MoretalesoftheAstraMilitarumfromBlackLibrary

•LASTCHANCERS•ByGavThorpe

13THLEGION

KILLTEAM

ANNIHILATIONSQUAD

ARMAGEDDONSAINT

SHIELDOFTHEEMPERORAnomnibuseditionofthenovelsFifteenHoursbyMitchelScanlon,Death

WorldbySteveLyonsandRebelWinterbySteveParker

HONOURBOUNDAnovelbyRachelHarrison

CADIASTANDSAnovelbyJustinDHill

CADIANHONOURAnovelbyJustinDHill

SHADOWSWORDAnovelbyGuyHaley

BANEBLADEAnovelbyGuyHaley

THEMACHARIANCRUSADEAnomnibuseditionofthenovelsAngelsofFire,FistofDemetriusand

FallofMachariusbyWilliamKing

•GAUNT’SGHOSTS•ByDanAbnett

THEFOUNDINGAnomnibuseditioncontainingbooks1–3:

FirstandOnly,GhostmakerandNecropolis

THESAINTAnomnibuseditioncontainingbooks4–7:

HonourGuard,TheGunsofTanith,StraightSilverandSabbatMartyr

THELOSTAnomnibuseditioncontainingbooks8–11:

TraitorGeneral,HisLastCommand,TheArmourofContemptandOnlyinDeath

THEVICTORYPARTONEAnomnibuseditioncontainingbooks12–13:

BloodPactandSalvation’sReach

BOOK14:THEWARMASTER

BOOK15:ANARCH

https://www.blacklibrary.com

CONTENTS

CoverBacklistTitlePageWarhammer40,000PrologueOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenEpilogueAbouttheAuthorAnExtractfrom‘ShieldofTheEmperor’

ABlackLibraryPublicationeBooklicense

Itisthe41stmillennium.FormorethanahundredcenturiestheEmperorhassatimmobileontheGoldenThroneofEarth.HeistheMasterofMankindbythewillofthegods,andmasterofamillion

worldsbythemightofHisinexhaustiblearmies.HeisarottingcarcasswrithinginvisiblywithpowerfromtheDarkAgeofTechnology.HeistheCarrionLordoftheImperiumforwhomathousandsoulsare

sacrificedeveryday,sothatHemaynevertrulydie.

YeteveninHisdeathlessstate,theEmperorcontinuesHiseternalvigilance.Mightybattlefleetscrossthedaemon-infestedmiasmaofthe

warp,theonlyroutebetweendistantstars,theirwaylitbytheAstronomican,thepsychicmanifestationoftheEmperor’swill.VastarmiesgivebattleinHisnameonuncountedworlds.Greatestamongst

HissoldiersaretheAdeptusAstartes,theSpaceMarines,bio-engineeredsuper-warriors.Theircomradesinarmsarelegion:theAstraMilitarumandcountlessplanetarydefenceforces,theever-

vigilantInquisitionandthetech-priestsoftheAdeptusMechanicustonameonlyafew.Butforalltheirmultitudes,theyarebarelyenoughtoholdofftheever-presentthreatfromaliens,heretics,mutants–and

worse.

Tobeamaninsuchtimesistobeoneamongstuntoldbillions.Itistoliveinthecruellestandmostbloodyregimeimaginable.Thesearethetalesofthosetimes.Forgetthepoweroftechnologyandscience,forsomuchhasbeenforgotten,nevertobere-learned.Forgetthepromiseofprogressandunderstanding,forinthegrimdarkfuturethereisonlywar.Thereisnopeaceamongstthestars,onlyaneternityofcarnage

andslaughter,andthelaughterofthirstinggods.

PROLOGUE

Thestampingandholleringoftheraggedmassesthatlinedtheoldsumpwasanassaultonthesenses,overwhelminginitsintensity.Hundredsoffeetdrummedonferrocrete.Hundredsoffistsslammedagainstmetalrailsandbulkheads.The smell was every bit as offensive, a cloying mixture of oil, rust, humansweatandfungalorkstench.Vapoursrosefromventsinthefloor,anoxiousfogthatclunglazilytothelowerstepsleadinguptotheimprovisedgantriesweldedandboltedtothesurroundingwalls.Thesourceofboththenoiseandthestinkwashalf-seen,thewallsofthebroadsumphall left in shadowby the flickeringyellow lumenstrips thathung fromchains at its centre.A single shadowy entity of glaring eyes andopenmouthspouredderisionandhatreddownupontheprisonersledinchainsbeforeit.The captives returned this loathing with a mixture of venom and dejection.Someofthesoldiers,uniformstornandweaponsconfiscated,glaredbackattheriotoushorde; others hung their heads, eyes fixedon the swirlingmist aroundtheirfeet.Those that escorted theprisonersheld aloft trophiesofvarious sorts – lootedweapons,capturedhelmets,insigniaoftheAstraMilitarum.Theyweredressedin scavenged pieces of flak armour and scraps of carapace, adorned withsharpenedrivets,orkishglyphplatesandchains.Theyworebraceletsandtorqsremade from tank parts and underhive detritus, heads protected by an eclecticmix of tankers’ caps, horned ork bowls, Imperial-issue basinets, workers’

helmetsandbatteredeco-suitdomes.Eachof themhadaplaquesomewhereabout them,onacordabout theneck,emblazonedonachestplateorwornlikeaknightofold’stiltingshieldbetweenneck and shoulder.Wooden, plastek or metal, each bore the same device – athree-tonguedflameofred.They brought their captives, twenty-three that had survived the ambush, tostandafewmetresfromthesteppedplatformbuiltintothefarwallofthesump.Thestagewaspopulatedwithascoreofdisparatefolk–ahumanmenagerieoflowhive scum, uphive nobles and everything in between. Their dress was asvariedas theirorigins, taking in the scopeofoil-stained rags tomulticolouredplumes,bywayoffactorycoveralls, trooperfatigues,elegantgownsandlong-taileddresscoats.Liketheambushparty,everyoneoftheelevatedcourtworeasymbol of their allegiance, either painted on plaques, sewn into badges orembroidereddirectlyintocloth.Achairofextrudedplastekdominatedthecentreofthedais.Itwasshapedlikeafire, flamesforming itsback, twisting in imaginedvortexes tomake the legsandarms.Theflamescametogetheracoupleofmetresabovethestage,formingacrudeapproximationoftheImperialaquila,eaglewingsoutspread.Despitetheattemptedartofitsdesign,theredplastekfinishwasshinyandcrass.Therewasaspaceaboutthethrone,aroughcircleafewmetresacross,emptysavefortwofigures.Thefirstwasahulkingbrute,skindarkgreen,almostblack,bucket-jawed and red-eyed. Its gold-braided frock coatwas distended by slabmuscles, a single-feathered hat propped upon a slanting cranium betweenpointed ears. Long arms hung at its sides, bracelets of spiked steel about thewrists, glinting rings encircling strong thick-knuckled fingers. Beside the orkwasamuchsmallercompanion,notallerthanwaist-hightothehumans.Itsskinwas far paler, its clothes diminutive copies of the ork’s but even moreextravagant in colour and jewellery. The feathers that adorned its cap werealmostastallasthewearer.Thethrone’sincumbentwasdressedinasilk-like,open-frontedrobeofpurpleandblack–patriciancolours.His fleshwasscarred inmanyplaces,his faceadualityofwhitescar tissueononesideand lividwealson theother.Theburnmarkscontinueddowntohischest,obscuringoldtattoos.From this came his name,which issued from the lips of his followers, sungsoftlyatfirst.‘TheBurnedMan.TheBurnedMan.TheBurnedMan.’Voicesrisinginacrudeharmony,thelyricreboundedfromthemetalwalls.

‘TheBurnedMan!TheBurnedMan!TheBurnedMan!’His titlewas likeaprayer,and thesavagemassaround thewalls reachedouttheirhandstohim,imploringhimtoturnaneyetowardsthem.Thecaptiveswere thrust forward,presented to theBurnedManasprizes, theleaderoftheraidingcompanybowinglowsothathisplaitedbeardcutafurrowthroughtheankle-deepmiasma.Amongtheprisonerswasonewhowasneithercowedbyhissurroundingsnorbelligerent.HeworetheshirtandleggingsofanAstraMilitarumofficer;hiscapandcoathadbeentaken.Evenwithoutsuchadornmenthisbearingconveyedhissuperioritymorethananybadgeorepaulettes.Hisgazehadbeen fixedupon theBurnedMan from themomentofentering,oblivioustotheclamouringthreatsthatraineddown.EyesliketwosplintersoficeregardedthelordoftheAcheronSumpwithdetacheddisdain.The Burned Man leaned forward, eyes widening in surprise, orbs of whiteamongstthetorturedfleshofhisface.Asavagegrinbrokehisfeatures.The underhivewarlord stood up and took a step, still staring at the Imperialofficer. He spread his arms wide and turned left then right, sweeping hisattention across the audience. Their singing broke down into a cacophony ofshoutsofpraiseandpleasforattentions.‘Welcometomydomains…Colonel.’

ONEOLDFRIENDS

Ineed tostopgrinning, it’s starting togetweird,butmy jawwon’t respond. Ijust lookdownatColonelSchaeffer.Everything elsehas stopped.Arms, legs,tongue,brain.Noneofit’sworkingatthemoment,likeI’msomescuttlingprey-thingcaughtinthegazeofadeadlyhunter.It’shiseyes,Iswear.Nooneelselooksintomethesameway,piercingmysoulwithout effort. Icicles as cold as the blood in his veins, pushing deeper anddeeperwitheverybreathwestandthere,gazeslocked.Myrictusisstartingtounsettlethecrowd,their tensesilencestretchingalongwithmylipsandcheeks.Theyarewaiting.Waitingformyproclamation.TosayIhavemixedfeelingswouldbelikesayinggettingshotbyalascannonisabitdangerous.Ireallythoughthewasdead.Imean,fragit,IthoughtIwasdeadforawhile.Buthe isstanding thereright infrontofme,asrealasanything.Here, in thedepths of Acheron’s underhive, at least twenty kilometres from anythingresembling Imperial authority. It’s a reminder that beyond the ork-towns, pastbroken habplexes and collapsed manufactory levels, the Imperium’s war forArmageddonrumbleson,ayears-longstalematethathasconsumedmillionsoflivesalready.‘Kage.’Heuttersmynamelikeacurse,teethgritted.‘TheBurnedMan!TheBurnedMan!’Mycompanyraisetheirvoicesinprotest

attheuseofmygivenname.Schaefferdoesn’treact,hejuststandstherewatchingme.I feel his contempt and my smile fades as his scorn washes over me. Thesurprise, delight maybe, gives way to memory. The remembrance that this isColonelSchaefferofthe13thPenalLegion,theLastChancers.Thememorythatheisatotalandutterbastard.‘The Colonel!’ I say again, quieting the crowd with raised arms. I point toSchaeffer.‘Themanthatpluckedmefromnothingnessandthrewmeintoeveryhell-war he could find. Iwasn’t supposed to survive,was I,Colonel?Not thetyranid spore mine swarms of Ichar IV. Not the xenos infiltration ofCoritanorum.Notthefirewarriorsofthet’au.’I take a breath, eyes cast upwards to the ceiling and the mass of themountainoushivecityunseenaboveus.‘Andnothere,inthefiresofAcheron.’Ilowermygazeandmeethis,refreshedby the thoughtofmyelevation. ‘Yet,here I am.Preserved fromdeathat eachturn,andnowraisedabovedeathbythehandoftheEmperorHimself.’Iseehisfirstreaction.Anarrowingoftheeyes,tighteningofthejaw.‘Butyouknowthat,ofcourse.Youcamelookingforme.’‘Traitor!’shoutsoneoftheGuardsmenwithhim.Ithinkit’sLoriiatfirst.ShelookslikeLorii.Exceptshedoesn’t.ShelooksnothinglikeLorii.Paleskin,butnotwhite.Darkhair.Atleasttwentycentimetresshorter.AndLoriiisdead.Itcutheropen.Itusedmyhandstodoit.Anotheroutburstofjeeringringsdownfromtheaudience,butIjustshrug.‘A power far higher than you has judgedme,’ I tell the anonymous trooper.‘Judgedmeanddeliveredmefromtheabyss.’‘TheBurnedMan!TheBurnedMan!’Itreallydoesn’ttakemuchtogetmyfollowersworkedup,andtheyhavebeenin an agitation since news came that the orkswere coming down through thesouth-west ducts. Hearing that we’ve captured an Imperial expedition haspushed them over the edge. I can barely see them but I can feel the pent-upanger,aseething,livingthingthatroarsthroughtheirthroatsandglaresthroughtheireyes.Athingthatthirstsforblood.Atmy left,Nazrek stirs, its bulk shifting as it feels the surge of emotion.Anoiselikegravelcrushingfleshrumblesfromtheork’s throat.Grotsniggers in

itshigh-pitchedway.I really hadn’t expected it to be the Colonel. If I’d known, I wouldn’t havearrangedthiscelebration.Thecrowdaretooexcitable.IfIdon’tcalmeverythingdown,someone’sgoingtothrowsomething,andthensomeoneelseisgoingtocopythem,andit’llbeabloodbath.It’safinelinebetweenstoppingthemkillingthesetroopersanddenyingthemventfortheirgrowinganger.Angerthathasswelledinrecentdays,fornoreasonIcanuncover.Justaragethathasstirreduptheorks,therivalwarlords,eventheImperialGuardcampedoutside thehive.Everyoneseemseager fora renewedwar.‘Here he is, delivered into my grasp by the Emperor,’ I tell my audience,reaching out a hand to Schaeffer and then closingmy fingers into a fist. ‘Foryears hewas themaster.Now he is powerless. The balance of the scales hastippedinmyfavour,yes?’There’saroarofapprovalinanswer.‘But remember, Iwas once like thosewith him.They are his thralls, here inservicetotheGod-Emperor.Dutiful,followingorders,findingtheirplaceintheschemeoftheMasterofMankindlikeallofus.’Schaeffer’sbrowfurrowsashelistens,butheremainssilent.‘Sparethemourcondemnationuntilweknowtheirsouls,’Itellmypeople.Myfistbecomesapointingfinger,beckoningtotheColonel.‘Butthisone,hecomeswithme.’I stride from the stage without looking back. Nazrek lumbers after me,grunting,whileGrothurriesbehind.Therestofmylieutenantstouchfingerstotheirflame-badgesinsaluteasIpass.

Mychambersaredownashortcorridoradjoiningthesumpvat.Theyusedtobeanoverseer’soffice,Ithink.Anarmoureddoorbarsentry,butIleaveitopenandwaitinside.Karoland threeofhisgangbring theColonelalong thecorridor.Theyescorthimratherthanmanhandlinghim,reluctanttolayhandsonSchaeffer.Helookslike he is on a parade ground, back straight, arms swinging as though onmarchingdrill.His eyes aremoving now, taking in everything, passing overme, looking atNazrek, the guards, the environment. I back away from the door as heapproaches,allowinghimtoenter.Theouterchamberhasacoupleofbenchesandasmalltable,thewallsbareplaster,crackedinplaceswheretheancienthive

cityhassettledovertheages.IgiveKarolanodandhe leaveswith theothers. I close thedoor,giving thelockhandleaspin.‘ThanktheEmperoryo–’Ibegin.InstinctcausesmetoduckandtwistasIturnbacktowardstheColonel.Schaeffer’s straightened fingers, intended for my throat, miss by a fewcentimetres.Iguesshe’snotheretobringmeinalive.Idrivemyknucklesintothepointofhisjaw.Ashereelsfromtheblow,Ikickhardatthesideofhisknee,trippinghim.Ibackoff,handsraised,ratherthanfollowingup.‘Holdon!’Ibarkathim.‘Givemeafraggin’chance!’Schaefferstandsup,flexinghisfingers.‘Iknewyouwerenotdead,’hesays. ‘Ididnotknowhow,but Iknewit.Nobody,noproof.’Hestepstotheright.Imovetokeepthetablebetweenus.‘I’mahardmantokill.That’swhyyoulikemesomuch.’There’saflickerofacknowledgementbuthisgazehardens.‘WhenIheardtherewasawarlordcalledtheBurnedMan,Ididnotthinkmuchaboutitatfirst.Evenso,itnaggedatme.Ihadtoseeformyselfwhetheritwastrueornot.’‘Andit’strue.’Hedropshisshoulderasthoughhe’sabouttoheadrightbutI’mnotfooled.Ivaultthetableashelungesaroundtotheleft.‘You shouldknowbynow,Kage.Youcannot run fromme.You cannot hidefromme.’‘Learntthatthehardway,’Ilaugh.Thearmoureddoorisbehindme.Nochancetoturn.IfIputmyhandbacktofeelforthelockwheeltheColonelwillbeonmelikeaNarusianpanther.Escape isn’t the point. If I open the door, Nazrek and the others will comepilingin.Schaefferinterruptsmyracingthoughts,abootedfootconnectingwiththelipofthetable,skiddingittowardsmylegs.Hefollowsit,fistpulledback.Iroll,shoulderhittingtheferrocretehard, jarringmyneck.Icometomyfeetandkeepgoing,jumpingupontooneofthebenches,throwingakickbackashecomes afterme.My heel connectswith his forehead but he bulls through thestrike,seizingmykneeandthigh.Itwist,tryingtospinmyotherfootaround.Heducks,blockingmybootwith

hisshoulder.Tuckingmyselfintoaroll,Itumblefreebutlandawkwardlyonmyhead.Irollwithoutlooking,hisstampcrashingintothefloorasplitsecondaftermyneckhasmoved.‘You should have had your friends kill me when you had the chance.’ TheColonel steadies himself as I back away. I feel a lightness at my left hip aninstantbeforeIseemycombatknifeinhishand.‘Youslyfragger.’Nosuddenonslaught this time.TheColoneledges forward,bladeheld ready.He knows I’m good with a knife. Really good. And that means I’m good atdealingwithsomeoneelsewithaknife.Firstruleoftheknifefighter:don’tbringaweaponiftheenemycantakeitoffyou.‘You betrayedme.You left us to die.’ It’s the first time he’s shown any realemotion,hisfrowndeep.‘I never betrayed you.’ I step back andmy calves touch the other bench. ‘Ifinishedthemission.Youwouldhavedonethesame.That’swhatbeingaLastChancerisabout!Finishthemission,evenifnobodygetsoutalive.’There’saslighthesitation,buthecontinueson,takinganotherstepcloser.Thebladetipweavesleftandright,smallmovementstomaskthemomentofintent.‘That’s right.’He locks that stareonmeagain. ‘Finish themission,even if itmeansnotwalkingoutalive.’Myprioritiesarerapidlychanging.There’salaspistolinmybedroom,thedoortothenextchamberbetweenmeandtheColonel.Idon’ttaketheweapontotheaudiences;Idon’tliketheideaofbringingagunamongabunchofpeoplethatmightwanttouseitonme.Imakeonelastbidforclemency.‘I thought Iwoulddie,’ I tell theColonel. ‘IgrabbedvonStraband threwusintothefurnacechasm,tokillusboth.’‘Sowhyareyounotdead?’Ishrug.‘TheEmperorsavedme.’I forgethowfasthecanmove,even thoughhe’sat least twentykilosheavierthanme.Ihavetotakeacuttomyforearmtodeflecttheknifefrommyeyeball.Spinning,Ichopmyhandintohisneck,hopingtostunhim.I don’t. He backhands me across the jaw, the whip of his hand giving theinstinctiveblowterribleforce.Itknocksmeontothebench,whereIsprawl,headbangingonthewood.Myvisionfuzzesasheloomsoverme.‘Thankyou.’

Hestops,confusedbymywords.‘What?’‘Thankyou,’Itellhim,sittingup.Itiltmyheadback,submittingmythroattotheknifeedge.‘Forsavingmysoul.Iwilldiepurified.’Schaefferleansoverme,thebladedescendingtowardsthearteryinthesideofmyneck.‘Icameheretokillatraitor,’hegrowls.Itseemslikehiswordsaren’tforme.Ilowermyhead,meetinghisstare.Mywordscomeslowandhonest.‘Iamnotatraitor.’Icanfeel thetensioninhisbody,expectingmetocounter-attack, toseizetheknife.Itakeinaraggedbreath,hardlydaringtoletitoutagain.Thewrongmoveandmybloodbecomesdecor.‘Ididn’thaveyoukilledbecausewhywouldIwantyoudead?’‘There are a lot of reasons,’ the Colonel replies. ‘You listed them. Ichar IV.Coritanorum.Brightsword.Acheron.’‘And I understandwhy that happened. I know the Emperor guidedme here.AndIgavemyselftoHim,andIhavebeenredeemedformydoubtsandsins.’Theknifetremblesjustafraction.Istilldon’tdaremove.‘This doesn’t have to be the end of it,’ I tell him, thewords comingwithoutthought.Butit’snotdesperation,it’snotthebaseclingingtolifethatdrovemeforsomuchofmylife.It’struth,uncensored,spillingfrommythoughtstomylips. ‘Sooner or later youopen that door andget killedby thepeople outside.This is a bad place to die for no good reason. There’s something happening,somethingbig,Icanfeelit.Bettertoliveandfightit.’TheColonelstaresatmeforwhatfeelslikeanage,seekingdeceptionthatisn’tthere.Isaynothingelse.Eventuallyhestepsback.Inoticethathedoesn’toffermetheknife.‘It’sgettingdangerousdownhere,’ I tellhim.‘It’sgoing toexplodesoonandI’dbebetteroffsomewhereelse.’‘Yourpeoplearenotgoingtoletmesimplywalkawayfromhere.Oryou.’‘Iknow.’

TheColonelnottryingtokillmeisanimmediateimprovementonthesituation,butitdoesn’tsolveanyofthebiggerissues.‘Ihaveabolthole,’Itellhim,tiltingmyheadtowardstheadjoiningchambers.‘Fakeventcover,outintothetunnelsthatrununderthesumpways.’‘Thatwillnothelpthemenandwomenwhocamewithme.’

‘No.’Iflopdownontothebench,wrackingmybrains.‘We need to isolate the objective and then determine the best direction fromthat,’saystheColonel.‘Likeanyothermission.’Inodandextendahand,invitinghimtocontinue.‘Yourfollowersharboursignificantanti-Imperialsentiment.’‘No,that’snotit.They’rejustprotectiveoftheirterritory.’Istandup,movingtothedoortothenextroom.Icanseetwobottlesonanupturnedcrate.One’swater,theotherisastrongspiritwecallFlamerFuel.Istepinsideandpickupthe water. ‘They’re also protective of me. Maybe a bit too attached, really.They’regoodpeople…butdesperate.Needy.’Itakeaswigofwaterandofferthebottle.TheColonelhesitatesandthentakesit off me, swilling the liquid around his mouth for a few seconds beforeswallowing.‘The BurnedMan. It is a story, nothing more. A lie to impress the simple-minded,’hecontinued.‘Nolie.’HepassesbackthewaterandIstopperthebottletoputitonthebench.AsIkeeptalking,Irighttheupturnedtable.‘TheyknowwhoIam,whatIdid,whereIcamefrom.’‘Andhow theEmperor savedyou?’Schaeffer shakeshishead. ‘The rumoursthat I heard toldof amanwhoplunged into the fires andemergedwith angelwings, alight with golden flame. Admit it, it is a convenient myth. At least,convenientuntilyouneed to leaveyourmiscreant followersbehind.Youwerenevergoodattakingresponsibility,Kage.’‘It’swhathappened,’Iinsist.‘Icouldn’tsayforsureaboutthewings,butotherthanthat,Ifellintotheflamesandtheyburnedme.’Itakeastepcloserandhestiffens.Thetipofmyfingertracesthemoltenswirldownthesideofmyface.‘IburnedbutIlived.The…thingthatwasinsideofme.Thethingthatmademebetrayyou,thatkilledLorii…Itwasaforcefromtheabyss,amessengerofthedarkness. But the Emperor purged it from my thoughts and rescued me.Redeemedme!’Schaeffersaysnothingashescrutinisesmeagain.Withasigh,hestepspastmeandtakesthewaterbottle.Heopensitandliftstherimtohislipswithhiseyesstillonme.‘Why?’hegrowls.‘WhydidtheEmperorsaveme?’Henods.‘ThesamereasonHesavedmeahundredtimesbefore,Isuppose.Everybullet

thatmissed.DuckingjustamomentbeforethatsporemineexplodedonIcharIV.Givingmethestrengthtobreakthegod-plant’smindcontrolonFalseHope,toresist xenos hypnotism in Coritanorum. How many times has He saved you,Colonel?’He opens his mouth, to argue I’m sure, but then closes it without sayinganything.Icanguesshisthoughts,becauseI’vehadthesameones.‘Justchance,right?’Isay.‘Thebullet’sgottafindsomeone,onlythesurvivorscanclaim theywereblessed, thedeadgotnothing to say.Luck?Coincidence?Butthenyouhavetoaskyourself,ifit’salljustgoodandbadfortune,what’sallthis business about our souls being saved by the Emperor? Either the God-Emperor iswatching, andmaybe taking a hand, orHe isn’t…Like thatmad,brokenpreacherGappousedtosay.WhatifHewasn’tlisteningwhenyoupray?Or Kronin, poor bastard. Talking only in verses from the Litanies of Faith.Should’vebeendeadinachapel,guttedbyatyranid.Maybehesawsomethinghecouldneverexplain.Feltsomething…immortal?Inhuman?’‘Areyousayingthatiswhatyoufelt?ThetouchoftheEmperoruponyou?’Foronce,there’snodisdainintheColonel’squestion.‘Itrulydid.TheflameslickedatmyskinandIfeltapowerinsideme,liftingmefromtheirembrace.IntheflamesIsawthefaceoftheEmperor,intheirroarIheard…’I’ve told thisstoryahundred times, itgetsabitmore flowerywitheachretelling,butas theColonelstaresatmewithoutreactionthepoetryslipsaway.Istripitbacktothebasics.‘Therewasaweight,apressureinmyhead,likewhentheabyssalmessengerwascontrollingmythoughts.’TearsstarttorolldownmycheekasIrememberit,harsherthanbefore.There’ssomethingabouttheColonelstandingthere,listening,likemaybehe’ssharingittoo. I remember how he’s nearly died Emperor only knows howmany times.Andhe’s beenput back together, stitchedup,workedonby theMartian tech-priests.Hejustlistens,intent,noquestions.‘Therewasfireonme,andIfell intooneof theunderhive tunnelsbrokenbythechasm.ButasIlaythere,IfeltthemetalundermyfingersandIdugmynailsintoitandIclungtoitlikeIwasgoingtoslipbackintotheflames.Irememberpraying.ThankingtheEmperorforgivingmemylastchance.Andyou.IaskedtheEmperortoprotectyou.Ithurt.Hurtsofraggin’muchIthoughtIwasgonnadieanyway.Notthefire,buttheknivesinsidemyhead.Ipushedintothepain,brought it close, and then tried to bury it, calling on the Emperor again andagain. Then it was gone, leaving me. It felt like a gentle breeze through mysoul.’

WhenI’mdone,Istandthereshaking,staringathisfaceforsomesignofwhathe’sthinking.Helooksmeupanddown,slowly,gaugingeverybitofme.‘Andthat iswhyyourfollowerswillnotbehappyforyouto leave.TheyseeyouasaconnectiontotheEmperor.Theirprophet,theirguide.’‘Idon’tsayanyofthatstuff,thoughsomeofthemsayitforme.’‘Youdonotdenytheirclaims.’‘Theycanbelievewhattheywant.IfIstartarguing,allofthiscomestumblingdown,andmewithit.’‘Whichbringsusbacktothequestionofhowyouwillextricateyourselffromyourfollowers.’‘DoIneedto?’ThequestionsurpriseshimandtheColonelrubsaknucklealongthesideofhisnose,thinkingforafewseconds.‘Whatareyouproposing?’‘Weallgetoutofhere,outofAcheron.’‘Youareadeserter.Youhaveothersinyourranksthatabandonedtheirposts.WhywouldtheyreturntotheImperialGuard?’‘I’msureyoucanhandlethatsideofthings.Ifyouhaveamission,thatmakesus the new13thLegion.That’s not the biggest problem. I’d be happy to dealwith that if we can get to the Imperial lines. No, it’s the thousands of orksbetweenusandtherethat’llbethehardestthing.’‘You have been fighting the orks since our parting, what makes this sodifferent?’‘There’s fighting to keep some territory, maybe some raids, keep the powerbalance.Andthenthere’sleadingfifteenhundredmen,womenandchildrenoutthroughork-heldunderhive.’‘Children?’‘Therearefamiliesdownhere,cametotheBurnedManlookingforprotection.’‘Youreallyloveplayingthesaviour,Kage.’‘Nobody’splaying,’I tellhimwithagrimace.Thenmymoodimprovesasanideasettles.‘Buttheholysaviourstorywouldprobablyconvincethemtocomewithus.IspinayarnaboutyoucomingtotakeusoutforsomeEmperor-blessedwareffort,thatwe’veallbeencalleduponbythePowerofTerra.’TheColonelgrowls.‘IamnotgoingtoconcedethatyouhavebeenblessedbytheEmperor.’‘You’resostubborn!’ Ipacebackandforthafewtimes,handsclenchingandrelaxing. ‘I’m telling the truth!And even if you don’t believeme,what’s the

problem?Doyouwanttogetoutofhereornot?’‘Compromise is the crack in the wall of sanctity. Principles are notstubbornness.’‘YousoundlikeawalkingThoughtfortheDay,’Isnarl.‘Ihaveotherconcerns.Aboutyou.Yourrecentpast.’Schaefferfoldshisarms.‘You have always been self-serving but your actions during the von Strabmissiongobeyondself-preservation.Icannottrustyou.’‘You’venevertrustedme.’‘I have always relied upon you to do the best for your own survival.Whatoccurred in the court of von Strab, the way you turned on us, was beyondsurvival.Itwasvindictiveandhomicidal.’‘And itwasn’tme!’ Ikick the table leg in frustration. ‘I toldyou that!Therewasaspiritoftheabysswithinme,pushingmedowninsidemyownthoughts.’‘Whichyouclaimtohavesingle-handedlypurged.’‘Notsingle-handed.’Isighandshakemyhead.‘ItwastheEmperor.ThebreathoftheGod-Emperorpassedthroughme.’‘I broughtOahebs for a reason.’TheColonel turnshis shoulders slightly, hisposture directing my attention to the door. He tilts his head a little, eyesunwavering.‘Doyouwanttobesurethatallofthedarkmessengerhasgone?’I’mabouttospitoutanotherangryreplybutstopmyself.TheLitaniesofFaithare full of martyrs that died for the Imperial Creed. A bit of doubt from theColonelisn’tallthatgreatanobstacle.‘Allright,we’lldoityourway,’Itellhim,movingtothelockwheel.Ispinitopenandpushthedoorjustwideenoughtopokemyheadout.Nazrek,Karolandtheothersturninsurprise.‘Himdead?’growlstheork,leaningtolookpastmeintothechamber.‘Ihavesparedhimforthemoment,’Isayarchly,directingmywordsatKarol.‘Ineedoneoftheothers.SendfortheonecalledOahebs.Remember,they’renottobehurtuntilI’vedecidedwhattodowiththem.’Slamming the door before they can ask awkward questions, I turn thewheelbackintothelockedpositionandletoutalongbreath.‘Thebenefitsofblindobedience,’ says theColonel. ‘But it ishollowwithoutrespectforyou.It’sbasedonlyonthepoweryouclaimtohave.’‘Iknow.’This timeIheadfor theFlamerFuelwhenIgo into thenext room.There’saplainmetalcupbesidethebottleandIhalffillit.Istop,handhalfwayto my mouth. ‘I know what I went through, but that doesn’t mean I’m notwaiting for someambitiousspark in that lot to thinkmaybe they’ddoabetter

jobofit.’Ireturntothebench,drinkuntouched.‘And it’s not been goingwell, these last ten days or so.A lot of setbacks. Imean, really vicious fighting.’ My head starts to pulse, a throb that’s beenbuggingme for about the sameamountof time. I downamouthfulofFlamerFuel,lettingthesensationofburningtongueandthroatdistractmefromtheacheinsidemy thoughts. ‘Perhaps it’s theEmperor tellingme it’s time tomoveon.Maybeanomenofyoucominghere.’TheColonellooksthoughtfulforafewseconds,lookingaway.Whenhiseyesreturntomethere’sapeculiarqualitytohisgaze,likeuncertainty.‘Whatisit?’Iask.Atfirsthedoesn’tlooklikehe’sgoingtoanswer,butthenrelents,unfoldinghisarms,fistsstillclenched.‘Therehavebeenbadauguriesfromtheastropathsforthelastsixtyorseventydays.Navigation inandoutof theArmageddonSystemhasbeengettingmoredifficult.WildtalkabouttheAstronomicandimming.Beingclouded.’‘LiketheShadowintheWarp?’Isuggest.‘Notthetyranids,’saystheColonel.‘Theorks,then.Nazrektalksaboutit.The“biggreen”.Asortoforkinesstheyallshare,getsstrongerthemoreofthemtherearearound.’‘Notorks,’Schaeffersaysheavily.‘Ithinkyourabyssalstowaway,theoneyousayyouhaveexpunged,wasaprecursorofsomethingelse.Thewarpisstirringinstrangeways.’‘I’vebeendoingthislongenoughtoknowthatmeansaprizeopportunitytodosomethinginsanelysuicidalfortheEmperor.’‘Youaremistaken.Ihavenomission,Kage.’Hesaysitalmostapologetically.It’sthenthatIrealisehe’snotjusttalkingaboutthebigevents,butthewordsaremorepersonal.‘That’swhyyoucameafterme!Gettingbored,wereyou?Ihearstuff.Thelineshavebeendrawnonthemapforagoodwhilenow.Imperialforcesduginoutthere,theorksmostlyhappytostayinhere.Yougotstucksittinginatrenchwithfrag-alltodo,didn’tyou?’IlaughatSchaeffer’sglareofannoyance.‘What justification did you come up with?’ I neck the remaining alcohol,burning away the last ofmy reservations. ‘Did theBurnedMan pose a threatsomehow?’‘I came to kill a traitor,’ the Colonel growls, stiflingmy humour. ‘That wasreasonenough.’

TWOACHANGEOFPLANS

A clang on the door announces the arrival of Oahebs, cutting off any furtherconversation.Iwrenchthedooropen.‘Thattooklongenough,’Ibark.Karsteisontheotherside,nosignofKarol,Nazrekor the others. Shehas a panicked look that immediately setsmyheartracing.‘Whatisit?’‘Orks,comingdown through theWasteScrub,’ shegushes,moving fromonefoottotheother,causingheruprightcrestofhairtoswaylikeabird’sfeathers.Anuphiverbybirth,Karstefleddownherewhentheorksinvaded.She’dalwaysbeenabitskittish,butwasloyal.‘Why?Why’dtheybecomingdownhive?’Sheshrugs,agitationgrowing.‘Sasski-Ransaysthere’realotofthem.Alot.’My brain finally starts paying attention to the background noise. Shoutsechoingfromthesumphall;thethudofdozensoffeetmoving,clangingdownsteps;thecreakofmetalasthegantriesshakeunderthemovementofthecrowd.I see the fear inKarste’s eyes and imagine itmultiplied a hundredfold bymyfollowersinthesumphall.Idashbacktotheotherroom,snatchupmylaspistolandthenheadoutofthedoor.She half turns away, eager to be moving too, eyes straying back down thepassageway.‘Where’s Karol gone? People are gonna die in the stampede.’ I grab her

shoulder,draggingherattentionbacktome.‘Where’sKarol?’‘Hewenttothesumpgates,tolocktheportal.’‘It’s too late for that, if there’s orks in theWaste Scrub,’ I say. She glancesdownatmyfingersdigging through thematerialofhervest. I letgo,steppingback. ‘Headdown into thewalkaroundsand roundupeveryoneyoucan.Takethemtothedownflow.’‘Downflow?Thereareorksattheotherendofthedownflow.’‘Lessthanuphive.’‘Whatisyourplan?’TheColonelsuddenlyatmyshouldercausesmetoflinch.‘Youdohaveaplan,yes?’‘Run,’Isay.‘Geteverybodyoutofthesumpwaysfirstandworryaboutwhat’snextoncewe’reoutofhere.’Aslowclangingbeginsinthepipesrunningalongthelengthofthepassagewayand up through the sump hall. A trickling follows after, becoming a strongerflow,thebracketsrattlingasliquidsurgesupthelong-disusedpipeways.‘Whatdoesthatsignify?’askstheColonel,lookingup.Istartdownthepassage,grabbingKarste’swristsothatshefollows.‘ItmeansKarolwastoolate,andnowhe’sfloodingthedropdrainstoslowtheorksdown.’Awailingsirenjoinsthesoundofgushingwater,intermittentanddistant.IfeelKarsteshudderatthenoiseandincreasemypacetoajog,glancingbacktomakesureSchaefferisfollowing.‘Andthat’sthesignalfromtheflueyards.They’recomingatusbothways.’Myjog becomes a run as shouts echo down the passage from the sump hall. Aquestion keeps hammering atmy thoughts and I let it outwith a snarl. ‘Whynow?Whataretheyafter?’As I feared, the sump hall is pandemonium. Those on the upper levels areclimbingbackupthroughtheventpipes,butthat’sgoingtotakethemintotherunnerways that criss-cross the broken hivefloor above – noway out of thereexceptback into the sumpor into thepathof theorks.Those lowerdown theviewinggalleriesareheading to the floor, someof them trying topushothers,clawingtheirwayforward.Fightshavebrokenout,addingtothemayhem.‘I thought you would be better prepared for attack,’ says the Colonel as wereachmythroneplatform.‘Howhaveyousurvivedforsolong?’‘The underhive orks are scrawny things, like the jungle ferals we fought.There’snotenoughdownherefor themtofeedon,Nazreksays,so theydon’tgettoobig.Thehiveorks,theydon’tbothercomingdownherebecausethere’s

nothingworthtakingandnothingworthfighting.’‘Untilnow,’addsSchaeffer.Ishrug.‘I don’t know. Nothing’s changed.’ My gaze settles on the prisoners, sittinghuddled and confused in a ring ofmy fighters. The escorts don’t look happy,caughtbetweenthejobofkeepingthemcaptiveandthespreadingpanic.Icanseeafewofthemhavemadearunforitalready.‘Maybetheythoughttherewasanewattack,’Isay,lettinggoofKarste.Ipointhertothestepsonmyleft.‘Goon,roundupwhoyoucan.’Sheboltsoffwithoutalookback.‘MaybetheorksheardarumourofImperialsoldierscomingintotheunderhiveandcametosayhello.’‘Youthinkthisismyfault?’TheColonelshakeshishead.‘Therearehundredsof thousands of soldiers camped outside Acheron, why would the orks payattentiontoasingleplatoon?’‘Rumours can kill,’ I say. ‘A platoon becomes a company, becomes aregiment…And if those uphive orks have been getting as cranky as the oneswe’vebeenscrappingwithlately…Itchingforafight.Anyexcuse.’Iwavemy hands and start yelling, trying to attract the attention of themobchurning down into the sump hall, imploring them to slow down, to stoppanicking.Someturn,stepsfaltering;othersploughontowardsthedoorat thefarend–averticalgatethatusedtobeforthealgaescraperstoaccessthemainsumpthatIturnedintomyaudiencehall.‘Withme!’ I bellow at the guards, grabbing the lasgun from the closest as Ireach them.Someof them lookat theColoneland thecaptives, slow to react.‘Don’tworryaboutthem.Comewithme.’SchaeffermustershissoldierswhileIpushonwithmine,callingforpeopletocalmdownasIwadeintothecrowd.Thecommandstartstorippleoutwards,tooslowlyforsome,pressedtightinthepackortrampledastheyfall.‘Cleartheway!Outofmyway!’AsIshout,IslapmyhandontheshoulderofYousef, one of the guards. ‘Get over to the steps on the other side, sloweverythingdown.Nobody’sgettingoutofhereifwejustpanic.’Henodsandsetsoffwithsomeoftheothers.They’remybest,likeKarolandhis lot, ex-ImperialGuard,veteransof theorkwar.Clear-headed,but someofthemnotsodependableI’dturnmybackonthem.GiventhecompanyI’vekeptbefore,they’reaprettysolidbunch.Schaefferstaysclose tome,happy to followfor themoment. Istartdragging

peopleback, forcingmyway into thecrushasweget closerandcloser to thegateway.Likeline-passingbucketsatafiredrill,wepullpeopleawayandmovethemtotheback,likewe’rediggingthroughthecrowd.Finally, we get to the gate, parting the last press like a blade, forcing a fewthroughthegapinfrontofus.‘Twoata time,nomore,’Igrowl to themenandwomenaroundme,passingthroughthegate.‘Taketheeaststridetothedownflow.’I linger just on the far side of the gate to make sure everything is in hand.There’s some tussles as they establish the new system but I hear themessagespreadingbackthroughthemob.Justthesmallesthintoforder,orsomeonewithaplan,settlesthemoodoverthenextcoupleofminutes.‘Follow on, when the last ones are out,’ I tell my people, receiving nods inreply.There’s a steady streamof folks headingdown thedimly lit passage, turningleftattheforkattheend,furtherintothedepths.Thetrampoffeetonferrocreteis continuous, filling the space along with the smell of smoke and sweat. Abreeze wafts back from a clanking recycling unit at the far end, bringing thestenchofoldwaterstilltrappedinthesumpheads.‘We’llhookupwithKarolby thedeepboundsand then lead theway throughthedownflow,’ItellSchaeffer.I’mjustonthevergeofthinkingthatwecankeepthisundercontrolwhenthewholepassageshuddersandaboomthundersaroundus,cascadingdustandrustfromtheceiling.AfewshoutsfrombehindwarnusthatnotalliswellandIhalf-turnintimetoseeafreshtideofpeoplesurgingthroughthegate,shoutingandscreaming.‘Armoury!Thatway!’IyellatSchaeffer,pointingdowntherightforkahead.Ithrowhimthelasguntoo.‘Anyonetriestostopyou…’He’salreadymovingaheartbeatlater,snappingofforderstohavehisgroupfallin. I feel a shiver courseupmyspineandcatchaglanceof a familiar faceastheygopast.It’sOahebs,thepsychicnull,glaringatme,andthenhe’slostintheshadowsofthegloomycorridor.‘TheBurnedMan!’Thecrycomesfromawomaninthecrowd,hiddenbythemasses,hervoicealmostlostinthereturningchorusofshoutsandcries.‘Blessme!Blessme!’Herintentiscaughtbyothersandsomeofthembreakawayfromthegeneralmovement, coming towards me with hands outstretched, eyes alight withdesperation.

‘TheBurnedMan!’ theycall,hoping that Icansomehowsave themjustwithmypresence.Mytouch.‘Fragthis,’Isnarl,tonooneinparticular.Ibreakintoarun,weavingthroughthepeoplestreamingdowntheeaststride.Thecorridorbroadensoutintoawider,vaulted hall. There’s a section where the underhive has shifted over thecenturies,creatingadropofabouttenmetres.Walkwaysofscavengedmetalandplastekcablingzigzagdowntheferrocretecliff.Itaketheshorterroute.Jumpingfromonetothenext,Ireachthebottomjustasanotherboomofdetonationrollsfromabove.Everyoneelseisstreamingacrossthesplithalltotheremainsofanoldpumpingstationtotheright,butIheadleft.There’sashortcuthere,providingyoucanpullyourselfupaboutfivemetresofcableandsqueezethroughacrawlholeIwouldn’twishonaservitor.I haulmyselfup the improvised rope and through the accesshatch,getting afacefullofstinking,hotfumesflowingfromsomewhereuphive.Myeyessting,my nostrils burn and I keepmymouth clamped tight as I wriggle across themaintenanceflueandpushopenthegrilleontheotherside.HeadfirstIrolloutof thepipe,coming tomyfeetonahaphazardscaffoldplatform.RottenwoodalmostgiveswayundermybootsasIedgealongtheplankstoacorrodedladderattheend.Straightdownisahundred-metredropintotheundersump.Nothingdowntherebutrustratsandslowdeath.I step out onto the ladder and then jump across a small gap to amore solidledgeontheotherside–theremainsofanoldinspectionwalkwayaroundtheoutsideofthemainsumpcontainer.Duckingthroughaservicegap,avoidingthelastvestigesofjaggedglassaroundtheframe,Icomebackontotheeaststride,avoidingthemassivedog-legaroundthepumpstationremains.Droppingthelastmetrebacktotheground,Igivemyselftimetothink.It’llbeanotherminuteortwobeforeanyoneelsecatchesupfromthelongwayround,thoughIcanhearthemcoming.There’s a junction just a fewmetres away, a sort of nexus between themainsumpanddozensofaccessroutesthatmusthaveledtomonitoringstations,hab-blocks and Emperor knows where else. Most of it’s a rubble-choked mess,impossible to get through now. The strideways are tunnels dug through thebrokenrockcrete,alotofthemcollapsedagain.ThreethatIknowofkeepgoing.The eastern corridor curves around to the downflow, a massive dry-drainsystemwheretheorkshavecreatedasettlement.Themoisture’sgoodforthemandwe have to use flamers to keep their fungal spread from creeping too farbackupthepipes.

There’sthesouth-eastcorridorthatleadsdeeperintoorkterritory,aboutanothertwokilometresin-hiveasnearaswecantell.It’swhereourpatchjoinswiththebrokenexpanseknownastheWasteScrub.Nopointgoingthatway,straightintothehiveorks.Andthenorthway.I linger for a moment, looking down the black passage. It’s just about bigenough for aperson togoalongat a crouch.Whiffsofgaspocketsmeanyoudon’twanttotakeanakedflamedowntherewithyou,andportablepowercellsare rarer than commissar smiles down here, so it’s a three-hour pitch-blackcrawl.Butafterthat,there’sagoodchanceofgettingouttothehiverim.It’stoosmallfor theorks touse,and too treacherousforagroup toevacuate,so it’d justbeme.ItellmyselfthatI’vechanged.IfeltthetouchoftheEmperoronmysoulandthat’sgottomeansomething.Hedidn’tkeepmealivejustsothatIcouldscavtogetherahalf-arsedcultforHimandthenrunawaywhenitgotdangerous.I’m the Burned Man. I have followers. People depending on me. A wholebunchoffolkshaveputtheirtrustinme.Theirfaith.Andstillmybodyisignoringmygoodintentions,keepingmehoveringatthejunctioninsteadofturningtotheeaststridewaylikeI’msupposedto.A guttural shout causes me to flinch, instinct almost throwing me into thedarknessbeforeIprocessthesound.‘Boss!’ Nazrek bellows again, lumbering towards me from the south-easttunnel,Grotscamperingatitsheels.BeyondthemIseeKarolwithbeard-braidsswaying,andabouttenotherscomingatmequickly.MyguiltmakesmekeenlyawareofwhereI’mstanding,andIstepbackfromthenorthpassage,asthoughputtingdistancebetweenmeanditwillallaytheirsuspicions.‘What’sthenews?’IaskastheorkandKarolreachme.‘Neverseenanythinglikeit,’saysKarol.‘Big green,’ grunts Nazrek. The ork raps the side of its head with bulgingknuckles. ‘Feelbiggreen inhere.Lotsofgreen.All coming thisway.LotsofWaaagh!’Thislastsoundisdeliveredasadeafeningshout.‘Thousands, I’d say,’Karol continues, expression haunted. ‘I just opened thefloodbarsandran.’‘Angry.Veryshouty,’Nazrekadds.Grotsayssomething in itschirpiervoice. Itsearsare flatagainst itshead–a

signofworry.NazreksnarlsbackandGrotscampersawayafewstrides,hidingbehindKarol’sleg,redeyesglaringupattheork.‘We’llkeepmoving,’Itellthem,startingtowardstheeastpassage.‘I’msendingeveryone out through the downflow.Keep tight, together, wemight catch theunder-orksbysurprise.’‘Not good,’ says Nazrek, shaking its head, thick lips curling into a grimace.‘Biggreen.Down-runtsfeelbiggreentoo.’‘Nootherchoice,’Isay.IturnasIhearfootstepscomingdownfrombehindus,the firstof the folks fleeing thesumphallemerging from thedistant shadows.It’snotsomucharushnow,moreamovinghuddle,thebraverfollowersleadingthewayinsmallclumps,mostofthemcarryingpipes,sharpenedmetalshivsandotherimprovisedweapons.‘Gowiththem,butdon’tstartthroughthedownflowyet,’ItellKarol.NazrekmovestofollowhimashestepsawaybutIgrabtheork’sarm.‘Stickwithme.Tellmemoreaboutwhatyoufeel in thebiggreen.Howfaraway is thehive-mob?’‘Isnotscanner,boss,’itreplieswithashrug.It’soddhowit’spickedupsomeofourwordsandexpressions.Asurprisinglyquicklearner,whenIthinkbacktothegruntsandbellowsthatusedtomakeuphalfofNazrek’sspeech.Itsaysit’sbecausethe‘green’ isstrongonArmageddon,makestheorkssmarter.HearingaboutsomeofthestufftheBeastGhazghkulldid,Icanbelievethat.‘Like,youfeelhotterbutcan’tsayhowcloserfireis.Isgettinglothotter.’‘Right,’Isaywithanod.Peoplearemovingpastusinnumbersnow,scoresofthem.IseeKarsteamongthe crowd and give her a thumbs up. She looks afraid butmanages a hesitantsmileinreturn.TheorkgruntsandturnsitsheadtolookbacktowardsthetunnelleadingtotheWasteScrub,eyesnarrowed.‘Isnoisy.Loud.’‘That’sthesecondtimeyou’vesaidthat.Whatdoyoumean?What’sloud?’‘Biggreenisloud,boss,’theorksays,squintingdownatme.Itsbrowfurrows.‘Biggreensortalikebuzzinhead.Moreorksisbiggerbuzz,loudernoise.Biggreenisbigloudnow.Notjustgreen,summinkelsetoo.Biggerloud.’‘Biggerloud?’‘Sorta.Diff’rentloud.Bloodloud.’Idon’t reallyhaveany ideawhatNazrek is talkingabout,except Ican feelapinchatthenapeofmyneck.It’sbeenthatwayforthelastfewminutesandI

thoughtitwastension,butit’slikeapulsingthatisn’tintimetomyheartbeat.ThepressureIfeltbefore,creepingdownmyspine,compressingmybackbonewithitsweight.Louder.What’slouder?Ithink.‘Keep moving!’ I shout, waving the crowd on to distract myself fromdisturbing, half-formed thoughts. ‘Thosewithweapons to the front. Report toKarol.’I linger foranotherhalf-minute,urging folksonward. I seeSchaeffermovingwith the crowd, a head taller than everybody else. He surges through them,partingpeoplewithgrowledcommandsandsheerpresence,therestoftheLastChancers following behind. They have amix of lasguns and autoguns, a fewwithpistols.Schaeffer tossesa laspistol tomeashebreaksfromthestreamofpeopleturningtowardsthedownflow.I take the lead, stridingpurposefully along the sideof thedescendingcrowd,callingforpeopletomakeroomahead.Theflowofpeoplestartstoslowdown,gathering them together a hundredmetres or so from the brokenvalve stationthatopensontothedownflow.‘Keep moving,’ I tell them, waving them forward. They seem sluggish,reluctanttopressfurtherforwards.AfewwhisperedpleasanddesperatemoansgreetmeasIarrive.‘Noteveryoneisusedtomarchingintodanger,’theColonelremindsme.‘Mostpeopletrytomoveawayfromit.’‘I hadn’t given it a second thought,’ I confess. ‘I guess I’m just used toconfrontingdeadlyenemieshead-on,thankstoyou,’Heraisesaneyebrowbutdoesn’tsayanything.‘Getgoing,’Ishoutatthedawdlers.‘What about the orks?’ someone asks from the crowd. ‘We haven’t got anyguns.’‘Theonesbehindusaren’tgoingtobeanynicer,’Iremindthem.Stillalotofthemseemhesitant,theinitialpanicwornoff,thethoughtofmovingintodangerwhentheyseemsafetoomuchtoovercome.Iraisemyvoice.‘I’vestareddowndeathtoomanytimestoremember,butdoyouwanttoheartheonethingIknowforsurewillgetyoukilledquickerthananythingelse?’Someofthemdemandtoknowtheanswer,almostbeggingintheirfear.‘Nottryingtostayalive,’Itellthem.Ipointdownthetunnel.‘We’regoingthatway,withourguns.Theorksarecomingfrombehind,soifyouwanttolive,youcomewithus.’

Idon’twaitforanymoredebateandsetoff,shouldersset,eyesfixedahead.Ican hear the tramp of Departmento Munitorum boots behind me from theColonelandhis troopers,and thenamorediffusedshufflingas thecrowdgetsmovingagain.Ipickupthepace,notsurehowlongwehaveuntilthehive-mobaregoingtobeonus.I’dratherbedeepinsump-runtterritorybeforethen.

There’saboutahundredgun-armedfollowerswithKarolat thefiltrationvalvestation.Ayawningpipe,aboutfivemetreshigh,cutsthroughthebrokendebris,straightintotheartificialmountainsidewecallthedownflow.‘Anysignoftheorks?’Iask,seeingsomelamplightsthroughthepipe.‘Not yet,’ Karol replies. He glances past me at the Colonel and the LastChancers,eyeswideningasheseestheweaponsintheirhands.Hiseyescomebacktome,fullofsuspicion.‘What’stheplan,BurnedMan?’‘Don’tworryaboutthem,’Isay,flashingagrinattheColonel.‘They’rejustaskeentogetoutofhereastherestofus.’TheColonelloomscloser,passingascrutinisingglareovermymilitia.‘Howmanyorkslivedownhere?’heasks.‘Hundreds,’saysKarol.IsensetheColonelisformulatingaplan,butthisisn’thiscompany,thisisn’thismission.‘Butspreadoutmostly,’Iadd,cuttinghimoff.‘Big green louder,’ Nazrek tells us, jabbing a bladed heavy pistol down thepipe.‘Down-runtscoming,heartheloudgreen.’‘We’reheretogetthrough,notraid,’IremindKarolandtheothers.‘Movefast,don’tgetstuckinabigfight.’‘Whichway,though?’heaskswithaslightshakeofthehead.‘Gottoheadeastto get out-hive, but I don’t know anyone that’s gone maybe more than akilometrethatway.Couldjustrunstraightintoadeadendandgettrapped.’Ilookbackupthetunnelandseethatalotofmypeoplehavearrived,overathousand altogether. They’re quiet, either sensible enough not to draw theattentionof the orks, or too subduedbywhat’s happening to talk.Eitherway,that’sstillalotofdeadweighttocarryaround.Not deadweight, I remindmyself.My people. The followers of the BurnedMan.ServantsoftheEmperor,drawnbymyfaith.‘Weneedtodothisproperly,’ItellKarol,signallingforafewotherstogathercloser.‘Leadsquadstoscouttheway,advanceinelements–fivegroupsmaybe,aboutahundredineach.’

‘Yourpeoplearenotdisciplinedenoughforthat,’arguestheColonel,glancingoverhisshoulderatthehuddlingmass.‘Evenwithescorts,whichonesaregoingtohavethecouragetowaituntillast?’‘Fine,goodpoint,’Igrowlback,hatingthathe’sright,andhatingitmorethatIhadn’t thought of it. ‘Scout group and main group, it is. Put out two picketsquadstowatchtheflanks,tenineach.Goodeyesandears,nobodyflighty.’Karolnods,lookingawayashethinksofcandidates.TheColonelstepscloser,voice low. He addresses his words to Karol but his gaze lingers onme for amomentlongerthanI’mcomfortablewith.‘Weneeddependablescouts.Nobodythatisgoingtothinkitagoodideatojustmakearunforit.’‘I’ll be with the main body,’ I add, somewhat quickly, I realise. Damn theColonelandhisdoubts.Makingmeoverreact.Athumpresoundsdownthetunnel,causinganoutburstofcriesandcomplaintsfromthejitterycrowd.‘That’ll be the barricades I lowered at the crossvents.’ Karol grimaces as helooksback.‘That’slessthanhalfakilometreaway.’‘Weneed togo,’ I say,pushinghim towards the filtrationchamber. ‘Take thescoutsahead,we’llfollow.’Karolmoveson,pickingoutafewmenandwomenashedoesso.Theothersareshufflingcloser,startingtopushtowardsthedownflowaccess.I’mawareoftheloomingColonel,hispresencedistractingme.‘Howaboutyoumakeyourselfusefulandstopanystragglers?’Isaytohim.‘Youwantmeattheback?’Hiseyesnarrow.‘Closesttotheorks?’Isighandshakemyhead.‘Ifnoneofusgetout, that’snogoodforme,is it?’Isay,disappointedbyhislowopinionbutforcedtoaddressitintermshe’dexpect.‘I’dratheryouwatchourbacksthananyoneelse.’Thatseemstoanswerhim,for themomentat least.Hetakesahandfulofhissquadandpushesbackthroughtheapproachingpeople,urgingthemonward.Itakeup thecall, telling themtomoveonfastbutsteady,sendingseveralmorefolkswithgunseveryfewseconds.Inalineaboutfivewide,ahundredmetreslong,wewormourwayacrossthedownflow–agreatferrocreteslopejustaboutshallowenoughtoclamberdown,illuminated by an ancient glowstrip nearly twentymetres long, powered fromEmperorknowswhere.It’sthelastlightthatwe’renotcarryingwithusandaswesnake into the tunnelbeyond–anoldoutflowpipe thatbreaksabout three

hundredmetreson–webringoutlanternsandhand-lumens.Beamsofyellow,blueandwhitedanceacross therustedpipeway,accompaniedby theclatteroffootfallsandtheswellofmassbreathing,thesurroundingsgrowingcolderwhileexhalationsfogtheair.Nazrek stompsalongatmy right shoulder, gruntingevery fewsteps.Behind,thepatterofGrot’sbarefeet.Iglancebackattheork,itsredeyesreflectingthelightofthelanterns.‘Whatdoyoufeel?’‘Green,everywhere,’itsays,turningitsheadleftandright.‘Greenandblood,bloodandgreen.Hurtsinmybrain.’Itakethistomeanthedown-runtsareclose,butthere’sbeennothingfromthescoutsyet.Iftherehadbeenanattack,we’dhaveheardgunshotsandshouts.Whataretheywaitingfor?

THREEPASSINGTHROUGHORKDOM

Wepass througha fewabandonedworkshopsand tool rooms–barecarcasseslong stripped of anything useful, filled with shadows and disturbing creakswheremachineryusedtobe.It’snotjustgenerationsofhumanscavengersthathavepassedthrough.Patchesoffunguspuffcloudsofsporesintothestillair,dustingthebarerockcrete.Thesmellisunmistakable,andIseeNazreksniffingintently.‘Old,’theorkssays.‘Weak.’‘Canyouworkoutwhichwaytheyare?’Theorkstompsaboutforabit,while therestof thecrowdmove throughtheworkshops,huddlingtogetherlikeapreyherd,eyesinalldirections.Thoseofusarmed create a kind of corridor for them to move along, standing guard atstairwellsandarchways,passingaheadandkeepingwatchtotherear,amovingprotectivepocket.I’msurprisedthatwehaven’trunintoanyofthedown-runts.Whateverhasstirredtheorksfromuphivemaybehasn’treacheddownhereyet.‘Let’skeepgoing,quickaswecan,’Isaynowandthen,repeatingitslowlyandcalmlysoasnottosetoffanotherstampede.Ifpeoplepanicdownherethey’llheadoffinalldirectionsandwe’llnevergetthemout.‘Gettin’ closer,’ warns Nazrek when we pass into the remains of an oldscriptorium.Icantellwhatitwasbytheraisedoverseerplinthatthefarendandtherust-linedholesinthefloorwherebenchesandlecternsusedtobesecured.Overhead, out of reach, rusting lumen chandeliers continue to flicker,

intermittentlyleachingofftheundergroundthermalenergygrid.Through a half-collapsed corridor we pass single file into the dormitories,probablyofthoselong-forgottenscribes.Roomslargeenoughforascoreofbedseach flankacentralpassageway,eightoneachside.Thereare scrapsofmetalanddiscardedragshere,andoneoftheroomsreeksoforkshit.Aswegetcloserthestenchbecomesalmostunbearable.Fungalgrowthsas largeasmecling tothewalls, forcingus tohackandbatterourway through, everyblowofbladeand gun butt releasing more pungent spores into the air. Strange bugs skitteralong brightly coloured fronds, mandibles working with anticipation, whilelargercreaturesscuttlenoisilythroughanundergrowthofsmaller,drabgrowths.Whilewepresson,Grotstops,stoopingtopluckhandfulsofmushroomsfromthe corner of the floor andwall, jamming some straight into itsmouth, othersintoasmallbag tiedaround itswaist.Nazrekpushespast,carelesslysnappingstems and trampling fungi underfoot, staining its green skin with smears ofyellowandred.Theorkcrouchesinthemidstofthefungusandmakesstrange,softgrunts,ahandheldout.Somethingaboutaslongasmyforearmslithersoutofthefungalcopse,likeacentipedebutwithdisturbinglyorkishfeatures.Aclusterofantennaewaveoveritsredeyes,feelingNazrek,whochucklesdeepinitschestatthetouch.Iwatchfascinated as the alien lifts up the orkipede, stroking a finger along its length.Nazrekstraightens,pinchingtheorkipedehardbehindthehead.Glisteningfangsstaboutlikeswitchblades,drippinggreenfluid.Nazrekliftsthebughigh,lettingthevenomfallontoitsoutstretchedtongue.Theorksmacksitslips,takestheorkipedeinbothhandsandtwiststheheadoffwithadeftmovement.Castingtheheadaside,Nazrekquicklyopensupthehardcarapacewithlongnails,exposinggreenoozingfleshbeneath,whichitdepositsintoanopenmouthwithrelish.Theorkbelchesandturnstome.‘BurnedManwant?’itasks.‘Nothungry,’Isayquickly,whichissayingsomethinggivenwhatI’vehadtoeatinthepast.NazrekshrugsandbendstograbGrotbytheneck.Thesmallerorkoidsnatchesa last fewmushrooms into itsmouth before being flung along the corridor, athreateninggrowlfromNazrekhurryingitalongtheway.

There’s a flutter of reaction ahead, preceding the arrival ofBentza, oneof thescouts.Shecarriesherlasgunslungoverhershoulder,alongknifeinhand.

