II

'Commissar Ritter?'

Sergeant Paull Landon stares gravely down at the seated, much-occupied political officer. Ritter has not ceased from writing in his small pocket journal since the final remnant of the Joskollian task-force took temporary shelter in a dry dark cave following their last battle with the Iron Hounds. The sergeant has been wondering about the commissar – and about himself. The moral officer looks as if he is on the verge of death, but Landon knows from past experience to never underestimate a black-coat regardless of how bad they may look or how injured they might be, especially the if that black-coat is the Scarecrow. Sixteen months ago the entire regiment had been certain Ritter was going to leave them for the Sea of Souls after being stricken by a terrible fever while serving in the trenches of Vippone, but the commissar had refused to depart, though he hadn't been quite the same man afterwards. He had finally emerged from his sickroom under his own power pale and emancipated, his lean face like that of a snarling cadaver, his keen gray-green eyes fever-bright and piercing. He had to take extensive medications and rumors spread among the rank-and-file that he saw and spoke with the shades of the dead, having come so close and for having lingered so long at the gates of death himself. If the Joskollians hadn't feared, respected or covertly admired their regimental commissar before, they certainly did now.

But Ritter's star is in its decent. Some vital part of him had been sacrificed – and is still being sacrificed – to the ongoing illness. He tires quickly, leads fewer charges, and his intimidating presence at the frontlines has become the exception rather then the norm. He can still give blood-rousing speeches and howl out blood-curdling battle-cries, but his voice has lost a particular edge, and when he overdoes himself it peters into a hissing rasp. Some say that Ritter is still dying, bit by bit, suffering the Emperor's judgment slowly for past sins, but not many believe this, certainly not Landon; the Scarecrow is just simply too stubborn to die.

Paull Landon has served in the Imperial Guard for sixty-seven years and is one of the oldest surviving officers in the Joskollian 89th. He has witnessed much and done much, and has seen many senior officers of all kinds come and go and perish. He is indifferent to their power-plays, their thirst for glory, their desire to rise still higher through the ranks of the Guard. He knows of Ritter's valiant if doomed attempts to get him promoted, and though he has always been content to remain a sergeant he respects the commissar greatly for noticing his labors and for trying to honor them. When Ritter began to assemble his task-force for the Vespit mission Landon volunteered without hesitation, just as he had joined the Guard with hesitation the day after turning eighteen. When a man is full of the fire of youth he yearns to prove himself by doing great deeds and having exciting adventures. Neither Landon nor Ritter are young anymore, but despite age and ill-health both men are still young in their hearts, still carrying the fire, even after all the horror and death they've been partial to; besides, Vespit had seemed so…interesting.

Now Landon knows the truth. The truth about Vespit, the true nature of the man behind the mission, and, most loathsome of all, a truth about himself. It is over. He can endure no longer. He will wait no more. The fire has died. The sergeant stares down at Ritter, willing for him to look up; he must see Ritter's face, must look into his eyes, before he can be sure that the commissar still has it in him to carry on, to complete the mission, to do whatever needs to be done. Ritter, the sleeves of his coat and tunic rolled up to his elbows despite the cold, his battered cap resting on the ground beside him, his collar-length white-blond hair unkempt and oily, his gloveless white hands gripping his closed journal, finally looks up at him. Their eyes lock. Landon is satisfied. The Scarecrow will not fail. The mission will succeed.

'Sir, there's something you need to know,' the sergeant says quietly.

Since their arrival on this world they have all spoken in whispers, save only in the heat of battle, for the silence of Vespit is too loud to allow them to speak otherwise. Ritter slips his journal into the satchel resting on his lap. He pulls his peaked cap on over his head. Slowly, he folds his long legs under him and stands, leaning against the cave wall for support. When he reaches full height Landon's nose is at the level of the commissar's throat; the sergeant looks up and meets Ritter's eyes once more.

'No.' Ritter's voice sounds as if someone forced him to swallow crushed razor-blades. His eyes narrow. He recognizes the look in Landon's face, knows what he is about to say. 'No. I forbid it. Not you…not like this…'

'I won't say that I'm sorry, Ritter, because I'm not – not this time,' Landon says, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice. Slowly he unslings his lasrifle from his shoulder. 'Nor will I ask you to forgive me, for what I'm doing excludes me from all forgiveness. I understand that – and I accept it.'

Bending his knees, almost kneeling, Landon gently lays his lasrifle down in the ashy sand at Ritter's boots. Slowly he straightens and looks up at the commissar. Ritter's fever-bright eyes are flashing with livid fury – and pain. 'Pick up your gun, sergeant,' he rasps. 'Now.'

Landon slightly spreads his empty hands and calmly shakes his head. 'I'm finished Ritter. I can't do this anymore, not like this, not on this desolate death-planet your inquisitor has dumped us on. There's no point to it. I'm now guilty of dereliction of duty; you have full command of the task-force. Do what you must, commissar – it's over.'

Ritter's face now resembles the ferocious visage of a rabid Joskollian woodswolf – yet his blazing eyes are wet. 'You would do this to me, Landon? To yourself? In front of your own soldiers? What –'

Landon turns his back on the commissar. Slowly he walks to the mouth of the cave. Wess, Crawley, Sorren and Rollins stare after him in horrified disbelief, stunned beyond words. Landon does not look at them; he knows he will loose his nerve if he does. He does not need to glance behind him to know that Ritter is following him like a second shadow; he does not need to feel the hairs on his neck rising to know that Ritter's bolt-pistol is pointing directly at the back of his head.

