More Warhammer 40,000 stories from Black Library

The Beast Arises

1: I AM SLAUGHTER

2: PREDATOR, PREY

3: THE EMPEROR EXPECTS

4: THE LAST WALL

5: THRONEWORLD

6: ECHOES OF THE LONG WAR

7: THE HUNT FOR VULKAN

8: THE BEAST MUST DIE

9: WATCHERS IN DEATH

10: THE LAST SON OF DORN

11: SHADOW OF ULLANOR

12: THE BEHEADING

Space Marine Battles

WAR OF THE FANG
A Space Marine Battles book, containing the novella The Hunt for Magnus and the novel Battle of the Fang

THE WORLD ENGINE
An Astral Knights novel

DAMNOS
An Ultramarines collection

DAMOCLES
Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Ultramarines novellas Blood Oath, Broken Sword, Black Leviathan and Hunter’s Snare

OVERFIEND
Contains the White Scars, Raven Guard and Salamanders novellas Stormseer, Shadow Captain and Forge Master

ARMAGEDDON
Contains the Black Templars novel Helsreach and novella Blood and Fire

Legends of the Dark Millennium

ASTRA MILITARUM
An Astra Militarum collection

ULTRAMARINES
An Ultramarines collection

FARSIGHT
A Tau Empire novella

SONS OF CORAX
A Raven Guard collection

SPACE WOLVES
A Space Wolves collection

Visit blacklibrary.com for the full range of novels, novellas, audio dramas and Quick Reads, along with many other exclusive products

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer 40,000

Illustrations

Prelude

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part Two

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Three

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Postlude

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Slaughter at Giant’s Coffin’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

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.

PRELUDE

10,000 YEARS AGO

Gar was the first among them to spot the comet, its bright tail scarring the pre-dawn twilight, and it was he too who first discerned its true nature.

The others in the hunting party were afraid at first, believing that part of the sun they worshipped had broken off and rained down upon them, a god’s fiery vengeance for transgressions unknown. Gar, as their leader, sought to reassure them, to remind them that this was not the first time objects had fallen from the heavens onto their world, and that such occurrences did not always signify malice. The instant the first rays of dawn broke over the horizon, he spoke to the dozen men and women of his tribe in a halting tongue, a vague approximation of the Gothic he had heard spoken by the last visitors to their ice-bound world.

‘We. Go.’

The downed craft was easy to find, bleeding dark, oily smoke into the pale skies, but reaching it was no simple task. Their world, designated 27-21 by the explorator team that had ‘discovered’ it only a decade before, was at the nadir of its winter; this gave them only a few hours of daylight to reach the crash site and then seek shelter from nocturnal predators that had already thinned their numbers from the twenty who had set out on the hunt. The going was slow. Weeks of uninterrupted snowfall had covered the steppes, and where the snow had drifted it was deeper even than Gar was tall. Each of them was covered from head to foot in thick furs and animal hides, but even these could not keep out the bitter cold entirely, and they shivered constantly as they trudged through the untarnished sea of white.

The dull sun was at its zenith when Gar’s mate, Rhea, turned to him, her belly swollen with child, her pleading eyes wet with wind-drawn tears. They had travelled far and fast given the conditions but they were still some way from their destination. To be caught in the open after dark was suicide, as was making camp in the middle of the steppes. Gar called the tribe to a halt and said to them one of the other words he had learned.

‘Shelter.’

He had used the firebox every night since it had been given to him by the explorator, but it continued to fascinate Gar. The way the small metal wheel spun and generated a spark, the way the orange flame blossomed into existence; the way flipping down the cap extinguished the flame until the firebox was ready to be used again. Before the coming of the explorators, it might have taken Gar up to an hour to build and ignite a campfire, but now it took only minutes, the pile of wood blazing away at the mouth of the cave not only warming the hunters but serving as a deterrent to the carnivorous beasts that prowled the plains after sundown.

The firebox was not the only gift the explorators had brought with them. They had given the scattered tribes of 27-21 the gift of language, meaning that communication was no longer characterised by violence and macho posturing. In times past, Gar and his followers would have slaughtered a rival tribe and taken what they needed from their foe’s corpses, but now, thanks to language, they could talk to each other on a simple level, barter and trade. Conflict was still inevitable at times, but it had become a last resort rather than an opening gambit.

Gar put his arms around Rhea – given to him by Kai’s people to secure an alliance – and pulled her close, adding his body heat to that of the fire. He put his hand over her stomach and felt movement within before looking into her eyes and exchanging a smile.

‘Child,’ said Rhea.

‘Child,’ Gar repeated.

Day broke just as the fire was burning itself out, but the hazy morning light obscured rather than revealed. The smoke of the crash site burned white now, almost invisible against the colourless vista, and more than once the tribe lost their bearings in the whiteout. The snow had ceased falling overnight, allowing them to navigate by the position of the sun, but the landscape was no less monotonous. They had been struggling through the snow for several hours when Irl, the youngest of their number, called out.

‘Look. Birds?’ Uncertain that he had used the right word, he looked to Gar for affirmation.

Gar looked to where the boy was pointing. Huge white-winged scavengers circled in the sky, a dozen or so kilometres from where they stood.

‘Birds,’ Gar confirmed, much to Irl’s delight.

Certain of their direction, they picked up the pace now, at times almost running where the snow only came up to their fur-clad calves. Even Rhea, more than halfway through her pregnancy, kept up with them, though as the day wore on she fell further and further back from the tribe. From time to time Gar would halt and wait for her to catch up, checking that she was all right before rejoining the head of the pack.

As they drew closer to the crash site, the landscape began to alter. Snow and ice yielded to mud and meltwater, thawed by the intense heat the craft had generated as it sped towards the ground and the fire that had ensued on impact. Huge gouges were ripped into the earth across several miles where the ship had skipped after its initial landing, pieces shearing away from its broken hull after every bounce before it finally came to rest. The tribe no longer needed the carrion birds to show them where the downed craft was; they simply had to follow the trail of debris.

‘Here,’ called Byr, the biggest among their number. He was in a deep crater and Gar had to slide down a sheer mud wall to reach him. He was standing over a metal object half submerged in muddy water. Gar had seen similar items before, strapped to the hips of the explorators, but this was far bigger than the ones they carried.

‘Gun,’ Gar said.

Byr looked confused, not understanding the word, and knelt down to pick the thing up. Every sinew in his body strained, every muscle corded as he struggled to lift the heavy metal object from the puddle. It had barely cleared the waterline when the effort became too much for him and he dropped it back to the ground with a splash that soaked both him and Gar. Gar scowled, not only at Byr’s clumsiness but also at the implications of what they had found.

When the explorators came, they had told the tribes of 27-21 that they were not alone, that others of their kind – ‘humans’ to give them their proper name – lived on other worlds. Some of these worlds were like 27-21, but most were different with huge settlements that housed many people or great facilities where the objects the explorators carried and the craft that flew them from world to world were manufactured. Some of these worlds had never experienced winter, their inhabitants never feeling the bite of cold or surviving through blizzards that lasted a week. Gar liked the sound of these worlds.

But not all worlds were home to humans, and even those that were weren’t always friendly to them. The explorators had come from the Imperium, a vast collective that sought to unite all of mankind once more and rid the galaxy – for that is what they called the myriad worlds – of anyone and anything that stood against the betterment and expansion of humanity. The explorators had not stayed long, but they shared much with the people of 27-21 and had helped bring them together, if not united them entirely. As they boarded their ships to head back out into the stars in search of other lost human worlds and colonies, they promised that other representatives of the Imperium would visit them soon, bringing with them even greater gifts and knowledge and learning to help 27-21 come to ‘compliance’. Gar had not understood this word and the explorators could not – or would not – explain its meaning. Was this ship here to make good on the explorators’ promise? To help bring 27-21 to compliance? And if so, why did those hoping to help them achieve compliance need to carry guns so big?

Another thought occurred to Gar. What if this craft was not of the Imperium? What if it was from an enemy of mankind, here to subjugate or even eliminate the population of 27-21?

‘Gar!’ Rhea called. ‘Come.’

Gar scrambled up the muddy slope of the crater, Byr’s strong arms and shoulders providing the extra boost needed to clear the summit. Once out, he offered the big man his hand and Byr half climbed, half fell up the slick gradient, almost pulling his leader back in.

‘Gar!’ Rhea called again.

Gar sprinted to where his mate and the rest of the tribe stood in a circle around a huge dark object at their feet. Seeing their headman approach, they parted to allow him a clear view of what had arrested their collective attention.

Gar let out a gasp. Clad from head to foot in a black shell was the largest creature he had ever seen, bigger even than the dark-furred steppes predator from which Byr took his name. It was quite clearly dead – blood had leaked from cracks in its armoured hide and formed a vast frozen puddle around it – but it was no less intimidating robbed of life. Cautiously, Gar knelt down to examine the markings on its shell and was surprised to find that they formed a regular pattern, as if they had been painted on rather than occurring in nature. One of the enormous smooth pads that were analogous to the thing’s shoulders appeared to have a stylised picture of a bird upon it, but why?

‘Another. There,’ Irl said, pointing further down the muddy trench they found themselves in towards the main bulk of the craft. Another figure with a similar dark shell lay equally dead though there was something different about this one’s shape. Gar got up and shoved his way past the rest of the tribe, who were ambling towards it in a stupor that was part wonder, part fear.

Gar gasped again. The variation in shape was around the head. The first body’s shell was intact above its shoulders but this one was bereft of protection, revealing what lay within. Features that resembled those of Gar, those of every member of the tribe, every inhabitant of 27-21.

‘Human,’ he said. A buzz of chatter passed around the hunting party, confusion and terror beginning to grip them. Gar could not take his eyes from the corpse at his feet, its pale skin, its dead dark eyes, its sheer size. Though the shell was the same colour and bore the same markings as the other dead creature, this one still had its weapon gripped in its hand – the mirror of the one Byr had found in the crater. It had a bunch of feathers attached to its waist, too. Gar was just about to snatch them from its belt when one of the tribe called out.

‘Another.’ This was echoed by half a dozen more voices as the hunting party fanned out, carefully picking their way through the debris zone. Gar went to each of them, confirming that the black-armoured giants were all dead. The further they spread out across the crash site, the more bodies they found. Gar stopped counting after thirty. He was about to order the tribe to give up, to begin searching for shelter for the night, when something caught his attention. Carefully picking his way through the shorn metal of the crashed ship, he made his way over to another of the corpses, half buried in mud.

‘What?’ Rhea called after him.

Gar knelt down by the corpse, brushing away the mud from its face and shoulders. ‘Different…’ he replied. Instead of the pale, paper-like flesh of the other slain giants, this one’s flesh was the exact opposite, obsidian and thick – and its armour was green, the same green as the plains of 27-21 once the winter retreated. Its markings were different too, the head of what looked to be a mythical dragon in place of the bird motif. But the biggest difference was that this giant was not dead.

It opened its eyes, dark lids blinking rapidly as the burning red orbs beneath grew accustomed to the light. It thrust out a gauntleted hand and gripped Gar tightly around the throat. Rhea screamed.

‘Rhea. Go,’ he sputtered.

‘No. Fight,’ she said, pulling a bone blade from her furs.

‘No, Rhea,’ Gar said, his face turning purple through lack of oxygen. ‘Child.’

Rhea halted in her tracks. Byr and Irl rushed to her side, each gripping an arm and pulling her away, the blade slipping from her grasp and disappearing into the mud underfoot.

Gar put both hands around the gauntlet that was choking the life from him and tried to prise the fingers from his throat but to no avail. Just as he felt he was going to lose consciousness and, ultimately, his life, the giant relaxed its grip slightly and pulled Gar in close so that its lips were by his ear. Then, with its dying breath, it uttered three words.

‘Prepare for war.’

And for the next ten thousand years, they did.

PROLOGUE

VOSTROYA, 11 YEARS AGO

Even through the rebreather, Ladbon could smell the chemdog, piss-sodden fur mingling with the chemical tang of Vostroya’s atmosphere. It hadn’t seen him yet, being too concerned with feasting on the rotting remains of what was likely one of its young. Through the acrid mist, Ladbon caught a glimpse of his brother moving into position, ready to take aim and exterminate the predator, but the beast sensed Zerek’s presence too, abandoning its meal and raising its snout to the occluded sky. Catching the older boy’s scent, the dog-like thing raised its hackles, making itself big for the forthcoming hunt. With a burst of speed it put its head down, charging to where Zerek was crouched lining up his shot.

The sound of clawed feet scrabbling over the rocky wasteland gave way to the report of Zerek’s hunting rifle, but still the thing came at him, blood fountaining from where the round had struck it in the shoulder and failed to fell it.

‘Zerek!’ Ladbon called out, rising from behind the rock formation where he had been observing the beast. Unable to see his brother through the fog that permanently blanketed Vostroya’s surface, he heard Zerek chamber another round. Raising his own weapon, an antique shotgun that had been passed down through generations of their family, he took aim, finger poised over the triggers.

Unbidden, the vision came upon him.

The blast of both barrels rings out, but the chemdog is already leaping. The spray of shot misses it entirely. It lands on top of Zerek, claws extended, and knocks him to the floor. It bares its fangs and silences his brother’s screams by tearing out his throat. It does not feed straight away, instead turning on Ladbon, who is in the middle of reloading the shotgun. Ladbon backs away from the beast but it is crouching ready to pounce. Through fear, Ladbon drops both of the shells he is attempting to chamber, fumbles the weapon, turns and flees. The beast launches itself at him, half a ton of corded muscle, teeth and claw dropping him to the cold, hard ground. Fade to black.

Ladbon fired, discharging only a single barrel. Unable to react to the shot, the thing jumped into the deadly cloud of steel, the force of the blast diverting it away from Zerek. It howled in pain as it crashed to the ground, blood leaking from dozens of wounds. Ladbon didn’t hesitate, covering the distance between him and his prey in seconds. After visually confirming that his brother was unharmed, he got his first good look at the thing that had plagued the denizens of Vostroya’s Hive Decius for the past few months.

That it had descended from the canids brought by the first settlers of Vostroya was obvious, but millennia of evolution and exposure to the chemical stew of the atmosphere had wrought it into an apex predator. Its dark fur covered four muscular legs that could propel it at pace across the ground and launch it high through the air when it came time to kill, while its body was lean and gaunt, developed for efficiency, to keep its overall weight down and maximise its speed. Large eyes, evolved to make the most of the gloom beneath the fog layer, looked up at Ladbon, primal malice still evident rather than the helplessness of a creature that knew its end had come.

Ladbon put the muzzle of his shotgun to its temple and emptied the other barrel at point-blank range, spraying the contents of its skull across the rocks and splashing blood and brain matter over his protective suit. The chemdog had shown no mercy after it had killed the meagre animal life forms in the toxic wastelands and started venturing into the hive in search of food, and thus Ladbon was not inclined to show it any either. No longer would it prey on the underhivers of Decius, and vengeance had been served for the seventeen children it had claimed.

After wiping the gore from the thick, airtight fabric of his trousers, Ladbon offered his hand to his brother, who was sat on the floor, his deep breaths amplified by the rebreather covering his mouth and nose. Zerek took it and hauled himself upright, the three years he had over his younger brother granting him an extra quarter metre of height. Soon Zerek would be of majority and the hunting rifle in his hands would be replaced by a standard Guard-issue lasrifle, his protective suit swapped for the uniform of the Vostroyan Firstborn. That day was only weeks away and both boys knew that this was likely to be their last hunt together.

‘How did you…?’ Zerek began before figuring out the answer mid-sentence. ‘You had another vision, didn’t you?’

‘Please, Zerek.’

‘I’m not going to be around to protect you soon. We’ve managed to keep it hidden for this long but I worry that without me to cover for you, people will get suspicious. If father found out–’

‘If father found out, he’d find a way to exploit it,’ Ladbon spat. ‘He’d have me go into trances to try to divine where the next sump rat infestation was going to break out, or where colonies of promethium leeches were going to make their nests – anything to gain an advantage over the other exterminators.’

‘Father…’ Zerek said, ignoring his brother. He crouched down by the chemdog’s corpse and inspected it.

‘What is it?’

Zerek continued to ignore Ladbon. He got up and ran over to take a better look at what the creature had been eating before they had come upon and ended it. ‘This is the offspring of one of those.’

‘So? What of it? They’re both dead now,’ Ladbon said, failing to grasp the meaning.

‘The thing you’ve just killed was a male.’

‘It’s a breeding pair,’ Ladbon said, realisation dawning. ‘The female is still out there.’

‘You can be the one who covers yourself in filth next time, agreed?’ Zerek said, picking his way through the rocky, mist-shrouded wasteland.

Their plan was bold if not entirely pleasant. Knowing that the mother would recognise the scent of her own young, one of them would cut open the pup’s corpse and cover themselves in the contents of its bladder, marking himself in the same way that a canid marks its territory. Thus scented, one of the brothers would act as a decoy while the other made the kill.

‘You may be older, taller and fatter than me, brother, but you never were very good at stone-parchment-shears,’ Ladbon said with a smug grin.

‘I know how your mind works, Ladbon,’ Zerek said. ‘If it had been best two out of three you would be the one standing here doused in animal piss.’

‘I don’t know why we bothered. You’re making so much noise that we might as well have just whistled for her to come to us.’

‘That’s not such a bad idea,’ Zerek said, calling his brother’s bluff. ‘We’re here! Come and get us!’ he yelled before issuing a long, loud whistle.

‘How have you survived for fifteen years with only the brains you were born with?’ Ladbon hissed, scurrying off behind cover. Zerek walked around in a wide circle waving his arms theatrically to waft the smell of urine. Ladbon kept his shotgun aimed close to his brother, the butt jammed hard against his shoulder to reduce recoil.

After about a minute Zerek stopped pacing and whistled again. Ladbon shook his head and threw him a disapproving look. Though Zerek was his senior and physically superior to Ladbon in every way, in terms of maturity the elder brother could easily be mistaken for the younger of the pair.

A scuffing noise from somewhere in the mist drew them both alert. Zerek gestured in the direction he thought it came from. Then he started growling and whimpering in imitation of what he imagined a chemdog pup would sound like. If he hadn’t been holding a shotgun, Ladbon would have put his head in his hands.

The noise came again, closer, louder now. Zerek raised the hunting rifle, pointing it slightly to the left of where he believed the previous noise had come from. His whimpering became more imploring.

That was when the second vision hit.

The shotgun blast from out of the mist hits Zerek in the chest. He falls to his knees. The second blast takes his head from his shoulders. His body falls backwards, blood pools beneath him. Yurri Sommletz, another of the exterminators from Decius, steps out of the mist, the shotgun in his hand still smoking from both barrels. He is horrified at what he has done, calls out. Gaspar Krum follows him, shakes his head in disbelief.

‘You’ve killed Oskar’s boy!’ he cries.

‘I didn’t mean to. I thought it was the beast,’ Yurri pleads.

Then the beast emerges from the fog and kills them all. Fade to black.

Ladbon was up and running the instant the vision passed. ‘Zerek!’ he shouted over the sound of a pump action shotgun cocking. Like the beast he had killed not an hour earlier, Ladbon thrust himself into the air, his shoulder connecting with his brother’s ribcage at the very instant the shot was fired. The side of his face felt as if it were on fire and his vision was impaired, robbing him of depth perception. As he landed hard on the ground he realised that he had been hit by the blast. He looked over at Zerek, who was lying next to him, and gave a pained smile at saving his brother, expecting one in return.

But Zerek didn’t return the smile.

What used to be his jaw was a bloody ruin, his throat now a wet, crimson mess. Ladbon looked into Zerek’s wide-open eyes but there was no life there. His brother was dead.

‘No…’ he whispered weakly.

Two figures emerged from the grey-green mist, weapons held limply by their sides.

‘They’re Oskar’s boys!’ said Gaspar Krum. ‘You’ve killed Oskar’s boys.’

Ladbon tried to speak.

‘The youngest is alive. Rest easy, boy. Yurri, go and fetch help.’

Ladbon found his voice. ‘The chemdog… The chemdog is coming…’ In response, a growl emanated from the murk. The two exterminators reacted instinctively, their weapons coming up in unison and aiming at the source of the noise. Boldly, defiantly, the female appeared, fangs bared, her growl a constant bass rumble. She stared down the three of them, asserting her dominance before turning her attention to the freshly killed corpse.

‘Grab him,’ Yurri said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘No,’ Ladbon said, but his voice had died back to a whisper. Gaspar and Yurri each put an arm under his shoulders, lifting him from the ground and dragging him away backwards.

The last Ladbon ever saw of his brother, his father’s firstborn, was the chemdog picking the meat from his bones.

Fade to black.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Danatheum brought up the psychic barrier just in time to absorb the burst of gauss that had been fired out of the darkness of the catacombs. Bright green energy clashed with a wall of purple aetheric unmatter, sickening pyrotechnics piercing the gloom.

The necron raised its weapon to fire a second time but a bolt shell was already clear of the Librarian’s pistol, racing unerringly towards the xenos’ metal skull. It impacted explosively, turning the thing’s ghoulish face into a void, and the necron fell backwards, attempting to regenerate. The Grand Master of the Librarius was on it in an instant, driving Traitor’s Bane down through its ribcage, twisting the blade and pulling it clear, entwined with sinew and circuit.

As he wiped the mechanical detritus from his sword, the hooded figure alongside him nodded in approval.

‘A fine kill, Grand Master. I look forward to rejoining the fray soon myself.’ The other Librarian’s voice was distant and reedy. Danatheum signalled and twenty black-armoured figures of the Ravenwing peeled themselves away from the dark and charged past him down the subterranean corridor. Moments later the catacombs lit up again with muzzle flare as the two squads engaged yet more necrons.

‘And soon you shall, Ezekiel, but not in the depths of Aryand. Your return to battle lies on a different field altogether.’

‘I do not understand, Grand Master. The Apothecaries have cleared me for combat and you yourself submitted me to psychic probing before you left on your mission, and declared me fully recovered.’ Ezekiel’s voice was noticeably raised, but it did not echo from the ancient stone tunnels, carved millennia before by the workers of the Nephrekh Dynasty.

‘None of that has changed. Rephial assures me that you have fully recovered from your wounds, and my assessment was sound. I believe you are fit to take your place alongside your brother Dark Angels, but you will not be joining me here.’

The two Librarians rounded a corner and Danatheum picked his way through the inert necrons carpeting the tunnel floor, burnished gold heads and limbs scattered around them, shorn off in the Ravenwing’s firestorm. Further ahead, the chorus of bolters struck up again as the brothers of the Second Company encountered yet more of the undead xenos.

‘Then I am to receive new orders?’

Unseen by either Librarian, one of the necron corpses they had passed by began to twitch, the gauss flayer in its hand glowing faintly as it powered up.

‘You are to take Fifth Company to a world called Honoria at the very fringes of Segmentum Obscuras. For millennia, the subsector it resides in has been cut off by warp storms, but now that they have abated a vast ork army threatens to overrun it. A score of worlds have already fallen to the greenskins, but Honoria must–’

Behind them, the darkness blossomed into green light as the necron discharged its weapon, the dank air of the tunnel crackling as it burned off under the immense heat. Danatheum reacted quickest, throwing himself against an immaculately hewn stone wall and bringing his bolt pistol to bear in a single, fluid movement. Ezekiel remained motionless, the necron’s shot passing harmlessly through his midriff before impacting against a wall further along the tunnel. The noise was swiftly drowned out by the report of Danatheum’s bolt pistol as it took the metal head from the xenos’ shoulders.

‘I do not understand, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, as if nothing had happened. ‘If the world has been cut off for so long then how did they know how to make contact with the Imperium?’

‘The request for aid came not from Honoria but Mars.’

‘The Adeptus Mechanicus? What interest do they have in this world?’

‘That I do not know, but it must be of the utmost import to them as they have invoked the Pact of Kulgotha to secure our aid.’

‘It has been less than a century since they last held us to our oath. Surely the sacrifices we made on Faze V released us from the Pact?’

‘I’m certain that we have repaid the Mechanicus tenfold in the eight thousand years since we made our bargain, but an oath is an oath and the sons of the Lion always pay their debts. I do not need your powers of foresight to see the darkness that lies ahead for humanity.’

Ezekiel blinked involuntarily.

‘We would do well to placate what few allies we have left,’ Danatheum continued. ‘Master Serpicus travels with you, does he not?’

‘Master Serpicus forms part of the command squad, yes.’

‘Good. Perhaps his pleasant nature and boundless patience will help forge even stronger bonds between the Rock and Mars,’ Danatheum said dryly.

‘You have met Master Serpicus, haven’t you, Grand Master?’ Ezekiel replied with a smile.

Side by side, the two Librarians came to the end of the tunnel, where it opened into a high-ceilinged chamber. Bolter fire echoed from where the Ravenwing, reinforced by elements of the Fourth Company, who had taken a different route to the throne chamber, were now engaged with a host of Lychguard. Danatheum raised his bolt pistol and lent his firepower to the rapidly escalating battle. Ezekiel merely looked on.

‘There is another matter I would like you to attend to, Ezekiel,’ Danatheum said, drawing Traitor’s Bane and bifurcating a golden-armoured necron that had broken through the Dark Angels’ lines. The two halves clattered to the smooth stone floor, the Grand Master of the Librarius emptying an entire clip into the twitching corpse before it could repair and reanimate itself.

‘What is it, Grand Master?’

‘Seventh Squad of First Company is no longer at full strength,’ Danatheum said solemnly. ‘The time has come for another brother to ascend to the Deathwing.’

‘Brother Joadar…?’

‘Succumbed to his wounds three nights ago. The punishment his body endured on Korsh finally proved too much for him.’

Ezekiel closed his eyes briefly. He had led the mission to Korsh himself and barely escaped with his own life, and the lives of the Deathwing brothers he had taken into battle. The daemon he fought there had already taken so much from him personally and, nearly a year on, three Dark Angels still remained under the care of the Chapter Apothecaries.

‘Who does the Supreme Grand Master have in mind?’ Ezekiel said as he watched Danatheum carve through another necron.

‘Balthasar. He has an exemplary battle record and a keen mind. Azrael endorses him and he has already started asking questions.’

‘And is one of those questions, “Why do we tolerate psykers among our ranks?”’

‘We are all shaped by our past, Ezekiel. You know that better than most. Balthasar and the world he grew up on suffered at the hands of the warp-touched. It is up to the likes of you and I to show him that our Emperor-bestowed gifts can be used for the benefit of the Chapter.’ To emphasise his point, Danatheum raised a psychic shield in front of a Ravenwing brother who was about to be ripped apart by a Lychguard’s scythe. The weapon bounced harmlessly off the aetheric wall, spinning the necron around and exposing its flank. The grateful Dark Angel revved up his chainsword and carved through the robot-like xenos’ torso the instant Danatheum dropped the shield.

‘I shall do my best, Grand Master, though I would prefer we waited until Fifth Company returns to the Rock so that you could carry out the assessment yourself. You have been the one to judge the worthiness of Deathwing aspirants for centuries, whereas I–’

‘Whereas you are the best among us, Ezekiel,’ Danatheum interrupted. ‘Though ours is a Chapter that values its secrets, it is a truth universally acknowledged that you are the most powerful psyker to have worn Dark Angels armour since the time of the Lion.’

‘Grand Master, you flatter me.’

‘No, I do not, Ezekiel. I am merely Grand Master of the Librarius by default. When I ascended from the Scout Company to the rank of Epistolary, there were close to thirty Librarians among the Chapter’s numbers, and now there are barely ten.’

Two more Lychguard overwhelmed their Dark Angels attackers and charged Danatheum, swords raised. Both blades elicited a shower of sparks as they connected with his hastily erected shield, which he dropped as swiftly as it was raised, simultaneously shooting one necron in the face at point-blank range and impaling the other on the tip of Traitor’s Bane.

‘I can raise an aetheric shield or conjure fire in the palm of my hands as well as any other brother who wears the blue armour of the Librarius.’ Another tall golden figure rushed him, but he met the same fate as the previous assailants. ‘But that is the limit of my powers. The fact of the matter is I only ascended to the mantle of Grand Master of the Librarius because I outlived all of my contemporaries.’

‘You do yourself a disservice,’ Ezekiel said.

‘Do I? How are we having this conversation right now, Ezekiel?’

‘I am communicating with you via a telepathic projection of my physical form.’

‘Exactly. You are projecting, not I.’

‘But you are capable of the same feat, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, his inflection rising at the end of the sentence, almost as if he were posing a question. ‘It was you who taught me this skill.’

‘Yes, Ezekiel. I have psychically projected myself from one level of the Rock to another, or from my position on the battlefield to yours,’ Danatheum said, chuckling softly. ‘Tell me, where are you right now?’

Ezekiel sighed, knowing that Danatheum had entirely scuppered his argument.

‘I am in the Astropathic Chamber on board the Sword of Caliban.’

‘And what is the Sword of Caliban’s position?’

‘In Segmentum Pacificus, close to the border with Solar.’

‘You see? You are two segmentums away and your psychic projection is the exact duplicate of your physical form.’ Danatheum shook his head. ‘Even the latest recruit to our ranks outstrips me in terms of raw power.’

‘Turmiel? The boy shows promise but he is lacking in control and finesse.’

‘The things you taught him during your year convalescing on the Rock would have taken me a decade to drill into him, if I was capable of them at all. That is why I sent him with you. By the time you return to the fold of the Chapter that boy will be second only to you in terms of psychic ability, mark my words.’

‘But none of that means you are not worthy to sit at the head of the Librarius.’

‘I may carry this sword, I may be the custodian of the Book and Holder of the Keys, but I am only keeping them safe until the time comes for you to assume the mantle of guardian.’

‘That will not be any time soon,’ Ezekiel said. ‘You’ll outlive us all.’

Another sound joined the noise of battle, and the subterranean gloom began to lift as intense light spilled from an ornate tomb in the centre of the chamber. A heavy golden lid slowly slid aside as the occupant started to rouse from its slumber.

‘Looks like it’s time to take my leave,’ Ezekiel said.

Danatheum shifted his gaze from the sarcophagus to look the vision of Ezekiel square in the eyes.

‘Swear to me that I made the right decision, Ezekiel. What happened to you on Korsh was enough to change any man, even one blessed with the twin boons of the Lion’s genetic legacy and the gift of the warp.’

Ezekiel blinked. ‘I swear to you, Grand Master. I am the same now as I was before my encounter with the daemon.’

Danatheum looked the psychic projection up and down, appraising him. ‘Good enough for me,’ he said eventually. ‘The Lion be with you, Ezekiel.’ He raised his blade, ready to face and exterminate whatever rose from the tomb.

‘And you, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, exorcising his own psychic ghost.

‘Why did you lie to Grand Master Danatheum?’

Ezekiel opened his eyes with a start. He had not sensed Turmiel enter the chamber.

‘How long have you been in here?’ Ezekiel said. His robes were soaked through with sweat, which dripped to the cold floor as he rose to his feet and turned to face the Lexicanium.

‘Long enough to hear you tell the Chief Librarian that your battle with the daemon has left you unchanged.’ Turmiel’s expression was blank. Though he was looking directly at Ezekiel, he appeared to be staring at some unspecified point in the distance.

‘That was no lie,’ Ezekiel lied.

‘Really?’ Turmiel’s voice was as emotionless as his hooded face. ‘Then use your powers of foresight to tell me what I’m going to say next.’

Faster than the Lexicanium could react, Ezekiel lunged forwards, his forearm at Turmiel’s throat, pushing him back against the hoar frost-rimed wall of the chamber. The young psyker didn’t even flinch.

‘How long have you known, damn you?’ Spittle coated Ezekiel’s lips.

‘Since the Rock. I realised that while you had been training me, you had also been relying on me to provide you with divinations. The information you provided Lord Azrael regarding the awakening of Phaeron Sylphek came directly from me, as did your briefing to Chaplain Asmodai about Black Legion movements in the region of the Ghoul Stars.’ Ezekiel’s arm remained locked across Turmiel’s throat. ‘I mean you no ill will or malice by telling you this, brother. I may not have been a Dark Angel for long, but I too recognise the value of secrets.’

Ezekiel’s hold relaxed. Lacking as he was in his powers of foresight he could still tell when he was being lied to, and Turmiel was speaking the truth. ‘My ability to perform my role is undiminished. It is only my powers of divination that are impaired. All of my other psychic faculties are functioning perfectly.’

‘With the greatest of respect, brother, the Chapter relies upon you to sift through the firmament of time and read those possible futures that burn brightest. Without the ability to do that I believe your role is very much diminished.’

Ezekiel pushed hard with his forearm, lifting Turmiel from the floor. The Lexicanium remained unperturbed. ‘Is that what this is? Blind ambition? You see an opening for the pupil to assume the master’s role?’

‘On the contrary. I see an opportunity to help repay you for the guidance and tutelage you have given me this past year. I have nothing but gratitude and respect for you, Brother Ezekiel. Let me help you while your powers are recovering.’

Turmiel was still speaking the truth, of that Ezekiel was sure. The boy did not have a malevolent or manipulative bone in his body; there was no hidden agenda here. Ezekiel moved his arm away. Turmiel slid down the wall, his armoured feet hitting the floor with a metallic thud.

‘Forgive me, brother. I took leave of my senses momentarily. I harbour no malice towards you,’ Ezekiel said, turning away.

‘There is nothing to forgive. You are bound to feel… emotional. Losing one aspect of our psychic mastery is akin to one of our non-warp-gifted brothers losing a limb. The difference being, our powers will gradually return whereas limbs do not regrow.’

‘I’m not certain that my power of foresight will return,’ Ezekiel sighed. ‘There’s nothing there, not even a sliver of ability. My physical wounds may have healed but the gash in my psyche is still as fresh as the day it was gouged. When the daemon entered my mind it did not leave empty-handed.’

‘What was that like?’ Turmiel asked. For the first time since he had met him, Ezekiel could hear emotion creeping into the Epistolary’s voice. If he hadn’t known better he could have sworn it was fear. ‘To have another entity abroad in your mind, every aspect of your psyche exposed and opened up for exploitation…’

Ezekiel closed his eyes. ‘Please, brother…’

‘My apologies. I realise it must be difficult for you,’ Turmiel said. ‘I shall leave you in peace.’ He headed towards the chamber entrance.

‘Why did you come here, brother?’ Ezekiel asked just as Turmiel had reached the threshold. The question was as figurative as it was literal.

Turmiel stopped and turned back to face Ezekiel. ‘While you were in communion with Grand Master Danatheum I performed several rituals of divination, each one showing me the same vision of the future. That is why I came here, to tell you of the future.’

‘And what happens in the future, Turmiel?’

‘You die, Brother Ezekiel.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘Gaspar! Do you see anything yet, brother?’

Gaspar Kordiev shivered beneath the snow piled on top of him by his identical twin and peered down the scope of his lasrifle. The view was the same as it had been the last time his brother had spoken to him over the vox: nothing but snow and evergreen trees stretching off into infinity. Gaspar tapped the bead in his ear to open a return channel, knocking off the frost that had formed on his big, bushy moustache as he did so.

‘Negative, Grigori. There’s nothing–’ Sudden movement in the treeline a kilometre straight ahead distracted him. He twisted the focus adjuster of his targeting scope and zoomed in on the source. The thick trunks of the trees obscured most of the target but Gaspar could see enough of its flesh to identify it. He switched vox-channels to speak to the squad as a whole. ‘Contact. It’s a greenskin. Looks like it’s heading west.’

‘Is it alone?’ somebody asked over the fizzing communication link.

Gaspar swung his lasrifle around in a slow arc, scanning for any sign of enemy movement. ‘I think so, captain.’

‘Good. If you get a clear shot, take it, but only if it’s a headshot – and only if you’re certain you can bring it down. Shift position if you need to but stay on the ridge, and keep alert for any more of them,’ came the response in heavily accented Vostroyan. ‘The rest of you get into position. Let’s do this exactly like we did last time and we’ll all walk back into camp in one piece tonight.’

Five voices responded that they had understood the order. Mute quickly tapped his vox-bead three times to signal that he had heard the captain.

For the next few minutes, Gaspar tracked the brute as it wended its way through the trees, desperate for it to move out into the open so that he could shoot it from a distance, but also cautious not to expose himself against the skyline as he moved along the ridge. Just as it was about to disappear from Gaspar’s view, the thing stopped and began to look around as if trying to get its bearings. Gaspar dropped to his belly, put the scope back to his eye and fixed the green behemoth in his sights. The opening was slight – no more than thirty centimetres between two gnarled tree trunks – but it was an opening nonetheless. He adjusted the focus again, aiming at a spot just above the greenskin’s eye, then placed his finger on the firing stud and inhaled gently, cold air stinging his lungs.

Then, suddenly, it was gone, back on the move.

Gaspar relaxed his grip on the weapon and opened the vox-channel again.

‘All yours, comrades. It has entered the kill-zone.’

Kasimir Tupolev – though nobody ever used his full name, his squad mates shortening it to simply Kas, everybody else calling him Freak – had to stoop to get his near two and a half metre frame beneath the low branches. Even with the heavy bolter strapped to his back, he kept pace with Mute ahead of him, the much smaller man skipping silently over the drifted snow, ammo drum stowed tightly under his arm.

‘We’ll set up here, Mute,’ Kas said quietly as they passed through a wide clearing and back into the white forest. ‘We should see it coming long before it sees us.’

Mute nodded vigorously and opened up the tripod weapon stand, dropping it into position just behind the treeline. Kas took the heavy bolter from his back and locked it into place before Mute slotted the ammo drum home. The pair of them were well-drilled and the whole process took only a matter of seconds. After checking everything twice to ensure that no dirt or snow had found its way into any vital part of their weapon set-up, Kas voxed the rest of the squad.

‘Ready to go. Lead it to us.’

‘We’re eyes-on it,’ Allix said into the vox-bead, so quietly that the words were almost breathed.

Oblivious to the unseen stalkers lurking in the snowbound forest, the ork lumbered onwards, awkwardly forcing itself through the narrow paths between trees, felling saplings as it went.

More than once both Allix and Grigori were certain they could have ended the thing there and then, their combined firepower enough to bring it down, but their orders were to lead the xenos to Kas and let him make certain of the kill. The orks had slowly been dropping onto the surface of Honoria for weeks, and they had all seen what could happen when instead of cleanly killing one, you just made it mad instead.

Keeping their distance, the two Vostroyans tracked their prey, Allix sticking to the thick trees on one side, Grigori crawling through the deep snow on the sparsely forested other flank. Occasionally, the ork would halt, sometimes to decide in which direction it should head when faced with more than one route through the trees, at other times to sniff the thin air and survey the forest for any signs of life. When the latter happened, Allix and Grigori would stay motionless even after the greenskin had continued on its way, allowing the thing to put more distance between them and it to reduce the chances of being spotted.

‘Damn it,’ Allix cursed almost inaudibly into the vox. The ork had just recommenced moving after stopping to find its bearings and had completely changed direction, moving north instead of west and into the path of Kas’ heavy bolter. ‘It’s changed its route, captain. Grigori and I have to bring it down now.’

‘You’re certain of the kill?’ the captain replied over the vox.

‘Positive,’ Allix said.

‘Negative,’ Grigori said after a pause. ‘It’s out of range. We’ll only alert it to our positions.’

‘Nonsense!’ Allix hissed. ‘I have a bead on it right now. Just issue the order, captain.’ Allix lacked the thick, bushy moustache sported by most Vostroyan soldiers as a sign of their station and manliness, so at times overcompensated with reckless shows of bravado and macho posturing. Most of the time, the rest of the squad found it amusing and played along with Allix, leading to verbal, and sometimes physical, sparring. In the middle of a combat situation, however, it was far from amusing. The captain, as ever, could see exactly what Allix was doing.

‘Do not take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot,’ the captain said firmly. ‘Dmitri. Get it back on track.’

The vox-bead in Dmitri’s ear buzzed with static as Allix killed the link, sparing the rest of the squad from the choice words now being spoken about the captain. He gripped the dark goggles hanging around his throat with both hands and pulled them up to cover his pink eyes, the black frame and lenses stark against the alabaster of his skin. Unslinging the flamer hanging limply from a strap over his shoulder, he ignited the pilot flame and gave a short experimental press of the trigger to ensure the promethium flowed freely. An orange burst blossomed into life and disappeared just as quickly, leaving behind the stink of burned fuel. Dmitri’s lips peeled back in a smile, revealing teeth the same colour as his face.

‘Hey!’ he called out, shattering the silence of the cold forest. ‘Over here!’ Dmitri pointed the flamer skywards and let out a long, satisfying jet of flame, causing steam to emanate from the snow-covered branches high above his head.

In the distance, the ork bellowed in reply. Though Dmitri could not see the beast he could tell it was on the move and headed for him by the movement of the trees. He could also tell it was moving fast.

The albino Vostroyan began to run, putting the strap of the flamer over his shoulder crossways so that the weapon sat at his hip, bouncing off him with every stride he made. Though the canopy above granted some respite from the snowfall, the powder underfoot was knee-deep, significantly impeding Dmitri’s progress. He risked a glance backwards to find that not only could he see the ork, but that it had already covered a third of the distance between them.

‘Keep heading towards us,’ Kas said over the vox. ‘You’re nearly there.’

Dmitri looked up to see Mute through a gap in the trees off in the distance, furiously waving both arms above his head like a Naval rating trying to land fighters on a flight deck. Alongside him, the imposing figure of Kas gripped the handles of the heavy bolter, poised to open fire.

Dmitri put his hand on the flamer and shot from the hip, sweeping the superheated promethium in a one hundred and eighty-degree arc, simultaneously melting the snow and letting the ork know exactly where he was. Hot mist sprung up before him, soaking his uniform as he sped through it, the heat stinging his thin, frail flesh. The brute bellowed again, so close now that Dmitri was not sure that he was going to lure it into Kas’ sights before it caught up with him. Lungs broiling as he gasped in the freezing air, Dmitri put his head down and increased his speed, calling on every last reserve of stamina and power to propel himself forwards.

He burst out of the trees into the clearing, exhaling in relief but not slackening his pace. He looked up to see that Mute was no longer waving, instead flapping both hands in a downwards motion. The ork roared again, so close that Dmitri could feel the wet warmth of the thing’s breath on the back of his neck.

‘Get down!’ Kas yelled over the vox.

Dmitri threw himself forwards, landing on densely packed snow before rolling sideways, hands over his ears to prevent himself being deafened by the report of the heavy bolter. Three staccato shots rang out, muffled by the thick fabric of the gloves he was using to protect his hearing, followed by another cry from the beast. Then, confusingly, there was silence.

Dmitri looked up to see Mute frantically trying to free the ammo drum from its housing in the heavy bolter while Kas bashed at the weapon with a meaty fist, trying in vain to dislodge the jammed bolt-round. Slowly, Dmitri turned his head to where the ork, still very much alive, was lying prone, a guttural roar gradually building in its throat. Kas’ shooting had been Primer-perfect: three shots to the leg to rob the ork of mobility and bring it low. Unfortunately for the Vostroyans, the weapon had jammed before it could deliver the other dozen or so shots needed to finish the job.

With a howl of pain, the ork tried to rise to its feet, its ruined leg trembling beneath it where gobbets of meat had been blown away. Its first attempt ended with it on its knees, the beast collapsing under its own weight, but the second time it managed to draw itself up to full height, trapping Dmitri in its vast shadow, cast by the hazy winter sun. The Vostroyan, not diverting his gaze from the ork looming over him, began to scrabble around for the flamer that had escaped him when he dived to the ground.

The ork advanced, all sounds of anguish replaced by a malevolent, expectant laughter. It drew a knife from its belt, the blade as long as an Astra Militarum-issue chainsword, and raised it above its head.

The beast was just about to drive the blade down when the captain emerged from the trees and shot it point-blank in the face with his sawn-off shotgun.

Captain Ladbon Antilov knew what was going to happen before it happened. He had seen it all: the heavy bolter jamming, the ork getting to its feet, Dmitri struggling in vain to recover his flamer, what the ork did next.

He also knew that he was the only one who could prevent the last thing from happening.

Though his view of the ork was obscured by foliage, his augmetic eye could read the xenos’ heat signature and tell from how quickly it was moving towards Dmitri that he only had seconds to act. Reaching into the folds of his long coat he pulled out the stubby form of his shotgun, the barrels much shorter than when he had gone back out into the toxic wastes of Vostroya a decade ago to avenge his brother and retrieve the weapon. It was far from standard issue but despite Ladbon and his unit being shunned by the majority of the Firstborn regiment, his rank did still carry some privileges and the gun was given heirloom status in the same way as other officers were allowed to carry antique swords and bolt pistols into battle.

The barrels had been sawn off to give him an edge over the greenskins, who liked to fight hand-to-hand, where their superior strength gave them an almost unassailable advantage. That had come at the expense of range, range he could have done with right now.

Springing to his feet, he half-ran, half-slid down the incline of the slope he had positioned himself atop to coordinate the ambush. Launching into a sprint once he was back on level ground, he held the gun in one hand, bursting from the treeline and discharging both barrels into the ork’s face before it knew what was happening. It dropped the blade it was carrying and put both hands to its face, blood pouring through its fingers from where thousands of pellets had bitten into its flesh. Ladbon continued past the ork, slamming against it as he ran and causing it to falter on its wounded leg, but it remained on its feet. It howled again, then stopped abruptly as though it had just realised that something was wrong.

Taking its blood-slicked hands away from its face, the ork reached down to its belt and fished something out from where its blade had recently been sheathed. It held the object close to its face for inspection, wiping blood from its brow with the palm of its other hand. Its vision cleared, the greenskin’s eyes grew wide with realisation, just before shrapnel from the grenade it was holding tore them from its skull.

Its head and arm disappeared in a crimson cloud, the muscles covering its upper body flensed away from bone with the force of the blast. For what seemed like an eternity it staggered around, flailing its remaining arm blindly, not realising its life was forfeit, before eventually collapsing to the ground, dead.

Certain that the threat was nullified, Ladbon proffered a hand to the still-prone Dmitri and helped him to his feet.

‘Thank you, captain. That was a close one,’ the albino said, brushing snow from his uniform.

‘This damned heavy bolter,’ Kas spat, getting up and kicking it. ‘How do they expect us to fight a war with guns that only fire half of the time?’

‘It’s cold and the mechanism jammed, Kas,’ Ladbon said, putting a hand on Mute’s shoulder to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. ‘These things happen.’

‘Ah, but how do you always seem to know these things are going to happen before they happen?’ asked Grigori, emerging from the trees with Allix in tow.

‘Yes, captain,’ added his twin, entering the clearing from the opposite side. ‘What is your secret? Do you carry the tarot around with you in your back pocket and make readings while our backs are turned?’

‘I reckon it’s that eye of his,’ added Allix. ‘Lets him see things others can’t.’

Ladbon sighed. ‘We could stand around here until nightfall sharing children’s stories and tall tales but I for one am freezing and hungry, and would very much like to get back to camp. Why don’t we all just agree that I saved your backsides – again – rather than discussing outlandish theories about how I saved your backsides – again?’

The other six Vostroyans looked to one another, stifling grins.

‘Good. That’s agreed then,’ Ladbon said, slipping the shotgun back into his trench coat. ‘Dmitri, how about getting us a ride back to base?’

The albino reached for the long-range vox slung at his waist, which split into three unusable pieces as soon as it was free of its cover. ‘It must have broken when I ducked out of the way of the heavy bolter.’ His squad mates sighed, cursing him under their breath. Mute threw a snowball, packed just a little too tightly so that it left a welt when it struck Dmitri’s cheek.

‘Looks like we have a long walk ahead of us,’ Ladbon said. ‘Be ready to move out in five.’

The squad dispersed, Grigori and Gaspar assisting Mute and Kas with dismantling the heavy bolter, Allix helping Dmitri find the flamer that was buried somewhere under the snow.

‘And burn that thing’s corpse,’ Ladbon added as he stepped over the remnants of the ork. ‘We don’t want it multiplying.’

The seven Vostroyans sat cramped and shivering in the rear of the Salamander as it passed through the gate of the camp they had called home in the months since they had deployed on Honoria.

Following the encounter with the ork, Ladbon’s squad had begun the long march back, but less than an hour in, a patrol convoy had spotted them and detoured to pick them up. Upon discovering exactly which squad they had diverted to help, the patrol leader – a boorish little man from Hive Septus – had allowed them to travel in the rearmost vehicle of the convoy, a battle-damaged Salamander Scout with no working heaters or weapons systems. If the cold didn’t get them, any run-ins with the greenskins on the way back to base certainly would.

The driver ground the vehicle abruptly to a halt and banged on the armour plating between compartments to signal for Ladbon and his squad to disembark. Wearily, they gathered together their kit and clambered over the side, careful not to let any bare flesh touch the frozen hull. Once they were all off the vehicle and up to their ankles in mud, Ladbon hit the side of the Salamander nearest where the driver sat, using the butt of his shotgun to ensure the noise would be uncomfortably loud inside the compartment. Over-revving the engine, the driver sped off, spraying wet filth that Ladbon and his troops had to scramble backwards to avoid.

‘Get warm, get some food and then get some sleep,’ Ladbon said, wiping mud from the lapels of his trench coat. His augmetic eye was labouring in the cold climate, its red lens slow to adjust focus. ‘We head out at first light and do it all again.’

A collective groan went up from his squad. On the horizon, the sun was falling like a stone through water and dawn was no more than four hours away.

‘Dismissed,’ Ladbon said, edgily. He was as tired as the rest of them but would not be able to head straight back to the tent for some much-needed rest as he had to find the brigadier and deliver his report. He turned to head off in the direction of the command centre, only to bump straight into another Vostroyan officer moving at speed.

‘Out of my way, secondborn,’ the officer said, shoving Ladbon aside with such force that he barely retained his footing in the quagmire underfoot. ‘Let the real soldiers through.’

‘I’ll be sure to do that if I ever see one, Captain Kowalski,’ Ladbon replied.

The other captain, flanked by two of his lieutenants, stopped dead and turned to face him. Ladbon’s squad did likewise, forming a semicircle behind their commanding officer.

‘You need to learn to show your betters some respect, secondborn,’ Kowalski said, getting so close to Ladbon that he could smell the recently smoked lho-stick on the other captain’s breath.

‘My “betters”?’ Ladbon queried. He pointed to the epaulets on his trench coat. ‘These stripes say that you and I are equals, captain, and that I outrank this pair of jokers.’ He pointed to the two lieutenants, their moustaches almost as thick and dark as Kowalski’s.

Kowalski laughed derisively. ‘We will never, ever be equals, secondborn. I am the firstborn son of a family descended from a hundred generations of noble blood, whereas you are merely a spare, the runt sent to make up the tithe after he got his big brother killed.’

Ladbon balled his fist ready to strike Kowalski but suddenly got a brief flash of what was about to happen. His hand relaxed and he let the future follow a different path.

‘And who are you to criticise my men? Let’s take a roll call of your freak show, shall we?’ Kowalski said. He pointed to each of Ladbon’s squad in turn. ‘An albino. A mute. A man big enough and ugly enough to suggest that one of his parents was an ogryn. Twins so stubborn that neither will admit to being the youngest, so they’ve both ended up in the Emperor’s service. And as for that? I don’t even know what that is.’

Grigori and Gaspar restrained Allix before anything regrettable happened.

‘And then there’s you,’ Kowalski said, returning his attention to Ladbon. ‘The secondborn son of a rat-catcher from a backwater hive, who somehow clawed his way up to captain. I’d probably have some admiration for you if your promotion hadn’t come at the expense of somebody more worthy. Tell me, secondborn, did you and your family eat those rats after you killed them?’

The two lieutenants joined in their captain’s laughter.

‘Only if you tell me whether it’s true that your mother is also your sister,’ Ladbon said.

The laughter stopped. It took Kowalski a few seconds to figure out the implications of what Ladbon had just said. When he did, he advanced on the other captain, his cheeks turning red with rage.

‘You’ll pay for that, you worthless cur.’

‘Captain Ladbon Antilov?’ said a voice from behind where the two captains were facing off. Kowalski, who was facing the source of the voice, stopped in his tracks and saluted. Ladbon already knew who was standing behind him, but not the reason why he was there.

‘That is me, commissar,’ Ladbon said, turning and saluting. He had hoped that Kowalski would have reacted a little sooner to his insult, that the commissar might have come upon them both just as the other captain had struck him.

The commissar was taken aback for a moment, uncertain how Ladbon knew who had addressed him. ‘You are to come with me.’

Ladbon’s squad began to mutter among themselves. Their captain put a finger to his lips ordering them to be quiet.

‘Am I under arrest?’ Ladbon asked, turning both palms outwards and upwards in surrender.

‘Not at the moment,’ the commissar replied, cagily. ‘But that could soon change if you give me any trouble. You’re not planning on giving me any trouble, are you, captain?’

