There were three or four seconds before he said, ‘Throne, that hurts!’ He pulled the syringe out and fumbled with his medi-pack. ‘Serves me right for making bad jokes,’ he said. He wrapped a steri-cloth about the wound and bound it tight, knotted the end and stood.

‘Good?’ Yedrin said.

Orugi winced. ‘Better,’ he said.

Yedrin’s flamer cleared the other floors as a wall klaxon started ringing and alarm lumens began flashing red. ‘Took their time,’ Blanchez said. Minka puffed out her cheeks. Stencilled numbers declared this to be Level 73.

‘That means the main armoury is ten floors below,’ she said. She looked at the bombard that filled the chamber. Blanchez had ­already immobilised it.

‘There should be an armour lift,’ Minka said.

Orugi touched Minka’s arm and pointed. Behind her was a low metal doorway, solid iron hung on iron hinges, thick with oil. Minka dragged it open. Sure enough, there was an ammunition lift, and beside it a staircase winding down.

‘Looks like we’ve found the magazine,’ she said.

Even Blanchez started laughing as they plunged down the stairs.

Four

FOUR

General Isaia Bendikt had spent many sleepless nights in the run up to this attack. But now that he stood at the fore of his army, fear and doubt fell away from him.

On Tor Kharybdis he had outplayed Holzhauer, but it had been a knockdown rather than a knockout. He’d bloodied his nose, twice. This had to be more than that. Today, he would deliver the coup de grace.

On his right were the neat ranks of the Mordians, to the left were the massed ranks of the Rakallions, with Gerent Bianca leading them, her golden armour bright against the mass of dark greatcoats. Behind him were the masses of the 101st, willing him on. It was as if he were a crucible into which they had poured all their courage, vengeance, implacable will.

Bendikt closed his eyes and said a final prayer before drawing the sword of Saint Ignatzio.

The blade caught the light of the rising sun and for a moment it shone golden. The light flared out until he thumbed the power stud and blue light crackled along its edge.

Bendikt stepped through the void shield, yelling his war cry, and the massed ranks of the 101st answered it as one as they followed him into the face of the enemy.

Cadia stands!

The massed bombardment that had kept them back for so long, and on which the traitors relied, never materialised. Bendikt marched forward almost unhindered, sweeping up into the trenches and the lower circuits of the fortress.

As he did, Seventh Company’s attacks in the upper circuits knocked the traitor artillery crews reeling. Initial reactions were all the same. Alarm. Dread. Confusion. It was what happened after the first stab of panic that defined the course of any combat.