,’ I said, and meant it. ‘There are some tasks that might fall to me alone.’

‘You take the title of political officer very seriously, Yarrick.’

‘My oath of office is what I take seriously.’

I walked forward through the slowly settling dust, starting for the position where I had last seen the inquisitors and angled towards the right of the collapse. I was making a wild guess. I had little enough to go on, though I reasoned that wherever the route Askonas had taken couldn’t be very far. I put my faith in the Emperor to guide my path, and He did. Ten metres from the rubble, between the shells of two buildings whose original purpose had been lost to squatters and grime, a narrow passage led to a rusted metal staircase descending into the depths. As I looked into its darkness, I heard the occasional distant shots echoing up from below. The gunfire stood out from a background of white noise. It was the murmur of a crowd. It was somehow unclean, like the rush of sewage, and the vibrating complaint of flies.

I turned around. Brenken had brought the rest of the squad to the passageway’s entrance. ‘We should take these stairs,’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘There are many other battles still underway on this level.’

‘And they will continue without cease. This will be a war of attrition, and that is one we will lose,’ I said. ‘Captain, if we want to win, we must stop the uprising at its source. To do that, we have to know what that source is.’

‘Find out why the rebels are frightened,’ she said quietly.

‘You saw that too, then.’

‘Yes.’ She joined me at the head of the stairs. ‘Not a lot of room,’ she observed. The staircase was wide enough for three troopers to walk abreast. More than enough for the squad to descend quickly. Cramped, though, if she was thinking in terms of a larger action.

‘The full company?’ I asked, hoping I had understood her. I would be relieved not to have to make the argument myself.

‘If there is something in the underhive that is terrifying the entire population, we’ll need more than a squad to deal with it, I would think.’

‘Quite so, captain.’

She called Versten over. While we waited, she said to me, ‘We’re going to regret this descent, Yarrick.’

‘I’m sure we will. And we would be derelict in our duties not to make it.’

‘That won’t happen in this company again.’

‘I know it won’t.’

Versten arrived with the vox unit. Brenken sent out the order for all squads to disengage from their current battles and converge on our position.

From far below us came the sound of moans.

The wailing grew louder as Sixth Company dropped down into the underhive. The staircase was a straight route down through the same levels that the warehouse had reached, and a few more beyond that. It switchbacked down though a graveyard of broken foundations, disused conduits, and façades that had gone blind with ruin. We were in the roots of the hive, those early beginnings that could not be amputated no matter how gangrenous they had become. The troopers lit our way with hand torches.

The further down we went, the more distinct the sounds became. There was no longer any gunfire, but there were screams, all forms of them. I heard fear, agony, madness and rage. But these shrieks were sharp slashes that rose above the endless moaning. It was as if the waves of a great sea in a storm had found their voice, and it was a mindless, hungry, predatory howl.

The staircase reached a level metal floor that might once have been a loading platform. It was about twenty metres wide, and over a hundred long, reaching along the full length of the wall at one end of a large open space. It rested on top of a pile of rubble that had turned into a crumbling, jagged hill. This expanse too had been a warehouse. What I could see of the walls near us still ran straight, though they were pocked with holes, some large enough to be caves. Girders stabbed down from the ceiling, stalactites jutting at impossible angles. Thick, glistening, black moss dangled from them, dripping water and slime. Water stagnated a metre deep on the chamber floor. The foam of decaying chemicals covered its surface.

Here too was the cause of the uprising. Here was the source of the fear.

‘Zombies,’ shouted Rohm.

‘Trooper!’ Brenken snapped. ‘Remember yourself.’

‘Yes, captain.’

Rohm apologised for his cry of fear, but he was right. Zombies filled the space before us. There were easily five thousand here, and the torch beams revealed more and more and more shambling through the chamber entrances. The Curse of Unbelief was still a fairly recent threat to the Imperium at this time, but it had happened on enough worlds for its legend to spread across the galaxy on anxious whispers, and all of us had heard one tale or another about. Some of those stories were more accurate than others. But they all agreed on the main points. Every member of Sixth Company knew what was before us. Thanks to the concrete knowledge of the zombie plague that had been given to me at the schola progenium, I knew exactly how dangerous the threat was. The troopers feared contagion, and they were right do so. They thought their rebreathers would protect them. On that point, they were only half-right.

The victims of the plague staggered and gibbered. Their lips had shrivelled and pulled back over rotted teeth. Their flesh was putrefying. It bubbled and hung from their bones, dropped in flaps from their skulls. Many of them had the same sore marking their foreheads. It resembled three circles in a triangular formation. They were, to all appearances, corpses that had been decomposing for months, and yet they walked. And they breathed. A green, writhing vapour poured from their jaws. It hung in the air like a slick. With every passing second, more and more of the space was filled with the miasma. It was a cloud fed by the dead, its tendrils reaching out to drag more victims to living death.

The Steel Legionnaires’ rebreathers would protect them from the gas. Their uniforms would give them some protection from the clawing and biting of the dead. But the true insidiousness of the plague did not depend on physical transmission.

The zombies lurched and grasped for the uninfected humans still in this chamber. There were perhaps a hundred of them. They had rushed in here just ahead of the zombies, and had reached a dead end. The only way up and out from this space, away from the levels that had fallen to the plague, was the staircase. Sixth Company, occupying on the platform, blocked access. There were dozens of uninfected bodies around us. They had been shot. The gunfire I had heard earlier, I now realised, had been from the inquisitors clearing their way through clusters of rebels.

Our torches picked out the rest of the refugees gathered along the periphery of the chamber, scrambling up the slopes of refuse. The zombies were clumsy and slow, their reflexes and motor functions as rotted as everything else. But what drove them was inexorable. They did not know failure. They hit the slopes like waves. They stumbled up, slipped and fell, rose again, and little by little, through the sheer pressure of their hungering mass, reached their prey. They tore the rebels apart. They pulled flesh off in strips, yanked organs from open torsos. They feasted while those further back shrieked their hunger. They feasted, but found no relief.

Some of the rebels were left alone. They moved away from the knots of slaughter. They appeared stunned, sluggish. They coughed without cease. The infection had taken hold.

The current flowing through the mass of zombies shifted as they become aware of Sixth Company. They came for us. Their howl rose higher at the appearance of fresh prey. The Armageddon Steel Legion opened fire. Serried ranks of lasguns and flamers rained purging destruction on the creatures. Waves of zombies perished, but the flood entering the warehouse was unending.

There was a new urgency to the company’s attack. There was also fear. That was good. We were simple mortals. We had not been transformed into demi-gods like the Adeptus Astartes. Nor did we have the invulnerable faith of the Adepta Sororitas. Our flesh could fail. We could know doubt. We were the prey for the zombies, but we were also prey for the plague itself. We were right to be afraid.

We had to keep the zombies from reaching the platform. If their tide rose that high, they would kill us.

It was the doubt, though, that could doom us. Despite their physical protection, the troopers were vulnerable because of that weakness. I knew this. More important than any shots from my bolt pistol was my role as commissar. Faith was the shield. I had to keep it raised against the cancer of doubt.

I moved back and forth along the length of the platform, raising my voice over the constant fire, taking my exhortations to the entire company. ‘Heroes of the Imperium,’ I called, ‘now we find our calling here! Now we can truly be the salvation of Molossus. The unholy stands before us, but what can it do against our faith? Against the strength of the God-Emperor, it can do nothing. Nothing! What can death threaten? We face it every moment of our service. It is sweet and fitting to die for our Emperor, even here. Has honour left us in this dark place? No. Has courage? No. Has faith? No and no and no! Rejoice in your faith. Revel in it. Strike these wretches with the force of infinite righteousness. And if you die, know that you do so in the light of the Father of Mankind!’

And now there was a new sound in this place of damnation. It was the sound of hundreds of warriors of the Imperial Guard releasing all of their hate, anger and revulsion in a primal roar of defiance. It was more powerful than any words I could speak. It was the voice of faith itself. It could do nothing against the zombies, yet it felt like a weapon of great power. The mystery and threat of the creatures appeared to drain away. For the moment, they were just another enemy to be exterminated.

For the moment.

The Steel Legion uniform was another source of strength, buying us a bit more time. The troopers could not see each other’s faces. The menacing, implacable appearance of the warriors had no effect on the zombies, but concealed fear, and so reinforced morale.

Brenken stood in the centre of the defensive wall, at the very edge of the platform, visible to all her troops. As I strode past her, she said, ‘We need another move, Yarrick.’

She was right. If we did not have the means to stop the push of the uprising, we had even less of a chance of ending the zombie plague. We would be lucky to hold out for more than a few minutes in this room, never mind destroy what could be millions of the infected. We were on the edge of having to stage a full retreat, and abandon Molossus to its fate of quarantine and Exterminatus.

That would have been surrender. If not to the zombies, then to Askonas, because I knew that he had some responsibility for the catastrophe engulfing Hive Pyrrhus. I do not believe in surrender now. I didn’t then. Neither did Brenken.

There was no sign of the inquisitors. They had passed through this space. If I could find their path, I might know what ours should be. I made my way toward the far end of the platform. It extended another ten metres beyond the last members of Sixth Company. Where it met the wall, I saw another doorway. It was a small one, originally a maintenance access. It was easy to miss in the darkness and the shadows of other fissures. I ran towards it.

I was a few steps away when a zombie lunged over the edge of the platform. It clutched my coat with talons that had lost most of their flesh. It arrested my run. I swung my bolt pistol into its face and blew its head apart. More of the infected were clambering up behind it. I kept firing. I did not want to find myself trapped if the passage beyond that doorway was blocked, and I could not have the zombies flanking the company. But every moment I spent in combat here was a second closer to a greater defeat.

Two came at me. I killed one. The other fell and grabbed my boots. Its grip was stronger than it had any right to be. It was gripping me with the force of the disease. It yanked hard. I felt my balance go. I tore my left foot from the thing’s grasp and took a hard step back. The jar ran up my spine. I shot the zombie in the back, severing its torso in two. It moved still, trying to gnaw through my boots, but it had lost its leverage. Steady again, I jammed my sword through its head, then kicked the corpse away.

I looked up. Lommell and Rohm were racing to shore up my position. I gave them a few seconds to arrive, during which I fired and swung, fired and swung. During those moments, I allowed myself the full rein of my spiritual disgust. The threat that the zombie plague represented was enormous. So was its obscenity. It was Chaos’s special mockery of the Emperor. If my hatred could have taken on physical form, it would have crushed even the idea of the plague.

Lasfire joined my efforts, jolting me from my fugue of destruction. I blinked. My uniform was covered in spatters of blood and bits of putrescent flesh. I brushed them away, nodded to the two troopers, and ran through the doorway.

The passageway beyond was clear. I had expected to have to pull out my torch, but there was a faint glow visible through the opening at the other end. I made my way forward as quickly as I could over the uneven floor. Old bones snapped beneath my heels. I reached the exit, and found myself on a broken catwalk. It extended a few dozen metres into the air, sagging and twisting before coming to a ragged end. I had come to a vast open area, the largest I had seen in the entire hive. The floor here was another level lower than in the chamber I had just left. The zombies formed a carpet of squirming, struggling, ululating flesh. They were packed so tightly that they could barely move. To my far left was a steep ramp that took the hordes toward the warehouse. They moved up it, shambling worms, in a monstrous parody of pilgrims advancing to a shrine. The zombies directly below saw me. They lifted their arms. Their screeches gurgled as slime and vapour spilled from their throats. Awareness of my presence spread over the floor, and a hundred thousand claws reached for me.

Ahead of me, in the centre of the space, I finally saw the Pyrrhus refinery. The main bulk of it was several levels further up, but the casing of its gigantic spar dropped past me, through the floor of the level, and down again, where it entered the bedrock of Molossus. The casing was a hundred metres in diameter. From inside came the heartbeat rhythm of pumping. A walkway circled the spar. It was level with the catwalk. Perhaps there had once been a means of linking the two. The refinery was as old as the deepest levels of Pyrrhus. The metal was stained just as black as the disintegrating girders back in the warehouse. It seemed more recent because it had been maintained. Even the lumen strips that ran in vertical lines down the casing were in good order, illuminating the space. The catwalk had been abandoned to decay, but the gap between it and the walkway was not great. It could be leapt.

I was sure it had been, not many minutes before.

Higher up, I could see a small portion of the base of the reservoir. I was seeing part of the easternmost end. West of my position, it reached for kilometres. An ocean of promethium was suspended three levels above me.

I knew what I had to do.

I rushed back to the warehouse. The density of zombies had increased in the seconds I had been gone. Sixth Company was losing by degrees, though it fought on, and still held the infected away from the platform. Not for much longer, though. What worried me more was how long it would be before the soldiers’ religious fervour faltered, and they opened themselves up to the curse.

I used my bolt pistol again as I ran to Brenken. I added to the kills, and I called to the troopers once more. When I reached the captain, I told her what I had in mind.

When I had finished, she repeated, ‘Open the reservoir?’ The scale of what would follow gave her pause.

‘There is no other way,’ I said. If I succeeded, the lower levels of the hive would be submerged by a deluge of liquid flame.

‘And just you?’

‘A lone individual might escape notice.’

We were occupied for a few moments in beating back a sudden surge of zombies. Without lowering her lasgun, without ceasing in her steady burning away of the wretches’ brains, she said, ‘You seem certain Askonas is an enemy.’

‘I can’t take the risk of assuming that he isn’t.’

She nodded. ‘What do you need?’

‘Time.’

She gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Is that all?’ Two more of the infected fell.

There was a cry to the right. The zombies hauled a trooper off the platform and fell on him. He was disembowelled in seconds. His comrades cut his suffering short by dropping a frag grenade into his attackers, blowing them all to pieces.

‘We’ll head back up,’ Brenken said. ‘Contain the advance for as long as we can.’

‘Ignore the rebels,’ I told her. ‘Those who survive will be easily neutralised once this is over.’

‘Agreed. The Emperor guide you, commissar.’

‘And you, captain. I will try to sound a warning.’

‘Do what is necessary. We are our own responsibility.’

I left her, stopping beside Rohm long enough to get a melta bomb and remote detonator from him. Then I ran to the doorway and through the passage, holstering pistol and sword. I hit the catwalk at top speed. The infected below shrieked their hunger again as I clattered across the warping metal. The span creaked. It shook beneath me. I had time to picture the ruin collapsing, taking me down to the hell below. Then I reached the end of the catwalk.

I leaped. The hunger reached for me. I was in the air, and the hunger tried to pull me down. It failed. I landed on the walkway. The metal rang from the impact, but there was no give. The construction here was still solid.

The casing was featureless. I worked my way around counterclockwise. After a quarter of the circumference, I found a door. I hauled on its handle, but it refused to slide back. Locked.

I as yet had no proof that the inquisitors were inside, but I had the absolute conviction that they were. The spar would be a useful escape from the lower hive, but was that all? I didn’t think so.

I kept going. On the other side of the casing from where I had landed, there were rungs leading up the spar to another walkway in line with the next level of the hive. I climbed. I moved as quickly as I could, but I was an ant crawling up the monumental column. The time it took to rise up that single level seemed an age. Part of my mind wanted to calculate how long it would take the zombies to reach the stairs, to shamble up that staircase and whatever other routes upward existed, and finally overwhelm attempts to hold them back. I suppressed the impulse. How long I had could not be known. I would take the action required, and it would grant us victory or it would not. But it was the only chance we had.

I reached the next walkway. This one was completely isolated from the rest of the level. It was surrounded by blank façades. I found a door in the same position as the one below. It opened. Inside the spar, I was almost deafened by the hum and percussion of the machinery. The pumps formed a cage around the colossal drill. Far below, the earth cried out as it was gored. Its combustible blood ran up the artificial veins with the sound of muted cataracts. Not far from me was an elevator built into the inner wall of the casing. Beside it were more rungs. I looked up. It would take me the best part of an hour just to reach the level of the reservoir. I would have to take the risk of drawing attention.

The elevator’s mechanism was basic. A lever beside the mechanism summoned the car. It took several minutes of clanking chain for the open platform to complete its descent. I stepped aboard. The only control was another lever, set in a panel next to the mechanism that attached the platform to the chain. I pull the lever up, and began the ascent.

I drew my bolt pistol and braced for attack at each landing that I passed, but nothing happened. I was alone inside the spar. I stopped the elevator at a level that I judged was close to the lower section of the reservoir. When I emerged from the casing onto the exterior walkway, I saw that I was right. The massive bulk of the reservoir rose before me like a solid cliff face of black steel. From this point upward, the walkways around the casing extended spurs to the reservoir. A maintenance grid, thin as an arachnid’s web, spread over the great bulk. I ran to the reservoir. I attached the melta bomb. The weapon seemed trivial beside a structure as large as a factory ship. It would be a mere pinprick.

