Mk'Fedan sat in his quarters in the main spine, wishing he had permission to join the front line. He felt aggrieved that he needed permission from slime like Faulin to join his men. He also felt sorry for the four Fusiliers who had been assigned as his personal guards, and were now rotating in pairs with the arduous task of standing outside the ridiculously ornate wooden door to his offices, instead of being allowed to join their regiment. It wasn't in most Garrowans to sit back whilst their brothers fought and died.

The general threw the book he was reading at the wall with a dull 'thwump' and slammed his feet down on the table, legs straight, his large arms crossed in frustration and impotent anger. The door beeped and trooper Roscoe walked in.

"Everything okay sir?" he asked, concern on his face.

"Yes trooper, I'm fine. You and Mc'Nairn should go and get something to eat from the mess."

"Sir?" Roscoe looked surprised. "You sure?"

"I don't mind. Who is going to get me here? Just make sure Tollin or any of his lackeys doesn't see you down there."

"Thank you, sir," the trooper said, saluting before going for a well-earned break. Mk'Fedan stood up and walked over to where the book had landed, regretting his rough treatment of the old parchment. He'd owned it for about fifteen years now and he knew he should take better care of it.

As he bent over to retrieve it, he tilted his head slightly as he strained his ears. He remained, incongruously perched above the novel, until a moment later he was sure. Walking over to the plexiglass window, the General slid it open and listened carefully again. Definitely weapons fire. He could see banks of smoke in the distance as artillery shells crumped.

He wished he was there now, in amongst the fighting with his troops, but Faulin's policy was for all officers above brigade to stay at the rear. So Mk'Fedan sat twiddling his thumbs, hoping above hope he could get to fight.

"Hold firm Bravers! Send that thrice damned scum back where they came from!" Macara roared. He was standing on a line of old sandbags, pitted with numerous las and bullet scars whilst firing his pistol into the enemy. All around Thorans were taking cover behind debris, calmly and effectively firing lasguns at spots of heavy resistance. The Thorans were almost as good as his own men.

"Kill them! They have betrayed the Throne and so we must exact His revenge!" the colonel cried.

The firefight was fierce, around four thousand Thorans holding off more than twice their number. It was the same all along his line. Macara kept in constant contact with his unit commanders. Through sheer grit and determination, the Chaos filth had not broken through, losing scores upon scores to the Imperial fire. In the last hour, tac logic in the main spire had identified the treacherous guardsmen. They were formally of the Finlanian Dragoons, now the self-proclaimed Legion of Narcissus. He knew the stories well, for the Finlanians were infamous in this sector. Thirty years ago a full one hundred and forty thousand of them had been tainted and had cast off their former allegiances. Tales of units of well-trained traitor armies, almost as skilled as those of the near-mythical Blood Pact circulated for decades but the Garrowans had met them relatively few times, mostly brief encounters on Cadia. Now Macara was seeing what thirty years of training, recruiting and massive expansion had done to the force.

It was becoming very obvious, very quickly, that the cultists were simple fodder that the Legion was using to infiltrate the city and sow discord before they made their presence felt. This threw all the Imperial intelligence in the air. There could be thousands of them. There could be millions. No one knew.

He snapped off a couple of shots at a cultist who had avoided the weight of Thoran lasfire. Now that the Legion's impetuous rush had failed to breach the Imperial positions, they were again using cultists to soak the majority of firepower. Fireteams and sections of Legionaries moved forwards, bounding between cover, behind screens of screaming fanatics with no regard for their own safety.

To their credit, Macara thought, the Thorans were well drilled and their target priority was fantastic, picking only the most dangerous enemies first.

"Hold and deny! Hold. And. Deny!" Macara yelled again. Down on his left, a Thoran lost his head and top of his shoulders to a plasma blast, which then proceeded to vaporise most of the man behind him too. Macara recoiled back, feeling as if he had been too close to a sun for a millisecond. He looked at the crimson pauldron on his left shoulder, and saw the top layer of armaplas had melted and bubbled with the heat, showing the second layer of pure metal below. He snapped his gaze back to the fight and saw a Legionnaire desperately fighting with the cooling system of his ancient, battered weapon. The colonel directed some troopers to fire in traitor's direction, even as a plume of super-heated steam struck the heretic in his ugly, scarred face. Macara wondered if the weapon's machine-spirit had been riled by killing loyal servants of the Emperor.

The sound of the battle was deafening, almost overwhelming, a Guard battalion firing all its small arms with heavy weapon support, the crump of artillery detonations followed by the earth-jarring shockwaves scant seconds later, combined with the overlapping noise of the enemies own fire power was a true assault on the senses, and only those men trained for such an experience could withstand it for very long.

The Garrowan colonel noticed the enemy fire slackening, and could see groups of Chaos soldiery cautiously pulling back, trying to avoid notice. There were now more dead and dying on the ground than living and fighting against the Imperials.

"Now men of Thora! Forward and drive them back!" he called out. The men fixed bayonets as they stood up from their barricades.