He steps out of the cave. He begins to walk, he strides long and purposeful. The everlasting silence of Vespit fills his ears. The eternally red dusk-dawn of Vespit fills his eyes. The flat empty horizon of Vespit stretches out before him under the baleful bloody eye of a dying sun. The air is cold and still. There are no clouds; there is no wind. He is weeping. It is over. After all this time, after decades of loyal service to the God-Emperor, his tour of duty is finally at an end. Staggering into the wastes Landon looks about him; for the first and last time he takes in the true nature of his environment, of his surroundings. He thinks back on all the theatres of war he's been in and how appallingly noisy they all were – so full of Guardsmen shouting and screaming, artillery thumping, lasbolts crackling, bolters stuttering, rockets whistling, tanks blazing; his foes roaring, gibbering, chanting, cursing, snarling, wailing and shooting as they charged him and his men; his own shouts as he charged and shot at them – but not here. Not on Vespit…

Landon is about to die on a world that has existed in a state of utter peace and quiet for millions of years, a world that has likely not known the horror of war in the entire span of its existence. How could he have not realized what a beautiful place this is, what a unique and precious planet this is? Its horror was no more a horror to him – Vespit is a bastion of tranquility. It is a preservation of a type of paradise Mankind can no longer comprehend, it is…

'Landon…' Commissar Ritter's raspy whisper fills the universe. Landon stops but does not turn around. He knows what he will see. The Scarecrow is weeping, silently weeping even as he keeps his pistol fixed firmly on his head; the former sergeant does not want to witness the commissar weeping over him. That would be too much.

'Landon…how did you know about the inquisitor?'

Landon smiles. Such a relief it is to finally be able to speak freely and truthfully.

'I've been waiting for this day a long time; been waiting for it fifty-five years, Ritter. For decades I've been waiting for someone to find out, to suspect, to discover, to report my secret - but no one ever did, and I never worked up the courage to self-confess. Then, not long after we got abandoned here, I plucked the truth from your mind during one of your…fits, I guess. I like to stay informed. How else do you think I've survived this far, lasted for as long as I have? By staying informed. Its not that I enjoy poking into peoples' minds, I'm just looking for some honest, reliable intel; when it comes to my survival and the survival of my men, I don't like being left in the dark. But now…now I know the Holy Inquisition is behind this, I figured it's time to come clean. I'm an old dog, Ritter. I won't survive long on the Black Ships or in an inquisitor's interrogation cell. I'm tired, too – flat-out plain fatigued, like you. You've tried to get me promoted six times, though I always knew those vicious bluebloods would never allow a farm-boy like me to become a lieutenant or a captain. Never wanted that, anyways. But if there's anything left in me you still admire, if you're still willing to see me as a loyal soldier of the Emperor and not merely a warp-touched freak, well, I'd be grateful if you'd just do your duty and finish me here and now before your inquisitor gets wind of me. It's well within your rights, after all. I'd rather my soldiers view me as a broken coward then as an accursed psyker. It that too much to ask for, Randall?'

There is a brief silence that seems to last for an eternity.

'No Paull, it is not. May the God-Emperor forgive his servants their sins…and may He remember that we are only men.'

Blinking away his tears, Landon lifts his head and stares straight into the waning heart of a dying sun. 'Thank you, Scarecrow.'

With swift, daft movements Ritter springs forward and throws his right arm across Landon's chest and throat while he drives Kaegan's powersword through the Guardsmen's heart from behind with his left. The powered blade pierces Landon's flak-armor effortlessly and explodes out of his chest in a spray of dark arterial blood. The old sergeant feels a split second of agonizing pain before the Light claims him and the insidious voices whispering in his mind are silenced forever. His legs buckle and Ritter falls with him, cradling his body, his sword sizzling and steaming in the gore of his eighty-third Imperial victim. In the crimson sunlight the commissar's pale face is as bloody as his blade. Kaegan's bolt-pistol remains in its holster. It never left it. The silence of Vespit remains unbroken.

Panting with exertion, Ritter withdraws the blade and lays out Landon's body on the ash-sand soil. He wipes away the blood oozing from the man's mouth with his sash and closes his one empty gray eye. The commissar lets the last of his tears fall and spatter on Landon's motionless chest. After this, he will never weep again.

Like an echo the words he had written return with perfect clarity to his memory: 'Lead on, Sergeant Landon; chart a sure course to your doom and I will follow in your weary wake like a shadow-crow in anticipation of the slaughter and death to come. It is the only thing we both have left to look forward to.'

Am I damned? Ritter thinks, wiping his eyes. Truly damned? But he knows the answer to that question: he has been damned since the day he'd earned his scarlet sash. Commissar Kaegan had gotten drunk that night and his words to the newly-promoted moral officer had been dark and troubling.

'All commissars are damned, Ritter,' Kaegan had said, his eyes glazed, his shaking hand gripping his glass of old-foiz. 'Like inquisitors, we are damned to stand in the Emperor's Shadow, damned to keep unending vigilance on our God so as to ensure His continued loyalty to His mighty Imperium, even as we ensured the loyalty of the Imperial Guard to Him in life…'

Ritter groans and his whole body sags. Despair claws at his heart. He has walked so long in the shadow of death he is almost unable to conceive of a state or a life outside of it, but now, in the face of a hopeless situation were death alone can be the only outcome, he again considers succumbing to the persevering temptation to be finished with it all fully and completely. An image in his mind shows his wasted body slumped over beside the broken man he has just slain, Kaegan's sword driven though his own heart, his hands clasping the hilt. There is no mercy in this universe – except that which we gift to our own selves…

'Commissar! Commissar Ritter!'