But an incendiary one.

The job was half done. I could trigger the bomb at any time. Now I wanted to send a warning to Brenken. Askonas was here too. I put my desire to confront him to one side. I had only circumstantial evidence pointing to something undefined. I could not let my suspicions of the inquisitor distract me from the urgency of my task.

I returned to the elevator and kept rising. Halfway up the spar, I reached a major landing. It was no larger than the rest, but its importance was signalled by the fact that the elevator stopped here automatically. I would have to use the lever a second time if I wanted to carry on upwards. I guessed that I had reached my destination. To get a warning out to Brenken, I had to sound a siren or klaxon. In order to do that, I needed the refinery’s control centre.

When I passed through the exit, another walkway spur crossed into the structure built above the reservoir. After an open doorway, I found myself in a corridor whose branches opened into vast chambers of engines, monitoring stations and banks of cogitators. The air was hot and damp with escaping steam. Servitors moved along the hall and tended to their programmed duties. I saw no one else. My suspicions deepened. It was possible that the refinery could function without human supervision for a short time. In the long term, however, a system this complex would suffer breakdowns in unanticipated forms and configurations. No matter how large the army of servitors, unfettered minds would be needed to prevent a collapse into ruin and huge catastrophe. Precisely the sort of catastrophe I was about to unleash. The refinery was so well insulated from both the uprising and the plague that I doubted its workers had fled. Which meant they had been made to leave.

If the inquisitors wanted the control centre of the refinery for themselves, they could order such an expulsion. For a limited period, the machinery would continue to function. That might be all the time they needed.

The uprising had only begun in the last few weeks. The dates in Ledinek’s journal, the ones whose coordinates all pointed to some locations in and around the refinery, went back to before the violence began. The inquisitors had been here from the start.

The corridor I was in appeared to be its central axis of the complex. It was ten metres wide, vaulted, and kept going in an endless straight line. It was intersected by myriad other passages. I was striding down the hall without knowing where I was heading. I made myself stop. There was no time to run through the complex at random. I watched the movements of the servitors. There was a consistent pattern of large numbers arriving, leaving and returning to a doorway another hundred metres down from me and on the right. There, I thought. I closed in, walking quietly and hugging the wall for the last few metres.

I heard voices as I drew near. ‘We need new specimens,’ Ehrar said. ‘How can we see if there have been any mutations in the pathogen from distant observation?’

‘Without a magos biologis,’ Meinhardt said, ‘even close observation will be limit–’

‘No,’ Askonas said, ending the discussion. ‘There can be no involvement of the Mechanicus until we have a certainty of success. Even then, we’ll have to use extreme caution. The lack of specimens is regrettable, but there was no opportunity. Still, we saw much. We have a clearer idea of the strength of the virus, its speed of propagation, and its infiltration. I saw many rebels showing early signs of the onset.’

Askonas stopped speaking. Silence fell. There were no sounds of movement. My hackles rose.

Askonas said, ‘Now, I think.’

Movement behind me. I whirled. Two bolt pistols were trained on me, from opposite sides of the corridor. My finger twitched on the trigger, but I did not fire. I could have taken out one of the inquisitors, before being gunned down myself, but not both. And even though my suspicions were fast becoming certainties, it would take a formidable effort of will to bring myself to kill an officer of the Inquisition. I lowered my pistol.

‘Leave it on the ground,’ Schenk ordered. She was on my side of the hall. She was a safe five metres away. Neither she nor Brand showed any interest in coming any closer to me. I crouched, placing my bolt pistol on the floor. ‘The sword too,’ she said. I obeyed. She gestured with her pistol. I raised my hands and walked into the room. Inside my long coat, the detonator brushed against my ribs.

Askonas and the other two inquisitors were waiting.

I had found the nerve centre of the refinery. The room was smaller most of the others I had passed. Instead of labouring machines, here were rows of work stations and cogitators. Banks of pict screens on the wall at the far end showed feeds from all over the complex. Of course Askonas had seen me coming. Below the screens, occupying almost a quarter of the floor space, was a bulky conglomeration of augurs and control devices. Half a dozen servitors stood around it, responding to tones and light flashes with calm, mindless regularity. There was another doorway in the far left-hand corner. I couldn’t see where it led, but something was keening down there, something as mindless as the servitors but far more hungry.

Askonas eyed me with patient, superior contempt. ‘What do you think you are doing, commissar?’ he asked.

‘Among other things, witnessing treacherous folly.’

He didn’t like that. His cheeks coloured with ragged patches. ‘You know nothing of what you say.’

‘Don’t I?’ I nodded towards the doorway. ‘You have at least one of the cursed down there. Are you going to tell me that you didn’t bring the plague to this world?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’ He was proud. His conviction of his own righteousness stood firm. ‘To deny our actions would imply shame. We have been engaged in a great work here, and you have no right to question it.’

‘It isn’t a question of my right. It is my duty.’

‘That’s enough,’ Brand said. He took a step forward.

I braced for execution or fight.

Askonas held up a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He should understand how he has erred.’ He smiled at me. ‘Besides, I think you know who we are. Attacking one of our number would put you beyond the pale.’

‘That wouldn’t stop me,’ I assured him.

He laughed, and his eyes twinkled with genuine benevolence, the fatuous generosity of a man at ease in the confidence of his sanctity. ‘I think it would. I believe you to be a righteous man, Commissar Yarrick, if misguided. What do you think has happened here?’

‘Heresy and treachery. You unleashed a plague of Chaos in the underhive.’

Askonas nodded, eager for me to see and understand. ‘Indeed we did. It was no simple matter transporting infected individuals from quarantined worlds to here, even for us.’

‘You confess your guilt,’ I said, aware that I was speaking words better suited to the Inquisition itself.

‘No. You haven’t asked why we would do this.’

‘There is no answer that could justify the act.’

Askonas’s smile was sad now. The emotion was just as much a luxury, an indulgence, as the benevolence had been. ‘If you truly believe that, then you have never had to sacrifice the few for the benefit of the many.’

My throat was still dry with the dust of sacrifice. My resolve did not waver. My hatred for this self-anointed saint intensified.

‘The study of this plague is necessary,’ Askonas continued. ‘If we can unlock its secrets, think what it might mean. We could bring the dead back to life. Even the Father of Mankind Himself.’

That madness didn’t deserve a response. I had heard rumours of this faction of the Inquisition. Revivificators. Lunatics at best. There was no arguing with this insanity.

‘Don’t you see?’ Askonas asked.

The question surprised me. It was genuine. He really wanted me to applaud their efforts. I wondered why. ‘All I see,’ I said, ‘is failure.’

The good humour evaporated. Askonas pressed his lips together. His eyes appeared to retreat back into the darkness of their sockets. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said.

I heard it, then. In those two syllables, I heard the crack in his mental and spiritual armour. I heard the sound of my victory. I heard his doubt. His need to have me agree was the sign of his weakening faith.

He turned his back on me. ‘Bring him,’ he said. He headed towards the doorway.

Ehrar and Meinhardt stepped aside, gesturing for me to follow. I looked over my shoulder. Schenk and Brand, pistols unwavering, were still out of reach. I started after Askonas. I walked past the work stations, drew abreast of the augur monolith. It was almost as tall as I was. There were three servitors on this side. Two of them were fully mobile. The third would never leave the room. Its torso was attached to a mechanical plinth that rode back and forth on a narrow rail before the massed readings and gauges. One step beyond the servitor, I spun to the right and ducked behind the plinth.

The inquisitors fired a full volley. The shells slammed into the servitor and the array. Blood, bone fragments, shards of glass and iron sprayed hard. Shrapnel gouged my face. I scrambled back in a cloud of stinging debris. As I reached the far end of the augur bank, Askonas shouted, ‘Stop!’

Whether he was calling out to me, his cohorts, or both, he was too late. The damage to the array was catastrophic. Fail-safes engaged. The refinery believed itself to be in crisis. Klaxons wailed from all corners of the complex. The walls shook with the sound. The shriek was enough to deafen the entire hive. The heart of Pyrrhus was under threat, and that organ’s death could kill millions.

Brenken had her warning. I stayed crouched where I was. I held the detonator. The gunfire stopped. I heard the inquisitors rush for me. I waited another second, sorry I couldn’t grant Sixth Company longer notice.

I pressed the trigger. I gave the refinery its disaster.

At first there was no sign that anything had happened. Brand came around the corner on my right. I rushed towards him. His shot went wide, and I rammed into him. He took the impact and leapt backward. He swung the pistol barrel at my face.

The explosion hit. Far below, the melta bomb had pierced the shell of the reservoir. Its solar heat ignited the promethium as it burst into the air, a severed artery. Gas pockets blew up. The tank cracked wider. It was not full. The fire found its way in seconds to the vapour in the upper reaches.

The control complex shook. Beneath it, a volcano had burst to life. Vital supports buckled. The floor dropped a full metre and tilted sharply towards the bank of pict screens. We were all knocked off our feet. Brand went flying into the screens. He hit one face first. It shattered. He fell, blinded, clawing at glass and lacerations. I grabbed at the augurs as I fell, hung on, then pulled myself up and staggered up the incline to the exit. The other inquisitors were still on the ground, but to my right, Askonas regained his feet and headed my way.

There was another boom, thunderous and muffled. The floor tilted further, throwing Askonas back. I lurched forward, leaning into the steepening slope. I stayed on my feet. I used the work station rows to assist my climb.

At the last row, I heard an electrical crackle behind me. I looked back. Askonas was closing again, his bionic limbs powering him upwards. He raised his left arm. A neural whip lashed out from his rebuilt wrists. The coil snapped with energy. I ducked and jerked to the right. The whip was long. The tip burned the air beside my head.

I reached the doorway and pulled myself around just as Askonas lashed at me again. I had to neutralise the whip. Once in its grip, I would be paralysed, my nervous system in full convulsion. My pistol and sword were still in the corridor. They had slid against the downslope wall.

Another blast. The floor of the complex levelled for a moment, then tilted even more. I grabbed my weapons and stood with one foot on the wall. Askonas hauled himself out of the control centre. I fired my bolt pistol at his left hand. The shots went true. The shells smashed the prosthetic into a shapeless mass. The whip fell limp.

Askonas bellowed and stomped after me, drawing his bolter one-handed. Behind him, Ehrar came through the doorway. I was about to be outnumbered.

I tossed a frag grenade at their feet. I didn’t expect it to kill them. It bought me a few more seconds as they evaded the blast. I headed back down the corridor at as close to a run as I could manage, balanced on two walls. Three seconds went by without a shell blowing my head apart. The grenade went off. It gave me a few more seconds. As if in answer to my frag, a chain of large explosions rocked the complex. Gravity shifted back and forth. I did not allow myself to fall. The inquisitors were shooting now. The violent movement beneath our feet spoiled their aim. They shouted, and then I heard them give chase. Good.

Doorways and intersections had become yawning traps. I sprinted towards the centre whenever I reached a gap. Momentum gave just enough of an arc to my path to see me across. A yell from behind told me that Meinhardt had failed a jump.

I came to the end of the corridor. The walkway between the complex and the casing had buckled and warped. The spar stood straight, indifferent to the agony of the refinery. I ran across to the exterior walkway. Below me was nothing but fire. It flowed and stormed. Burning waves crashed against building façades. The metal bridge groaned as I ran over it. Metal twisted and snapped. The vibrations became a violent bucking. It barely held.

Once on the walkway, I faced the doorway, now tilted at a strong diagonal, and backed away around the casing. I was on a pillar that rose from the centre of a raging sea of flame.

The scale of what I had done pressed in on me. I stayed true to my vow. I accepted the reality of the event. When I knew the full extent of its consequences, I would accept them too.

Askonas charged out of the doorway and over the bridge. He was much heavier than I was. Every step he took caused a sharp spang of dying metal. The other inquisitors hesitated before crossing. I fired at the bridge where it joined the complex. The metal shrieked. Askonas stepped onto the walkway just as the complex shook again and the bridge collapsed into the burning flood.

The rest of his team could not reach us now. They stood in the doorway, silhouettes of mad piety. They held their fire. Their leader was now between them and me.

‘What have you done?’ Askonas snarled. He didn’t shoot. His rage would not permit granting me a quick death.

I didn’t shoot either. His armour would take a lot of damage. His head, though, was bare. Inquisition or not, he had betrayed the Imperium. My very soul condemned him. But I didn’t shoot.

We both needed to understand the other. I realised that he was as baffled by my certainty of being in the right as I was by his.

‘I know precisely what I’ve done,’ I told him. ‘I’ve purged this world of your insanity.’

‘We could have learned so much.’

‘Since when do we listen to the teachings of Chaos?’

He stared at me. My absence of doubt was causing him greater damage than my shells could. ‘You’re wrong…’ he began, but started to cough.

‘No. You are.’

He kept coughing, and the import of that fit burst upon me. ‘You know you are wrong. You want me to believe in the sanctity of your cause, because you don’t anymore. And you are infected.’

He roared. His eyes blazed with desperate fury. His left hand was a shapeless mass that could crush my skull. The fingers of his right gauntlet stretched for my throat. I reacted with clarity, and surety of purpose. I raised my pistol and put a bolter shell through the brain of this fallen saint.

I stood over his corpse and faced the other inquisitors. They could not have heard our exchange over the roar of promethium torrent, but they didn’t retaliate. They knew they had lost.

The complex continued to shake, its tilt growing still more pronounced, as the fireflood raged. At the edge of full collapse, there was another sudden drop on the other side as supports there fell away. The structure settled with the rasping groan of exploding rockrete and tortured metal. The inquisitors fell to their knees, then rose again. Their refusal to retreat was an act of defiance. Why should they run when the moral high ground was theirs? The Revivificators and I remained as we were, committing our enemies to memory. I answered their righteousness with my own.

After an hour, the flames began to subside. The thunder of annihilation faded. Soon after, armed figures appeared behind the inquisitors. They must have made their way into the complex from the upper-level entrances. Sixth Company had arrived.

The inquisitors were placed in quarantine. I monitored them during the entire mopping up period. All of the underhive, and the first levels above it, had been incinerated. The zombies were ash. Brenken had the remaining specimen carbonized by flamers. The few surviving rebels were rounded up and shot.

We had brought peace to Molossus.

The hive’s structural integrity was compromised. How badly, no one yet knew. Casualties were in the hundreds of thousands. The depletion of the work force, however, was an irrelevance since the refinery was beyond repair, and the promethium reserves would continue to burn underground for centuries. The world has lost its usefulness to the Imperium.

Yes, I had brought peace to Molossus. The peace that kills. I wondered how long it would take before Pyrrhus was a ghost hive. I could tell myself that at least its citizens didn’t face Exterminatus. I had saved them from that.

I didn’t think they would thank me.

Ehrar, Schenk, Brand and Meinhardt showed no sign of infection, or of repentance. The two states were functions of each other. They lacked Askonas’s intellectual honesty. He realised that they had failed, and so he fell. Their self-regard was worthy of ceramite. They didn’t know the meaning of doubt.

‘What do we do with them?’ Governor Hartwig asked me on the day that Sixth Company prepared to depart.

‘Nothing. You can monitor them until more of their order comes for them. None of us has authority over them once we are certain they aren’t carriers.’

I did one more thing before we left. Alone, I walked through the purged levels of Pyrrhus. I looked at the gutted buildings, the mountains of burned rubble, and the twisted limbs of the carbonized dead. I took ownership of my consequences.

I walked with a torch. The devastated region was a place of eternal night now. The shadows of the wreckage danced in my beam. They melded into nightmare shapes. At one point, I thought I saw, standing to my left, a huge shape, much larger than a man, with funnels spiking from its silhouette. When I trained the light on it, of course it was only the remains of pipes and shattered rockcrete.

I wandered for three hours more. I forced myself to stay until I could feel no pride in the horrors I had wrought, and only a grim acceptance. I had finally reached that point when Brenken found me.

‘Seeking fellowship among the dead?’ she asked.

‘Better than the company of saints.’

We began the long walk back from the burn.

THE WRECKAGE

Their fire drove us to shelter. The enemy was at the top of the ridge, dug in, behind cover, invisible. We were exposed. We had nothing to target. The las hit us hard. The night screamed with lethal energy. We lost three more squads before we made it inside the shell. Just ahead of me, a shot struck a pocket of gas. I ducked back, shielding my face from the heat of the explosion. Flames washed over troopers, melting rebreathers into flesh. The barrage drove us on, and I ran through smoke thick with the stench of burning corpses.

