Varens’ turn came. He pushed his way through three sets of plastek strip doors and into the fuggy air of a decontamination chamber. Chemical steam filled his nose and made his eyes water. His wound stung. Whatever awaited Gideon in tent three, Varens hoped it was less fun than this. He deserved it.

‘Fifteen!’ cackled Bolus, as if sharing a special joke. ‘F-f-fifteen!’

Varens’ brief humour blew away like the steam billowing from the pipes. The counting thing was new, and he didn’t like it one bit. It was another manifestation of Bolus’ shattered mind. Varens hoped a respite from the war would help his friend’s mind heal, but he wasn’t confident. He had seen battle shock before. The only cure that was sure to work was a mercy bullet. He never thought Bolus would fall prey to it, and that made him angry. Bolus had been so brave, so unshakeable. If he could lose his mind, then anyone could.

‘Come on, old man,’ Varens said. He took hold of Bolus’ arm again. His skin was damp and loose on wasted muscle, his regimental tattoos distorted by the sag. ‘Time for a bath.’

Under Bolus’ armpit, there was a brief squirming, maggoty motion. If Varens had seen that, he would have known that battle shock was the least of what ailed his friend.

The thing turned and vanished into the cage of Bolus’ ribs, undetected.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

The Battle of Raukos

The high officers of Guilliman’s crusade gathered on the command deck of the Macragge’s Honour. They clustered around the dais occupied by the primarch and his closest aides, crowding the command throne of Shipmaster Brahe that was set before it.

Astra Militarum generals rubbed shoulders with the sister superiors of three battle convents. Adeptus Mechanicus Domini stood in clusters of orange, rust and blood-red robes. Space Marine lords waited with commissars, inquisitors and the barons of knightly courts. Princeps had come down from their Titans’ steel skulls, ill at ease at being surrounded by so many people. There were Naval wing commanders and captains of capital ships. Sisters of Silence stood aside from everyone else, their disquieting auras eliciting shudders from those nearest. The augments of skitarii clade commanders buzzed. Departmento Munitorum officials talked in low voices. Historitors recorded the occasion discretely.

Every branch of the Imperium’s forces and those who supplied, directed and supported them were represented there, whether in person or as one of the ghostly hololiths projected by the servo-skulls swarming above the throng.

Through the grand oculus, the plough-blade prow of the Macragge’s Honour pointed in challenge at the Pit of Raukos. A huge, lazily turning interface between the warp and realspace wreathed in the luminous gases of a dying star, it was a place where nightmares might easily walk clothed in flesh.