At the concerned voice calling out across the still air, Ritter's mind shakes free from memories and thoughts of suicide. He stands, and is stunned at how far he has walked into the wastes after Landon. His sense of distance is as nonexistent as his sense of time. He glances again at Landon's face; like Okjarr and his comrades from long ago, the sergeant is also at peace. Turning his back on the dead psyker, Ritter looks towards the mountains. He sees Knolls pelting across the flatlands, stirring up puffing clouds of ash-dust as he runs to rejoin the commissar. Behind him, double-timing it, come the final four: the blonde Wess, the bald Rollins, the agitated Sorren and the nimble Crawley. They are still faithful, still loyal. He's damned them all. They heard Landon mention the inquisitor. They will have questions. Honor demands he answer them truthfully; the mission demands that the inquisitor remains an unknown entity. The mission is damned too, Ritter thinks: all of us lost…doomed…damned…forsaken…he looks at Kaegan's sword and again the temptation presents itself. It is a beautiful weapon, its hilt decorated with the black-burnished winged skull-emblem of the Commissariat, with red jewels set in the skull's eyes and the High Gothic legend Bellum Vita et Vita est Mortis* engraved in archaic script upon the length of the blade. The bolt-pistol is also a priceless treasure, with etched engravings of Imperial warrior-saints and battle-hymns gracing its silver-burnished muzzle and stock. They are no mere ceremonial weapons; they were Kaegan's most prized possessions, gifted to him personally by the Imperial Commander of the industrial-world Askondor II in the early years of his career after personally saving the life of the son of the planetry-ruler. Ritter witnessed the many foes of Mankind from orks to eldar die by way of that blade and bolter while serving under the commissar countless times. Not once did they ever fail Kaegan, except in that final far-flung battle that sent him to the Emperor's shadow and deposited them into the hands of his former cadet. Nor have they yet failed Ritter. But they remain Kaegan's all the same. Ritter cannot think of them in any other context. He knows he dishonors their existence with his thoughts. Kaegan's weapons do not belong in the hands of the faint-hearted, the doubting or the forsaken. Certainly not a burned-out moral officer looking for a convenient way out. Kaegan himself would have never entertained such thoughts. Had he felt forsaken in the end, or did death come too swiftly for him to feel anything at all? Death has been stalking Ritter inch by inch, taking its time, drawing out his agony. Is he damned for wishing it to end sooner rather then later?

'You've forsaken me,' Ritter whispers raggedly, not knowing if he is speaking of the inquisitor or to Kaegan or to the Emperor himself. 'You've forsaken me…'

'No, Ritter – not forsaken; not by us and not by Him…'

That familiar, much-missed voice comes from his right. Ritter's breath catches in his throat. It is the first time one of the dead has spoken. He turns. Immaculate and regal-looking in his full Commissarial panoply, Karl Kaegan regards him solemnly. He is not like the other shades Ritter often sees. His mentor's face and body radiate a soothing gold-white light. Though the blood-pall cast by the crimson star does not taint him and his elongated shadow does not rise up to meet him, the spectre of Kaegan seems more substantial and solid then the sun or the mountains.

'Your mission is not yet ended, Ritter. You were given orders and an objective to accomplish. Your soldiers approach – will you not rally and lead them? Your enemies approach – will you not stand and deny them? Shall despair and hopelessness have the final say, Randall?'

'No – no sir, commissar,' Ritter is shaking. He wants this to be real. He is weary of fever-dreams and hallucinations. His mentor cannot be here. Not in this place. Not like this. But he is.

'Why, Kaegan – why did you leave them to me? They should have gone into the grave with you. I am not worthy to bear them. Not now.'

'You needed them more then I,' Kaegan replies in his rich smooth voice. 'Of all the cadets I mentored you were the one who truly took my teachings to heart and strove to embody them in your own life. Your path has not been kind to you, yet you still carry on, despite the weaknesses of your body and mind. Wield my weapons, Ritter. Smite our foes; freely I received them, freely I gave them in return. Use them with my blessing, and know that I am always with you, regardless of how dark the days or how terrible the battles. Always remember that, Ritter - you are never alone. Only in death does duty end – and yours has not ended yet.'

'Yes, sir; I will remember.' Ritter grips the hilt of his mentor's sword tightly. He draws in a deep lungful of cold stale air. The feelings of guilt and doubt ensnaring his thoughts and emotions fall away. His mind is clearer then it has been in sixteen months. He raises the sword before his face and salutes Kaegan. His old mentor smiles.

'Ave Imperator.'

Commissar Ritter turns and walks back towards the Joskollians, his shoulders back, his head high, his strides long and purposeful, the tattered wings of his greatcoat wafting behind him. With a yelp of dismay Knolls stumbles in his fatigue and falls heavily before the political officer, dusty and panting. Ritter grins down at him, and then offers his adjutant his free hand.

'On your feet, Knolls; the mission is not yet done. It is time to finish this!'

'Yes, sir! Great!' Knolls gasps as Ritter helps him to his feet. He is smiling like a child on Emperor's Day who has received the gift most wanted. He glances at Ritter's drawn sword with his remaining good eye. 'You executed that coward, huh sir?'

'Sergeant Landon is not a coward, Knolls,' Ritter tells him sternly. "He was a sick old man who needed the Emperor's Mercy. Do not speak ill of him.'

'Okay, sir,' Knolls adjusts his helmet, checks his lasrifle's power supply and falls into step behind the commissar. 'Do you want me to carry the satchel, sir? I know you're tired of doing it. I won't mind.'

