(III) - Where The Stars Of Terra Grow

by PhantomStag458

Nemesis Tessera has fallen, the Imperials are in retreat, Larn lies in a coma. Rescued by the Craftworld Eldar, the shattered forces of the Imperial Guard and Navy are pursued by the Chaos hordes to Cadia. With their backs to the wall the defenders of the Cadian Gate prepare to face the enemy in a confrontation that will decide the fate of the Imperium. Sequel to The Willing Flesh.

36. Chapter 35

Valkyrie 229, Callsign 'Crow 5-7', Cadia Secundus, 14:39

Patiently listening to his fellow pilot's calm voice relaying the exact grid reference of his landing zone, Warrant Officer Hugh Waldo recorded the position of Crow 5-4 and transmitted the coordinates, copying the actions of his lift commander, Captain Karl Imress.

"Five-Four losing altitude," Warrant Officer Hector Hodiss' voice came on over troop comms. "VTOL shot up. Will try and glide her in."

Hodiss's Slick had taken fire from a hidden 20-millimetre VAK anti-aircraft gun and was on the way down. Peeling off from the vic of three ships after soaking up the well-aimed tracer burst, the Slick began banking lazily, grey smoke trailing from its port engine.

"You got your survival kit, Five-Four?" Captain Imress asked, keeping his tone light.

"Affirm, Crow Leader. Packed and ready," Hodiss replied smoothly. "Might have to reschedule the date. It'll get me out of dinner with the missus for a while at least."

Chuckling, Imress said, "best of luck, Five-Four. We'll see you at home."

Dipping his wing to get a better view of the crash-landing, Waldo saw the Slick's nose plough into the grassy plain, the angle shallow enough to allow the ship to coast along on its skids before the downward force dropped the nose into the earth, tearing the skids and chin guns from their mounts. Dug up clumps of mud and grass were flung over the Slick's canopy, half-burying it as the ship rolled over on its side, the force of the impact weakening the port wing enough for it to shear off, coming to rest against a rocky outcrop the Slick slid past with scant feet to spare. Losing the last of its momentum, Hodiss's Slick lay on one side with the starboard wing jutting up into the sky.

"Five-Four? Five-Four, do you read?"

On Waldo's port, Imress took up a high orbit around Hodiss' crash-site, continually clicking his on his comm, awaiting Hodiss' answering click.

"Crow Leader, request permission to land at crash-site and confirm Crow Five-Four's status." Waldo glanced hopefully at his flight commander's tinted cockpit. "Their comms might be down."

"Negative, Five-Seven. I have multiple personnel appearing on my scanners. They're making their way over to the crash-site," Imress replied coolly. "We have full compliments. Anything extra will exceed our respective weight limits."

Frowning behind his oxygen mask Waldo swept his scope outwards, loosening the scanned area around his ship. Damned Zekes had manoeuvred south of Kasr Jark with alarming speed, cutting the supply lines between Jark and Kraf, forcing all relief to be brought in by air. Now it looked like a Zeke platoon was making a move in Hodiss's direction. Streaming in from the north and the east tiny, man-shaped specks advanced upon the crash-site, blithely passing off the orbiting Valkyries as no threat to their integrity. That was where Waldo would prove them wrong. Flicking channels to the crew intercom Waldo spoke with Arun Ovile, strapped in the co-pilot's seat behind him. "Our rotaries ready to feed, Arun?"

"Twelve-hundred rounds loaded and keen to devastate some Zekes," Ovile said.

"Okay, I'm going to request a single strafe. Send Zeke scarpering." Waldo eyed the Zekes converging upon the downed bird.

Ovile agreed readily with his pilot's plan. Imress now needed convincing.

"I'd advocate a more cautious approach, Five-Seven. We are strafing friendlies," Imress replied.

"Understood, Crow Leader, I propose we scratch Five-Four's back widthways; shake the bugs off." Come on, Captain, the longer we wait, the longer Hodiss is down there, Waldo thought to himself. Disconcertingly he could see no activity aside the Zekes closing in like flies to the corpse of a Grox.

A pause from Imress: too long. No spoken reply was given, just two clicks on the comm, signalling that Imress approved of the action.

About damn time. Waldo sighed, making sure to he was back on intercom first so that Imress did not hear. "Hold everything down back there, Russ. We're having a short scrap."

"What are we engaging?" Russ Reath, forced to stand as the litter cases were taking up the entire floorspace, asked.

"Hodiss is in a spot of bother. We're scratching his back."

"Any further time put on the clock? We've got a fair few VSIs back here. Headwounds."

"Negligible. We're helping a brother flyer here, Russ. You'd do the same if you were flying."

Banking in unison with Imress, Waldo lined up wing-abreast and flicked his shutters down. The ocular sight granted superior magnification, allowing Waldo to lay his ordnance within half a metre of the target though carried no Hellstrike missiles or rocketpods, only his chin-mounted rotary cannon that sat in place of the multi-laser.

A bubble of anger arose when Waldo saw the Zekes dancing around Hodiss' cockpit and clambering up onto the Slick's body, shooting their weapons off into the air with such carefree abandon that it gave Waldo pause for thought. Are they oblivious to us? Their demise is imminent yet they still frolic about in the open.

Waldo knew of the detrimental effect the taint of Chaos could have on a person's mind. It was a sickness to which there was no cure. That though was not strictly true, Waldo bearing the remedy underneath his thumb: the button linking with the rotary cannon's firing mechanism. At nineteen rounds fired per second, the cannon would eradicate the soft, fleshy Zekes in faint puffs of pink mist, something Waldo looked forward to seeing in short stead. Grimly removing the cannon's safety, Waldo uttered the declaration that he was about to engage ground targets, and touched the trigger.

---

"Is anyone alive?" A voice stifled by bandages stirred Ral Bleak from his daze. "Hello?"

Forehead aching from the blood that had rushed there, Ral lifted his head up, feeling a sharp tug downwards and a crick in his neck where the jostling of the crash-landing had jarred it. The starboard side of the Slick was tilted up into the air, and as such the litter cases had all fallen against the passengers on the portside, forming a haphazard crush.

"Ho," Ral called softly, his clumsy fingers working at his stretched harness. "Call to me and I'll make my way down to you."

"I can't see."

"Neither can I. Too dark in here," Ral twisted to look at the man beside him. "Can't get my harness free, can you help me out?"

Still out from the crash, the man next along from Ral remained still, his chin resting upon his breast.

"Tom, say if you're alive, huh?" Keeping up the unconcerned façade Ral hung onto the loose straps as they came away from his chest and let himself down the steep slope, using the thin grill on the deck for handholds.

"Colonel? Ma-am?" Ral paid the intelligence officer a cursory glance, uncertain if she was conscious or otherwise then turned to the pile of wounded. "I'm here. Talk to me."

"You're behind me." Something stirred beneath the bodies. A hand was pushed through the gap between a person's legs, the fingers of which widened, feeling around for Ral.

"Alright, my lad, I gotcha." Ral took the man's hand and held on tightly. "I'm Ral. Where you hit?"

"Face."

"Just your face?"

"Yeah, just my face."

"Can you walk then?"

"Can't move."

"Not to worry." Ral eased the body of a Cadian with a bandaged headwound off the man, setting him down as gently as possible at the colonel's feet. "There. Can you move now?"

"…Little bit," the bandaged man, another Cadian, groaned, stretching out his weak arms, pressing against the bodies of the litter cases in a fruitless attempt to make himself some room.

"Be right as rain in no time." Ral picked the man up in his arms and carried him over to the rear hatch. "Change them bandages sometime too."

"No, don't take them off!" The bandaged man shuddered. "I'm deformed."

"You're not deformed. They'll treat you well down in Kraf." Ral rubbed the man's shoulder consolingly. "Medicae nurses; plenty o' them down there. Proper stunners they are. You'll pull one of them, no sweat."

"I couldn't talk to women. Ever. No-one is going to want to look at me now."

"It's amazing what sort of stuff they can get done now with wounds," Ral said, examining the Cadian's blood-stained bandages. "Get you a whole proper new face. It'll be better than the old one too. The girls'll like that."

"We're assigned a bed partner at barracks, part of the Sleeping Roster."

"Well that don't sound so bad. Free sack time." Ral grinned. "You Cadians have it better than us Nerians."

"They're watching us. All of us. Always," the Cadian mumbled. "If we don't get our partner pregnant by the end of the week, we get a punishment detail from the battalion commissar."

"What?" Ral, curious, uneasy too, leant in to listen.

"Cadia needs soldiers," the Cadian said flatly. "We do our duty for the Emperor on and off the battlefield."

Patting the man's arm, Ral said, "take it easy, pal."

"I'll take it any way I can," he replied, sounding a little tearful.

More of the Slick's passengers were slowly awakening, rousing groggy from the short period of unconsciousness. Those seated against the starboard bulkhead were scrambling to undo harnesses, those on the opposite side gingerly manoeuvring the human pile that were the litter cases into more comfortable positions.

"Soldier, drop the ramp," ordered the colonel. She had come round with nary a murmur of discontent, assuming her pre-crash coolness immediately despite her feet and legs being hemmed in by bodies.

