‘You have made a mistake,’ said the first, his two companions angling to each face a different aspect of the closing net of gangers. One protected the back of the other, and so the web of steel was forged.

‘You’re the one don’t appreciate simple arithmetic. Sixteen against three is bad odds.’

‘For you, yes,’ muttered the first.

‘Let me gut them!’ snarled the third, his voice an angry rasp.

The first looked about to protest, hand straying to the blade beneath his cloak, but then relented and stepped back.

‘Quick and quiet.’

The gang leader uttered a command word and the three chrono-gladiators roared into action, arco-flails and electro-whips crashing.

Sweeping between them, low and faster than he had any right to be wearing full armour, the third cut off their arms in a welter of blood and oil. A bleating sound escaped the scarified lips of the gladiators, who collapsed and died from chronic blood loss, time still on their clocks.

Terrified, dumbstruck, it took a few seconds for the rest of the gangers to realise what was happening. The leader opened up first, his pump-action taking the third in the chest but scarcely stalling him. He baulked when he saw what was beneath the cloak, but had no time to shout a warning when a long bone claw punched into his sternum and went right through his back.

The others did not last long. One or two got off a las-round. A bulky-looking ganger even managed to crank up his autocannon before it was shredded, and him with it. In just under nine seconds, all sixteen of the dregs were dead, their blood and viscera painting the Deeps.

When it was done, the first asked, ‘What happened to quiet, Brother Zartath?’

‘You also said “quick”, Brother-Captain Agatone.’

Agatone sighed. If not for the fact that the ex-Black Dragon was a consummate hunter, he would have remained on the Vulkan’s Wrath with the rest of Third.

‘They were protecting something,’ the second called from off in the darkness.

Agatone and Zartath joined him. ‘What have you found, Brother Exor?’

The Techmarine didn’t need to answer. It was plain to see, surrounded by rubble and months-old debris, veiled in a thick patina of dust.

A gunship. It carried the winged lightning bolt insignia of the Marines Malevolent.

Agatone nodded to Zartath, who scurried inside through a ragged tear in the fuselage with the apparent agility of a spider.

It took a few minutes for him to reappear.

‘Well?’ asked the Salamanders captain.

‘Lots of bodies, all Malevolents. Looks like he killed them all.’

Agatone stiffened uncomfortably. ‘And our quarry?’

Zartath shook his head. ‘He’s in the wind. Tsu’gan is alive, but he’s not here. Only ash remains.’

The Firebrand

THE FIREBRAND