There was nothing on the planet for miles and miles. Just dust, and wind, and a dead black sky.

Macara looked around in horror. Dust and wind, dust and wind.

Macara ran for what seemed an eon, trying to find something, some landmark. There was none. Macara tried to shout, but no sound emanated from his throat.

He walked on and on, leaving tracks in the dust that faded away in instant.

As he walked, he saw a green glow on the horizon, and he trudged onward towards it.

He ate up the miles, and he felt like he had walked for an eternity, and yet for no time at all. He tried to call out again, but nothing issued forth.

He came upon the green glow and stopped, terror gripping tight.

There was a large black pyramid, surmounted by a glowing green crystal. Green veins of energy flowed down the sides of this monument. Walking into its gaping entrance, he could just see emaciated figures, shackled to one another, wandering in. Nothing came from the edifice.

But it was not the pyramid that scared him so. It was the two mountain peaks flanking it that terrified him.

Anu Beig and Anu Ainir, the mountains of Gateway Pass. But only the top hundred or so metres were visible…the rest lay beneath the dust and wind.

Macara started in mute terror, rooted to the spot. It couldn't be. It couldn't!

Macara screamed into the dusty air in raw terror and disbelief, and didn't notice the metallic, skeletal hand that burst from the ground and seized his leg…

"Brigade, attention!" Sergeant-Major Mk'Askill bellowed through the vox mic. In one deft movement, the twenty seven thousand men under Macara's makeshift command snapped alert and straight. And snapped Macara back into the present. He looked around, blinking. No sign of mountains. No dust. Just the men under his command.

Dramarians stood in their khaki fatigues and forest-green chestplates, wide brimmed steel helmets worn at jaunty angles. The Thoran Bravers of the 67th wore an urban-grey set of camouflage fatigues. Light flack-jackets of matt black, the same as their lasguns, covered those uniforms. He glanced proudly at his Garrowans in grey cloth and crimson armaplas battle-plate, blue stripe worn proudly on their helmets.

`Finally he looked over at the Cadians in their light-khaki and olive uniforms, their weapons shouldered. They looked every inch the hardened, tough soldiers their reputation said they were. Whether that was true or not would have to be tested in battle.

Mk'Askill looked expectantly at his colonel, waiting for him to speak. He could see Macara was still pale. The colonel looked back and gave a small smile, before switching his micro-bead to project his voice from the nearby vox-caster.

"Thorans, Dramarians, Cadians, Garrowans. You are all men of humanity. Men of the Emperor. We have been given a mission, to clear sector five-gamma-seven of the enemy. We will do our duty and not shirk our responsibilities. We will fight for those who cannot fight, defend His realm and not allow the treacherous scum of Chaos to hold us back! The Emperor Protects!" Macara bellowed. The men around him cheered. He always knew he could do a devotional speech as well as any trigger-happy commissar.

The senior officers beside him nodded in agreement with his sentiments, jaws set firm and determined as Macara addressed them.

"Okay gentlemen, to your regiments. We have to move out, get in this stupid line-abreast deployment that Faulin thinks will be so successful. It will be tough going, but that is the way of it. Good luck."

Avre, Becyver and Naesmyth nodded and walked off to their respective units. Cairns had not returned yet, so Macara would take command of the 5th himself, for the time being. The final battalion officer walked up to him.

Major Mk'Rae, promoted from captain after the actions on Cadia, now had command of the 1st Household Cavalry. He had shared every battle on that planet with Macara and the 5th, their respective units saving each other on numerous occasions. Macara knew he was a good replacement for Mc'Caulish. As good as any man could be compared to the old tanker.

"Thank you for the opportunity, sir," He said in his sharp, low timbre.

"We all miss Mc'Caulish already. He was a great commander. But I wouldn't have given you this command if I didn't think you would be every bit as skilled as he was." Macara replied gently. Major Mk'Rae had, over the last two and a-half-hours objected to his promotion three times, once in writing. Macara had ripped up the protest, telling the major he would be fine.