Sixth Company of the Armageddon Steel Legion’s 252nd Regiment went to ground. Our shelter had been a freighter once. Its provenance, its identity, even its shape, were long gone. I guessed what it had been by the size of the ruin, and by the eroding remains of its former self: the length and curve of the hull. The ship had been destroyed by its crash onto the surface of the moon. The wreck had been stripped of anything worth having, then had been mined for scrap metal. Now it rusted, its bones gnawed by the corrosive rains of Aionos. It had been reduced to a cyclopean, arthritic talon.

‘Lures,’ Sergeant Otto Hanoszek said to me as I caught my breath behind a wall of pitted iron. ‘Those damned ships were lures.’ He pulled off his rebreather and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his trenchcoat. He was a thin man, much younger than he looked, with a face in perpetual flush. He was greying, looked like a veteran, and commanded his squad like one, but was only a few years older than I was, and the mantle of commissar still felt new on my shoulders.

‘They were lures,’ I agreed. ‘And they worked.’

Hanoszek waved an arm, encompassing all of Aionos. ‘Not for the first time, either.’

He was right about that, too. I ducked my head around the tear in the hull and looked uphill. I hadn’t given up hope of gauging the location and size of the enemy forces. We needed better intelligence than ‘high ground’ and ‘many.’ At least a thousand, I guessed.

Night had fallen on Aionos. Its planet, the gas giant Kylasma, took up a third of the sky, and was still only half risen. A green smear through the drizzling clouds, it silhouetted the spires of the moon. They were twisted, broken shapes. They were the accumulated wrecks of thousands of ships, the centuries-old graveyard of the victims of the heretics we had come to purge.

‘Lures,’ I repeated. ‘So the attack on Statheros was one too. Lures to catch what?’

‘Us?’ asked Hanoszek.

‘I think so. But why?’

The incursion into the nearby Statheros System had been an atrocity. Three planetoid mining colonies devastated, their resources plundered, and everywhere the eight-pointed star of Chaos daubed with the blood of slaughtered civilians. Sixth Company’s frigate, the Castellan Belasco, was dispatched. We had pursued what we had thought to be a force no larger than a squadron of lighters to Aionos. We had made moonfall and descended upon what we had thought was an encampment. It had been just another decoy.

The rain worked its way down behind my cap and down my collar. Its slight acidity burned. The troopers were used to this and worse on Armageddon, but as the precipitation broke down the metal, it released combustible pockets of gas from the wrecks.

‘I hear you were on Mistral, commissar,’ Hanoszek said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Was it as bad as they say?’

I shrugged. ‘We had wind there instead of rain. Take your pick.’

He didn’t need to know any more. The wounds were still fresh. Some were still bleeding.

Las-fire streaked past my face as I pulled back. The sergeant grunted in surprise. ‘Some good shots up there.’

‘In that position, I should hope so,’ I said. ‘There is nothing impressive about their having the upper hand in these circumstances.’

Hanoszek laughed. ‘As you say, commissar. Of course, they also created these circumstances.’

He was right, of course. I liked Hanoszek. He had a clear eye for the battlefield and the lunacies of war. What might have sounded like misplaced admiration for the enemy coming from someone else was, with him, a simple acknowledgement of how things stood.

‘Then let’s see if the captain has something to say about changing them,’ I said. I had seen him move on towards the uphill end of the wreck.

‘Yes, commissar.’ His tone was noncommittal.

We clambered over heaps of broken metal and through the ghosts of the ship. Here and there, a bulkhead still projected sideways from the hull. Doorways without walls or rooms stood like skeletal sentinels. Along the way, we passed small groups of soldiers. Clad in their iron helmets and light-tan trenchcoats, they rested. Many were wounded. I was young, still feeling my way as a commissar, but I was no novice at war. I knew the challenges of this interlude. The relative safety after the punishing, unsuccessful fight was its own form of curse. During combat, there was no time to think of anything except the act itself. Now, in the limbo of inaction, when wounds were felt and when reflection was possible, was when thoughts of what might come next surfaced, and became apparent, and morale suffered. I stopped briefly to speak to a few troopers. I let them speak to me first.

I have known commissars who declare that there is no need to understand the soldiers who are in their charge. They say that it is enough to demand obedience to creed and mission. Perhaps it should be. But to understand the troops is to be better able to direct them. I sometimes think that the coldest commissars are fearful, though they would never admit this. They are afraid that if they get to know the soldiers as human beings, they will find it more difficult to carry out the more merciless aspects of their duty.

If this is so, they are cowards and a disgrace to our uniform.

So I listened to the troopers, and I spoke to them, trying to temper my response to the needs I heard. Where there was firmness of purpose, I gave encouragement. There were only two instances where I heard faltering that required discipline. Both cases, I noticed with some concern, were soldiers who appeared to be close to the captain. I had seen them drinking with him in the Castellan Belasco’s dining hall.

Context matters. So I had been taught, and so I had already learned, through hard lessons in the field. Context was why I tried, in those early days, to memorise the names of every soldier who fell within my remit. The day would come when that was no longer possible. I am pained by the thought of the anonymous thousands who, in later years, would die because of my decisions. I am pained, but not haunted. I know that if I had not made those decisions, the numbers would be infinitely worse. Context matters.

And on that day, on Aionos, I could still know all the names. I noted the problem cases, and a doubt festered.

We found Captain Jeren Marsec near the uphill end of the hull. He stood between two pieces of bulkhead that rose twenty metres above our heads. He was well under cover, but ahead of him was a large gap in the shell, wide enough for ten men to pass through. The other sergeants were there too, and a large number of troopers had gathered to listen. Marsec stood on a heap of refuse so all could see him. He was grinning. He could grin well. Though he had the flash, pride and handsome profile, he was no aristocrat. Before conscription, he had been a foreman in a Helsreach manufactorum. His natural charisma had carried him far. He was as popular with his superiors as he was with his subordinates.

‘So, Yarrick,’ he said when he spotted me, ‘ready to spoil the enemy’s little game?’

‘What does he think he’s playing at?’ Hanoszek muttered under his breath. I almost didn’t hear him.

I frowned. I didn’t mind the sergeant’s borderline insubordination. What I disliked was Marsec’s flippancy. He should show confidence in our ultimate triumph. But the confidence he radiated seemed to be based solely on his own self-admitted brilliance. It was perhaps true that, on the tactical level, we were engaged in a game with the cultists. But it was a serious one, and the enemy was winning. There was something in Marsec’s tone of voice that suggested he did not respect our foe’s skills. We had already been given ample evidence that we should.

Cheers greeted the captain’s question. Perhaps I was wrong. Hanoszek wasn’t happy, and some of the other sergeants were looking grim, but most of the soldiers around us hooted their approval of Marsec. He had, it was true, led many successful missions. So I swallowed my doubts for the moment and said, ‘I am always ready to ruin the day of a renegade, captain.’

‘Good.’ He pointed at the gap. ‘What do you see there?’

‘A way into the field of fire.’

He wagged a finger at me. That summoned a somewhat more nervous laugh from the troops. The commissar’s uniform is not well-loved. Nor should it be. It is meant to be respected and feared. Marsec’s little show at my office’s expense was expertly calculated to endear him even more to his company, but it was a brave soul who openly enjoyed mockery of that sort. ‘You lack imagination, Yarrick. I expected better of you. Where you see a death trap, I see opportunity.’

‘Oh?’ I grew uneasy.

‘The entire company is going to charge through that opening.’

My doubts about Marsec were twofold. In the first place, his very popularity was, I thought, a problem. He loved his troops, that was clear, and they loved him back. That was all very well, but I worried that the affection he felt would get in the way of making the hard choices that befell every command sooner or later. Would he be able to issue the orders that would lead to the sacrifice of some squads for the preservation of the rest of the company?

Secondly, and paradoxically, he was reckless. I believe this was because he was aware of his popularity. He wanted to be worthy of it. He wanted to give his troops glory. It is one thing to send soldiers to their death with the full knowledge that one is doing so, and of the necessity of this action. It is another to make a grand gesture with no thought of the consequences. And because his troops loved him, they would throw themselves after his dream no matter how unsound. There was a cult of personality growing around Marsec. That was dangerous. They always are. I still believe that today as I wrestle with my own.

‘He’s mad,’ said Hanoszek.

I silenced him with a look. I approached Marsec. At the base of his makeshift podium I said, ‘I wonder if you might explain a few details to me, captain.’ I kept my voice low, hoping he would take the hint. I had no desire to undermine his authority without sufficient cause.

He understood perfectly well. He remained where he was, and announced, ‘Commissar Yarrick is worried. He thinks I’m about to order a suicidal charge. Let me reassure you, comrades, I am doing no such thing. There is a risk. Of course there is. This is war! And without risk, there is no glory!’

Shouts of affirmation from the company. A bit muted, though. Hanoszek and I weren’t the only ones to see the obvious drawback of running straight into enemy fire.

‘I am in constant touch with the Castellan Belasco,’ Marsec continued. ‘We have the means to destroy this nest of rats in one swift move. We will present such a target, and such a threat, to our foes that they will be forced to respond in kind. They will mount a counter-charge, or they will have to concentrate their fire massively. Either way, they will be giving away their precise position. At that moment, the Belasco will strike with an orbital barrage. Comrades, are you with me?’

The roar was unequivocal. They were.

Marsec stepped down with the cheers still deafening.

‘So?’ he asked me. He had to speak into my ear and raise his voice so I could hear him. ‘What do you think, Yarrick?’

‘It’s a big gamble.’

‘Worth taking, though. We have to try something to break out of this box they’ve put us in.’

‘And if you’re wrong? If it doesn’t work? We could lose this war in this single action.’

‘We won’t,’ Marsec assured me. He clapped my back. ‘The rockets are ready to fly. The ship’s augurs almost have the enemy’s position. The problem is that those vermin are a bit too spread out, and under cover. We need to draw them out.’

‘We’re likely to do that,’ I conceded. I still didn’t like the plan. It felt wrong. Wars were rarely won by glamorous schemes.

‘So we shall!’ he said, delighted. He thought he’d won me over.

I was not convinced. Even so, I took my place at the front of the line as the company prepared to charge out of the hull. I would be coming out of the left-hand side of the gap. Marsec was in the centre. Hanoszek’s squad was a few rows back and on the right. The sergeant made a point of walking past me before joining his troopers.

‘What do you think, commissar?’ he asked. ‘Is this going to be a good death?’

His question was honestly meant. He wasn’t joking.

‘If this tactic achieves what the captain expects, then yes, to fall in this effort would be a good death.’

Hanoszek gave me a lopsided grin. ‘I already knew that. Do you think it will work?’

That was his true question: were the deaths going to be worth it? Was he about to die for a good cause, or in the service of another man’s ego? And I had answered him like a politician. I was a political officer. That wasn’t the same thing at all. Not if I could help it. So I gave a direct answer to his direct question. ‘I don’t know.’

His grin became broader. ‘Fair enough.’ He moved on.

‘The Castellan Belasco stands ready for our signal,’ Marsec announced a few moments later. ‘Warriors of Armageddon, forward!’

We charged out of the shelter and emerged halfway up the slope towards the ridge. On all sides, the corpses of the renegades’ victims loomed over us. We were storming up a valley of wrecked ships. Few bore any resemblance to what they had once been. They had become massive tombstones, designed by lunatics. Metal reached for the sky with twisted desire. There were jagged angles the size of habs. Rotting husks, broken cylinders, fragments of towers and tumbled superstructures stretched away forever. We were in the land of industry’s death.

I yelled my challenge at our enemies, daring them to cut me down. I raced with pistol drawn and sword upheld. I fired blindly into the night. And though I threw myself completely into the task of killing and survival, a part of my mind looked at the wider picture of two forces clashing in an ocean of wreckage and was dismayed.

The enemy did not return fire. There was no response at all to our attack. I stopped firing. Was anyone still there? We kept up the advance. In less than a minute, those of us at the front were almost at the ridge. I looked back. The totality of Sixth Company was now on the slope.

We reached the top. Before us was a landscape of exposed corridors and gigantic heaps of slag. There was no sign of the renegades. We stopped. If we advanced further, the footing would be treacherous and slow.

‘Captain?’ I asked. I knew we had fallen into another trap, but I couldn’t see what it was. Seconds were ticking by. With each one that passed, I cursed myself for failing to see what had to be done.

Marsec was just as confused. ‘Get me the vox!’ he yelled.

Trooper Versten ran up with the communications equipment. ‘I have the ship,’ he said.

Marsec grabbed the handset. ‘Come in, Castellan Belasco,’ he said.

‘We are here, Captain Marsec,’ a voice from the frigate crackled back. I moved closer to hear the exchange. ‘Are you in position?’

I didn’t recognise the speaker.

‘We are,’ Marsec replied. ‘But there’s no one here. Abort mission.’

‘We have you,’ said the voice.

We have you. What did that mean? Marsec stared at the handset, then at me. His face was blank with confusion. I’m sure mine was too. When the realisation hit, it couldn’t have taken more than two heartbeats after Marsec had received that answer. It was still too long. When I pick at this memory, I want to grab that commissar by the lapels and shake the young fool into action. How could he not see what was coming? How did he not realise the danger the moment he stared at that empty ridge?

My anger with my younger self is not rational. I realise this. It is powered by hindsight, motivated by my wish that I could have averted what happened next, and by other, later, greater frustrations. I have become much better at foreseeing disaster. But thanks to the stupidity of powerful men, I don’t necessarily have any better luck at heading it off.

So it took me those few beats. Even then I was still confused, but the presentiment of doom was strong. I knew enough to listen to it.

‘Take cover!’ I yelled. I plunged back down the hill. ‘With me!’ I didn’t worry about the protocols of the chain of command. I was obeying dire necessity. I ran in a diagonal path, abandoning the clear route of the slope to forge into the thickets of wreckage. It was slower going, but there was cover, and I had to get us away from where the enemy wanted us to be.

I glanced back. Marsec was among those following me. Another contingent was disappearing into the ruins on the other side of the path. Then a comet pierced the night. The orbital bombardment was coming, and it was aimed at us. The barrage bombs landed on the peak of the ridge. They were little more than large masses. But then, so are meteors. Dropped from space, their impact was devastating. The hill became a volcano. Tonnes of metal were vaporised or turned molten. An angry god hammered the ground, smashing it, reshaping it. Hundreds of little insects in human form died in an instant. I was running, and then I was tumbling, and then I didn’t know if I was on my feet or not. The world had become a riot of sense impressions, all of them too much, too loud, too painful. I kept moving. I didn’t know where I was going. As the night screamed, I barely even knew who I was. But if I stopped, I would die, and so would the soldiers who had followed me down the hill. That I knew. So I struggled on, buffeted by the monster sound, pursued by the heat of metallic lava. Behind us, the world flew upward in blazing fragments. Wreckage became ash. The air was choked with rust.

It ended. The thunder faded to the sullen crackling of flame and the groans of settling metal. After the blaze of the impact, night came back down, thicker and darker than before. It was difficult to breathe. I stood for a few moments, mind and body thrumming like a struck bell, trying to clear my head and understand where I was. The scrap heap that surrounded me was even more fragmentary than the hull we had sheltered in before. It was bits of framework and shards of bulkhead, piled every which way on top of each other. I felt as if I were viewing reality through a cracked lens.

I found the direction of the slope, reoriented myself, and looked for other survivors. We came together bit by bit, moving slowly back towards the centre of the bombardment. What was left of Sixth Company on this side of the wreckage began to cohere. Our losses were great. We were down by well over half our strength. I hoped, but didn’t dare expect, that there were some survivors on the other side of where the path had been.

We approached a transformed landscape. The closer we came to the point of impact, the more the wreckage lost all semblance of form. It was just vague shapes and angles now. There were still some big fragments, but for the most part we were moving between and over hills of scrap.

I found Marsec. At first he just followed me like a servitor. Gradually, he became functional again. He was a long way from leading, but he remembered his role well enough to be the visible centre around which the company could reform. There were a few dozen of us when we neared the crater. The soldiers had donned their rebreathers to better deal with the clogged air. I kept coughing up black phlegm.

‘They took the ship,’ Marsec was saying. His voice was hoarse. His eyes were full of a horror that was greater than the tactical disaster. He seemed to be trying to focus on something concrete. But his gaze flicked and flinched over every burned, mutilated corpse we passed. ‘They took the ship. How is that possible? We saw their fleet. They couldn’t take a frigate.’

‘They’ve been taking ships for centuries,’ I pointed out.

‘Civilian vessels. I haven’t seen any Imperial Navy wreckage here, have you?’

None that was recent, true.