Ladbon shook his head. ‘Might I ask where you are taking me?’ He began walking to an idling Chimera the commissar had motioned towards.

‘To the capital,’ the commissar said, following in Ladbon’s muddy wake. ‘The governor wishes to speak with you.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘And we are still no clearer as to why this request for aid came from the Mechanicus?’ said Interrogator-Chaplain Puriel without looking up from the sheaves of starmaps and parchment strewn across the cold granite of the strategium table.

‘I know only what Grand Master Danatheum has told me,’ Ezekiel said, addressing the entire command squad stood around the table, ‘along with the scant information in the orders we received from the Rock. Master Serpicus, perhaps you could enlighten us regarding Mars’ interest in this planet?’

The Techmarine picked up a handful of the sheets and scanned them with his twin augmetic eyes, processing the information faster than any of the others would be capable of. ‘Its location is of little strategic importance, and it’s too far from any forge world to suggest they want to annexe it. My best assumption is that they’ve found something there and they need our aid to prevent it from falling into the hands of the xenos.’ Like most of his Techmarine ilk, Serpicus had taken on aspects of the machine; thus in addition to his replacement eyes, both of his arms were augmetic, along with his right leg. The former were a result of design, the latter necessity after a run-in with a tyranid splinter fleet.

‘What kind of something?’ said Brother Rephial, the Apothecary’s voice heavy with the accent of his desert home world, his skin the colour and texture of worn leather.

‘A world that has been cut off for that long could be harbouring anything. It may be a whole new class of troop carrier that could be put to use by the Astra Militarum, a barrel variant for a lasrifle, or a previously unknown power source for use by the Titan Legions,’ Serpicus said impatiently. ‘But it’s just as likely that they’ve discovered a different-shaped rivet to affix armour plates to Rhinos, longer flanges for use in exhaust systems or a device that calculates the exact time needed to brew the perfect cup of recaff.’

‘But if it was something so trivial, why would they invoke the Pact?’ asked Puriel.

His Dark Angels brothers were accustomed to seeing the Interrogator-Chaplain wearing the skull mask of the Reclusiam, smiting the foes of the Lion with the power fist he wielded so effectively. Even away from the battlefield, clad in simple robes, he was no less imposing.

‘This is the Adeptus Mechanicus we are talking about here,’ Serpicus replied. Everybody understood his meaning.

‘What about you, Brother Ezekiel?’ said Company Master Zadakiel, the last member of the command squad. ‘Have your ministrations and ruminations uncovered anything?’

All eyes were on the Librarian. ‘That particular future is occluded to me at present. Brother Turmiel, has the warp revealed anything to you?’

The hooded Lexicanium took a step forwards out of the shadows, from where he had been observing proceedings at his mentor’s request. ‘It has not. The currents ebb and flow but the waters do not part.’ He nodded respectfully before resuming his original position, watching from the darkness.

‘What about the orks? Do they also desire whatever the Mechanicus seems so intent on recovering?’ Puriel asked.

‘Unlikely,’ Zadakiel said, pulling one of the star-charts towards him. ‘Several worlds have fallen to the greenskins in the past year. Honoria was just unfortunate enough to be in the path of the ork army when the warp storm abated.’

‘And we know nothing about the ork general leading this army?’ asked Rephial.

‘Same as it always is. The beast who’s the biggest, the strongest, and has the most weapons and the loudest vehicles,’ said Ezekiel. ‘Chances are that whichever ork was leading the invasion force when it began its rampage has long since been replaced. What we do know for sure is that the army is vast. Upwards of two million orks with reports of more heading towards Honoria.’

‘What are the Imperial numbers?’ asked Serpicus.

‘Twenty regiments each of Mordians and Vostroyans, assorted local defence forces plus an unknown quantity of skitarii,’ Ezekiel replied after consulting a data-slate.

‘So no more than half a million men,’ Puriel concluded.

‘Who is leading the Mechanicus forces?’ asked Serpicus.

‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Ezekiel said, consulting the data-slate once more.

Serpicus smiled, something he very rarely did.

‘Do you know this Diezen, Master Serpicus?’ asked Zadakiel.

‘He was one of my tutors during my time on Mars. One of the most devious wretches I’ve ever met, with a ruthless streak wider than a Land Raider.’

‘You sound almost happy, Serpicus,’ Rephial said. ‘A good friend of yours, is he, you two being so similar in character?’

‘I doubt I’ve ever met anybody I despise more, even you, Apothecary.’ Serpicus was still smiling. Though one tended to the flesh and the other the mechanical, Rephial and Serpicus had a strong bond that had developed over decades of fighting alongside one another. ‘I’m just pleased that I know what kind of bastard we’re going to be dealing with.’

‘Are the ork forces already engaged planetside?’ Zadakiel asked, returning the discussion to the subject at hand.

‘The latest report was filed three days ago, Terran standard. Imperial Navy vessels are blockading Honoria but several ork landing craft have made it down. Astra Militarum and skitarii forces are attempting to contain them,’ Ezekiel said.

‘And we’re another three days from reaching them, warp willing,’ Puriel said.

‘So it’s safe to assume that by the time we get there, the orks will have already invaded,’ Zadakiel said. ‘Unless you have foreseen otherwise, Brother Ezekiel?’

Once again, all eyes turned to the figure in blue. He closed his eyes, giving the others in the strategium the impression that he was calling upon his second sight to provide a divination.

‘Your assumption is correct, company master. We will arrive too late to make a difference to the void battle, but may yet turn the tide on the ground,’ Ezekiel said, opening his eyes and looking at each of the other Dark Angels, unblinking.

Zadakiel nodded sagely. ‘Shipmaster Selenaz will bring us out of the warp beyond the Mandeville point but clear of Honoria’s gravity well.’ He held up a hand to curtail the expected protest from Serpicus. ‘Yes, brother. It is a risky manoeuvre but one that the shipmaster has performed on numerous occasions before. With the element of surprise on our side, we’ll launch the drop pods and Thunderhawks the instant we’re back in real space and tear apart the ork forces before they know what’s happening. We’ll meet their barbarity with our own brute force and extract a toll so heavy that we’ll soon have them in rout.’

The rest of the command squad, even Serpicus, nodded in affirmation.

‘You all know your tasks, brothers. In three days’ time Fifth Company goes back to war. With the Lion and the Emperor at our backs, victory is assured!’

Librarian, Apothecary, Techmarine and Chaplain alike gave the sign of the aquila followed by the salute of the Lion. Zadakiel returned each one in turn before the command squad dispersed to make ready for the forthcoming battle. Zadakiel went to follow them out of the strategium, but Ezekiel stopped him at the threshold.

‘Do you know where I might find Brother Balthasar, company master?’ Ezekiel asked. Even with his diminished psychic abilities he knew exactly where Balthasar was at this present moment, but he was going through the pretence with Zadakiel out of courtesy.

‘Sergeant Balthasar is where he always is – in the training chambers drilling his squad. I’ve never met a Space Marine so meticulous in his approach to battle, and I’ve encountered more than a few Ultramarines in my time.’ There was something ominous about the way Zadakiel said ‘encountered’. ‘He’ll be Deathwing some day, you mark my words.’

‘That day may be sooner than you think, master,’ Ezekiel said.

‘Joadar…?’

‘Dead. Grand Master Danatheum informed me when last I communed with him. He has asked that I assess Balthasar to see whether he is worthy to ascend.’

A mixture of surprise and scepticism registered on Zadakiel’s features.

‘What is the matter, Master Zadakiel? Do you not think me up to the task?’

‘I have no doubt that you are up to the task, Brother Ezekiel. There’s not a single Dark Angel in the Librarius who comes close to your level of ability.’

‘You flatter me, master.’

‘What troubles me is why Danatheum would break with tradition and protocol in such a manner. It has always fallen to the Grand Master of Librarians to judge the worthiness of those earmarked for the Deathwing. Does he not expect to survive his current mission against the necrontyr?’

‘Grand Master Danatheum will outlive us all, I am certain.’

Zadakiel laughed. ‘You’re probably right. Nobody gives the old grox enough credit for his tactical acumen and fighting ability, regardless of his psychic prowess. If he didn’t wear the blue he’d be a company master, of that I have no doubt.’

‘I concur. He has taught me as much about the art of warfare as he has about mastery of my warp gift.’

Zadakiel looked contemplative. At that moment, Ezekiel wished he could have reached into the company master’s mind and stolen the thought that preoccupied him.

‘For what my opinion is worth,’ Zadakiel said, his features softening, ‘I believe that Brother Balthasar is worthy of ascension, but that he is not yet ready for it.’

‘Thank you for your candour, master. I shall bear that in mind when I make my recommendation.’ The two Dark Angels exchanged the salute of the Lion before Zadakiel took his leave.

‘Are your powers of foresight returning, brother?’ said Turmiel, stepping once more from the shadows. Ezekiel had been aware of his presence but at the same time somehow unaware. Was the Codicier deliberately trying to conceal his psychic spoor? ‘Did you really foresee that we shall exit the warp after the orks have made planetfall?’

Saying nothing, Ezekiel exited the strategium heading in the direction of the training chambers.

The report of bolter fire echoed along the cold corridors of the Sword of Caliban, guiding Ezekiel to his quarry.

Inside the chamber, Sergeant Balthasar led his squad in a drill as old as the Chapter itself, splitting their number so that half laid suppressing fire under which the other half could advance. The carpet of body parts and the ruined frames of training servitors were testimony to how effective his tutelage had been, and as Ezekiel lingered in the entrance First Squad of the Fifth Company made short work of the remaining automata.

The exercise seemed over but Ezekiel delayed interrupting as all ten Dark Angels remained alert, weapons trained on the inert servitors for signs of motion. Their prudence was swiftly rewarded as a number of previously neutralised units rose to their feet, the lasrifles grafted to them in place of arms coming noisily to life. As one, Squad Balthasar let rip with their bolters, shredding the reanimated servitors before any of them could get off a second shot.

Ezekiel was impressed, not only with the squad’s performance but also with Balthasar’s thoroughness. As far as he knew, the brothers of the Fifth Company were on their way to fight the necrons, and so the sergeant had his squad training against servitors hardwired to mimic their fighting style. Ezekiel had used the same protocols when training his wards, most recently Turmiel, but he had never seen a unit reanimate before.

Satisfied that he had seen enough, the Librarian gave Balthasar a psychic prod to alert the sergeant to his presence. Turning sharply in response to the violation of his mind, the helmetless sergeant scowled.

‘That’s enough for now,’ Balthasar said to his squad. ‘Take your bolters back to the armoury for anointing and have the serfs clean and ready your armour. We go again in an hour. Combat blades only this time.’

Stopping only to retrieve discarded weapons, the nine green-armoured warriors took their leave of the chamber, making the salute of the Lion to both of their superiors. At the edge of the room, a dozen serfs stood in anticipation awaiting a signal from either of the remaining Dark Angels. Ezekiel nodded in their direction and they swept onto the cold, rockcrete floor to retrieve discarded shell cases and remove the wrecked servitors.

‘The servitors coming back to life was quite the surprise, sergeant,’ Ezekiel said, warmly. ‘Has Master Serpicus been tinkering again?’

‘At my request, Epistolary,’ Balthasar said, not reflecting the Librarian’s tone. ‘The Techmarine and I share the same views when it comes to the betterment of the Chapter. Short of keeping live specimens of all the foes we are likely to go to war with chained up in the Rock, this will have to suffice.’

Ezekiel smiled involuntarily at Balthasar’s lament.

‘Does something amuse you, Epistolary?’

‘Not at all, brother,’ Ezekiel said, gravely. He looked the sergeant up and down as if inspecting him. ‘Tell me, why is it you dislike me and the other brothers of the Librarius so deeply? Do you fear us, Balthasar?’

‘I do not fear you, Epistolary, nor any of our psychic brethren.’ Balthasar locked gazes with Ezekiel. ‘But nor do I trust you.’

‘You do not trust us? Why is that? Do you not think we have the Chapter’s best interests at heart?‘

‘I believe your intentions are true, but ultimately you and your kind are conduits for the warp, and it is the warp that cannot be trusted.’

‘But you place your trust in the warp every time you step aboard the Sword or any of the other ships of the fleet.’

‘Reluctantly,’ Balthasar said, still staring intently at the Librarian. ‘What is to stop us from coming out on the other side and materialising within a planet’s core? What is to stop us from spending centuries journeying through the immaterium only to find that there is no Imperium left for us to defend when we reach our destination? What is to stop the daemons that scratch upon the hull of this vessel from tearing it apart and consuming us all?’

‘My entire life has been dedicated to harnessing the warp and bending it to my will, as has the life of every brother who wears the blue of the Librarius and every Navigator and astropath who serves our Chapter. The warp is another weapon we can wield against our enemies, sergeant. Surely you can appreciate that?’

‘But like all weapons it can misfire, or have you chosen to forget what happened to Codicier Gloriel?’

‘What happened to Gloriel was… unfortunate.’

The last time Ezekiel had served alongside the Fifth Company he had been accompanied by a newly-elevated Librarian. The mission had been routine until Gloriel used his psychic abilities to erect a shield to protect the squad he was attached to and inadvertently brought forth an entity from the immaterium. Both the Fifth Company and the tau they were engaged with were able to vanquish the daemon, but not before it had accounted for Gloriel and most of Seventh Squad.

‘Agreed, but what guarantee do you have that it will not happen again?’ Balthasar asked.

‘What guarantee do you have that the next time you draw your bolter, no matter how well it has been blessed and anointed by the Techmarines, it won’t blow up in your face?’ Ezekiel countered. ‘All weapons can misfire, you said that yourself.’

‘But if my bolter malfunctions, chances are it will only take me out. If you or Turmiel or even Grand Master Danatheum should “misfire” then the potential losses are even greater, perhaps even an entire company.’

Ezekiel let out a long breath. ‘Thank you for being so frank with me, brother. You and I shall talk more during the course of this mission.’

Balthasar looked confused. ‘I don’t understand. Is that why you came here? Just to talk?’

‘This is a training chamber, brother. I came here only to learn.’ Ezekiel gave the salute of the Lion, which Balthasar was slow to return.

The Librarian headed for the chamber door but stopped and turned back after only a few strides. ‘But before I go, allow me to impart some wisdom of my own. Our orders have changed and we make for a new warzone. Perhaps you might want to ask Master Serpicus to alter the servitors’ protocols to mimic orks before you start drilling your squad again.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Ladbon Antilov sat in the cold, grey, featureless corridor waiting to be summoned to speak with the governor. Beside him stood two members of the local defence force, newly tithed to the Astra Militarum in the wake of Honoria’s rediscovery, their lasrifles slung at their hip, fingers ready at the firing stud should the captain try to resist or escape. Ladbon was still none the wiser as to why he had been summoned to meet with the newly installed governor but was wise enough to know not to take on two armed men without a weapon of his own, his shotgun now in Allix’s care.

Ladbon stretched his arms out in front of him, locking his fingers together and cracking them. The two guards tightened their grips on their rifles and narrowed their eyes, so Ladbon pulled his hands apart and raised them, indicating that he wasn’t about to try anything. One of them said something to the other in the local Honorian dialect and nodded at Ladbon to lower his hands.

This was not the first time that Ladbon had been made to wait by a figure of authority. Back home he had spent long hours sat outside administrators’ offices, waiting to collect work dockets and pay chits, or for clerks to finish their shifts so he and his brother could lay rat traps or remove a lungspider nest. But his current surroundings were very different from those of the upper echelons of Vostroya. There, every available surface would have been covered with an image of the Emperor or an Imperial saint, every square and intersection decorated with statuary of heroes of the Imperium, every picture frame filled with a portrait of some great Vostroyan soldier who had died so that humanity might live. It was almost as if the entire planet were overcompensating for its past failures.

Honoria, by contrast, was a blank slate. Though it had stayed loyal throughout its exile, without the Ecclesiarchy’s guiding hand its devotion to the Emperor manifested itself in a different way to the rest of the Imperium. Whereas most faithful worlds would build monuments to the Golden Throne, great cathedrals that could house millions of pilgrims and entire cities devoted to worship, Honoria instead honoured the God-Emperor by building the tools of war.

Each city on Honoria was surrounded by a vast network of man-made channels and gullies, mazes too narrow for engines of war to enter, designed solely to place any attacker at the mercy of the anti-personnel guns positioned in turrets high above. At the end of these rat runs, vast gates were built to protect the workers within, with enormous guns placed atop them to shoot down any sky-borne aggressors. Battlements and ramparts ran the length of the city walls, providing room enough for the half of the population who were not employed to build defences and weapons to make use of the defences and weapons.

Though the construction of Honoria’s fortifications had taken no little skill, its architects had chosen not to house the giant artillery pieces in baroque towers, or to line the walls with effigies of primarchs or long-dead saints; everything on Honoria merely looked functional. Even the lasrifles poised to bring Ladbon down were plain and boxy, uglier even than the standard-issue weapons carried by most Guardsmen.

The door to the governor’s office, nothing more than a steel plate with a handle and hinges, swung open and a severe-looking woman in Administratum robes stepped out.

‘He will see you now,’ she snapped, holding the door open.

One of the guards motioned with his rifle, and Ladbon got up from the stone bench he had been seated on and entered the office, nodding respectfully at the Administratum clerk out of habit as he did so.

She closed the door behind him, leaving Ladbon alone with the governor.

The office was as austere as the corridor that led to it, with the exception of a finely carved Imperial aquila hanging on a grey wall above a simple desk, chairs placed either side of it. A heavy-set man in fine robes, obviously of off-world design, stood looking out of a small window, his back to Ladbon.

‘You are Captain Ladbon Antilov of the Vostroyan Firstborn, yes?’ he said, turning around. His face was a tapestry of scar tissue, his left eye milky and blind. Everything about the man called him out as an Astra Militarum veteran.

‘Yes, lord governor,’ Ladbon answered, respectfully.

‘Funny, I thought you’d be more handsome,’ the governor said, staring intently at the Vostroyan’s augmetic eye.

‘Erm, why am I here exactly?’ Under the circumstances Ladbon fought down the urge to reply with, ‘I could say the same about you.’

‘How did you get that – the eye, I mean?’ the governor said, ignoring Ladbon’s question.

‘It was a hunting accident. I lost an eye, my brother his life.’

‘Hunting, eh? A noble art. Is it in your blood?’

‘You could say I come from a long line of hunters,’ Ladbon replied, being economical with the truth.

The governor picked up a folder from the desk and flicked through the reams of paper within, nodding as though impressed as he did so. ‘I’ve been reviewing the action reports you’ve filed since you came planetside. Your squad has almost twenty confirmed ork kills and, with the exception of a few flesh wounds here and there, you’ve not taken a single casualty in all that time. Why is that, captain?’

Ladbon could feel his body temperature rise, sweat beginning to dampen his tunic at the small of his back. He took a breath then answered, ‘Because we’re damn good at what we do.’

‘Ha!’ the governor exclaimed, his scarred face contorting grotesquely as he laughed. ‘There’s no false modesty with you, is there, captain? I like that. You’re almost worthy.’

‘Worthy? Worthy of what?’

‘I was like you once, you know,’ the governor said, once again ignoring Ladbon. He moved out from behind the desk and began circling around the Vostroyan. ‘I made captain when I was young too. The Fourteenth Ynglevian Lancers. Nothing compared to the illustrious Vostroyan Firstborn, of course, but by the God-Emperor did we punch above our weight. Ten thousand men from a backwater planet who went out into the stars and reclaimed nearly a dozen worlds that had succumbed to heresy. We thought we were invincible – a decade of war and we had lost barely ten per cent of the men and boys who had shipped out from Ynglevia.’

‘Is that how you got those?’ Ladbon said, pointing to the row of medals at the governor’s breast.

‘We hadn’t done it alone. Other regiments had rallied behind the banner and an entire company of Raven Guard had been our spearhead, smashing open the enemy’s defences on each and every world so that we could sweep in behind and wipe out the heretics. We didn’t realise it at the time but we were only playing at war. The cultists we were fighting were just men, the same as us. But what came after…’

The governor was back at the window, staring out at the vast expanse of grey and white.

‘It was during the victory celebrations that they first made planetfall, spores at first but then came the swarms of rippers and the larger bioforms. We didn’t stand a chance. Half of us were drunker than we’d ever been in our lives and the speed of the assault caught us completely off guard. Tell me, son, have you ever fought against the tyranids?’

‘I don’t even know what tyranids are,’ Ladbon replied.

The governor exhaled. ‘Good for you, son. I’ll spare you the horror. Suffice to say that the Fourteenth were wiped out almost to a man that day. Within a week, the subsector we had devoted ten years of our lives to liberating no longer existed, a hundred billion souls wiped out in less time than it took to travel from one side of it to the other.’

‘But you escaped, lord. You were invincible.’

‘The Raven Guard did their best, but there were so few of them and so many tyranids, so very many tyranids. They knew from the instant the first spore hit the surface that the planet was doomed and sought only to stem the Imperium’s losses. They held a corridor open to the space port, holding off the tyranids so that Guardsmen could make it back to the waiting transport shuttles, but so few did. I was one of the last to make it there, the Raven Guard captain holding the final shuttle back as I ran across the landing zone, chased every metre of the way by the swarms. I made it, barely, but as I sprinted up the closing ramp, the lead ripper launched itself at the Space Marine, latching on to his throat and pulling him to the ground ready for the rest of the swarm to devour.

‘In the panic to flee the dying planet I hadn’t even stopped to pick up my lasrifle, but I still had my combat knife. Without thinking, I drew it and leapt from the shuttle, impaling the ripper on my blade. It burst open, showering me with acid, and damn near killed me. I would have died there and then but the Raven Guard captain dragged me back on the transport, got me to the medicae on board an orbiting Navy ship.’

The governor turned to face Ladbon.

‘That’s how I got these.’ He pointed to his medals. ‘That’s how I got that.’ He pointed to his left eye. ‘And that’s how I got this.’ He spread his arms wide, indicating his office.

Ladbon wasn’t sure what to say. ‘I hope that one day I too can become a great hero like you, lord. But please tell me, am I in some kind of trouble?’

‘Do you love Marita, captain?’ the governor said.

Ladbon was taken aback. ‘I…’

‘Do you love my daughter, captain?’

Ladbon was sweating from head to foot. ‘I didn’t…’ He composed himself and looked the governor square in the eye. ‘Yes. With all my heart.’

‘And what about the child she is carrying? Will you love that with all your heart too?’

Ladbon was momentarily speechless. ‘She’s pregnant?’ he said eventually, his face splitting into a wide grin.

The governor’s features and tone relaxed. ‘So you plan to stand by her then?’

‘Absolutely,’ Ladbon said without hesitation. ‘Is she here? May I see her?’

Ladbon wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to Marita. They had been together almost since the day he had set foot on Honoria, the shy, pretty redhead assigned as an interpreter between the incoming Vostroyans and the local forces, instantly winning his affections. In all those months, she had never once mentioned that her father was the governor, which made Ladbon somewhat bitter – why didn’t she feel she could share that with him? But that could wait. Most of all Ladbon just wanted to wrap his arms around her and let her know that he was there for her, that everything was going to work out for them.

‘I don’t think that’s wise under the circumstances,’ the governor said.

‘You can’t keep me from her!’ Ladbon said, suddenly exploding with emotion. ‘I demand–’

‘You are in no position to demand anything, Captain Antilov,’ the governor said, meeting Ladbon’s rage with assertive calm. ‘It is only thanks to my intervention that the commissars haven’t put a bolt-round through your skull.’

Engaging in, as the Imperial Infantryman’s Primer put it, ‘amorous congress’ with civilians while on active duty was an infraction – like so many others in the Astra Miltarum – punishable by execution. Even Ladbon’s rank would not spare him from the wrath of the Commissariat.

‘I don’t understand,’ Ladbon said. ‘Why spare me from their guns? Surely you must be angry with me?’

‘I am positively choleric with rage, captain. A veritable volcano of anger waiting to erupt. It is taking all of my self-control not to tear that oversized augmetic from your face and beat you to death with it.’ The governor’s tone remained level.

‘So why–’

‘Because it is quite clear that my daughter loves you, and you love her. She hasn’t been close to anybody since her mother died and my role as governor leaves me precious little time to spend with her. I have already lost one woman that I love, and I fear that if I were to endorse your execution, or even fail to prevent it, I would lose another.’

Marita hadn’t spoken much about her mother to Ladbon. He knew that they had been very close, even during Marita’s teenage years, but other than that all he knew was that she’d died on the voyage that brought Marita to Honoria.

‘If you know I love her, then you must understand how important it is that I see her,’ Ladbon pleaded.

‘Can’t you see that I’m doing this for your own good?’ said the governor, raising his voice. ‘For the good of both of you? I am governor of this world but I have no sway over the Commissariat. If they find out about you and Marita then it is beyond my powers to prevent them carrying out the sentence. My daughter is quite safe and will remain so until after her child is born, but you will not have any contact with her until then. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ Ladbon said through gritted teeth.

‘War is coming. Already the greenskins are at our threshold and the next few weeks are going to be bloody and costly, but we will prevail. The Imperium will be triumphant, though not without great sacrifice. If, in the confusion of battle, Captain Ladbon Antilov should go missing, presumed dead, left behind when his regiment returns to the stars, then that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, would it?’

‘You’ve read my record. I love Marita more than life itself, but my duty is to my men. You know I’d never abandon them, especially on the eve of battle.’

‘A father’s love for his daughter runs deep, captain,’ the governor said, looking out through the window again. ‘I’ve pulled a few strings, called in some favours with Vostroyan brass. I’ve had you transferred here to the gubernatorial fortress as a liaison. For the duration of the war, you’ll be staying right here as my guest.’

‘You’re locking me up, aren’t you?’ Ladbon said, not needing his powers of foresight to come to that conclusion.

‘How did you two get in here?’ Ladbon said, getting up from the wooden stool in the corner of his cell. The stone stairs down into the cell block were cast in darkness, giving Ladbon no discernible way of identifying his visitors.

‘How did you know it was us?’ said Allix, stepping into the weak shaft of light cast by the sole, tiny window high above Ladbon’s cell. Dmitri followed, his alabaster skin lending him a ghostly aspect in the gloom.

‘I could smell you,’ Ladbon lied. His foresight had kicked in just before he heard the cell block door creak open. ‘Neither of you have showered since we deployed here.’

‘That’s a damn lie, captain,’ Allix said, grinning. ‘I had one two weeks ago to get the ork blood out of my hair.’

‘What are you even doing here? How did you get in?’ Ladbon said, gripping the plasteel bars of his cell.

‘Remember those Honorians we saved from that pair of greenskins a while back?’ Dmitri said.

‘I remember. Kas decapitated one with the heavy bolter, Grigori led the other into a minefield.’

‘That’s right. Well, they’ve rotated onto guarding the governor’s fortress. We figured they owed us their lives and convinced them to look the other way while we paid our captain a visit,’ said Dmitri.

‘While I appreciate the gesture, you didn’t need to go AWOL on my account,’ Ladbon sighed.

‘We didn’t,’ Allix laughed. ‘Right after the commissar hauled you off, the order came down the line that we were to abandon the northern territories and pull back to reinforce the capital. We’re billeted at one of the gates on the eastern side of the city. Took us less than an hour to get here on foot and, unless you’ve got a really long and complicated explanation as to why you’re locked up in here, we’ll be back in our bivvy bags before first light.’

‘Marita is pregnant,’ Ladbon said.

There was an awkward silence. ‘Erm… congratulations?’ Allix said.

‘And her father is the governor.’

‘Wow. For somebody who has been so good at avoiding trouble up until now, you really have sunk deep into the brown stuff,’ said Dmitri. ‘What are you going to do for an encore? Climb naked up a statue of a primarch and proclaim yourself the new God-Emperor?’

‘So why are you rotting in here instead of swinging from a yardarm?’ Allix asked. ‘Amorous congress and all that crap.’

‘That thing I just told you about her father being the governor? He’s keen that I stick around and take care of Marita and the baby once it’s born.’

‘You’re the best man I know,’ Allix said. ‘A better man than me, at least. You would never abandon your child.’

‘I think he knows that, but he also knows that I wouldn’t abandon my squad. He’s ex-Militarum himself and knows all too well the risks. Thinks I’m likely to get killed in the forthcoming war so he’s making me sit it out down here for the duration.’

‘Good job the cavalry’s here to bust you out then,’ Dmitri said, pulling out an enormous pair of bolt croppers from his backpack.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Ladbon said, to Dmitri’s obvious dismay. ‘If I escape then we will have to go AWOL and any chance I have of being with Marita disappears forever. As much as I hate it, I’m going to have to stay put.’

Allix swore in Vostroyan. ‘But we need you, secondborn. Who else is going to keep us out of trouble?’

‘I think my second in command is going to take care of that perfectly well.’ Allix blushed at the compliment. ‘There is something you need to do for me though, one last order before I cede command.’

‘Name it,’ Allix said.

‘I need you to find Marita.’

CHAPTER FIVE

The flight deck of the Sword of Caliban reverberated with the noise of battle preparation as serfs fitted power armour to their Dark Angels masters, and the brothers of the Fifth Company anointed and prepared their weapons.

The command squad went among them, proffering advice, encouragement and leadership. Puriel regaled Ninth and Tenth Squads – several of whom were newly elevated from the Scout Company – with parables and litanies of how the sons of the Lion had battled the greenskins in millennia past, extolling them to acts of greater glory in the war to come. Rephial sought out Fourth Squad, all of whom bore scars and injuries from the campaign against the tau, and checked them over as their armour was lifted onto their bodies, looking for anything he might have missed when he had declared them fit for action. Serpicus moved from squad to squad, giving final blessings to the arms carried by the brothers of the Fifth Company but paying special attention to the Dark Angels’ signature plasma weapons, which were prone to overheating and even exploding. Zadakiel did similarly, steeling his warriors’ resolve and issuing final orders before they boarded the waiting Thunderhawks.

Ezekiel, constantly shadowed by Turmiel, chose to spend the final minutes before exiting the warp with Balthasar’s squad. Though anybody who travelled through the immaterium could feel the change as the translation back into real space occurred, the shifting of the soul was felt more keenly by the psychically attuned.

Ezekiel had read extensively from the journals and writings of previous brothers of the Dark Angels Librarius, and many had shared their experiences and feelings of being a psyker adrift in the warp. One Librarian in particular, the long-lived Gradiel, who had served during the 36th millennium and was one of Ezekiel’s favourite writers, had compared warp travel to being in the womb – nurturing and familiar – and the return to real space akin to birth – sudden and traumatic. Right now, Ezekiel was doing what he could to take his mind off what was to come.

‘Impressive, sergeant,’ Ezekiel said. ‘We have yet to exit the warp and are more than an hour from insertion, yet your squad is already fully armoured and prepared to deploy.’

In the hours since they had convened in the strategium, Company Master Zadakiel had finessed the battle plan he had discussed with the command squad. Rather than rushing blindly down onto the planet’s surface, they would allow time for the Sword of Caliban’s sensors to sweep the surface and ascertain where the best insertion point, or points, were. Then, in anticipation of heavy anti-aircraft fire from the entrenched orks, they would make planetfall in the more manoeuvrable Thunderhawks, rather than drop pods.

His thinking was sound and also flexible; if the forces of the Imperium on Honoria had already succumbed to the ork onslaught then it would simply be a matter of virus bombing the planet from orbit rather than engaging in a protracted and pointless ground war. The terms of the Pact of Kulgotha only bound the Dark Angels to come to the aid of the Mechanicus, not do their job for them. Whatever technology they hungered for could spend the next ten thousand years under a shroud of pestilence and disease.

‘First Squad sets the standard that all of Fifth Company must aspire to, Epistolary,’ Balthasar said. Despite the sergeant’s naked hatred of psykers, Ezekiel was warming to Balthasar. His devotion to not only the Dark Angels, but also excellence in battle, was unswerving.

‘Were it not for an accident of birth, of being raised upon a world under the sworn protection of the Dark Angels, you might have made a fine Ultramarine, brother,’ Ezekiel said. Balthasar had spent his years prior to ascending to the ranks of the Dark Angels on one of the thousands of worlds that the Chapter was oathed to protect and, in return, recruited from. The sergeant’s home world had laboured under the predations of a psychic cult, one that he himself had helped bring down as a boy soldier in a resistance movement, which was the source of his distrust and borderline hostility towards the warp-touched.

‘And if it weren’t for an accident of birth, you might wear green power armour instead of blue, Brother Ezekiel,’ Balthasar said. It was a statement of fact, no malice in his voice.

‘I do not grasp the point you are trying to make, sergeant,’ Ezekiel replied.

‘We have both undergone the same transformation, you and I. We have the same implants and have undergone the same procedures that have turned us into Space Marines. If an ork or any other xenos filth was to be placed in front of us, either of us would be more than capable of defeating it in combat, even without our armour or our boltguns or our combat blades.’

‘I still don’t see your meaning.’

‘But what if that ork or eldar or tau was on the other side of the flight deck?’ Balthasar gestured to the far side of the vast space the Fifth Company had assembled in, towards enormous doors several metres thick, closed to protect those within from the perils without while in warp transit. ‘Without a weapon in my hand, I would be powerless. But you? You could compel it to turn its own gun upon itself, surround it in a cocoon and starve it of oxygen, or kill it in countless other ways.’

For a moment, Ezekiel considered that Balthasar was actually jealous, that the accident of birth was him being deprived of psychic abilities.

‘But what if you weren’t warp-touched? What if you were deprived of your psychic gifts? Would we still be equals? Would you even be wearing power armour of any colour?’

There was the crux of it. Balthasar believed that it was Librarians’ powers that saw them elevated to the ranks of the Adeptus Astartes, irrespective of their martial prowess. Ezekiel was the one judging if Balthasar was worthy of taking his place among the Deathwing, yet the sergeant was implying that Ezekiel was not even worthy of his place in the Chapter.

Any rebuke remained unspoken. Klaxons wailed loudly and the flight deck was bathed intermittently in red light, indicating that the Sword of Caliban was exiting the warp. Though he did not show it outwardly, Ezekiel could feel himself being wrenched from one realm to another, the difference as stark as night and day. He knew Turmiel felt it too, a psychic frisson from the young Librarian mingling with his own, hoar frost forming on their armour, the temperature around them plunging drastically.

Ezekiel had been through this hundreds of times before, and knew that it would take a few seconds to adjust to being back in real space. But even as he felt himself becoming attuned with the materium, he still couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t right. All across the flight deck, the brothers of the Fifth Company could also sense that something was awry. The noise of the warp had been replaced by the sound of something else. Ezekiel realised what it was an instant before Shipmaster Selenaz’s voice crashed across the command channel of the vox.

‘Throne of Terra! We’ve translated right in the middle of a void battle,’ she said, over the sound of frenetic activity in the background. ‘I’ve never seen so many ork vessels.’

Ezekiel could feel the eyes of the other senior Dark Angels upon him, judging him for his erroneous foresight.

‘Are the Navy lines holding?’ Zadakiel’s voice crackled over the vox.

‘Affirmative, but barely. They’re outnumbered at least ten to one and their combat discipline is non-existent,’ Selenaz replied.

‘Get us in as close as you can, shipmaster. We’re going down in the drop pods. You have command up here. Get those Navy vessels organised and hold the greenskins for as long as possible,’ Zadakiel said over the general channel. Instantly, over a hundred Dark Angels filed onto the huge service elevators, normally used to transport vehicles between decks but now the fastest route to the dozen drop pods sat in the belly of the strike cruiser.

The advantage of deploying in drop pods in this situation was twofold. Firstly, though less manoeuvrable than the Thunderhawks they would get to the surface quicker, giving the Dark Angels an extra precious few minutes of preparation if the orks were about to breach the blockade. Secondly, unless boarding actions were called for, Space Marines were no more useful than a Chapter-serf in a void war. Better to be planetside where their fate was in their own hands rather than below decks on a vessel that could be wiped out in the blink of an eye by a lucky shot from an ork ship or suicide run by the commander of a rok.

As expected, Balthasar was at the spearhead of the exodus to the drop pods. Ezekiel was quickly alongside him, their earlier conversation – and business – unfinished.

‘First Squad, with me,’ Ezekiel said, as they descended at speed into the darkness below.

The noise of the space battle intensified in the confines of the elevator shaft, more so when the Sword of Caliban’s own guns opened up and joined the fray. The Dark Angels’ Larraman’s ear implants kicked in, preventing deafness where the Chapter-serfs, still attending to their masters’ needs, temporarily lost their hearing as a result of the din.

By the time they reached the lower decks, each Space Marine was fully armoured and battle ready. The disoriented serfs remained on the lift platform while the Dark Angels surged forwards a squad at a time to take their place in the drop pods. Balthasar’s squad were the first to board and, as they were taking their places, Turmiel and Ezekiel joined them, but not before the Epistolary had smacked a huge gauntleted fist against the control button that released the unmanned drop pod alongside them. Balthasar gave Ezekiel a quizzical look as he took his seat.

‘Watch and learn, sergeant,’ Ezekiel said as he mag-locked his armour to his seat.

Allix moved amongst the Mordians, Mute in tow, occasionally stopping to ask an officer if they had seen Marita or knew where she was. Though most were curt, the constant threat of ork invasion trying everyone’s patience, the response to Allix was less hostile than if the question had been asked of a Vostroyan.

They had been searching the city for over a week and not a single soldier from among the Mordian ranks, nor the few Vostroyans who deigned to speak to any of Ladbon’s squad, had seen the pretty, red-haired Honorian, or knew of anybody who had. During the day, when the squad was supposed to be on patrol, one or two of them would remain behind in the city, visiting the countless barracks and encampments that had been given over to the Astra Militarum defenders. Technically, their actions were in breach of multiple regulations within the Primer, as well as being counter to their direct orders, but the sheer number of Imperial forces within the capital’s walls provided a convenient mask of confusion. On the few occasions they had been challenged by either commissars or ranking officers, their excuse of having become separated from their squad had been accepted without further question.

‘Let’s just give it a while longer,’ Allix said in response to Mute pointing at his wrist chron. The squad would be back from patrol before nightfall and the two of them still had to make the long trek across the city to sector nineteen. ‘If we don’t have any joy then we can consider sector four a bust, and Gaspar and Grigori can make a start elsewhere tomorrow.’

Mute shook his head and rolled his eyes but followed Allix, who was already asking a Mordian captain the same question that had been asked a thousand times that day. He was just about to insist again that they head back to their billet, lest they be brought up on charges of desertion, when Mute felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face a skinny Mordian youth, his uniform tattered and stained.

‘Are you the ones who have been looking for the translator girl?’ the Mordian asked in a thick accent. Even though he was speaking Low Gothic, it took the two Vostroyans a moment to process what he had said.

‘That’s right,’ Allix said. ‘I take it you know where she is?’

The Mordian looked confused for a moment, staring at Mute.

‘He’s not being rude, he just can’t speak.’

The youth nodded in understanding.

‘So, do you know anything?’ Allix said.

‘I may do…’ the Mordian said coyly.

They had been prepared for this. Though Allix’s usual response would have been to try and beat the information from the snotty brat, Dmitri had worked some of the contacts he had made since they had arrived to come up with a more attractive and less violent solution. From out of the folds of his field coat, Mute produced two unopened packs of lho-sticks and a small pack of freeze-dried recaff. The Mordian’s eyes went wide at the sight of what he was being offered.

‘That’s right,’ Allix said. ‘A governor’s ransom under current circumstances, and it’s all yours if you just tell us which sector she’s in and who she’s assigned to.’

Mute shook the packets by way of encouragement. The Mordian laughed and held out his hands to receive his reward.

‘It’s not which sector,’ he said, furtively pocketing the contraband. ‘It’s which fortress. She’s no longer in the city.’

The drop pod hit the snow-covered surface of Honoria with enough force to gouge a crater over a metre deep. The impact triggered the drop leaf doors of the craft and no sooner were they on the ground than First Squad and the pair of Librarians were out of their seats, weapons raised. Using the walls of the crater as cover, the ten green-armoured Dark Angels and Turmiel assessed the situation.

Ezekiel simply strode brazenly out of the freshly torn depression and onto the open plain in front of him, the white snow stained almost completely red with ork blood.

+Whatever happens,+ Ezekiel sent telepathically to Turmiel, +do not use your psychic powers.+

The roar of assault cannons sounded continuously as the Deathstorm drop pod that Ezekiel had despatched in advance tore through any ork curious and stupid enough to see what had fallen out of the sky. Scores already lay dying and with each moment that passed more joined their number. Ezekiel carried on walking towards the encroaching orks, the assault cannons falling silent as he crossed into their line of fire, their targeting systems identifying him as friendly through biometrics.

With the weapon noise abating, the only sound save for the battle-cries of the handful of remaining orks was of the other Dark Angels drop pods crashing to the ground over an area of many kilometres. Shortly after each landing, bolter fire rang out as newly disembarked squads engaged the ork vanguard.

Without fear of being torn to pieces by the devastating wall of fire from the assault cannons, two of the orks charged the lone Librarian. The first of them barely made it within two metres of Ezekiel. Raising its axe to strike the Dark Angel down, it exposed its stomach, which Ezekiel tore through with the edge of his force sword. Such was the power of the blow, it cut the ork in two, the beast’s upper half thrashing about in the snow not yet comprehending its fate. In keeping with Ezekiel‘s instruction to Turmiel not to use his powers, the blade of his sword remained inert, the crimson of ork blood staining its length in place of psychically imbued blue.

The second ork made it closer to him, though not by much, before its head parted company with its neck. The body staggered onwards, past the still advancing Librarian before it crashed to its knees and toppled to the ground, finally acknowledging its own death.

A wave of fear broke over the remaining orks, soon neutralised by a roar from the largest among their number. Ezekiel raised his blade and pointed it at the huge ork, obviously this particular warband’s leader, by way of challenge. The brute roared again in acceptance.

From behind him, Ezekiel could sense that First Squad had moved out of cover and were moving to engage the orks.

+Keep your squad back, sergeant,+ Ezekiel sent to Balthasar. +This one’s mine.+

Balthasar complied, signalling for First Squad to maintain their position and hold fire. The orks mirrored this, forming a semicircle behind their leader, who was approaching the Librarian.

The two combatants faced off against each other. The ork, as big out of armour as Ezekiel was in his battleplate, two huge tusks jutting out from its lower jaw, face daubed with crude markings that masked a multitude of scars, wielded a massive double-headed axe in one clenched fist. In an attempt to intimidate its foe, the ork began to toss the weapon from hand to hand.

In response, Ezekiel took his sword and thrust it tip first into the snowy ground, abandoning it as he took a step towards the ork.

The greenskin laughed, its amusement turning to rage as it hefted the axe above its head and charged with an almighty bellow. It swung the weapon hard, a lethally sharp edge connecting at the Space Marine’s chest height.

Except Ezekiel was no longer there. Anticipating the attack, he had already spun away and under the axe, coming up within reach of the ork and thrusting an armoured fist into its throat. The beast staggered backwards and swung again with a back stroke, aiming once more for where it thought Ezekiel should be.

Its blow came up short, its forearm ending up in the Dark Angel’s grip. Ezekiel grasped it around the wrist with his other hand and threw the arm over his shoulder, pulling down hard and reversing the plane of the limb. The ork tried to cry out through ruined vocal cords, but all that emanated was a wet gurgle. It released its grip on the axe, which Ezekiel caught and tossed away in the same motion, bifurcating one of the spectating orks and mortally wounding another standing behind it.

Ezekiel took a step backwards, preparing for his next assault. The ork threw a punch with its good arm, the other a limp ruin at its side. The Librarian took another half-step backwards, catching the fist as it flew in front of him and pushing it away harder in the direction it had been travelling, unbalancing the ork.

Showing no mercy, Ezekiel was upon the ork, grabbing its head as it lost its footing and thrusting an armoured knee upwards, hard into its face. The first blow shattered one of its tusks, the second spread its nose across its face in a shower of blood; the third ruptured a cheekbone so hard that one side of its face was rendered concave.

Ezekiel was unrelenting. A fourth, fifth and sixth blow went in, each one removing yet more of the ork’s features. The second tusk broke off along with most of its teeth, and it began to choke as it swallowed them along with pints of blood. Bone cracked, each impact from Ezekiel’s knee shattering yet more skull. The ork was no longer putting up any resistance, all fight long fled from it, but still Ezekiel persisted.

By the time the twentieth blow had landed, the ork was dead, but still Ezekiel did not stop, raining in yet more attacks. What was left of the greenskin’s head disintegrated, the little brains it had possessed splashing messily to the ground, now devoid of snow because of the warmth of its spilled blood.

Finally satisfied, Ezekiel grabbed the corpse by the stump of its neck and threw it to the ground in the direction of the warband stragglers. Several of them were already turning to flee but a couple, blessed with even less sense than their leader, were in the process of taking up arms against the Librarian. Unconcerned, Ezekiel turned and retrieved his sword, striding towards First Squad, who had already opened fire on the vengeful orks, putting them down in an explosive hail of bolt shells.

As they rushed past him, hunting down the routed xenos, Balthasar gave him a respectful nod.

+Leave some alive,+ Ezekiel sent. +Make sure they spread the message about who they are dealing with here.+

CHAPTER SIX

Sporadic bolter fire rang out across the snow-blanketed steppes, the squads assigned guard detail dealing with the last of the orks in the region. In the pale grey skies above, drop pods rained down to join those already on Honoria, Ancient Azmodor and the other Dreadnoughts under Zadakiel’s command taking their place alongside their brother Dark Angels. In their wake came the two Thunderhawks assigned to the Sword of Caliban, Rage of Angels and Undying Vengeance, the former relaying Rhino transports to the surface, the latter Chapter-serfs to aid their masters in the ground campaign, which might begin in earnest at any moment. Both craft had made the journey down several times already and each bore damage from running the gauntlet of ork vessels engaged in orbit.

In the rear of the Land Raider Perfidy’s End, Zadakiel, Rephial, Puriel, Ezekiel and Serpicus stood huddled around a hololith, displaying the surface of Honoria, data captured by the Sword of Caliban’s sensors and relayed to the Dark Angels planetside. At the base of the vehicle’s ramp, the servitors that always accompanied the Techmarine into battle stood watch, a quintet of cybernetic sentries all running protocols compelling them to open fire on anything not identified as a Dark Angel should it come within one hundred and fifty feet of Perfidy’s End.

‘I have never seen its like before,’ Rephial said, echoing the surprise of the assembled Dark Angels at what the hololithic map of Honoria’s surface was showing them.

‘The construction must have taken millennia,’ Puriel said. He circled around the flickering three-dimensional projection, marvelling at what each new viewpoint revealed.

‘It covers eighty per cent of the planet’s surface at least,’ Ezekiel added.

‘Eighty-two point seven nine three per cent,’ Serpicus interjected. ‘To be precise.’ The Techmarine could not take his eyes from the map. Tens of thousands of perfectly straight lines ran at angles, each one terminating at one of hundreds of vast fortresses, monolithic structures rising high above the surface. Serpicus gestured over the hololith and zoomed in on one of the fortresses.

‘The walls are two hundred and sixty feet high. The only points of ingress are deep, smooth-sided channels that lead to gated citadels.’ Serpicus pointed out each detail as he spoke. ‘And each gate is defended by one of these.’ He pulled his arm back to its full extent, commanding the hololith to show as much detail as possible.

‘Impressive,’ Zadakiel said. ‘I’m beginning to understand why the Adeptus Mechanicus have shown such interest in this world.’

All five Dark Angels circled the glowing green representation of a weapons emplacement the likes of which they had never seen before. At the heart of it was what appeared to be a multi-barrelled lascannon mounted on a sphere, granting it not only a full three hundred and sixty-degree firing arc but also virtually unrestricted vertical traversal. Around it sat four smaller spheres, atop which were placed anti-aircraft weapons, defending it from the likeliest route of attack; as a result of their mounting, they could clearly be directed towards the ground too, adding their firepower to the main weapon.

‘Those gates are unassailable,’ Puriel said, incredulously. ‘Any attacker is forced down those channels – on foot – only to be ripped to pieces by the guns above. The only hope is to take the turret out from the air, which is virtually impossible thanks to its secondary weapons systems.’

‘Almost unassailable,’ Serpicus said. ‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘What am I forgetting, brother?’ Puriel said, irritated.

‘Those guns have to be fired by somebody and whoever operates them is fallible, like all humans,’ the Techmarine said.

‘Still, brother, I struggle to understand why the Mechanicus requested our assistance when they have such potent technology at their disposal,’ Zadakiel said.

‘Perhaps we’re about to find out,’ Serpicus said. All five of them had just caught the rumble of an approaching engine and they descended the ramp to ascertain its source.

Serpicus, his augmented vision far in excess of even his brothers’ genetically enhanced sight, was the first to spot it. ‘Triaros armoured conveyor in the livery of Atanix Triumvirae.’

Several kilometres away, snow was being ploughed into the air by the mighty tracks of the Heresy-era relic, a fountain of white heralding its arrival. Instead of the usual red or red-derivative colours favoured by the acolytes of the Machine-God, the transport was jet-black in honour of the millions who paid with their lives when forces loyal to Horus invaded the forge world of Atanix Triumvirae ten thousand years before. Twice the size of a Rhino, the shock ram fitted to the fore of the vehicle was curved inwards, forming a prow that acted as a surprisingly efficient plough through the deep snow. Huge brass cogs at the rear powered the tracks that sat proudly on either side of the transport, sloping gently upwards before falling away again halfway along a hull adorned with accoutrements made from the same metal.

As the Triaros reached the perimeter of the Dark Angels’ landing zone, a lone Space Marine approached the vehicle and ordered it to halt. He disappeared behind the vehicle, re-emerging almost immediately and waving it on. Moments later it powered over to where the five warriors awaited it and came to an abrupt halt. The circular hatch at the rear slid open with a hiss. In response, the five servitors under Serpicus’ command came to attention, weapons ready.

‘Serpicus!’ Zadakiel hissed over the vox. ‘Get those things under control.’

‘I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,’ he replied.

From around the back of the Triaros, a figure in robes the same colour as the troop carrier hobbled into view on a pair of augmetic legs. His going was slow in spite of his bodily enhancements, but the servitors struggled to target him, their weapons jerking erratically as they locked on briefly before becoming confused and aiming in another direction altogether. The robed tech-priest seemed oblivious, looking around as if bewildered and blinking through a pair of ornate, augmetic eyes.

‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Serpicus said, partly addressing his former mentor, partly introducing him to his fellow Dark Angels.

‘Where?’ Diezen said, looking around furtively before succumbing to a long, metallic chuckle. ‘Oh yes. That’s me, isn’t it?’

He hobbled closer to the waiting Space Marines, his attention now grasped by the confused servitors. Leaning into each of them in turn, he whispered something in binaric cant, instantly deactivating them. Though inert, Diezen continued to be fixated by Serpicus’ creations.

‘Do you not remember me, magos?’ Serpicus said, rapidly losing patience. ‘You tutored me on Mars not two centuries ago.’

Diezen stiffened to attention at the mention of the throneworld of the Cult Mechanicus. He looked up at the Techmarine, his artificial eyes irising wide in recognition. ‘I do remember you! It’s Spartacus, isn’t it?’ Not waiting for an answer, he returned his attention to the servitors, pulling what was once a hand from beneath the sleeves of his robe to reveal fingers that were an assortment of tools. Selecting the right one, he began to loosen a bolt that attached a heavy bolter to one of the weapon servitors. Halfway through his task, he stopped abruptly, and turned back to the Dark Angels. ‘Space Marines? What are you doing here?’

‘You summoned us here, arch magos. I am Zadakiel, Master of the Dark Angels’ Fifth Company, faithful sons of Lion El’Jonson, sworn servants of the Golden Throne and ancient and honoured allies of the Adeptus Mechanicus,’ Zadakiel said. ‘We are here to honour the Pact of Kulgotha.’

Removing the bolt, Diezen placed his other hand – which was altogether more hand-like – into the folds of his robe and rummaged around. For almost a minute he proceeded to pull assorted screws, nuts and washers from out of his pockets until eventually he found what he was looking for.

‘This man is an idiot,’ Puriel muttered under his breath, just loud enough that his brothers could register what he was saying with their keen hearing. ‘He has replaced and upgraded every element of his being but his brain is addled.’

Serpicus cast the Chaplain a harsh glance. Puriel returned it.

‘Arch Magos Diezen? Is everything all right?’ Serpicus asked. ‘You summoned us here. The Adeptus Mechanicus requires our aid.’

The end of the Techmarine’s sentence was drowned out by the whirr of a mechanical ratchet as Diezen replaced the bolt with the one he had fished out from his clothing. He stepped back to admire his work, grinning through that were a mish-mash of metal and circuitry.

‘Oh!’ he exclaimed unexpectedly. ‘You’re the Dark Angels! That’s why I’m here. I need to take you to the governor. You’re in command now so there has to be a proper transfer of power. Follow me. Follow me.’