"Forward!" Macara called, a host of men flowing over the defences towards the arch-traitors. They charged forward, rifles blazing. The men to Macara's right fell, a gaping hole blown in his chest. A hail of heavy stubber rounds fell amongst the charging body of troops, killing over a dozen outright and wounding many more. The Thorans shouted in rage as they charged, wanting to get to grips with the enemy. The fire intensified for a moment as panic seized the cultists and the Legionnaires. But it was too late. The soldiers of the God-Emperor hit the traitor positions like a wave-surge and fierce, close in fighting ensued. In that kind of combat, it becomes hack-and-slash, mindless brutality as men forget tactical disciplines, close-quarter training and even their own morals, and for the men of Thora it was no different as they fought savagely, brutally, winning each individual fight any way they could. There were no orders, no battle-lines, just knots of men fighting to the death. Bayonets went forward silver and came back red. Men screamed in rage or pain and the Chaos breed fell one by one. Macara held his sword two-handed in the basket of the hilt, scything down on a Legionnaire's head. Sergeant Nolcol crushed the skull of a cultist with a downward strike from his rifle butt, the man screaming for redemption and mercy. All around, Thorans finished off their opponents, shooting enemies as they fled, or stopping to tend to the injured.

In the building major Dalt's squad was fighting, a group of Legionnaires got their backs against a wall and put up a stiff last stand. There could be no question of mercy, and Dalt called up a flamer which scoured the Chaos Warriors from the building in an intense firestorm. Smoldering and still screaming bodies thumped to the floor, the Thorans ignoring the throat-catching tang of burned flesh.

All along the line of buildings that marked the Chaos positions, a cheer went up as the last Legionnaires of Narcissus scuttled away across the wide highway that split the habs of this sector from those on the other side. The squad leaders kept their cool, and Macara could hear a cascade of 'clears' in his ear bead as rooms were checked and the perimeter secured.

Macara flicked the switch of his power sabre, and allowed the blade to cool down. He looked around at the men. They had done well to hold off and defeat the surprise attack.

"Order the heavy weapons up to this position. We will hold any ground taken that is sensible to do so. Dig in and secure this line of habs, use the highway as the perfect killing ground. They'll have to cross it to get to us. Make sure the wounded get seen to promptly." Macara said to the Bravers vox officer who was now crouching beside him.

"And tell the men they did well." He finished. The men gave an ironic cheer; they knew they had done well, but in the Imperial Guard it was always nice to hear an officer say so out loud. Especially a foreign officer.

"Colonel Sir, I have Major Cairns on the vox," the vox-man held up the mic. Wiping the now cool blade of his sword with a rag, Macara took the proffered handset.

"Go ahead."

"Enemy is in full retreat, sir. We took about two hundred casualties, most of those wounded. We did not too badly, considering how many of those bastards there were." Cairn's voice crackled slightly through some static.

"Well done major. Did you have much armour to face?"

"Maybe five pieces of any real size. We took two, and Mk'Rae's lot popped the rest. Sir, shall I begin the advance again?" Cairns asked.

"No," Macara said a little too sharply. "I do not wish to move on and get bogged down in ambush and counter attacks. But I don't want us to get stuck in a stale defensive action, so wait until we hear more from the other brigades. Brace the line against the main highway, use it as a ready-made kill-zone."

"We wait?" Cairns said, surprised.

"Yes, we wait. Not tactically sound, but at this moment a hell of a lot smarter than storming on ahead into who knows what. Think about it Faolan – so far we have total armour and air superiority. But the forces of Chaos are not as stupid as we give them credit for. We could run into full armoured divisions and get encircled, or they could launch numerous air squadrons. I don't want to be strung out and annihilated." Macara explained.

"Affirmative, sir," Cairns still sounded a little reluctant, but they had served together for years and he wouldn't argue with the colonel if his reasoning seemed sound. "Out."

"So, we are to wait?" asked Major Dalt, who had approached and listened to the end of the radio conversation. Something in his tone wrankled Macara.

"Yes, major, we wait. The men are not to become complacent, so put extra watches on, and find something to keep them active and alert in between sleeps. But yes, we wait." Macara replied, wondering if Dalt mirrored his own tone when talking to Faulin.

"Any news from the colonel?" Captain Mk'Shae of the Grenadier Company asked. Mk'Shae was a grizzled veteran, senior of the regiment's captains. He was hankering for the vacant major slot left by their campaign on Cadia.

"Yes. We hold until we receive news from the other brigades," Cairns repeated Macara's message.

"I'll set the Grenadier Company on overwatch from that larger hab block, with a good enfilade of the main approaches. I could do with some crew-served heavy bolters, sir," Mk'Shae offered, taking lead amongst the company commanders.

"Very good, get to it Heue." Cairns nodded. "Everyone else know what needs done?" The Company officers around him nodded. Except one.

"We're just to hold? Shouldn't we be falling back? You saw the numbers the enemy had; we should consolidate our position before attacking again. Or let them dash themselves on our guns back at the Main Spine!" Captain Dyort muttered, interrupting.

"Shut up, Dyort." at least three officers said in unison. It appeared it was the favoured response of the entire regiment when this man was talking.

"We will follow orders, captain, and you will stop complaining." Cairns said, yet none of the irony was lost on him.

"But it is acceptable for the colonel to questions orders from a senior officer?" the wiry Captain muttered.