‘Wefoundprisoners,BurnedMan,’shesaysasshecomesuptome.‘Chainedupinoneoftheroomsahead.’‘Okay,showme,’Ireply,beckoningforNazrektofollow.WeovertaketheothersandfindKarolatabranchjunction,asmallercorridorofroughferrocreteheadingofftotheright,asetofstepsafewmetresalong.Ican hear moaning and whispered urging for silence coming along thepassageway.‘Prisoners?Ours?’IaskasIfallinbesideKarol,turningtowardsthesteps.‘Don’trecognisethem,’hetellsme,leadingmetotheleftonthelandingatthebottomofthesteps,throughadoorlessframeintoalow,broadchamberbarelyhighenoughtostandin.Itsmells likeacompanylatrine,mixedwiththeever-presentfungalstenchofork spoor. There’s nothing in the room except for a gaggle of seven people –three women, four men – chained to a ring in the far wall, the wheel of apumpcycleprotrudingfromametalplatenexttothem.There’safly-riddenpileofhumanwasteinthefarcorner,atthefurthestextentofthechain’sreach,andscrapsoffoodscatteredabout.Someof the slavescryoutwhen they seeme, shockedbymyscars, Iguess.Theybabble,tryingtoformwords,liftingbloodiedhandstowardsus.ThelightfromKarol’slanterncausesthemalltoflinchback.Igrabhisarm,directingthebeamaway,seeingthepainit’scausingthem.‘Frag,’Isay,atalossforanyotherwords.Scabscircletheirankleswheretheshackles bind them, their legs covered in filth, hair down to their waists andfurther.They’reprettymuchthesamegrimycolourasthewalls,andwhentheyspeakIseebloodiedgumsstuddedwithafewteeth, likebunkersonadefenceline.‘Frag,’Isayagain.IthoughtI’dseeneverything,butIwaswrong.‘He…help,’oneofthewomenmanages,pushingherself,trembling,toherfeet.They’reallnaked; I can seewhorlswhere fleshwormshaveburrowed throughtheskin,anddarklesionsfromrustdaggerspores.ThenIseethatoneofthemhasn’tmovedsinceIentered,lyingnearthewall.IdirectKarol’slampontothesupineformandseefliesbuzzingaroundemptyeyesockets. Dead for some time, ork fungus growing from patches on the skin,maggotscreepingthroughrottingwounds.Thistimeit’sKarolthatgivesventtoourdisgust.‘Frag.’Hecovershismouth,retching.‘Fragthis.Fragthis.’‘Keepittogether,’Igrunt,grabbinghisarm.Itakethelanternaway,swingingit

toilluminatethechains.Notthick,butalsonotthin.Thesoundofmovementcausesmetoturn.‘Whatis…’TheColoneltrailsoff,standinginthedoorway,headtilted.If it’sbadenoughtounsettletheColonel,youknowit’sbad.There’samomentwhenhelooksdisgusted,replacedbyvisibleanger.Notoftenyouseeareactionlikethat.Mumbledpleadingfromtheprisonersdragsmyattentionbacktothem;they’restrainingattheirchains,pawingatthedirtyfloorwithblisteredfingers.It’slikethey’veforgottenhowtotalk, justgruntingandsaying‘please’and‘help’overandover.‘What are you going to do?’ asks Karol, as if that’s any kind of sensiblequestion.It’sobviousthere’snotalotwecando.‘Theywillslowyoudown,’saystheColonel,faceimpassiveagain.It’s true, but thewords feel like an accusation, coming fromSchaeffer.WhatgoesunsaidisthatI’lljustabandontheseunfortunatestolookaftermyself.Hedoesn’tsayitbutIfeelthejudgementallthesame.‘Gun,’Isay,gesturingtoKarol.HehandsoverhisrifleandIpullthemagazineout.Ipopabulletfromthetop,reloadthemagazineandpasstheweaponbacktohim.‘What are you doing,Kage?’ asks theColonel, concerned. ‘The orkswill behereinminutes,onewayortheother.’Igivehimsilenceinreply,walkingovertothewallwheretheringisembeddedinplascrete. Idigasmallholewithmyknife, justenough towedge thebulletbetweentheringplateandthewall.Steppingback,Idragthelaspistolfrommybeltandtakeaim.‘Kage!’I ignore Schaeffer and pull the trigger, the bolt of light striking the bulletsquare.Thesmalldetonationtearsachunkoutofthewall,enoughsothattwooftheboltsintheringplatebreakfree.Theprisonersrealisewhatishappeningandsurgetogether,theirwastedmusclesstrainingattheirchains.Igrablinksinmyfistsandpulltoo,Karolbehindme,andafewsecondslaterrusting metal screeches and the plate falls clear, throwing us all to the dirtyground.Theprisonersstartlaughing,clusteringaroundme,grinningmadly.‘Nowwhat?’growlstheColonel.Hepointstothechains,stillshacklingthemtogether,threadedthroughtheheavyring.‘Getsomeothers,’ItellKarol.Hehesitates,notsurewhatImean,soIpickupa length of chain and haul it overmy shoulder. ‘Five strong backs should be

enough.’‘Thisisidiotic,’saystheColonelasKarolleaves.‘Wewillalldieifwecarrythisburden.’The prisoners start shuffling to the door, urged on byme, carrying asmuchchainintheirarmsastheycan.TheColonelstepsasideaswereachtheopening,eyeingmewithagrimace.‘You’dlovethat,wouldn’tyou?’I tellhim,meetinghisstare.‘Proveyourselfright aboutme?You’rewrong. I’mnot that person anymore. I’mnot leavingthesepeople.’‘Ifyouwanttohelpthem,putalas-boltinthem,butdonotriskallofourlivesforthis.’Ishoulderpasthim.‘Fragyou.’

Intheenditturnsouttobequickertocarrytheemaciatedprisonersaswellastheirchains–they’reinnostatetowalkanydistanceatall.Withtheloadspreadovertwentypeopleit’shardlyanyburden–eachofthemissostarvedtheydon’tweighallthatmuch.Afewminutesonandwe’reintounknownterritory.Mostofourscoutingandraidsagainsttheorksiswestofhere,throughamazeofbrokenhabspacesandemptymanufactories.Truthis,mostofAcheron’sunderhivewasclearedoutthefirsttimetheBeastGhazghkullinvaded,sotherewaslittleenoughdownhereatthetimeofthesecondattack.WhatIhearofit,vonStrab–formergovernorandtargetofmylastmissionwiththeColonel–hadpromisedtheorkscontrolofthewholehive,invitingtheminasoccupyingforces.Anyonethatgotwordofthatcamedownhere,butmostofthemeitherstarvedtodeath,diedofrad-rotfromthebrokenreactorlinesinthenorth,orhadtogobackup.Thisareawe’reheadinginto,whatthelocalscallthemirecrack,isawastelandhalf-floodedwithtoxicfilththat’sbeeneatingawayatthehivefoundationsforcenturies,probablymillennia.Veryunstableandverydangerous.Alsoemptyoforks,whichistheonlypointinitsfavour.We’renotoutofdown-runtterritoryyetthough;it’saboutanotherhalfakilometreaheadandakilometredownuntilwereachthefirstlevelsofthemirecrack.IavoidtheColonel,losingmyselfamongthefrontofthemobwhilehetakesupthe rear again. I can’twork out if I’m sticking it to him, or if he deliberatelygoadedmeintorescuingtheprisoners.I thoughtIknewwhatIwanted,whatIbelieved,buthisreappearancehasturnedmythoughtsupsidedown.

‘ThisColonel,’saysKarol,stickingcloseonmyright.‘What’shegotinmindforus?Whenwegetout,Imean.’‘Idon’tthinkhehasanythinginmind.What’syourpoint?’‘We’realldeserters.Ifhethinkswe’reheadingbacktotheImperiallineswithsmilesandhandshakes…’‘He just came forme,’ I tell him,but choose to leaveout thepartwheremybodywasasgoodasmestillbreathing.‘Iwastheonethatsaideveryonehadtocome,orIwasn’tleaving.’‘Yousaidthat?’‘I’mtheBurnedMan,Ilookaftermypeople,’Isaytohim,tappingthemuzzleofmylaspistolagainsthiswoodenflame-plaque.‘Irememberwhenyoustartedwearing these.Thought itwasa jokeat first. Imean,whywouldyouwant toremindmeofgettingburntallthetime?’‘Itwasn’t foryou,’hesays. ‘It’sa reminder tousofwhatyou’vedone,whatyouwentthroughforus.’It’s been awhile since I’ve talked to anyone thatwas there at thebeginning.Withallthedistractionsofbeingincharge,I’vekindofforgottenalotofwhathappened.‘You burned, purging your sins through the flames,’ Karol continues. I canbarely see him in the lamplight but there’s a glisten of tears in his eyes. Hedoesn’tlookatme,gazefixedaheadasthoughseeingsomethingelse.Hishandsstart to tremble, knife and pistol shaking with the power of memory. ‘Youshoweduswhatcouldbeenduredifwehadfaith.WhentheBeastcamethefirsttime, the Emperor gave us blessedYarrick andLordDante andwe found thecouragetofight,andwewon.WhentheBeastcameback…’‘YougotvonStrab.’Heglancesatme,purehateinhiseyes.‘Yes.VonStrab,thetraitor.’Karolshakeshishead.‘Soldusout,noteventotheBeast but one of his warlords. And those poor bastards,’ he jerks a thumbtowards the prisoners being carried behind us, ‘are just a few of those thatsuffered.’Ihaven’t toldhimthatweonlycameforvonStrabbecauseaninquisitorwasgoingtodeclareExterminatusonAcheronHive–thattheeffectonmoraleoftheturncoat Imperial commander’s treachery was so dangerous that Oriel waswillingtokillabillionpeopletostopit.Ihadn’tevenknownwewerecominghere, toArmageddon, just takingone long, crazy-inducingwarp jumpmostofthewayacrossthegalaxy.That’swhenmylittlehelper,theabyssalmessenger,

musthaveslippedinsidemythoughts.Lookingback,thewarpdreamsgotworsetowardstheendandthat’swhenitmusthavebeenridingmysoul.Ayearinthewarp,that’sjustnotagoodplanforanybody.I also didn’t tell them about how thatmessenger playedmyworst fears anddeepestlustsandmostawfulpassionsagainstme,takingmeoverinamomentofbloodthirst–onethatsawmekilloneofmybestfriends.Iforgottomentionthat I sided with von Strab, turned on the Colonel and the others, and washelping execute them at themoment Oahebs’ presence dulled the evil spirit’seffectjustlongenoughformetotakefullcontrolofmybodyagain.‘Youwerewilling to die to save us fromvonStrab,’ saysKarol, swallowinghard.‘TothrowyourselfintotheflamestoprotectAcheronandArmageddon.’‘Idid,’Ireply.Ihadwantedittoend.That’sallIrememberasIfelldownthatartificial chasm. Allmy life fighting to survive, I’d found a chance to end itproperly.‘TheColonelbroughtmeheretosavemysoul,andthat’swhatIwasabletodo.’‘ButtheEmperorsentitback.’There’swonderinhisvoice.‘Hesparedyoutheflames.’Isaynothing,ignoringKarolforamomenttostrainmyearsandeyesforanysignofthedownhiveorks.Thisplaceisamessofmetalcreaksandgroans,nottomention the soundofourpassage,butmyparanoia tellsme there areothersounds,somethingoutofplace.Iholdmyfingertomylipsforquietandsignaltheotherstostopmoving.Tapping.Aninsistentrappingonpipes,echoingfromsomewheretoourleft.‘That’sasignal,’Ihiss,turningbacktothecrowdaroundme.‘Run!’Beforeanyoneresponds,thedistinctsnapoflasgunssoundsfromahead,wherethescoutsare.‘Shit.Toolate.’Thepanic that tookhold in the sumphall returnswith avengeance.Half thepeople start bolting down the passageway, heading towards the fighting; theotherswanttoruntheotherwaybutareblockedbytheColonelandhistroopers.Astheirdemandstopassbecomeshriller,hefacesthedecisionoflettingthempastoropeningfire.He allows them to go, his undersized platoon parting to let them dash backtowardstheorkspilinginfromuphive.The las-fire ahead intensifies. I can see flashes reflected from the walls ahundred metres or so from my position, matched by the occasional darkermuzzleflareandthumpofanorkweapon.Fortunately,thedown-runtsaren’tall

that good at maintaining guns or making ammo. Unfortunately, they are stillgoodatgettinga sharpedgeonablade,ordriving spikeybits into scrap, andthat’swhereorksaretheirnastiest–up-closeandinyourface.WhichiswhyNazrekisalreadyshoulderingitswayforward,roaringinhappyexpectation.Mostofitsshoutsseemlikewordlessbellows,occasionallybrokenbya‘smash’,‘blast’or‘krump’.‘Formonme,getafiringline!’Iyell,headingaftertheork,takingaclusterofex-trooperswithme.AglancebackconfirmsthattheColoneliscomingforwardaswell,leavingthosefleeingtodelaytheorkscomingatusfrombehind.‘Whataboutthem?’asksKarol,flickingathumbtowardsthegroupcarryingthevirtuallyunconsciousformerprisoners.I raise my voice as I run, trying to be heard over the swelling noise of thefearfulmob.‘If you have a gun, get to the front! If you don’t have a gun, get behindsomeonewithagun!Ifyoufindagun,pickitupandgettothefront!’Icanhearorkishvoicesamongthesnapoffiringandthecursesofmypeople.AwomantripsinfrontofmeandIslowtostoopandhelpherup.Shestartstothank me but I shove her back to her companions and carry on, no time forpleasantries.Nazrek has surged about twenty metres ahead. Its heavy pistol booms as itreachestheskirmishline, theredflareof itsshot illuminatingtheantechamberwherethescoutsareholdingout.Throughthestrobeoflas-fireandsparksoforkbulletsIseetheenemyinatunnelbeyond,duckingandcrawlingthroughaknotofpipework,aflashingimageofsnarlingfangsandbeadyredeyes.‘Firediscipline!’Iyell,catchingupwiththescoutsandKarol’sroughplatoon.‘Markyourtargets!Weightoffire!’We’vehadenoughtangleswithorksthattheyshouldknowbetter.Nazrekcallsthemruntsbut they’restillasbigasahuman,maybeabitwirier inbuild,butthat’sallmuscleandmeanness.Andthey’re tougher thanNavybiscuit,soonelasgunhitmaybegetstheirattention,twoannoysthem,andyouneedfourorfivetodoanyseriousdamage.Even thenyou’vegot topour iton.Bulletsare justaboutthesame.I take aim with my laspistol, sighting on an ork, about five metres away,droppingdownfromahatchinthewall.Karol’snexttome,andweopenfireatthe same time, aiming high – more chance of hitting the throat, eye, openmouth…Asmallfire-teamgrowsaroundusastheothersjoinin,takingouteachorkin

turn,closestfirstandthenthenextandthenext,firinguntil theygodownandthenfiringsomemore.Normallywe’dbringintheflamersbutthere’snopointblockingourrouteaheadwithburningpromethium.The chatter of the autoguns takesme back tomy youth in the underhive ofOlympia,butit’sthezipofalasgunthatIknowbest.ThestandardissueoftheImperialGuard,backboneoftheAstraMilitarum.It’sasoothingsoundforme;tohearthatweaponfiringmeansI’mstillhere,thebastardshaven’tgotmeyet.So many battles, so close to dying that many times, it’s stupid that it feelscomforting.‘Thiswaytoo!’comesashoutfromthecorridoradjoiningthejunctionwherewe’vebeenpushingforward.Ican’tbreakaway,there’sadozenmoreorkscomingstraightatus.Afewstartsnapping off shots from crude pistols, the heavy slugs slamming into thepipeworkabove,ortearingchunksofplascretefromthewalls.Aluckyshothitsamantomyleft,takingouttherightsideofhisface.Hefallsbackwithayell,bloodsprayingthesideofmyrobe.‘Someonegethisgun!’Ishout,tryingtofindtheshootersinthegloom.Forced to duck and dodge a renewed burst of bullets from ahead, our firelessensandtheorksmakeheadway.Threeofthemreachtheopening,shruggingofflasgunbeamsastheychargethroughthedoorway.Karol tries tomeet themhead-on,asuddenrushofbloodperhaps.Heshouldknowbetter.Acleaverswipetakeshishandoffandthesecondblowdigsdeepintohischest.Theorkstandsoverhisbodytryingtoleveritsweaponoutwhiletheothertwopileforward.‘Keepshooting!’Ibackaway,followingmyownorder,puttingthreelas-boltsinto thesideof theclosestork’shead.The toughbonegiveswayon the third,eyeballandorbitexploding.Thejunctionisfilledwithblindingblastsasweopenfire,boltsflashingjustafew metres and scorching green skin, bullets tearing into hardened flesh.Snarling,theorksthrashthroughthestorm,moreofthemfollowing.Aknifeaslongasmyforearmfindsthethroatofawomantomyright,momentsbeforetheorkslumpsatherfeet,thewoman’sarterialspraycoatingitsfallingbody.Theotherorkhaschainswrappedarounditsfists,aslethalasanyhammeroraxe,andbattersawaywiththem,longarmspickingupdeadlymomentumwitheachswing.Twoofmyfightersgodown,facesbrokenopen,chestsbludgeoned.Theonewiththecleaverhasfreeditsweaponandbawlsatus,spitflying,fangsglintinginlas-light.Theshadowsofmorefillthecorridorbehind.

Nazrek arrives like a green killdozer, slamming through uswith a deafeningbellow.Itsself-madepistol–toobigformetocarryinonehand–barkswithit,high-bore rounds craftedbyGrot smashing the cleaver-ork to apulpwith rawimpact.Nazrek leaps at the second, clubbing the pistol into its jaw.Bone cracks andgreenbloodflies.Abackhandedblowslamstheotherorkagainstthewall,necksnapping.In the other hand, Nazrek carries a ‘choppa’ – eighty centimetres of sharpmetal,bastardoffspring thathadaswordforamotherandanaxe fora father.Thisterriblebladecatchesthenextfoeinthesideofthehead,takingoffcheek,ear and scalp with one blow. Incredibly, the down-runt isn’t done. It leaps atNazrek, jawsopen.Mybodyguardsmashes it in thechestwith thegripof thepistol,thendiscardstheweapontograbtheotherork’sthroat.Thechoppafinishesthejobitstarted,takingofftherestofthehead,whichfliesoverme,dribblingdropletsofblood.‘Support!’Icallout,steppingafterNazrekastheorkploughsintothenextfoe,tusksdrivingintoitsthroatasitliterallybitesitsfaceoff.Forallitspowerandviolence,evenNazrekwouldgetsurroundedandbeatendownifleftonitsownagainstthemassingorks.We firewhenwecan,pastNazrek’s rampage.Knives,maulsandclose-rangepistolshotswhenneeded.Oneoftheruntsslipspastthebiggerorkandcomesatme,ahookedpickinonehand,theclawsoftheotherslashingatmyface.I’vefacedenoughorksnowthatIknowtheonlythingthathelpsistousemyspeed.Iduckinsidetheswingofthepick,knowingthat ifIdon’t takeoutmyenemy in thenext threeseconds, it’ll comedownagain intomyheadorback.Claws scrabble atmy shoulder but I ignore the pain, driving the point ofmyknifeupthroughthebottomoftheprojectingjawandthroughthesofttissueofthepalate into thebrainabove.I firemypistol, the las-boltsearingthesideofmyfacewithitsproximitybeforehittingtheork’seye.Thepick-blownevercomesandIshrugoffthespasmingcorpsejustintimetothrow myself aside from the blade of another ork that has broken past. Mycompanions bury itwith lasgun butts and blades, battering and hacking at thecreature until it’s decapitated and dismembered. In its death throes it breaksSabastin’sleg,sendinghimhowlingtotheground.Aminute later andwe’vebroken through into somekindof hall, about fortymetressquare,perhapsapowerstation,itsworkingslongsincelootedforotherpurposes. There’s no light except our lamps and gunfire, but in the sweeping

beamstheredoesn’tseemtobemanyorks.Theyellowgleamofalanternpansacrossahigharchontheoppositeside,leadingtoabroadcorridor.‘Holdhere.Get everyonedown there!’ I call tomypeople,directing them toferrocrete outcrops and other cover. ‘Some of you take lights. Keep themmoving!’Thecrowdbreaks into thehalland runs towards theexit,bobbing lamplightsusheringthemtowardsthearchway.Iswapoutthepowercellinmypistol–onemorereloadleft,ahundredshotstotal–andsnapoffafewboltsatorkslurkingarounddoorwaysandinspectionpitstoourleft.Nazrekarrives,coveredinorkgore.Bulletssmackintoitsarmourandfleshbutitpaysthemnoheed,glaringintothedarkness.Itsnostrilsflareasitsniffstheairloudly.‘Whatisit?Howmanyarethere?’‘Biggreen,’itgrunts.Itturnsitshead.‘Nothere.Behind.’‘Kage!’The Colonel’s bellow brings me around in time to see him and his teamburstingoutoftheentrywayontheheelsofthefleeingmob.Halfofthemturnand start firing back down the passage.Not a good sign. Imeet him halfwaybacktothecorridor.‘Uphiveorks,hundredsofthem,’hetellsme.‘Howclose?’‘Tooclose.Thirtysecondsbehindus.’Icheckontheprogressoftheothers.Abouthalftheunarmedfolksareoutofthehall,theothersfunnellingthroughthearchway.There’sprobablytwodozenofuswithweapons–halfasmanyagainwiththeColonel.‘Let’sgo.Wecan’tfight,wehavetorun.’TheColonelbarksanorder tohis troopers,whobreakawayfromtheir firinglineandfollowaswerunstraightaftertherecedingcrowd,barelysnappingoffshotsatthedown-runtsthatburstfromtheirhidingplacestocomeafterus.Thefollowingfewminutesareaheadlongracedownastraightcorridorabouthalf a kilometre long, followed by an ascent up a windingmetal staircase toEmperor knows where. I hear orkish shouts and crashingmetal behind us. Itseemsthedown-runtsaren’thappytoseetheuphiveorksintheirterritoryeither.Allgood,asfarasI’mconcerned.Moretimeforus.Nazrek is gruntingwith every stride besideme. Thick green blood congealsacrossascoreofbulletholesmarkingtheork’sarmsandchest,anothercuttingalineacrossitsforeheadovertherighteye.Everyfewstepsitshakesitsheadand

grimaces.‘Youokay?’‘Biggreenhurting,’Nazrekrumblesback.‘Notbody.’Thatdoesn’tsoundgoodatall,butthebetternewsisthatweseemtobefreeofthedown-runts.Atthetopofthestepstherushslowstoamoreorderlyjogaswinded lungs and tired limbs start to take over from sheer panic. Glowstripsilluminateaclusterofcorridorsandchambers,theirpalegreenishgleamalmostpainfulafterthedarkness.It’s the brightest many of the people hurrying through the rooms have everseen,bornandraisedinunderhivetwilight.Theysquintandmoanevenastheytrytoshieldtheireyes.‘Keep going,’ I urge them, again and again. I hear prayers being raised,mynamebeingusedlikeabenediction.Idon’tlookback.IcanfeeltheColonelonmyheelandheartheothers.There’snopointlookingback;itwon’tmaketheorksanyfurtherawayandit’lljustslowmedown.I thinkIcanheargrowlingandsnarling,brokenthroughwithgutturalshouts.Nazrek starts to slow and look back. It’s probably not used to backing downfromafight,butIwanttheorknearbyifwerunintoanythingahead.‘Staywithme,’Isay.Grotchirpsitsownencouragement,scuttlingbetweenourlegs,thrustingabonyfingerforward.Darknessloomsahead,resolvingintoanimmenseopenspacethatswallowsallsound.A ruddy lightbathesus,almostcomfortingafter theharsh lumens.Theflooristiledwithgreyandwhite,crackedandstainedwithage.Thewallsseemimpossiblydistant,hundredsofmetresaway,barelylit.Holesinthefloorshowwhere machines used to be bolted down, drifts of rust moving sluggishly ineddiesfromtheaircirculatorsthatstillwheezeoutpuffsofartificialwindfromfarabove.Itakeallofthatinataglance,butwhatreallypricksmysensesistherumblingbehindus.Adrawn-outthunder,whichIrealise,asmymouthgoesdryandmythroattightens,isthefootfallsoftheorksbehindus.

FOURADEADLIERFOE

In thegreat schemeof things, it’snot themost scared I’vebeen– thathonourgoestothenightspentinaBattleSisterschapel-fortonDeliverancewaitingforthetyranids,watchingthousandsoftheirsporesfallingfromorbit.Listeningtothatthundercomesprettyclose,though.I’mnot theonlyoneaffected. I seenervousglancesback fromthose runningacrossthemassivespace,andtheveteransaroundmehavealookintheireyeIknowwell,atelltaletrembleinthehands.We’retoolate.Idon’tsayit.Noneedto,everyonewithinearshotknowsit.IexchangealookwiththeColonel.‘Ifyourunnow,youcanoutpacetheseothers,’hesays.‘Perhapsgettosafety.Thereisnothingyoucandotoprotectthem.’It’slikehe’sbeentakenoverbythevoiceinsidemyhead,bringingitoutintotheopen.Damnhim.Emperordamnhisicygazeandnonchalanttemptation.‘Stillonthat,areyou?ThinkI’lljustcutandrun?’Imoveawaybeforehecanreply,raisingmyvoicetothosearoundme.‘Wehavetoprotecttheretreat,’Itellthem.‘Buytimeforthemtogetaway.’Alotofthemaren’tlistening,alreadyrunningacrosstheemptyexpanseofthechamber.Afewslowdown,lookback,andthencarryon.‘Thatisyourplan?’saystheColonel.‘Tostandhereandshootuntiltheyreachyou?’

‘Betteranaxeinthefacethanintheback,’Isay,thoughthethoughtofanorkaxehittingmeanywheregivesmeashudder.Notclean,notquickatall.IftheEmperorreallywatchesoverme,I’llgetoneofthosestupidlybigbulletsinthehead,niceandsimple.‘Isuggestwetakeupabetterpositionoverthere,’saystheColonel,pointingtoanunevensectionofthefloorwherearampleadsdownintoaseriesoftrenchesandinspectionpits,abouttwohundredmetresfurtheron.Othershaveheardhimandbreakintoarun,givingmenochoicebuttofollow.AfterafewstridesIrealisethatNazrekisn’tcomingwithus.Itstands,shakingvisibly,staringbackthewaywecame.‘Nazrek!’Theorkdoesn’tanswer.GrotweavesinandoutofNazrek’slegsinagitation,alternatingbetweenmutteringandscreeching.Irunbacktothem,slammingmyhandhardontheork’sback.Slowly,asthoughtryingtowakeup,theorkturnsredeyesonme,ascowlofragefurrowingitsbrow,armliftingthechoppaaboveme.‘We’re gonnawait for themdown there,’ I say, jabbing a thumb towards thedips.‘Tactics,remember?’There’s no comprehension for a few seconds.Maybe the green is toomuch,overwhelmingthesmallbitofhumanityNazrekhastakenon.I’vebeensuchanidiot, foolingmyself into forgetting that this thing is akiller,pureand simple.For an instant I see nothing but murder in the alien’s eyes, and tremble as Iexpectthechoppatocomedown,hewingmeinhalf.Nazrek’slipsripple,showingteeth.Itgruntsfromdeepinitschest,andnods.‘Tactics.’TheorklowersthechoppaandasIturnawayitlumbersalongsideme,Grotatour heels. A burst of fire erupts from the troops ahead before we reach thesanctuaryofthepits.Idon’tbotherheadingforaramp,justjumpstraightdown,but misjudge the drop. I land hard, almost breaking my ankle. Nazrek thudsdown next to me and turns, the heavy pistol in its fist almost immediatelybarkingpoorlyaimedshots.TherearemoreofusthanIrealised.SomeoftheothersmusthavetakencoverherebeforeusbutIhadn’tnoticed.Maybefiftygunswaitingfortheorksastheyspillfromthebrightlylitpassagewayintotheechoingvastness.They’re bigger than the runts, each at least a head taller and almost twice asbroad. Smaller than Nazrek, I think, but that’s little comfort. The ork roars achallenge, louder than the snarlofautoguns.Abasshollering returns from the

oncoming horde, gathering into a single wordless bellow that rolls like aphysicalwaveacrossus.I start firing, barely having to pick targets, the orks coming at us in a thickmass.Poundingafterusatspeed,theiraimisworthlessthananoldrationtininacardgame,bulletspingingfromthetilesinfrontorwhirringoverhead.Astheyapproach,acoupleofhundredmetresaway,Icanseemoredetail.Checksanddagspaintedonslabsofscavengedarmour,someof the largerspecimenswithbackbannersdisplayingorkishglyphs.NazrektaughtmeafewandIrecognisesomeoftheshapes–death,stab,break,smash.Theycouldbenames,orboasts,orthreats,it’simpossibletotellthedifference.Theonrushinghordestartstosplit.Ourpositionisaboutfiftymetresasidefromthelinebetweentheentranceandexit,andagoodchunkoftheorksareheadingstraightafterthelastoftheothers,bunchingtogetherastheytrytogetout.Therestcomestraightatus. Ifwe leavenowto intercept thegroupgoingafter thefleeingcrowdwe’lljustgetcutdown.Itrytofocusmyfrustrationintosomethinguseful,butIfindmyselfsnappingoffshotshurriedly,theangerlikeapoundinginmyhead.Acrazynotiongripsme–toclamberoutofthepitandchargeheadlongattheorks,tocutthemopenwith my knife. Through the shooting I hear curses and threats, even somelaughterfromthetroopsaroundme.Icanfeeltheirbattle-lust,likenothingI’veexperiencedbefore.Ajadeglowfollowsthegroupcomingatus.Arcsofgreenenergylickupwardswhilesparksdancefrombladetipsandhelmets,castingerraticshadows.Behindthem,evenmoreorksarepouringintothecavernoushall,butthey’renotcomingtowards us, following in the wake of those heading straight across the openground.Nazrekgruntssomethingasafreshsurgeofgreenlightbubblesaroundtheorkassaultforce.‘Whatwasthat?’Iask.‘Weirdboy,’itsays,tappingthesideofitsheadwiththesmokingmuzzleofitspistol.‘Magnetforbiggreen.Brainpowers.Real’eadbanger.’AsiftoillustrateNazrek’smeaning,theorkspart,revealingagarishlydressedork,morelikearunt thanafull-grownwarrior.Gangling,holdingastaff initshandstoppedbyasunsymbol, loopsofmetalarounditsarmsandneck,greensparks swarming like flies around it. The sparks coalesce into a shimmeringgreenfistandSchaefferhollersawarninganinstantbeforetheapparitionhowlstowardsus.I throwmyselfdown.OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeablazeof

greenenergysmashingintotheedgeofthepitafewmetresaway,andhearthepainedshoutofoneofmypeopleasshestaggersback,armandheadalightwithgreenflames.Nazrekletsripwithadeafeninghowl,headtiltedback.AtfirstIthinkit’sbeenhit, but as I watch green sparks flicker from fangs and eyes, I realise it’s amomentofjoynotpain.Somethingtodowiththebiggreen,Iguess,firingmoreshotsatthegreenhordestillpilingtowardsus.Even as I shoot I can’t help but glance over at the even larger tide of alienwarriors simply running past us, bellowing and roaring as they head straightacross the hall. I can imagine someof themgoing after the easier preyof thefleeingcrowd,butit’snotlikeorkstoignoreanactualongoingfight.‘Whataretheydoing?’IaskNazrek,smackingtheorkontheshouldertogetitsattention.Ropes of drool fall from its bulbous lips as it looks over at the other xenos.Nazrek’sbrowsknittogether,makingravinesofitsgreenforehead.‘Looklikerunningaway.’Chillingrealisationcreepsupmybackas thesewordssinkin.SuddenlyIseethe orks in a completely different light. Yells and snarls of fear, not anger.Desperation,notbloodthirst.‘Colonel!They’renotcomingafterus!They’rerunningaway!’Schaeffer pauses between bursts of autogun fire and looks over at me, amomentofconfusionbecominganuncharacteristic lookofconcern.HevoicesthequestionI’mtryingtoavoid.‘Runningfromwhat?’I’mreallyinnomoodtofindout,butwe’realloutofoptions–theorksaretooclose forus tomakeabreak for it, and toomany tohopewecan fight it out.Lookingatthegreen-skinnedcreaturesbearingdownonus,IgainsomethingofthecalmclaritythatwrappedmeupinitsembraceasIfellintothefirechasm.Ithought then that perhaps it was just certainty. The knowledge of the comingend,adeaththatcan’tbeavoided.Perhapsitwassomethingmore,likethetouchoftheEmperor.‘Wehavetobuytimefortheresttogetaway,’Isay,bringingmypistolroundtotheorksheadingaftertheothers.Thepressureinmyheadispoundingnowandanoddquietdescends,likeafogonmyhearingthatdullsthetrampingoforkfeet,thecrackofbullets.Myheartissmashingagainstmychest,tryingtopounditswayout,butmyhandissteadyandmyaimsure.

Ipull thetriggerandaboltofredlightflares intotheorks.Ishootagainandagain;it’simpossibletomisshittingsomethingbutItrytotrackatargettoscoremultiplehitsinthehopeofbringingoneofthetoughaliensdown.Nobodyelseseemstohavefollowedmylead.ThroughmyhammeringpulseIsenseachangearoundme.‘Kage!’It’snotthefirsttimetheColonelhasbarkedmyname.Iturnsluggishly,teethgrittedhard,tryingtofocusonhisfacethroughaswirlofredmist.It’sjusttheruddylights,I’msure.Theothersaremoving,headingtowardstherampandIdon’tunderstandwhy.My gazemoves to the orks thatwere charging towards us. Their impetus hasslowed. They’re turning around, raising weapons towards something behindthem.Theweirdboyshrieksandanotherblastofemeraldenergyleapsout intothegloom,directedattheirpursuers.‘Maybeit’sImperia…’MymumblingdiesawayasIfocusonwhatisbeyondthe tide of orks. Something big – six, sevenmetres tall – strides purposefullyacross the gloom.Wings broader than a gunship’s stretch out behind it and abestial face wracked with unimaginable rage glowers at everything before it.Eachclawedfistbearsanaxethatglimmerswithsicklyblacklight,themotionofthebladesasitadvancesleavingbleedingcutsupontheairitself.Itiscladinbronzearmourthatshimmerswithheat,vapourscoilingfromflarednostrils.Afurnace heat proceeds it, tinged with the stench of hot blood. Bullets bouncefrom its armour andhideas though strikingabattle tank, leavinga showerofbluntedprojectilesfallingaroundit.Iturnandrun.Rawinstincttakesover,puttingonefootinfrontoftheother,againandagain,withoutmehavingto thinkabout it.Whichis justaswellbecausemybrain isbothablankandacrashofconflictingthoughts.Nothingsettlesinmymind,justablurofdread,hopeandanger.There’sasenseofreleaseaswell.Freedom.AfreedomIdidn’trealiseI’dmissed,butthesensationburststhroughme,carryingmeonevenmoreswiftly.Icouldkeeprunningforever.Everythingismayhemaroundme.Orksandhumanscrowdingthroughthegatetogether, united in our blind need to get away from the death at our backs.Hoarseyellsandhigher-pitchedscreamscombineintoaconstantnoiseofterror.Unabletogofurtherintothepress,Iturn,aboutfivemetresfromthearchway.IwishIhadn’t.

Themonster looms over the thinning crowd of xenos, hewing left and rightwithitsnightmareaxes,everysweepslashingthroughahandfuloforks.Ihearitsbellowsinthebackofmymind,abasspunchinsidemyskullthatbringstoharshrealitythegrowingpressureofthelastfewdays.Lookinguponthebestialincarnationofmurderfillsmewithalightnessofspirit,andforaninstantIcravetobewithit,seeingitspowerandmajesty.Thenpuredreadkicksinagain,thecolourfadingfromthescenetotheruddypulsingofthelightsandmyheartbeat,and I see the mangled corpses of hundreds of orks reflected in the slayer’sarmour,distortedandsheenedwithblood.Aroundthemonstrosityswellsaredsurgeofsmallerabyssalcreatures.Abouttheheightofaman,hunchedover,withbulbousheadsanddead,whiteorbsforeyes. They carry triangular blades with glinting edges, long forked tongueslickingorkbloodfromserratedteeth.Somearebigger,blackhornscurlingbackfromtheirbrows,platedinornate,ancientarmour.The air churnswith a bloodymist, partly real droplets of life fluid steamingfromthecarnage,partlythedistortionofrealitywheretheabyssalwarptriestobleed into the mortal world. More shapes writhe through the death fog, ofimmense brazen steeds ridden by axe-wielding Neverborn, and bat-wingedmawsthatswooplikevulturesovertheslaughter.Fromtheorkthrongexplodesaboltofgreenenergy,swirlinglikeamaddenedserpentasitscythesthroughtheranksoftheNeverbornwarriors.Arcsofgreenpower leap from theorkpsyker, someof themburning through theeyesof itsneighbours,otherslancingawayintotheabyssalmassestoexplodewithcloudsof sparks. As the red-skinned creatures converge on the ork, its dischargesbecomemore erratic and evenmore violent. It spins on the spot, caught in awhirlwind of its own energy, blasts of random fire flaring from the twister.Shuddering to a halt, the ork drops to its knees, copper staff falling fromfingertipsmade of flame. Shuddering, the alien arches its head back,massivejawopeningwidetovomitastreamofjadefire.Thetorrentofpsychicenergycontinues, becoming brighter and faster, incinerating abyssal servants by thedozen until the ork detonates with a green mushroom cloud, levelling itscompanions, the vortex of its destruction ripping apart even more of theNeverborn.IrememberNazrek’swords.Arealheadbanger.A hand on my shoulder jolts me from a view of hellish half-lizard houndsboundingthroughtheremainsofthepsyker, theirhowlsjoiningthebellowsofrageandscrapingofblades.

Schaeffer.He’srecoveredsomeofhiscomposurebutIcantellbythewayhiseyesflickfromme to the oncoming abyssal army that he’s about as scared as he’s everbeen.Without a word he drags me into the morass of humans and orks, andtogether, surrounded by a knot of troopers, we ride the living wave into thecorridorbeyond.With the air almost crushed fromme by the close-packed bodies, I have nochoicebut togowith the flowof thepanickedmass. Iconcentrateonkeepingmyfeet,knowingthattofallnowwouldbetogounderastampedeoffootfalls,crushedinmoments.I’msureIsteponotherpeople,theflatferrocretebecomingdisturbinglybumpyandsoftnowandthen,butIcan’tlookdownevenifIwantto. Eyes fixed ahead, elbows and shouldersmusclingmyway alongwith theothers,Icanfeelthebackofmyneckpricklingasthoughfromanintenseheat.The physical high of action is draining away, replaced by a more lingeringdread–notonlyof the things that can’tbe so farbehindus,but alsoofwhathappens now, surrounded by dozens of orks, flooding into totally unknownterritory. Thismob could charge over the edge of an acid pit andwe’d neverknowuntilitwastoolate.Strangelyenough,mybraindoesn’tseemtobeinthemoodforcomingupwithcoherentplans…Icheckoursurroundings inmoredetail.Corridor.About twentymetreswide,thirtymetreshigh.Vaultedroof,alotofthenetworkrippedoutbyscavengers,ferrocretecrumblingandcrackedinbetween.Beenmovingfromthegatewayfora few minutes, probably covered at least half a kilometre. There are otherarchwaysleadingoffthemainconcourse,headingtoEmperorknowswhere.Thereseemstobeasimplechoice.Stickwiththecrowdortrytoforcemywayoutandgoitalone.Packinstinctisapowerfulforce,evenwhenhalfofthatpackareslab-muscledgreenaliensthatwouldgougemyfaceoffgivenhalfachance.Ontheotherside,nagging at me with the intensity of a short-arse corporal I once knew, is thethoughtthatI’dbebetteroffbymyself.Theanswerisalmostgiventomeasthepassagewaybreaksoutintoanumberof small halls and dormitories, unlit but for patches of luminescent fungalgrowth.Themobsplinters,underhiversandxenosstilltogetherassomegoleftand right, others slowing as they consider their options, creating eddies in theretreatlikeswirlsinastream.‘BurnedMan!’ someone calls out, recognisingme through the throng. I feel

tapping onmy shoulder and look left, one ofmy followers reaching outwithdesperatefingerstogetmyattention.Herfaceisarictusoffear,cheekscoatedwith tears, eyes red, short hair plastered to her scalp. ‘Lead us to salvation,BurnedMan!’Herwordsfireupafeelingofhope,remindingmethattheEmperoriswatchingoverus,eveninthisdiretime.AndifHereallyhasapurposeforme,He’llguidemetoit,despitethecircumstances.Abitoffaithisrequired.‘Thisway,’Ishout,dragginganarmfreetopointinthedirectionIwanttogo–asidepassagewherealotofmyfollowersareheadingalready.‘Is that right?’ theColonel shouts over the noise of the fleeingmob. ‘Wheredoesthatlead?’‘Bloodywellawayfromhere,’Itellhimwithahalf-madlaugh,becauseIdon’thaveacluewherewe’regoing.‘Anybetterplan?’Idon’twaitforananswerbutgathermyselftopushsidewaysagainsttheflowofpeople.Theveryactofresistancecausessomeof themtochangedirection,likedammingastream,andasplinterofseveraldozenpeoplebreaksawaywithme,headingintothenearpitch-blackofthetunnel.

Wekeeprunning,moremeasuredthantheflightfromthehall,atapacemostofuscankeepupforawhileyet.Someoftheorksstart tolookinourdirection,alieninstinctstofightpushingbackintotheirthoughts.Wepounddownloadingrampsandacrossabandonedquaysideswhereancientsubterraneancanalsusedto cut through into the heart of Acheron. Sometimes there is light, flickeringlumens powered by millennia-old reactors lost somewhere in the compactedmassof thehivedepths.Othertimesonlyafewlanternsguideourprogressaswe pick ourway throughmoss-slicked pipes and down stairs asmuch rust asmetal.I’ve lost all sense of direction and time.We could be heading back into thecentreofthehiveorafewkilometresfromtheopenair.Eitherway,itseemsforthemomentthattheabyssalhordeisnotonourheelsanymore.Igetthefeelingthisisn’tgoingtobeaone-offevent,though.Thememoryofbuildingtension,thesimmeringangeroftheorksandmypeople,allpointtowardsanincursionofterribleproportion.You hear rumours, of course, but nobody ever says anything out loud. Shipslost in the warp. Garrisons that disappear. Even mutterings of the Inquisitionwiping out whole planetary populations.Exterminatus, they call it. The warptaint, they say. Mutants. Unsanctioned psykers. Sometimes you might hear

mentionofaliensthatliveinthatempyreanvastness,liketheenslaversthatturnpsykersintolivingwarpgates,orthebrain-scarabsthatfeedonyournightmares,stokingyourfearswithtelepathicemanations.But there’s anotherword, forbidden to know,whichwe’ve all heard. It’s thenamebetweenthelinesofthepreachers’prayers.Daemon.Athingnotofflesh,butoftheabyssitself.Mythoughtsareinterruptedbyanambientglowasweexittheunderhivedockstocomeuponanold transit route, fiveplatformsbeneathasplintereddomeofplascrete.Therearecracksaswideasaman’sshoulderseverywhere,dustfallinginbillowingcloudsthroughbeamsoflightthatemanatefromafewfunctioningglow-globes in recesseshighabove.Therearemachineshere, too, remarkably.The layerofgrit anddust isundisturbed,and I lookback to see that thereareslewsofrubbleeithersideofthejaggedopeningwejustpassedthrough.Sealedby a hivequake for centuries, only now has the terminal become accessibleagain.Thegroupusesthespacetoseparate,humansmovingtowardsoneside,eyeingthe orks as they drift towards the other. Inside crude shacks we find humanremains,stilldressedinmoulderingworkgear,afewwithtoolscloseby.Noweapons.Imuster thepeople together to take stockofwhatwehave,while across theplatformstheorksarestartingtoarguewitheachother,withalotofwavingofbladesandjabbingofclawedfingersinourdirection.Onthehumansideofthings,mostseemtoonumbtoeventhinkaboutwhathashappened. Some are lying down, exhausted or terrified it’s impossible to say.Othersglancefearfullyoveratourgreen-skinnedcompany.Iissueafewsoftlyspokenwordstothosewithweapons,tellingthemtobeontheirguardbuttodonothingaggressivethatwouldprovokethealiens.It’sanuneasyfewminuteswhileItakestockofoursituation.Seventy-twoofusand,tomydelight,Nazrekisoneofthem.Therearefourteentroopersleft,andtheColonel,andoftherestofmypeoplehere,thirtyofthemhavegunsofsomekindandmosthavepickedupbitsofbrokenpipe,bladesandso forth. There’s probably half asmany orks, but they’re orks, and only fiftymetresbetweenusdoesn’tgiveusmuchtimetoopenfireandthintheirnumbersfurtheriftheydecidetofinishwhatthedaemonshavestarted.Nazrek prowls back and forth at the edge of our group, alternating betweenlookingatmeandgloweringattheotheraliens.It’stheclosestit’sbeentomore

ofitskindsincejoiningtheBurnedMan,outsideofdirectfighting.I’mstillnotsure about the big green andwhat it does to them, but Iwould say its pull isgrowingstrongerwitheachpassingminute.‘Weneed to pick awayout of here andgetmoving,’ says theColonel.He’salreadyspreadhismenandwomenawayfromthegroup,likepickets.‘Isuggestwefollowthetracklines.’IhearGrotsqueakingandNazreklooksbacktowardsme,gruntingsomethingtothesmallerxenos.‘Wedon’tknowwhichwayisout-hive,’Ireply,tryingtopushtheork’sglarefrommythoughts.Icanfeelitseyesonme,notsurewhat’scaughtitsattentionsomuch.‘Ifwegothewrongway,we’llbeheadingbackintothose…things.’TheColonelgritshisteethatthethought,fingerstighteningonthegripofhislasgun.‘Therecouldbemoreofthemaheadofus,’hesays.‘Sendoutscoutingpartiestofindthebestwaytothesurface.WecanlinkupwithImperialforcesassoonaspossibleafterthat.’I hear a grunt from Nazrek and feel it stepping closer, a fungal exhalationwashing over me. Out of the corner of my eye I see the ork’s gaze movingbetweenmeandtheColonel.Nazrekishunching,musclesbunchedtight.IrememberthelasttimeIsawitlikethatwasjustafterIkilleditsboss,theorkwarlordcalledIronfang.‘Ineed to tellyou something,’ I say to theColonel,motioningwithmyheadthatweshouldstepawayfromtheork.Helooksasthoughhe’sgoingtoargueandIhardenmystare.‘Now.’I don’t wait for the reply but pace away, turning my back to Nazrek. It’s adominancemove,showingthatIdon’trateanythreatfromit.‘Whatisit,Kage?Wedonothavetimefordebate.’‘You’reunderminingmyleadership.’TheColonellooksdubiousandfoldshisarms.‘Yourleadership?’‘Don’tstandlikethat,itlookslikeyou’reignoringme.’‘Iamstillyourcommander,’saysSchaeffer.‘Unlessyoureallyareadeserter?’It’s a good point butwe don’t have time to debate the subtleties. I can hearNazrekbreathingheavily,gettingcloseragain.Idon’tthinkitevenhasachoice.It’saninstinct,likebreedingrightsinlesseranimals.‘Orks don’t follow orders, they follow leaders,’ I say. ‘Themoment that biggreenbastardovermyshoulderthinksI’mnotincharge,it’sgoingtochallenge

me,andonceit’sinchargeit’llgofullorkagainandgiveustoitsfriendsoverthere.’‘Youhavealreadywonitssubservience,’saysSchaeffer.‘Iblewupitsbosswithagrenade.Idon’thaveanygrenadesonme.Andit’llprobablytearyouaparttooifyoulooklikeathreat.’‘Idonotthinkitisthreatening.Itisyawning.’‘Showing off its fangs. I need to establish my position immediately anddecisively.’‘Howdoyouplan–’Myfistsmashes into theColonel’schin,ashardasIcanswing.It’sanawfulsuckerpunch,oneI’vedreamedofdeliveringforyearsnow.EveninthefraughtcircumstancesathrillofsatisfactionjoltsthroughmeasIwatchtheColonelreelback,legsbucklingbutnotquitefailing.Ikickathisknee,helpinghimcompletethejourneytothehardfloor.Ballingmyfists,Istepcloser,eyesfixedonhisastheyregainfocus.‘Staydown,’Itellhim,hopingIhaven’tknockedthesensetolistenoutofhim.Iseehiseyesflickertothepantingorkwhocomesupbesideme.‘Staydown.’I don’t know how good Nazrek has got at reading human features – orkexpressions are very different and more obvious, and maybe just a hint ofdefiancecouldenditall.‘Killhim?’suggestsNazrek.I turn away from the Colonel, as I did the ork, ignoring them both. I’m incharge,Itellmyself.Talkthetalk,walkthewalk.‘Youfour.’IjabafingeratsomeoftheColonel’stroopers.‘Scoutingparty,twohundredmetresahead,seeifyoucanfindawaythatleadsup.We’reabouthalfakilometrebelowsurfacehere.Ifwedon’tgoupwecouldkeepgoingandgoingoutundertheashwastes.’TheyhesitatebutIdon’tallowittolastmorethanabreath.‘Now!Ordoyouwanttosithereandwaitfortheabysstocomeandswallowusall?’Thatremindersendsthemontheirway,andIturnbacktoNazrek.Ipointattheotherorks,whoarewatchinguscarefully.‘Ifwefightwitheachother,thosewarp-thingsaregoingtocomehereandkillusall.Doyouunderstand?’‘Yeah.Bloodboysbadnews.’‘Canyoutellthoseotherorksthat?Willtheyattackus?’‘Don’tknow,boss.Biggreenquiet.Maybenotthinksogood.’

An alliance seems likely to break down at any time, and I really can’t belookingoverbothshouldersrightnow.‘Okay,thisistheplan.We’llgothisway,theorkscangothatway.Nobother,nofighting.’‘Itellthem.’NazrekbarksatGrot,whochasesaftertheorkasitstridesacrosstheplatformtowardstheotherorks.‘Thereisstillsomebusinesstoattendto.’TheColonelisjustbehindmeandIturn, findinghimwithOahebsathisside.Schaeffercalledhima‘null’before.Somethingtodowithsuppressingthewarpandpsykers.JustbeingafewmetresfromhimmakesmyskincrawlandIknowI’mnotaloneinthatfeeling.‘Whatarewesupposedtodo?Cuddle?’Igrowl.Oahebs steps closer and I back away without thinking, disgusted by hispresence.Schaeffer adjustshis stance just a little, shiftinghis lasgun, ready tobringitupandfireinaheartbeat.‘Kage…’I clenchmy jaw and fight through the physical repulsion I feel. I know I’mclean. The Emperor drove that abyssal spirit out ofmy soul and cleansedmewith fire. I knowmyself. I am not the thing that killed and hurt those peopleuphive.Thatwasn’tme.Forcingmyselfforward,IlockeyeswithSchaeffer,lettinghimseethatit’sme.Onestep.Anotherstep.I’m about two paces from Oahebs and I don’t feel any different. In fact, ifanything,Ifeelabitbetter.Thepressureinmyhead–theblood-poundthatmustbeconnectedtotheabyssalincursioninsomeway–becomesjustafainttremor.IturnmygazeonOahebsandsmile.‘I’mme.Kage.Lieutenant.13thPenalLegion.’

FIVELEAVINGACHERON

Theincreasingvolumefromtheorksisstartingtoworryme.TheonlythingthatgivesmeanycomfortisthatNazrekseemstobebiggerthananyoftheothers.There’s still a lot of pointing towards us, but more back the way we came.SeveraltimesIseeNazreksquareoffagainstsomegreenskin,baringitsfangstodiscourageargument.It’sbeenatleastfiveminutes.Idon’tknowifit’sgoodorbadthatthey’vebeengoingatitthislong.Maybethey’restubbornandNazrekcan’tconvincethem,ormaybethey’rejusttoostupidtounderstandtheideaofatruce.Thestalemateappearstobebroken,withsomeexcitedbouncingupanddownfromGrot.Nazrekglowersattheotherorksandthencrossesbacktous.Iguessthat if itwasgoing togobadly, theotherorkswould just attack. I’mnot surewhatthepre-battlepleasantriesarewithorks.‘Theywantgothatway,’saysNazrek,pointinginthedirectionIwasplanningongoing.‘TellthemthatlotsofEmperor’sboysthatwaybuttheymorescaredofbloodboys.’Iweighupthebenefits.Wecanjustletthemgoandatleastwecangetmoving.Ontheotherhand,mysenseistellingmethatgoingalongthatrailtunnelisthequickestwaytotheoutside.ThelongerwestayinAcheronthemorechanceoftheabyssalincursioncatchingupwithus.I’mabouttogivemyanswerwhenthehairsonmyneckprickle.Acoupleofsecondslater,Oahebscomesover,makingmyskincrawlevenmore.

‘What?’Igrowlathim.‘They’recoming,’hesaysquietly,ahauntedlookinhiseyes.Idon’tneedtoaskwho.‘Howlong?’Heshrugs,whichisn’tveryuseful.‘Whentheycamebefore.Think,’Itellhim.‘Howlongbetweenfeelinglikethisandtheirarrival?’‘Coupleofminutes,nomore,’hesays.‘Weneedtogonow.’‘Fine,’Isay,turningbacktoNazrek.‘We’llgotheotherway.’‘You backing down?’ it says, frowning at the thought. ‘Them not got muchdakka.Webreakthemgood.’‘Bloodboyscoming,’Isay,speakingasclearlyasIcanbutkeepingmyvoicedown.Howgoodisanork’shearing?‘Wegotheotherwaybutweleavefirst.’It’sagamble.Idon’tknowifitwillunderstand,orifit’sagainstsomekindoforkhonourcodeorwhatever.FromwhatI’veseenthey’renotbigonguile,butthat’s justbecausetheythinktoostraightforwardtobereallysneaky.It takesafewslowsecondsforthenotiontopermeateNazrek’sbrain.Itnodsandhollerssomethingattheotherorks.Theygruntandbarkback.‘Theylaugh,butwelaughbigger,boss,’Nazreksayswithanot-very-slywink–amannerismit’spickedupfromhumans.‘Time tomove out,’ I shout to the others. I checkmy pistol’s powercell andwave for us to head off. The Colonel falls into step besideme. ‘No time forscouting any further – if you feel like praying for a bit of the Emperor’sguidance,now’sagoodtime.’We’realmostatthetunnelwhentheheatprickleonmyskinbecomesintense.At the samemoment there comes a huge hooting and snorting from the orksbehindus,whileNazrekstiffens,turningwithaconfusedgrowl.Ipickoutbloodon the air, I know it toowell from past experience, except there’s nothing toactuallysmell.Likethescrapingofbladesanddistantscreams,it’snotmyactualsenses detecting these things, I’m feeling them inside my thoughts. And thedesiretofightcomesback.I’m not the only one that stumbles to a halt a few metres from the brickarchwaysthatswallowtheoldsunkentracklines.I look back, flexing my fingers, the instinct to flee replaced with an evenstrongerdesire tostayandfight. Iwant to face thisenemy, tocut itdownandprovemyselfstronger.Theoppositeofeverynaturalfeelingcoursingthroughmynerves.

Theairatthefarendoftheterminalisripplingwithabyssalpower.Thebloodywarriorsdon’treallyarriveasmuchasappearlikeruddyshadows,gainingformanddefinitionastheycomecloser.Ifeelhooksinmybrain,tautchainsofragetuggingmetowardsthehorned,milky-eyedslayers.Bellowsandwarshouts,theclatter of battle gear fills the arching space, rebounded from the walls,accompaniedbyahintofclankingtanktreadsandgrumblingengines.Theorkshowltheirownchallengesandbreakintoacharge,hurlingthemselvesat the oncoming immortal warriors. Gunfire sparks and tracer bullets tearthroughthematerialisinghost,cuttingdownafewofthemarchingarmy.Behindthe juddering bodies, more and more red-skinned creatures come into being,tongueslickingtheairasthoughtastingthebestialfuryoftheirattackers.Oahebsmovesamongus, theColonelwithhim,breaking theenchantmentoftheNeverborn.‘Run!’Ishout,utteringthatsinglewordonlywiththegreatestofeffort,fightingagainsteverypartofmybodytogetmylegsmoving,armspumping.Iplungeintothetunnel,notcaringifanyoftheothersfollow,knowingtheorkswillonlydelaythatterriblefoeforafewminutes.

It’sbeenabout twentyyearssinceI leftOlympus.TwentyyearsasI reckonit,whatwithwarptimedilationandthefactthatayearonOlympusisaboutathirdshorterthanastandardTerranorbit.ButIgrewupintheunderhivethereanditdoesn’tmatterwhetherit’sOlympus,Armageddon,NecromundaorStavistia:anunderhive is an underhive. Sixteen years I spent growing up in the half-light,with reclaimed air, reclaimed water. I remember when we were taken to thedocks to board the Astra Militarum transports, herded by DepartmentoMunitorum clerks and Imperial Commander Khaef’s goons. The light ofOlympus’sun,eventhroughthetoxiccloudlayer,wassobrightithurtjusttobeoutside. But the air. The sweet, sweet air was something I could never haveimagined.So, it’s with some confidence that I announce we are almost at the surface.Armageddon’s atmosphere will slowly strip a decade off your life, breath bybreath, but the faintest hint of it was a draught of the Emperor’s purestexhalation.FromHisimmortallungstomine,infusingmewithlifeandenergy.There’s grit underfoot, a forerunner of the ash drifts that wait for us on thesurface, infiltrating the underhive through environmental systems directlyconnectedtotheoutside.Nopurelight,yet,butitcan’tbelong.‘Areyousure?’askstheColonel.

‘He’s right, sir,’ says one of the troopers that had come with him. We stillhaven’thadintroductions,butIrecognisethebadgeofanArmageddonregimentonthesleeveofherstainedshirt.‘IwasborninHades,I’dknowthatash-smellanywhere.Can’tbemorethanakilometreortwofrombreakinggroundlevel.’Othersclustercloser, somewith looksofhope,othersdisturbedby thenews.Oneof thissecondgroup–a tall,wiryenforcerofminecalledHarla–voicestheirconcern.‘Whatthen?’hesays,fingersflexingonthewrenchheholdsinonehand,theother fiddlingwith the holstered laspistol at hiswaist. He points to the crudeaquila tattoo on his cheek, the number six in a circle below it. ‘There’smineclearanceorlivingbombdutywaitingformeifIgoback.’OthersaddtheirowndiscontentatthethoughtofreturningtotheImperiallines.Some of them circle behind the Colonel and the knot of troopers with him,bringinguptheirguns.‘Emperor’s soldiers shoot Nazrek,’ the ork says, accompanied by animatedsquealingandgesticulatingfromGrot.The ork has a good point. I can’t see the commissars and colonels of theEmperor’s finest just letting Nazrek swagger into one of their camps. I can’tpromiseanything,becauseoncewe’reunderthegunsoftheImperialGuardtheColonelisbackincontrol,Ihavenodoubt.‘Acheronisnolongersafeforyou,’theColoneltellsthem,turninghisheadonewayandthentheothertolookateachinturn.‘IonlycameforKage,therestofyouarefreetofollowwhatevercourseyouchoose.’‘TheBurnedManisoneofus,’saysKarste,pushingtothefrontofthecrowd.She’spickedupanautogunalongthewayandpointsitattheColonel.Harlabacksherupwithanod.‘Wecan’tgobacktothearmy,BurnedMan.Weshouldturnthesefraggerstogrease.Hideoutinthewastes,makeitonourown.Youdoneitonce,youcandoitagain.’‘Temptingoffer,butI’mnotsureIknowthefirstthingaboutsurvivinginthewastes.’‘TheEmperorwillshowustheway.Showyoutheway,BurnedMan,’someoneaddsfrombehindme.‘It’snot like thealmightyMasterofTerra ishandingoutnicelywordednotesandamap,’Isnap,notwantinganyofthisrightnow.Wrong move. There are some grunts of discontent, a few sharp intakes ofbreath. I resist the urge to check on Nazrek immediately, fearing that the act

itselfmightshowweakness,butIcanfeel itsprowlingpresencesomewheretomyleft.I lookbackthewaywecame,downa twilitseriesofchambers that looklikecellsordorms,hardtoknowwhichwithoutfurniture.‘Youwanttodothishere?Thosenightmaresarecoming,andyouwanttostandaroundanddebatewhattodo?’‘Whereareyoutakingus?’demandsHarla.BeforeIcananswer,thefamiliarfleshpricklingcomesoverme.Theothersfeelit,theirdisquietgrowing.TheNeverbornaregettingclose,likeaforgeheatthatprecedesthemtouchingtheskin.‘Stop asking thewrongquestion,’ I growl. ‘I’m taking usout of here. That’swhatwestillneedtofocuson.Onethingatatime.GetoutofAcheronandthenwe’ll seewhat’s happening, right?Could be that the orks have broken out allover,andthere’snowheretogo.OrmaybetheGuardarecomingin,tanksandgunsblazing, seeing theorks ripe forpicking. I justknowone thing.Wekeepgoingorwegetcaught.Doyoutrustme?’It’snotexactlySaintSebastian’saddresstotheFirstSynod,butcombinedwiththe imminent threatof attack it seems todo the trick.Mygangersbackaway,relentingintheirthreatagainsttheColonelandhissoldiers.ItaketheleadwiththeColonelandamixofmypeopleandSchaeffer’s,tenofeach.Weforgeaheadof themain group, picking away through the rubble of broken ferrocrete andshattered plastek. The roof beams – plasteel pitted with corrosion – sagmenacingly and we call for the others to hurry after. I follow my nose,occasionallyconsultingwiththetrooperfromHades,whotellsmeshe’scalledTerrick,thoughI’mnotsureifthat’sherfirstnameorsurname.Theblood-poundingstartsagain,throbbinginmychest,givingmeaheadacheandfillingmybodywithpressureuntilitfeelslikemyarterieswillburst.Idarenot look backwhen someof the others shout awarning, but push on into theruinsahead,desperate to findaway forward.Terrick’skeeneyes findacrawlhole through a slope of shiftedmaterial that has almost buried amaintenanceduct.There’sroomforonlyoneatatime,soIsendTerrickinfirst,andthenafewothers,beforeIgoafter.It’shardgoingonhandsandkneesbutthethoughtofoneofthoseblood-thingsgrabbing me from behind is an amazing incentive, and I swear I cover thegroundasquickasifIwassprinting.Ihearbreathing,closeandsharpthroughtheduct,buttellmyselfit’sjustthemanbehindme.Notimetolook,justkeepmoving,keepalive.

IwonderifIshouldhavehungback,boughttimefortheothers,butit’stoolatenow.Ican’tseemuchpasttheothersinfrontbutaftercrawlingaboutfortymetresIget the impression of more light. Softer, more orange than most lumens orglowstrips. I hear a rattle of something falling on the square crawl space andthenashoutfromahead.Adrawn-outscreambehindsendsmeboltingforwardevenfaster,ignoringthepaininmyknees,thejabofbuckledmetalinmypalms.Another twentymetresbringsme to theendof theduct andout intoabroadhall. There’s daylight coming from the left, filtered through what were onceornatewindows, now shattered by either the ork attack or the Imperial siege.There’slittleleftofthefurniturebutforsplinters,acraterat thefarendoftherectangularhall,thewallcollapsedbeyondcuttingoffanyfurtheradvance.‘Emperor’s teeth!’ I swear,pullingmyself fullyoutof thedriftofdirt. I lookaround,butthewindowsaretoofaruptoreach.‘Trapped,’saysHarla,spittingdust.Foran instant itseemslike thecloudsshiftoverhead, illuminating thebrokenremainsofstepsleadingup.‘A sign,’Karste calls out from behindme. ‘See how theEmperor does lightyourpath,BurnedMan.’‘Go!’ I say, giving Karste a shove. More folks come out of the crawlway,bloodied and bruised, streakedwith sweat and dirt, and I send them on.Grotscampersout,baringsharplittlefangsinagrin.Nazrekemergesjustafter,broadshoulders almost trapped where the crush of fallen masonry has pinched themetalclose.Igrabitsarmanddragtheorkout.TheColonelisjustbehind.‘Idon’tthinkabyssalspectresneedtocrawlthroughducts,’Isay,tryingtolookeverywhereatonce.‘No,theydonot,’Schaefferreplies.Withoutagreementwestandalmostbacktoback,weaponstrainedonthecrumblingbrickwallwe’vejusttunnelledunder.Afewothersstaywithus,weaponsready,pointingatvariousroutesintothehall.The clatter ofmore people coming from the ductmakesme jump, and a fewsecondslaterOahebsappears,eyeswide,facealmostfeverishwithsweatwhilehisgazeflicksaround,notfocusingonanything.‘Rightbehindme,’hecroaks.‘Rightbehindme.Right…’He seems to relax, an odd smile on his face, and then collapses. I can hearscraping,butitdoesn’tseemtobegettingcloser.‘Nobodyelseiscoming.’‘Fight here,’ grunts Nazrek, pacing like a caged beast, choppa and pistol

swaying.‘Canyoufeelthebloodinthebiggreen?’Itstops,headtiltedlikeit’slistening.‘Nah.No big green.Not big. Small green.Me andGrot.’The ork shakes itscumbersomehead.‘Nobloodboys.’‘Grabhim,’Isay,pointingwithmypistolatOahebs.Iheadupthestepsaftertheothers.Acoupleofminuteslater,afternegotiatingthe winding, debris-choked stairs, I find myself on a flat roof between twosquaretowers,crookedbutintact,smoggyskysmudgedwithredcloudabove.Iturn,seeingtwomoretowersattheotherendofthehall,builtoutoftheinclineofthehive.Acheronstretcheskilometresaboveusandtoeitherside,asmassiveas a mountain, jagged and spire-broken. But I recognise where we are, theoutlineofthejuttingbuildingandthebuttressesthatsupportit.Achapel.AshrineoftheEmperor.‘Fragme,itreallyisamiracle,’Isaytonobodyinparticular.