The Dark Angels started in the direction of the Triaros, but Diezen stumbled uneasily past them, ascending the ramp into Perfidy’s End before taking one of the oversized seats built to accommodate an armoured Space Marine.

‘What are you doing, magos?’ Zadakiel asked. ‘I thought you were taking us to the governor?’ He pointed at Diezen’s Triaros, its engine purring quietly as it ticked over.

‘Oh, we can’t go in my vehicle. Too many secrets in there.’ He put his hand to the side of his mouth as he spoke, theatrically obscuring his metal lips. ‘Better to go in your vehicle. No secrets here.’

Shaking their heads, the Dark Angels followed Diezen aboard the Land Raider.

‘So let me get this straight,’ Kas said, his huge frame crammed into the bottom bunk he shared with Dmitri. ‘We’re going to steal a Valkyrie, fly it the best part of a hundred kilometres to the next fortress over, knock on the door, ask politely if we can be let in, rescue the girl and make it back here before nightfall, before anybody notices we’re missing?’

The rest of the squad laughed. Mute put his hand to his stomach and pretended to chortle.

‘Where in the Emperor’s name did you get that idea from?’ Allix snorted. ‘When I said we’d need a Valkyrie to get over there, I meant we’d get ourselves onto one of the dawn patrols and head over to the Braeval Gate instead.’

Kas joined in the laughter. ‘Oh. That makes much more sense. Just for the record, I would have been fine doing it the other way.’ He stopped laughing abruptly. ‘Wait a minute. How do we get ourselves onto one of the dawn patrols? Hunting for orks from high in the air behind centimetres of plasteel armour is an easy gig – relatively speaking, of course – and in case you haven’t noticed, we’re considered pariahs among this regiment. There’s no way we could pull that duty.’

‘We’re not going to even try to pull that duty,’ Allix said. ‘We’re going to march into the hangar before first light and act like we should be there. If the pilot or anybody else asks, it’s a bureaucratic error. We got our orders but they obviously didn’t receive the paperwork. Nobody’s going to think to question it, just like when we’ve been roaming around the city.’

‘But what about–’ Grigori, who up until now had still been laughing at Kas, began.

‘The pilot?’ Allix said. ‘Dmitri’s got that taken care of.’

The pale Vostroyan reached under the thin mattress of his bunk and pulled out several packs of lho-sticks and freeze-dried recaff, along with two pieces of grox jerky.

‘All contributions gratefully received,’ Dmitri said, throwing the packets and the tough strips of meat onto the floor between the bunks. The rest of the squad did likewise, quickly doubling the bribe.

‘I’ll give you this, Allix,’ Gaspar said, dropping a half-smoked pack of lho-sticks onto the pile. ‘You’ve got some balls.’

Allix simply smiled and jumped up onto the bunk above Mute. ‘Now shut up and get some sleep. We’ve got an early start in the morning.’

‘How long have you been here, magos?’ Zadakiel asked. They had been travelling for the better part of an hour, during which time all Diezen had done was remove panels to inspect the circuitry and machinery that made up the guts of the Land Raider. Having satisfied his curiosity, the tech-priest had sat back down, furiously scribbling onto a data-slate.

‘I am six hundred and sixteen years old,’ he said, looking up briefly from his note taking.

‘That isn’t what the company master asked,’ Ezekiel said. ‘How long have you been here on Honoria?’

‘Honoria?’

‘Yes. That’s what this world is called,’ Rephial said.

‘Honoria? Honoria…? Oh, Honoria!’ A light seemed to go on in Diezen’s head, lucidity coming over him for the first time since he had met the Dark Angels. ‘We were the first ones here after the warp storm. Two years, one month and nineteen days ago, Terran standard.’

‘What about the orks? How long have they been threatening the world from orbit?’ Zadakiel asked.

‘Two months, possibly three,’ Diezen replied. ‘The first of them made planetfall two months ago but the Navy have been engaging them in the void for longer.’

‘And in that time they haven’t launched a full-scale invasion?’ Puriel scoffed. ‘That runs counter to everything we know about ork tactics. They don’t wait for the right time to strike, they just strike.’

The Land Raider came to an abrupt halt. Moments later, the driver’s voice fizzed over the vox. ‘That’s as far as we can go, Master Zadakiel.’

‘Come, Dark Angels,’ Diezen said, getting to his feet and operating the lever controlling Perfidy’s End’s rear hatch. ‘Let me show you something.’

The hololithic map they had studied earlier had not done justice to Honoria’s intricate tapestry of defences.

The Land Raider had been forced to stop at the very edge of the steppes, where snowbound plains gave way to narrow man-made trenches, barely wide enough to get a bike through to let alone a Space Marine transport. Quite literally thousands of the die-straight trenches began about ten kilometres out from the city walls, gradually narrowing until every couple of hundred metres two merged into one, the pattern repeating along their entire length, funnelling any aggressor into tight channels around the city, where they became sitting targets for the guns on the walls.

‘And every city on the planet is the same?’ Serpicus asked, running his hand along the smooth rockcrete wall of the trench, admiring the quality of its construction.

‘Yes, but with subtle differences,’ Diezen said. ‘Each city is in reality an armoured manufactory, their very purpose to sustain their own existence. Everything that goes into the construction of each fortress and its defences, right down to the weapons the troops on its walls wield, is created within its own walls. They are entirely self-sufficient thanks to the sealed water wells deep underground, which cannot be poisoned by besieging forces, and the livestock and vegetation that thrives in low-light and cold conditions.

‘Naturally, some variance will creep in and though every fortress-city follows the same basic pattern, some deviate from the norm more than others. Higher walls, deeper trenches, sometimes even different weapon loadouts in the turrets. Think of them like forge worlds on a micro scale. Just as one forge world might construct a Land Raider based on one particular STC…’ Diezen, stood on the lip of the trench above the Dark Angels, tapped a metallic hand against the hull of Perfidy’s End. ‘Anvilus Nine, Techmarine Solidus?’

‘Jerulas,’ Serpicus replied.

‘Close,’ Diezen said. ‘Another may build theirs to a slightly different pattern, barely perceptible to even the trained eye.’

‘So each city is its own self-contained environment, an eco-system designed to create the perfect conditions to repel any aggressor,’ Rephial said.

‘That’s the theory,’ Diezen said.

‘The theory?’ queried Ezekiel. ‘You mean these defences have never been put to the test?’

‘Honoria wasn’t just cut off from the Imperium at the end of the Great Schism, it was isolated from everywhere. For ten thousand years they continued to build up their fortresses and their trenches, and not so much as an eldar pirate ever laid a foot here.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why you invoked the Pact of Kulgotha and summoned us here, arch magos,’ said Zadakiel.

‘Numbers,’ Diezen replied.

‘Numbers?’ asked Puriel.

‘Yes, Dark Angel. The calculus logi have been running calculations non-stop since Honoria was rediscovered, and I have determined that the chances of the defences holding out are ninety-nine point nine nine nine per cent, with a margin of error of nought point nought nought one per cent.’

‘So the defences are to all intents and purposes unbreachable,’ Rephial said.

‘Almost.’

‘What do you mean “almost”?’ asked Ezekiel. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Numbers.’

‘There’s that word again,’ Puriel said. ‘What’s the problem with the numbers?’

‘We’ve run all of our simulations and projections with varying numbers of aggressors and, below a certain point, the chances of the defences holding are one hundred per cent, with a zero per cent margin for error.’

Ezekiel looked to Zadakiel and the other Dark Angels, realisation creeping onto all of their faces.

‘And what is that number of aggressors?’ asked Zadakiel.

‘Eleven million, three hundred and one thousand, seven hundred and forty-two, with a margin of error–’

The Dark Angels never did find out what the margin of error was. ‘And how many aggressors are we likely to face in the forthcoming battle?’ Puriel was the first to ask, though the question was on the lips of every Space Marine.

Diezen checked a chron hanging from a heavy brass chain around his neck. ‘Assuming that the orks have been massing in space for two thousand three hundred and fifty-seven hours, and allowing for a rate of attrition of–’

‘We couldn’t care less about your rate of attrition, just tell us the Lion-forsaken number!’ Puriel’s frustration boiled over into anger.

‘Twenty-nine million, eight hundred and ninety-five thousand three hundred and ninety-three.’ Fortunately for Diezen, he stopped short of telling the Dark Angels the margin of error. Belying his earlier fragility, the tech-priest jumped down into the trench and began walking in the direction of the gargantuan structure that lay at its end.

‘Come, Dark Angels,’ Diezen said. ‘We have a long road ahead of us.’

‘Hey! You there. Where do you think you’re going?’

Kas, Dmitri, Mute, Grigori and Gaspar continued to board the Valkyrie. Allix addressed the Vostroyan corporal, who was clinging to his data-slate as though it were a sceptre of office.

‘Reporting for dawn patrol like we were ordered to,’ Allix said, as if the question was ridiculous.

The corporal hurriedly looked down at his data-slate. ‘No, no, no. This is all wrong. You’re not supposed to be here. Who issued the order?’

‘I don’t know where the order originated from but our captain told us to report here before first light and mount up,’ Allix improvised. ‘Perhaps there’s been a delay in informing you. You know what it’s like around here.’

The corporal eyed Allix suspiciously. ‘And what’s your captain’s name?’

‘Look, do you really think we’d be doing this if we didn’t have to do it? We’d much rather stay here behind these nice thick walls like you than head out there where we could be ambushed and shot down by the greenskins.’

The corporal looked at his data-slate, then back at Allix, then at the five faces staring at him from the gloom of the idling Valkyrie’s rear compartment. Mute shrugged and raised his palms, his gesture designed to reinforce Allix’s words.

Anxious seconds passed before the corporal spoke. ‘Very well then. May the Emperor protect you and bless you with an uneventful patrol.’ He handed over the data-slate for Allix to sign, then made the sign of the aquila. Allix returned the data-slate, then the salute.

‘Okay, pilot, let’s get out of here,’ Allix said, banging the flyer’s hull to signal they were ready for take off and leaping into the troop hold as the rear door began to close.

Captain Kowalski and his squad entered the hangar just in time to see the flyer they had been assigned disappearing out into the snowy wastes. Bemused, he sought out the corporal in charge of the patrol rotas, looking for answers.

‘Hey, Stoichkov. Who took our Valkyrie out?’ Kowalski said.

Stoichkov consulted the data-slate. ‘Trooper Allix Ketnemu. I knew there was something up because you were still listed to take the patrol. Do you want to report it or shall I?’

Kowalski was thoughtful for a moment. ‘My mistake. Ketnemu’s squad were reassigned the duty. Perhaps there has been a delay in informing you. You know what it’s like around here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Stoichkov said sceptically.

‘Completely. Why, do you doubt my words, corporal?’

‘No, Captain Kowalski. If you say that is what has happened then that is what has happened,’ Corporal Stoichkov said deferentially. ‘I’ll just go and adjust the rosters accordingly.’ He scurried off, hastily tapping away at the data-slate.

‘Why are you letting them get away with it, captain?’ said one of Kowalski’s troopers from behind a moustache so well developed it stuck out on either side of his face like a pair of wings.

‘I’m not,’ Kowalski said, surveying the hangar. Finding what he was looking for he called out to a Vostroyan lieutenant who was loading his squad aboard an idling Valkyrie. ‘Hey, Bolakov, stand down. We’ll take your patrol today.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The ten-kilometre walk towards the capital took the biologically enhanced Space Marines, and mechanically augmented tech-priest, less than ten minutes. Many things happened during that time.

Zadakiel, now fully appraised of what they were up against, issued new orders to Shipmaster Selenaz: disengage from the orks in the void and withdraw all Navy forces. More greenskins were arriving in-system by the minute, and though the odds were already heavily stacked against the forces of the Imperium on Honoria, if the orks were given free rein to launch their invasion now they would face fewer xenos than if they continued to blockade the planet.

Despite the ceremonial transfer of power having not yet taken place, Zadakiel had, under Imperial decree, taken command of the campaign the instant the Sword of Caliban translated in-system. As well as having the whole of the subsector’s Navy patrol fleet at his disposal, all Astra Militarum troops on the ground were his to control and he, along with his brother Dark Angels, began to vox orders and issue new deployments to the Mordian and Vostroyan forces. Each city was to be garrisoned by several thousand Guardsmen with a single Space Marine given direct command over them and the fortress defences. The remainder of the Imperial forces, including the Dark Angels armour, flyers and Dreadnoughts, were ordered to the capital to remain in reserve and act as a rapid deployment force to be despatched where and when needed. The Lion willing, the troop movements would be completed before orks started raining from the sky.

Arch Magos Diezen, who for a brief period had crawled out from under the blanket of confusion and detachment he was swaddled in, reverted to type, allowing himself to become distracted by some piece of the Space Marines’ wargear or some miniscule variation in the slope of the trench walls. He misunderstood, or at times flat-out ignored, Zadakiel and the others’ questions, only giving a clear answer when the company master requested that elements of the skitarii be moved to strategically important fortress cities.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so,’ Diezen said, fussing at one of the servo-arms attached to Serpicus’ back. ‘They will be staying right where they are, thank you.’

Zadakiel could not push the matter. Though he was the Imperial commander for the Honoria campaign, the Adeptus Mechanicus were an allied detachment and did not fall under his direct influence. In war, as in all matters, Mars retained its autonomy from the Imperium of Man.

The journey itself was far from straightforward. Orks had been making planetfall for weeks, some breaking through the Navy lines by sheer luck, others shot down, others still simply losing control of their vessels. Tens, possibly even hundreds of thousands of greenskins were already on Honoria, and though the Vostroyans and Mordians had done an admirable job of controlling their numbers, the Dark Angels encountered several wandering alone and confused along the artificial gullies. Even alone and confused, an ork was a formidable foe and the close confines of the trenches hampered the Space Marines as much as the xenos, forcing them to move along it in single file. Puriel, his power fist crackling with violent potential, dealt with any that dared attack from the front; Ezekiel, his force sword alive with psychic energy, any that they encountered from the rear. By the time they reached the gate to the city, close to three dozen greenskin corpses marked their route.

Bigger even than the cities they had studied on the hololith, the walls of the capital thrust over a hundred metres into the sky, smooth and devoid of features to prevent any attacker from scaling them. The gate itself was taller still, rising another eight feet proud of the battlements, the vast weapons array sat atop it adding the same again to its total height. As Ezekiel looked up at the looming edifice he was overcome by an unexpected sense of unease.

‘And this is one of the least impressive gates,’ Diezen chuckled. ‘There are another seventeen surrounding the city, all larger and better armed.’

As the magos spoke, Ezekiel could hear other words, the words Turmiel had spoken to him before they had embarked for Honoria.

‘You die, Brother Ezekiel.’

The Epistolary had paid little heed to the Codicier’s prophecy. Turmiel’s gift of divination was not yet honed, and his predictions did not always come to pass. Even when they did, they did so with wildly varying degrees of accuracy.

‘Does it have a name, arch magos?’ Ezekiel asked.

‘The capital? I believe it is called “Aurelianum”, a most unfortunate name if my recollection of Imperial history is correct.’ Diezen pressed his hand against a panel set into the base of the sheer wall, barely perceptible even to the Space Marines, and chanted something in binaric cant. A hiss of releasing pressure followed and a hidden door withdrew to allow them access to the interior, the Dark Angels stooping to fit through.

‘Not the city, the gate,’ Ezekiel said, stepping through the opening and into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber. There was no light source but his eyes adjusted instantly, revealing an array of flamer-like weapons set into the walls. The Librarian had no time to admire the ingenuity of whoever had constructed this particular chamber of death, his anxiety growing by the second.

‘It is called the Subarius Gate. No. Wait, that’s your name, isn’t it?’ Diezen pointed at Serpicus, who was inspecting the weapons bristling from the chamber walls. ‘Aha! I remember what it’s called now. It’s the Sularian Gate.’

‘You die, Brother Ezekiel.’ The words echoed again in Ezekiel’s mind, except this time, it was not Turmiel’s voice he heard.

It was the voice of the daemon that had bested him on Korsh.

There was no functional need for the ceremonial transfer of power from the governor and the commanders of the Vostroyan and Mordian regiments, but Ezekiel understood why the company master had agreed to it. Showing up with five ranking Space Marines sent out a powerful message of reassurance: we are here for you, you can depend on us. But it also said something else: we are in charge and will brook no dissent or cowardice; our word is the word of the Emperor and you will follow it to the letter. Both the Astra Militarum officers were polite and deferential, but they looked ill at ease in the presence of the Dark Angels.

Good, Ezekiel thought, fear will make them compliant, less likely to improvise or deviate from the battle plan when the bolt shells start flying.

The governor did not appear cowed by being in the company of five Dark Angels, but was no less respectful. The man was obviously a Guard veteran, judging by his scars and demeanour, and had likely served alongside some Chapter or other in the past. That too boded well; if he knew how Space Marines operated in the theatre of war then he would be less likely to try to impress them with his leadership, or allow personal ambition to cloud his judgement.

The handover was mercifully short. As yet, the invasion was not under way but that might change at any moment. When it did, the Dark Angels needed to be in a position to react.

Shipmaster Selenaz was reporting that the ork vessels were holding formation – or what passed for it – just beyond Honoria’s first moon, while she had moved the Imperial fleet into hiding beyond the third moon. When the invasion commenced, her orders were to destroy as many ork ships and roks as possible before they made it through the atmosphere, and then to hunt down any new arrivals in-system to prevent their numbers being bolstered.

With the ceremonial aspects seen to, Zadakiel took the governor and Astra Militarum officers to one side, to brief them on his strategy. He needed neither approval nor consent but full understanding would be key if Honoria was to persist in the face of such overwhelming odds.

Serpicus and Diezen left together, the arch magos muttering something about showing ‘Sansirius’ the gun emplacements atop the wall. Rephial went off to find a space large enough to commandeer as a medicae, while Puriel sought out the Dark Angels who had begun to arrive in the capital, to steel their souls for the battle to come.

Ezekiel, the sense of dread that had overwhelmed him at the gate still not fully abated, decided to familiarise himself with the layout of the city. The governor’s office had supplied the Dark Angels with maps, both physical and in a format compatible with their power armour’s systems, but committing the physical geography to his eidetic memory would give him the edge should the unthinkable happen and the city’s defences fell.

The capital was exactly what he had been expecting from Diezen’s description of the place, with the exception that the gates did not form a single ring around the city. Instead there were twelve placed along the outer wall and six forming an inner citadel to fall back to should the first line be breached. Both ringed walls were equal in height but the inner gates ascended even higher into the sky, presumably so that the weapons turrets could fire over the top of their counterparts on the outer perimeter, eliminating redundancy. The Honorians might have been honing their fortifications for ten millennia but that made their feats of martial engineering no less impressive to Ezekiel.

What the Librarian had not been expecting was for so many people to be on the wide streets of Aurelianum. Most were, understandably, armed, troops of the Honorian defence forces clad in uniforms of grey that matched the colour of the walls, or Mordians and Vostroyans billeted in the capital. Those who did not bear arms instead hurried about carrying supplies, ferrying ammunition to the Guardsmen about to scale the vast staircases leading to the top of the walls, or distributing ration packs. The non-combatants wore similarly hued outfits to the Honorian soldiery but without military insignia or mark of rank, and even the very young pitched in, children barely in the first flushes of puberty at the wheels of transport vehicles or stripping down and cleaning weapons. It reminded Ezekiel of Cadia, a place he had served with distinction in the past. He hoped that in the dark days to come, the citizenry of Honoria would serve with the same devotion as the people of that beleaguered world.

Having spent his convalescence solely in the company of his brother Dark Angels, who were trained and shielded not to ‘leak’ in the presence of psykers, being surrounded by so many unguarded minds came as a shock to Ezekiel initially. Without delving directly into an individual’s psyche he could not read specific thoughts, but he could sense emotions without any conscious effort. Under the current circumstances, and with so many souls crammed within the city walls, the wave rolling over him consisted of only one emotion: fear.

Naturally, all who cast eyes upon the figure of the eight foot tall, power-armoured transhuman killing machine, had some kind of reaction to him. Many just stood transfixed, unsure of how to react in his presence. Some – mainly those in Mordian or Vostroyan uniform – stopped and saluted. A tiny few averted their gaze, uncertain of whether they were worthy to look upon him. What each of them had in common was that their first emotional reaction upon encountering him was a surge of fear. Even after that feeling subsided, when elation at one of the Emperor’s greatest creations being among them, or pride at knowing that they would soon be fighting alongside the fabled Adeptus Astartes took over, fear still remained. Fear of the gathering storm; fear that this day would be their last; fear that they would be found wanting in the conflict to come.

Of all the emotions that Ezekiel – or any of his Librarius brethren – could feel, fear was the most alien. Pride, envy, love, rage – especially rage – he was capable of understanding if not feeling, but fear? Fear had been driven from him as part of the indoctrination process when he had become a Space Marine. To sense it second-hand was anathema to him; it was like wearing another man’s skin.

Something itched at the back of Ezekiel’s mind, the faint echo of the warp. He had felt it many times before, always in the presence of other psykers, but this was different somehow: weaker, diluted. To the best of his knowledge, Turmiel was the only other warp-touched being on the planet, but what Ezekiel was sensing was not recognisable as the Codicier’s psychic spoor.

Ezekiel set out to follow its keening call.

The cold wind blew hard into the Vostroyans’ faces, forcing them to fasten the top button of their field coats so that the bottom half of their faces were covered by raised lapels. The snow it brought with it settled heavily on their clothing, fur hats and moustaches, camouflaging them against both the white of the sky and what little of the ground they could see in the blizzard.

The Valkyrie spooled up its engines, the backwash turning the area surrounding it into a lake of sludge, kicking up drifts to contribute once more to the relentless flurry. As it rose into the air, Allix made a fist and raised it skywards in salute. Kas, manning the heavy bolter mounted at the side of the troop hold, mirrored the gesture.

Their supposition that the pilot would go along with their plan given a big enough bribe was only partially correct. Though he was happy to take them to the Braeval Gate, he wouldn’t take them as far as the fortress itself – only to the perimeter of the trenches – out of fear of somebody reporting his impromptu and unauthorised visit to his superiors. Likewise, he refused point-blank to wait for them, insisting that he resume his normal patrol route and return for them later. Allix had gone one better, suggesting that Kas stay on board and man the door gun in case he spotted any enemy activity on the ground that needed to be dealt with. The entire squad knew exactly what Allix was up to; leaving Kas on board would ensure – by intimidation, or violence if necessary – that the pilot didn’t try to pull a fast one by keeping the bribe but neglecting to come back and pick them up.

The Valkyrie disappeared into the whiteout leaving the five Vostroyans to turn and trudge towards the edge of the trench network. Though the early stages were tough going, the snow at times drifting to almost waist height, once they reached the start of the man-made gullies their progress became startlingly easy.

Where they had expected the deep grooves to be filled with snow, instead they found that the stone – or whatever material they were hewn from – remained entirely devoid of it. They stopped for a moment, looking around at each other in puzzlement before Allix dropped down into the trench and held out a hand against the moisture-slicked wall.

‘It’s warm,’ Allix said, dropping to one knee. ‘The floor too.’

The others followed Allix down, each of them removing gloves to feel for themselves.

‘Look,’ Grigori said. He strode further along the trench and pointed down at a fist-sized hole between his feet. ‘The meltwater drains away down here.’

‘And here,’ Dmitri called, having passed Grigori and advanced ten metres further down the trench. He turned and looked further ahead. ‘They’re spaced at regular intervals.’

The squad exchanged impressed looks for a few moments before Allix spoke.

‘Come on. It’s the job of the Mechanicus to spend their days admiring the technology that went into this. Ours is to reach the fortress, find Marita and get out of here.’

‘About that,’ Dmitri said as the squad began their trek. ‘What exactly are we going to do when we get there? It’s not like we can bang on the front gate or sneak in over the walls.’

‘Yeah,’ said Grigori, drawing alongside them. ‘How do we get in?’

‘With this,’ Allix said, producing a flare gun.

‘Where did you get that?’ asked Dmitri.

‘On board the Valkyrie. I figured that if the pilot wasn’t going to take us as far as we needed to go, he could at least contribute to the mission in some other way.’

‘That’s great, Allix, but what do we say once we have their attention? “Let us in. We’re a bunch of stinking roustabouts who are technically AWOL to pursue a personal mission to rescue our captain’s lover and unborn child”,’ Grigori said.

‘That’s one approach. Not a particularly wise one, but an approach, nonetheless,’ Allix said. ‘Or we could just say that our patrol got shot down by a marauding band of orks and we’ve been trekking blindly through the snow for days to reach the nearest gate.’

‘The lying, it comes easily to you, doesn’t it, Allix?’ Dmitri said, without a hint of judgement to his tone.

‘Sometimes I think my entire life before I joined this regiment was just one big lie,’ Allix said, picking up the pace.

What set Aurelianum and all of the cities on Honoria apart from every other city under Imperial rule that Ezekiel had set foot in was the distinct lack of ornamentation and trappings of the Imperium. That was understandable – the planet had only been rediscovered a few years earlier and the Ecclesiarchy was yet to gain much of a foothold here – but it was no less jarring. Not a single statue of a saint or martyr was to be found in any of the squares or plazas; no cathedrals stretched skywards in veneration of the God-Emperor; not even a propaganda poster hung sun-bleached and ragged on the smooth grey walls. So when Ezekiel turned a street corner and found himself facing a huge building, the front of which was emblazoned with an Imperial aquila, it came as something of a surprise.

Even more so as the psychic gnawing he was experiencing was coming from within.

He strode forwards towards the high double doors that served as its entrance, the two blue-uniformed Mordians in peaked caps standing sentry throwing them open as he approached before approximating salutes.

Ezekiel stopped just in front of the doorway and looked up at the building. ‘What is this place?’ he asked to neither of the Mordians in particular.

‘It… It’s the Administratum headquarters, my lord,’ replied one of the sentries in Low Gothic. Ezekiel could not only sense the fear on the man, he could smell it.

‘And are any psykers housed in here?’ Ezekiel continued. ‘Any primaris attached to one of the Guard regiments? Astropaths, perhaps?’

‘No, lord,’ said the other Mordian, finding his voice. ‘Just clerks, the governor’s office and the brig.’

Ezekiel entered the building, following the source of the sensation like an ethereal paper trail. Though he knew this was not his powers of foresight returning to him, it was the closest he had felt to divination in many months.

The Librarian passed by open doors, wide-mouthed scribes looking up from their vital work as his imposing shadow passed over them. He stopped in front of one particular office where a clerk dropped the sheaves of parchment she had been filing at the sight of him. A more senior clerk broke off from his own filing to admonish her, only to drop the even bigger stack of papers in his arms when he realised he was standing not two metres from a Space Marine.

Certain that who – or what – he was looking for was beneath him, Ezekiel located a set of stairs and climbed down them into the basement. At the foot of the steps, a young Mordian stood guard in front of a thick plasteel door, bars at its windows. Upon seeing Ezekiel he fumbled for the set of keys at his belt, almost dropping them in the process. With shaking hands, he found the correct key and attempted to put it in the lock, bashing it against the metal of the door as he did so and losing his grip on the entire bunch. He quickly stooped forwards to scoop them up, only to find them floating of their own accord towards the keyhole. Finding their mark, they slipped home and twisted sharply, the lock opening noisily and the door swinging open without any hand to aid it. The Mordian stepped back into the cell block to allow the Space Marine, pauldrons flecked with a rime of ice from the expending of psychic force, to pass through.

A nervous whisper rippled through the prison as Ezekiel made his way past the barred rooms, the arms of thieves, rapists, murderers and deserters reaching through bars to wake sleeping inmates. Coming to the end of the cells, Ezekiel turned to find what he was looking for was already standing at the bars, as if the man had been expecting him all along. He wore the uniform of a Vostroyan, albeit filthy from his confinement, the insignia on his epaulets marking him as a captain. His face bore at least a week’s worth of beard and he stank from where he hadn’t washed in all that time. What would normally be most striking about the man was the augmetic eye that covered the entire left side of his head, inexpertly fitted, oversized and ancient enough to be in a museum. To Ezekiel, though, what was most noteworthy was that he possessed psychic abilities.

Had he been placed into custody to await the Black Ships? Ezekiel wondered. It mattered not; the Black Ships would not be coming to Honoria anytime soon, and with war on the horizon, an untrained, unsanctioned psyker – latent or otherwise – was a liability. The war against the orks could be won only for the battle against a host of daemons to be lost, the Vostroyan used as a conduit to bring an army through the warp and ambush the forces of the Imperium while they were at their weakest. Ezekiel had seen it happen too many times before, even among his own brothers, and would not brook it again.

Reaching to his waist, he drew his bolt pistol and slipped it through a gap in the cell bars, placing the cold muzzle against the Vostroyan’s sweat-slicked forehead.

There was something different about this man, not the low-level psychic ability, not the ridiculous artificial eye, something else. Like everybody else in the cell block, he was emanating fear, but whereas the other inmates’ sense of dread mingled with malice and a resignation to their fate, the captain gave off an aura of honour and injustice, as if he shouldn’t be here, as if he had higher purpose. The Guardsman closed his eyes.

A feeling gripped Ezekiel, like the merest glimmer of his powers of divination returning. This was not right. He did not know why, could not see the skeins of destiny weaving together to form the future, but he could practically taste the wrongness of what he was about to do.

Mag-locking the bolt pistol back to his thigh, Ezekiel turned and left the cell block.

Ladbon had awoken not certain if his vision had been caused by his ability or was merely a dream. When he heard the keys turning in the lock, just as they had done in his premonition, he knew it was the former. Quite why a Space Marine had come to execute him, he did not know, but he was already resigned to his fate and decided to face it with dignity. He got up from the cold floor and moved to the front of the cell, grasping the same bars he had done when Allix and Dmitri had visited him a week earlier.

Though he had seen the Space Marine in his mind’s eye only seconds before, to bear witness to him in the flesh was no less disconcerting. Just as he had done in the vision, the Space Marine drew his pistol and pushed it through the bars. The coldness of it on Ladbon’s hot brow caused him to shudder involuntarily. Even though this was where his vision ended, him standing helpless with a gun to his head, Ladbon knew that the very next thing that would happen was that the Space Marine would pull the trigger and he would never see Marita again, never meet the son or daughter they had created together. Every Guardsman in every regiment of the Astra Militarum knew that if a Space Marine drew his weapon, he was bound under millennia-old oaths to the Emperor not to replace it until it had claimed a life. Ladbon’s death was a foregone conclusion.

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the Space Marine was ascending the stairs, the confused and excited whispers of the prisoners ushering him out. Something had happened to prevent him pulling the trigger but Ladbon did not know what, just that he had felt some kind of connection between them for the briefest instant.

What he did know was that he needed to get out of this cell and find Marita and their unborn child.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The moment Serpicus and Diezen were out of the considerable earshot of the rest of the Dark Angels command squad, the tech-priest’s personality underwent a startling change. It was as if a switch had been activated inside him, turning off the befuddled old tinkerer persona and allowing his true self to come to the fore instead.

‘Where do your loyalties lie, Dark Angel?’ Diezen’s voice had changed, harsher, more metallic.

Serpicus grinned and shook his head. ‘Finally decided to drop the act, have we? I knew the mind of the great Hieronymous Diezen would not have atrophied to the point where it rendered him an imbecile.’

‘Answer the question, Serpicus. Where do your loyalties lie?’ Diezen stopped, the mechadendrites on his back poised menacingly.

‘Where they always have,’ Serpicus replied, his servo-arms coming to life, grasping at thin air to demonstrate their potential to destroy as well as to create. ‘Split between my debt of duty to Mars and my sworn oaths as a son of the Lion.’

Diezen snorted, a grating sound that resulted in feedback. ‘And this loyalty to your “brothers”, is it reciprocated?’

‘There is not a single Dark Angel who would not lay down his life for me, and I for them,’ Serpicus replied defiantly.

‘But they don’t trust you, do they, Serpicus?’ Diezen said, his tone sympathetic. ‘The brother who spent years away from the Chapter studying on Mars. Do they keep you at arm’s length? Are you constantly made to feel as if you’re an outsider, as if they are keeping secrets from you?’

Serpicus remained silent. In all Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes – with the possible exception of the Iron Hands and their successors – Techmarines stood as a breed apart. Whereas many Space Marines underwent augmentation treatment as a result of battlefield injury, limbs and eyes replaced thanks to the actions of the enemy, Techmarines actively sought to improve their bodies regardless of necessity. Those who had spent time being tutored on Mars also spent most of their time among the vehicles, Dreadnoughts and servitors of their respective Chapters, further alienating them from their battle-brothers.

In a Chapter such as the Dark Angels, this effect was magnified tenfold. Though it was true that any of Serpicus’ brothers would lay down their life for him, it was also true that he was kept in the dark about many Chapter matters, even those that directly impacted him. Serpicus had long ago lost count of the number of times the Ravenwing had taken to battle, their bikes and speeders unblessed, as no Techmarine had accompanied them on their mission, or the numerous occasions elements of the Deathwing had disappeared for months on end taking vast amounts of Chapter assets with them. What made matters worse for Serpicus and his ilk was when the First and Second Company returned from their unplanned secret missions with their vehicles and kit damaged, or worse. If only the Techmarines were allowed to perform their duties to the fullest then perhaps the unnecessary losses of the Omnissiah’s gifts could be avoided.

‘Allow me to show you something, Dark Angel,’ Diezen said, shattering the silence with his artificial grate. He produced a small data-slate from within his robes, activated it with a mechadendrite and passed it to Serpicus.

‘What am I looking at here?’ Serpicus asked.

‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ Diezen replied, his grin suggesting that he already knew the answer.

The flickering screen of the data-slate showed a colour vid taken on a battlefield. Atanix Triumvirae skitarii were engaged in fierce battle with technocultists of the Dark Mechanicus, dozens of wrecked vehicles and hundreds of corpses strewn across the desert wastes of the unnamed planet. Something caught the Techmarine’s keen eye and he pinched a pair of mechadendrites together to zoom in close on one particular section of the vid.

‘When was this taken?’ Serpicus asked.

‘Four years, seven months, nine days, three hours and fourteen minutes ago, Terran standard,’ Diezen said without pause or hesitation.

Serpicus’ brow furrowed. He could tell that what he was seeing was the truth, that the vid was undoctored, but what it was showing him was impossible. An unhelmeted figure, clad in black Mark III power armour adorned with the livery of the Dark Angels stood in the midst of the battle. His face, like the armour he wore, was ancient and unfamiliar to Serpicus. If it was one of the brothers of the Ravenwing then it was one that the Techmarine had never encountered, and he had certainly never tended to that magnificent suit of battleplate. What was most disturbing about the vid, though, was not who it showed but what it showed him doing; his unknown brother was fighting alongside the technocultists.

‘Quite illuminating, isn’t it, Dark Angel?’ Diezen said, the artifice of his voice doing nothing to mask the relish with which he said it. He took the data-slate from the Techmarine and slipped it back into his robes.

‘Come, Serpicus. I have something else to show you.’

The steaming cup of weak recaff felt good in Allix’s hands, returning feeling to frozen fingers and colour to pallid flesh. The rest of the squad drank from their mugs, wincing at the taste – something akin to chemically tainted boiled water – while a local medic finished checking Grigori over. After shining a light in the Vostroyan’s eyes, he turned to the translator and said something in Honorian.

‘He says you are all very fortunate,’ the dark-haired girl said. Her uniform was identical to that of the medic – light grey overalls with a single red stripe running the length of each sleeve and trouser leg – but hers had no markings at the shoulder to denote rank or position. ‘To have walked away without a scratch from a crash that destroyed your flyer and killed the pilot.’

‘We’re just naturally lucky, I guess,’ said Dmitri, caressing the warm metal mug in his hands like a long-lost lover. The girl translated what he had said, causing the medic to eye the Vostroyans sceptically. He said something back to her.

‘He is declaring you all fit for duty,’ she said. ‘Finish your drinks, gather your kit and report to Colonel Oosthousen of the Mordian Seventeenth. He will make arrangements to return you to your own regiment.’

‘We’ve already got that taken care of,’ Grigori muttered under his breath.

‘Please thank the medic for all that he has done,’ Allix said, pre-empting the translator asking Grigori to repeat himself.

The girl said something in Honorian and the medic smiled and nodded to the Vostroyans before taking his leave. The translator was just about to follow him out of the small medicae facility when Allix spoke again.

‘Excuse me, miss. What is your name?’

‘My name is Ishobel. Why do you ask?’

‘Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Ishobel,’ Allix said, warmly. ‘I don’t suppose you know a translator by the name of Marita, do you? We’re here to take her back to the capital.’

Ishobel’s eyes grew wide. ‘I share a dorm with Marita! She said you’d come for her. Which one of you is Ladbon? I’ve heard so much about you.’

The Vostroyans looked at each other uneasily. ‘Ladbon couldn’t come with us,’ Allix said.

‘Yeah,’ Dmitri added. ‘He was unavoidably detained.’ The albino grinned at his own cleverness. The rest of the squad simply glared at him.

‘Come with me,’ Ishobel said, practically bouncing out of the room in her excitement. ‘I’ll take you to her.’

The wind swirled and eddied around the high battlements of Aurelianum, bringing with it fresh deposits of snow to add to the half metre that had already settled. Neither of the man-machines noticed the inclement weather, both of them focused intently on the massive weapons turret before them.

‘The construction is immaculate,’ Serpicus breathed. ‘Not a single rivet out of place, the welds airtight.’

‘The men and women who built and maintained these turrets dedicated their lives to their work in the same way as the Adeptus Mechanicus devote their lives to the veneration of the Omnissiah. For ten thousand years they remained hidden away not realising that they were doing the Machine-God’s great work.’

‘And where are they now, those men and women?’ Serpicus asked, unable to take his eyes from the perfect lines and curves of the turret and the huge guns it housed.

‘On Atanix Triumvirae – most of them, at least. Their leaders are on Mars already sharing their secrets. The turrets themselves will be shipped there once the ork forces have been dealt with.’

Serpicus turned to face the arch magos. ‘So that is why you invoked the Pact. We’re not here to save the planet, we’re here to protect the technology.’

Diezen laughed a harsh, rasping laugh. ‘Of course that’s why you’re here! Did you think I would have called upon the Dark Angels for any other reason?’

‘There are billions of lives at stake here, Diezen. Do you really expect my brothers to allow Imperial citizens to die so you can rob a world of its treasures?’

‘What your brothers choose to do is irrelevant, Dark Angel. I expect you to keep the turrets safe for the duration of the war against the orks.’

Serpicus was just about to protest, to point out to Diezen that by the tech-priest’s own calculations it was a war that could not be won, when the turret spun into action, the enormous lascannon at its heart arcing skywards.

‘Excellent!’ Diezen said. ‘Now you will see exactly why these weapons systems require preservation and greater study.’

Serpicus looked at where the eighteen-metre-long barrel of the weapon was pointing and saw fire in the sky from where an ork rok had entered the atmosphere. Belying its sheer size, the turret reacted to every little movement of the out-of-control craft, instantaneously correcting the position of the lascannon to keep it firmly locked on to its target.

‘I’d stand back if I were you,’ Diezen called. He had retreated further back along the battlements. Serpicus moved to join him as the weapon charged up with an excruciating hum, loud enough to damage the hearing of an unaugmented human.

Reaching its crescendo, the barrel unleashed a bolt of searing energy, for the briefest of moments burning as bright and as hot as a star. Serpicus felt the exposed parts of him that were still flesh burning and his augmented optics shut down altogether to protect his vision. When his eyes came back online they revealed the bloom of an explosion in the sky, millions of tiny rok fragments raining down onto the planet’s surface.

But the turret wasn’t done yet.

At the very edge of the trench system that Diezen and the Dark Angels had navigated to reach the capital, orks stirred, seemingly using the destruction of the rok as cover to approach the city walls. With impossible swiftness, the lascannon adjusted once again, its long barrel pointed at the hundred or so greenskins charging in the distance.

‘Wait!’ Serpicus cried out. ‘If that thing fires it’ll destroy the entire–’

Unheralded, the mighty weapon fired. Serpicus threw his arm across his face as a reaction but was surprised that this blast generated neither the heat nor the brightness of the previous shot. It was quieter too, his Larraman’s ear having to compensate less. When he looked to where the orks had been, not a single one remained, while the trench system was remarkably intact – not even telltale black scorch marks to show where the lascannon had hit.

‘I don’t understand,’ Serpicus said. ‘An anti-aircraft weapon of this magnitude should have torn the planet asunder, at the very least ripped a hole in its surface deep enough to reach the core.’

‘But it’s not an anti-aircraft weapon,’ Diezen said, eyes suddenly wide with enthusiasm. ‘It’s whatever it needs to be. As you’ve just witnessed, it can be the perfect anti-personnel weapon, killing any living thing it strikes but leaving buildings and weapons intact. Had that been a Gargant or Titan instead of greenskins down there then it would have adjusted accordingly, likewise if it had been tanks or flyers. Though I have yet to see it for myself, the elders who maintain these weapons claim that they are powerful enough to bring down a craft in orbit around Honoria.’

‘Incredible,’ Serpicus said, marvelling at the smoothness with which the barrel traversed back into its dormant position.

‘Isn’t it just?’ Diezen said reverently. ‘And there are hundreds of these all over the planet, each one subtly different in some way.’

‘But the speed at which it moves, at which the gun switches between modes. The amount of servitors and calculus logi needed to operate it must be staggering.’

Diezen laughed again, not cruelly but devoid of warmth nonetheless. ‘Come. Follow me.’

The tech-priest scurried back along the battlements towards the base of the turret. He put his hand against the smooth wall and revealed a control panel identical to the one that had granted them access to the city walls. Muttering a control phrase in flawless binary, a section of the wall slid away to reveal the workings within. Diezen slipped into the darkness, Serpicus followed.

‘Sweet Omnissiah…’ Serpicus gasped, his artificial eyes irising wide in the near-perfect dark. Where he had expected to see scores of servitors and other slaves of the Machine-God stood at control lecterns, there were none. Instead, tons of cogs and gears and kilometres of pipes and wiring filled the vast dome of the turret. ‘It’s automated.’

The Techmarine walked among the guts of the machine, each component as immaculate as the outer workings. Many of the systems he could identify, analogous in some way to machinery he was already familiar with, but there were parts of the internals that he did not recognise, could not even say for sure were possessed by the machine-spirit.

‘Is it controlled by arti–’ Serpicus began to say before being rudely cut off by a loud screech from Diezen’s voice box.

‘Do not say those words! Do not even think them!’ the arch magos yelled.

Serpicus could have cast aspersions on Diezen’s lineage, called into question the sanctity of his sainted mother or even accused him of being a clumsy and slapdash toolsmith, and it would have provoked less of a reaction in the tech-priest.

‘So if it’s not… that, then how is it controlled?’ Serpicus said, closely examining a piece of unfamiliar technology that appeared to control a series of pistons and levers.

‘There are a multitude of technologies at work here, some known to the Priesthood, others that remain a mystery to us.’ Diezen turned to look at Serpicus, two sets of artificial eyes locked, unblinking. ‘Do you see now why it is so vital that this technology is protected from the greenskins, no matter the cost? Can I rely on you to do the right thing? To put the interests of Mars ahead of the petty concerns of your Chapter and the Imperium?’

Serpicus looked away from the arch magos, taking in all he could survey of the turret’s workings.

‘You can rely on me to do the right thing,’ he said, stepping back out into the cold.

Marita’s excitement at soon being reunited with Ladbon did not wane, even when faced with the long march through the trenches to meet the waiting Valkyrie. Her cheeks, which were always ruddy, took on a glow thanks to the cold and her ringlets clung to her cheeks as the snow settling in her hair melted. Even wearing the thick trench coat loaned to her by a now shivering Grigori, the bulge at her belly was still visible – but if the extra weight she was carrying hindered her progress, she did not show it.

Each of the Vostroyans took turns to walk alongside Marita with the exception of Allix, who maintained position at the head of the squad. All of them had spent time around the Honorian girl when she had been assigned as one of their regiment’s interpreters, and though none had grown quite as close to her as Ladbon had, she had a good rapport with all of his squad, even Mute, who she could communicate with via sign language.

‘What’s up with Allix?’ Marita said to Grigori, who had taken over from Dmitri in walking beside her.

‘The burden of leadership,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘Ladbon showed a lot of faith by giving Allix command of the squad and asking us to find you. If we get caught doing this then all of our asses are on the line, not just Allix’s. That kind of pressure would get to anybody.’

‘You don’t think it’s because I’m pregnant, do you?’

‘Why would Allix have an issue with you being pregnant?’

‘You know…’

Grigori never found out why, the noise of a Valkyrie’s engines ticking over up ahead diverting everybody’s attention. Picking up the pace, they made it to the end of the trenchworks, Dmitiri scrambling up the walls first before helping Marita out with the aid of the two brothers.

‘Something’s not right here,’ Allix said, cresting the top of the wall and catching sight of the partially snow-obscured flyer.

‘You can say that again, Trooper Ketnemu,’ said Captain Kowalski, stepping into view from out of the snowstorm, flanked by the other nine members of his squad. ‘But then has anything ever been right with you or the rest of this bunch of freaks?’

Grigori made to advance on Kowalski. Unexpectedly, it was Allix’s arm that rose up to bar his progress.

‘Speaking of freaks,’ Kowalski continued, ‘where is the giant? Or have you replaced him with Antilov’s whore?’

Marita cursed in Honorian, the venom in her tone compensating for the fact that nobody could understand what she was saying. ‘My father is the governor of this world,’ she continued in Low Gothic. ‘When he hears of this–’

‘When he hears of this, Ketnemu and the rest of your friends will be put against a wall and shot. Desertion is one thing but commandeering an Imperial Navy vehicle to pursue a personal mission is something else entirely. As a superior officer I have no choice but to–’

The only thing Kowalski had no choice in was throwing himself to the ground involuntarily as the Valkyrie behind him exploded without warning. One moment it was on the ground idling, the next it erupted in a bloom of bright orange fire and raucous noise, scattering needles of shrapnel in all directions. Two of Kowalski’s squad fell to the ground dead, the white snow beneath them turning crimson, as blood leaked from mortal head wounds. Over the sound of burning fuel and metal, something else could be heard. Engines.

‘Greenskins!’ Allix yelled, dropping to the ground, lasgun already shouldered.

Two crudely constructed vehicles raced out of the dense black smoke, rear pintle-mounted guns cutting down yet more members of Kowalski’s squad still dazed from the blast. Both buggies looked as if they had been cobbled together from the spare parts of a hundred different donors. Even the wheels didn’t match, though the obvious difficulty that posed in terms of control and handling was seemingly ignored by the whooping drivers and the gunners behind them, who roared in approval as their shots found their mark.

Allix’s squad returned fire, las-bolts bouncing harmlessly off armoured panels and solid tyres, before the buggies disappeared once more into the smoke and snowstorm, preparing to come around for another pass. The surviving members of Kowalski’s squad regrouped during the lull, readying themselves for the next attack.

When it came, it came on two flanks.

Rather than emerging from cover together as they had done the first time, the buggies approached from opposite sides, splitting the Guardsmen’s fire. Allix’s squad scattered as one of the ork vehicles headed straight for them, intent on mowing them down. As it zoomed past, Dmitri hit the firing stud on his flamer, bathing the vehicle with superheated promethium. It carried on going but could no longer take advantage of the obfuscation provided by the storm and the smoke, its blazing hull acting as a beacon.

Kowalski’s squad were not so fortunate. Also peeling in different directions to avoid being hit by a speeding buggy, one of them lost his footing, falling face first into the recently settled powder. Spotting his predicament, the ork driver altered course slightly, crushing the stricken Guardsman beneath its wheels. It too sped off, blood from the dead Vostroyan’s pulped body leaving a trail as it went, retaliatory fire absorbed easily by its armoured hull.

Both squads tracked the burning buggy, keeping alert for its partner the whole time. Dmitri was the first to spot it.

‘There!’ he yelled as the second ork vehicle burst from the smoke, all four wheels leaving the ground as it launched from a bank of drifted snow. The Vostroyans concentrated their fire on the gunner, who cut down yet more of Kowalski’s men with impunity. Allix did something else entirely.

Waiting until the very last moment, Allix raised the flare gun and fired it at the driver at point-blank range before diving and rolling out of the way of the careening vehicle. The shot missed the driver, instead embedding in the armoured plating that protected the steering mechanism. The ork behind the wheel grunted in amusement. When the flare ignited and blinded it, those grunts turned to howls of rage. When it lost control of the buggy, crashing hard into the wreckage of the Valkyrie, its howls became screams, quickly drowned out by the noise of secondary explosions as the ork vehicle’s fuel tank ignited. The gunner staggered out of the flames, its entire upper body engulfed, only to be quickly cut down by las-fire.

The rest of the squad whooped and hollered in celebration, Allix looked around in desperation. ‘Damn it! We’ve lost sight of the other one.’

Everybody shut up, raised lasrifles aiming into the smoke and snow.

‘I hear an engine,’ Dmitri said, tracking the noise with his weapon. ‘Over there.’ He thrust his flamer forwards to indicate the source, which was growing louder by the second.

Caught unawares, the remaining ork buggy broke cover from the opposite direction, getting several shots in before the Vostroyans could turn and react. Most of them missed their mark but Gaspar took a glancing hit to his shoulder, causing him to fumble his lasrifle. His brother was at his side in an instant, checking his condition and laying down covering fire.

‘I don’t understand,’ Dmitri said. ‘The engine noise is coming from that direction.’

He soon understood. Its engines parting the billowing black smoke, the Valkyrie carrying Kas hove into view, the big Vostroyan opening up with the heavy bolter as the flyer skimmed just a couple of metres from the ground. Unable to react quickly enough, the ork driver sped straight into the hail of shells, which shredded armour and flesh alike. As the beast struggled for control, one of the front wheels struck a bank of packed snow sending the buggy into a spin, which terminated in it flipping over. The gunner threw itself clear at the very last moment, but the driver – already badly wounded – did not fare so well, its neck snapping with a sickening crunch as the vehicle came to rest on its roof.

‘What kept you?’ Allix said as the Valkyrie touched down, allowing the Vostroyans and Marita to embark. Grigori and Gaspar were the last to board, the latter giving everybody a thumbs up to show that his wound wasn’t that serious.

‘Our friend here began to have second thoughts about coming back for you,’ Kas said, jerking a thumb towards the cockpit. ‘I convinced him that if he didn’t come back for you, he would never have any thoughts again.’

Allix smiled before yelling, ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here,’ towards the pilot.

The Valkyrie began to lift off but Mute grabbed hold of Allix’s cuff, pointing frantically out into the snow. Through the blizzard, the unmistakable outline of a Vostroyan hat and trench coat was sprinting towards the ascending flyer.

‘Hold on,’ Allix called to the pilot.

As the figure got closer, his identity became apparent. It was Kowalski.

‘My mistake,’ Allix said. ‘Carry on, pilot.’

‘Don’t do this, Allix,’ Gaspar said, teeth gritted in pain. ‘Kowalski’s an arsehole but he’s not the enemy.’

‘He was quite happy to see us executed,’ Allix said. ‘My conscience is clear.’

‘We’re better than this,’ Dmitri said. ‘You’re better than this.’

Allix looked around the troop hold; every set of eyes pleaded with her not to leave Kowalski behind.

‘Take her back down,’ Allix called out, reluctantly.

His hat lost in his desperate flight to reach the Valkyrie, Kowalski leapt up to meet the flyer before its skids had even touched the ground. He was only half on board, legs hanging out of the side door. ‘Quick. Get out of here. It’s right behind me!’

‘What–?’

The answer to Allix’s question was instantaneous. Arms aloft ready to smash down a killing blow onto Kowalski’s back, the ork gunner loomed large out of the snowstorm. Dmitri was the first to react, bathing the beast in promethium flame, stopping it in its tracks.

‘Go! Go! Go!’ Allix shouted, hauling Kowalski aboard, his trench coat starting to catch light in several places. As the Valkyrie rose quickly into the air, Kas peppered the burning ork with a barrage from the heavy bolter while Kowalski dropped and rolled. Satisfied that the flames were out, he lay there exhaling deeply until a hand was proffered to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Allix asked, lifting him to his feet.

‘I think so. Thank–’

Allix’s fist connected hard with Kowalski’s jaw. Before he could react, he was half hanging out of the Valkyrie’s side door again, this time head first with Allix’s hands gripping his lapels.

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t let go,’ Allix spat.

‘Please…’ Kowalski pleaded, the flesh on his face already reddening from the biting cold wind.

‘You were going to sell us out. We just saved the life of a man who was going to send us to the firing squad.’

‘I’m sorry…’

‘No. You’re more than sorry, Kowalski. You’re indebted to us now, and you can start repaying that debt by keeping our little side mission to yourself, do you understand?’ To reinforce the point, Allix’s grip on Kowalski’s lapels loosened.