"What was that, Captain?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all." Dyort replied sharply.

Cairns stared the captain down, eyes full of malice as he remembered exactly why everyone disliked the man so much.

The battalion had provided a rearguard on the retreat from one of the stricken Kasr's on Cadia. However, when they had almost reached safety they were attacked near a town lying between them and Kasr Tyrok. Four companies held the line as the others drew back in turn.

Dyort, however, had been posted near a flank, and when he could no longer see the previous Company, ordered his own to fall back quickly. What he didn't realise, in his eagerness to fall back with the others, was that it wasn't 3rd's turn to withdraw, and he left 8 Coy stranded. The enemy pounced on them and quickly overwhelmed them. Captain Dyort returned when he learned of his mistake, and succeeded in driving the enemy away but by that stage half the company had been killed.

Dyort had thought Macara would kill him, but the Colonel had given the man a second chance. Cairns and most of the other officers had not agreed, they wanted Dyort nowhere near them, but Macara was a good man and if he believed Dyort could redeem himself, they wouldn't argue. Didn't mean they had to like him.

Despite his second chance, Dyort moaned and whined none the less.

"Alright, get you your men, be ready to move out." Cairns ordered. The officers walked away. "Dyort, a moment."

"Major?" Captain Dyort stopped in his tracks, turning to face the major.

"Listen to me, and listen well. Daine has given you a second chance…"

"I know he has, but…"

"Do not interrupt me," Cairns prodded the shorter captain in the chest. "Daine has given you a second chance. If it were up to me or the others, you would be out of this regiment quicker than Ecclesiarch priests in a brothel. But the Colonel sees something in you. I don't know what. However, you need to stop bitching and do your duty. Prove Macara wasn't wrong to place his trust in you."

"Macara wanted to get rid of me as much as the rest of you," Dyort snapped back petulantly.

"But he didn't. He kept you here, despite his own reservation, placing his authority in peril, and gave you a chance to uphold regimental honour. He could have shot you out of hand, but he didn't, so show him some respect. And earn back ours."

Dyort didn't say a word, but Cairns could see the hate brimming in his eyes.

"Back to your men, captain," Cairns said more calmly. The major didn't know if that hate-filled gaze had been for him, the regiment's officer, or for Dyort himself. Cairns watched him walk away. Maybe he could redeem himself.

Keying his micro-bead, Cairns spoke.

"Vox-man, pass it round the regiment, form a defensive perimeter. Get those heavy bolters set up."

Private Gerbridge desperately reloaded his rifle. All around him men were fighting and dying, the khaki-drab fatigues of the Dramarians mixing in amongst the dirty browns and sickly purples of the foe. His wide bowl steel helmet slipped slightly, almost obscuring his vision. Gerbridge threw the brim back and opened fire again, clearing a space before him.

Dramarians were singing songs of their homeworld as they slew, and they were winning, too. The enemy was being driven back.

Gerbridge shot a traitor in the spine and looked for a new target – there were none. Only the bodies of his enemies remained littered amongst those Dramarians still able to fight.

"Forward 79th! Don't give them room to rally! After them!" captain Dradford dashed past the gasping Guardsmen, sabre held high. The black ribbons of his red-and-white checked forage cap fluttered behind him as he ran. Dramarians streamed after the officer, their blood up. Gerbridge was dragged along with them, cheering as he went.

Clearing the habs, they arrived at a major junction of the highway. Cultists fled before them, barely looking back. Imperial tanks broke through walls and joined the road, weapons belching flame and death. Gerbridge didn't know much about the overall tactical plan, but he knew this crossroads marked an unofficial line – the stretch that ran north-to-south was acting like a fire-break, where the Guard units were holding the enemy back. The Westward pointing section led further into enemy territory. Inspired by their halting the forces of Chaos, and seeing some of their number charging forward, more troops hastened to join the advance. With no knowledge of what lay ahead, stopping now would be the most sensible thing to do.

But in situations like these, sense didn't prevail. All around, commissars and officers beat men into a frenzy and the Guardsmen ran on, streams of men from side-streets flowing together like tributaries onto the main width of the vast transit route, a river of soldiers pushing on. Not all were Dramarians – local lads, the Ramilliens in their simple grey-drab uniforms, Elysians in their bloused fatigues, strange bull-pup lasguns held close. What started as a handful had quickly swollen to thousands as this flow of humanity charged on.

Gerbridge was jostled past a commissar standing on a wrecked habber-transport bus, reading from his Uplifting Primer. He screamed the words and urged the host of men onwards. He fired his pistol into the crowd at the shapes of any men or women trying to resist the tide.

Some officers tried to directed squads to adjacent streets and hab blocks, knowing the risks of over extending, but most were caught up in the glory of battle. Gerbridge started to panic as they went further and further from their lines. The fleeing cultists were being cut down when they were caught up to, or others were shot in the back without mercy. Their flight and panic only encouraged the guardsmen onwards. All Gerbridge could see were tall hab-blocks overlooking the highway, and ahead he could make out the walls of habs fading away into what was probably a square or park of some description.

