Red-Marked
Nick Kyme

 	Guilliman lies.
 	He has deluded himself into denying an inconvenient truth. He says that Ultramar no longer burns. He says that we won the war, and turned back the Shadow Crusade. He says that we must forge a second empire.
 	Guilliman is wrong. None of this is true.
 	On Macragge, he believes that order reigns. That is also wrong, the denial of another inconvenient truth. Because out on the fringes, farthest from the light, only two things are true.
 	Anarchy reigns.
 	And the war for Ultramar isn’t over.
 	An explosion lights up the gloom, throwing the burned armour of Thiel’s men into relief. The blue of each is streaked by grey. Acid has scorched through to the bare ceramite beneath. Clouds of incendiary smoke fill the air around the Protus listening post, turning the rain into a sulphuric haze. The stench is more than acerbic. It burns.
 	Muzzle flare sears through a soot-black pall released by the explosion. Magazines cook off, and the air thunders as two nearby bunkers go up. Gunfire lashes the slab-sided armoury tower. It looms above Thiel through the murky air. Bolter shells splash against its walls.
 	They are trapped here, in this dead man’s gauntlet.
 	They must advance. To survive, they must advance.
 	The dense nest of grey silos, bunkers and walled magazines reminds Aeonid Thiel of Calth. Packed so close together they form a labyrinthine zone mortalis. Choke-points and bottlenecks… it’s merciless.
 	But wasn’t that what this was all about? Leaving Calth, doing something with purpose? Thiel raises his power sword, and it blazes like a beacon.
 	‘Forward!’ he cries. ‘On my lead! Wide dispersal. Keep fighting, damn–’
 	A sniper’s bullet cracks against his shoulder guard, but he barely flinches. Then the sword’s down again, and he’s leading the vanguard.
 	The legionaries in his charge begin to move, edging from behind steel-plated munitions crates, bolters roaring in the darkness.
 	A targeting icon flashes up on his retinal feed, right over the tower. Crowned with razorwire and reinforced with ablative exterior armour, it shrugs off the fusillade coming from Thiel’s men. ‘Inviglio, I need those heavies – now!’
 	‘I see it,’ Inviglio replies.
 	Thiel switches vox-feeds. ‘Thaddeus?’
 	Inviglio shakes his head. Gunfire is flashing across the munitions yard, so close that the transit heat is palpable. The Ultramarines keep moving, hugging walls, hunkering down whenever they can.
 	A distant scream resounds above the battle noise. Two ident-markers on the tactical feed go from green to red. Haldus and Konos. With the others, that makes six. Thiel catches the briefest glance of a scope’s reflection above, before it’s gone again.
 	‘Get a response! There’s recon in that nest. Tell Thaddeus to take them out, or it’s over.’
 	Solid shot and mass-reactive shells carom off a nearby bunker wall, as Inviglio tries again. ‘Thaddeus, are you with us?’
 	More dead air scratches across the feed, before a crackle of noise announces a broken reply.
 	‘Apologies… pinned… This is Petronius. Thaddeus is dead… moving up… support…’
 	Thiel’s jaw clenches as he feels the noose tighten. ‘How long?’
 	‘…three minutes…’
 	‘Can we hold for that long?’ Inviglio asks. ‘Do we fall back, find a different ingress?’
 	Thiel shakes his head. ‘If we fall back, that sniper team will cut us apart. Our only chance is forwards.’
 	Ahead, the smoke parts to reveal several power-armoured forms advancing in unison. Bolters are braced against their shoulders in a firing lock.
 	Shots ring out, forcing Thiel down. ‘Return fire!’
 	The air is seared by an intense weapons exchange. Even the dust burns.
 	‘Break them! Out of the kill-box! Out, out!’ he urges his warriors. ‘Grenades, then hard assault on my lead!’
 	Three-round bursts spit from behind their rapidly disintegrating barricade. Finius waits for a gap in the chaos before throwing a grenade.
 	It detonates deep into the enemy’s ranks. Erontius is clipped as he rises, but then his throat is torn open in a welter of blood by a stray bolter shell, his gorget split and hanging wide like a snapped hinge. He falls, still holding the primed grenade.
 	Thiel roars over the din. ‘Down–’
 	Thiel’s warning is obliterated by the blast, as are the two legionaries closest to Erontius. Then comes the silence.
 	White light. White pain. Retinal lenses overloaded.
 	Thoughts become instincts and impressions, and for the next few seconds, Thiel’s world is a magnesium-bright flare of searing agony.
 	Then the pain suppressants kick in, and get him moving again. His audio is down, but his retinal display still functions and shows him the bodies. There is blood on their armour. The stench of cordite and hot, wet copper fills his nostrils.
 	Sound returns after that, but it’s distant and submerged. It rings hollow inside his skull.
 	Inviglio is shouting. He was far enough away from the blast to escape the worst of it. The words are so distant at first. ‘Get up, brother-sergeant! They’re coming!’
 	The warriors emerging from the smoke and darkness are running. Thiel counts twenty. Wounded and barely conscious, his vision blurs, but he sees them well enough. Cobalt-blue and gold, a freshly painted Ultima on their shoulder guards.
 	Ultramarines. He wants to laugh at the insanity of it, but the next explosion hits and Thiel is off his feet. Flying. Burning. And just before he’s about to die, he remembers what Captain Likane said to him on Oran.
 	There is no war in Ultramar.
 	‘Request denied,’ Likane says flatly, before looking back down at the stack of data-slates on his desk currently in review. It’s dark in the office, but the shadows can’t hide the captain’s tensed jawline.
 	After a few moments, he speaks again.
 	‘Is there something else you wish to say, brother-sergeant? You are not long returned from Calth. Are you having difficulty functioning in light, and with order?’
 	Thiel looks directly ahead. His arms are folded behind his back, and his head is bare out of respect. ‘I would like to know something, sir.’
 	Unlike many of the officers at Oran, Likane is a war veteran. His battle scars are a testament to his experience, as is the bionic that forms part of his jaw. His bile is all natural.
 	‘Yes?’
 	‘Our purpose, sir.’
 	Likane doesn’t look up. He’s not paying attention to his cargo manifests, station reports and duty logs either. ‘On Oran? We are a garrison. Our purpose is to guard and be ready. Weren’t you told that when you arrived?’
 	‘Ready for what, sir?’
 	‘For whatever our primarch deems necessary. That is what it means to be Thirteenth Legion, to be an Ultramarine. Duty. Honour. Respect. You are here until a ship can bear you to Macragge – you and that ragged suit of war-plate you brought with you. Until then, you’re mine.’
 	‘I understand, sir,’ Thiel replies. ‘But any threat, however remote, should be investigated.’
 	Likane sets down the stylus and regards Thiel sternly from under thick, dark brows. His eyes are the colour of iron, and just as unyielding. 
 	‘There is no war in Ultramar,’ he growls. ‘Beyond our fight to liberate Calth, that is. You’ve been in the underworld too long. It sticks to you and leaves a mark. I should know.’
 	Thiel meets the captain’s gaze at last. ‘I am ill-suited to guard duty, sir.’