‘Yes! Yes! I understand,’ he called, practically in tears.

‘Good. I’m glad we cleared that up,’ Allix said before punching Kowalski again, rendering him unconscious for the rest of the journey back to the capital.

PART TWO

CHAPTER NINE

Danatheum slew with impunity, Traitor’s Bane taking necron heads with each swipe and thrust. Alongside him, a score of Ravenwing laid down a wall of bolter and plasma fire, killing and re-killing the horde of undead metal warriors over and over. A deafening crescendo of weapons fire echoed from the dark stone walls of the vast cavern they battled within, illuminated by the sickly green strobe light of gauss discharge. Bolter barrels glowed red, such was the rate of fire, and plasma guns threatened to overheat and explode, but with the Dark Angels about to be overrun, the flood of necron reinforcements dried up, their numbers bolstered only by the few reanimating among the ruined shells of their ilk.

‘No survivors,’ Danatheum said grimly. Not that he needed to give voice to his order; black-armoured Space Marines were already picking their way through the inert golden constructs, finishing off any that stirred with a point-blank shot to the head or a combat blade through the skull.

‘At least somebody is seeing some action,’ Ezekiel said, his flickering form drifting from the edge of the subterranean chamber to stand alongside the Grand Master of the Librarius. Danatheum ran a gauntleted hand along the edge of his sword, wiping necron circuitry from the blade and checking it for nicks and imperfections.

‘The orks still refuse to attack?’ Danatheum said, sheathing Traitor’s Bane and turning his attentions to his bolt pistol. ‘There are some among your strike force’s command structure who believe that the greenskins still linger in the void because they’re scared of facing the psychotic blue-armoured Space Marine who beats them to death with his bare hands.’

Ezekiel furrowed his brow. He had not made contact with the Grand Master since he had received the order to divert to Honoria. Somebody else must have told Danatheum about his actions upon making planetfall. That could only have been one brother from among their number.

‘Turmiel,’ Ezekiel said through gritted teeth.

‘I have communed with Lexicanium Turmiel but he mentioned nothing of your savagery. In fact he seemed reticent to talk about you at all,’ Danatheum said, removing the clip from his pistol and replacing it with a fresh one. ‘That boy will go far, mark my words. He can keep secrets almost as well as you can, Ezekiel.’

‘I don’t understand. If it wasn’t Turmiel, then who?’

‘There are other ways of communicating that do not require psychic gifts, brother.’ Danatheum pointed to a servitor marching monotonously through the underground chamber, a long-range vox-unit grafted to its back. ‘Both Master Zadakiel and Chaplain Puriel reached out to me with concerns over your actions. Not just the incident with the ork but your inability to foresee when the Sword of Caliban would emerge from the warp. I am starting to think I erred when I declared you fit to rejoin your brothers.’

‘What I did to the ork was merely to prove a point,’ Ezekiel said. ‘I was showing Brother Balthasar that a Librarian has other means of defeating a foe than solely his mind. If my show of force has instilled fear in the greenskins then that is merely a bonus.’

Four days had passed since the Dark Angels landed on Honoria and in that time the orks had shown no intention of launching their assault. Even the trickle of unfortunate and foolhardy greenskins crashing onto the planet had ceased entirely. Ezekiel had heard the whispers among the ranks of the Fifth Company, that word of his brutality had made it back to the ork fleet and they were now afraid to set foot on the planet because of him. The Dark Angels commanders on Honoria – Ezekiel included – subscribed to another theory, one put forward by Serpicus and the mind-atrophied tech-priest who never left his side: the orks were merely massing numbers. They already had enough forces in orbit to conquer the planet, but they seemed to be waiting until they had an army big enough to not only annihilate the defenders but utterly lay waste to the world. Though they had yet to encounter the ork general leading the invasion, the Dark Angels already knew that they had underestimated not only his tactical acumen but his potential for barbarity too.

‘So how do you explain your misreading of when you would arrive at Honoria? I know you too well, Ezekiel. You either foresee events or you do not. You don’t make errors when it comes to divining the tides of the warp,’ Danatheum said, mag-locking the pistol to his armoured thigh. ‘There is something wrong with you and I demand to know what it is.’

Not for the first time since he had become a Dark Angel, and certainly not for the last, Ezekiel offered up a half-truth to one of his brothers to obscure actuality.

‘I… I have been troubled of late, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, inclining his head forwards so that his psychic hood almost entirely covered the projection of his face. ‘Brother Turmiel’s divinations have revealed an ill portent that he chose to share with me. I do not survive the battle on Honoria. I die here.’

‘The boy’s readings are wrong as often as they are right,’ Danatheum scoffed, almost amused. ‘What do your readings tell you, Ezekiel?’

‘I have been unable to foresee what happens on Honoria,’ Ezekiel replied.

‘So even if Turmiel’s prophecy is accurate, what of it? Are you telling me that you fear dying, Ezekiel? Because if you are, then what happened to you on Korsh has left scars much deeper than those that cover your body.’

‘Of course I do not fear death, but nor do I welcome it,’ Ezekiel said, his head flicking up sharply so that his psychic doppelganger looked the Grand Master squarely in the eyes. ‘What troubles me is that I will let down my brother Dark Angels, that I will not be there to stand shoulder to shoulder with them when they need me most.’

‘Do I detect a touch of hubris there, Epistolary? That Fifth Company are doomed to failure unless the great Ezekiel is by their side?’ Danatheum bared his teeth. Ezekiel was not sure whether he was smiling. ‘I think your assault on the ork, the sheer barbarism of it, was a manifestation of your unease. You were overcompensating.’

Ezekiel hesitated briefly. ‘Maybe you are right, Grand Master. I believe that I will not be there for my brothers in the final reckoning so I am making up for it in advance.’ A dark thought occurred to Ezekiel. Perhaps he was overcompensating not for his belief that Turmiel was right – Danatheum’s assertion that the Lexicanium’s predictions were right half the time was a touch generous – but for the loss of his own powers of foresight. Maybe the show of ruthlessness and brutality with the ork was as much for his benefit as it was Balthasar’s.

With the last of the necrons despatched and the cavern secured, the Ravenwing commenced their advance through the next rat run of tunnels.

‘One thing I am certain of is that the orks will attack eventually. If you continue to display the lack of control you’ve been exhibiting so far on your mission then Turmiel’s prophecy will be self-fulfilling. If you are going to die on Honoria, so be it – many a Dark Angel has fallen in less auspicious circumstances – but do not rush to your grave, brother.’ Danatheum followed the black-armoured Dark Angels filing out of the chamber. As he reached the entrance to the narrow tunnel, he turned back to Ezekiel and made the salute of the Lion. ‘May the Lion and the Emperor watch over you.’

Ezekiel returned neither the salute nor the platitude, his aetheric duplicate fading rapidly in the subterranean gloom.

‘Shipmaster Selenaz to all ground forces.’

The voice crackled harshly through the vox-bead in Ezekiel’s ear, rudely snapping him out of his psychic reverie.

‘The ork fleet is on the move and headed your way. Ground invasion imminent,’ she continued. There was an urgency to Selenaz’s tone but it could not be mistaken for panic.

‘Hit them from the rear,’ Zadakiel said, his voice buzzing with distortion. ‘Thin their numbers in the void to give us a fighting chance down here.’

‘Affirmative,’ came the reply from Selenaz. Ezekiel was on the move before the bead in his ear fell silent. Bursting from the windowless chamber housed in the thick walls of Aurelianum that he had used for his communion, Ezekiel headed for the stairway that led to the battlements, a sea of Imperial Guardsmen parting as the towering figure passed through them.

In short order he was atop the walls, the grey skies of Honoria glowing red as countless ork craft burned up upon entry into the upper atmosphere. The great guns were already in action, booming every couple of seconds as they blew the ork craft from the sky, causing black streaks of smoke to appear like tears on the fiery horizon. Had the circumstances been different, Ezekiel would have marvelled at the sheer efficiency of the huge turrets, perhaps even registered that he detected no presence in the warp of any operatives behind those thick armoured walls, but he and his Dark Angels brothers were on a war footing now and his concerns lay elsewhere.

‘Where are they landing, Serpicus?’ Ezekiel said, easily spotting the Techmarine towering above the assortment of Mordians and Vostroyans taking up their positions. Alongside him, Arch Magos Diezen chattered uncontrollably, a mixture of binaric gibberish and High Gothic numbers.

Serpicus looked skywards, augmetic eyes rapidly flicking in all directions. His visage grim, he turned to Ezekiel and spoke a single word.

‘Everywhere.’

The gun designated KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh89/777771 by Arch Magos Diezen and his explorator team tracked the rok’s descent, only firing at the optimum moment – the point when its destruction would also take out several similar craft dropping alongside it. Independently of the main guns, the battery of anti-aircraft defences sought out ork flyers and smaller roks, firing on near full auto as the skies became ever more crowded. Cogitator units sprang to life, back-ups installed millennia before as fail-safes called into use to bolster the weapons system’s processing capabilities, such was the volume of targeting data it was gathering.

The flow of data between Aurelianum’s defence turrets was constant, a river of information unseen by all but Serpicus and Diezen, further enhancing each battery’s computational power and streamlining the process of target allocation. Every single ork craft that survived the massive heat and gravitic stresses of entry was fed into the system, the distributed process determining which of the turrets would be responsible for its destruction.

A looted Navy Thunderbolt, repainted red and daubed with iconography indicating its new pilot’s tribal allegiance, became yet another line of binary as its threat was acknowledged by the turret network. In mere nanoseconds its extermination became the task of one of the anti-aircraft arrays slaved to KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh89/777771 and a volley of solid shot was fired to bring it down. Whether by accident or design – KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh89/777771’s machine-spirit cared not – the barrage clipped the wing of the ork flyer, whipping it into a spin as thick oily smoke spewed from one of its engines. Aware that the craft had not been destroyed, two more of KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh89/777771’s guns took aim, their shots also missing as, at the crucial moment, the Thunderbolt slammed against the side of a rapidly descending rok, altering both the speed and direction of its spin.

KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh45/5295331 was the next to try to bring it down, its anti-aircraft missiles well-suited to medium-range threats, but it too failed, both projectiles whizzing harmlessly past the Thunderbolt, unable to compensate for its erratic roll. KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh11/111112, KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh61/030502 and KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh22/987841 all tried in vain to down the craft, by now zig-zagging as well as tail spinning, but the predictions of the massed cogitators were undone by the unpredictability of its descent.

With no turrets able to offer an effective firing solution that would not risk harm to friendly forces or the city itself, the line of code representing the charmed Thunderbolt simply disappeared from the targeting system. KV/678H/PFXZ-2356677-srh89/777771 and its networked counterparts forgot it ever existed, all weapons freed up to eliminate the ever-increasing number of greenskins crowding the skies.

Meanwhile, the burning Thunderbolt spun ominously towards the heart of Aurelianum.

Ladbon Antilov was standing at the door of his cell, attempting to pick the lock with the makeshift tools he had bartered from his fellow prisoners, when the vision of the rapidly descending ork flyer overwhelmed him.

‘Back away! Back away!’ he yelled, dropping the eyelet from a Mordian standard-issue boot that he had shaped into a needle and throwing himself against the back wall of the cell. ‘Get away from the bars!’

The other inmates stared at Ladbon like he had gone mad, some even openly mocking him. When the Vostroyan repeated his warning, louder and with more urgency, several of his doubters slowly edged towards the corners of their cells.

The crash was heralded by the whine of dying engines, followed by the deafening thud of the initial impact into the upper floors of the Administratum building. The corkscrew motion of the Thunderbolt’s descent drove it downwards through the levels, its wings and tail shearing off as it drilled through solid masonry before coming to a halt embedded in the roof of the cell block.

Ladbon had closed his eye and covered his mouth and nose with his tunic to prevent dust and debris from blinding or choking him. It was a good minute before the haze started to clear and the same amount of time again before Ladbon was able to see clearly. During that period the only sense he could rely on was his hearing, the moans of the dying and wounded keeping him company in the darkness, but there was another sound too: metal being forced against metal.

With enough light pouring in through the thick cloud of motes, Ladbon could see the damage wrought upon his cell, bars twisted and bent from where building wreckage had clattered against them. One bar had come away from its mountings entirely, the snapped and burred pole driven into the rockcrete floor in the exact spot where Ladbon had been standing when the vision came to him.

With some effort, he removed it from its resting place and placed it into the gap it had left in the front of the cell, forcing the opening wider so that he could slip out of his prison. Breathing in, Ladbon squeezed through the opening, brass buttons tearing away from the fabric of his tunic. Now free of the confines of his cell, he finally realised where the sound of metal grinding on metal was coming from.

Perched perilously atop a mound of rubble, the remains – barely more than the fuselage – of the Thunderbolt rocked from side to side, as the pilot struggled to free itself from the cockpit. Beneath the shattered canopy, the enraged greenskin pushed with both of its meaty hands, occasionally contributing with its forehead, as it tried to free itself from a space never designed to accommodate the frame of an ork.

With a groan of stressed metal and a roar that was equal parts rage and relief, the canopy burst apart from the rest of the cockpit, the blood-soaked ork hauling itself out and groggily turning its head to get its bearings. The few surviving prisoners and guards, either stuck in their cells or looking for an escape route that didn’t involve navigating the debris-choked stairs, froze in abject terror. Ladbon did not.

Reaching back into his cell, Ladbon retrieved the bar he had used to free himself and started up the slope of rubble towards the ork. Though smaller than others he had encountered, the greenskin was no less of a threat – it was perhaps even more dangerous in its present, bloodied state. It bared its red-stained teeth, smiling in anticipation of the kill, and roared again. Then, lowering its head, it charged down the slope, its feet sliding beneath it as the debris shifted underfoot. Ladbon ducked beneath a flurry of blows as it swung blindly with both fists, and drove his makeshift spear up through the greenskin’s protruding chin and out of the top of its skull.

As he had anticipated, the thing did not die instantly, the pain of its fresh wound spurring it on to flail even more wildly. A vicious backhand caught Ladbon between the shoulder blades, sending him face first into shattered masonry. The ork bellowed once more, its savagery drowned by the blood in its throat, and it tore the bar from its head, raising it high ready to drive it down into the prone form of the Vostroyan. Ladbon flipped himself over just in time to witness the ork’s final moments.

As its brain finally registered that it was dead, the ork went limp, its eyes rolling back in their sockets. Gravity took over and it fell forwards, Ladbon barely getting out of its path as it crashed down onto the wreckage.

He lay there for a moment recovering his breath through shattered ribs until a Mordian hove into view above him, proffering a hand. Ladbon took it and raised himself to his feet. He surveyed the ruins of the cell block.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the rest of them out.’

Within the hour, the few survivors were free, pulled through prised-apart cell bars or rescued from under mounds of debris. Those who had managed to walk away relatively unscathed helped those who were bleeding or had broken limbs. Ladbon was the last of them to make it to the top of the slope, clambering over the remains of the Thunderbolt to reach the floor above.

‘Are you coming with us, sir?’ said the Mordian who had helped him earlier. Ladbon was just about to respond in the affirmative when another vision engulfed him.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s something else I need to do.’

Retracing his steps as best he could given the path of destruction torn by the errant ork flyer, Ladbon navigated the ruined corridors back to the governor’s office. He already knew what to expect when he got inside, which made the unsullied state of the exterior all the more surprising to him.

He twisted the handle and pushed the door open, the heavy plasteel coming to rest against fallen masonry, leaving an opening barely wider than the one he had slipped through to escape his cell. Once he had stepped over the threshold, the scale of the devastation hidden within became apparent. The entirety of the front wall was strewn across the floor, the tip of a wing sitting proudly amidst the rubble it had created.

Ladbon scrambled over the detritus to the spot where the governor’s desk had once been. There, just as the vision had shown him, was a section of roof, beneath which lay Marita’s father. Though exhausted from his efforts down in the cell block, Ladbon found the strength from somewhere to slide away the heavy block of stone. The governor blinked, the whites of his eyes stark against his dirt-streaked face.

‘I’m here to get you out,’ Ladbon said, lifting some smaller pieces of debris from the governor’s chest and shoulder.

‘No…’ the governor rasped. ‘It’s too late for me…’ He raised his arm weakly and gestured to the lower half of his body, or at least where it should have been. Pools of slowly drying blood emanated from another piece of roof that had crushed both his legs.

Ladbon forced a smile. ‘You’ve survived worse than this, you old warhorse. You told me yourself. You’d be surprised what they can do with augmetics these days.’

The governor smiled thinly, his laughter at the grim humour wet with blood. ‘Marita chose well, Ladbon. You are a good man, to comfort me like this in my dying moments.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like this, I can get you out of here.’

‘I am already dead, captain, but I pray to the God-Emperor that my daughter is not.’ The governor’s voice was barely more than a whisper and fading fast. ‘Go to her… Keep them both safe…’ The governor closed his eyes. He did not open them again.

Ladbon sighed heavily, grimacing at the reaction from his broken ribs. He carefully removed his tunic, reverently placing it over the corpse of Marita’s father.

Standing up, he made his way from the Administratum building determined to fulfil a dead man’s last wish.

CHAPTER TEN

The five-strong Dark Angels command squad sat in the troop hold of the Thunderhawk studying the fragmented data being relayed by the Sword of Caliban. Selenaz was leading the Imperial fleet in hit-and-run attacks, the strike cruiser’s sensors scanning the surface of Honoria only when it was in range to do so. The hololithic globe projected between them was incomplete but the information it relayed was grave.

‘They’re deploying in their entirety,’ Puriel said matter-of-factly, his words punctuated by the staccato chatter of the flyer’s heavy bolters as they cleared a path through the crowded skies.

‘Selenaz, what’s the situation up there?’ Zadakiel voxed.

For the next few moments, nothing but static fizzed across the Thunderhawk’s vox-caster. ‘We’re running out of targets,’ the shipmaster said eventually, voice laced with interference. ‘We’ve decimated the ork fleet but most craft made it planetside before we got to them.’

Zadakiel was thoughtful. ‘Disengage the Sword of Caliban and run reconnaissance. We need a complete picture of where the greenskins are deploying. They’re spreading out all over the planet but we need to know if they’re concentrating anywhere. Leave the Navy to pick off stragglers and maintain the blockade. If more reinforcements arrive, on no account are they to make it into orbit let alone to the surface.’

‘Affirmative,’ Selenaz said. The vox cut out with a hiss.

‘What’s the word from the outlying gates, Turmiel?’ Ezekiel asked.

The young Codicier was knelt at the end of the troop hold, eyes closed deep in concentration. His armour and robes gained a coat of frost as he reached through the aether to gather information from the scattered brothers of the Fifth Company.

+All reports are the same,+ Turmiel communicated psychically to his superiors. +Ork forces are probing the defences at each gate, but all of them are holding so far. The only exception is the Tamhdu Gate. The defences are being probed in the same manner but the bulk of the ork forces there are holding back.+

‘Where is the Tamhdu Gate?’ Rephial asked, studying the hololith. As the assembled Dark Angels looked on, blank spots on the flickering globe turned red as the Sword of Caliban’s sensors revealed more and more of the ork deployments.

‘There,’ Serpicus said, jabbing a finger towards one spot in particular on the slowly rotating sphere.

The gate, like all others, was denoted on the schematic by a yellow triangle, but the area directly in front of it was a more concentrated shade of red.

‘Does Tamhdu overlook a steppes region?’ Puriel asked from behind his skull mask.

‘Yes. It’s surrounded by plains on three sides. The trenchworks are longer and deeper to compensate, but it could still be vulnerable,’ Serpicus said. As he spoke, the area of red around the gate on the globe grew darker.

‘That’s it. That’s where they’re massing,’ Zadakiel said. The pitch of the engines shifted, the Thunderhawk pilot already adjusting course.

‘Who’s stationed there?’ Ezekiel asked.

+Brother Shadrach of Seventh Squad,+ Turmiel replied.

Ezekiel too reached out through the aether, hastily warning Brother Shadrach of what he was about to do. The Librarian closed his eyes, the temperature around him dropping by double digits.

When he opened them again, he was looking through Shadrach’s eyes. Either side of him, Vostroyan, Mordian and Honorian troops stood at the battlements, guns trained on the sea of green spread out before them. Ezekiel could feel the chill wind blowing against Shadrach’s face, smell the burning in the air from crashed ork roks and flyers, hear the battle-cries of the besieging force. The plasma cannon in Shadrach’s grasp felt strange to Ezekiel, his hands more accustomed to wielding a force sword and bolt pistol, and the Mark V power armour the warrior wore seemed more cumbersome than the Mark VI plate the Librarian had been given after his previous suit had been destroyed on Korsh.

Ezekiel turned Shadrach’s head, making full use of his battle-brother’s enhanced vision to gather as much information as he could: estimated troop numbers, any tanks and artillery pieces deployed alongside them, likely angle of attack. Ezekiel was just about to do a second sweep when something caught his attention on the very limits of Shadrach’s vision.

Originally yellow, the looted Land Raider had been crudely repainted in red, and had new apertures gouged into its hull, through which an assortment of additional weapons protruded. Thick, greasy smoke billowed from the multitude of exhaust ports added to the rear of the vehicle, and other adornments, both practical and inexplicable, broke the once clean, straight lines of the Land Raider’s silhouette. The top hatch was open and the upper torso of an ork – larger than any Ezekiel had seen before – poked through it, a primitive set of magnoculars in its hands, it too surveying the soon-to-be battlefield.

Spotting Shadrach atop the battlements of the gate, the ork stopped scanning from side to side and stared intently at the green-armoured figure, twiddling cogs and dials with fat fingers. The ork passed the magnoculars to a smaller subordinate sat on the Land Raider’s hull, revealing its savage visage. Its lower jaw was made entirely of metal, serrated at the top to form a wicked set of razor-sharp teeth, and its left eye was surrounded by a star of lighter green tissue, lasting reminders of old wounds. Its bald, green scalp was a latticework of scars, many thick from where it had likely survived a blow from some kind of blade or axe, others like pockmarks left from shrapnel or a shotgun blast. Inlaid into the top of its skull was an offset row of long spikes, a Mohawk of metal dulled by dried blood.

It opened its mouth in a smile, revealing yellowed tusks behind the set of metal teeth, and slowly ran its finger across its throat, pointing to Shadrach with its other hand.

Ezekiel had seen enough. He broke the psychic link.

‘It’s there,’ Ezekiel said to his brother Dark Angels stood around him in the Thunderhawk. ‘The ork general is at the Tamhdu Gate.’

The Dark Angels disembarked from the rear ramp of the Thunderhawk and were greeted by an unexpected figure.

‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Zadakiel said. ‘And it looks like your skitarii have finally decided to reveal themselves.’

In the days since the Dark Angels had arrived on Honoria, they had not seen a single warrior of the Adeptus Mechanicus, but they had been able to monitor their movements and picked up the occasional burst of binaric cant across open vox-channels. Twenty of the more-machine-than-man warriors flanked the tech-priest, their robes and armour the same black and purple as Diezen’s robes.

‘The arch magos arrived at the Tamhdu Gate shortly before you did, company master,’ Shadrach said. Diezen himself was seemingly oblivious to the new arrivals, instead fussing and fiddling over Shadrach’s plasma cannon.

‘And why are you here, arch magos?’ Zadakiel asked. The lack of communication and cooperation from the Mechanicus in recent days had taken its toll. Zadakiel’s patience had worn parchment-thin.

‘The greenskins, of course,’ Diezen said, as if it was glaringly obvious. ‘We’re here to fight the greenskins alongside you.’

‘Your timely aid is most appreciated,’ said Zadakiel in a tone that balanced diplomacy with sarcasm. ‘Come, Brother Shadrach. Let us prepare for war.’ Zadakiel nodded respectfully to the tech-priest before leading the Dark Angels from the landing pad. Serpicus went to attend to the Thunderhawk and administer the Rites of Safe Passage before it took off again to ferry more Space Marines to the Tamhdu Gate. He had just daubed the first sigil onto the hull in holy oil when he felt and heard a mechadendrite tapping him on the pauldron. He turned to find a scowling Diezen staring dead into his artificial eyes.

‘Remember, Serpicus,’ Diezen hissed mechanically. ‘The turrets are not to fall into the hands of the orks. You and your brothers are to defend them at all costs. Do I make myself clear?’

Unblinking, Serpicus held the arch magos’ gaze for uncomfortable seconds before turning his attention back to the idling flyer and continuing his ritual. Still glowering, Diezen led his own troops from the landing pad to join their fellow skitarii already positioned around the base of the defence turret.

For a city under siege, the streets of Aurelianum were surprisingly calm.

Its citizens bustled through the streets in an orderly fashion, factorum workers and small children making their way to the bunkers housed within the inner gates just as they had practised countless times during their lifetimes, and like their ancestors had done for millennia.

Between the bursts of fire from the turrets high above him, Ladbon was struck by how quiet it was. Though the residents of the capital spoke to each other as they navigated the wide streets, it was with quiet urgency rather than panic. The entire world had spent ten thousand years preparing for war; now that war was here, the entire population simply took it in their stride.

Moving against the flow of people, Ladbon caught sight of a familiar red uniform and fur hat. As he got nearer he could see that the Vostroyan trooper was directing the Honorians towards the inner sanctum. Moreover, he recognised the trooper as being from his own regiment.

‘Trooper Petrovich,’ Ladbon said as he approached. ‘I’ve been separated from my squad. Do you know where they are?’

Petrovich eyed Ladbon with contempt, unslinging the lasrifle from his back and pointing it at the dishevelled captain. Ladbon realised that he was virtually unrecognisable, his face and moustache caked in filth and ork gore. Bereft of his tunic and greatcoat there was only one way he could confirm his identity to the nervous trooper.

‘Captain Antilov,’ Ladbon said, pointing to his augmetic eye. ‘We were on patrol in the steppes together not three weeks ago.’

Petrovich flashed a set of yellowed teeth from beneath his thick blond moustache and lowered the rifle. ‘What in the name of the Throne happened to you, captain?’ he said, saluting as an afterthought.

‘An ork flyer crashed in the city. The pilot survived, but not for very long.’ Ladbon shivered, suddenly aware of the cold. ‘Do you know where my squad are?’

‘We were all billeted in a hab block in sector nineteen until yesterday. Then new orders came through and the regiment was dispersed around the gates. They could be anywhere by now. Might not even be in the city any more.’

‘Where is sector nineteen?’ Ladbon asked.

‘In that direction,’ Petrovich said, pointing over the heads of the constant stream of Honorians. ‘Follow the signs with this marking on them.’ Petrovich grabbed Ladbon’s hand and drew a symbol in the layer of grime on the back of the captain’s hand.’

‘What is that?’

‘It’s the Honorian numeral for nineteen. The translator taught it to me.’

‘Marita?’ Ladbon said.

‘I think that was her name. Did you know she’s the governor’s daughter?’

‘I do now…’ Ladbon muttered. ‘Was she with my squad when they were billeted in sector nineteen?’

‘I don’t know, captain,’ Petrovich said. ‘Everything has been so confused these past few weeks.’

‘Thank you, trooper,’ Ladbon called over his shoulder, already heading in the direction of sector nineteen.

As Ladbon expected, the hab block was empty when he got there. Telltale signs of its recent occupants were everywhere, but as he went from dorm to dorm he could find no evidence of his squad, nor Marita, having been there.

Thankfully, he found a discarded greatcoat – one of its pockets torn off, which would likely have earned its previous owner a reprimand should he have worn it in battle – and a Vostroyan fur hat, scorched down one side where it had come too close to the business end of a lasrifle.

As he descended the stairs of the hab block and headed back out onto the streets of Aurelianum, flexing his arms and shoulders to stretch the slightly too snug greatcoat, he saw the two words scrawled on the wall beside the doorway. The handwriting was unmistakably Mute’s.

SULARIAN GATE.

A bitter wind howled through the battlements of the Tamhdu Gate bringing with it yet more snow. It settled on the stone walls of the tower and the ceramite plate of the Dark Angels’ power armour, but Ezekiel and his brothers paid it no heed.

Out on the plains, the ork army waited impatiently for the order to attack. As was the greenskins’ wont, sporadic brawls had broken out as the assembled horde worked itself up into a battle frenzy and gunfire rang out over the din of war-cries as overenthusiastic orks discharged their weapons with no care for who or what they shot. Even the constant anti-personnel fire from the Tamhdu Gate’s turret did nothing to dampen their spirits, each shot that obliterated at least a hundred of their number greeted by loud cheers from the xenos throng.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Puriel spat. ‘Their forces have all landed. Delaying only grants us an advantage, a chance to whittle down their numbers.’ Another shot boomed out from the turret, another cheer rose up from the steppes.

‘It is sport to them,’ Rephial said. ‘They revel in battle for battle’s sake. This world, its resources mean nothing to them, likewise its people. Should they be victorious here, the spoils of war will be meaningless, aside from whatever they can loot. For the greenskins, battle is not a means to an end, it is a means without end, without purpose. Even this,’ Rephial gestured, open-palmed to the sea of green before them, ‘is part of it. The show of force, the pre-battle pageantry – it’s like oxygen to them. Without it, the species would just wither and die.’

‘A most intriguing hypothesis, Dark Angel,’ Diezen said, looking up from the skitarii he was tinkering with. ‘We should talk more when all this is over, you and I. I once knew a magos biologis who thought that the eldar reprod–‘

‘Something’s happening,’ Shadrach said. The noise of the horde changed, discordant cries and howls turning into a discordant approximation of singing or chanting.

‘The Land Raider is on the move,’ Ezekiel said. Black wisps of smoke rose into the air on the horizon as the looted vehicle sped towards the beleaguered gate.

‘The what?’ Diezen said, quickly forgetting any offence he had taken at being so rudely interrupted by Shadrach. He looked to where he saw movement on the steppes, artificial eyes irising wide in horror. ‘Blessed Omnissiah, what have they done? What have they done?’ He turned aside and vomited, thick black oil spilling over his dark robes and melting the snow at his feet. When he looked back at the Land Raider, he dry-heaved several times before muttering away to himself in incoherent binary.

‘What does it hope to achieve?’ Puriel said. ‘The trenches are designed to prevent vehicles from…’ The Chaplain went silent, coming to the same realisation as his brothers at the exact same moment.

The Land Raider sped inexorably on, mowing down anything in its path, its tracks crushing all beneath them. When it hit the edge of the trenchworks, it sped onwards, the corpses piled to the top of the gulley walls forming a road beneath it.

‘That’s what they were waiting for,’ Zadakiel said. ‘They needed enough corpses to dam the trenches and we helped them do it! Stop that turret from firing.’

Diezen was still reeling from the sight of the defiled Land Raider, oblivious to all around him.

‘Serpicus,’ Zadakiel said, turning to the Techmarine.

‘Affirmative,’ he replied, already sprinting in the direction of the turret.

Emboldened by their general’s bravado, other ork vehicles began to follow in the Land Raider’s wake. Behind them, tens of thousands of orks began to charge, their tuneless singing growing ever louder.

Gaining speed as it went, the looted Space Marine vehicle headed straight for the base of the weapons tower. When it was little more than half a mile away, the ork general leapt from the top hatch, landing roughly among a pile of dead xenos.

The Land Raider kept on going.

‘Brace!’ Zadakiel yelled.

Down below, reaching speeds far in excess of what it had been designed to achieve, the Land Raider impacted against the base of the gate, detonating violently. Flames spewed high into the air, thick plumes of smoke chasing the fire skywards. Two hundred and fifty feet above, the battlements shook under the force of the blast, dropping some of the ordinary human soldiery to their knees.

The vox erupted with noise as Astra Militarum forces reported in, all confirming that the base of the gate had been breached. Snapping out of his trance-like state, Diezen and the skitarii headed towards the defence turret without a word to the Dark Angels.

As the Space Marines looked on, countless orks flooded towards the breach, some of them ablaze from the Land Raider’s detonation. In the heart of the chaos, surrounded by a bodyguard of thickset greenskins, the ork general threw back its head in raucous laughter, content at the carnage already wrought, giddy at the prospect of slaughter yet to come. It held both hands out in front of it, palms upwards, and gestured goadingly to the Dark Angels.

Here I am. Come and get me.

‘Now is our chance to finish this,’ Puriel said. ‘If we eliminate their general, the orks will resort to infighting and our war is all but won.’

‘This is all part of its plan,’ Rephial said. ‘It intends to do to us what we intend for it. Just as we want to remove the head from the body of the ork army, it knows it has drawn the Dark Angels commanders here and seeks to vanquish us.’

‘You give the xenos too much credit, Apothecary,’ Puriel scoffed. ‘It is merely an ork, and seeks only combat for combat’s sake. You said as much yourself.’

‘The patience it has shown in both amassing its forces for the invasion and preparing for this assault was by design rather than accident,’ said Rephial. ‘I think you are underestimating it, Brother Puriel.’

Zadakiel was pensive. ‘What say you, Brother Ezekiel? Does the warp reveal to us the optimum course of action?’

Ezekiel closed his eyes, inclining his head forwards so that his psychic hood bathed his face in shadow. When he opened them again, he turned to Turmiel. The Lexicanium shook his head.

‘The future is occluded to both Brother Turmiel and ,’ Ezekiel said.

The vox-traffic became ever more frantic, Vostroyan and Mordian voices appealing for reinforcements to counter the ork forces now within the walls.

‘This ends now,’ Zadakiel said defiantly. ‘Ezekiel, get us down there.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The hundred or so orks were caught so unawares by the five Dark Angels materialising in front of them that not a single one had time to react. Each of them lay dead or dying in the blood-drenched snow in a matter of seconds.

Those further away from the point of teleportation had time enough to at least muster a defence, but lived only marginally longer. Heavenfall blade, chainsword and power fist separated heads from shoulders and showered limbs to the cold ground, while the psychic might of the two Librarians fried the brains and froze the blood of any greenskin that evaded the Dark Angels’ weapons. The aetheric onslaught’s effects were twofold, not only killing the xenos but striking fear into their surviving kin. Wary of the Space Marine witch-mind, many of the orks hung back, some fleeing altogether rather than succumb to such strange magicks.

‘It seems your reputation among the greenskins is well earned, Brother Librarian,’ said Puriel. ‘Perhaps it was you causing them to linger in orbit all along, rather than some grand plan.’

If Rephial heard the Chaplain’s barb he ignored it, running his chainsword through ork torsos with the same precision he displayed in the medicae. Often drawn away from the field of battle to tend to his wounded brothers, the Apothecary relished every opportunity to prove his martial prowess.

The supply of greenskins to murder was unending, but the Dark Angels’ application to the business of killing them was unstinting. Taking advantage of his status among the enemy, Ezekiel had drawn his force sword, his weapon now used to slay orks while his mind conjured forth images of great horrors to keep the weak-minded aliens at bay. Each sweep of the Space Marines’ blades brought them closer to their quarry, but the ork general, cutting down retreating cowards with its double-headed axe, was determined to meet its foe more than halfway.

Barrelling through a mass of its own troops, transfixed into inaction by an apparition of one of their gods, the massive ork charged Rephial, seeking to split the Apothecary in two with a single blow from its fearsome axe. Spinning away from the sweep of the ork’s weapon, Rephial clicked the ignition stud of his chainsword and swung the whirring blade towards the warboss’ flank. With speed belying its bulk, the warboss threw out an arm, the teeth of the Space Marine’s weapon biting into the thick band of metal around its wrist, sparks flying as they fought vainly to carve through to flesh and bone. Struggling to free the axe from where it had become embedded deep in the top of a trench wall, the ork kicked out at Rephial, connecting so hard with his midriff that the blow shattered power armour and sent the Apothecary sprawling atop the pile of greenskin corpses that covered the battlefield. With a supreme effort, it tugged the axe free and swung it over its head in the same movement, the prone Dark Angel helpless to move out of its deadly arc.

The killing blow never landed.

Bursting from the warboss’ blindside, Puriel’s power fist struck the beast on the side of the temple. It was a strike hard enough to take the head from a lesser ork, and it forced the warboss off balance, the xenos’ weapon embedding itself in the corpses of slain greenskins rather than the body of the Dark Angels Apothecary. Enraged, the warboss raised the axe again, intent on ending the life of its new target, but at the apex of its swing, Zadakiel emerged as if from nowhere to drive his Heavenfall blade into the ork’s side. The sword bit but scored only a glancing hit, its blade wetted but not drenched with xenos blood.

An impromptu arena had sprung up around the ork general and the Dark Angels, the greenskin army forming a circle around the duel, either out of fear of the Librarians or fear of reprisal from their leader should they interfere in the combat. Rather than become embroiled in the already one-sided fight, Ezekiel and Turmiel ran crowd control, holding back the horde with terrifying visions or driving psychic daggers into the minds of any tempted to involve themselves.

Blood seeping from its flank, the warboss swung its axe at Zadakiel, but the company master anticipated the attack, bringing his sword up to counter the blow. It connected just beneath the axehead, sparks spraying over both combatants, and the two weapons locked, ork and Space Marine alike forcing every ounce of their strength into keeping their opponent’s weapon neutralised.

It was a test that Zadakiel could never win.

Finding it difficult to gain purchase on the corpses underfoot, Zadakiel was driven backwards, the ork’s muscle power too much even for his genetically enhanced might. But just when it looked as if the warboss would drive him to the floor, the Dark Angel turned the situation to his advantage, quickly withdrawing his blade from the stalemate and sidestepping, causing the warboss to stumble forwards. In the same motion, Zadakiel brought the sword back around, its red-tinged edge seeking out the ork’s exposed back.

Alert to the danger, the huge greenskin lashed out, Zadakiel’s blade connecting with the same metal band that had countered Rephial’s chainsword. Sensing what was about to happen next, the company master tried vainly to reverse the momentum of his weapon, to bring it back around to block the ork’s counter-attack, but he was fractionally too slow, the massive axe passing under the Heavenfall blade and carving through ceramite. Zadakiel gritted his teeth as the sharp edge bit deep into his flesh, delivering a wound that mirrored the one he had administered to the warboss.

Twisting the head as he pulled it free, the ork brought the axe up again, intent on finishing his stricken foe. Thick red blood spilled from the gouge in Zadakiel’s armour, but he still had the presence of mind to raise his sword, blocking what would have been a killing strike. The two weapons interlocked once again. Rather than pushing the Dark Angel back this time, the warboss kicked out, the force of the impact cracking armour and driving Zadakiel onto one knee. Weakened and losing blood at a prodigious rate, the Dark Angel could do nothing to prevent the ork from ripping the sword from his grasp with a forceful flick of the axe.

Its mouth opening wide in a sadistic grin, the warboss raised its axe again to separate the company master’s head from his shoulders.

For the second time in the battle, Puriel came to the aid of one of his battle-brothers at the very last moment, a blow from his crozius arcanum to the ork’s midriff swiftly followed by a power fist to the xenos’ metal jaw.

Angered at being denied a second kill by the skull-faced Space Marine, the warboss threw its head upwards and bellowed in rage, every vein and sinew in its enormous body bulging as it vented its frustrations skywards. Spitting out one of its tusks, which Puriel had knocked loose with his devastating punch, the ork pointed at the Chaplain with the double-headed axe, using its other hand to goad him into attacking again.

Puriel obliged.

The screams of the dying and the triumphant chants of the greenskin invaders echoed up from the base of the weapons tower. Some of the Astra Militarum troops froze in fear at the top of the wide staircase, impeding the passage of those behind them. In his singular style, Serpicus urged them on.

‘Come on, otherwise I’ll throw you down those steps and send you into battle the quick way!’

The end of the Techmarine’s sentence was drowned out by the noise of the turret firing another volley at the marauding orks working their way through the trenches. It had the desired effect, though, the flow of Vostroyans and Mordians heading downwards picking up pace again.

‘How much longer, Diezen?’ Serpicus called out to the tech-priest. Diezen was hunched over a console, its metal cover ripped away to allow him to tinker with the mechanisms inside.

‘Seven hundred and forty-seven point three seconds,’ Diezen said instantly. ‘Provided the control systems are not encrypted, of course.’

The vox in Serpicus’ helmet was alive with chatter. Imperial commanders on the battlements reporting into Shadrach, who was leading the operation atop the battlements; their counterparts down below calling out casualty reports. And something else, something that would be gibberish to any of his non-Techmarine brethren but which was faintly discernible at the very bottom of the frequency spectrum. He went to the top of the stairway and looked down. The orks were almost halfway up the tower and the Guardsmen were barely arresting their progress. Serpicus ran the calculations in his head.

‘Diezen, order your skitarii in,’ he yelled.

As before the arch magos didn’t look up from his task. ‘What difference will twenty skitarii make? Send in more Guardsmen or get those brothers of yours to go down there.’

‘The Guard can’t keep them in check. If you don’t send your skitarii in there – all of them, the hundreds you’re holding in reserve within the fortress walls – then the turret will fall before you can deactivate it, and its secrets will be lost forever.’

‘The Mechanicus’ elite are not to be thrown away so casually. If it’s a suicide mission then let the armies of the Imperium throw down their lives,’ Diezen spat.

‘If you don’t order them in, then in six hundred and fifty-seven point three seconds the only part they’ll play in this fight is avenging your death.’

The arch magos hesitated for the briefest of moments. ‘Omnissiah take your circuits!’ he said, followed by a string of binaric cant, echoed on the low vox-frequency. The twenty skitarii that formed Diezen’s personal bodyguard marched in lockstep to where Serpicus was assessing the situation in the tower. ‘I’ve transferred command to you, Dark Angel. Try not to destroy them all.’

Serpicus issued his own set of orders in binary and the skitarii began to descend the tower, barging past the human soldiery as they went.

‘All Vostroyan and Mordian forces, pull back to the battlements. Your guns are more use up there,’ Serpicus broadcast over all channels before following the Mechanicus forces down, his servitors in tow.

Puriel swung his crozius down in a deadly arc, its coruscating energy field leaving a bright afterglow in its wake. The warboss threw its head out of the mace’s path, bringing its shoulder guard up to meet the blow instead, the metal denting and blackening under the impact.

Reacting quickest, the Chaplain lashed out with his other arm, his balled-up power fist connecting squarely with the ork’s metal jaw. The beast staggered backwards but was not felled. Puriel pressed the assault, but the next swipe of the crozius was met by the haft of the warboss’ axe.

The orks still held their position on the fringes of the duel, but their bloodlust was rising, whipped into a frenzy by their general’s personal battle. Rephial knelt between the two Librarians, wheezing through shattered ribs while he tended to the gravely wounded Zadakiel, who was already in the early stages of a sus-an coma. Ezekiel and Turmiel continued to hold the ork mob at bay but the perimeter of the makeshift arena got smaller with every act of aggression by the two combatants.

+Can he be moved?+ Ezekiel sent to Rephial.

That doesn’t matter. If he isn’t moved, we’ll lose him. The organ damage is catastrophic and he needs to get to the medicae now.

The Apothecary’s gauntlets were covered in red as he fought to curtail the company master’s bleeding.

Can you get us out of here, Ezekiel?

+Yes, but we all have to go. Turmiel does not yet have the power or control to teleport you, nor would he be able to hold the orks at bay alone.+

Then we go. Zadakiel is fading fast, Rephial thought back.

+Puriel, we have to go, the company master’s wounds are too severe to treat in the field,+ Ezekiel sent, opening up a psychic link with the Chaplain.

No! came the Chaplain’s response, so forcefully that Ezekiel was taken aback. Zadakiel’s orders were that we finish this now and that’s precisely what I intend to do.

Puriel unleashed another assault, his fury the match of the warboss’. Blow after blow rained down on the greenskin, crozius and power fist alike breaking bones and splitting flesh. Though the ork had the size advantage, Puriel was quicker and more nimble, avoiding the test of strength that had laid Zadakiel low, relying instead on speed and guile.

+Puriel. Now,+ Ezekiel sent.

The ork mob was becoming harder to keep back, the sight of their leader being taken apart so completely before their eyes driving them to action. Ezekiel and Turmiel’s illusions became more horrific and realistic as a result.

I have this, brother. Not long now.

The ork’s arm snapped as a result of a solid hit from the crozius, bone protruding at its elbow in a mess of muscle and gore. It cried out in rage and anguish, but the call died prematurely as the power fist connected with its throat. Instinctively, the warboss dropped its axe and raised a hand to its neck. Jumping on the opening, Puriel thrust his power fist into the ork’s stomach like a piledriver, dropping the beast to its knees. He wound up the crozius, ready to stove in the greenskin’s skull and end the war for Honoria before it had even properly begun.

Bursting upwards with the speed and agility of something a fraction of its size, the warboss launched its head like a guided missile towards the Chaplain’s skull helm. The spikes on top of its head penetrated Puriel’s visage, opening a crack through the centre of the mask through which blood seeped. He rocked backwards but kept his footing, weakly raising his crozius in defence. A massive green hand batted the mace away, forcing Puriel to swing wildly with his power fist. The warboss caught the Dark Angel’s arm at the wrist, locking it in place as it grinned manically from behind its blood-drenched and battered artificial jaw.

Then it ripped the Chaplain’s arm off.

The sound of a hundred pairs of metallic feet running down stone steps heralded the first fusillade from the skitarii rangers’ galvanic rifles. Marching in lockstep, the front rank of black-clad man-machines dropped to augmetic knees, took aim and fired in a single fluid motion. Every shot found its mark but barely half were fatal, hitting meaty ork shoulders or thighs instead, the electrical field emitted on impact merely slowing them down rather than killing the beasts. As the second wave of rangers took the place of the first in perfect unison, the noosphere was already alive with revised firing solutions and aiming corrections. By the time the third rank took to its knees, the data had been finessed to the point where every round felled its greenskin target.

At the top of the stairway, Serpicus coordinated the assault, his own weapon and those of his combat servitors raining down death from above. With each second that passed, scores of orks crashed lifeless to the cold stone of the steps, their fellow xenos climbing over the corpses without a second thought. The intervention of the Mechanicus elite had made a difference, but it was not enough. Based on the data being fed to him by the skitarii, and his own calculations, the tide of greenskins would engulf Arch Magos Diezen long before he could deactivate the turret. There were thousands of orks already crammed inside the tower and many more flowing in through the rent in its base. If he could somehow prevent the greenskins’ reinforcements from getting in, then the rangers might stand a chance of eliminating all those already within the walls of the tower.

Serpicus ran through all the likely scenarios, then ran them again. Drawing a blank both times, he ran all the unlikely scenarios too. One in particular had a quarter of a per cent greater chance of succeeding than any of the other possibilities, but even then the odds of pulling it off were less than two in a hundred. Not great, but better than any of the alternatives.

Relinquishing direct control of his servitors to allow them to operate autonomously, Serpicus leapt from the top of the stairs, out into a void that terminated eighty metres below.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The warboss raised Puriel’s power fist above its head, holding it aloft as a trophy. The assembled throng cheered, calling for more of the Chaplain’s blood.

Though gravely wounded, Puriel was not finished yet, using his one remaining arm to crawl across the pile of greenskin bodies and retrieve his crozius. He had just got a single finger on the hilt of the weapon when the ork general brought the power fist crashing down, shattering Puriel’s other arm at the wrist.

It did not end there.

The warboss brought the fist down hard again, a mighty blow smashing open the Dark Angel’s backpack and tearing it away from his armour. Then again, and again, and again, until the ceramite beneath cracked open, exposing Puriel’s vulnerable back. Slamming the power fist down one last time, the ork broke the Chaplain’s spine with a sickening crunch, before tossing the weapon aside to be fought over by its exuberant troops.

+We have to do something,+ Turmiel sent. The young Lexicanium was not prone to displays of emotion, but Ezekiel could feel the rage in the psychic communiqué.

He’s already dead, brother, Rephial replied. He was dead the moment he allowed the ork to goad him on.

+But we can’t just leave him here for the orks to defile,+ Turmiel pleaded.

As if in response, the warboss knelt down before Puriel’s still twitching corpse and tore the Chaplain’s cracked skull mask from his helmet before attaching it to its belt alongside a host of other trophies looted from vanquished foes. With its undamaged arm, the warboss lifted the Dark Angel from the ground and tossed him like a piece of scrap meat into the baying mob. The greenskins’ uncommon restraint finally found its limit as they surged forwards in the hope of claiming their own spoils of war.

Ezekiel! Rephial thought urgently.

Already alert to the danger, Ezekiel hastily threw a psychic dome over the four surviving Dark Angels, Turmiel lending his aetheric strength to the effort once he realised what the senior Librarian was doing. The shield crackled with the raw stuff of the warp as the onrushing orks collided violently against it.

In their rage and frustration, the xenos tried to break it down with knives and axes, only to have them flung from their grasp as corporeal metal met incorporeal energy. When that didn’t work, many of them took to opening fire on the shimmering wall, the shots deflecting back with interest, killing either the firer or those standing nearby. Undeterred, the horde continued to unleash salvo after futile salvo until a primal bellow cowed them into submission.

Falling silent, the greenskins parted, clearing a path to where the two Librarians strained to maintain the shield and Rephial fought desperately to keep Zadakiel alive. The warboss strode brazenly through the gap until it was only a few centimetres away from the Dark Angels, the shimmering field of psychic energy the only thing preventing it from tearing them apart, as it had Puriel.

Twenty metres from the end of his suicidal plummet, Serpicus dropped the pair of grenades he had primed towards the hole blasted in the wall by the looted Land Raider. As they spun away to the floor below he reached out with his servo-arm, extending it to its full length and clasping the edge of the spiral stairway with the powerful gripper attached to its end. Manipulating the artificial limb with synaptic impulses as easily as he would a real arm, Serpicus used it to reverse his motion, flipping himself upwards and over towards the stairs. Landing among the surprised mob, he arrived just in time to use the xenos as a meat shield against the ensuing grenade blasts.

The entire tower rocked as the simultaneous detonations threw heat, energy and noise up through the enclosed space. Those greenskins unfortunate enough to be at the outer edge of the corkscrew staircase fell to their deaths as they lost their footing or were shoved aside by their panicking kin. Thick smoke, heavy with the stench of burning ork, rose upwards, blinding those closest to the base and causing yet more to disappear over the brink.

In the ensuing chaos, Serpicus slew dozens of the stunned xenos, tossing them down below to further augment the dam of bodies he had created with his audacious gambit. Adjusting the filters on his augmetic eyes, he peered through the smoke to assess how effective his efforts had been. He grimaced as he witnessed a trickle of greenskins clambering over corpses to enter the tower through the gap that remained at the very top of the breached wall. That grimace soon became a wry smile as he noticed that as an unexpected bonus, his grenades had destroyed the ten metre section of the stairway at the bottom of the tower, making ascent from the base nigh on impossible.

Confident that he would not have to concern himself with an attack from behind, Serpicus set about assaulting the orks’ rear, his bolter accounting for dozens more before they had regained their wits enough to muster a counter-attack. He ploughed through them, those he didn’t toss from the stairway shot in the head at point-blank range or smashed in the face with the butt of his bolter.

Higher up, the first of the greenskins had engaged the skitarii in melee combat and were forcing the Mechanicus troops onto the back foot. Though the orks had the advantage over the rangers in close quarters, the battle had never been about winning: all that mattered was holding off the invaders long enough for the turret to be deactivated. The skitarii were not fighting to secure victory, or even preserve their own existence, merely to prolong the fighting in the tower to give their master every opportunity to complete his task.

For every two metres Serpicus gained, the skitarii lost one, those not driven back up the steps torn apart or thrown off the edge. The ork numbers were dwindling, but the chron read-out on Serpicus’ retinal display revealed the stark truth of the matter: at the rate the skitarii were dying, they weren’t going to buy Diezen enough time.

Serpicus renewed his efforts, practically sprinting up the steps as he tore through the mob, but his exertions came to naught. With at least fifty orks still left alive the last of the rangers fell, leaving only the servitors to protect the arch magos. Heavy bolters blazed away but even their combined rate of fire was nowhere near enough, the orks slamming into them like a battering ram and crushing them underfoot.

With no other options open to him, Serpicus enacted the final part of his plan. Offering up a brief prayer to the Omnissiah and seeking the blessing of the Lion, he reassumed direct control of one of the dying servitors and activated its self-destruct mechanism.

The warboss paced around the perimeter of the coruscating shield, its yellow eyes locked on Ezekiel, as if sizing up its next opponent. Blood poured from where Puriel had snapped the beast’s arm and oozed from its artificial jaw, but it paid its wounds no heed.

I’m losing him, Rephial sent, frantically trying to staunch Zadakiel’s bleeding. We cannot tarry here any longer.

Ezekiel turned away from the ork general, glancing down at the rapidly fading company master to see the extent of the wounds for himself. The warboss’ two massive fists pounding at the shield pulled his attention back.

The ork smashed against the psychic dome again, irritated that the Librarian had dared to turn away from it, this time with such force that Ezekiel could feel the shield buckle slightly. This ork was unlike any he had encountered before, not only displaying cunning and tactical acumen far in excess of the norm for its species, but also physical strength, to the extreme that it threatened to break through an aetheric wall with its bare hands.

