search. He found what appeared to be a vox-terminal and a pict-link displayer. But nothing else he could understand.
Behind him, the last Darkwatcher exploded, taking Trooper Flinn with it.
The third tower. Halfway down, what could only be a data- slate reader with a universal hub: standard Imperial fitting.
Gaunt felt himself sag, his leg wound pulling at him. Blood from his shoulder wound soaked his sleeve and dripped off his hand.
“Gaunt!” yelled Kolea, at his side, supporting him. Mkoll was there too, and Genx, Gherran and Domor.
“Let me see to your wounds!” Gherran was yelling.
“No t-time!”
“Let him help you, Gaunt!” Kolea growled, trying to keep the struggling commissar upright. “Let me—”
“No!” Gaunt shook the big miner off. If this was the final act, it would be his.
He pulled the ticking, chuckling amulet from his pocket and fitted its link ports to the reader’s hub.
It engaged, purred and turned twice like a kodoc beetle burying its abdomen in the sand.
The lighting and instrument power in the command section shorted on and off two, three, four times. A mechanical wailing of tortured, over-raced turbines welled up from the vast machine pits below them. The chatter cut short. Then the lights went out altogether.
Sudden, total darkness; sudden quiet. In the stillness, the groans of the dying and wounded; the bright, brief crackle and fizz of torn cables. A flash of las-fire.
Gaunt’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The heart of the Spike was dead. Smoke wafted, full of the rich, animal smells of war. Men stirred, blinking.
The force field in the centre of the platform had vanished.
A huge form, dark like a shadow, crouched where the field had been. It rose, unfurled, grew larger. In the half-light, Gaunt saw the richly embroidered silk of a vast cape spilling away from the figure as it stood. He saw an immense, metal-gloved hand reach out and beckon to him. He saw the shivering flame-light throw into relief a long, smooth armour-cowl split by narrow eye-slits. The cowl fanned up and out into massive, hooked steeples of polished horn.
Heritor Asphodel, Chaos warlord, daemon-thing, fuelled by his dark gods in the Warp, standing fully six metres tall, lunged at the human worms who strove to defeat him. He made no sound. Darkness, which he seemed to wear and pull around him like a great cloak, sucked through the air as it moved with him.
Kolea buried his axe-rake in the Heritor’s flank. A second later, he was flying sideways across the platform, most of his ribs shattered.
Firing and making two hits, Mkoll was knocked sideways, his shoulder broken.
Domor’s lasgun exploded in his hands, blowing him up, back and off the platform.
Gherran was lacerated by an ebbing fold of darkness, sharp as a billion blades. His blood made a mist that drenched Gaunt.
Genx was pulverised by the concussive force of the daemon’s fist as he tried to reload his weapon and fire.
Gaunt met Asphodel head on. He slammed the blazing blue spike of the powersword into and through the monstrosity’s chest.
At the same moment, the massive bolt pistol clenched in the Heritor’s left hand shot Gaunt through the heart.
MOURNING GLORY
—Warmaster Macaroth, at Verghast
They came like ghosts at dusk. Phantom forms, impossibly large, underlit by the dying sun as they settled down through the smoke-filthy upper atmosphere of Verghast. Warships, bulk troop transports, the might of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade, the pride of the Segmentum Pacificus Navy.
It was the fiftieth day. Learning via the Astropathicus that Vervunhive faced not an inconsequential rival hive but a hunted Chaos commander, Macaroth had made best speed for Verghast, arriving after twenty-seven days of urgent transit through the warp.
The hazy sky was full of metal and looked like it should fall. The awesome power of the Imperium was there for every Verghastite to see: ten thousand ships, some the size of cities, some bloated like ornate oceanic turtles, some slender and serrated like airborne cathedrals.
Macaroth unleashed his might on the planet below: six million Guardsmen, half a million tanks, squads drawn from three chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, two Titan Legions. Troop dropships, bulk machine-lifters and shuttles dropped in a swarm on the Hass valley. For a while, the sky did fall.
Mass destruction followed, lasting for five days, thought it was brutally one-sided. Heironymo’s amulet had done its work and cut the insidious chatter for all time. By the time the warmaster’s immense forces arrived, the Zoicans were already in total rout. Aimless and lost, they broke off the final assault. Many committed suicide or wandered blindly into the defenders’ fields of fire to be massacred. Millions of others woke as if from a dream and stumbled, without purpose or motive, back into the grasslands.
Under Grizmund’s command, the battered Imperial forces that had held Vervunhive for over a month reformed to drive the pitiful, bewildered invaders out. Narmenian and NorthCol tank brigades chased down and annihilated Zoican motorised units threading back across the grasslands towards their own hive. Guard infantry, co-ordinated by Colonel Corbec, Colonel Bulwar and Major Otte, utilising every troop-carrying machine they could raise, hunted out and slaughtered the fleeing troop elements in vast numbers. There was no question of mercy. Ferrozoica’s taint had to be expunged.
By the time Macaroth’s armada made orbit, the Zoicans had been driven back six hundred kilometres into the plains, leaving vehicles and equipment scattered and abandoned in their wake.
In the crippled hive itself, scratch companies slowly weeded out the last, feral pockets of Zoican resistance.
The warmaster followed up with unstinting vigour. He politely but determinedly requested the assistance of the Iron Snakes Space Marines to overtake and neutralise the fleeing enemy. His armoured brigades poured down the main highways and decimated everything that lived. Skeletal Titans, shrieking like wraiths, stalked the grassland horizons, incinerating the retreating foe.
On the fifty-fourth day, crusade warships torched Ferrozoica Hive from low orbit. The blinding flame-flare filled the southern horizon.