 	‘Are you about to lecture me on how I deploy the warriors in this facility, Thiel?’
 	‘No, sir.’
 	‘You’ll do as bidden until I say otherwise, or that bloody ship rids me of you,’ Likane sighs. ‘Your service record grants you some leeway, Thiel, as does your recommendation from Captain Vultius. But do not think me tolerant of insubordination. Oran runs to my order. We are a garrison, here at our primarch’s command. I won’t sanction a mission that countermands that directive because you believe yourself to be above it. You are not. This is Imperium Secundus, sergeant. Get used to it.’
 	Thiel nods curtly, salutes and turns to leave. Likane looks back down at his reports, when Thiel’s voice makes him pause.
 	‘What’s Nightfane?’
 	It’s faint, but Thiel hears the slight catch in Likane’s breath. The captain’s face is pinched with anger when he looks up. ‘What do you know of that word?’
 	‘Just vox-chatter.’ Thiel gestures to the reports. ‘How many in that stack relate to listening posts or watch stations within our purview that we have lost contact with in the last few months, captain? Was it one of them who sent us Nightfane?’
 	‘Are you seriously expecting me to indulge this, sergeant? I know you and the other veterans are struggling to reintegrate with the recruits, but I won’t–’
 	‘I would gladly resubmit myself for censure, if you would grant me this one concession. Sir.’
 	Likane grits his teeth, but stays calm. ‘I suspect censure holds little concern for you any more, sergeant.’
 	Thiel raises an eyebrow. ‘So… The listening posts?’
 	‘You want purpose? Duty, Thiel?’ Likane scowls, as the already thinning veil of composure collapses. ‘You have no concept of either. I look at you, Thiel, and do you know what I see? That we have erred as a Legion. The demands of the Great Crusade were heavy, but men were needed. Lots of them. Our standards, however rigorously we tried to apply them, slipped. I suppose it was inevitable that lesser aspirants passed indoctrination.’
 	‘Are you suggesting I should not be here, sir?’
 	‘I am.’
 	‘Then we are in agreement on one fact.’
 	Likane shakes his head. He’s smiling, but out of disgust. ‘More than that, Thiel. Much more. You bring shame to us, to this Legion. You are not an Ultramarine – you’re a mistake.’
 	Thiel nods, but shows no emotion. ‘And the listening posts, sir?’
 	The captain clenches his fists. But rather than angry, his voice is resigned.
 	‘You are fortunate that I don’t enact a fitting punishment myself. I would enjoy it. But then I’d be fit for the mark too. Take whoever is free and able. But I warn you now, you have sanction to perform a single recon mission. Volunteers only. Do not pull anyone from active duty.’
 	‘That’s a shallow pool, sir,’ Thiel murmurs.
 	‘Yes, it is. You should feel at ease in it. Now, get out.’
 	Smoke stings his eyes. His throat is burned raw, and he’s lost his helmet. It takes a few seconds for Thiel to realise he isn’t dead. His bolt pistol is on fire. It scorches the ceramite of his gauntlet as he seizes the grip.
 	The tower is down, reduced to a crumbling ruin. Bodies are trapped in the wreckage – the corpses of their enemies, though some of them are still moving. Dazed, they stagger through the fog of agglomerated dust, grit and soot. Lying on his back, Thiel guns them down.
 	Inviglio is by his side. So are Venator and Bracheus. Thiel hears Venator shouting coordinates down the vox, and realises what has happened.
 	A second missile barrage hits the ruins of the tower. The explosions shake the earth, blooming brightly before black smoke smothers the light. A few more disparate bolter bursts echo, their muzzle flashes like stars of fire, before it’s over.
 	Inviglio offers Thiel a hand as Bracheus stays on sentry. ‘Can you walk, sergeant?’
 	‘Recall… everyone…’
 	Croaking and hoarse, Thiel does not recognise his own voice. Venator turns to scan the ruins.
 	‘Petronius says we’re clear. He’s on his way.’
 	Thiel laughs out loud, and its hurts badly. But he’s alive.
 	Inviglio hauls his sergeant back to his feet. ‘At least those bastards are dead.’
 	Thiel grimaces as he recovers his blade, and looks back to Inviglio. ‘We need to make sure. You have a knife?’
 	‘Of course, sergeant.’ He cocks his head. ‘Do you intend to stab them?’
 	Thiel limps towards the wreckage of the tower. ‘No. I want to see what’s under their damn helmets.’
 	As he enters the barrack house where he instructed his recruits to gather, Thiel realises that Likane wants him to fail. There are over two thousand legionaries garrisoned at Oran. The captain has afforded him twenty-two.
 	For Ultramarines, they look less than exceptional. Thiel recognises Inviglio and Bracheus, the Calth veterans. The others are strangers, and marked for censure. Pettiness, in Thiel’s opinion, has become the Legion’s singular weakness – every infraction, any deviation, however minor, is met with the red. It’s not a tool for rehabilitation or even punishment. It’s a noose choking the life from the XIII Legion.
 	Inviglio meets him at the door. ‘I think Likane has raided the brig…’ he murmurs.
 	‘I see warriors,’ Thiel replies quietly. ‘He has honoured his word. In kind, at least.’
 	‘In eight hours, this is all we could get?’
 	Bracheus approaches them, nodding his acknowledgement. ‘You sound concerned, brother. There is no shame in adversity.’
 	Inviglio frowns. ‘I feel none.’
 	Thiel ignores them. His gaze roams the barrack house instead. ‘Not exactly what I had in mind. But they will serve.’
 	He raises his voice.
 	‘You know who I am, and you know what Brother-Captain Likane thinks of you. I have need of men of purpose and skill.’
 	‘For what, brother-sergeant?’ asks a legionary with a peppering of dark stubble across his scalp. He stands with his arms folded. He has shell burns, and Thiel suspects that an Apothecary sheared the warrior’s hair while digging out shrapnel. He nods, but does not salute. ‘Drenius.’
 	Thiel notes that Drenius also holds a sergeant’s rank, and his entire squad carries the red mark.
 	‘A remote listening station called Tritus has gone dark,’ he replies. ‘I want to know why. I can’t man the walls at Oran in a polished suit of armour, waiting to be called to arms. I don’t believe any of you can either, or you wouldn’t be standing before me now, your helms striped in red.’
 	A hulking legionary at the back of the room raises his voice.
 	‘Standing at the walls, sitting in a cell, it makes little difference.’ He is daubed with the red mark, worn either proudly or dismissively. ‘What is this all about?’
 	‘Purpose.’ Thiel walks the length of the room to stand in front of him, not quite eye to eye. A pugilist’s face looks down at the sergeant, but with intelligent eyes. The red is crisscrossed over his features like an X. ‘What’s your name, Ultramarine?’
 	‘Petronius.’
 	Inviglio can no longer hold his temper. ‘The sergeant outranks you, legionary!’
 	‘I see the mark,’ Petronius growls. ‘Do you see mine?’
 	‘Disobedient cur! I–’
 	Thiel’s raised hand stalls any further remonstration. ‘You want to leave Oran? I can give you that. Someone told me today that I was not worthy to be an Ultramarine. I think you have been told something similar before, brother. For, make no mistake in this, we are brothers.’