Ezekiel reached out with his mind. None of the Dark Angels could hope to match the warboss in singe combat, but if he could lash out at it psychically, destroy it from the inside like he had so many of the orks lying dead around him, the war could be over before it began in earnest, as both Puriel and Zadakiel had posited.

The psychic mine detonation that followed rocked Ezekiel physically. His knees buckled, threatening to drop him to the ground, and blood seeped from his nostrils and eyes. The shield wavered as his mind recoiled from the blast, but he composed himself just in time to reinforce the dome as the ork’s balled-up fists smashed against it once more. But the biggest surprise was yet to come. The warboss spoke to Ezekiel, in broken, basic Low Gothic.

‘Weirdboyz fix Groblonik good,’ he said with a bass chuckle.

The ork horde cheered, whether out of understanding of the actual words or in admiration of their leader speaking the Space Marine’s tongue, Ezekiel was unsure.

‘Groblonik fix you good, witch-mind. Now, Groblonik kill you.’

This further incited the mob. Many of them bayed and howled, smashing their weapons together to generate an almost rhythmic sound.

In his weakened state, Ezekiel knew that if the orks swarmed the dome then it would surely collapse. He only had moments to act.

+Turmiel, I’m going to drop the shield. When I do, I need you to unleash Hellfire and buy enough time for me to get us out of here,+ Ezekiel sent.

+Understood,+ replied the Codicier.

The first of the orks were already encroaching, their bloodlust kindled by their leader. Before terminating the psychic barrier, Ezekiel broadened its circumference, shocking the front ranks of greenskins into inactivity as the wave of aetheric energy broke over them.

+Now!+ Ezekiel sent.

He lowered the shield, the bright blue dome dissipating with a crackle, like the sound of pyrotechnics launching in the distance. Simultaneously, a perfect ring of green psychic flame sprang up around the Dark Angels, but Ezekiel had no time to admire Turmiel’s aetheric artistry, nor the control he showed as parts of the Hellfire barrier broke away and engulfed the most fanatical orks. Chanting incantations and daubing arcane sigils into thin air, Ezekiel conjured up a wind born of the warp, which whipped around them, fanning the Hellfire flames.

The more words of power Ezekiel uttered, the bigger and more violent the funnel became, spinning so furiously that Turmiel’s Hellfire raged like an inferno, the screams of the dying orks caught within it harmonising with the unnatural sound of the psychic storm. The sky above turned the colour of rotted flesh as purple lightning played over the tops of swiftly moving clouds.

Anticipating that he would soon be robbed of his quarry, Groblonik urged his troops onwards, through the flames that burned both body and mind, and towards the eye of the storm, but his order came too late. Shouting the final incantation, Ezekiel made the sign of a star with his finger, each of the eight points glowing with raw psychic energy.

Then the Dark Angels were gone, leaving behind only howls of frustration and pain.

Arch Magos Diezen barely registered the explosion from the entrance to the stairway behind him, save to acknowledge the – to his mind at least – needless waste of yet another of the Omnissiah’s creations. So intent was he on sifting through the near-infinite amount of data flowing through his slave cogitators, ancillary computation organs and celekone-enhanced flesh-brain that he did not immediately notice the lone ork survivor, crawling over the ruined bodies of its ilk and smouldering servitor chassis to reach its prey.

Augmented hands and mechadendrites alike moved with astonishing swiftness, tapping out commands on keypads or rerouting thick bundles of cable that formed the control system’s innards. His chron read-out counted down the final few seconds; each time the digits changed, the ork got closer. With less than three seconds left until he gained control over the turret and shut down its massive guns, Diezen caught the reflection of the encroaching xenos in one of the smooth metal covers he had removed from the control system. It would have been a mere formality to lash out with one of the prehensile metal arms grafted to his back, to pierce the ork’s skull or throat, but the arch magos knew that he could not risk such an action. If he broke away from his work at such a critical juncture then everything he had achieved thus far would be undone, and he would have to start again from scratch, without the protection granted by the skitarii. Besides, even if he did terminate the beast’s brain functions, its central nervous system was so unevolved that it would still likely have time to kill him before it realised it was dead.

The chron counted down to less than two seconds. The ork raised a huge cleaver, preparing to bring it down on the back of Diezen’s neck. The tech-priest flooded his system with electrical impulses, his Omnissiah-granted gifts overriding the fear and doubt the body he was born with was trying to force upon him. In spite of himself, he shut down his optics, diverting all of his focus to the last few adjustments and calculations while also preventing himself from having to deal with the sight of his killer administering the final blow.

With his sight offline, his other four senses heightened. The report of the bolter, already deafening in the combined space, was impossibly loud, to the point that it nearly distracted him from his ministrations. The smell of the weapon’s discharge stung his nostrils; the taste of scorched ork flesh hung heavy in his throat; the warmth of the alien’s blood felt uncomfortable on the back of his neck. The chron counted down to zero and, uttering the correct blessing to the Machine-God, Diezen took command of the turret emplacement and shut it down. As the noise of its huge, ancient mechanisms abated, Diezen turned to Serpicus, the Dark Angel extricating himself from the ruined mess of ork and skitarii corpses he had forced his way through to make the shot.

‘Was it really necessary to throw away the lives of all of my skitarii, Dark Angel?’ Diezen said without even the slightest hint of gratitude.

Serpicus pulled himself free of the bodies and examined the damage to his armour caused by the explosion, then surveyed the wreckage at his feet. ‘You have the technology. You can rebuild them.’

Diezen snorted. ‘I hope it was worth it.’

‘The outcome was always binary, arch magos. Either we won and your precious archeotech remained intact, or we lost and the orks tore it apart and used it for spare parts. How we reached either of those states was utterly meaningless.’

Diezen contemplated that for a moment. Broken down into terms he could relate to, he was able to parse the logic of the Techmarine’s course of action. ‘It would seem we did a good job with you on Mars, Serpicus. Maybe too good a job.’

Serpicus nodded his assent before racing to join his brothers on the battlements.

Ezekiel blinked.

When he closed his eyes, he had been at ground level, the noise and the stink of the battlefield all around him. When he opened them, he was high above it all, the roar of the ork horde replaced by the discharge of lasrifles, the stench of alien blood and sweat giving way to the thin, cold air of the Honorian night.

‘Help me move him!’ Rephial yelled, his white suit of Apothecary armour stained almost the same colour as Serpicus’, the Techmarine emerging from the dormant turret as his brothers rematerialised. Shadrach broke off from coordinating the Astra Militarum’s defence to aid Rephial.

‘Puriel…?’ Serpicus asked as Shadrach and Turmiel hoisted the motionless form of Zadakiel between them. Rephial continued to treat the company master as the three Dark Angels hurried to where a Thunderhawk was coming in to evacuate their commander.

‘He underestimated the orks’ cunning,’ Ezekiel said, shaking his head. ‘We all did.’

Serpicus looked to the floor solemnly and gave the salute of the Lion.

‘I see your mission was a success,’ Ezekiel said, looking up at the motionless turret.

‘Aye,’ Serpicus said. ‘Perhaps more successful than we had hoped,’ he added, staring out over the battlefield.

Ezekiel could barely contain his look of surprise.

The orks were retreating.

Groblonik barked orders at his lieutenants, reinforcing them with violence if any dissented. The battle had already cost almost half a million ork lives, another half a dozen were nothing. They could easily be replaced by stronger, more obedient warriors. Even some of Groblonik’s foot-soldiers gave voice to their disapproval, earning a swift decapitating backhand if they spoke within earshot of their general.

The giant ork scowled in agony as a trio of Painboyz fussed about his ruined arm. Instinctively, Groblonik lashed out, sending one of them flying, dead before its body hit the ground. The other two cowered but, spotting something among the throng of withdrawing greenskins, the warboss forced them to follow.

In Groblonik’s way stood a huge specimen of an ork, barely half a head shorter than the warboss. The warboss gestured at the trophy the ork was carrying, and the message was clear: Groblonik wanted what the other greenskin had.

Posturing to make itself look bigger than it actually was, the other ork started to laugh mockingly, only to stop abruptly as the larger greenskin tore its throat out. As the ork stumbled forwards onto its knees, Groblonik yanked the prize free from his foe’s weakened grip and tossed it to the startled Painboyz. The warboss pulled a huge knife from his belt and, without a second thought, brought the blade down onto his own irreparably damaged arm, severing it at the elbow. The warboss pointed to the trophy, then to the stump of his arm. This message was also clear: Groblonik wanted them to attach the Space Marine’s power fist to his limb.

The Painboyz set to work, their warboss sat atop a mound of corpses surveying his retreating army. A seemingly endless parade of greenskins filed past, any who displayed their disapproval earning a snarl of rebuke.

The warboss understood their frustration; he had raised their bloodlust and promised them slaughter only to snatch it away from them when their desire for murder was at its zenith. Like most of their kind these orks were stupid, barely capable of understanding language let alone the nuances of mass warfare. Yes, Groblonik could have ordered them to assault the walls of the fortress, and yes, the carnage would have been great but, ultimately, they would have lost. The enemy’s position was too easily defended, even without the huge cannon to back them up.

Let them brood and rage, let their frustration build, the warboss mused. It would only make them fight harder the next time they were unleashed. The orks might not have won the day, but Groblonik had slain one of the Dark Angels generals and, more importantly, had learned much about the enemy and how they fought.

The battle might have been lost, but now Groblonik knew how to win the war.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘His guidance and leadership will be sorely missed,’ Danatheum said to the ghostly simulacrum of Ezekiel stood before him in the immense stone chamber. ‘Puriel embodied all that is great and good about the Dark Angels, and his zeal was without peer. Master Asmodai will be gravely saddened by the Chapter’s loss.’

The elder Librarian rose to his feet, but Reguel placed a firm hand on Danatheum’s pauldron and bade him sit again. The blue-armoured Dark Angel was partially missing two fingers on his left hand and the Apothecary had yet to finish his ministrations. All about the high-ceilinged cavern, brothers of the Ravenwing tended to damaged armour and weapons, not a single one of them unscathed, either in terms of body or wargear. Along one wall, lit by the flickering light of mourning candles made from the tallow of the Chapter’s slain enemies, lay three black-armoured corpses, their throats torn open surgically to recover the gene-seed within.

‘It is a dark day indeed, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, his voice as thin as his apparition. ‘Four brothers lost to us and another whose life hangs by a thread.’

‘Rephial’s prognosis is bleak?’ said Reguel, removing a small circular saw from a pouch at his hip. He activated the device and without ceremony proceeded to shear Danatheum’s ruined fingers down to the knuckles. The Librarian did not flinch, his system already flooded with pain-deadening hormones.

‘Master Zadakiel is a tenacious fighter but the delay in removing him from the battlefield may be his undoing,’ Ezekiel said, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘The sus-an coma is keeping him alive, but the wound is not healing as quickly as it should do. Rephial maintains a constant vigil at his side, naturally, though the Apothecary is running out of ideas about how to best treat him.’

‘Which brings us to the question of leadership,’ Danatheum said.

‘I don’t understand. Brother Puriel was second in command of the mission but with his loss it now falls to the next most senior member of the command squad. That is Brother Rephial,’ Ezekiel said.

‘As great as the Apothecary’s desire is to smite down the foes of the Imperium in all their forms, Rephial knows that his duty is to tend to Zadakiel and the numerous other casualties that will inevitably befall Fifth Company.’

‘Then Master Serpicus will lead,’ said Ezekiel. ‘He has served the Chapter for far longer than I, and he has the ear and trust of our Mechanicus allies.’

‘The Techmarine’s loyalty has always been divided between the Rock and Mars. With a tech-priest by his side – his old tutor no less – I fear Serpicus’ attention will be similarly divided,’ Danatheum said. ‘The burden of leadership falls to you, brother.’

Ezekiel nodded. He had already come to this conclusion himself, before he had even contacted Danatheum, but wanted to make sure that the confirmation came from the Grand Master himself, lest he be accused of hubris or ambition. ‘It is a great honour, Grand Master. I shall not fail the Chapter.’

‘I am certain you will not,’ said Danatheum. Reguel finished his amputations and returned the bone saw to his hip, replacing it in his hand with a handheld laser, quickly cauterising the two stumps. ‘But you will need to appoint a second of your own.’

‘Balthasar,’ Ezekiel said immediately.

Danatheum smiled. ‘A fine choice. Perhaps your show of faith in him will be returned.’

Noise in the distance roused Danatheum, Reguel and the Ravenwing to attention. Their campaign against the Nephrekh Dynasty had been hard-fought, but the overwhelming necron numbers had the Dark Angels constantly on the back foot. Their latest battle – the one that had robbed them of three brothers – had forced a hasty retreat into one of the myriad chambers that formed the xenos’ domain, the Dark Angels collapsing the entrance behind them to seal themselves in and the necrons without. The sounds coming from the other side of the debris wall suggested that the golden automata were trying to break through and rid themselves of the invaders; their proximity suggested that the next battle was not far off.

‘I shall take my leave, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel said, already fading away. ‘May the Lion and the Emperor watch over you.’

‘You too, brother,’ Danatheum said, experimentally flexing his left hand. ‘Avenge Puriel and ensure that not a single greenskin survives to boast of his murder.’

Drawing Traitor’s Bane, the Dark Angels Chief Librarian turned to face the first wave of necrons to breach the barricade.

When Ezekiel found him, Balthasar and the brothers of First Squad were knee-deep in greenskin corpses.

In the hours since Groblonik had slain Puriel and almost meted out the same fate to Zadakiel, the war for Honoria had opened up on several fronts, with numerous gates coming under heavy assault. With the anti-aircraft batteries rendering the ork flyers all but useless, the Dark Angels had attained air superiority, allowing their Thunderhawks and Stormravens to ferry them around the planet with impunity, responding to new threats as they arose. As close to a dozen gates came under greenskin attack, Ezekiel’s first command decision was to reform the company into squads and place them at ten of the beleaguered fortresses, leaving Serpicus and thousands of newly revealed skitarii to defend one other. While the orks were concentrating their forces at these eleven sites, the remaining gates yet remained under siege, albeit by fewer xenos. Ezekiel had given serious consideration to calling in Astra Militarum reinforcements from these sites, but the ork warlord had proven itself to be both cunning and unpredictable. Prudence dictated that these gates remain garrisoned lest the greenskin onslaught be opportunistically diverted.

The Stormraven was rising into the air again before Ezekiel’s armoured boots had even touched the cold stone of the Nilumbria Gate’s walls, speeding off to its next extraction point, raking the massed ranks of orks below with devastating heavy bolter and assault cannon fire. Further along the battlements, Balthasar and his squad were engaged with the latest wave of orks to make it to the top of the sheer walls, either by making the perilous climb via ropes attached to grappling hooks or jumping from flyers that clung close to the fortress to avoid being picked off by anti-aircraft fire. Blue-uniformed figures from a Mordian regiment fought alongside their Space Marine allies, lasrifles put to use picking off greenskins foolish enough to attempt the long ascent up the smooth façade of the gate.

As Ezekiel drew nearer to Balthasar, throwing psychic daggers through the skulls of a pair of greenskins as he ran, a cheer went up from a group of Guardsmen, followed by an explosion. A missile launcher team had scored a direct hit on one of the flyers hovering just below the battlements, incinerating the occupants and knocking it out of the sky. A second, louder cheer rang out as the flyer careened to the ground spewing a trail of oily smoke, then exploding noisily amongst the tightly packed throng, killing or mortally wounding thousands of their alien enemy in an instant.

‘I would have expected higher casualties, brother,’ Ezekiel said, wrapping his fist with aetheric energy and collapsing the skull of a greenskin brute with a single blow. Underfoot, the light grey stone of the fortress was awash with ork blood, liberally mingling with that of the human defenders. The carpet of green corpses was dappled with the occasional patch of Mordian blue.

‘The ork strategy works in our favour,’ Balthasar replied, messily bifurcating an ork upon the teeth of his chainsword. ‘Despite their overwhelming numbers, they can only send so many troops up the wall at any one time. The Mordians account for most of them and those few that do make the climb are quickly dealt with.’ He sharply flicked his now dormant chainsword, dislodging viscera to emphasise his point.

‘Just when we thought we had underestimated our opponent’s tactical acumen it resorts to type, throwing sheer weight of numbers at us in the hope that we will break or tire, achieving naught but countless dead orks,’ said Ezekiel. But while he did not doubt the validity of his words, something gnawed at the Librarian. There was more to Groblonik’s strategy but it was occluded to him. Given foresight he might have been able to fathom the ork’s intentions, but with his powers of divination lost to him, it was like he was seeing the world through only one eye.

‘What is Master Zadakiel’s condition?’ Balthasar asked. He picked up the two halves of the ork he had just killed and threw them forcefully down the walls, dislodging a pair of orks from their grappling ropes and sending them to their doom.

‘The company master lives, but his life hangs by a thread. Brother Rephial is doing all he can.’

‘And that leaves you in charge of the mission.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘Grand Master Danatheum has endorsed my promotion. On a temporary basis, naturally, until Master Zadakiel is sufficiently recovered.’

‘Naturally,’ Balthasar said, with more than a hint of disdain.

‘And I am appointing you my second in command.’

Balthasar displayed no emotion. ‘Of course. I am sergeant of First Squad. That gives me seniority in all company matters.’

‘Your seniority was irrelevant to my decision, sergeant. Sergeant Daedalus of Eighth Squad has a year’s more service than you, and Brother Jobriah of Second Squad is seconded to Fifth Company until he can be reunited with Third. If I were following protocol to the letter then either of them could be at my right hand for the remainder of this campaign.’

Balthasar’s brow furrowed.

‘I am choosing you because Grand Master Danatheum and other senior brothers of the Chapter see something in you, and I am beginning to see it too,’ Ezekiel continued. ‘Do you understand my meaning here?’

Ezekiel could not outright say that Balthasar was being assessed for ascension to the Deathwing, but he could allude to it, swaddle it in a fabric of innuendo and inference as was the Dark Angels way. The first sergeant was bright enough to figure it out.

‘Perfectly,’ Balthasar said, still not betraying any emotion. ‘Neither you nor the Chapter will find me wanting, Brother Librarian.’

‘I expected nothing less,’ Ezekiel said, a vague smile forming. The two Dark Angels exchanged the salute of the Lion.

The moment was broken by another roar of celebration from the Mordian ranks, tens of thousands of voices raised to praise the Emperor and the Dark Angels. Far below, the orks were retreating, abandoning the field – and their dead – in their hundreds of thousands. Balthasar, Ezekiel and the brothers of First Squad exchanged uneasy glances.

‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Balthasar said, putting his helmet on from where it was mag-locked about his waist and speaking to his fellow Dark Angels over the vox. ‘Something’s not right about this.’

‘Agreed, brother,’ Ezekiel said, simultaneously reaching out psychically to Turmiel, Serpicus and the sergeants of the other nine squads of the Fifth Company. All over the planet, the same scene was being played out: orks retreating for no apparent reason. Then new reports began to flood in, from Astra Militarum garrisons at other gates who were now coming under attack.

‘Recall the Stormraven,’ Ezekiel ordered, already sprinting for the rendezvous point.

Over the course of the next two days, the same thing happened four times.

The capital, Aurelianum, came under the heaviest attack with all but two of its gates assaulted by the greenskin army, but not a single corner of Honoria escaped unscathed. For hours at a time, the orks would throw themselves at the high fortress walls, a hundred of them dying for each Guardsman they slew. With only token resistance in the skies, the Dark Angels were able to react quickly to each new onslaught, transporting squads at will to bolster the human defenders. There was no pattern to the attacks – at times as few as five gates would be besieged simultaneously, at others as many as twenty. Some fortresses reported that the greenskins bypassed them altogether, marching on to outlying gates that were often more heavily defended. In each case, the trenches were soon choked with the corpses of tens of thousands of dead xenos.

‘This gains them nothing,’ Balthasar scoffed as he beheaded the last of the orks to have made it over the battlements of the Liguria Gate. ‘At this rate we’ll have slaughtered all of the orks on Honoria within a week without ever having to step out from behind the fortress walls.’

‘I don’t think it is as simple as that, brother,’ Ezekiel said, closely observing the greenskins’ retreat in an attempt to fathom their methodology. ‘We have already underestimated their general once to our great cost. Let us not make the same mistake again.’

‘For all we know, Puriel’s murderer may already be dead, its mantle assumed by any other greenskin big enough and brave enough to challenge its leadership,’ Balthasar said. ‘You know how the greenskins operate as well as I, Brother Librarian. The only language they understand is violence – it is the foundation of their entire culture. If this Groblonik is seen to be weak, if not enough blood is being spilled under its command, then the xenos will quickly rise up and replace it.’

Ezekiel nodded. He had already considered this possibility and was not ready to dismiss it entirely. ‘Perhaps you are correct, sergeant, but that still does not explain why they remain so disciplined. If a power struggle had occurred then the infighting would still be occurring, ork turning on ork on the battlefield. Even here, in this brief engagement, we have slain warriors of at least four different tribes.’ Ezekiel gestured at the bodies being thrown back over the battlements by the rest of First Squad. ‘And at the other gates there were combatants with different colours and facial markings. If this change of tactics comes either as the result of a change of leadership, or merely the old general adopting a different approach, then we would do well to be wary. It is a powerful ork indeed that can keep such a large and disparate force united.’

Balthasar was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Either way, we have the upper hand. These walls are too high for them to scale in any great number, and too thick for them to breach effectively. We can deploy at will to wherever the threat is greatest and the Guardsmen at each gate do not tire as the attacks are brief and unsustained. If I did not know better, I would say that the orks are intentionally trying to lose this war.’

Ezekiel’s response went unspoken. Serpicus’ voice broke across the vox, the last of the Dark Angels to report in to their commander.

‘Something’s happening here, brother,’ the Techmarine said in his harsh, mechanical tone. ‘The orks aren’t retreating. They’re being reinforced.’

Ezekiel, Balthasar and First Squad were already running down the wide stone steps to the Thunderhawk idling in the courtyard far below.

‘Where are you, Serpicus?’ Ezekiel asked, taking the stairway four steps at a time.

The vox filled with static, before Serpicus spoke again.

‘Sularian Gate.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Ladbon placed the muzzle of his shotgun squarely against the temple of the ork and squeezed the trigger. The weapon blew a hole in the side of the thing’s head and sent it sprawling lifelessly back over the walls of the Sularian Gate. In the same movement he brought the sawn-off weapon around and discharged the second barrel into the face of a greenskin threatening Mute’s exposed flank, the silent Vostroyan too preoccupied with ensuring Kas’ heavy bolter did not run dry.

To the casual observer, Ladbon’s actions would have appeared pre-meditated, as if he already knew that Mute’s life was in danger before he had seen it unfold with his own eyes, augmetic or otherwise. Fortunately for Ladbon, in the heat of battle there was no such thing as a casual observer, each combatant focused solely on preserving their own life at the expense of the enemy’s.

Another wave of orks raised their heads above the parapet only to lose them in a barrage of las-fire and bolter shells. With their weapons spent, Ladbon’s squad pulled back from the action, immediately replaced on the wall by a unit of skitarii moving and firing in unison. The Vostroyans were greeted at the top of the steps by a group of walking wounded and interpreters, who swapped their drained lasrifles for ones with fresh power packs or bandoliers of ammunition. Though Ladbon had argued hard against it, Marita was among them, the need of the Astra Militarum so high and his standing among his own regiment so low that he could not convince anybody in authority to excuse a pregnant woman of serving on the walls. She smiled fondly at him as she passed him a batch of shotgun shells, but instead of taking them Ladbon grabbed Marita’s wrist and pulled her in close for a kiss, the hand not holding his gun straying towards her belly.

‘Stay safe, my love,’ Marita said, pulling out of the clinch.

‘You too,’ Ladbon replied, snapping open the shotgun and replacing the shells before stowing the rest in his pockets and rejoining his squad, relieving a band of Mordians whose weapons had just run dry.

With the few orks who had made it as far as the battlements dealt with, the Vostroyans turned their attention to the hundreds still scaling the exterior of the fortress. Kas perched himself between two of the crenellations and, steadied by Mute, who clung on to the bigger man to prevent him from falling, leant out over the void and blasted away, each killshot accounting for two or three more orks as the bodies crashed downwards. Allix, Dmitri and the twins took a more measured approach, picking off single headshots as the greenskins clambered into range. Any they missed were dealt with by Ladbon as soon as they got within a few feet of the top. After several minutes of this, each of them signalled that their power packs or ammunition supplies were running low and the Mordian major who was coordinating efforts on this section of the wall rotated them out again, replacing them with another Vostroyan unit.

Ladbon was ten paces from the top of the steps when the vision hit him.

The next section of wall along. The Mordian trooper kills the ork just before it reaches the top of the wall. He doesn’t see it throw the grenade as its dying act. None of them see the grenade. It rolls slowly behind them. Then it detonates. Those who don’t die instantly are too badly wounded to react. Almost twenty orks make it over the top. They slaughter the maimed before spreading out along the walls, killing all who stand in their way. Gaspar and Grigori run to meet them head-on but are killed before they can even let off a shot, both brothers slain by the same swing of an axe. Dmitri goes down next, split down the sternum by an ork knife as big as a sword. Kas, Mute and Allix are the next to go, a single ork soaking up multiple shots from the heavy bolter, its rage intensified to the point where it tears the three Vostroyans apart with its bare hands. It keeps on coming. Ladbon fires, fires again. It does not fell the beast. The ork backhands him hard, knocking him to the ground. Ladbon sucks in his last breaths through ruined lungs but he sees everything. He sees what the ork does to Marita and their unborn child.

Reality hit Ladbon as hard as the ork’s punch from his vision, his legs moving before he had fully regained his senses. Oblivious to the calls from his squad, he concentrated his efforts on reaching the next section. Through his augmetic eye he saw the Mordian loose off the killshot, then the arc of the crude metal device as it sailed over the heads of the unaware Guardsmen and skittered across the stone floor behind them.

Ladbon wasn’t going to make it in time. At best he could throw himself into the path of the blast, hope that his body absorbed enough of its energy to save the lives of the Mordians, who in turn would kill – or at the very least, hinder – any orks that came over the wall. Ladbon was just about to launch himself through the air when he was stopped dead in his tracks.

The enormous figure of a Space Marine, half transhuman, half machine, clad in red armour, hove into view before him. The giant moved with preternatural speed, crouching low to scoop up the grenade and flinging it far, far out over the battlefield. It detonated harmlessly in the cold skies, the unexpected airburst shocking the Mordians, causing them to cease firing and look back over their shoulders at the saviour they didn’t know they needed.

‘Get back to it!’ the man-machine growled. ‘The enemy aren’t going to kill themselves, are they?’

The imposing figure looked at Ladbon, appraising him from head to toe, paying particular attention to his augmetic eye.

‘And what do you think you’re doing, Vostroyan?’ The servo-arms harnessed to the Space Marine’s torso twisted menacingly as he spoke. ‘Get back to your post before I put a bolt-round through your skull for desertion.’

Without question, Ladbon did as he was told.

The battle for the Sularian Gate was still in full effect when Ezekiel and First Squad landed there. From the air they had witnessed the millions of greenskins encircling the capital, baying and calling but holding back from the fray save for at one solitary gate, the sole focus of the orks’ attention.

Ezekiel had made the pilot circle around Aurelianum twice so that he could try to better understand the attackers’ strategy or, at the very least, confirm if Groblonik was still alive or replaced at the head of the army by a usurper. Alas it was to no avail; the ork battle plan was as much a mystery as the greenskin general’s fate.

‘The gate is holding, brother?’ Ezekiel said to the waiting Serpicus, flanked by Diezen and Turmiel, who had returned from his posting at a nearby gate only minutes earlier.

‘The walls remain intact and those orks that do manage to scale them are swiftly dealt with,’ Serpicus said. ‘The sustained nature of the assault means that the Astra Militarum forces grow tired after a time, but there are enough garrisoned in the capital to allow for regular rotations.’

‘And the turrets still perform efficiently?’ Balthasar asked.

‘Of course!’ Diezen said defensively, pre-empting the Techmarine’s answer.

‘Then if matters are in hand, there is some place else I need to be,’ Ezekiel said, taking his leave. ‘You have command here, sergeant. Turmiel, come with me.’

Balthasar acknowledged with the salute of the Lion, his squad dispersing by rote to bolster the Guardsmen at the ramparts.

+Where are we going, master?+ Turmiel asked.

+To see Master Zadakiel.+

The medicae was almost full with Astra Militarum wounded, the groans of the gravely injured and dying punctuated by the bleeping and hissing of monitors and life support systems. The volume dropped considerably as the two hooded Space Marines entered, any eyes still capable of opening staring wide at the blue-armoured giants.

Ignoring the attention they were receiving, Ezekiel and Turmiel strode over to a screened-off area in one corner, pulling back heavy medical drapes to reveal Zadakiel bereft of his armour and strapped to a reinforced gurney. Rephial was hunched over him, carefully examining the gouge in the company master’s midriff.

‘Any change in his condition?’ Ezekiel asked quietly.

Rephial shook his head but did not look up at the Librarian. ‘I’ve been able to close the wound and stem the bleeding, but his internal injuries are severe. The oolitic kidney and other organs were damaged by the blade, and unless they repair themselves I fear he may never awaken from his sus-an coma.’

‘Is there anything we can do, brother?’ Ezekiel asked.

‘Your offer is appreciated, Brother Ezekiel, but I have no doubt that Master Zadakiel’s psyche remains intact. He has the mind of a born fighter – it’s his body that needs to keep up.’

Though the apothecarion and Librarius dealt with the physical and metaphysical respectively, at times one would have need to call upon the skills of the other, most commonly in matters where psychic wounds gave rise to bodily injury or where physical trauma led to mental scarring. Ezekiel was the most adept among the Dark Angels Librarians at repairing the damaged minds of his brothers and by helping Zadakiel, he would be able to teach Turmiel a valuable skill. It would also go some way to repaying Rephial, who had guided him through his recovery from the damage he had suffered on Korsh.

‘I gather the war goes well,’ Rephial said, gesturing to the three empty gurneys spread around his medicae area. ‘After what happened to Zadakiel and Puriel I was expecting the worst.’

‘The orks seem hell-bent on expending their own troops rather than inflicting damage upon us. They keep throwing themselves at the walls and we keep throwing them back down,’ said Ezekiel. ‘They still have a massive numerical advantage but if they keep killing themselves off at this rate, we’ll have driven them from the planet within a week.’

Rephial paused his ministrations. ‘Curious…’ he said, staring off into the distance.

The Apothecary was an adept healer first but a consummate warrior a very close second. All of the company masters of the Dark Angels respected both his skill with the scalpel and his abilities with a weapon and incisive tactical acumen. Ezekiel’s ulterior motive for visiting the medicae was to see if he could tap into Rephial’s insight and solve the conundrum of the orks’ reckless behaviour.

‘Sergeant Balthasar speculates that it may not be their means but also – quite literally – their end. That their plan is merely to die at our hands,’ Ezekiel said.

‘Suicide by Space Marine?’ Rephial said, nodding ponderously. ‘That might be accurate. If we apply the principle of Accam’s Blade then it is the simplest solution, and as well you know, the ork is the simplest of all the xenos.’

Ezekiel sighed and shook his head.

‘You remain unconvinced, brother,’ Rephial said.

‘I think that explanation is too simple, even for the greenskins. There has to be more to it than that.’

‘One thing is for certain,’ Rephial said, checking the screen of one of the many devices hooked up to Zadakiel. ‘We won’t have to wait long to find out. The orks are hardly known for playing the long game.’

With uncanny timing, Balthasar’s voice crackled over the vox.

‘Get back to the wall, Brother Librarians. You need to see this with your own eyes.’

‘When did this start?’ Ezekiel asked, removing the magnoculars from his eyes and passing them to Serpicus. The Techmarine refused the proffered eyeglasses, his own augmetics whirring and focusing, allowing Turmiel to take them instead.

‘Seconds before I contacted you,’ Balthasar replied. ‘There didn’t appear to be any one event that triggered it, but all of a sudden they just turned on each other.’

The noise of battle filled the cold night air, but the weapons of the Space Marines and Astra Militarum had fallen silent, the clash of ork blades and discharge of their crude guns the only sounds that rang out. As far as the eye – or augmented vision – could see, ork had begun to kill ork.

Ezekiel looked at the three Dark Angels in turn, then to the arch magos. None of them could offer an explanation for what they were seeing.

‘Is this happening anywhere else?’ Ezekiel asked, already reaching out psychically to contact Dark Angels still stationed at outlying gates. Balthasar and Serpicus began to vox the Vostroyan and Mordian commanders garrisoned at those fortresses without a Space Marine presence.

‘All other gates reporting that the orks are holding position,’ Serpicus said after a minute had elapsed.

‘Likewise,’ Ezekiel added. ‘Sergeant?’

Balthasar held up a hand, gesturing that he was yet to finish. ‘Those gates I’ve been able to contact are reporting the same,’ he said after several seconds. ‘But one of the gates is not acknowledging.’

‘Which one?’ asked Serpicus, activating a data-slate and holding it out so that his brothers and Diezen had a clear view.

‘Annantine Gate.’

Serpicus manipulated the screen, zooming in on the gate’s location on the flickering map. ‘There. It’s one of the most remote gates and has yet to come under attack from the orks.’

‘What is manufactured there?’ Ezekiel asked.

‘It was of little import to us,’ Diezen replied. ‘It did not manufacture weaponry or munitions, merely transport vehicles of similar patterns to those already held by Mars.’

‘Armed transports?’ said Balthasar.

‘No. They are used only to ferry components from one gate to another. The only notable thing about them is that they are well adapted for use in the inhospitable climate of Honoria.’

In unison, the four Dark Angels’ nostrils flared and they inhaled deeply, raising their heads slightly as they did so.

‘What is it?’ asked Diezen.

‘Smoke, in the distance,’ Serpicus replied. ‘Its chemical composition is different from that drifting up from the battlefield.’

He looked out in the direction of the Annantine Gate, his augmetics adjusting to maximum magnification.

‘The forge,’ he said, turning to the others. ‘The orks have restarted the forge.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Ezekiel withdrew his blade, the blood-slicked metal sliding free of the ork’s chest with a wet popping sound before the brute fell to the cold stone floor of the fortress. The xenos thrashed as it bled out, until Turmiel neutralised the threat with a psychic dagger, the greenskin’s eyes rolling back in their sockets as its brain functions were violently terminated.

All around the courtyard, brothers of Fourth Squad silently despatched xenos with clinical strikes from their combat blades. Serpicus merely tore them apart with his servo-arms, the bare metal now the same colour as his armour. Vastly outnumbered by the orks who had claimed the Annantine Gate – just as they were all over Honoria – Ezekiel had decided that stealth was the best option to determine what was going on inside its walls and, in all likelihood, neutralise the new threat posed by the orks.

‘The window is open,’ Ezekiel voxed to the circling Valkyries. ‘Commence insertion.’

The Thunderhawk from which Ezekiel, Turmiel, Serpicus and Fourth Squad had teleported into the fortress, reappeared over the battlements high above, brothers of Seventh Squad alert at its open doors for any sign of anti-aircraft fire. From out of the Honorian night, three Astra Militarum Valkyries emerged, barely visible against the darkness, their engine noise masked by the din of the operational forges. From two of them, ropes were flung towards the ground, allowing a mixed force of Vostroyans and Mordians to swiftly rappel into the corpse-strewn courtyard. From the other leapt two dozen skitarii, the man-machines freefalling the near three hundred and fifty feet to the ground, and landing in a crouch, their cybernetic legs silently cushioning the impact.

Within seconds, the forces of the Imperium were inside the fortress, their transports peeling off into the night sky to await the order for extraction or, if things did not go to plan, support.

Assembling into their predetermined squads, each Space Marine led a handful of Imperial Guardsmen into the cacophonous depths of the fortress, leaving the skitarii to pursue their own mission.

Ladbon had been surprised when the Techmarine had personally selected him and his squad for the mission, especially in light of how the Dark Angel had chastised him on the walls of the Sularian Gate, but the Vostroyan made no claims to know the inner workings of the mind of a Space Marine. What he did know was that he was glad not to be part of the Librarian’s squad after their encounter in the cells.

The vox-bead in his ear crackled to life as the Techmarine issued instructions in his gruff voice. ‘We get into the heart of the fortress, we plant the explosives and we get out. If we encounter any greenskin resistance, we leave no survivors to raise the alarm. Don’t be concerned about the noise of your weapons, the orks won’t be able to hear it over the noise of the forge. Understood?’

Ladbon nodded in acknowledgement, and turned to see the rest of the squad doing likewise.

‘Good,’ said the Techmarine before striding off down the dimly lit corridor, lume strips flickering as the forge drank the bulk of the fortress’ power supply. ‘Try to keep up.’

High above in the outer walls of the fortress, Ezekiel led his squad of Mordians ever upwards towards the top of the fortress’ main gate. Whereas Serpicus, Turmiel and the other Dark Angels were tasked with delivering their explosives to the assembly lines that made the war machines, Ezekiel’s role was to collapse the main exit so that any vehicles the orks had already built remained entombed within the fortress. The skitarii’s mission was unknown to him, though on the flight from the Sularian Gate, Serpicus had postulated that the Mechanicus’ presence was a fail-safe; if the Dark Angels and Astra Militarum failed to bring the forge to a halt, the skitarii would deliver a payload of scrapcode to shut it down instead. Given the abhorrence of such an act to a devotee of the Martian cult, this would surely only be an act of absolute last resort.

A new sound joined the constant noise of the gargantuan production lines reverberating through the thick stones walls, and Ezekiel motioned for the Mordians to halt. On the steps above them stuttering lume strips picked out the huge outline of a lone ork, metal boots clanging as it moved. It spotted the intruders at the same time they spotted it, its eyes widening as it raised its huge gun, before their colour changed from yellow to blood-red, Ezekiel liquefying its tiny brain with a single thought. The Librarian and the Mordians stepped to the side, backs against the wall of the stairs to allow the dead ork to crash harmlessly past them. After a brief pause to ensure the greenskin had been patrolling alone, Ezekiel motioned them onwards.

‘Shipmaster Selenaz, are you receiving me? Over,’ Ezekiel said, opening a vox-link with the fleet, as he had done at regular intervals since the Annantine Gate had unfathomably restarted production. As on every previous occasion, there was no reply.

The orks had started jamming all long-range communication just as the forges sprang back to life, and flashes in the night sky suggested that the battle in the void had restarted. The easy option, that of destroying the captured fortress from orbit, was not open to the Dark Angels so Ezekiel had been forced to make his first significant command decision and lead a force into the heart of the enemy. He tried several more times, switching channels each time in case the fleet had been able to unscramble any, but the result was the same.

Two more orks loomed out of the darkness up ahead, only for Ezekiel to mete out the same treatment received by their predecessor, though not before one of them was able to loose off a shot. Alert to the danger, Ezekiel raised a psychic shield, the round fizzing out of existence three inches away from the forehead of a very relieved Mordian. Again, they waited to see if any more orks had followed them.

Satisfied that the route ahead was clear, they continued their ascent.

Not all of the squads were finding the going as easy as Ezekiel’s.

Brother Aspiriel’s team had met heavy resistance on their route through to the forge, and although none of the orks had lived long enough to give away the presence of the intruders, three Vostroyans had died – among them the trooper carrying the explosives, which had detonated prematurely after a lucky shot from a dying greenskin. With the rest of them, Aspiriel included, being nothing more than walking wounded, Ezekiel had no choice but to order the squad back to the insertion point and hold it until they were ready for extraction.

Brother Luciel’s squad had fared little better. Like the others, they had not alerted the main body of orks to their intrusion but were down to only three survivors, including the trooper carrying the demolition charges. In their diminished state, their chances of making their target were slim, especially if they encountered any more ork patrols.

Of the remaining squads no other had lost members, but all bore the marks of battle. Even among Ladbon’s team, Gaspar and Mute bled from shrapnel wounds, while Kas had been grazed across the temple by a shot that by rights should have taken his head from his shoulders. Despite his fortune, the squad had to stop for several dangerous minutes while Dmitri applied bandages to prevent the blood from dripping into the big man’s eyes, much to the Techmarine’s annoyance.

When they started moving again, the Dark Angel picked up his pace even more, forcing the Vostroyans to run at a near sprint lest they become separated. As the Space Marine disappeared around a bend in the corridor, the darkness gave way to strobing orange light as the Techmarine opened up with his bolter. The Vostroyans moved up to support him but Ladbon stood still, staring off into nothingness as if in a trance. As Grigori moved past his captain to lend his gun to the battle up ahead, Ladbon suddenly snapped out of it and grabbed him by the wrist.

‘Wait,’ Ladbon said urgently. ‘Stay here.’

Grigori was just about to protest when the flickering gunfire briefly illuminated several dark shapes moving up the corridor behind them. Both Vostroyans opened up with their lasrifles, the bright beams revealing the full extent of their peril.

At least eight greenskins advanced through the tight confines, the first two almost close enough to open fire with their crude stubbers. Without any cover, and with the Dark Angel and the rest of the squad engaged further ahead, the two men only had one choice.

‘You first,’ Ladbon said.

Grigori nodded, unclipped the cylinder from his belt and rolled it along the corridor.

The lead ork was about to squeeze the trigger when the grenade detonated, ripping it to pieces along with the orks directly behind and alongside. Body parts and bone showered the following ranks. Still reeling from the initial blast, the surviving greenskins could only look on in dumb horror as a second grenade bounced along the stone floor, landing amongst them with the same devastating effect as the first. Already weakened by the first blast, part of the ceiling collapsed, trapping those not killed by the explosion under rubble.

With one exception.

Its weapon ripped from its grasp in the blast, a lone ork stood defiant among the smoke and dust, its green flesh sullied and stained with the blood of its fellow xenos warriors. Roaring a pained threat, it put its head down and charged, eating up the metres between it and the Vostroyans. Ladbon and Grigori let off a furious volley of las-fire, almost every shot finding its mark, but to no avail. In its enraged state, the ork was oblivious to any pain.

With no grenades left between them, the two men began to scramble backwards along the corridor, continuing to fire in the vain hope that one of their shots would fell the wounded beast. So intent were they on self-preservation that they failed to notice the figure move up behind them.

Shoving both Vostroyans roughly to the ground, Serpicus raised his bolter and squeezed off a single round. The ork’s head evaporated into a cloud of crimson mist. Even devoid of its brain, the body carried on along the corridor and as the Techmarine sidestepped it, he gave it a hefty push in the back, slamming it hard into the wall of the bend. It fell backwards, still twitching as its neck stump bled messily onto the floor. Just to be sure the thing wouldn’t suddenly spring back to its feet, Allix and Mute emptied their lasrifle power packs into it at close range.

Unconcerned, the Dark Angel approached the collapsed section of the tunnel, where one of the orks still lived, albeit minus three of its limbs and covered in several tons of masonry. With an almost imperceptible whirr, his servo-arm swung swiftly around and gripped either side of the ork’s head before popping it like a piece of overripe fruit. Gore dripping from his armour, the Techmarine turned and rejoined the Vostroyans.

When he got alongside Ladbon, who by now had regained his breath sufficiently to rise to his feet, Serpicus stopped and stared intently at the Vostroyan’s augmetic eye, in the same way a lover of art might regard a sculpture or painting. After several uncomfortable seconds the Space Marine spoke.

‘I think that eye lets you see more than you let on, Guardsman.’

Resuming his previous quick pace, the Dark Angel continued onwards, leaving Ladbon wondering exactly what he had meant.

High above the roaring forges, the true extent of the orks’ operation became apparent to Ezekiel. Tens of thousands of small, orkoid creatures operated production lines or fed raw materials onto conveyer mechanisms, vast machines turning ore into engine pistons, nuts and bolts, armoured plates and other vehicle components. Larger figures worked alongside them, taking the constituent parts and passing them over to yet bigger orks, who haphazardly put the pieces into place before they were soldered or riveted by yet more of the small greenskins. If Diezen had been there to witness the end results of the orks’ construction efforts he likely would have blown a circuit.

What struck Ezekiel was the speed with which the completed vehicles rolled off the production line. With hundreds of teams working relentlessly in the gargantuan forge, a new transport was delivered to the staging area every couple of minutes. The Librarian adjusted his position on the gantry to try to gauge the number of completed vehicles, but found his view obscured by banks of machines. Though unable to get an accurate figure, Ezekiel recognised that he had made an error in his initial assessment; the vehicles weren’t being moved into a staging area; they were being taken to the final stage of the production line. That this was so far away from the rest of the construction operation could only mean one thing – the orks were adding their own modifications.

An explosion at the centre of the forge prevented the Dark Angel from dwelling on this revelation’s significance for too long. Whether one of the other squads had been discovered or a timer had detonated prematurely, the greenskins were now alerted to their presence. Even though the noise of the explosion had been obscured to human and ork ears alike by the industrial hubbub, the plume of flame and smoke rising towards the forge’s high ceiling had the xenos reaching for their weapons and converging on the blast site.

Attempting to turn misfortune into opportunity, Ezekiel was about to order the Mordian with the explosives to make haste and plant them, when, in a rush of blood, two of the other members of his squad opened up with their lasrifles. Neither lived long enough for the Librarian to admonish them, their fire returned tenfold from below.

+Get those explosives planted now,+ Ezekiel sent, the grind of the huge door mechanisms adding to the din of the forge and combat. If they hurried and blew the doors, they could still prevent the flow of transports to the ork war effort.

Raising a psychic shield around his remaining squad members, Ezekiel opened up with his bolt pistol, using his high vantage point to assist his brothers and the Guardsmen down below. Yet more columns of flame and smoke rose up from all sections of the forge, the Dark Angels having the tactical acumen to complete their mission objectives even though their plan had gone awry.

The noise levels, already impossibly loud, rose again, the engines of the ork-constructed transports joining the chorus. What his eyes had been unable to see, Ezekiel’s ears now revealed to him: the individual signatures of close to a thousand vehicles.

The Mordian with the explosives was almost in position when, either by ork cunning or sheer frustration at not being able to shoot the shielded Guardsmen, a rocket-propelled grenade slammed into the gantry several metres down from the squad. His concentration broken, Ezekiel dropped the psychic shield, reaching out with one of his huge hands and grasping twisted metal. Not all of the Guardsmen fared so well, all but two tumbling to their doom far below. To Ezekiel’s relief, the trooper with the explosives was not one of them. He raised the shield again.

+When I give the order, drop the explosives on a three-second delay,+ Ezekiel sent to the Mordian. The Guardsman, clinging to a piece of ruined gantry hanging pendulously like a set of ladders, acknowledged the Librarian, pulling a pack from his belt before manipulating the dials and cogs that set the fuse.

With his initial plan impossible to complete, Ezekiel had decided to improvise. Grinding along on poorly constructed caterpillar tracks, billowing thick black smoke as it went, the first of the transports approached the now open doors of the forge. Waiting until it was almost directly below them, Ezekiel sent the order. Spinning end over end, the explosives landed a split second before they detonated, though, more importantly, at the exact moment the front of the lead vehicle passed over them. Track links split apart, buckling under the sudden burst of heat and energy, and sheared away as the vehicle continued to move, its driver seemingly unaware that it had been catastrophically damaged. Coming to a halt with its hull squarely blocking the doorway, its engine revved hard in frustration as the convoy behind it ground to an abrupt halt.

Ezekiel’s elation was short-lived.

Further back along the ork column, one of the vehicles began to exude dark clouds of oily smoke, its engine straining as it rammed the transport in front of it. Shoved violently forwards, the second vehicle too revved its motor, its huge dozer blade slamming against the rear of the truck in front, driving it forwards.

That was when Ezekiel figured out what the orks were up to, not just in the short term but also what the long game they had been playing involved. Why the orks had seemingly been testing the Imperial defences, why they had been slaughtering their own kind…The orks were utilising the motive power of dozens of vehicles, locking them together like a train and using their combined force to shove the stricken vehicle at the head of the convoy through the doorway and out of their path. Their plan was working. The lead transport was moving slowly, gouging grooves into the rockcrete floor as its wrecked undercarriage ground forwards. Ezekiel’s improvised back-up plan had failed, but that was not his greatest concern. The act of removing the blockade was merely a complication; how the orks were removing it was the real threat.

Built higher and wider than the transports’ gargantuan hulls, the enormous dozer blades, though effective at the task, were not designed for pushing other vehicles. Neither were they constructed with the intent to clear the prodigious amounts of snow that covered the surface of the planet. These modifications, crudely assembled from whatever spare bits of metal the orks could lay their hands on, were intended to plough the dead, to build ramps from the fallen, allowing the xenos to storm the high walls of Aurelianum.

Down below, the rear end of the damaged transport disappeared from view, pushed out of the path of the convoy, which began to follow it out into the freezing dawn. Glancing upwards to confirm that the two surviving Mordians had reached safety, Ezekiel dropped the psychic shield that had been protecting them, before relinquishing his grip on the gantry and freefalling at speed towards the vehicles below.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

After the bloom of the first blast rose up over the forge, Serpicus had taken the explosives from Mute, modified them, then handed them back with orders to plant them in a very specific position along the side of one of the production lines. Ladbon and the rest of the squad hunkered down in cover, alert for any sign of greenskin patrols. The Techmarine, despite his bulk and crimson armour, bled into the shadows, less visible than any of the filth-caked Vostroyans.

Yet more columns of flame shot towards the high ceiling from points both near and far within the forge as the other squads completed their missions as best they could, yet still Serpicus refrained from activating the detonator.

‘What is he waiting for?’ hissed Allix in Ladbon’s ear.

Ladbon looked as if he was about to reply when his features suddenly locked, trance-like. Seconds later, he snapped out of it.

‘Hold your fire until the last possible moment,’ he said, projecting his voice so that all of his spread-out squad could hear him.

‘Hold your fire until the last possible moment,’ Serpicus called out to them, still clinging to the darkness.

The Vostroyans all turned to look at their captain, who merely shrugged and grinned. Ladbon’s uncanny knack for knowing what was about to happen had saved their skins many times over since they had been deployed to Honoria, and while none of them had come to rely upon his ‘luck’, neither were they prepared to question its source.

Up ahead, distorted by heat haze thrown off by the furnaces, dozens of green figures emerged, many of them the diminutive labourers that operated the machinery, armed only with wrenches and hammers. They were flanked by a handful of larger specimens carrying crude large-bore projectile weapons. Instinctively, the Vostroyan’s raised their lasrifles but, remembering the orders of both Ladbon and the Dark Angel, they did not fire.

‘Wait for it… Wait for it…’ Ladbon muttered as the greenskins advanced ever closer. As they stalked past where the explosives were placed, Ladbon and Serpicus shouted out in unison.

‘Now!’

The Vostroyans all crouched lower, throwing their arms over their heads as the detonation ripped through the machine, shards of metal, bone and flesh raining down upon them. Through the smoke and flame they could make out the still-moving forms of the wounded, their las-fire adding to the punishing barrage already being laid down by the Techmarine, who had not bothered taking cover.

Satisfied that all of the greenskins were dead, Serpicus, aware that the Vostroyan’s hearing was likely still affected by the close proximity of the blast, gestured for them to head back the way they had come. He took the lead, leaving Ladbon and his squad to fall in behind him. Kas took the rear of the formation, glancing back over his shoulder at the wreckage strewn wide across the floor of the forge, forming a perfect barricade to prevent any more xenos advancing from that direction. Mute tapped Kas on the elbow, relaying something to him in sign language once he had the big man’s attention.

‘Clever bastard,’ Kas said, nodding in appreciation.

‘Who’s that?’ Gaspar said, slightly breathlessly as he ran alongside the heavy bolter team.

‘The Space Marine. He shaped the charges. He didn’t just blow the machine up, he blew it out.’

Up ahead, Serpicus halted, raising a hand to the side of his helmet as if listening to an incoming message. ‘Acknowledged,’ he said before turning to the Vostroyans. ‘We’re retreating. If we get split up, rendezvous at the extraction point. The transports will be leaving in precisely ten minutes and if you’re not on one, this place becomes your grave.’ He set off again at pace.

‘He may be a clever bastard,’ Gaspar said, ‘but he’s a miserable one with it.’

Fingers jammed tight into the handholds he had made atop the hull of the lead transport, Ezekiel finished sending his message to the Dark Angels left behind at the Annantine Gate before refocusing and sending a warning ahead to Aurelianum. The sun was just breaking over the horizon but it was still bitterly cold, the icy winds blowing over his prone form, freezing his robes to his armour. Attuning himself once again to the aether, the Librarian reached out to contact Balthasar.

+Brother Balthasar, grave tidings.+

Before any response came, Ezekiel could feel the feedback of revulsion, of a mind that felt violated. The mission did not go well, I take it?