Ritter glances down at the compact grox-leather satchel bumping against his right thigh. He feels the Artifact still vibrating, even through the hermetically-sealed ebony strongbox that protects it. The small oblong object had fit perfectly in his hand when he had first picked it up. Smooth and polished, its marble-like surface had glowed with a soft orange-blue light at his touch. It was also heavy, like a stone. As he grew progressively weaker Ritter had begun to feel its weight more keenly. Now he hardly notices. It is just another part of him, like his bolt-pistol; just another burden he must bare, and he is a man who has been molded, trained and honed to bear burdens such as this. Having cast aside doubt and fear Ritter feels light and high-hearted. Kaegan is correct, as always. The Scarecrow has his orders and a mission to complete.

'No need, Knolls. It does not bother me anymore. We are going to –'

'Contact!' Sorren's shout shatters the stillness. 'I have contact…!'

Ritter starts to run. Sorren is kneeling down, speaking urgently into the headset of his vox. The other three are gathered about him, their faces lit with hope and expectation. The commissar feels it too: hope, such as when a man dying of thirst in the desert sees the shimmer of water off in the distance.

Sorren looks up. 'Commissar! He wants to speak with you, the inquisitor –'

Cak-crak...! Cak-crak..! Cak-crak..!

A new sound, but a familiar one; one they have all heard before, one they prayed to never hear again. Ritter halts so abruptly he stumbles to his knees and Knolls almost runs into him. The main reason the strike-team was able to outlast and outfight the Hounds for so long is because the creatures are incapable of hunting in silence. On Vespit every sound is amplified and magnified to such a degree that a sudden sneeze can echo for miles. The Hounds are heard before the surveyor picks them up, the space between each attack giving the Joskollians enough of time to prepare for their assault. But now the final remnant is out in the open with no place to take cover, nothing to put their backs to. They cannot make it back to the cave in time; the Hounds will cut them off.

'Warriors of Joskoll! Rally to me!' Ritter cries as Knolls grabs him by the collar and drags him upright. 'The bad dogs are coming, sir!' his aide pants. 'They're coming! Time to purge!'

Ritter draws his bolt-pistol. There is one fresh clip inside and one remaining spare attached to his weapon's belt. Fourteen bolter-rounds, his power sword, three frag grenades, a smoke grenade, a combat knife, spare power packs and his backup laspistol in its shoulder-holster. Kaegan had taught him to always be prepared for anything and everything, and Ritter has done his best to follow the senior commissar's advice. In addition to his own gear, Knolls also carries Ritter's backup chainsword, which Ritter rarely uses but allows his aide to wield as a melee weapon, much to the devout man's delight. Shrugging off Knolls's steadying hand Ritter continues to run, knowing he should be fleeing in the opposite direction and putting as much distance between himself – between the Artifact, rather – and the Hounds as he can, but he cannot bring himself to abandon the Joskollians, not after all this time.

Cak-krak…! Cak-krak…! CakkrakCakkrakCakkrak…!

'I see the bastards!' Rollins roars as he brings his flamer to bear, his eyes blazing in his soot-smeared face behind his goggles.

'I saw 'em first, Rolly,' Crawley retorts, kneeling and sighting down his long-las. 'I count six…no eight…no, ah damn…'

Now there are eleven distinct dust-trails converging on the huddled Guardsmen as the Hounds enter the wastes. By some foul xenos-sorcery the translucent hides of the creatures are able to warp and blend in with the hues and colors of their surrounding environment, camouflaging the guardians and rendering them nearly invisible to human eyes. Ritter suspects that if the task-force had encountered these creatures when they had been newly left on Vespit to guard the Artifact they would have never been able to retrieve the device at all, much less play keep-away with it. The Hounds are old, very old; Vespit has worked its insidious influence on them just as it has on the Imperials: the Hound's double-joints crack and snap with age, the unseen gears and pistons grind and shriek with corrosion. A few the Joskolloans encountered were actually visible owing to a failure of the Hound's skin to synchronize correctly to its surroundings, leading to the theory that the Hounds are also slowly dying, their interior workings failing with the passing of time. They are fully mechanized beings, containing no trace of bio-matter or anything resembling living flesh; creatures whose kind has long been forbidden by the Imperium of Man. Despite their weakened state, they have hunted the Guardsmen with a single-minded determination unhampered by the fear of death or a sense of self-preservation, their numbers steadily diminishing along with those of the task-force. The Hounds are loping rather then running, their vitality waning swiftly now with non-stop exertion and continued tracking, the outlines of their near-invisible bodies blurring and shifting as they approach. The Joskollians have two minutes maximum to ready themselves.

Sorren is still talking rapidly into the vox while Wess, Rollins and Crawley form a loose a firing line between him and the approaching foe. 'Come and get it, cog-dogs!' Rollins cries, readying his flamer. 'Yeah, you fekking pieces of xenos-crap!' Wess screams as she takes aim along with Crawley, who whispers the Litany of Accuracy as he draws a bead on his selected target: 'Emperor, grant me the sight of the eagle, the calm of the breeze, the patience of a saint and the skill to smite the foe from afar!'

Pride fills Ritter. To die with these soldiers will be an honor. They have just lost a long-serving, much-loved leader yet their moral holds and they stand their ground. Death is certain now. The inquisitor has returned too late. Ritter no longer cares. Soon he will be rid of Setherin and be free of the mess the cowardly man so callously left them in; soon he will be liberated of the fevers and the hallucinations and from having to look at himself in the mirror every day and be confronted by the sickly, barely-functional wreck he has become. The mission has failed through no fault of the task-force. Let Setherin squander his own troops and resources for his precious Artifact, let him dare to set foot on Vespit himself and retrieve Artifact with his own hand. The Joskollians have done their duty.

