‘Stand firm!’ shouted Varens, retaking his position. He looked meaningfully at the soldiers to his right. They gripped their guns tighter. All down the line, other veterans shouted similar encouragements and threats, or cursed the new men for cowards – whatever it took to keep them from breaking. Screamed orders to halt came from close by, followed by the single bang of a bolt pistol. They all knew what that meant. The recruits stilled. The certainty of death for those who fled versus the probability of death for those who stood firm steadied them. Silence filled the trench as surely as water.

‘All is ash, all is ash, all is ash.’ The drone persisted.

A quiet voice gibbered in the mist, its owner lost to view. ‘I don’t like it, I don’t like it, I don’t like it.’

Bolus snatched the vox-horn up.

‘Lieutenant Attinus, please advise actions regarding new foe,’ said Bolus. ‘Lieutenant?’ He looked at Varens. ‘Not answering, damn him.’

One of their own squad sank down to his knees to pray, his lasgun sliding from the saturated trench wall and landing in the slop at the bottom of the trench.

Bolus was on him in an instant, dragging him up.

‘Get back on your feet!’ he screamed in the young man’s face. ‘If you want to die on your knees, I’ll shoot you myself and save the enemy the bother.’

A second later, heavy weapons opened up. This time there was no holding back. Shells rained down from artillery to the rear. Disgusting mud heaved skywards, pattering wetly down over the trench lines. Man-portable heavy weapons added their fury to the storm descending on the traitors. Through the blizzard of earth, metal and fire, Varens saw a Plague Marine bisected by a lascannon blast. That one had the decency to die. The rest walked on as if the falling ordnance – the Medusa rockets, the heavy bolter shells and the rest of the Imperium’s martial rage – was of no more concern to them than the rain.

The barrage crept near to the lip of the trench, pelting the defenders with debris. A last whistling descent, a final explosion, and the shelling ceased, leaving fyceline smoke to wisp into the greater body of the fog.

The enemy was in range.

‘Give fire,’ ordered Attinus over the vox.

‘Fire!’ yelled Bolus, his voice raw-edged with panic.

A hundred lasguns blazed, their bright red light illuminating the mud and the visored faces lining the trench. It was a vision of some primitive netherworld, raw and bloody with punishment. Varens counted no more than twenty or so of the enemy giants, but their boldness in assaulting the position was justified. He watched as one was riddled with shots that would have blown apart any other target. The Plague Marine didn’t even slow, but trudged onwards with his fellows as if nothing had happened, his armour smoking. All the while they chanted.