"And you can't do a worse job of battalion command than Cairns," He had said, trying to keep the younger major's morale up. Reluctantly, Mk'Rae had thus accepted the command, determined to do his best in place of his old colonel.

Macara watched as his men all formed properly into their units for the march. They were to proceed over the bridge before forming into the long line of attack. Climbing aboard his command Salamander, Macara called out to his troopers again.

"Mount up, form and move out!" he shouted, sweeping his arm forward in suitable dramatics. The Salamander, flanked by two tanks of the 1st moved off, followed closely by the 67th Thorans. The 92nd came after them, helmets still at the jaunty angle, followed by another forty-six tanks of the Household Cavalry. The 104th Cadian came behind the armour. The twenty support vehicles followed the grim Cadians, finally followed by the last few Leman Russ and the Fighting Fifth. It took them all seventeen minutes to cross the bridge due to the number of men and machines crossing it. Macara looked at the tanks beside his salamander. One was a Demolisher pattern called the Lionheart by the writing on the side panels. The other tank, Macara knew, was Mk'Rae's command tank. It was named the Son of a Bitch and the familiar hull, scars and all, made the colonel feel safer just from it being at his side again. Despite serving in different divisions, never mind brigades, in the Garrowan establishment, they had often fought in the same theatres, supporting each other. It seemed to be the lot of their regiments to be in the thickest of the fighting due to their steadfast reputations. Macara's heart leapt when he thought that the Son of a Bitch and sixty of its brethren were under his command now. A broad grin split his weathered face. They may be going into enemy territory outnumbered and unaware of enemy strength, but they would give them a bloody nose. They would not let the forces of the Archenemy take them without one hell of a fight.

"Have you managed to decipher the activation system yet?" Kopar asked a nervous tech-priest. It was dark in the vaults, and shadows played across the basalt-relief statues of long-dead heroes.

"Not yet, Inquisitor. It has an extremely complicated code variation system. It will take me at least a week to have it broken," The tech-priest replied, a slight reluctance detectable in his machine-cant tainted voice.

"You realise that a week from now, our forces will have passed us by, and most likely have been destroyed by the Archenemy host that lies in wait? We need this code deciphered before that happens. The only way to find out if the…STC…is in the city, is to crack that code. If you do not think you can do it, I shall find another willing servant of the Machine-god to assist me," The Inquisitor could barely contain his anger. He had spoken of an STC, or standard template construct, which was one of the most important finds anyone could make in these dark days. They granted access to long-lost technologies from the Imperium's past.

"I will have all the resources I possess on the task, inquisitor," The tech-priest said desperately.

The adepts of the Mechanicus would never allow such data and discoveries to slip by them.

"See that you do, or it will be you that pays the price for the loss of such knowledge." The shadowy Inquisitor ended the conversation as he swept round and thundered away.

"Damn it, where are they?" Cairns said. For the last three hours, not a single enemy had been seen. Cairns had arrived back, almost half an hour ago, to his unit as they crossed the bridge. They had only travelled seven kilometres, because of the constant stop-checks of surrounding building for any signs of the enemy. Two and a half hours and not even a sight of the million or so cultists supposedly in the city.

"It's strange that we can't find a damned thing. Our men have cleared every building we've entered. And now, with our forces strung out, would be a great time for the enemy to hit us with everything they have. I'm worried." Cairns continued. "Just look, we're not even in this damned 'offensive line' formation -"

"This line formation is certainly offensive to me…" Macara muttered, interrupting. "Sorry."

"Well, we're not even in the formation Faulin wanted, not a single brigade. We're just spread through the ruins and hab districts."

"I know what you mean. Stay alert, major. There is every chance they will mount an attack. The battalion is yours again Faolan, I'm going to check on Becyver's position," Macara replied with false enthusiasm, trying to keep Cairns mood lightened. He checked his sidearm before hopping off the back of the command Salamander that was slowly ploughing along. Cairns tried to tell him to stop, not to run off alone, but Macara was away from earshot before he could manage.

"Sergeant Nolcol, take your squad and follow the colonel. Don't let him get into too much trouble," The major bellowed at a nearby Light Coy sergeant. The NCO nodded and called to his section.

