Yedrin saw a hundred deaths before he reached the front lines. A signals officer crawling forward to fix a trench wire was blown apart by a shell. A medicae officer was hit by a sniper as he crouched over a dying man. A stray lump of shrapnel. A pair of Whiteshields picked off by marksmen. There was no time to help them. No one paid them any attention. They lay where they fell and bled out their last as their comrades followed orders, taking their place and waiting for the command to attack.

Yedrin felt cold as the deaths mounted up. It seemed that there were as many slain as there were living. In some places where the fighting had been fiercest, cadavers formed a carpet two or three bodies deep. The fallen slumped against the trench walls. They sprawled on the floor. They sat curled up in the foetal position. They were a constant warning.

Yedrin had to bend almost double in places as they picked their way to the front-line trenches. These were full of traitor dead – a poorly turned out lot with patchwork uniforms and ill-fitting boots, or no boots at all, just raw and bloody feet wrapped in thick clogs of sackcloth and leather.

Finally they were in place. Yedrin gripped his lasrifle. It was a beaten old object, already passed through dozens of hands. He pressed it to his heart as they were waved into position. It was a mark of all he had struggled through.

Major Luka was making his last rounds along the lines. ‘General Bendikt is personally watching this attack!’ he whispered to each.

He had drawn his sword. His pistol was clamped in his fist. His face was drawn.

When he reached Yedrin, Luka paused. All the Whiteshield eyes were turned towards him, waiting for his instruction.

As Major Luka’s sword descended, whistles were blown and the Whiteshields surged forward.

Bendikt stood watching as smoke shells shrieked overhead. The trails of smoke were small at first, but soon the white clouds settled thick over the ground. And through it the first waves started to move.

The traitors clung to a precarious line of defence, scrabbling out of the ruins. The morning’s objectives were to take the front trench line and then push onto the redoubts on either wing.

It was to be a three-pronged attack. The Rakallions were on the left, distinctive in their long trench coats. The Drookian Fenguard were on the right, small teams pushing forward before their tribal leaders.

But his concern was mainly in the middle, where Major Luka’s Whiteshields were seeing combat for the first time.

Even from where they stood, Bendikt could hear the shrill blast of whistles. He lifted the auspex and watched as the attack began. The traitors’ heavy weapons poured fire down into the Imperial lines.