Here and there guardsmen fell and were simply crushed by their comrades in the dramatic charge. It was utter mayhem, but commissars amongst them drove the mass of men onward. This was how the Guard fought after all – an irresistible force driving the enemy back by weight of numbers.

Gerbridge emerged from the shadow of hab-blocks to see what the open space was – a memorial plaza beside the transit route, with dozens of buildings bulldozed to make the space bigger.

And in that space….

Gerbridge's panic reached its maximum as he saw the lined-up tanks of the arch-enemy. They were adorned with the corpses of PDF soldiers, daubed in Chaos symbols that made him want to gag. Before the armour, dozens of ranks of Legionnaires, weapons trained.

The host of guardsmen slowed and, seeing the fate that was about to befall them, made that flight-or-fight choice. Many let training take over and brought their weapons round, but many more, too many, chose flight. They turned and pushed against the surge, and their panic was infectious.

That was when the Legion's Praefects gave the order. Tanks and infantry fired and where a huge column of the Imperium's finest had stood became a charnel house. In seconds, hundreds of troops were killed or injured.

All along the hab blocks, windows were knocked out and Legionnaires inside fired down from the perfect enfilade onto the highway.

It was a slaughter, made worse by those behind being pushed on by merciless commissars as he survivors tried to fall back.

Gerbridge lost a leg in the opening salvo and fell, a heap of bodies, many his friends, covering him from the waist down. Through some quirk of fate, the weight of the corpses pinning his stump help to stem the bleeding. He struggled, trying to push the bodies off so he could escape.

The tanks moved then, driving onto the shattered road, grinding dead and wounded beneath their tracks. A terrible wailing erupted from those Guardsmen who could not escape as the tracks crushed them to jellied-pulp. More weapons slaughtered the packed masses.

Gerbridge was white as a sheet, terrified as the infantry worked their way along, bayoneting the wounded. The strange, horrible soldiers of the enemy, faces either completely masked, or completely unadorned to display their perfection, moved relentlessly onward. One thrust his serrated blade slowly into a screaming Ramillien's eye, making sure the young soldier knew what was happening. As the warrior turned his masked head, he caught the struggles of Gerbridge. The Dramarian screamed in fright as the Legionnaire stood on his chest and leant the bloodied bayonet against his sternum. Gerbridge pissed himself as he babbled and pleaded for mercy. The Legionnaire simply leant forward, making bone crack and piercing flesh. Gerbridge screamed and screamed in agony, and the last thing he saw was the bright eyes, and the joyous smile beneath the breathing grill of the helmet of his killer.

It was over an hour before Macara returned, Nolcol's men still in tow. Macara's Colour Party stood there, most looking relieved to see the Colonel, but embarrassed and annoyed that he had gone off on his own. Sergeant Miskelly, doughty and reliable, nodded to him. He still had the colours tightly in his hand, as always. Corporal Dillin and Mk'Hellin just stood and relaxed now they knew he was ok. Private Sterrit grabbed Major Cairns attention and pointed to the colonel. Cairns approached and stiffened slightly in acknowledgement, but not going as far as saluting. No need to mark Macara out for snipers.

"We have had no word from any of the other brigades, but we can easily hear gunfire. Apparently they're still fighting." he said, a slight tone of irony in his voice. It was the only report he could give the colonel, and one he knew Macara had probably guessed for himself.

Corporal Kallum approached with Macara's command group, several worried body-guard troopers looking on anxiously.

"You're looking a right state, sir." Kallum remarked on the dirt-coated uniform. It was his subtle rebuke for Macara going off without him.

"You aren't much better, corporal." Macara replied as he stared at Kallum's almost pristine kit. How the man kept his equipment in such good order during battle was a mystery to all. The colonel looked at the men around him.

"Sergeant Nolcol, get back to the Company. Make sure you give those ID disks to the captain."

"Yes sir," the gruff NCO replied, leading his squad away. Macara turned to Cairns "Have we any idea what Faulin intends yet?"

"Ah, yes sir, actually. He says, despite the lack of contact with everyone else, we are to attack as per the mission statement." Cairns replied warily, knowing he had only just held his own anger in check when he received the message.

Macara didn't snap, as predicted, but stood, stroking his chin as he thought hard for a moment. It didn't last long, as he punched at the nearest hab wall.

"Damn him and damn his eyes again. What is he playing at? Fine, we'll play it his way, but we'll do it carefully. Faolan, I want you to take…"

"Here they come again!" a lookout several floors up bellowed to the gathered command staff.

"Stand to! Stand to!" Cairns cried. Sergeants took up the cry and men who were resting or seeing to battlefield tasks dropped what they were doing and grabbed their weapons, streaming from their resting places to the piquet line. Windows and doors were manned in a heartbeat, and squads deployed behind barricades once again. The first weapons to bark were the battalions supporting heavy bolters, spitting death into the ranks of the as yet unseen enemy, their high vantage points proving highly useful.

"Riflemen, don't fire when they appear. Let them draw close." Macara spoke calmly to his men. With more rapid stamping of feet around him, the whole regiment stood ready to repel the charging foe. More heavy bolter rounds thudded the air. Here and there, the whoosh-krump of frag missiles punctuated the large calibre bolt rounds.