 	He looks around the room again.
 	‘All of us. This is our chance to cast off our shame – whether we deny it, whether we confess to care about it. I believe we are under attack, only we have yet to realise it. I hope I am wrong, but I don’t think so. It begins with Tritus.’
 	‘And if we find something there?’ Sergeant Drenius asks.
 	Thiel turns to him, and sees in his eyes a need to atone.
 	‘We kill it, brother. But not before we make sure it tells where its friends are hiding.’
 	The cuneiform on the dead legionary’s face is Colchisian. Bracheus scowls in disgust.
 	‘Carved with his own blade.’
 	Inviglio looks on. ‘That’s how they did it on Calth…’
 	Thiel’s face is a mask of cold anger. He taps the dead Word Bearer’s armour with his boot.
 	‘They planned for this. For us.’
 	‘No Ultramarine would fire on one of his own,’ says Bracheus. ‘More false colours.’
 	The wounds are still fresh for all of them. The betrayal, the sheer loss.
 	‘Fighting from shadows, behind masks,’ spits Inviglio, casting aside the Word Bearer’s helmet. ‘We hesitated, and nine of us are dead because of it.’
 	Bracheus turns to him. ‘And if there’s doubt? If there are other Ultramarines at large out here? Do we fire first and ask questions later?’
 	‘No,’ murmurs Thiel. ‘We adapt.’
 	‘A call sign, then? Something we can–’
 	Thiel shakes his head.
 	‘Too ambiguous. And if we’re already engaged, it’s not practical. It has to be instantaneous. Immediate visual recognition.’
 	His eyes fall upon the helmet he was given at the Oran garrison – it lies split open on the ground, the red of censure painted across the ceramite. He smiles, only half grimacing in pain.
 	‘It has to be symbolic. We have to be ready.’
 	A lone gunship sits in the deployment bay surrounded by menials and servitors. Thiel’s watching the preparations from a gantry, lost in his thoughts, when he notices Inviglio approaching.
 	‘The Spirit of Veridia.’
 	‘Sir?’
 	Thiel gestures to the Thunderhawk below. ‘So named for Calth’s lonely star. How it burned…’
 	‘A few hours and we’ll be airborne,’ says Inviglio. He clearly finds the memory uncomfortable.
 	Thiel nods. ‘Aye, and then we shall see.’
 	‘See, brother-sergeant?’
 	‘See what matters more – a red mark or a blue one.’
 	A moment of silence passes between them, filled by the drone of industry below. Missile payloads and ammo hoppers are being readied.
 	‘It was Likane, wasn’t it,’ says Inviglio.
 	‘Who claimed I was no Ultramarine? Of course.’
 	‘He’s wrong.’
 	‘I know that.’ Thiel gestures down to the legionaries on the muster deck going through their weapon drills. ‘But some of them don’t.’
 	Bracheus leads them, as harsh a taskmaster as Thiel knows – with the exception, perhaps, of Marius Gage. Petronius wields his chainblade with raw aggression, favouring strength and a two-handed grip over skill.
 	Drenius stands out for another reason. His sword mastery is exemplary, his form and power without a fault that Thiel can see. Bracheus cajoles and bellows at the other legionaries, but he only nods to Drenius in appreciation of his art.
 	‘Who could ever claim that he’s not a warrior? Not an Ultramarine?’
 	Inviglio looks on. ‘Sergeant Drenius fights to forget.’
 	‘We’re all fighting for something, brother.’
 	‘And what if… What if it’s nothing, and there is no great threat within our borders? What then of our purpose?’
 	Thiel leans close to Inviglio, keeping his voice low.
 	‘Have you heard of Nightfane?’
 	Inviglio shakes his head. ‘What does it refer to?’
 	‘I have no idea, brother, but it came from one of those stations. I don’t think they went dark of their own accord. I think they’re being silenced.’
 	Down in the deployment bay, the servitors withdraw and the ready signal is given. Thiel nods to Bracheus, to indicate that their practice is over.
 	Now for the real thing. Now for Tritus.
 	‘Let’s hope Likane is right, and those stations going dark is nothing more than it appears,’ Inviglio says with a sigh.
 	‘We’re about to find out, brother.’
 	The gunship banks hard. Plumes of smoke are leaking from its portside thruster and there are tears in the fuselage from where the flying shrapnel struck it. Thiel can feel the air venting through where the Thunderhawk’s structural integrity has been compromised.
 	‘So much for leaving the war behind!’ Inviglio laughs.
 	‘We are still in it, brother!’ Thiel calls back. They have barely left Oran and already they are on fire. Auto-defences on Tritus, rigged for anti-aircraft patterns – not an auspicious start. ‘There is no leaving it, brother. There is only war now, or so I’ve heard it said.’
 	The air in the gunship shrieks through the breached hull, buffeting the legionaries. Thiel’s boots are mag-locked and he stands, feet apart, braced upon the deck.
 	Petronius chimes in from across the hold. ‘I, for one, rejoice.’
 	He sits with his chainsword clenched in a firm grip, ever belligerent.
 	Venator, a marksman, sits beside him. Like Inviglio, he’s from Konor, but wears his highborn origins like a badge of pride. ‘We know you too well, my pugnacious brother. Patience is not a virtue for you, is it?’
 	‘No. But wrath is.’
 	Petronius makes to rise, but Thiel’s stare stops him. Perhaps Likane’s words about the needs of recruitment outweighing a desire for the highest standards carry some mote of truth. In most cases, it is why these men have been censured.
 	Disobedience, defiance, insubordination. Shame.
 	‘Quieten down. Once we’re on the ground, I want your attention on the mission – not each other. That turret might not be the only hostile thing on Tritus.’
 	‘All brace,’ the pilot’s voice crackles through the vox, cutting the conversation. ‘Coming in hard, in five, four, three…’
 	The engine scream reaches a crescendo, before the heavy lurch of metal takes over. Landing stanchions have already peeled from their housings on the ship’s belly. Thiel hears them strike dirt, a tremor rumbling through the fuselage, shaking men and metal.
 	The warning light flashing by the exit turns from red to green. A pneumatic pressure release sounds, and natural light is admitted into the troop hold as the ramp lowers.
 	‘Weapons ready,’ Thiel orders. ‘Move out on my command.’
 	He has twenty-two men – three squads, including support armed with heavy weapons. Missile launchers. Another carries flamers, and like stands shoulder to shoulder with like.
 	It is the way of the Legiones Astartes.
 	A network of battle-scarred structures is revealed through the widening aperture of the rear access hatch. Whatever is out there, Thiel hopes that twenty-two men will be enough.
 	The corridor is strewn with the wreckage of improvised barricades. Low light from the legionaries’ suit lamps reveals bullet holes and shell craters in the walls. A lumen strip, half ripped from its casings, flickers overhead.
 	Sergeant Drenius cuts a coil of razor wire.
 	‘This must be where they made their last stand.’
 	Thiel nods. The ravaged Tritus facility is eerily quiet and to speak too much seems disrespectful to the dead. Something cracks underfoot, and he looks down at thick brass casings scattered across the floor.