Marsec didn’t wait for my answer. ‘How did they do it? They couldn’t have. But they did. How–’

He stopped as we passed a wide pool of congealing metal. Its heat baked our exposed skin. Heads and limbs of men and women poked up from the surface, silvery-grey statues of agony. There must have been at least fifteen dead in this location alone. Marsec’s face twisted. I saw a man who was experiencing guilt as a physical blow. He looked at me as if he would say something, but his personal horror was beyond his ability to communicate. I had no forgiveness to offer, and he didn’t seek it. His decision had brought this fate to the troops he loved, and he knew it. I nodded that I understood, and we moved on.

I wasn’t sure where we were going. It made a kind of sense to attempt to regroup close the point where we had been scattered. Beyond that, I had no ideas. I didn’t know where the enemy was.

The entire top half of the ridge had vanished. The barrage bombs had left two gigantic craters. Our initial charge had been to the north, and we now stopped at the edge of the western crater. It was deep, wide and unnatural. Something massive poked up from the bowl. It had been untouched by the explosions, which had simply brushed away the centuries of soil. It was the tip of a pyramid. The stone was black, with a green tinge. Its designs were complex, alien and completely unfamiliar to me. They were not Chaotic, that much I could tell. They were too regular. If anything, they spoke of a deathly, soulless order. Part of the formation of a commissar at the schola progenium was necessarily instruction in the enemies of the Imperium, their nature and kind. This was something new. It looked like a tomb. And if, as seemed to be the case, this was just the peak of the structure, and its lines continued underground, it was a tomb the size of a city.

One of the survivors was Versten, and he had been trying the vox every few seconds as we reassembled what we could of the company. We were down to not much more than platoon strength, almost all regular infantry. We had lost all of our heavy weapons, and had precious few grenade launchers and flamers remaining.

Perhaps because we were on higher ground now, or perhaps because the air was beginning to clear, he finally made contact with another operator. The sliver of good news shook Marsec out of his lethargy. There were other survivors, led by Hanoszek, and they had reached the lip of the other crater.

‘What are you seeing there?’ Marsec asked the sergeant.

‘There’s a… captain, I’m not sure what it is.’

‘That’s all right. There’s one here too.’

‘What are your orders?’

‘Hook up with us here. We will hold our position until–’

The las streak missed Marsec’s head by a hair’s breadth. We dropped to the ground. The single shot was joined by dozens. They were coming from the other side of the crater, and to our left. At the same moment, Hanoszek’s voice started yelling that they were taking fire.

‘Back down the slope.’ Marsec shouted into the vox unit. ‘Full retreat!’

But as we turned to start down, that path was closed to us too. With a roar, something dropped down from the clouds, and landed at the base of the slope. It trapped us, and it revealed how the ship had been taken. It was a Thunderhawk.

‘We’re saved,’ a trooper gasped. His name was Rohm, and I made a mental note to terrorise him thoroughly, should we survive this day.

‘We are not,’ I hissed. ‘Look at the markings.’

The air was still dusty, but even from several hundred metres away, the gunship’s livery was unmistakable: two scythes the colour of magma, crossed over a background of night, between them a cluster of burning skulls. I didn’t expect the trooper to know the beings who fought under that emblem. I did expect him to know that this design belonged on no flag of the Emperor’s Adeptus Astartes.

The xenos who had built the pyramid in the crater were a mystery to me, but I knew of the Chaos Space Marines who descended from the Thunderhawk’s assault ramp. They were part of the store of dark knowledge that it had been my responsibility to learn. The need to punish ourselves with this dangerous lore had been impressed upon me and my fellow students in an address given by the Lord Commissar Simeon Rasp. ‘You are the guardians of the Guard,’ he had told us. ‘Vigilance requires knowledge. Some knowledge requires faith to be withstood. Hold fast to all three.’

I did so now. ‘Those are Harkanor’s Reavers,’ I said.

The squad of five massive figures began moving up the slope. Their armour was a deep black, broken up by lines that glowed like flame. As they drew nearer, it seemed to me that those lines were not markings. They were too irregular. And they seemed to be moving.

‘We cannot fight them,’ I said. Not so reduced in number, and under harrying fire.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Marsec said.

I waited for him to issue orders. He did not. If we paused much longer, we would be finished. I turned my head to look down into the crater. There was one route left to us. ‘Some of those doorways are open,’ I said, pointing at the pyramid.

Marsec grunted in surprise. He hesitated. I gave him a second longer, thinking that even that might be a mistake. Then he called out, ‘We go down!’

The fire from the heretics intensified as we descended the slope. We shot back, but they were still attacking us from behind strong shelter, and our only sense of where they were came from the flashes of las. We lost several more troopers on the way down. Not all of them died right away. But we could not stop.

There was an open vault at the base of the pyramid. We made for it. As its bulk loomed over us, an ancient night made of stone, my instincts cried out to stop, to run another way, to try anything other than go inside. I didn’t listen. There was no choice. I forced myself to run even faster as I hit the threshold. If I displayed reluctance, my example would be ruinous. So I plunged in, calling out as I did, so all would know that I was still alive. Marsec was right behind me, and once I was inside, he came too, bellowing something that wasn’t coherent but sounded enough like an order to get the company to follow.

Once we were all inside, we paused. Our eyes adjusted to the darkness. It wasn’t total. The green designs in the smooth stone glowed like near-dormant lumen strips. They showed that we were in a corridor that carried on in a perfectly straight line for some distance. We could see just enough to advance, if that was what we had to do. Marsec posted a watch at the door while Versten and I contacted Hanoszek’s contingent. I had to warn him about the Traitor Space Marines.

‘We saw them,’ he replied. They had taken refuge in the other pyramid. ‘What are the orders?’ he asked.

A good question. I suspected that Hanoszek knew that it was. ‘Stand by,’ I told him, and had Versten fetch Marsec. When the captain arrived, I filled him in. ‘The sergeant wants to know what action he should take,’ I said, and offered the handset.

Marsec stared at it, then took it. As he did, a call came from the entrance. ‘Enemies approaching!’

That seemed to be the additional jolt Marsec needed. His voice was sharper, more in the present moment, when he spoke to Hanoszek. ‘Any sign of hostiles, sergeant?’

‘Yes, captain. They’re coming down the slope.’

‘Go deeper into the pyramid,’ Marsec said. ‘Use the space as best you can. So will we. When we make it out again, we’ll link up with you.’

There was a pause. Then Hanoszek said, ‘Captain, there are lights in here. These structures might not be quite dead.’

‘They must have been buried for thousands of years. Whatever was in them most certainly is dead. We have no time to do anything else, sergeant. You have your orders. Go!’

‘Understood.’

Marsec passed the handset back to Versten. He looked as if he wanted something from me. I nodded. That seemed to satisfy him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

He led the way down the corridor. He sent no scouting party ahead. He was right. We had no other options. Our best hopes at this moment were speed and luck. And yet, I felt that he would have charged into the darkness even if there had been time to feel our way more carefully through possible enemy territory. I wondered if he really had learned anything from the disaster we had suffered.

We moved down the corridor. After a hundred metres, it branched left and right, while straight ahead was a steep ramp. We went down. The ramp switchbacked a hundred and eighty degrees, and deposited us in another wide corridor. This one had many forks along its length.

We could hear voice and the tread of many boots echoing down from above. The heretics had entered the pyramid.

‘I want an ambush point,’ Marsec said as we jogged down the corridor. Either our eyes were finding it easier to see in the ghostly green half-light, or it was growing stronger.

‘Plenty of intersections here,’ I pointed out.

He shook his head. ‘Main tunnel’s too wide. After the surprise, they’ll still be able to use their numbers.’

He was right. I didn’t bother to mention that it was not just the numbers we had to worry about. I was relieved to hear him thinking like a warrior again.

We hurried down to the end of the corridor, and followed another ramp down to the next level. We were rushing to put more distance between us and our pursuers, to gain a little bit more time, but I was uneasy about venturing so far into the xenos construct. The risks behind us were bad enough. If we ran into something worse ahead, we could lose the entire company.

The third level down had even more branching corridors. We were in a maze. Though we had to take a side passage, it would be very easy to get lost once we were off the main path. The thought must have crossed Marsec’s mind, too. He took in all the choices and hesitated. We didn’t have long. I could still hear the heretics coming. Our lead had only grown by a few seconds at most. Worse, I could distinguish, above the general echoes of the pursuit, the heavy tread of something very large. The Traitor Space Marines were in the pyramid.

Trooper Lommell said, ‘With your permission, captain,’ and he barely nodded before she ran forward, ducking down one corridor, then another. The third seemed to offer what she wanted.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘We should set up an ambush down here.’

‘Why there?’ Marsec asked, but he brought the rest of the company forward.

‘It’s very tight, and it gives us a usable back exit. I ran with a gang in the underhive of Tartarus on Armageddon, sir.’ She carried the marks of her background. Her face was scarred with slashes in a cracked-glass pattern. When I had first seen her, I had assumed I was looking at an injury. It was not. It was a survival tactic in Tartarus. She had sliced her face herself, as a warning to her foes of how far she was willing to go. ‘This environment isn’t that different,’ she said. ‘It’s just cleaner.’

‘Good. Give us your expertise, trooper.’

She took us a few twists deeper into the labyrinth. The passageways were all empty, silent. They were dead. Except for the light. Why was it present? Whose purpose did it serve? The pyramid felt like a tomb, yet we had seen nothing that looked like markers, and what need did a tomb have for illumination?

I managed to keep track of our turns. Lommell set us up at a point where the narrow corridor we had taken had two intersections ten metres apart. Those branches, narrower still, fed on either side to other halls that would take us back to the main one. We had a perfect kill zone, and an easy retreat.

‘Tartarus gave you a fine education,’ I whispered to her as we waited for our foe.

‘I didn’t think so at the time.’

‘We rarely do.’

We made just enough noise to give away which branch we had taken. Marsec sent a few soldiers on to create the illusion that we were still on the move, further along this passageway. The renegades took the bait. They rushed into our trap, laughing at the sport they were having.

This was my first look at them. In the dim green light of the pyramid, I couldn’t see many details, but I had a sense of degraded human beings, wearing patchwork uniforms, no doubt stolen from their multitude of victims over the years. Their corruption had a hundred shades, yet it also had a unity. Across all the faces were runic tattoos and scarification. All the designs, however varied and however hard to make out, were an affront to the soul. They were, in the end, a single thing: the brand of Chaos.

The cultists were charging in without discipline or caution, which was madness, doubly so in a structure that must have been as alien to them as it was to us. I regarded them with contempt as they crossed the kill zone.

Just before we opened fire, I saw one of the Harkanor’s Reavers loom out of the darkness. He brought with him his own terrible light. The designs on his armour that had puzzled me stood out clearly. They were cracks in the ceramite. Sorcerous heat spread fissures in the armour as if it were an eggshell. Baleful flame shone through. Then the cracks would seal, and new ones would appear. He was a mass of cooling lava given the shape of a man. That such a monster had once been human was beyond belief.

There was little chance that our ambush would take him down. We had no choice but to try. Culling the numbers of his followers would be a meaningless gesture if he still came after us. I prayed that Marsec, positioned in the shadows opposite me, realised this truth and waited.

He did. The forward elements of the cultists moved beyond the kill zone. The Reaver entered it. Marsec waited a few seconds more, letting another dozen renegades escape, waiting until the Traitor Space Marine was close to the centre of the trap. Then he gave the signal by firing his laspistol.

We opened up. Enfilading fire filled the space of the corridor. The las was so bright, it was as if we had brought day to the tomb. The heretics caught in the web of energy beams went down in seconds. The concentrated fire was such that they didn’t have a chance to retaliate. Their comrades ahead doubled back. They tried to mount a counter-attack, but by staying out of our field of fire, they had no angle on our positions in the side passageways. We had reversed the situation that we had faced outside. Now we were the ones under cover, ripping our foes apart.

Then there was the Reaver. He stood in the middle of the barrage with no more concern than if it were a rain shower. He raised a flamer and launched a stream of burning promethium into the nearest passageway. Screams filled the corridors. A corner of our ambush failed.

Lommell trained her fire on the Reaver’s flamer as he fired into the passageway one down from ours. The weapon exploded, drenching the Chaos Space Marine in liquid flame. From the grille of his helmet came an inhuman snarl. He staggered back a step. He wiped at the promethium. It seemed to annoy him rather than harm him, but he could not see with fire engulfing his head.

From the other end of the ambush, Trooper Rohm fired his grenade launcher. The frag struck the Reaver full in the chest. It blew out the flames, but rocked the monster to the core. He roared in anger and pain even as he yanked a bolt pistol from his thigh and fired a wide barrage of shells. They didn’t need accuracy. Any that hit one of our positions killed the troopers in the front line.

Where the grenade had hit, the Reaver’s armour was a molten mass. Instead of cracks, here was a wide gap, blazing with eldritch fire. The ceramite was slow to reform. I leapt out of the passageway in a forward roll, staying low, beneath the spray of bolter shells. I came out of the roll in a crouch. I was right at the Reaver’s feet. I aimed my bolt pistol at the roiling, burning chest, and shot the Traitor Space Marine point blank. Energies from the materium and the warp collided. The explosion knocked me flat. The Reaver stood there with a great void where his chest had been. His ribcage poked out, burned and broken. Where his hearts and lungs should have been there was now nothing. The fire went out. The monster’s arms hung limp, and then he toppled backward.

The cultists faltered. We turned our attention to them. They had thought to trap us between themselves and their superhuman master. Now they were caught, exposed, in the narrow corridor. We cut them down. I moved, crouching low, back to cover, and added my fire to the assault. I was exhilarated. We all were. The ambush had worked better than we could possibly have hoped.

As the last of the heretics fell, I glanced back, and my heart sank. The enemy had been cautious after all. A second force, larger than the first, was approaching. With it came another Reaver.

We were outnumbered, we had lost the element of surprise, and our cover was useless against power armour and a flamer. If we fought, we would die.

‘Go!’ Marsec shouted.

We bolted down the side passageways, taking the route Lommell had mapped out for us. Our only advantage now was speed. We knew where we were going. We sprinted, once more putting distance and time between us and the enemy. As I took corners at high speed, I blinked away the effect of the glowing designs. It would have been easy, at this pace, to follow their lines straight into a black wall. I turned into a wider corridor, and took it back to the main hall. Our portion of the company linked up. Marsec looked towards the way back up, but there was the sound of more pursuit coming from that direction, so we plunged on deeper into the pyramid.

We went down three more levels. The heretics were close. We didn’t have time to set up another ambush. We kept moving forward, even when we reached a level that was ominously different. It still had a maze of corridors along its periphery, but the centre was a massive block. Its rectilinear designs were the most complex yet, and their light was the brightest, and most deathly. The main hall widened out before the monolith, and became a series of parallel tunnels that dropped beneath it. When we reached the tunnels, we paused. Their slope was steep, almost a fall. In their depths glowed a green mist.

And there was something moving. We could hear what sounded like the shifting of weights. Worse, we heard footsteps. The light flickered, as if something had passed between us and the source. There were other noises too. They were uncomfortably like voices. They spoke no recognisable words, and they could not come from any living throat. But down there, something walked and spoke. Whatever had built this pyramid was not done with it yet.

We couldn’t have been perched at the edge of that descent for more than a second or two. That was long enough for us to hear and see all that was necessary. Marsec looked at me. We were trapped, yes. But we had one option. Perhaps it would be enough.

‘We hide,’ I said.

Marsec nodded. He raised his arm, waved his finger in a circular motion, giving the order to scatter. There were plenty of side corridors within reach, and we took them, racing for their shadows where we crouched down, motionless, silent, waiting for the arrival of our pursuers.

Throwing the dice on the fate of Sixth Company.

The Steel Legion is a proud fighting force. It has every reason to be so. It did then, too, though its time of greatest glory and most painful sacrifice, which would also be mine, still lay over a century in the future. This, now, was not a moment relished by any of the soldiers of Sixth Company as we hid in the dark and hoped that the enemy passed by. Doing so grated against my self-worth as well. But the Steel Legion has not earned its triumphs by fighting blindly, or without sense. We had a chance of victory here, and to seize it meant swallowing pride. That requires its own form of courage.

We waited. I watched, as close to the exit of my refuge as I dared, as the cultists arrived. Even with the damage we had done, they were still three times our number. The Reaver towered over them. They advanced to the edge of the tunnels. The Reaver barely paused long enough to look ahead before he led the renegades down the central tunnel. I listened to their war cries as they descended. A minute later, the cries became screams.

The first screams were of fear. Then, as I heard what sounded like energy discharges of some kind, I heard screams of agony. The Reaver roared. Guns fired. The sounds of alien energy intensified. The green glow became brilliant, a strobing, slashing light. The screams stopped as if severed. The Reaver’s bellows filled with shock and pain. Then they too, fell silent.