Thechapelispartofanoutcropabouttwokilometreslongprotrudingfromthesouthern slopes of Acheron. It’s hard to see much of anything, the smog ofindustry and war shrouds everything, broken only by erratic gusts of wind.Lookingat thedebris that’spiledup toeither side, it seemsawholechunkofhiveskinslippeddownfromafewkilometresup,buryingnearlyeverything,butsomehowtheshrinesurvived.Otherthanthewind,theonlysoundisthedistantboomofartilleryandoccasionalshriekof jetenginesfarabove,hiddenby theruddyclouds.Whatthereisn’t,muchtoeveryone’srelief,isanysignofthedaemons.‘Nothing over here,’ Karste shouts from the furthest extent of the roof, overwhatwouldhaveoncebeenthepreacher’srobingchambers,Ithink.Thewholebuildingisshapedfromaboveasastylised‘I’withbrokenflyingbuttressesthatonce formed cross-bars at themiddle. The four steeples are close to toppling,scattersofbrickandchunksofmortar lyingover thecracked ferrocreteof theroofbetween.Evenso,Harlahasdaredtoclimbuponenearthemainentrance,backoverthepittedcladdingofthehive.Cuppinghishandsaroundhismouthhecallsbackdown.‘Can’tseeanywarpbornfromhere!’Igivehimathumbsupandsignalforhimtobegintheprecariousclimbdown.‘Noabyssalservants,’IsaytotheColonel.We’restoodonawalkwayneartotheroof’sedge,lookingdownintoafracture-chasmafewhundredmetresdeep.

Nosignofanythingmovingdownthere.‘Somepoweroftheshrine,maybe?’‘Itispossible.’Hestraightens,browslightlycreased.‘Theremustbemoretoitthan that.The structureof thehivemeans littleobstacle to thewarp-spawned.Whycanwenotseethememergingaroundus?’Istrokethebackofmyneck,feelingthecoolingbreezeonskinthathasn’tbeentouchedbyopenairinmorethanayear.There’snoheat,nopricklingsensation.‘Ican’tfeelthem,canyou?’Schaeffershakeshishead.‘Nooppressivepresence,’heagrees.I look up at the shadowy vastness of the hive, wondering at the scenes ofbutcherywithin.‘The fighting’s still going on inside,’ I say, scratching a scar on my chin.‘There’s a lot of orks and humans still in the hive city and upper spire. Themessenger that hitched a ride in my brain seemed to feed on… Misery andviolence,itstirredthemup,didterriblethingstofuelitself,Ithink.Maybethedaemonsaredrawntothebloodshed.Ifwekeepoutoftrouble…’TheheavythudofbootsdrawsourattentiontotheapproachofNazrek.Theorklooksmiserable.‘Nogreenhere,’itrumbles.‘Justplanetgreen.Whatplan,boss?’‘Youdon’tfeelthebloodinthegreen?’Iask,confirmingmysuspicions.‘Noblood,nogreen.’‘WecannotgobackintoAcheron,’saystheColonel.Idarthimawarninglook,toremindhimthatIneedtobeincharge.Hetakesmymeaningwithasourlook.‘Where do you want to go? The Imperial line, such as it is, lies about tenkilometres further out. There is little presence in this area – Acheron is acampaignofcontainment,nothingmore.’Forty-threesurvivorshavemade it to thechapel, includingme,mostof themsittinghuddledwitheachotherintheleeofthetowersatthefront.Someofthemorecoherentonesare stationedaround the roof tokeepwatch.A fewothersgatherclosertohearthediscussion.Karstestepsout.She’sasorrysight,herhairmatted with dirt and flopping over her face, studded jacket torn, a bloodiedbandagearoundher leftarm.Butherexpression isanythingbut sorry.There’sfireinhereyesI’venotseenbefore.Catastrophebreakssomepeopleandmakesothers.‘Weshouldwarnsomeonewhat’shappening,’shesays.‘Aboutthe…attack?’‘IthinktheImperialauthoritiesalreadyknow,’saysSchaeffer,andhelooksuppointedly.

Above us, somehowvisible through themurk, the sky is dominated bywhatlookslikeascrawledspiral,apulsatingopeninginrealityitself.WhereverIlookup,it’sthereinthecentreofmyvision.Icanalmostfeelmalignenergiesseepingfromit,settlingonArmageddonlikepsychicfallout.‘Wehave to get everyone to sanctuary,’ I say, castingmygaze at the forlorncrowdofmyfollowers.‘Orks,wasters,abyssalwarriors…Oneofthem’sgoingtogetus,soonerorlater.’Itakeadeepbreath,readyingmyself,andlookattheColonel. ‘I can’t think of anywherewe’ll find safety exceptwith the Imperialforces.’Therearesomecallsofargument,someofrelief.IturntoNazrek.‘Sorry, Idon’tknowwhat’llhappen toyou. Ifyouwant togoand findsomemoreorks,youshouldgoanddothat.’‘Nazrek not leave yet. Still fight to have.’ Grot snarls something from nearNazrek’sfeetandisansweredbyametal-cappedboot,sendingitleapingawayacrosstheroofscreechinglikeawoundedbird.‘StillfollowBurnedManboss.’Ipeeroutintotheshiftingbanksofsmokeandnoxiousvapoursthatpoolandbreakaroundthefoothill-likehivefoundations.Inthegloomofdistance,IfancyI see patches of brightness,maybe artillery flare, though it could be anythingreally.Tenkilometresdoesn’tsound likea lot,but that’sacrosspuregritdriftsandashdunes.Apersoncanget lost inminutes,orfall intoanacidpit,orgetswallowed by a sinkhole. I offer up a silent prayer that there’s no acidcloudburst,andthatwedon’trunintoapocketofmutagenicgasortoxiceffluentcloud.Andlet’snotforgetthedaemons,wastersandorks.‘Goodtimes,’Isaytotheothers.‘Let’sgetmoving.’

SIXINTOTHEWASTES

Haveyouevertriedswallowingamouthfulofsaltandthenwasheditdownwithhotsand?That’severybreathasweforgeourwayintothewastes.AfterafewminutesAcheronHiveisjustadarkerblurinthefog,whileoverheadtheabyssalrift continues to writhe and stir, staring down at us from everywhere. Theunderstrata of the hive foundations givesway to the ash flows, a grey sea ofconstantly moving dunes and waves. Particles glitter in the wind, almostbeautifulastheycatchlight–lethalifinhaledinanylargequantity.Millenniaofconstructionandcollapsehavemadeitimpossibletoknowwherethehivecitystopsandthewastesbegin.Whattheturnofcenturiesstarted,thewar with the orks has finished. Crumbling ferrocrete cliffs cut through withdrainageriversthatgleamwiththeirownsicklylight,tumblingoverfallscreatedbybroken,half-meltedplastekbeams,spillingintoplasmacraterpools.Hereandthere a familiar shape juts from pitted slag hills, like a battlement of an oldwatchtoweror thehigh,narrowwindowsofsomeancientmillormanufactory.Oldincineratorsandtheskeletalremainsoflootedfurnaceworksbreakplateausofcrackedceramic tiles, theirpatterns longsincegroundawayby theairbornedust.Acid rivuletscarvehaphazardpathsdown theartificialmountainsideandwecoveroureyesagainstthevapours,buryingourfacesinwhateverwecantoavoid the stinging mist. Bent girders provide bridges over disusedmineworkings, stones dislodged by our passage falling for an impossibly longtimebeforethenoiseoftheirlandingechoesbacktous.

Slowly,structuregiveswaytoundulatinghillocksofdebris,markedwithdrillscars and pick holes where scavvies have tried to lever out a few preciousnuggets of smelted metal. We come across occasional gates and doorways,prised open like the tombs of old kings I’ve heard about, and equally looted,thoughforarcheotechratherthanroyaltreasures.Remnantsofoldtowns,barterstations that maybe lasted hundreds of years now swept away by wind andcorrosiverain,brokenapartbytheImperialGuard’sshellsandthetorpedoesofNavyshipsinorbit.Hereand therewecomeuponholes seeminglydrilledperfectly into thehardsurface,aboutthreemetresacross,theircircularsidesglassysmooth.‘Lancebeams,’explainstheColonel,referringtothemassivelaserbatteriesoftheEmperor’swarships.Whoknowswhattheywereaimingat,ifanythingatall,amongst the indistinguishable ruin of past generations. Orks on themove? Asensorblip?Amiscommunicatedcoordinate?ItremindsmeofCoritanorumandthatcrazybastardStriden.TheonlypersonIknow that volunteered for one of the Colonel’s one-way missions. And theEmperormusthaveblessedhimbecausehewalkedout theothersidewithlifeandlimbintact.IbetIcouldcountononehand,maybetwo,thepeoplethathaveever returnedfromaLastChancersmission.TheColonel,ofcourse.AndI’vesomehowgotthroughthreetourswithhim,thoughIreallydon’tknowwhetherto count the assassinationof vonStrab as a survival or not. I shouldbe dead.Really,truly,burned-to-ashesdead.Iwantedtobedead,butthatwasn’ttobe.Maybe Armageddon will get me still, I think, as we clamber down fromtumbledrockcreteblocksintothewastesproper.Nobodyispreparedforthis.It’scolderaswemoveawayfromthelastoutskirtsofAcheron,thewindreallybitingonbareflesh.Noscarvestocoverourmouths,nocoatstoshieldbodiesandarms,nohatsexceptforafewhelmetsbetweenus.Only half of us have weapons, and that’s if we count some small shivs andimprovisedmauls.Nowater,nofood.Ten kilometres, I keep telling myself. Ten kilometres and we’ll be near theImperialcamps.SotheColonelthinks.Tenkilometres.Threehours?Maybefourintheseconditions.Ifwerunintoapicketorpatrol,perhapsevensooner.Despitetheapparentsimplicityofthetaskathand,inmygutIknowit’sneverthateasy.IftheEmperorreallyhasapathlaidoutforme,Hesureasanythingishaving a good chuckle on the Golden Throne, throwing hilarious, life-threateningobstaclesinmypatheverychanceHehas.I have plenty of time to think about that, because nobodywants to talk. Just

openingyourmouthisaninvitationtosuckinalungfulofrazor-rain–metalandplastek blown into the atmosphere by the war, turned into needle-slivers byconstantmotionandplasmicdischarge,suckedintotheupperairbydetonationthermalsandthenlovinglydepositedacrossthewastesonthedowndraughtsoforbitalbombardments.Armageddon. Probably the worst place His Divine Majesty could havedepositedme, barring a trip toCatachan. It’s been a shithole for thousands ofyearsalready,thehiveindustriesbelchingoutpollutionforsolongthatnobodyknowswhatitwaslikebefore.Onlytheequatorialjungleshaveanysemblanceof native life, everything else is ashwastes or the blistering tar seas and acidgeysersofthepolarregions.Butthatwasjustyoureverydayhelltoliveon.Bearableifnotnice.WhentheBeastGhazghkullcameback, itgota lotworse, reallyquickly.Thatmeanorkbastarddidn’t like that he’dbeenbeatenbefore, andhe rememberedwhowasoneof themain reasons for that –Yarrick, commissar,Heroof the Imperium.HadesHivehadhalted theorksbefore, so theBeastdroppedanasteroidon itthistime.Thegeothermalsexploded,creatingthistwilitsmog,avolcanicwinterenveloping most of the continent. The Emperor alone knows what sorts oftoxins,ordnanceandspecialmunitionshavebeenexpendedtodrivetheorksout,butfromrad-zonestopromethiumrivers,there’sbarelyasquarekilometreofthelandthathasn’tbeenscarredbytheconflict.Theair,theweather,everythingistouchedbyit.And inside theorkareas, likeAcheronandpartsof the jungle, thatmightbeevenworse.Orkifiedterritoriesliketheonewepassedthrough,butonamassivescale.Suddenly I remember the prisoners we freed. I can’t recall when I last sawthem.WhentheNeverborncame,Iguessthefolkscarryingthemdecidedtolosetheweight, and I can’t say I blame them.Whatwas I thinking? Just trying toprove the Colonel wrong? Stupid, wasteful. Could have got evenmore of uskilled.Probablydid.Wrapped in these glum thoughts, I almostmiss themovement in the curlingmists.AhushedwarningfromtheColonelandsuddenactivityaroundmedrawsmyattentiontotheothersreadyingtheirweapons.Ican’tfeelthedaemon-heat,somyfirstthoughtisorks.Pullingupmypistol,IgetreadytofirethemomentIseeafangedface.Harla shouts from behind, alerting us to the presence of more indistinctsilhouettesfollowing.Half-seenfiguresappearanddisappearinruddyeddiesof

smog. Not directly behind us but coming at an angle. Smart, good ambushpattern.Orkssometimesattackyoufromthefrontandbackandenduphittingeachotherwiththeirmissedshots.Thesefolksknowwhatthey’redoing.Sonotorks.Theycanbecunning,butrarelypatient.Ifitwasorkstheywouldhavestartedtheattackbynow.‘Wait,’Isay,tryingtokeepcalm.Maybeitisdaemons?Notenoughofthemtocausethepricklingsensation,butmaybestartingtomanifestoutsideAcheron?Iglanceup,unabletostopmyself,eyesdrawntothemenacingcircleofenergypulsingintheskies.The thought that itmightbeapatrolbringsaflutterofhope tomyheart. It’sshort-livedasIseesomeofthevagueshadowsresolveintomoredefiniteshapes.Figures swathed in coats and scarves, faces hidden behind masks and tintedgoggles, brightly coloured streamers and pennants tied to their long-barrelledlasgunsandthehiltsofbladesat theirbelts.Notjustdecoration, theflashesofcolouramidthenumbingdrabnessofthewasteshelpsthemkeeptrackofeachother.Wasters.Judging by their organisation and numbers, not just some scav-gang hangingaroundthehivebasehopingtofindawayin.Properashwastesnomads,bornandraisedouthere,plyingtheirtradeandtheirattacksfromonegritbowltothenext.Icountthirty,withmoreinthedistance.Shorter,probablychildren.Therewillbeotherscloseathand,guardingthecaravan.We’re technically not outnumbered but we’re certainly outgunned, and in apoorposition.‘Fraggingwaste-rats,’someonesnarlstomyright.‘Nobody does anything,’ I snap, dipping my pistol slightly. ‘Lower yourweapons.’Someofthemhesitate.Harlaturnsasourlookatme.‘I’mnotgivingthemfirstshot,BurnedMan.Youknowwhatthesesavagesdotopeople?Betterdeadthantraded.’‘Iftheyweregoingtoattackus,theywouldhaveopenedfirealready,’saystheColonel,asifreadingmythoughts.‘Theyhavehadplentyofopportunitytogetthefirststrikebuthavenottakenit.Thatsuggeststheydesireparley,notafight.’‘Whichmeansyouputyourfragginggundownanddon’tstartanything,’Iadd.IthrowalookatNazrek.‘Youunderstand?Nofightyet.Maybeallies.’The ork eyes the strangerswith open hostility, but its arms drop to its sides,cleaverandpistolinhand.

A crunch of footfalls has us all turning around, to see a trio of wastersapproaching,theirriflesslungontheirbacks,handsheldoutfromtheirsidestoshowtheirpeacefulintent.Judgingbybuild,whichistrickygiventheconditionsand clothes, I’d say two women and a much taller man, but it’s just a guessreally.Underneaththelayersofprotectiverobes,wrapsandcapestheycouldbeanything. The others hold back, visible but as shifting as the concealing fogbanks,keepingusunsureoftheirexactpositions.‘Nobodysaysanything,’Itellmypeople,givingthemawarningglarewhilewewaitforthearrivalofthewasterdelegation.‘Wedon’tneedmoreenemies.’A shadow over my shoulder reveals the arrival of Schaeffer. I can tell he’sitchingtoissueorders, to takecharge,anditmustbeburninghimupinsidetogivegroundtome.Iwonderifhe’lldoit.PreparedtoruntheriskofNazrek’schallengenowthatwe’reawayfromtheotherorks.‘Whatisyourintent,Kage?’hesaysquietly.‘Stayalive.Saywhatevergetsthatdone.’‘Any succour they provide will only be temporary. Sooner or later you willhavetoreturntotheImperialzone.’‘Is thatwhatyou’reworriedabout?That I’dgiveyouupforachance to livelike awaster? I’m insulted,Colonel. It never crossedmymind.’But now thatSchaeffer’s brought the idea to my attention I do give it a little thought as Iwatchthethreewasterssteppingcarefullyuptheslopeofanashdrift.Theyhavean elegant, calmway ofwalking that seems unhurried but doesn’t disturb thesurfacelayertoomuch.IsitatrickIcouldlearn?CouldIlivethatlife,stayingjustaheadofstarvationanddehydration?Notreallyme,Iprefermypotentialdeaththreatstobeabruptandviolentratherthandrawn-outandtedious.Iholstermypistolandraisemyemptyhandingreeting,theotheronthehiltofmyknife.The tallest waster separates slightly from the other two, a hand wrapped inslenderbandagesrisingtotheskull-maskbeneaththehood.Iheartheslighthissof a rebreather disconnecting as the mask comes away, revealing skin darkerthanmine, twoemerald eyesgazing atmewith interest.Full lips and shallowcheeks.Maybeawoman,afterall.Herdisconcertinggazemoves to theothersandthenbacktome.SheturnsherheadandsayssomethinginadialectIhaven’theardbeforeandgetsalaughinreplyfromtheothertwo.‘What’ssofunny?’Idemand.

‘Youtakewrongturn,hive-walker?’ thewastersays,withoutanyvenom.Herlipsformabroadsmile.‘Youlooklikerust-eelshit,andsmellworse.’I lookatherforafewseconds,notquitesurewhat tomakeof this,and thenburstoutlaughing.Thejokeisn’teventhatfunny,butthelastfewhoursofpent-upmadnessjustfindawaytobreakthroughandittakesnearlyaminutebeforeIcanevenmusteranywords.‘We might have been a bit rushed,’ I tell her. As my hysteria subsides I’mconsciousofthepresenceoftheotherwasters.Theystillhaveusintheirsightsandthiscouldallbeanelaboratedeception,nomatterwhattheColonelsays.Iventuresomeinformationtohelpkeepthingscivil.‘MynameisKage.’‘Orskya,’shereplies.‘OrskyaAdrausk,daughterofAdraNurien.’‘Theseyourgrounds?Wedidn’tmeantotrespass.’Iseethethreewasterstenseandlookatsomethingbehindme.Turningmyheadslowly,IseeNazrek,gruntingtoitself,swayingleftandrightalittle.‘Nazrekiswithme,’Isay,thoughwhatthatmeanstothewastersisdebatable.It’salsoareminderthatIneedtochoosemywordscarefullyinfrontoftheork.Orskyaturnsherattentionbacktome.‘No,thesenotanyone’sgrounds,notsinceBestizcomeback.Foundyourtrailwhenwe ash-dipping on the hive base,made such amess, thought youwereorik. Luckily your bigmouths show us you not.’ Her eyesmove toNazrek, acalculatinglook.‘Least,notall.’‘Seethat?’Ipointuptothewoundinthesky.Shenods.‘That’sbadnewsforallofus.Acheronisswarmingwithnetherfiendsanditwon’tbe longbefore theyburstouteverywhereelsetoo,Ibet.Couldbecomingrightnow.’‘Wealreadyhavebad time,’ she tellsme,her expressiongoing sombre. ‘Ourvitchyanotwake.Sleep-murder,terrorkillher.’I’mnotsurewhat tosaynext,butmyeyeiscaughtbyamovement.I launchmyselfforwardwithoutthinking,seeingasinuousmotionintheashacoupleofmetres fromOrskya’s left leg.A black-and-grey serpent bursts from the duneslopebutI’mcloseenoughtograbitbehindthehead,theknifeinmyotherhanddriving up through the bottom of the jaw, pinning its mouth shut. It spasms,almostknockingme sidewaysasmoreof its immense lengthuncoils from theash.Ihearshoutsofalarmfrombehind.Orskya’scompanionscometomyaidasI fall tomyback, the thrashing snake trying to pull itself frommygrip, foul-smellingbloodspillingfromitswound.Betweenthemtheytakeitfrommeandquicklydecapitateit,lettingthebodyfalltotheashatmyfeet.I lie there foramoment,notquitesurewhathappened, feeling thedribbleof

serpentblooddownmyitchingcheek.Orskyastoopsovermeandwipesitawaywithhercuffbeforeofferingmeahandtopullmeup.She’s taller thanmebyabouttencentimetres,andhergripisasstrongasanyI’vefeltintheGuard.‘Strykvena,’shesays,lookingdownattheheadlesscorpsetwitchingdowntheslope.She turnsher attentionback tome. ‘Strike-viper, ormaybehollowtoothyourpeoplecallit.Deadly.’‘You’rewelcome.’Hereyesnarrowandshetakesastepback.‘Nobodymovefasterthanstrike-viper.’‘Instinct,that’sall.Musthaveseenitmovingbutnotrealised.I’vestayedalivealongtimejustactingwithoutthinking.’‘AndnowIalivetoo.’‘Isupposeyouowemealifedebtnow,orsomething?’Shesneersatme,shakingherhead.‘Inotshootyouthroughlefteyetenminutesago.Ioweyoushitandnothing.Youcanhaveboth.’Ilaughagain,takenabackbyherforthrightmanner.I’velivedalongsidesomeveryinterestingpeople–ifyourdefinitionofinterestingisthieving,murderous,self-servingandinsane–butOrskyaseemsdifferentfromallofthem.Mostofthe‘freespeakers’I’veknownjustspoutofftheirownprejudices,rebelsagainstthedisciplineoftheImperialGuard,tryingtoshockwiththeirso-calledhonesty.Theywantareactiontojustifytheirexistence.There’snoposturinginOrskya.Shejustsayswhatshemeans.Life in thewastesdoesn’treally leaveroomforniceties,Isuppose.Shetensesandhercompanionsstepforwardassomeonemakestheirwaydowntheslopetowardsus.Iturnandseethatit’stheColonel,andsuppressasighofannoyance.‘IamColonelSchaeffer,rankingofficer,’hesays,dartingmealook,daringmetoargue.Technicallyhe’sright,hecertainlyoutranksme,andhedoesn’tclaimtobeincommand.‘Whatisyourintent?’‘Intent, Colonel?’ Orskya shrugs. ‘No intent. Now we see you, we notinterested.Wepickbonesofthearmycampsgoodtheselastdays.You?Nothingtotrade.Nothingtosteal.’‘DoyouknowthewaybacktotheImperiallines?’‘Whatyoumean?’‘TheImperialforces,’Iexplain.‘Trenches,bunkers,tanksandsoldiers?There’sfortificationsclosetohere,keepingguardonAcheron.Wherearethey?’

‘Theyleave.’Schaeffergrunts,thenshakeshishead,confused.‘HalfamillionImperialGuarddonotjustleave.’‘Howlongwereyoulookingforme?’Iask,wonderinghowtheColonelcouldnotknowaboutanentirearmygroupmovingoff.‘Armymove south,’ says Orskya, pointing over my shoulder. ‘In hurry too.Fourdaysago?’‘Five,’ one of the other wasters corrects her. He slaps his thigh. ‘Was dayAlanzabrokeherleg.’‘Ah,fivedaysago.’‘Wheredid theygo?’ asks theColonel, clearlyput out by this revelation.Heglances at me and drops his voice. ‘There were no pertinent orders when Idepartedheadquarters.’‘Whichwaswhen?’‘Eighteendaysago.’‘Yourpeopleinbighurry.Marchquick,getontrucksandtanks.Theygonebynightfall.Zoom,boom!Oneday,allgone.’‘Therewasnoorkattack?’Shepointsuptotheskybutdoesn’tlook.‘Thathappendaybefore.’Orskya looks away as another waster hurries through the fog. She bends tolistentoawhisperedmessage,thedeliverercastingrapidglancesbackthroughthemists.Orskyastraightens,sayssomething inreturn that Idon’tunderstand.Her twocompanionsgather toher foraquickconversationbeforeheadingoffintothegloom.‘OrksareleavingAcheron,’thewastertellsus.‘Thousands.’‘Drivenoutbytheabyssalinvaders,’Isay.‘That’showweendedupouthere.’‘Therewillbemanymoreinthecominghoursanddays,’addsSchaeffer.‘Andthentheinfernalservantswillcomeafter.’‘Iknowthissoundsstrangecomingfromme,butI’mtiredofrunning,’Isay,lookingfromSchaeffertothemiserablecrowdbehindus.A few nod, others look scared enough to bolt into the smog at the smallestprovocation. Nazrek gives an appreciative ripple of its lips, and a rumble ofagreementemanatesdeepintheork’schest.‘Imean,’Icontinue,‘weneedsomewheretotakeabreathandresupply.Workout our real options.’ I laugh. ‘I wasn’t talking about some stupid counter-attack…’

‘There must be some Imperial forces remaining nearby,’ says the Colonel.‘Orskya,doyouhaveanykindofvox-casterorreceiver?’‘Vox-box? Yes, we have two. One with Nordas, other back at camp.’ Shegestures with a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Long-range vox at camp. Twokilometrethatway.Why?’‘Wecanuseittocontactassistance,perhapsfindoutwheretheretreatmusterpointis,’Schaeffercontinues.‘Notwithourvox,’saysthewaster,grimacing.‘Armyfindus,shootus.’‘You can’t survive out here on your own,’ I tell her, pointing back towardsAcheron.‘Therearehundredsofthousandsoforks,millionsofhumans,inthathive.Themoretheyfight,themoreofthemthatdie,thebiggerthatripaboveusgets,Ireckon.Thoseorkscomingthiswaynow?Justthestart.’‘WesurviveBestiztwotime.Wesurvivethis.’‘Youshouldlistentohim!’WeallturninsurpriseasKarstesurgesforward.Inthemists,wastersraisetheirweaponsinresponse.‘HehastheEmperor’ssight.’‘Who are you, small girl?’ says Orskya, looking at the slight hiver with amixtureofamusementandconfusion.‘WhatisthisEmperor’ssight?’‘WhentheBeastcameandvonStrabsurrenderedAcheron,Iran.ButIdidn’trun farenough.Then these twocame,’ shepointsatmeand theColonel, ‘andtheykilledthetraitor.Iranagain,intothedepths.ButtheBurnedMan,hefoundme.Hesavedme.Allofus!’‘Thistrue?’Orskyaraisesaneyebrowatme.‘YoukillvonStrab?’Shemakesagestureacrossherface,asthoughpickingthewordsfromherlipsandthrowingthemtotheground.Irealiseit’sasignofdisgust,asif thenameitselftastesbad.Therecouldbesomeleveragethere.‘Yes,Ikilledhim,’Isay.IpointtoSchaefferandthenturnandpickoutOahebsfrom the others. ‘We were part of a team sent to get rid of the traitorcommander.’‘TheBurnedMandiedsothatthetraitorwasslain!’someonecallsoutfromthegroup.‘Theflamespurifiedhim!’anothershouted.‘Younot lookdead,BurnedMan.’Orskya looksmeupanddown,appraisingmeagaininlightofthisnewinformation.‘Igotbetter,’Isaywithalopsidedgrin.I can feelSchaeffer tensingnext tome, thoughwhether from this talkofmysupposed holiness or just amore general agitation, it’s impossible to know. Itdoes remindme thatwe’reagainst theclockhere. Iknowitdidn’t takeus too

longtogetthisfarintothewastes;theorkscan’tbetoofaraway.‘Heledustosanctuaryagainsttheabyssalfiends,’Karsteadds,lookingatmewithwideeyes.‘Hewillfindussanctuaryagain!Youshouldcomewithus.’Herearnestnessisalmostoverwhelming,borderingonthecomical,butOrskyais looking at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher, gaze movingoccasionallytothesorrysightoftheotherunderhivers.‘You can use vox-box,’ she concedes, taking a step back. ‘Comewithme tocamp.Callfriends.’‘Thanks,’Isayasshestartstoturnaway.‘I’lloweyouone,forsure.’Orskyaturnsback,herlookintent.‘Youwill,BurnedMan.Youreallywill.’Andthenshegoes,longstridesquicklytakingherintotheswirlingashclouds.Schaeffer’s alreadyorganising theothersby the time I turnback to thegroup.Harlamakeshiswaytome,almostfallingashedragshisfeet throughtheashdrift.‘Thisisaplan,right?’hesays.‘We’llgetinthecampthentaketheirstuff?’‘No.We’llgotothecamp,usetheirvox-settoseeifwecanlinkupwithanyImperialforces,andthengetthesepeoplesomewherewheretheywon’tgettheirfaceschewedoffbyorksorabyssalmonsters.’‘Comeon,Kage.I’vebeenspeakingtosomeofthosetrooperswecaught.ThatOahebs,he’sacreepybastardbuthetoldmeallaboutyou.’‘Hedid?’ I resist theurge to lookat theGuardsmanandkeepmy tone level.‘Likeyousay,he’sacreepyfragger.Maybenotbelieveeverythinghesays.’‘ButyouwereclosetovonStrab,right?’Harlacrosseshisfingers.‘Realtight,Ihear.’‘There’sEmperorknowshowmanyorkscomingrightatus,’I tellhim.‘Thisisn’tthetimeorplaceforthis.’Iturnawaybuthegrabsmyarm.‘Weain’tdone.’‘We are,’ I snarl quietly, looking down at his hand. ‘You can finish withfunctionalfingers,orwithout.Yourchoice.’Heletsgoimmediately,retreatingafewstepsfromtherawvenominmyvoiceandstare.Itakeapaceafterhim,voicestilllow.‘Benice,Harla.Youcouldloseyourwayonthetrektothewastercamp.’Andwiththatthreatlefthanging,Istalkoff,notgivinghimanymorechancetoargue.

SEVENWASTERS

‘Youknow, I hearwasters can track their campsby the smell.’This sparklingcontributiontothesparseconversationcomesfromNezeriav,oneof thehiversthatfirstfoundme.Henudgesmewithhiselbow.‘Youknow,onaccountofthestinktheymake.’‘They’rewearingrebreathers,’Ireply,shakingmyhead.‘Idiot.’He falls silent, pouting, but I’m beyond caring about moody followers andmutinies and being the Emperor-damned chosen one.My legs ache,my backaches,I’mgoingtochoketodeathondustifsomepainfulviolenceisn’tvisiteduponmeinthenextfewhours.Itwouldseemhehasapoint. Ican’t tellonewayfromanother;wecouldbewalkingincirclesforallIknow.Thedunesalllookthesame,andthebanksofground-huggingfogsometimesbringvisibilitydowntojustafewmetres.Othertimeswe can see formaybe two or three hundredmetres, just an expanse ofundulating grey and brown ash, indistinguishable from anywhere else we’vepassed.After a fewminutes the Colonel catches up withme, glaring daggers at thesandssuckingathisbootsasifhecouldmakethewastespartforhimwithrawanger.He hauls himself across the ash in defiance of the shifting slope ratherthan working with it, which pretty much says all you need to know aboutColonelSchaeffer.‘Itwouldnotbewisetospendtoomuchtimewiththesethieves,’hetellsme,

throwing a suspicious glance at ourwaster escorts. ‘Theywill cut us loose assoonastheyarethreatened.Orworse.’‘You’re the one that wanted a vox-caster. You’re gonna get one. What’s tocomplainabout?’‘Themosttemporaryandpragmaticofalliances,nothingmore.Assoonaswefindout the locationof the Imperialmusteringpoint thesepeoplearenomoreusetous.’Hedropshisvoiceevenfurther.‘Thesameistrueoftheorkandyourdesertercompanions.Theywillcausetrouble.’‘We’vegotenoughtroubleasitis,withoutpickingfightsamongstourselves.’Heshakeshisheadandallowshimselftofallbackafewsteps.Lookingforbettercompany, Ihurry tocatchupwithOrskya,puffinghard tomatchherlong,effortlessstridesasitseemsI’mthrashingknee-deepthroughtheslidingash.Iseethegleamofsomethingonherwristbeforeitdisappears intohercuff.‘That’s your secret sense, is it?’ I say, nodding at her arm. ‘Got yourself anavigationpiece?’She drawsback the sleeve to showme thewrist-mounted auspex.The greenscreeniscrackedandthecasingheavilyscuffed,butasshetouchesathumbtotheactivationstuditquicklycomestolife.‘Four generations the duneseers of our people have this,’ she says proudly,turningitoffagain.‘Allmymothers,andnowtome.’‘Duneseer,that’swhatyoucallyourleader?’‘No.Iamwhatyoucall,ah,chiefscout?Vitchya,theWiseOne,isleader,butshedieasIsay.Wenotchoosenewleaderyet,stillsadforloss.Toosoon.’Ican’tthinkofanythingtosaytothatandwecarryoninsilence.Intheabsenceoftalking,nowandthenIcatchadifferentnoise,likethegurgleofsomeunseenpipewayor streamor thecrackleof someunknownsubstance justbeneath theashunderfoot. Icanhearchanges in thewindtoo.Differentspeedsandangleswhistlingandmoaningoverthedrifts.Infact,itsoundsalotlikevoices.Distanthowlsandbayingcries.‘Doesitalwayssoundthiscreepyouthere?’Orskyastopsandpullsbackthehoodofhercape,revealingherear.‘No,’shesays.‘Thatisnotthenoiseofthewastes.Idonotknowwhatitis.’Ido,butittakesmeamomentbeforeIcansayit.‘TheNeverborn.Abyssalvoicesofnightmare.Maybethey’refollowingus,ormaybeit’severywhere.’‘Maybemakingguessesnotgoodforanyone,’shesnaps,clearlyonedgefrom

thisdiscovery.Afewminuteslaterwecrestaduneandsuddenlyfindourselvesontheedgeofthewasters’camp.Camouflagedsheetingandtentsblendalmostseamlesslywiththeashandgrit.Carefullypositionedpolescreatecurvesthatmaskthelinesofthe tents against the bowl of the depression holding the encampment, whilesmaller bivouacs are half-dug into the ash itself, forming small caves andtunnels.Walkbyjustfortymetresawayandyou’dseenothing.Whoeverhadthevox-setmusthavesignalledaheadbecausethere’sawelcomepartywaitingforus,weaponsattheready,whileourescortsquietlymoveaway,outof thefiring line. Icount twentyshroudedfigures in thecamp,allof themarmed.Theyoungestmusthavebeenmovedawayforsafety,infantswitholderchildren forminders, so there’sprobablyevenmorealtogether.The tents I seedon’tseemtohavethecapacityforeveryone,soIfigurethateitherthey’vedugdown into the dunes beneath those canopies or there’s a second,maybe eventhirdcampnotfaraway.Orskyawalksovertotheclosestgroup,noneofthemastallasher,andhasabriefconversation.Oneofthoseshemeetsraisesahandandthendropsit,andthe otherwasters lower theirweapons.About half of them turn away and setaboutotherbusiness,whileagoodnumberof thosethatfoundusdriftoff intotheencampment.I spare a glance for Nazrek. The ork has been very quiet, bemused byeverythingthat’shappening,Ithink.Itstandsthere,armsbyitssides,shoulderssagging, gaze cast to the ground. There’s none of the ork’s usual latentbelligerence.While Orskya continues her small conferencewith what I guessmustbetherankingelders,Iwanderovertothexenoswarrior.‘Good?’Iask.‘Notgood,’saysNazrek,rubbingaknuckleacrossitsforehead.‘Nogreen.Feelbad.’‘Right.’I’mnotsurewhattodo.I’veneverhadtohandlealistlessorkbefore.‘Keepoutoftroublebutbereadyforit.’Nazrekgivesamorosenodandsitsdowninabillowofash.‘Waithere,’itsays.I’mnot sure if I prefer this or twohundred kilos of green-skinnedmeannessalways looking for thenext fight. I’mused to fist-happyknuckleheads, not somuchthemopingtypes.AtleastI’llknowwheretofindtheork.While some of the wasters start handing out scarves, hoods and masks – acharityIhadn’taskedfororexpected–OrskyaintroducesmeandtheColonelto

Maksi,Elg andTormas, the three seniormembers of the group.Harla,Karsteand a few others tag along with us once they’ve received better protectionagainsttheharshelements.I’moffered a jacket thatmust have been taken from the abandoned Imperiallines – thick camouflage material, reinforced at the elbows. A girl brings acoupleofdifferenthelmetstotryon.Thefirst isaregulationCadian-style,butit’stoobigforme,evenwiththechinstrapcinchedinastightaspossible.Ieyethe other offering with suspicion – a tall ceremonial helm covered with bluevelvet,apointedstudat thecrestandafur lining.Puttingiton, it feelssecureenough,butIfeellikeanidiot.Iswapitforacapeandhoodinstead,sendingaquickprayertotheEmperorthatIdon’tgethitintheheadanytimesoon.Islingtheprofferedwastermaskaroundmyneck–norebreather, just layersof filtermaterialsandwichedbetweenarigidframethatlooksabitlikeaskull,enoughtocoverthemouthandears,tintedgogglestoshieldtheeyes.Wegatherunderoneoftheashshadesandsharesipsofalukewarmbeveragethattastesfaintlyofsweat,butIdon’tmakeanycomplaints.Tormasdoesmostof the talking.A short but solidly builtwaster, hisLowGothic is clipped andhurried, but he confirms that they only have spare clothes because they’verecently looted someof the abandoned Imperial positions.We’re to rememberthetribe’sgenerosity,andIpromisethatIwill.Schaefferraisesthesubjectofthevox-setagainandTormasnodsandgrinsinreply.‘Yes,chatterbox.This.Here.’Heleadsustothebackofthetent,pullsbackarubberised sheet to reveal a tarnished, battered transmitter and receiver set.Given its lack of proper shell and size, I reckon it was taken from a vehicle,maybeacrashedaircraft.‘Look bad. Work good,’ Tormas says, wrinkled face creasing more as hedeliversawink.Hepicksupthereceiverhandleandoffersittome.‘We might need some time,’ says the Colonel, stepping between me andTormas. ‘We have to check a lot of frequencies to see which ones are stilloperational.’‘Wecouldjustusetheemergencytransmit,’Isay,jabbingafingertothebigredbuttonsetintothemainpanel.Schaefferturnsonme,eyesnarrowinginannoyance.‘I am sure our hosts have other tasks to attend to.We should not impose ontheirtime.’It’sthepolitestI’veeverknownhimtobeandthelookonhisfaceistryingtoconveysomethingbutI’mjustnotgettingit.I’mabouttospeakagainwhenhe

gentlybutpointedlycloseshishandaroundmineonthepickupset,stoppingmefromactivatingtheswitch.‘Therearesecurityprotocolstoobserve.Wemustbesurewedonotbetrayanyconfidences.’‘Yeah, protocols,’ I say, finally getting his meaning. He doesn’t want thewasterslisteningin,andIcanseethesenseofit.‘Irememberthetrainingdrill.“Hereticslistentocarelesswhispers”andallthat.’The Colonel starts to fiddle with the broadcast dials, not doing anything inparticular,whileIturnbacktoourcompany.‘Thiscouldtakealongtime.Orskya,I’msureyouneedtomakereadytomoveyourcamp.Thoseorkswon’tbefarfromherebysunfall.’‘Itwisetomoveon,yes,’shesays.‘Ialreadytellothers,butextrahandsmakequickerwork.’‘Harla,whydon’tyoumakesureeveryoneisreadytoleavewhenwe’vemadecontact.’Theunderhiverlooksawayforasecond.ToolateIrealisethathe’sactuallycatchingtheeyeofthepeoplebehindhim.Harla shoves Karste into Tormas and jumps forward, dragging a piece ofbrokenbayonetfromhispockettoholdagainsttheoldman’sthroat.Theotherspulloutpistolsandtakeaimatus.Fiveofthem,twofromtheColonel’steam.‘You’vebeenbusy,Harla,’Isay.‘Spinningalittleconspiracy,itseems.’‘Norst,Guardandi,standdown!’barkstheColonel.‘Not takingorders,Colonel,’ says theone calledGuardandi.Shegestures forSchaeffer tomoveawayfromthevox. ‘Notnoweverything’sgone toshitandback.’‘Can’tletyouhandusovertotheauthorities,Colonel,’saysHarla.Hetakesastepback,pullingTormaswithhim,turningsohecanseeOrskyaandtheothertwoelders.Behindhim,oneof theotherconspiratorspullsdownthe tent flap,hiding us fromview. ‘One chance,Kage. I’d rather takemy chanceswith theinfernal servants and greenskins than the commissars. I reckon you feel thesame.’‘Notsure,’Ireply,rubbingmychin.‘What’syourplan?’‘Sawadrag-sledout there.Gonnaloaditwithsuppliesthenheadnorth.Takethisoneakilometreorsowithus,justtokeepeveryonehonest.’‘Schaeffer stayshere,’ saysNorst,dartingamurderousglanceat theColonel.‘Orwedohimrightnow.Eitherway’sgood.’‘You aremaking a bigmistake,’ says theColonel, squaring up to the group,

slowlyfoldinghisarms.‘Weneedasmanyable-bodiedfightersaswecangetsoIwillignorethistransgressionjustonce.’‘You’re not in any position to offer anything, you crazy fragger,’ saysGuardandi.‘Whatareyouheadingbackto?’saysHarla,directingthewordstome,withtheoddglanceatKarste.She’snotpartoftheconspiracy,herlookofhorrorfixedonher face even as he continues talking. ‘At best there’s nothing happening.Anarchy, panic, an army in full retreat. Worse, it’s a commissar’s kiss themomenttheyseeus.’Ilaughathisslang,referringtothesummaryexecutiondispatchedbyofficersoftheImperialCommissariat.‘At least the skullcapswillmake itquick,’ I reply. Igrimaceandshrug. ‘NotsuretheNeverbornwon’tdragyoubacktotheirabyssalhellandplaywithyouforafewlifetimes…’‘Gottacatchusfirst,right?’offersoneoftheothermeatheads.‘Keepmoving,likethesewasters.Notgetstuckinsomebunkerortrenchjustwaitingforittohappen.’‘Kindatiredofrunning,’Itellthem,handsmovingtomyhips.‘Handsup,Kage,’barksHarla,pushingthetipofhisshivintoTormas,adropofbloodleakingfromthepuncture.‘It’dbeashametoopenupthisoldwaster.’‘Whatdoyouthink,Orskya?’Iask,liftingmyhandsawayfrommyweapons.‘Ithinkanyonethreatenmypeople,theircorpsecoldbeforesunfall.’‘Getfragged,’saysNorst.‘We don’t have to fight our way out, nobody has to get hurt,’ says Harla.‘There’safewothersthinkthesamewaywedo,incaseyouthoughtmaybeoftryingtogetamessageoutorsomething.’‘Karste,’ I say, turningmy full attention to her. ‘Whatwould you do for theBurnedMan?’‘Anything,’sherepliesbreathlessly.‘Yousavedme.’‘IfIwent,you’dfollow?’‘I…Iwould.Ifthat’swhatyouwanted.’‘Stoptalking,’saysHarla.‘Startlistening.’‘Idon’twanttogowiththesepeople,Karste,’Isay.ShetakesmymeaningimmediatelyandlaunchesherselfatHarla.Hepullshishandawayfromtheelderandswipestheshivtowardsher.Theotherscan’thelpbutreact,theirpistolsmovingtowardsthewomanthrowingherselfforward.It’squickertopullmyknifeandchargeforwardthantodrawmypistolandtake

aim.Thepointof thebladehitsNorstundertheribsat thefront,rightbeneaththe breast bone and into his heart.Blood coats the inside of the tent and I godownontopofhim.The noise of a waster pistol is deafeningly loud behind me and I see Harlastaggerback,ahole inhis rightcheek.Anotherbangandabullet rips throughhis eye to spread skull and brains over one of his conspirators. The zip of alaspistol – theColonel’s I guess– sends a bluebolt of deadly energy into thechestofanother,whofallsbackintohercompanion, justasheopensfirewithhisstubber.AbulletwhinesovermyheadasIrise,bladedrippingblood.The bark of thewaster pistol sounds again and the lastmutineer goes down,chestbubblingwithredfroth.‘Whatabouttheonesoutside?’Isay,lookingfromOrskyatotheColonel.‘Wedon’tknowwhichonesknowaboutthisfraggin’badidea.’‘Youcanfindout,’saysSchaeffer, loweringhispistol. ‘Getout therequickly,pretendyoujoinedwithHarla.’Inodandduckthroughthetentflap,eyesscanningleftandrighttoseewho’spayingattention.IcatchthegazeofSeras,oneoftheColonel’stroopers,whoistoononchalantasheloungesclosetothecampentrance.Ihangbackbythetentandmotionhimover.‘Iheardashot.Whathappened?’hewhispers,startingtoducktowardsthetentflap.Igrabhisarmandstophim.‘Schaeffer’sdead,andoneoftheelders.’Ipushhimawayandseethedrag-sledHarlamentioned. Ipoint to itwithmybloodiedknifeand thenglancearound,checkingtoseewherethewastersareandtherestofmypeople.‘Gettheothers,now,andguardthatsled.We’releavinginahurry.’Heswallows,nodsandheadsofintotheswirlofashanddust.Assoonashisbackisturned,Iduckbackintotheelders’tent.IseeOrskyaandElgcrouchingoverKarste,who’slyingnexttoHarla’sbody.MaksiisdabbingatTormas’neckwitharag.TheColonelisgloweringatthevox-set,fromwhichawispofsmokeriseslazilyfromaholeinthefront.‘Frag,’Isay,realisingthatsometimeinthefightabulletmusthavehittheset.‘Isitworking?’‘No,butitmightbefixed,’growlsSchaeffer.‘Right,I’llleavethattoyou…’IroundonOrskya.‘Isthereanotherwayoutofhere?’‘Yes,’shetellsme,gesturingtothebackofthetent.

‘Inthenextcoupleofminutesthere’sgoingtobeagroupofourpeoplehangingaroundthesledaboutfivemetresleftofthetententrance.They’reallyours.’Orskyastandsupand tapsMaksion theshoulder.The twoof themdisappearintotheshadowbehindthevox-setandIturnmyattentiontoKarste.‘How is she?’ I ask,kneelingbesideElg,whohasabloodiedhandholdingawadofragsagainstthesideofKarste’schest.Theuphiverispale,eyesflutteringunderthelids,breathingshallowandbubblingbloodwitheachexhalation.‘Thestab,inlung.’IcastalookupatTormas.‘Canyouhelp?’‘Maybe,’hesayswithashrug.‘Iseesomebetter.Iseesomedead.’‘Notgoodenough,’Igrowl.IstandupandpaceovertotheColonel,wherehehasthebackofthevox-setopen,proddingsuspiciouslyattheinnardswiththepointofacombatknife.Mynextwordsarecutoffbyasuddenfusilladeofgunfireoutside,accompaniedbyshoutsandscreamscutshort.AfewmomentslaterthetentflapliftstorevealOrskyawithasatisfiedlookinhereye.‘Traitorsdead.’ShelooksattheColonel.‘Youwantpartsfromothervox?’‘Itmayhelp,’hesays.Istopherasshemovestoleaveagain.‘Weneedamedicaefacility,’Isay,noddingtowardsKarste.‘Aidstation,fieldhospital,anythinglikethat.HowfartothenearestImperialforces?’‘Itellyou.Allarmygosouth.Welookformedicsupplies.Takesome.Youcanhave,maybe.’‘It’snot the supplies, it’s the expertise,’ I tell her. ‘Anyofyourpeopleknowhowtofixherup?’‘No,’ she sayswith a sigh. ‘I take you to nearest defences. Two-hour travel.Takeheronsled,sheprobablysurvivethatlong.’A squeal from the far end of the tent tears everyone’s attention away fromKarste. Schaeffer steps back from the vox, glaring as sparks leap from theexposedworkings.Againstexpectationthefrequencydialglowsintolifeandthespeakerthrumswithpower,brokenbyintermittentcracklesandsquawks.TheColonel stoops to adjust the channel and a fresh flurry of sparks eruptsfromthewhiningmachine,sendinghimretreatingseveralpaces.‘Transmitter is broken, but the receiver seems to be working,’ he tells us,rubbinghischin.

‘So,nocallingforarescue,’Isay.‘Thereshouldbemusterbeaconsleftaftertheretreat,’hesays,lookingbackatthevox.‘Insuchahastywithdrawalsomeunits,patrols,airmissionscangetleftbehind.Therewouldbebroadcastswithcoordinatesofthemusterpoints.Ifwecanpickuponeofthose,wecanfindoutwheretogo.’Hecrouchesdownandstartsadjustingtheset,browknottedinconcentration.Avarietyofmechanicalwarblesandmoansemanatefromthevox-set,interspersedwithsequencesofrapidclicking.‘Havestuffedwound,’Elgsays,draggingmyattentionbacktoKarste.‘Lotofblood.Bandage.’HeandMaksistarttodragthebodiesofthemutineersoutofthetent.They’rejoinedbyotherwasters,voicesraisedinconcernedinquiry.‘If you findwhere togo,’ saysOrskya, nodding towards theColonel and thevox-set,‘Itakeyouthere.’‘Why?’Iaskquietly.‘NotthatIdon’tappreciateit,butwhyhaveyouhelpedussomuch?’‘I not sure,’ she says with a conflicted expression, part confused and partamused.‘Itseemhardernottohelp.’OrskyaflicksahandtowardsKarste.‘MaybeIhelp them,notyou,’shecontinues. ‘Iseeyounot leave them,but Iknowyouthinkaboutit,yes?’‘Onceortwice,’Iadmit,lookingaway.‘Buttheybelieveinme.’‘Shecertainlybelieveyouspecial.Thisonethrowherselfonknifeforyou!’‘Iknow.’I look at Karste. She’s not the first casualty on my account, and I’ve evenfraggedtheoddallytostayalive,butthisfeelsdifferent.Sheknewwhatshewasdoing,takingonHarla,andwhatwouldhappen.ShediditnotbecauseItrickedherintoit,orbecauseitwasjusttheviolenceofbattle.Karsteisdyingbecauseshewaswillingtogiveherlifeawayforme.That’saprettyheavyloadtotakeonboard.AndIknewitwouldhappen, that’swhat fuels theguilt that’snaggingatme.Guilt,Imightadd,isnotacommonacquaintanceofmine.I’vealwaysbelievedintakingyourchances,andI’vecertainlyputmyneckonthelineafewtimes,enough that I don’t feel I’ve shirked the risks others have taken. But when Ispoketoher,allbut toldher toattackHarla, itwasinthefirmknowledgethatshewouldprobablygethurt,maybeevendie.AndIdiditanyway.

‘Itbadsituation,’saysTormas,perhapsguessingmythoughtsasIstaresilentlyat the dying woman. The old man pats me on the shoulder. ‘You do whatneeded.’Asuddenburstofsinginghasusalljumpingwithshock.Angelicvoicesfillthetent,cutthroughwithstaticbutunmistakablyahymnalfortheEmperor.Idon’trecognise thesongbut justhearing thenotes, thevoices rising inpraise,givesmyspiritaboost.‘Whatisthat?’asksElg.‘Isbeautiful.’I shakemyheadwhile theColonelmakes some fineadjustments, cuttingoutsomeoftheinterference.Hesitsbackonhisheels,headcockedtoonesideashelistens.‘TheAlmaImperatorBattalica,’hesays.‘Whatday is it?Thedate?’ I ask. I haveno idea.Theunderhivehas itsowncyclesand routines,divorced from thedayandnightcycleof theoutside, andcertainlynotowinganythingtotheEcclesiarchyorAstraMilitarumcalendars.‘ItwouldbeSaintSebastian’sday,perhaps,’saysSchaeffer,standingup.Heislost inthoughtforamoment,orperhapscaughtupinthehymnal,butthenhiseyesfindminewithfierceintensity.‘TherewasanAdeptaSororitasbastioninthisarea.TheAbbeyofSaintSilvaoftheHolyBlade.’‘Anyluckfindinganyotherbroadcasts?’‘No, this is it. I think it could be an automated prayer beacon. Nothing tosuggesttheabbeyisstillgarrisoned.’‘It’sallwe’vegot.’ I turn toOrskya.‘Doyouknowwhere this is?Afortress,would have lots of pictures of the Emperor, flags, women warriors in powerarmour.’‘Notseenit,’saystheduneseer.‘Inotthinkanyothershave.Istypeofplacewenotgoclose.Toodangerous.’‘Colonel?’ I saywithmore hope than expectation. ‘Do you knowwhere theabbeyis?’‘No.Yourfollowerstookmymaps,’headdswithaglare.‘Itwassomewhereinthe gamma sector of the Acheron battlefront, but that covers a hundredkilometresandmore.’BeforeIcansayanythingelse,ascreamoutsidehaseverybodyracingforthedoor.

EIGHTPLAGUEBORN

IdashoutintothecampontheheelsofOrskya,laspistolinmyhand.AtfirstIcan’t make out what’s happening. There are underhivers and wasterseverywhere,shoutingandshooting,seeminglyateachother.It’sonlywhenIseeauniformedtrooperlungingatoneofthewastersthatIseethebulletholeinthesoldier’s head, her mouth lolling open. Unable to believe what I’m seeing, Istand rooted to the spot as my gaze flicks from one assailant to another andanother. All wearing trooper uniforms or hiver gear, bloodstained and bullet-ridden.‘Emperor protect us,’ I whisper, watching as Orskya opens fire, her bulletsthuddingintothechestofadeadGuardsmanshamblingtowardsus.Apus-likefluidleaksfromtheholesbuttheanimatedcadaverdoesn’tstop.I recognise the face of Harla as another of the walking dead heaves itselftowardsmewitharollingshamble,onefootscuffingthroughtheash,deadeyesstaringrightatme.Iopenfire,puttingadozenlas-boltsintotheheadandfaceofthedeadthing,firing until it falls down, almost nothing left of its torso and skull.Others aredoing the same, piling fire into the shambling creatures, screams of panicpunctuatingthegunshots.Iseeacoupleofwasterslyingonthegroundclosetothedrag-sled,throatstornopen.Oneofthemrollsitsheadtowardsme,glassystarefixedonmyface.‘Emperordamnit,’Isnarl,shootingagainasthecorpse-creatureclamberstoits

kneesandthenfeet,ignoringtheredblastspluckingatclothesandflesh.Tormasappearsoutofnowhere,a long-bladedspear inhand.Withhimcomeseveralotherwasterslikewisearmed.Heslashestheheadfromtheclosestdeadthing, then adjusts his grip to plunge the blade through the falling monster’schest. His companions hack and slash at the remaining corpse-walkers,screaming in anger and fear as they chop them down. With a roar, Nazrekplungesoutoftheashengloom,itschoppaburyingitselfdeepintotheneckofthefirstdeadwalkertheorkcomesupon.EvenasI’mjuststartingtotakeinthebizarresceneahandfulofwastersdashintoviewfromtheleft,shoutingtheirlungsoutandgesturingoutintothefog.Ican’tunderstandawordofwhatthey’resayingbuttheiractionsspeakfarlouder.Idon’twaitforatranslationbutduckbackintotheelders’tent,notingthattheColonelhasn’t comeout. I findhimcrouchedby thevox-set, twistedpieceofwireaerialinhand,movingitleftandright.‘The reception is better in some directions than others,’ he says, lifting theaerial.‘Wecanusethistofollowthebroadcastbacktoitssource.’‘Thedeadarecomingbacktolife,’Ipant,notquiteabletobelievethewordsI’msaying.‘AndIthinkthecamp’sunderattacktoo.’‘The dead…?’ The Colonel stands up and grabs the vox-set under one arm,artificial protest shrieking from the speaker grille. He flicks it off and headstowardsme.‘Thedaemoninfluenceisspreading.’Outside,theeldersandOrskyaarerallyingthewasterswhilemypeopleandtheremaining troopers are gathering, someof themarmed, otherswanderingwithdazedexpressions,unabletocopewithtraumaaftertrauma.‘Youallneedtocomewithus,’announcestheColonel,stridinguptoTormas.‘Itisnolongersafeinthewastes.’‘Thishowwelive,’repliesElg,wavingahandtotakeinthetents,peopleandsleds.‘Younotwantus.Nohomeforusinarmy.’‘I am a colonel of the Astra Militarum, I am empowered to make youauthorisedauxilia.’HisnextwordsaredirectedatOrskya.‘ThisincursionmaybetoomuchevenforthearmiesoftheEmperor.Yourbestchanceofsurvivingistogetoff-world.Icanarrangethat.’‘Whywouldyou?’sheasks.Schaeffer is forced to step back as a group of wasters bustle past, carryingarmfulsofmoreweaponsfortheircompanions.‘I swore anoath to defend the realms and servants of theEmperor,’ he says.‘DoyoubelieveinthemightoftheGod-EmperorandthemajestyofTerraover

allthings?’‘Weareloyal,’Orskyareplies.‘NotloyaltohiversbutwepraiseEmperorsameasyou.’‘ThenyouareunderHisdivineprotection.’TheColonelturnshisstaretome.‘And right now that protection takes the form of an Adepta Sororitas battleabbey.’‘Wego,wego!’ snapsTormas,waving forElg tobequiet as theother elderopenshismouth.‘Runnow,arguelater.’That’saphilosophyIcandefinitelyagreewith.‘Company,firingline!’Ibellow,stridingtowardstheclusterofarmedmenandwomenmillingaround.Somearefromtheunderhive,somecamewiththeColonel,butallofthemholdthemselves in away thatmarks them out asAstraMilitarum trained. I’m notsurprised.Underhiver scrappers anduphiverduellists havegotnothingon rawsurvival instinct compared to your average Imperial Guard trooper. Even so,they’reslow,almostoutontheirfeetthoughitcan’thavebeenmorethanhalfadaysincethefirstalarmwasraisedinAcheron.The thought stops me, mid-stride. Half a day? I go over everything that’shappenedand figure it’s got tobe true.Fromgloatingover theColonel to thebrink of being eaten alive bywalking corpses in about half a rotation of thisEmperor-forsakenhole.‘Quicker,quicker,’Ibark,unimpressedbytheirlacklustredrill,startingforwardagain.Muffledcracksofgunfireandmuzzleflashesinthefogbetraythenearnessofwhatever is attacking the camp.Around us, a swarm of children has emergedfromthinair,asfarasIcantell,andarebreakingdownthetentsandloadingthesleds.There’salotoftalkingandnervousglances,buttheyapplythemselvestotheir taskswithstoicdeterminationwhiletheadultsformintogroupsandheadoutintothemurk.Shoulders heaving, breath disturbing the fog in great gusts, Nazrek stompsthrough the remains of the rising dead. It wipes its gore-coated cleaver on asleeveandleersatme.‘Youseembetter,’Isay.‘Bitoffightgood,’itsays.‘Makegreenrisefasta.’I can only guess what that might mean and don’t ask. There are far morepressingmatters.IspytheColonelpacingbackandforthwiththevox,tryingtogetabearingonthetransmission.

‘Thisway.’Hesignalswithhishandwhenheseesmelookingathim.IlookforsomelandmarkthatIcanfixoninthatdirectionbutit’sjustdunesandthenthefogofdistanceandpollution.I cast about forOrskya or one of the elders, but they’ve allmoved away todefendthecampordealwiththebreakdown.Tomyinexperiencedeyeitseemsthat almost half the encampment has already been packed up, leaving telltaleholesandhollows in thepackedash.Someof thesmallerchildrenarekickinggritanddustintothem,hidingtheirpresence.IalmosttelltheColoneltoleadtheway.Almost.He’sgotmoreofanideawhatto do, or pretends he has.But that’d be it, all over forme as the boss.NevermindNazrek andwhat happens there, themoment I give theColonel a singledegreeofauthorityhe’ll take itall.Hisplans,hisway.GoodbyeBurnedMan,hellodoomedpenallegionscum.‘Holdthisline,’Itelltheadhocplatoonthat’seventuallyformedupbesideme.IturntotherestofthosethatescapedAcheron;someofthemhaveweaponsbutdon’tlooktoopreparedtousethem.‘Staybehindus.’Atugonmysleevedrawsmyattentiondowntoaboynotallerthanmywaist.Ican see the fear etched in his face but he stays there, fighting back his terror,eyesglisteningwithtears.Hepointstoasledjustbehind.Karsteislyingonit,legstieddownwithstraps,abundleofragsunderherhead.‘Blanket,’ I sayslowly,givinghima reassuringsqueezeon theshoulder.Theboy frowns and I say it again,miming the action ofwrappingmyself up.Henodsandrunsoff.‘Markyourtargets,Idon’twantanyoneshootingthewasters,’Itellmysmallbandofsoldiery,turningmyattentionbacktothesoundsofgunfireanderraticflashesaroundus.Shapes in the fog resolve into robe-clad allies,moving through the ashwithdistinctive, deliberate strides that seem ridiculously slow but are probablyquickerthanjustthrashingthroughuptoyourkneesinthestuff.I recogniseOrskyaevenwithscarfandmask, leadingabandofherkinbackintothecampovertomyleft.‘Readywithcoveringfire,’Ishoutout,bringingupmypistol.TheColonelhasstowedthevoxononeofthesledsandtakesuppositionnexttome. I give him a glance but his eyes are fixed ahead, on the vague shapesfollowingthewastersoutofthesmogbanks.Aboutfortymetresawayaneddyofwindkicksup,clearingapatchofruddymist.Itspassingrevealsaknotofenemies,carryingastenchofrottingmeatand

shit to us. I hear cursing and gagging as I fight back the urge to retch. Iremember themask and pull it up, others doing the same aswe peer into thepartingmurk.Thesightmakesmewanttoripoffthemaskagaintothrowup.Sevenoreightmonstrousfiguresadvancethroughtheswirlingfog,accompaniedbytheirowndark miasma, which blends with the fog banks. Each looks and walks like aperson,inthebroadestterms,buttheyarefarfromhuman.Their skin varies from dark, leathery brown to pale green, with patches ofmouldandwartygrowthsdottingit.Eachhasonlyoneeyeinthemiddleoftheforehead, beneath cracked and broken horns.Most with just one, others withtwo,three,andoneofthemwithacrownofsharpantlers.Mouthswithneedleteethmove constantly and the sound ofmurmuring carries to us,monotonousanddreadful.Poxmarksandlividscarsmarktheirflesh,whichinplacesistornopen,skinhanginginflapstorevealwetmuscleandglisteningorgans,intestinesthreateningtoburstfrompuncturedguts,hanginglikecoiledrope.Their limbsare like thoseof faminevictims,wastedof flesh, skinbrittleandtaut over bulging joints. Movement writhes under this sickly covering,occasionallyburstingoutofcutsandlesionstorevealitselfasfleshbeetlesandmaggots.Knuckle-heavy fists hold rusting, serrated blades. The corrodedmetal weepswithnoxiousfluid,runningover thegrippinghandsanddrippingto theash.Anoisome, oily vapour lifts from the unnatural weapons, the dark smokebecomingacloudoftinyfliesthatgathersovertheadvancingNeverborn.Bulletsandlas-blastshitunnaturalflesh,leavinggrievousholesandslashesthatwould fell a living soldier. The abyssal servants pay no heed to their injuries,blackbloodoozingfromtheirwounds,almostinstantlyformingslab-scabs.The scrapeof runners on ashbrieflydrawsmyattention to the camp.Adultsandolderchildrenhavedraggedonpull-slingsandarestartingtohaulthesledsaway,thoughafewtentsandboxesstillremain.‘Swiftness is best defence,’ calls Orskya, pointing out into the haze. ‘Savebullets.’More shadows follow the cankerous daemons, dozens more following, fogdarkenedwith fly swarms around them. I can hear themaddening buzzing, aconstantdronethataccompaniesthemonotonechanting,penetratingthroughmyhoodandthesoundsofgunfire.Everythingiscastinpalebrownbythefilterofthegoggles,givingitanevenmoreotherworldlyair.Sparksoflaserandgunfirecastbriefflashesinthegloom.