 	His and Drenius’ squads are advancing down two transit corridors that lead to the core of the listening post. The entire station has seen heavy fighting, but here it is at its worst. Dense shelling, grenades and thermo-incendiaries have taken out most of the internal dividing wall between the transit ways. Thiel and Drenius’ men can see and talk to each other through the ragged gaps.
 	The other sergeant in Thiel’s group, Thaddeus, is back at the gunship. His missile launchers are reinforcement only.
 	They won’t need them. The battle here is over, the crew of Tritus lost. Mangled bodies litter the place, half drowned by the spent casings. They are the facility staff, including human security officers.
 	‘Chainblade wounds,’ Drenius notes.
 	‘They were facing legionaries.’ Thiel sees a rune crudely carved into a dead man’s face, and scowls. ‘Word Bearers.’
 	Inviglio, standing second in the line, shakes his head sadly. ‘Then you were right, sergeant – Lorgar’s Shadow Crusade isn’t over.’
 	‘That’s not what I said, brother. This isn’t the Shadow Crusade at all.’
 	The access gate for the main hub is ahead, half torn from its industrial mountings. Drenius points to the gate on his side. ‘We might find some answers in there.’
 	‘There’s one thing we’ll find for certain,’ says Thiel.
 	‘What’s that, sergeant?’
 	‘The dead.’
 	Thiel is right. As the Ultramarines break through into the main hub, they enter a killing room. More of the dead crew of Tritus are here, at the site of their desperate stand.
 	Instead of just makeshift barricades, the defenders used the heavy metal of their listening stations to hunker behind. The entire hub, a large octagonal chamber, is filled with these bulky communication devices. Desks and chart tables have been turned over. Stacks of hard data cartridges are piled up like sandbags.
 	None of it was enough to stop whatever hit them. Most of the equipment is destroyed.
 	There is shattered plastek across the floor. Cables and shorn wiring hang from the ceiling in intestinal loops, but cataracts of sparks suggest the generator or its backup still functions. Hololith arrays, large data-corders and banks of vox-transponders lie broken apart, much like Tritus’ engineers, comms-officers and armsmen.
 	There are no other bodies. Their killers either took their dead with them or sustained no casualties during the assault.
 	Inviglio curses quietly. ‘Have you ever seen such butchery?’
 	‘Been party to much worse,’ Drenius replies, staring at the corpses. ‘Twelfth Legion. I’d stake what’s left of my reputation on it.’
 	Inviglio turns to him, inviting further explanation. The sergeant removes his helmet.
 	‘We were under orders. Joint engagement with the Twelfth, late in the Crusade. They hit hard, overran the enemy defences, and cut them down as we followed. A praetor by the name of Harrakon Skurn was in charge.’
 	Drenius smiles, but there’s no humour in it.
 	‘Harrakon Skurn. With names like that, how could we not have known what they were? What they truly were, I mean?’
 	‘What happened?’ Inviglio asks.
 	Drenius’ war-torn face darkens with memory.
 	‘They kept going, on into the civilian camps. Widespread heavy shelling earlier in the campaign, you see, and the natives had moved their people into fortified compounds for protection. World Eaters couldn’t tell the difference, not with how they were. Perhaps they didn’t want to. Skurn let them, anyway – said they had to burn it out of their blood, or something.’
 	Inviglio nods. ‘You broke command. Intervened. That’s why you and your squad were censured.’
 	Drenius shakes his head. His voice barely has the strength of a whisper.
 	‘No, brother. Actually, we didn’t. We obeyed our orders and did nothing. That was how we earned the mark.’
 	Inviglio has no words, and Drenius no stomach for further questions or conciliation. He walks away, but Thiel is looking at Inviglio.
 	‘Sergeant Drenius has a heavier burden than most,’ he says.
 	‘You knew?’
 	‘I did. I have data-slates from Captain Likane on every legionary in this unit.’
 	‘Is that what this is all about, then? Rehabilitation?’ Inviglio asks.
 	‘No, brother. It’s about doing something that actually matters. I can see Drenius’ shame in his eyes every time he reaches for the bolter that he should have used in defence of those civilians. His red mark is a brand he carries with sorrow. He needs purpose again. So does Petronius, and Venator, Finius. Even you and Bracheus. Even me. Can you honestly tell me you thought you were making a difference on Calth? Can any of us?’
 	Inviglio stiffens. ‘Calth was a jewel of the–’
 	‘Calth is an irradiated hellhole of underground caverns and bitter darkness. It’s only fit for ghosts.’
 	‘I never thought you a glory hunter, Aeonid,’ Inviglio murmurs. He shakes his head, disappointed.
 	‘I’m not, Vitus, but I do want to make some kind of difference beyond propaganda. I have no stomach for politics. I am a soldier.’
 	Venator interrupts before Inviglio can reply. ‘Apologies, brother-sergeant, but you are both going to want to see this.’
 	He takes them to a blood-spattered console.
 	‘This one still functions.’
 	He indicates the cracked data-screen – it’s flawed by static, but an image flickers there still. Thiel steps up to the screen.
 	‘Data-screed. Some kind of manifest?’
 	‘There are audio logs, reports and chatter compiled from the other listening stations linked to Tritus.’
 	Thiel glances at him. ‘You think they missed it?’
 	‘Our errant renegades? Yes, I do.’
 	Two further listening stations are depicted on the screen as Thiel brings up a trinary system map – Oran is marked clearly to the galactic south-east, shielded by the remote stations at Quorus, Protus and Tritus. The three together comprise a half-sickle arc that serves a small region of the coreward aspect of Imperium Secundus.
 	They are distant outriders, early warning posts. Sentries. Some still refer to them as ‘the Old Watchmen of Ultramar’, as they had stood untouched for many decades before the coming of the Legion.
 	‘Their next targets,’ says Inviglio, grimly.
 	Thiel’s eyes don’t leave the screen. ‘Vox Thaddeus. We’re moving. Now.’
 	They smell the pyres before they see the heaped bodies.
 	At least, this time, the traitors burned the dead after they mutilated them. Inviglio sees only further insult, to these poor souls and his injured pride. His fist is wrapped so tight around his bolter that it almost cracks the stock.
 	‘Too late again.’
 	Bracheus stands at Inviglio’s shoulder. ‘Easy, brother.’
 	The wind changes direction and washes the wretched flesh-smoke over the Ultramarines. Inviglio shakes his head.
 	‘We have to end this slaughter. End them.’
 	‘We will,’ Thiel reassures him. The sergeant is standing on a low ridge, surveying the destruction from the wreckage of a broken pylon. Quorus is no more. Only a burning, empty shell remains. Its outer wall has been reduced to rubble, avenues lie cratered by shelling and smoke thickens the air, obscuring the worst of the carnage.
 	But the bodies are there. Hundreds of them. Skeletal, charred remains, bone being slowly reduced to ash.
 	No ceremony, no ritual, no last stand of glory. Just death. This is… was a small installation with its own artificially created atmosphere. The generators still turn, but none now live who need to breathe the air.
 	Venator crouches in the blood-soaked earth as he eyes the blackening horizon.