Marsec stepped back out of the shadows. I joined him. We stared down into the tunnels. There was still movement down there, still the alien sounds. For the moment, at least, they weren’t moving upward.

Marsec whispered, ‘What’s down there?’

‘Something we are not equipped to fight, captain. But we can report its existence.’

‘Agreed.’

Moving quietly, limiting himself to hand gestures alone, Marsec signalled our withdrawal. We maintained silence for the first two levels. When it became clear that the pyramid’s denizens weren’t following, and that the last of our enemies had gone down to their annihilation, Versten went back to work with the vox, trying to raise the scattered elements of Sixth Company.

Marsec called him up to the front with us. ‘Anything?’ he asked.

‘No answer from Sergeant Hanoszek, sir. But I received a transmission from Sergeant Brenken on the Castellan Belasco. She and some armsmen have freed themselves and are fighting back. She says that the occupying force is small. The Traitor Space Marines were the ones who captured our ship, and they left behind only a minimal group of cultists. They’re armed, of course, but…’

‘But it wouldn’t take much to dislodge them,’ I finished.

‘That’s what she thinks, commissar, yes.’

I gave Marsec a significant look. Our Valkyries, some distance from the ridge, should still be intact. Even with our numbers reduced to not much more than two squads’ worth, we could retake the ship.

‘Good,’ Marsec said. ‘We’ll link up with Sergeant Hanoszek. With our company reunited, we shall purge the scum from our decks.’

I frowned. He was assuming that Hanoszek’s contingent still existed. Two Reavers had come after us. Unless some were mounting guard outside the pyramids, which seemed unlikely, that meant the other three were pursuing Hanoszek and his troops. Those were formidable odds. Marsec was basing his strategy on an assumption for which we had no evidence. I was uneasy, but decided to say nothing until we had reached the surface.

As we were climbing out of the crater, Versten managed to get through to Hanoszek’s vox operator for a few seconds. The other fragment of Sixth Company was being pressed hard, and driven deeper into the pyramid. There was no question of their being able to set up an ambush. The heretics and the Reavers were upon them. They could not break off.

‘Send a message that help is coming,’ Marsec said.

‘Belay that, trooper,’ I told Versten. To Marsec, I said, ‘Captain, a word.’

I expected him to be furious at my intervention. Instead, he seemed eager to talk, as if it was important to him that he bring me about to his perspective. We left the troops at the lip of the crater, and moved down the slope a short distance to speak behind a rounded heap of congealed slag.

‘We cannot rescue them,’ I said.

‘We have to try.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘we are duty-bound not to. Such an attempt would be doomed. You know that as well as I do. We would then be leaving a frigate of the Imperial Navy in enemy hands. That would be an unforgivable failure.’

‘I have already failed my troops once this day,’ Marsec said. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘You will if you follow this course. They will all die.’

‘I have to try.’

I looked at him steadily. He did not blink. He knew exactly what he was saying. He knew the consequences. His ego had led us to this pass. He understood this, and sought redemption. But we didn’t have the luxury for redemption. We needed victory. Before me stood a good man. The Imperium needed him to be something more, though. It needed him to be a good officer. Instead, he was the ruin of one. He was, in this moment of crisis, proving himself unable to make the truly hard decision. He was throwing that responsibility onto me.

‘I cannot allow you to jeopardise this mission,’ I told him.

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘No, you can’t. But you cannot make me abandon my troops.’

I pulled my pistol from its holster.

Marsec gave me a sad smile. He got down on his knees. ‘Do what is necessary, Commissar Yarrick.’

‘Why are you forcing my hand?’

‘Stop me or let me do what I must.’

I put the muzzle of the pistol against his forehead. He closed his eyes. Peace suffused his features. I felt a grimace contort mine. I knew what I was doing was correct. I have had to use this ultimate sanction against officers more often than I care to count. Each instance is a tragedy, a necessity whose causes are so unnecessary. But never before or since have I encountered a soldier who accepted my judgement with such grace. I hope I never will again.

The hard decision was mine, as was the harder action. Silently, I cursed Marsec for this moment that I would have to live with for all my years to come. I curse him still. He was, even then, still not fully honest with either of us. He was seeking a martyr’s end as redemption for his failure. In this way, he turned away from the hard decision. He made it mine instead. Mine the choice, and mine the even harder action.

So be it.

I pulled the trigger.

I marched back to the company. A horrified silence had fallen over it. ‘We make for the landing site,’ I said. ‘We are retaking the Castellan Belasco.’ I didn’t mind the gazes, whether averted or hostile. They couldn’t add to the burden I was already carrying, or to the further weight I was about to shoulder.

‘Get Hanoszek,’ I told Versten. ‘Don’t stop trying until you do.’

We had reached the base of the slope when Versten passed me the handset. It was hard to make out what Hanoszek was saying. His words kept being cut off by what sounded like static, but I knew to be weapons fire. He was asking for help.

‘Sergeant,’ I said, ‘this is Yarrick. We cannot provide assistance. The ship is being held. That is the key to this mission’s success. Do you understand?’

More explosions and cries in the background. Then, ‘Yes.’

‘Is there any way you can bypass the enemy?’

‘No. We’ve already lost half our strength. They’re backing us down a tunnel. Commissar, there’s movement down there.’

I closed my eyes for a moment, hating what I was about to say. ‘Sergeant, go deeper. Head towards that movement.’

Another pause. I didn’t think it was only due to the fighting. ‘Commissar?’

‘What is down there will kill the enemy. Sixth Company will be victorious.’ Again, I asked, ‘Do you understand?’

There was no pause this time. ‘I do.’

‘The Imperium thanks you, Sergeant Hanoszek.’

‘This is simply our duty, sir.’

He would have made a fine officer.

‘I will remain on the vox,’ I told him. ‘All the way.’

‘Thank you.’

We had no more exchanges after that. He left the channel open. I heard the sounds of the end. I kept my promise, and stayed present, bearing what witness I could. I was there as we reached the landing site, and boarded the Valkyries. Hanoszek and his portion of the Sixth fought well and hard and as long as they could, luring the enemy inexorably to disaster. The fight was still going on as we reached the frigate, and the immoral, leaderless rabble that occupied the bridge was confronted with the anger of the Steel Legion.

I was barely aware of our victory on the ship. All of my attention was focused on the terrible victory inside that pyramid on Aionos. I was there to hear Hanoszek, in mortal fear but still fighting, cry, ‘Throne, what are they?’

He would receive no answer. None of us would for many years to come. Years of blessed ignorance.

But on that day, I still sought the pain of knowledge. I forced myself to learn the cost of my decision. I listened to the transmission until the sounds of battle ceased. I listened for almost an hour after that. I listened as the reclaimed Castellan Belasco prepared to leave the system.

I listened to the hollow, hissing remains of the hard choices.

EVIL EYE

There was a jitter in Bekket’s eye that I didn’t like. We were trained at the Schola Progenium to watch for the early signs of political deviance or dereliction of duty. That meant being able to read all the nuances of body language. Hans Bekket was no traitor, and he was no coward. But the time of our imprisonment was eroding him, physically and spiritually, as surely as the sands of Golgotha had eaten away at the metal and flesh of our forces.

I had been watching him for several shifts now. How many days those were, I had no way of telling. The concept of time as a series of moments arriving from the endless potential of the future to become a distinct and defining past was a luxury denied to the slaves on Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka’s space hulk. We had only the grinding scream of an eternal present. Existence was labour, whips, agony, death. I had tried, early on, to gauge the length of the shifts, but the orks made even that effort futile. They simply worked us until the numbers collapsing from exhaustion became annoying. Then they bundled those of us who were still alive back into our cages. There we slept as best we could, waiting to be turned out to suffer again.

Bekket and I were hauling salvage. It was junk of every description scavenged from the ships that, along with a central asteroid, made up the hulk. We dragged heavy, clumsy carts full of the stuff to a massive depot, where the orks’ grotesque versions of enginseers pawed through the material. We pulled the carts with chains, but we weren’t chained ourselves. The orks didn’t bother. Where could we go? And what fun would there be in beating stragglers to death, if there were no stragglers to be had?

Bekket’s eyes flicked back and forth as if he were a malfunctioning gun servitor seeking targets. He was unconsciously looking for an excuse to strike out. When he did, he would believe he was acting out of rage and honour, but he would be wrong. Impulsive rebellion in this terrible place was an act of despair. It had only one possible outcome.

I would not have it. There were so few left of the men who had come with me to Golgotha. And our mission was unfinished. Thraka still lived.

Bekket was a few metres ahead of me. Beyond the strain of pulling his cart, there was an extra tautness in his shoulder blades. He was on the verge. I tried to get closer. It was difficult. I only had one arm with which to pull the chain. My battle-claw was long gone, my trophy now Thraka’s. And I wasn’t a young man. All the same, I managed to draw within two metres before I risked speaking.

‘Trooper Bekket.’

‘Commissar?’

I had his attention, but then the man in front of him stumbled. He was another Guardsman, wearing the rags of a Mordian uniform. I didn’t think he’d been with us on Golgotha. He looked like he’d been here for much longer. And still, he didn’t fall or drop his chain. He just stumbled. That was enough for the nearest ork guard. The greenskin roared and lashed out with its whip. The weapon was a length of flexible metal cable embedded with jagged bits of blade. It wrapped around the Mordian’s neck. The ork yanked hard. The coils tightened, constricting and severing. The man’s head flew off. The ork roared again, this time with delighted laughter.

There was a heavy piece of piping in Bekket’s cart. I had seen him eyeing it earlier. Now he grabbed it, letting his chain drop to the ground.

‘Bekket, no,’ I shouted, but he was already lunging at the ork, swinging the pipe at the monster’s head. The ork swatted him down. The spikes on the back of its wrist-guard tore his cheek open, and I heard the crunch of his nose breaking. He spun as he fell. The ork put an iron boot on his chest. It stowed its whip and pulled a massive axe from its belt. It raised the blade high, the stupidly glowering eyes under its thick brow fixed on Bekket’s skull.

I stepped forward. I locked gazes with the ork.

‘No,’ I said again, but I said it to the guard, I said it with ice and I said it in orkish. It disgusted me to use that obscene tongue, but it startled the guard. The ork hesitated.

I held the monster’s eyes with my single one. I peered up with my head tilted slightly down, so there would be more shadow, more mystery, in my empty socket. I was a one-armed, one-eyed human past his prime making direct eye contact with an ork. I should have been dead, my guts strewn all over the ground. But I was Yarrick, and I had the evil eye. I killed orks with a look. The brute in front of me knew this. At that moment, so did I. With Bekket’s life dangling by a frayed thread, I channelled all of my faith in the Emperor and my hatred of the orks into the crystalline, adamantine belief that my gaze was a greenskin’s doom. I was what they believed me to be.

The guard’s axe wavered. The ork looked away from my eye and my dangerous socket, and glanced around, uncertain. It seemed to notice something on the gantries in the gloom high above our heads. Then it lowered the blade. It took its foot off Bekket, gave him a kick in the ribs, and stalked away down the line of slaves, snarling to itself.

As I helped Bekket up, the back of my neck prickled. I looked up into the shadows. I sensed the massive presence. He was up there, watching. The ork. Thraka.

I couldn’t see him, but I hoped he saw the look in my eye.

I hoped he saw the lethal promise that lay within.

THE GALLOWS SAINT

I understand the purpose of spectacle. It isn’t empty show, a frivolous waste of time and resources. There is always a reason for it. Spectacle has an effect, and so its deployment serves a function. A great spectacle can mould the consciousness of a population. It concentrates the faith of the people, directs their hatred and unifies their purpose. It dictates their thoughts. I have made use of spectacle myself over the years. I have made my person into an object to be displayed before all, especially on Armageddon.

Spectacle is necessary, and it is vital.

It can, of course, be corrupted. I saw that on Mistral. Cardinal Wangenheim’s spectacles paid lip service to the Emperor’s glory when it was his own that he was magnifying. With the wounding lessons of Mistral still fresh, I watched the triumph on Abydos with mixed feelings. Understanding the purpose of spectacles does not mean enjoying them. But attendance was the course my duty took on this day, and I would not shirk it. Besides, Abydos had earned this triumph. The soldiers of the Armageddon Steel Legion, of the Mordian Iron Guard and of the Vostroyan Firstborn deserved it. The defence militia of the Abydos Rampart deserved it.

The people who had weathered the war deserved it.

The battle to reclaim Abydos from the tau had been hard. The three regiments involved had poured hundreds of companies into the campaign. The xenos had hurled their formidable technology against us, but that wasn’t the full reason why the war had been so bitterly fought. The actual tau force on Abydos had been relatively small. We had outnumbered them many times over. But a significant portion of the agri world’s population had welcomed the tau. They had embraced the xenos philosophy. And this was another reason why, now that the shooting had finally ceased, the spectacle of the triumph was needed. The great purges had begun, and would continue for some time to come. Clean-up crews were busy expunging the circular tau iconography that had spread like a plague on walls and arches across the planet. The millions who had turned their back on the Emperor and the Imperial Creed would be executed. It was vital, then, that the population be shown the glory of victory, the strength of the Imperium and the celebration of faith.

The triumph was staged in the Square of Exterminating Grace in the heart of Rhium, Abydos’s capital. I was standing beside Captain Artura Brenken of the Steel Legion’s Sixth Company, 252nd Regiment. She and I worked well together, and despite the cost of this campaign, we had found it less dispiriting than what Sixth Company had faced on Molossus. The stakes had been clear, intra-regimental strife minimal, and the planetary government had cooperated fully. So the triumph felt real.

We were with the other officers in the marble benches that rose a hundred metres along the north side of the square. The troops marched past, following the route of Vigilance Boulevard, which led to and from the east and west exits. The people of Rhium filled the southern half of the square and lined both sides of the entire length of the Boulevard. They had been summoned by the spectacle. They had come to celebrate, and to be seen celebrating. They had come to see their saviours and to show themselves before their judges.

On the opposite side of the square from the tiered benches was a colonnaded arcade ten stories high. Its Administratum offices, which regulated the flow of produce from Abydos, were closed for the day. Thousands more spectators lined its archways.

The Square of Exterminating Grace was the architectural pride of Rhium. Its importance as a symbol had grown even more as it was one of the few portions of the city that had escaped damage during the conflict. The same could not be said of Rhium’s other jewel, the hundred and fifty metre colossus that stood at the eastern end of Vigilance Boulevard. The statue was of Saint Carrinus, the Abydos Confessor who had held the world true to the Imperial Creed during the Plague of Unbelief and had taken a rocket hit to the right shoulder and the left side of its head. The city’s skyline was dominated by a figure on the verge of collapse. It had become a demoralizing monument of decay.

Projecting from the centre of the benches was a massive plinth. On it stood the planetary governor, Lord Antonin Schroth. He was motionless, so rigid in his lines that he could have been a statue on the edge of the plinth – a Saint Carrinus in miniature.

‘He’s doing well,’ Brenken said to me.

‘He has to,’ I answered. He was part of the spectacle. He embodied the triumph of loyalty on Abydos. Still, Brenken was right. From our position, five metres to Schroth’s right, I could see the deep lines of exhaustion on his face. The governor was not a young man, and juvenat treatments or no, the war had taken its toll on him. His strength was brittle. He was aging before my eyes.

On the plinth with the governor, and on his flanks and three steps back were two other officials. To his left was his cousin and senior councillor, Countess Herennia Vernac. The countess was a few years older, and if Lord Schroth presented the face of weathered nobility, Vernac was the anger. The severe cut of her iron-grey hair emphasized the cold angles of her features. Schroth was what the people of Abydos would wish to be. Vernac was their judge. Her large holdings, to the south of Rhium, had been devastated by the fighting. She was playing an active role in the purges, and the first thing she had purged was mercy.

On the governor’s right flank was his son and heir, Valentin Schroth. If Vernac was the face of the Abydos’s punishment, the younger Schroth looked like its hope for the future. As upright in his bearing as his father, he seemed more at ease in that position. He was not holding fast against a storm. His face was open, broad without running to fat, and generous with smiles. He was greeting his planet’s future with confidence.

I did not hear the shot.

It came from a solid projectile weapon. The bullet hit Antonin Schroth in the throat and blew out the back of his neck. The exit wound was massive. His head flopped backwards as his knees buckled. The corpse sagged to the surface of the plinth as if finally giving in to the exhaustion. Blood sprayed the lord’s son and Vernac. It pumped across the marble, a red lake bright with the sun’s glare.

