The young man nodded too hard. His eyes were wide with fear behind the yellow plastek of his combat goggles. Varens slapped his shoulder plate and moved on. The mortal warriors of Ultramar were better equipped than most Astra Militarum regiments. Without this equipment they would lose half their number to sickness after every fight.

Varens checked his part of the squad over, patting backs and steadying nerves. When he was satisfied, he climbed out of the sucking quagmire of the trench and took up position on the firing step again, resting his lasgun on the sodden wood of the parapet.

The tickling sting in his back became an annoying itch, but he barely noticed it. The time had come to fight.

Slowly, the enemy emerged from the fog through the driving rain. Their silhouettes were human, their gait anything but: a shambling, jerky walk that betrayed their nature from afar.

The dead of Espandor came to war.

One of the recruits gasped, the humanity strangled out of his exhalation by his respirator. A sharp las-crack had Varens turning; a shocked, boyish face looked back at him. Rain steamed off the muzzle of the recruit’s lasgun.

‘Hold fire.’ Lieutenant Attinus’ voice crackled over the squad vox.

Bolus rested his hand on the body of the gun. His damp glove hissed as it brushed the barrel. Heat radiated off the power pack. ‘Wait, son, you need to be precise. Shooting at this distance is a waste of charge. Rain and fog disperses the light. You don’t want to be swapping out your ammo while those things are clawing at your face. Every shot saved is another to fire when you need it. Save it until the command comes. Aim for the heads. Always the heads,’ he added, looking meaningfully up and down the line.

Those of the young soldiers who had grasp of their wits nodded and leaned into their gunstocks. A couple stared tearfully out, gazes fixed. The Auxilia ordinarily had excellent training, but the needs of the war meant these recruits had been hurried through. They were conscripts, and they weren’t ready.

The shapes of the dead solidified. They had been civilians, mostly. Their torn and dirty clothes were whole enough to give hints as to their origins in the overrun cities further east. There were a few Astra Militarum uniforms among them. If a position fell, it wasn’t always possible to behead and burn the bodies.

‘We’re fighting ourselves,’ a trooper said. Unease rippled down the line in a wave of nervous movement.

Varens cursed the boy inwardly for speaking the truth. ‘Quiet there. Guns up. Take aim.’

A soft tattoo of clicks and rattles undercut the drumming of the rain as his order was obeyed. Other sergeants and veterans gave their own commands, and the parapet grew a leafless hedge of las-barrels pointing into the blasted forest.