I pull down my mask to order the retreat and immediately regret exposingmyselftothefoetidair.Istartcoughing,thecorpse-stenchcloggingmynostrilsandcoatingmythroat.‘Re…Pullback!’Imanagebetweenheavinginhalations,tryingtokeepdownthemeagre contents ofmy stomach. I’ve breathed inmy fair share of death’srank breath, but the effect of theNeverborn is like every charnel pile, rottingwoundandsuppuratingpoxstenchcombined.Istarttostumbleback,pullingmymaskon,checkingthattheothersfollow.Alongwiththewastersweturnourbacksandpressonintotheclouds,glancingbehind to check on the daemons. They haven’t increased their pace at all,ploughing through the drifts of ash with regular strides, as relentless andinevitableasanoutbreakofredflux.Soonweputenoughdistancebetweenus thatourpursuersfadewithdistanceandmist,becomingdarksketchesofshapesbeforefinallydisappearing.Nobodysaysanything,alleffortbenttopushingonwardsthroughthefatigueandfear.ItstartstogetdarkerandIwonderwhatfreshhellishmalaiseisabouttobefalluswhenIrealisethatit’ssimplydusk.Asweadvanceintotheclosinggloom,Ican’tstopfeelingthatthenightwillbringnewhorrors.

Thewastersmount torchesonhighpoleson the sleds,but the fitfulblue lightfromthemdoeslittlebutexaggeratethecoilsoffumeandshadowsthatsurroundus.Thoseofusfromtheunderhiveadvanceinpairsandthrees,onecarryingalantern, theotherswithweapons at the ready.Peering into thegloom it seemsthateverymovementcouldbeaNeverbornorork,thedarknessofeveryrockyoutcroporjuttingboulderafreshhorrorwaitingtoattack.IwalkwithOlesh,whowassoquicktovolunteerforthedutyIthoughthewasgoingtoattackanyoneelsethattriedtojoinme.Alittleolderthanme,OleshisoneofthemostrecentarrivalstothefellowshipoftheBurnedMan,butharboursnoregretsaboutjoiningmypeople,ashetellsmeoverandoveronthetrek.Hisson,Denas,isababe-in-armsthatridesonanearbysledwithhisoldercousin,Farann. Along with Olesh’s profuse gratitude I learn of this and a far moreextensive(butrecentlydead)familytreeasIpeerwithsuspicionateveryeddyoffogandshadowypatchofash.The lights ahead reflect off something sparkling in the dunes and ourwastervanguardalterscourse,turningustotherightsothatwecrestabroadhillratherthanheadintothevalleybesideit.‘I’d saywe’regoing the longway round,’ someone says loudlybehindme. I

thinkit’sprobablyFredasorCrastbutdon’tlookbacktocheck.‘Better longerwalk than silversands,’ says one of thewasters from the othersideofthesled.‘Swallowquickerthansweepereel.’‘Sweepereels?’saysOlesh,staringfearfullydownattheashandthenbacktothewaster.‘Dotheycomeoutatnight?’‘Mostly,’thewasterreplies.Myhipsareaching,tryingtocopytheswinginggaitofthewasters,atthesametime trying not to make too much sound that would attract subterraneanpredators.SweepereelsarenottheworstofitfromwhatI’veheard.Thereareashserpentsbigenoughtoattackbattletanksinthedeepwastes,butthankfullywe’re not heading that way. The Imperial lines are dug into higher, firmerground to the south and west of Acheron, with only armoured patrols andskimmerforaysintotheharsherclimesintheeast.AfterabouthalfanhourOrskyasignalsastopandcomesbackdowntheline,Tormasandtheothereldersgatheringaroundher.‘Wait at the sled,’ I tell Olesh andmakemyway over to them, the Coloneljoining from theother flankof thecolumn.Theduneseerdartsmea look thatsaysIhadn’tbeeninvitedtothislittleconferencebutIignoreher.‘What’sthedelay?’Iask.‘Ork sign,’ she replies, pointing to the head of the group. ‘Ork rok fort fewkilometres north of here. Old, empty but we find tracks. Many orks aheadmovingtofort.’‘Betweenusandtheabbey?’askstheColonel.‘Yes,’Orskyatellsus.‘Mustgosouthtoavoid.’‘So,what’stheproblem?Wegosouth.’‘Southdangerous,’saysElg.‘Oldcity,ghosts.’‘Ghosts?’There’sahintofderisionintheColonel’stonebutwithjustenoughofaconcernededge that suggestsour recentencountersare forcinghim to re-evaluatewhathebelieves.‘Not dead ghost,’ explains Orskya. ‘Waste ghost. Is like ash river. Moves.Nearlyinvisible.Veryhardtocrossinday.Deadlyatnight.Streetsinoldruinsfullofghosts.’‘Ghostsororks?That’sthechoice?’‘Or walk for whole day,’ says Orskya. She jabs a thumb over her shoulder.‘Withrottingonesfollow?’‘Ghostsitis,’Isaywithaforcedsmile.‘I’msureyou’llsteerusright.’Astheduneseerandsomeofherscoutsstarttodiscussthefinerpointsofthe

challenge ahead, the Colonel signals forme tomove aside and join him.Westrolla littledistancefromtheongoingdiscussionand theColonel talksaswewalk,voicelow.‘ItisimperativethatwerejointheImperialefforttofacethecomingmadness.’‘Thosewarpbornarejustgoingtogetstrongerandstronger,aren’tthey?’‘Yes.ButIamnot talkingaboutsurvival, Iamtalkingaboutsomethingmoretellingandimportant.ThereisaplacefortheLastChancersinthiscomingwar.’‘You’recookingupsomefraggin’insaneplan,aren’tyou?’‘No.Idonotyetknowthebestwaytohelpinthecomingcrisis,buttherewillbeawaytomakeadifference.’‘Andthis isyouaskingmeif I’llcomealong?’I takeabreath,smilingat theshamelessnessoftheman.‘Firstyouwanttokillme,nowyouwantmeback?Ireallythinkyouneedtodecidewhatyouwant.’‘Situationschange.IwasmistakeninthinkingyouwerecontinuingtheworkofvonStrabintheunderhive.’‘That’swhyyoucameafterme?’‘IthoughttheBurnedMan–you–wasfosteringanewrebelarmy.ThatiswhyIwantedtotakeyoudown.’TheColonellooksattheothersaroundusandthenbackatme.‘Yourexperience,yourinstincts,makeyouaverycapablememberofthe13thLegion.Youjusthavetostraightenoutyourpriorities.’Ilookathimsharply.‘Whatdoesthatmean?’IcuthimoffasIseehimlookingatourcompanionsagain.‘Leavethembehind?’‘Youwillnotbeabletosavethemall,thatiswhatIamtellingyou.Youknowthis. You need to decide what themission is, because it cannot be to protecteveryone.’‘You’restillacallousbastard,’Isnap,steppingaway.Peoplearelookingatme,myraisedvoicecatchingtheirattention,butIdon’tcare.Ithrustafingerattheunderhiversspreadalongthecolumn.‘Theyarefollowingme,notyou!Isittoohard to believe that they find something in me that they don’t see in you?Humanity,maybe?’Withagrowl,IploughthroughtheashbacktothesledwhereOleshiswaitingforme.‘The chosenof theEmperormust always overcome the doubts of others,’ hesays,grabbingmyhandinbothofhis.‘Adversityisthetruetestoffaith,BurnedMan.’Othershearhimandgathercloser,voicingtheirsupport,pattingmeonthebackand shoulders. Some of them are from the team Schaeffer brought with him,

convertstothecause.InodmythanksandasIturnmyheadIseepasttheknotof grateful followers, theColonel scowling atme from the torchlight.Eyesofice,ascoldasI’veeverseenthem,lookingatmewiththecontemptIsawwhenhe first came to get me for the 13th Legion. Those intervening years, themissionswe’vesharedand thebloodwe’vespilledandhadspilled,allof it islikenothingtohim.InthepastIalwaysknewwhattheColonelwanted.Killthehive-queen.Blowupthecity.Assassinatethetarget.NowIdon’tknowwhatitis.Hisexcuseforcomingaftermeisflimsierthanarookie’sbackbone.He’sitchingtogiveorders,butintheunderhiveandouthere,nobody’slistening.Idon’tknowwhyhe’shereorwhathe’spreparedtodotogetbackincharge.ThatmeansIcan’ttrusthimanymore.

It’s past midnight when we come upon the ghost ruins, the dunes graduallymountinghigherandhigher,takingusclearofmuchofthesurfacesmogsothatficklestarlightthroughtheupperlayersletsusseetwoorthreehundredmetresat times. It’s impossible tomiss the start of the old city – from the grey andbrownexpanse,darkskeletalbeamsandcollapsedwallsbreakupfromtheashlike the limbsof drowningpeople thrusting into the air.Every girder is pittedandwitheredwithage,thewallsbetweenthemlittlemorethancrumbling,wind-wornlumpsleftbehindintheleeofthelargestremains.Orskyabusiesherselfgettingthecolumntoformuptwowide,bringingusalltogetherwhileherscoutslashtogetherpolesintolengthsoffourandfivemetres.Withtheseinhandtheyadvanceslowlyaheadof themainbody,proddingandpryingattheshiftingashandgrit,whileapairofwastersbehindthegroupusebroadpaddlestocutatrailforeveryoneelsetofollow.‘Who lived here?’ asks Olesh, gazing in awe at the jagged ruins that toweraroundus.There are no doors that I see, the bases of the buildings that once stoodswallowed by the rising wastes. Here and there a bend of metal looks like aremnant of bridge, the slopes of the dunes broken by angular roof edges orhollows thatmight haveoncebeen interior stairwells.Thewindhisses aroundrustedmetal,bringingtolifesmallwhirlsofashinthecorners.Icanseeslidesofdarknesswhereashhasshiftedrecently,patchesofslowmovementthatmightberealormightbeaproductoftheerraticfirelightandswayinglanterns.Thatsame illumination brings shadows to life, so it feels like something is hidingbehindeverybentbeamandtoppledrafter.

‘Noidea,’Isay.‘Wasbeforehumans,oldstorysay,’Tormasreplies,stoppingalittlewayaheadofussothatwecatchupwithhim.‘NotcityofEmperor’schildren.’The trail we follow sometimes turns sharply, doubling back as the scoutsencounteradriftorshallowthey’renotwilling to risk.Acoupleof times theystop fora fewminutes, arguingwitheachotherandpointing,beforechangingtheirmindsaltogetherandleadingusonapreviouslyunexploredstreet.They never cut through the spaceswhere the buildings once stood, as if theoutlinesoftheancientbeamswereforcefieldskeepingusout.It’sslowbutsteadyprogress,butIwonderifthewarp-spawnedhorrorsonourtrail care anything for ashghosts.Do they even travel asmortals, or can theysimplyextendtheirenergyandappearatwillbeforeus?I look up, the first time in many hours, and see the wound in the sky stilllookingdownatus,glaringwithbothimmortaldesireandeternalhate.Theveryrealobstaclesinfrontofussuddenlypaleincomparisontothoughtsofthethreatposedby the legionsofwarpborn thatmightcomepouring through that tear–that might be here already, rampaging through the hives, overrunning all theEmperor’sforcesandalltheorksalike.‘It’llmakethewarseemlikeaskirmish,’Imuttertomyself.‘What’sthat?’saysOlesh.‘Whatwar?’‘Nothing,justthinkingaloud,’Itellhim.There’snoneedtospeculateonthingsthat neither of us can really comprehend. ‘Let’s focusongetting to that battleabbey,eh?’AfewminuteslaterDenasstartscrying.Oleshhurriesovertoquietenhimbutthepiercingbawls shatter the stillness thatpervades thecity.Farann, theolderboy,jumpsdownfromthesledwhileOleshclambersonboard.‘Needsfood,mustbestarving,poorthing,’hesays,strokinghisson’sheadwithonehand,rootingthroughthehastilybundledbagswiththeother.Iheadoverandwalkbeside thesled, tryingmybest tohelpbyholdingopensacksforOlesh.Afteracoupleofminutes,hefindsasmallbagandpullsitout,somepiecesofalgaebreadinside.Hebreaksapieceoffandgivesittothechild,whotakesit inatinyhandandstartsmouthingatthesoftedgeswithtoothlessbites.‘Where’sFarann?’Oleshsayssuddenly,sittingboltupright.Myheart judders at the question and I turn, looking oneway then the other,findingnosignoftheboy.‘Farann?’ I call out, stepping away from the drag-sled. I turn on the hivers

following.‘Haveyouseentheboy?Where’sFarann?’Shrugsandshakesoftheheadanswermyquestion.Everyoneiswrappedupintheirownheads,concentratingonputtingonefootinfrontoftheother.‘Farann!’Ishout,cuppingmyhands.‘Whereareyou?’A fewothersgather, offering tohelp look,when I think Ihear aquiet call. Ishusheveryoneandturnslowly,tryingtogetabearingonthesound.It’s definitely a child’s voice, not too far away, off to the left I think. I starttowardsit,callingoutagain.‘Comelookatthis,BurnedMan!’Farannshoutstome,appearingfrombehinda leaning upright of dark metal and flaking rust. He must be seven or eightTerranyearsold,Ireckon.Thin,likemostunderhivers,withlong,darkhairthatreachesalmosttohiswaist,wrappedinoversizedclothesgivenbythewasters.‘Lookatthis!’Hetakesafewmorepaces,pointingtosomethinginthemidstofthebuilding.‘Waitthere,don’tmove,’Icallback,hurryingtowardshim.Reaching theboundaryof theold tower I stopandseewhathe’spointingat.Bonesandskulls,apileofthem,nestledinabigheaphalf-hiddenbygreydust.Orkskeletons.Theshapeofthejawsmarksthemoutinstantly.‘Guesswe’renottheonlyonestohavecomethisway,’Isaytomyself.Iraisemyvoice.‘Farann,staywhereyouare.It’snotsafe.’A looming presence and fungal smell heralds the arrival ofNazrek. The orkstandsbesideme,leaningforwardasitlooksoutintothenightgloom.‘Muchgreenhere.’‘Here?’Isay,suddenlynervous.Idartaglancearoundoursurroundings,handmovingtomypistol.‘Orksarehere?Now?’‘Oldgreen.Deepgreen.’‘Whatdoes“deepgreen”mean?’Iask,returningmygazetoFarann.Itellhimnottomove,again.‘Wholeworlddeepgreen.Oldestgreen.’Themore I look at the skeletons, the clearer it is that even inArmageddon’sharshconditions theywouldn’thavebeenstrippedandpolishedsomuchsincethis invasion began. Older than that. Maybe the orks came here during thepreviouswar?ThatcouldbewhatNazrekistalkingabout.‘WhyisallofArmageddongreen?’askstheColonel,arrivingontheothersideoftheork.Oleshstepsupbesideme,childcradledinhisarms,concernedlooksdirectedathisnephew.

‘Comeback,Farann!’heshouts.‘Comebackrightnow.’‘I’m gonna get a bone, uncle,’ the boy calls back, taking a couple of stepstowardstheremains.‘Oldest green,’ rumbles Nazrek. It’s speaking louder, agitated by whateverthoughtsarepassing through itsbrain. ‘Stronger.Green instone.Greenmakesorkssmarter.Greenmakesorksbetter.’‘Stoprightthere!’bellowsOlesh.Iseedarknessoutofthecornerofmyeye,aspreadingpatchofshadowbehindFarann, seeping closer. There’s too much going on – Nazrek’s grunting andgrumbling,Olesh’sshouting, thehigher-pitchedcallsof theboy tellingushe’sfine.‘Ashghost!’Imanagetoshout,thrustingafingertowardsthespreadingpatchofmovinggrains.It lookslikesomethingalive,curvingacrosstheslopeofthedustandgrit,likesomethingunderneathischangingdirectiontowardsFarann.‘Farann!’Oleshshoutsagainandstartsforward,quicklysinkingtohiskneesasheforgesthroughthedrift.‘Comeback!’theColonelbellows.Theashghostwidens,spreadingbetweenFarannandOlesh.AsthemanwadesonwardsheturnsandIseethathe’sstillcarryingDenas.I taketwostepsafterhim,shoutingwarningsastheashghostdarkens,thetrickleofgrainsquickeningasthoughemptyingintoahollowbeneaththem.Ahandclampsaroundmyelbow.‘Itistoolate,’saystheColonel.‘Goafterthemandyouwilldietoo.’OleshisaboutfourmetresfromFarann,abouttenmetresfromme.He’suptohis thighsnow.Theboy, lighter, is justankle-deepandstill tryingtoget tothebones,furtherawayfromus.Denas starts to cryagainandOlesh realiseswhathe’sdone, turninghisheadwithanexpressionofpurehorroronhis face.Hestops,caughtbetweengoingafterFarannandheadingbackwithDenas.‘Getback,’Ishout,tearingmyarmfromSchaeffer’sgrip.‘I’llgetFarann.’‘Take this.’ I turnmy head to findOrskya behindme, a coil of thin rope inhand.‘Wedragyouout.’Inod,grabtheofferedendandquicklytieitroundmywaistevenasIpushintothemovingash.It really is like stepping into a river, except that it’s warm, not cold, thesensationofmovementpressingatmycalvesandthenmykneesasIgodeeper.Olesh has managed to turn around but in doing so is waist-deep, sliding

sidewayswiththeflowoftheghost.Iusemyarmstohelppullmyselfforward,almostswimmingthroughthedrift,feelingittuggingmedown,broadsweepsofarmsandlegsfightingagainstthegravitysuckingmeintoitschokingdepths.Faranniscryingnow,tryingtocometowardsus.Heloseshisfootingandfallssideways,onelegdisappearingintothedryswellofash,flailingwithhisarms.Iseehisfaceinaglimpseofstarlight,eyeswidelikeagroxinaslaughterbarn.AllIcantasteisash,cloggingupmynoseandfillingmythroat.Ipushonwardthroughit,wishingI’dbroughtmymaskandgoggles,eyessquintingthroughthedustcloudthrownupbytheboy’sthrashing.Stupidwaytodie.Sostupid.I lunge the lastcoupleofmetres, fingersclosingaroundFarann’swrist. Iron-tightgrip,nothing’sgoingtoprisemyfingersapartwhileIhaulhimtowardsme.‘Fraggin’stupidfraggin’littlefraggin’bastard,’IsnarlevenasIdraghimcloserandwrapmyarmunderhis,pullinghisbodyclearof the suckingash. ‘Comeon.’He’sadeadweightinmyarmbutthat’sbetterthanhimstrugglingasIusemyfree hand to push myself around, the ash now up to my ribs, the hiss of itsmovementsoloudinmyearsIcanbarelyhearanythingelse.‘Pull!’Ishout,grippingtherope.‘Pullusout.’Wasters,andhivers,andNazrekhaulontherope.Weacceleratequickly,cutting into the thickest,deepestpartof theashghost.Thedragworsens, trying topullmy legsevendeeper,Farann’sweight likeananchor.Istruggletogetouttomywaistandlookupatourrescuers.IrealiseIcan’tseeOleshandDenas.There’saseparatecrowdofonlookersthathas moved a few metres further along the edge of the building, staring atsomethingdownflowofwhereweare.Turningmyhead,Icatchaglimpseofanupraisedhand.‘Shit.’Ispitashandtrynottoseeanimageofthefatherandsondisappearingintothatgreygrave,suffocatingslowly,theboyneverreallyunderstandingwhatis happening as he dies.Choking their last breaths, clinging together.What isOleshsaying?Theboydoesn’tunderstand,butmaybehisfathertellshimit’llbeokay.Ican’tdoit.Ican’tletithappen.Notthistime.IuntanglemyarmfromFarannandmyfingersworkclumsilyattheknotoftheropebeneathus.I’mtryingtoworkfast,tearsstreamingnotjustfromthegritinmyeyesbutthethoughtofthetragedyunfoldingjustafewmetresaway.It’ssofraggingpointless.

ImanagetoslipofftheropeandbinditaroundFarann’schest.‘Pull!’Ishoutagain.‘Pull,youEmperor-forgottenbastards!’AsFarannstarts toploughthroughtheashI turn, letting theslipof theghostcarrymewithit.It’ssomucheasierthanfightingtheflow,justsurrenderingtoitsstrengthtopullmealong.Igounderforasecond,totallycoveredbyashanddust,andthenpushmyselffree,gaspingforbreath.‘Where?’Iscreamtothepeopleattheside.‘Where?’Theyhollerandpoint,somewherejustbehindme.I turn, long stokes and quick kicks propellingme across the ash ghost, oncemorefightingitsinevitablepull.Ican’tseeanything.‘Olesh!’ I’m hoarse from inhaled dust and shouting but call again. ‘Olesh,wherethefragareyou?’Thestrengthinmylegsisfading.Istop,tryingtocatchmybreath.Can’tgiveup.Fragthat.I hear a babe’s wail, off to my left, and half-swim towards it. There in thegloomandgreyIseeapaleflashofskin.Denas,bobbingonthesurfaceoftheghost.Ihaulmyselfcloserandseethatthere’sactuallyfingersaroundhisneck.Oleshisholdinghimupfromundertheash.I reach out trembling fingers and pluck the child up, pulling him over myshoulder.Olesh’shanddisappearsbutIthrustmyotherhandintothewhisperingdust,plungingmyfingersdeepafterhim,almosttotheshoulder.MyfingertipstouchclothandIgrab,archingmybackasIpullwitheverythingIhaveleft.Screechingforbreath,Oleshbreaksthesurfaceaheadofme,facecakedindirt,blinded.‘BurnedMan?’hecries.‘Where’sDenas?’‘Safe,’Itellhim,turningmyback.‘Igothim.’The twoofus latch together, forminga sortofhuman raft,kickingourselvesgentlytothesurface.Islowlyturnmyheadbacktowardstheothers,warythatanymore suddenmotionmightdisturb theghostandsetus sinkingagain.Wefloatforafewseconds,gaspingandcrying.IntheperipheryofmyvisionIseeNazrekwadingalittledeeperintotheash.Alump of masonry comes flying through the starlight, a rope tied around it. Itsmacksintotheghostaboutthreemetrestomyright.‘Easynow,’IsaytoOlesh,andtogetherwecarefullyswimourwaytotherope,taking three or fourminutes to cover just a fewmetres. I set Denas onto the

stone, legseithersideof therope,andembraceOlesh,keepingchildandstonebetweenusaswegetdraggedtosafety.Whenwe finally reach firmer ground,wasters and hivers plunge in after us,pullingusfree,laughingandcrying.Ihaulmyselfoutoftheirhugsandcongratulatoryslaps,wipinggrimefrommyfaceas I lookfor theColonel. I stopright in frontofhim,usinga fingertip toclawtear-soakedashesoutofmyeyes.Iflickthedirtawayandstarehimrightintheeye.ButIsaynothing.Iturnaway,spittingdust.Ihavenothingmoretosaytohim.We’refinished.

NINEHUNTED

With everything else that’s happened, I really shouldn’t be surprisedwhen thestillofthenightisbrokenbyadrawn-outhowl.‘Dunewolves,’ saysOrskya, aword I’dneverheardbefore andwish I hadn’tnow.‘Dangerous?’Iask,anotherchorusofhowlssoundingfromthesmog-shroudedtwilight,alreadyknowingtheanswer.‘Notifwestayclose,’shetellsme.That’saproblem.It’sbeenaboutanhoursincewelefttheghostruins,coveringmaybethreekilometresinthattime,atthemost.There’sareasonnobodymovesat night in the wastes, and even Orskya’s people are floundering at times. Ihaven’t done a headcount in a few minutes but there’s definitely less of thehivers than when we set out. Just lost, or in a crevasse, or falling behind…Occasionally a distant cry for help alerts us to their absence. Even moreoccasionallywefindthem,nottoofarfromthegroup.Wecan’tspendtoolonglooking for stragglers, thoseNeverbornarebehindandstill comingafterusassureastheGod-Emperorsitsdownalot.Every fewminutes a burst of static followed by a verse of sombre chantingannouncestheColonelcheckingourbearingtowardsthebattleabbey.Eachtimewewince,knowingthesoundiscarryingfar,wonderingwhatitmightattract.Andnowtherearehowlsaheadandtotheright.‘Everyonestickclosetogether,’Icallout,sweepingmygazeoverthegroup.

Afresheruptionofthroatyhowlssoundsnearby,overtotheleftthistime.Iseemydwindling followers staringwith fear into the night, trying to see past thering of lantern bearers we have set as pickets on the edge of the group.Youngstersrideonthesledswiththebaggage,cradlingthefewinfants,leavingtheadultstoguardthem.OnoneofthebiersliesKarste,stillunconscious.Someoftheoldestwasterstaketurnstoridewithher,tosavetheirlegsandtocheckher dressings. Every time one of them relinquishes the duty to the next theirexpressions are graver than before. Her future is measured in hours, andprobablysinglefiguresatthat.‘There,’whisperssomeonebehindme.Iturnjustintimetoseethempointingoff to the right.Something largeandcanine slinks through the fog juston theedgeofvision.Severalmoreshapesfollowit.‘Nobodyrun,’Iwarn,pullingoutmypistol.‘Theywon’tattackthegroup.’‘Morehere,’comesagentlecallfrombehind.IalmoststumbleoverarockasIlookback,justglimpsingmovementfromrighttoleft.‘Circlingus,’Isayquietly.Everythingfallssilentbutfor thehissofrunners inashandthepadoffeet. Ihear panting and growls, coming from both sides. Orskya must hear it too –everyone has their hoods pulled back despite the cold, straining for anywarning–anddartsmeaworriedlook.‘Gettingcloser.’Ialmostmouththewordswithoutsound.Everybody has slowed, caution overtaking their thoughts.Both I andOrskyasignalforthemtokeepgoing,thoughitseemsobviousthatthedunewolvesaremovingaheadofus.Wecan’tbemorethanakilometrefromthesiegelines.Ifwecangettherewecanfindacommandbunkerormaybejustagunlinetoholeupinandwaitoutthenight.Aheadisourbestchanceofsurvivingevenifitisalsothemostdangerousroute.The growling intensifies, and then all of a sudden there’s a monstrous roarahead.Somethingnearlythesizeofahorsedashesintoviewforamomentandthendisappears.Answeringsnarlsandbestialbellowssoundfromleftandright,accompanied by the heavy drumming of footfalls and swirls of fog cut byimmensefour-leggedbeasts.Thehowlsbecomewhinesofterrorswiftlyfollowedbymoresnarling,thewetraspoffleshbeingtornapartandthesnapandcrunchofbones.Agonisedanimalshrieks fill the air, dozens of them, punctuated by noises of rending jaws andgutturalgrowls.I’mtremblingevenasIwalk,numbwithshockandfear.Abellowandpointing

cleaverfromNazrekhasalleyessnappingtotheleft.Acreatureploughsthroughthemists, passing through the circle of lamplight for several seconds. A facethat’spart-canine,part-reptilian;lipsdrawnbackfromteethlikecombatknives.Itshornedhead isboundedbyafrilledcrest,scaledskinagleamingorange inthe lantern’s glow. A tail like a scorpion’s sting whips behind it, before themassivebeastislostintheplumeofashkickedupbyitscharge.Icanjustaboutmakeoutthedevilhoundpouncingontosomethingsmaller–somethingthatwouldbeeasilytwiceasheavyasme,madetolooklikeahousepet by the unnatural predator’s bulk. Jaws clamp around the dunewolf’s head,crushing itwithone titanicbitewhileglintingclaws rakeout itsgut, sprayingropesofsteamingentrails.Screamsfromchildrenandadultsalikepiercemysluggishthoughts.Someidiotfires a las-bolt into the gloom andwithin seconds a hail of blasts and bulletsscreamoutintothedarkness.‘Stop! Stop!’ I shout, dashing to the sleds, shoving my laspistol into thewaistbandofmytrousers.‘Run!Weneedtorun!’I’veneverquestionedmy survival instinct and I’mnot startingnow. I grab arope and start pulling, helping the waster already in front of the sled like adraughtanimalinthetracesofawagon.TheashshiftsundermybootsbutIgetenoughgriptobuildupsomemomentum.Aroundmeotherwasterstakeupthecall,bendingtheirbackstothedrag-ropes.Orskyayellssomethingandthechildrenridingamongthe loadsstartpushingoff boxes andbags, lightening the sleds.We surge forwards, starting to find arhythmbetweenus.Someoftheolderchildrentakegunsfromtheirparentsandloose off occasional shots into the night. I don’t doubt their aim, people likehivers andwasters learn to fight and shoot from the time they can pick up agun – I’ve always preferred knives, but before I was ten years old I couldreliablyhitasourfruitfromthirtypaces.AheadIseesomethinglargeloomingupthroughthegloom.Ittakesamomentforittoregisterasagunbastion,thecrenellatedroofsilhouettedagainstthehazeofthesky.Thereareshoutsfromthoseinfront,partlyofjoy,partlywarningoftrenchesandgunpits.I turn, checking on the others, and that’s when I see the daemon hound. Itbreaksawallof fogaboutsixtymetresbehindme, tattersofdunewolffurandfleshhangingfromitsiron-toothedjaw.Icatchtheglintofabronzecollarinthegleam of lamps on the back of the sled. The two small girls and boy ridingamongthebaggageshriek,high-pitchedsquealsofpureterrorasthehoundbears

downonus,coveringhalfadozenmetreswitheachboundingstride.Mypastflashesbacktome,recollectionrammingintomythoughts,takingmeback to the trench lines outside Coritanorum. Bullets from a heavy stubbertracking towards me, sprinting like a fragging idiot across the open groundbetweentwoarmies.Tenstridesfromdeath.That’sthedifferencebetweenmakingittothetrenchandgettingcaughtbythatabyssalmonster.UnlessIletgooftherope…Thoughts race throughmeandonehand releases itsgripbefore I evenknowwhat I’mdoing. It’s like somethingelse is controllingme,a fargreaterpowerthanmyrationalbrain.TheotherhandletsgoandI’mfreeoftheburden.Butit’snottorun.Ipluckthepistolfrommybeltagainandvaultthesledasthedaemon hound reaches me, landing heavily in the churned ash behind it, theterrifiedfacesofthechildrenflashingpast.Itakeaimandshoot,theredboltsizzlingintothenighttohittheashbesidetheoncoming behemoth. I have no ideawhat a puny laspistol can do against themonster–it’slikethrowingpebblesatabattletank–butI’dratherdiefightingthanrunning,whichisanoddsensationforme.Ifireagain,hittingtheshoulderof the charging brute, and then again and again.Nopoint saving a powercell,right?Can’tuseitwhenI’mdead.I sidestep as I fire, and the hound veers towardsme, changing direction justenoughthatitisn’theadingstraightafterthesleds.It’saboutfortymetresaway,whiteeyesreflectingthedwindlinglanternlight.Adeepercrackthanthezipofmypistolstartlesme.Orskya,firingherheavyrifle,pickingashotforeverythreeorfourofmine.ThenthesnapoftheColonel’slasgunonmyright.Bluebeamscrossthepathofmyshots,strikingtheheadandcrestofthemonstrousdog.Twentymetres.TheboomofNazrek’spistolisquicklydrownedoutbytheork’sthroatybellowasitpoundspastus.Westopfiring,unabletodrawonourtargetwithouthittingNazrek.Xenos savage and abyssal predatormeet about fifteenmetres in front ofme.Nazrek’schoppahacksoffaclawedfootsweepingtowardsitsface,butdagger-fangsburydeepintotheork’sforearm.Bornebackwardsbythedaemonhound’smomentum,Nazrekfalls,choppaburiedinthesideofthehound’shead.TheabyssalmonsterhasitsjawstightonNazrek’sarmbuttheorkheavestoits

feet,roaringasitripsawayfromthebeast,tearingoffitsownarmattheelbowtobefree.Itpunchesitsheavypistolintotheeyeofthehound,firingasitdoesso.Brutalhigh-calibreslugsrip throughtheskullof thehound, tearingitapartevenastheork’sfistcontinuesitsjourney,plungingintotheheadofthedaemoncreature.Thehound thrashes into theashdunes for seconds, rollingdownabank,andthenstartstodissolveintoabloodypool.Nazrekstoopstoretrieveitsarmfromdisintegratingjaws,cleaverstillinhand.Moreshapeslopethroughthefog.‘Notsafeyet,’snapsOrskya.‘Run, boss!’ bellows Nazrek, before forging into the swirling fog, the smallshapeofGrotscuttlingafter.Gunfirefromthetrenchlinebehindusscreamspast,targetingdaemonhoundsstilladvancingafterthehiversandwasters.Together,underthecoveringfireofthefolksatthebunker,wereachthetrenchesandgratefullyclimbdownintotheprotectiveshadows.‘Thatwas–’beginsOrskyabutIcutheroffwitharaisedhand.I turn away, stumble a few steps and then throw up, vomiting nothing butstomachacidandbitterwaster tea.MylegsfinallygiveupholdingmeuprightandIcollapseagainstthetrenchwall,heavingbreathsintomypunishedlungs.‘Emperor be praised!’ says someone close by. I look up and find one of theunderhivers,Nemoa, looking down atme, a canteen ofwater held out. ‘OncemoreHedeliversyoufromtheveryteethofdeath,BurnedMan.’Itakethecanteenfromhimandswigmetallic-tastingwater,swillingitaroundmymouth before spitting out the remnants of vomit.Handing back thewaterbottleIpullmyselfuptothefiringstepandlookoutofthetrench.Intheflashoflas-boltsandmuzzleflareofautogunsIseemorehounds,maybehalfadozen.NosignofNazrek.‘Just delaying the end, that’s all,’ I tellNemoa, droppingbackdown into thetrench.‘Lesspraying,moreshooting.’

I’vehadmanysleeplessnightsinmylife,waitingforsomemiserabledemiseorother.Thenightinthetrenchisnodifferent,butforthefactthatthethoughtofdyingdoesn’tfeellikeafailureanymore.Sporadicburstsof terrorandgunfire interspersetheoldfamiliarsensationsofnumbfatigueandboredom.Thesentriescallout thealarmandIrousemyself,buteachtimefeelsalittlelessreal.Deathhoundsandblood-warriors,tentacled

pox-beasts born of slug and nightmare, cackling flame-sprites and screechingfangedskysharks.Thecoldnessbitesintheearlyhoursofthemorning,turningbreathtofogandfingerstoice.Sensesdulledbyexhaustionandfearstarttowane.Ican’tfeeltheferrocrete and flakboard beneath my boots or taste the air any more. Realitybecomes a small patch of lantern-lit trench and a bunker, no more than fiftymetresofdefianceagainsttheruddygloomoftheabyssthattriestoswallowus.Nobodytalks.Themoansofthewoundedbreakthestillbetweenviolence-filledmomentsofbrightnessandcacophony.I think about Geller fields, those unreal slivers of reality that keep shipsprotectedinwarpspace.Madnessanddeath,that’swhatweweretoldtheyholdback. That’s true, to a point. They never said thatmadness and death clothedthemselvesinmakeshiftbodiesandcouldcutyouopenwiththeirblades.Theyforgottomentionthatthewarpcouldbecomewalkingdisease,corruptinglungswithabreath,itsunnaturaltouchturningfleshtopoisonedslurry.PerhapsI’msleeping.Itcertainlyseemsthestuffofwarpdreams.I’mstillonthe ship, transitioning to Armageddon. Everything here is a product ofwarpfluenceandbadmemories.Theabyssalmessengerandtheheinousthingsitdidwithmybody,theBurnedMan,theimpossiblecreaturesinthemists.Maybenoneofithasactuallyhappened.TheGellerfield,strainingatthepressuresofthewarp,whilealoneNavigatorpeers into insanitymade form, picking ourway through eternal darknesswithonlythelightoftheEmperortoguideus.Thatmakesmoresense.Alladream,amanufacturedrealitytomakesenseofaGellerfieldcollapse.If thiswas real, I’dhave tobecrazy, right?The lastbitsof sanity that IwasclingingtoaftertheBrightswordmissionhavefinallygivenway,afrayedropeofsensepartingundertheconstantstrain.Especially the part where blood-warriors mounted on grox-sized steeds ofscarlet fleshandbrassadvanceamongstpacksof slaveringdaemonbeastsandsword-bearingwarpborn. I laughas I seechariotspulledbymoreof themetalbehemoths. From a ferrocrete bunker roof, the lasgun I took from a wastercorpse in hand, it seems like an army of the most ancient myth arrays itselfagainstus,completewiththesoundofbrayinghornsandflappingbanners.It’sasdivorcedfromt’aubattlesuitsandorkhordesastheblueskyisfromtheunderhive.Twothingsthatdon’tsharethesameuniverse.AfreshblareofhornsannouncestheadvanceandIlaugh,ignoringthelooksof

shockfrommycompanions.Orskya frownsandmouthssomethingbut Idon’treallyhearthewords.Icanfeelthewar-heatpricklingmyskinagain,touchingalongnervesIthoughtdead,bringingpowerandenergytolimbsthatshouldbelifeless.ForafleetingmomentIwonderifmaybeI’mnotevensleeping,butdead.I’vemetalotofpeoplefromdifferentworlds–differentspecieseven–andsomeofthemhaveveryoddideasaboutwhathappenswhenwedie.I’veneverseenitasanything other than the end, but I’ve billetedwith troopers that think that theEmperortakesyoutoaparadiseofpeaceandplenty.OtherssayoursoulsjointhegreatGod-Emperorafterdeath,sustainingHisimmortalpresence.Maybe this iswhathappens.Maybewhenyoudieyoursoul justgoes to thisplaceofinsanitywherenothingisrealandyoukeepfighting.KeepfightingfortheEmperor.WhatifallofthosetimesIthoughtI’dcheateddeath,Iactuallyhadn’t?MaybeI’vediedagainandagain.We’recalledtheLastChancers–whywouldIkeepcomingbacktothisplaceunlessitwasbecauseI’mnotreallyalivebutbattlingfortheGod-Emperorinthedarknessoftheabyssitself?I’mstilllaughingasIwatchthearmyofblood-warriorsclosing.Iwishwehadartillery and lascannons and heavy bolters, but we face the oncoming tide ofunnaturalbeastsandsoldierswithnothingbutlas-boltsandbullets.Andfaith?EvenasIthinkthis,IcanheartheclarionoftheEmperor’seternalvoiceonthewind.IsHewithme?IsthatwhyHehasbroughtmetoHisafterlifeofwar,tokeepfighting?ThepreacherstellusthattheEmperorprotects.Againandagain,everyprayerandhymnandexhortationtellsusthatwemustdieforHisservicesothatHemayprotecthumanity.Ididthatoncealready.Igavemylife,threwmyselfintotheflames.Still here though.Dowe need to fight on the other side?Maybe it isn’t theEmperorthatprotects,butthesoulsofdeadsoldiersfightingoninthedarknessoftheeverlastingwar?Andifthat’strue,thenIcan’tdieandmaybeacceptingthatiswhyIcanlookatthe wall of nightmare and death coming upon us and not feel afraid. Thatmoment of pure grace I felt as I was falling into the flames comes uponmeagain.ThebreathoftheEmperor.

And the singing swells, lifting my soul, cutting through the madness oflaughter, filling me with the strength of His sacrifice. I can hear the wordsclearly,therollingHighGothicthatIcan’tunderstandbutwhichbringsbackmyearliestmemoriesoftalesoftheEmperor’srighteousangersmitingtheenemiesofmankind.NopreachersintheunderhiveofOlympus,butwecarriedwithusthePureWordoftheEmperorallthesame.ImperiusDominusEternus.Andlikeadawnbreaking,lightshinesuponusfromabove,ayellowglowoftheEmperor’sblessedillumination,thesongofpraisereachingitscrescendo.Istandup,liftingmyarmstotheblessing,allowingittopourintome.IheartheroaringofHisanger.Thegroundshakeswithit,causingthebunkertotremble.Hiswrathbreaksuponthewarpbornlikeastorm.Boltsofrighteouslightburnthroughtheair,searingwoundsthroughtheoncominghorde.Liketheflickerofbolter trails, His ire carries destruction to His foes, a withering storm ofvengeancethatfellsallthatittouches.The light is blinding, yet in its passing I see clearly, as if the fog that hasdoggedussinceleavingtheunderhivehasbeenablindnessofspiritratherthantheeyes.I lookuponthedeceitoftheenemylaidbare,nothingbutragegivenform,robbedofitspowerbythedivinespiritoftheLordofTerra.The anger of the abyss is nothing to the pure hatred of He who guardshumanity.Thathate takes form,solidifyingupon thebattle-churnedashbeforeus.Warriorsinplateofsilver,theirownbannersofredandwhiteflyingabovethem.With them come beasts to match the bronze giants, spitting white fire,hurlingsalvosofholymissilesintothemonstrousranksoftheabyssalhost.Mymadness is cleansed by their arrival, even as the dunes are cleansed byunceasing fusillades of bolt-rounds and burning promethium. From transportsandtanks,fromtheaddresssystemsofbattleplate,femalevoicessingthebattlehymnsoftheEmperor.Astheirweaponspurgetheenemy,theirrighteoussongspurgefear.IlookuponoursavioursandknowthattheEmperorindeedprotects.FortheyaretheBattleSistersoftheAdeptaSororitas.

Howswiftlysalvationturnstoperil.WhilesquadsofBattleSisterssecurethearea,othersturnuponthemiscellanyofhumansintheirmidst.It’simpossibletoknowtheirintent,expressionshiddeninside their full helms,weapons trained on us as they advance upon the siegeline. They wear metal-enamelled armour, ornate and burnished to a gleam,

beneath white robes lined with scarlet. One bears a banner with a stylisedskeletondepictedonitandallaremarkedwiththeSkullImperatorcrownedwithaspikedhalo.‘Exculpator!’ the Colonel shouts, hands cupped around his mouth.‘Exculpator!’Iguessit’ssomekindofcallsignandaddmyvoice,thecrytakenupbyothers.TheBattleSistersmanoeuvretosurroundus,athicketofbolters,heavyboltersand a multi-melta ready to turn us into bloody paste and vapour if we aredeemed tobe a threat. Immolator tankswith spark-tippedheavy flamers standguard over us while silver-clad maidens of the Emperor’s wrath sweep thesurroundingdefences.The Colonel tries tomake himself known but his attempt to speakwith oursavioursismetbythesilentinjunctionofraisedbolters.Ican’tsayIcanblamethe Battle Sisters. Wasters and deserters are not exactly high on the list ofrighteousfolk.AfterseveralminutestheRhinotransportsdrawup,collectingmostoftheforcealongwithnearlyascoreofdeadandwounded.‘Wehavecasualtiestoo!’IcalloutastheRhinosstarttomoveoff.TenboltermuzzlesgreetmeasIapproachthebattlementofthebunkerroof,myhandsheldovermyhead.‘Someofthemarenearlydead.Takethemwithyou!’My request is met with silence but judging by the movements of the BattleSisterstheyarecommunicatingbyvox.Oneofthemwithmoreornateinsigniabreaks fromtheothersandapproaches the foundationsof thebunker.ARhinorumbles forward with her, stopping a fewmetres from the trench, bathing uswithitssearchlight.‘Identifyyourself,’avoicecommandsfromthetransport’svox-hailer.‘Colonel?’Isay,turningtohim.‘Maybeyoushouldhandlethis.’Hestepsupnexttome.‘ColonelSchaeffer,13thPenalLegion.Acheroncommand.’I can imagine the Sister Superior’s surprise, seeing the dishevelled, waster-clothedmanclaimingtobeacoloneloftheAstraMilitarum.Hopefullythecallsignhasallayedsomeoftheirdoubts,butinallhonestyI’dnottakeanychancesifI’dmetuseither.Welooklikelooters,orworse.‘Surrender to the authority of theOrder of theArgent Shroud,’ demands theBattleSister,hervoicegivenaharshedgeby theaddresssystemofherpowerarmour.‘We are at your mercy,’ the Colonel replies. ‘Praise the Emperor for your

arrival.’‘Bringforthyourwounded,’theBattleSistertellsus.‘Putdownyourweapons.’It takes a few minutes to comply. We carry out Karste and two others tooinjured towalk, using the long sleds as bridges over the trenches to set themdownbeside theRhino.While theBattleSisters inspect themonebyone andthenloadthemintothetransport,halfadozenmoreofoursmaketheirwayout,assisted by able-bodied companions. They are searched thoroughly and thenallowedtoembark;allthewhilethegunsoftheAdeptaSororitasaretrainedonus.‘AreyoufromtheAbbeyofSaintSilva?’IasktheSisterSuperior.‘Itwasyourhymnsthatguidedushere.’‘Itwas theEmperor thatworked throughyou,BurnedMan,’ says oneofmyfollowers,andothersaddtheirpraisesandtestament.TheSistersaysnothing,helmedheadturningslowlytotakeinthesightoftheColonel,thewastersandtheunderhivers,beforereturningtolookatme.‘Youaretheirpreacher?’sheasks.‘Iwouldn’tsaythat,’Ireplyquickly,realisingwhatthatmightsoundlike.‘Heis theBurnedMan,chosenof theEmperor,bearerof theLightofTerra,’oneofmyfollowerscallsout.Achorusofpraisefollows,ringinghollowinmyearsasIlookatthereflectionofmyselfinthelensesoftheBattleSister’shelm.Herbolterrisesjustafewcentimetres,enoughtobecomethreateningagain.‘BywhatauthoritydoyouclaimtherighttospreadthewordoftheEmperor?’EventhroughtheaddresssystemIcanhear theaccusationin thequestion.‘Towhatdioceseareyouattached?’‘Iamnotapreacher,’Itellher.‘Idon’tclaimtobeapreacher.’‘He is more than a mortal bearer of the word,’ another of my underhivecompanionsoffers,makingmecringe.‘HeistheBurnedMan,thereturnedone.ThebreathoftheEmperorflowsfromhim.’‘You lay claim to these powers?’ the Sister Superior demands, thrusting themuzzleoftheboltguntowardsme.I fall tomy knees, caught between the bolter and the desperate stares ofmyremainingfollowers.IseetheColonelgazingdownatme.Ireadtheexpectationinhisface,waitingformetorenounceeverythingthathashappenedjusttosavemyskin.ItakeabreathandlookupattheBattleSister,tryingtofocuspastthemassivebarrelofherweapon.Faceless, sheseemsmore likeananimatedstatue thanalivingservantoftheGod-Emperor.Icanfeelthestaticfromherpowerarmour

dancingacrossthehairsonmyarmandsmelltheholyoilsusedtolubricateit.‘I died and I live again,’ I say quietly, letting my hands drop to my lap. Istraightenmyback,determinedtofacemyexecutionwithwhateverdignitycanbemusteredkneelinginbloodiedash,abouttohavemyheadblownoffinfrontofthosethatthinkmeblessed.Myarmsitchandthebackofmyneckpulsesintimewithmyheartbeat.Ifeelthequickeninginmynerves.Itisn’tthestaticofthearmourcausingthereaction.Thoughitwasunexplained,I’dcometotrustthisnewinstinct.‘Theabyssalspawnarereturning,’Isay,staringstraightattheSisterSuperior.‘Whatwitch–’Shestopswhentheretortofbolterssoundsoutfromthesentrylinebeyondthetrenches.AsonetheotherBattleSisterspeelaway,formingintosquads as they move out into the battle again. Within seconds the wholecompany has moved from static force to mobile assault, engines roaring andvoices raised in exultant battle-prayer as theymove out over the ash dunes toengagethereturningenemy.‘Follow the Rhino,’ snaps the Sister Superior, looking at the Colonel. ShemotionswithherbolterformetostandupandIpushmyselftomyfeet.‘Yourfatewillbedecidedattheabbey.’Sherunsafterhercompanions,squadfallinginaroundher,headingtowardstherenewed flare and roar of conflict. I look out at the silver-armoured warriorsadvancing undaunted against the brazen horns and flashing aurae of thewarpborn.Foramoment theyshine,perhaps justastraybeamofasearchlighton their armour,but thehostof theBattleSistersgleamsagainst the shadows,everyoneofthemsheathedinapaleillumination.

TENSAINTSANDBLASPHEMERS

Iwashopingthejourneytotheabbeymightprovidesomesenseofreliefbutitfeels just as fraught as every stage of our flight from the underhive before. Itcombines the eerie emptiness of the ghost city with the feeling of imminentbattlethatdoggedusthroughtheorkterritories.Everywhereareremindersthatnot only is this a planet contested for several years, but also a new foe hasarrivedtosweepawayallthatcamebefore.Seeingcommandkeepsandartillerypitsempty,someofthemwithbodiesstilllying in thegrime, isastarkreminderof thespeedof thewithdrawal.Hasty, Iwould say. I can see Orskya and other wasters looking carefully as we passabandonedsupplydepots, someof themwith tanksofpromethiumandbarrelsstillstored.Hereandthereshellsandammunitioncratesarepiledinmagazines;camouflagenettingcoversboxesofrations,pilesofbedrollsandothersundries.Icanseethescavengersitchingtoletlooseonthesesuppliesbutsternexchangeswith theeldersholds themback.The fearof retaliation fromtheBattleSistersoutweighs the instinct to takewhat they can andmake a break for thewastesagain.We follow the Adepta Sororitas Rhino as it churns through the dirt, cuttingacross slit trenches, past stretches of razor wire and around tank trap lines,winding between emplacements. It feels like we’re intruding upon somethinghallowed, the noise of the engines and our own progress disturbing the still.Corpse flies buzz around cadaversmarkedwith cruel blades, rotted beyond a

fewdays.Someofthemdon’tevenlookhuman,theirfleshcontortedandmeltedintostrangeshapes,bonesbentlikeheatedplastek.Evenmoredisturbingarethecorpseswithgratefulsmilesontheirfaces,trappedinblissatthepointofdeath.Notalotofthedead,certainlynotthenumbersyou’dseeafteramassedbattle,butevidence that the retreatwasnotwhollywithoutopposition. I seenoorks,noranyevidencethexenosmadeitthisfarintotheImperialzone.‘Whydidtheyleave?’asksOlesh,trudgingalongside,Denaswrappedtightinamakeshiftslingagainsthischest,firmlygrippingthehandofFarann,whostareswithnakedcuriosityatoursurroundings.‘Don’tknow,’Isay,keepingmymisgivingstomyself.‘Wasitwarpborn?’theolderchildasks.Thequestionisaskedwithaquiveroffearanddartedlooksattheshadowedentrancestobunkersaroundus.‘Probably,’Isay.‘Iguesstheyappearedheretoo.’‘But the abbeywill be safe,’ Olesh says, thoughwhether he’s reassuring hisnephewortellinghimselfisn’tclear.‘TheBattleSistersstillhold,’Isay.‘TheyaretheEmperor’sblessed.Yousawhowtheyshowednofearofthewarpborn.’Wecantellwe’regettingneartothebattleabbeybythesingingonthewind.Like the transmission we intercepted, vox-hailers project the hymnals of theEmperor far into the gloom.The abbey itself rears like a small hill out of thesmog,bastionsofstoneraiseduptoflankametalledroadwayleadingtoagatetowersetintoahighwallofbuttressedferrocrete.Bodieshangontheguardtowers,notoforksbuthumans,strippednaked,eyesputout.Scoresofthem,boundtothewallbyspikedchains,eachcarvedwiththesymbol of the Ecclesiarchy on their chests, brandedwithmarks of purity andfaith.Aworriedmuttering erupts, andmy gut tightens as I read the signs setabovethegrislydisplays:ThePriceofHeresyTheRewardsofTreacheryTheFateoftheUnfaithful‘Whosesidearetheyon?’whispersNemoa.Everyoneslows,wastersandhiversalike,fearfulofcomingunderthegunsoftheforbiddingabbey.There’sprobablynotoneamongthemthathasn’tcursedorblasphemed,andeven those thathavebeenadamant inmydivine survival areperhapsthinkingthatsuchthoughtsmightbehereticaltotheBattleSisters.It’sapointedmessage that theAdeptaSororitasarehere toserve theEmperoraloneandnomortalagencyoftheImperium.

ThegateopenstotheadvanceoftheRhinoandremainssoaswefollowintotheshadow.Ashiverpassesthroughmeonthethreshold,butit’sjustthechilloftheabbey’sinterior,orsoItellmyself.It’snothelpfulthatthefirstthingIseeintheenclosedcourtyardisastatueoftheEmperortoweringaboveus,flamingspearpiercingtheHorusianSerpentthattwinesaboutHislegs.ThisisflankedbytwolesserfiguresoftheSisters’battlesaints, onewith bolter, the otherwith shield and sword, the skeletons of theirfoes underfoot.A chant plays fromvoxmitters built into sculpted cherubs thatlinetheoverhangoftheparapetaroundus,everysurfacecoveredwithsculptedscrollwork,reliefsoftheGreatVirtuesandimagesoftheSisterhoodputtingthefoesoftheEmperortodeath.Evenunderfoottheflooristiledincrackedmosaic,arepeatingpatternthatincorporatestheImperialaquila,theSkullImperatorandthe stylised ‘I’ symbolof theEcclesiarchy,wrought inmesmerising red, blackandwhite.Someofthewastersstumbletoastop,armsfallingtotheirsides,headsslowlyturningonewayandthenanothertotakeintheirextraordinarysurrounds.Quitea few of my followers drop to their knees, some of them even prostratingthemselves before themarble-and-gold splendour of the ImperialMajesty. Ofthose that remain standing, most make the sign of the aquila – hands acrosschest,thumbsinterlinked–orgesticulatesomeotherdevotional.Myresponseisto raise a crooked finger to forehead, touching knuckle to flesh as I mutter‘Imperator Dominus.’ It’s probably the first time I’ve done that since I leftOlympusandIdon’trememberhowyoungIwaswhenitwasbeatenintomeasthesignofrespecttotheRexImagifier.Thesetermsfloodbacktomeunbidden.Theyseemednonsensicalasayouth,asalientomeasorkishorverilixian.AsquadofBattleSistersemergesfromafortifieddoorontheright,boltersandflamerdirectedatus.Undertheirguardseveralotherwomenfollow,dressedinred robes beneath black tabards, hair hidden underwhite hoods. They are notarmouredbuttheydon’tlookanylessfearsome.TheyimmediatelymovetotheRhinoandstarttounloadthewounded.Hospitallers.More precisely, Sisters of the Orders Hospitaller of the AdeptaSororitas.IremembermedicaestationsamongtheAstraMilitarumbasesrunbytheirmembersandoccasionallyroamingunderhiveclinics.Adozenmoreyoungorderlies–allgirls–comebearingstretchersandmedicaeequipment.Someofthe wounded are treated there and then, writhing and moaning under theattentionoftheSisters.Othersareplacedonthestretchersandcarriedaway.

Iwatchcloselybutdon’tseeKarste.Istartforwardbutfindmyselfthetargetofeightbolters,aboltpistolandaflamerwithintwostrides.‘Thegirlwiththepiercedlung?’Isay,holdingupmyhands.OneoftheHospitallerslooksupfromhercharge,armsbloodiedtotheelbowassheuntiesatourniquet.‘Whichone?’sheasks,abruptbutnotwithoutsomekindnessinherface.‘Acrest,sortof.’ImimicKarste’shairandpointinsidetheRhino.‘Stabbedintheribs,caughtinthelungs.’‘She was already in the Emperor’s grace when you arrived,’ the SisterHospitallerreplies,turningbacktoherpatient.Frustration boils into rage and I want to scream, to pound my fists againstsomething.For the loveof anything,what is thepoint indraggingmyself andeveryonethroughthishellhole?Iwanttoshoutout,toasktheEmperorwhatHewantsfromme.I’mtryingashardasIcan,Ireallyam.Icouldhavewalkedaway,ditchedthedeadweightahundredtimesinthelastday,butIdidn’t.Intheunderhive,whenIwasburning,Icouldhavegivenupand let thepainconsumeme,but Ididn’t. I thought theEmperorwaskeepingmealiveforsomepurpose,butifit’sjusttokeepseeingpeoplearoundmedyingthenI’mnotsureIwantthisgift.Acutely aware of theBattle Sisterswith theirweapons still trained onme, Igraspholdoftheangerasittriestofloodout.Shaking,handstremblingasIfoldmyarmstostopmyselfdoingsomethingstupid,Igritmyteethandlookatthemosaicbymyfeet,tryingtofindaplaceofcalm.Istandlikethatforsometime,ignoringeverything,tryingtomakesomesenseofwhat’shappenedtome.‘Theyallbedead.’IlookupatthequietlyspokenwordsandfindOrskyanexttome.Irealiseshe’sunarmed–everyoneexceptmehasturnedtheirweaponsovertoagrim-lookingSister in grey robes who’s come out from the abbey. The newcomer is dark-skinned, her long hair plaited tightly andwound into a conical shape, held inplacebysilverhairpinswithskullsforheads.HerleftcheekisbrandedwiththetriplefeatheroftheSisterhood,arubypiercingherfleshasthoughbindingthefeatherstogether.‘What?’Imumble.ThegreySisterpointsatme,andthentotheknifeandpistolatmywaist.‘Your friend dead, but others alive,’Orskya explains. ‘Dead if you not bringthem.’

‘Shewasn’tmyfriend,’Ireply,notsureoftherightwords.Ipullmyknifefreeand thenmypistol,handing thembothgrip first to thesevere-lookingwoman.She turns and throws them unceremoniously on the pile of hiver and wasterweaponsbehindher.‘WhichofyouisColonelSchaeffer?’shedemands,lookingoverus,obviouslyconfusedbyourlackofuniforms.‘I am,’ Schaeffer says, stepping forward. He comes to attention and salutessmartly,soterriblycrispandproperdespitehissalvagedwastergear.‘IamCanonessErasmisaoftheOrderoftheHolySeal,rankingSisterofthisabbey.’‘OneoftheOrdersFamulous?’saystheColonel,droppinghishandtohisside.‘Incommandofabattleabbey?’Erasmisaturnsasteadystareonhim,lipcurlingslightlyasshespeaks.‘This was, until recently, a combinedmilitary force. The Famulous are wellplacedtocoordinatebetweentheBattleSistersandtheAstraMilitarum.’‘Imeantnooffence,reveredSister,’theColonelsaysquickly.It’sthemostputoutI’veeverseenhim,andI’veseenhimfacingdownalienmonstrositiesandranking generalswith equal calm. ‘I am surprised that non-military personnelhavenotbeenevacuated.’Erasmisaturnsawitheringstareupontherestofus,assessingeachinturnwithaglance.‘Idonotabandonmydutiessimplybecauseothersabandon theirs.’Hergazelingersonusforquitesometime,everyoneoverawedbytheirsurroundings,notmeetingherstare.‘Quiteaneclecticgroupyouhavehere,Colonel.’Hestiffens.‘Theyarenotmine,’he saysarchly.He turnsandpoints atme, just ahintofmaliceinhisgaze.‘Theyfollowthisone.’‘TheBurnedMan,Isee,’saysthecanoness.ShemotionstotheBattleSistersandtwoofthemstepforward,weaponsattheready.‘SisterSuperiorAladiasentword.Takehimtoacell.’‘What?’ I take a step back, only just remembering not to lowermyhands incaseit’stakenasathreat.Someofmyfollowersshouttheirprotests.‘Thechargeofheresywillbedeliberatedasquicklyaspossible,’Erasmisasays,as easily as if shewere discussing the list of evening prayers. ‘We have littletimetowasteonthesedistractions.Letushopetherearenoothersthatrequireexamination.’Cowed by the Sister’s threat, my underhivers fall silent. I allow the Battle

Sisterstoleadmetowardsthedoor,sparingonelookfortheColonelasIwalkpast.Iwouldn’tsayheappearssmug,it’sjustnotinhischaracter.Buthedoeshavetheimpressionofamanwhoisateasewithhislifeforthemoment.

