Yedrin looked to his side. Zweden wasn’t moving. He put his hand out. ‘Ready?’ he said, but his friend fell sideways and slid down the edge of the trench. Zweden had been shot in the face – a burnt hole where his left eye should have been, blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

Blanchez pulled Yedrin away. ‘He’s gone,’ she was telling him, over and over.

He couldn’t believe it. It was Zweden who had said they had to stay alive during this, and there he was lying dead.

‘He’s gone!’ Blanchez told him, again. There was dirt smeared across her face. It was ash, he realised, and he saw that the butt of her gun had singed about the barrel. She was surprisingly strong. ‘He’s dead. Let him be. He’s at rest now. It’s the living you’ve got to worry about. Which means you. And me.’

Two more attacks came in the following hours.

Major Luka seemed to be everywhere. He had a cut on his cheek from the second attack, but his ragged features were refreshingly unchanged.

Star-shells spiralled slowly down, and Yedrin had to close his eyes as he fired to stop the glare from his own las-bolt temporarily blinding him. Zweden’s body was stacked against the back wall with the other dead. There was no time to do anything else with them.

All this time, runners were coming forward with water and ammu­nition. They came in gangs of three or four, each there to take the load if the first was shot down.

As the morning wore on a company of Rakallion Chasseurs joined them. Their officer was a tall and lean-faced warrior, who somehow managed to scramble through no-man’s-land and the tortuous twist of the trenches and still look impeccable.

‘Major!’ he said, saluting Luka. ‘Your cadets have done well, but I have been commanded to strengthen your position.’

‘We don’t need strengthening,’ Luka told him. The other man started to speak but Luka cut him off. ‘And these are not cadets. These,’ he said, gesturing along the line, ‘are Cadian Shock Troopers.’

Yedrin was so exhausted he started laughing. He was too tired to savour that moment, but he did allow himself a second to close his eyes and send a prayer of thanks to the God-Emperor of Mankind for allowing this honour.

The 72nd Whiteshields were in the front lines for three more days before being relieved by a company of Crinan asteroid miners. Their distinctive yellow void-suits and enamelled blue void ­armour were grey with dust.

‘The faithful man never dies,’ their priest chanted as they made their way into Yedrin’s trench. ‘The faithful heart is a shield against heresy. The faithful mind is armour against the lies of our foes!’