Aircraft sped below, swift as avians, duelling with draconic daemon engines for control of the sky.

‘Demi-company split,’ ordered Sarkis. ‘Squads to target designated mission objectives in three, two, one. Fire jets. Formation disperse.’

‘Fire jets!’ ordered Justinian. A smaller reticle ignited in the centre of his pelorus and settled over his own squad’s landing zone: the middle tower of the wall. The tallest one.

His jets roared furiously against the drag of the planet. Justinian slowed only a little, but his course altered, and he was sent hurtling laterally towards the tower.

They avoided firing their jets until the last second of a drop. When the Inceptors had first been deployed, the enemy had mistaken their squads for falling debris or stray munitions. In the chaos of battle, they had been paid little attention until it was too late. Lately, the foes of the Imperium had become wise to Inceptor drop tactics. The sky filled with a storm of flak moments after their jets finished burning.

Justinian fell through a wash of fire. Shrapnel pinged off his armour. The thunder of atmosphere lessened. The demi-company’s attack spread widened, the dots that denoted each warrior perfectly positioned in three clusters, one for each defence tower.

The target went from a child’s toy to a towering edifice in a matter of seconds.

‘Fire jets, prolonged burst,’ he ordered. ‘Decelerate to engagement speed. Rouse the spirits of your weapons.’

He hefted his own guns, eager to unleash them upon the enemy. His jets ignited again, and this time they stayed burning. The fuel gauge in his display rapidly fell from full to a third as he braked. He was no longer falling but flying, and that ate up his fuel quickly. In a graceful arc, he and his squad thundered towards the upper battlements of the tower. The bastion was ludicrously embellished with screaming daemonic faces, its crenellations tall and fashioned into unnecessary spikes, but it was well armoured, and four quad flak cannons squatted in heavy turrets at each corner, banging off shots at the attacking Space Marines. Heretic Astartes opened fire as the Inceptors approached, and their fire was more worrisome than the flak cannons. A bolt round spanked off the cowling of Justinian’s left jet nozzle, staggering his flight. More bolts came, then a flurry of them.

Cordus’ ident signifier blinked to red and fell away from Justinian’s display. Justinian risked a glance back. Smoke and explosions hid Cordus’ fate, and he did not see his comrade die.