The first of the enemy came into view on the opposite side of the main thoroughfare. Cultists in their thousands were lined along the highway, rapidly and inaccurately snapping off las and auto-rounds in the general direction of the Garrowan soldiers. Behind them, Legionnaires could be seen talking up position and directing the fodder the cult members offered towards the Imperial guns. In the background, the heavy thudding of artillery told Macara that the enemy was attacking all along the line again.

In several places, in ones and twos, cultists darted forward, trying to cover the open killing zone before they were slaughtered. When no fire came their way, more and more started crossing the roadway.

"Sergeant major, if you please?" Macara asked Mk'Askill

"Thank you sir! Battalion!" he cried, keying his micro-bead at the same time. None of the Garrowans liked when Mk'Askill was in a bellowing mood – barking into their ear pieces tended to hurt. "Battalion will present volley fire by platoon at one hundred yards!"

Weapons came to shoulders instantly, and Mk'Askill allowed himself a rare grin. "Fire!" The first ragged line of cultists fell like a row of wheat beneath the scythe, but more followed as the cultists dashed between abandoned automobiles and road barriers. Another thundering volley followed a couple of heartbeats later, and then another and the cultists fell in droves.

As the Chaos worshippers came ever closer, the command changed as the RSM sucked air into his lungs once more.

"Companies, fire at will!" as the nearest cultists reached a point no further than fifty yards distant. The controlled, whipping volleys were replaced by a constant stream of lasfire. The odd tank shell fell just within sight, as tanks of the 1st Household Cavalry engaged the foe to the flanks.

But the numbers of enemy weren't thinning at all. If anything, they were growing more numerous. Legionnaire squads were joining the host now as they pushed towards Macara's position.

"Vox, get on to Command and inform them we are being attacked by serious enemy force and request additional men if we are to hold indefinitely." Macara spat before snapping off the last round in his bolt pistol. "And tell Tollin I was right."

Slamming a new clip home, he breathed deeply before shouting to those closest

"Men of Garrowa, give them some righteous fury!"

"Lord General, I have some disturbing news from the front." A staff-major said hurriedly as he entered Faulin's chambers. Tollin was with him and spun with surprise.

"What is it?" Faulin replied wearily. He had been receiving reports all day of heavy engagements against a foe now confirmed to be the Legion of Narcissus. Faulin had never fought them, but knew commanders who had, and he had no wish to do so himself.

"Bukanan's brigade has engaged but are holding firm so far. They are, however, standing against unknown numbers of arch-enemy traitors and don't know how much longer they can hold. General of PDF Geruther's brigade has fallen back, overwhelmed. The 11th Garrowan have been almost wiped out acting as rearguard. Three thousand, two hundred and nineteen dead or missing, and thirty-two wounded," the Major reported.

"Only thirty-two wounded?" Faulin asked, surprised.

"Only thirty-two they could take with them. The rest were left behind."

"I didn't think Garrowans ever left wounded men behind?"

The Major shrugged slightly "They couldn't manage the numbers of wounded. The 11th were driven back before they could retrieve them by enemy numbers."

"The Garrowans will not like that, sir," Tollin spoke worriedly.

"I don't care what the Garrowans think," replied Faulin with false bluster. "I am in command, not they."

The staff-major coughed. His face was "There is more, sirs. The large part of a whole division broke through the enemy lines at rid set alpha-3, around the main transit hub. But they advanced into a strong counter attack and have been effectively wiped out."

Faulin sat bolt upright now. "That leaves a hole in our line…they'll pour straight through…"

"They already have, sir."

Macara could see all along the line of broken highway a mass of enemy soldiers that wasn't thinning. Men died horribly as enfilading Heavy Bolters send large calibre shells thudding into the mass of men. Legionnaires and cultists were now intermingled as they pushed forwards into the firestorm the Garrowans were churning out. Three hundred yards to the left, one of Mk'Rae's Leman Russ roared as its battlecannon spat death towards the enemy. The vehicle shuddered and bucked as two rockets struck the front armour, but they barely managed to scratch the paint work.

Macara cracked off another trio of shots from his pistol at cultists who were streaming towards him. Several times now knots of chaos solders had reached his line and caused heavy casualties before being wiped out, but as soon as they were gone there was the main threat of ever encroaching Legionnaires. Any moment when the whole regiment wasn't firing, the cream-and-black figures with their hideously perfect faces were gaining better positions to mount their offensive from.

"Sir, Coy is having trouble here. We're running low on ammo and they keep pushing. We have steel fixed and have had to use it," Mk'Shae's voice came across the micro-bead. He was positioned a little beyond the Leman Russ in a cluster of empty warehouses with plenty of good firing positions. The way inter-regimental comms had been dropping in-and-out, he was slightly surprised that it was working even at this range.

"I know captain; it's the same here too. We…" Macara paused, instinctively flinching as a las-round sent splinters of rockcrete from the doorframe flying in all directions. The man next to the colonel took a small slice from his cheek, another a splinter in his arm but Macara was untouched. The colonel knew better than to stand in the same spot and expect to go unnoticed so he led his Colour Party further along the line and took cover in the gutted wreck of a bakery. Stale bread was still scattered along the floor, and a fine white dust seemed to coat everything. A few stray rounds chased them in, but his troopers took cover and returned fire. Corporal Kallum, all six feet seven of him, was bent nearly double trying to avoid fire. Miskelly grunted as a shot punched through the heavy silk of the regimental standard.

