But there were scores behind them, and the forwards shields of the Samothrace collapsed under a hail of impacts. The swarm smashed the bow. Shards broke up against the ablative armour. They came in at a shallow angle on the upper hull, streaking it with rolling fireballs. And they hit the superstructure. The change in the ship’s orientation was enough to destroy still more. If they did not hit directly, they could not pierce the alloy of the ship’s hide.

Some did pierce it. Guilliman felt the blows even before the breach klaxons sounded. Needles stabbed into the body of the Samothrace, and poison flowed from them into its veins. One hit just below the bridge. The vibration of the impact was a quiver of pain, the spirit of the Samothrace reacting to a wound worse than the drawing of blood.

‘With me,’ he said to Gorod and Prayto. Gorod and the squad of bodyguards on the bridge formed up around their primarch. To Caspean, Guilliman said, ‘The bridge is yours.’

Caspean slammed a fist against his breastplate. ‘They won’t set foot on this deck.’

The Samothrace had already borne the insult of the Word Bearers’ presence over Calth. Guilliman would not see it suffer the same indignity.

‘All breached halls sealed,’ said Altuzer.

The splinters of the De Profundis were not true boarding torpedoes. They did not have the means to close rents in the hull with foam. The bleed of atmosphere to the void had triggered the automatic defence protocols.

Guilliman drew the Gladius Incandor and the Arbitrator. He held the combi-bolter before him as he marched out of the bridge, finger on the trigger and ready to deliver judgement.

The Ultramarines ran into the enemy one level down from the bridge. The splinters had pushed the outer walls in when they hit, narrowing the corridors and filling them with wreckage. Guilliman waded into the first clutch of Word Bearers. His lips were pulled back in hate. He pulled the trigger of the Arbitrator rapidly, the shots echo­ing the furious beat of his pulse. The traitors sprayed the halls with bolter fire. They were responding to his presence too quickly. Their shots smacked into his armour. The shells were nothing to him; a slight wind, a failed distraction. He ignored them. His shells hit the traitors like warheads. He shot the Word Bearers through their helmets. Their heads burst, painting the walls with blood, gouging them with ceramite shrapnel. Guilliman marched past the first splinter and over the bodies. Though his actions were unhurried, he had slaughtered a squad of Word Bearers before Gorod and his men could find a target.

Ahead, the bulkhead was twisted and had failed to seal. A stiff wind of escaping atmosphere blew against his cheeks, pulling at him, calling him towards the next fight. Legion banners hanging from the ceiling swayed and flapped. The walls of the Samothrace rang with gunfire.

‘We have numerous breach points,’ Gorod said.