The crowd’s panic was instantaneous, an ocean of faces caught in a sudden storm. Waves of citizens collided as they ran in conflicting directions. But there were almost as many soldiers as there were onlookers in the square. Lasguns held at parade position were lowered at civilians. Someone ordered a sing volley fired overhead, and that was enough. Movement in the square froze.

I was not surprised by the swift imposition of order that followed the assassination. I was surprised when word came only a few minutes later that the civilians were to be dispersed. The assassin had been caught.

Brenken was just as startled. ‘That was fast,’ she said.

I nodded. We exchanged a wary look. Brenken had only witnessed the aftermath on Mistral, but she had seen the deceptions on Molossus. She had seen the Curse of Unbelief unleashed on a planet for the benefit of an Inquisitorial faction’s agenda. On Abydos, we had been spared encounters with political corruption. But an arrest mere moments after an assassination suggested a suspicious efficiency.

We descended from the rows of benches and stood near the base of the plinth. A squad of Adeptus Arbites troopers arrived to escort Valentin Schroth, Countess Vernac and the deceased lord’s remains and his relatives to the governor’s palace. I drew one of them aside, a heavyset young man. With his armour, he looked like a walking wall. He seemed more energized than angered by the events.

‘We hear there’s been an arrest,’ I said.

‘Yes, commissar. An Administratum scribe by the name of Holten.’

‘How was he caught?’

‘Gave himself away with the shot. He’s good with a sniper rifle, terrible with strategy.’ He pointed toward the upper level of the arcade. ‘Used his office as a blind. Can’t think how he expected to get away. In the panic maybe?’

‘Why didn’t he?’

‘One of us was on the spot.’ He grinned. ‘Bad timing for Holten. Nice for Trooper Koval’s career.’

I believe in fate. I did then, too. The most profound wounds I received on Mistral had made sure of that. I also believe in conspiracy, malfeasance and bad intent. Coincidence and serendipity, on the other hand, are chimeras. ‘It would seem this Koval has single-handedly preserved the order we fought so hard to restore on Abydos. I would like to shake this trooper’s hand.’

I went to the Adeptus Arbites precinct house on my own. I was greeted in the long entrance hall by Proctor Detlev Monden. He was a brick of a man, made even larger by his armour. He had the look of a man relieved that the day had not been worse, but who did not trust the good fortune to last. He introduced me to Lyuda Koval. She was a still, compact individual. Not a single movement was wasted. I wasn’t surprised that the assassin hadn’t known she was around. She was one of those people who could choose to withdraw their physical presence almost completely from their surroundings.

‘The assassin used a kroot sniper rifle,’ Koval told me.

‘Not a subtle weapon,’ I commented. It fit, though. Modified kroot weapons were in common use among the human tau auxiliaries. They would be the sort of gun deployed by any humans still fighting for the xenos cause.

The right corner of her mouth curled up then down so quickly I barely caught the expression. ‘Suitable to the job. Not for concealment afterwards. I heard the shot, saw the muzzle sticking out of a doorway a few paces from me.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s not a fighter. Subduing him wasn’t hard.’

‘You chose not to kill him?’

‘A choice we’re grateful she made,’ Monden put in. ‘He may lead us to more pockets of resistance. And justice will have to be seen being done. As publicly as possible.’

Of course. Another necessary spectacle.

‘I’d be curious to see the prisoner,’ I said.

‘Certainly.’ Monden released Koval to her duties and led me to the cell blocks.

‘What do you know about him?’ I asked.

‘Enough.’ Monden pulled a data-slate from his belt and consulted it. ‘Paulus Holten. Scribe, Divisio Agriculturae. Served in the Abydos Rampart’s infantry.’

‘As a sniper?’

‘No. Just a grunt.’

Odd. ‘Anything of note before today?’

‘Not a lot. The only real point of interest is a report of his advocating for “the greater good”.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Really?’ That was damning indeed. It marked him as one who had traitorously embraced the tau philosophy. That would explain his motive to assassinate the governor. ‘The report is reliable?’

‘Multiple witnesses. Turns out the report was filed against him about a month before the tau attacked, but it wasn’t a high priority case.’

‘I see.’ Given the Imperium’s bureaucracy, and the sheer number of related reports of heretical utterings that poured in, this was exactly the kind of information that would wind up buried by more urgent items, and whose importance would only become apparent in retrospect. And yet there was an odd detail. ‘He spoke of the greater good before the tau struck?’

Monden nodded, not entirely happy either. ‘Evidence of advance infiltration, no doubt.’

‘Have there been any other signs that this occurred?’

He looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Not yet.’

My suspicions deepened. The picture that was emerging of the assassination was both too easy and too messy.

Monden brought me to prisoner’s cell and left me to my interrogation. I stepped into the small rockcrete space. There was no furniture. Paulus Holten sat on the stained floor, a chain running from his ankle to the wall. His right arm was broken. His wounds had been cleaned, presumably to keep him from dying of an infection before he could be executed in the square. He was of average height and very thin. His hair was lank, and his pallor suggested he rarely saw the sun. When he looked up, the expression in his swollen eyes surprised me. I had expected fear, perhaps defiance, possibly a desperate and self-interested repentance. What I saw instead was hope.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he began. ‘Please, you have to–’

‘My name is Sebastian Yarrick,’ I interrupted. ‘I am a commissar of the Militarum Tempestus, and you will stand when addressing me.’

He gulped, struggled to his feet, and managed an approximation of a salute with his broken arm. He did all this, I noted, with the energy of a man ashamed to have momentarily forgotten his place. ‘I’m sorry, commissar,’ he said. He squinted at me. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘Why did you kill Governor Schroth?’ I asked.

‘But I didn’t, commissar.’ He turned a sob into a great, shaking breath, and spoke with passion. ‘In the name of the Emperor, I have never, by word or deed, been anything but a loyal subject of the Imperium.’

‘The greater good,’ I said.

He frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You were overheard proselytising for the greater good.’

He looked puzzled. He continued to squint at me. ‘Oh. Yes. I have. Often. But I thought… I’ve always believed the sacrifice of the individual for the greater good of the Imperium a tenet of our faith.’

I blinked. ‘It is.’

I studied his face, noting the cloudiness of his gaze. The cell had a small, barred window a bit higher than eye level. Looking up at it, all I could see was the rooftops of the hab opposite the precinct. That was enough for my purposes.

‘Tell me, scribe,’ I said, pointing, ‘which family’s coat of arms is on that flag.’ I spoke as if I were testing what he claimed to be.

He looked both puzzled and frightened and shuffled into position. He squinted, his eyes narrowed to slits. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

‘I’m sure that’s the Schroth banner, commissar.’

He was guessing, picking the most likely name. His myopia was severe, as he couldn’t even see that there was no flag.

Holten was no more a sniper than I was tau.

I left then, saying nothing more to him and spoke briefly with Monden before exiting the precinct, keeping my observations to myself. I knew a conspiracy was at work, but not its reach. Monden’s evident unease over some aspects of the case led me to think he was honest, but Mistral had taught me a lot about the danger of trusting too quickly.

I crossed the street to the hab-block that faced the precinct and took the stairs to the roof. I found a good vantage point from which to observe the precinct entrance, staying there for several hours, but didn’t see what I wanted. I headed back to Sixth Company’s base on the outskirts of the city, but made plans to return.

‘Why?’ Brenken asked when I told her. ‘Your authority as a political officer doesn’t extend to local planetary concerns,’ she reminded me.

‘I know. But local upheavals can have direct impact on the regiment we serve and potentially on the Imperium.’

‘And what do you think is happening here?’

‘I don’t know. I think I should, though.’

She nodded, thoughtful. ‘We still have a pacification role here during the purges.’

‘So preventing political upheaval falls within our remit.’

‘I’ll speak with Colonel Messter.’

And so the request would work its way up the chain of command. ‘In the meantime, we are assigned to keeping things calm in Rhium,’ I pointed out.

‘Which you are clearly doing.’ She rubbed her jaw. ‘We aren’t going to like what you find, are we?’

‘Probably not.’ We both had many lessons yet to learn about the nature of our offices, but we knew enough to expect the worst. ‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘Since the sniper rifle was a kroot weapon, we have no certainty the assassin, or whoever ordered the kill, is human.’

‘You think some tau might still be here?’

‘I don’t rule it out.’

I returned to the hab roof the next day, and on the days that followed. Abydos, meanwhile, appeared to be settling into a fragile order. The ascension of Valentin Schroth to the role of governor had a calming effect, since this was a case of the long-expected merely coming early. The swift arrest and imminent execution of Holten was also useful, and I would have approved if it weren’t for the fact that the true assassin still walked free. I was seeing the mask of order. I did not trust it.

On the fifth day, just after sunset, I finally spotted Lyuda Koval leaving the precinct after her shift. I had seen her before, but always in a squad, always on duty. This evening she was alone.

Koval had been far too conveniently on the spot to arrest Holten. She also would make a much better sniper. Quite apart from the fact that Holten wouldn’t be able to see his target, he was a poor physical specimen. He was lucky to have survived his service with the Rampart. Koval’s preternatural stillness and ability to fade from one’s awareness were useful skills for a sniper.

I left my post and followed, staying as far back as I could without losing sight of her. I knew I was taking a big chance. If I was right about her, then I was tracking a quarry whose skills at this game far surpassed mine. I was no assassin. I did not use the shadows. To the contrary, my role called for me to stand in the light. To inspire or to punish, I had to be visible. To be a commissar, I had to be something larger than Sebastian Yarrick.

If Koval thought she might be followed, she would spot me, even from blocks away. I hoped that she had no reason to be suspicious.

As I walked through the gathering dark of the evening, I asked myself, If you’re right, and she is the assassin, why? I couldn’t picture her as a fanatic, fighting a hopeless battle that would somehow lead to the return of the tau. She was too cool a professional for such a delusion. What benefit could the governor’s death have for her? None that I could see except one: riches. If she was a hired assassin, then who was paying her?

Who benefited?

The new lord Schroth, certainly. But not in any manner that wasn’t going to occur anyway. I didn’t think he would have had to wait long. Antonin Schroth had looked quite frail. Why risk losing everything by rushing to grasp a prize that could well have been his within a matter of months?

If not the son, then who?

My thoughts circled back to the tau. If they still had designs on Abydos, prolonged political instability would tie our forces down in pacification efforts. We would be more vulnerable to a counter-attack. Koval didn’t have to be a fanatic to fight for them – if all she cared about was personal benefit, the right price would be enough.

I almost lost her a few times. Her route took a number of turns. Fortunately, the roads of Rhium were wide and straight, designed to facilitate the movement of huge produce transports. Traffic had ground to a halt during the war and, though life on Abydos was taking steps toward normalcy, the roads were not very busy yet. Thanks to the long, unobstructed views, I was able to find Koval again.

Her destination turned out to be the statue of Saint Carrinus. As she approached the monument, I knew that she had been taking precautions against being tracked. They must have been perfunctory. She wasn’t expecting a tail.

The colossal saint was hollow. Citizens could climb to the top of his head, and from there share the great man’s view of the city whose soul he had saved. At least they could before the rocket strike. The restoration of the symbol had been promised by both lords Schroth.

There was a doorway in the side of the huge platform on which Carrinus stood. I watched Koval go through it, waited five minutes, then followed.

I almost missed the scratches on the rockcrete to one side of the doorway. The design was small, a few centimetres across, and close to the ground. I saw it because I was looking for it: two circles, one smaller and nestled inside the circumference of the larger. A tau symbol. A sign for those who knew where to look.

Inside was dim. Weak lumen globes lit the iron staircase that zig-zagged upward through the platform up the statue’s right leg. While my eyes adjusted, I listened. Though Koval could not have reached the summit yet, I couldn’t hear her footsteps. She was being quiet. That was ominous, and a warning for me to do the same.

I went up and drew my bolt pistol, watching the shadows, wary for an ambush. She might have spotted me and decided to lure me here. After ten minutes of climbing, I caught a glimpse of a moving shadow. She was a fair distance above and still moving up. I risked quickening my pace.

The climb was a long one. The back and forth of the staircase was hypnotic and my legs and lungs grew tired – it would have been easy to fall into a trance of effort. I forced myself to stay focused. The top of the statue was an endless distance away. I worried I had waited too long. Even if I could run the rest of the way, there was no way I could catch up to Koval before she reached her goal. She would have several minutes to take whatever action she had planned.

I drew level with the damage. The shattered shoulder let daylight in, but the stairs were close enough to the core that they had remained intact. Higher yet, there was more daylight coming from the gap in the head. The hit here was closer to the stairs. Wind whistled through the gaps, tugging at me as I climbed the last few flights.

The way onto the observation platform was open. I moved to the doorway, keeping within its shadows until I could see what awaited me.

The platform was in precarious condition. The right-hand periphery seemed solid, but the centre sagged towards the void on the left. The rockcrete was fissured, and held up by the iron struts that bent under the strain. Three people stood by the right-hand rail. Koval was closest to me, about halfway between the doorway and the far edge, overlooking the statue’s brow. She was as still as absence. She carried no weapon, but held her arms a bit out from her sides, hands open, ready to move. Her power maul dangled from her belt. Beyond her, at the edge, instead of the tau I was prepared to see, were Valentin Schroth and Herennia Vernac. Their voices were raised, and I could hear them over the wind.

‘What purpose would that serve?’ Schroth was demanding. ‘We need a time of healing now. The bleeding must stop.’

‘Don’t speak to me as if you’re thinking of Abydos,’ Vernac said. She was shorter than Schroth, but her outrage made her seem taller.

‘But I am thinking of what’s best for the planet. I’m thinking of–’

‘The greater good?’ she snapped, cutting him off.

Schroth didn’t answer. He stared her, his right hand twitching.

Vernac stepped into his face. ‘You were negotiating with the tau,’ she said. ‘There is no compromise. You will be purged, along with all the other traitors.’

‘You have no proof.’ The shake in his voice revealed his uncertainty. ‘No records survive.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

He took a step back. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But now that father is gone, I am sure you’re the only one to nurture these ugly suspicions. I’m sorry that tau sympathisers have seen fit to go after you too.’ He turned his head to Koval and nodded.

Now it made sense. The kroot weapon. The symbol at the base of the statue that an investigator was sure to find. All misdirection, pointing at fog, and away from Valentin Schroth.

Koval stepped forward. I raised my pistol, but I couldn’t fire – Koval was in a direct line with Vernac. The bolt shell would punch through both. I ran forward. ‘Halt!’ I yelled. I knew she wouldn’t obey. I just wanted to divert her from the countess.

Koval was fast. She whirled, dropped to a crouch, grabbed her maul and hurled it at me in a single movement. Her speed was almost worthy of a temple assassin. The maul hit my right hand and the shock of the blow and the electrical discharge ratcheted down my arm and spun me back. My hand jerked open and my pistol clattered back down the stairs.

I went with the spin, using its momentum. I turned completely around and launched myself forward at Koval, drawing my chainsword with my left hand. She jumped to the left, evading me easily, and ran across the damaged surface, as it sagged still further. Powdered rockcrete crumbled away in the widening cracks. I turned again to follow as Koval reclaimed her maul.

There was feeling in my right arm once more. I had some use of it. I held my chainsword with both hands and advanced more cautiously. I had diverted Koval from her target. Now I had to fight and win, and Koval was much faster than I was.

I moved the blade back and forth. She was motionless, unreadable. She was waiting for me. I closed to striking distance. We faced one another, and I knew what she expected me to do, and what the consequences would be. I had no choice. In another moment Schroth might decide to join the fray, coward though he clearly was. So I made my move, bracing for the inevitable.

I brought the chainsword down in an overhead slash. Koval blocked with the maul, striking the blade with its head. The chainsword conducted the shock into my arms. The chain snarled as my fists convulsed on the grip. My spine stiffened from the paralyzing hammer blow. But I had known it was coming, and I had already shifted my weight to the right. I fell. The sudden weight and the grinding of the chain pulled the maul from her grip. It skittered across the platform as I went down. Koval jumped over me to retrieve her weapon.

The observation deck groaned. Rockcrete puffed.

Koval froze. The ominous cracks subsided. She picked up the maul.

My nervous system was misfiring. My head was a boulder of pain, my limbs numb lead. My body was allying itself with the traitors.

I would not die that way.

I yelled, a cry of hate tearing through the barrier between myself and action. Before me was the widening fissure of the observation platform. I reared up. My movements were crude and broken, but they were enough to raise the chainsword and bring its blade into the gap, grinding through the weakened struts.

Koval reacted instantly, but the collapse was faster. The platform gave way, two thirds of its surface pulling away from the right edge. It tipped down, knocking Koval off balance. She tried to leap forward, but gravity had her. With a roar, most of the statue’s head collapsed. Koval disappeared as an avalanche of rockcrete plummeted to the street far below.