"Yes, ma-am." Closest to the hatch, Ral clambered onto the portside bulkhead and worked his way up to the round, palm-sized button that would normally require reaching up towards the ceiling to hit. Pressing firmly several times, Ral heard nothing in any way mechanical, no answering whir from the hatch's motor, not even a whisper. The ship's systems were quite dead.

"No go, ma-am." Ral slid back down to the sharp incline that was the deck. "Try the side door," he said, forgetting he was addressing a colonel.

"Try the side door," the colonel repeated, carefully concealing her irritation at Ral's upstaging her.

"At once, ma-am." A Cadian medic, seeing to his charges, scaled the gradient and got a grip on the inside of the sliding door.

"What do you see?"

The colonel, Ral, and the others waited in anticipation as the Cadian pushed the shutter to one side, letting a shaft of white light across his face. "There's—"

A sharp ping above the medic's head brought him to his knees, still clinging to the door handles. Scarcely a hair's breadth above his crown was a little round hole the size of a fingertip. Shooting a nervous glance down at the sea of faces, the medic slowly rose, his eyes drawing level with the slit.

"They're coming—"

Unprepared for the ensuing cacophony, Ral clapped his hands over his ears when a piercing clatter of gunfire, coming from outside, punched through the door, catching the medic in the chest. With blood pouring from exit wounds on his back, the medic collapsed against the door, his legs sliding out from under him.

Realising the blood from the Cadian was on his face, Ral wiped it on his sleeve, keeping himself low and still. Confused, frightened faces cast about. Those without their sight grasped at others, petrified at the ear-splitting, rapid-fire sound of hammers upon metal.

"Stay down!" someone gasped.

No shit, what else are we going to do? Ral clutched at his head when a second rifle shot came through the door, giving a loud clap then ricocheting.

"How thick is this ship's armour?" the colonel hissed. "Anyone?"

No-one could give an answer. Ral's – as well as everyone else's – ears were stretched taught, listening to the clamour of the Zekes outside as they surrounded the Slick, firing weapons in all directions; stirring up one hell of a racket.

Like an angry mob descending upon the beast's lair. Ral swallowed, eying the ramp behind him, wondering just how much metal there was between him and Zeke's probing bullets. Cries went up when a second burst peppered the door, filling the compartment with noise.

"Oh, oh," a wounded Cadian groaned over and over again.

"Ssh!" another hissed.

"Quiet!"

Keeping his silence, Ral noticed Carillo, unconscious, was still fastened in his seat. Come on, pal, need you awake.

"What is his status?" the colonel, brandishing a laspistol, apparently their sole means of defence, whispered.

"He's still out, ma-am." Ral winced, shielding Carillo when scattered rifle shots pummelled the hull, sounding like giant gongs were banging against it. "Don't shoot. They'll kill us all in here."

"Would you all rather lie down and die? Cadians do not capitulate without a fight."

This non-combatant was just as dangerous as the Zekes outside, Ral realised in growing fear. "If you shoot, ma-am, they'll start wasting the wounded. It's our job to protect them!"

"Shut up, Private. You will be first out of that door." Setting her jaw firmly, the colonel reflexively aimed her laspistol at the door when a crash of rifle butts on the holed steel reverberated through the compartment.

"God-Emperor protect us," a wounded Cadian whimpered, clasping his trembling hands together in desperate prayer. Following his example, other hands joined his.

"Come on, mate, wake up." Ral shook Carillo's shoulder, his eyes flitting between the starboard door and the colonel's laspistol. Ral would make a grab for the sidearm if the colonel looked like she was about to use it. He would not let her be the cause of their deaths.

The clanging on the door subsiding – the Zekes working out that blunt force would not gain them entry – it was replaced with a grating, grinding noise as hands pulled the door sideways on its rails.

"Please don't," Ral pleaded when the colonel leant forwards to cover the widening gap with her weapon. Wearing a mask of grim determination, the colonel shook her head. She was determined to die in an honourable manner, Ral realised. Never mind the score of helpless wounded with her, unable to defend themselves. Such foolishness and selfishness burned a bitter brand of resent inside him.

Opening to its fullest, the door came to a halt, the unseen hands letting go and retreating. Silhouetted by the cloudy sky, a blurry head appeared. Catching the colonel's trigger finger twitching, Ral lashed out against the laspistol's barrel, batting it away from where it was aimed squarely at the head, the shot sparking brightly against the bulkhead beside the door. Given cause to flee, the head dropped out of sight. A strong, burning stench of melted steel now filled the troop bay. Where the las shot had hit there was a shiny, dripping wound that gave off smoke.

Outraged at Ral's interference, the colonel's expression turned livid, very nearly turning her weapon upon him then. Without a word spoken, the colonel nonetheless made her intentions clear: you will pay for that.

We'll all pay for that, ma-am, Ral returned, also wordlessly.

In the wake of the colonel's token of resistance, the Zekes outside had fallen quiet. No other faces appeared in the open doorway. His heart fluttering, Ral imagined the Zekes convening with each other in whispers, debating what to do with the Slick's occupants, who had now made it quite clear that they would not give in so easily.

"Ral, what are—?" Carillo had awoken.

"Shush." Ral placed a hand over Carillo's mouth, silencing the confused grunt. Raising a finger to his lips, Ral motioned for quiet. Still Zeke had not made a sound, his lack of activity equally perplexing and putting the wind up Ral who could only remain as still as possible and await the enemy's next move.

With all eyes fixed on the open door, the unexpected fusillade bursting through the raised ramp behind brought on screams and yelps as bullets met flesh and glanced off the bulkheads. Tiny shafts of light appearing behind him, Ral flung himself flat on the deck, pulling the groggy Carillo down next to him, eardrums protesting, nearly out of his mind with fear. Then, as if provoked by the spiteful shot the colonel had taken, a small, round object came sailing in through the door, sparking off shouts of warning when it was discovered to be a grenade. Seeing the smoking fuse rising from where the bomb had rolled, Ral gave a stifled whimper and clamped his hands over his ears, the bleats of those unfortunate enough to be close to the grenade driving nails into his heart.

Tiny moans of pain were all that came from the corner in aftermath of the horrific explosion, dampened as it was by the bodies closeby. The sound of grown men crying was perhaps an even worse thing to hear than seeing the blood spattered up the bulkhead.

"Oh please, no more," a frightened voice cried.

"We surrender," another gasped.

"Shoot me. Shoot me."

Even the colonel appeared shaken by the casual brutality displayed by the unseen Zekes, Ral noted, for she was now lying prone at Carillo's shoulder; having dispensed all ideas about using her sidearm, only desiring to live. Within the belly of the Slick, it was every man and woman for his and herself.

Of the same mind as the colonel, Ral nevertheless clung to Carillo, keeping him as low as possible when a second grenade – this one a stick type – was tossed in, drawing howls of frenzied terror. With less obstruction than before, the charge went off producing the same magnified boom, muting the collective screams. Deafened, Ral felt a wetness covering his face, and realised it was blood. Flecks of it were everywhere now, staining clothing, bandages, and skin. It was in his hair and on his lips too; the taste of copper.

And I hit? Ral groped for Carillo, shaking him when he would not move. Is Tom hit?

In as bedraggled a state as Ral and Carillo were, the colonel removed her shaking hands from where they were covering her ears, unsure if Zeke had had enough or not.

Then a muzzle of an automatic was jabbed in through the doorway, with only the hands of its user seen. Sweeping the interior, the Zeke fired blind, the rapid clatter of his weapon a thunderstorm in his hands, dealing out indiscriminate death to the vainly protesting wounded. When the silence came after the first burst, there were even fewer voices that remained to cry softly in the dark.

Here we go. This is it. Ral found Carillo's wrist and held it. Carillo in return took Ral's wrist in his own hand. I've got you, pal.

Eclipsing the snarl of the automatic, brutal staccato bursts of a heavier-calibre weapon churned up the ground outside, stitching a straight line of lead up across the Slick's hull, sounding akin to an avalanche of boulders on the steel plating. Twin roars of turbofan engines bellowed overhead, swiftly followed by another pair. Both ships' strafing left a wake of silence. The Zeke that had been shooting up the interior had disappeared.

Dust intermingled with blood tickled Ral's nostrils, bringing on a sneeze. "Anyone...?"

A hand was raised from the bloody pile of bodies, its owner muttering, "the Emperor protects."

"The Emperor protects," the colonel replied, getting to her feet and clambering slowly past Ral and Carillo, grasping the hand before it dropped. "You have done your duty to the God-Emperor. Now rest."

"Mother." Another man stirred but was too weak to move.

"Take heart, Guardsman. The Emperor is your mother, your father, your sibling, resting within you always."

Did she mean it? Ral wondered. After all they were just words, and it was not like the colonel was actually stopping to see if she could provide for those grievously wounded either in the crash or the shooting. Perhaps they were solely for her benefit so she did not feel ill at ease for abandoning the men.

Reaching the open door, the colonel turned back and gestured down at Ral and Carillo. "You men there. Any of you that can walk, come with me."

"Tom, can you move?"

"Ooh, I've got something – something hit me in my arse, Ral," Carillo said in a pained voice. "Can't walk."

"Anywhere else?"