It’snottheworstcellI’veeverbeentossedinto.It’sdry,whichisalwaysamajorfactor. Absence of previous inhabitant’s bones – that was just the once – iscertainlyawelcomefeature.AholeinthecornerprovidesbetterlatrinefacilitiesthanmanyofthehellholesI’vefoughtin.There’sevenathumbedcopyofvonStrab’streasonouswork–OntheRightsandRitesofConquest–setonthefloor.Missingpages, tornout inhaste, reveal its truepurpose.Abetter-treatedbooksitsonawoodenstoolinthemiddleoftheroom.IturnitoverasaBattleSisterslams themetal door shut behindme. TheLitanies of Faith.Certain passageshave beenmarkedwith glued tabs. I open them and glance at the small text,squintingtoreaditinthelightofthefaintlumenbehindasmallcagedopeningintheceiling.Theyareversesthattalkaboutrepentanceandpenance,andmanylistsoftheheresiesthatcanbecommittedagainsttheEcclesiarchy.AnunwelcomereminderofwhyI’mthereandasharpblowtothecomplacencythathasbeencreepinguponmesincewearrived.No windows. No bed. The first is to be expected. The second seems like apunishment,butismorelikelyapracticality.ItstandstoreasonthatanyonethathasrousedtheireoftheSisterhoodinsomewayisalreadyguiltyofblasphemyatbest,andprobablysomethingfarworse.EversincetheColonelarrivedIfeellikeI’vebeenfallingfromonecalamitytothenext. It’sas ifhe’savortexofsomekind,sucking thegoodfortuneoutofanysituation.Justadayago,alittlemoreperhaps,Iwasthemanincharge.Safe,incomparisontoalifeofpotentiallylethalmissionsoneaftertheother.Content,Imightevensay.Maybenot.TheColonel’s arrivaldidn’t triggeranything thatwasn’tgoing tohappen anyway. He didn’t bring the warpborn that drove the orks out of theupper hive.He certainly didn’t engineer the growing discontent that had beennaggingatme,boredbythemundanityofitall.Butitisanannoyinghabit,ofdisruptingeverythingaroundhimjustbybeingthere.Isitsimplythathe’sdrawntotheplacesofturmoil,ordohisactionsjusthaveawayofshatteringthelivesaroundhim?Heresy.That’sanewone.I’mguiltyofmurder,insubordinationandallsortsofbadbusiness,butI’veneverbeenaccusedoffalseworshipormisrepresentationoftheEmperor.IneverintendedanyoffencetoHisThrone-boundMajestywhen

IsaidthatHehaddeliveredmefromtheflames.Wasitthetruth?Itseemsalongtimeago,thoughnomorethanayear,Ithink.Iwas incoherent for some of that time, days of agony that all blend into eachother.IcouldhaveclaimedtobeaHighLordofTerraandIwouldn’tknowit.So,yeah,itfeltliketheEmperorhadsavedmefromaterribledeath.Isthatheresy?The cell may not be too inhospitable but probably the worst fate I couldimagineiswaitingformewhenthedooropensnext.EvenwhenIstabbedthatstupidsergeantandendedupsentencedtodeath,whentheColonelcameforme,thatwashangingorafiringsquad.Notsurenowonthedetails,it’salllostinthemessofbattlesandkillingthatfollowed.Maybethatbitofbraingotfriedwhentheydrilledintomyskulltoreleasewarpvapours.Maybetheabyssalpassengerdestroyed it or the god-plant wrote over that memory with something else.Emperorknowsjusthowmuchmybrainand thoughtshavebeenfraggedovertheyears…A relatively quick death, commuted to service in the Last Chancers, whichpromisedafarlessefficientbutalmostascertainmeansofexecution.Turnsoutthatdidn’tfinishme,butofallthegrislyendsthatI’vejustaboutdodgedalongtheway,convictionforheresyisprobablyoneoftheworst.TheEcclesiarchydoesn’tjustkillheretics.Therehastobepurgingsothatthesoulcandepartwithoutcorruption.Ifnot, thatsoulgoesintotheabyssnot theEmperor,losttoHisimmortalstrength.Alotofpurging.Arco-flagellation, that’s a good one. Turned into a berserker-fighter withimplantweaponsandnomindofyourown.Asacrificialshocktrooperhurledattheenemy.Death-masking,adrawn-out,suffocatingwayofdying,breathlesslyscreaming repentance as thehotmetalburns intoyour face and searsoffyourfeatures.The Ecclesiarchy don’t mess around when it comes to deterrents.When welandedonIcharIVtherewasamasscastigationofacompanythatretreatedfromthetyranidsandallowedthemtooverrunanisolatedshrine.Twohundredmenandwomenbrandedontheforeheadandstakedoutinfrontofthelandingportas a reminder that the Astra Militarum exists only to protect the Emperor’sdomains,andnodomainismoreholythanthesoiloftheEcclesiarchy.Seeing two hundred corpses on arrival would have been a shock, but thatwasn’ttheworstofit–theyweren’tdead…Fedandwatered,keptalivefordayswhilesunburncrispedtheirskinandwoundsfestered.

IthinkIneedtoescape.I mean, I am guilty, I think. I am the Burned Man and there’s no end ofwitnessesouttherethatwillattesttothetruth,andtheSisterhoodaregoingtobeprettypissedoffbythat.NodoubttheColonelwillputthebootinaswellifhegets the chance. Not a vindictive man, but I can feel it’s become personalbetweenus,nomatterwhathesaysaboutthinkingtheBurnedMancouldhavebecomethenextvonStrab.Hecameforme,nothingmore.So, I need to get out of here before they come for me. I will die trying toescape,thatseemscertain.I’msomewherebeneaththebattleabbeyandevenifIgettothesurfaceIhavetogettothewallsandoutsomehow.Thenthere’sthelifeofawaster.Iwouldn’tsurvivetwoweeksinthewilderness,unlessIcangetOrskyaandherpeopletotakemein.Butevendyingofthirst,buriedinanashflow,seemspreferabletowhatevertheSisterhoodwilldotome.They’reallzealots.That’sprettymuchessential,evenforthosethataren’tBattleSisters.Abolt-roundintheheadorbackseemsabetterwaytogothanbeingsearedbya thousand holy candles, or crushed beneath a slowly lowered statue of theEmperor, or having body parts cut off and burnt before His presence –extremities first, then limbs, then innards,watchingmybody literallygoup inincensedsmokebeforemyeyes.AshudderrunsthroughmeasIhearthescrapeofthedoorbolt.WhateverplanImighthaveconcocted,it’stoolatenow.Two Battle Sisters step through, one of them with the regalia of a SisterSuperior.Shemightevenbetheonethatspoketousinthewastes,I’mnotsure.Theirsilveredwar-platehissesastheymove,theirpresenceaccompaniedbythehumand staticof thepowergenerator in their armour.Theplategives themaheightandbulkthatmakesmefeelsmaller, thoughIguess thewarrior-womeninsidearen’tanybiggerthanme–certainlyshorterthanOrskya.Raised by theEcclesiarchy, orphaned daughters of Imperial servants, they’vebeentrainedtofightfortheEmperoraslongasI’vebeenlearningtoscrapformyself.Imightbeabletogetpastbeforeoneofthembringsupherweapon,butIrecallapainfullylong,straightcorridorbeyondthedoor.Betterthanhavingmyeyesputoutwith flamingbrandsandmyskin strippedaway tobe turned intopuritysealparchment.Itakeastep,fistsbunching,legstensingforthesprint.The next thing I’m aware of is being slammed down into the floor, thegauntleted fingersof aBattleSister aroundmy throat. Ihit thebare ferrocrete

hard, winding me, the powered glove just tight enough to make every gaspuncomfortable.Boostedbyherarmour’ssystems,theBattleSisterpinsmedownwhiletheSisterSuperiorloomsnearmyshoulder,theridiculouslywidemuzzleofherbolterpointedatmyface.Icansmellholyanointmentsontheirarmour,pungentbutsweet-smelling.‘Furtherresistancewouldbeunwise,LieutenantKage,’saysthestandingBattleSister.‘Non-compliancewillbemetwithfurtherforceandrestraint.’Thegriparoundmythroatrelentsslightly.‘Allright,’Iwhisper,almostchokingonthewords.‘I’llbehave.’TheBattleSisterstraightens,liftingmetomyfeet.ShepullsmeclosersoIcanseemyreddeningfacereflectedinthelensesofherhelm.‘Iwillbreakyour legs ifyou try to run,’ shesays,uncurlingpowered fingersfrommythroat.I nod and stumble away, towards the door. Another Battle Sister is waitingthere,turningtoleadthewayfromthecell.‘CanIspeak?’Iask,voicehoarse.‘If you speak, choose delicatewords,’ the Sister Superior answers, falling inbehindme.TheotherSistershutsthedoor,itsclangreverberatingdownthehall.From beyond other cell doors pained moans and pleas for help greet ourpresence.Ihearwailing,screamsbeggingforforgivenessmutedbythickstonewalls.‘Howdidthebattleagainstthewarpborngo?DidyourSistersreturnsafely?’‘There were some casualties,’ the Sister Superior replies. ‘The enemy werethwartedbuttheywillreturn.’AdooropensaheadofusandaSister in thecoloursof theHospitallersstepsout. I glimpse past her and see awoman strapped to awooden stretcher, twoyoung orderlies tying it in turn to a bench. She writhes against her bonds,screeching and sobbing. I wonder what manner of torture this unfortunate isundergoingbutaswenearthecellIhearherwordsclearly.‘The flames live! The flames live! They tookmy son! The flames thatwalkkilledthemall!’Faceset,theSisterHospitallerclosesthedoorandmovestothenextone.Ihearmore gibbering, almost wordless, lamenting some nightmare of the warpbornvisiteduponthem.‘Thisisaward,notadungeon,’Isay,realisingwhatmostofthescreamingandholleringisabout.‘Thewarp-touchedones,you’vebroughtthemhere?’‘By theEmperor’s strength their soulswill beunburdenedof corruption,’ the

SisterSuperiortellsme.‘Ifnot,weshallgrantthemthereleasetheycrave.’Wecontinueinsilenceupawoodenspiralstaircasetothesurface,comingoutthrough an alcove in the main garage-cloister where Rhinos, Immolators andother armoured vehicles are being maintained, each surrounded by a smallclusterofaugmentedtech-adepts.I’msousedtoseeingthemintheceremonialred robes, to comeacross followersof themachine-god inwhite stitchedwithsilverconfusesmeforamoment.Iwonderwhatsortofentertainingtheologicaldiscussion might take place between the devoted of the Omnissiah and theSisterhoodoftheGod-Emperorbutthenseethateachofthetech-adeptswearsamouthlesshalf-mask,bindingthe jawshut.Theycommunicatewitheachotherin squawks and clicks of Techna-lingua coming from vox-units set into theirthroats,butotherwisecannotspeak.Somuchforhealthydebate.Crossing through engine fumes and clouds of incense, I’m led across thecloistertotheopenspacebehindthegateswherewefirstentered.Icanseethegun towers around us, silver-armoured Sisters patrolling the ramparts, but nosignoftheColonelortheothers.‘Whathappenedtotherestoftheonesthatcamewithme?’‘They have been sequestered in dormitories,’ says the Sister Superior. ‘It iscrampedbuttheyaresafeforthetimebeing.’Myescortstakemeintothebuildingontheotherside,threestoreyshighandjutting from the inner faceof themainwall.Smallergun turretsdot theupperfloorandroof.Insideisawidechamberandmorestairs.Iamtakenuptheflighttothenextfloor,comingintoachapelroomwithaltar,lecternandabunchofpaintingsandsmallstatuary.TherestoftheSisterSuperior’ssquadstandready,fivealongonewall,twoontheother.Myescortsfallintoplacewiththem,leavingmestandingbeforeCanonessErasmisa.Withherisashort,slightmaninabrownrobetiedwith a golden belt, his head tonsured with the symbol of the AdeptusMinistorum,alargemetal-boundbookunderonearmandalong-handledmaceheld inhisotherhand.He looks tired,his eyesbloodshot and ringed, the skinhangingfromhisageingface.Myprosecutors,nodoubt.I swallowhard, realising that this is it, there’snocomingback from this.Nolast-minute escape. No sudden leap to freedom. I will be tried, judged andsentencedtoanexcruciatingdeathandthereisnothing,absolutelynothing,Icandotostopit.Iconsiderfalling tomykneesandbegging.Afterall, if Iadmitmysinsdoes

thatnotreleasemysoulofitsguilt?But I’mreallynot thebegging type,andforall thatmaybeIhavecommittedheresy,IstillbelievethattheEmperorbroughtmeback,andHedoesn’tdostufflikethatonawhim.‘Kage,’saystheman,lookingmeupanddown.Ahintofasmileghostsacrosshislips.‘IcanseewhytheycalledyoutheBurnedMan.’‘I’vehadworsenames,’Isay.‘Indeed,Iamsureyouhave,youngman,’saysthepriest.‘Iamsureyouhave.Quitealifeyouhavelived,byeveryaccountIhaveheard.’‘Notallofitwasted,Ihope,’Isaywithpride.‘I’vedonewrong,Iadmitthat,butthere’sfewerenemiesoftheEmperoraroundbecauseofme.’‘Certainly!’Theprieststepscloser,lookingatmewithstrangefascination.It’sunsettlingmesoIturnmyattentiontothecanoness.Sheviewsmewithallthedelightofsomeoneexaminingtheshitthey’vejusttroddenin.‘It is remarkable, is it not?’ says the priest, turning his head to look back atErasmisa.‘Hecertainlyhasbeenthroughthewars,youcannotdenythat.’‘Many have fought on the battlefields of the Emperor,’ the canoness growlsback. ‘Some survive when millions of others die. That does not make themsaints.’‘Saint?’ I say but neither of them is paying me any attention, obviouslycontinuingadiscussionbegunbeforemyarrival.‘Yet this story of the BurnedMan… The testimony of Colonel Schaeffer isunequivocal.ThestoryrecountedbyKage’sfollowersandhisexploitssincethearrivaloftheinfernalwoundspeaktothesignsofsainthood.’‘It is a disgrace that you associate this…’ the canoness throws a dismissivegesturetowardsme,‘withthelikesofKeeler,SabbatandCelestine.’‘Ah, but you forget that not all saints come fromyour orders, canoness,’ thepriestreplies.‘Who are you?’ I ask, trying to get my head around the point of theconversation.‘AreyousayingyouthinkI’ma…asaint?’‘A living saint, perhaps,’ the priest says with an enthusiastic nod. ‘Myapologies,youngman.IamPreacherDeniumenialis, thesoleremainingclergyofthisAdeptusMinistorumfacility.MostsoldiersIhavedealtwithjustcallmeOldPreacher.’‘Andsainthood…?’IthrowaglanceatErasmisa,whoflinchesatmyuseoftheterm,bitingbackangrywords.‘Well, I think there is cause for examination, certainly,’ says Old Preacher.

‘Suchmattersarenotdecideduponwhim,andtherewouldbeseriousdebate.Itisnotformetoappointyouwithsuchatitle,obviously.’‘Indeeditisnot,’saysthecanonesswithnotableconviction.‘But you have fulfilledmany of the criteria, I assert. Some of it seems veryobvioustome.’Forthefirst timeheshowssomeannoyanceashelooksat thecanoness. ‘Howonecan ignore thesymbolismofstrikingdownaserpent Idonotknow…’‘So,I’mnotaheretic?’Erasmisa’sjawtightenssohardIthinkIhearteethcracking.‘Itisaclericaljudgement,inwhichIdefertoDeniumenialis,’shesaysbetweengrittedteeth.‘Ofcoursenot,youngman.’OldPreacherpatsmeon thearm. ‘One thathasbeentouchedbytheEmperorinthiswaycannotbetriedforheresy!Youmaybethe embodiment of His will, I believe. Perhaps a saint, perhaps just thebeneficiaryofamiracle.Neitherisheresy.’‘Please tell me you ain’t mentioned this to the Colonel yet,’ I say. ‘I reallywouldliketobetherewhen–’I’mcut off by a sudden loud clangingof bells.Not real bells, of course, butsimulated clamour from voxmitters set into the roof of the chapel. TheBattleSistersarealreadymoving,turningtothedoors,andIseethelooksofconcernonthefacesofthepreacherandcanoness.‘They’renotringingoutincelebrationforme,arethey?’

ELEVENBATTLEATSAINTSILVA

Ihavequiteabroadexperienceofalarmsofvariouskinds.Shipboardsirens,airattack blasts, alert signals and every kind of loudmouth officer shouting hisfragging head off, I’ve heard them all. There’s really nothing like a fake bellpealing constantly at deafening levels to get the heart racing and the bodymoving.The crash of the Battle Sisters’ steps echoes around the bare corridors andchambersofthebattleabbey,heraldingtheblazeofsilver,redandblackastheyfloodthewalls.AtaroughcountIsaytheremustbeaboutahundredandtwentyof them, plus whoever is manning the fixed guns. In the vehicle compound,engines growl into life, the smoke of their exhausts lifting to join the censer-smog above the abbey. The bell-ringing ceases, replaced by a stream ofHighGothicIdon’tunderstand–itcouldbeaprayerororders,it’simpossibletosay.After half a minute this gives way to a rousing verse of song, a hymnalglorifyingthestrengthoftheEmperor,singingthepraisesofSaintCatherine.I find myself milling around in the main cloister, not sure what to do. TheColonelandabout twodozenhiversandwastersemergefromadooropposite,some of them still covering their ears. As if summoned, Canoness Erasmisaappearsbesideme,threeotherSistersindarkrobesbehindher.‘Return to your quarters at once,’ the canoness barks. Her fellow SistersFamulousheadtowardsthebuildingSchaefferandcompanyleft.‘Giveusbackourweapons,reveredcanoness,’saystheColonel.‘Wecanhelp.’

Deniumenialisarrivesnext,aSisterSuperiorathisshoulder.‘OldPreacher,tellthecanonessthatweshouldhelpdefendthewalls!’Isay.Helookssurprisedbytherequest.‘Icouldnotpossiblydosuchathing,youngman,’hereplies.‘Don’tyouwantalivingsainttodefendyourabbey?’‘Awhat?’barkstheColonel,lookingfrommetothepreacherandbackagain.‘Idonothave theauthority,LieutenantKage,’OldPreachercontinues. ‘I amsureyouknowfullwell that theDecreePassive forbids theEcclesiarchy fromcommanding men under arms. All military matters are the province of theSisterhood.Itwouldbemostimproperofmetointerfere.’IredirectmyattentiontotheSisterSuperiorathisside.I’msureshe’stheonethatbroughtme from thecell, andalmostascertain that it is the squad leaderthatreportedmetothecanoness.‘SisterAladia?’‘Yes?’It’sobviousshewantstojoinherSistersatthedefences,glancingupatthesilveredwarriorsassemblingaboveus.‘Wecanfightwithyou.Surelyyouwantallthehelpyoucanget.TheEmperorbrought you to us when we needed you, wouldn’t it be wrong to ignore thatgift?’Even through theholybroadcast Ihear amournfuldirge thathasbecome fartoo familiar.Aceaseless,monotonouschanting thatdoesn’tarrive just throughthe ears but is felt in the mind and resonates through the gut. I don’t knowwhether it’s my words that convince Aladia or the imminent threat, but shepointstothegatehouse.‘Whenyouhaveyourweapons,hold thewall there.Donotget in thewayofmy Sisters.’ She looks at Erasmisa. ‘Canoness, please release the prisoners’weaponstothem.’SheputsahandonOldPreacher’sshoulderandguideshimaway,headingforthe sanctuary of the inner abbey.Whenhe is through the doorway shemovespastus,headingstraightfortherampart.‘Waithere,’Erasmisatellsus, liftingahandtoavox-piececlippedtoherear.Shewhisperssomethingbriefly,nothappyatall.Beforeourweaponsarrivethemaincannonsboomintolife,spittingshellsbackintowhathadbeenImperialterritory.‘Attacking frombehind the line?’ I say, seeing theColonel reactwith similarconcern.‘The warpborn do not need logistics and lines of supplies as a mortal army

does,’ Schaeffer says heavily. ‘If they can manifest, they will, without otherrestriction.’SomeoftheBattleSisters’heavyboltersopenfire.Theenemyareapproachingfast, it seems, going fromcannon range to heavyweapon range in less than aminute.IwanttorunuptotheramparttoseebutAladia’scommandholdsmeback–IcaneasilyimaginebeingbargedasideorevencutdownifweinterferewiththeBattleSisterssquads.Adoubledoorrumblesopenbehindusandhalfadozenyoungwomenemerge,pullingacoupleofsmallcartsladenwithourweapons.‘Two companies, hivers and wasters,’ I say as the group moves forward toreclaimourarmaments.‘Orskya,youknowwhattodo?’‘Shootoutsidewall?’shereplieswithalaugh.‘Notinside?’‘Goodenough,’Isay.‘Youarenolongerincommand,’theColonelsnaps,puttingahandtomychesttostopmeasIturnawaywithlaspistolandknife.‘ThisisImperialterritory,thechain of command is in force.You are all troopers of the 13th Penal Legion,remember?’Iwavemyknifetowardsthewastersandhiversrunningtowardsthestepsthatleadtothegatehousewall.‘They’renotlisteningtoyou,Colonel,’Isay,pushinghisarmasidewithmine.Islipmyknifeintomybeltandcheckthepowercellonthelaspistol.Goodforanother thirty shots. ‘Do you want to argue about it, or go and kill somedaemons?’HissnarlisalltheanswerIneedandIpushpast,breakingintoarun.Mountingthestepstwoata timeIreachtherampart,butwe’refacingthewrongwaytoseeanything;theattackiscomingatthebackoftheabbey.TheSistersatthefarwall,aboutsixtymetresaway,fireconstantlydownatenemiesIcan’tsee.‘Kage!’Thevoicethatcallsformeisshrill,almostbreaking.‘Look!’I turn back to the open space before the gate, a mess of mud and ash cutthroughwithtrackmarksandbootprints.Oilypuddlesbubbleintoexistenceinthemire,becomingbroaderpoolsofdark,congealingliquid.Istopcountingattwenty, scattered aroundus about fiftymetres from thewall.Thehairs onmyarmarestandingupandthenapeofmyneckthrobs.‘Warp spawn,’ I growl, watching the closest pool as it bends upwards, theerraticlightofsearchlampsandcloud-swatheddawndancingacrossthebulgingsurface.The bubble splits, becoming two, then three, then four distinct blobs, falling

awayfromroughfigureswithin.Withinthepassingofaminutenearlyahundredplague-carriers stand before us, larger tentacle-mouthed beasts draggingthemselves into existence around them. An unnatural gust of wind wafts thestenchofgraveyardsanddeathbedsoverus,but this time it seems todissipatealmost instantly, replaced by the smell of the Sisters’ incense. The daemons’monotonous chanting and the tolling of discordant bells is lost against therousinghymnalsof thevoxmitters; praises to theGod-Emperordrownout theslobbering and wailing of the charging beasts. It’s disgusting to look at thecongealingwarpborn,butIdon’tfeelthegut-churningrevulsionthataffectedmeinthewastes.We open fire as the rotting warriors advance, a surge in the song from thevoxmitters drowning out the madness-inducing chant that accompanies them.Las-bolts and bullets scythe down, greeting the striding plague-warriors andslug-beastswithahaphazardwalloffire.Las-blastsslashacrossunnaturalfleshleavingsmokingweltsbutlittleelse,whilebulletsseemtoslowastheyhit,asifthey’ve been fired into wet ground and with equal effect. A sudden roar ofbolters engulfs us from the towers either side. Three distinct volleys of boltsshear through the oncoming warpborn, their detonations tearing off limbs,rupturinginhumanbodiesandblowingapartwarpbornskulls.Theslaindaemonsreturntopilesofslurry,seepingbackintothetrampledground.‘Keep firing,’ I warn, noticing that the sloshing remains continue to move,slitheringacrossthemud,slowlyreforming.Likerivuletsdownahilltheycometogether, creating a larger pool about thirty metres from the outer towers.Gunfirefromthebarbicanlashesintothemorass,butthere’snothingphysicaltoshoot,soboltsandgoutsofflamessimplydisappearintotheripplingsurface.Asbefore,thewarpstuffbulgesandwrithes,gatheringshapefromnothing.Itssurfaceispockedbyboltimpacts,vapoursrisingfromblisterededgesasmulti-meltas and burning promethium scour the surface of the bubblingmass. Thistime there is no splitting. The creature that heaves its immense bulk from theground isasbigas thewingednightmare thatcameuponus in theunderhive.This isnotbloodandshadowthough,butaheavingpileof festeringfleshandpus-slickedhorror.It continues to swell, almost as tall as the towers and far greater in bulk. Arustedmaceformsoutofagrowinglimb,itsendpiercedlikeacenser, trailingswarmsofblack flies like living smog.Thebroken-nailed fingersof theotherhand grip the hilt of an immense, rusted sword, longer than I am tall and asbroad as aman’s shoulders. Folds of green skin and rolls of fleshmaterialise

from themucus froth, growing abroad, neckless headwith a cluster of beadyeyesoveraslitmouth thatgrins ina terrifyingfashionas it turns its immortalintentionuponus.Shrieks of pure dread rebound from the walls around me and I hear voicesraised to theGod-Emperor, pleading and sobbing for protection.A slobberingtonguelollsfromthemouthtoleaveatrailofhissingsalivaovermultiplechins.Icanfeelwavesofnauseabeatingatmythoughtslikeahotwindandrememberthecrazedsoulsinthedungeon.Ifnotforthesanctuaryoftheabbeyperhapswewouldallloseourmindstothecorruptiveforceofthewarpborn.As more gunfire rakes into uncaring daemonflesh, the monstrous creatureswings its mace, the head crashing against reinforced ferrocrete with athunderclap detonation. Shards of masonry spray, and from the gouge carvedinto thecornerof the tower, cracks raceoutwards, thematerial succumbing tocenturiesofdecayinsecondsasthepowerofthewarpfiendspreadsfurtherandfurther. Shrugging off blasts thatwould pierce the armour of battle tanks, thetowering nightmare brings down its blade, carving a ruin through alreadyweakened stone, shattering thewall to its foundations. Silver-armouredbodiestopplefromthebreakingtower,adozenofthem,crushedinthedevastationoftheirfort.Like amote of dust in a sandstorm I feel utterly helpless against the titanicpower formed in front of us. Never before have I felt more like a small andpointlessassemblyofbones,fleshandblood.Thefearissooverwhelmingthatit’sbecomenonsensical,atotalnumbingofthesensestoeverythingaroundme.Forseveralheartbeatsthere’sjustmeandtheuncaringvastnessoftheuniverse.Ihearlaughing,agutturalexpulsionthatshakesthewalls,summinguptheutterdisdaintheuniversehasforme.I raisemy laspistoland feel soabsurd that Imight start laughing too.Anantmight aswell try to destroy a LemanRuss tank. Sweating, feeling fever-heatcoursingthroughme,Ialmostlosemygriponmylaspistolasmyhandstartstoshake,mymusclestwitchingwithsomekindofpalsyofdread.Aflashofredstartlesmefrommyfugue.AcrossthegatehouseIseetheColonelfiringattheimmensecreature,rippingoff shots with a lasgun as though he has any chance of hurting it. Still, hisexample is enough for some of the others, who bring their weapons to bear,addingmorelas-boltsandbullets.Shruggingoffthewelteroffire,thetitanicwarpbornheavesitsbulkagainstthesecondtower,slammingitsimpossibleobesityintothestructure.Spraysofichor

andboil-pusexplodeoutwardsfromrupturedflesh,butthefortificationbuckles,a huge crack breaking along its flank as though caught in the throes of anearthquake.Likeagrotesquebearhuggingitsprey, thewarpbornembracesthebreakingtower,usingitsweighttohaulitdowntothegroundamidaplumeofdust and filth. Flies swarm in spirals about the debris, dancing in celebrationovertherubble.A handful of Battle Sisters emerge from the debris, bolters barking defianceuntil theswordsweepsdown,hewingthreeof themintopieces.Theother twoSistersscrambleoversettlingmasonryandtwistedmetal,theirboltscoveringthecreature’s grinning face in a barrage of small explosions.Unnatural flesh fliesfromeverydetonation,thickbloodoozingfromthecratersleftbytheirimpacts.Thecreatureliftsthemace,itsrustedhaftcatchingthenextfusillade,andthenbringsitdown,crushingafourthBattleSisterintoapulpofshatteredceramiteand pasted flesh. The last of the tower garrison runs out of ammunition butstandsdefiantuponaheapofbrokenferrocreteamid thebodiesofherSisters,onehand lifting thependant thathangsaboutherneck. It seemsas though thewarpbornflinchesforafewsecondsandanafter-imageofflamesflitsacrossmyvision,thoughIsawnothing.ThegatebelowuscrashesopenandapairofImmolatortanksspeedout,evenasthedaemon-giantsmashestheBattleSisterfromtherubblewithabackswingofitsmace,hurlingherbrokenbodytwodozenmetresthroughtheair.Blessed promethium scorches from the turrets of the armoured vehicles,bathingthegreatlordofdecayinwavesofwhite-hotfury.TwosquadsofBattleSistersadvancebeneathus,thefliespartingfromtheirpathlikewateronaship’sbow,thesilverylightIthoughtIsawoutinthewastesagainswellingaroundtheholywarriors.Thethunderof theirbolterssets the tempofor thehymnal, theirvoices raised in song from external address systems as they advance in step,everyroundfiredfindingitsmassivetarget.Swarmedinboltimpactsandswathesofwhiteflame,thewarpbornmoans,itsmouth splittingwide as it swings the serrated edge of its sword at the closestImmolator.Theblade strikes the sideof thevehicle tocarvea furrow througharmourandexhauststack,billowingsmokefromtheenginemixingwiththeflycloudthatswirlsaroundtheimmaterialbehemoth.The stones around me ring to the sound of armoured boots as more BattleSisterspourupthestepstotherampart,presentingawallofbolters,flamersandmeltaweaponstothefrontoftheabbey,theirarrivalforcingmeandtheothersbackfromthewall.Icangetonlyglimpsesofwhathappensnextandhearthe

ragingbellowsofthemonsterasitslowlysuccumbstothefirepowerandfaithoftheAdeptaSororitas.Everything falls still and silent for a few seconds, bringingwith it amassivereleaseofpressure.‘PraisetheGod-Emperor!’Ishout,punchingtheairwhilerelieffloodsthroughme. Isag,almost falling tomykneesbefore I find thestrength tostandagain.Myhandfallstomyside,pistolstillinmyfingers.‘PraisetheEmperor.’TheBattleSisterinfrontofmeturns.‘Saveyourvoiceforprayersofstrength,soldieroftheEmperor,’shesaysandraises her gaze skyward. ‘You will need all of your faith against the comingenemy.’WithacoldshiverIlookuptofollowhergaze.Theskyaboveissmearedwithhighstripsofcloud,andamongthegloomIseesparksofmovement.Ithinkitmustbeaircraftatfirstbuttheangleseemswrong.Ithenrealiseit’sbecausetheobjectsarecomingstraightdown,directlytowardsus.‘Droppods,’someonemuttersonmyleft.‘TraitorAstartes,’saystheColonel.

I thought they’d be here quicker. You hear stories about Space Marine dropassaultsandimagineit’soverinseconds.ArmageddonhasseenafewovertheyearsandthisoneseemsprettytameincomparisontothetalesofCommanderDantedroppingdirectlyonto theBeast’smaincampin thefirstwar.Just threebrightlightsgettingabitbiggerandabitbrightereveryminute.Iwishitwasoverquicker.I’mgettinganacheinmyneckfromlookingup,butit’s therapidbeatingofmyheart that takes thereal toll. It feels likeI’vebeenfightingforweeksnothours,andthenIthinkaboutwhat’shappenedandrealiseI’venotsleptintwodays,andofthepastforty-eighthoursthere’sonlyone–inthecampwithOrskya’speople–duringwhichIwasn’tbattlingorrunningformy life. Ichar IVwas intenseonce itgotgoing.Coritanorumwasprettymuchtwenty-fourhoursoftensionandfear.Allofthatseemslikenothingcomparedtowhatwe’vebeenthrough.I suppose it’s because I can’t see the end. Those other times there was amission.Nowthemissionistosurviveuntil…Untilwhat?‘There’salwaysgoingtobesomethingelse,someoneelsetryingtokillme,’Imutter,stillunabletotakemyeyesoffthetrioofdescendingfireballs.Unease prickles through me and for a moment I think it’s the Neverbornreturning.But it feelsmore likeachill thanaheat,andI finallydropmyeyes

fromtheapproachingdroppods tofindOahebsnext tome.Myskinfeels likeit’stryingtopeelitselfoffmyfleshtogetfurtherawayandIcan’tstandtolookathimformorethanhalfasecond.I’vedonewelltoavoidcloseproximityformostofthetimewe’vebeenbacktogetherbutthere’snotreallyanywhereelsetogoonthepackedrampart.‘Whatdoyouwant?’Iaskhim.‘Iwanttoknowhowyoukeepgoing,knowingallthebadthingsyou’vedone,’hesayswithabelligerentstare.‘Iwanttoknowwhatit’sliketohavekilledthepeople you’ve killed, endangered awhole planet, and thenwalk away from itpretendingtheEmperorthinksyou’respecial.’‘I’mnotpretendinganything,’Itellhim.‘There’snothingspecialaboutyou,Kage,’hecontinues,spittleflyingfromhislips.It’sasifitdoesn’tmatterwhetherIcarewhathehastosay,he’sgoingtosay it anyway. ‘I know what special feels like. Special is being so differentnobodycanstandtobeinthesameroomasyouformorethanafewseconds.Special is your parents leaving you at the local shrine because you disgustedthemsomuch.Special isbeing raised to think thatyou’reanaberration in theeyesoftheGod-Emperor,tostriveyourwholelifetoatonetoHimforthesinofbeingbornthewayIwas.’‘Frag you,’ I snarl. ‘You’re a soulless,mutant freak.You shouldn’t exist, buttheyfoundauseforyou.Youshouldbegratefulnobodyputyourheadinwithabrickwhenyouwereababy.Youdon’tget to judgeme justbecauseyour lifewasshit.’Hepointsupintothesky.‘You’regoingtodiesometime,Kage.Yourluck,thatgoodfortunethatseemstokeepyoufrombitingthebulleteachtime,isgonnarunout.Maybetoday.Andyou’reboundfortheabyss,Icantellyou.CallyourselftheEmperor’schosenallyouwant,youaren’tgoingtothegoldenlight,Kage.You’retainted,Icansmellitonyou.Maybethatabyssalpassengerisn’taroundanymorebutitpickedyouforareason.Maybeyouinviteditin?’Heraiseshisvoice.‘Maybethosethingsare following you, trying to get you back.We’d be better off if you led themsomewhereelse.’Afewofthehiversandwasterslookatus,andoneoftheBattleSistersturnsherhead,attentiondrawnbythedisturbance.IgrabOahebsbythefrontofhisscavengedcoatandpushthroughmyrevulsiontodraghimcloser.Ifeelrepelledbyhispresence.Notsickenedlikewiththeplagueborn,butphysicallyrepulsed;it’sanefforttostayclosetohim.

‘Thatsoundedlikeathreat,’Isnarl.Hesmacksmyarmawaywithagrowl.‘Iknowmypurpose,’hetellsme,steppingback.‘I’vecometotermswiththemiseryofmy life,because IknowthegoodI’vedone, the tainted traitors I’vehelpedexpose.Anywhereelse,anytimeelse,you’dhaveabulletinthebackofyourheadandanInquisitionbrandonyourcheek.’I turn away and catch the gaze of the Colonel, who’s been watching theargumentfromafewmetresaway,armscrossed.‘Keepyourfreakawayfromme,’IsnapathimasIpushpast.Ifindaplacealongsidethewasters,whohavebeencorralledatoneendofthewallbyasquadofBattleSisters.TheirchatterstopsasIapproach,andIwonderwhattheyweretalkingabout.‘Problems?’saysOrskya.Ishakemyhead.‘Nothingnew,’Itellher.Iglancearoundthegroup.‘Whatareyoutalkingabout?’‘Stories,’shereplieswithashrug.‘Old,oldstories.Almostforgotten.’‘What sort of stories?’ I lookup.Thedroppods are like threenew suns, theglow of entry panels yellow against the lightening red sky. ‘Happy tales todistractusfromimpendingdeath,Ihope.’‘Storiesofblood,’shesays.‘Theeatersofworlds.’‘Great.Neverheardanyofthem.’‘WasatimewhenthedaemiascametoArmageddon.Before.Generationsago.’‘Daemons?’Ikeepmyvoicequiet,keenlyawareoftheBattleSistersallaroundus.It’sobviousthatthewarpbornarehere,wejustfoughtthem,butit’sstrangehownobodyevertalksaboutthemdirectly,notevennow.Everyoneacceptsthatit’snotsomethingtodiscussopenly,thatit’sasintospreadsuchgossip.‘Whatstories?’‘Timeofblood.Myancestors flee intodeepwastes.Hivers fight themselves.Soldiersarriveandfighthivers.’‘Arebellion?’‘Yes. Rebellion. And daemias come, called by evil hivers.’ She gesturesupwards.‘Andfallingsuns,hundredsofthem!’‘Space Marines came to Armageddon before, to fight daemons,’ I whisper,leaningcloser.‘Don’tyoumeanthefirstinvasionoftheBeast?’‘No,’shesnaps.‘Knoworks,andnotorks.Olderstories.Youlistenbetter!BigarmiesofSpaceMarines,fightingwithdaemias.’‘Ineverheardofanywarhereagainstwarpborn. Iwouldhave, I’msure.An

army of Space Marines is something people don’t just forget. Or a battleagainst…againstthewalkingnightmares.’‘Notagainst,’shesays,bangingherfiststogether.Shelocksherfingersthrougheachother.‘Fightingwith.’Ilookupagain.SpaceMarinesonthesamesideaswarpborn,inawarthattookplace years ago that nobody has ever heard of. Sounds like campfireentertainmenttomeandIguessOrskyaseessomethinginmyfacethatgivesmeaway.‘They kill everyone,’ she says. ‘All not SpaceMarines, Emperor’s guardianskillthem.Bringnewhivers.Millions.’‘TheEmperor’sguardianskilledeveryone?’I’mreallynotfollowinghernow.‘Whywouldtheydothat?Whowouldbeallowedtodothat?’Sheshrugs,ahauntedlookinhereyes.‘Everyonegone.’Shemakesachoppingmotionwithherhand.‘Onlywastersremember.’Whowould have the authority to replace an entire planetary population?Orhavetheresourcestodoit?It’s insane,movinghundredsofmillionsofpeopleacrossthewarp.It’dtakeagenerationjusttogetthemhere.Andforwhat?Afurtherthoughtanswersmyownquestion.‘The Inquisition…’ I barely breathe theword.Like talking about the abyssalones,evenmentioningtheshadowylefthandoftheGod-Emperorfeelslikeit’llbringthemdownontopofus.‘Wipedeveryoneoutforseeingdaemons.’Shenodsandgivesmeaknowinglook.‘Even ifwe live,we die, I think,’Orskya says, casting glances at theBattleSisters.‘Maybenotfirsttime.Maybenotlasttime…’AllIneedtobrightenmymoodisthethoughtthatevenifwesomehowsurvivetheplague-bearers andblood-warriors andEmperor knowswhat else, then theagentsoftheInquisitionaregoingtoslaughterusallforseeingsomethingwe’renotsupposedto.Iaddthattothelistofothershittyfatesawaitingme,andatleastit’snearthebottomintermsoflikelihood.There’sfarmorechanceI’mgoingtogetkilledbythe superhuman, power-armoured madmen in those falling drop pods, orsuccumbtotheirabyssalallies,longbeforeaninquisitordecidesI’msurplustorequirements.

TWELVEWORLDEATERS

I’ve been up and down from orbit to surface a good number of times and Isuppose I’d not really appreciated how long it actually takes. It’s a longway,evenwhenyou’replummetingdownatseveralhundredkilometresperhour.It’sbeen more than ten minutes since we first sighted the traitor drop pods andthey’restillcoming.But it’s not going to be much longer. An air defence cannon booms out itsgreeting to the falling pods, lighting the sky with blossoms of hot shrapnel.Withinaminutetheareaaroundtheenemyassaultcraftisalitterofblackpuffsandglitteringshards,butthepodskeepfallingallthesame.‘Isitalwayslikethis?’Iturn,surprisedtohearOlesh.‘Thewaiting,Imean.’‘What are you doing here?’ I snap. I grab the lasgun out of his hands. ‘Youshouldbeinsidewiththeothers.It’sdangerousouthere!’‘Really?’Helaughs,aslightlymaniclookinhiseyeforafewsecondsbeforehisfocussettlesonme.‘Theboysaresafe.Beinglookedafter.’HemakesagrabforthelasgunbutIpullitaway.‘No!Ididn’thaulyourarseallthewayacrossthewastesandalmostdrowninghost ash to save you just for you to get ripped apart by some traitor’s bolt-round.’‘Butthat’swhyI’mhere,’hesays,makinganotherlungefortheweapon.Ispinawayandheoverbalances,almostfallingover.Straightening,hefixesmewithasternlook.‘It’smyrighttoprotectmyfamily.’

‘Fine,Idon’tdisagree,’Itellhim.‘Butasalastresort.Takeyourgunandstaywithyourson,forallthat’sholy.I’mserious.It’sgoingtobeaslaughteruphereinafewminutes.It’snotbrave,it’snotheroicornobletostandhereandgettorntoshredsbyanexplosivewarhead.’‘Thenwhyareyoustillhere,BurnedMan?’It’salwaysthesimplestquestionsthathidethemostcomplicatedanswers,andfor a heartbeat I consider ignoring him and just getting some of the others todraghimback to theshelterof theabbey.HisearnestnesspersuadesmeIowehimsomething,andIfigureit’dbequickertogetridofhimifIanswer.‘Iain’tchoosingtobehere,’Isay,wavingahandatthewall,theBattleSisters,thewholedamnedabbeyandallofEmperor-forsakenArmageddon.‘ThisisjustwhereIhappentoberightnow.I’masoldieroftheEmperor.Onethatdidbadthings and gave up a comfortable life for a never-ending parade of shittymissionsthatI’mnotsupposedtocomebackfrom.ThisisjustthelatestshitholeIhappentohavelandedin,onagrowinglistofshitholes.’Helooksatme,mouthagape,butIpresson.‘Youwanttofightforyourfamily?Great!Listentome,survivelongenoughtomaybemake a difference, andwhen the time comes, youdon’t godown easyandyoudon’t godownwith any regrets.Me? I’mnot fightin’ foryou. I ain’tfightin’foryourkidorthememoryofadeadwife,ortoseethegoldensparkleofthesunriseoverLakeFrag-mejustonelasttime.’Itakeabreathandhelookslikehe’sgoingtoarguesoIpressonbeforehehasachance.‘I ain’t fightin’ for the glory of the aquila or to preserve the sanctity ofArmageddonfortheImperium,andIsureasshitain’tfightin’forhimanymore,’Isnap,jabbingafingertowardstheColonel,whoseattentionhasbeendrawnbymyrantashaveagoodnumberoftheothersmanningthewall.‘So,youknowwhat?Youfeelgoodaboutmakingachoice,yeah?Youcanchoosetostanduphereandfeel like it’s important,andmaybeyou’ll surviveandhaveastory totellthatstupidnephewofyours,andthatsonyoualmostgotkilled.’Mystareislikealasersight,fixedonhim,pinninghisgazetomine.‘Oranexplosivebolthitsyou in thegut,detonates insideyour intestinesandripsoutthelowerhalfofyourbody,spatterin’mewithyourlastmealandpiecesof your flesh, your bone fragments tearingmore holes inmy coat.And guesswhat? It makes no difference tome! I ain’t got that choice. I can’t just headdownthereandmaybehopesomebodyelsewinsbeforeIhavetofight.Youcandothat.Youdon’thavetodietoprovetoyoursonthatyou’reahero.Youcan

liveandraisehimgoodandteachhimtosayhisprayersandmaybetellhimthetimethattheBurnedMandraggedhimoutofthethroatofanashghost.AndIwantyoutodothatbecausehe’snotoldenoughtorememberyouyet,andthatexplosivebolt that’sgoing to tearyou intobitsdoesn’t leavememories,and ifyoutakin’thatboltmeansIlive,itstilldoesn’tmeanI’mgoingtobeyourson’sdad.’I’mgetting hoarse but I can’t stop, thewords just keep coming and coming,becausedeepdownIknowthatmytimeisup.Idodgeditoncebutnotagain,andthis ismyconfessionandIcan’tkeepit insideanymore–all thethingsIshould have said before I went over into the fires, the things I can say nowbecausetheEmperorgavemeaLastChancejustonemoretime.AndIfeeltheColonelwatchingandlisteningasItrytomakehimunderstandwhywesavedtheprisonersandwhyIwadedintotheashghostanddidalloftheotherstupidthings.‘Sowhynotfragoff,letmetakethatboltforyouinstead,eh?Iftheenemygetthroughme, you can try your best, but giveme the first shot at them, right?Nobody’sgonnamissmewhenIdie.Theywon’ttolltheBellofLostSoulsforLieutenantKage.AndI’lltellyouwhy.Ideservetobehere.IwrongedtheGod-Emperor and He’s punishin’ me, that’s why I’m here. Through all of it theMasterofMankindhasseenfittoputme,abroken-downmiscreant,blasphemeranddeserter,on thewallsofadamnedbattleabbeyof theAdeptaSororitassothatyoudon’thavetofraggin’behere!’IthrustthelasgunintoOlesh’shands,pushinghimbacktothesteps.Hegivesme another look, mouth hanging wide, and then hurries off. Turning backtowardstherampartI’mconfrontedbyacrowdoffaces,amixtureofdisbelief,amazementandevensomeadoration.Silencereignsexceptforthecrackofanti-air shells above us. I catch the Colonel looking at me with calculating eyesbeforeheturnsaway,headingbacktothefarendofthewall.Orskya breaks from the clutch ofwasters but before she can say anything aheavier thud in the skies draws everyone’s attention up again. A brighter firelights theairburstsof the towergun,drawingaraggedcheerfromsomeof thehiversandwasters.Theythinktheanti-airhashitoneofthedroppods.Idon’tfeellikecelebrating.Somethingdoesn’tscanrightasIsquintupattheblossomingexplosion.‘Get to cover!’ I shout, not even sure why, throwing myself along the walltowardsthedoorofthegatetowertomyleft.‘Incoming!’My brain catches upwith everything else, translatingwhatmy instincts saw

straight away. The fireball was too regular to be a flak hit. It had to be acontrolleddetonation.Akeeningwhistlefillstheairassomefolksrespondtomyshout,othersmillingaboutforaprecious,deadlyfewseconds,marvellingat thepyrotechnicsafewhundredmetresup.TheBattleSistersthrowthemselvesintotherampart,hiversandwastersfollowingmeortryingtopushthemselvesupagainstthewall,someofthemhurlingthemselvestothefloorwithhandsovertheirheads,asifthat’sgoingtoprotectthemfromaerialattack.In the last few secondsbefore thehail of shardshits the abbey I see that it’sworsethanIthought.Notrazor-rain,butashowerofglintingbolts.Hundredsofthem.Thefirstexplodesonthewesternwallbehindus,heraldingafewsecondsfilledwithagatheringroarofimpactdetonations.Theairfillswithfireandscreams,flesh ripping open, bones cracking and splintering as mass-reactive warheadscarpet the defences. Pressingmyself into the arch of the doorway, dragging acoupleofwasters inwithme, I feelhot shrapnelhitting thebackofmyneck,pluckingatthesleevesoftheheavycoat.Asthewaveofdetonationspasses,theboomofexplosivesisreplacedbyweepingandshrieking.Iturn,fightingthedesiretostaywithmyheadburiedagainstthepittedwoodenplanksofthedoor.It’scarnage, thewall top slickedwithbloodandbodyparts. I see thebrokenremainsoftenormoreBattleSisters,armourruptured,theredoftheircapesandtabardsindistinguishablefromtheblood-slickedragsthatcoverthedeadhiversandwasters.The dead are the lucky ones. In just a glance I see men and women withmissinglimbs,skullstorn,facesripped,bodiesopenedupbythemurderoushail.Some pull themselves through the gore of their companions, moaningincoherently. A Battle Sister with half her helmet and head missing standslooking at me, her expression one of dazed confusion while brain and bloodleaksdowntheornatescrollworkofherbreastplate.The screech of jets givesme no time to comprehend the slaughter beyond asketch of maimed corpses broken by glimpses of faces twisted in horror andagony.Retrosburningblue,thefirstdroppodslamsintothegroundaboutthirtymetresinfrontofthemaingate.Anarmoured,angle-sidedeggbigenoughtocarrytengiants sits amid a smoking crater on the metalled road leading to the abbey.Vorticesofheattwirlfromstabilisingfins,distortingtheairaroundit.Fromits

summitanassaultboltsystemfires,launchinganothersalvoofdeadlyprojectilesineverydirection.IdropthemomentIseetheflash,lethalthumb-sizedrocketsspraying over the rampart, cutting down another handful ofBattle Sisters thathad raised theirweapons in defence of their abbey. I hear rather than see theassault rampsopening, the crashof ceramite andmetal on theground and thethunderofheavyfootfalls.Thetowerslightupwithboltimpactsevenastheirweaponsreturnfire,pulsingflameburstsandheavybolterroundsintothenewlyarrivedfoe.The second pod screams down a few seconds later, also outside the wall. IthanktheEmperorforthissmallmercy,shakingwiththethoughtofwhatwouldhavehappened ifoneof thedroppodshadhit its target inside the compound.There’sdestructionenoughasitisandIcrawltowardstherampart,elbowsandkneesreddenedwiththespreadinglifebloodofmyformerfollowers.IamsogladItoldOleshtogetoutofhere.Thethirdpod,theonethatsprayedtheexplosivehail,screechesdownfurtherout. In the blur of its passing it looks a bit different, like it’s reinforced orsomething.There’sdefinitelyabrightergleamofretro-jetsthanwiththeothersasitsplummetingdescentisarrestedjustacoupleofhundredmetresup,fallingoutofviewacoupleofsecondslater.I seeothers lookingatme fromamong themoundsofdeadandnearly-dead.Orskyaisamongthem,halfburiedbeneathherwasterkin,bloodsplashedacrossherface,coatmattedwithmorecrimson,thoughwhetherfromherorsomeoneelseIcan’ttell.Shepullsalong-barrelledarquebusfromthegoryruinanddragsher legfromunder theshreddedcadaverofayoungman,wrenching it freeasherheelhooksinthefoldsofhistornflesh.Irisejustalittle,enoughtopeerthroughthehazeofboltpropellantsettlingonthe carnage, throughwhich I see theColonel at the far endof thewall, abouttwentymetresawayhuddledintheotherdoorway.There’saclusterofsevenoreightpeoplewithhim,someofthemwounded,otherswithlasgunsandautogunsgrippedreadytofight.Asone,respondingtosomecommandoverthevoxIcan’thear,thesurvivingBattle Sisters rise. A line of silver steps to the rampart in a heartbeat, bolterretorts ringing along the gore-stained ferrocrete, the flare of their weaponsshiningonarmour,glisteningfromthesplashedbloodoftheircompanions.Thesingingresumesbutismetalmostimmediatelybyamplifiedbestialroarsfrombeyond thewall. I canguessat the range to their targetsby theangleoftheir fire, from about twenty metres out, fifteen, ten. The traitors cover the

groundinseconds,atthebaseofthewallinjustfourquickheartbeats.Firing straight down now, the Battle Sisters start to take return shots. Boltsscreamupat them,crashingintotheirarmour,showeringsplintersofceramite.ShrapnelfromthewallandtheBattleSistersscratchesatmyfaceandthebackofmyhands,theairfillswithsilversliversandflyingchunksofferrocrete.Theroarofboltdetonations isoverwhelming, throbbinginmyearsasBattleSisterafterBattleSisterstaggersbackfromtherampart,eachdrivenawaybytheforceofboltsexplodingaroundandon them,each thecentreofapersonalstormofmetalfragmentsandfire.Anytrooperstandinguptherewouldbelumpsofdeadmeatbynow.Aboomannouncesthefirstassaultagainstthegatebelowus.ThroughthedinofboltimpactsIheartherevofchainweapons,swiftlyfollowedbythescreechofwhirringteethonstoneandthedeeperraspofbladescuttingtimbers.MovementfromtheColoneldrawsmyeye.He’smouthingsomething,perhapsevenspeaking,butthewordsarelostinthesmokeofbattleandtheclamouroffire.Hepointstohimselfandthentome,andthenbacktothesteps.Itakehismeaning.Someoneneedstodefendtheinsideofthegate.‘Weneedtoholdthecloister,’ItellOrskya.‘What?’sheshoutsback.‘Downthesteps,’Iyell,jabbingafingertowardsthebackofthewall.‘They’recuttingthroughthegate!’Icrawlawayfromher,callingforanyoneelsethatcanlistentofollowme.Shetakesmymeaningandasmallknotofwasters follow,dragging themselvesontheirbellies,somedaringtorisetotheirhandsandkneesastheyhaulthemselvesthroughthescatteredremainsoffamilyandfriends.AroundthemBattleSistersaredrivenbackbymorefire,someof themsentspinningdown,helmsbrokenopen, armour pierced. Others recover, reloading their bolters, priming freshpromethiumflasksfortheirflamersbeforesteppingbackintothehailofenemyfire.Reaching the top of the steps I flop from thewall top and almost fall downthem,gainingmyfeetabouthalfwaytotheground.IglanceacrosstotheotherstairandseetheColonelandaboutadozenothersdescending.A huge detonation beyond the wall shakes the ground. A plume of fire andsmoke rises into theairand I figure itmusthavebeenoneof the Immolators,whichwerestilloutsidewhenthedroppodshit.Asecondmassiveexplosion–promethiumtanksoftheheavyflamers,Iguess–followsafewsecondsafterthefirst.

Reaching theground, I find there’s a squadofBattleSisters alreadywaiting,takinguppositionsbehindthepillarsthatlinethecourtyard.‘Getbehindus,’theSisterSuperiorcommands,wavingustowardsthefurtherend of the cloister. I think that’s noble of her for a second until I realise shedoesn’twantusblockingherSisters’firecorridors.Wastersandhiverscometogetherasagroup,followingmeandtheColonelaswe run for the cover of the doorways and pillars further along the courtyard.Anotherboomdrawsoureyesbacktothegate,intimetoseeitshudderingonmassivehinges,itstimberssplittingfurtherapart.‘What’s theplan?’ someoneasks. I’mnot surewho’shiver andwho’swasteranymore,witheverybodywearingwastergear,lotsofthemwiththeirmasksup.Maybe it’sKulain, orHarrin? Precious seconds trickle past before I realise itdoesn’tmatteronebit.‘Whatever comes through there,’ I wave a hand at the gate as anotherthunderousimpactcracksseveraltimbers,‘justshoot.Alot.’Spreadingoutintowhatevercoverwecanfind,everyonepointsarifleorpistolatthegate.IspareaglanceuptotherampartjustasaknotofBattleSistersfallback, driven from the rampart by something closer by. A heartbeat latersomethinglargeandredheavesoverthebattlement,aflashingchainaxeinhand,surroundedbyahailofboltdetonationslikeafieryaura.Landing on the rampart, the heretic Space Marine towers over the BattleSisters, not simply in height but sheer bulk. I’ve seen Space Marines oncebefore,ontheBrightswordmission,butthethingthatraisesitschainaxeoveritsheadwithaninhumanroarseemsevenbigger.Itsarmourisadarkred,scarredand cratered by bolter fire. Bronze and golden chains hang like epaulettes,thougheachlinkisthickerthanmywrist,fromwhichskullsandseveredhandshang as grisly trophies. The vents of its power backpack stream with blacksmoke, like theexhaustsofa transport, thesnarlof thechainaxeadding to thegrindingandhissingofthearmourasitturns,surveyingitssurroundings.ThesightofthetraitorisallthemoreshockingbecauseIknowthatoncethiswarriorusedtobealoyalservantoftheEmperor.Ishuddertothinkwhatdarkthoughtsdrivesuchafall.I’vedonemyshareofquestionablethings,buttoturnontheGod-Emperorwouldbetheheightofmadness.Withanotherbellow,theSpaceMarinehurlshimselfwithastoundingspeedattheBattleSisters, axe sweepingout tohew thearmandhead from theclosestwithonechurningblow.SpinningchainteethfountainbloodacrosstherampartasthedeadBattleSisterfalls.IgnoringthefireoftheSisters,theTraitorSpace

Marineploughsintothem,boltpistolfiringastreamofrounds,eachshothittingamaskedhelm,turninghelmetsandskullstobloodyruin.Someof theothershaveseenwhat’scomingandbreakfromcover, their fearovercomingsense.Thegateexplodesopenamidspinningtimbersandflame,thesplintersandsmokepartedaheartbeatlaterbymoreonrushingmonsterscladinpoweredwar-plate. The daemonswere scary, but it’s their sheer impossibilitythat breaks the mind and sows that dread into your heart. Seeing the TraitorSpaceMarines pounding through the broken gate is a far more visceral, realexperience.Theirsizealoneisoverwhelming,thesuddenroarofboltpistolsandtheflareofplasmaastheyopenfire.The way they move seems not unnatural but hyper-natural. Beings thatarmoured,thatbulky,shouldnotmovewiththatkindofpaceandbalance.Evenrunningatspeedtheymovetosnapoffshotswithalltheprecisionofastabilisedgunplatform,explosiveboltsfindingsilvertargetswithunerringaccuracy.Blueplasmablaststearthroughcolumnsandarmouralike,detonatinglikeminiaturesuns to turn their targets intoexpandingcloudsofvapourandash, thecharredremainshurledintotheotherSisters.

THIRTEENANGELSOFDEATH

Idon’twanttoopenfire.Thethoughtofattractingtheattentionofoneoftheseinhumankillersfreezesmyfingeronthetrigger.What’salas-boltgoingtodo,whenhailsofboltsringfromtheirarmourwithouteffect?AcrosstheothersideofthecourtyardaBattleSisterlinesuphermulti-melta.Theairdistortswith lethalenergy, thehissof its firingbecomingaroaras theblastengulfsthenearesttraitor.Iftheplasmadetonationsarespectacular,ameltakillisalmostimpossibletobelieve.Onemomentahalf-tonofsavagehereticisbearingdownonus,thenextthere’safewscrapsoffallingarmourandacloudofredvapourswathinghiscompanions.Anotherbestialroardrawsmyeyebackto therampart,whereIexpect toseethetraitorcuttingdownthelastoftheBattleSisters.I’mnottoowrong.Pilesofsilver-armouredbodiesliearoundthemonstrouswarriorasithewsleftandrightwithitschainaxe,itsblowsdeflectedbythegleamingswordofaSisterSuperior.ABattleSisterrisesbehindtheSpaceMarine,onearmhanginguselessatherside,areclaimedboltpistolinherotherhand,aimedatthebackofthetraitor’shead.TheSpaceMarineturnsandfiresinonefluidmotion,butdoingsoleavesit open to the falling blade of the Sister Superior. The blue-edged sword cutsdeepintothepauldronoftheSpaceMarine,slicingthroughbondedceramiteandintoflesh.Theheretic’sshothitstheBattleSisterinthechest,causinghertofalltooneknee.Backhanding the Sister Superior away, her sword left sticking from his

woundedshoulder,theSpaceMarineliftsthechainaxe,readytoreceivethenextassault. Its teeth a blur, the weapon sweeps out, slashing towards the SisterSuperior’shead.Shebarelyducks theblow,but snatches the swordoutofherenemy’sbodyanddrivesherselfforwardagain.Thebladeburiesitselfintothechestplastron,theforceoftheblowcrackingopentheceramite.Themomentumof the attack carries both of themover the edge of thewall,down into the cloister, where they crash into the ground amid a thunder ofarmourhittingferrocrete.There’snotimetoseewhathappensnext.Promethiumstreamsoutfromheavyflamers,settingtwoofthehereticsalight.Theychargeonwards,armouraflame,chainaxeshewingandpistolsspittingdeath.FirefromaboveripsintotheSpaceMarinesfrombehind,nowthat theBattleSistersontherampartareunengaged.There’sprobablyabouthalfofthemstillabletofight,boltershellsrakingdowninablazeofflame.I see a brutish warrior stumble, head and shoulders engulfed in detonations.Piecesofarmour flyaway,exposinga flat-featured face,morescar tissue thanskin, contorted with disturbing tattoos of symbols that gleam with their ownlight.Anothersalvotearsfleshfrombone,themass-reactiveroundsdetonatinginsidehisskull,blowingitapartfromwithin.Istareindisbeliefasthesmokingruinoftheheretictumblestothegroundwithacrash.Theycanbekilled.Ifinallyopenfirewiththelaspistol,directingmyshotstowardsthefacesofthemonstrouswarriorsasbestIcan–maybeI’llhitthethroatguardoraneye-lensor something. Imissmore than I hit, and those shots that find theirmark arepitifulbeamsofredthatglancefromwar-plateasifitweretankarmour.Fromaroundmeandbehindmetheothersfiretoo.Onebulletisn’tmuch,andnor is one las-bolt. Ten shots don’t amount to a threat to these armouredbehemoths, but when that number creeps up to thirty, forty, fifty shots, it allstartstocount.It’s like stripping a fortification down to its foundationswith a blunt spoon.Chippingaway,everypieceofdustlifted,everyscratchandsmallpockmarkonestepclosertotheimpossiblegoal.OneoftheSpaceMarinesturnsawayfromtheBattleSisters,payingattentionto our fire for the first time. Amid a converging tempest of bullets andmulticolouredlas-bolts,thetraitorraiseshispistolandopensfire.Iseetheflare

ofpropellantdisappearintothechestofthewasternexttome,asecondbeforetheboltexplodes,blastingopenherribcage.ForaninstantIthinkthehereticwilladjustaimtowardsme,butthemuzzleofthepistolslidestheotherway,fillingwiththeflameofabolt’slaunchasecondbefore anotherwaster fires, head turned to pulp that’s thrownagainst thewallbehindus.The red-armoured brute advances more steadily. He fires with every pace.Everyshotisakill.Againstthiswehavenochoicebuttohunkerback,ourfirelesseningtosnappedshotseveryfewseconds.The Battle Sisters gather around their Sister Superior as three of the traitorsreach them, a red battering ram against a silver wall. The first of the SpaceMarines crashes straight over the first Battle Sister, crushing her beneath hisbulk,armouredbootscrackingopenarmourasthewarriorploughsonwardsintotheothers.Chainaxesroaring,thetrioplungethroughthesilverlinelikeoneoftheirboltspunchingthroughflesh.The gunfire above stops abruptly,which is not a good sign. The next time IpokemyheadaroundthecolumnIdarealooktoseewhat’shappening.TheBattleSistershavemovedtotheouterwallagainandarefiringoutsidetheabbey.Thethirddroppod.TheSpaceMarines’advancehasdrivenmearoundthepillarandIcan’tseethegatefromthisside.Iturnaroundandlooktheotherway,outthroughtheruinofthegates.Pastacoupleoflargered-armouredbodiessomethingevenbiggerthanaSpaceMarineapproaches,loomingthroughthesmoke.It’sthesizeofabattletanknearly,butawalker,itsarmouredformadvancingwith steady strides. Through wisps of smog, I see more chains and grislyornaments,andafistthesizeofamanthatcrackleswithartificiallightning,eachclawlikefingertippedwithaspinningbladeliketheteethofatunnellingengine.Inplaceoftheotherarmisamulti-barrelledcannon,threelinesofammunitionhangingfromittoamassivearmouredhopperintheshoulder.I swallow hard as I remember the destruction of the Immolators. If twoarmoured vehicles with inferno cannons couldn’t stop this thing, then whatchanceforamanwithathickcoatand–Icheck–twelvelaspistolshots?SpikesadornedwithskullsjutfromslabsofarmouredplateandIseeasymbolblazonedontheside,next toacentralclusterofbonesandskulls likeanopensarcophagus–afangedmawclosingontheimageofaplanet.Thewalker is about tenmetres from the gate and its gun turns towardsme,

barrelsstartingtospinintolife.