 	‘They had armour – heavy vehicles, I think. Like using a chainsword to tear parchment.’
 	Thiel climbs down to rejoin the others. ‘They are gathering materiel. Weapons, explosives… even tanks.’
 	‘And the rest,’ says Bracheus. ‘An arsenal, brother-sergeant.’
 	Thiel nods, and turns to Venator. ‘Well, brother?’
 	Venator tastes the ash from one of the pyres. It takes a few seconds and there’s an instant when he connects, a moment of memory not his own, that registers as a nerve tremor below his left eye. ‘Not long ago. I taste fresh agony.’
 	Thiel turns away from the horror, removing his helmet as he heads for the Thunderhawk idling on a scrap of landing apron behind them.
 	‘Back to the gunship.’
 	‘And if they are arming up?’ says Inviglio, halting Thiel mid-stride. ‘Are we prepared for that?’
 	Bracheus steps in. ‘We should alert Captain Likane. Have him send reinforcements.’
 	‘I already sent the request,’ says Thiel, ‘but there’s no way of knowing how long it will take to reach him, or if our brothers are incoming. They might even reach Protus ahead of us, Throne willing.’
 	Drenius shrugs. ‘And if they don’t?’
 	Thiel sags, his armoured back still to the rest of his men. ‘What do you say, Petronius? If we meet the chainsword that tore through this station, what will we do?’
 	Petronius’ jaw clenches. There’s a fervour in him that was lacking before, suggesting that his anger is turning into something useful.
 	‘Blunt its teeth.’
 	Sergeant Thaddeus eyes the warren of bunkers and munition silos warily. Protus is unlike the other listening stations they saw on Tritus and Quorus. It’s more of a weapons depot.
 	Petronius hefts the heavy launcher onto his shoulder guard, and lodges into the firing ridge. ‘This place is a labyrinth,’ he mutters.
 	Thaddeus ignores the belligerent legionary. ‘Up there. Higher ground.’
 	Amongst the hangars, the gantries, the piled crates and ammunition sheds is a wide ramp that leads to an even wider circular platform. More crates are stacked up here, together with fuel drums and supplies tied down on steel pallets.
 	The overcrowded landing pad will make the perfect vantage point for the heavies.
 	Leading the squad out, Thaddeus hails Thiel. As ever, his mood is curt and his tone borders on disrespect.
 	‘Moving to high ground. Will vox again when we have overwatch on the street.’
 	He cuts the link without waiting for a reply. They take the ramp two abreast with launchers slung low or braced to shoulders.
 	As he picks his way through the crates and drums, Thaddeus notices movement below. He’s about to sound the alarm when he realises the armoured figures are Ultramarines.
 	Not Thiel’s or Drenius’ though.
 	He’s only distracted for a second, but the confines on top of the landing pad are relatively tight – by the time Thaddeus sees the second group of legionaries having already taken the high ground ahead of him, he is almost on top of them.
 	Thaddeus relaxes when he sees blue armour again, and raises his gauntleted hand as his squad reach for their side-arms. ‘Stand down. Likane has sent reinforcements.’
 	It’s only when he gets up close that he realises his mistake, and the newcomers’ bolt rounds tear him to pieces.
 	As ordered, they take Protus’ command centre swathed in red. It is both war paint and baptism – the mark of their new brotherhood and the blood of their enemies.
 	Thiel crouches low as he peers through the incendiary smoke left behind by the breacher charge they used on the door. ‘What’s the count?’
 	He still rasps a little from the explosion back at the armoury, but that’s behind them now and the next target beckons: Protus, the third out-system watch station. The third also to go dark. At least now, the Ultramarines know why.
 	Inviglio stands two paces back, watching the corridor behind with Venator.
 	‘Twenty-eight,’ he calls out. ‘All dead.’ 
 	Most of the bodies strewn behind them wear the cobalt-blue of the Ultramarines, though all but two are not of the XIII Legion. Not just Word Bearers this time – some of the dead have the gang-tattoos of Nostramo, or carry Barbaran kukras.
 	This is not the Shadow Crusade made anew – it is something else. They are guerrilla fighters and insurgents, a canker in the midst of the new empire.
 	And now that he has uncovered it, Thiel means to cut it out.
 	‘Hostiles!’ shouts Petronius.
 	Bolter fire resounds from both ends of the command centre. A final few renegades are dug in behind a barricade, putting up a little more resistance before they die.
 	If they weren’t such loathsome traitors, Thiel might even respect that. Instead, he calls for Bracheus. ‘Burn it, legionary!’
 	Re-fitted and re-equipped, the squad is leaner and more flexible. Bracheus wields the flamer to deadly effect, stepping in from the side of the breach and bathing the entire room in superheated promethium.
 	Only one of the renegades falls, collapsing to his knees as he burns alive inside his power armour. But the fire’s not meant to kill. It’s only meant to distract.
 	As Bracheus steps back into cover, Thiel bellows again.
 	‘Move, move! Rapid fire. Take them down!’
 	Thiel joins in as Inviglio, Petronius, Finius and Venator open fire. Bolter shells scream hot as they pummel the room and tear the meagre barricade apart. A defender tries to rise, but is hit simultaneously in the neck, chest and head.
 	Venator reloads fluidly. He takes a second renegade with a precision shot through the eye.
 	Snap fire comes back in reply, striking wide and scoring only glancing hits. Two more enemies remain and they’ve hunkered down, lying in wait for Petronius as he barrels recklessly forwards. One of them leaps up, sword in hand, but Finius throws his knife and pierces the warrior’s throat.
 	The second legionary reaches Petronius, though, and hacks his burring chainaxe into the Ultramarine’s bolter. It cuts through the stock in seconds, and is about to rip open Petronius’ torso when Thiel shoulder-barges the warrior to the floor.
 	The legionary tears off his helm to reveal the abject scarification of the XII Legion, World Eaters. ‘Come on then, Guilliman’s little curs!’ he roars.
 	Thiel raises his hand. No one fires.
 	Inviglio edges forwards, his bolter ready. ‘What are you doing? You are injured.’
 	‘No,’ says Thiel. ‘I’m angry.’ He eyes up his opponent as he returns his sidearm to its holster, and draws his sheathed longsword.
 	Petronius’ blunt concern is written upon his features. ‘He’ll kill you, fool.’
 	Thiel rolls his shoulder to loosen his sword arm, his eyes on the World Eater now.
 	‘We have to show them who rules Ultramar. Sometimes that means doing it bloody.’
 	Inviglio is unconvinced. ‘Who will know, other than us?’
 	But Thiel’s reply is too low to be heard by anyone but himself.
 	‘I will.’
 	He salutes, earning a savage nod in reply.
 	The World Eater is fast, and he moves aggressively. Thiel is immediately on the back foot, forced into a hasty defence. A heavy blow swings in, and sparks spit from Thiel’s sword and his opponent’s chainaxe. The burring blades smother the sound of Thiel’s hard breathing.
 	He pummels the blood-soaked butcher, as relentless as a metronome. Each axe blow is crafted differently to the last, in search of a weakness to exploit. Thiel gives him none, but he’s not winning – he’s hanging on.