"Okay, you slack jawed maggots, let's move!" he called, moving his hand in a chopping motion in the direction Macara had run off in.

Cairns watched a moment more before lifting his vox. "Alright, let's have a sweep of the nearest hab blocks. By the numbers please."

The Thoran regiment were on the far-right flank of the brigade. On the 5th's left were the 92nd Dramarian, and between the 67th and the Garrowans was the 104th Cadian regiment. The Cadians wore the same temperate uniform of all Cadian forces. Like most Guard regiments, the Cadians would happily change their uniform dependent on the terrain. However, on this campaign they wore their famous Green and khaki uniform instead of more appropriate urban garb. Off-world DPM was not necessary during the Black Crusade, and so production had only just started again.

Macara walked along their line, in plain sight, so no one took him for an enemy and provided him with an extra orifice.

"Sir! Sir, please, wait!" a Garrowan sergeant shouted on him as he ran, a squad of men in trail.

"Sergeant Nolcol, what are you doing?"

"The major told me to escort you to the Thoran lines." He replied.

"I'm sure I'll be okay, sergeant."

"Well, it is half a kilometre to the flanks of Colonel Becyver's position, sir. You don't know what's out there." Nolcol sighed. He had been given an order, and he took it seriously.

Macara paused for a moment. "Good point sergeant. Okay, follow me." The colonel finished. He turned and continued on, passing the Cadians who were moving expertly from cover to cover, clearing buildings and proceeding like veteran troopers, not the raw infantry they really were.

Normally, any Cadian unit in the field would operate and fight at a competent and veteran level, above what most other units could aspire to. All Cadian youths spent some time in their conscript units, and could strip and reassemble a lasgun by the time they were ten. They fought against Chaos cultists on a regular basis, so that all Cadian regiments had some level of combat experience. The recent battles against chaos during the cultists infiltrations had made many hundreds of thousands of Cadians into hardened veterans.

It had also claimed the lives of many, and those who normally would have had a normal training period and low-level combat experience to break them in were either still in regiments clearing their world of the enemy, or were now highly inexperienced and raw. These men were some of the very few from Cadia who could not boast plentiful experience. They were those who had been sent, perhaps prematurely, to replace the dead of the shock troop regiments.

But Macara's men didn't like the Cadians. Although Avre was a good commander, a handful of his officers and many of his junior officers were of the same mind as Faulin. The troopers were indifferent, most likely, but in the world of military units, soldiers form an opinion of a battalion by its officers if they had not seen them in battle.

"Sergeant, take that look off your face. The men of the 104th are loyal soldiers of the Emperor. You didn't mind the 23rd, did you?" Macara said bluntly.

"Aye, but they was real soldiers, sir. They fought hard and died hard, like them Adriannan boys. And the 23rd didn't mind getting their hands dirty with us," The bluff sergeant grunted.

"The 104th fought at the gate, too. That's how they lost most of their veteran troops," Macara sighed. "They have almost as many honours as we do."

"They don't have this, sir," Nolcol tapped the blue stripe on his grey helmet.

"No one does, sergeant," Macara smiled back. That stripe was their honour, their privilege to bear the colours of the Space Marines. "Look, it's their officers, not their men. The Cadians, apparently, requested to fight with us," the white lie rolled off Macara's tongue easily enough. It wasn't a harmful lie, but may just spread a sense of good feeling from this Light Coy squad through the whole battalion.

"Well, at least they got themselves some brains, sir." Nolcol said. It was the best that Macara could get at the moment, but it was evident the bluff sergeant was revising his opinions.

"Colonel!" a voice called from the Cadian lines. Macara and his squad stopped and watched Avre approaching with his command retinue.

"Well met, major," Macara nodded pleasantly. The Cadian officer saluted as he came to a stop in front of the taller Garrowan. His left arm was still stiff, the sleeve of his fatigue jacket bulked out by bandages.

One of the lieutenants accompanying Avre scowled at the show of respect. The frown grew when Avre shook hands with Macara. The Cadian Major noticed Macara's hackles rise slightly, and turned to see the young officer.