There’sonlysomuchamindcantake,onlysomanytimesitcanbethwartedinthe simple endeavour of staying alive, before something breaks. I passed thatlinealongtimeagoandkeptmoving.IbecameusedtotheideathatIwoulddie,butnevertothepointthatIwantedit.Notuntilthatmomentofdecisionatthetopofthefirechasm,whenIembracedthedeaththatwasduetome.Iwanteditthen,Ideservedthepeaceatthatmoment,Ithought.As I watch those gun barrels becoming a blur, waiting for the instant ofexplosivereactionwhenthefirstshell fires, I realise that Ihave tostruggleupthathillonemoretimeandIcan’ttakeit.Beingreborn,it’slikestartingover.AsecondchanceforaLastChancer.Animpossibilitymadereality,andnowit’sallgoingtoendanyway.Whatapointlessdayfullofmiseryandstressandpeopledying.Iopenfirewith the laspistol,shootinghalfblindat thearmouredwalker.Thelas-boltslooklikesparksagainstthebulkofitsarmouredhide,lostagainsttheredofitslivery,bouncinguselesslyfromangledplates.Thepistolwhinesinmyhand,thepowercellemptied.Withashoutthatcomesfrom the very bottomofmy gut and picks up every bit ofmy frustration andrage, I throw the stupid thing at the heretic walker. The laspistol bouncesharmlesslyoffaspikedgreaveasthemachine’sboxytorsocontinuestoturninmydirection,thesnarlofthegunmotorcuttingthroughtheothernoiseofbattle.A flash of blue light stabs from the chest of the walker, blindingme for aninstant. My vision swims back into focus just as I hear the detonation of itspowerplant,brokenlimbsandtwistedframescatteringintotheair,theremnantsofamangledpilot’sbodytossedthroughthegatewaybytheexplosion.Mythoughtsareajumble.Fromwhere?Lascannon.Behindit.Destroyed.Assightandsensecoalescelikeagunbeingreassembledafteramaintenancestrip,Ipiecetogetherwhathappened,intimetoseethedarkblurofthegunshiproaringdownovertheabbey.Thedownthrustofjetsalmostthrowsmesideways,scatteringgrit,kickingupasprayoffreshblood.Heavyweaponssetintothewingsopenfire,chewingchunksoutofthetraitors’armour,cuttingdownthefourstillcrossingthecourtyard.Iblinkbackthedust

cloud,shieldingmyeyesagainsttheglareofplasmajetstofocusonthegunship.Long, flat-sided with blunt nose and triangular wings, seemingly too big andheavytohoverintheskylikeitdoes.Thenoseopens,arampdescendinglikeabeast’sjaw,spillingredlightandarmouredgiants.MoreSpaceMarines.Fromabout fifteenmetresup they fall, landingon thewallof thegate toweramidacrashofbootsandcrackofbonesandceramiteunderthem.Theirarmouris ornate, vibrant green chasedwithgold and silver, hungwithwhat look likelizardskincloaksand loincloths. Icount fiveat first,bolters finishingwhat thegunship’sweaponsbegan, snarling rounds flaringdown into the cloister to ripapartthewoundedtraitors.Thegunshipmoveson,anothersixSpaceMarinesleapingfromitsassaultrampas it dips, ferrocrete crackingunder the impactof their landingas theyhit thecloisterflooramongtheruinofthedeadtraitors’armouredcorpses.Thehereticsreact without hesitation, breaking away from the bloodied squads of BattleSisterstochargeheadlongatthenewarrivals.Distortedbattlecriesbellowfromvoxmittersintheirarmour,echoingbackfromtheabbeywalls.‘BloodfortheBloodGod!’Idon’treallyunderstandwhatthatmeans,butitsendsachillcoursingthroughmeallthesameasIwatchtheknotofred-armouredbrutesclosingonthenewarrivals.OneoftheSpaceMarinesstepsforwardfromtheothers,hisarmourblueratherthangreenbutfor thepauldronsandhelm.Hecarriesa longswordandastafftippedwithwhat looks like the horned head of a reptile. From this a flare oflightningerupts,lancingacrossthegapbetweenhimandthechargingtraitorstostriketheclosest.Red-daubedceramiteshatterslikeglass,thebluelightningbolteatingitswayintotheexposedfleshbeneath,peelingsuperhumanmuscleapartlikefoliageburntawaybyananti-plantmissile.Intwoheartbeatsthehereticwarriorisnothingmorethanclatteringbonesandbrokenpiecesofarmourspinningforwardsfromthemomentumof thecharge.The two others race past the collapsing remains, bolt pistols firing, chainaxesliftedtotheattack.Thethrumofaplasmachamberheraldsasun-hotblastofenergy.Thechestandarmofatraitorbecomeacloudofsplashingvapour,theravagedremainsfallingtooneknee.Stillalive, the traitorpushesupwithhisremainingarm,chainaxeused as a prop. There’s no helm, instead a face that seems made of bronze,exceptthatitmoves,dagger-liketeethexposedasthewarriorsnarlshateatthe

SpaceMarines.Missinganarmandhalfhischest,thetraitorpushestohisfeet,lips drawn back in a snarl, the teeth of his chainaxe shrieking into life oncemore.Theblue-armouredwarriorstepsuptomeetthechargeofthethird,theblazingedgeoftheswordmeetingthedownwardarcofachainaxeinashowerofblacksparks, bolt-shells exploding point-blank from the loyalist’s chest. The SpaceMarineturns,deflectinganotherblowashespinsaroundthetraitor, lettingthemonster’smomentum carry him towards the others.They open fire, joined bythoseonthewallabove,ahailofboltsshreddingdamagedwar-platewhiletheblue-armoured leader meets the injured traitor with the point of his blade,lancinghimthroughthegrimacingface.Like hounds tearing apart larger prey, the bolt detonations rip the last traitorapartpiecebypiece,brokenarmourbecoming spinning fragments,body,headand limbs shattered and snapped by internal detonations from the pinpoint-accurate fusillade. With a death rattle the bestial warrior slumps forward,chainaxegrowlingalasttimeasitfallsfromspasmingfingerstoskitteracrosstheblood-spatteredferrocrete.Thegunship liftsaway, turningas itdoesso, to roarbackover thegatehouseandsettleclose to theburningwrecksof theImmolators,obscuring twoof theempty drop podswith its bulk.Hydraulic landing skids descend as it touchesdownatthecentreofaplumeofplasmajetsandwhirlingash.Theenginescutoutasecondlater.Inthewakeofsuchintensedestruction,thequietislikeprofoundsilenceforafew seconds. The cloister feels small, filled with the presence of the SpaceMarines. It’smore than their physical size. Their war-plate gives off an aura,heatventscausingtheairtoshimmer,thebuzzofunheardvox-linkslikestaticon the edge of hearing. As they move, every footfall is a thunderclap, everyservomotionaccompaniedbyawhineofexpendedpower.Whilethesquadinthecloisterfansout,weaponstrainedonthebrokenheretics,theSpaceMarineinblueturns,afewlastfrondsofenergycracklingdowntheskullstaff,reflectedintheblacklensesofhishelm.‘Identify yourself,’ the closest Space Marine barks, his deep voice given ametallictremorbythepowerarmour’saddresssystem.‘Kage,’ Istammer,holdingupmyhands. Iglance towards theColonelbeforecontinuing.‘LieutenantKage.’Thedoorbehindmeslamsopen,bringingaslapoffootfalls.TwooftheSpaceMarinesadjusttheiraimandthefootstepsstop.

‘Battle-brothers!’IhearOldPreacherexclaim.‘BlessingsoftheGod-Emperoruponyouforyourintervention.’The half-squad of SpaceMarines on thewall have turned theirweapons outover the approach while the Battle Sisters move across the cloister, headingthroughthebrokenremnantsofthegateandbacktotheramparts.Iassumethatmeanstheabbeyhasbeensecuredagain,andletoutalongbreath.Thewarriorwiththeblueonhisarmourhasbeensurveyingthecloister,thetipof his skull-staff glowing with a yellow aura. He turns on me, sheathing hisbladeashedoesso.Thestaffheaddimsashetakesonemorelookaround,castinghiseyesskywardforafewsecondsbeforethelensesfallonme.‘It is not random that theWorld Eaters landed here,’ the warrior proclaims,booming voice echoing back from the cloister walls. ‘We must divine theirpurposeandhowitfitswithintheschemeofthegreatritual.’I knowbetter than to ask stupid questions at a time like this, butmentionofritualmakesmy skin crawl. The SpaceMarine nearestme lowers his boltgunand reachesahandup tohishelm.Witha twistandahiss,he frees the seals,pulling thehelmetclear.Thefacewithin is flat,broad-nosedandutterlyblack.Eyesofredwithpenetratingblackpupilswatchmecuriously.Igasp,unabletoholdinmyshockat thestarkreminder that theseareSpaceMarines,not tobeconfusedwithuspoormortalhumans.Thefiercegazesoftensand theSpaceMarinehangshishelmetfromhisbelt.With a clang hemag-clamps the bolter to his thigh armour and turns towardsCanonessErasmisa.‘I am Brother-Sergeant Ohuak of the Salamanders Chapter.We detected thelaunchoftheTraitorAstartesandmovedtointerceptbutwereunabletoarrivebefore they landed.’ He glances back at the gatehouse rampart, where SistersHospitaller aremoving among the heapeddead, pulling a few lucky survivorsfrom thewreckage of bodies.His gaze sweeps over us and back toErasmisa.‘TheSistersoftheArgentShroudhavepaidahighpricefortheEmperortoday.Ashave…yourallies?’‘Mongrelstraysattractedbyourbeacon,’thecanonessdeclares.Ohuakpausesbeforereplying,hisexpressiondistantforamoment.Iworkoutthathemustbelisteningtoavox-implant.‘Brother-LibrarianAfahivathinksyoushouldnotbesoquicktodismissthesestrays,’thesergeantsays.‘Librarian?’Ican’tstopalaughblurtingout.Ilookaround,tryingtoseewho

he’s talkingabout. ‘YoubroughtaLibrarianwithyou?Whatare theygoing todo,readattheenemy?’Thewarriorinbluestridesacrossthecloister,hisshadowfallingovermewithachill. I see myself looking back from the dark of his eye-lenses, but for thebriefestofmomentsI’dswearIseeaskullwheremyfaceshouldbe.‘IamAfahiva,’theSpaceMarinesays.Ibabbleapologies,overwhelmedbytheimmensityofthewarriorthatstandsoverme.Iflinchashereachesoutahand,but he rests the massive gauntlet gently on my shoulder and I can hearamusementfromtheaddresssystem.‘Idoreadalotofbooks,LieutenantKage.’Hestraightensandliftshishand,movingtopointtowardsSchaeffer.‘Isawyourfaceinawakingdream.’AfingerbeckonsandtheColonelcomesforward,browfurrowed.‘Whoareyou?’‘ColonelSchaefferofthe13thPenalLegion.’Schaefferdartsanangryglareatme.‘IwasrankingofficeroftheteamthatexecutedOverlordvonStrab.Perhapsyousawmyfaceinabulletinorbriefing?’‘No.’Afahivaturnshishiddenstaretomeagainwhilethesergeantapproaches;Old Preacher and the canoness edge closer too, trying to become part of theconversation.TheLibrarian’shandmovesovermyhead,stayingthereforafewseconds. I feelheaton thebackofmyneckandhave to fight theurge topullawayfromhisscrutiny.MemoriesflickerontheedgeofawarenessandthentheLibrariandrawshishandbacksharply.‘The Burned Man?’ He looks at Ohuak. ‘One that has passed through theflames.’‘Itmaymeannothing,’thesergeantreplies,hisscarleteyesregardingmeforamomentbeforemoving toErasmisa and thenSchaeffer. ‘Who isyourmilitarycommander?’‘Sister Superior Aladia leads in combat,’ Erasmisa replies. Her gaze roamsaround thecourtyardforamoment,herexpression turningevenmoresour. ‘Ifshehassurvived.’SergeantOhuak turns away and heads across the cloister, I guess to find theSisterSuperior.‘Youhaveourthanks,asIsaid,’saysOldPreacher.‘IwillsendprayerstotheGod-Emperorforguidingyoutousintimelyfashion.’‘I thought itwas simply a scanner that drew our eye to this place, but thereseemstobeagreatermatterresolvingitselfthroughthisabbey,’saysAfahiva.‘Icansenseitstill.’TheLibrarianstiffenssuddenly,hisheadsnappingtotheleft,pasttheColonel,

handmovingtothehiltofhissword.‘You!’ The other hand points accusingly. I turn to see thatOahebs has creptforwardfromtheclusterof fightersgatheredhalfwaydownthecloister. ‘I feelyouremptiness.Stayback.Whatbringsyouhere?’‘Idid,’ theColonel saysquickly, fingers flexing inagitationathis sides. ‘Hewasoneofmyteam.’‘Yes,youwenttoAcherontofetchthisone.’Afahivaglancesatmebeforehecontinues.‘Thememoriesarerawandstrong.Theorks,theydroveyouout.Inthewastesyoujoinedforces.’‘Itisnotpermittedto–’TheColonelstopstheinstantthehelmoftheLibrarianturnstowardshim,silencedbythefeaturelessglare.‘IamnotsomesanctionedpsykeroftheAstraMilitarumpickingforscrapsinyourthoughts,Colonel.YouaresubjecttomyinquiryinwhateverwayIchooseuntilIamsatisfiedthatyouhavenomaligninvolvementwiththearrivaloftheinfernalrift.’Atmention of the holewe all look up in reflex. It’s there still, churning theupperheavens,glintingwitharcsofsilverpower.‘Isitbigger?’Iwhisper.‘Thebreachiswidening,’Afahivaconfirms.‘Thehereticsthatattackedyouareattempting to draw down a far greater power than we have yet seen. Theirmaster.TheRedAngel,lordoftheWorldEaters.’‘That sounds bad,’ Imurmur, feeling a bit dizzy at the thought of somethingeven worse than we’ve already seen arriving on Armageddon. Unbidden, amemoryoftheshadowed,wingednightmarefromtheunderhiveflashesthroughmythoughts.Likeahawkspyingprey,Afahiva’sattentionsnapsbacktome.‘Indeed,LieutenantKage,somethingworseeventhanthebloodthirster.’‘Bloodthirster…?’Iwhisperthetitle,myskincrawlinginrecollection.SisterSuperiorAladiaarriveswithSergeantOhuak.Herarmourisrentfromthemiddleofthebreastplatetoherleftshoulder,bloodstaineddownherside.Thereare bolt-impact scars across the silver, pits of grey andwhite in themetalledenamel.Shehas removedherhelm, revealinga slender,pale face framedovertheearsbyhairdyedred,theoutlineofaredskulltattooedaroundherfeatures.She stops a few paces away, keeping her distance from the Space Marinepsyker,expressiontense.‘The abbey has been secured,Brother-Librarian. There is no reason to delayyourdeparture.’‘Thereiscausetoremainawhilelonger,butdonotharbouranyfearsoverour

presence.It isinalliancethatIwishtoproceed.ArewenotallwarriorsoftheEmperorhere?’‘Youare,’Erasmisasayssternly.Shelooksattheruinedgate.‘Iamnot,butIcanseethatourabbeyisnolongersecure.’‘Wewillnotabandonourduties,’Aladiasaysharshly.‘TheOrderoftheArgentShroud remains true to its oaths of protection. Nowmore than ever wemustresistthedarkness.’‘As do the Salamanders,’ saysOhuak. ‘Do not judge the commanders of theAstraMilitarum too harshly, Sister Superior. Several companies of theWorldEatersthreatenbreakthroughsouthofhere.IfnotforthewithdrawaltothefreshlinestheirarmywouldstormoutoftheAcheronpocket.’‘Itisnotofgrandstrategythatwemustspeak,’saysAfahiva.‘AmorearcanepurposeguideseverythingthatpassesonArmageddontheselastfewdays,andIthinkyourSisterswillbepivotalinhelpingusthwarttheWorldEatersintheirdiabolicintent.’‘Howso?’says theColonel. ‘If there isanythingIcando toaidyourefforts,youhavemywordIwillprovideit.’Irecognisethatlookinhiseye.Purpose.Excitement,even?Hereitcomes,Ithink.AnotherLastChance.

FOURTEENBLOODYRITUALS

Ourlittleconclavebreaksupwhilemeasuresaretakentobolsterthedefencesofthe battle abbey. One of the Rhinos is brought out to stand across the ruinedgateway, notmuch of a barrier but better than nothing. Sisters ofBattle standguardatthewallsandtowerswhiletheSpaceMarinespatroloutside,checkingthe rubble of the outer barbican for survivors and ensuring there are nomoreWorldEaters nearby.Thegunship rises toprovide coveroverhead, its shadowoccasionallypassingoverthegreywallsandbloodstainedcourtyardasitcircles,theroarofenginesclosingandthenrecedingwithit.‘Kage!’IturnattheColonel’sshout.Erasmisa,Aladia,OldPreacherandSchaefferarestandingbythedoorwayleadinguptothechapel.Heliftsahandtobeckonmeover.As Imakemyway across the cloister, heavy footfalls catchupwithmefrombehind,AfahivaandOhuakpassingmewithlongstrides.TheLibrarianhashunguphishelmalso,revealingcoal-blackfeatures,youngerthanIwouldhavethought.Alividpalescarcutshimfromthebridgeofhisnosedownbothcheeks.Deliberate, not abattlewound.Which is impressive,givenI’veheardthatSpaceMarinesusuallyhealasgoodasnew.‘Amarkofhonour,’he says,voicedeepand resonant evenwithout the suit’saddresssystem.IrealiseI’mstaring.Therearemetalliccablessetintohisbaldscalp,connectedinsidethecollarofhisarmour.Agoldennimbusplaysalongthewiresnowandthen.Hereachesoutwithafingerandtracesitaroundmyface

withouttouching.‘Remembertheteaching.TheEmperorwillnotjudgeyoubyyourmedalsanddiplomas,butbyyourscars.Youhavehonourtoo.’‘Why is he here?’ Erasmisa demands, her scorn directed at me. ‘This is nodiscussionforcriminals.’‘Attendyourownsinfirst,Sister,’OldPreachersayssharply.‘Kageriskedhislife on the wall when I did not.Which of us is more proper to attend a warcouncil?’Erasmisa gives him a look that suggests that perhaps the priest shouldn’t beattending either, but she says nothing as she turns towards the great doorsleadingtothechapeltower.TheSpaceMarinesduckbeneaththelintelastheyfollowher,thestairwellwithinsoonfilledwiththeirbulkandthenoisesoftheirarmour.Afahiva’sstaffthudsonthestepseveryfewseconds,eachimpactlikeatombslammingshut.Aladiamotions for us to followand I climbup the steps beside theColonel,returningtothechamberwhereIdiscoveredImightbealivingsaint.Idefinitelydon’t feel like a saint beneath the unliving gazes of the tapestries and statueswithin.Butthenagain,whynot?TherehavebeensaintsfromtheImperialGuard,likeMacharius and Vesta, all the way back to Ollanius Pius himself, first andgreatest.Imean,dressmeupinsomegoldarmourandwaveabigflagbehindmeandmaybeIwouldstarttoshapeupabitbetteragainsttheimagesdepictedinthehangingsaroundus.I join inas theSistersandpriestbowbefore thealtar,making thesignof theaquilaacrossmychest.TheColoneldipshisheadinrespect,theSpaceMarineswatchuswithsilentpatience.‘MayIsayafewwords?’saysOldPreacher.‘Ifyoumust,’repliesErasmisa.‘Wedonothavethetimetoindulgeintheluxuryofprayers,’interruptsOhuak.‘Thethreatescalateswhilewedelay.’Thepriest looksputoutbutdoesnot complain,withdrawingbehind thealtarwitharmscrossed.‘AsIspokebefore,theattacksoftheWorldEatersarenotrandomviolence,butpartofacarefullychoreographedcampaignofdestruction,’Afahiva tellsus. ‘Ibelievethat theycamehere todesecrate thisabbey, to turn thefaith imbuedinthestonestoadarkerpurpose.’‘Andthoughtheyhavebeenthwarted,theymayreturn,’addstheSpaceMarinesergeant,eyesnarrowing.‘Wecannotremainheretoprotectthisplace.’

‘Wewillholduntilwearedead,’saysErasmisa.SheglancesatAladia.‘IftheEmperorwillsit.’‘It is not enough to defend ourselves against these attacks,’ the Librariancontinues. ‘The slaughter of your Sisters is the desecration.Your blood is theunholyanointmentoftheirceremony.’‘Weneed to take thebattle to theWorldEaters,’ theColonelsays,withmorerelishthansuchasuggestionreallydeserves.‘Anassaulttodisrupttheirritualatitssource.’‘Thatisourthinking,’saysAfahiva,smilinggrimly.‘Anditistheintentofmyfellowbrothers of theLibrarius.There is no physical victory that can bewonhere. This is awar of the soul, for every drop of blood spilled by either sidestrengthens…’Hefallssilent,exchangingaguardedlookwithhissergeant.‘Theenemyritualdependsonbloodshed,’Ohuakfinishes.‘Allbloodshed.Thatisallyouneedtoknow.’Needtoknow.I remember the conversation with Orskya and think about what might havehappenedonArmageddonbefore.The‘eatersofworlds’shementioned,storiesof blood.This isn’t the first time. The thought of it, the ruthlessness to let awholeplanetarypopulationdietokeepasecret…Andwhathappensthistime?Nobodyneedstoknow.Ikeepmymouthshut,eventhoughIwanttoaskalloftheobviousquestions.Noneedtoremindourfinecompanythatthelowerbeingslikemearen’tmeanttotalkaboutwarpborn.Itexplainsthehesitationbyeveryone,nobodywantingtomentionbynamethethingthateveryonehasontheirminds.‘Howdoyoustopthem?’Iaskinstead.‘There’sgottobeawayofdisruptingtheritual,apartfromnotlettingthemkillanybody,Imean.’‘The rift above the world is the opening through which their power flows,’explainsAfahiva. ‘Not just the…The heretics draw down this energy to fueltheir ceremonies, and in turn their ceremonieswiden the breach so thatmoreimmaterialforcepoursintoourreality.’‘We have isolated a few significant sites, where the World Eaters areconcentratingtheirefforts,’continuesthesergeant.‘Acheronisoneofthemostactive but there are others across the continent ofArmageddon Secundus andelsewhere.’Afahivadrawshis staff through theair, leavingamistofgold in itswake.Awavering image of a world appears, showing the landmasses of the planet,

pinpricks in eight different places glowingbrighter.Mymindplays tricks as Ilook at them, somehow imagining them as the outline of a geometric skull,thoughwhenIblinkandlookagaintheydon’tseemtomakethatshapeatall.‘Ifwe can disrupt the ritual at enough of these locations,’ saysAfahiva, ‘thespirituallinksbetweenthemwillbebrokenandthepsychicconnectiontotheriftsevered.’‘Orperhapsbreak the linkutterlyatonesite, if that ispossible,’saysOhuak.‘Thatshouldbeginachainreactionthatdisruptstheentireritualnetwork.’Theimageshimmersintodustandthendisappears.‘So,wheredoweattack?’askstheColonel.‘TheLibrariusandforcesdrawnfromtheentiretyofourChapterarepreparingtomakestrikes in thenext twodays,’says theLibrarian.‘Ourarrivalhere isadiversionfromtheobjectivewhereIhavebeenassigned.SisterAladiaandhercompanionswouldbeawelcomeadditiontoourforce.’TheSisterSuperiornods,stillnotlookingtoocomfortablewiththewholeidea.‘The plan hasmuchmerit, butwe cannot simply leave the abbey. There areSisters from other orders here, lay adherents of the Ecclesiarchy we have toprotect.’‘Yes, the Brother-Librarian and I have discussed that,’ says Sergeant Ohuak.HisgazemovestotheColonelandthentome.‘Webelievewehaveasolutionthatwillsuitthecapabilitiesofeveryoneassembledhere.’

It’s mid-morning and the wind picks up, scattering the pollutant fog and thesmokeofbattlethatwashangingaroundtheabbey.IntothisclearairstreamtheexhaustplumesofRhinosandImmolators,theirenginesvibratingthegatehousewhere I’m standingwith theColonel,Orskya and a fewothers.OldPreacher,swathed in priestly robes, his staff of office in a gnarled hand. The straight-backed, severe figure ofCanonessErasmisa,mostly concealed beneath a darkgreen eco-cape and hood. Robed in black, Sister Superior Korinth, rankingmemberoftheSistersHospitallerfromtheOrderoftheTorch.AboutahundredmetresawaythegunshipoftheSalamandersliftsup,plasmathrusters throwing out a wall of dust and ash that washes towards us. A finedusting coats the wall and our clothes as it passes over, leaving everythingpatternedwithdrabbrownsandgreys.IwipeaglovedthumboverthelensesofmygogglesandwatchthedarkbulkoftheThunderhawklifthigherandhigheruntilitdisappearsintothecloudlayer.Sister Superior Aladia mounts the steps of the gatehouse rampart and

approaches. She carries herself as though approaching the canoness butDeniumenialis intercepts her, staff thudding down onto rockcrete still stainedwith thebloodofBattleSisters,hiversandwasters.TheSisterSuperior stops,lowering her bolter to her side, the light catching on the jewelled hilt of thepowerswordinitsornatescabbardonherrighthip.‘I cannot order you to comply with my wishes, Aladia, but I will makerepresentation one more time,’ says Old Preacher. ‘The Sisterhood serves thewilloftheImperialCreed,notthewhimsoftheAdeptusAstartes.’‘At present, I speak the will of the Ecclesiarchy,’ says Erasmisa, steppingforwardtostandbesidetheBattleSister.‘Technically, thisisnolongeramilitarysituation.SisterSuperiorAladiadoesnothaveseniority.’‘Technically?’Thecanoness raisesahand towards theboilingbreak in realitythatmarstheheavens.‘TheanathemaoftheEmperorgainsformandthisworldwillbeoverrunwithindays.HereticsoftheTraitorLegionswagewaruponus,usingourbloodandfaithtoopenadoorwayforthemostinfernalofmasterstobring destruction to this world, beings whose coming will be a beacon tothousandsmore of their depraved kind. I thinkwe are in amilitary situation,reveredpreacher.’‘And you would face these tribulations by gallivanting off with the SpaceMarines?’‘It is a well-prepared mission,’ interjects Aladia. ‘The Sisters of the ArgentShroud can contribute a significant effort to securing victory against theAbominationsof theAntithesis. Iwould ratherembarkon thisendeavourwithyourblessing,butIdonotrequireyourpermission.TheDecreePassivemakesitclearthatyoucannotinvolveyourselfinthedirectionoftheOrdersMilitant.’‘Well,actually,it istheSynodGuidanceofEcclesiarchDioclevistheEighth,’thepriestretaliates.‘Ifyouhadstudiedcanonicallore–’‘Weareleaving,Deniumenialis,’theSisterSuperiortellshimsharply.Shegivesanodofsalutetothecanonessandisabouttoturnawaywhenthefrailpreacherraisesahandtostopher.‘Irelent,’hesays.Hetakesuphisecclesiarybeadsandmakesthesignoftheholy‘I’infrontoftheBattleSister,‘OfcourseyoudepartwiththeblessingsoftheEmperoruponyou,SisterSuperior.TheGod-EmperorofTerralovesyouandfillsyouwithHisgracetodefythedarknessthatbesetsus.LooktoHisWilltoguide yourweapons, and see inHis sacrifice the strength you have to prevailagainstallfoes.’

TheSisterSuperiorlowerstoonekneetoreceivethebenediction,headbowed.As Old Preacher finishes, Aladia stands and proffers her boltgun. The priestwrapsthelengthofbeadsaboutitsmuzzleandsayssomewordsinHighGothic.‘IfIrecallcorrectly,’hesays,holdingthebeadstothegun,‘youarerequiredtoprovideabodyguardtoallmembersoftheclergy.’‘Youwillbesafe,’saystheSisterSuperior.‘That is notwhat I said. I am due an appropriate bodyguard, led by a SisterSuperior.Iinsistthatyouprovideit.’‘ItwillweakenmyforcetoleaveBattleSistersattheabbey.’‘I insist. This is holy ground of the Ecclesiarchy. It is still manned by yourSisters.’‘Theyhaveprotection.’‘Youroaths,SisterSuperior,arebinding.’Aladiastaresathimforseveralseconds,fingersflexingaroundthegripofherbolter.TheSisterSuperiorturnsherattentiontoErasmisa.‘Canoness, what do our Articles of Faith say is the appropriate guard for apreacher?’‘OneSister, I believe,Aladia.OneBattle Sister for a preacher of the secondorder.’‘Ridiculous!’ snorts Deniumenialis. ‘How much protection can one Sisterprovideme?No,youshouldkeepyourcommandhere,SisterAladia.’‘OneSister,canoness?’saystheBattleSister.HergazereturnstoOldPreacher.‘Iwillstandasguardforyou,Deniumenialis.’Therumbleofthevehicleenginesgrowslouderastheystarttopullout.‘No,no!’snapsthepriest.‘Recallthemimmediately!Thisisimpiety,toignoremybidding!’Each vehicle passes out through the gate along the cratered remains of themetalled road, tracks grinding through broken pieces of armour while spikedprows push through the scattered remains of Immolators and the drop podsdestroyedbySpaceMarinemeltabombsaboutanhourearlier.I watch them for a few hundred metres, until oily smoke and dust cloudsobscure thecolumn fromview.Thecloister isnowhomeonly toa fewdozenwasters,hiversandancillaryabbeystaff, save for thosewoundedand theonestendingthembelow.IturntomyothercompanionsandthenmeetthegazeoftheColonelwithasigh.‘That’sitthen?Anyonegotsomedice?’

It’sbeennearlyanhoursincetheBattleSistersleftustoprotecttheabbeyandrefugees. We’ve got sentries on the towers and walls – a mix of hivers andwasters – while Canoness Erasmisa and Aladia conduct an inspection of thesupplies situation.With theBattle Sisters gone there’s plenty of room in theirformerdormitories,soeveryoneelseismakinggoodwithbedrolls,blanketsandwhatevertheybroughtwiththem.Thecorpsesweremovedbeforetheexpeditionforceleft–honoureddeadhavebeenplacedintombcellsbelowtheabbeywhiletheremainsofthetraitorsareburningonapyreabouthalfakilometreaway.OldPreacher is preparing to conduct funeral prayers for the non-Sisterhoodcasualties.Ashoutfromanex-trooperatoneofthetowerheavyboltershasmedashinguptherampartandintothegunroom,Schaeffercloseonmyheels.‘Whatisit?’Idemand,evenbeforeI’mfullythroughthedoor.‘Neverborn?’‘Movement,’saysthegunner.IrecogniseTerrick,thesoldierfromHadesHive.Shepointsoutof thegun slit, across thedefence linesbetween the abbeyandwastes.‘Aboutfourhundredmetres.Somethingfollowingthewaywecamein.’Ipeerthroughtheembrasure,tryingtoseewhat’scaughthereye.Therecouldbe something, where Terrick said. Might just be a shadow or it might besomethingelse.I can’t feel any prickle of the skin, but I’m not ready to rule out somethingotherworldlyjustyet.It’dbejusttypicalifthewarpbornarrivedsosoonaftertheSpaceMarinesandBattleSistersleft.Thedoorbangsopen,causingmetojolt,bangingmyheadagainsttheinsideofthegunwindow.‘Mind yourself,’ says Orskya as she ducks through the doorway. ‘I heard ashout.’Rubbingmyhead,Idrawbackfromtheembrasure.‘Perhapssomethingcomingthisway,’Isay,steppingtowardstheduneseer.‘Doyoustillhaveyourmagnoculars?’She takes the viewing glasses out of her coat, another duneseer familyheirloom, and hands them over. I return to the window and scan across thedefences again, following the lineofRhino tracks that leadback towherewefoughttheNeverbornandwererescued.‘Thereitis,’Isay,spottingafigureclamberingacrossthebrokenwallofagunpit.AsmallershapefollowsatitsheelandIlaugh.‘It’sNazrek!’

Alongwitha fewwasters forcompany, Iventureoutof theabbey tomeet theorkaboutahundredmetresfromthegatetower.Nazrekseesuscomingandsitsdownonawaymarkerbythemetalledroad.Drawinglevel,Iseetheorklooksinroughshape,eyesclosedasGrotsets toworkwithabodkinthickenoughtobeclassedasaweapon,stitchingalengthofheavycordthroughagapingwoundinNazrek’sside.‘Stillalive,’Isay.Theorkopensitseyes,theredremindingmeoftheinhumangazeofSergeantOhuak.‘Melivetoo,’itreplies,lipscurlingbackinanapproximationofagrin.‘Neednewarm.’It lifts the stump, a trickle of blood seeping out of the horrendous wound,shards of bone jutting from ruptured flesh. I suppress a gag, wondering howNazrekisevenconscious,nevermindcalm.PartoftheanswercomeswhenGrotpausesinitslaboursandpullsafistfulofthe mushrooms packed into a pouch at its belt. It tosses them into the ork’smouth,andNazrekclosesitsmassivejawandchews.Acontentedsighescapestheorkasitseyescloseagain.GrotoffersupabrightorangetoadstoolbutIdeclinewitharaisedhand.‘Tempting,butIbetternot,’Itellthesmallalien.Itshrugs,popsthefungusintoitsmouthandsetstoworkonitsneedleworkagain.‘Ican’tbelievethewarpdogsdidn’tgetyou,’Isay.Nazreksmiles,listlesswiththeeffectofthenarcotic.‘Fight two. Run from rest.’ It chuckles, chest rising, causing Grot to muttersomething under its breath as the stitching starts to part. ‘See silver humansfight.Hide. Then see sky stars and big dakkaship. Think that BurnedMan introuble.Findtrail.’‘Andhereweare…’IlookbackattheabbeyandwonderhowtheSisterswillreact to an ork. I don’t think there’s anything the Hospitallers can do for thealien,butNazrek’sgotabetterchanceofsurvivingwithusthanouthere.Andasfarasbodyguardsgo,there’snotmuchbetterthanagiantork.IwishNazrekhadbeenatmysidewhentheTraitorAstarteshadcome.‘Comeon,’ I say, gesturing for theork to standup. It opens an eye and thenboth,andthenheavesitselftoitsfeet.IhadsortofforgottenjusthowmassiveNazrekis,butevenso,itseemsbiggerthanbefore.‘Haveyoubeengrowing?’Thealiengruntsandliftsafistinfrontofitsface.‘Goodfightin’,makeNazrekstrongagain.’Itbaresitsfangs.‘Notruntscraps.

Properfights,makeNazrekbig.’‘Ifigureyou’regonnagetbiggerstill,mygreenfriend,’Isay.There’s a lot of fighting still to come.Whether its orks, Traitor Astartes orNeverborn,somethingisgoingtofindusattheabbey.Justamatterofwhatandwhen.

Ifoundafold-outcampchairinoneoftheabandonedcells,andI’vesetituponthe gate rampart overlooking the road. There’s recaff in my mug – nothingstronger tobefounddespitepressingDeniumenialis–andIsit thereforafewminutesjustlisteningtothequietbustle.NazrekandGrotdisappearedintothevehiclecloisterassoonasIshowedthemaroundtheabbey.There’sbeenbangingandorkishcursingonandoffeversince.Nobody’sdaredinvestigateyet.Aladia is less than happy at having ‘xenos scum’ in her abbey, and bothErasmisaandOldPreacherwentpaleatthethought.Despitetheirreservations,noneofthemwaspreparedtoarguethepointatthistimewhileface-to-facewiththemassivebrute,ortheteamsofarmedunderhiversandwastersalignedtomycause.Foritspart,NazreksaidthattheEmperorhad‘lotsofdakka’anditwoulddietodefendtheEmperor’s‘shak’.Grotevenmadeanoffering,layingasmallpileofhalf-chewedfungusatthefeetoftheholystatue.Ashadowfallsoverme.It’stheColonel.He’sstilldressedinhiswastercoat,cap and shawl, but from somewhere in the stores he’s procured a couple ofaquila brooches he’s fastened to his breast and hat. He also holds a steamingmug,handsinfingerlessglovesclaspingittohischestashelooksoutovertheexpanseoftheabandoneddefences.‘NothingbetweenusandAcheron,ortheorksattherokfort,’hesays,almosttohimself.‘Thesepeopleneedprotection.’‘Didn’tdragthemoutofthehiveandacrossthewastesjusttoleavethemtothebeastsandhunters,’Imurmur.‘Ofcourse,thereislittlewecandoagainstafull-scaleassaultofthewarpborn,’headds,glancemovingtothewoundintheskyandbacktome.‘Theabbeyprovidessanctuary.Thewarpborncan’tenter.’‘Thatwas the faith of theBattle Sisters.’He givesme a long look. ‘Do youreallythinkyouareholyenoughtodrivebacktheimmaterialfiends?’‘I’mbasicallyalivingsaint,’Ireplyandtakeaswigofrecaff.‘Deniumenialissaysasmuch.’‘Thereisgoodreasonwhyitrequiresaconclaveofcardinalsandmanynoted

miracles todeclareamanorwomana saint, andnot just thewordofa singlepriest.’Isitforward,elbowsonknees.‘Whyshouldn’tIbealivingsaint?’Iask,asmuchformyselfashim.‘DoyoureallythinkI’mjustthatluckythatI’mstillalive?Wouldluckhavegotmeoutalivefromthefirechasm?Ormaybeyoudon’tthinktheEmperorprotects.Allthatshityouspewaboutsavingoursouls,that’sjustanexcuseforyou.’‘IdonotdoubtthattheEmperorcanextendHisWilltoshapethecourseofourlives.TherearemanytalesofHisdoingsoorguidingHisfollowerstovictorywith the Imperial Tarot. Even so, Iwill not ascribe every outlandish event asdivine intervention. And I refuse to accept that a murdering, treacherousblasphemerlikeyouwouldbesoelevatedbyHisgloriouspurpose.’‘But what better vessel for His Will than one that was broken but He hasmended?’ I take another drink and then point at Schaeffer. ‘You are partlyresponsible forbringingmeonto thisholypath.Whatdrewyou to thatworld,thoseyearsago,whenyoucameforme?ItwasthehandoftheEmperor,actingthroughyou,settingmeonthiscourse.’Helooksthoughtfulforamoment,notdismissingmeoutofhand.TheColonelshakeshishead.‘No. I went to that world because garrisons always get bored, giving themalcontentslikeyouopportunitytoshowtheirtruecolours.IknewI’dfindmytypeofscum,itjusthappenedthatyouwereoneofthem.’‘Howmanysurvivorshave therebeen?’ Iasksuddenly. ‘Exceptyou, Imean.Allthemissions,alltheLastChancers,howmanypeoplehavegotthroughwithlifeandlimbintact?’‘Saneorjustalive?’askstheColonel,asplainlyassomeonemightaskifIwantmyrecaffwithsynthi-lactornot.‘Let’s justgowithbreathing,’ I say,notwanting to think toomuchabout thealternatives.Alittleclosetohome,somemightsay.‘Eight,’saysSchaeffer.‘Notincludingyouorme,therehavebeeneightotherLastChancersthatsurvivedtotaketheirpardons.’‘Eight?’Inearlyfalloutofthechair.‘Outofthousands?Eight!’‘Neverfailedamission,’theColonelsaysindefenceofthisappallingsurvivalrate.Heseesmyexpressionandscowls.‘Doyouthinkyoucanwinwarswithoutpeopledying?WhatisitthatyouthinktheImperialGuardisfor?’‘ToprotecttherealmsoftheEmperor.ToupholdtheImperialWillofTerra,’Isay, quoting from the oath I swore when I was recruited into the Astra

Militarum.‘RememberwhatOllaniusPiussaidabouttheEmperor?WeprotectHim,andHe’llprotectus.’‘TodiefortheImperium,’saystheColonel.Heleansalittlecloser,starefixedonme.‘AnImperialGuardsman’sdutyistodiefortheEmperor.TheEmperorsacrifices all forhumanity, and sohumanitywill sacrifice all for theEmperor.YouwillkillfortheEmperor,butmoreimportantlyyouwilldiefortheEmperorsothatothersdonot.’Ilookathim,amazedatthisforthrightconfession.IhaveableakviewoftheuniversebuttoseetheColonel’ssummeduplikethat…ItputshisideaofaLastChanceintoadifferentlight,that’sforsure.‘DidyouthinkheroeskeeptheImperiumalive?’hecontinues.‘Livingsaints?BattleSisters?SpaceMarines?Allvery finewarriors, each theequalofmanysoldiersof theAstraMilitarum.But that is also theirweakness.WhatcanoneSpace Marine achieve that a thousand Guard cannot? Think back to yourvictories, Kage, and tell me what you have achieved that any other man orwomancouldnot?Ithoughtyouhadgraspedthis,whenyourantedonthewalltothatunderhiverscum.Youarenotspecial;youaresimplyhere.Yourroleistodie so that others live, and yet you seem incapable of fulfilling that simplebargain.Saintsaremartyred.Yousimplyrefusetodie.’‘I…’Where is the argument against that?Howdoyou speak against a creedthat’ssodismissiveofindividuallifeandliberty?Moretothepoint,Iknowhe’sright.Everydamnedwordofitislikethetruthhammeredintomyskull.‘Your lifecanbe spentdoingmany things,Kage,butyourdeathcanonlybespent once.Tellme a tale of how a living saint sat upon thewalls of a battleabbey drinking recaff while the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes and AdeptaSororitastookthewartotheenemiesoftheEmperor.’‘Ididn’tchoose–’‘RemindmeofthetimeSaintLithoriastayedattheruinsofHopeStationandfedtheweak,givingofherownplateforothers.’‘I’msureshe–’‘Saint Lithoria died upon the breach of Darkwell so that the armies of theEmperor could storm the citadel! She knew it was her duty to strike back atthose thathadbrokenHopeStationeven thoughshewouldnot live to see thevictory.Lookaroundyou,Kage.Doesthisseemlikeavictorytoyou?’I’mgoingtosaysomethingaboutpeoplebeingaliveouthereratherthandeadintheunderhive,butIknowthat’snotgoingtoconvincehim.Anditshouldn’t.AsmanyhiversasI’vesaved,there’sadeadwasterorBattleSister.Imean,the

warpborn and the World Eaters didn’t attack here because we came, but wedidn’t really achieve anything either.Only theBattleSisters and the arrival oftheSalamandersstoppedusallfromgettingbutchered.IfIlookatthestoryagainfromwherewearenow,seemstomeallIdidwasleadthemintothepathofadifferentdanger.‘I see that you are starting to understand, Kage,’ the Colonel says, voicesoftening.He looksatmewith those ice-blueeyes,notwithcompassionbutafiercedetermination. ‘I toldyoubefore,youcannotsave themall. In fact,youcannotsaveanyofthem.Deathcannotbecheated.Youhavelivedthatlie,againandagain.’‘Isitsowrongtowanttolive?’‘Ifyouareafarmer,oraclerk,oratech-menial.Youarenot.Youareasoldier.YoumustacceptthatyouwilldieintheEmperor’sservice.Notembraceit,notchaseitasadoom,buttotaketheEmperor’ssacrificeintoyourselfandsharetheburden.’I nod, understanding againwhat itwas that hewas trying to achieve.Again,becauseI’dsortofforgottenitwitheverythingthathadhappenedafterthefirechasm. It’s like coming out of the flameswashed thememory fromme. Thatclarity Ihadstandingon theedge, justbefore I threwmyselfandvonStrab toourfierydeaths.Iturntolookatthepeopleonthewalls,theothersdowninthecloistergoingabouttheirdisplacedlives.‘Butifwe’renottryingtoprotectthis…It’stheirlivesweareshielding,eveniftheplacehaschanged.’‘No, you are thinking too narrowly, Kage.’ The Colonel straightens, eyesscanning over the abbey and those within it. ‘You owe them nothing. A fewdozenflakesofashonthewastes.TheEmperorrulescountlessbillions.Itisallofthemthatyouserve.Whichisbetter?Towaitforthebattletocomeandfighthere,scrappingyourlastbreathforthesepeople,ortofindahigherpurpose,agreater mission that will defy the plans of the enemy and save thousands, ormillions?’I think back to the thingswe’ve done. It all seemed so small at the time.Areactorgoingcritical.Abulletinanalien’sbrain.Amanthrowinghimselfintoafire with another man. Simple acts. Almost impossible to create thecircumstances,butsosmalltofinishoncewewerethere.AndIneverreallythoughtabouttheconsequencesbeyondstayingalive.Warsturnedoraverted.LiketheColonelsays,millionsoflivessavedbyahandfulof

peopleinabadplaceattherighttime.So,Icanstayhere,withalaspistolandaknife,andwaitforwarpbornandorkstocomeandkillus.AssureasOleshgettingblownapartbyabolt,Icanseeitnow, the enemy coming through that gate eventually, over my corpse, andeveryonedying.There’stoofewofusandtoomanyofthem.IlookattheColonelandgritmyteeth.Thefewcanprotectmillions,iftheydothe right thing in theworstplace.Something Iheard fromAfahivasurfaces inmythoughtsandIstandup,tossingthelastdregsofrecaffoverthewall.‘I’vegotareallybadidea,’ItellSchaeffer.‘Iwouldlovetohearit,’hereplies.

FIFTEENFOLLOWINGTHEGREEN

The grumble of a generator is lost as a grinder screeches into life, throwingsparks across thedim interior of theworkshop.With theColonel behindme Istepthroughthedoor,tobeconfrontedbyanimagethatwillneverleaveme.Nazrekisleaningoveraworkbench,thestumpoftheseveredarmlockedinanindustrial clamp. In the flickering light I catch a glimpse of rivets holding ametal plate into the alien’s shoulder, three long nails welded into place asdefensivespikes.Grotstandsonthebench,onefootuponthelaceratedbicep,holdingthehandleofthegrinderinskinnybutsurprisinglystrongfingers.Thespinningbladecarvesintoametalcapfixedtothestump,pushedintoplacebyNazrek’sotherhand.Fromthemetallicstumpprotrudestheork’schoppa,removedfromthehiltandfixedtothestumpwithbolts.Heavy-dutyspringsburrowintomuscle,quiveringasthegrinderchewsthroughanoutcropofiron,finishingazigzagdesignonashield-likeplatecoveringtheartificialelbow.‘Boss!’Theorkforgets that theclampison itsarmandtries tostand,almostrippingthelimboutagain.Grottossesthegrindertothefloorwithasavagelittlegrinandstartsunwinding thehandleon thevice.Assoonas it’s loosened, theork pulls up the crude bionic, artificial joint, flexing with a metallic creak,springstighteninglikefakesinew.Grot brings out a lamp and shines the light on the new attachment, whichNazrekturnsonewayandthenanother,admiringtheirjointhandiwork.I’mno

tech-adeptanditlooksmoreliketheundersideofaChimera’spowerplantthananyaugmeticI’veseen,butitseemstowork.‘Good?’itsays,liftingtheaxe-likeappendage.Oildripsfromthefixingplate,spatteringtheork’sleg.‘Yeah,looksgood,’Itellit.‘Howdidyouknowwhattodo?’‘Reckonmustbeamek,’ theorksayswithagrin. It raps itsknuckleson thejagged-shaped shield, listening to the clang with head cocked to one side.‘Solid.’In the lantern light I can see a mess of staples, rivets and stitching holdingtogethertheork’storso.Therearefrillylayersofflesharoundtheedges,likeamix of scab and fungal growth. The skin is darker, leatherier, like the ork’swholebodyisrespondingtotheinjuriesbygettingtougher.‘I’vegotsomequestionsforyou,’Itelltheork.‘Yeah,boss.’NazreksayssomethingtoGrot,whoscurriesoffintothegloom.‘Whatyouwant?’TheColonelandImovefurtherinside,lettingthedoorclosebehindus.Inthesemi-darknessIbecomemoreawareoftheork’ssize,thesmellofitmixedwithlubricantandtheremnantsoftheBattleSisters’unguentsandcensers.‘Whatdoyouwanttodonow?’Iask,keepingmydistancewhiletryingnottoseemlikeI’mkeepingmydistance.‘Imean,wheredoyouwanttogo?’‘Followyou,boss.’‘Right.WhatifIwantedtodosomethingfortheEmperor?’‘Fight?’Nazrekbringsupthearm-choppa.‘NazrekfightforEmperortoo.’IfeeltheColonelshiftnexttome,butIkeepmyattentionfocusedontheork.‘AndifwehadtofightotherorkstodothisthingfortheEmperor?’Nazrek doesn’t reply straight away. I’ve got no idea what sort of thinkingpassesformoralityorloyaltyamongtheorks,butjudgingbywhathappenedintheunderhive,Nazrek’s as happy fightingorks as anyone else. I’mnot sure itreallycareswhy,justthatthere’ssomeonetohit.‘Badorks?’‘I’llbestraight,’Isay.‘Goodandbaddon’treallycomeintoitanymore.Thewarpborn, theplaguebearersandbloodboysand the like, theydon’tcareaboutgoodandbad,orkorhuman.There’sgoingtobealotmoreofthemcomingandwethinkwecanstopthem.’‘Fightthebloodboys.’Nazreknods.‘Fightorks,fightwarpboys.Yeah.’‘Good,’Isay.Thedarkandtheoppressivepresenceoftheorkisstartingtogettome,likeI’minitslair.It’sirrational,butIcan’tshakethefeeling.‘Let’sstep

outsideforabit.’Nazrekgruntsa fewtimesbutdoesn’tmove.Grotappearsoutof thebackoftheworkshopluggingaBattleSister’sbolterandanarmfulofscrap.Itlobsthestuffupontotheworkbenchandscramblesup,screechingandgesturing.Nazrekrumblesafewthoughtsback,fingerproddingthroughthepile.‘Ready,boss,’saystheork,loomingoverus.Schaefferopensthedoorandthelightfeelslikeawelcomedawn,thepollutedairofArmageddonafreshbreezecomparedtotheconfinesoftheworkshop.IthinkbacktotheunderhiveandrealiseInevergraspedjusthowrankitwaswithhuman and ork habitation. I step outside as the clanging of a hammer startsbehindus,resistingtheurgetoturnandfindoutwhatGrotisdoing.‘That,’Isay,lookingup.Nazrekfollowsmygazeandgrimaces.‘Bad,’itsays.‘Warp,yeah?’‘Warp,’ I say. ‘A hole between our world and theirs. While it’s open thewarpbornwillkeepcoming.Killallthehumans.Killalltheorks.’‘Notkillorks,notall,’Nazreksays. It’snotdefianceorboasting, farasIcantell.Theork looksatmeandbangs its remaininghandagainst its chest. ‘Thisworldalwaysgreen.Evenifnoorks.Green.’I figureNazrek’s talkingabout theway thatonceyouhaveanork infestationit’salmostimpossibletoeradicatealltraceofthem.Thesporeslinger,growingintoorkoidforms,eventuallycreatingalittlepatchoforkdomthatbreedsactualorksandgrots.I’veseenitindifferentplaces,fromthehivetothejungles.TheAdeptusMechanicusprobablyhaveatermforit.Ijustthinkofitasorkification.‘Iwanttotalktoyouaboutthegreen.Thebiggreen,thatyoucanfeel?’Imakevaguemotionswithmyhands, trying toconvey the ideaof thepsychic realm.NazreknodsitsheavyheadandIcontinue.‘Youcanfeelithere?’‘Small green,’ the ork says, looking a little forlorn. ‘Lots not-green. Blood-think.Emperorsongs.Messy.’‘Canyoufeelwherethebiggergreenis?’asksSchaeffer.NazreklooksattheColonel,thefirsttimeit’sbeendirectlyaddressed,Ithink.It weighs up the answer, perhaps wondering how the Colonel fits intoeverything.‘Yeah,’saysNazrek.TheorklooksbacktowardsAcheron,alittleoffthewaywearrived.‘Biggreenthatway.Biggreenandbadthink.’‘Abattle,betweenorksandwarpborn?’Isuggest.Nazreksortofnodsandshrugs,whichisn’ttheclearestofanswers.‘Ismessy.’

‘IheardAfahivamentionabackupplan,incasethestrikesontheenemyforcesdidn’tbreaktheritual,’Isay,gazemovingfromtheColoneltotheorktocheckif Nazrek understands what I’m saying. ‘A psychic inversion, he called it, Ithink.SomethingtheLibrarianswoulddoiftheyhadto,thatwouldoverloadtheconnection between up there and down here. And then I remembered whathappenedtothepsychicorkwhenthewarpborncame.’NazreklooksblanklyatmeandthentotheColonel.‘What?’‘Weneedabigboom,’Isay,motioninganexplosionwithmyhands.‘Notanactualboom,butapsychicone.Abiggreenboom?’‘Bigboom?’Nazrekscratchesitschinwiththeendofitschoppa,fungalflakescascadingfromtheserratededge.‘Greenboom…Big’eadbanger!’eadbangthebloodboys.’‘Upthere,’saystheColonel,pointing.‘Aheadbanginsidethehole.’I look at Schaeffer, mouth dropping open. Now it’s my turn to struggle forwords.‘What?’‘ThegoaloftheSalamanders’attacksistosevertheritualconnectionbetweentheWorldEatershereonthesurfaceandtheriftinorbit.Itseemstomethatifyoucannotbreakthelinkatthisend,itmustbeseveredatthesource.Ifwecanpsychicallydisrupttherift,itcouldhavethedesiredresult.’‘Howwebiggreenbangupthere?’saysNazrek.‘Mythoughtsexactly,’Isay.‘Weneedtogettheorkpsykerintotherift,’saystheColonel,ascalmasifhewas saying we need to pop to the mess for fresh recaff. ‘Judging by whathappened in the underhive, exposure to the rawwarp elements should yield apsychicreactionpotentenoughforourneeds.’Awholebunchofnewquestionsbargeaboutinmybrain,butthethoughtthatreachesmytonguesumsupallofthem.‘How?’‘Youwantus togainpossessionofapowerfulorkpsyker,but thepart that isgivingyoudifficultyisgettingintoorbit?’saystheColonel,oneeyebrowraised.‘Whenyouputitlikethat…’Iclearmythroat,tryingtofocus.‘Isitalwayslikethis? Imean,on Ichar IVdidyouandOriel sitdownandhaveaconversationthatwent,“Weneedtokill this tyranidNornqueenahundredkilometresfromthe nearest Imperial lines, past spore mine-infested territory, hiding in cavesprotectedbyathousandlethalaliens,”orsomethinglikethat?’

‘Yes.Somethinglikethat.Startwiththeobjectiveandbreakitdownuntilyouhaveallthestagesyouneed.’I rub my temples, remembering I haven’t slept for two days now. That’ssomethingwe’ll need to sort out.No point chasing off after an orkwarpheadwithoutbeingabletothinkclearly.‘Andthat’sit?Justcomeupwitheverythingweneedtodo,andthendoit?’‘Goodplan,’saysNazrek,catchingupwiththeconversation.‘Weirdboymakebiggreenbanginsky.Nomorewarpers.’Which didn’t really leave any room for further argument. I know this ismyidea.Ilookaroundthecourtyardandseeafewoftheunderhiverscarryingwaterfromtherecyclingtankbacktotheirquarters.AllacrossArmageddontherearemillionsoffolksjusttryingtosurvive.IgetwhattheColonelmeanswhenIlookatitfromanotherpointofview.Justtryingtosurvivedoesn’twinwars.Beingreadytodiedoes.There are details to be sortedout, but near as I can figure it,weneed to getourselvesanorkwarphead,get itontoaspaceship,fly intoorbit,penetrate theriftandshovethewarpheadoutintothevoid.IlookatSchaefferagainandhemustbehavingthesamethoughtsbutdoesn’tseematallbotheredbythem.Justanothersuicidemission.

Understandably,therearemixedreactionstotheplan.Aswordgetsout,asmalldelegationfindsmeandtheColonelwhileweinspectthemeagrecontentsoftheabbey’s weapon store. Cornered among the ammunition crates and a fewserviceable bolters, we’re penned in by Orskya, Erasmisa and Old Preacher.SisterSuperiorAladiastandsbythedoor,committedtoherinvoluntaryroleasbodyguardofDeniumenialis.‘Youcannotleaveus,’Erasmisadeclares,chinthrustoutlikeaswordreadyatthe lunge. ‘OurBattle Sisterswere despatched on the understanding that yourmilitiawouldremaintogarrisontheabbey.’‘Nooathsweresworn,’ said theColonel,crossinghisarms. ‘Thebestway toprotect everyone here, and all of Armageddon, is to remove the threat of thewarpborn.’‘For which there is a mission already underway, Colonel Schaeffer,’ thecanoness replies. ‘A full Chapter of SpaceMarines and a company from theOrderof theArgentShroudare embarkeduponaplan thatwas agreedbyall.Whatdoyouhopetoachievewith…withhivescumandwastenomads?’Orskyadarts an irritated lookat theolderwoman,hearing the implied insult.

She steps away from the others and turns, so she’s standing beside me andlookingatthem.‘Inotagreetostayinthisprison,’saidOrskya.‘Mypeoplefightbetterinopenspace.’‘That did not seem to be the case when you came fleeing to us from thewarpborn.’Erasmisa’sscornisharsherthanatech-adept’slas-rasp.‘Weofferedyoushelterwithinourwallsandthisishowyourepayus?’‘Therewasnohiding.Wefightyourenemies.Owenothing!’‘Ladies,canwepleaseallowsensetobeheard?’saysOldPreacher,holdinguphis hands. Both Erasmisa andOrskya turn their frowns on him but he seemsoblivioustotheiranger.‘Iamsurethereissomewaywecanaccommodateallofourneeds.IhavenodoubtthatKageshallleadustowardstheEmperor’sWill.Iknowitinmysoul.Thisisataskworthyofalivingsaint,tobreachthelairoftheEternalEnemyitselftosaveArmageddon.’‘Itdoesfeelthatway,doesn’tit?’Isay.‘Imean,ifIwasn’tbeingguidedbytheEmperorI’dhavetobeinsane,right?’ErasmisaopenshermouthbutDeniumenialiscutsheroff.‘ToquotetheMinistorumLibraMartyr,“Itisthestoryofamanwhodidinsanethings because he put in practice what many Saints have preached.”’ OldPreacherrubshishandstogether,nervous.‘Butitdoesleaveuswithsomethingof a predicament regarding the civilians you broughtwith you, aswell as theremainingSisterhoodpersonnel.Children.Wouldyouleavethemunguarded?’‘Youmeanwouldtheyleaveyouunguarded?’snapsErasmisa.‘Notatall,IfullyintendtoaccompanyKagethatImaychroniclehisexploitsforconsiderationfortheCouncillaMartyris.’‘Perhapsnottalkaboutmartyrdomquitesomuch?’Isuggest.‘Youplantofollowthismadman?’saystheSisterSuperior,steppingforward.‘Andyouexpectmetogowithyouasyourbodyguard?’‘Come, Aladia, that is no attitude for a servant of the God-Emperor.’Deniumenialis folds his hands together and holds them to his chest as if inprayer.‘IfitistheWilloftheEmperor,weshouldnotfightit.’‘Wecannotremainandsimplyhopethatthewarpborn,TraitorAstartesororksdonotoverrunthebattleabbey,’saysSchaeffer.‘Onegunorthirty,itmakesnodifference.’‘They’llhavetocomewithus,’Isay,comingtoadecision.Iftheydidn’tthinkIwas insanebefore, the looks from the others, exceptDeniumenialis, confirmthey think I am now. I hold up a hand to stop the arguments before they’re

raised,anddirectmostofmywordstotheColonel.‘Orskya’sright.Herpeoplearemuchbettersuitedtolivingandfightingintheashwastes.Theycankeepthenon-fighterssafewhilewefindourwarphead.Ifwedon’tcomebackfromthat,they’renoworseoffthanifweleftthemhere.Butifwedosucceedinthatpart,weneedtogettothenearestlaunchfacility.’‘KrakenStation,’saystheColonel.‘AsIhavealreadytoldyou.’‘Exactly.Andthatmeanseithermoresoldierstoprotectthem,orawaytogetoff Armageddon. Both of those are better options than staying here and justwaitingfortheworsttohappen.’Deniumenialis grins and Orskya nods thoughtfully. I can see the canonessstrainingtofindsomekindofopposition,butevensheeventuallyrelents,takingastepbackwithasigh.TheColonelgivesmeasharplook,suspicious,butI’mbeinggenuine.‘Thatwastheplan,remember?’Isaytohim.‘WhenweleftAcheron.GettotheImperial lines and get off this doomedworld. Now there’s awrinkle, we canmaybestopthathappening,buttheoriginalobjectiveissound.’‘Itseemsyouhaveeverythingcovered,Kage,’Schaefferadmits.It’sfunny,butthemorehesaysit,andthemoreIgoovertheplaninmyhead,themoreconvincedIamthatwecangetthistowork.MaybethisreallyiswhattheEmperorwantsfromme.

Take an asteroid. Hollow it out a bit. Fill it with orks. Cover it in shieldgenerators thatprobablyeven theorksdon’tunderstand.Putsomeridiculouslyunstable reactors and massively overpowered engines on it. Now fire it at aplanet.You’vegotyourselfanorkrokfort.TheBeastGhazghkullsenthundredsofthesethingsintotheplanetattheoutsetofthesecondinvasion.Loadsburnupontheirwayinandagoodfewbasicallysmash into the surface toobliterate everythingwithin a fewkilometres.That’swhathappenedtoHadesHive,thoughthatwasonpurpose,Nazrektoldme.Afewscoreofthemactuallylandmostlyintact.Congratulations, nowyouhaveheavily armed and fortifiedpositions all overenemyterritoryfromwhichtolaunchyourattacks.Given thatwe’reonourway tokidnapanorkpsyker, tosend it intoorbit sothatitcanpsychicallydetonatetohopefullyoverloadthewarpriftlurkingoverArmageddon,orkrokfortsnowseemlikeanideaofsubtlegenius.Theparticularrokfortsquattingjustafewkilometresfromthebattleabbeywas

purgedaspartofthesiegeofAcheronbutthere’scertainlynewinhabitantstherenow–orksdrivenoutofthehivebythearrivalofthewarpborn.Smokebillowsfromhiddenengines,newlyraisedflagsflapslowlyinthethickArmageddonair.IborrowOrskya’smagnocularsandscanalong thecrudelycarved rampsandwalkwayscuttinglikescarsacrossthesurfaceofthegroundedasteroid.It’snotthe biggest, maybe thirty metres high, but about a hundred and sixty metresacross.TheimpactcraterhasbeenwornawaybyshellingandtheerosionoftheharshArmageddonenvironment,butpartsoftheringhavebeenreinforcedwithsmall towers and watch stations. I inspect these with slow sweeps of themagnoculars,buttheyseemtobeempty.ReturningmyattentiontothemainfortI can’t see toomuch going on, trying to count the blurs ofmovement behindjaggedbattlements.‘I’dsayclosertodozensthanhundreds,’Isay,handingbackthemagnoculars.‘Butthatmakesnodifference,it’sstilltoomany.’Ourforcenumbersthirty-twoarmedfolksandaboutthesamenumberagainofunarmed.Weleftthemafewhundredmetresbackdowntheslopewherewe’respyingontheorkfort,afewwastersassentries.IslithersidewaysthroughtheashtolookatNazrek.Aswellasthechoppa-hand,theorkisarmedwithabolterthatGrot treated tounkindattentions.There’sa longbladewelded to thefrontandsomehowthelittlealienhasmanagedtoreassembletheloadingmechanismsothatthegunisfedfromtwomagazinesnow.I’mnotsurewhatdifferencethatmakes but Nazrek seemed very pleased with it when it showed me. ‘Moredakka,’itsaid,whateverthatis.‘You’resurethere’saweirdboyinthere?’Iasktheork.‘Yeah,biggreen.Knockinginmyhead.Dom-dom,dom-dom.Warpheadbangrealgoodinspacehole.’Grotsniggers,mimickinganexplodingheadwithlittlefingers.‘Whichdoesusnogoodunlesswecangettoit,’saystheColonelfrombehindme.‘Orskya,yourpeoplelivednearhere?’Shenods.‘Notcometooclose,butwehuntthesedunesbeforeroklands.’‘Isthereawaypastthetowers,onewherewewon’tbeseen?’‘Couldbe.I’lltalktoothers.’Shepushesuptoacrouchandsortofslidesbackdowntheslopetowheretheotherscoutsandwastersarewaiting,aknotofhiversandthelastfewtroopersalittlefurtheraway.‘Megotidea,’rumblesNazrek.‘Webuywarphead.’