+The mission was only a partial success. We have neutralised the forges but were unable to prevent the vehicles the orks had already built from leaving the facility.+

How many? And what are we dealing with here? Tanks? Siege engines? Balthasar thought, the subtext of blame glowing bright around the words as they formed in Ezekiel’s psyche.

+About a thousand, and they are transport vehicles modified with enlarged dozer blades to the fore.+

Transports…? They intend to plough the dead and use them to scale the walls. Ezekiel could sense the exact moment that the acting company master came to his realisation.

+That was my summation too, first sergeant. I’ve already ordered airstrikes. The Astra Militarum transports and Thunderhawks are going to hit the convoy on its way to the Annantine Gate and again on the way back.+

And the turrets here can deal with the rest.

+That was my thinking too. Please appraise Arch Magos Diezen and assist him in any way possible.+

Affirmative, Balthasar replied, then, after a pause, May the Emperor and the Lion watch over you, Brother Librarian. Though the words sounded awkward and forced in Ezekiel’s head, he could sense an aura of sincerity around them.

+And you, brother,+ Ezekiel replied before cutting the psychic link. He was contemplating his next move when he became aware of the sound of aircraft engines in the distance. They did not sound like either Valkyries or Thunderhawks and were approaching from the wrong direction.

When Ezekiel raised his head from the hull and turned to look back over his shoulder, the dawn sky had turned dark with the shapes of ork flyers.

‘Arch Magos Diezen, I have news of the mission from the Annantine Gate,’ Balthasar said, approaching the tech-priest, who was fiddling with a missile launcher emplaced upon the gate wall.

‘Yes, yes. They managed to destroy the blessed forges of the Omnissiah but not the ork-fouled creations they birthed,’ Diezen said, his tone taking on a dark aspect Balthasar had not heard before from the arch magos’ machine-mouth as he uttered the last part of the sentence. ‘110110001 has been feeding me constant updates.’

‘They are going to use the transports to plough the dead,’ Balthasar said. ‘They intend to build an edifice of corpses to scale the fortress walls.’

Diezen looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Logical,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Unorthodox, but logical. And how do you intend to defend against the greenskin assault, Dark Angel?’

Diezen never got his answer. Balthasar flinched, Ezekiel’s hurried psychic warning about the incoming flyers hitting him like a physical blow as the drone of thousands of engines could suddenly be heard on the icy breeze. The pale light of dawn faded to black as the shadows of the ork aircraft filled the horizon. All around the high walls of Aurelianum turrets jerked into action, multiple weapons tracking myriad targets, missiles and super-charged las-fire blasting ork craft from the sky the instant they flew into range.

The arch magos observed the action clinically, his augmetic eyes rapidly flitting from the turrets to the onrushing enemy and back again. ‘It’s not going to be enough,’ he murmured.

Balthasar, calling out orders to Astra Militarum heavy weapons teams to train their guns on the skies, heard him perfectly. ‘What isn’t going to be enough?’

‘Us. All of this.’ Diezen gestured with his hands and mechadendrites to the assembled Imperial Guardsmen and the rapidly firing turrets overhead. A dozen missiles launched simultaneously from a cupola mounted on the closest weapons battery, each one finding its mark and downing an ork flyer, a ripple of explosions blooming skywards in the distance as they crashed to the ground. Even with the turrets’ rapacious rate of fire there were so many xenos aircraft in the sky, it barely made a difference.

Now in range with their own weapons systems, the ork flyers unleashed a barrage of rockets, streaks of orange fire glowing brightly in the gloom of dawn. Reacting to the new threat, the turrets switched seamlessly from offensive to defensive operations, missiles now targeting missiles and bursts of chaff deployed to prematurely detonate any ordnance that evaded the Imperial weapons. The first volley was neutralised entirely. The second was not.

Missing a cloud of chaff by the narrowest of margins, a trio of missiles made it as far as the Sularian Gate. The first fell short and slammed almost harmlessly into the wall thirty metres from the ground. The second struck the battlements, a Mordian missile launcher team wiped out in the blink of an eye, dozens more Guardsmen blinded and wounded from the blast. But it was the third missile that caused the real damage.

For a moment, Balthasar and Diezen thought it was a dud as it struck the missile cupola but pierced it without detonating. For the next few seconds, the pod rotated experimentally, as if the weapons system was running self-diagnostics before rearming the cupola with fresh missiles. That was when the ork rocket finally decided to detonate.

Instinctively, Balthasar, Diezen and all Astra Militarum personnel within the blast radius threw their arms across their faces, as white-hot metal and shrapnel rained down upon them. The thunder of the blast was followed by the sound of metal grinding on metal, the barely operational turret struggling valiantly to bring its few working weapons to bear and continue with its programmed task.

Whether out of bravery, foolishness, intellect or opportunity, a wing of almost twenty orks broke off from the bulk of the pack, their red-liveried flyers seemingly faster than similar patterned aircraft of other colours. Barrel rolling and weaving through the anti-aircraft fire, only six were taken out by the few working lascannons on the ailing turret. When the surviving orks unleashed their missiles, all of them found their targets, an entire section of battlement collapsing less than a hundred metres from Balthasar and Diezen’s position.

‘Concentrate all fire on those flyers!’ the Dark Angel yelled, running to scale the wreckage beside the turret in an effort to find a better firing position. On the periphery of his enhanced hearing and vision, he could just make out the first of the modified ork transports heading towards the capital. Not allowing himself to be distracted, he scaled the twisted metal and masonry, took aim at the lead ork flyer and let off a short burst of bolter fire, shredding both the cockpit and the pilot within. As the aircraft spun uncontrollably to the ground, Balthasar adjusted his aim, this time destroying a wing-mounted engine, dropping the plane out of the sky. More explosions blossomed in the half-light, and Balthasar glanced down below to see that a cadre of skitarii had emerged as if from nowhere, directed by Diezen. Their precision targeting of the flyers’ fuel tanks was reaping dividends but, as the arch magos had already stated, it wasn’t enough.

With no chaff or defensive fire to protect it, the surviving breakaway orks targeted the turret, several missiles finding their mark and disabling all but a lone lascannon. The force of the blast dislodged Balthasar, who managed to let off one last killshot before his impromptu sniper’s perch gave way beneath him. He dropped to the battlements, where he landed in a roll, bringing himself back upright and spraying the oncoming flyers with bolter fire. Defiantly, the last functioning lascannon accounted for another pair of ork craft and winged a third before its machine-spirit finally fled, the barrel hanging limply as gears and motors failed to find purchase. The damaged ork aircraft, black smoke pouring from a burning engine, released its last two rockets, unaware that they had succeeded in disabling the turret. Balthasar took one down, a well-placed shot detonating it in mid-air, but the combined fire of the skitarii and Guardsmen could not account for the other, which fortunately failed to find its mark, overshooting the turret and the gate, and exploding harmlessly over the inner walls.

Within range of its guns, the ork flyer opened up, raking the battlements with solid shot, forcing the Mechanicus and Imperial forces to find cover. Balthasar stood alone, rounds ricocheting from his ceramite armour as he unloaded his last bolter shells into the oncoming aircraft. His final shot was on target, the flyer by now close enough for Balthasar to see the mass-reactive shell crack the glass of the cockpit and embed itself between the pilot’s eyes. Too stupid to know when it was dead, the ork ploughed onwards, riding through the hail of las-fire and barrelling inexorably towards the dormant turret.

The last thing Balthasar heard before the flyer struck, burying him under tons of masonry and metal, was his vox filling with the voices of his brothers in the Fifth Company, each reporting that the gates of Aurelianum were falling.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Ezekiel threw himself clear of the speeding ork transport as the second grenade clattered down through the access hatch he had torn open and into the darkness below. His landing was cushioned by the soft snow, and he quickly threw up a psychic shield as he rose to his feet, twin detonations igniting fuel lines that fed back into the vehicle’s enormous promethium tanks, reducing it to nothing more than a blazing shell. In its wake lay three identical wrecks, earlier results of the Librarian’s handiwork, but despite his best efforts it was like countering a hurricane by pelting it with pebbles; hundreds of the modified transports still sped through the snowy wastes towards the looming edifice of Aurelianum, its battlements assailed by ork aircraft now able to strike the city unimpeded.

Manoeuvring around the fiery ruin impeding its path, another transport drew alongside Ezekiel and he blinked out of existence, rematerialising a split second later atop its hull. Overhead, a formation of Thunderhawks and Valkyries ran a sortie over the ork convoy and the Dark Angel sent a brief psychic message to the pilots telling them to avoid this particular vehicle. Each of the Imperial flyers dropped its payload, taking out two more of the gargantuan tracked vehicles before rising back into the brightening sky to engage the ork pilots attacking the capital.

Crawling along the top of the transport, Ezekiel came to the access hatch he had been looking for and was just about to put his last two grenades to devastating use when the vehicle began to slow down, the full-throttle roar of its engines yielding to the sound of grinding metal. Rising to a crouch, Ezekiel looked ahead to see that the dozer blades were lowering into position as the lead vehicles of the convoy reached the perimeter of the trench system. A huge cheer rose from the throng of greenskins encircling the city, many of them running towards the rapidly rising mounds of corpses, determined to ride the wave of the dead and be the first to reach the battlements. Intellect not being high among the attributes of the fiercest ork warriors, most of them found themselves joining the ranks of the deceased as they were swallowed up by the ever-rising surge of bodies.

Ezekiel resigned himself to the inevitable. At best, he could take out this transport and possibly two more before they reached the city walls, but that would barely hinder the ork plan; the hundreds of still-functioning vehicles would construct the ramps needed to scale the fortress, allowing the orks unfettered access. Better to slow down the impending assault and give the forces on the walls more time to prepare their defence.

Taking up position at the front of the hull, Ezekiel drew his bolt pistol and began to pick off greenskins one by one.

Just as Serpicus had promised, the Imperial transports took off precisely ten minutes after he had ordered the Vostroyans to retreat. Their path back was relatively trouble-free, scores of dead orks littering the route thanks to the surly Techmarine having cleared the way. Not all of the Vostroyans were so fortunate, however, and of those who had travelled to the Annantine Gate, less than half made the return journey. For the most part Ladbon’s squad sat in silence, the occasional burst of fire from Kas operating the door-mounted heavy bolter jarringly loud. In the weeks since they had deployed to Honoria, they had known that the ork assault was inevitable but even armed with that foreknowledge, the reality was no less frightening.

‘I’m sure she’ll be fine,’ Allix said, sitting down next to Ladbon. ‘Marita is smart and resourceful. She wouldn’t do anything to put her or the child in danger.’

‘Smart and resourceful count for nothing when the bombs start falling. One minute you’re taking cover in a building, the next you’re buried under it,’ Ladbon replied. ‘I was lucky. Marita might not be.’

‘Luck?’ Allix said, grinning. ‘Is that what you call your sixth sense then?’

Ladbon looked nervously towards the Techmarine, who was crammed in tightly at the rear of the troop compartment, Valkyries designed for ferrying Imperial Guardsmen into battle rather than Space Marines. Serpicus’ attention was focused on monitoring vox-traffic.

‘Keep it down!’ Ladbon hissed. ‘How long have you known?’

‘I’ve suspected it for a while. We all have.’ The squad turned to look at their captain, smirks on their faces. ‘It’s only since we’ve been here on Honoria that I’ve known for sure.’

‘And you didn’t say anything?’

‘What’s to say? You’ve been the only thing keeping us alive, and none of us are dumb enough or disloyal enough to turn you into the commissars.’ Allix leaned in closer. ‘What I want to know is how you’ve managed to keep it a secret for so long? I’ve been screened twice and Dmitri over there is checked over every couple of months on account of his “condition”.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ladbon said, shrugging. ‘I’ve been screened too but nothing has ever been flagged. Maybe it’s because it’s not permanent.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Allix said.

‘My “gift”, I can’t turn it on at will,’ Ladbon replied. ‘I can’t just close my eyes and see what’s about to happen. It just hits me when I least expect it. The Dark Angels Librarian, he knew though.’

Allix’s next question went unasked as Serpicus addressed them from the rear of the Valkyrie.

‘The walls of Aurelianum have been breached and the defences are down. It’s only a matter of time before the orks storm the battlements. The Sularian Gate has taken the worst of it so we are going to reinforce the Imperial and Mechanicus forces there.’ There was no emotion in the Techmarine’s voice; everything was delivered as a matter of fact. ‘The orks have air superiority now so the Valkyrie will get us as close to the ground as it can without landing. Gather your kit and be ready to disembark as soon as I give the order.’

Straining every sinew, every bundle of muscle in his transhuman body, Balthasar lifted the last of the wreckage from his armoured form, sending a shower of masonry and metal raining down over the battlements. The vox in his shattered helmet crackled and fizzed, unable to pick up a signal, so Balthasar removed the ruined headgear and tossed it aside, revealing his blood-streaked face. He grimaced as he stood, his fractured femur already repairing itself but nonetheless painful, and he struggled to breathe, one of his lungs having collapsed under the impact of the exploding turret.

Further along the battlements, the combined forces of the Astra Militarum and Mechanicus mounted a spirited defence but without the turrets to protect them from aerial attack, the ork flyers were striking with impunity. He drew his bolt pistol and quickly checked it was still functioning before clambering over the debris to resume command of the Imperial forces.

‘They’re gone… All of them… gone,’ Diezen said hoarsely upon seeing Balthasar. The arch magos’ face was streaked with oily tears.

‘What do you mean they’re gone? Who’s gone?’ Balthasar asked, looking around to assess the fighting strength of the surviving Guardsmen.

‘Not who, what. The turrets, you fool. They’ve all been destroyed, their secrets lost forever.’

Balthasar looked around, taking in the entire length of the fortress walls. Of the eighteen gates, only three had turrets still in place and all of those were ablaze. Out in the trenches, the ork transports ground ever closer, the wall of corpses growing ever higher. The greenskin army would be on the walls within minutes.

Behind him, the turrets of the inner fortress continued to fire, their mighty lascannons keeping the skies over the capital free of ork aircraft.

‘Sound the retreat,’ Balthasar called. ‘All forces fall back to the inner citadel.’

‘But the greenskins will overrun the walls,’ Diezen spat. ‘We must stand and fight.’

‘They’ll overrun the walls whether we defend them or not. Those transports won’t be able to get inside the city until the orks have destroyed the outer walls, and that’s going to take them some time. We fall back, we regroup and plan our counter-attack.’

‘You’re making your own tomb,’ Diezen said, shaking his head. A stream of Vostroyans and Mordians were already filing down the stone staircase towards the relative safety of the city.

‘You and your skitarii are more than welcome to stay here and take on the orks alone.’ Balthasar swept his arm out theatrically, gesturing to the advancing transports and the horde of chanting xenos following in their wake. Both the Dark Angel and the arch magos spotted it at the same time, the flashes of psychic energy and the bursts of muzzle flare coming from on top of one of the lead vehicles.

‘It would seem that at least one of your brothers is prepared to take on the ork army by himself,’ Diezen said, smugly. ‘Care to greet him with us, Dark Angel?’

Balthasar grinned wryly, raising his bolt pistol. ‘Let’s clear the Librarian a path,’ he said, opening fire.

The Valkyrie hovered a couple of metres from the ground, the heat from its engines melting the layer of snow that coated the courtyard floor. Serpicus was the first one out, the stone underfoot cracking beneath his power-armoured bulk as he landed in a crouch. He instantly sprang to his feet and was sprinting towards the stairs that led up to the battlements before any of Ladbon’s squad had exited. The first of the retreating forces from above had reached the foot of the steps, forcing the Techmarine to push brusquely through the tide of Guardsmen. By the time the Vostroyans were clear of the transport, the Dark Angel had already disappeared from view.

Ladbon stopped one of the Mordians who were filing past, his sunken eyes seeming to stare right through the captain. ‘What’s happening? Where are you going?’ Ladbon asked.

‘We’re letting the orks have the walls,’ the Mordian replied in a thick accent. ‘All Imperial forces are to retreat back to the inner citadel.’ He continued on his way, eyes still locked on some indeterminate point in the middle distance.

‘You heard him,’ Ladbon said, shouldering his lasrifle. ‘I’ll meet you back there once I’ve got Marita.’

Not a single one of his squad moved.

‘Didn’t you hear me? That was an order,’ Ladbon said.

‘Then I’ll guess you’ll have to have me court-martialled because I’m disobeying it,’ Allix said.

‘You’ll have to court martial all of us,’ Kas added.

Ladbon fixed them both with his augmetic eye, the bulky unit whirring loudly as it rotated into focus.

‘I appreciate the gesture but those greenskins could be over the walls and into the city at any moment. I’m not going to let you risk your lives for me again. You’ve all already done so much for me and Marita.’

‘You’ve saved each of our lives ten times over,’ said Grigori. ‘My idiot younger brother here, twenty times.’

Gaspar made an obscene gesture towards his twin.

‘If we all live to be a hundred we could never do enough to repay you, captain,’ added Dmitri. ‘This is the least we can do for you. For the both of you.’

Mute tapped Dmitri on the shoulder and held up three fingers to the albino.

‘Mute is right,’ Dmitri laughed. ‘For all three of you.’

Ladbon smiled. ‘Thank you. All of you.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Allix. ‘You’re the precog who can sense when danger is lurking around the corner. Do you think I’m letting you out of my sight?’

‘Always working the angles, aren’t you, trooper?’

‘Hey, if we get out of this alive I expect you to name that kid after me,’ Allix said, heading off in the opposite direction to the inner citadel, followed by the rest of the squad.

Ezekiel’s bolt pistol finally ran dry, its final act to blow open the brainpan of a huge brute that had made it to the pinnacle of the corpse wave. Instantly, two smaller specimens were on top of it, stripping the fresh body clean of ammunition and wargear. A warp lance to each of their skulls quickly put paid to them.

The Librarian wiped his top lip, his gauntleted fingers coming away coated in blood. He was running close to the edge, his psychic exertions exacting a physical toll. His attacks were already growing weaker and the more he pushed his gifts, the more they would diminish. Already he could sense the entities that lingered on the fringes of reality circling, waiting for the walls of the aether to part so that they might be birthed into the material universe.

Yet more greenskins ascended the mountain of cadavers, and so Ezekiel refocused, drawing deep into his reserves. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. To his surprise, when he opened his eyes again the orks were already dead. On the battlements, rapidly looming up ahead, he could make out a green-armoured figure flanked by a cadre of skitarii.

+Is your plan to defend the walls alone, Brother Balthasar?+ Ezekiel sent.

My plan was to ensure you made it back here safely, Brother Librarian. Besides, I have the arch magos and his skitarii for company, and Master Serpicus has just rejoined me. What is your plan?

+Truthfully, I do not have one. My intention was to take out as many greenskins as possible before they reached the walls and then assist the defenders. Where are the Astra Militarum forces?+

I’ve ordered them into the inner citadel. Though the orks are not here yet, the walls are as good as fallen.

+Sound tactics, first sergeant. Better we regroup and live to fight another day than throw away lives needlessly in a last stand that nobody would survive to commemorate.+

Are you close enough to teleport onto the battlements? Balthasar sent.

+Ordinarily, yes, but my powers are at their very limits. I could maybe travel twenty, thirty metres at best.+

If we give you covering fire, could you do it in stages?

+Possibly. Matters of the warp are always governed by a high degree of randomness.+

Then you’ll have to take that risk. If we wait until you get close enough to do it in one jump then the orks will practically be on top of us.

+Acknowledged. Preparing to make the first jump.+ Ezekiel cut the link.

Drawing his force sword, he blinked out of existence.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When they could not find Marita in their billet, Ladbon and his squad headed straight for the infirmary in the hope that she would be aiding with evacuating the wounded, but they were met with the same result.

‘Do you think she’s already gone to the inner citadel?’ asked Grigori as they headed back onto the streets. Most of the Astra Militarum personnel and the capital’s population had already retreated to safety, leaving the odd straggler or walking wounded slowly making their way towards the inner gates.

‘It’s possible, but I don’t want to take that chance. Once we’re in the inner citadel we’re in. If Marita is still out here then I won’t be able to rescue her,’ Ladbon replied.

‘You there! Why aren’t you with the rest of your regiment?’

The Vostroyans turned to find a bolt pistol trained upon them, held tight in the grip of a commissar’s fist. The man bore fresh wounds on his face and his trench coat was caked in dried blood.

‘We… erm… that is…’ Ladbon found himself lost for words. He had been so intent on finding Marita that he had almost forgotten that technically his – and his squad’s – actions were desertion. On the edge of his vision he could see Allix and Dmitri slowly reaching for their weapons.

‘Everything is in order, commissar,’ said a Vostroyan-accented voice from behind them. Ladbon turned to find out who it belonged to, and discovered it was the last person he expected to see.

Kowalski.

‘These men are out here under my orders. I’ve sent them to retrieve one of their comrades from the infirmary in the next sector over,’ he continued.

The commissar lowered his weapon and holstered it. ‘Well, they had better make it quick. The orks are almost at the gates.’ He gave a salute, which Ladbon and Kowalski instantly returned. After some hesitation, the rest of the Vostroyans did likewise. Satisfied, the commissar went on his way.

‘Thank you,’ Ladbon said, meaning it.

‘I didn’t do it for you, secondborn. I did it to pay my debt to Trooper Ketnemu there. Your wench is assisting in the infirmary over in sector fourteen, or at least she was when I just left there.’ Ladbon noticed that his counterpart was wearing a bandage on his left hand covering up the stumps of two missing fingers. ‘If you hurry, you might get to her before the orks do.’

Kowalski made to leave in the same direction the commissar had headed, but stopped and turned to Allix. ‘If you ever lay another hand on me, trooper, I will kill you. Understood?’

‘I thought you liked it when I play rough, Kowalski,’ Allix said, blowing the captain a kiss. Kowalski walked away shaking his head.

Ladbon and the rest of his squad headed off in the direction of sector fourteen.

‘I didn’t foresee that…’ he muttered under his breath.

Ezekiel blinked back into reality, surrounded by greenskins. Unprepared for a stranger suddenly appearing in their midst, none of them were able to act before the Librarian’s force sword parted their heads from their bodies. Those further away but still posing a threat soon succumbed to covering fire from the two Dark Angels and the skitarii atop the fortress walls. Glancing back over his shoulder, Ezekiel realised that his first jump had been almost thirty metres. If his luck and psychic stamina held out, he would only need to make three more to reach the wall.

In a flash, he disappeared again, reappearing almost twenty metres further ahead and higher up the mound of bodies. The front of the corpse wave had hit the fortress wall and, unable to make any further forward progress, the amalgamation of cadavers and body parts was being compressed upwards, rising ever closer to the battlements. Down below, the noise from the xenos throng grew louder still, their bloodlust reaching a frenzy, the butchery so long denied them by the defenders of Honoria only moments away.

Two more orks fell to his blade before he jumped once more, a killing blow from a huge axe wielded by a third greenskin passing harmlessly through thin air as its intended victim rematerialised fifteen metres up ahead. Ezekiel could taste blood in his mouth, his head pounding from the strain, but he still had the presence of mind to block an incoming blow from an ork blade, reversing the swipe and knocking the huge knife from its wielder’s grasp with the upstroke and bifurcating the brute with the return. Oblivious to the blue-armoured psyker behind them, scores of greenskins stood between Ezekiel and the battlements, eager to be the first to spill the blood of those within the city. Withering fire from the wall did little to thin their ranks, their hunger for violence sustaining them even when their wounds should by rights have killed them.

It was now or never. Though it was still fully twenty metres to the top of the wall, if he waited any longer then it wouldn’t leave Balthasar, Serpicus or Diezen and his skitarii enough time to get off the wall before the green tide engulfed them. Ezekiel closed his eyes, found focus and made the final jump.

In the moment between, that tiny sliver of time when he was simultaneously at one with the warp and anathema to it, the daemon appeared to him, laughing.

When the warp spat him back out, he was hanging in mid-air, one metre short of the battlements.

‘Marita!’

The pregnant woman turned away from the comatose Mordian she was tending to and stood up to meet Ladbon’s embrace.

‘Come on. We have to get out of here,’ Ladbon said, grabbing her hand. Marita stood firm.

‘We can’t just leave these men here. We have to get them to safety,’ Marita scowled.

Ladbon looked around at the half a dozen occupied gurneys, each of them filled by an unconscious Guardsman. A Vostroyan medic, his bushy moustache slick with sweat, was examining one of the patients, assisted by an Honorian orderly. The infirmary was eerily quiet, like a morgue, the low crackle from a portable vox-unit the only sound other than the medic’s footsteps as he went from patient to patient, administering injections.

‘If they cannot move themselves then they are dead already,’ Allix said coldly, looking over at the medic. He simply shook his head and continued about his business.

‘We can’t leave them. I can’t leave them, Ladbon,’ said Marita defiantly. It was this intense compassion that had helped draw Ladbon to Marita in the first place. Forcing her to abandon the wounded while they still had a chance of survival, no matter how slim, was not going to be easy.

The vox fizzed to life, making his decision for him.

‘The orks have breached the walls!’ called out a panicked Mordian struggling to make herself heard over the roar of an onrushing greenskin army. ‘The orks have–’ The vox died, presumably the owner of the voice too.

‘That’s it. We are leaving,’ Ladbon said, authoritatively.

Marita looked to the medic.

‘He’s right. All we can do now is save ourselves.’ He plunged a syringe into one of the unconscious Guardsmen’s necks, emptying clear liquid into a vein. ‘Don’t worry. These men are beyond the reach of the orks now,’ he added solemnly.

Ladbon looked upon each of the gurneys, at the look of absolute peace on the face of each dead Guardsman. Marita put her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

Ladbon put his arm around Marita’s shoulder guiding her out of the infirmary, following the rest of his squad, who were heading back onto the streets of Aurelianum, weapons raised.

For a moment, Ezekiel hung there, unable to react, his psychic reserves overdrawn. Then, just as gravity was about to reinforce its rule, servo-arms and mechadendrites gripped him around the waist and shoulders, plucking him from the air and pulling him roughly onto the battlements. As he landed on his feet, Serpicus and Diezen relinquished their grips, the Techmarine passing the Librarian a bolt pistol as he did so.

‘You can thank me later,’ Serpicus said, gruffly. ‘If we live that long.’

He raised his bolter, firing off a volley that took down the first of the orks to make it over the wall.

In perfect unison, half of the skitarii dropped to one knee and fired off a synchronised fusillade, their comrades behind them able to shoot over their heads. As they retreated backwards, they alternated, maintaining a wall of suppressing fire and holding the rapidly growing force of orks at bay. Diezen and the Dark Angels took out targets of opportunity, any of the larger greenskins or those carrying anything more potent than the average ork weapon. Reaching the top of the narrow staircase, the three Space Marines had to descend in single file, the weakened Ezekiel going first, followed by Balthasar, who was still struggling for mobility on his injured leg. The skitarii, smaller in stature than the Dark Angels, could make it down two abreast, which inhibited their capacity to lay down covering fire. The first of the orks reached the top of the steps only seconds after the last of the Mechanicus warriors, leaving scant yards between aggressor and defender.

What happened next, under normal circumstances, should never have happened. Had Ezekiel still possessed his powers of foresight, had he not been in a diminished state due to his psychic exertions, he might have been able to avoid the bullet, to raise a shield and deflect the shot.

Had the laughter of the daemon not still echoed in his mind.

The shot itself was innocuous – the final act of a dying ork, finger spasming and loosing off uncontrolled fire in all directions. One round struck Serpicus around his midriff, cracking open the crimson ceramite of his armour but leaving the flesh beneath unscathed. Another hit a skitarii square in the throat, the gaping wound spewing a mixture of blood and oil, slicking the stairs as the warrior fell forwards hard onto the near-white stone. The third shot hit the fortress wall and, by rights, should have embedded there – but, its trajectory a thing of coincidental perfection, instead it ricocheted.

And hit Ezekiel squarely in the left eye.

Morning had broken over Aurelianum but at street level it was impossible to tell.

Ork and Imperial flyers filled the skies, airbursts and explosions bathing the city in an orange glow. High above, fires raged where the turrets of the outer gates had been destroyed whereas those perched atop the inner citadel continuously fired their huge lascannons, the bright energy discharge causing a strobe effect that lent an unnerving edge to an already unreal situation.

Confident that the orks had not yet made it to the ground, Ladbon’s squad ran as fast as they could towards where one of the inner gates had been opened to allow the defenders access. With the xenos now within the city, none of them were even sure that would remain the case for much longer.

Ladbon and Marita trailed behind the rest of the group, the pregnant Honorian unable to maintain the same pace as the Guardsmen. The medic and the orderly bridged the gap between the two groups, the Vostroyan doctor occasionally glancing back to check that Marita was able to keep up.

With each step they took, the bestial roars from above grew louder and as they rounded a corner, human cries joined the xenos dirge. The orderly stopped abruptly up ahead, a body identifiable only by its blue Mordian tunic hitting the ground just in front of him and bursting open upon impact, spraying the pale stone with blood and viscera. A moment later it was the orderly’s own blood and viscera decorating the streets of the capital, the man too slow to avoid one of the dozens of bodies – many still alive – now being thrown down by the orks.

Still the roar grew closer.

Whispering encouragement into Marita’s ear, Ladbon picked up the pace.

Balthasar grabbed the Librarian by the robes and spun him over onto his back. A single, lifeless eye stared back at him, the other a bloody ruin. The first sergeant could not tell whether Ezekiel was still breathing, but it mattered not; he had to get him down to the inner citadel and into the care of Rephial.

Balthasar put his arms under the Librarian’s shoulders and lifted him, ready to drag him the rest of the way down the stairs. He looked up to find that Serpicus had grabbed Ezekiel’s feet.

‘Quicker if there are two of us,’ the Techmarine said. ‘Go!’

Behind them, the skitarii put up a spirited resistance but the flow of orks onto the stairs was now a torrent threatening to engulf them. Diezen, positioned between his Mechanicus fighters and the Space Marines, used every weapon at his disposal to hold back the greenskins, flames, las-fire and other unidentifiable weapons systems making short work of any xenos that got within range. But it was still not enough.

A trio of skitarii fell to a single blade, their twitching cybernetic corpses blocking the route down and causing the front ranks of orks to stumble, tripping the brutes immediately behind them. Had the circumstances not been so horrific, it would have been comical: a handful of oversized aliens desperately trying to regain their footing but slipping back down thanks to the blood and oil underfoot, those following growing impatient and throwing those causing the blockage from the wall. Regardless of the grim humour of the situation, it had bought the Dark Angels and Mechanicus valuable time.

‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Serpicus called out. ‘You and your skitarii should brace yourselves.’ He pulled something from a compartment on his belt. The arch magos issued a coded command through the noosphere, his troops responding instantly by crouching and shielding their still-flesh parts with the bonded metal of their body.

Higher up, the steps gave way under the force of the explosion, those orks in the direct vicinity of the blast disappearing into nothingness, those further away finding the solid stone beneath their feet collapsing, sending them to the ground far faster than they had expected. Those who avoided instant death lingered warily at the precipice, unsure if the gap could be cleared by leaping across. The first orks to try proved it was impossible.

‘I had some explosives left over from the mission at the Annantine Gate,’ Serpicus said, lifting the Librarian again. ‘I rigged it on my way up here to slow the orks down. Didn’t think I’d be so close when I blew it though,’ he added, noticing the chunk of ork thigh bone embedded in his pauldron.

With the immediate threat from the orks quelled, they carried on downwards.

The vision hit Ladbon like a fist to the face, halting him in his tracks. His grip on Marita’s hand tightened.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Get back!’ he shouted. ‘Doctor, you too!’ he called out to the medic, but his warning came too late.

One moment, the Vostroyan was sprinting along the narrow street, the next he was buried under a cascade of rubble and dead orks, just as Ladbon had foreseen.

‘Are you hurt?’ Kas called out over the wall of debris that separated him from his captain and Marita. It was stacked so high that even he could not see over it.

Ladbon turned to Marita, frantic concern in his eyes. She nodded and embraced him, tears of relief soaking through his dishevelled tunic.

‘We’re both fine,’ Ladbon replied.

‘Stay where you are. We’ll get this cleared,’ Allix said, projecting to be heard over the blockage and the encroaching sound of the ork horde.

‘Even if you can move it, that’ll take too long,’ Ladbon said. ‘Get yourselves to the inner citadel. Marita and I will have to find another way around.’

‘None of us are going to leave you out here at the mercy of the orks,’ Allix said. ‘Besides, there isn’t any other way around.’

‘And I’m not prepared to have you throw your lives away when there’s nothing you can do to help us.’ Ladbon’s response was measured but authoritative. ‘You have command now, trooper, and you are to lead your men to safety. Understood?’

Allix said nothing.

‘Did I make myself clear, trooper?’

‘Crystal,’ Allix said coldly. ‘You heard the captain. He’ll find another way into the citadel and we’ll see him there. At least we’d better do or he’ll have me to answer to.’

‘Don’t let command go to your head, Allix,’ Ladbon shouted towards the footsteps he could hear heading off into the distance.

‘Don’t let the ability to see the future go to yours,’ Allix hollered back.

When Ladbon turned back to Marita she was staring at him hard, mouth agape.

‘I’ll tell you all about it later, promise,’ he said, grabbing her hand. ‘Come on. I think I know how we can get into the citadel.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘Where are we going?’ Marita asked, half running, half being dragged through the smoky streets by Ladbon. Her toe caught the lip of a flagstone and she stumbled forwards, only to be caught by the Vostroyan, who helped steady her.

‘There’s only one other way through, and that’s to go under,’ Ladbon said, resuming the pace. The noise of the ork throng grew louder, closer.

‘You’re not making any sense,’ Marita replied.

Ladbon noticed silhouettes against the white fortress wall and stifled his response, dropping into a crouch in a nearby doorway, coaxing Marita down with him. He put a finger over his lips.

From around the next corner loomed two massive ork specimens, larger than any Ladbon had previously encountered during his time on Honoria. The weapons they carried were of a better quality than those of the smaller greenskins, and they wore scraps of armour across their chests and shoulders, a mixture of looted Imperial Guard and Space Marine pieces.

They quickly moved past Ladbon and Marita’s bolthole, but the Vostroyan and the Honorian lingered there until they were certain the threat had passed.

‘We’re going to find an entrance to the city’s sewers and get through that way,’ Ladbon said, barely more than a whisper. ‘The orks are inside the walls now so we have to go carefully.’ Marita nodded and Ladbon gently lifted her back to her feet.

Naturally eager to reach safety, but conscious that they had to be alert for marauding greenskins, Ladbon led Marita more cautiously through the streets, stopping at each junction to ensure nothing was waiting in ambush. After several more minutes, they came to the junction of the dead-end street where Ladbon had remembered seeing a sewer access cover, and took refuge behind a large wheeled container used for storing the city’s waste. Ladbon was unfamiliar with xenos physiology but actually welcomed the putrid stench of rotting garbage in case the orks’ sense of smell was so well developed it could pick out their scent. So close to their goal, Ladbon hung back longer than usual, wanting to be certain that the final few metres were ork-free.

They rose from behind the bin together, Ladbon seeing the oncoming ork in a vision fractionally before Marita saw the beast with her own eyes.

She screamed, loudly.

The ork, a Vostroyan fur jammed tight onto its massive head, was momentarily taken aback giving the forewarned Ladbon the opportunity he needed. He raised his shotgun and let off a shot at point-blank range, straight into its eyes. The greenskin sank to its knees clutching its face. Ladbon swung the butt of his weapon and hit the thing so hard on the temple that his shotgun snapped in two. The ork went down and did not get back up.

Scrambling over to the sewer access hatch, he dropped to his knees and began to unscrew it, the heavy metal disc rotating agonisingly slowly. Marita joined him, speeding up the process, but the encounter with the ork had drawn attention to them, the grunts and calls of enemy warriors increasing in volume. With a last, supreme effort from both of them, the manhole cover came free.

And that’s when Ladbon had the last flash of foresight he would ever receive.

‘What’s the matter?’ Marita asked.

Ladbon snapped out of it, looked her straight in the eyes.

‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘You go first. I’ll be right behind you.’

Marita entered the hole in the ground, scrambling down the ladder into the stinking darkness. As soon as she was clear of the manhole, Ladbon replaced the access cover.

‘What are you doing?’ Marita screamed from the other side, banging on the metal with her fists.

‘I’ve already seen what happens next if I go with you.’ He shuddered as he relived his vision, what the orks did to him, to Marita, to their unborn child.

‘Don’t be stupid, there’s still a chance to save both of us!’ Marita’s voice was muffled by the thick metal cover.

‘I am saving both of you,’ he replied, stifling his emotion. ‘Now go!’

The following pause seemed to last an eternity. ‘I’ll love you for always,’ Marita said through tears.

‘I’ll love you for longer,’ Ladbon said, his voice cracking.

The first of the orks rounded the corner, trapping Ladbon in the dead-end street. Relieved that he could hear Marita’s footsteps continuing down the ladder below, he cleared his vision, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his filthy tunic. The ork roared, drawing a blade from the scabbard at its hip. Ladbon pulled out his combat blade.

‘Come on then, you green bastard,’ Ladbon shouted. ‘Let’s make this last as long as possible.’

Ladbon’s squad made it to the entrance to the inner citadel with only moments to spare, ancient mechanisms grinding to close the high double doors.

Kas was the last one through, glancing back over his shoulder as he slowed his pace, safe in the knowledge that he had reached sanctuary. ‘Hold the doors!’ he yelled.

Allix, seeing what the big Vostroyan had seen, echoed him. ‘Hold the doors! There are Dark Angels still out there.’

The Techmarine and the first sergeant were at the fore, dragging another Space Marine between them. Behind them came the arch magos and the skitarii, running backwards and shooting from the hip at the pursuing orks with no discernible drop in pace. The Guardsmen and Dark Angels closest to the door, Ladbon’s squad included, brought their firepower to bear, greenskins that were threatening to get too close dropping under a hail of fire.

The Dark Angels made it through first, not slowing once they were over the threshold.

‘Where is Apothecary Rephial?’ the Techmarine barked at one of the Dark Angels.

‘On the seventh level,’ the Space Marine replied without breaking off from shooting at the orks.

By the time the arch magos made it through, stooping so that the forces within could fire unimpeded, the Dark Angels were already at the foot of the staircase, a trail of fresh blood in their wake.

Agonisingly slowly, the doors swung shut, the last of the skitarii squeezing through the rapidly diminishing gap with a fraction of an inch to spare. At the very last moment, an ork hand gripping a huge, crude pistol poked through, squeezing off shots blindly until the doors met and severed it at the wrist.

Ladbon’s squad stood in a circle, each of them leaning forwards, hands on their thighs catching their breath. All eyes were on Allix.

‘The sewers,’ Allix said, inspiration hitting. ‘They must be coming through the sewers.’

The doors to the impromptu medicae facility burst open, Astra Militarum surgeons and orderlies looking up from their bloody work to see two Space Marines dragging a third one with them.

‘Bring him over here,’ Rephial called out without looking up from the corner of the medical facility he had commandeered. ‘I’ll attend to him as soon as I’m finished with Brother Alkabel.’

‘With the greatest of respect to Brother Alkabel, I think the Brother Librarian’s need is far greater,’ said Balthasar.

Rephial turned away from the finger he was reattaching to Alkabel’s hand, the normally unflappable Apothecary’s features contorting with concern.

‘What happened?’ Rephial asked. Alkabel got down from the gurney he was sat on to allow Serpicus and Balthasar to place Ezekiel there.

‘Stray bullet,’ Serpicus said. ‘He’s lost the eye.’

‘He’ll lose more than that if I don’t stabilise him soon,’ Rephial said, examining the left side of the Librarian’s face, nothing more than an open wound. ‘Serpicus, help me remove his armour.’

The Techmarine obliged, swiftly removing the suit of Mark V power armour he had maintained for centuries.

‘I will leave Brother Ezekiel in your care, Rephial,’ Balthasar said. ‘We may have found temporary sanctuary behind these walls but there is still a war to wage.’

Rephial nodded, intently examining the Librarian’s head. Balthasar took his leave, stopping briefly to give the salute of the Lion to the comatose form of Company Master Zadakiel before calling out for somebody to bring him a vox-unit as he left the medicae.

‘Can you save him?’ Serpicus asked, momentarily diverting his attention from the power armour he was assessing for damage.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Rephial. ‘I really don’t know.’

Marita stumbled through the filth that came up to her knees, her vision impaired by the darkness of the sewer and the tears in her eyes. She did not know how long she had been down here – minutes? Hours? – her mind clouded by grief. Every so often, she would stop, a black wave of despair crashing over her, threatening to drag her under, but then she would wipe her eyes, put her hand to her belly and find the strength to carry on.

In truth, she had no idea where she was going, so even if there had been light to see by it would have gained her no advantage. All she knew was that she was down here and that the orks were out there. And so was Ladbon. She broke down again, this time vomiting.

Up ahead, a noise roused her back into focus. Feet splashing through the effluent, accompanied by two pinpricks of light.

Instinctively, she pressed herself against the wall of the sewer, her shoulder coming to rest against a corroded pipe. She gripped it experimentally, flakes of rust coming away in her hands, and tugged at it. The sound of the metal coming away from the stone wall echoed loudly. The footsteps got quicker, louder. With another tug, stronger than before, the length of pipe broke off.

Marita ran her hand along it blindly, feeling the jagged edge of the end, the sharpness of it. For a second she considered jamming it into her throat, opening an artery and sparing herself and the child she was carrying the inevitable agony the greenskin she was sure was coming for her would mete out. The tip of the pipe hovered at her neck, but then she turned it over in her hands, aiming it in the direction of whatever was coming for her. Ladbon had sacrificed himself to save them; throwing her life away would accomplish nothing and dishonour the memory of the man she loved. By fighting she had a chance, no matter how slim. It might only be one ork; it might be wounded, unarmed. It might be…

The beam of light from the lume hit her square in the eyes, the shock of it causing Marita to drop the pipe and reflexively throw an arm over her face.

‘Marita!’ said a voice that was most definitely not an ork’s.

She pulled her arm away from her eyes, the beam of light from the lume now pointed downwards rather than directly at her, giving off enough light to illuminate the features of the speaker.

‘Allix…’ Marita said, collapsing into the Vostroyan’s arms, tears of anguish mingling with cries of relief.

‘Ladbon…?’ Allix asked, embracing the Honorian girl.

Marita said nothing, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

‘Where?’ Allix said.

Still silent, Marita raised an arm and pointed back in the direction she had come from.

‘It’s all right,’ Allix said. ‘You’re safe now. Kas, come with me. The rest of you get her back to the citadel.’

Allix relaxed her embrace and Dmitri took hold of Marita, slipping her arm around his shoulder to support her.

‘And tell somebody in authority about this sewer system,’ Allix called after them as they headed in opposite directions. ‘They’ll need to seal all access points.’

‘You know he’s dead, right?’ Kas said once the others were out of earshot.

‘This is Ladbon we’re talking about,’ Allix said. ‘Until I see his corpse, anything is possible.’

‘Is there any more I can do to help?’ Serpicus said, disposing of the bloodied rags Rephial had just handed him.

The Apothecary had removed his gauntlets and was examining Ezekiel’s wound with his bare fingers. Alongside him, the sensors that were assessing the Librarian’s vital signs beeped and blipped intermittently. ‘I doubt it, brother. The bullet is still lodged in there and I fear it may have damaged his brain.’ Rephial pointed to one of the many monitoring devices, a wire running from its casing to a pad on the side of Ezekiel’s temple, its screen showing two lines erratically peaking and troughing.

‘Can you remove it?’ Serpicus asked.

‘I think so.’

‘Then what is stopping you, Brother Apothecary?’

‘The presence of the bullet means that the wound to his eye will not cease bleeding.’

‘So remove it and allow his body to do what it has been genetically modified to do.’

‘It’s not that simple, Serpicus. The bullet is lodged deep and it is serrated, probably as a result of the ricochet it took on the way in. I’ll need to perform delicate surgery to get it out of there safely, and at the rate the Librarian is losing blood, there’s almost zero chance he will make it.’ Rephial handed the Techmarine another sodden, crimson rag.

‘Then do it right here, right now.’

‘He’s not a machine that you can carry out a field repair on and send on its way,’ Rephial said, becoming agitated. ‘It’s not just a case of fitting spare parts when the old ones become damaged or worn out. His eye, yes, that can be replaced in time, but his brain? If I damage that then there’s no second chance to get it right.’

‘It seems to me that your decision is a simple one, brother. If you delay, the Librarian almost certainly dies. If you act now, then he at least has a chance.’

‘Damn you and your logic, Serpicus!’ Rephial spat through gritted teeth. ‘I sometimes think that the machine part of you is more dominant than the flesh.’

The Techmarine said nothing, just stared coldly at the Apothecary.

‘You’re right though,’ Rephial said after several tense seconds. ‘There is only one course of action here. Hand me that.’ The Apothecary pointed to a set of magnetised tweezers sat on a metal tray over on Serpicus’ side of the gurney.

‘May the Emperor and the Lion guide your hand, brother,’ Serpicus said, tossing the tool to Rephial.

Saying nothing, the Apothecary set about his task.

Ladbon’s corpse was a mess.

Though the face was still just about recognisable as the Vostroyan captain, one of his arms was missing, along with a foot, and his chest was a void, likely from a point-blank shot from a crude ork pistol. Alongside him were the bodies of two orks, one impaled through the gut with a combat knife, the other bled out from a deep throat wound. From underneath the shelter of the access hatch, raised just a fraction so that they could see out, Allix and Kas broke into sombre grins.

‘At least he put up a good fight,’ the big man said. ‘Took a few of the green bastards with him.’

‘We’ve got to recover the body,’ Allix said.

‘Are you mad?’ Kas hissed. ‘The city is overrun with orks.’ To emphasise his point an ork patrol chose that very moment to wander past the end of the street.

‘He’d have done the same for you, for any of us,’ Allix said once they had gone by.

‘You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?’ Kas said, rolling his eyes.

‘Of course not,’ Allix said. ‘Besides, I’m your commanding officer now, so I’ll order you to help me if needs be. Stay here. I’ll drag him over to you.’

Sliding clear of the manhole, Allix moved at a crouch, carefully covering the few yards to where Ladbon’s body lay.

Without warning, another ork patrol hove into view at the end of the street. Instinctively, Allix fell prone, back towards the greenskins, feigning death. Their footsteps stopped and for the next few moments they conversed tersely in their guttural ork tongue. Convinced that the orks were suspicious, Allix very slowly began to reach for the lasrifle lying beside Ladbon. It was just within reach when, as quickly as they appeared, the orks were on their way.

Wasting no time, Allix gripped Ladbon’s corpse under the shoulders and dragged him unceremoniously over to the access hatch, where Kas slung the cadaver over one shoulder and quickly descended the ladder. Allix followed, replacing the metal cover just as another, much larger group of orks passed along the end of the street.

‘I don’t know about giving you command,’ Kas said. ‘I think the captain must have transferred some of his famous luck to you too.’

Allix smiled grimly before igniting the lume and leading the way back to the inner citadel.

‘Brother Serpicus,’ Balthasar said, spotting the Techmarine entering the command chamber.

Banks of vid screens hung from the walls, some relaying live feeds from across the capital, most showing only interference or static. Vox-units rang out with frantic chatter, forces from other fortresses and gates vainly asking for succour or reinforcement. Turmiel and a handful of other Dark Angels helped assimilate the information coming in while Astra Militarum adjutants and intelligence officers scurried around updating battle maps and orders of battle.

‘Please tell me you bring good tidings,’ the first sergeant continued. ‘We have seven battle-brothers confirmed dead, twice that many missing or wounded, and the orks have started to assault the outlying gates. The Mordian and Vostroyan regiments are almost down to half strength, and those skitarii that covered our escape to the inner citadel are the only surviving Mechanicus forces on the entire planet.’

Serpicus’ features were grim and morose. As he looked like that the majority of the time, it was hard for Balthasar to read him.

‘Then I am sorry to disappoint you, brother,’ Serpicus said, hanging his head.

Turmiel broke off from his appointed task and stood shoulder to shoulder with the two more senior Dark Angels before giving voice to what Serpicus was thinking, and what he already knew, and had known for a long time.

‘Ezekiel is dead.’

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY

At first there was only darkness.

In an eternity of pitch, noiseless and still, Ezekiel lingered there, neither dead nor truly alive, incorporeal in the void. Gradually – though time had no meaning in this place – sound encroached and shapes began to coalesce on the edge of perception, shadows on black. Predators began to circle though they had no form, merely ideas given function and purpose by the warp, and Ezekiel could feel them lashing out, taking aim for his soul.

As the hunters drew closer, he became aware of a light in the darkness, like a meteor arcing across benighted skies. The entities that hungered for Ezekiel hesitated, flinching back, some cowering at the approach of this strange newcomer, though the larger, more advanced concepts paid it no heed, their raw aggression unchecked. As it flew nearer, Ezekiel could see that the thing of light had human form, mighty blazing wings at its back and a sword in its hand. The warp predators began to panic, those closest to Ezekiel frantically trying to reach him before the angel, but it was to no avail. With wide strokes of the illuminated blade, they were cast asunder, blinking out of unreality.

Ezekiel had no physical body here but he felt the angel’s arms wrap around him and bear him aloft, pursued by scores of the neverborn, emboldened at the prospect of losing their prey.

After that there was only light.

Blinking with eyes that he knew were not his, Ezekiel could feel that he had a physical presence again, though, like the eyes, it was not his true form. As the light bled away, it was replaced by surroundings that were familiar to Ezekiel. In his centuries of existence, he had travelled to thousands of worlds, even had a hand in destroying several of them, but there was one place that was indelibly etched onto his memories, one place that he did not need his eidetic memory to recall in near-perfect detail. The site of his greatest defeat, the source of his secret shame. The place in which he was robbed of part of his psyche, of part of his being.

Korsh.

Suddenly aware that he was not alone, Ezekiel spun on his heel, expecting to lay eyes on his saviour. Instead he turned to find Grand Master Danatheum standing before him.

‘Hello, Ezekiel,’ Danatheum said in the daemon’s voice.

‘Don’t think you’re slipping away from me that easily,’ Rephial muttered, inserting an enormous syringe into a vial of clear liquid.

Around him, the Astra Militarum medical personnel paid him little heed, busying themselves with the scores of wounded still awaiting attention. Those beyond treatment were piled against the walls of the infirmary in stacks already six deep.

Withdrawing the needle from the bottle, the Apothecary ran his thumb along the base of Ezekiel’s fused ribcage, feeling for a gap in the muscle and sinew. Finding a weak point, Rephial raised the syringe high above his head and stabbed down hard, depressing the plunger the instant the point had broken the flesh, delivering enough adrenaline to shock a fully grown bull grox to life directly to Ezekiel’s secondary heart.

To the Apothecary’s dismay, it had no effect, Ezekiel’s body lying as lifeless on the gurney as when he had been dragged in.

‘I’m not giving up that easily,’ Rephial said, reaching for the bone saw. It whirred into life with a flick of his thumb. ‘And neither are you,’ he added as he began cutting.

‘What am I doing here?’ Ezekiel said.

‘What an interesting question,’ replied the daemon. ‘And strange that it is the first one that you ask of me. You could have enquired how it is that I wear the form of your mentor, or, possibly most pertinent of all, how is it that you are still alive, but instead you want to know why you are back on Korsh.’

‘What am I doing here?’ Ezekiel repeated.

The daemon ignored the Dark Angel’s question for a second time, circling around the bare patch of obsidian stone it was standing on. ‘I’ll answer the second of those questions first. You are not alive, Ezekiel. You are not even hanging by a thread somewhere between life and death. You are dead. That ork bullet finished you off once and for all. Your body is still on Honoria, bled out and brain-dead, but your soul is here.’

‘I shall only ask you once more, daemon. Why am I here?’

‘To answer the first question,’ the daemon continued, ‘I did not choose this form – you did. Danatheum, pathetic little hedge wizard that he is, is many, many light years from here wasting precious lives and resources futilely trying to defeat an enemy that he should never have awakened. In time, he will realise his folly and order a retreat, but not before more lives are needlessly lost.

‘He will return to the Rock in shame, and though his superiors will lay no blame at his door, Danatheum will step aside as the Master of the Librarius and name his own successor. But you know all of this already, don’t you? You have foreseen it.’ The daemon laughed cruelly. ‘Ah, but I forget. I have persisted for millennia and yet this is all so new to me. You no longer have your powers of divination do you, Ezekiel? I have them now. I see what you are supposed to see.’

Though he was stood some distance from the daemon, Ezekiel leapt towards it, hands held out ready to grasp its throat and snap its neck. By the time he got there, the daemon was gone, Ezekiel crashing to the hard floor, his robes dangling in the streams of lava that crisscrossed the entire surface of Korsh. The fabric was unburned, confirming Ezekiel’s hypothesis that this was all an illusion of the daemon’s making.