"Nah, just my arse. Felt like someone poked it with their finger."

"Come on, I'll help you. You can use your hands, can't you?"

"Yeah – oh my god." Carillo gaped in horror at the extent of the injuries the grenades had dealt. The deep red coating the bulkheads too was bright and shining in the light.

"Careful now. Out you go, mate," Ral grunted as Carillo squeezed past him, falling face-first down to the muddy ground ten feet below. "You alright?"

Slumped and looking lifeless, Carillo replied, "I need help."

"Colonel? Colonel, we need a hand here," Ral called to the officer who had moved around to the other side of the Slick where the cockpit was.

"Pilots are dead," came her reply.

"What's she…?" Carillo propped himself up on his elbows when the colonel reappeared, wandering over to the bodies of the Zekes. "Ral?

Ral, hanging half-in, half-out of the door grimaced in disgust when the colonel removed her laspistol from her holster and shot a wounded Zeke. The hand he raised to protect his face, or simply a plea for aid was coldly ignored.

"Colonel, I need to get these men out the ship. They're gonna die in there," Ral called trying to keep the bite in his tone to a minimum, so taken aback he was by the colonel's spiteful killing.

"They will die out here too, Private." The colonel raised both her arms in a shrug. "Look where we are."

"Well them Slicks are gonna come back, aren't they?" Craning his neck, Carillo searched the skies for the departed Valkyries. "They zipped those Zekes, so why aren't they landing? Why aren't they picking us up?"

"Too overladen." Ral let his arms hand limply over the lip. "No more room."

"Better they continue to Kraf. That way I can still complete my assignment without being there in person," the colonel said. Stooping she picked up an M-35 Galaxy from a Zeke. "Come with me, or make your own way to Kraf. I suggest not to waste time here. More Chaos will be arriving."

"What 'bout the wounded?" Carillo dragged himself through the muck. "Have you any decency, Colonel?"

"Provide all the moral comfort you wish, and when the enemy finds you, be safe knowing that you did all you could for those men; nothing." The colonel waved the bayonet she had removed from the M-35 at Carillo. "I want to live. Not be an evening feast for those heathen bastards which those men shall be tonight."

For all her cold-hearted pragmatism, the colonel was offering a very valid point. There were no medical supplies with which to tend the fresh wounds. And the act of moving the men out into the open air might very well kill them. That stung Ral deeply, the feeling of helplessness and only being able to look out for oneself.

"Carillo, we're going with the colonel," Ral said despondently, "nothing else we can do here."

Raising a leg so he could drop out of the opening and land on his feet, Ral felt his other foot be grasped. Another Cadian had survived, or was well enough to walk. The cold, white fear in the young man's face was compelling enough for Ral to reach back in and offer him his hand. "C'mon, lad, we've got to leave."

"Don't leave me."

"Not a chance. Grab on and I'll help you out."

Carefully wriggling backwards out of the doorway, both his hands held by the Cadian, Ral felt his legs pedalling at thin air, there being no suitable footholds in reach. His weight though was enough to pull the man out far enough so his head could be seen. For the briefest moment Ral stared at the Cadian's close-cropped head which was shaven very close to the skin in the manner of the rawest recruit. Bloody as it was, Ral saw, or thought he saw what looked like bone sticking out just above his right ear.

"Okay, I'm gonna drop down now. You follow me."

"How far is the drop?" the Cadian asked numbly.

The blank, glazed-over eyes. The poor man had been blinded.

"Very short. I can almost touch it really," Ral said brightly. "Just a small hop."

"Just a small hop."

"Nothing to worry about." Ral let go, landing on his feet but losing his balance in the process, to Carillo's concern.

"You hit?"

"No. Might need a new set o' drawers though." Ral wiped his hands down and beckoned to the blind Cadian. "Down you come, pal, same way I did."

With painful slowness the Cadian first got one leg out of the door and then the other. "Will you catch me if I fall over?" he asked in a little voice.

"Not gonna fall over. It's only a little drop," Ral laughed, sticking out his arms all the same. "Ready?"

Dropping from the door, Ral caught the Cadian in his outstretched arms and held him upright, expecting a shout of dismay when the drop turned out to be longer than he had thought. "There you go, piece o' cake that. Now what's your name, son?"

"…Ral." Carillo was pointing at the Cadian. "Sorry."

Gently turning the curiously limp body around, Ral sighed softly when he saw the young man's flat, thoroughly vacant expression. "Alright, down you go." With as much dignity as was possible, Ral sat the Cadian against the hull of the Slick.

"How?" Carillo asked, staring at the Cadian in curiosity.

"Doesn't matter." Ral knelt and dug out the man's tags from around his neck. "This one's coming home with us."

"Cadians are home though. What they gonna do if they lose here?" Carillo gripped Ral's hand and struggled to get up, forced to hobble awkwardly due to his wound.

"Dunno. Find somewhere else I s'pose. Same what we had to do with Nereus."

"Nereus…?" Carillo began but quickly put a lid on his curiosity when Ral shook his head, evidently a subject not for discussion, being too recent and uncomfortable a memory. "We following the colonel?"

Ral grunted in acknowledgement and picked up his pace. The intelligence officer was already a good way away, heading south across the plain in the direction of Kraf. As distasteful as he found the colonel's conduct, she was their only hope if they ran into Zeke. A necessary evil, one we can only put up with for now.

---

Bastion 33, 16:58

Light shone in unbroken shafts through holes blasted in the walls of the company command post which smelt richly of propellant and sweat. A carpet of spent brass lay underfoot as well as two long, snaking belts that had been run through the KP-70 and tossed to one side.

Helmetless, and with sweat clinging to his brow, Simon Corta called back to Wharton. "Wharton, take over here. I'm going down to the courtyard."

"Sir." Dedicatedly manning the bastion's vox despite its continued silence – there had been nothing from 2nd Guards Brigade all afternoon – Wharton tugged off his headset and hurried to take up Corta's position.

With the increased shelling of the outer wall it was now impossible to properly man the defences, what with several large breaches collapsing parts of the interior and opening up sections for the Zeke howitzers to use as aiming points. Aside from a small handful of riflemen, the Siphanis and Cannon had withdrawn to the open courtyard below the bastion wall, it at least being protected from the howitzers which were content to chew away at the wall in the hope the debris would form mounds for the infantry to scale; granting them access to the bastion.

Having received its fair share of mortar fire, the courtyard was a mess of broken glass, dirt, and rubble. In the latter's case however, pains had been taken to shift the worst of it to one side, granting some clear space. The Cadian artillery tow, its owners neglecting to return for it, was lying on its side, now a burnt-out wreck. Both the Siphani pioneer platoon and the now platoon-sized unit that was Cannon were occupying opposite sides of the courtyard, Lieutenant D'ambrosia keeping her people away from Corta's. Those wounded were arranged in separate rows just outside the bastion's outer gate, hoping a field ambulance would show up and carry them back to the rear. After repeated requests though, none had shown.

A few faces looked Corta's way when he stepped out into the open air, as if awaiting fresh news. Sadly though Corta had nothing to give them, terribly frustrating as it was, not knowing what was going on on the company's flanks. It was the price of being a lowly subaltern, only having a full tactical grasp of the situation in the company's sector.

Well done, lads. Corta surveyed his men in silent approval. Without even the fancy armour and equipment of the Cadians and they were still giving Zeke a run for his money through sheer tenacity. Some weren't even company men but hangers-on. That military journalist had been with them since Rakka, being there completely of his own accord.

"Not sure whether I've had the pleasure." Corta stuck out his hand to the man. "Simon Corta."

Quickly putting his notes to one side, the stout man sprang to his feet and returned the handshake. "Sorry, sir, there's been a lot going on recently. Haven't had a chance to speak to you."

"No problem. What's your tag?"

"These lot have been calling me scribe. I don't mind."

"Oh, very well, Scribe. Tell me you've been writing exactly what you've seen."

"Exactly, sir, blisters and all."

"Outstanding. Keep it up." Off-handedly Corta grinned. That such a low-prestige unit like Cannon was getting press coverage tickled him pink for he was secretly overjoyed that it was not the Cadians getting all the attention, as was usual.

Good job, men. Corta nodded stoically at the few men who met his eye. Remaining silent in his approval was necessary. The fight was not yet over. Only when – if – they pulled through would Corta openly congratulate them.

While a few acknowledged his presence, many more were engrossed in wolfing down the remaining contents of ratpacks, reloading magazines with loose rounds, or cleaning away dirt build-up inside barrels. A few men slept, their apparent exhaustion enough to stave off the nightmares plaguing everyone.

Staff Sergeant Perandis, squatting with Corporal Garst, Corporal Katecka, and the three men in those peculiar berets, was working over a pair of Rekyls and an IM Stubber. "What's wrong with that barrel?"

"Mucky I think, Staff Sarn't." Katecka, his eye to a Rekyl barrel, handed it to Perandis to check.

Examining the barrel briefly Perandis gave his verdict. "Give it a pull-through and take a chance."

"Well, Sarn't Perandis, how are the men doing?" Corta, beckoning to Perandis, asked quietly.

