‘For the Emperor! For Guilliman! For mankind!’ Justinian shouted, stamping across the bastion’s roof. He was taller than the Heretic Astartes. Shock-absorbent calipers around the lower part of his legs and feet granted him more height, and he fired over the heads of his enemy as they dropped dead.

The last of the traitors fell. They had not been caught by surprise; they had seen the Inceptors coming. It did not matter. None could stand before the Primaris Space Marines, the new sons of the Emperor.

Sergeant Rusticus’ warriors went to the flak cannons, raised their assault bolters and riddled the firing mechanisms. Bolts exploded inside the guns, setting off their shells. The cannon barrels fell away from popping detonations, clanging from the ornate tower sides and falling down to the wall ramparts far below. Soon all four cannons were smoking ruins.

‘Primary objective achieved. Anti-air guns are silent,’ voxed Justinian, his feed going to Lieutenant Sarkis and the command cadre of his Primaris Chapter simultaneously. ‘Pursuing secondary objective.’

With Aldred’s garish Imperial Fists yellow at his side, Justinian stormed down the stairs into the lower levels. His guns banged out death to everything he encountered. There were an insignificant number of Traitor Space Marines within. That had been the pattern these last few years. The armies of Chaos were legion and everywhere, but it was arguable that they were losing their best to Guilliman’s relentless crusading. Most of the tower’s defenders were born thralls, or deluded mortals from conquered worlds who had thrown in their lot with evil for the chance at a few more weeks’ life. They came at him in hordes, dirty faces branded and tattooed, twisted into desperate snarls. Justinian cut them down without mercy.

‘Death to the traitor, who in weakness denies the supremacy of the Emperor,’ he said emotionlessly.

They died messily, their frail bodies blown to pieces by his assault bolters’ mass-reactive shells. More took their place, coming so quickly that Justinian ceased firing to conserve his ammunition and commenced clubbing them down. The tower soon ran with blood, and his armour’s colours were obscured.

Justinian and Aldred fought their way further down the stairwell, passing through several levels. Bjarni’s squad was close behind them. At the sixteenth level they parted ways, Bjarni singing loudly as he led his squad mates toward the power core. Justinian and Aldred headed for the bastion’s fire-control centre, whose machine banks and slave minds directed the vast array of artillery projecting from the lower reaches of the building. The occasional vox-blurt came through to Justinian: status updates, or requests for reports from Lieutenant Sarkis or from his Unnumbered Sons of Guilliman line commander. Nothing higher tier than that. Sarkis and others like him bore that responsibility.

Their guns spoke less often. The bravest of the thralls were dead. A few still threw themselves hopelessly at the Primaris Space Marines. Most sank to their knees and begged for forgiveness. All died.