‘So impulsive. So impatient,’ the daemon scolded from a ridge high above. ‘I was getting around to answering you. I just wanted to get the less important questions out of the way first. Just as with this body I manifest, I did not choose the location for our meeting – you did. Or rather your subconscious did.’

Ezekiel said nothing.

‘Why is that, do you think?’ the daemon said. It jumped down from the ledge, landing in a pool of lava that came up to its waist. It walked towards Ezekiel, exiting the burning magma unscathed and coming to a halt an arm’s reach in front of the Librarian. ‘I think that despite your conditioning, despite the fact that the fear was supposed to be driven from you, it is because this place, and what happened to you here, scares you. You are afraid, Ezekiel.’

This time the daemon did not react, did not teleport itself out of the way in time, and Ezekiel thrust out his hand, grabbing and snapping the daemon’s neck in one fluid motion. Danatheum’s body fell to the ground, lifeless.

‘It’s still so hard for you, isn’t it? Still too raw,’ said the daemon, once again inhabiting Danatheum’s form on the ridge high above. ‘Very well. Let us continue this some place else. My choice.’

The illusory world crumbled, replaced by darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Balthasar studied the blueprints pinned to the walls, committing to his eidetic memory every line, curve and angle of the inner citadel’s layout. Arch Magos Diezen stood beside him, augmetic eyes blinking at an alarming rate, processing the information in a very different manner to the Space Marine. Serpicus was on the other side of his battle-brother, his attention split between studying the schematic and effecting makeshift repairs to Balthasar’s power armour.

‘The walls of the inner citadel are even harder to breach than the gates,’ Balthasar said. ‘Unless the orks demolish the outer walls their war machines can’t get into the city.’

‘Even then they would be of limited use,’ Serpicus added. ‘The streets are too narrow for them to work effectively, and if they could pile the corpses high enough they would gain no advantage as the inner citadel is a closed structure. It was designed as a giant bunker, a redoubt of last resort to protect the citizenry of Aurelianum.’

‘Or to act as their tomb,’ Diezen said.

‘How long do you think the walls can hold out?’ Balthasar asked.

The arch magos’ blink rate increased, his mechanical fingers tapping away at an unfathomable brass device strapped to his waist. After much whirring and clicking, a wafer of parchment emerged from a slot at the side of the machine. Diezen held it up close to his face and read from it. ‘Three weeks, two days, seven hours, thirty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds, with a nought point two two margin for error.’

‘And how long will the supplies last?’ Balthasar said to Serpicus.

‘The inner citadel was only designed to house the capital’s population. Even with all of the casualties that the Astra Militarum forces have incurred, this place is filled way in excess of capacity.’

‘How long?’

‘If we put everybody on half rations, two days. Three if we’re lucky.’

‘Ah, flesh. The weak link in any system,’ Diezen said, gleefully.

‘If we could somehow hang on for three weeks then we might stand a sliver of a chance,’ said Serpicus. ‘Selenaz may be able to break the ork blockade and bombard their positions from orbit. Guard reinforcements would have time to make it in-system. The orks may grow bored of besieging us and turn upon themselves.’

‘If the ork forces are concentrated on the capital then any bombardment is just as likely to kill us as it is the greenskins. We had the advantage of deploying before the planet was invaded – any reinforcements who try to make it down here would have to run the gauntlet of not only the ork fleet but also the anti-aircraft fire from the ground,’ Balthasar countered. ‘As for the orks turning on each other? Their numbers are so great that whichever faction emerged victorious would still make short work of any survivors, especially if they’ve been starving for weeks.’

‘I did say it was only a sliver of a chance,’ Serpicus said. ‘What alternatives do we have?’

‘We could take the fight to the orks,’ said Balthasar.

‘Have you taken a blow to the head, brother?’ said Serpicus. ‘Should I call Rephial down here to examine you?’

Balthasar ignored the barbs. ‘It’s the last thing the orks would expect, so we gain the element of surprise. They won’t have had time to construct their defences properly so we’ll have them pretty much out in the open. And if the ork commander holds to type then he’ll already be in the city surveying what he has conquered.’

The Techmarine picked up Balthasar’s thread. ‘And if a strike team could get close enough to the ork commander and eliminate him…’

‘Best case scenario – the orks turn on themselves and do our job for us. Worst case – they have nobody to command them so we take advantage and drive them from the face of Honoria.’

Diezen tapped frantically at the brass machine. When it produced the slip of parchment, Balthasar snatched it from the tech-priest’s fingers, screwed it up and threw it to the far side of the command chamber.

‘I do not need you to tell me the odds, arch magos, to know how unlikely it is that this plan will succeed, because it is happening regardless,’ Balthasar said.

‘When?’ Serpicus asked.

‘Nightfall. It will give the Guardsmen time to rest, and we’ll be able to strike under the cover of darkness.’

‘This is suicide,’ Diezen scoffed.

‘Brother?’ Balthasar asked, ignoring the tech-priest.

‘It’s dangerous, it’s foolish and it’s unlikely it would succeed even if we had the strength of a Legion at our back,’ Serpicus said shaking his head. ‘I’ll have the forces gather in the assembly hall within the hour and you can go over the plan with them.’

‘Where are we now?’ Ezekiel asked.

‘You do not recognise it?’ the daemon countered. ‘It is where you were born, Ezekiel. Where you were reborn.’

Unlike on Korsh, here Ezekiel was given no physical form, instead watching events unfold from on high as if he were seeing them via a pict-feed. He looked on as hundreds of Dark Angels fell upon the backward planet, their bolters far too powerful for the crude armaments of a feudal people descended into superstition and barbarism. The walls of their keeps fell under constant assault from weapons their primitive minds could not comprehend let alone counter, their villages engulfed in cleansing flame that burned away the last vestiges of misguided worship. The weeks of fighting sped by in the space of moments until at last, the final battle was nigh.

‘Meroth…’ Ezekiel whispered.

‘Indeed,’ said the daemon, now inhabiting the body of the Dark Angel who rescued Ezekiel from his bondage, the Librarian who would become his first mentor, teaching him the rudiments of how to control his gifts before he had even completed the journey to the Rock.

Ezekiel watched passively as the Codicier stalked through the corridors of the keep, its doors thrown open willingly by the mute cult that maintained the place and protected the powerful asset held within. Meroth checked every room thoroughly, examining each ancient script or parchment he found and marking the most useful for incorporation into the Dark Angels’ own collections.

At last Meroth came to the final door, set into the floor, chained, barred and daubed with all manner of sigils and wards both sacred and profane, designed to neutralise both liberator and prisoner should they be tripped. The physical security measures were no difficult task for the Dark Angel to break, but the psychic locks warranted careful removal, and it was many hours before the door was safe to open.

‘How did Meroth know how to break all of the seals?’ Ezekiel enquired as his former mentor went about his task. ‘Some of those wards are of dark origin, beyond the ken of the Dark Angels Librarius. The texts within the keep did not impart that knowledge, so how is it possible that he lifted them so easily?’

‘There are some secrets of our Chapter that are as yet unknown to you, brother,’ said Meroth in his slow, considered tone, which Ezekiel had not heard in many decades. ‘Or perhaps I gave him a helping hand,’ he added, his voice now that of the daemon.

Before Ezekiel could say anything, the door to the oubliette flew open and he found himself possessing the body of his ten-year-old self, chained to a cold stone floor, looking up at the opening in the ceiling where Meroth was staring down at him from beneath his psychic hood.

‘You could have slain them all,’ Meroth said. ‘Why did you endure this?’

Ezekiel replied, the same words he had uttered almost four hundred and fifty years ago.

‘I saw salvation coming on wings of fire. Now it is here.’

Darkness swallowed them both.

The Vostroyans washed and changed in silence.

After Allix and Kas returned with Ladbon’s body, they reported the sewer vulnerability to the Techmarine, who despatched teams to seal the manhole covers. Allix had volunteered the squad for the duty but the Dark Angel declined their offer. Dmitri and some of the other Vostroyan’s believed it was because the Space Marine had taken pity on them, but Allix knew the truth, knew the Techmarine’s reasoning; they were exhausted and without rest would become a liability. They needed to live now so that they could die better later.

Mute had scouted the inner citadel and found an unlocked storage room used to house cleaning products, now being put to good use removing the filth and gore from their bodies. Gaspar and Grigori had joined them later, eventually turning up with a pile of uniforms that, while they could not be described as clean, were certainly fresher than the fatigues and tunics they were removing. Nobody wanted to ask the brothers where they had obtained them from.

‘Here,’ Allix said, throwing Marita a pair of trousers and a jacket. ‘Clean yourself up and put these on. I can’t promise it will make you feel any better, but at least you won’t be caked in sewage.’

The Honorian girl had barely spoken since Ladbon’s squad had rescued her in the sewers, the only sounds she had made the occasional sob she had failed to stifle. When she had spoken it had been to ask if she could see Ladbon’s body, causing an awkward silence to form among the survivors. ‘Perhaps later,’ was the eventual answer from Allix, not wishing to add to Marita’s distress by showing her how brutally the greenskins had slain him.

Marita picked the garments up from where they had landed at her feet and slowly stood up, trying the fatigues against her to check the length. She smiled weakly at Allix but found her eyes drawn to the Vostroyan’s bare chest and the puckered latticework of scar tissue. Marita’s stare was only interrupted when she realised that Allix was glaring back at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Marita began. ‘I didn’t mean to–’

‘I have two brothers, both older than me,’ Allix began coldly. The other members of the squad turned away, in part to give Allix and Marita the illusion of privacy, in part out of unease at having heard this story before. ‘My eldest brother, Mikhail, is an imbecile. I do not say that to be cruel – he is, medically, an imbecile. My other brother, Lukas, is prone to fits, has been since birth. One moment he is fine, the next he is a frothing mess, not even knowing who or where he is.’

‘I really didn’t–’

Allix didn’t allow Marita to finish her sentence. ‘Do you think any of that mattered to the recruiters on Vostroya? Do you think that when they came knocking on our door to take the firstborn son and whisk him off to the stars to die in the name of the Emperor that they would take into account that my brother couldn’t even spell “Emperor”, let alone have any concept of who He is?

‘And if they did overlook Mikhail, do you think they would do the same for Lukas? His impairment is not so obvious. As long as he could hold a lasrifle the right way around, he would have been taken in Mikhail’s place, a danger not only to himself but those he would fight alongside too.’

Allix’s tone softened. ‘I bear these scars out of sacrifice, sacrifice for my family. I became the son the tithe on Vostroya demanded and, in doing so, I found a new family – and as with my biological family back home, I am prepared to do anything to keep them safe, to make any sacrifice demanded of me.

‘You will find this too, Marita.’ Allix, who by now had slipped on a fresh vest and tunic, approached the Honorian girl and placed a hand on her stomach. ‘Just as I was prepared to make my sacrifice, just as Ladbon was prepared to make his, you too will do anything for this child you are carrying.’

Allix put both arms around Marita and embraced her, the shoulder of the relatively clean jacket instantly soaking with the girl’s tears.

The moment was broken by the sound of hundreds of pairs of Astra Militarum-issue boots marching past the store room. Gaspar opened the door a crack and peered out.

‘Something’s happening,’ he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘It was you?’ Ezekiel said. ‘You were the one who freed me on Delphyna Three centuries ago.’

The daemon now wore the form of Azrael, Grand Master of the Dark Angels. Ezekiel was in possession of his own body, albeit clad in the armour of the Grand Master of the Librarius, the Book of Salvation locked at his waist, Traitor’s Bane clasped in his hand. The pair of them stood facing each other on a white plain, snow falling heavily around them. In the distance, behind Azrael, Ezekiel could make out the shapes of Dark Angels aircraft rapidly converging on their position.

‘Perhaps it was,’ the daemon said with a grin. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t. None of what I have shown you, what I am about to show you, is true. Or all of it is true. Or only some of it is true.’

‘I have no time for your riddles and nonsense, daemon.’ Ezekiel hefted Traitor’s Bane, imbued it with psychic energy and thrust it into Azrael’s chest. The Dark Angels Grand Master fell to his knees, blood pouring from the rent in his breastplate, crimson staining the ground below, melting the fresh snowfall.

‘Just as the future is fluid and unwritten, so too is the past,’ the daemon said getting to its feet, the wound and the damage to Azrael’s armour repairing instantly. ‘Nothing is fixed as far as the warp is concerned. Past, present, future – all of them are as malleable as each other. I show you only versions, some of which are canon, some of which are not, some which could be and some that will never come to pass.’

The noise of the inbound flyers grew incredibly loud, forcing the daemon to raise its voice.

‘Take what is about to happen, for instance.’

Scores of Thunderhawks, Dark Talons and Nephilim, some bearing the livery of the Dark Angels, others the markings and insignia of their successors, passed overhead. Ezekiel turned to see something that he had only heard and read about, seen pictures and illustrations of in the tomes in the Rock’s archives.

The Fang.

Its vast edifice thrust high into the Fenrisian sky, the peak obscured by high dark clouds, and mighty bridges connected it to the surrounding mountains and passes. Smoke and flame billowed from its thick walls, the obvious result of earlier assaults, and though an overwhelming force approached it, all of its defences lay silent. The first wave of flyers unleashed their arsenal, weakening further the damaged structure, and when the subsequent ranks let loose their missiles, vast cracks began to form in the ancient stone. Ezekiel looked on as the final barrage was unleashed, the Fang splitting in two at the middle and sending more than ten thousand years of history crashing to the ground as rubble.

‘One way of looking at this is as a natural extension of the narrative of the Imperium. Animosity has existed between the Dark Angels and Space Wolves since the time of the Great Crusade, often spilling over into armed conflict and bloodshed. Is it so much of a stretch to believe that Azrael – or any other Dark Angels Chapter Master – would jump upon the slightest excuse to engage in open warfare? Would it not be easy to manipulate him into such a situation, even if he knew he was being manipulated?’

Everything went silent. Snow and aircraft hung motionless in the sky. Flames froze like ice. The daemon and Ezekiel were the only things moving.

‘Or you could look at it this way – the details are all wrong. The markings on some of those flyers? They’re not even known Dark Angels successor Chapters, and as for those weapons loadouts? Hardly standard for those patterns. And look at the Fang. Of course, it has been attacked in the past, even been besieged and damaged, but the Space Wolves have always been able to defend it in the end. This? This just looks like they’ve rolled over and played dead. It runs counter to everything known about them. But none of those facts are the most glaring error here. Do you know what is?’

‘Enlighten me, daemon,’ Ezekiel said.

‘It’s you,’ the daemon said, licking Azrael’s blood-coated teeth. ‘How can you be here? You’re dead, remember?’

The darkness returned.

Rephial ignored the stench of burning bone and the cooling blood spraying onto his face. Protesting, the bone saw finally made it through Ezekiel’s breastplate, which broke open with a noise loud enough to attract the attention of everybody else in the medicae. Several of the Imperial Guard medics stopped what they were doing, morbidly fascinated by the apparent act of desecration being carried out by the Apothecary.

Uncaring of his audience’s opinion, Rephial shoved the fingers of both hands into the gap in the Librarian’s ribcage and pulled it apart, exposing the lifeless internal organs beneath.

‘Forceps!’ the Apothecary yelled at nobody in particular. ‘Somebody fetch me a set of forceps!’ he yelled again when he did not receive a response, each Guardsman rooted to the spot in fear. Hesitantly, a Mordian doctor approached a table upon which was scattered a variety of medical implements and picked up a set of forceps.

‘They’re too small,’ Rephial snapped. ‘Fetch me the others.’

The Mordian dropped them back onto the table with a loud clatter and picked up a larger set in their place, which he carried over to the Dark Angel. Rephial snatched them from him without thanks or acknowledgement. He thrust the forceps into Ezekiel’s chest and spun the mechanism until they were fully extended.

‘Come on, Ezekiel,’ Rephial whispered as he thrust his hands into the Librarian’s chest cavity and began to massage the primary heart. ‘I need your help here.’

Something was amiss.

Ezekiel still wore the armour of the Grand Master of the Librarius, still carried the accoutrements of that office, and the daemon continued to wear Azrael’s form, but there were others with them now. Interrogator-Chaplain Asmodai, Turmiel and Balthasar – wearing the off-white Tactical Dreadnought armour of the Deathwing – struggled to open a huge door made of carved bone along with another figure: a Space Marine in silver Terminator armour with Chapter markings Ezekiel did not recognise. Though this was strange enough in itself, it was the feeling of disjointedness, something he had felt several times before, that was the root of his unease.

‘We are in the Eye of Terror,’ he said to the daemon, seemingly unheard by the other four Space Marines.

‘No,’ said the daemon, likewise not heard by the others. ‘I still reign on Korsh and you are a corpse on Honoria. This is merely a vision. None of this is real. Or at least it isn’t real yet.’

With a combined effort, the door swung slowly open, parts of it cracking and splintering where ceramite pauldron pressed against ancient bone.

‘Remember, we are only here for him,’ the daemon said in Azrael’s voice. ‘No matter who – or what – else is in the other cells, we take only him.’ The others nodded in acknowledgement.

Balthasar and Turmiel led the way in, the former’s storm bolter raised and ready to fire should any target present itself, followed by Asmodai and the silver-armoured stranger. Azrael gestured for Ezekiel to go next, which he reluctantly did.

The moment he was across the threshold his sense of unease amplified tenfold, psychic agony etched onto his features. Turmiel and the stranger mirrored his pain. Struggling to focus, Ezekiel could see that the walls and floor of the corridor they were in moved and writhed as if this structure were a living organism. Asmodai knelt down to inspect the bizarre material further, reaching out with a gauntleted hand, which he slowly moved away after realising what the hallway was made of.

‘They’re bodies,’ Asmodai said, rising to his feet and checking the walls. ‘Still-living bodies that have been fused together to build… whatever this is.’

‘Some of them aren’t human,’ Balthasar added, the lume mounted on the shoulder of his armour picking out the form of an eldar among the morass.

‘They’re nulls,’ the stranger said, his breathing heavy and ragged. ‘Whoever built this prison knew what they were doing.’

‘Can you continue, brothers?’ Azrael said, addressing Ezekiel and Turmiel. Both Dark Angels nodded their affirmation. ‘And you, Draigo?’ the Grand Master added, the contempt in his voice unshrouded.

‘I have spent an eternity adrift in the Eye of Terror, Dark Angel,’ Draigo said, his animosity equally naked. ‘I have endured far worse than this.’

The six of them continued onwards, following Balthasar, who both lit their way and stood vigilant for any ambush that might await them. Periodically, they would pass cell doors, each made from the same bone as the entrance, but the Dark Angels and Draigo ignored them, their focus on their mission – whatever that was – unwavering.

After a time, they passed a cell with a door unlike any of the others. Instead of bone, it was made of a strange metal of unknown origin and had a slider at eye height to allow a jailer to look in on whoever or whatever was held within. All of the others ignored it, though Ezekiel did see Azrael and Asmodai exchange the briefest of looks. Ezekiel stopped, curiosity besting him.

‘Take a look,’ the daemon said. Azrael stood beside him but was simultaneously further along the corridor. ‘What harm can it do? You’re dead, after all.’

Ezekiel hesitated for a moment, studying Azrael’s face to see if the daemon gave off any sign of tricking him or laying a trap. His features were as blank as the poor souls used to construct the prison.

His decision made, Ezekiel slowly slid back the metal cover, the meagre light from the cell block filtering in through the narrow aperture. Before peering in, he looked along the hallway to see if the other Space Marines had noticed him, but they were entirely oblivious to his actions. The Azrael that had been standing next to him was gone too.

His enhanced vision compensating for the darkness, he peered in to see a hooded figure sat on the floor of the bare cell. Though he wore no suit of power armour, he was obviously of Space Marine stock, larger even than the biggest Dark Angels Ezekiel had ever known. The prisoner did not react immediately to Ezekiel’s presence, slowly lifting his head to meet the Librarian eye to eye. Whether it was some trick of the warp or an inherent ability of the hood he wore, the prisoner’s features were completely obscured except for the eyes. Eyes that Ezekiel somehow knew. It wasn’t that he had seen the captive before but rather a cultural memory, possibly even a genetic one, that had sparked recognition.

Ezekiel was just about to speak to the prisoner when Azrael called out from up ahead, diverting his attention.

‘We’ve found him,’ Azrael said in his own voice. ‘It’s this cell here.’

When Ezekiel turned back, the cell door had changed and was made of carved bone just like the rest. Unsure of who the cell’s occupant was, he caught up with the others.

‘I think the time for subtlety is over,’ Azrael said, his voice both his own and that of the daemon. ‘Open the door, Brother Balthasar.’

The others retreated a couple of steps as Balthasar opened up with his storm bolter, shards of bone flying in all directions, puncturing the flesh of the bodies that made up the floor and walls, which showered the Space Marines with fresh blood. Having emptied his weapon, Balthasar kicked open the remains of the door. The other five entered, and Ezekiel followed.

In his time as a Dark Angel Ezekiel had seen many things, and his conditioning had prepared him for many more, but what awaited him in that cell ranked highly on the most bizarre, grotesque and barbaric things he had ever witnessed. Bound at the hands and suspended from a chain in the centre of the room was a Space Marine, as large as the one he had seen previously, his body a tapestry of scars and open wounds. As he spun around, feet high off the ground, Ezekiel could see that there was something on the Space Marine’s back that shouldn’t be there. No, somebody who shouldn’t be there. A human had been grafted onto the prisoner’s back.

The Librarian suddenly became aware that nobody else was reacting to what was before them, and he realised that Asmodai, Balthasar, Turmiel and the one called Draigo were motionless.

‘Who is he?’ Ezekiel asked. Hearing his voice, the hapless captive fixed his gaze on the Dark Angel with eyes as familiar as those of the previous cell’s occupant. He opened his mouth but his tongue was missing, so could not speak.

‘Haven’t you figured it out yet? This isn’t about answers, Ezekiel. This is about questions, about possibilities, about what might have been, what might yet be and what will never be.’ The daemon in Azrael’s form laughed. ‘His torment is slowly killing him, but tell me, what is your torment doing to you?’

Darkness.

An eerie hush descended upon the assembly hall, tens of thousands of Guardsmen instantly falling silent at a signal from Balthasar, flanked by Serpicus and Turmiel, on a balcony high above. Mordian, Vostroyan and Honorian alike, many crammed into the tunnels and corridors leading into the vast chamber, cast their eyes upwards.

‘I shall keep this brief,’ Balthasar began. ‘Each of you has given your all and in this respite from battle, you have earned your rest. But this rest will also be brief. The orks have breached the outer walls of Honoria and encircle the inner citadel, believing that they have us trapped in here. Though the orks are not a patient foe, they will continue to lay siege to this place until they believe us to be dead from dehydration and starvation, or until they breach these walls. Neither of these things is going to happen.’

In the crowd below, Guardsmen turned to each other in bewilderment.

‘The orks may outnumber us a hundred to one, a thousand to one even, but that numerical advantage means nothing in the narrow streets of the capital. They think they have us trapped but the reality is it is us who have them trapped. As we slaughter the greenskins within the city, those without shall hear the sounds of their kin dying and shall despair, put to the rout in the knowledge that they will be next.’

The bewilderment turned to nervous excitement, a ripple of noise passing through the throng.

Capturing the mood, Balthasar turned it to his advantage. ‘Many have already laid down their lives to put us in this position and more of our blood will be shed if we are to win this day, but it is the price that must be paid to liberate this city, to liberate this world. While the orks revel in what they wrongly believe to be their victory here, we shall throw open the doors of this citadel and march once more to war!’

Sections of the crowd cheered. Balthasar had them on the hook; all he had to do now was reel them in.

‘Go from here and rearm and resupply, knowing that the Emperor watches over and protects you, guides your hand and ensures your aim is true. Go from here and sleep, knowing that when you awaken, glory and victory awaits you. Go from here knowing that at nightfall you shall drive the greenskins from Honoria and write your names into the annals of Imperial history!’

Every man, woman and child in the chamber roared their approval. Balthasar made the sign of the aquila, mirrored by tens of thousands down below.

With the cacophony still prevailing, Balthasar turned to Serpicus. ‘Is the strike team assembled?’

‘Every member of Fifth still capable of raising a bolter put themselves forward. It was a difficult task narrowing it down to just ten brothers,’ the Techmarine replied.

‘Good,’ Balthasar said, nodding his approval. ‘We head out an hour before the main assault.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The sky ran the gamut of every colour known to man – and many others that weren’t – unnatural light bleeding in though shattered windows onto the stone floor below. The wind howled like the laughter of dark gods, and tremors rocked the already damaged structure in which Ezekiel now found himself. Though the unease he felt was not as pronounced as it had been in the Eye of Terror, the influence of the warp was all-pervasive here, seeping into the very fabric of this unknown world.

‘Is this to be my lot from henceforth, daemon?’ Ezekiel said. Neither he nor the daemon had form here, instead assuming the roles of omniscient observers. ‘To spend all of eternity escorting you to every corner of reality and unreality? If so then you might as well consume my soul now as you will find me to be a far from agreeable travelling companion.’

‘There is nothing I would enjoy more than showing you the secrets and lies of your Chapter and the depths of human misery forevermore, but alas, this is our final destination.’

‘Where are we?’

‘All those months you spent convalescing here and yet you still don’t recognise the old place?’

‘The Tower of Angels,’ Ezekiel said. Though it did look like the Tower of Angels where he had spent so much time during his life as a Dark Angel, some of the details were different from how he remembered them, and it seemed newer somehow. Ezekiel put this down to trickery and obfuscation on the daemon’s part.

‘Ah, but where – or perhaps that should be when – is the Tower of Angels?’

‘Caliban?’ Ezekiel said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘The warp storm? Does that mean…?’

‘It does. These are the final moments of the cradle of the Dark Angels.’ There was a smug satisfaction in the daemon’s tone. ‘And that being the case, who do you think that is down there?’

Ezekiel’s focus was drawn to a figure lying still on the stone floor below. On the periphery of his vision he could make out the form of another prone armoured warrior, but his identity was irrelevant to Ezekiel. At this moment, all of his attention was focused on one being.

‘The Lion,’ Ezekiel said, reverence threatening to spill over into emotion. He wanted nothing more than to be at his primarch’s side, to mend his wounds and make him whole again. To change history so that the greatest of the Emperor’s sons would live on to bring hope and light to an Imperium blighted by despair and darkness.

‘It’s tempting, isn’t it?’ the daemon said. ‘But, even if you could save him, your part in this unfolding drama is merely that of watcher.’

Loathing welled up from deep within Ezekiel, a primal hatred directed solely at the daemon, but he did not give voice to it. To show a son of the Lion his father’s dying moment was intolerable cruelty; for the son to respond to it was to hand the daemon a victory, no matter how small or petty.

Ezekiel looked on in silence as a third figure entered the great hall of the Tower, robed like the captive in the first cell within the Eye of Terror. Upon seeing the dying primarch, he stopped in his tracks, arms hanging limp at his side. The noise of the raging warp storm was broken by the sound of a bolt pistol falling from one hand and hitting the stone floor, a plasma pistol dropping out of his other. Slowly, he approached the Lion, sinking to his knees beside the giant figure. The primarch, aware of the newcomer’s presence, spoke softly.

‘Come closer. There are things I must tell you. A task you must complete.’

The robed figure pulled back his hood and leaned in close to the Lion. Though Ezekiel could see his primarch’s lips move, he could not make out what was said.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ the daemon said, ruining the moment, ‘I don’t know what he said either.’

His final words imparted, the Lion breathed his last and the robed figure fell upon his primarch’s breast weeping the tears of angels. Ezekiel wished he could turn away, to allow the stranger to grieve in private, but this was all part of the daemon’s torment, to force him to watch regardless. Composing himself, the figure rose to his knees, carefully placing his fingertips on the Lion’s face and closing his dead eyes. Then, as if sensing the presence of others, he jerked alert turning his head to look right at where Ezekiel and the daemon were positioned.

‘Time to take our leave,’ the daemon said, a little panicked. ‘Too much knowledge can be a bad thing.’

But Ezekiel already had too much knowledge. Though the eyes that had looked straight through him had not been the ones he had expected to see, he had recognised them nonetheless.

‘Come on, you stubborn bastard, live!’

Rephial’s arms were coated in Ezekiel’s blood up to the elbows, his cuirass and pauldrons similarly spattered with crimson. He had been trying to get the Librarian’s heart restarted for hours without any success, and by rights should have given up trying long ago, but there was one thing keeping the Apothecary going: though neither of Ezekiel’s hearts were beating, the sensors hooked up to him showed that the Librarian still had brain function. He was fighting so Rephial was going to fight alongside him until the battle was won or lost.

The medicae was almost deserted, most of the personnel having retired to their billets to prepare for the imminent counter-attack, leaving behind only a skeleton staff to tend to the most severely wounded. The rhythmic beeping of monitoring devices was the only sound, save for the background hum of the generators that powered them.

Rephial ceased his latest attempt to get Ezekiel’s primary heart started and switched his attention to the secondary, placing both palms on the still organ. It was cool to the touch but not as cold as Rephial would have expected after so long, which offered him further encouragement. He pressed down hard on the heart a couple of times before beginning his silent count that led into the next repetition. Halfway through, he ceased counting, his attention drawn by one of the Astra Militarum doctors. One of the Guardsmen had succumbed to his wounds and the doctor – a Vostroyan judging by the facial hair – was preparing for the body to be removed. He respectfully closed the dead man’s eyes, then removed a canula from his forearm and switched off the heart monitor, which by now was making a constant, monotone squeal. The Vostroyan was just about to turn off the portable generator when Rephial approached him.

‘Are you using this?’ the Apothecary asked, pointing to the generator.

Shocked into silence, the Vostroyan simply shook his head. Rephial picked the generator up with both hands, carrying with ease what three burly Guardsmen would have struggled with. He placed it down beside the gurney upon which Ezekiel lay, chest splayed open, his head a bloody ruin.

Rephial had acquired many skills and techniques in the course of his centuries of service above and beyond what the Master of the Apothecarion had taught him as a newly elevated Dark Angel. Principal among them were employing a garrotte wire for battlefield amputations, cauterising a wound with a lasweapon and the use of the butt of a bolter as a means to relocate a dislocated shoulder; but there were also more advanced methods he had been made privy to. Just as the Dark Angels apothecarion had shared with the Reclusiam the exact composition of a serum that could prolong life over the course of even the most arduous interrogations, so too had the Chaplains shared their discovery that a heart that had ceased beating could be restarted with judicious use of a crozius arcanum. While Puriel’s weapon of office had been lost when its wielder had been slain, a brief surge of energy could be administered by any source powerful enough to coax the organ back into action.

Holding out the cable that delivered the power, Rephial spat acid onto it, stripping away the coating that prevented accidental electrocution and thrust the bare wire deep into Ezekiel’s gaping chest.

‘You told me that Caliban was our final destination, daemon,’ Ezekiel said. ‘So what are we doing back here?’

They were both back in the darkness where the daemon had first appeared to him on wings of fire. Sensing their presence, the things of the warp began to circle.

‘Technically here isn’t anywhere,’ the daemon said. ‘At least not anywhere you would find on any map or chart.’

‘Has there been a point to all this? You’ve already demonstrated that you have absolute power over me in this place, so if your plan for me is not eternal torment then what is it?’

Ezekiel raised his voice, the psychic predators getting ever more agitated the louder he became.

‘Those things I showed you, some will be and–’

‘Some will not come to pass. Some were real. Some were not. So you keep saying, but what does any of it have to do with me? I’m already dead, or was that one of your lies, daemon?’ Ezekiel raised his volume yet again, stirring the aetheric entities into a greater frenzy. If he could keep the daemon distracted for long enough, perhaps they would get close enough to attack and hopefully even vanquish it. At the very least they might consume it and spare him any more of the daemon’s cryptic visions and prattling.

‘Let me assure you, you are quite dead, Ezekiel,’ the daemon said. ‘Those things I showed you? Some of them benefit me greatly if they are allowed to occur, others cause me irreparable harm.’

‘But some of what you showed me has already happened. The benefit or harm has already been done.’

‘The past is easily altered. If you had been able to save the Lion then the next ten thousand years would have taken a very different path indeed,’ the daemon chuckled. ‘It’s also easy to confuse the past and the future, especially when at times they can be one and the same.’

‘Are you functionally incapable of giving a straight answer?’ Ezekiel yelled. ‘What does this have to do with me?’

‘I need you to do something for me, Ezekiel.’

‘I’d rather die than help you, daemon.’

‘You are already dead, or did you forget that little detail? What I need you to do also aids you, Dark Angel.’

The things of the warp were tantalisingly close. Ezekiel did not have to stall the daemon for much longer.

‘And what is it that you need me to do?’

‘Isn’t it obvious, Ezekiel?’ the daemon replied, all frivolity in its voice frozen out by malice. ‘I need you to live.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Allix inserted a fresh power pack into the lasrifle before tossing it to Dmitri. The albino caught it in one hand then looked along the length of the barrel, checking for kinks and bends.

‘Where’s mine?’ Marita asked, appearing in front of Allix. She had buttoned up her tunic making the bulge at her stomach more pronounced.

‘Where’s your what?’ Allix replied.

‘My lasrifle.’

Allix laughed. ‘You don’t get one. You’re staying here.’

‘I have no desire to starve to death behind these walls. I am going with you.’

The rest of the squad stopped their preparations, all attention on Allix and Marita, face-to-face in the centre of the storage room.

‘And after what we’ve been through to keep you and that thing in your belly safe, I have no desire to put you in the firing line,’ Allix said, turning away from Marita and fishing a lho-stick from Gaspar’s tunic pocket. ‘Anybody got a light?’

Before any of the Vostroyans could react, Marita snatched the lasrifle from Dmitri and raised it to her shoulder, taking aim at Allix.

‘What the hell are you doing, girl?’ Grigori yelled.

Kas reached out to knock the weapon from her hands. Marita squeezed the firing stud the instant before he made contact, the superheated energy beam missing Allix’s face by inches and hitting the smooth wall, a patch of white stonework turning black upon impact.

Everyone was silent for a moment, then, fingers shaking, Allix removed the lho-stick from between a pair of dry lips. It was lit.

‘How in the Emperor’s name did you learn to shoot like that, girl?’ Gaspar asked.

‘My father was ex-Astra Militarum. My lover was a captain in the Guard, and I grew up on a world preoccupied with preparing for war. You should be more surprised if I couldn’t shoot like that.’

‘Allix?’ Dmitri said.

Allix took a drag on the lho-stick.

‘Kas. Give her your rifle,’ Allix said, filling the cramped storeroom with sweet scented smoke. The big Vostroyan carefully put down his heavy bolter and passed Marita the lasrifle slung at his back.

‘When we talked about sacrifice, this wasn’t what I had in mind,’ Allix said.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Marita said, defiantly.

‘For your sake, I hope you do.’ Allix dropped the lho-stick to the floor and stubbed it out underfoot. ‘Come on, we’ve got a war to win.’

The Vostroyans walked out in single file until only Marita and Dmitri were left. He stopped the Honorian girl at the threshold.

‘Either taking command of the squad has had a mellowing effect or the lieutenant must like you,’ Dmitri said.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because the last person to even point a lasrifle at Allix, let alone fire it, still cannot eat solids.’

The last rays of the weak winter sun faded in the Honorian sky as Balthasar and his strike team emerged from the door set into the side of the inner citadel. Serpicus led the way, his augmetic eyes giving him an advantage over his brothers’ bio-enhanced optics in the low light.

‘Contact! Contact!’ he called over the vox, opening up with his bolter as ten Dark Angels, accompanied by Diezen and the last of his skitarii, spilled out onto the street, cutting down scores of surprised orks before any of them could return fire. When their response came, Turmiel threw up a psychic shield, the deadly hail of fire melting harmlessly against the raw stuff of the warp, while those sheltered by it used the respite to scan their surroundings for any sign of the warboss.

Since they had commenced their mission, this was the fourth time the strike team had ventured out onto the streets of Honoria, moving around behind the safety of the citadel’s walls before launching rapid assaults, then retreating. Not only were they able to quickly scout sections of the city but also sow discord among the ranks of the orks, spooking and unsettling them in advance of the main assault. It had not been without cost, though: Brothers Nephiel and Delphaeron, formerly of Second and Seventh Squads respectively, both slain in the opening sorties.

The rate of ork fire slackened as their weapons began to run dry, and Turmiel dropped the shield allowing newly reloaded bolters to once again make short work of the greenskins as they covered the Dark Angels’ retreat back into the citadel. They were almost all back through when the last of the skitarii out in the open took a shot to the leg, which felled it in a shower of sparks. As it tried to get up, one of the orks leapt towards it, cleaver held aloft ready to split the man-machine in two. Its flight was arrested mid-air, Serpicus’ servo-arm grabbing it around the throat, snapping its neck and throwing it into the crowd of onrushing xenos as he picked the skitarii up and carried it to safety. The door slammed shut behind them, the muffled cries of the frustrated orks barely audible through the thick stone.

‘It would appear your hunch was right, Dark Angel,’ Diezen said, setting to work on repairing the damaged skitarii’s leg.

‘You saw it?’ Balthasar replied. ‘The ork general?’

Diezen nodded, engrossed in his work. ‘Just as you suspected, he has taken up position atop the wall so that he can survey his newly conquered prize. Three point seven five two kilometres from our position, over in the next sector.’

‘Can you confirm that, Serpicus?’ Balthasar asked. Diezen made a strange mechanical noise, which the first sergeant interpreted as indignation.

‘Not with a hundred per cent confidence. I saw something in that location – a large ork, certainly – but it may have been one of the warboss’ lieutenants.’ Serpicus looked towards the ground, as if he were ashamed of what he was about to say next. ‘The arch magos’ eyes are superior to mine, though.’

Diezen emitted another sound, this one unmistakably smug.

‘Good enough for me,’ Balthasar said. ‘And the perfect place for it too.’

‘Perfect?’ Diezen scoffed, irked enough to divert his attention from the skitarii’s leg. ‘It’s one of the most easily defensible positions in the city. The ramparts prevent us from targeting it from the ground, there are hundreds of thousands of orks between us and the steps up to reach him, and that’s before you even take into account the greenskins guarding him on the walls.’

‘I am aware of that, arch magos,’ Balthasar said, setting off towards their target. ‘But it means that when I do kill it, the entire ork army will bear witness.’

At the designated time, the doors to the inner citadel were thrown open and with a column of hitherto underemployed tanks and personnel carriers at their spearhead, the combined forces of Honoria, Mordia and Vostroya took the battle back out onto the streets of Aurelianum.

The big guns of the Imperial armour obliterated all in their path, stray shells and heavy weapons fire smashing into the outer walls of the city and raining deadly debris down onto any orks unfortunate enough to be caught beneath it. Those that survived the opening barrage were crushed beneath tracks or broken open by the impact of armoured plate hitting greenskin flesh at speed. In their immediate wake came the Dark Angels, clambering atop the defensive perimeter of Imperial Guard vehicles and picking off orks one by one.

Seeing the carnage wrought below, orks on top of the outer walls rushed to join the fray and raced for the stone stairs that led to the ground. Forewarned of such a development in their mission briefing, several of the tank commanders angled their guns upwards, blasting the steps from beneath the feet of the enemy and preventing egress for further reinforcements. Small-arms fire continued to rain down from the ramparts, but engaging orks at range was nowhere near as deadly a proposition as facing them in close combat.

Tens of thousands of Guardsmen streamed into the space cleared by the vehicles, directing their fire towards the top of the wall, thinning out the covering fire until they were in range of the greenskins filing between the gaps in the Imperial armoured line. Those few that did make it through found themselves trapped in a kill-zone, the fire from their ilk above as lethal as the Guardsmen’s weapons.

With the space in front of the inner citadel doors cleared of orks as far as the outer walls, the tanks turned and began to widen the Imperial zone of control, their progress slowing due to the volume of dead orks beneath their tracks. Their plan was working but the toll was great; almost as many Guardsmen’s corpses littered the plaza in front of the inner citadel as orks.

The battle for Aurelianum had been raging for almost a quarter of an hour by the time Allix, Marita and the others made it through the doors, and there was still over half of the Imperial forces yet to make it out onto the streets. Although the sun had dropped below the horizon and the night was moonless, the city was lit like daytime, the intensity of battle generating its own illumination.

‘Stay close!’ Allix called out, turning and leading the squad towards the left flank. Their briefing had been a simple one. The Mordian forces were to advance to the right, the Vostroyans to the left, while the Honorian troops were to hold the plaza. As soon as the tanks reached the boundaries of the square, they were to block all arterial roads heading towards the inner citadel while the infantry continued the battle in the narrow streets. It was a bold plan but one that, up until now, was working.

The tortuous progress of the wall of armour and the sheer number of Imperial personnel crammed into the confines of the plaza ensured their advance was perilously slow. One advantage conferred by this was it made placing their shots an easier task; the disadvantage was that they were easy prey even for marksmen as lousy as the greenskins.

Marita’s aim was not quite as true as it had been back in the inner citadel but, considering she was not combat trained, it was impressive nonetheless. Allix had seen the girl pick off at least five orks from the wall and kill several more that had clambered on top of the tanks. Allix wondered why the Honorian had been wasted as a translator when she could have easily risen through the ranks as a sniper, then, remembering that she was the daughter of an Imperial governor, wondered no more.

Foot after hard-won foot went by, Vostroyans dropping in their droves. For one horrible moment, Allix thought that Dmitri had been shot in the head, the albino stumbling, blood soaking one side of his face, but it was the man in front of him who had been killed. Allix reached out an arm to prevent the albino from falling altogether and being trampled.

The sound of the tank guns took on a different quality, the echo and reverb suggesting they were being fired in an even more enclosed space, and Allix realised that the armour had reached the junctions of the streets and were blockading them.

Now came the really dangerous part.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Balthasar and the strike team crouched in the lee of the weapons turret, jump packs idling at their backs. His helmet destroyed in the opening battle with the orks, the first sergeant was forced to consult the tiny chron display mag-locked to his wrist as it counted down the seconds to the Astra Militarum counter-attack. With less than ten seconds to go, he signalled to the other Dark Angels to take up their ready positions.

At the precise moment the timer reached zero, the city erupted in violent noise, tank fire swiftly joined by the sound of thousands of ork guns. On top of the outer wall, greenskins rushed to reinforce the occupying force down below in response to orders snarled at them by the warboss. As Balthasar had anticipated, only a few hundred of the xenos remained to guard their general. The odds had just swung slightly towards the Dark Angels.

‘Now!’ Balthasar ordered, the roar of his own jump pack joining the chorus of battle. The strike team rose high into the air, spraying the orks on the outer wall with indiscriminate bolter fire, returned tenfold by those quickest to react. The Dark Angels adeptly manoeuvred through the air, continuing their own barrage as they avoided the orks’ fusillade. As they reached the parabola of their arc, each of them drew their melee weapons, continuing to fire as they revved up chainswords or activated power weapons. Increasing thrust, they dived headlong towards the rapidly thinning enemy ranks.

As they landed, the Dark Angels set about bifurcating any greenskin within reach, the ramparts quickly becoming a charnel house; it was the killing by rote of an enemy unable to muster any effective response. Seeing that their leader’s life was under threat, several of the orks rushing down to the plaza turned around and started back up the steps, only to find their advance halted by a tank shell ripping the steps away from beneath their feet.

A roar sounded from further along the wall, loud and vicious enough to give each of the Space Marines pause, if only for the briefest of moments. In the wake of the battle-cry came the warboss, smashing his troops out of the way with the looted power fist crudely attached to his right arm.

‘Keep the rest of them back,’ Balthasar ordered, raising his chainsword and striding to meet his foe. ‘This one’s mine.’

Ladbon had only been dead a few hours and, although this was the squad’s first taste of combat without him, Allix was starting to believe that perhaps he hadn’t been their lucky charm after all. They had all made it unscathed through the plaza where tens of thousands of their compatriots lay dead or dying, so maybe it had been one of the others all along. Kas? He never seemed to lose much in the dice and card games that went on after lights out, Mute neither. The brothers? The unluckiest thing to ever happen to them was that both of them had to enlist through their own stubbornness. Dmitri? He had never taken anything more than a flesh wound.

Allix’s opinion quickly changed when they reached the blockade.

Three Leman Russ tanks were jammed tight together at the mouth of the street, their front-facing weapons running hot thinning out the orks futilely attempting to charge their position. A Dark Angel crouched on top of the turret of one of the tanks, bolter raised to his shoulder picking off key targets among the massed greenskins. Around him, every inch of hull was covered by Vostroyans using the elevated position to lend their own fire to the cause. As they fell, other Guardsmen clambered aboard to take their place.

Eventually, the tank guns fell silent and the Vostroyans jumped down from the hulls, scrambling over the morass of dead orks underfoot, finally able to enter the street without fear of being shot by their own side. Hatches popped open and the Leman Russ crews joined their infantry counterparts, wrenches and hammers used as makeshift weapons by those without sidearms.

Back in the plaza, the awaiting Vostroyans who had been nothing more than stationary targets for the orks above, finally began to file forwards. The squad had become separated but Allix had eyes on all of them, Marita too. Gaspar was the first to reach the tanks. He was also the first to die.

Crouching low to make himself a small target, Gaspar was edging around the side of a dormant turret when a high-calibre round hit him clean in the midriff, throwing him backwards in a shower of blood. Fighting their way through the crowd, Allix and Grigori were by his side in seconds.

‘You’re going to be all right, brother,’ Grigori said, calmer than he had any right to be given the situation. ‘I will get you to the medicae. They’ll patch you up good as new.’

‘Too late for that,’ Gaspar rasped, his blond moustache growing redder with every word he uttered. ‘Stay safe, big brother.’ Gaspar managed to raise one last smile before he closed his eyes forever.

‘Come on,’ Allix said, grabbing Grigori under the arm. ‘Don’t let his death be in vain.’

The pair of them barged their way through the mass of Guardsmen to where Kas was helping Marita scramble over the hull of one of the Leman Russ tanks. Mute and Dmitri were already on the other side laying down covering fire for the troops advancing into the street.

‘Gaspar?’ Kas asked as he held out his massive hand to help Grigori climb up. The smaller Vostroyan said nothing, simply shook his head.

In spite of the xenos’ vastly superior numbers, the close confines of the street proved to be a great leveller, a huge number of orks armed only with clubs and blades eliminated before they could get close enough to the Guardsmen to use them, those with ranged weapons targeted by the Space Marines and Vostroyans still perched on the tanks. The price in blood was expensive but it was starting to pay off. Yard by grisly yard the forces of the Imperium began to take back the city.

The first indication that the tide of battle was turning against them was when Allix’s tunic became covered in the Space Marine’s grey matter.

One moment he was directing the Astra Militarum fire, the next he was slumped over the long barrel of the tank’s gun, half his helmet and head missing. In the streets, scores of Vostroyans similarly fell to unseen assailants.

‘Up above!’ Allix yelled, pointing to the buildings flanking the streets. ‘They’re firing from the windows.’

In unison, thousands of lasrifles angled upwards, unleashing their fury, but to no effect. The orks were firing from the very highest floor of the buildings, the angle alone providing ample cover from street level fire. The Vostroyans were dying in their droves, powerless to stop the onslaught.

‘Follow me,’ Allix called, jumping down from the tank. The rest of the squad followed suit and, along with Marita, followed the lieutenant over to the side of the street, where they took shelter in a doorway.

‘Can you get them open?’ Allix asked Kas, motioning to the set of double doors behind them. A thick chain was bound around the handles, secured with a chunky combination lock.

‘Stand back,’ the big man said. The others obliged, hugging the wall for cover. Kas raised the heavy bolter and squeezed off a single round, not only destroying the lock and chain but a sizeable portion of the metal doors too.

‘Careful,’ Allix said as she waved the rest of them in. ‘They’re probably expecting us.’

Balthasar dodged the first swing of the power fist, angling his torso away from the blow. He raised his bolter, unable to miss at such close range, but before he could get the shot away, the ork’s double-headed axe came around in an uppercut motion, forcing him to lose balance to avoid it and with it the killshot.

The power fist came around again, this time batting the bolter from Balthasar’s hand and over the ramparts. The Dark Angel countered with a swipe of his chainsword, but the warboss was alert to it, the axe coming up to meet it in a shower of sparks. The two weapons locked, Space Marine and ork warboss engaged in a test of raw strength. There could only be one winner, and Balthasar knew it.

Waiting until the ork was at full exertion, he jerked the chainsword away, the axe falling to the floor in a shallow arc and embedding in the stone. Balthasar gripped his blade with both hands, leaping into the air with assistance from his jump pack and raising the weapon over his head. He cut the thrust and dropped towards the ork, its back exposed as it leaned over to retrieve its axe. Just as the death blow was about to land, the ork freed its weapon, raising it to block the Dark Angel’s snarling blade. Before Balthasar’s feet could touch the floor, the ork threw out a leg, its foot catching the Space Marine just below the breastplate, cracking open the already damaged armour and sending him crashing against the rampart wall.

Balthasar’s battle-brothers fighting with him on the outer wall were powerless to aid their commander, each of them engaged in their own battles with the warboss’ personal guard. In the previous duel, both Zadakiel and Puriel had shown the ork general too much respect, had tried to duel him with honour. Balthasar had learned from their mistakes, was prepared to employ any tactic to defeat this foe. Tapping on the vox-bead in his ear, he opened a link to Serpicus, poised with his bolter on the roof of the inner citadel.

‘Take the shot,’ Balthasar ordered.

Its report lost amidst the cacophony of battle, a single bolter shot rang out, a lone round heading inexorably for the warboss’ head. The shot was true, the round striking it squarely on the temple, embedding itself amongst the spikes ridged along its skull.

The massive ork barely flinched, let alone went down.

It raised the head of its axe, looking at its own reflection in the polished surface, and then let forth a booming laugh, obviously impressed with the new adornment.

‘Space Marine fight dirty,’ the ork snarled, menacingly swinging his weapon with only one hand. ‘Groblonik enjoy killing Space Marine. Groblonik always enjoy killing Space Marine.’ He tapped the skull mask hanging from his waist, laughing louder than before.

‘Aim for its throat next time, Serpicus,’ Balthasar voxed.

‘Do you think that’s likely to kill it?’ Serpicus replied.

‘Probably not,’ Balthasar said, rising to his feet, fingering the ignition stud of his chainsword. ‘But at the very least it’ll shut the green bastard up.’

The Vostroyans heard the ork before it heard them.

Alerted by the sound of the doors being blasted open, it had ventured down the stairs to deal with whatever had come through them, the wooden steps audibly straining under its bulk. Allix and the others crept back into the shadows, waiting for it to pass them before they took it out. Dmitri silently unsheathed his knife, ready to stick it between the greenskin’s shoulder blades, but Allix put a hand on the albino’s to prevent him from using it. The time for subtlety had passed; they needed to make sure they killed the ork, not remain undetected.

It stepped out into the stairwell, oblivious to the presence of the Vostroyans, and headed for the next set of steps. Just as it was about to turn down them, its back was ripped open by a volley of las-fire. When it refused to go down, Kas finished it off with a blast from the heavy bolter.

The noise was still echoing around the enclosed stairwell when they heard more orks – three at least – heading downwards. Rather than hide in the darkened corners of the stairway, this time the squad waited at the foot of the next flight of steps, unleashing the full fury of their weapons the instant the greenskins hove into view. Scrambling over the fresh kills, they moved upwards, the sounds of the relentless ork guns getting louder the higher they went.

Allix was the first of them to reach the top floor, three quick shots to the head accounting for the first of the orks. Four more turned their attention away from firing out of the windows and opened fire on the Guardsmen, those already in the room ducking for cover, those yet to enter hanging back until the fire slackened. Within moments of each other, the orks ran dry of ammo, and the Vostroyans sprang up from the bales of fabric they were sheltered behind and recommenced shooting at the xenos, three of which had drawn blades and were rapidly eating up the distance to the Guardsmen. The fourth produced a pistol from the waistband of its filthy, ripped fatigues and took aim at Mute. The silent Vostroyan, wise to what was about to happen, raised his lasrifle. They both fired at the same time.

Mute’s shot hit the ork in the face, the flesh of its cheek blackening and blistering, causing it to emit an annoyed grunt. The ork’s round was more accurate, striking Mute in the torso, dropping him in a shower of blood.

‘Mute!’ Kas yelled, hefting his heavy bolter and blowing the head from Mute’s assailant’s shoulders. Two of the other greenskins still posed a threat and the big man kept his finger on the trigger, raking them both with heavy-calibre shells, dealing them the same fate. Ammunition belt exhausted, he threw the weapon to the ground and ran to Mute’s side. Marita was already crouched beside the semi-conscious Vostroyan, checking him over.

‘Move him over there,’ she said, checking his pulse. The factorum building they were in was some kind of garment manufacturing facility, large industrial stitchers and bolts of fabric filling the entire top floor. Kas carefully lifted Mute and carried him over to a pile of olive drab cloth, no doubt intended to be used for Honorian uniforms, which soon turned crimson.

