The previous occasion he had come this way he had been stealthy and the gun deck had been empty. The idea of stealth seemed a rich joke. When the Vlka were finished the guns would never speak again, but the runnel presented an aural wall of mechanical clattering still. Shell sleds the size of armoured personnel carriers whizzed up and down the tracks, pulled by man-thick chains whose links blurred with speed. As one sled rushed up, full of ordnance, another shot back down on the neighbouring line, carrying enormous casings still smoking from their discharge from the next gun bay. They were close enough to the runnel's terminus to hear the deafening clanging as the casings were tipped into chutes leading directly to the Vengeful Spirit's forges.

'Where are the dogs of Horus?' said Enrir. 'Why do we have to fight these lowly worms?'

'Pity them,' said Himmlik. He turned one over with his boot. The man's expression was fixed with terror. A natural reaction to encountering the Rout, but the lines in his face suggested he had worn that expression for a long time. He was filthy, malnourished, his limbs stick-thin and covered with sores. Over the criss-cross of whip wounds, his uniform had gone to rags, and the skin of his forehead was inflamed around a crude, eight-pointed star carved into his flesh.

'Lowly?' Gren tore off his helmet. 'That last lot damn cracked my lens,' he said. He held the helm up to his face and wrinkled his nose at it.

'Put your helmet back on,' said Bror.

'Can't see a thing through the crazing,' said Gren miserably. 'I'll fight without.'

'Put it back on, Gren!' snarled Bror. The ship shook hard to a large impact. It was close by, probably the shell distribution node near the gun deck he and the other Knights Errant had marked for torpedo strike.

'Looks like your beacons and your runes remained undiscovered,' said Ragner.

Bror nodded. 'It pleases me the deaths of my comrades were not in vain,' he said. 'Though I never thought I'd return here to follow the marks myself.' He glanced at Gren. 'I said put your helmet back on. A lot of the marks I made were on weak points in the hull. If they're targeted, we will lose atmosphere. I don't want to have to blow air back into your lungs. You're ugly. I don't want to kiss you.'

'And he's got bad breath,' said Enrir. 'He can't stand it himself. That's why he doesn't want to wear his helm.'

Gren grumbled, but replaced his helmet.