'Joskoll will not yield!' Ritter howls the battle-cry of the 89th with ferocity and feeling, even though it brings blood to the back of his throat. His aide dashes past him to join the firing-line, brandishing his laspistol in one hand and Ritter's revved chainsword in the other.

'Joskoll will not yield!' Wess, Rollins and Knolls roar in unison. The empty landscape of Vespit shudders with the force of their collective cry.

'Sir, sir, the inquisitor…" Sorren holds out the headset to Ritter, his hazel eyes wide with fear and awe. Ritter bares his teeth in scorn. Deciding that he doesn't want to spend his final mortal moments explaining or justifying himself to the nasal-voiced pale-eyed son of a grox or listening to him justify himself, the commissar stows his sword and sizes the headset from his vox-operator.

'Inquisitor Ignass Setherin, you can go to lowest of all hells. That is all I have to say to you – Ritter out.'

Terminating the connection he tosses the headset back to a stunned Sorren who stares back at him in horror. Ritter grins wickedly. He hasn't felt this good in months. 'I can't be eloquent all the time, Sorren. That bastard shafted us good and proper so he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty. That makes him a coward in my book, and I don't take kindly to cowards.'

'But commissar, he…'

'…is an inquisitor, yes I know; but he's still an arsehole and I've never suffer arseholes kindly either.'

'But…'

'Does Joskoll yield, Brett Sorren?'

'I…no, sir…no it fekking doesn't.' Sorren stands, primes his lasrifle and takes his place on the line beside Knolls.

There is a sharp crack and one of the trails terminates in a billow of dust that obscures the now-visible body of a falling Hound. 'Number eight...' Norman Crawley whispers to himself, his keen eyes alight with satisfaction. These are kills-shots worthy of medals.

'Remember to watch out for their tails!' Wess reminds them.

'Yeah, you remember what happened to Lieutenant Perrell?' Knolls does not understand the concept of moral, having served his entire time in the Guard in a state of simple Emperor/Ritter-trusting positivity.

'I'd rather not remember what happened to Lieutenant Perrell, thank you,' mutters Sorren.

Crack! Another Hound stumbles but doesn't go down. 'Fek!' Crawley snarls. He fires again and this time his target falls. 'Number nine…'

'Save some for us, glory-hog," Wess chides.

'Shut your pretty trap and let me focus,' Crawley retorts.

'Can you tell of there's an Alpha among them?' Rollins asks.

'Yeah, there's two, actually, so we're doubly fekked,' the sniper snaps.

'Great, that's just…great,' Sorren moans, bouncing in place. 'Permission to run screaming pointlessly into the wastes, commissar?'

'Permission denied, trooper,' Ritter says grimly as he draws Kaegan's blade and reactivates it. "The Emperor's Throne awaits us. I'd like to be able to tell Him that none of you were found wanting.'

'I know what I want: a stiff drink of anything and everything,' confesses Rollins. 'Will stiff drinks be served to the Emperor's faithful warriors, Ritter?'

'I…really don't see why not…' Ritter considers the question thoughtfully.'Otherwise He will have to contend with millions of unhappy Space Wolves, and who would want that?'

'What about beautiful women?' Sorren wonders aloud, trying to distract himself from his rapidly-approaching death. 'Will there be beautiful woman, too?'

'There is no reason why billions of attractive Imperial females should be excluded, Sorren,' Ritter says with great patience.

'Also the Adeptus Soroitas will be there,' Rollins reminds. 'That should be enough.'

'Yeah, except they'll all be fawning on the Emperor rather than paying attention to either of you,' Wess snaps.

'But we'll be with the Emperor and that's good; that's what matters, right commissar?' Knolls seeks reassurance, unable to appreciate the conversation fully.

'Yes, Knolls, that is all that matters," Ritter concedes. "Soon we will be joined with the holy warriors from all the ages and before Him we will stand as a unified and invincible army, to trample the minions of Chaos and the haughty xenos under our feet, and of Mankind's reign there will be no end – for the Emperor!'

'FOR THE EMPEROR!'

"Well, I still hope there will be –"

'Will you all kindly shut it so I can fekking focus!' Crawley hisses. He repeats the Litany of Accuracy and crack! another Hound hits the dust. "Number ten…"

'Noise discipline,' orders Ritter.

'Here they come, sir!' Knolls cries joyfully.

Whether because their dying systems can no longer maintain their aurora of invisibility or because they now understand that such a defense is proving to be useless, the surviving eight Hounds have done away with their camouflage and finish their charge towards the Imperial line uncloaked and fully visible. The Joskollians call them 'hounds' only because their heads are canid-like in shape and design. The rest of their machine-bodies are feline-like, sleek and supple, with long whip-like tails capable of reaching far over and around their heads. Their tails are their most lethal weapons, their tips pointed, their lengths cunningly serrated, used as living spears to impale their foes or as lashes to slice at faces and blind eyes. The eight digits of their paws are long and the bigger Hounds can crudely grasp their prey, shredding flesh at will with their retractable claws. Their legs are double-jointed and they can turn and spin on a coin; their mouths are filled with evenly arrayed serrated fangs and their eyes – two centered together on front of their faces, the other two positioned on either side of their narrow heads – glow a dull malevolent orange. In their default state – before only assumed once killed - their semitransparent skin soaks in and their inner workings reflect light, so now the Hounds that advance upon Ritter's tired group are as crimson as Vespit's dying sun: blood-tainted monsters as relentless and pitiless as any Necron. The smallest is the size of a mastiff, the two Alphas are as big as fully-grown bull grox and these refuse be felled by hotshots. Crawley's lasbolts crackle off their smooth reddened hides. The jaws of all eight grind together, gashing and growling, the hideous fangs standing out starkly on lipless gums.

