A rolling storm of fire struck the Lachrymae as she curved past a near-crippled warship. Her auspex did not have time to detect the source of the volley before her shields collapsed. Gravitic shells hammered into her flanks, crumpling and twisting armour with waves of shearing force. A pulse of plasma a hundred metres in diameter hit her engines and reduced half of them to gas and slag. She began to spin, the flame- and iron-filled void a blur around her. On her bridge, Sigismund felt explosions shake the deck. Red light pulsed through the air. The crew were shouting now, orders screamed as the hull shrieked.

‘Batteries nine through fifteen lost…’

‘Motive power at thirty-five per cent…’

‘Course stabilisation lost…’

‘Void generator power shunts offline!’

‘We are unshielded!’

‘Lord,’ called a signal officer. The man was gripping the edge of a console, the alarm lights staining his face red. ‘Lord, there is an enemy ship closing, fast. Class unknown but it’s big. They are launching assault craft.’

‘Sound a primary alert throughout the ship,’ said Sigismund. ‘Prepare to repel boarders.’

‘Etheric spike!’

The cry rose a second before a thread of light coiled in the air above the command platform. The squad of Templars scattered through the bridge began to run towards the platform. Sigismund had time to raise his sword as light and shadow reversed and time stuttered. A pillar of lightning flashed into being, slamming into the deck and ceiling. It pulsed. Shapes stood within the light, vast shapes of metal and death. Then the light vanished, and gunfire roared through the sudden dark as the Sons of Horus opened up.

Sigismund was already moving forwards, sword lit, the words of an old oath on his lips. The edge of his blade took the first of the Sons of Horus in the throat even before the flare of teleportation had faded. He was amongst them, cutting and cutting, killing with single blows as gunfire and blades reached for him.

And on the Lachrymae fell, bleeding into the void as swarms of assault rams and claws punched into its flanks.

Fire and the clamour of killing filled the bridge of the Lachrymae. Warriors in sea-green armour spread out, shooting as they moved. Pulped flesh and blood puffed into the air as bolt-rounds exploded amongst the crew and servitors. Sigismund saw the handful of Templars that had been on the bridge with him go down, singled out for overwhelming bursts of fire and then dragged down by blades. That fate would have been his too if he had submitted to it.

The seconds faded. The world was running to the beat of his twin hearts, reduced to the edge and point and turn of his sword. They were all around him now, sea-green armour, descending blades, gun barrels turning to look at him with the empty eyes of a lost stranger. Too many. Too close. Too swift.