‘How…?’Ibegin.‘Givepeopletoorks.Getwarphead.’‘Swapthepeople?’saystheColonel,glancingbacktowardsthedistanthuddleof children and other civilians, a few Sisters Hospitaller, warp-broken andorderlies among them.Deniumenialis iswith them too, the armoured form ofSister Superior Aladia close at hand, watching over her charge. The wind ispickingupagain,castingswirlsofdustacrossthebarrenlandscape.‘I don’t think we should do that, Nazrek,’ I say carefully. ‘We’re not reallymeanttosellourownpeopleintoslavery.’Theork looksatme for several seconds,perplexedby the idea.Then itnodsandgrins.‘Me have good idea.’ The ork taps the side of its helmetwith a thick greenfinger’sbrokennail.‘Wepretendsellpeople?’‘Howwouldthatwork?’asksSchaeffer.‘Howdoyoupretendtosellsomeone?’‘We take people to gate. Make noise. Orks come and see. Other Emperorpeoplenotseen.Goin.Takewarphead.’I’mabouttostartpickingholesintheplanbutstopmyself.Thinkingaboutitagain, there probably is a good idea there. I share a glancewith theColonel,who’sobviously thinkingthesame.Iscrambleabitof thewaybackdowntheslopeandcupmyhandsaroundmymouth.‘Oahebs!Uphere!’I can tell which one of the coat-swathed figures is him by the distance theotherskeepaway.Heturnsandtrudgesuptowardsus,facehiddenbetweenscarfandacowl.Ibackawayashegetscloser,andNazrekgruntsuncomfortably.‘Nazrek,canyoufeelthegreenstill?’‘Greenstillhere,’theorkcontinues.‘Oahebs,goandstandnexttoNazrek.’ThetroopershootsmeafrownbutdoesasIask,reluctantlypullinghimselfupthe slope to a few paces away from the alien. Nazrek bares long fangs, lipripplinginanger.‘Whataboutnow,Nazrek?’‘No green,’moans the ork. It prods atOahebswith the tip of its improvisedbayonet,forcingthenullfurtheraway.‘Smallgreen.’‘Thenyoucandullthewarphead’spowers,’Isay,givingOahebsameaningfullook.‘YouknowthatmeansI’vegottogetclose,’hesays,movingevenfurtherfromNazrek.‘Like,punching-and-stabbing-distanceclose?’

Grot scampers over to us, chattering in its squeaky voice. Nazrek gruntssomething back. The smaller alien lifts up the bag of fungi it’s been carryingaround since the underhive. I look at Oahebs and we both shake our heads,clueless.Grotdelvesintothebag,searchingforsomething.Itpullsoutahandfulofvibrantgreenfungus,whichlooksalittlebitlikewrinkledskin.Nazrek says something else and Grot rolls its eyes in annoyance. The littlecreature pretends to eat the greenmushroom, then goes cross-eyed andwalksdizzilybackandforthalittlebitbeforemelodramaticallyspirallingtothefloorinafakeswoon.‘Thisfunguswillknockoutthewarphead?’Isay,pointingtothemushroomasGrot revives itself from its mimicked stupor. ‘If it eats this, we can take itaway?’Grotgivesmeabonythumbsupandstuffsthefungusbackintothesmallsack.The returnofOrskyaends the small theatricalperformanceandGrot scurriesbacktoNazrektoreceiveaclumsypatonthehead.‘Nobodyknowwayintofort,’theduneseertellsus,‘butcangetclose.Thereisrockgap.Old,oldwatercutunderdunes.Wegoupgap,closetobaseoffort.’Shepointsandgivesmethemagnocularsagain.Icankindofseeadarkerlineinthegrey,perhapsafewrockyoutcropsclosetothebaseoftherokfort.‘Goodenough,’Isayandhandherthemagnoculars.Myeyeisdrawnbacktothewhorlofinsanitypollutingthesky.‘I’dwaitfornightfallbutthisfeelslikeweneedtogetitdoneassoonaspossible.’‘Iagree,’saystheColonel.‘Weneedtodecidewhoisgoingtobeintheraidingpartyandwhogoeswiththeork.’There’sadecision,typicaloflifeintheLastChancers.OntheonehandIcouldwalk up to the orkswithNazrek, right under their guns, and hope they don’topenfireassoonastheyseeus.Ontheotherhand,Icouldtrytosneakintothemiddleoftheirfortwhiletheothergroupishopefullykeepingthembusy.Eitherway, there’snopoint trying toguesswhat’sgoing tohappen.Likesomanyofthesemissionsit’sallaboutmomentsofimprovisationanddirectedstupidity.

SIXTEENTHEROKFORT

I’vebeenaroundenoughorkstheselastmonthstoknowthattheireyesightisn’tasgoodasoursmostofthetime,buttheirsenseofsmellisassharpasatrackerhound’s.Fortunately, thecrevasse thatOrskyahasusfollowingapproaches therokfortfromdownwind.Also,thewindstartskickingupastorm,sodustcloudsreducevisibilitytoabouteightyorninetymetresatbest.Thatdoesmeanwe’renotlikelytobeseen,butalsothatifthereareanyorkswanderingaroundoutsidethefort,we’llbenearlyontopofthem.Thewindbringsthefamiliar-but-unwelcomesmelloffungus,dunganddeath.Asstrongastheunderhive,surprisinggiventhatthisfortwasonlyrepopulatedinthelastfewdays.Imperialpurgeteamswouldhavegonethrougheverynookandcrannywithflamersandanti-orktoxins tomakesure therewasnothingofthemleft,butitsmellsasbadastheinfestationsintheunderhive.Thegulleyisaboutfivemetresdeepandacoupleofmetreswide,followingtheerraticcourseofsomedried-upriver,carvedthroughtheunderlyingrockinanagepast.Mostofitiscompactedashandgritunderfoot,butit’sstilldriftingandshifting,sowefollowthewasterguides’footstepsprecisely,walkingtwobytwoalongthedefile.Itbroadensabitandtheniscutoffbytheimpactrippleoftheasteroid,joiningwiththecraterwallaboutthirtymetresfromthedarksurfaceofthefort.Orskyasignalsthehaltandwehunkerdownintheleeoftherokwallswhileoneoftheduneseer’speoplechecksthewayoutintothecrater.Ishufflealongtheedgeof

thecrevassetocomealongsideOrskyaandtogetherweclimbupthesidesothatwecanlookouttowardsthesplitcavernthatservesasthefort’smaingate.Naturalformationandadditionbytheorks’labourhascreatedanupside-down‘v’ about fourmetres high and sixwide in the base of the fort, facing south-westerlyasfarasIcanmakeout.Arampofashsiltsmoothsuptotheentrance,crossed with tyre tracks, tread marks and footprints in both directions. Thiscurves to thewest between twowatchtowers at the crater’s edge– about fiftymetresfromthegate,aboutahundredandtwentymetresfromwhereweare.Throughthedriftingcloudsacoupleofbuggiesleavedusttrailsastheypatrolaroundthecrateredge.IgrabOrskya’sarmandnodtowardsthem,but they’removingintheotherdirection,awayfromusatthemoment.Itwon’tbetoolongbeforetheycircleallthewayaround.‘Theygointocrater,not jumpovercrack,’shesays,pointingto thedisturbedlinesof ash about fifteenmetres fromwherewe are, just in front of the scoutsquattingatthelimitsofthegully.I look up. The sides of the asteroid are craggy, veinedwith darker grey andblack.Thereareholeswherefieldgeneratorsandenginesusedtosit,rippedoutbytheImperialforcesthatoverranthesiteduringtheattackagainstAcheron.It’sabighunkofrock,butclimbable.Gettinginthereisn’tmybigconcern.Gettingaround to find thewarphead and getting out again is the real trick.As I hearbuggymotorsgrowinglouder,thescoutslipsbackandwavesusfurtherintothegully.Weretreat,pushingintothecracksandfoldsintheblackrock,ourwastergearcoatedintheashblendingwiththebrownsandgreysandstreaksofredaroundus.Handonmybrowtostopanysunlightglintingfrommygoggles,Irisktheslightestofpeeksaroundanoutcropastheenginesstarttoechodownthedefile.In clouds of disturbed dune, the two vehicles rumble past. I see broad tyressprayingdust,adriverandgunneroneachbuggy,butthat’sit.Assoonasthey’regonewemoveforwardagain,usingthefewminutesbeforetheorkscomeroundtothegullyoncemore.Whenweregainourvantagepoint,Orskyausesthemagnoculars toscanalongtheroadat therim,lookingfor theotherpartofthegroup,wheretheColonelandNazrekaregoingtotrytodrawoutasmanyorksaspossible.‘Theycoming,’shewhispers,handingmethedevice.I find themstraightaway.Abedraggledhuddleof folks in ragsescortedbyahandfulofwasters.Nazrekleadsthemboldasanything,Grothoppingaroundatthe alien’s heel. A clanging din erupts from both watchtowers and there’s

movement in a couple of the caves above the entrance as orks appear fromwithin,thebarrelsoflongcannonsstickingoutfromthedefences.Nazrekleadsits trading party right up to the tower with much waving of choppa-fist andgesticulations back to the apparent captives.A rumble echoes fromwithin theentranceofthefort,followedbyastreamofeagerorkspouringdowntheramp.Mostof themlook likehivers–oneor twoalmostasbigasNazrek,butnonebigger.Then,escortedbyacadreof fierce-lookingwarriors inheavierarmour,thebossappears,flankedbyaprocessionofsmallergretchincarryingflagpoles,piecesoflootandanassortmentofimprobable-lookingweapons.This parade hurries along the road as the two buggies pull in bythewatchtowers.Afewstragglers–orksandgretchin–followdowntheramp,buteveryone’sattentionisfirmlyfixedonthetradedelegation.It’shardtoputdown themagnoculars and look away, so desperate am I to seewhat happensnext,butnow’sthebesttimetomovebeforeanyonegetsboredorsuspicious.‘Let’sgo,’Isay,tossingthemagnocularsbacktoOrskya.Asagroupwescuttleoutofthedefile.Ifigureforthisbitspeedisbetterthanstealth.There’sstilllotsofdustintheairfromthebuggies,andanyonekeepingwatch would have to be looking right at us to see our camouflaged figuresmovingthroughthemurk.Theashhasblowninadriftuptothesidesofthefort,creatingquiteasteep,soft slope to negotiate. Orskya and her wasters zigzag up the bank and wefollow,cominginalineagainstthehardstonesurface.Therokseemsmolteninplaces,whetherfromentryorbattleit’simpossibletoknow.Whateverthecause,therivuletsandfoldsofstoneprovidegreathandholdstofollowandweswarmup the sideof the fort,guns slungacrossourbacks,heading for twoopeningsjustafewmetresup.Ascoutapproacheseachholeandpeers inside. It’sanagonising fewsecondswaitingfor themtosignal theall-clear,butwegeta thumbsupeventuallyandfollowtheminside,onethrougheachhole.Orskyaheadstooneentrance,Igotothe other, but dropping through the squarish opening bringsme into the samechamberasher–acarvedroomaboutfivemetresacross,squaredoffinplacesandobviouslymadetoholdalargemachineofsomekind.Anopening,perfectlyround,scoopedoutbysomealienfieldcutterIsuppose,takesusintoacurving,uneventunneljustabouthighenoughtostandupinandwideenoughtowalkthreeabreast.Ascoutheadseachway,stayingjustinsightaroundtheturnofthepassage.‘Whichway?’asksOrskya.

ItwouldhavebeenusefultohaveNazrekheretoguideuswiththegreen,butthat isn’tanoption.Orksdon’tdoanything inauniformway.Everything theymakeisacustom,one-offjob,sonotwothingsareeverexactlythesame,unlessthey’vegotslavesworkingonamanufactoryforthem.Thesame’strueoftheirsettlements, fromwhat I’ve seen in the jungle andunderhive.But consideringthat, there is a certain pattern to what they do, as if there’s an underlyingtemplatethat’sdrivingwhat theymakethat’sonlyhalf-remembered.Theexactlayoutofanorklairisneverthesameasanyother,butthegeneraldispositionofsignificantplaces–likewherethewarlordanditscronieslive,wheretheyheaptheirdung,the‘mek’workshopsandthelike–usuallyis.I need to find one of these landmarks.On the basis that I don’twant to getclosertothegateifpossible,Ipointtotheright,awayfromthemainentrance.Leavingbehind a coupleof keen eyes andgood shots towatchourbacks,wemoveasquicklyandquietlyaspossiblebehindascoutingpartyofthree.Through a natural fissure about twice as tall asme,we clamber into anothercorridor, the walls showing the cut marks of some drill or digger. It’s a lotstraighter, though not precise, sloping downwards with openings both naturalandunnaturaltoeachside.Theorksmellisalotstrongerdowntheslopeandweheadtowardsit,waryofcomingacrossanyofthealiens.‘Whyisitquiet?’Imutter,noticingthelackofusualclamourIassociatewithorkliving.Noengines,noshoutingorlaughing,andnobangingorcrashing.‘Maybeallleave?’suggestsOrskya.A trickle of uneasemoves downmy spine a second beforeOahebs steps upbehindus.‘Let’s hope the warphead hasn’t left,’ he says. ‘If it’s gone to see what’shappening,we’refragged.’‘Thanksforpointingthatout,’Igruntback,wishingthenullwasn’tpartoftheplan.Oneofthescoutshissesandpointsthroughawallcrackintoachamberahead.Wehurryforwardtoseewhatthefussis.Thesmelltakesmebacktotheprison-capstanintheunderhive,andIdreadtolookinsideforamoment.SteelingmyselfagainstwhatImightsee,Ipokemyheadaroundtheunevenedgeofthecaveopening.Bodies. Piles of ork bodies. Two dozen at least, plus the same or more ofgretchin, dumped atop each other against the far wall of the chamber. All ofthem look pretty fresh, dark blood pooled on the ground, bodies torn andgouged.A fewdune fliesbuzzaround thecorpses,but Idon’t seeanysignof

eggsormaggotsyet.‘Deadinthelastfewhours,Ireckon,’Itelltheothers.‘Warpborn,’growlsOrskya,makingaprotectivesign.‘Theydothis.’‘Yeah,’Isay,easingbackoutoftheroom,glancingatOahebs.‘Iguesstheorkshaveaproblemasmuchaswedo.Comeon,let’sgetthisdoneasquickaswecan.’Throughaseriesofcavernsandburrowedtunnelsweheadtowardsthecentreoftherok,climbingalittlewhenwecan–Ifigurethatthebossusuallyhasitsquartersclosetothecentreofthesettlement,itshench-orksnearby,andthefortwillbenodifferent.Enginesandshieldgeneratorswouldhave filled theouterchambers. Nazrek toldme that weirdboys are kept away from the other orks.Orksgenerategreenenergy,sothemoreorksaround,themoredangerousforthepsyker.Andfortheotherorks,sinceitseemsthewarpheadwillkeepgatheringuptheenergyandletitoutinpotentiallylethalzapswithoutwarning.‘Feelanything?’IaskOahebs.‘I’manull,’hesnapsback.‘I’mtheoppositeofadetector.’‘Right, yeah,’ I say. ‘I thinkwe need to go higher. I figure the orkswant tocomeandgoeasily,somostofthemwillstickprettyclosetotheentrance.Thewarpheadwillbeasfarfromthataspossible.’Winding ramps and ladders take us up, stillwithout the slightest sign of anyinhabitants.It’seerilyempty.Iwasexpectingafightbynow,andasweclimb,theworrythatourwarpheadisn’theregrowswitheachsecond.There’sonlysolongthatNazrekandtheotherscanspinoutthedistractionbeforesomethingbadhappens.‘It’ll be quicker if just a handful of us go,’ I say,waving for the rest of thegroup tostop. ‘Ifyouhearshooting,comefindus,butotherwise, let’skeep inmindthatwehave togetoutquickly too. Ineedyou,Oahebs.Orskya,doyouwanttocomeorstay?’‘Istay.YoubringLanna,KortandBessda.’‘Youtoo,Fellkas,’Isay,seeingoneofmyformersoldiersamongthehoodedhuddle.‘You’rehandyinatightspot.’‘Yes,BurnedMan,’hesays.It’sbeenawhile since I’veheard the title, and it givesmepause. It’s almostimpossible to think that some of these people are the same ones that werefollowingmeinthatotherworld,thatotherlifeoftheunderhive.I’mprettysurethatifI’dsaidthiswaswherewe’dallendup,I’dhavebeendanglingbyawirenooseorpickingupmyspiltgutsshortlyafter.

Moving more quickly than stealthily, we climb up another sloping corridor,splittingatthetoptosearchthenearbychambers.Muchliketherestoftherokit’sbarestone,someofitmachinedaway,someofitshapedbynature’shand.Thebarkofagunissharpandshockingintheconfines.Asoundcan’t reallybedirty,but there’ssomethingabout theretortofanorkweapon that makes me think that. A slightly uneven detonation of unreliableammunition,notliketheuniformzipofalasgunortheterrifyingsnarl-barkofabolterround.Oneshot,followedbyashoutofpanicfrombelowus.Aheartbeatpasses.Ashout.Therattleofautogunfireandanotherloudershot,ringingbackfromthestonelikeablasphemouswhisperinacathedral.‘Orskya?’Icallinthelullafterthesalvo.Frombehindme,wherewewereheading,Ihearathudofboots.Morethanonepair.‘BurnedMan?’saysFellkas.‘Incomingcompany.’‘Takethemout.Carefulnottohurtthewarpheadthough.’‘Wehave trouble,’Orskya’s voice reverberates up the tunnels. ‘Bad situationhere.’‘Howbad?’Agruntandgunfirejustbehindmedrawsmyattentionbacktoourimmediatepredicament.Twoorks have appeared at a square arch ahead, neither of themsmallspecimensofthespecies.Fellkasandthewastersdrivethembackwitharagged fusillade, bullets pinging from the crudely fashioned walls around thedoorway.‘Theycomebehindus!’Orskya’svoicedriftsup.‘Betweenusandyou.’‘Drawthemawayandgetoutof thefort,’Ishoutback,hopingtheorkscan’tunderstandwhatI’msaying.‘Makealotofnoiseandtakethemwithyousowecangetthewarphead.’‘Iunderstand,BurnedMan.Emperorwatchyou.’Amomentlaterthegunfireresumes,fiercerandlongerthanbefore.AllIcandoistrustthatOrskyadoeswhatshecantotaketheheatoffus.Ihearmetalclinkonstonenotfaraway.‘Down!’shoutsoneofthewasters.Kort,Ithink.Iseethestikkbombrolltoastopafewmetresupthecorridorastheresthitthefloor.Sparksfountainfromoneend.Tooclose.

IjumpoverOahebs,coweringbesideme,andlashoutwithaboot,kickingtheorkgrenadebackupthecorridor.Itclangsoffthewallandspiralstoastopjustpastthearchway.ThestikkbombexplodesasIturnaway.Heatwashesovermeandafewpiecesofshrapnelpluckatmycoatandtrousers.‘Up!Up!’Ibellowthroughtheringinginmyears.I spinbackas theothersclamber to their feet,opening firewithmy laspistolwhen an ork lumbers out of the chamber, expecting to see chunks of useverywhereIreckon.Myfirstshothitsitinthesideofthehead,burningthroughitsearandintothescalp.Howlinginpain,itturns,abulkyshotgun-likeweaponrisingtowardsme.Ifireagain,mylas-boltjoinedbyaflurryofbulletsfrommycompanions,hitting the face andchestof thebrute– it’sbarely fifteenmetresaway,almostimpossibletomiss.‘Oahebs,withme,’Ishout,startingforward.Morebulletswhippastusastheothersgiveuscoverfire,pluckingattheork’sragsandfleshasitfalls,bouncingfromthearmouredplatesonitsshoulders. Iopenfireagain,sendingmorelas-boltsintothealien’sface,boilingawayaneyewithoneoftheshots.‘Gettothewarphead,’Isayaswereachthedoorway.Grittingmyteeth,Ithrowmyselfthroughtheopening,expectingtheroarofanorkshootatogreetme.Istumbletoahalt,findingthesecondorkwithitsbacktome.Inthecornerofthesmallcellisathirdxenos,coveredincopperbanglesandcoilsfromwhichgreen sparks spit. The other ork is bent over it, growling and pointing to thedoor.Theburlierorkrisesandturns,nostrilsflaring,eyesnarrowingasitsetsitsgazeonme.Ipullmyknife.Itwatchestheblade,aripplingsmiletwistingitslipsasitpullsoutitsownweapon,halfametreofserratednastiness.Iscreamatit.Itroarsbackandlunges.Iturnandrun,divingbackthroughthedoorasitcomesafterme.‘Shoot!’Ishout,rollingclearofthearchway.Theork thundersout, straight into ahail of fire from theothers.Green fleshgets torn from thick bones by the sudden storm of bullets, their joint impactsstoppingitdeadinitstracks.Iscrambletomyfeetandthrowmyselfasideasitstepsintothestreamofslugs,hackingatmyback.Turning,slidingalongthefloor,Iaddafewshotsfromthelaspistolasitstompsafterme,draggingaheavypistolfromitsbelt.I can’t saywhether it’s the twentiethor thirtiethhit that takes it down,but it

must be close to that number.With a drawn-out groan the ork topples, pistolfalling from clawed fingers as it clutches at a fountainingwound in its neck.Cutsandholesmarkitsheadandtorso,morebloodthanskinvisible.Movement back up the corridor drawsmy attention to theweirdboy, boltingdownthepassageway, trailinggreen lightning. Isetoff inpursuit, leapingpastthedyingorkasitmakesaswipeatmeinitsdeaththroes.Thecorridorendsinasharpdrop,wherethewarpheadstops,crouchingtotheknottedcableladdertiedaroundaboltinthewall.Itglancesbackandseesmeclosing. Letting the rope drop, the ork rises to its full height, bigger than Irealised when it was cowering in the chamber. Flecks of green energy swirlsaround its hand as it raises splayed fingers towardsme, a cascade of emeraldfrothbubblingfromitsgapingmouth.‘Oahebs!’Tohiscredit,thenulldoesn’thesitate.Oahebshurlshimselfforward,pastme,into the storm of psychic lightning flaring from the outstretched hand of theweirdboy.The arcs seem to pass through his bodywithout effect, becoming adissipatinggreenmistinhiswake.Hebody-tacklestheork,drivingashoulderintoitsgutandtwistingashefalls,somehow dragging the creature down. Random flares of green power courseacrossthealien’sfleshasbrokenpiecesofcopperflyfromitsbody.Theweirdboytriestostand,snarlingandhowlingasOahebswrapshimselflikeaserpentarounditslegandlowerbody.‘Kage!’he shouts, turninghis head as agreen fist slamsdown into it. ‘Now,Kage!’Ipullasmallpouchfrommybeltandthrowit,hardasIcan,straightintotheork’s face. A plume of yellow-and-white dust explodes from the impact, thesporespreparedbyGrotengulfing theweirdboy’shead. It takes inabreathonreflex,inhalingthemixofnarcoticfungi.Sneezing, the warphead reels back, dragging Oahebs towards the end of thepassageandthesheerdrop.Itcapersattheveryedgeofthecliff,tryingtokickOahebsaway,momentsfromunbalancingandplungingtoitsdeathandourruin.Ittopplesoutofsight.Awaster flies pastme, throwing herself across the passage to grabOahebs’ankleastheorkfalls,draggingthenulltowardstheedge.Herotherhandsnagsthecablenearthebolt,strongfingersslidingalongthemetalforasecondbeforefindingtheirgrip.I dash past her, sliding along on my belly at the end of the passage, hands

seizing the flailing legof thewarpheadas it dangles fromOahebs’weakeninggrip.Footfalls behind us bring the others to our aid, hands grabbing and pulling,heavingusandtheorkbackontotheledge.Thesoporificisworkingnow,theweirdboysnoringdeeplyinourgrasp.Sofar,sogood.Nowwejustneedtogetoutofhere.

WithOahebs,LannaandFellkashalf-carrying,half-draggingtheinertwarphead,Kort,Bessda and I lead theway back through thewindingmaze of the fort’spassages. Coming across a cluster of ork and gretchin bodies, I realise thatOrskyahasretreatedbackthewaywecame.‘We’reinnofitstatetogetintoaseriousfirefight,’Itelltheothers.‘Wecan’tgobackthewaywecame.Infact,weneedtogotheotherway,ifOrskyaandtherestarecausingasmuchofadiversionaspossible.’We turn around and head down the next corridor, listening to the sounds offightingthatoccasionallyechoalongtheunevenwalls.‘Was that ahead?’ says Fellkas after the echoes of a protracted exchange diedown.‘Ithinkthatwasahead.’Changing course, we take a right turn, finding ourselves at the top of somesteps cut into the rock. There’s only one way, down, so we heave up thewarphead between us and gingerly start down the steps.Coming safely to thebottom, I stepaway from theothers throughasplit ina rockseam that’sbeenwidenedwithtools.Ontheothersideisadarkspace,withaglimmerofsunlightatthefarend.‘We’llheadthisway,’Isay,butassoonasKortfollowsmethroughthegapwehear ork voices ringing from an opening off to our right. A lamplight getsstronger,highlightingtheopeningjustafewmetresaway.‘Back,back,’I tell theotherswithawave,slitheringthroughwithKort justafewsecondsbeforetheorksenterthelargecavern.We crouch in the shade and listen. A metallic creaking becomes louder,followedbya resonatingclang thatbrings light streaming into the fort.A fewseconds later comes the tramp of feet and the revving of a buggy engine.LookingthroughthegapIseeabouttwentyorksmakingtheirwaybackthroughthemaingate,thebuggyscreechingtoahaltaheadofthem,afewmetresfromwhereweare.Stinkingfumesbillowthroughthefissurefromtheidlingengine.The gunner at the back snarls something to the driver and brutal laughterfollows.

Moreorks are comingback, thunderingup thegate-ramp.Knots of themarebreaking away from the largest group as one of the bigger aliens grunts andbellowsorders.Iadjustposition,tryingtolookoutofthegatetoseeifIcanspotanythingof the trade team.Theycouldallbedead,but Ican’tseeanysignoffighting from here. The orks know something is up though – gretchin areswarming like ants in a disturbednest, chittering andwailing to eachother astheirlargercousinsdirectshoutsandkicksatthem.‘Maybebackup?’saysLanna,jabbingathumboverhershoulder.Ishakemyhead.‘Orkscouldbeanywherebynow,’Ireply.Mygazekeepsgettingdrawnbacktothe buggy, just a short distance away. But the crew look like they’re goingnowhere for the moment. ‘Right. We’re gonna have to do this the fast-but-dangerousway.Oahebs, stickwith thewarphead in case itwakes up. Fellkas,helphim.The rest ofyou,we’regonna takeout thedriver andgunnerof thatbuggy.Speed,that’swhatweneed.Justgetthemoffthebuggylongenoughforustogettheweirdboyon,okay?’There’ssomedoubtfulglancesfromtheirscarf-coveredfaces.‘Wecandrawthisout,sneakingarounduntilwegetcaughtorcornered.Doyouwantthat?’Headsshakingshowstheydon’t.‘Wedo thestupidbut right thingandget thatbuggy,niceand fast,anddrivelikemad.’ThistimeIgetnods.We ease ourselves towards the fissure, which is thankfully still swathed inshadow.Thegunner stepsdown from itspositionon thebackof thebuggy toleanagainstthesideofthevehicle,takingamugofsomethingfromthedriver.Ipullmyselfoutofthegapandrun,knifeinhand,straighttowardstheork.Leapingontoitsback,Iwrapanarmarounditsthroatanddrivetheknifeintoitsear,stabbingwithallofmystrength.It fallsbackwards, slammingme into theunforgiving rockas thedriver rearsfromitsseat,abellowofsurpriseeruptingfromitsfangedmouth.Therestoftheteamswarmpastme,openingfireonthebrute,gunningitdowninthedrivingcupola.Tornapartbybullets, it slumps forward in thecab, theengine revvinghardasithitsthecontrols.Bellowsfromotherorksringaroundthecavern.KorthelpsmerollthedeadgunneroffandIgettomyfeetwhiletheothershaultheweirdboyontothepassengerseat.Gunfirebreaksthegloom,bulletswhiningoverheadastheorksrealisewhat’shappening.Wekickoutthedriver’sbodyand

Fellkas,thelargestofus,sitsinitsplace.Ileapuptothedouble-barrelledheavygun on the back, swinging it around to come to bear against the orks rushingtowardsusalongthehall.Therestpileon,grabbingholdofsparsandchainsasthebuggyleapsforward,enginehowlingprotest.Iopenfire,myshotsgoingwildlyovertheheadsoftheoncomingaliensasweskidintoouracceleration.Withthebuggyjudderingovertheunevenfloor, theironsightonthegun’sbarrelisworsethanuseless.Itrytobringmyaimdownbut being thrown around like a sack of synthi-grain doesn’t help. Enemy firepingsfromthemetalworkaroundus.Kort,crouchingonmyleft,criesout.Ifeelsomethingzingfromthegunbreechandcutmyleftcheek.Openingfireagain,Ikeep the trigger pulled, ammunition belts chewing through the breech as thedeafeningroarofthegunblotsoutthesharperbarksoforkshootas.Fellkassteersusleft,avoidingagroupoforksfiringatus.Hisdiversionslamsusintoanotheralien,whichfliespastme,snarlingandspitting,landingheavilyinourwake.Iswingthegunover,steppingonKortasIdoso.Firingagain,Imanage to get on target, cutting bloody ribbons of flesh from a trio of orksbreaking across our line of exit. Fellkas rams the buggy through their fallingbodies,thevehiclebuckingasitthudsovertheircorpses.Justafewmetrestoopenairnow.Mostoftheorksarebehindus.‘Theotherbuggy!’warnsFellkasasweburst into thebrighter light, takingahandoffthesteeringbartopointtotheright.Iseethesmokethroughtheswirlofdustamomentbeforethelightofthegunfiring.Aheavypoundfollowstheblurofashellpastus,explodingagainstthegatewayjustbehind.‘Steerforthem,’ItellFellkas,tramplingKortagainasIswingtheheavygunsroundtothefrontoncemore.A shell explodes just ametre in front of us.Racing through fire, smoke anddust, we burst from the detonation, gun hammering shots into the hull of theother vehicle. I see its driver slumpand thebuggy turns hard,wheel hitting arock. The gunner flies from its perch as the buggy flips over, wheels stillthrowingdust.We’re not clear yet. Fire from thewatchtowers streaks towards us – strangebeamsofredenergy thatcracklepast likesnakesof lightning.Fellkasstarts tozigzagbutIleanoverthemetalplateseparatingusandshoutathim.‘Theycan’taimworthshitanyway,justdrivefast!’Weacceleratebutdespitemyclaims,thebeamsfromthetowersareconvergingonus,sizzlingcloserandcloser.

‘What’sthat?’Isay,leaningoverthepartitiontopointatabigredbuttoninthemiddleofthecrudedashboard.‘Holdonandwe’llfindout,’saysFellkas,laughing.Everybodygrabsholdastheunderhiverslamshisfistdownontothebutton.Somethinggurglesinthegutsofthebuggy,thegrowloftheenginesbecominga higher-pitched shriek as whatever fancy fuel we’ve just introduced ignites.Flames belch from the smokestacks either side of me, and the vehicle leapsforwardlikeagrav-chuteroutofadrop-ship.Ifeelmybrainhittingtheinsideofmyskullwiththeacceleration,Fellkas’laughbecomingashriekofterroraswecontinue to pick up speed, hurtling along the causeway straight between thetowers,judderingwheelsthreateningtowrenchcontrolfromhimeverymoment.Like a bolt from a Space Marine’s gun we punch out of the crater, wheelsleavingthefloorforatleastthreesecondsbeforecrashingdownintothepackeddirt beyond. I see blurred shapes going past – maybe ork bodies and a fewdressedlikewasters?‘Idon’tknowwherethebrakesare!’Fellkashollers.‘Doesn’tmatter,’ I say,unclenchingmy teeth. I lookbackat thewatchtowersdisappearingintothegloom.‘Justkeepgoing.’

SEVENTEENBADOMENS

Wefinallymanagetobringthebuggyundercontrolabouttwokilometresfromthefort.Thewarpheadisstilloutcold,thankfully.AswechugoverthedunesIcrouch next to Kort. His eyelids flutter open but his breathing is weak andthere’s blood in his mouth and nose. There’s a very unhealthy dark patchspreadingthroughthejerkinunderhiscoat.ItremindsmeofKarsteandIlookaway,notdaringtoinspectthewound.‘Howdowefindtheothers?’Fellkasasks,bringingthebuggytoahaltontheslopeofaridge.Aheadofus,thefortisashadowinthedistance.Icanheartheoccasionalcrackofgunfire,distinctbuterratic.‘We’ll circle around and see if we canmeet upwithOrskya and her group.ThenwefindtheColonel,ifwecan.’Sothat’stheplanandittakesaboutanhouruntilwefinallycomeacrossoneofthewasterscouts,aboutakilometreandahalfeastofthefort.Shetakesusbackto an impromptu campwhereOrskya has sentries out, a few others tending ahandfulofwounded.ThebuggygrumblestoahaltandIjumpoff.BetweenmeandBessdawegetKortoffthebuggy.‘Shit, I’vebeenshot,’ saysFellkasasheclambersoutof thedrivingseat.Hepointstodarkreddownhisleftleg.‘Can’tfeelitthough.’‘Lubricant,’ says Oahebs, fishing under the seat to pull out a severed pipe.‘You’refine.’‘Fragyou,’snapstheunderhiver,pushingOahebsaway.

‘Keepaneyeonthewarphead,’ItellOahebs,beforethesituationescalates.WetakeKortovertothetreatmentareasetupunderastretchofcanvas.Twoofthe people under there are dead, faces coveredwith their hats.We leaveKortthere andwhile the others gather around the buggy, exchanging stories, I findOrskya.‘Goodtoseeyou,’shesays.‘Youtoo,’I replywithasmile. I jaba thumbtowards thebuggy.‘Wegot theork.DidyouseewhathappenedtoSchaefferandtheothers?’‘Itellmypeopleplacetomeet,’shesays,foldingherarms.‘Wegothereandwait.’‘WishI’dthoughtofthat,’Isay.Weditch theorkvehicle. It’sadeathtrapanyway,and theexhaust fumeswillattract attention in time. Heading north, we follow the scouts back to therendezvous point chosen by Orskya. Cresting a hill that looks like all of theothers,thefortwelloutofsightbehindus,wecomeuponafewwastersmakingcamp.Orskyahurriesaheadintothedellandthenreturnswiththenews.‘Theysaywhenshootingstarteveryonescatter,’shetellsme.‘Mypeopleknowway.Hopebringyourpeople.’It’salongwaittoseeifthathopecomestrue.Wepassthetimeinquiet,watchingoverthedozingwarphead,lookingafterthewalkingwoundedandtheworse-off.OverthenextfewhourstheColonelarriveswith about twodozen folks in tow,Nazrek andGrot among them.Hedoesn’tknowifanybodyelsemade it,but in twosand threesfor themostpartagoodchunk of the missing people keep turning up – sometimes just wasters,sometimesa lonewaster leadingunderhivers.I’mpleasedtoseeOleshandhiskininoneofthegroups.It’sheadingtowardssundownwhenasilver-armouredfigureappearsthroughthesmog,OldPreacherbesideher.Thewasteshavemadeamessofthemboth,grimedheadtofootinashanddust.‘TheBurnedManlives!’thepriestdeclares,hurryingforwardtoembraceme.‘Blessedbe!TheEmperorhasguidedusrightonceagain,Isee.’‘Nicetobeappreciated,’Isay,prisingmyselfoutofhisarms.‘TheEmperorislookingoutforyoutoo,OldPreacher.’‘Hehasdonethatformanyyears,itistrue.’Thepriestheadsintothemakeshiftcamp,dispensinggreetingsandblessingsinequalmeasurewhiletheSisterSuperiorfollowsathisheel.TheColonelbreaksfromthegroupwithOrskya.‘Is most people,’ she says. ‘Dangerous to wait longer. Orks maybe hunt.

Warpborntoo.’‘We’llheadtoKrakenStationasquickaswecan,’Isay.‘Thelongerwewait,theworseit’llget.’‘Wewillreturntothebattleabbeyfirst,’saysSchaeffer.‘Weleftthere,what’sthepointofgoingback?It’lltakelonger.’‘Enough!’ TheColonel’s bark has heads turning in our direction.He doesn’tseemtocare.‘Iamgivingyouanorder.Youwillobeyit.’‘Bywhatauthority?’Isaytohim.Istoopandpickupahandfulofdustandletittricklethroughmyfingers.‘That’swhatyourrank’sworthouthere,Schaeffer.’‘Thisisamistake,youknowitis,’hesays,notbackingdown.Deniumenialisheadsbacktowardsus,obviouslyintentonintervening.Aladiafollowswithafewothers.‘You’re not running thismission, that’s the truth,’ I tell the Colonel. ‘If youwanttobepartofit,getusedtodoingwhatItellyou.’Thathitsarawnerveandhepullsouthislaspistol.‘Iwillnotendurefurtherinsubordination,’heinsists,thethreatobvious.‘Thereisnoneedforviolence,ColonelSchaeffer,’saysOldPreacher.‘Weallwishthesamething.’‘Idoubtthat,’growlstheColonel.‘IbelievethatKageknowsbestwhattodofromhere,’thepriestcontinues.‘Wehaveseenthedivineguidancethatcarrieshimforward.’‘Nomore,’theColonelsnaps.‘Nomoreofthislivingsaintnonsense.’‘Nonsense?’Deniumenialisgetsangryattheaccusation,reddeningfromcheekto scalp.There’sangrymuttering from thehivers that aregathering too. ‘Howdareyou,ColonelSchaeffer!IamaclergymanoftheAdeptusMinistorumandIwillnotbemockedinthisway.’TheColonelglowersatthepriestandthenatme.Hisglaremovestooursmallaudience.‘Heisafraud,’Schaeffersays.‘TheEmperorwouldneverseeanythingholyinthiscorruptshell.Anygoodinhimcomesfromme.’‘Sucharrogance,Colonel,’saysOldPreacher.‘YoumaybetheGod-Emperor’smessenger,butyouarenotHiscreator.ThedivinehandisheldoverKage,thestoryofhislifeprovesthat.’‘Heisnotalivingsaint,’theColonelsaysheavily,liftinghispistol.‘Thereisnomiraclethatwillprotecthim.Iwillshowyoualltheproofyouneed.’IhearthezipofthelaspistolbutIseeadarkblurratherthantheflashoflight.The las-bolthitsDeniumenialis in thesideof theheadashe jumps in frontof

me.Charredskinandhotbloodsplashacrossmyface.IcatchaglimpseofmovingsilverandaninstantlaterSchaefferissprawlinginthe dirt, blood seeping from a wound over his eye, his hands empty. Aladiastands over him, muzzle of her bolter smeared with his blood, finger on thetrigger.Someoftheothersareshoutingnow,begginghertofire,demandingtheColonel’sdeathjustastheybayedforitintheunderhive.‘Wait!’Ishout,expectingtheimmediateexecutionoftheColonel.Aladiadoesnotmoveamillimetrebuthervoicecomestomeinaclipped,quiettone.‘There isnoneedfor trial,guilt isobvious.Hadwe themeans, theexecutionwould be arduous and long. In the circumstances, a bolt to the head will beretributionenough.’‘Wait,’ Isayagain,wiping themessofDeniumenialis frommylipsandchin.‘Thereisamessageherethatwe’remissing.OldPreacherhasdied,buthediedforme.HisactsavedmeandindoingsoshowsustheWilloftheEmperor.Itisnot theGod-Emperor that has been stirring us to kill each other, but a darkerpower.’She considers this for a few seconds. I expect her to pull the trigger, but itseemsmypleahasbeenheard.Steppingback,Aladialiftsupherbolter.‘Iwillnottarnishmysoulwiththismatteranylonger,’shesays,stalkingbacktothegroup.Undermyurging,theothersmoveawaytoo,leavingmewiththeColonel.

Hegetstohisfeet,dustinghimselfdownbeforepickinguphislaspistol.‘Weneedto–’hestarts,butIcuthimoff.‘You’renot coming.’Words that seemeasy to saybut feel likepoison inmymouth.TheColonelstaresatme,jawclenched.‘Takeitasablessing.’‘Ablessing?’hesaysslowly,as thoughgrinding thewordsbetweenhis teeth.‘Thisisinsurrection,Kage.’‘You.Are.Not.In.Command.’HowcanImakeitanyclearer?‘Thesepeopledon’twantyou,but they’ll followme.For thegoodof themission,you’renotcoming.’‘Forthegoodofthemission?’Heseemsunabletograspverysimplefactsatthemoment. I wonder if the blow from Sister Aladia maybe knocked somethinglooseinhishead.‘You fraggedapriest!That’s bring-down-the-wrath-of-the-Emperor stuff, youknow.Bad.Abadomen.’

‘Whataboutallthatyousaid,itbeingasignfromtheEmperor?’‘Thatmightbe true,buton theotherhandmaybeyou justmurderedapriest.I’mnotwillingtoriskhavingyouaroundanylonger.’‘Youcannotleadthismission,Kage.Youwillfail.’I reach out a hand in consolation. This has been his existence for Emperorknowshowlong.Atleastonenormallifetimeandlikelymore.‘You can stop,’ I tell him softly. ‘Youdon’t have to try towin everywar byyourself.You don’t have to throw yourself into themouth of death this time.You’veearnedthis…thischanceatalittlepeace.Forallthat’sholy,Schaeffer,youcansitthisoneout.’‘Peace?’Hegrimaceslikeit’stheworstblasphemytoutter.‘Yeah. Not war. Just keep an eye on the civilians and make sure nothinghappenstothem.Getthemtotheabbeylikeyousaid,maybe?’Ilookupattherift,atthemomentaswirlingstormthecolourofanoldbruise.‘Don’tmentionitto the others but we’re all gonna die up there, win or lose. That’s the warpbleeding through.Youdon’tget to ramaship into itand then justcomeback.Worstoption,wegetthrownadriftinwarpspacewithoutaNavigator.Bestiswegettornapartbytheenergyofthewarpheaddetonatinginthere.Youdon’thavetodie.Justthisonce,backdownandshutup.’‘YouthinkyoucanleadtheLastChancers,Kage?Youthinkthatmaybeyou’rethecolonelnow?’‘We’vebeenthroughalot.Honestly,haveyouevermetanyonebetterqualifiedtotakeoverfromyouthanme?There’sareasonIkeepcomingbackandit’snotbecauseIlikethetasteoftherations.’‘Youneedthis,’hesays,headtiltingslightly.‘Thatspeechyougaveonthewalloftheabbey,thatwasalie.Youdochoosethislife,againandagain.Itmightnotbeuptoyouwherethatfightis,butyouareright,youkeepcomingback.Butitisnotbecauseofthemission.Itisbecauseofme!IgiveyourlifemeaningandIwillgiveyourdeathmeaning.’‘Can’t argue,Colonel.But I alsoneedyou tobeherewhen I’mgone. I triedbefore, but for some reason I’m still here.Maybe the Emperor savedme forsomethingbetter,likethis.Ican’ttellyouwhetherI’masaintornot,butIcantellyouthatrightnow,righthere,thisfeelslikeI’msupposedtodothis.ThisiswherethestoryofLieutenantKagegoes.’I turn and walk away, ignoring his next words. Maybe he has been thefoundationofmy life these last fewyears,but I’llbedamned to theabyss if Iwon’ttrytogetoutfromunderhisshadowwhenIgetthechance.

Reachingtheedgeofthecampthere’sacoupleofdozenpeoplewaitingforme.‘Let’sgetready,’Itellthem.‘We’vegotastarshiptosteal.’Wasters,hivers,twoorkoidsandaBattleSister.Yeah.ThesearemyLastChancers.

EIGHTEENKRAKENSTATION

Gettingashuttleorlightercapableofcarryingusintoorbitshouldbethemoststraightforwardpartoftheplan.ErasmisatoldusthattheportworksatKrakenStationwerestilloperational–adetachmenthadbeenlefttodefendthefacilityafter thewithdrawal of themain force in case itwas to be used as an axis ofcounter-attack.Night falls before we finish crossing about four kilometres of abandonedfieldworksthatseparateKrakenStationfromtherestofthewastes.Istarthavingconcerns when I see that the smudge of brightness on the horizon isn’t justnavigationallightsbuttheflickeringredoffires.Afewminuteslaterbringsthesound of explosions, accompanying flashes of orange and yellow through thehaze.Concernsbecomeoutrightworrywhena fireball racesupa fewhundredmetresintotheair,showeringburningdebrisacrossawidearea.Ipushon,drivingmybodywithpurewilltoovercomelackofsleepandmusclefatigue.Withmearetwenty-threeLastChancers.OahebsistheonlyoneoftheColonel’soriginalteamthathassurvived,andthere’sSisterSuperiorAladiatoo.Withnochanceofreconnectingwiththerestofherorderanytimesoon,shetoldmethatthisseemsabettercourseofactionthansittingaroundlookingafterthewoundedandnon-fighters.Ialsothinkshedoesn’twanttospendtimewiththeColonelanymorethanIdo.NazrekandGrothavebeenmedalwinnersasfarasI’mconcerned,thesmalleralien in particular proving something of a fungal alchemist when it comes to

keeping thewarpheadsedated.Orskyaand themostable-bodiedofherpeoplemake up the waster contingent, twelve of them altogether, which leaves onlyninefollowersoftheBurnedManstillcapableoffightingfromthehundredsthatfled with me from the first attack. It’s still nothing compared to the fourthousandthatdiedbetweenlandingonIcharIVanddestroyingCoritanorum,butasunplannedrecruitmentsgoIthinkI’veendedupwithaprettyhandybunch.Aboutakilometrefromthestation it’sstillnoclearerwhat’sgoingon.Thereare aircraft duelling overhead, tracers and rockets cutting through the twilightmurk.Smaller-arms fire rattles and zaps from the facility, hidden for themostpart by a curtainwall about threemetres high. I call a halt to take stock anddiscusstheplanwiththemakeshiftplatoon.‘Thisisprobablygoodforus,’Isay,tryingtoputthebestshineonthesituation.‘Intheconfusionwecanslipinandgetashipwithoutanyoneseeingus.We’llbeofftheapronandheadingtothestarsbeforeanyoneknowswe’rethere.’‘Youthink?’saysOrskya,pullinguphergogglestolookatmewithadubiousstare.‘Easyin?’‘Easyout,’Isay,thoughIdon’tevenbelievemyself.NothingisevereasyfortheLastChancers.‘Sister,doyouknowanythingaboutthelayoutoftheport?’‘MycompanylandedatKrakenbeforethebattleabbeywasraised,’shereplies.‘Hexagonal wall, two kilometres across, encircling the barracks, airstrip andlaunchpads,plusacommand-and-controltowerneartheeasternside.We’llneedtoheadtotheorbitalpadsinthenorthsector,onthefarside.’‘Andwaysin?Thatwalllooksprettysolid.’‘Therearetwogateways,oneeastandonewest,leftandrightofwhereweare.But they’ll be guarded or contested. I cannot envision us getting throughunseen.’‘The wall’s just too high to climb over without proper equipment,’ I say,lookingatOrskya.‘Havesomerope,’shetellsmewithashakeofthehead.‘Wesenduprunners,findsomethingtotierope.Othersclimb.’‘Soundslikeaplan,’Isay,glancingbackatOahebs.‘How’soursleeper?’Thewarphead is strapped down to one of thewaster’s drag-sleds, grumblinganddribbling,butotherwisecomatose.Grotisridingonthesledtoo,watchingcarefully,bagofpowderedsoporificinhand.‘Starting tocomeoutof it, I think.’Oahebs looksatNazrek,who’sstaringatthefirefightinthedistance,entrancedbytheoccasionalzipoftracerandflareofdetonation. ‘Hey,does it have tobe awake?Thewarphead,does it have tobe

awaketodoitsheadbangthing?’Nazrekstompsbackandlooksdownattheweirdboybeforeshrugging.‘Maybe.’Itturnsitsmassiveheadtowardsmeforamomentandthenbacktotheotherork.‘Needtakeoffprotection.’‘Whatprotection?’saysOahebs.‘Shiny metal stop green,’ says Nazrek, stripping away a torq from thewarphead’sarm.‘Takeoffmetal,bigbang.’‘Let’sdothatoncewe’reontheship,yeah?’IcalloutasOahebsbendsovertheork topulloff abracelet. I turnmyattention toeveryoneelse. ‘It’ll takeevenlongertoswingaroundtocomeatthestationfromthenorth,sowe’regoingtofindthebestplacetocrossthewallonthissideandthencutacrosstheairstripitself.Remember,we’rehere toget inand thenontoa ship,notget stuck inafirefight.Keeplow,movequick.’‘TherearegoingtobeAstraMilitarumtroopersdefendingthestation,’Aladiapointsout.‘Theywillnotseeusasallies.’Ipulldownthescarfovermymouthandnoseandwipethesweatfrommyfacewith my cuff. The temperature is dropping now, but all the waster gearprotectingusfromtheelementsishotwork.Ilookatmyplatoon.‘WhenIdestroyedCoritanorum,therewerehundredsofthousandsofciviliansthere.Mostofthemweren’t traitors, theircommanderswerejustdominatedbyanalienincursion.Butwecouldn’tletitspread.Ifthewarwaslost,ifthecityheldforanylonger,thatcontaminationwasgoingtogetoutandspreadthroughother forces and maybe off-world. So, we blew the plasma reactors andincineratedfivemillionpeople.’I turnmystaretothestarport.‘We’reheretosaveArmageddon.Takeoutanyonethatgetsinourway.’

ThefirstthingthatbecomesclearaswegetclosertoKrakenStationisthatthebattleisn’tasstraightforwardasIfirstthought.WelayupaboutahundredandfiftymetresfromthetwistedremnantsofrazorwirethatusedtoguardtheouterperimeterandItakestock.I can see ork banners hoisted over the wall close to us, but the armouredvehiclespouringfireintothecompoundaroundthecontroltowerarebastardisedversions of Imperial war machines – the World Eaters. The flare of lasgunsrevealsthecontinuedpresenceoftheAstraMilitarumgarrison,concentratedtothenorth-westwithapockettothefarwest.Divided,it’sonlyamatteroftimebefore they’rewiped out.The good news is that the orks have smashed somesizeablebreachesintothecurtainwall,soifwewanttofollowthemin,wecan

avoidtheclimbing.‘Kage!’The call comes fromSisterAladia. ‘Wecannot allow theport to fallintothepossessionofourfoes.’‘Biggerworriesatthemoment,’Isay,pointinguptotheriftthatblotsthenightskylikeaslowlyexpandingfragblossom.IthinkIcanseedarkshapesmovingin its heart butmaybe it’s justmy imagination and the utter exhaustion that’stryingtoshutdownmybody.‘NobodyisgonnacareaboutanairstriponcetheWorldEatersgettheirway.’Ialmostwanttotellhertogoandjointhedefenders,butshe’susefultohavearound. She’s certainly themost capable warrior among us, even without herbolter and power armour. Her wargear simply makes her near-unstoppable,unless we run directly into the Traitor Astartes.With that in mind I lead theplatoononandleft,headingtothewesternmostbreach,thesmallestofthethree.Anotherstopandaquickscanwiththemagnocularsrevealsthattheorkshavepredictably moved on from their first assault. The remnants of several aliensclogstheshatteredstone,andburningwrecksofhalfadozenvehicles,bothlargeand small, light the packed ground around the compound. There’s very littlecoverthatmightnotexplode,andevenfewershadows.‘Wegetin,clearthewallandthenjustfollowme,’Ideclare,risingupfromthelastdunebeforetheopengroundaroundthecurtainwall.Theashherehasbeensetwithrockcretetosolidifyit.It’snotatallevenbutitdoesn’tshiftunderfoot.I’ve spent so much time slogging through slopes of dust and stone that it’sjarring to run over unforgiving ground again. I almost trip, and several of thewasters look like they’rehobblingaswedash through theflickeringorangeoffirelight.Thebreachstartsfromaboutametreup,asmallrampoforkcarcassesrunninguptoit.Nazrekpauses,tossesawayitscustomisedbolterandhaulsalarge-boreshoota from the debris, its ammo belt trailing a coil of slugs like small tankshells.Hefting it tooneshoulder, theorkclambersafterus,bootsmashing theremains of its kind, oblivious to their deaths. Grot springs monkey-like fromtoppledstonetocorpseandtothebreach,along,slenderbladeinitsteeth.Draggingmyself over rubble splatteredwith ork innards and human blood Ijumpdownintothecompoundinterior.I’vebeeninafewbattles,soIknowthatusuallythere’ssomekindofshapetoitthatyoucanrecognisewithaglance.Thistimeit’sjustanarchy.Linesoffiregoingeverywhere,lasgunblastsandboltscriss-crossingwiththemuzzleflareoforkshootasandgreenbeamsfromalienweapons.Orkrocketscorkscrewnoisily

through the beams of searchlights while a strafing Vulture gunship rakes firealongthefarwall.I’mgladwedidn’tcomethatway.The explosion we saw earlier must have been the fuel depot. Burningpromethiumtankslight thewesternhalfof thecompoundandyoucanfeel theheatofitfromwhereweare,severalhundredmetresaway.AndthroughitallIhavethesinkingfeelingthattherearen’tanyships.It’shardtobelievethere’sanythingonthegroundthathasn’tbeenhitbyshells,bombsorcrossfire.‘Overthere!’Orskya grabs my arm and points to a raised landing pad almost directlyopposite us, partly obscured by smoke billowing from the burning depot. Ablunt-nosed drop-craft sits there, red-robed adepts moving around its landinggear,otherfiguresappearinganddisappearingfromtheruddylightthatstreamsfromtheopen rampway in thesideof the fuselage, loadingsomethingaboard.It’sclearlygettingreadytoleave,andwedon’thavelong.It’sopengroundallthewaythough.Eighthundredmetresorso,Ireckon,withjust enemy fire for company. While the others gather around me I look foranythingelse,anothershuttlethat’llbeeasiertoreach.InsteadIspythecrashedremnants of an Imperial Navy Marauder bomber. It looks burnt-out, brokenhalfwayalongtheeast-westrunway,noseconeandupperfuselageblackenedbyfire.‘Wegothatwayfirst,’Isay, indicatingthewreckwithajabbedfinger.‘Thenwehooklefttothedrop-ship.’‘That’sfurther,’pointsoutSisterAladia.‘Yes, but thatmess,’ I indicate a pyre ofmetal and bodies that used to be awatchtowersomewayto theeast, ‘coversusfrombeingshot.We’llonlyhavehalfthedistancetocrossintheopen.’I’mnotinamoodforarguingandassoonasOahebsandacoupleoftheothershavemanhandled thewarphead down from the brokenwall I set off at a run,straight towards the broken Marauder. I don’t look back. Better to trust thatthey’refollowingbecauseifthey’renotImightaswelljustheadoffonmyownanyway.Icatchthereassuringthudofbootsbehindme.AfewsecondslaterIheartheabsolutelyunnervinghissofabolt-round.Itsearspastmyleftear, followedbyagruntas ithitsa target.Ahalf-seconddelay and then a wet detonation accompanied by screams and shouts. I keeprunning,not trusting toanythingbutspeedasI try toseewhere theshotcame

from.There’snothinginthepoolsofflickeringlight.Maybejustarandomovershot?‘Who’shit?’Ishout,silentlyprayingitisn’tOahebsorthewarphead.‘Whowashit?’‘Strasna,’Orskyayellsback,breathinglaboured.‘Weleavehim.’A pinprick of light drawsmy eye to a stretch of wall that divides the mainrunwaywithatrackbesideit,aboutthreehundredmetresaway.Amomentlateritresolvesintoanotherbolt,flaringafewmetrestomyright,bringingthesamethud and yell as before. I hear a clatter of a gun being lost and someone elsecursing.Alas-boltzipsback,wayofftargetatthisrange.‘Keepmoving!’ I bellow, heaving a breath into lungs that feel tighter than atech-priest’snuts.‘GettotheMarauder!’Somethingbigvaultsthewall.Armouredandfast.TraitorAstartes.WorldEater.Justtheone,butit’snoconsolation.He’sfiringadamnboltpistol,pickingusoff at two hundred and fifty metres even as he starts running towards us. Achainaxegrowlsintolifeinhisotherhand.‘Yourun,westop,’Orskyacallsout.Ishouldprobablyargue.Idon’t.IjustkeeprunningasbulletsstarttobuzzbackacrosstherunwayintothechargingSpaceMarine.Ceramitechipsflyfromhisarmourbuthekeepscoming,anotherboltflashingfromthemuzzleofhispistoltotakeoutsomeonebehindmeinalethaldetonation.The World Eater’s course curves, taking him towards the group that havestoppedtoopenfire.Atleastthatpartoftheplanhasworked.Two hundredmetres from thewreck of theMarauder I finally risk a glanceback.Nazrek has a rope over its shoulder, hauling the drag-sled alongwith ahandful of others, including Oahebs. Half a dozen more follow, throwingpanickedglancesattheapproachingWorldEater.BeyondthemOrskyaandtheresthavesetupan impromptufiring line,blazingawayat the incomingSpaceMarine. Aladia is with them, bolter readied. At the hundred-metre mark sheopensfire,herfirstshotglancingoffapauldronstuddedwithspikesandgrislytrophies.TheSpaceMarinehascoveredtenmoremetresbeforeshefiresagain,thistimeherroundhittingthetraitorsquareinthechest.He stumbles, falling to oneknee and awordless shout of hope rips frommythroat.The bolt pistol barks its reply, the bolt racing back across the gap towards

Aladia. My shout dies away as the bolt hits the side of her helm, explodingacross the silvered armour. Aladia falls sideways, her finger closing on thetrigger,theboltinthechamberspearinguselesslyintothesky.‘Kage,comeon,’gaspsOahebsashepullslevel.Itakeonelastlookattheothergroup.Thehereticisrunningagain,fiftymetresaway,thesnarlofthechainaxeaudible,boltpistolflaringtoriptheheadfromawaster.Areallystupidpartofmewants togoback.LikeIcouldhelp…ThesmarterhalfofmybraintakesoverandIfallinbehindthesled,rammingmypistolintomybeltsoIcanbendandpushwithbothhands.Ametallicbellowripsthroughthenightbehindus.‘BloodfortheBloodGod!’EvenatthisdistanceIcanhearthechainaxespinningtofullspeed.Perhapsit’smyimaginationthatfillsinthenextpiece,therippingoffleshandcrackingofbones.Thensomethinglikealightningflashcausesmetofalter,lettinggoofthesledasIcometoastopandturnagain.I see threewasters down, one of themcrushedunder the boot of the berserkwarrior.Orskya swingsher arquebus like a club, theweighted stock smashinginto the Space Marine’s face, breaking on impact. As the monstrous warriordrawsback thechainaxe,Aladia leaps through thepressofbodies,agleamingbluesword inhand.The tipof thebladesweepsup, slicingneatly through thewrist of the Space Marine. Chainaxe still in its grip, the hand flies away,spiralling to the ground behind the World Eater. Enraged, the Space Marinebringsdownthestump,smashingitintoOrskya’sface.Herheadfliesback,neckobviouslybroken,theforceoftheblowfoldingherbackwards.Ifeeltheimpactinmygut,asuddenpainatseeingtheduneseergodown.Aladia lances her power sword two-handed into the gap between helm andplastron,piercingthroatandspine.Turning,sheripstheswordfree,slashingintothehead.Idon’tneed tosee the rest. I turnanddashafter theothers,covering the lasthundredmetrestothebrokenaircraftwithincreasinglyheavystrides.ReachingthesanctuaryofthecrackedfuselageIfindNazrekattheoppositeside,staringoutofaholeinthecompartmentwall,theotherscombiningtheireffortstodragthewarpheadthroughthetangleofwiresandtwistedmetal.‘Bad,boss,’saystheork.‘Bad.’IcanseemoreSpaceMarinesheadingtowardsusfromthedistantwall.Fiveat

least,theirblood-reddenedarmourshiningintheglowofthefires.‘Ifwemakeabreakforitnow,wemightreachthedrop-ship,’saysOahebs.‘Andifwedon’t,we’llbegunneddowninopenground,’Ireply.AglanceovermyshoulderrevealstheapproachofthewastersandSisterAladia.Ifweleavenow,it’swithoutthem.‘Can’triskit.We’llhavetoholdhere,regroupandthenmakeabreakforit.’Andthatwasabigmistake.