"Holy Throne…" Sorren breathes upon finally witnessing the creatures in all their inhuman glory.

"Bloody fekkers…" Rollins growls, swallowing back his fear.

"Hold the line! The Emperor protects!"

"Grenades! Toss your damn grenades!"

They all have a few of those. Wess, Sorren and Crawley each unhook a frag, pull the pin and fling them underhanded at the charging Hounds. As the mechanized abominations pass over they detonate: one horse-sized Hound looses both its front paws while a smaller one is blown cleanly in half. Ritter, Knolls, Wess and Sorren open fire, screaming the Litany of Hate as the remaining six Hounds fall upon them. Rollins steps forward into the path of the foremost Alpha and a jet of flaming promethium baptizes the hulking beast as its jaws gape wide to rend him. Knolls laughs as his chainsword severs another's lash-tail before scouring it along the Hound's flank in a shower of sparks. Crawley exchanges his long-las for a scavenged autogun and opens up on a twin pair of Hounds each as big as a Joskollian rock-bear. Wailing incoherently, Sorren charges a wolf-sized Hound with lasgun and bayonet, Wess at his side, adding her firepower to his, making short work of their target before they race to Crawley's aid.

The second Alpha, swerving away and around his flaming counterpart, never looses focus on the objective: the artifact he was programed by his long-extinct creators to protect. He makes straight for Ritter. The commissar is waiting.

III

The bolter-rounds sound like thunderclaps in Ritter's ears, exploding the silence of Vespit with such intrusive, concussive force he is virtually deafened. The Alpha's body shudders as the explosive bullets tear into it; but no pain is felt, no fear. Both machine and man are weakened by age, each a hollow shell of the fighting force they each once were. Unmaintenanced for thousands of years, the Hound retains only its most rudimentary hunter-killer initiatives. That the aggressively defiant creatures it has been stalking and slaying are Imperial humans is meaningless to it. It would have responded to the presence of the Eldar or the tau in the same manner. All intruders are to be eliminated: only the priests of Hele-rreh have the authority to approach or handle the sacred hek-kraa. Ritter is a trespasser, a thief and an alien. He is not hurr-kian. He must be purged. But the hek-kraa is not to be damaged. The Hound must act with upmost caution. These are its pre-programmed initiatives; it has no sense of self, only the safety of the hek-kraa is important. It feels its systems failing; damage reports echo in its brain. It does not matter. The holy hek-kraa will be delivered and the alien intruders will die. That is the sole purpose of its kind, the hawkln-kul.

A fresh wave of exhaustion sweeps through Ritter and fever-chills shiver through his body. The world tilts unsteadily around him and out of his peripheral vision he sees the spectres of the dead gathering to witness his final battle. Okjarr is there, his eyes full of understanding and pity. Leeds sneers at the commissar, his face purple and swollen. Graystone and Landon stand at attention in full dress uniform, as if awaiting inspection. Though Ritter has fought in and survived battles, sieges, skirmishes and ambushes that left hundreds slain around him, the dead soldiers he hallucinates always have a personal connection to him. Those he passed judgment on leer and snarl at him, scorn and hate in their deadened eyes; those he administered mercy to salute him with their weapons, their faces grave and somber. Kaegan he does not see. The world seems to slow down. Everything sounds distant and dim, as if he is alone with the great Hound. The beast is regarding him wearily. Ritter knows this is not because the creature is afraid of him. His bolt-pistol is empty, all eight rounds having struck true. The creature is dying; two of its eyes are dark. A thick reflective metallic fluid oozes from its wounds and pools on the ground below it. But victory has not yet been won. The Hound is readying itself for a final assault, one last attack that will decide both their fates. Ritter is weary of running, of retreating. His hands are beginning to shake; fatigue is threatening to overwhelm him. He drops his bolter and takes up his saber in both hands. Slowly he advances on the crouching crimson-lit construct, swishing the power-wreathed blade back and forth in lazy arrogant arcs, taunting the guardian, goading it.

'Do you want it back, beast?' the commissar snarls. 'Come and take it from me, abomination. I will wait no more. The Emperor provides; Joskoll will not yield.'

The Hound's body does not move, betrays no warning, yet Ritter instinctively jerks to one side as the monster's wire-like tail shoots towards his face, seeking to skewer an eye and impale his brain. He is not quick enough to completely dodge the projectile – pain explodes along his cheek as the serrated whip slices it open. With a swift upward cut Ritter severs the Hound's tail in two and the disconnected half falls writhing uselessly at his feet. But the attack is a diversion. Even as its tail-strike is averted the rest of the Hound follows as it launches itself forward. Its head rams into Ritter's armored chest, knocking him backwards off his feet. Before the commissar can recover the Hound pins him in place, one splayed eight-clawed paw pressing down on his cuirass while the other claws at Ritter's sword-arm, ripping into the exposed flesh and preventing him from stabbing its neck or head. With his free hand Ritter draws his spare laspistol and fires it point-blank into the Hound's throat as the creature's distended jaws descend upon his face. The Hound jerks its head back, gnashing its teeth as Ritter fires again and again, screaming wordlessly as he struggles to free his sword-arm, writhing under the pressure of the Hound's paw which does not give or shift a fraction.