I made it to my feet. Motor control returning, I turned to Schroth. He was pressed back against the guard rail of the small crescent that was all that remained of the platform. Vernac stared at him with equal measures of hatred and contempt. I sheathed the chainsword and strode over to the governor. He opened his mouth. I didn’t give him the chance to plead. I grabbed him by the arms, jerked him away from the rail and hurled him into the void.

His scream was long. It vanished in the echoes of settling rubble.

Vernac and I looked at each other. Abydos had yet another new governor, though only she and I knew it at this moment.

‘He was right, though, wasn’t he?’ Vernac said, sounding very tired, very old.

I nodded. ‘Yes. Abydos needs to heal.’

The words tasted foul. The words I would have to speak shortly would be even worse.

As we started down the stairs, the head of Saint Carrinus suffered its final collapse.

The death of Valentin Schroth would be reported as an accident, a tragedy befalling the promising lord as he toured the statue he had promised to restore. Only one other citizen of that world would know the truth besides me and Vernac. I told Holten, when I visited him in his cell the next day.

And I told him that he would be alone to possess that knowledge.

‘I won’t be freed,’ he said.

‘No. Your execution will cauterize the injury of the assassination. If it were revealed that his son plotted his death as part of his effort to conceal his own treachery, the wounds would fester.’

Everything I said was the absolute truth. I did not question the necessity of Holten’s martyrdom. But this was, at that time, the most difficult speech I had ever made. I swallowed my self-disgust, and did my duty. I added a new callus to my soul. But I did not hesitate. I felt no pride in what I was doing, but at least I did not hesitate. Sometimes, the knowledge of duty performed is all we have.

‘Then I will die for the greater good of the Imperium,’ Holten said.

I did not like the choice of words. The phrase had become toxic on this planet. Still, Holten was correct. ‘Yes,’ I said.

His smile was beatific. ‘Good.’

His embrace of his own duty did not make me feel any better about mine.

The gallows were erected in the centre of the Square of Exterminating Grace. Once again, the people of Abydos, and the regiments that had saved them, were called upon to bear witness. This would be the sombre conclusion to the aborted triumph. Yet it would still be hailed a victory. A traitor was about to be punished. Abydos’s soul would be cleansed by that much more. Another step towards the planet’s redemption.

Brenken and I were seated on marble once again.

‘So your decision was as easy as that?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t think you put much stock in expediency, commissar.’

‘I don’t. I understand necessity. I saw what unrest can do on Mistral. We did not fight to save Abydos from the tau only to let it tear itself apart from the inside.’

She grunted. I couldn’t tell if she agreed with me or not.

In the square, Holten mounted the stairs to where the noose waited. The gallows were higher than the plinth. His death would be seen by every one of the gathered citizens. The prisoner was escorted by two Adeptus Arbites troopers. His wrists and ankles were shackled, yet it seemed to me that his step was light.

‘There,’ I said to Brenken, ‘is a man who knows that his death has meaning. That isn’t a small thing.’

The anonymous scribe had become a symbol. His end would help mark a new start for Abydos. When he reached the top of the stairs, he walked towards the noose without hesitation. He was met by an executioner confessor, who demanded his repentance.

Holten refused.

‘Extraordinary,’ I muttered. Holten was playing his part. He had voluntarily taken on the mantle of scapegoat. He was choosing infamy to better serve his Emperor.

They hanged him, and the crowd roared its hatred for the traitor with as much desperation as it had shouted its loyalty a few days ago. Above the uproar of conspicuous faith, the corpse swayed back and forth.

I looked from it to the decapitated statue of Carrinus, watching the spectacle of a world rebuilding itself on a foundation of murdered saints.

SACRIFICIAL

The las-fire came from the medicae centre.

‘I thought we had killed them all,’ Sergeant Brenken said. We led the squad at a run through the corridors.

‘So did I,’ I told her. We had retaken the frigate Castellan Belasco from the heretics. What was left of Sixth Company, of the Armageddon Steel Legion’s 252nd Regiment, deserved that much of a victory. It had been through enough. It had been savaged by events on Aionos, reduced to a shell with a young commissar named Yarrick at its head. I took no pleasure in my provisional command. I took no pleasure in anything that had occurred on the surface of that moon.

But at least it was not Mistral.

The company did more than kill the cultists aboard the Belasco. The Steel Legionnaires shot them until their corpses blended together. They erased any trace that the wretches had once been human. When the frigate left the system, it did so having drunk the blood of its defilers.

Now, the gunfire. There was a cluster of the enemy that we had missed. Our bitterly small victory was snatched away.

The shooting had stopped before we reached the centre. There was a trail of blood leading away from the open doors, but I ran inside to learn the worst.

Bodies everywhere. Troopers slaughtered in their beds, some shot, most hacked apart with surgical instruments. The floor and deck awash with blood. I stood still, rooted by a collision of angers: rage at the heretics and corrosive shame that I had brought these soldiers safely from Aionos for them to be murdered here. Beside me, I heard Brenken’s breathing turn into a snarl. She had been aboard the ship when it had been taken and had performed miracles to free herself and the armsmen. We were both seeing a mockery made of our efforts.

I looked around, counting. ‘There aren’t enough bodies,’ I said. ‘They’ve taken prisoners.’

We left the medicae centre, following the trail. It was a clear path. The cultists might as well have left signposts directing us down the levels of the ship. We were in a stairwell when I realised where we were heading.

So did Brenken. As we left the stairwell at the next to lowest deck, she said, ‘They’ve gone to the chapel.’

I glanced at her. She couldn’t know the full implications of that fact. None of the soldiers did. But she had fought enough battles to have dark hints. Her home was the equatorial jungles of Armageddon, and even at that time, so many decades before the coming of Ghazghkull Thraka, reaching adulthood on that planet was tantamount to being a veteran on most other worlds. She looked much older than she was. So did most of her comrades.

At the first intersection, I stepped through the bulkhead and looked left towards the chapel. The doors were shut. They muffled the sounds of the screams and ritualistic chanting, but some of the chanting was not coming from human mouths.

I thought about our location in the ship and seized on the desperate path that opened before me. I was grateful we hadn’t yet made the jump into the warp. I looked back at Brenken and the troopers. ‘They won’t be staying in there,’ I said. ‘When the chapel doors open I will head inside. You will provide covering fire for me from the corner, and no closer. Is that clear?’

The squad looked confused. Brenken said, ‘Understood, commissar.’ She didn’t, but she recognised that I had reasons for the order.

‘Thank you,’ I said, grateful. I walked over to Ladengast, a wiry trooper with a flair for demolitions. ‘Give me a melta bomb,’ I said.

‘Why go in alone?’ Brenken asked me under her breath as I headed back to the intersection.

‘Because I must.’

Preservation of morale and discipline meant more than executing shirking soldiers. My duty now was to protect what was left of the company from a harm that was even more spiritual than physical.

‘The embarkation bays are directly below us,’ I said. ‘When I go, seal this area and open the hangar doors.’

‘Vent the bays?’

‘Yes.’

I advanced to the corner. Brenken voxed the bridge to prepare the actions I had ordered. Then she and the squad followed me, a war machine in light tan coats, as ready for battle as if they hadn’t been fighting continuously for over twenty-four hours.

I heard the doors open. Las-fire streaked down the hall. The cultists were smart: they were expecting us. I prayed to the Emperor that I was about to give them something they were not expecting.

I rounded the corner, hunching low and firing my bolt pistol for effect. Over my shoulder, the squad unleashed their own las. The cultists, clad in their motley of stolen and defiled uniforms, fell back. I took my chance. ‘Back!’ I yelled and lunged into the chapel.

I threw myself down behind the nearest pew. I blew the head off a heretic at the end of the row. The others stayed out of reach. They did not attack. They chanted. There was something else here too. I heard leaping movements, like the roar of flame and the whispering of many mouths, that spoke inside my head as much as in my ears. They wanted me to utter a name.

Drawing on hard-won strength and lifelong faith, I refused. I grabbed the melta bomb, popped up over the pew and threw the explosive towards the centre of the chapel. I tried not to see what was there. Even so, images of ritualised mutilation seared my vision. Worse was the flowing column of flesh and flame and mouths. I dropped back down immediately, but the sight of it coming in my direction was a scar on my soul.

The bomb went off. The chapel flashed with a sun’s purifying light. I heard the cultists scream. The inhuman chorus still spoke to me but I had not expected to wound the being. My target was the decking. I held tight to the pew.

The centre of the chapel collapsed into the embarkation bay, where a vacuum now reigned. The atmosphere shrieked out of the chapel and the surrounding corridors. The voices raged and I knew the daemon had been caught in the suction.

Blood flowed from my ears and nose. I gasped for air. I clutched at the slanting deck and dragged myself forward. My eyes burned and watered as I fought against the wind, but what I dreaded was the worse calm that would follow. I reached the doorway, scrambled around the bulkhead, then struggled to my feet and hit the wall stud. The chapel doors closed, ending the storm’s scream.

I slumped to the ground, breathing heavily in the thin air. There was silence inside the chapel now. Silence, too, from the dark voices. But the name I had been urged to speak still echoed. I knew it too well. This battle was won, but some sacrifices were unending.

So be it, I thought. I can give more than this.

And, in the fullness of time, I would.

SARCOPHAGUS

The true measure of my enemy’s threat isn’t just in the brute force at his disposal. Nor is it fully captured in the tally of victories and defeats. What lies behind events? Why are some actions taken and others not? The answers to those questions can reveal a power even more deadly than armies of millions could imply. Ghazghkull Thraka had annihilated our forces on Golgotha. What that showed of his means and ability was bad enough, but that he released me had even worse implications.

Sometimes questions alone point to dark revelations.

I was in Anaon, south of Hive Tartarus. It was a smaller hive on the coast of the Tempest Ocean. I had come for two reasons. One was to inspect the maritime defences. The fate of Helsreach still hung in the balance, and we had to prepare against the possibility of a second invasion from the water. The other reason was symbolic. That had always been an integral part of my duties as a commissar: to represent something more important than the individual in the uniform.

I never meant to become an icon, but circumstances were circumstances. The Second War for Armageddon had changed the meaning of my name. ‘Yarrick’ now meant ‘the Saviour of Armageddon’. My thoughts about the truth of the matter were irrelevant. The legend existed. And now the Third War had come. My duty was to use every weapon at my disposal against the enemy. So if my presence was enough to motivate a population to a greater effort, then I would make sure I was seen. The people of Anaon had to be willing to sacrifice everything, down to their lives. Every single one. No one person, group or hive was more important than Armageddon.

So I flew in from Tartarus. I made my inspection. I met with the commanders of the military forces charged with the hive’s defence. I made myself visible. Anaon had suffered a few bombing raids, but had been spared a major assault. The people felt safe enough to take to the streets. I spoke to them. I exhorted. I made sure of their commitment to the war.

All was well and good, but the problems began when I had to return to Tartarus. A massive aerial battle was underway between the two hives. Air transport back to Tartarus was out of the question. I had to travel using terrestrial means.

I climbed out of my command car just inside the outer gate of Anaon, a massive configuration of entwined metal columns that resembled a fused manufactorum. I greeted Captain Veit Morena of the Steel Legion’s 12th Company, 22nd Regiment. He was a short man and wiry. A good build for a tanker.

‘Captain,’ I said. ‘I understand your squadron is being recalled to Hive Tartarus.’

‘That’s correct, commissar.’

‘I would like to accompany you.’

He seemed taller suddenly. ‘I would be honoured if you rode with me,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’

He led me to his Leman Russ Vanquisher, Storm of the Wastes. His driver, Alna Klaren, and gunner, Jaro Berne, snapped to attention. Like Morena, they were compact soldiers. They looked as if they had been born in the tank, their bodies shaped to its confines. Oil was so deep in their folds of their skin, it might as well have been pigmentation. The hull of Storm bore similar marks. It had been scored by centuries of exposure to the acidic rains of Armageddon.

The long line of tanks rolled out of Anaon at dusk with Storm at the head. The toxic cloud cover was heavy with the threat of rain. We made good time for the first few hours, rumbling along the pitted, cracked rockcrete route that linked Anaon to Tartarus. Morena and I alternated riding the hatch. At the northern horizon, in the direction of Tartarus, the night sky flashed and burned with reflected explosions. I saw the streaks of missiles, and the spiralling flame of stricken aircraft falling to earth. War’s steady, pulsing thunder rolled over us, all the sounds of conflict melding into a muffled, arrhythmic, stuttering – boom, b-boom-boom, b-b-boom.

When I traded places with Morena, he looked into the distance. ‘I make it another two hours before we’re under the worst of the fighting,’ he said.

‘Agreed.’

I thought that would be the point of greatest vulnerability for the squadron, but I was wrong.

An hour later, when I was again at the hatch, the beat of the war drum changed. A layer detached itself from the rest. It was more regular, and sounded closer. It was slow, deep as a continent. Even over the rattling of the Vanquisher, I could feel the beat’s vibrations in my chest. It came from north-east of our position.

I peered into the dark as points of light appeared. They confused me at first. They looked like stars, an impossible sight on Armageddon; the planet’s polluted sludge of an atmosphere was impenetrable. Then I realised that the stars were moving. The ground shook at measured, relentless intervals. The stars drew nearer. They were in pairs and a red the colour of flames. I could make out massive shadows in the night as we came closer. Mountains were slouching toward the road to Tartarus.

I dropped back down the hatch. ‘Gargants!’ I warned.

Even in the red illumination of the tank’s interior, I saw Morena turn pale. His fear was not cowardice. It was an entirely rational response to the presence of the ork monsters of war. ‘We can’t fight those,’ he said. Those words weren’t cowardice either. They were the judgement of a commander who knew the limits of his force’s strength. War will call upon us to do the impossible. It will force us to fight when there is no chance of survival, let alone victory. But we were not in a position where choice had been taken away from us. Duty calls for sacrifice, not stupidity.

‘Berne,’ Morena told the gunner. ‘Vox Tartarus Command. Warn them.’

I climbed out of the hatch entirely to make room for Morena, riding on the turret and grasping the cupola with my power claw. We watched the progress of the Gargants. There were three of them, each a hundred metres high. They were still far from us, but we could see them more clearly now. They were lumbering, wide-bodied products of diseased invention; they had none of the majesty of Titans. But they provoked awe all the same. They gouted flame and smoke, towering over the landscape like brutal, shambolic gods. A single one could destroy a city. And they would reach the road long before we had passed them.

We looked further to the east. The land was dark, and there were no further sign of ork forces accompanying the Gargants.

‘That way seems clear,’ Morena said. ‘I wish the terrain was better.’

We were in a region of bare, rocky hills. Perhaps at some point in Armageddon’s distant, eroded past, they had been verdant. The millennia had stripped them of all vegetation and worn them down until they had the dead, rounded shapes of bone. The tanks could handle their slopes, but we wouldn’t be able to see far ahead. Obstacles in the form of boulders would be common, and we’d be encountering them in the dark. Progress would be slow.

‘We have no other option,’ I said. If we stayed on the road, annihilation was a certainty. ‘We’ll need to make a wide sweep.’ Even more time lost.

Morena nodded and disappeared inside the tank to issue the commands.

We turned off the road onto terrain that was uneven, broken, hostile to our passage. It was riddled with the cracks of dried stream beds. Forward visibility in the tanks’ lamps shrank to the crest of the next hill. We headed east and did not turn until the earthquake rumble of the Gargants faded, their flames only pinpricks in the dark again. I guessed we were twenty kilometres off the road when Morena finally ordered a northward course again.

The hours passed. Dawn was still a long way off when the Gargants were finally to our south. Though we had been slowed, we were still faster than they were. I was so focused on the Gargants’ position that I barely noticed how close we had come to the aerial battle.

It came to us with a high-pitched snarl. I looked up. More lights in the dark, a swarm of them racing in from the north-east: two ork bomber squadrons, and ten aircraft that I could count. There was no question of evasion – we had been spotted and the bombers were coming right for us.

They were still some distance away when they began to release their incendiary bombs. The land vanished in a billowing cloud of flame. The night burned, heat racing ahead of the fire. My face blistered. The holocaust marched toward us, and there would be no escape.

I went down into the tank again and sealed the hatch. The others were already reacting to the threat. Morena was at the vox, coordinating the response. Heavy bolter turrets along the entire line of the tank squadron were turning to fire at the enemy fliers. Klaren gunned the engine, pushing Storm to full speed, terrain be damned. We had little defence against what was coming. If we were lucky, heavy bolter-rounds or a miraculous cannon shot might bring down a couple of planes. Speed was a gesture more than a strategy. The weapons that were about to hit us did not require accuracy.