As dirt-ridden as any man in Cannon, Perandis rose, stretched, and blinked. His red-rimmed eyes were sore and ticklish from the dust. "Not a murmur of discontent, sir. Zeke's coming and Zeke's dying. The lads are doing what they signed up to do with no complaint."

"Absolutely no complaints?"

"Well, there's the issue with the mains…"

"No running water?"

"Running water's available, it's just Sarn't Gale hasn't given his approval for us to drink it, not unless it's boiled first."

"So boil it. Or do we not have power for the stoves?"

"Right, sir." Perandis smiled grimly. "Our cooks have been tearing their hair out trying to keep the heat up. Gale mentioned something about a gas leak too. He might have to enforce a total shutdown of the mess."

"Very well. Start fires out here and put water on to boil immediately. However disgusting it tastes I want the men hydrated, Sarn't."

"Yes, sir."

"Ammunition. How many rounds per man?"

Perandis nodded at one of two fires that had already been set. Arranged around the heat were power packs for M-35s and M-36s. "Well, we can fire the Kantraels and Galaxies indefinitely, sir, as long as there's heat for them to recharge."

"I wouldn't put money on holding back Zeke with only blessed lasguns. What about the section automatics?"

"Those two Rekyls and that IM stubber Garst has. They're all that are serviceable. Ammunition equates to what each man has on his person; so not much. Barrel supply is zero."

"The magazine?"

"What the Cadians didn't take when they pulled out, we've fired. That includes that supply of two-inch."

"Very well, Sarn't. Any other issues?"

"Could do with some spirits."

"Ha." Corta felt for his hip flask and shook it, feeling its emptiness. "Not a chance, Sarn't. We're all running stone cold now."

Lieutenant D'ambrosia at Corta's shoulder made Perandis withhold his reply.

"A word if you will, Lieutenant Corta," D'ambrosia said.

Understanding that it meant alone, Corta dismissed Perandis and fell into step with D'ambrosia, clasping his hands behind his back as they paced the courtyard. "How does your platoon fare, Leesha?"

Removing her peaked cap, D'ambrosia scratched her closely-shaved head, saying, "we look forward to the next contact."

"Shall I take that down in writing?" Corta, surprised, gave a smile. " Our ever-dependable allies in the Voynuk Siphanis relish the thought of grappling in desperate struggle with the hated enemy."

"Well, we do appear to be doing quite well, don't you think, Simon? I am not ready to capitulate just yet."

"I'm just saying there is no commissar looking over our shoulders to check that we are displaying the correct level of enthusiasm. We can be honest with one another."

"As I said, morale is high."

"Likewise."

"You're surprised?"

"Well…" Corta stopped and glanced around, lowering his voice to a scant whisper. "I think we're in serious trouble. And we've a long way to go until twenty-two hundred."

"Do you believe that relief will get here by two-two-double-oh?"

"I like to think withdrawal is still an option. I hope the men think the same."

"Is that what you tell them?"

"I tell them the truth. I do not know when exactly we will be withdrawing. I doubt even the colonel knows. All he gets is what his divisional commander tells him. We're at the bottom of a very long ladder here, Leesha."

"I am not in the business of speculation, Simon. I am willing to let this unfold hour by hour if necessary. I do not think we are in serious trouble either. Your men have proved that Zeke can be thrown off time and time and again. The trick with the mortar shells was ingenious. I compliment them for that."

"Well that was not actually—" Corta broke off, conscious that D'ambrosia's reaction to the fact that it was the mercenary captain's doing and not his mens' would not be positive.

"Oh." D'ambrosia's face fell. Tugging at her tightly-buttoned collar she said, "no record of such an action will be taken in my diary. I hope yours will be the same. We cannot have this upstart mercenary showing up the Imperial Guard. We have a reputation to uphold."

"No, Leesha, we cannot." Corta did not say it but he had recorded a glowing review of the mercenary's actions in the company's war diary, even going so far as to list her name and affiliated unit; something to be kept from D'ambrosia then.

"Lieutenant Corta, sir!"

"Excuse me. What is it?" Corta strode in the direction of the voice.

"Up top, sir."

"Wharton?" Corta shouted through the doorway. "Anything?"

"They're coming, sir." Wharton's voice came from upstairs.

Backing out, Corta faced the remnants of Cannon Company, cupped his hands, and barked, "stand to!"

---

Waving a hand in front of my face to dispel the copious amounts of dust filling the air, I leant around the corner of section of the collapsed wall and peered out at the carnage of bodies. "Come on, Aimo, get set up," I whispered, signalling to the waiting grunts behind to assume their firing positions in the brief lull before the next attack.

"Keep that belt straight, mate," Aimo said to Arrigo when he laid his IM upon piles of sandbags that had been arranged as a temporary defence across the hole in the wall.

Laying my Castra and its corresponding bandolier within easy reach I felt for the handle of my six-inch combat knife behind my pistol holster, fingering the rough grip. No-one said anything about the upcoming melee, nobody would want to admit that it was coming but there it was, lurking just over the horizon. Aimo knew it too by the entrenching tool he propped against the hardbags. Arrigo, also under no illusions, drew a trench knife with a knuckleduster grip and checked the keenness of the blade. Bit late for that, chum, I thought, sliding my knife back inside its sheathe and checking my Kazalak's chamber for brass.

"Doin' okay, mate?" I said to Aimo nonchalantly. "Anything you need?"

"Could do with a slab," Aimo replied with equal ease, laying a belt of cartridges in his IM's feed tray and pressing the cover down firmly.

"Aw dunno 'bout that. Might have to check the pantry."

"Yeah, find me a lumpy-jumper with nice tits too. Gotta be some hiding somewhere."

"You're married, mate." I feigned disapproval then added, "yeah, find me a nice redhead too."

"Red, uh? Didn't think that was your type." Setting his weapon's sights, Aimo grinned.

"Everyone likes red hair. Ain't that right, Colvin?"

"I'm Arrigo, Sarn't," Arrigo said irritably. "I'm married too. Real bitch my other half is, I can tell you. Best thing ever being out here. Means I can get away from her."

"Anyway, you haven't got to worry. Just pop upstairs." Aimo grinned slyly.

"You what?" Arrigo frowned in confusion.

"Never mind that. Just watch the line, Private." I glared daggers at Aimo, uprooting from my position next to him and hurrying down the firing line. "Everyone else have those eyes pointed north or there'll be fizzers tossed around."

"We'll be hard-pressed to hold once the Rekyls are gone." Kat looked up at me when I passed him by. "Then what?"

"We'll be down to using lasguns but it's better than nothing. Long as we've got a nice blaze going then we can use 'em over and over."

Reaching the cooks' position, I was glad to see Gale had returned after his disappearance. He and his three subordinates, without a functioning Rekyl to use, were resorting to their rifles and lasguns and had them aimed through holes in the wall. "Nice you cooks joining us. Might get a chance to see some real combat 'ere," I said jokingly, much to Azar's displeasure.

"They won't get past us, Sarn't." Gale nodded and smiled warmly, his shrewd eyes narrowing. "By the Emperor, we'll make 'em pay for the damage they did to the mess."

"Number one."

The stink of the incendiary grenade was still hanging in the air when I came to the place where it had been dropped by the dead grunt. A darkened patch of wall and floor was all that remained, the smell of it the most egregious reminder. The Tabors, the Highlanders, and a few other company men who were unable to evacuate were unharmed thankfully.

"Tabors, you ready to kill for the Emperor?" I said, not really at all serious. When had I ever killed for the Emperor?

"Pfft, I don't know, Sergeant. D'you remember we were fighting on opposite sides once?" Woulter said.

"We don't kill though. We waste Zeke. Waste him, zip him, dish him out real estate like it's in demand," Peter piped up.

Not liking what his son was saying Woulter said, "Peter, it's not—"

"Nah, he's got the right idea. He's learning, Tabor. You learn fast or you get saddled with a farm deal. S'how it works up here."

Leaving Woulter with no time to reply, I called down to the Highlanders. "Hey, Highlanders. Get wired."

The enthusiastic reply from the Gellen lance, Lorne, was lost when Zeke rudely announced himself with a flurry of invisible freight trains rocketing through the air to crash against our walls. With the crown of my cover pelted with dust I charged back to Aimo's position and threw myself behind the cover of the sandbags where Aimo and Arrigo were hiding. Subsiding after a fierce minute, the cacophony left a shrill ringing in our ears and the smell of warm dust in our noses. Coughing in the dirty air Aimo heaved his stubber onto the hardbags and dumped the wound-up belt into Arrigo's arms. From far away came the word: contact.

Eyes flitting left and right, I spotted a squarish shape of an armoured vehicle trundling through the smoke left by the artillery. It was not a Chimera for it did not have a turret of any kind, and was too small to be a tank. Another troop carrier then?

"Hold your fire, lads," I said over the growing rumble of the Zeke track. As it drew closer, breaking through the worst of the smoke, I saw another two trailing behind it in single file. Some ploy of Zeke to disguise his numbers it seemed. Raising my glasses I scanned the lead track, taking note of the sloped front armour, a spiked bulldozer blade, and the strange skull adornments across the upper hull. A hatch opening caught my eye. From within the track a very large man, a man in thick, bulky armour and a full face helmet rose, taking the grips of the vehicle's pintle-mounted automatic; a twin-linked bolter.