"Take the scowl off your face, Faulin," Avre ordered. The lieutenant let his face relax, more or less, but anger burned in his eyes. "Off and tell Nineteen Squad to clear the habs behind the ruined shopping street."

"Sir? They still have vox link…" Faulin replied sharply.

"Just do it, mister Faulin. The exercise will do you good."

"Sir." Faulin stomped away like a petulant child. As soon as he was out of earshot, Macara piped up.

"Faulin? Surely you're not telling me that chinless wonder has sprogs?"

"Not son. Nephew," Avre replied. "He got his commission due to his uncle's rank. He is a real pile of grox manure," The major spoke quietly, so his men didn't hear him and thus undermine another officer's authority.

"As long as he fights well when the time comes." Macara pointed out, never one to let a relations'actions unfairly tar another.

"I suppose you're right sir. Now, more importantly, what are you up to sneaking behind my regiment?" Macara pointed.

"I'm heading about half a K that direction."

"Ah, checking the Thorans." Avre deduced, secretly glad Macara wasn't here to supervise his rookie command.

"I want to speak to Becyver, face to face. This is too unusual, especially when the city is reportedly crawling with the enemy," Macara said simply.

"Fair enough, sir. If possible, could you relay details of what is said on your way back, please? I don't want to seem presumptuous, but it makes it easier to command my men if I am in the loop."

The Garrowan colonel nodded. "Of course, major. I have no problem with my field officers knowing the situation. Carry on major, I shall report to you later."

Avre saluted again and Macara waved his squad to move ahead.

They continued at a brisk pace, leaving the Cadians behind them. Macara noted that the members of the Light Coy were at risk of leaving him behind. He was fit, strong and had good stamina, but like all light troops, these men were the smallest, smartest and quickest in the Garrowan units. Their natural quick pace was better than his.

Within a few minutes they had come in sight of the Thoran Bravers. Their dark grey camouflage matched well with the surrounding habs. Macara noticed they all wore matt-black field-caps, and not helmets. They were also carefully clearing each building in their path, just as the Garrowans had. He could see their black armoured torsos moving in tight, well drilled groups. Colonel Becyver could be made out a fair distance away, pointing at habs and directing squads. Macara pressed the mic of his micro-bead vox.

"Colonel, look to your seven o'clock position, about one hundred metres back."

Becyver looked round, a grin splitting his face. He raised a hand in greeting.

And as he did so, all hell erupted.

Kopar stood in the main body of the basilica cathedral itself. His assassin was nearby somewhere, skulking in the shadows, watching over his person. Her presence, as off-putting as it could be, especially her malign intent pressing on his psyche, was also reassuring; more so than an entire platoon of Guardsmen. His numerous acolytes, attired similarly to himself, only with beetle-blue carapace armour protecting them, went to and fro, completing assigned tasks. None came within fifty metres of him whilst he contemplated. At the entrances, Inquisitorial Stormtroopers, hellguns primed, stood scanning the ruins for movement. Kopar had eighteen of them seconded to him, completely loyal, and completely unaware of what he was doing here. In groups of three, each demi-unit was led by one of his acolytes.

Inside, his lexmechanics assisted the Techpriest trying to decrypt the machine in the vaults. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone at this moment. He looked at the grand architecture around him, and felt stirrings of genuine disappointment that it would all probably be destroyed when Chaos took the place from the Imperials. But, in the grand scheme of things, it mattered little.

It was strange, Kopar thought, that they weren't fighting yet. The Imperial forces were on the move, and had driven off some pitiful cultist forces, but that was it. Why had they not made contact with the Chaos legions?

A sudden boom, and string of gunfire in the near-distance cut into his thoughts.

"My lord, movement. At the front of the basilica," the senior sergeant of the Stormtroopers called.

"Get a squad over there, then. Let no one enter," The Inquisitor replied.

"As you command, lord." The sergeant saluted, running for the doors an instant later. Seven troopers went with him, and three of the blue-armoured acolytes, swords drawn and a variety of small arms on display.

