Many of Aeschelus’ command had been sent as reinforcements to Fleet Quintus, as had he and Nem­etus; only a few were longer-serving, having departed Terra at the crusade’s outset. Praxa­medes was among those that had seen the earliest fighting, the most terrible wars and dogged campaigns. A member of Fleet Quintus since its inception, he had risen from the ranks while Nem­etus and Aeschelus, and no few others, had been trained to their officer roles. Such had been the early casualties among the Space Marines – a force that lived by the creed of leading from the front – that deaths among the first Primaris officers had eliminated almost half the Adeptus Astartes leadership of Fleet Quintus within three years. Battlefield promotions and brevet ranks were good as a stop-gap, but as a longer term solution Nem­etus and others had been command-trained from the outset of their inductions.

Was Praxa­medes’ slight genuinely aimed at Aeschelus, a subtle admonition for a superior who had been promoted ahead of him?

That was an unkindness to Praxa­medes, Nem­etus decided. The very moments before battle were not the best time to weigh up the motivations of his brother-officers, and Nem­etus had nothing but respect for his fellow lieutenant. Praxa­medes had simply been urging his usual ­circumspect approach, nothing more.

Nem­etus turned his attention to the remaining members of his expedition. A little apart from the Intercessors stood ten Incursors, two combat squads of dedicated close assault specialists under Sergeant Dorium and Sergeant Lato. Clad in armour incorporating the most sophisticated internal auspex systems, they would pave the way for the main force, their bolt carbines ideally suited to the closer confines of the enemy starship. It had been just days since they had last seen action, and their wargear told a different story to that of the Intercessors. Here and there the lieutenant spied bare ceramite over some recently suffered damage, and the paint of their livery was much scratched.

‘Is that blood?’ Nem­etus demanded, directing an accusing finger towards the gauntlet of Brother Sennecus.

The Incursor lifted his hand and inspected it. He flexed the red-stained armoured digits.

‘Yes, lieutenant,’ Sennecus replied. ‘I ripped out the heart of a secessionist in our last engagement. The red mark is a trophy of our victory, brother-lieutenant.’

‘Yes, I have heard of this “battle paint”, brother.’ Nem­etus took a step closer and was about to deliver his chastisement when a voice cut across the muster hall.

‘A fitting memorial to a traitor,’ rasped Judiciar Admonius.

Armoured all in back, the Judiciar cut a sinister figure. At his waist hung a great hourglass, filled with dark sand: his tempormortis. Each grain came from the debris of Callosi station, a renegade installation atomised in the first engagement of Battle Group Faustus. Admonius’ zealotry in that action had seen him recruited to the position of Judiciar, on the pathway to becoming a Chaplain.