 	He realises he is being played with. So does Petronius, who goes to intervene.
 	‘Stay back!’ Thiel orders. ‘Do it!’
 	Reluctantly, Petronius obeys, and so do the others.
 	Angry, perhaps. Disobedient even, but loyal.
 	The World Eater is slurring his words, succumbing to some blood-mad rage. ‘Little cur… I’ll… slake my blade… with you…’ His eyes glaze, the pupils shrinking to tiny black dots of hate. Thiel knows he must end this quickly.
 	‘You are the cur… war dog.’
 	He backs off, and lets the maddened warrior come at him, dodging as much as he’s trying to parry effectively. It frustrates the World Eater, goading him. Gripped in two hands, Thiel’s electromagnetic longsword holds its own better than any chainblade could. It is his only by dint of a father’s indulgence, but no less potent for it.
 	The butcher’s onslaught is ferocious, but each blow is telegraphed now and less reasoned. It’s pure rage, a desire to break his enemy through sheer aggression and persistence. Thiel smiles, despite the battering.
 	‘Now, I have y–’
 	Then he slips, down on one knee as blow after blow hammers down. His brothers move to intercede, but he roars at them again.
 	‘Stand fast!’
 	Bloodied, hurting, Thiel is struck hard and his arm swings out. So does his sword. The blow leaves him open.
 	The World Eater lifts his chainaxe like a blood-priest poised before the sacrifice, his hungry grin mimicked by the weapon’s ruddy teeth. Faster than he looks in that moment, Thiel thrusts his sword into the other warrior’s chest. It tears right through the armoured plastron, piercing both hearts.
 	Blood boils up the World Eater’s throat as he violently convulses, and comes out in a gruesome spray. He roars, teeth so bloody they’re crimson, but the axe still falls from his nerveless grip. Four Ultramarines gun him down in unison before the weapon hits the floor.
 	Thiel rises, taking Petronius’ help to get back to his feet. ‘Well that was reckless,’ says the legionary. ‘But impressive.’
 	‘I thought you’d approve,’ Thiel replies, wiping the blood from his blade.
 	Inviglio stops him as he approaches the body. ‘Were you proving something to him or yourself, sergeant?’ He doesn’t bother to mask his consternation.
 	Nor does Thiel.
 	‘Neither. Both. He died, I lived – that’s all that matters now.’ He looks at Inviglio squarely. ‘May I?’
 	Inviglio gives him room to crouch next to the body. There’s a rank tattoo on the dead warrior’s face, and some kind of cranial implant in the back of his skull.
 	‘He was an officer. But I have no idea what–’
 	Then he stops cold. The World Eater isn’t dead. He clings on, kept alive by his anger. Not a threat, but enduring nonetheless.
 	He’s murmuring something, and Thiel cranes his neck. Inviglio edges forwards. ‘Sergeant…’
 	Thiel leans closer, grimacing at the dying legionary’s stench. He utters one word, over and over. It puts a chill in Thiel’s soul.
 	‘Night…fane…’
 	Only silence follows. The World Eater’s bitten tongue lolls in his ugly mouth, but he’s smiling in death. Venator has a haunted look in his eyes. ‘I have never seen them smile before,’ he murmurs.
 	‘Then you’ve never seen them killing in earnest,’ says Thiel, moving up to the command centre’s hub.
 	The data-screed is comprehensive. There is obscurity in its sheer overwhelming detail.
 	‘These aren’t raiders. This is organised.’
 	Finius, Venator and Petronius secure the room. Inviglio joins Thiel at the primary command console. ‘Nightfane again… But what is it?’
 	Thiel shakes his head.
 	‘I don’t know. A place, a leader perhaps? They’re getting orders from somewhere.’
 	‘I think I know where,’ calls Bracheus. He is standing by one of the other bodies. He waits for Thiel and Inviglio to join him. ‘Look at the armour. There’s a manufactorum stamp. A forge-temple.’
 	Thiel looks at the symbol. ‘That’s from Phraetius.’
 	He’s seen the name on the data-screed. He recalls that it used to be the main munitorum depot for Crusade operations in this region, now marked as decommissioned and deserted. It appeared that neither was true.
 	‘They’re forging a supply chain, and that’s their base of operation.’
 	‘What operation?’ asks Bracheus.
 	‘Nightfane.’
 	Fourteen legionaries sit silently in the hold of a gunship. Only the glow of retinal lenses alleviates the abject dark. The low hum of their power armour is barely audible above the muffled shriek of dead-drop turbulence.
 	Phraetius hurtles to meet them, or rather them to it. It is only a minor forge-temple, but it is both fortified and garrisoned. Stab lights lance the gloom as Spirit of Veridia plummets earthward, the pilot coaxing it like a glider with the turbines low and the engines cold.
 	A white glare lights Thiel’s face through a vision slit just before he dons a replacement helm. His jaw is set, his voice iron hard.
 	‘We end it here, or die trying.’
 	No one argues. No one utters a word.
 	They strike deep. The gunship pierces banks of gritty smog, dropping like an arrow until a siren starts to wail. Running near cold, the gunship was rendered invisible to sensors, but the smog was the last veil of camouflage before the naked eye could spot them. With their discovery, rapid action is needed.
 	Sudden engine thrust hits the hold like a hammer, and would have thrown the Ultramarines except that they are mag-locked to the deck.
 	Now they are dropping in hard, right down the enemy’s throat. Flak fire is already chipping at the gunship’s outer armour, but the anti-air guns are slow to kick in as the defenders rush to man their stations.
 	As of this moment, surprise is Thiel’s greatest asset.
 	‘On your feet, legionaries!’
 	There are two five-man squads and Drenius’ four, with specialists and heavies in each. The shuddering hold makes Thiel’s voice tremulous, but his will is unshakable.
 	‘Now we fight. For primarch and Emperor. For the lost sons of Calth, and those yet to be born on Macragge. This is your hour, brothers. Banish shame. Banish doubt. Banish anger. Show these traitors what it is to be an Ultramarine!’
 	The side hatch slides back to admit the stench of hot las and incendiary. The sky is night black, but the stab lights converging on the gunship make it feel like day.
 	Ten feet from the ground, Thiel jumps from the hold with Petronius and nine others in tow.
 	A blitzkrieg of fire greets them, pranging off shoulder guards and plastrons. The ricochets are so heavy it practically rains sparks. The squads led by Thiel and Petronius hit a gantry after the drop, Petronius’ men heading down into a flagged square to deal with the troops coming out of the barrack houses.
 	Thiel presses on, his first target the interceptor autocannon that’s reloading after trying to destroy their gunship. Engine noise roars behind him as he rushes the gun nest, the Thunderhawk taking to the skies with Drenius’ squad on board.
 	A ragged group of flak-armoured soldiers move to block their ground advance, at the urging of an officer standing with the panicking gun crew. Bracheus unleashes his flamer.
 	The men are still burning when Thiel crashes through them, knocking them off the gantry to a merciful death below.
 	The officer fumbles desperately for his chainsword. Thiel cuts him shoulder to hip, cleaving two equal slabs of meat. The gunners have their cannon loaded and swing it to bear – one aiming, another pumping the turning crank before a third hauls on the triggers.