‘Is he going to be all right?’ Kas asked.

Marita checked the pulses at Mute’s wrist and throat before placing her hand on his forehead, the flesh already drained to the colour of Dmitri’s. She shook her head gently.

The others, aware of Mute’s plight but powerless to do anything about it, were at the factorum windows exchanging fire with the orks in the building opposite.

‘Kas?’ Allix called, ducking behind the shelter of a wall to avoid an ork volley. ‘They know we’re here now. Block the entrance with this machinery so we don’t get any surprises.’

Kas looked to Marita. The Honorian girl shook her head, letting him know there was nothing more he could do to help his friend.

Kas went to obey Allix’s order, throwing over one of the heavy stitchers in frustration.

‘And Marita?’ Allix added, moving out of cover to deliver a headshot to one of the orks across the street. ‘Unless you can do anything to save him, we could do with some help over here.’

Marita looked down at Mute’s midriff, blood spilling out of the deep gash with every breath he took, then over at the Vostroyan lieutenant.

Reluctantly, she picked up her lasrifle and took up position at one of the windows.

The duel between Balthasar and the ork warboss raged for over an hour with neither combatant able to gain the upper hand.

Both warriors bore the marks of combat. Balthasar’s previously damaged power armour now barely functioned, more akin to the heavy suits of plate that the Calibanite warriors of old had donned in battle than a one-man fortress. Even at a distance, the first sergeant could sense Serpicus’ hackles rise every time the greenskin laid a blow on him.

The warboss fared little better, blood oozing from two head wounds and a huge gouge taken out of his triceps thanks to a well-placed shot from the Techmarine. None of these injuries hindered the ork in the slightest, his strength and ferocity undiminished since the Dark Angels had first swooped over from the inner citadel.

Atop the battlements, the remainder of the strike team were too preoccupied handling the tide of orks spilling over from outside the walls to aid their acting commander, Serpicus, Diezen and the skitarii likewise controlling the greenskins’ numbers rather than trying to bring down the warboss.

The stalemate was holding but Balthasar knew that it could not persist much longer. Fuelled by the promise of battle, the orks were flooding into the city in ever-increasing numbers and the initial gains made by the Astra Militarum forces on the ground were being eroded by the minute. Unless something happened soon to turn the battle in the Imperial forces’ favour, all they would have achieved was the postponement of their own doom.

It was time to take a calculated risk.

Igniting the twin engines of his jump pack, Balthasar rose into the air, drawing fire from several of the orks on the outer wall. The majority missed, those that were on target bouncing harmlessly away or embedding in ceramite plate. Reaching his apex, Balthasar spun himself around in mid-air, diving back towards the ground head first, chainsword held out in front of him. Alert to the danger, the warboss swung its axe upwards to block the Dark Angel’s attack, but Balthasar suddenly spun around again, changing his angle of approach so that he dodged the ork’s weapon and planted both feet hard into the side of its head.

The warboss lost its footing, crashing backwards into one of the battlements with such force that tiny cracks formed in the surface of the thick stone. Balthasar was unrelenting, surging after the ork general with a powerful thrust from his jump pack, chainsword poised to claim the greenskin’s head. Instinctively, the ork threw up the power fist to protect its head, the metal teeth biting into the oversized glove and snagging there. Balthasar tried vainly to free his weapon but the ork brought its other arm up, grabbing the Dark Angel by the throat and squeezing hard. Balthasar relinquished his grip on the chainsword, its protesting motors grinding to a halt, and tried to prise the massive ork hand from around his neck.

‘Space Marine fly,’ the warboss said, carrying the struggling Space Marine over to the side of the wall that overlooked the city. He held Balthasar aloft for his troops down below to see. In response, they cheered and chanted their leader’s name. The ork smiled, his broken teeth and tusks coated in his own blood, and raised his looted power fist high.

Expecting the killing blow to land, Balthasar was surprised when the glove came down and tore his jump pack off rather than his face.

‘Now Space Marine really fly,’ the warboss chuckled, throwing Balthasar down to the baying mob below.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Mute died just before dawn.

Marita had split her time between tending to the Vostroyan and aiding the rest of the squad when the fighting was at its fiercest. A new batch of orks had taken position in the building opposite and so the Honorian had hurriedly applied fresh dressings to Mute’s wound before taking up a position at one of the windows. When she returned ten minutes later to check on him, he had stopped breathing, his skin turned the same colour as the bandages before she had wrapped them around his stomach. On the wall beside him, written in blood, were four words scrawled in clumsy Low Gothic.

MY NAME IS JONAS.

Marita did not need to inform the rest of the squad, her face speaking volumes, but his loss only served to spur them on, and they redoubled their efforts to protect their comrades below, the numbers filtering into the street undiminished by the passage of time. None of them knew how the war was going in the rest of the city, but the battle for the relatively tiny piece of it they were fighting over had already cost thousands of lives, the bodies piled so high in the streets they reached the second storey of the factorum they were holed up in.

As the nascent rays of morning light broke over the city, the stalemate showed no signs of being broken. Every time the Vostroyans claimed a few metres of territory, the orks would retake it in short order and vice versa. Fortunately for Allix’s squad, the orks had been unable to dislodge them from their position, any attack from the ground futile and attempts from the buildings opposite thus far repelled.

All of that changed when the orks deployed flame weapons.

Paying no regard to their own kind, a squad of orks entered the far end of the street, long jets of superheated promethium indiscriminately burning anything, or anyone, in their path. Even high above the street, Allix and the others could feel the intense heat as the piles of bodies turned into mass funeral pyres, the screams of the living abruptly cut off as lungs filled with flame and scorching air. In a matter of seconds, all gunfire stopped, panicked Guardsmen and xenos alike desperately trying to escape the narrow confines of the street lest they be consumed by the inferno. Some of the more quick-thinking Vostroyans scrambled up the sides of the buildings, crawling in through broken windows and claiming sanctuary behind their walls. Unfortunately, even the most dull-witted of the orks were capable of mimicry and upon seeing the humans escape the fire, followed suit.

Despite the threat of orks within the factorum, Allix’s squad turned their attention to the most immediate danger. Whooping and laughing as they spewed flame, the advancing orks were completely oblivious to the Vostroyans up above waiting to ambush them. Las-fire dropped the first two the instant they moved into range, a precision shot from Kas rupturing the fuel tank of a third, the ensuing fireball setting off a chain reaction that accounted for the rest.

‘That one’s for Mute,’ he whispered bitterly as he reloaded the heavy bolter.

As the echo from Kas’ shot abated, the Vostroyans became acutely aware of the near silence, the crackle of flames and pop and sizzle of burning fat, the distant sound of combat a stark contrast to the cacophony of the battle that had so recently raged out on the street. For several moments nobody did anything, each of them covering their nose and mouth, the stink of burning flesh all pervasive. The quiet was abruptly broken by small-arms fire, loud and close.

‘That’s coming from inside the building,’ Allix said, looking out of a window and seeing only burning bodies.

As they listened, several lasrifles fired sporadically, answered by ork guns. After a pause, the lasrifles fired again, fewer in number this time. As before, the response came in the form of solid shot. Then silence.

Then the screams of men being butchered alive.

‘We’ve got to help them,’ Marita urged.

‘They’re dead already,’ Dmitri said. ‘If we leave here, we join them. If we stay, perhaps the orks don’t find us. And if they do? They have to get through our barricade first.’ He pointed to the door and the tons of machinery blocking it.

The death-cries of the Guardsmen ended abruptly, mercifully, and for the next few minutes Marita and the Vostroyans believed that their luck had held out, that the orks were too stupid to realise there were more Guardsmen on the top floor of the factorum and had moved on.

Their luck ran out the moment the first ork axe smashed through the door.

The Angel fell.

Weighted down by his armour, it would only be a matter of seconds before Balthasar hit the ground. The fall would not kill him – like all of his brothers he had been trained to land safely from freefalls from even greater heights – but the enemy awaiting him likely would. Tens of thousands of orks, all of whom had witnessed the duel between Space Marine and warboss, awaited him, baying for his blood.

He angled his body mid-fall, twisting so that he would land on his feet, ready to slay as many greenskins as he could before he inevitably succumbed himself. Bereft of both chainsword and bolter, he reached for the combat blade sheathed at his hip.

As the knife cleared the scabbard, halfway through his descent, Balthasar realised that he had stopped falling.

On top of the outer wall, Groblonik roared with pleasure at having slain another of the Dark Angels.

Looking out over the millions of orks making their approach to the captured city, he raised his power fist skywards, his bellow carrying across the thin, cold air. His troops returned the celebration so loudly that the walls of the city shook. Groblonik roared and pumped his fist again. This time the response was not what he was expecting. Instead of jubilation, a murmur of fear spread through the greenskin throng like wildfire. Some of them turned and fled, others halted, pointing towards the sky above Groblonik. The walls of the city still shook.

Furious, Groblonik turned to see what had caused his troops to falter, the cry of anger dying in his throat when he saw it.

Overhead, over the entire city, lightning crackled across the sky turning the clouds purple, orange, blue, green and many other unnatural hues. A fierce wind whipped up accompanied by artillery-like booms of thunder. The walls shook harder.

Keeping his fear in check, Groblonik roared again, this time forming words in the human tongue. ‘Show yourself!’

His nemesis obliged.

Encased in a psychic shield, Ezekiel rose high into the air, until he was over the battlements. Rephial and Balthasar flanked him.

‘You were dead,’ Balthasar said.

‘So I’m told,’ Ezekiel replied. He stared intently at Balthasar, his new augmetic eye blinking.

‘But how?’ Balthasar asked.

‘The how can wait. Right now we have a war to end.’

Atop the wall, some of the orks had overcome their fear and were readying to open fire, but Ezekiel had already foreseen this, issuing forth jets of golden flame from his sword, setting them ablaze before they could take aim. He guided the protective ball of energy over to the battlements and set the three of them down three hundred feet away from the warboss.

‘Keep the rest of them away from us,’ Ezekiel ordered, dropping the psychic shield. ‘This won’t take long.’

Rephial revved his chainsword, his frustration at being away from the battle subsiding with every revolution of the razor-sharp teeth, every greenskin that fell to its bite. Balthasar swung his combat knife in wide arcs, opening the throat of any xenos foolish enough to get too close to him. Ezekiel drew his sword, the blade coming alive with psychic energy, and advanced upon the warboss. The massive ork charged to meet his foe, power fist held aloft just as Ezekiel had foreseen, just as he had foreseen all of this.

The two warriors clashed, the ork’s fist thrown powerfully at the Dark Angel’s head in an attempt to end the duel with a single blow but, armed with the power of foreknowledge, Ezekiel avoided it easily, opening up the warboss’ flank with a swipe of his sword as he ducked under it. Knowing that the ork would follow up with a two-handed sweep of its axe, Ezekiel parried early, the force of his block knocking the greenskin backwards and off-balance. Ezekiel tore a gouge out of the ork’s other flank.

Enraged, the warboss came at Ezekiel with a flurry of blows from both fist and axe. Ezekiel had already seen every one of them, had already fought this battle in his mind, and expended no more energy and effort than he needed to, each punch and swipe avoided by the narrowest of margins. Allowing the actions to play out just as his restored gifts had shown him, Ezekiel waited until the ork was overextended before kicking out, his booted foot connecting squarely with the warboss’ midriff and driving the ork back several metres.

The greenskin looked down at his chest, crying out in pain as two bolt-rounds struck it, tearing away massive gobbets of flesh and pectoral muscle. Ezekiel turned and nodded his thanks to Serpicus, who was still in position on the roof of the inner citadel; felt the initial spark of camaraderie and admiration from the Techmarine when he realised that Rephial had fitted him with an augmetic eye, followed by the wave of dismay and revulsion when he realised that it was a clunky, older pattern recycled from a previous bearer.

Though the ork was ripe for the killing, Ezekiel hesitated briefly just as he had when he saw his vision of the future, but now he understood why he had paused when he could have drawn the duel to a swifter conclusion. Another vision overcame him, albeit briefly.

A building within the city. Vostroyan Imperial Guardsmen sheltered within it. A pregnant Honorian woman too. Orks, dozens of orks, break through the barricades. Nobody is spared.

Capitalising on Ezekiel’s lapse, the ork lashed out, the Librarian avoiding the blow but only barely, sparks flying where axehead met ceramite, barely protecting the fresh surgical wounds below. The Librarian winced, pain suppressants quickly flooding his system.

‘Space Marine Weirdboy not as tough as he thinks,’ the ork general laughed wetly, thick blood spilling over his metal jaw. ‘Not as tough as Groblonik. Groblonik going to–’

In reality, just as in his vision, Ezekiel never did find out what Groblonik was going to do. While the ork was busy grandstanding, the Dark Angel did the last thing the ork was expecting.

He punched it in the face.

The ork’s nose exploded in a shower of blood, cartilage and bone, collapsing under the raw power of the blow. It staggered backwards, partly out of the force of impact, partly out of shock at what had just happened. Ezekiel knew exactly what to do next.

His sword a blur of blue, coruscating energy, Ezekiel separated the ork’s head from its shoulders.

Its eyes widening as it realised the fate that had just befallen it, comprehension reaching its under-evolved brain before the signal telling it to die, its body fell away from its head. Ezekiel grabbed both parts before they could hit the floor and held them out above his own head so that the silenced ork army below could see them. For a moment, all sound stopped, every ork in the vicinity of the city acutely aware of what had just happened and its wider implications. The skies above roiled, lightning playing across the underside of rapidly moving clouds.

Using his psychic abilities to project his voice so that no greenskin on Honoria would fail to hear him, Ezekiel threw down the two parts of the warboss and uttered a single word.

‘Run.’

By the time the warboss’ body and head hit the ground, every single ork had obeyed him.

The greenskins’ spirit broken and their forces routing, the strike team regrouped around Ezekiel, awaiting fresh orders. Each of them bore battle damage, the hours of violent toil among the orks writ large across their faces and armour, their bodies and wargear.

‘Brother Balthasar, take the remainder of the company and wipe this filth from the surface of the planet. Any Mordian or Vostroyan who can stand and fire a weapon goes with you,’ Ezekiel said.

‘Aye, brother,’ Balthasar replied. ‘You heard the Librarian. Leave no xenos alive.’ Battered, bruised, but unwearied from the strains of battle, each of them obeyed, following the first sergeant off the battlements, picking off escaping greenskins as they went.

Rephial went to follow, but Ezekiel held out an arm to bar his passage.

‘Not you, Brother Apothecary. I have need of you and Brother…’ He trailed off, suddenly aware that the red-armoured figure was no longer stood atop the inner citadel. ‘Where did Brother Serpicus go?’

The ork guns had not yet fallen silent before the first of Aurelianum’s forges and manufactorums started up again, the smoke and fumes of industry easy for Serpicus to follow among the familiar scents of the aftermath of battle.

The vox was busy with reports from all across the planet of orks routing en masse, their forces easily mopped up in their disarray. In the void the greenskins’ ships were turning tail and heading out of system, restoring orbital superiority to the Imperial forces. Selenaz had accounted for scores of the fleeing craft and was now preparing to launch orbital bombardments on the densest concentrations of orks at Balthasar’s command.

As he moved swiftly through the streets of the capital, Serpicus assisted the Astra Militarum troops in dealing with stragglers, taking out xenos with a single well-placed shot or snapping their necks with a rotation of his servo-arm. Such was his focus on reaching his destination that he did not break stride.

A trail of dead greenskins in his wake, Serpicus reached the entrance to the forge only to find two of the few remaining skitarii barring his way. Treating them with the same violence and contempt he had shown the orks, Serpicus made his way into the hot, noisy forge despatching the final pair of skitarii, who were guarding the base of the steps leading up to the gantry where Diezen was overseeing the manufacturing process with fascination.

‘This really is remarkable, Serpicus,’ the arch magos said, augmetic eyes widening in wonder as the huge crucible down below tilted on its mechanism, pouring liquid metal into a mould. ‘It’s unlike anything the Adeptus Mechanicus have ever seen before. Self-propelling artillery shells that are fluted and grooved, allowing them to…’ His eyes narrowed, looking over the Techmarine’s shoulders at the two dead skitarii.

‘Please continue, arch magos,’ Serpicus said. ‘I want to know what’s so special about this planet’s archeotech that not only was Mars prepared to invoke the Pact of Kulgotha but also blackmail one of its former students in order to ensure its safety.’

Diezen started to back away. ‘It was my masters on Mars who insisted we secure your aid with the Pact, but they know nothing of the footage. That came to me by–’

The tech-priest was cut off mid-sentence, Serpicus’ servo-arm gripping him by the throat and lifting him out over the railing of the gantry, the heat from the crucible so extreme that the metal soles of Diezen’s feet began to melt.

‘Who else is aware of the footage? Who else knows about it?’ Serpicus snarled.

‘Nobody. It was taken from the remains of a Kastelan by me personally. Not another living soul even knows it exists, let alone has seen it.’

‘So if you die, all knowledge of it dies with you?’

‘Yes. I…’ Diezen’s eyes and mouth opened wide in sudden horrific realisation.

‘Thank you. That’s all I needed to know,’ Serpicus said, the claw of his servo-arm relaxing its grip.

The arch magos made no sound as he fell away, a look that could almost be described as serene passing over his face as he returned to where most of him was made, his purple robes igniting and turning a fiery orange upon contact with the molten liquid.

Allowing the forge to continue its automated process, Serpicus made his way back into the city, pondering the identity of the black-armoured figure in the grainy pict footage and, not for the first time, wondering what secrets the Dark Angels kept, even from their own.

The Vostroyans crouched behind stitcher units and bales of fabric, only taking shots when they got a clear sight of green flesh to conserve power packs and ammunition. The door had not held out for long against the ork axes and blades, but the machinery that Kas had placed in front of it was proving to be a more effective barricade. Even so, the strength of the xenos was such that the first of the huge stitchers had been pushed away allowing more of them to lend their might to the clearance effort.

‘That’s not going to hold for much longer,’ Allix said, firing off a shot that angered as much as wounded the ork it hit. ‘And my last power pack is almost spent.’

‘Me too,’ said Grigori. Dmitri and Marita gave the same response. Kas simply held up the ammo belt that fed into the heavy bolter to show off the eight remaining shells.

The second stitcher was dragged clear giving the orks a firing line into the room. Half a dozen guns opened up, forcing the survivors of Allix’s squad to retreat deeper behind cover.

‘Make every shot count,’ Allix said, emerging from cover to take down one of the orks, ducking back behind the pile of half-completed tunics to avoid being hit by return fire. A third and fourth stitcher were pulled out of the barricade. There were at least twenty orks in the room now with more waiting to file in, their bloodlust raised at the prospect of easy kills.

Marita raised her head and lasrifle just far enough out of cover to get a clear shot and squeezed the firing stud twice. The first las-bolt struck one of the greenskins in the eye, the second – her intended killshot – died in the barrel, her power pack finally spent. She fell back behind the fabric stack, barely avoiding the retaliatory fusillade. Marita threw the now useless lasrifle to the floor in frustration, burying her face in her palms. Trying hard to stifle her sobs, something hard and metallic hit the side of her foot. Taking her hands away from her eyes, Marita looked down to see Ladbon’s sawn-off shotgun, slid over to her by Allix, who was crouched behind cover just across from her.

‘There’s one round left,’ Allix called out above the gunfire. ‘Use it however you see fit.’

More of the stitchers toppled over leaving only the final few between the Vostroyans and certain death at the hands of the greenskins. Another fell, then another, ork fire and battle-cries rising to a crescendo. Marita and the Vostroyans fell back as far as they could, nestling behind the bales of material stacked at the far end of the room. Each of them knew that they were facing their last stand; it was now simply a case of taking as many orks with them as they could.

The last vestiges of the barricade finally gave way, the lead orks charging into the room with no concern for their own welfare. Kas dropped two of them with a single shot, those behind stumbling over the corpses in their desperation to reach the Guardsmen and claim the kills. Kas’ heavy bolter boomed as he tore apart more of the onrushing enemy, but for each one that fell, two more would emerge in its wake.

A mighty roar from the doorway caused both ork and Guardsman to pause momentarily, the shadow of a huge greenskin brute falling ominously over the room. A good head and shoulders taller than the biggest ork any of them had encountered on Honoria, its face was daubed with blue war paint, its upper body naked save for the Space Marine pauldron it bore on its left shoulder, the white icon of the Dark Angels stark against black. Batting away its ilk with massive balled fists, the ork dropped its head and charged.

Dmitri and Grigori emptied their power packs into the behemoth, getting off almost a dozen shots before their guns ran dry, each one a direct hit, each one nothing more than an irritant to the ork. Kas tried next to fell it, his final heavy bolter round also finding its mark, shattering the looted shoulder pad without even knocking the thing off its stride.

Allix leapt from cover, managing two clean shots to the beast’s head before the lasrifle gave out. On it came. In desperation, Allix threw the lasrifle at the ork, only to see it caught in a meaty fist, crushed and tossed aside.

With only metres left for the ork to cover, Allix submitted to the inevitable.

Then the ork’s face was ripped from its skull by a point-blank shot from Ladbon’s shotgun.

In the seconds that followed, Allix was completely deaf, the action unfolding in the room playing out in complete silence.

Two more giant figures appeared in the doorway, diverting the orks’ attention away from the Guardsmen, but instead of merely shoving them out of the way, the pair of newcomers were bent on murder. As the deafness gave way to ringing, Allix became aware of the unmistakable sound of bolter fire and as the ork numbers thinned, caught sight of their saviours.

Dark Angels.

The first of them, the one Allix had seen in the medicae after taking Ladbon’s body there, was revelling in the slaughter, bolter in one hand, chainsword in the other, white armour stained crimson by the blood of his foes. The other, the Librarian, was more measured in his approach, pre-empting every single attack upon his person and despatching orks with the minimum expenditure of effort. Allix had also seen the Librarian before, but could see there was something different about him.

An augmetic eye. An augmetic eye that Allix recognised.

The massacre was brief but viciously effective. Within thirty seconds of entering the room, not a single greenskin was left alive, those mortally wounded that still drew breath ended by the teeth of the Apothecary’s chainsword. Relief etched upon their faces, the Guardsmen emerged from cover, looking at each other, incredulous that they had somehow survived the ork onslaught. Marita, who had not moved since slaying the huge ork, approached the Librarian.

‘Oh, Marita…’ Allix whispered as the Honorian girl walked slowly towards the Dark Angel.

The rear of Marita’s borrowed tunic was stained with blood, the blossom of red spreading from where she had been hit in the chest by a stray ork shot. Staggering the final few steps, she raised her hand up to Ezekiel’s face, brushing her fingers over the augmetic eye.

‘I knew you would keep our child safe, my love,’ she said before collapsing to the floor, dead.

A pained silence descended on the room. Just as it was reaching the point of becoming intolerable, Allix spoke.

‘The baby.’

‘What?’ Ezekiel said, looking down at the corpse then back at Allix.

‘The baby,’ Allix repeated. ‘She… Marita was carrying a baby. It could still be alive.’

Ezekiel crouched down, gently placing his palm over the dead girl’s belly.

‘Rephial,’ Ezekiel said, looking up at the Apothecary. ‘There’s a heartbeat.’

Ezekiel and the Vostroyans waited out on the top floor stairwell, the Guardsmen neither wanting to witness the Apothecary’s procedure or linger in the presence of the dead orks. Kas had carried Jonas’s corpse out with them and it lay at the top of the steps, face covered by one of the unfinished tunics, the big man stood over it like a guard of honour. His burial, when he finally received one, would be unceremonious, dumped in a huge pit along with the tens of thousands of other casualties of the war for Honoria, but while he was still under the care of his comrades, his friends, he would be shown as much respect in death as in life.

Grigori and Dmitri sat on the steps talking quietly, sharing stories of Ladbon, Gaspar and Jonas, giving equal weight to the tales of revelry, shenanigans and carousing as the accounts of heroism, as those with the closest of bonds are wont to do when remembering the dead. In lieu of having glasses to raise, they took their near empty water skins and drank from those instead.

Allix paced nervously around the stairwell, stopping every once in a while to stare at the Librarian blocking the doorway, and at the eye he bore that used to belong to her commanding officer. The very thought of it made Allix shudder.

After what seemed like an aeon, the unmistakable sound of a baby crying issued forth from the top floor of the manufactorum. The Guardsmen breathed a collective sigh of relief, Dmitri and Grigori raising their water skins and draining them. Ezekiel stepped aside to allow a very uneasy looking Rephial out into the stairwell, child held out before him in a massive hand, like he had just discovered a new species but was uncertain as to whether it was hostile or not.

‘What is it?’ Allix asked.

‘I thought that was obvious.’ Rephial looked at the Vostroyan in the same way he had regarded the child. ‘It’s a baby.’

‘I think the Guardsman meant what gender is the child?’ Ezekiel said, his amusement at the Apothecary’s unease forcing a smile onto his lips.

‘Here,’ Rephial said, thrusting the child into the Librarian’s arms. ‘You check.’

The instant the baby was in his grasp, the vision overtook Ezekiel.

The years spent in the schola progenium, always top of her class, always striving to learn more. Her acceptance into the convent, her thirst for knowledge unquenched. Out among the stars, trying to find her way back home. The Black Templars and the necrons. The lost Chapter. The Exorcists. The loyal brother from the Chapter turned. The love of a rogue trader, unrequited. The pits of the Dark City, disloyal to two masters. Decades of service to the ordo, undone in a moment. A homecoming long desired but never expected. The Eye of Terror. The rescue and redemption of one of the Dark Angels’ own.

A most glorious death.

‘It’s a girl,’ Ezekiel said, passing the baby to Allix, who wrapped it in another of the unfinished tunics. ‘Do you know what the mother had planned to call her?’

‘When I spoke with her the other day, she said she wanted to name her after her own mother,’ Allix replied, stroking the child’s head.

‘And what was her mother called?’ Ezekiel asked.

‘Agentha.’

EPILOGUE

‘And the orks are close to annihilation?’

Danatheum sat in the troop hold of the Thunderhawk cradling his wounded arm, surrounded by brothers of the Ravenwing. The Grand Master of the Librarius was one of the lucky ones; many of his black-armoured brethren were bereft of limbs, consciousness and – in a few cases – their lives.

‘Serpicus estimates their numbers to be in the low millions. Navy vessels are pounding the larger concentrations while Balthasar leads Fifth Company and the Astra Militarum regiments in hunting down the smaller warbands. Between our attention and the infighting that has broken out among the xenos ranks, the campaign should be finished within days.’ The psychic projection of Ezekiel was uncannily realistic, as if his physical form were present on board the troop transport.

‘How has Balthasar fared?’ Danatheum asked. ‘I had not expected leadership to be thrust upon him so soon. Is he ready to ascend?’

Ezekiel had already seen the path laid out before the first sergeant, the glory he would win for both himself and the Dark Angels both as part of the Chapter and away from it, and had decided upon his recommendation.

‘Balthasar is a consummate warrior and leader, but his route to the ivory requires him to don the green of the Fifth for a while longer yet.’

Danatheum arched an eyebrow. ‘I see your powers of divination have returned,’ he said with a grin.

‘How did…’ Ezekiel began. ‘Turmiel.’

‘I admit that placing young Turmiel under your tutelage was as much about him keeping an eye on you as you passing on your knowledge, but no, he did not inform me of your diminished foresight.’ Danatheum shook his head and smirked before adding quietly, ‘Keeping secrets from the Chief Librarian? That boy has a bright future ahead of him.’

‘So how did you know?’

‘My psychic gifts might not be as bountiful as yours, Ezekiel, but I consider my perception unmatched among the brothers of the Librarius. I’ve known that your future sight was blind ever since you returned from Korsh.’

‘And yet you told nobody else? You still allowed me to accompany the mission to Honoria?’

‘I had to be sure.’

‘Sure of what?’ said Ezekiel.

‘Sure that you were ready to assume the role of Grand Master of the Librarius.’

‘I don’t understand. You are Chief Librarian. There is no role to assume.’

‘I am merely a caretaker. This position was always destined for one worthier than I.’

‘But you are worthy, Grand Master,’ Ezekiel implored.

Danatheum scoffed. ‘Worthy? Take a look around, Ezekiel. Two brothers of the Ravenwing dead and scores more wounded while the Nephrekh Dynasty persists, spreading their dominion from sector to sector, reawakening yet more of their kin.’

‘You lost a battle, but the war continues and you live to fight another day.’

‘The necrons numbered in their hundreds yet still I led us to defeat, while you? You defended an entire world from millions of orks and drove them back into the void. In centuries to come, which of these campaigns do you think stories will still be told about, still lauded in the Chapter’s annals?’

‘Our losses were great too. The Mechanicus forces were completely wiped out, hundreds of thousands of Guardsmen and Imperial citizens died, not to mention the brother Dark Angels who laid down their lives. I was dead, Grand Master, dead for hours and even after I came back, I had lost an eye. We achieved a victory, but it was hard won.’

Danatheum stared intently at Ezekiel’s augmetic. ‘Yes, the eye…’ he said softly before reverting to the original subject. ‘It does not matter how hard it was to come by the victory, how much blood was shed in the winning. It is only the end result that counts. I could continue to lead the Librarius and no doubt record victories along the way, perform some deeds of note… Or I could hand the role over to you who is destined for greatness in everything he does. I do not need vast powers of divination to know which choice is the right one.’

‘And what if I refuse?’ Ezekiel said indignantly.

‘You cannot,’ Danatheum said. ‘I have already informed Lord Azrael of my decision and he accepts and endorses it. You are the new Chief Librarian of the Dark Angels, Ezekiel.’

Ezekiel sighed contemplatively then forced a grim smile to his lips. ‘Though I accept your decision, I do not have to agree with it. You honour me greatly with your words and deeds, Master Danatheum, and those words and deeds are still valued greatly by the Chapter. My first act as Grand Master of the Librarius is to name you as my second and, like myself, you have no choice but to accept.’

‘I would be honoured to serve you, Grand Master, but you are getting a little ahead of yourself,’ Danatheum said. ‘There are still the formalities to be observed. Lord Azrael has commanded that we are both to return to the Rock so that the Ceremony of Ascension can be held.’

‘Of course,’ Ezekiel replied. ‘But there is something I have to do first.’

POSTLUDE

The fires of Korsh burned brightly, fuelled by the blood of daemons.

Rephial and Serpicus had done their best to patch up bodies and wargear in the weeks since the Battle for Honoria, but the brothers of Fifth Company still bore the marks of battle as they slew the infernal denizens of the death world. Scores of chittering dog-like creatures fell to bolter and blade while winged horrors circled above them, any getting too close to the Dark Angels shot out of the sky, their corpses incinerated in the channels of lava that bisected the planet’s surface.

At the head of the Space Marine force, Turmiel shone like a beacon in the warp, daemons drawn like moths to his flame. Alongside him, Balthasar, Serpicus and Rephial slaughtered with impunity, their swords and armour slick with filthy ichor, carving a path to their target. High above, at the top of a stone spiral stairway, perched the daemon that had robbed Ezekiel of his foresight and left him for dead, its beaked head slowly moving from side to side, watching the massacre below it unfold with disinterest.

‘Go!’ Balthasar yelled to Turmiel as they reached the base of the stairs. ‘We’ll hold them off here.’

The Librarian took the stairs two or three at a time, quickly eating up the distance between him and the daemon, only breaking his stride to fire off psychic lances at the winged beasts that tried to halt his progress. Stopping a few metres from the apex, Turmiel drew his force sword and pointed it at the daemon towering over him. It looked down on the Librarian, its avian eyes blinking rapidly.

‘And what do you want, Dark Angel?’ the daemon asked, boredom evident in its tone. ‘Has Ezekiel sent you here to slay me?’

‘No,’ Turmiel answered. ‘I’m merely the distraction.’

The daemon stopped blinking. An instant later the tip of a force sword tore through its breast.

‘Now, Turmiel. Just like I taught you,’ Ezekiel called out from behind the dematerialising daemon.

In the weeks since Honoria, the young Librarian had been sequestered away with the newly elevated Grand Master in the deepest recesses of the Sword of Caliban honing one aspect of warpcraft in particular. Focusing his power through his blade, Turmiel issued forth a psychic net, trapping the daemon on the material plane.

Ezekiel leapt down to join Turmiel on the stairway, sheathing his own ichor-slick blade. Trapped and at the mercy of two Space Marine Librarians, the daemon laughed.

‘And what do you think this achieves, Ezekiel?’ it scoffed. ‘You cannot hold me here for long. The boy is already wavering.’

A thin trickle of blood flowed from Turmiel’s nostril, spilling over his top lip.

‘Turmiel will hold you here long enough to answer my questions, daemon.’

‘And what if I choose not to answer them?’

‘You’ve already answered my first,’ Ezekiel said. ‘The very fact that I was able to mask my presence from you and put you in this position tells me that you no longer possess the power of foresight. The powers you used to show me the future after I died on Honoria, they were stolen from me, weren’t they, daemon?’

‘Very astute, Ezekiel,’ the daemon chuckled.

‘So why did you return them to me?’

The daemon stopped laughing. ‘I didn’t give them back to you. The Eye gave them back to you, but you knew that already too, didn’t you, Ezekiel?’

Ezekiel held his hand up to the crude augmetic fitted to his head. ‘Those futures you showed me. I didn’t have the eye in any of them, therefore none of them will come to pass, am I right?’

‘So little time and yet you choose to ask the wrong questions,’ the daemon said, shaking its head.

The trickle of blood from Turmiel’s nose had strengthened to a flow. ‘I cannot maintain the shackles for much longer, master,’ he said.

‘Then enlighten me, daemon. What question should I be asking?’

‘Where did the eye come from?’

Ezekiel laughed now. ‘I already know. It was taken from one of the fallen Vostroyans on Honoria.’

‘Master…’ Blood had begun to seep from Turmiel’s tear ducts.

‘And where did he get it from?’ the daemon said, eyes narrowed. ‘The technology it employs is so primitive that it predates the Imperium. Do you really think he was the first bearer of it, the tenth, the hundredth even?’

Turmiel coughed up blood. The flow of warp energy from his sword sputtered.

‘But most importantly of all,’ the daemon said, its form starting to fade. ‘Where did it come from originally? Who made it, Ezekiel? Who made your eye?’

His powers giving out before his body, Turmiel collapsed onto the stone steps, the psychic shackles disappearing. Ezekiel crouched down to check on his pupil. To his relief, Turmiel was still conscious.

‘Did you get the information you required, master?’ Turmiel spluttered through bloody lips.

Above them, the final vestiges of the daemon were reabsorbed into the warp, its unblinking eyes fixated on Ezekiel the last part of it to fade away.

‘No,’ Ezekiel replied, helping the young Librarian to his feet. ‘Only more questions.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Domiciled in the East Midlands, C Z Dunn is the author of the Space Marine Battles novel Pandorax, the novellas Crimson Dawn and Dark Vengeance and the audio dramas Trials of Azrael, Ascension of Balthasar, Terror Nihil, Bloodspire and Malediction, as well as several short stories.

An extract from Slaughter at Giant’s Coffin.

From out of the darkness, they came.

The blunted prow of the battle-barge Heart of Cronus split the veil of reality first, the strange angle of her re-entry a testament to the haste with which she had been hurled into the warp. The great ship juddered and pitched to starboard with the sudden deceleration, even as her escort frigates began to emerge about her. Strike cruisers and destroyers all jostled for the clear void as they tumbled from the empyrean, proximity alarms wailing and countless helmsmen fighting to bring their vessels back under control.

It was shambolic. Frantic.

Mortal voices, strained by emotion, echoed back and forth across the open vox; each shipmaster cursed the apparent ineptitude of his peers as the fleet spread out into what might pass for an operational grouping.

Nonetheless, in the fierce light of the Miral star, their transhuman masters tried to carry themselves with as much dignity as they could muster. To anyone who might have been watching, it was a most unusual sight – that of a mighty Space Marine Chapter humbled and brought low by its foes, its brothers resisting the urge to lash out at one another in despair.

Though there had been many amongst them who had truly believed that such a day would never come, the gaze of the Great Devourer had settled upon the galaxy once more. A new wave of tyranid hive fleets had crept into the Eastern Fringe under the cover of unprecedented human unrest, and with the return of the xenos had come the horrifying realisation that in fact mankind might never truly be rid of them.

And now, Sotha was no more.

Great and noble Sotha. The fortress-monastery at Mount Pharos. All gone – consumed by the foul, living tide of Hive Fleet Kraken.

But, like little more than ghostly shadows of their former selves, the Scythes of the Emperor lived on. They reeled from the death of their home world in a way that few beyond the Adeptus Astartes could ever truly appreciate.

The loss was shameful. It was inexcusable.

It had wounded them more deeply than anything else ever could.

The alert klaxons on the bridge were finally silenced as the Heart of Cronus swung into its high anchor approach. The acrid tang of burned-out circuits hung in the stagnant air, the main filtration system having been one of the many lost to the fire, and the deck plates around the command throne were sticky with retardant foam residue. Ragged and scorched crewmen, most still wearing their emergency breath-masks, blearily clung to their duties.

With a tortured grind of gears, the central blast doors slid open to reveal the strobing darkness of the corridors beyond, and Captain Thracian limped through. His proud, transhuman features were marred by an expression of utter defeat.

‘Fleet Master Zebulon is dead,’ he announced, coldly. ‘My brother-captain’s injuries were too severe. There was nothing they could do.’

Thracian’s black-and-gold power armour was scorched, and his cloak hung in tatters behind him. Each laboured stride sent dull pain shooting up his right side. As he passed the empty throne, he spared it only a single reluctant glance.

‘Shipmaster Devanti’s condition is critical, but he lives.’

The news brought a stunned silence to the human crew. It was not unexpected, but the reality of hearing it from a senior Chapter officer took it from a fearful rumour to stark, inescapable fact. Thracian wondered how many more truths would make that transition in the minutes, hours and days to come, under the circumstances.

He halted before the cracked, static-laced screens of the forward oculus. The left-hand pane was dead. So were the hololithic overlay projectors. ‘Tactical report,’ he called out to no one in particular, tying back the lank strands of his hair. ‘This is not my ship, but I would have a full appraisal of our location and disposition.’

A female serf-lieutenant with a hastily bandaged gash across her forehead stepped forwards, a data-slate in hand. Before the armoured Space Marine, she looked even more fragile and haggard, but her manner was firm.

‘We have arrived at the Miral System, my lord, as per Captain Zebulon’s original order. Seems we gave the local monitor patrols quite a scare – they weren’t expecting us, and our dispersal pattern was… a little sloppy. As a formality, they’re relaying our ident-codes to the Militarum outpost on the second planet now, for verification. We’re updating our horologs to the local mean time, although that loses us something like nine weeks, even after relativity adjustment.’

‘And how many ships made the jump with us?’

‘Information is still sketchy. We estimate no more than twenty-five vessels, based on the faint carrier signal transmissions from beyond the system-edge. About a third of them are apparently drifting without power, or have zero vox-capability after making the translation.’

Thracian furrowed his brow, prickling the superficial burns on the side of his face. ‘Only twenty-five. Less than a quarter of the Chapter fleet.’

The lieutenant nodded wearily, scrolling through the numbers. ‘Aye, lord. We had visual contact with at least another twelve before we entered the warp, but they are presently unaccounted for. It’s possible that…’ She sniffed, wiping dried blood from her top lip. ‘It’s possible that some may yet find their way here, but without long-range comms we’ll never know where the rest might end up.’

Glancing up at the crazed oculus, Thracian lowered his voice a little. ‘And what of the xenos hive ships? Could they have followed us?’

‘Highly unlikely, my lord, although we do have reports from the Dromea Bathos, the Pale Rider and the strike cruiser Atreides of continued action against tyranid boarders.’ The lieutenant paused for a moment, then continued. ‘Forgive my boldness, but Brother-Codicier Spiridonas might be better able to advise you on the matter of further pursuit.’

‘Aye. Perhaps.’

A few muted cries of alarm went up across the bridge. Out beyond the viewports, two of the stricken Chapter vessels – by their markings, the Ionia and the listing, battle-scarred destroyer Light of the Pharos – had drifted too close together. Thracian watched as the Pharos collided with the other ship, its dorsal ridge tearing a hole in her flank and spilling debris and flash-frozen atmosphere into the void. Other vessels close to the impact began to pull away, their shipmasters wary of being drawn into a cascading wreckage storm.

Cursing, he returned his attention to the fragile-looking lieutenant.

‘What is your name and rank designation?’

She straightened a little, although Thracian noted that she stopped short of actually standing to attention.

‘Hannelore, my lord. Serf-lieutenant, second class.’

‘You know this ship, Lieutenant Hannelore. Take me to the Navigator chambers.’

The undercroft spaces of the Pale Rider had become a charnel house. The stench of slaughter was heavy in the air, carrying with it the acidic reek of xenos bio-weapon discharge and other, even less wholesome smells. The ship had suffered badly at the teeth and claws of the invaders, though her crew were exceedingly lucky to be counted among those who had managed to flee the death of Sotha.

It was not clean fighting. It was cramped, and chaotic, and far too many had died, for so little gain. Fatigue dragging at his limbs, Culmonios shook the blood and ragged flesh from the teeth of his chainsword before whirling around to hack into another of the scuttling beasts as it leapt for him.

‘Brother,’ came a heaving, breathless voice over the short-range vox, ‘this is Nimeon. We have them contained. Port side, compartment nine.’

Culmonios battered the creature down, wrenching the gun-analogue from its forelimbs and ramming it over and over into the thing’s screeching face. His own pistol had long since run dry. There had, simply, been too many of them.

He threw the bio-weapon aside and grabbed the tyranid creature by the throat. It thrashed and snapped at him, until he broke its spine over his knee.

Hauling himself back to his feet with a wordless cry of exertion, took a splattering hit to the breastplate as he charged the last of their numbers, though the corrosive, organic projectile – whatever it was – did not pierce the ceramite. The pair of skulking creatures hissed at him as he closed the distance, trying to scramble away over the mounds of their dead kin, but Culmonios would not be denied. He slammed bodily into the first, sending it sprawling to the deck where he shattered its chitin-crested skull beneath his armoured heel.

With a bestial shriek the last creature tried to raise its weapon, but Culmonios grabbed its open jaw and sheathed his chainsword in its gullet with one savage thrust. The tyranid twitched as it died, gagging on the razor-sharp teeth of the blade.

‘Culmonios, are you receiving? Unknown hostiles were reported mass–’

‘Hunter-slayers,’ he growled. His twin heartbeats thundered in his ears. ‘Forty-plus confirmed kills. This deck is cleansed.’

‘Deck seventeen cleansed, aye. Heading to your position now. Are the others still with you?’

‘Negative. They are all gone.’

He ripped the chainsword free, and let the alien corpse crash to the deck. The blade rattled disappointingly, the mechanism evidently fouled by overuse in the past few hours, but Culmonios could only stare down at the steaming bone-case of the tyranid’s fallen weapon.

The damned thing had an eye. It stared back at him, the slit-pupil responding reflexively to the erratic flicker of the lumens overhead.

Disgust rose in his gorge. Disgust, and rage, and sorrow.

‘You vile, unworthy abominations,’ he muttered behind his helm visor. ‘How did your misbegotten kind ever take the home world?’

There was something in that vacant, alien gaze. Something that was not merely a weapon, not merely a tool. Culmonios gritted his teeth and, with one thumb, gouged out the eye and crushed it in the palm of his gauntlet.

He came up slowly, his hands trembling. Casting about the compartment, he took in the nightmarish scene that lay all around. A tableau of dead faces and spilled blood. Here and there, the bulky silhouette of a fallen Chapter brother. Spent bolter casings. Arcs of red splattered across the bulkheads, in some places right up to the vaulted ceiling. The deck plates were slick with gore, the remains of human and xenos alike hopelessly mingled.

It would all have to be disposed of. Ejected into the void, most likely, or scoured with flame. It was an undignified end for those Imperial citizens who had already died such a poor death.

The ventral hull zones were where the fighting had been thickest, but the short-range vox was filled with reports from his surviving battle-brothers and the frigate’s serf security teams as they drove the last xenos creatures back to the outer compartments. Culmonios gathered that the fleet – if it could be considered such – had made the jump back to real space, but the translation had not even registered upon his weary senses. For him, the past hours had been filled with naught but slaughter, and the frenzied cries of the alien attackers.

He trudged back to his most prized kill, letting his chainsword clatter to the deck as he went.

The hulking corpse of a full-grown tyranid warrior lay crumpled over a handful of its lesser cousins, its spilled innards cooling, its eyes glassy and black. The beast had claimed three of his battle-brothers before he had struck it down; Gordani’s empty helm was still gripped in its claws. Culmonios knelt beside the fallen monstrosity, which in life had stood easily half as tall again as an armoured Space Marine.

‘They don’t look so big when they’re on their backs,’ came Brother Nimeon’s voice from across the compartment. Culmonios had not heard him forcing his way through the barricaded entrance, though the warrior now picked gingerly through the carnage, sweeping the lamp of his bolter left and right. ‘Oh, Holy Terra – this was another one of the refugee holds.’

Culmonios nodded solemnly. The xenos boarding parties seemed to have been drawn to the least-protected parts of the ship, like predators seeking out the weakest members of the herd.

And they had fed well. The Scythes had arrived too late.

Drawing his combat blade, Culmonios wrenched the tyranid’s head up and began to saw at the corded sinews of its neck.

‘Brother, what are you doing?’ asked Nimeon.

Culmonios did not look up. A righteous fury burned in his hearts. ‘This was the greatest of them,’ he muttered. ‘It shall serve as a warning to those that follow.’

‘I do not think the xenos can be cowed by a gibbet.’

‘Who said anything about a gibbet? This is a trophy.’

With a meaty snap, he twisted the beast’s crested skull free and let the body fall away. As he rose, he hefted the crest like a shield, testing its weight. Bloody ropes of drool still hung from the creature’s slack jaws.

Nimeon removed his helm, repulsion written clearly upon his face, but Culmonios met his gaze unwaveringly.

‘They have taken everything from us, brother, and so shall I take from them as I damn well please.’ He did not bother to clean the blood from his knife, and it slid wetly back into the sheath at his hip. ‘We will have our vengeance upon the Kraken, one foul beast at a time.’

Spiridonas lay amidst the tangled cables of the control blister, his muscular chest heaving. His bare arms and hands were wound up in the psi-conductive mechanism, and a crystalline hood had been forced over his broad skull, though the webbing had evidently torn as a result. His eyes were screwed closed, and had been for a good while.

Brother Machaon knelt beside him, one gauntleted hand upon the Librarian’s shoulder.

‘Who was with him during the voyage?’

The two armoured serfs at his back shuffled warily, their lascarbines clutched in unsteady hands. ‘No one, my lord,’ one of them replied. ‘He ordered us all to leave, after the…’

His words trailed off, and he nodded to the four bodies that lay beneath a bloody tarpaulin beside the entrance hatch.

‘There were rumours, my lord, from when the xenos attacked. Madness. Murder. He said he did not need the distraction of mortal minds nearby.’

Machaon frowned. ‘Someone should have been with him.’

He selected a muscle relaxant dosage from his narthecium, and slid the needle into Spiridonas’ taut forearm. The Librarian sagged a little, though he continued to grind his teeth as he gasped down each laboured breath.

The second human stiffened, and put a finger to the vox-bead in his ear. ‘My lord Apothecary – Captain Thracian is demanding entrance to the Navigator chambers. How should I respond?’

‘Let him in.’

After a few moments, the hatchway mechanism was unlocked and the doors slid open. Thracian, though clearly having been wounded in the evacuation, still managed to carry himself with the prideful gait of a true-blooded Sothan. A young female officer followed in his wake, looking distinctly uncomfortable as the two of them made their way past the covered bodies. Beneath her bloody field dressing, Machaon recognised her as the replacement executive officer appointed by Shipmaster Devanti after the orbital attack.

‘Captain,’ he said with a slight incline of his head, but remaining at Spiridonas’ side. ‘I trust you know of Zebulon’s passing?’

‘I do. I was with him.’

‘My condolences, then. He was a worthy hero of the Chapter.’

Thracian nodded in acknowledgement, coming to stand over Machaon and the insensible Librarian. ‘He looks bad.’

Machaon consulted his medicae auspex. ‘He has not fared well. The exertion has darkened his thoughts.’

‘How so? Is the mind of a Librarian not trained to channel the aether?’

Somewhat surprised by the frankness of the question, and conscious of his patient’s current lack of dignity, Machaon gestured to the serf guards and the lieutenant. ‘Leave us. All of you. Bar and lock the doors. No one is to enter these chambers without my authorisation.’

The first guard looked to Thracian for confirmation, but the captain simply stared back at him, blankly. ‘Yes, my lord Apothecary,’ he mumbled.

He doesn’t know, Machaon realised. Young Thracian doesn’t yet understand the weight of the duty that may now fall to him.

Beyond the Navigator chambers, throughout the Heart of Cronus and across the scattered fleet, the Scythes of the Emperor and their Chapter thralls were in need of leadership.

And if not Thracian, who else?

Seemingly almost as an afterthought as the serfs made their way out of the chamber, the captain addressed the lieutenant. ‘Hannelore, send shuttles with repair crews to those ships still without communications. We need headcounts on the survivors, and a complete inventory of supplies. Anything and everything that the shipmasters managed to bring aboard their vessels before the jump.’

‘Yes, Captain Thracian,’ she replied.

No salute, Machaon noted as she left. When they were alone and the hatchway was sealed once more, he turned his attentions back to Spiridonas.

‘You ask if a Librarian should not be more than capable of navigating a ship through the warp, brother-captain. Yes, it is quite possible – though not bred for it like the houses of the Navis Nobilite, a trained battle-psyker might use his sight to give a vague heading, once his vessel was under way.’ He delicately ran two fingers of his gauntlet over the torn webbing of Spiridonas’ hood. ‘In truth, I doubt any but a member of the Librarius could have brought us here from Sotha.’

Thracian’s eyes followed the psi-conductor cabling up to the ports in the ceiling, then back to Spiridonas. ‘How so?’

Grimly, Machaon pointed to the bloody tarpaulin by the door.

‘The xenos are insidious foes, my lord. The mere presence of their hive fleets shrouds our psykers’ connection to the warp, and conjures terrors in the minds of those who would gaze into the abyss regardless. From what I have seen so far, the beasts of the Kraken cast a shadow far greater and far darker than any previously encountered by the Imperium. A Space Marine’s mind is more resistant to it, but by no means immune.’

Narrowing those golden eyes of his, Thracian grunted in understanding. ‘I see the truth of it. This is how they crippled our fleet, then – we had not the sight of our Navigators to guide us away, nor the minds of our astropaths to call for help.’

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the chamber were the crackle of dead systems, and the Librarian’s laboured breathing.

At length, Machaon rose. ‘Captain, I sense an unasked question in your silence. Why did you come here?’

When he replied, Thracian spoke quietly, though Machaon was unsure who exactly he thought might overhear them. ‘I would speak to Spiridonas,’ he said. ‘My question is for him.’

‘A wasted journey then, my lord. I do not believe he even knows we are here. I do not care to imagine what alien nightmares he might have glimpsed, to bring him to this state.’

Carefully, Thracian drew his tattered cloak aside and crouched before the control blister, his armour growling in protest and the movement clearly paining his injuries. Machaon’s trained eye spotted heavy machine scraping in the ceramite, as well as buckling to several of the joints – the captain had evidently been crushed by something during the course of the evacuation. He was doing well, considering.

Thracian removed his gauntlets and leaned in towards the Librarian.

‘Brother Spiridonas, can you hear me?’

There was no response. He glanced back at Machaon. The Apothecary shrugged.

‘Brother Spiridonas,’ Thracian said again, raising his voice. ‘Have we escaped them? Will the tyranids follow us here?’

Machaon saw him place a hand upon the Codicier’s straining arm. Spiridonas’ eyes snapped open at the contact.

The Librarian screamed.

It was a sound of indescribable, maddened panic.

In an anonymous cargo hold, aboard a silently drifting frigate out beyond the edge of the Miral System, a lone Chapter brother stumbled out from between two grubby transit containers, and fell to his knees upon the deck.

His bare hands trembled. The enormity, the horror of it all, had shaken him to the core.

There was blood. His forearms were spattered with it. He dropped his broken falx blade and laughed, tears stinging his eyes.

I had to be sure, he convinced himself.

He ran his hands over his scalp, leaving sticky red smears behind.

His name was Brother Hadrios. For now, that was the only truth that he was willing to believe. His desperate laughter echoed again in the gloomy hold.

They would be coming for him soon. He had to move quickly.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2017
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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Roman Tishenin.
Internal illustrations by Alex Boyd and John Michelbach.
Map by Tomasz Gut.

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