ThebulkoftheMarauderprotectsusagainstdirecthits,whichisgoodbecausethe interior is filledwith splinters fromexplodingmetal and fragmentsofboltdetonations.Ifanything,takingcoverinthedownedplanehasmadeiteasierfortheWorldEaters,whojusthavetohitnearustosendshowersoflethalshrapnelscythingthroughthepeoplepackedinsidethefuselage.ThefloorisalreadyawashwithbloodandIcan’thearanythingfortheringofmetalandcriesofthewounded.It’sasifmyworldhasshrunkdowntoametalcylinderaboutfivemetreslongandthreewide,filledwithdeathandpain.The fusillade is relentless, giving not even a split second to throw a glancethroughthewarpedbeamsandbrokenmetal.It’sbeenmaybetenseconds,howmuchgroundwouldtheyhavecovered?Ahundredandfiftymetres?More?AladiastandswithherbacktooneofthereinforcedribsthatstretcharoundtheMarauder’smainbombbay,bolterinhandassmallexplosionseruptacrossthesurfaceoutside.Thesideofhertattooedfaceiscoveredinblood,piecesofmetalstuckintheskin,butshepaysitnoheedatall.Thedozenandmorefigureswrithingaroundonthefloorwithlaceratedfaces,slashedarteriesandspillinggutsarenotsocomposed.IfsomeonehadaskedmewhenI’d joined theImperialGuardwhatwouldbetheworst thing Imight see, Iwouldn’thave imaginedanythinghalf asbadasthisslaughter.And this is just the prelude to the real carnage, when those heretics burstthroughthewallsandtearusapartwithchainaxes.There’snotadamnedthingwecandoaboutit.Anykindofcounter-fireisimpossible.Themomentanyonetries to riseor turnoutofcoveranotherdetonationsends red-hotmetal shardsintothem.Fragginghelpless.IneverthoughtI’ddiewithoutfightingbackinsomeway,butthisisjustthatsituation.IfItrytofightI’lldieevenquicker.I can only look at the others out of the corner ofmy eye. I can seeNazrek

huddle close to the floor,Grot taking cover in the shadow of the ork. I catchterrified glances from some of the others, but I can’t see Oahebs or thewarphead.WhyamIeventhinkingaboutthem?Nobodyisgettingoutofherealive.Themissionisanabjectfailure.What’smostgalling is imaginingwhat theColonelwould say.No smugness,just that holier-and-better-than-thou righteousness he brings with him. Andthere’salsothesneakingsuspicionthathewasabsolutelyrightaboutme.Thisismyfraggingmess.IthinkI’dratherstickmyheadoutofthefuselagethansayittohim.IsendaprayertotheEmperor,lipssoundlesslymouthingthewordsamongthescreechoftearingmetalandbarkofexplodingbolts.It’sasimplemessageand,surprisingevenmyself, it isn’taprayer forsalvation. I justpray that theothermissionsaren’tasfraggedasthisone.IpraythattheBattleSistersandtheSpaceMarineshavemanagedtobreaktheritual.And then I realise it is about me, after all. Because if the Sisters and theSalamanderscanstoptheWorldEatersthenitdoesn’tmatterwhathappenshere.My total failure becomes an irrelevancy. I will be absolved of my utterinadequacy.Butthere’snowayoffindingout,soI’mgoingtodiewiththeknowledgethatI’vethrownawaytheonlychancewehadtosaveArmageddon.I’msowrappedupinthesethoughtsandprayersthatittakesasecondformetoregister thechangeinthebattle-noise.Adeeper thunderamongthesmall-armsandoccasionalsnapofheavierweapons.Andtheabsenceofexplodingdeathinmyimmediatevicinity.SisterAladiabringsherbolteraroundthestanchion,aimingoutside,butdoesn’topenfire.Nobodyelsedaresmove.ThroughtheshreddedroofIseetheblueflameofplasmajetsandhearanoisethatbringsrecentmemoriesfloodingback.TheThunderhawk.‘Didn’twedothisalready?’Isay,uncoilingfrommyfoetalcrouch,lookinguptosee theSalamandersgunshipdescendingnearby,winggunsblazing into thedistance.Othersstandandstartcheering,spillingoutfromthewrecktoshoutandwaveatthelandinggunship.‘Notimetocelebrate,’Isnapatthem,clamberingoverthecorpseswedgedinto

thebottomoftheaircrafthull,checkingfaces.‘Oahebs?’‘Here, Kage,’ he replies, pushing out from under two bodies that are moreblood and gristle than human. His left arm is a mess of cuts, bone showingthroughattheelbowandforearm.‘Stillhere.’Thewarphead is next to him, buried undermore corpses.Weget a few ablebodiestogethertodragthemoffandfreetheork,whichisstartingtostirinitssleep,baringitsteethandgrumbling.TheThunderhawktouchesdownamidswirlingdustandablazeof lights, thefront assault ramp whining open. A squad of armoured warriors descends,dwarfingonemoreamongtheircontingent.I have to double-take at the sight of the Colonel in formal dress coat, anofficer’scaponhisheadoncemore.Underneatharestill theraggedclothesofthe wasters, but at first glance you’d think he’d just stepped off the paradeground.‘Fragme,’Isay.Icount tenSpaceMarines,whofanoutaroundus, firingatdistant targetsonthewalls,againstbothorksandheretics.‘LieutenantKage,report,’Schaefferbarks,comingtoastopafewmetresaway.Training and instinct take control for a second and I come to attention, handhalf-risinginsalutebeforefallingbacktomyside.‘Heavycasualties,objectivenotyetachieved,’Imumble,suddenlyfeelinglikeI’ve been dragged before one of my older family members for somemisdemeanour.Someofmynaturaltemperamentreassertsitself.‘Whatthefragareyoudoinghere?’‘SavingArmageddon,’theColonelreplies.‘Unlikeyou.’Hesweepsoverallofuswiththaticygaze,jawset,handsformingfists.‘Fallinwithme,allofyouthatcanstillwalk,’heshouts,turningonhisheel.Icatchupwithhimwithafewhurriedsteps,stillnotsureIdidn’tdieinthewreckandthisissomekindofbizarrebutshort-livedafterlife.‘How…?’ I look around and see the SpaceMarines advancing with us, stillfiringshotsoutintothefirelight.‘Youbroughtsomefriends.’‘Your biggest problem,Kage, is that you are not nearly as intelligent as youthinkyouare,’theColoneltellsme,stridingacrossthebrokenrunway,headingdirectlytowardsthepooloflightsaroundthedrop-shipapron.Hisvoiceisraisedabovethenoiseofboltersandthudofpoweredarmour,buthedeliversthewordswiththesamecoolprecisionasalways.‘Mymissionsarenotcasualunderhive

scraps,won throughon guts and quick-thinking.They aremilitary operations,the scope ofwhich you never seem to comprehend.Did you really think youwould succeed by just ploughing ahead without planning, hoping that theEmperorwouldsomehowmakeeverythingrightforyou?’‘Iwouldn’tsay–’Iprotest,buttheColonelisn’tinterestedinmycontributiontotheconversation.‘Think about everymissionwe have ever fought together,Kage, and tellmethat you did not realise what massive undertakings they were? Starships,transports, weapons. Information about the enemy, covering bombardments,orbitalstrikes,tech-priestsandsupplydrops.Didallofthatjusthappen?’We’reonlyacoupleofhundredmetresawayfromthestepsuptothelandingpad. Occasional rasps of fire come past or whine above us, the brunt of itdirected at the Salamanders or the gunship that has lifted off to take stationoverhead.‘Shouldn’twebereadytofight?’Isay,noticingtheColoneldoesn’tevenhavehispistol inhand. ‘Just incase theydon’twant to justgiveus theirdrop-ship,right?’TheglancetheColonelthrowsmeismorevenomousthanaripviperbite.‘Diditoccurtoyouthatrefuellingandarmingadrop-shipinthemiddleofanongoingbattlewasastrangethingtodo?’‘I guessed theyweremaybe evacuating officers or something. It didn’t seemimportant.’‘And did you ever think about bringing along the vox we recovered tocommunicatewithKrakenStation?’‘Well,Isuppose,now–’Heavy weapons on the western wall open fire, sending rockets and shellsstreaming over our heads into the tangles of wreckage in the middle of thecompound.Ifollowtheirfallforafewsecondsandseeorkbodiescaughtintheblasts.’‘Anddidyouhavesomeonethatcanpilotashipintoorbitforyou?’theColonelcontinues,eyesfixedahead.‘Ihadn’tgotthatfar–’‘Itrustthatyouhavebeenconductingoperationalassessmentsofyourteamtoidentifyimportantspecialismsandpotentialmission-vitalprofiles.’‘Howexactlywould–’‘Youwouldbea jokeofacommander,Kage,but thosecorpsesyouhaveleftbehindarenotatallfunny.’Hisangerissomethingtowitness.Noshouting,no

theatrics.Justraw,focusedire,allofitdirectedatme.Iwitherunderhisscornlike a forest hitwith anti-plant shells. ‘Youheardnothing I said toyou in theabbey.Youcannotwinifyouareworriedaboutsavinglives,yoursoranybodyelse’s.You only live if you succeed, all other routes lead to death.Yours andeverybodyelse’s.’Allmyexcusesaresweptawaybytheforceofhiswords,buthe’snotdoneyet.‘Fromthemomentyousawmeagain,allyouhavehadonyourmindisbeingincharge.’‘Youcantalk!You’vebeentryingtotakeovereverychanceyouget.’‘Now you know why. You are unfit to lead this kind of mission. You arecapable of insight, practical improvisation and possess an uncanny sense forsurvival.’Wecometothefootofthemetalstairwayleadinguptothedrop-ship’spad. He stops and looks atmewith a shake of the head. ‘What you are not,Kage, is a colonel in theGod-Emperor’s Imperial Guard, and everything thatmeans.’Ihavetostandthereandtakeit,becausehe’sthroughmydefencesandnailingeveryshot. I rose tomynatural level inAcheron,awarlordofsorts,but that’sthesummitofmyabilitiesasanunderhiver.IfI’dstayedonOlympusmaybeit’dhaveturnedoutthesame.ButthemomentIjoinedtheImperialGuardIwasnotgoingtobedestinedfor theofficercorpsandaheadyrisethroughtheranks…By the Emperor, my rank of lieutenant – prior rank – was essentiallyadministrativebecauseIwasinchargeofaplatoonatonepoint.‘Onemorething,Kage,’hesays,hiswordscomingthroughafogofmisery.Ilookathimjustintimetoseehisfistswinging.Itconnectsperfectlybetweennoseandcheek,smashingmyheadbacktosendme crumpling to the floor. I lift upmy hands to protectmyself too late as heloomsoverme.‘Ifyoueverstrikemeagain,Iwillshootyou.’Hestands there,waitingformyresponse. Inod, feelingblood tricklingdownmy top lip. It’snothing really,butofall the injuries I’ve suffered in these lastseveraldaysthisonehurtsthemost.Inodagain,utterlysubmissivetohiswill.‘Iamgladwehavecometothisaccord,’hesays,andoffersahandtohelpmetomyfeet.Iacceptitandrisewithagrunt.‘Ihavethreewordsforyou,’hesays,steppingaway,lookingupatthelandingpadandbacktome.‘Areyouready?’Istandtoattention,mysaluteassharpasachainaxethistime.‘Yes,Colonel,’Ireply.

‘Thencomewithme,LieutenantKage.’

NINETEENVOIDBOUND

Beforeweascendtothedrop-shipanarmouredwarriorbreaksfromtheothers.IrecogniseLibrarianAfahiva,staffinonehand,boltpistolintheother.Hestopsbesidethewarphead,whichisbeginningtostirevenmore,grumblinginthelastthroesofsleep.The SpaceMarine holds out a hand, a nimbus of gold playing between thefingertips.Theork’slipsripple,baringsharpteeth,amoanemanatingfromdeepinitschest.Afahivastepsbackasthoughstruck.‘Strong,’hesays,withdrawinghishand.HelooksatmeandthentheColonel.‘Thisisyourpsychicbomb?’‘Yes,’Isay.‘I’veseenhowthesewarpheadsreacttothewarpbornandNazrekagrees.Exposing it to theriftshouldgiveusabigpsychicbang.’ I lookat thewarphead,totheColonelandthentheLibrarian.‘Ihaveaquestion.’‘Askit,’saysAfahiva.‘Why don’t we use the Thunderhawk?’ I jab a thumb over my shoulder towhere the Salamanders gunship is circling the port, battle canon and heavybolterstearingruinthroughtheattackers.‘Ifigurethat’saquickandsafewayupintoorbit.’TheSpaceMarine laughs, a deep rumble given a nerve-jangling edge by themechanicaladdresssystemofhisarmour.‘ByVulkan’s fire, thatwould be insane!’ the Librarian replies. ‘Your plan isalmostcertainlydoomedtofail,LieutenantKage.Youwillalldie,eithergetting

intotheriftorwhenyourorkpsykerexplodes.Evenifyouget thatfarI thinkthereisonlyasmallchancethatwhatyouhopetoachievewillcomeabout.No,LieutenantKage, theSalamanderswill not be accompanying you on this one-wayvoyage.Itiscourageousofyou,foolhardyprobably,butwewillcontinuetotargettheWorldEatershereonthesurface.’‘Right,’ I say. InoticeSisterSuperiorAladia isclosebyand turn tospeak toher.‘Iguessyou’llbeleavingusnowtoo.TheSpaceMarinescanprobablytakeyoubacktorejoinyourcompany,oroneoftheothersfromyourorder.’Shestepspastthelastfewhiversandwasters,alivingstatueofsilvermarredwithbloodysplashesandgrime.HereyesmovefromNazrektotheothers,thentotheColonel,toAfahivaandeventuallytome.‘ColonelSchaeffer is right, youarenocommander,’ she says. I sag, about toturnaway,butshecontinues.‘ButIlookatthesepeopleandIcanseesomethingofwhy they are here. You are not a commander, BurnedMan, but you are aleader.Iseeyoufight,notjustwithyourweaponsbutwithyoursoul.Iseegoodintentwarwithselfishness.Somewouldsaythatmakesyouimpure,unworthyoftheloveandprotectionoftheEmperor.’She raises her voice as the Thunderhawk’s circuit brings it closer, gunsboomingandbarking.‘IbelievethatwearebornimperfectandthatwemuststrivetoproveourselvestotheGod-EmperoreachandeverydayHegrantsus.Youfellsolow,butyouhavebrought yourself back and in your journey from the flamesyouhave re-enactedthatstruggle.ThenoblestofmySisterhoodhavebeenelevatedtosaintsandahandfulhavebecomelivingsaints,sustainedbytheWilloftheEmperortofightonafterdeath’sgrace.Deniumenialisbelieved thatyouhad ledablessedexistence and gave his life for that belief. A martyr. Perhaps he was right.PerhapsasaintoftheAstraMilitarumisnotanideal.Perhapstheyareafighter,aleader,onethatdefiestheenemiesoftheImperiumnotwithpiety,purityandrighteousness,butwithadeeper,bloodierfaith.’She steps forward and I can feel tears inmy eyes.Something I’venever feltbeforestirsinsideasthisBattleSister,adivinehandoftheGod-Emperor,kneelsonthebrokenferrocreteandholdsouthersword.‘Deniumenialis’ death reminds me of a simple truth gifted to us by SaintSabbat.’Shebowsherhead, theclinkofherweaponon thegroundatmyfeetseeminglouderthanthecrackofthemightiestwallgun.‘Therearenomiracles.Thereareonlymen.’Struckdumb,Istandthereforseveralseconds,amazedbythisbeingofgrace

andpowersupplicatingherselfbeforeme.AllofthepraisesoftheBurnedManriseupinmemory,ringinginmyears.IseeagainOldPreachersteppinginfrontofabullet.TheWilloftheGod-Emperormademanifestthroughtheactionsofahumanbeing.‘Pickupyoursword,Sister,’Itellher.‘Ican’tclaimtobeasaint,andthisistheColonel’s team from here. But I would take your company as a sign that theEmperorisstillwatchingoverthisgaggleofpoorbastards.’Asmilecrackshermaskofsincerityassheliftsupherblade,thefirstsignofthewomanwithintheBattleSister.

The drop-ship squats atop the landing pad among a crowd of red-robed tech-priestsandaugmentedservitors,theairthickwiththesmellofMartianoilsandhumansweat.IntheglareofthelightsIcanmakeoutapatchofplasteelonthehull,aboutthreemetresbytwo.Itstandsoutbecausetherestoftheshipisapalegrey,scorchedbrownandblackinplacesbyre-entry,whilethepatchisclearlynew,almostpolishedinfinish.‘What’sthat?’Isay,pointing.‘Mostoftheoperationalorbitalshipswereevacuatedalongwiththecrews,’awomancallsoutfrombehindme.Iturntofindmyselflookingatashort,dark-hairedpilot–soitseemsfromtheflightsuitandthehelmetunderherarm.‘Thisismine,theEutychia.She’sbeeninlineforrefitforthreeweeks,butitwasonlyacallfromyourColonelthatgotthingsmoving.’‘So,they’vejustrepairedit?’Isay.‘Like,inahurry?’‘She’llbefine.’‘YoumustbeCommanderNeri,’saystheColonel,pushingpastme.‘Areyoureadytotakeoff?’‘Waitingonyou,ColonelSchaeffer.I’llfinishpreflightchecks.’‘You know where we’re going, right?’ I say, wondering just how dedicatedshe’llbetothemission.It’snotthefirsttimetheColonelhaspulledafastoneonsomepoorpilotordriver.‘Rightintothatbiggleamingarseholeupthere,Ihear,’saysNeri,closingoneeyeandmimickingapistolshotwithherfingerintothesky.‘Andyou’refinewiththat?’‘YourColoneltellsmewe’regoingtosavetheplanet.Isn’tthatright,Colonel?’‘Thatistheobjective.’‘Let’s not hang about here then, time to get going,’ she says before shedisappearsthroughtheopendockingrampinthehull.

We get ourselves ready to embark. There’s a fresh lasgun apiece – Nazrekchucklesandkeepsitsmassivecustomisedshoota–plussomerationpacksandsealed cans. Dried synthi-grain bar washed down with tepid, metallic waternever tasted so good. As we devour these gifts the engines whine into life,stuttering occasionally as they warm up. A speaker above us in the gangwayblaresintolife.‘Arsesinseats,everybody.Weleaveinfiveminutes.’IcockaneyetowardstheColonel.‘Sheseems…stable,’Isaytohim.‘Sheisahighlydecoratedpilot.’Heglancesuptothecrewpodafewmetresaboveusatthenoseofthedrop-ship.‘She’sbeengroundedawhile,thatisall.Eager.’‘Yeah, eager.Not at all crazy.’ I turnon theothers andclapmyhands togetthemmoving.WhatisitwiththeseImperialNavyfolk?‘Everybodyonboard!Takelotsofpowerpacks.Igetthefeelingwemightstillhaveonemorebattletofight.’

We’vejusthadthewarningfromthepilotthatwe’vebrokenvoid.Nothingbutafewcentimetresofplasteelbetweenusandacruelvacuumdeath.Thehivers andwastershaveneverbeenoff-worldand there’s anoutbreakofconsternationandexcitementamongthem.Somepeeroutoftheslitwindowsatthe starry expanse, the ones on the other side of the compartment laughing astheylookbackattherecedingviewofArmageddon.WhenIleftOlympusitwaswith relief. The Imperial Guard promised something more than scabbing anexistence in the underhive. It’s very different for these folks. Whether theyrealiseitornot,thisisashort,one-waytrip.Silence descends again as the noveltywears off, some of them realising thatthey’reinactualspacenow,moreturningtheirthoughtstowhatliesahead.After another couple of minutes, I feel an itch inside my blood, not likeanythingI’veexperiencedbefore.IfeellikeIneedtoscratchinsidemyveins.Scatteredmutteringbreaksthemutetension.Prayersfromsome,swearingfromothers.Nazrekletsoutadisconcertedgroan,bangingahandagainstthesideofitsheadasthoughtryingtodislodgeablockage.‘It’s the warp effect,’ I say out loud, trying tomake it soundmatter-of-fact.‘We’regettingclosertothebreach.Keepaneyeoneachother.’Mywarning ismetbyquizzical looks, remindingme thatnoneof themhaveexperiencedanythinglikewarptravelbefore.

‘Thewarp,itgetsintoyourthoughts.Maybeyou’llstart tohearthingsorseestuff that doesn’t seem right. But it’ll feel normal. If you see anybody actingtwitchy,makesurethey’reokay.’‘The closer we get to our target the more pronounced these sensations willbecome,’ theColoneladds. ‘Therearesubtleways thewarpborncan influenceyourthoughts.Ifyouseeanythingsuspiciousdonothesitatetoact.Rememberthatthemissionandyourlivesdependuponkeepingthisshipfreeofwarptaint.Anydoubtsshouldbemadeknowntome.’This declaration unsettles them until Sister Aladia starts to pray, her wordsspokenwith a conviction that pushes away the fears.Thoughmuchof it is inHighGothic,weallbecomewrappedupinherdevotion,feelingthestrengthofherrighteousnessliketheheatthatcomesfromherarmour.A few minutes into this, a disturbed cry from one of the wasters drawseveryone’sattention. It’sTormas,who fumblesathis safety restraint, trying topullthebucklewithtremblinghands.‘Burning,burning,’hemutters,ahandraisingtowardawaysomethingonlyhecan see. He carries on in the waster dialects, only one word in fiveunderstandable,andeventhenbarely.Hisattemptstogetoutofhisseatbecomemore desperate despite the attempts of those around him to bring calm. Hepushes at them, looking into their faces as though staring into a nightmare,flinchingfromtheirreassuringhands.Hereandthereothersstarttomoanandwhisper,speakingoffogsandlightningandeyesthatwon’tstopstaring.Someshakeitoff,tremblingbutlucid.Otherstakeonglazedlooks,sittingasstillasstatues,fallingdeepintothewarpdreams.Theoccasionalpanickedshoutbreaksthroughthegrowingdisturbance.IexchangeasilentlookwiththeColonel.Acraftthissmallhasn’tgotaGellerfield but I figured thatwouldn’t be an issue untilwewere actually inside thewarp break. I guess pockets of unreality are leaking out. I can feel them assuddenparanoiasweepingthroughme,orthedistantthunderofdrumsonlyIcanhear.Now and then I catchmyself scratching at the back ofmy hand, almostdrawingbloodwithmyraggedfingernails.‘Timeontargetisaboutfiveminutes,’Neriinformsusacrosstheintervox.TheColonelturnsinhisseatandpressesthestudonthevox-panelbetweenus.‘Isitfiveminutesorisitnot?’hegrowls.‘We’reflyingintoabigwavybreakinthefabricoftimeandspace,Colonel,butfeel free to get out there and measure.’ The link hisses with static, probablymaskingthepilot’scurses.‘Aboutfiveminutes.’

The throb at the nape ofmy neck has returned, stronger than anything I feltdownonArmageddon,likeaboomcomparedtoatinnyrattle.IcheckonOahebs,attheaftofthecompartmentnexttothewarphead,whichhasbeenstrappedontoamedicaestretcherandisnowproppedupbetweentworowsofseats.He feels my gaze and looks up, tension written into his features. The orkshudders,fingersmovingslowly.Nowandthenapuffofgreenishvapourejectsfromitsnoseasitbreathes.‘Notlong,’Oahebssays.‘It’sgoingtobetight.’‘We’llmoveit totheairlock,’Isay,hittingthereleaseclaspofmyharnesstoget up. A warning light comes to life above my position, accompanied by arepetitiveding-ding-dingofanalarm.Foraheartbeatthenoiseringslouder,thered lightbecomingablurofbrightness inmyvision. Ishakemyheadand themomentpasses.‘Kage?’TheColonellooksupatme,frowning.‘We’reabouttohavecompany,’Imanagetosaybeforeawaveofnauseahitsme,sendingmespinningtotheharddeck.The floor feels like wet sand beneath my fingers, though when I focus itbecomes dimpled plasteel again. The air is hot though, I can feel the sweatpushingoutofmyskininresponse,likeafurnacedoorhasbeenopened.Ashoutfromthefrontof thecompartmentringshollowinmyearsandmoredizzinesssweepsthroughmeasItrytoturnmyheadtoseewhat’shappening.The Colonel is standing up, impossibly slowly it seems, mouth distortedimpossiblywide ashe shouts.The sounds come tome as an incoherentmoanfilledwith alarm.Eyeswidening,hemoveshishand to theholster athisbelt.Twistingmyneck,Ilookuptoseesomethingfadingthroughtheroof,gatheringfromacloudofsparksdancingovertheplaingreyfuselage.Iclosemyeyestoregainsomeequilibrium,tryingtoblotoutthehallucinationof the face leering down at us.That somehowmakes itworse, randomnoisesbecoming voices chanting in my ears. I can’t understand the words but theyspeaktomeofbloodanddeath,edgedwiththecrashofbiggunsandscreamsofslaughter.Reeling,Istandup,feelinglikeI’minthemidstofaragingbattle.Anarmouredfiguremorebeastthanmanloomsbeforeme,amaneofbloodiedhairspillingfromitsscalpbeneathacrestedhelm.All around are thousands of warriors, some Traitor Astartes, others feralcreaturesofclawandhorn,someofthemobviouslyhumanormutant,dressedinragsofbloodyred,skullsanddisgustingrunescarvedintofleshordaubedonto

plaquesandbanners.Theimageof theBurnedMansprings tomindandIfeelsickatthethoughtofwhatmighthavereallyinspiredsuchicons.I seeadozen terrifyingwarp spawngiants,wingedapparitionsofpureangerlike the monstrosity that manifested in the underhive. Some carry axes andwhips,othersswordsormaces,eachweaponstreamingwithblackfiresofhate.Withthemstandsonethat isdifferent.CladinarmourthatremindsmeoftheTraitorAstartes,itisasmuchmonsterasman,abehemothofredskinandruddyhair.Itsarmourismouldedwithgrotesquespikes,itsfaceahornedandfangedmask of infinite rage. In its hand itwields a chainaxe born of nightmares, itshead larger thanaman, its teeth forged from the teethofdragonsonahaftofwarpspawnbone.Daemons.ThetruenamespringstomeagainandIrealisethatIlooknotintosomethingrealbutintotheothersideoftheportal.ThisisnoimageofmadnessbutavisionofwhatawaitsArmageddonshouldwefail.Inmyhazydreamahoundwitharedlizard’sbodyandteethofbronzeleapsatme.The zip of a lasgun cuts through everything and I feel the hot flash of thedischargeacrossthesideofmyface.Iopenmyeyes,realisingI’mtheonethat’sopenedfire.Andthehoundiswithus,insidethedrop-ship.Itsshoulderisashighasmine,taillashing,leatherycrestflexingasittiltsbackitsheadandletsoutagrowlthatreverberatesthroughthedeck.Someofmycompanionsopenfiretoo,butnotjustatthebloodmonster.Thereareotherthingsmanifestingaroundus–blood-warriorswithblackswordsandwinged warpborn made of fire and darkness. Flashes of las-fire streak blindspotsacrossmyvision,theclamourofweaponsjoinedbythefearfulshoutsandscreamsofthosetrappedwiththedaemons.Aserratedimmaterialbladeslashesthroughclothandflesh,cuttingdownoneofthewastersjustinfrontofme.Ifiremylasgunintothewarpborn’schestasitstongueflashesouttocatchdropletsofbloodsprayingfromthewound.Anotherinfernal hound appears, smashing up through the seats in the centre of thecompartment, heaving its bulk out from nothing as though prowling from ahiddenlair.‘Behindme!’Oahebs’callcutsthroughthedin.Aglanceinhisdirectionshowsthedaemonsareignoringhimcompletely,theairafewmetresaroundhimfreefromthemiasmaofredthatthickensaroundus.

Ontheother sideof thechamber isSisterAladia. I sweareverybolt fromhergunshimmerswithagolden trail as theycut throughunrealbeast andwarrioralike. Nazrek fires its ridiculous gun, the detonating shell tearing apart threewarpbornaswellasoneofourownwhowasinthegripsoftheenemy.Piecesofdaemonflesh spatter the wall and ceiling. Others are not so fortunate,overwhelmedbytheferocityandsuddennessoftheattack.I remember the Colonel’s words. We can’t save lives. The mission iseverything.He’s already passed me, firing his pistol repeatedly into a blood daemoncrouchedoverthecorpseofahiver.Theintervoxhowlsintolife,butit’snotthevoice of the pilot. Hideous laughter and mind-numbing screeches fill the air,loud enough to stun. I flounder afterSchaeffer, givingup the instinct to fight,headingforthesmallpoolofsanctuaryaroundOahebs.AsIstumble,Icatchaglimpseoftheweirdboy.Tworedeyesglarebackatmewithrawalienmalice.

Oahebsrealiseswhat’shappeningjustaboutthesametimeasIdo.Hemakesalunge for thewarphead as amuscular green arm sheathed in crackling energyripsoutofthestrapping.ThefrondsofpsychicpowergutteranddieasOahebsgrabsthecreature’sarm.Theweirdboyyells,abellowoffrustration,andtriestothrowOahebsback.The Colonel and I reach the ork together, hurling ourselves onto it just asOahebsloseshisgripandtumblesbackwards.For an instant I stare into those red eyes, sparks of green spiralling aroundthem. It washes away the throbbing of the warp, pushing aside the lingeringimagesofthebloodybattlefieldontheothersideoftherift.InsteadIseeavasthordeofgreen-skinnedwarriors.No,notahorde.Anarmy.This isn’tamassiverabblewithout thoughtorpurpose, it’saconqueringforceadvancingwithonemind,toweringleadersandimmensewarmachinesbreakingthe carpet of alien soldiers. Somehow I know that this is Armageddon.Everything is green, shimmering with the energy of the orks and suddenlyNazrekmakessense.Armageddonisgreen.Itwillalwaysbegreen.The connection breaks as Oahebs recovers, throwing himself over thewarphead.Aclawedfistcatchesmeinthesideofthehead,clubbingmedowntothedeckagain.‘Getitintotheairlock,’gaspstheColonel,hittingtheactivationswitchonthe

bulkheadbesidetheweirdboy.Imake themistake of glancing back.The compartment is in total anarchy, ahalf-realstormoflas-fireandbloody-coloureddaemons.Thefuselageismeltingaway,showingglimpsesoftheimpossible,eternalbattlewithinthewarp.‘We’reintherift,’Ishouttotheothertwo,focusingbackonthetaskinhand.‘Wecandothis!’Justthenalas-bolthitsthebackofOahebs’head.Brainmatterexplodesoverusand the warphead. I look on in horror as the null slumps to the floor, bloodleakingfromtheholeinhisskull.Forksofgreen lightningcrawlup thewarphead’sarms.Withabestial roar, ittossestheColonelandmeaway,tearingoutofthelastofitsbonds.Itshudders,sparks leaping from its skinwhile copper bangles and necklaces boil away tonothing,unabletocontaintheenergycoursingthroughtheork.Ablooddaemonleapsatthewarphead,blackbladeleavingasmokingtrailasitcutstowardstheork’sthroat.Withasnarlthewarpheadbringsupaclawedhand,smashingthebladeaside.Splintersofblackscatterintotheceilingfromtherupturedblade.Growling,thewarphead thrusts its hand into the chest of the daemon, blasting it apart withgreenflames.Theflamesturntoarcsoflightning,leapingfromonedaemontothenext,theweirdboy lifted from the deck by the power that envelops it. The wholecompartment fills with corkscrewing emerald energy, crawling over hull andbulkheads,turningdaemonstobloodyvapour.Thenitstops.There’s a few awful, pregnant heartbeats as the energy swirls into thewarphead.Itglowsfromwithin,veinsstandingoutlikecordsbeneaththeskin,riversofgreenlightcoursingalongthem.Instinctpropelsmethroughthegatheringhaloofgreenenergy,intotheairlockbeyondthebulkhead.TheColonelglancesatmeandthenfollows.Iwanttotakea second to call the others. I seeNazrek, body quivering as the power of thegreen snakes from it into the warphead. Sister Aladia, blade slicked withdaemonblood,turningtolookatus.The warphead vomits out a beam of zigzagging energy, letting loose aconcentrated scream of psychic power. The blast rips along the seats, turningthemtoslag,andpunchesoutthefrontbulkhead.For an instant I stand there looking down the length of the drop-ship, outthrough thedevastated remainsof thecockpit, into themawof the rift itself. I

hearagainthethunderofgunsandbrayingofwar-horns.Decompressionripsthroughthecompartment.Feeling sick, I slam my hand against the airlock activation panel, the doorcrashingdownaninstantlater.FacepressedtotheglassIseethecontentsofthechamber explode out into the nothingness of the void. Bodies, human anddaemon,spinningintoeachother.Nazrekgoes,stillshooting,Grotclutchingthelargeralien’sankle,mouthinasilentscreech.Aladiatoo,becomingjustasilverflashagainstthewhirlingredwoundinreality.Thewarpheadfollows,arcingpowersurroundingitasitfliesintothebreakinspacelikeagreenrocket.Theflaresofenergygrowlargerandbrighter,aroilingstorm in amatter of seconds.Undulatingwaves of emerald powerwash backover us, becoming visible ripples tearing through reality and unreality. Like aplasma charge they chew along the fuselage, seeming to devour everything intheirpath.Thegreenwashesoverme,bringingadeafening roarofbestialdefiance thatthrowsmeacrosstheairlock.Everythingfeelslikeitisunmade,everypieceofmecomingapartinthefuryofaheartbeatthatneverends.

EPILOGUE

Reality returns.Nothingness is preferable to the agony that burns throughmyheadforanimpossiblylongmoment.Mysensesstopspinningoutofcontrol,reassemblingtheworldaroundmelikea static-filledhololithicdisplaygaining focus.Myearswon’t stophissing andmyskinfeelslikeitwantstocrawloffsomewheredarktodie,stretchingawayfromthefleshbeneath.‘Fragme,I’malive,’Iwhisper,tryingtoabsorbthecoolnessofthemetalundermyhands,willingittospreadtotheinfernoinsidemygutandlungs.‘Webothare.’IgroanandfalltomybackatthesoundoftheColonel’svoice.PrisingmyeyesopenwithaforceofwillthatcouldhaveliftedaBattleTitan,Iseehimslumpedagainst the wall of the airlock. There’s dried blood under his eyes, nose andmouth.IfigureI’mthesamebyhislookofconcern.‘Ireallythoughtthiswouldbethelasttime,’hesays,inspectingashakinghandasheliftsitfromhislap.It’slikehe’slookingatsomethinghedoesn’trecognise.ThroughthethickarmourglassofthedoorwindowIcanseealittleoftheship.Against the harsh void the contorted hull spirals outwards, as though thefuselagehasbeenflayedopenbysomeobscenelymassivewhip.Thesurfaceofthe metal is whorled with indentations that look like they are melted into itsmaterial,reflectingtheerraticstarlight.Bloodsmearsdecoratewhatremainsofthemangledceiling.

Inside,theairlockseemsuntouched;thoughthewallslookalittletwisted,thedoorsareintact.Wespenda fewminutes insilence, justdriftingacross thevoid.Through theouterdoorIcanseenothingbutstars.AshadoweclipsesthelightofArmageddon’sstar,plungingusintoagloom,theinternallumensadullorange.Aclangechoesthroughtheship,vibratingalongthe walls and floor. With moans and grimaces, we both push ourselves up,drawingweaponsasweexpecttheworst.Anotherbangreverberatesthroughtheairlock,thistimemorelocalised,fromtheexteriordoor.The panel next to it springs into life, digits scrolling across its screen assomeoneentersacodefromoutside.The door hisses up into its recess to reveal three armoured figures. SpaceMarines. A lack of spikes and skulls tells me they are probably loyal to theEmperor,butinthebrightnessoftheirsuitlampsit’shardtomakeoutacolour.Thenthelightsdim,revealingdarkgreenwar-plateandlizard-scaleloincloths.‘Afahiva?’Isay,unabletobelieveit.TheSpaceMarineLibrariansteps into theairlockand removeshishelm.HisfacelooksmorelinedthanIremember,andmetalstudsholdaplateinplaceonthesideofhisskull.‘Ithoughtyouweren’tcoming?’Isay.‘Wedidnot,’theSalamandersLibrarianreplies,lookingfrommetotheColonelandbackagainwithsomethingakintoamazement.‘Didwesucceed?’ theColonelaskssharply. ‘Theritual,did theWorldEatersfinishit?’‘Theydidnot,’Afahiva tellsuswithasmile. ‘Whetheryoureffortsorours, Icouldnotsay.’‘Idon’tunderstand,’Isay.‘Howcanyouhavefinishedyourattacks,wecan’thavepartedcompanymorethanhalfanhourago?’Hisexpressionturnssombre.‘TheWorldEatersattackwasjustthebeginningofArmageddon’sfreshwoes.Ahordeoftheblood-madeoverranmuchoftheworld.Wehadtoleave–itwasimpossibletoholditanylonger.Ourdeathswouldhavebeenpointless.Nowwehave returnedwith amiracle to reclaim thisworld.Ourwarp jumpmusthavepulledyoubackintorealspace.Ihaveneverheardofanythinglikeit.’‘Amiracle,’muttersSchaeffer.‘Anotherdamnmiracle.’‘You’re not making sense,’ I say, thinking perhaps the after-effects of myexploitsareevenmoreserious.Itsoundslikehe’stalkingasthougheverythingis

inthepast.‘What happened to us?’ theColonel says slowly. ‘How longwerewe in thewarp?’My gut turns to ice as he asks the question. I’d assumed that since we’dsurvivedwehad justbeendumpedback into real space.The temporaldilationeffectofthewarphadn’tevenoccurredtome.Hourscouldhavepassedonthesurfacebelowwhileweenteredtheoutskirtsoftherift.‘You know well that time does not work that simply, Colonel Schaeffer.’Afahiva looks at us again and strokes his chin. ‘Awhole generation has beenbornanddiedinthetimesinceyousetoffonyourinsanemission.’‘Fiftyyears…’mutterstheColonel.‘Longer,mostlikely,’saystheLibrarian.OneoftheotherSalamandersturnshisheadtoAfahiva,bolterraisedtowardsus, speaking across their vox-link. TheLibrarian’s eyesmove fromme to theColonelslowly,regardinguswithsomecare.HegivestheotherSpaceMarineanodandstepstowardsus,stafftipdippingtopointinourdirection.‘Though you have not felt it, you have spent a long time in the warp, mycompanionsofold,’Afahiva saysheavily.The lizard skull onhis staff gleamswith psychic power, entrancing as it swirls blue and white across my vision.‘There is every chance such exposure has corrupted you. Perhaps you havesurvivedbecauseofsomeinfernalbargainmadewiththepowersofthewarp.’The other Space Marine clearly addresses him again, as Afahiva frowns,shakinghishead.‘That is not our way, brother,’ Afahiva replies, returning his attention to us.‘Youhaveseenthatwhichisnotallowedtobeseen.YouhavegazedupontheworksandservantsofChaos.’Theword is unfamiliar tome but it sends a shudder of apprehension upmyspineallthesame.‘Thewastershadastory,’Isay.‘IthinktheInquisitionwipedoutallrecordofthedaemonscomingtoArmageddonbefore.’‘That is very likely,’ says Afahiva. He darts a look of reproach at hiscompanion. ‘Butwe are not inquisitors.Wedonot kill out of hand those thathavehadthemisfortuneofexposuretotheworstfoe.’He takesastepcloserbefore Icanbreatheasighof relief, thenimbusof thestaffenvelopingmyhead.Ifeelneedlespushingdownintomythoughts,peelingthemapartforexamination.Itlastsjustafewsecondsbutsendsmefallingtomyknees,visionspinning,earsringing.TheColonelsufferssimilarexaminationand

collapsesnexttome.‘Nosignoftaintatall,’saysAfahivawithsomedisbelief.Hisstaffdimsashedrawsitbacktohisside.Ipullmyselfupright.TheColonelstandsnexttome,handraisedtohistemple,oneeyestillclosed.‘Whyareyouhere?’theColonelasks.‘TheforcesofdarknesshavetornaparttheImperiumwithawarpstormsovastitsplitsthegalaxy.Manyworldsaredead,otherslostbeyondthecurtainoftheCicatrix Maledictum. The realms of the Emperor stand upon the brink ofannihilationandwehavereturnedtoArmageddonwiththeprimarchtodowhatwecouldnotdobefore.’‘Primarch?’ I mutter. With all the recent talk of saints and warp powers, Ishouldn’tbesurprisedat thementionofoneof theEmperor’ssons, the lastofwhomwaslosttotheImperiumthousandsofyearsago.‘There’saprimarch?’It’s a lot to take in, and I stand there swaying for awhile just trying tokeepupright. TheColonel clears his throat andwipes blood fromhis facewith hisfingertips.Helooksattheredforamoment,andthenatme.‘Thatsoundsverybad,LibrarianAfahiva,’hesays.‘Verybadindeed.’My thoughts come back together from their various confusing journeys,formingaconcertedideainmyhead.ImeettheColonel’sgaze.‘SoundstomeliketheLastChancersareneededmorethanever.’

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

GavThorpeistheauthoroftheHorusHeresynovelsTheFirstWall,DeliveranceLost,AngelsofCalibanandCorax,aswellasthenovellaTheLion,whichformedpartoftheNewYorkTimesbestsellingcollectionThePrimarchs,andseveralaudiodramas.Hehaswrittenmanynovelsfor

Warhammer40,000,includingAshesofProspero,Imperator:WrathoftheOmnissiahandtheRiseoftheYnnarinovelsGhostWarriorandWildRider.HealsowrotethePathoftheEldarandLegacyofCalibantrilogies,andtwovolumesinTheBeastArisesseries.ForWarhammer,GavhaspennedtheEndTimesnovelTheCurseofKhaine,theWarhammerChronicles

omnibusTheSundering,andrecentlypennedtheAgeofSigmarnovelTheRedFeast.In2017,GavwontheDavidGemmellLegendAwardforhisAgeofSigmarnovelWarbeast.HelivesandworksinNottingham.

AnextractfromFifteenHoursbyMitchelScanlon,fromtheWarhammer40,000anthologyShieldofTheEmperor.

Thesunwassetting,itsslowdescentreddeningthevastreachesofthewestwardskyandbathingtheendlesswheatfieldsbelowitinshadesofgoldandamberastheystirredgently in theeveningbreeze.Inhisseventeenyearsof life todate,Arvin Larn had seen perhaps a thousand such sunsets, there was somethingaboutthebeautyofthisonethatgavehimpause.Enraptured,hischoresforthemoment forgotten, for the first time since his childhood he simply stood andwatchedthesettingofthesun.Stoodthere,withtheworldstillandpeacefulallabout him, gazing toward the gathering fall of night as he felt a namelessemotionrisingdeepwithinhisheart.Therewillbeothersunsets,hethoughttohimself.Othersuns,thoughnoneofthemwillmeanasmuch tomeas thisonedoes,hereandnow.Nothingcouldmean as much as this moment does, standing here among these wheat fields,watchingthelastsunsetIwilleverseeathome.Home.Themere thoughtof thewordwasenough tomakehim turnhisheadandlookoverhisshoulderacrosstheswayingrowsofripeninggraintowardthesmallcollectionoffarmbuildingsontheothersideofthefieldbehindhim.Hesawtheoldbarnwithitssloping,wood-shingledroof.Hesawtheroundtowerofthegrainsilo;theginny-hencoopshehadhelpedbuildwithhisfather;thesmallstockpenwheretheykeptthedrafthorsesandaherdofhalf-a-dozenalpacas.Mostof all, he saw the farmhousewherehehadbeenborn and raised.Two-storeyed,withalowwoodenporchoutfrontandtheshuttersonthewindowsleftopentoletinthelastofthelight.Giventheunchangingroutinesofhisfamily’sexistence,Larndidnotneedtoseeinsidetoknowwhatwashappeningwithin.Hismotherwouldbeinthekitchencookingtheeveningmeal,hissistershelpingherset the table,his father in thecellarworkshopwithhis tools.Then, justastheydideverynight,oncetheirchoresweredonethefamilywouldsitdownatthe table together andeat.Tomorrownight theywoulddo the sameagain, thepattern of their lives repeating endlessly day after day, varying only with the

changingoftheseasons.Itwasapatternthathadenduredhereforaslongasanyonecouldremember.Apatternthatwouldcontinuesolongastherewasanyonelefttofarmtheselands.Though,cometomorrownightatleast,therewouldbeonesmalldifference.Cometomorrow,hewouldnolongerbeheretoseeit.Sighing,Larnreturnedtohiswork, turningoncemoretothetaskof tryingtorepair theancient rust-pitted irrigationpumpinfrontofhim.Before thesunsethad distracted him he had removed the outer access panel to reveal the innerworkingsofthepump’smotor.Now,inthefadinglightoftwilight,heremovedthemotor’s burnt-out starter and replaced itwith a newone,mindful to say aprayer to the machine spirit inside it as he tightened and re-checked theconnections.Takingaspoutedcanisterfrombesidethefootof thepumphedribbledafewdrops of unguent from it into theworkings. Then, satisfied everythingwas inorder,hereachedoutforthelargeleveratthesideandworkeditslowlyupanddownadozentimestoprimethepumpbeforepressingtheignitionstudtostartthemotor.Abruptly,thepumpshudderedintonoisylife,themotorwhiningasitstrained to pull water up from aquifers lying deep below the ground. For amoment,Larncongratulatedhimselfona jobwelldone.Until, justas the firstfewmuddydropsofwateremergedfromthemouthofthepumptostainthedryearthoftheirrigationtrenchbeforeit,themotorcoughedanddied.Disappointed,Larnpressedtheignitionstudagain.Thistimethough,themotorstayed sullenly silent.Leaning forward, he carefully inspected the parts of themechanismoncemore–checkingtheconnectionsforcorrosion,makingsurethemovingpartswerewell-lubricatedandfreefromgrit,searchingforbrokenwiresorworncomponents–allthethingsthemechanician-acolyteinFerrusvillehadwarned them about the last time the pump was serviced. Frustratingly, Larncouldfindnothingwrong.Asfarashecouldsee,thepumpshouldbeworking.Finally, reluctantly forced to concede defeat, Larn lifted the discarded accesspanelandbegantoscrewitintoplaceoncemore.Hehadsobadlywantedtobeabletofixthepump;withharvesttimestillthreeweeksaway,itwasimportantthe farm’s irrigation system should be in goodworking order.Granted, it hadbeen a good season so far and the wheat was growing well but the life of afarmerwasalwaysenslavedtotheweather.Withouttheirrigationsystemtofallbackupon,acoupleofdryweeksnowcouldmeanthedifferencebetweenfeastandfamineforanentireyear.Butintheendheknewthatwasonlypartofit.Standingthere,lookingdownat

thepumpafterhehadscrewedthepanelbackinplace,Larnrealisedhisreasonsforwantingtoseeitrepairedwentfarbeyondsuchpracticalconsiderations.Likeitornot,tomorrowhewouldbeleavingthefarmforeverandsayingfarewelltotheonly landand lifehehadeverknown,never to return.Heunderstoodnowthathehadfelttheneedtoperformsomelastactofservicetothosehewouldbeleavingbehind.Hehadwantedtocompletesomefinallabourontheirbehalf.Anactofpenancealmost,togiveclosuretohisgrief.Thismorning,whenhisfatherhadaskedhimtolookatthepumpandseeifhecould fix it, it had seemed the perfect opportunity to achieve that aim. Nowthough, the recalcitrant machine spirits inside the pump and his own lack ofknowledgehadconspiredagainsthim.Nomatterhowhardhe tried, thepumpwasbrokenbeyondhispowerstorepairitandhislastactofpenancewouldgounfulfilled.Larn collected his tools together and made ready to turn for home, only topauseagainashenoticedachangeinthesunset.Ahead,thesunhadalreadyhalfdisappearedbelowthehorizon,whiletheskyaroundithadturnedadeeperandmoreangryred.Whatgavehimpausewasnotthesunorthesky,butthefieldsbelowthem.Whereoncetheyhadbeenbathedinspectacularshadesofgoldandamber, now the colour of the fields had becomemore uniform, changing to adarkandunsettlingshadeofbrownishred,likethecolourofblood.Atthesametime the evening breeze had risen almost imperceptibly, catching the rows ofwheat in the fields and causing them to flow and shift before Larn’s eyes asthough the fields themselves had become some vast and restless sea. It couldalmostbeaseaofblood,hesaidtohimself,theverythoughtofitcausinghimtoshiveralittle.Aseaofblood.And,tryashardashemight,hecouldreadnogoodomeninthatsign.

BythetimeLarnhadputhistoolsaway,thesunhadallbutset.Leavingthebarnbehind,hewalkedtowardsthefarmhouse, theyellowglowoflamplightbarelyvisibleaheadofhim through theslatsof thewoodenshuttersnowclosedoverthefarmhousewindows.SteppingontotheporchLarnliftedthelatchtothefrontdoorandwalkedinside,carefullyremovinghisbootsatthethresholdsoasnottotrackmudfromthefieldsintothehallway.Then,leavingthebootsjustinsidethedoorway,hewalkeddown thehall towards thekitchen,unconsciouslymakingthesignoftheaquilawithhisfingersashepassedtheopendoorofthesittingroomwithitsdevotionalpictureoftheEmperorhungoverthefireplace.

Reaching the kitchen he found it deserted, the smell of woodsmoke and thedeliciousaromasofallhisfavouritefoodsrisingfromthepanssimmeringonthestove. Roasted xorncob, boiled derna beans, alpaca stew and taysenberry pie;together, the dishes of the last meal he would ever eat at home. Abruptly itoccurred tohim, inwhateveryearsofhis lifemightyetcome, thoseself-samearomaswouldforevernowbelinkedwithafeelingofdesperatesadness.Ahead,thekitchentablewasalreadylaidoutwithplatesandcutleryreadyforthemeal.Ashesteppedpastthetabletowardthesink,herememberedreturningfromthefieldstwonightsearliertofindhisparentssittinginthekitchenwaitingforhim,theblack-edgedparchmentoftheinductionnoticelyingmutelyonthetable between them. From the first it had been obvious they had both beencrying, their eyes red and raw fromgrief.He had not needed to ask them thereasonfortheirtears.Theirexpressions,andtheImperialeagleembossedonthesurfaceoftheparchment,hadsaiditall.Now,ashemovedpastthetableLarnspottedthesameparchmentlyingfoldedin half on top of one of the kitchen cupboards. Diverted from his originalintentions,hewalkedtowardsit.Then,pickinguptheparchmentandunfoldingit,hefoundhimselfoncemorereadingthewordswrittentherebelowtheofficialmasthead.Citizens of Jumael IV, the parchment read. Rejoice! In accordance withImperialLawandthepowersofhisOffice,yourGovernorhasdecreedtwonewregiments of the Imperial Guard are to be raised from among his people.Furthermore,hehasorderedthoseconscriptedtothesenewregimentsaretobeassembledwithallduehaste,sothattheymaybegintheirtrainingwithoutdelayandtaketheirplaceamongthemostHolyandRighteousarmiesoftheBlessedEmperorofAllMankind.From there the parchment went on to list the names of thosewho had beenconscripted,outlining thedetailsof themusteringprocessandemphasising thepenaltiesawaitinganyonewhofailedtoreport.Larndidnotneedtoreadtherestofit–inthelasttwodayshehadreadtheparchmentsomanytimesheknewthewordsbyheart.Yetdespiteallthat,asthoughunabletostoppickingatthescabofahalf-healedwound,hecontinuedtoreadthewordswrittenontheparchmentbeforehim.‘Arvin?’ He heard his mother’s voice behind him, breaking his chain ofthought.‘Youstartledme,standingtherelikethat.Ididn’thearyoucomein.’Turning,Larnsawhismotherstandingbesidehim,ajarofkuedinseedsinherhandandhereyesredwithrecentlydriedtears.

‘I just got here, Ma,’ he said, feeling vaguely embarrassed as he put theparchment back where he had found it. ‘I finished my chores, and thought Ishouldwashmyhandsbeforedinner.’For a moment his mother stood there quietly staring at him. Facing her inuncomfortablesilence,Larnrealisedhowharditwasforhertospeakatallnowsheknewshewouldbelosinghimtomorrow.It lent theireverywordadeepermeaning, making even the most simple of conversations difficult while witheveryinstanttherewasthethreatthatasingleill-chosenwordmightreleasethepainfultideofgriefwellingupinsideher.‘You took your boots off?’ she said at last, retreating to the commonplace insearchofsafety.‘Yes,Ma.Ileftthemjustinsidethehallway.’‘Good,’ she said. ‘You’d better clean them tonight, so as to be ready fortomorrow…’Atthatwordhismotherpaused,hervoiceontheedgeofbreaking,her teeth biting her lower lip and her eyelids closed as thoughwarding off adistantsensationofpain.Then,halfturningawaysohecouldnolongerseehereyes,shespokeagain.‘Butanyway,youcandothatlater,’shesaid.‘Fornow,you’dbettergodowntothecellar.YourPa’salreadydownthereandhesaidhewantedtoseeyouwhenyougotbackfromthefields.’Turningfurtherawayfromhimnow,shemovedovertothestoveandliftedthelidoffoneofthepanstodropahandfulofkuedinseedsintoit.Everthedutifulson,Larnturnedaway.Towardsthecellarandhisfather.

ThecellarstepscreakednoisilyasLarnmadehiswaydownthem.Despitethenoise, at first his father did not seem to notice his approach. Lost inconcentration, he sat bent over his workbench at the far end of the cellar, awhetstoneinhishandashesharpenedhiswool-shears.Foramoment,watchinghisfatherunawaresasheworked,Larnfeltalmost likeaghost–as thoughhehadpassedfromhisfamily’sworldalreadyandtheycouldnolongerseeorhearhim.Then,findingthethoughtofitgavehimashiver,hespokeatlastandbrokethesilence.‘Youwantedtoseeme,Pa?’Startingat thesoundofhisvoice,hisfatherlaidtheshearsandthewhetstonedownbeforeturningtolooktowardshissonandsmile.‘You startled me, Arv,’ he said. ‘Zell’s oath, but you can walk quiet whenyou’veamindto.So,didyoumanagetofixthepump?’

‘Sorry,Pa,’Larnsaid.‘ItriedreplacingthestarterandeveryotherthingIcouldthinkof,butnoneofitworked.’‘Youtriedyourbest,son,’hisfathersaid.‘That’sallthatmatters.Besides,themachine spirits in that pump are so old and ornery the damned thing neverworkedrighthalfthetimeanyway.I’llhavetoseeifIcangetamechaniciantocome out from Ferrusville to give it a good look-over next week. In themeantime, the rain’s been pretty good so we shouldn’t have a problem. Butanyway, therewas something else Iwanted to see you about.Why don’t yougrabyourselfastoolsothetwoofusmencantalk?’Pullinganextrastoolfrombeneaththeworkbench,hisfathergesturedforhimtositdown.Then,waitinguntilhesawhissonhadmadehimselfcomfortable,hebeganoncemore.‘Idon’tsupposeIevertoldyoutoomuchaboutyourgreat-grandfatherbefore,didI?’hesaid.‘Iknowhewasanoff-worlder,Pa,’Larnsaid,earnestly.‘AndIknowhisnamewasAugustus,sameasmymiddlenameis.’‘Trueenough,’hisfatherreplied.‘Itwasatraditiononyourgreat-grandfather’sworldtopassonafamilynametothefirst-bornsonineverygeneration.Course,hewaslongdeadbythetimeyouwereborn.Mindyou,hediedevenbeforeIwasborn.Buthewasagoodman,andsowedidittohonourhimallthesame.Agoodmanshouldalwaysbehonoured, theysay,nomatterhowlonghe’sbeendead.’For a moment, his face grave and thoughtful, his father fell silent. Then, asthoughhehadmadesomedecision,heraisedhisfaceuptolookhissonclearlyintheeyeandspokeagain.‘As I say, your great-grandfather was dead long before I could have knownhim,Arvie.ButwhenIwasseventeenandjustabouttocomeofagemyfathercalledmedownintothiscellarandtoldmethetaleofhim–justlikeI’maboutto tellyounow.Yousee,myfatherhaddecided thatbeforeIbecameamanitwasimportantIknewwhereIcamefrom.AndI’mgladhedid,’causewhathetoldme thenhas stoodme in good stead ever since. Just like I’mhoping thatwhat I’mgoing to tellyounowwillstandyou ingoodstead likewise.Course,withwhat’shappenedinthelastfewdays–andwhereyou’reboundfor–I’vegotextrareasonsfortellingittoyou.Reasonsthat,Emperorlovehim,myownfather never had to face.But that’s theway of things: each generation has itsownsorrows,andhastomakethebestofthemtheycan.That’sallasmaybe,though.GuessIshouldjuststopdancingarounditandcomeoutandsaywhatit

isIhavetosay.’Again,asthoughwrestlinginwardlyfortherightwords,hisfatherpaused.Ashewaitedforhimtobegin,Larnfoundhimselfsuddenly thinkinghowoldhisfatherlooked.Gazingathimasthoughforthefirsttimehebecameawareofthelines and creases across his father’s face, the slightly rounded slump of hisshoulders,thespreadingfingersofgreyinhisonceblackandlustroushair.Signsof aging he would have sworn had not been there a week previously. It wasalmostasthoughhisfatherhadagedadecadeinthelastfewdays.‘Yourgreat-grandfatherwasintheImperialGuard,’hisfathersaidatlast.‘Justlike you’re going to be.’ Then, seeing his son about to blurt out a string ofquestions, he held his hand up to gesture silence. ‘You can askwhatever youwant later,Arvie. For now, it’s better if you just letme tell it to you likemyfathertoldme.Believeme,onceyou’veheardityou’llknowwhyit isIsaidIthoughtyoushouldhearit.’Hangingoneverywordinthequietstillnessofthecellar,Larnheardhisfathertellhistale.

‘Your great-grandfather was a Guardsman,’ his father said again. ‘Course, hedidn’t start out to be one. No one does. To begin with he was just anotherfarmer’s son like you orme, born on aworld calledArcadusV.Aworld notunlikethisone,hewouldlatersay.Apeacefulplace,withlotsofgoodlandforfarming and plenty of room for a man to raise a family. And if things hadfollowedtheirnaturalcourse,that’sjustwhatyourgreat-grandfatherwouldhavedone. He would have found a wife, raised babies, farmed the land, same asgenerationsofhiskinonArcadusVhaddonebeforehim.Andintimehewouldhavediedandbeenburiedthere,hisfleshreturningtothefertileearthwhilehissoulwent to join his Emperor in paradise. That’swhat your great-grandfatherthoughthisfutureheldforhimwhenhecameofageatseventeen.Thenheheardthenewshe’dbeenconscriptedintotheGuardandeverythingchanged.‘Now, seventeen or not, your great-grandfather was no fool. He knew whatbeing conscripted meant. He knew there was a heavy burden that goes withbeing aGuardsman – a burdenworse than the threat of danger or the fear ofdyingaloneandinpainundersomecoldanddistantsun.Aburdenofloss.Thekindoflossthatcomeswhenamanknowsheisleavinghishomeforever.It’saburden everyGuardsman carries. The burden of knowing that nomatter howlonghe lives hewill never see his friends, his family, or evenhis homeworldagain. A Guardsman never returns, Arvie. The best he can hope for, if he

surviveslongenoughandserveshisEmperorwell,istobeallowedtoretireandsettle a new world somewhere, out among the stars. And knowing this –knowing he was leaving his world and his people for good – your great-grandfather’sheartwasheavyashesaidfarewelltohisfamilyandmadereadytoreportformuster.‘Though it may have felt like his heart was breaking then, your great-grandfather was a good and pious man. Wise beyond his years, he knewmankindisnotaloneinthedarkness.HeknewtheEmperorisalwayswithus.Same as he knew that nothing happens in all the wide galaxy without theEmperorwillingittobeso.AndiftheEmperorhadwilledthathemustleavehisfamilyandhishomeworldandneverseethemagain,thenyourgreat-grandfatherknew it must serve some greater purpose. He understood what the preachersmean when they tell us it isn’t the place of Man to know the ways of theEmperor. He knew it was his duty to follow the course laid out for him, nomatter thathedidn’tunderstandwhy thatcoursehadbeenset.Andso trustinghis life to the Emperor’s kindness and grace, your great-grandfather left hishomeworldtogofindhisdestinyamongthestars.‘Now, theyears that followed thenwerehardones.Althoughhewouldneverspeakofitmuchafterwards,inhistimeasaGuardsmanyourgreat-grandfathersaw more than his fair share of wonders and horrors. He saw worlds wherebillionsofpeople lived right on topof eachother like insects ingiant towers,neverabletobreathecleanairorseethesun.Hesawworldsthatlaygrippedallyear long in perpetualwinter, and dry desertworlds that never saw a flake ofsnownorfeltadropofrain.HesawtheblessedwarriorsoftheholyAstartes–god-likegiantsinhumanform,hecalledthem–andgreatwalkingmachinessobigthisentirefarmhousewouldfitinsideoneoftheirfootprints.Hesawterrorsby the score, in the shape of allmanner of twisted xenos and things even tentimesworse.Though he faced a thousand and more dangers, though he was at timeswoundedandseemedclosetodeath,stillhisfaithintheEmperorneverfaltered.Five years become ten. Ten became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. And stillyourgreat-grandfatherfollowedhisorderswithout thoughtofcomplaint,neveronceaskingwhenhewouldbereleasedfromservice.Untilatlast,nearlythirtyyearsafterhe’dfirstbeenconscripted,hewaspostedtoJumaelIV.‘Course thisworld didn’tmeanmuch to him then.Not at first.By then he’dseen dozens of different planets, and at first sight Jumael didn’t seem to haveanythingmuchtorecommenditmorethanmost.Hisregimenthadjustfinisheda

longcampaign,andtheyhadbeensenttoJumaeltorestupandrecuperateforamonth before being shipped out to war once more. By then your great-grandfatherdidn’thave toomanywars left inhim.Oh,he tried toputabraveface on it, never complaining. But he was getting old, and the wounds he’dsustained in thirty years of battleswere starting to take their toll.Worst of allwashislungs–they’dneverhealedrightafterhebreathedamouthfulofpoisongason aworld calledTorpus III, yet still he didn’twaver in his duty.HehadgivenhislifeovertotheserviceoftheEmperor,andhewascontentthatitwasattheEmperor’swillwhetherhelivedordied.‘Then one day, as the time grew closerwhen theywould be leaving Jumael,newscameamongtheregimentofsomethingextraordinary.Emperor’sDaywascoming,andwith it the thirtiethanniversaryof the foundingof their regiment.Asanactofcelebrationitwasdecreedthatlotswouldbedrawnfromamongallthemen,andwhichevermanwonwouldbereleasedfromserviceandallowedtoremainbehindwhentheregimentleftJumael.Alotterythat,foronemanamongthousands,mightwellmeanthedifferencebetweenlifeanddeath.Asthedayofthe lottery came upon them there was a sudden outbreak of piety among themen,aseachmanintheregimentprayedferventlytotheEmperortobetheoneto be chosen. All except your great-grandfather. For though he prayed to theEmperoreverymorningandnight,itwasneverhiswaytoaskforanythingforhimself.’‘And so great-grandfather won the lottery?’ Larn asked, breathless withexcitementandnolongerabletokeephispeace.‘Hewonit,andthat’showhecametoliveonJumael?’‘No,Arvie,’ his father smiled benignly. ‘Anothermanwon.Aman from thesame squadasyourgreat-grandfather,who’d foughtbyhis side through thirtyyears of campaigning. Though that man could’ve just taken his ticket andwalked away, he didn’t. Instead, he looked at your great-grandfather with hisworn-out face and half-healed lungs and handedhim the ticket.You see, he’ddecidedyourgreat-grandfatherneededtobereleasedfromservicemorethanhedid.Andthat’showyourgreat-grandfathercametosettleonJumaelIV,throughthekindnessandself-sacrificeofacomrade.Thoughintheyearstocome,yourgreat-grandfatherwouldalwayssaytherewasmoretoitthanthat.Hewouldsaysometimes thehandof theEmperor canbe seen in the smallestof things, andthatitwastheEmperorwhohaddecidedtoworkthroughthismantosavehislife.Intheenditwasamiracleofsorts.Aquietmiracle,perhaps,butamiracleallthesame.’

With that,his father fell silentagain.LookingathimLarncould see the firstbeginningsof tears shiningwetly inhiseyes.Then,at length,his father spokeoncemore,hiseverywordheavywithbarelysuppressedemotion.‘You see now why I thought you should hear the tale, Arvie?’ he said.‘Tomorrow,justlikeyourgreat-grandfatherbeforeyou,you’regoingtohavetoleaveyourhomeandyourkinbehind,never to return.And,knowingfullwellyoumayhave somehardyears aheadof you, beforeyou left Iwantedyou tohearthetaleofyourgreat-grandfatherandhowhesurvived.Iwantedyoutobeabletotakethattalewithyou.Sothatnomatterhowdark,evenhopeless,thingsmight seem to you at times, you’d know the Emperor was always with you.Trust to the Emperor, Arvie. Sometimes it’s all that we can do. Trust to theEmperor,andeverythingwillbeallright.’Nolongerabletokeepthetearsfromflowing,hisfatherturnedawaysohissoncould not see his eyes.While his father cried into the shadowsLarn sat therewith him as long uncomfortablemoments passed, struggling to find the rightwordstosoothehisgrief.Untilfinally,decidingitwasbetter tosaysomethingthannothingatall,hespokeandbrokethesilence.‘I’llrememberthat,Pa’hesaid,thewordscomingwithfalteringslownessfromhimashetriedtochoosethebestwayofsayingit.‘I’llremembereverywordofit.Likeyousaid,I’lltakeitwithmeandI’llthinkofitwheneverthingsgetbad.AndIpromiseyou:I’lldowhatyousaid.I’lltrusttotheEmperor,justlikeyousaid. Ipromise it,Pa.Andsomethingelse. Ipromise,youdon’thave toworryaboutmedoingmybestwhenIgotowar.Nomatterwhathappens,I’llalwaysdomyduty.’‘Iknowyouwill,Arvie,’hisfathersaidat lastashewipedthetearsfromhiseyes.‘You’rethebestsonamancouldhave.Andwhenyou’reaGuardsman,Iknowyou’llmakeyourMaandmeproud.’

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