 	The triggerman’s head explodes before he can fire. Venator puts two more bolt shells through the other crew. Inviglio spikes the nest and the squad moves on to the sound of frag grenades in their wake, tearing apart what’s left of the gun emplacement.
 	In the square below, an armoured vehicle rolls through a gated entranceway. Another ragged soldier sits in the cupola, muzzle flare tearing from the mouth of his heavy stubber.
 	One of the barrack houses is in flames, its sides blown out by a missile hit and corpses strewn around it. Petronius is shouting to his squad. One legionary is down, but another hauls him onto his feet and they keep moving.
 	Thiel jabs a finger at the armoured vehicle converging on Petronius and his men. ‘Finius! Heavy support! Now!’
 	Finius sinks to one knee to brace himself on the trembling gantry, and fires his launcher. The missile streaks brightly across the square and hits the armoured vehicle in the flank. The whole thing goes up in a writhing ball of flame before crashing down a moment later. Petronius gives a casual salute, before urging his squad on.
 	Dead men in rough soldiers’ garb litter the square. Tan uniform is turned black. They hang from the gantries too – more than sixty. The Ultramarines cut down these mortal rebels in under a minute.
 	Thiel’s thoughts are fluid in his mind, running from one tactical decision to another, but a moment of reflection still creeps in.
 	Their foes weren’t ready. Not for this.
 	Nothing could have prepared them for this.
 	Above the gate, crouched behind an armoured parapet, a second battalion has gathered. They wear the same grubby uniforms, but these men are split into heavier weapons teams. Amongst the wretched throng, Thiel sees legionaries too. Not in false colours this time – they wear deep red, blood-spattered white and shadowy, midnight blue.
 	Petronius has drawn them out, and now Thiel commands their attention. The gantry abuts the gatehouse, although its terminus is strung with razor wire and the outward facing teeth of a tank trap improvised as an infantry deterrent.
 	The Ultramarines meet the cannonade head on. Power armour absorbs the punishment in a flurry of rattling shell impacts and sparking metal.
 	‘Advance!’ Thiel roars into the hurricane. ‘Advance!’
 	He moves almost on instinct, guided by the thunder of the guns. His bolt pistol barks in response, the electromagnetic longsword low by his side. They’re running hard and fast along what’s left of the gantry, but it feels slow, like pushing against a gale.
 	Bracheus takes a solid hit. The legionary’s shoulder drops and he staggers, but keeps on running.
 	Thiel is first to the wrecked barricade, barging through the twisted metal of the tank trap. He cuts down a traitor legionary in lightning-wreathed armour, splitting the Night Lord almost in two. The human gunners die just as quickly.
 	As Thiel shakes blood from his blade, a second Night Lord emerges from a gatehouse tower. He’s alone, and his pale Nostraman skin looks gelid as he points a serrated sabre at Thiel.
 	‘Show me your honour,’ he hisses. ‘Match swords with me, legionary!’
 	His armour scratched and scored, Thiel wearily eyes the other warrior. Then he raises his pistol and guns the Night Lord down.
 	‘There’s no room for honour here. Only vengeance, only justice.’
 	Below, Petronius has secured the courtyard and fixed charges to the main gate. A dull plosive tremor shakes dust from the parapet’s battle-worn crenellations.
 	Thiel activates the vox, as the armoured shapes below hurry through the broken gate. ‘Drenius, we’re though.’
 	After a few seconds, the other sergeant replies.
 	‘Head north-east, through a bank of silos.’ He fights to be heard over the air rushing across the feed. It sounds like he’s airborne and the side hatch is open. ‘Follow the roadway to a manufactorum. Two flak cannons, so we’re keeping our distance.’
 	‘Affirmative. We’ll meet you at the outskirts, brother. Touchdown and regroup with us there.’
 	An icon flashes up on Thiel’s tactical display. 
 	‘I’ve laid a marker,’ says Drenius. ‘It’s well fortified, Thiel. They’ll be dug in, now they know we’re coming.’
 	Thiel smiles. ‘It won’t matter. They can’t hide from death.’
 	‘There’s something else…’ Even through the vox, there’s a change in Drenius’ demeanour. A sharpness. ‘Their officer. I have seen him, brother. I know him.’
 	Thiel guesses what Drenius is about to say.
 	‘Harrakon Skurn.’
 	‘He’s mine, Thiel.’
 	Thiel nods slowly. He knows vengeance. He remembers Kurtha Sedd.
 	‘I’ll pave the way to his neck in blood. They’ll all burn, brother.’
 	The flak guns are torn apart in a flurry of glorious explosions, and Spirit of Veridia soars low across an ashen sky, its contrails blazing. The roar turns into a scream as its missile tubes ignite and a lethal payload streaks towards to the manufactory wall.
 	A chain of detonations stitches a line across a bulwark of plasteel and ferrocrete, leaving a gaping breach. The gunship gets lower, angling impudently towards the gap, heedless of the streamers of fire raining ineffectually against it.
 	Drenius’ voice crackles over the vox. ‘Thiel, I’ll see you on the other side.’
 	Thiel looks up at the Thunderhawk as it spears into the fiery darkness of the manufactory complex. ‘Good hunting, brother-sergeant.’
 	‘I feel reborn. Forged anew.’
 	‘You sound like a Nocturnean,’ Thiel laughs.
 	‘I am an Ultramarine. Let us tear these bastards down, and with those same hands raise ourselves back up in the eyes of our Legion.’
 	Thiel is already running. Assuming Drenius’ sabotage mission achieves its goal, he needs to take full advantage of the inevitable confusion that will follow.
 	Two flanks emerge from the Ultramarines’ battle plan. Petronius, his willingness to lead and tempered aggression making him the perfect successor to Thaddeus, takes the right and the vanguard. Thiel has the left.
 	They rip through the outer defences with ruthless ease. The manufactory soldiers are poorly equipped and ill-disciplined. Many flee at the sight of the vengeful legionaries charging towards them.
 	A throaty rumble resonates overhead, and Thiel smells the stench of engine wash and heat before he sees Spirit of Veridia roar back through the breach. Its part in the assault is over.
 	Gantries and silos burn, and the air is choked on the death of the vehicles ranked up in the assembly yard where the Ultramarines are making their advance. Strategic missile strikes have destroyed most of the armour, which was in the midst of refit and mechanical overhaul.
 	The centre of the yard is dominated by a tall column that serves as an overseer’s nest. About two-thirds of the way up is a wide viewing ring that runs the entire circumference of the column. Thiel gestures to it with his sword, to the bulky silhouettes moving behind the dimmed armourglass. ‘Up there.’
 	A staggered ramp and stairway leads up to a pair of blast doors in the nest.
 	‘That’s our objective. Whatever Nightfane is, the answers are inside.’
 	Thiel has Inviglio and Bracheus behind him, moving past the wreckage of blazing tanks. Bodies litter the ground, slumped against the armoured hides of Rhinos or scattered in groups facing away from the battle. None wear legionary war-plate. Few mortals ever have the stomach to face those that do.
 	Petronius’ voice comes across the vox. ‘Advancing right.’