I braced, grasping the hatch ladder with my claw.

The booming voice of war had arrived and the bombs continued to fall. The light of sudden day burst though the driver’s viewing block, bright enough the illuminate the full interior of Storm. Then the full force of the bombardment arrived and we drove into a high-explosive firestorm.

The vox exploded with cries. Morena was shouting into it. ‘Tartarus Command, this is Scorched Earth Squadron, Twelfth of the Twenty-Second out of Anaon, transporting Commissar Yarrick. Our position–’

The world erupted beneath Storm of the Wastes. For a moment, I had the impression of a gunship lifting off. Then we were turning end over end, and everything was violence and ruin.

And then everything was darkness.

Waking was a transition from one darkness to another. I left oblivion for pain and crushing pressure on my legs. Something was pushing my head and neck forward, forcing me into a harsh bend. The blackness swam with sparks, but they were all from behind my eye. I could hear metal ticking, creaking and settling. Somewhere, a circuit crackled and fell silent. I didn’t know where I was or why I hurt.

Nothing moved. Nothing changed. There was only the pain, growing worse, and the weak muttering of wreckage. Then my head cleared and I knew what had happened.

It’s not important, I told myself. What’s important is knowing what is happening now. Did I even know which way I was facing? No. Was I the only survivor?

‘Captain Morena,’ I called. ‘Klaren. Berne.’

No answer.

I waited a minute before trying again, several more times, and louder. Nothing.

They’re dead, then. What about the rest of the squadron? Learn the situation.

I kept quiet and listened. Beyond the groans of the dead tank, there were sounds from the outside world. The war thunder continued. It was distant once more. No combat in the immediate vicinity. I kept listening, straining to focus beyond my pain and interpret what I could hear and what I could not. There were no engines or guns. No hammering of tools. No sounds at all of any activity in the close proximity of the hull.

The conclusion was a simple one. The ork bombers had done their job well. The tank squadron had been destroyed.

A further conclusion: I was alone.

I confronted the temptation to close my eye and return to the deeper dark. I judged it unworthy. I had not earned the right to rest. Not yet. After Golgotha, when Thraka had taken me captive to his space hulk, he had thrown me into a pit. I had had every reason to believe I was about to die. During my fall, that was when I had known several seconds of rest. Those moments would still have to suffice. Perhaps, once Thraka was dead, I would win the reward of the truest sleep. Not now, though. My duty was far from discharged. Armageddon called.

Besides, I was very uncomfortable.

I tried to move. I could turn my head from side to side, for all the good it did me. I was still hunched, my back protesting and darkness was everywhere. My legs were pinned. My left arm was blocked if it moved more than a few centimetres to my side. My right, though, had a good degree of range. I raised the claw up and down, left and right. I imagined that I was caught in a fold of the wreckage. My right arm reached into what had been the open space of the tank’s interior.

Though my legs were trapped, I didn’t think they were broken. They hurt, and I wasn’t going anywhere. But I could feel and move my toes. When I struggled, there was no sudden burst of fresh agony.

You’re intact. The Emperor protects. He truly does. So how will you use his blessing, old man? Show your gratitude. Get out.

I reached forward with the claw and struck crumpled metal right away. Keeping its digits closed, I brought it next to my side, then slid it up and down against the barrier. My legs were held, not pulped, so there had to be a gap, small though it was, in the wreckage that gripped me. It took me several attempts. I was trying to accomplish a task by touch with a hand that was not mine. At last, though, the claw slid forward a few centimetres. I worked it forward until it was wedged. Then I paused.

Are you sure you want to do this? You have no idea of the condition of the wreckage. You don’t know what will happen if you disturb the present equilibrium.

True. I might contrive to crush myself properly. Then again, did I have a choice?

No. You don’t.

I opened the claw as slowly as I could. Metal protested. I pried the three metal digits apart. The corpse of the Vanquisher cried out. The pressure eased on my legs. I pulled. My feet moved. I lurched my torso to the right while keeping the claw in place. I was pivoting on my own arm, and now I did get some new bursts of agony.

I didn’t stop. I risked opening the claw all the way. The wreckage shrieked. I heard snaps. I bent my legs and threw all my weight to the right, moving a bit further. I tested it, scrabbling with my feet until I found a purchase and making sure my boots wouldn’t slip.

Ready?

I whispered, ‘The Emperor protects.’

I shut the claw with a snap and propelled myself to the side, sliding out of the trap a second before it slammed shut.

I tumbled free through the space, landing on hard angles. I bought myself some new bruises.

I sat up, working the kinks out of my neck. Feeling around with my left hand, I learned the contours of my prison. Jagged angles and heavy masses pressed in on me. Not everything I found was metal. I discovered a leg that appeared to be sticking out of a solid mass of metal and broken bodies. My hand sank into something that felt like a broken sphere. It was very wet. I didn’t know whose head it was.

I had room to crouch, but not stand. I could move a few steps in any direction. In the centre of the space, I found a cylindrical depression. This, I guessed, had been the turret hatch. The Storm of the Wastes was upside down. I would not be leaving that way.

I sat down on something level and rested, thinking. Trying to make my way up would mean going through the chassis. There was little hope there, unless it had already been split open. Was it night or day? I had no idea how long I’d been unconscious. A few more hours and I could assume there was daylight outside the tank. I’d know then if there were any tears in the armour I could exploit. I didn’t feel any stirring of air, though. Upwards did not seem like a fruitful route.

The flanks, then. For the time being, I put aside considerations of where the armour was thickest or thinnest. I could punch through a lot with the claw. But not anything. And my leverage was limited.

I thought about the driver’s compartment. The viewing block was too small to crawl through, but any gap might be something I could enlarge. I worked my way around the circumference of the space again and tried to orient myself. Where was the gunner’s seat? Which way was the cannon? Which way were the engines?

I failed. The damage was too severe. Nothing was recognisable. Whatever direction I chose could lead me toward the engines, and I had no desire to start pounding at them. I was lucky that they had not exploded, and that I wasn’t wading through promethium waiting for the first spark. I was already entombed. I was not ready to be cremated.

The thought of Storm of the Wastes as a coffin gave me pause. I stopped moving and made myself take the time to work through that possibility. The air smelled of grease and blood. There was a trace of smoke. I was not short of breath; the space was small. Enough time had passed, and I had exerted myself enough, that my lungs would be labouring if I were sealed in hermetically.

Air was getting in. That did not imply I would be getting out. It could mean that I would be able to breathe until I died of thirst.

What about rescue?

I chose not to work through those possibilities just yet. I would have to rely too much on outside circumstances. I was already at the mercy of plenty. Time enough to think about that later.

Up, then? I thought.

Yes. Up.

That was the only direction of which I had any certainty.

I felt above my head, looking for any hint of weakness. I found an area where the wreckage seemed a bit more sparse. I swiped at it with the claw. A metal tangle came down on me. I brushed it off, then began in earnest. I pulled my arm back as far as I could. The energy of the claw built up. I punched upward.

The bang shook the entire vehicle. I paused, waiting for the explosion or the final collapse. When neither occurred, I struck again. Then again. And again.

I settled into a rhythm. Each blow worked out a bit more frustration. For the first few minutes, I made progress. The decking buckled under my attacks. I had to reach higher. Soon I could straighten up.

That was the extent of my victories. Though I was tearing through layers of metal, I was also smashing the plating, mechanism and armour together to create a denser mass. A moment came when I could no longer reach my target. I tried to climb, but there was nothing I could perch on with enough stability to punch again. Even if I clung to the edge of the hole in the decking, there wasn’t enough room to get the claw past my own arm.

I sat back down. I had gone as far as I could in this direction. My options had been reduced to one, and it was poor one: rescue.

I examined the facts. Remaining dispassionate was not difficult. Between the battering I had taken and the one I had just given, I was exhausted.

There would be a search for me, and to the degree that was possible in the middle of the worst ork assault in Armageddon’s history. I had last been seen in Anaon, and it was known that I was travelling with the tanks of Sixth Company. Morena’s route was known too.

But we had gone many kilometres off that route to avoid the Gargants towards the region of the air war. I could still hear the sounds of conflict, though I couldn’t tell from that rumble how close the battle was to my position, nor its nature. Was the struggle for control of the airspace near Tartarus still ongoing? Or was I hearing the siege of the hive itself by the Gargants? I had no beacon. The vox was in fragments. There would be no transmission coming from the destroyed squadron.

So where did that leave me? I would have to count on the burned squadron being spotted by an overflight of this particular patch of hills. From the air, I doubted there would be anything to suggest the chance of a survivor. I was also having to count on Storm of the Wastes not having met its end so far from the rest of the squadron that it would be missed. How far had we rolled? How far had the others travelled? There was no way to know.

But if someone were to see the wrecks, and a land-based search followed, there would be nothing to say there was a survivor. Nothing to suggest that prying open the destroyed armour would be worthwhile. Unless there was an unmistakeable signal.

That was the one thing I could do. I couldn’t reach high enough to strike and do any damage, but I could ring the hull like a bell. So I did. Three rhythmic blows. I stopped to listen, counting to twenty, then three more blows.

I fell into the new rhythm. I might very well not be able to hear searchers until they were actually working on the tank. For all I knew, I could be the last human on Armageddon, fruitlessly hitting the interior of his coffin. But I could not risk silence, in case there was help nearby. So I hit three times and listened. Hit three times, listened.

On and on. For hours. How many, I had no way of telling. My existence reduced itself to this one task of striking metal in pitch blackness, a task I had no reason to expect would be successful. I refused to accept the likelihood of failure. If I did, the temptation to rest would become overwhelming. I lived from second to second. I found the energy to strike the hull three times, and then again for another three. I tried to shut out all thoughts of the past and future. The eternal present was all that mattered. Despite my efforts, though, I could not ignore the irony of my situation. The Saviour of Armageddon, dead in an overturned tank. A glorious end, truly.

I did laugh a bit. That helped.

Time wore on, and my bursts of dry laughter died away. My throat was parched. I could barely move my arm. My body demanded sleep, but I refused. Then, quite suddenly, I heard noises outside. Engines. Loud, coughing, rattling engines. And over their din, closer to the hull, voices. Guttural. Savage.

Orks.

I had poor options. A choice of deaths, but the decision was an easy one. I would go down fighting. I smashed at my tomb with renewed force. After another three blows, I heard pounding from the other side. And then the unmistakeable grind of metal cutting metal. The greenskin voices sounded excited.

I reached to my belt and activated my shield generator. The air around me thrummed as the power field sprang into being. I drew my bolt pistol, building up the charge of my bale eye. I waited. I was eager to begin. The moment the orks broke through, the situation would change. I had no illusions about my chances, but I would make the best of them.

Sparks showered into my cell. The pitch of the grinding rose to a scream, and a chainblade broke through.

Still I waited for the enemy to free me and provide a clear shot at his bestial face.

The blade worked its way around in a rough circle about a metre wide. The cuts joined. The blade withdrew. A heavy blow from the other side knocked the sliced plating inside.

Armageddon’s grey daylight was blinding after the hours of total darkness.

I fired my eye as the ork poked its head through the hole. The lasburst shot through the greenskin’s right eye, incinerating its brain, and it fell away. There was a growl, and then another ork appeared. I blew its skull off with the pistol.

The orks roared with outrage. Fists pounded against the hull. For the moment I saw nothing except a circle of brown sky. Heavy booted feet thudded across the hull towards the hole. Firing again, I took off the brute’s arm just as it began to aim.

The attack began in earnest now. They fired around the hole at every angle. Bullets ricocheted around the interior. My shield absorbed their kinetic energy and they fell. A grenade arced in. I caught it and threw it back outside. It exploded in midair, and I was rewarded with roars of outrage that turned into roars of pain.

The orks kept coming and I kept shooting them. I was trapped, but they couldn’t come at me where they could see me more than one at a time. I could hold them off indefinitely… until I ran out of clips for the pistol. Even then, I would take them apart with the power claw if they tried to come inside.

Indefinitely. Not infinitely.

I knew what the end was. I dismissed it. I would kill them one by one in the same eternal present as when I had banged my claw against the hull. They kept coming, wearing me down closer and closer to final exhaustion.

As I fought, and shot, and killed, I wondered why their attacks were so limited. I didn’t hear any engines, so perhaps these orks were without heavy armour. But none of them tried to burn me out with flamers. A well-placed rocket would have ended the struggle in an instant. Instead, they appeared to be limiting themselves to shotguns and blades.

But in the end, they tired of the game, and decided to change the rules. The grinding started up again. When the blade poked through, it began to cut the outline of a much larger hole. I would lose my shelter. I would be cornered with no protection except my power field, and concentrated fire would overwhelm it.

I changed my bolt pistol’s clip and waited for the endgame.

The huge roar of an approaching aircraft shook the air. I heard the shriek of launched missiles. Explosions. Howls from the orks. A confused stampede. The aircraft came closer. There was the blast of retro-rockets as it landed. And then the sounds of a perfect, cleansing slaughter.

I leapt and grabbed the edge of the gap with my claw. Hauling myself up, I climbed out of the coffin.

Storm of the Wastes had come to rest in a narrow plain between the hills. The wreck of one of the other tanks lay on the slope to my left. A dozen metres to my right, an obsidian Thunderhawk gunship sat on level ground. A squad of Space Marines marched through the battlefield. It was full day, but they looked like darkest thoughts of the night. They were horned monsters. Though they carried bolters, most of them were killing orks with blades that grew out of their forearms.

Black Dragons.

Judging from the number of bodies I saw, there had been a few hundred orks to start with. I had lost track of how many I had killed. In the initial moments of their attack, the Black Dragons had cut them down by half. The rest fought back, but not for long.

The massacre was over in just a few minutes.

The captain of the Black Dragons came to meet me as I jumped down from the Vanquisher’s upturned hull. He towered over his battle-brothers. The adamantium edge of his crescent horn gleamed in the sun. The coating of his bone blades was dark with greenskin blood. His flesh seemed more reptilian than human. In appearance, the Space Marine approached the daemonic.

This being too, I reminded myself, had a role to play in service to the Emperor.

The Black Dragon nodded. ‘Volos,’ he said. ‘Second Company. An honour, commissar.’

‘My thanks, Captain Volos. I am greatly in your debt. How did you find me?’

‘If we had flown through this area before you were attacked, I don’t think we would have,’ he said. ‘We spotted the orks.’

I took in the bodies stretching away on all sides. ‘So large a group in the middle of nowhere would have caught the eye,’ I agreed.

‘A large raiding party, yes,’ he said. ‘I am puzzled by their overall weakness, though. There are no warlords here. And their weapons…’

‘…are very limited,’ I finished.

He must have seen something on my face. ‘Commissar?’ he asked.

An ork force weak in strength but large in numbers. Easily spotted. One that could not simply blow up the tank they were attacking; one that would be just possible for a single human being to hold off. And why were the orks here? I had called them to the specific tank, pinpointing my location for any searching eyes, but I could not understand why this force had been in the area at all. After the bombers did the job, there was little to scavenge. There would have been no reason for any infantry to be diverted to this location.

Unless I was the reason.

I remembered Morena’s last vox transmission, alerting Imperial forces to my presence. I wondered now if someone else had heard it, if my enemy had sent this force knowing I was here. If they had sent these orks, whose constant fire showed they were not trying to capture me and also did not have the means of an assured kill.

I had no answers, only possibilities. But the questions were enough.

They were their own revelations, and they gave me that much more of the measure of my enemy.

I finally answered Volos. ‘I was just gathering my thoughts, Captain Volos,’ I said. ‘Learning what I must to win this war.’

About the Author

David Annandale is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Ruinstorm and The Damnation of Pythos, and the Primarchs novel Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar. He has also written Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine, the Yarrick series, several stories involving the Grey Knights, including Warden of the Blade and Castellan, as well as The Last Wall, The Hunt for Vulkan and Watchers in Death for The Beast Arises. For Space Marine Battles he has written The Death of Antagonis and Overfiend. He is a prolific writer of short fiction set in The Horus Heresy, Warhammer 40,000 and Age of Sigmar universes. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

A Black Library Publication

‘Evil Eye’ first published digitally in 2012.
Imperial Creed first published in 2013.
Chains of Golgotha first published in 2013.
‘The Wreckage’ first published in The Black Library Anthology 2013/14 in 2013.
‘A Plague of Saints’ first published digitally in 2014.
‘The Gallows Saint’ first published digitally in 2014.
‘Sacrificial’ first published digitally in 2014.
‘Sarcophagus’ first published digitally in 2014.
The Pyres of Armageddon first published in 2015.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Fred Rambaud.

Yarrick: The Omnibus © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Yarrick: The Omnibus, 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: 978-1-78572-969-0

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.