"I fecking hate being so tall," he mumbled as he passed Macara.

"Sir. SIR? Can you hear me?" the noise shocked Macara, remembering he hadn't finished speaking to his Grenadier Captain.

"Yes, Heue, I can hear you. Sorry, had to move suddenly. We're taking it bad. 4 Company is beside me and they are taking a beating themselves. It's not looking good. I've voxed for help but got no reply. Can you hold?" Macara replied quickly.

"Mk'Rae's tanks are helping. With ammo we can probably hold. But without…"

"We'll break them. We'll have help."

"Faulin won't spare anything. He'd leave us to die."

"I know. But we'll fight them none the less. Just fight, Captain. Make them pay. Mk'Fedan will make sure help is coming. And don't let our glorious Commissar Klousour hear you, he may misunderstand and try to blow your face off." Macara tried to lighten the mood ever so slightly, and to not let Mk'Shae's mood linger on the situation.

"We'll fight to the last damned man."

"Here's hoping we won't have to. Macara out."

"Watch out!" a voice cried loudly from the next building over, and Macara edged round the wall, pistol first, to see what was happening just as the roar sounded.

"What do you mean, you've sent no help?" Mk'Fedan bellowed, spittle flecking from the corners of his mouth.

"There…there was no one to send…" Tollin stammered as Mk'Fedan pulled the staff officer bodily towards himself. The Kasrkin bodyguard just stared mutely at the muscled Garrowan, though Mk'Fedan doubted it was out of fear he let his charge be handled so.

"What about the reserve forces?" Mk'Fedan asked angrily.

"They need to defend the main spine and the nearest factorums! They cannot…"

"What you mean is you will not. You will leave men to die rather than risk your own safety," The Garrowan spat on the expensive carpet of the hallway.

"Lord General Faulin…"

"I don't care! He is in command, but he will not leave my men to die," Mk'Fedan let the little staff-General go, and started pounding along the hallway. He was sure he heard the masked Kasrkin chuckle slightly as Tollin made exasperated bleatings. He left with one

"I'll sort this myself, Cadian," He thundered.

The Legion officer looked genuinely terrified. He had had his helmet removed, and around him stood the imposing figures of the Praefectus bodyguards, weapons poised. Two nearly-naked pleasure-slaves sat whispering and kissing, chains connecting them to their master. The disgraced officer was on his knees before that very figure, the imposing Evocatae Praefectus. And the general was not pleased. Armed for battle, his wicked scythe, haft writhing as if alive, was in his pale bare hand. The rest of his flesh was hidden from view by uniform and armour.

"Evocatae Kohortus, last you reported to me, the cultists were pinning the Imperial scum down and all you needed do was unleash my forces upon them. And yet, still they resist," The voice hissed through the mouth grill of his ornate helmet.

"Yes, lord. But our forces are still fighting! They ha…"

With one precise, exact slice, the chief Evocatae's scythe blade cut through the cheek walls and ripped the tongue clean out. The Kohortus' head whipped to the side with the blow, but he was still alive. Blood foamed where the ruin of his mouth was, and he made a strange gurgling sound.

"There, that sounds much better. Less…nonsense. As I was saying, they still resist. This is unacceptable. You have forced my hand now. As such, you shall be punished. I will give you a chance to speak in your defence now."

The officer gurgled slightly louder, and his eyes widened. A couple of the Praefectus bodyguards chuckled grimly; the sound both beautiful and terrible to hear from throats maimed by the Gods-only-knew what.

"Nothing? Oh well. Give him to the women," the Evocatae pointed to his slave-girls. "And whatever they leave, give to the Clawed Fiend."

The gurgled became more high-pitched as the woman took the officer by the wrists and started dragging him away, pain and blood-loss sapping his strength.

From beneath the eye-slits of the ornate helmet, the gaze of the Evocatae fell on his senior Praefectus.

"You, I am promoting you to the ranks of the Kohortii. As new Kohortus, I expect you to be more successful than your," the general paused as a truly horrific squeal came from behind them. "Predecessor."

"What would you have me do, lord?" the newly appointed colonel bowed his head.

"Bring up two Storm Kohorts; use those veteran shock troops to break the forces of the False-Emperor. Crush their will to fight and then drive on!"

"Of course, my lord."

"Good. Make them pay." The Evocatae finished as another high-pitched wail pierced the air.

"I am busy!" Faulin snapped as his door was knocked politely.

A moment later, the volume and force of the knocking changed, as if another had taken up the task much more forcefully. When still there was no answer, the door sung inwards with a thud, the glowering Mk'Fedan entered, the smaller, but doughty Thoran general Misade just behind him. Colonel Dreksson loomed in the hallway.

"What do you think you were doing, Faulin?" Mk'Fedan snarled. "Where the hell is our organised central command? Why is there no relaying of information? No Senior officer conferences to decide strategy?"

