the man's head exploded in a splatter of gore.
Varnus fell back from the impact of the projectiles on his carapace armour. 'Get the other one,' he wheezed.
'I can't fit down there,' remarked Landers, shrugging his shoulders. He nodded towards the smallest of the four enforcers, a grin on his face.
'One of you damn well go! Now!' roared Varnus, pulling himself to his feet. The slight enforcer swore, seeing the eyes of the whole team on him. He placed his shotgun on the floor of the room, drew and cocked his autopistol and dropped into the darkness of the bolt-hole. The sound of the man scrambling through a metal duct echoed loudly beneath them.
Still wheezing, Varnus opened up his comm-channel.
'They are running. Undisclosed bolt-holes. Orders?'
Varnus pulled the bullets from his chest-plate as he waited for a response. He could feel the heat from the bullets through the leather of his gloves.
'Captain?' he said with some impatience. 'Did you hear me? What are our orders?'
There was a muffled grant of pain from the bolt-hole, and then the sound of three gunshots. The enforcer reappeared a moment later. 'Bastard stuck me,' he said, his hand gripped around his left arm, blood seeping between his fingers.
'Hold position. Awaiting new intel,' came the captain's terse response, finally.
'Hold position? They will have cleared out by the time we wait for new intel!'
'Hold your position, lieutenant.' The comm-bead clicked closed in his helmet.
'Frek that,' said Varnus. Yanking the last of the autopistol bullets from his chest plate, he threw them to the ground. 'Right, let's move.'
'Lieutenant?' questioned one of the enforcers.
'The bastards are getting away. We close on the target position, now. If the Emperor wills it, we may yet salvage something from this mission. Move!'
'That's what the captain's orders are, are they?' asked Landers, disbelief clear on his face.
Varnus turned quickly, stepping in close to the bigger man, and slammed a clenched fist into his face. Landers fell back, a cry more of shock than pain escaping his lips.
'I am your lieutenant, damn you, you slimy arse licker, and you will do as I damn well say,' snarled Varnus. 'Now, all of you, let's move out.'
Leading the way, Varnus pushed on deeper into the stinking, crumbling complex. He heard the others falling in behind him, and heard Landers muttering to himself. He grinned. He had wanted to punch that man for months.
The enforcers moved on, covering each other as they ghosted through the corridors and down corroded metal stairways. Varnus heard running footsteps ahead, and raised a hand, crouching low. He turned off the light on his helmet, the other enforcers following suit, and they plunged into dim, semi-light. A figure ran lightly around a corner, and Varnus reared up, slamming the butt of his shotgun into the figure's head. There was a crunching sound, and the figure dropped. Clicking his light back on, he saw it was a woman, her hair clipped short. Her eyes were open and staring, and blood seeped from her head where Varnus had struck her. An autogun was clasped in her dead hands.
'We are close,' said Varnus.
Carefully descending another flight of metal stairs, the enforcer team could see a flickering of orange light coming from below. The stink of promethium filled their nostrils.
Reaching the landing below, the team was faced with a single, heavy door standing slightly ajar, its plasglass window smashed through. Flames could be seen on the other side.
'Quickly,' hissed Varnus, and the enforcer team entered the room. It was a large, square space, and one of the glow-globes in the ceiling exploded as flames touched it. Couches and chairs were ablaze, as was a low table covered in papers and documents. The walls were lined with bunks and desks, and a makeshift kitchen had been constructed in the eastern corner. The figure of a man, oblivious to the sudden appearance of the enforcers, was liberally upending the contents of a metal can across a table on the far side of the room.
Varnus hissed, motioning for his team to lower their weapons. 'Take him, no guns,' he mouthed to Landers. The enforcer nodded, the confrontation of minutes earlier forgotten, and moved swiftly towards the figure. Feeling the presence behind him too late, the man turned just as Landers's thick arms wrapped around his neck, locking him firmly. He was dragged back across the room, and slammed face first onto the floor, his arms held painfully behind his back. The man struggled in vain, and Landers dropped his knee into the man's back, pinning him in place.
Varnus ran across the room and picked up one of the sodden papers that covered the promethium doused table. It was a detailed schematic map. He swore as he saw what it detailed.
'Get these damn flames out now! This whole place could go up at any second!' Varnus hollered. He opened up his comm-channel. 'Captain, this is Lieutenant Varnus. You need to get in here. Now,' he said, moving back towards Landers and the captive.
He knelt down beside the pinned captive and turned his face roughly towards him. The man's features were twisted in hatred and pain.
'What in the Emperor's name were you planning here?' Varnus said quietly.
The captive spat, eyes blazing with fury.
'What do you make of these, lieutenant? Gang markings? I don't recognise them,' said one of the enforcers.
Varnus looked to where the man motioned with his head. A crude tattoo was visible where the captive's dark brown overalls had been torn at his left shoulder. Ripping the heavy cloth fully away from the man's body, he gazed upon the emblazoned design: a screaming, horned daemon head surrounded by flames.
'I don't recognise it either, but it looks like some kind of damn cult marking to me,' said Varnus. He swore silently to himself.
CHAPTER TWO
Burias walked with a warrior's grace as he stalked through the dark, musty smelling halls of the
He could not recall a time when his sacred armour had not been a part of him. He had laboured over every coiling engraving covering the auto-reductive armour plates, had painstakingly whittled the words of blessed Lorgar along the burnished reinforcement bands that circled his forearms, and had carved the words of the gods themselves around the rim of his heavy shoulder plates. The sacred Latros Sacrum, the symbol that represented the Word Bearers Legion was embossed on his left shoulder. A bronze, stylized representation of a roaring, horned daemon surrounded by flames, it represented all that the Legion and Burias stood for, all that they believed in and all that they killed for.
He wore no helmet for the upcoming exhortation. His vicious, deathly pale face was unmarked by scars, a rarity for a warrior who had fought in as many campaigns as he had, and it was framed by long, oiled black hair.
With each step, the heavy butt of the icon that Burias held in his left hand slammed into the polished, black- veined, stone floor, the sharp sound echoing around him.
The icon was a thick staff of spiked, black iron. It was almost three metres tall, taller even than him, and loops of heavily ornate bronze encircled its shaft. These loops were inscribed with litanies and epistles, sacred words of the Daemon Primarch Lorgar. It was topped with a glistening, black, eight-pointed star, the points of the symbol of Chaos barbed and sharp. In the centre of the star was a graven image of the sacred Latros Sacrum.
Burias had received the honour of becoming icon-bearer with great pride, and he had the privilege of walking before Marduk, the First Acolyte, and Jarulek, the Dark Apostle, leading them to their positions in the ceremonies of worship and sacrifice. He had performed this sacred duty for many years, and the esteem he had earned from his warrior-brothers as a result was great.
He paused before he began his ascent up a grand set of curving stairs. The staircase was wide enough for