'Commissar…! Hang on, sir…get off him, you fekking!'

Out of the dust stirred up by battle lunges Knolls, Ritter's chainblade clenched in both hands, his simple face a mask of bestial rage. Without hesitation he charges at the Alpha, bringing the weapon down in a vicious uppercut upon the Hound's thick neck. Sparks fly as the screaming weapon bores hungrily into the creature's mechanized flesh. The beast swings its head around to snap at the commissar's adjutant, its movements sluggish and jerky. Casting away his overheating laspistol, Ritter reaches over, grabs his sword from his trapped hand and drives it into the Hound's chest, pushing it in as deeply as it can penetrate. The Alpha goes into convulsions, rearing upright and wrenching itself free of the blade. Finally freed, Ritter rolls to one side just as the Hound crashes to the ground, twisting and thrashing, its jaws biting at nothing. Knolls ceases his assault, stumbling back from the dying xenos construct, chainsword still whirring. With a final burst of exertion Ritter stands upright and takes eight steps back from his smitten foe before falling again as another wave of vertigo hits him. Blood is flowing freely from his face and mangled arm and his whole body is shaking uncontrollably.

'Sir, you're hurt!" Knolls exclaims as he falls to his knees beside the wounded commissar, his eye full of alarm. 'Medic! Wess! Commissar Ritter needs you!'

Ritter coughs and blinks as his eyes water up. Great billows of dust hang in the air, casting a haze over the battle and obscuring the warring figures within. Sound is only just beginning to return. He can only hear dimly what Knolls is saying. The stench of burning promethium and cooking flesh is strong. The downed Alpha continues to twitch and jerk, incapacitated and no more of a threat. Ritter reaches down pulls the satchel up to his chest. The Artifact still vibrates within. Inquisitor Setherin's prize remains in Imperial hands, for now.

'Knolls…go aid the others…I need to rest a moment…my wounds are not…life-threatening…'

'Let me bandage your arm first sir, its bleeding pretty bad…' 'Go on, Knolls, I'll do it…' Ritter insists as he pulls his coat sleeve down over the weeping lacerations on his right arm.'You know I've suffered worse…any casualties?'

Knolls sneezes and wipes his nose. 'Rollins is dead. He and that other big one went up together all afire. I think Sorren and Crawley are hurt but – Throne!'

A Hound emerges from the haze, lurching unsteadily due to a partially-severed hind leg, but to the commissar's horror it is dragging a limp Sorren, its jaws locked into the vox-operator's neck and shoulder. With a cry Knolls springs upright and charges the second creature with the screaming chainblade. Before Ritter can do anything the Hound's tail lashes out at his adjutant's head and Knolls reels back in agony, blood spraying from his face and remaining eye.

'No!" Ritter staggers to his feet and flourishes his sword, trying to draw the beast's attention. 'I'm the one you want – come to me!'

The Hound tosses Sorren aside and lurches towards the commissar, maw agape, its tail weaving and whipping about its head. With his injured arm pressed against his chest, Ritter takes up a defensive stance with the crackling blade, struggling to land a hit on the questing tail while keeping it from striking his face and chest. The Hound fills his entire vision and his world is reduced to the grinding slog of cut and parry. With an abrupt unexpected flex the Hound whips its tail down low and across Ritter's shins, cutting through fabric, boot leather and skin and slicing them open to the bone. Ritter falls screaming, his guard broken, and the Hound swipes out a paw, all eight claws fully extended, catching him in the side and sending the moral officer tumbling over in the dust. Pain envelops Ritter and darkness gathers at the edges of his vision. Death and duty's end has come at last. Throwing his wounded arm protectively across his face, the fallen commissar brandishes his sword in defiance one final time…

There is series of loud rapid-fire reports and the Hound pitches forward onto its face as heavy slugs tear into its neck and disintegrate a foreleg. Its tail lashes about spasmodically as the beast crashes onto its side, and is stilled forever when the remaining bullets rupture its head in an explosive shower of metallic gore.

'Number fekking twelve…' Norman Crawley hisses. The sniper's helmet is off and his lank dark hair is plastered to his sweat-streaked brow. His face is twisted by a savage smile of victory. His cold green eyes appraise Ritter and his injuries, his contempt plain for the commissar to see.

'Well sir, just when I thought you couldn't look any worse you go and prove me wrong. Not very inspiring, I'll say – still, you got off easier then Rollins: that flaming monster took him out in a literal blaze of glory…'

Crawley pauses and looks askance at Sorren's motionless body before shrugging dismissively in an attempt to mask his grief. "Looks like he bled out quickly…and what's happened to the dog-boy, now?"

Jeffron Knolls is kneeling and holding his hands to his lacerated face, blood dribbling from between his fingers, the chainsword still activated and buzzing by his side. 'C-commissar? Crawley? I need…I need help…I can't see…'

Crawley jogs over to the wounded trooper, picks up the chainblade and deactivates it. Kneeling he bats away the adjutant's hands and examines the Guardsmen's face closely. 'Fek, boy; you're gonna need augmetics for both those baby-blues now. That's what happens when you attack like a mad dog, you stupid grunt.'

Where is Wess? Ritter wonders, struggling to stay focused, fighting not to scream for the terrible agony of his limbs and side. Reaching into his webbing he withdraws a packet of pain-inhibitors, palming five and dry-swallowing them. Gritting his teeth he begins to drag himself towards the two Joskollians, leaving a trail of bloodied soil behind him. The torturous silence is resuming its rule and the ash-dust is beginning to settle. Smoke and dying flames are rising from the burning and sizzling bodies of Rollins and the first Alpha, their scorched forms locked together in a fused embrace. Bodies and pieces of Hounds and Imperial weapons litter the ground. Then the commissar sees Wess, propped up against the side of one of the bear-seized creatures. She is not moving. Altering his course, Ritter crawls over to her, refusing to trust his eyes alone tell him what has happened.