"My units are being drip-fed into combat situations against enemy contact far more numerous than formally estimated!" Misade added his thoughts.

"Has this suddenly become a guard where senior officers are ignored or spoken to any way you please?" the Lord General raged, unable to control his temper.

"It does when the commander is wastefully sending men to their deaths to no benefit." Dreksson muttered under his breath from the doorway.

"Has it become a Guard where the commander need not provide competent leadership?" Misade asked insolently, his voice loud enough to cover Dreksson's own.

"Watch your tone, general. I could have you shot for it." The Lord General said with a sneer.

Mk'Fedan replied with his own look of derision. "I believe that sort of discipline of a senior officer is for the commissariat. You don't get to just declare the senior general of an army group dead because you've taken a blow to your ego."

Faulin flexed his hands a few times, clenching his fists, shoulders quivering slightly, but evidently managed to suppress his rage. The violet eyes looked coldly at the Garrowan.

"It matters not. In the theatre of an Imperial Liberation or Crusade, the Warmaster has authority over all. Even the Navy comes under his command for the duration of the campaign. I most certainly have full authority over the Guard."

"Is that what you think you are now, Faulin? A Warmaster? You aren't fit to lead a platoon. If you were, you would be relaying vital info to Misade and myself about our forces in the field."

"You forget yourself, general. I do not need to divulge information to my juniors unless I deem it appropriate," Faulin replied, getting frustrated.

"My men are dying out there and you don't deem it appropriate that I know? And don't quote guard regulation to me, I know them all, despite not having to adhere to them," Mk'Fedan said pointedly. Even Misade shrank back slightly at this remark, bordering horribly close to treason.

Faulin sneered. "Oh, yes, I forgot you are nothing more than a glorified militia. Guarding the houses whilst the Astartes are away, wasn't that your jobs? Which in itself brings another point – many people in authority find it disturbing that a Space Marine Chapter can raise such a force of men that seem to believe they needn't follow Guard discipline if they don't want to. The only reason that the matter has not been brought to the attention of the High Lords of Terra is because your men have, so far, proven useful. Unless you want that to change, I'd fall in line pretty quickly!"

Mk'Fedan almost threw himself at Faulin, but a strong, heavily muscled arm held his right shoulder. It wasn't enough to physically stop him, but was strong and imposing enough to make Mk'Fedan think twice about his action. He turned and saw Dreksson shake his head lightly, a serious look in his eyes. The Garrowan general could tell what the reproving look meant, and he sagged slightly, knowing he had lost his cool like some young buck private. He nodded at the big, sun tanned Senior Colonel.

"If that is everything, I believe I must have someone in to repair my door," He said. The other three officers walked out the room, Mk'Fedan 'accidentally' shouldering a guard to the ground when the man tried to enter and attend to Faulin.

The officers stormed away, drawing surprised look from various members of the command staff as they went. A hundred metres down the corridor, the little group stopped short. They looked about themselves, making sure that no one could hear what they were about to see.

"You have some temper, Mk'Fedan. Worthy of a Velocinychus!" Dreksson grinned slightly.

"That man needs a slap. Then a kick in the teeth. Then another slap," Mk'Fedan replied through gritted teeth. Misade smiled genuinely, and Dreksson allowed his grin to widen.

"Alert all units to prepare to fall back if ordered. They need to have plans in place." The Verdani ranger said.

Misade replied with equal regret and anger in his voice. "Faulin does not feel it necessary that we make broadcasts to our units without going through his Offices first."

"I don't care. I'll send my personal vox-man to your quarters when I'm done my broadcasts. I want my lads prepared to fall back if necessary, not figuring out how to withdraw in the middle of a fight." The brooding Garrowan muttered darkly.

"And in the meantime?" Dreksson asked.

"How many cavalry can you call on from your units?"

Dreksson thought for a moment. "About nine hundred 'Nychus riders, and another two thousand men in sentinels and Chimeras. What are you thinking?"

"Would some form of cavalry shock charge be possible in this city?" Misade interjected, guessing where Mk'Fedan was going with his train of thought.

"It would, yes. But I doubt even our 'nychus have the numbers to break the enemy lines." Dreksson admitted.

Mk'Fedan screwed up his face slightly as he went over some potentials in his head, snapping his fingers a second or two later.

"Cartel has what, something close to five thousand cavalry on this world? We have four, five hotspots right now, where an enemy breakthrough would cause total collapse. Some of those locales are holding well, but we can't risk losing them. Others are close to breaking. We break up your command into four, reinforce the with Dramarian Lancers and use shock to force the enemy back, allow the infantry to reform. Then if necessary, regroup the cavalry and move them to other trouble spots."

"It could work, if we can get Cartel onboard with the idea?" Misade nodded slowly.

"He will, don't worry. He owes my boys anyway. Plus, he's no idiot," Mk'Fedan replied.

"What about Faulin?" Dreksson asked the question they were all thinking.

"We'll just have to convince him not to court-martial us when we save his army," Mk'Fedan said finally.

Legion Shock Troops dashed from concealment, the veterans amongst the traitors coming to punish those who still followed the Emperor loyally. To a man, none had the ghastly beauty of those around them from the 'ranks' of the Legion horde – these all wore skull shaped visors over their gasmasks and bore plates of armour about their fronts, better to get close to the enemy.