"Contact. Nathaniel!" I yelled, slinging my rifle and picking up my Castra. Rifles would no longer cut it. Zeke had dropped all pretences now and was responding to our continuing defiance with extreme measures. If Nathaniel was deployed in our sector then Zeke was really struggling.

If we break now… I tried not to think of the consequences of our defence crumbling to Nathaniel. Fumbling with the ladder sights of my grenade launcher I slapped them back down upon realising the folly of attempting to engage light armour head-on with 40-millimetre.

"Keep hold of this sector. Do not let it fall!" I shouted to Aimo. "I'm going upstairs."

"How are supposed to kill Nathaniel?" Arrigo called after me.

Bursting out onto the ruined rooftop I slipped down beside Izuru who was tracking the lead Nathaniel vehicle with her autocannon. I paid her a brief glance to affirm she was alright before aiming a hand at the track. "Nathaniel track. Hit it!"

Izuru looked at me like I was mad before tapping a finger against her ear. Obliging, I stuffed both fingers into my ears and waited, feeling the terrific thunderclap of the gun grip my heart and squeeze it. Raising my head above the smoke dispelled from the muzzle brake I noticed the lead track had taken a hit to its left-hand treads, forcing the vehicle to a halt and making it swing to one side. Not dissuaded by his mount's sudden loss of momentum, the gunner brought his bolters to bear and let fly in the direction of Aimo's firing position. Needing no guidance from me, Izuru effortlessly acquired the Marine's head and sent a second round of 20-millimetre downrange. Scooping up my glasses to observe the results, I saw a mess of red gore splattered across the track's roof. Nathaniel had taken the round full in the face, ripping his helmet into pieces and spraying the contents of his eviscerated skull outwards in a shower of white bone, grey brain matter, and bloody hunks of flesh.

Elated, I went to congratulate Izuru. She however would not emote, shunting all feelings aside in favour of cold, rigid purpose. It was in the same calculated, killer's manner that she began to track the other two vehicles which had broken formation and increased their dispersion. Both gunners were now occupying themselves with pouring fire into the bastion's walls but neither apparently was able to work out where the disabling shots had come from, leading them to spray in a wide pattern in the hope of suppressing the marksman.

Izuru was taking her time finding an aiming point for her third shot. Both vehicles were now jinking, their drivers taking a less direct route towards the bastion gate. Depressingly Izuru's third shot missed by an unknown margin, only serving to attract the gunner's fire, both of them noticing the smoke from the gun's muzzle and turning their bolters to cover the roof. Flattening myself in the dirt I heard the whiz of the gyrojet rounds pass overhead and the little explosions each one gave a fraction of a second after they lodged themselves in the wall beneath us.

Pinned by the bolters Izuru was unable to fire before the tracks charged below her cannon's field of fire, reaching the cover of the gatehouse complex and crunching to a halt.

"Set up on other side." I pointed to the south-facing wall.

Growling, Izuru scooped up the autocannon in her arms, the strain of the gun's massive weight etched in her face.

"I've got it." I rushed to help, grabbing hold of the barrel, yelping when I felt the heat it had gathered.

"Leave it!" Izuru snapped, slamming the bipod legs onto the south-facing parapet and folding the rear monopod up. "Retire. I will let nothing past."

Fleeing the roof I heard and felt the repeated crashes of explosive charges on the gate, Nathaniel seeking to capitalise his recent gains from the safety of the gatehouse. Equal amounts of fear and excitement coursed through my system as I leapt down the stairs. The prospect of engaging Nathaniel in close combat brought on a shiver.

---

2nd Lieutenant Leesha D'ambrosia calmly removed her soft cover and tucked it inside her flak vest, taking the proffered helmet from her ordonnance. With the Chaos Space Marines at the gate, D'ambrosia had withdrawn a single section of the pioneer platoon from the defence and arranged them in ambush posture for the counterattack. Now, lined up in the darkness of the corridor that led out onto the courtyard, D'ambrosia listened to the thumps coming from outside, swallowing her rising fear. Alleviating her concern was the platoon's single flamethrower team preparing their weapon for use beside her. Private Jerram Hamer and Cal Essars, after first fuelling the left tank – the right was reserved for pressure – connected the hydraulic hose for the gun to the fixed tube that curved around the tanks and adjusted the regulator. With that connected Hamer, the operator, pulled the squeeze trigger which opened the valve, allowing the gelled promethium to flow through, pressurising the gun. Inside the muzzle were six igniter cartridges to set off the fuel, each running for eight seconds. Pulling the front trigger would fire the cartridge, quickly summoning the fuel and delivering searing gouts of flame up to a range of forty yards.

"Ready?" asked D'ambrosia as Hamer slipped his arms through the carrier's straps. She received a firm, assured nod in return. Both men were well-used in employing the Accatran Mk. IC in combat, be it against strongpoints or personnel.

"Standby, flamer." D'ambrosia raised a balled fist, concentrating on the now-rhythmic crashes of the Marines battering relentlessly against the weakening gate. The swiftness with which they were bashing their way through was unnerving.

At last the barrier gave and the lead Rhino barrelled through, forcing the twisted, blackened edges of the opening inwards, dragging along the track's flanks in a shriek of metal on metal. Tensing, D'ambrosia opened her mouth to order the flamer team in when there was a sharp crack from the bastion roof. Confusion took hold when the uninterrupted bellow of the track's engine faltered.

That mercenary with the autocannon, D'ambrosia realised with a stab of envy. Throne of Terra, she is making us look incompetent. Seething, D'ambrosia heard a collision, one of the Rhinos colliding with a wall. By the sound of it, it was the lead track as the vehicle behind it was forced to halt in the courtyard.

"Now!" D'ambrosia threw open the door and waved Hamer and Essars forwards. Weighed down by the seventy-pound tanks, Hamer loped out into the open, followed by Essars. Seeing the first Rhino buried partly in the wall and apparently immobile after the damage the autocannon had dealt it, D'ambrosia signalled Hamer to target the second Rhino. Aiming his muzzle at the track, Hamer touched the trigger, the cartridge inside igniting with a pop and a puff of smoke. Hearing the pop, the Rhino gunner, raking the bastion wall behind him, noticed the flamer and hauled his weapon around. Hamer was quicker, projecting a billow of flame across the Rhino's hull, dousing the Marine in burning promethium.

Blowing her whistle, D'ambrosia called for the remainder of 1 Section to form up behind her, ready to pick off any of the track's occupants trying to flee the blaze. Easing off after his two-second burst, Hamer turned his weapon upon the other track, popped his second igniter and let loose with another burst. With the choice of cooking alive inside the Rhinos or braving the guns outside, Marines coated in fire tumbled out of hatches, blindly letting fly with their bolters in all directions.

"Flamer, retire!" D'ambrosia screamed, scooting out of her pioneers' line of fire and taking up her own lasgun upon joining the firing line. "One Section. Chaos Marines to your front. Full charge. Fire at will!"

Pumping volley after volley of particle beams into the Marines wreathed in fire, many of them clawing in vain at the gel-like substance that caused the promethium to stick to their armour, the Siphanis picked out eye lenses, arm and leg joints, scoring hits upon the sensitive areas, putting the Marines down one by one. A great pride welled within D'ambrosia when her pioneers resolutely stood firm and returned everything the Marines threw at them in the manner of true soldiers of the Emperor. When Siphani after Siphani fell from final spite-fuelled bursts of the dying abominations, still they did not break.

"Cease fire!" D'ambrosia shouted as the last Marine fell clawing at a chainsword he had been on the verge of swinging at the Siphani ranks. Where the courtyard had been filled with the crackle of repeated las volleys and the thump of bolters, a silence now took hold. Siphanis lowered weapons, seeing their quarry for the first time lying around, half-in, half-out of the Rhinos. Both had become a sweltering inferno.

---

Preoccupied with the passengers of the immobile track that had not made it inside the bastion I tossed away a smoking casing from my Castra and threw a quick glance back over my shoulder. "Sounds like they wasted those Nathaniel tracks good an' proper," I said to myself.

"What?!" Aimo, slightly-deaf from repeated firing – he was doing his level best to keep the distant Marines suppressed, no easy task with a rifle-calibre weapon – looked up at me with a bewildered expression. Both of his cheeks, nose, and forehead were black from dirt. A pair of twitchy eyes, red and unblinking roved about. I could not have looked any better. Arrigo too was equally grubby.

"They're holding the courtyard," I said loudly in Aimo's ear.

"They're holding the courtyard?" Aimo repeated.

"Yeah." I nodded and gave a thumbs up. "Number one."

"Alright then. Why didn't you say?" Aimo grinned, squeezing off a short, three-round-burst from his IM. "Keep that belt coming, Arrigo."

"Not enough to fire more than a couple of bursts." Arrigo ducked as bolts clattered against the wall above, dumping warm fragments of masonry on our heads.

Still hanging on on the furthest point of our right flank, Lance Corporal Lorne ran up and let loose with a truly bizarre question. "Any o' you lads backed up?"

"Any of us what – backed up?" I pulled a face, dumbfounded.

