In the audience chamber, battle raged. Felix assessed the situation quickly. Lieutenant Astium’s forces were heavily depleted; Tobias’ squads looked to have arrived later. The Death Guard fought ferociously, their peculiar specialists choking the air with poison fog and plague spores. Thankfully, the Primaris Space Marines’ Mark X armour kept this cargo of disease at bay, but the swirling mists made a mockery of their targeting systems.

‘A good position,’ said Felix.

‘Purposefully chosen,’ said Lyceum. ‘I will rejoin the others. We are more use down there than we are up here.’

Felix nodded, and bid him good fortune, then ordered his warriors to creep forwards, ready to fire down at the enemy.

At his command, they unleashed a torrent of death upon the foe, slaughtering many where they stood. Several took dozens of hits before they fell, but fall they did. Forced to divide their own fire between the two groups in the feasting hall and the newcomers upon the balcony, the Death Guard were hard pressed.

‘Brothers! Victory is with us,’ called Felix, amplifying his vox signal to break through the enemy’s jamming.

Astium and Tobias hailed him with grim joy. The Death Guard were caught in a crossfire, and the tide began to turn.

But the forces of Nurgle were not bested yet.

A bell tolled, perturbing the poison gases.

Unbelievably, the clanging bell shook the Primaris Space Marines. Bolt rifles wavered and dipped. Warriors looked to their brothers questioningly. Felix recoiled as if struck. The bell’s note was a poison all its own.

There were promises there among the tolling. Embrace my misery, its resonance sang, sinking into the meat of Felix’s brain, and enjoy an end to all future miseries.

Through the melee below, a grossly obese plague lord advanced, a bronze bell hanging from a crook of black horn suspended over his powerpack. The bell swung slowly, and its clapper struck the metal. Another doleful peal rolled out over the battle, invigorating the Death Guard. The effect on the Space Marines was debilitating.

His shots going wide from a hand suddenly weak, Felix reeled back from the mezzanine’s edge. Black thoughts filled his head, taking him away from the battle. He was tormented with visions of his own death, his mighty Primaris body undone by disease and age, reduced to a trembling ague-smitten shadow. The world fell away, and he found himself wracked with sickness in a grey place. His armour was corroded and non-functional, a dead weight on his swiftly weakening frame, and his weapons were breaking in his hands, scorching his nostril with the harsh chemical reactions of oxidising fyceline and failing energy cells.

There was a flicker of heat in the reactor upon his back, but it too was fading. He tried to stand, but he could not.