 	Thiel takes cover as the crack of bolter fire resounds around him.
 	‘Received. Circle around the column. I need some clearance to effect a breach.’
 	That just leaves Drenius. Over the tactical feed running across Thiel’s right lens, he sees that the other sergeant has stalled somewhere up ahead.
 	‘Venator, do you have eyes on Drenius?’
 	‘Negative.’ The marksman has moved into an advanced position and taken high ground. ‘He’s deep, behind the nest.’
 	‘He’s out for blood…’ Inviglio mutters to himself.
 	‘So are we,’ replies Thiel, moving them on with a curt battle-sign.
 	Defenders are moving through the oil-black clouds spilling over the vehicle yard. A gout of burning promethium hits them before a single shot is fired in retaliation.
 	‘Cleansed,’ Bracheus grins.
 	Thiel acknowledges him, still pushing forwards. ‘Keep going! Nothing stops us. We win or we die!’
 	He eyes Venator, who has just marked eight more targets on the tactical feed.
 	Inviglio sinks down next to Thiel as the Ultramarines take cover again. ‘Renegades close. At least two squads.’
 	‘We knew they’d be here in force.’ Thiel sees them through the gaps in their sporadic fire. Word Bearers and Death Guard. ‘Petronius, engage. We’ll move on the primary target.’
 	There’s a feral humour in Petronius’ voice. ‘With pleasure, sir.’
 	Bracheus laughs. ‘At least we haven’t completely civilised him.’
 	Thiel nods to the blast doors. ‘I want answers.’
 	Just beyond the column, Petronius has engaged the renegades. The fire fight is close, but has drawn the enemy off. The way is clear.
 	‘Be ready to breach!’
 	Armourglass blows outwards in a concussive wave. Thiel leads the squad through the breach and wastes no time in gutting the sentry too slow to raise his sword. Inviglio and Venator gun down the others – two more stunned Word Bearers, reaching for their bolters.
 	Bracheus holds at the ruined blast doors, while Finius maintains position with his missile launcher at the head of the stairway.
 	In the middle of the circular room, a servitor is attempting an aggressive data-scrub of the facility’s logic engine, infecting it with scrapcode. Thiel cleaves its cyborganic skull in two, silencing its machine chatter.
 	Instead it stammers out a phrase, over and over, through its damaged vox-grille.
 	‘N-N-Nightfane. Nightfane-fane. N-Nightf-fane. Ni–’
 	Venator finally silences it with a bolt round.
 	Removing his helm, Thiel moves to the logic engine, retrieving what he can about Nightfane. He finds schematics, partially corrupted plans, lists of ships and troop dispositions.
 	There are many names he doesn’t recognise. Malig Laestygon. The Furious Abyss. Janus Hellespont…
 	‘This is a prelude to invasion. The silenced outposts provide a crucial blind zone for our enemies to exploit. Phraetius was to be their staging ground.’
 	‘An invasion of where?’ asks Inviglio.
 	‘Where else? Macragge.’
 	‘Guilliman’s blood…’
 	‘Aye, it might well have been.’
 	Venator calls out. ‘Brother-sergeant!’
 	Thiel glances to where he is looking out through the shattered viewing ring. The marksman gestures, and Thiel follows his gaze.
 	Sergeant Drenius emerges from the smoke.
 	He duels Harrakon Skurn inside an inferno. The World Eater is as ferocious as the warrior Thiel fought and just as unhinged, but Drenius matches him with the refined skill of a swordmaster.
 	Thiel admires him – not for his blade-work, but his composure. The one who robbed his honour and cast him into disgrace stands before him, and yet Drenius looks calm as a statue.
 	Venator braces his bolter on the rim of the shattered ring, but Thiel puts a hand on the stock. 
 	‘I can execute that madman from here,’ the legionary insists.
 	‘I know. But I made an oath to Drenius. Skurn is his to kill.’
 	‘What if he dies trying?’
 	‘Then it will be with honour.’
 	So they watch as chain-teeth spit sparks and grind against one another. Drenius gives a muted cry as the World Eater breaks his guard and sinks his blade into the Ultramarine’s shoulder.
 	The riposte is emphatic, though. Even half-cleaved, Drenius rams the point of his chainsword into the renegade’s snarling mouth grille. Blood erupts in a spray, spattering down the blade, the teeth quickly clogging with gore.
 	But the World Eater’s chain-teeth are still howling, the weapon’s trigger locked in the renegade’s death grip. They chew through Drenius’ armour, ripping flesh and bone.
 	Thiel cries out, cursing himself. ‘Shoot! Damn it, Venator – shoot!’
 	The bolt takes the World Eater in the chest, tearing apart his torso, but it’s too late. Drenius slumps to his knees, wrenching the horrific chainblade from his chest while still clinging to his own weapon and using it as a crutch. Bleeding, beyond reach, surrounded by fire, he hails Thiel on the vox.
 	‘It’s over… brother…’
 	His breath and his words come in gasps, but he sounds at peace.
 	‘We can reach you, Drenius!’ Thiel replies.
 	The other sergeant shakes his head. ‘I’m… done. Thank you, Thiel. For my… honour… For…’
 	The link falls silent. Thiel closes his eyes, then opens the squad-wide feed.
 	‘We have what we came for. Phraetius is finished. We leave. Now.’
 	He spares a last glance at Drenius, on his knees but defiant even in death, before the smoke rolls in once more.
 	Ten caskets lie in two equal rows in the middle of the chamber, waiting for an Apothecary. Thiel’s breath ghosts in the cold air.
 	‘It wasn’t easy getting you back, brothers.’
 	He feels Bracheus’ gauntleted hand on his shoulder. ‘Their legacy will live on.’
 	‘Ave legiones,’ Thiel intones with a sigh. ‘They sacrificed their lives for this. Now I must ask for others to do the same.’ He allows a moment of silence before he turns to Inviglio. ‘We are ready?’
 	‘They are waiting, sergeant.’
 	A muted hubbub emanates through the barrack house doors. The last time Thiel was here, twenty-two legionaries swore their loyalty to him and his mission. They had halted an incursion, but the rot within Ultramar was far from excised. It would require more, much more.
 	Bracheus and Inviglio push open the heavy doors, allowing Thiel to step through.
 	Over two thousand legionaries stand in readiness. Every warrior of Oran garrison has mustered. Thiel sees Petronius and shares a nod with the warrior. He sees the others who followed him to Phraetius, amongst them Venator and Finius.
 	Captain Likane is here too, his war-helm in the crook of his arm and a sword sheathed at his side.
 	‘I misjudged you, Thiel,’ he says. ‘I spoke ill, and recognise my error.’
 	‘Sir, I–’
 	‘You are a leader, Aeonid Thiel. Two thousand Ultramarines stand ready to heed your command. I am one of them. Lead us. We won’t stand idle while Macragge and Ultramar are threatened. So, we shall all be Red-Marked.’ Likane gestures to the assembled warriors. ‘That’s what you’re calling yourselves, isn’t it?’
 	Thiel smiles wryly, and nods.
 	‘It is. You can join us. You can all be Red-Marked… if you’re worthy.’