"Listen, I got a barrel gonna rupture in a burst or two. Me and my lads 'ave got dry bladders. I need a good pisser."

"Take – take Colvin or Rhidian, see if one of them can sort you out," I said, searching my leather bandolier for any spare shells. "How are you for ammo?"

"We're light for brass, but we'll hang on 'til you say, Sarn't." Lorne scarpered, pulling a reluctant Colvin along with him. Short for discipline though they were I was glad the Highlanders were holding down our right flank. An idea to use them as a scratch fireteam was forming in my mind. The Gellens combined with a few of the more aggressive company men to rebuff any close assault Zeke or Nathaniel might attempt upon the walls.

The anticipated assault came without delay, though it was no combined infantry and armour assault as I expected. I don't think anybody expected the tactics Zeke would attempt with every single one of his previous sorties vanquished. Needless to say, Nathaniel took us by surprise.

"Contact. Nathaniel's got jump packs!" Came a frantic cry.

Soaring from the smoke five Marines in blue armour and wings adorning their helmets dove down upon the bastion, the inordinate grace with which they avoided the shots fired up at them aggravating. Nothing so heavily armoured should have been able to weave about the sky like that. That was until a solid crack rang from the bastion roof, breaking the odd charm of invulnerability that the five Marines had. Punching clean through the unlucky Marine's right shoulder guard, the kinetic force of the 20-mil slug very nearly sheared his arm off, leaving a faint trail of pink in his wake, and knocking him into a uncontrollable spin that he was unable to right before crash-landing.

"Throne, she's good," Aimo crowed, walking a burst of .30-cal over the Marine's body.

What would we do without her? I thought in admiration, for a moment ignoring the other threats over the crack marksmanship displayed, or rather markswomanship; if such a term existed.

Undeterred by the fate of their brother the four Marines split into pairs and slammed down onto the top of the wall, one pair above each sector. Feeling the bastion tremble from the impact I ran down the length of the firing line, grabbing every other grunt and sorting them into a fireteam.

"Highlanders, we got Nathaniel on the wall. Let's throw 'em off," I shouted, waving at the trio to follow me. "Corp, your lot's with me."

Shrewdly understanding that hand weapons would do little but tickle Nathaniel, Lorne came up carrying a sledgehammer alongside his slung M-36. Borens and Tsak respectively carried a pickaxe and a shovel along with their personal weapons. Not caring where they had scrounged the tools, I led the party down to the courtyard, avoiding the blistering heat the two Nathaniel tracks gave off, and up the steps that led onto the wall. Signalling a halt just before the head of the stairs I crouched by the wall and looked back at the line of faces waiting expectantly for my go.

"Grenades," I murmured, setting down my Kazalak and taking a bomb from my trouser pocket. Tearing the adhesive I had wrapped around the body off, I worked the stiff ring out. At the soft clink of falling grenade pins behind I drew back my arm, keeping the spoon held down, and in unison we launched the bombs up onto the wall.

---

Lieutenant D'ambrosia was not pleased when she, leading her pioneers up to the top of the wall at the western sector, came upon a party of Cannon Company led by Staff Sergeant Perandis that were gathered near the head of the steps. "Staff Sergeant, remove your men. This is my action," she hissed, keeping her voice low out of concern the nearby Marines would hear.

"Nothing doing, ma-am," Perandis said flatly. "Mister Corta ordered us to repel Nathaniel. We're following his orders."

"Clear the way then." D'ambrosia gestured at Hamer and Essars. "Flamer, front and centre. We will deal with this."

Watching with thinly-veiled disapproval Perandis and his men hung back, allowing D'ambrosia's section to take point.

Let us see what traitors are made of, D'ambrosia thought smugly, motioning Sergeant Levauz' section, squashed in amongst Perandis' section, to hold back. Private Hamer would take care of the Marines. A pity D'ambrosia could not do it herself. The most she could contribute was an extra lasgun in the firing line.

Sticking her whistle into her mouth D'ambrosia gave a sharp toot and leapt up onto the wall, shouting, "flamer. Chaos Marines thirty yards to your front. Fire!"

Tottering into position Hamer popped his third igniter, levelled his nozzle, and fired a long streak of burning fuel down the length of the wall. Responding with viper-like reflexes both Marines launched themselves skywards, avoiding the fire.

"One Section!" D'ambrosia fell in with the assembling firing line and continued. "Bring them down. Fire at will!"

"Two Section. By the lieutenant's order," Sergeant Levauz commanded, taking aim as his section filed rapidly in behind D'ambrosia's. "Seek out the eyes and joints."

Without the handicap of promethium-coated armour the Marines returned fire, their bolt pistols wreaking havoc upon the two sections, cutting through flak armour like it was paper.

"DISPERSE!" D'ambrosia bellowed when the Marines dropped back down from their flight, both brandishing power swords. "Reform in firing line."

Unable to fire for fear of immolating their comrades the flamer was withdrawn. At D'ambrosia's behest 1 Section, badly mauled by the Marines' bolt pistols, retreated along the wall leaving 2 Section to face the brunt of the Marines' assault.

"Sergeant!" D'ambrosia signalled in desperation for Levauz and his men to clear their line of fire. "One Section. Chaos Marines twenty yards to your front. Two discharges. F-"

Before D'ambrosia could complete the fire order Perandis and the Cannon Company men barged across her. "Right, lads, take 'em from behind!" Perandis shouted, putting a round from his .338 into the back of the nearest Marine's knee joint. Startled by the sudden showing of reinforcements, the Marines tried to take off, only one succeeding when the other's jump pack - damaged from the slugs and lasbeams - misfired.

Seeing her opportunity D'ambrosia blew her whistle and relayed a fire command to her section. "Bring it down!"

Bright sparks from multiple impacts upon the Marine's armour showed when the fragments of 1 Section gave a volley. Whether luck or their marksmanship was the deciding factor, D'ambrosia took personal satisfaction when the overconfident Marine was brought down, disappearing below the parapet in a trail of black smoke.

Surrounded, the grounded Marine came under reinvigorated assault, the combined power of the Siphani and Cannon small arms weakening him enough to sap the energy from his swings.

"Brought you down to our level now, you bastard. How's it feel?" Perandis glared fiercely.

On his knees now, the Marine turned to face Perandis. Even with the muzzle of Perandis' .338 aimed at his eye, the Marine said nothing. The grill where his mouth would be was mangled.

"No words. No trouble." Sneering, Perandis shot the Marine in the eye, the round obliterating the red lense, burying itself deep in the Marine's skull, making him topple over backwards. From within his giant fist, a cylindrical object fell. Reacting faster than anyone else Perandis seized the grenade, stuffed it inside his flak vest and dived onto the Marine's corpse. In comparison to the rush of clamouring grunts trying to flee for their lives Perandis, lying in an almost intimate manner with the Marine, never made a sound right up to when the grenade took him from the land of the living.

---

"Go! Go!" At the head of the Highlanders I skipped the final step, jumping up onto the bastion wall, taking cover behind a square of stone that jutted out at intervals along the wall, offering one man solid cover. With the smoke from the grenade blasts still hanging in place further down I could not see where the two Marines had landed.

"Come on, move up," I whispered, favouring a more cautious approach now in case of ambush. Lorne, one hand on his sledgehammer, advanced up the left side, nodding back at Borens and Tsak to follow. Aimo, leaving his empty IM downstairs, set the Highlander's piss-smelling Rekyl upon the south parapet at the head of the stairs, covering us. His diligence paid off when it was he who caught sight of the Marines before any of us.

"Contact!" Aimo's warning was followed by a short burst of .30-cal zipping into the smoke, impacting like hammers upon the Marines' armoured hide.

"Contact front." I raised my Kazalak and squeezed off a shot. The Marines were still invisible to me but quite evidently they were there. "Give it to 'em, lads."

Whistling to his companions, Lorne stole forwards, a grenade in his other hand.

"That's it. Flush those bastards out," Kat, next to me, hissed gleefully.

"Move up, Kat." I jerked my head.

"Roger." Scuttling past me in a low crouch, Kat moved to the next piece of cover.

Bolter fire came from the smoke, replying to Aimo's Rekyl. Standing up I pumped my KA's trigger, switching to automatic in the hope the APIs would grab the Marines' attention enough for the Highlanders and Kat to get within grenade range.

"Come on, Izuru, what you—"

My Kazalak unexpectedly blowing up in my face made me lose my footing. Believing I was hit I dropped my rifle and fell backwards, landing on my back in a daze. From faraway someone, Aimo probably, cried, "Larn's hit."

Hands underneath my armpits dragged me back to Aimo's firing position.

"Where you hit, James. Can you stand?" Aimo shouted between bursts.

"I'm not – I'm not." I knocked away hands that were trying to undo the poppers of my flak jacket. "My fucking rifle blew up."

"What?"

"It blew up," I raged, taking up my Castra as replacement for the destroyed Kazalak. "Bad ammo or something."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine." I shook my hands, both of them sore from the violent buck the KA gave. The episode where my .338 had disintegrated on Grendel flashed across my mind. Again I was lucky nothing had gone in my eyes and blinded me.

"Lucky day, mate."

