As we sped homeward my gaze lingered upon the injured soldier they had dragged from the swamp. He was in a sorry state, unable to even secure his flight harness without aid, his fingers too weak for the clasps. There was little they could do for him. He tried to remain as stoic as the rest, gritting his teeth as we were buffeted by tailwinds. But he could not quiet his rasping breath, nor mask a plaintive sob when we suffered particularly violent turbulence. The other Scions averted their gaze, perhaps embarrassed by his momentary weakness, or sparing him additional shame by pretending not to have heard it.

He was dying, and not just from his injuries. His wounds were grievous, like the rest of them, but more alarming was the exposed flesh of his forearm. It was infested with purple lesions, the surrounding skin swollen and cracked. We all stunk of swamp water, but his weeping sores had a sickly-sweet scent that overpowered even that. It was known to me, and it meant only death.

I wonder if I should have recorded him, shown a true glimpse of true sacrifice. But there would be no point; the Imperium preferred its martyrs portrayed as tall and proud, not riddled with disease, even if they suffered in the God-Emperor’s name. Besides, I had no means of recording anything without Mizar. It was a relic, irreplaceable, its loss reflecting poorly upon me. The seer-skull possessed a rudimentary guidance system, compelling it to seek me out were we separated. But over such distance and hostile terrain it seemed a forlorn hope that it would blunder back into signal range. I reminded myself I still had the others, but neither had Mizar’s advanced optics or bold machine-spirit. Worse, neither possessed footage of the conflict I had witnessed.

The dying Scion coughed, his spittle visible. I froze, watching it arch across the hold, suddenly mindful that I shared a confined space with a very sickly man. I turned my head, wrapping my sleeve around my mouth in an attempt to block the foul humours. I thought the gesture discreet, until I noticed Taton glaring at me. But when he spoke his tone was soft, almost gentle.

‘You need not fear,’ he said. ‘It is not contagious. Not through the air anyway.’

‘You know what ails him?’

‘Vintner’s Blight,’ he replied. ‘It’s a mycological infection. The workers suffer from it if they spend too long in the waters. Fungus grows quick here – something about the climate. Or the water.’

‘Can he be cured?’

‘If the God-Emperor wills,’ he said with a shrug. ‘If not, he served with courage and faith. He will be remembered, and there will be a place for him at the God-Emperor’s table. Just like Harkins.’