One of the devices crashed to the ground with a metallic thud next to the Iron-Father himself. The skull was charred and half of it was missing entirely. Wires and fragments of its grav-motor assembly hung down from the cranium like a severed spinal column. There was a buzz of crackling interference from the skull's vox and then Thule spoke to Gdolkin through the shattered mechanism.

'Stop th-zzz rit-fefcss!' The magos's voice sounded distant and distorted, speaking through the damaged servitor. 'You m-zzz stop fcfcfcsss-tual!'

'By the primarch! That much is obvious!' Gdolkin snarled, crushing the remains of the servo-skull beneath the heel of his boot.

There was a shrill scream away to his right and Gdolkin glimpsed Librarian Melchor immolate one of the Shinarii with an incandescent psychic bolt.

Gdolkin judged that he was a mere twenty metres from the raised edge of the obelisk pit now. But between him and his target was still the crashing press of the cultist host. His bolt pistol would not serve him well in this situation. He would have to resort to close combat fighting. Not that such a thing troubled the Iron-Father. Bringing the Emperor's justice to his enemies hand-to-hand, face-to-face gave him a thrill of satisfaction like nothing else could.

Gdolkin waded in with the burning blue blade of his power axe cutting blazing figure of eight trails through the cultists' bodies. Bullets spanged from his hulking black-armoured body, or were deflected by the crackling force-field generated by his Mechanicus Protectiva, as some of those cultists bearing firearms attempted to gun down the advancing Iron Hands.

But simple shotgun shells had little effect against ceramite armour and augmented metal limbs anyway. The Space Marines simply shrugged off the cultists' gunfire.

Following their leader's example, and just as eager to mete out the Emperor's divine retribution against the Word Bearers, the rest of the Iron Hands were throwing themselves into the fray, making mincemeat of the last of the Shinarii. The black-robed cultists made little impression against the heavily armed and armoured Space Marines, and gave the Emperor's elite little effective opposition. But their great numbers and their zealous determination were still enough to prove an irritation to the Iron Hands, especially considering that time was rapidly running out. Iron-Brother Ibrus struck a flailing cultist hard across the back with his augmetic right arm, hard enough to shatter the bones of the heretic's spine. The tman fell forward, his back broken.

There was the zing and whomph of a plasma weapon firing and a pair of chainsword-swinging zealots were immolated as Brother Samson risked using his weapon in the midst of the battle for the obelisk. It had been a calculated risk worth taking.

Now that they were out in the open of the vaulted space of the chamber Gdolkin was aware of Sergeant Dagan's assault squad firing up their jump packs and taking to the air to make the gigantic leap necessary to put themselves into close combat with the Word Bearers' Marines.