Kopar realised that his small retinue, no more than thirty-five strong, had to hold off a city full of enemies until the Guard could push their way to him. Mentally, he unlocked the part of his mind that could psykically unleash all manner of pain on an enemy.

Macara ducked as a bolt round blew the head clean off the trooper next to him, blood mist coating the men nearby.

Since when did cultist have boltguns? He thought. Looking over the line of rubble his squad now occupied, he let off a pair of shots from his own bolt pistol. Lasfire began to fill the air with renewed fury. Imperial officers called orders to their men. Units dived into cover, before replying with hastily aimed shots. It seemed the enemy was all around them. The Thoran Bravers managed to get several heavy weapons up and ready, though numerous crew-served weapons lost their gunners in the opening volleys.

"Make your shots count lads. Keep watching the nearest buildings, they're close enough for that scum to rush us if they want." Macara told his ten-man section. The Garrowans were in an effective defensive position, facing several directions with cover on their side. Whenever they saw a muzzle flash, they returned fire, saving shots for when the enemy actually presented themselves. Archenemy fire increased, but as of yet, they couldn't see any of the shooters. Buildings all around seemed to be raining energy rounds into them.

Thorans all along the line were advancing carefully, covering each other, trying to break into the habs round about them. Becyver was leading from the front, shouting his men on to glory. The squads with him were assaulting a building directly in front of them, whilst on their left, a platoon-sized group had broken into a short row of shops and were clearing the enemy out with brutal close quarter fighting.

A trio of rockets smashed in some low-built habs more to the right flank of Macara's position, and several enemy corpses fell bloodily to the road. A guardsman with a grenade launcher pumped rounds into one of the doorways and instant after the explosions, a dozen Thorans went in.

Macara saw movement from the building Becyver was assaulting. It was a well-built commerce station, used by guilders in the local area as a sort of trade house. The Aquila above the door was damaged. From the wide, double doors, made of finely inlaid heavy timbers, soldiers of Chaos poured out to counter attack. They opened fire with autoguns, lasguns, the odd bolter, any weapon they could muster. Several Thorans fell almost straight away, but without flinching, they fixed bayonets and Becyver led them in a charge, sabre drawn. The two groups smashed into each other, weapons scything, close-range fire killing men with every burst. The Bravers were outnumbered, but their sudden charge had the Chaos soldiers reeling. A Thoran stabbed once with his bayonet, taking a chaos soldier in the chest below his armour. A cultist who would have made corporal Kallum look small used a billhook like a great hatchet, and almost split a Braver from clavicle to pelvis before three more Thorans dragged him down, stabbing repeatedly. Becyver twirled his blade in deadly arks, cutting down cultist with every blow.

"Sir!" Nolcol shouted, pointing. Macara saw another party of cultists bounding across the debris and bodies to enter the fray. With their flanking attack, there was no way Becyver's mad charge could hold.

"Take them now!" the Garrowan called in his own tongue, the guttural words as fierce as those of the enemy. Hellguns snapped to point where he directed, the Garrowans rose from their cover and opened fire. High powered shots cracked with a staccato bark, dropping numerous cultists, the men taken totally unawares. The deeper snap-hiss coughs of the lasguns punctuated the sound of the nine hellguns.

Macara's men advanced step by step as they fired, a few rounds being hastily returned in their direction but causing no harm.

"Keep it up, boys!" Nolcol shouted.

With the flank secure, Becyver's men drove the surviving cultists diving back into the commerce building and scattering to the other entrances.

"Clear the rooms and secure your flank!" Becyver said into his micro-bead as his men dashed past in twos and threes, going different directions as they entered the damaged doors.

"Third squad, move into the…" Becyver was drowned out by the roar of air hurtling past, and then thrown a full five metres by the blast as a battlecannon shell destroyed the front of the commerce building. Pieces of timber and plascrete pattered to the ground. The Thoran colonel wasn't moving. A dozen troopers around him were dead, killed by the blast, or their innards turned to jelly by the concussive force.