"All units, fire on the heavies, now!" Macara cried into his vox, the call being passed along the short-ranged by other officers and sergeants as they heard it. Any Garrowans able opened up with rifles, plasma guns, grenade launchers and anything else they had, and the Legion Veterans fell in droves. A lasbolt struck the wall next to Macara's head, but before he could reply Trooper Mk'Dinnan blasted the shooter from his feet. Macara nodded gratefully.

But more came, and in a few short heartbeats they were across the battle-scarred highway. In their wake followed the regular Legionnaires and the remaining cultists, following the shock troops right onto the Imperial positions.

Macara had his sword scything through the leering skull visage of the first storm trooper inside his building. Brain matter flew across the nearest wall, and then the next figure was in the room. Even as Macara drove his blade tip first through the warrior's sternum, and then the room was full of battling men.

The Colour Party brought their weapons against the Legionnaires. Mk'Hellin and Dillin fired their las-pistols into the chaos troops in front of them, spontoon-spears too long to use with any potency. Shock troops pushed their way into the room, lashing out with hatchets and bayonets.

Miskelly hacked down with his chainsword, colours still held proud and high as the ceiling allowed, even though none could see them.

Macara twisted aside as a bayonet scraped his chest-plate and brought his sabre down in a back-handed slice that nearly cut the foe in two. "Drive them back!" he cried, even as he could hear desperate calls on his vox declaring close quarters all along the line.

Mk'Askill, almost head shorter than Kallum but built just as thickly, drove his bayonet into an enemy and pinned him to the wall so hard the blade snapped, only the hilt left attached to his rifle, as another veteran Legionnaire came upon him. A las-round creased his cheek, drawing blood and singing his flesh. Anger flared in his eyes and he stabbed the weapon forward regardless, remains of the blade and muzzle of his rifle plunging into flesh anyway.

Sterrit was pulled to the ground kicking and screaming, the enemy plunging bayonets and knives into his gut multiple times, leaving entrails and gore hanging out. Kallum smashed the skull of one enemy even as he killed the other Garrowan.

Macara sliced down again, but couldn't see any way out of the situation. He couldn't call a retreat because the enemy was right on them and he would lose thousands of men trying to extricate them from this fight. All he could do now was fight and kill until he couldn't kill anymore.

The ground was rumbling as they fought. It started off gradually, almost unnoticeable, but it grew. Kallum snapped an enemies' neck with his own hands before noticing the ground shaking.

"Sir?" he called.

Macara drove the point of his blade into the throat of a fallen enemy and called back breathlessly. "It's not armour. I…I don't know."

He could hear cheering now, Garrowan-edged cheering, and then there was a frightful clash of bodies, the sounds of loud hissing and piercing shrieks and wet, chewing sounds. The room he was in was suddenly empty of enemy troops – the living ones at least. Breathing hard, he staggered to the broken wall and what he saw defied belief.

Before them the fighting was thick and fierce, the air full of lasfire and screams for the injured and dying. And they were galloping towards it.

Major Ladsson sat atop his Velocinychus as it ran towards the enemy, long neck and head bobbing as it went. With him rode more of these fearful creatures, Verdani Rangers guiding them forth, a host of snapping jaws and whipping tails. Their riders holstered their rifles and held their dreaded hunting lances couched and ready for impact.

"Verdani and the Emperor!" he bellowed a moment before his force struck. In this city setting, cavalry charges were not easy, but the Verdani were skilled at riding in jungles were space was even less available. From a dozen streets, over two hundred of his riders struck the Legionnaires. Serrated teeth and razor-sharp claws tore through flesh and armour, jaws snapped on heads and lances pierced chaos bodes. Hundreds died in minutes and a wedge of dark green scales broke into them.

Ladsson knew his small force could cause serious harm, but the longer they remained the more momentum they lost and their foes would soon begin to drag men from saddles and hamstring the nimble Velocinychus. There were still too many unbroken infantry standing around looking for things to kill, and his Rangers couldn't break them all.

But this had been planned for.

Following them came almost a thousand Dramarian Lancers, brave men who rode equines to battle, braver still for bringing their mounts near the voracious 'Nychus, in his opinion. Their charge hit home, and whilst it didn't have quite the same punch, the weight of horses and the force of the lances on the charge still reaped a fearful toll. Those troopers whose lances were used, threw down the weapons and drew sickly-sharp sabres and spurred their mounted forward, hooves lashing out and breaking skulls as sword arms fell.

Ladsson laughed with the slaughter, and drove his mount forwards.

Macara let out a relieved laugh of his own. His men were cheering, and they could see the tipping point was now here. "All Companies, make sure bayonets are still fixed and advance on the enemy! Watch those bloody lizards, but go to the enemy! Drive them back!" he called into his microbead. Mk'Hellin was relaying down the long range vox, ensuring the colonel's message was heard.

Drawing his pistol with one hand, his bright blade held firm in the other Macara went forward, Miskelly hefting the colours high as they left the crumbling bakery.

"Garrowa!" he yelled, and was rewarded by an echoing roar from his men as they charged to help the cavalry.