A shot passing overhead made us both duck. Part whiz, part whip-like crack, I recognised the painful wallop of the autocannon. Izuru was paying attention after all. The angel with the autocannon, I thought in relief.

"Keep up the base of fire here. I'm moving," I said to Aimo, charging into the smoke after the Highlanders. Sharp crumps of grenades ahead punctuated the melee. One of the Marines was down, his chestplate crushed from the force of the autocannon. Concussive blows had been dealt to his helmet which was dented severely; both eyepieces were shattered too. Mechanical grunts were given by the last Marine on his feet who was swinging his sword around in a battle frenzy and firing his bolt pistol at the Highlanders, all of whom were taking it in turns to fire snapshots from behind cover. Again Izuru did for Nathaniel, landing a shot on the Marine's torso, crumping his chestplate in the same manner as the other. Hooting at the tops of their voices, the Highlanders closed the gap between them and the Marine, looking to finish him off without firearms.

"Show me them lovely gnashers!" Lorne cried as he swung his sledgehammer into the Marine's helmet, his stout strength enough to put a severe dent in the grill. Setting about Nathaniel with pickaxe, sledgehammer and shovel, the Highlanders savagely beat the life out of him.

"Kat?" Panting I slumped against the broken wall. "Oi, talk to me."

Frozen, his eyes locked on the cloudy sky, Kat raised a hand, touching his ear.

"What, more Nathaniel?" Scooping up my Castra, I strained to hear through my ringing ears.

I felt the vibration of the incoming before I heard it. Kat's startled, wide-eyed face tilted sideways as the wall beneath me fell away. A great wave of heat, dust, and debris washed over me when I fell. Coming to after a second's blackness I realised I was bareheaded, bleeding, and lying in the destruction of the bastion wall. There was a long silence, and I heard a small voice saying, "I've been hit," which I realised was mine. That couldn't be right; so I called out in a slurred voice, "is anybody hurt?"

No reply came. Irritated that the others were ignoring me, I repeated, "is anybody hurt?"

A wetness was coating my face and running down my right arm, soaking through the material of my smock and shirt, sticking to my skin. Blinking the blood out of my eyes I inhaled shakily, coughing as I inhaled the dust hanging in the air, eventually saying, "I'm hit. I'm hit."

---

The Citadel, Kasr Kraf, 20:15

"My Lord, the lord inquisitor does demand your presence aboard the Zarkaniy."

Sitting in his spacious office with his boots up on his desk, Osvat Radu Zeleska awoke from his doze, pressing the talk button on the inbuilt comm without lifting his head up. "Thank you, Lenz," Zeleska droned, swiftly cutting the connection before his lackey could further impress the lord inquisitor's wishes upon him. Resting his forehead in his hand, Zeleska slowly exhaled mildly-scented smoke from the Lho-stick he held over a gold-plated ashtray and pondered on his future. Maybe it was time to depart Cadia? The red-haired xenos had come so close to falling into his clutches but damnably had slipped through; eluding his spy network. Privately Zeleska was proud of the collection of informants he had acquired in such a short space of time. The liberal distribution of coin was certainly the deciding factor in it. Money however would never entice the acolytes of the Adeptus Mechanicus into informing for him, their devotion to the Omnissiah surpassing all. And that hulking abomination now in possession of the girl, Zeleska gripped the butt of the plasma pistol resting in the mess on his desk and aimed it at an imaginary AdMech in silent rage. And that excursion to the facility leaving me looking the fool, he thought back to the skirmish with the Skitarii. At least it left him with the Scions to use however he liked, so it was not a total loss.

An obnoxious buzz at his door interrupted Zeleska's thoughts. The voice of his right-hand, Argus Degrelle, came on over the speakers. "My Lord, news from our man in Cannon Company."

Slapping his hands on the tabletop, Zeleska ordered Degrelle in. He knew he had forgotten something important. "Well out with it, man. I want news," Zeleska exclaimed. If Degrelle had the nerve to bring him bad news of any kind he would cart him off to his interrogator cohorts for an afternoon session. No questions would be asked of course, for there was nothing to find out. Zeleska knew just who tortured for information and who did it for kicks in the Cadian Inquisitorial Cell. For Degrelle it would surely be the latter.

"My Lord, both marks are within the outer perimeter," Degrelle said.

"The informant said this specifically? Those were his exact words?" Zeleska leant forwards eagerly.

"Yes, My Lord. Bastion Thirty-Three is where they are. Shall I send a squad to bring them here?"

Clapping his hands, Zeleska sprang to his feet, buzzing with energy. "I will go there in person. The Scions shall accompany me; all of them. Oh and get me a platoon of Interior Guard. I don't want anything to happen."

"Yes, My Lord." Degrelle bowed and retreated.

"Trade one xenos for another," Zeleska muttered, a smile ghosting his lips. Leaving his finely-crafted plasma pistol in his drawer he took his laspistol with him instead, tucking it into his black leather shoulder holster. "I asked and you provided, young man."

---

Bastion 33, 20:18

With the passing of the hour Cannon Company and the Voynuk Siphanis had successfully resisted Chaos attack for twelve hours. A fine feat for the humans to boast about, thought Izuru. Noting the neglect the humans had displayed with acquiring their casualties' identifiers, Izuru had taken it upon herself to gather the dead mens' identity disks, wrapping them into a bundle in her fist with the intention of delivering them to Lieutenant Corta. She felt she owed Cannon Company that much. The same could not be said for the dark-skinned humans, especially their officer.

Arriving well before 2200, the relief came in the form of a reinforced platoon of Tech-Guard; Skitarii their formal name. Marching up from the rear with no fanfare, the Skitarii – mechanical, vaguely human-shaped bipeds clad in red robes – silently assumed Cannon's positions, the Alpha in command outright ignoring the Flesh-Guard, letting them withdraw quietly.

The defenders had scarcely gone half a kilometre down the road before falling out. With many dead and many more bound to stretchers, blundering along bombed-out roads in the gathering dusk would only see Cannon's problems arise once more. So it was, the thirty men of C Company, and the twenty of the Siphanis took up squatting in a complex of bombed-out hab-blocks on either side of the road, thoroughly spent and absolutely refusing to march a step further.

Seeking out Lieutenant Corta, Izuru found him occupying a ground floor room with an intact roof. Losing her headscarf during the battle Izuru had swiped a patrol cap with earflaps and a pair of dust goggles attached to keep up her disguise. Though having fought a successful action with the imperials Izuru was still an enemy alien, and likely the reveal of her species would warrant a violent reception. Once more then she assumed the role of mercenary captain.

In Corta's company was a human tending to a vox set, working by the weak red light of a torch beam. Both men, Izuru noticed, had taken superficial wounds and their uniforms were torn in places.

"Your pardon." Izuru approached warily, holding out the bundle of tags. "I would see these delivered to the officer commanding."

Jumping at Izuru's voice, the signaller shot an uncertain glance at Corta.

"Thank you, Captain." Corta accepted the tags woodenly and stowed them inside an empty ammunition pouch. "Bloody work earlier."

"That it was," Izuru replied.

"Please join our company." Corta pulled out his canteen and offered it to Izuru. "Sorry for the quality of the water. We had to boil it beforehand."

"I am grateful for your charity, Lieutenant, but I must gracefully decline." Izuru bowed and ducked out of the hab. She was not in the mood for parley with the strangers. Rubbing her right shoulder – aching as it was from the kick of the autocannon – Izuru ghosted through C-for-Cannon's wounded, seeking out the humans from Nemtess, those she was more inclined to trust than the others. Observing Aimo Garst and Cyrano sitting with the Scribe, Colvin, and Arrigo, Izuru padded forwards, her curiosity rising. The five wore solemn expressions. Aimo, his shoulders drooping, was holding a broken cord in his hands, at the end of it a pair of round metal tags.

"Who?" Izuru spoke in a softly venomous whisper, startling Colvin and Arrigo.

Never turning a hair at Izuru's presence, Aimo muttered, "he was one of us."

"No finer fellow," Cyrano said gloomily.

A human in dirt-stained olive grey fatigues lay face-up on a tarpaulin. He was not the only one to lose his life during the siege of the bastion, a fact Izuru was well aware of for she had picked up many tags throughout her search. This one though, his death was being felt by the men. She almost wished she could share their sorrow. But she did not know the human lying there in the middle of his friends who were clustered around him.

"Old Kat never did tell us his real name," said Aimo, rubbing the metal underneath his thumb. "It was Elias, y'know."

"I don't know about Elias. Brother is better." Cyrano closed his eyes in prayer, Colvin and Arrigo following suit. With no further words to say, Aimo pointed Izuru away from his group to where Larn was sitting alone and out of sight.

Glad to be away, feeling out of place as she was in the humans' company, Izuru bit down on the acute embarrassment that had briefly risen to plague her. Kat was their friend and she had no right intruding on their mourning. It was trespassing, and she was guilty of it.

Isha forgive me. I meant no intrusion. Let them mourn undisturbed as is the right of all species.