'Wess...?" Her chin rests on her chest and her eyes are closed, her posture almost identical to that of Landon's in the cave. Her left hand still clutches her lasrifle, her right grasping her medikit. Hauling himself up next to her Ritter sees blood matting the hair on the left side of her head. He is just about to reach for her when her eyelids flicker and open. She raises her head and looks at him dazedly.

'I…I wasn't sleeping, commissar…I, I hit my head, I think…'

'I understand Wess, I need you to…' Suddenly she clasps a hand to his forehead. 'You feel overly feverish, Ritter. Have you been taking your medication?'

'I…yes, I have, Wess…' Ritter cannot remember when he last took the appalling cocktail of prescribed medications that allegedly manage his symptoms, but he knows it hasn't been recently.

'Wess, listen, you need get with it. All the Hounds are dead, but we've lost Rollins and Sorren and the rest us are injured. I –'

'Knolls! Holy Throne, what happened to you?' She turns distractedly from him and stares wide-eyed at his adjutant, whom Crawley has guided over. The young trooper's face is horrific to behold: fearful lacerations cut through both eyes and the blood streams down his cheeks and chin, dripping and spattering on the ground between his boots. He holds the chainsword extended downward in one hand, its tip scraping the soil, utilizing it as a seeing cane.

'I was…stupid…' Knolls whispers, hanging his head in shame. Ritter glares furiously at Crawley. The sniper swallows and pulls Knolls back a pace.

Wess sits up, blinking, coming fully back to reality. 'Rollins and Sorren are dead?'

She looks up at Crawley, who nods affirmatively. 'We're all that's left, Abbi,' he says, his voice raw and bitter. 'And ol' Scarecrow will join them if you don't shift yourself. He's torn up pretty bad; he actually took on two of those cog-dogs single-handed.'

Wess turns to Ritter, about to ask him something when they all hear the sound again – that dreaded, persistent, unmistakable sound…

Cak-krak..! Cak-krak..! Cak-krak...!

"Oh God-Emperor…" Wess whispers, her face going pale.

'I hear them – I hear the cog dogs!' Knolls clutches Crawley's arm tightly, his bloodied face casting about in blind alarm.

'Fek, oh fek…here, let go of me and get down!' Crowley pushes Knolls down beside Wess, then stands glaring at all three, knowing he is the only soldier capable of mounting an offensive and knowing it will not be enough. Wess makes as if to stand, but the sniper holds up a hand.

'Don't bother, Wess – its over. I'll hold them off as long as I can, for whatever it's worth. You…you see to your patients.'

'Crawley, wait…' withdrawing his final bolt-magazine, Ritter extends it to his longtime foe. 'My bolter…is somewhere close by…use it…kill as many as you can…'

Crawley takes the clip, his drawn face grim and set. Old grudges and animosity are set aside. The sniper wants to say something, something sarcastic and worthy of Sorren or something noble and worthy of Rollins, but his mind is blank; what can he tell the dying commissar that the man doesn't already know or expect? They are both soldiers of the God-Emperor; words are not necessary. Ritter nods, a curt gesture of assent and encouragement. Crawley turns, hoisting his autogun across his shoulder and strides to his final glory without once looking back. The pain is starting to ebb; Ritter feels his blood soaking into his clothes, dampening the earth under him. The darkness deepens as his vision drifts and wanes. Where is Kaegan? He tries to focus on keeping his grip on his sword but Wess is pawing at him, trying to pull his coat off, attempting to assess the damage. Weakly he pushes her away, his dry tongue sliding over blood-grimed teeth as he struggles to form words. 'Tend to my aide first, medic.'

Wess is so desensitized to the commissar's death-like appearance and cowed by the memory of him striking her the last time she made unwanted physical advances that she immediately turns to the blinded trooper but Knolls also pushes her away, shaking his head. 'No, no you've got to help Commissar Ritter first; his arm is hurt. I saw it...'

Again the silence is violently shattered by Crawley's autogun. Ritter squints through dimming eyes, seeing the sniper standing forty yards away, firing furiously. Before him rise fresh dust-clouds as five visible Hounds lope towards him. Wess stands, rasing her lasrifle and slamming a fresh cell-pack home while favoring Ritter with a sidelong defiant what-the-hells-look. Knolls extends the chainsword before him with both hands, reactivating it with a whirring buzz. Drawing upon his last reserves of strength, Ritter rises to his knees, then staggers to his feet, Kaegan's sword digging into the earth to prop his failing body. This is his final stand. The world tilts and shifts; everything is covered in blood-taint – the expiring sun glares coldly down upon them, casting its crimson taint across the expired world. Then a new sound fills Ritter's ears, lancing through the air with a skull-splitting force so intense that he does not recognize it for what it is, and when the charging Hounds are consumed in a flash of fire and the blast concussion throws him and Wess back against the fallen xenos-construct, he is only vaguely aware of the swift shadow of a gunship streaking across the ground, of his vox-bead clicking in his ear, of Wess crying out to Crawley who does not respond, and of Knolls crying plaintively out for him as he falls into…

o0o

*Or, in vulgar Low Gothic: War is Life and Life is Death

A/N: So, as most of chapter three is still up in the air...how grimdark should this get? Do you care about the characters enough to want them to survive? The Inquisition is here!