A tank drove into view, armour painted in a light khaki shade with black detailing. It resembled a Leman Russ, but its track sections were longer and squatter. The barrel was not as wide as the noble Leman Russ, but had more length to it. The MBT lumbered towards the Thoran positions, coaxial weapons firing. Sponsons equipped with heavy bolters spat death at the guardsmen. And following the tanks regrouped cultists taking heart from the great, heavily armoured machine, advanced on the fallen Becyver and his stunned men.

Macara looked over at Becyver's position and saw the havoc caused. Thorans fell back in disorder as the tank advanced, cultists all around it's heavily armoured flanks. Fighting could again be heard in the remains of the commerce station. Becyver's entire position was looking threatened by the sudden reversal.

Macara saw the cultists driving the Thorans back. He saw the Thoran Bravers flooding back from the onslaught. He saw it all and took it all in.

"Set vox to speaker," Macara muttered as he drew his sword and flicked the power on.

"Men of Thora! Bravers! Rally and repulse! Colonel Becyver is down and needs your help! Move on his position!" Macara cried, voice augmented by the comm's officer's vox-pack. There was a rasp of steel as his own men drew and fixed their seventeen inch blades to their hellguns and stood ready. "Bravers, forward!" Macara called, charging forward with his Garrowan squad, who screamed in fury as if their hill-Gods could hear them and help them on.

As he ran, Bravers joined him in dribs and drabs, crying their own war-cries. It was a good eighty metres to the front of the Broken commerce house, but they closed the gap quickly. Most of the Thoran troopers had stopped their flight and joined the counter attack.

With only a few steps to go, Macara bellowed "For Garrowa and the Black Blade!"

Both forces reached the building at the same time, just as Becyver was shaking himself concious. The clash was even fiercer than the Thoran's charge only minutes earlier, as men fought desperately, clawing and hacking at anything not in their uniforms. Macara ducked beneath a bayonet thrust, slicing upwards with his power-sabre. Weapon still inside his enemy, he rolled right, bruising his shoulder, avoiding the downward chop of a hooked harvesting sickle. As the colonel rose, he punched the cultist in the face with the muzzle of his bolt pistol before countering with another sword thrust. He fired the last of his clip into the broiling knot of Chaos foot soldiers, before throwing the empty handgun at them. The colonel deftly parried an enemy chainsword, a baroque and ornate weapon heavily covered in Chaos glyphs, before riposting and slicing his opponents gut open, entrails spilling messily on the ground.

Around him, Garrowans thrust and parried, fighting every bit as ferociously as their commander. Surrounding them, Thorans battled desperately to rescue Becyver. Maybe one hundred and fifty men were engaged now, some on the edges finding good positions to snipe from, other barrelling straight into the heaving mass of combat. Macara spied the other colonel trying to drag himself away from the feet of those trying their hardest to kill each other. The Garrowan parried another thrust and shouldered the man to the ground before reversing the blade and stabbing down once.

Standing above the Thoran commander, Macara swung his sword in glittering arcs, sometimes hitting the enemy, at others missing but driving them back.

With a roar, a fresh press of Thoran, led by a stocky major, pushed into the attack. Macara used the breathing space to haul Becyver to his feet.

The tank roared again, killing a dozen men, and Macara bellowed "Drive them into the buildings! Take cover! Go, go go!"

The Thorans killed any Chaos warrior not quick enough to escape whilst they scattered, taking up new positions. The tank bore down on them all, weapons scanning round.

With a whoosh, a krak rocket smacked into the side of the turret ring. The great tank didn't die, but the turret gears ground into place, the long barrel unable to traverse. It fired again, petulantly, the round bringing down the front of a hab block in a shower of rubble.

A second shot hit the traitor tank, this time a powerful, blinding blast from a crew-served lascannon a few dozen metres away. Hitting where the side sponson and the main armour met, the las bolt went straight through, causing untold damage to the men inside. The tank ground to a halt, thick, tar-filled smoke drifting into the air.

A cheer rose from the Imperial ranks, followed by a loud "For the Emperor!" The cultists had broken, and fell back through the streets, moving out of view as soon as was possible.