Perched on a little outcrop of rubble that had once been a corner foundation of a hab-block, Larn watched the last traces of the light disappear on the western horizon. He was without cover with a tied dressing on his head, naked from the waist up, and wearing only a thin bandage that circled his upper chest and right shoulder. Every so often he glanced down at something in his lap. His hands perhaps? The poor soul was thin, pitifully so and there was a deathly pale hue to his skin. Coming up behind him with deliberate clumsiness so as not to spook him, Izuru gave a shake of her head at the pitiful sight and undid the clasps of her assault vest, shrugging it off and undoing the buttons of her jacket. Removing it Izuru draped her jacket over Larn's shoulders like a cloak then picked up her vest and donned it over her khaki t-shirt.

"Had to be me," Larn said gruffly. "Weren't no-one else left to do it. I've got to do it right, see?"

Leaning over Larn's shoulder, Izuru saw the broken pencil and thin scrap of paper he had. There was writing on the creased paper. The words, Mister and Mrs Sinric were written in an untidy scrawl, nearly ineligible. The parents of Larn's friend Martti.

"Nearly forgot, I did. Wanted you to help me out too. I'm not good with words. Never got taught how to use 'em properly. Only language they taught us in the Guard was the fist, the boot, and the bayonet."

"It is a noble thing. My heart yearns for such close friends as those you have, little human." Izuru stepped around to Larn's front, silently appalled at the state of his face which bore dirt in immeasurable quantity: cuts, bruises, and red marks where bits of rubble had embedded in the skin. A red vein was prominent in the left eye, both of which were bloodshot. Purple lines underneath them gave him a weary, dog-tired visage. Dried blood covered everything. He had no water to clean it off.

"Us little humans beat Nathaniel though," Larn said.

"To lead an assault against such foes takes great courage from within." Gently Izuru brushed Larn's chin, something he did not rebuke. "Small of body but stout of heart."

"We're all in your debt." Larn smiled weakly, his dry, cracked lips making it painful to do so. "You're the best grunt I've ever fought with. And you ain't even human."

"High praise from one so insignificant."

"It's the best you're gonna get from us. They don't know – well, most of 'em don't know – that it were a stickie that wasted a load of Nathaniel. Prob'ly best to keep it that way."

"Agreed." Izuru's fingertips brushed the dressing on Larn's head. "Were there any other way…"

"There's not."

"No. Now is the time for swift departure, though I do not do it willingly."

"Keladi's more important than this grubby mob," Larn said, taking Izuru's hands in his. "It's hard, I know. Peter, Woulter, Aimo, we'll make it off alright. We're going home, Izuru. But you can't come with us."

"You. You." Izuru clutched hers and Larn's hands together and pressed them to her chest. "I… I admit I have a certain fondness for the human race…"

"Which is wrong, yeah. Your lot and mine hate one another with good reason. But I don't see why anything personal should come of it. I don't hate Zeke. Woulter, Peter, the Highlanders, they were fighting with Zeke before, and they're good people. Well, mostly..."

"Let me—" Izuru made to kneel down, positioning herself at Larn's level.

"No. I can't look down on you. That's wrong." Larn instead stood up on the outcrop, now face to face with Izuru. "'Bout the only time I'm ever gonna be able to look you in the eye, eh?" He grinned.

"It does present for an out of the ordinary view." Izuru returned the smile.

The red glare of a torchbeam incited Izuru to pull Larn down from the outcrop quickly before it fell upon him. "Quiet and still," she hissed, pushing him down a short slope.

"Oi, get down here with me." Larn waved.

"Mercenary!" the Siphani officer D'ambrosia cried sharply, the torchbeam fixing upon Izuru, bathing her in its glare. "If you will accompany me."

---

"Oh, shit." Hugging the rough ground I scrambled back up the slope, crawling forwards on near all-fours after D'ambrosia and her party. Fuming at being caught half-naked and unarmed I pulled Izuru's jacket on, oblivious that it was too large, and hurried in the direction the Siphanis were taking Izuru in. Passing the four cooks by I stopped dead when Gale passed his Lecta up to me. "You've got a troubled look on your face, Larn. Reckon something's about to go boom."

"Cheers, Gale, I'll pay you back." I took the weapon and, making sure it was charged, made quickly over to the hab where Corta had settled but finding only Wharton there.

"Where's Mister Corta?"

"I dunno. Out by the road I think, Sarn't."

Coming close to losing my cool I held back by the doorway and saw the gathering out in the middle of the road. D'ambrosia, wanting a scene, had Izuru surrounded by her pioneers and under threat from the bayonet affixed to the muzzle of D'ambrosia's lasgun. Corta was nowhere in sight.

"Tell me what you were sent here to do, spy," D'ambrosia spat, her face livid.

Remaining statuesque Izuru stared straight ahead stoically, not even bothering to raise her hands; refusing to be intimidated. Admirable though Izuru's bravery was, it would not help her if D'ambrosia found out the truth.

"Tell me." Reaching across D'ambrosia yanked Izuru's cap off. "Stickie." She moved her bayonet upwards, cutting a long, straight line in Izuru's cheek. "All xenos must burn."

Where the hell is Corta? I swallowed, looking down at the cold metal in my hands.

"TELL ME!" D'ambrosia roared, pressing sharply underneath Izuru's chin, forcing her head backwards.

Rushing out of the blasted doorway I touched the Lecta's trigger, letting off a single shot into the sky. The sharp gunshot had the Siphanis scattering in alarm, most of them weary from the day's action and not in the mood for any further shooting. Only a few reacted sharply, unslinging their lasguns and training them on me with practised swiftness.

"Put it down, ma-am!" I said, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.

Refusing point blank, D'ambrosia whipped out her laspistol and used her left hand to aim at me, never removing the bayonet from Izuru's chin. "You xenos-loving cur," D'ambrosia shouted, adding a handful of choice words in a language I did not understand. "Die."

It was reflex. I did not want to shoot D'ambrosia. My mind said no, everything else said no, but the muscle in my left fore-finger thought otherwise, squeezing the trigger as D'ambrosia did the same.

"STOP!" Simon Corta yelled as my burst caught D'ambrosia in the chest and shoulders, putting her on the floor in a gasping heap. "Larn, stand down."

Plucking the lasgun from D'ambrosia's twitching fingers, Izuru plunged the bayonet into the stomach of the nearest Siphani, stabbing and withdrawing as quickly as she would with a knife and shooting another Siphani who was closeby from the hip.

"Izuru, stop it!" Hurriedly setting down Gale's Lecta I rushed over and tried to get a grip on the weapon and wrestle it away, receiving a kick in the gut from her. Collapsing bent-double, I was pulled away from Izuru by Corta.

"That's enough, Private," Corta said angrily, forced to put me in a chokehold.

Starved for breath I wheezed like an invalid, watching through streaming eyes as Izuru was surrounded and mobbed by Siphanis, going down under rising and falling buttstocks.

"Break it up!" Dumping me with Aimo Corta waded into the throng of Siphanis and fired shots from his laspistol into the air. "Get Lieutenant D'ambrosia on a stretcher now!"

"What have you done, mate?" Aimo looked at me with worry, keeping his hand clamed upon my shoulder.

"Break it up, you lot." Corta threw off the last of the Siphanis. "I require a firing squad. Any volunteers?"

"Don't do it, mate. They'll shoot you too," Aimo pleaded, seeing me eyeing Gale's Lecta where I had dropped it. "I'm sorry."

Forbidding the Siphanis to go near Izuru, Corta ordered Cannon grunts to haul her battered body up and place her against the wall. When no volunteers came forward he began picking men at random. Three Siphanis, three Cannon. None of the Cannons were men I knew.

"What's happening?" Peter Leurbach asked in disbelief. Near to tears that Corta was ordering a battlefield execution. "Dad?"

"Quiet, Peter," Woulter said sharply. "Let it happen."

No, please no. Somebody give me something, I prayed for an outside intervention, my blood turning to ice. Anyone?

It was not I that was given something with which to save Izuru though. It came from the night, in growling, wheeled, mechanical form. A bright spotlight came on, illuminating everything in white light, clear as day, blinding Corta who was preparing to give the order.

A sharp whistle was blown behind the spotlight as troops were disgorged from transports rolling up the road towards us. The loud tramp of heavy boots preceded first a platoon of Cadian Interior Guardsmen on the flanks, and then a smaller unit of soldiers in all black that surrounded a tall, bareheaded man in a grey jerkin. The man I recognised as the one who had called himself Osvat.

"It's him," I murmured, the brief instance of relief now replaced with an even colder fear.

Downright ignoring the gobsmacked Corta, Osvat – still surrounded by his squad of black-armoured guards, pointed at Izuru and beckoned to her, smiling and nodding pleasantly. Seeing his jovial manner I balled my fists tightly, digging my fingernails deeply into my palms. How dare he even look at her, the arrogant bastard.

Keeping her composure, a monumental endeavour after the beating she had withstood, Izuru stumbled forwards into the Inquisitor's party, having no other option. Further giving rise to the bubbling anger inside me, the Inquisitor scanned our faces as he walked by, stopping when he recognised mine.

"Thank you, young man. You've been very helpful." Osvat beamed, inviting Izuru to walk at his shoulder. It was all I could do to stand dead-still as if on parade and listen to the Inquisitor depart with Izuru into the night. I had delivered her into his arms exactly as he had ordered.

I had never wished death on a person up until then. The Inquisitor was the first and the last.