Becyver leaned heavily on Macara, blood pouring out of a cut above his eye.

"Shit, that was rough. Thank you Daine, they would have had us."

"My pleasure. Now, you need to get to a forward dressing station," Macara gestured at the deep gash.

"I'm fine, a graze," Becyver waved it away.

"Hey, no hero bullshit. You could have a concussion or even a fracture. You may have internal injuries from the blast. You have the responsibility for a whole regiment, so go and get it seen to. That's an order," Macara frowned. He waved a medic over to Becyver.

"Okay, okay. But I won't be long. You have the regiment until then, Macara," Becyver nodded, quite to Macara's surprise.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, you are brigade commander. Just try not to get them all shot," Becyver said as the medic led him away to where a group of wounded were being taken to a dressing station.

Macara voxed for the Thoran 2nd officer to approach him. Whilst he waited, he looked at the bodies of his enemies. There were at least one hundred dead here, three-quarters of those Archenemy. The 'cultists' wore light khaki fatigues, with armour section that had been jet black before damage and knocks had scraped it away, showing metal liner underneath. Almost all had some form of mask on, but those who didn't had faces that were wholly unnatural. Not the brutally scarred, grotesque vestiges of most cultists, rather almost perfect, unblemished faces. Many had scars, but they had been very well tended and did little to ruin the aesthetics of the faces that bore them. Many had taken an odd purple colouration that seemed to spread out like creepers, but it did nothing to diminish their faces.

Looking at the hardened Thoran warriors around him, very few could claim to be that perfect. Some were handsome, others rugged, but most had the tell-tale signs of a life at war. These enemy were not. Their armour was daubed in vulgar symbols that made Macara gag just to look at. Blood had been used to draw eight pointed stars, and much, much worse.

As well as this, the cultists had battered but relatively new stamped lasguns, while their autoguns were in better condition than he'd anticipated. And their assault weapons were not the hoarded, ancient crap most cultists could lay claim to.

Finally, they all had a relatively uniform appearance through their fatigues and armour, although some sported chain mail vests, other wore full face helms, like knights, rather than masks or helmets. They were unlike any cultist horde Macara had ever seen.

"Vox man, here now," Macara ordered. His own voxman had been killed during the fighting, and it was a young, but unperturbed Thoran who responded. Grabbing the speaker horn the young corporal held out, Macara spoke not in Low gothic, but in the language of the hillfolk, that now served as the battle-tongue of Garrowan regiments. As far as they were aware, it had yet to be decrypted.

"Is that you, sir?"

"It's me, Major."

"We didn't know what had happened to you when the attack started, sir."

"How have the men handled it?" Macara asked, ignoring the reference to himself.

"We are still engaged. We didn't just let them run, though, Daine We pushed them back and went on the offensive. They received some reinforcements, but can't break our lines," Cairns said proudly.

"Tell me, Cairns, what do they look like."

"What was that, sir?" Cairns asked, not sure if he'd heard right over the volume of firing.

"Your assailants, what do they look like?"

"They are wearing dirty khaki fatigues, have black body-armour and decent weapons," The answer crackled slightly. But it was the answer Macara expected.

"Thanks Faolan. Do your best to hold them."

"We will, sir. For Garrowa."

"And he Blade." Macara finished the conversation. He passed the mic back to the Thoran corporal. As he did, the stocky Major approached him.

"Major Dalt, sir. You wanted to see me?"

"I did. I wanted to inform you that colonel Becyver has put me in command as brigadier."

"Yes. Sir. He mentioned as he went to the rear," Dalt said with undisguised bitterness.

"You think I can't handle the job, major?" Macara snapped, maybe a little too harshly, for the man probably just wanted his own men under his command.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to offend you. Its jus…nothing. What about these cultists, sir. What do you make of them?"

"Well, major, I think we can safely say these aren't cultists," Macara stated flatly.

"They aren't?" Dalt asked, surprised.

"No. They're traitors. Well trained, well-armed Chaos Infantry."