The grenade that had gone off had not been his。 It had been thrown by a comrade； evidently
unaware of Pozhar’s position。 Friendly fire — and friendly indeed； because； by the Emperor’s will；
Pozhar had been protected from the force of the blast by the press of bodies around him。 He lay on
his back； drained by his unexpected escape； almost smothered by a pile of corpses。 And he had been
doubly blessed； because for now he was hidden from the rest of the traitors。
They were advancing past him； booted feet striking the ground near his head； more bodies
falling — adding to the pile — as his Valhallan comrades retrenched and a fresh burst of las…fire
scythed into their foes。 The voice was still squawking in Pozhar’s ear； and he did laugh then； a nearhysterical
outburst of relief and fear and defiance all mingled together。
It took him a minute to calm down； to be able to assess the situation in which he found himself。
He was alone； behind the enemy’s front line； and the only way to survive in such a position was to
stay where he was； to play dead。 Which was out of the question — because not only would it have
been a dereliction of duty； but there was also the matter of his unexpected summons to consider； and
the tantalising prospect that he had been chosen to receive some great honour。
If Colonel Steele had asked for him by name； if he had a mission that he felt only Pozhar could
undertake； then Pozhar would be there。 Whatever it took。
They had taken the enemy by surprise。
The Chaos forces had pulled their artillery from this flank； believing it shielded by the heaped
wreckage of a city street； thinking it impossible for the Imperial tanks to break through here。 They
had reckoned without an Ice Warrior named Grayle。
Grayle knew vehicles — not like a tech…priest knew them； from the inside out； but he had an
instinct about them。 It was almost as if he could bond with their spirits； and push them to incredible
new heights of performance。 And right now； he was at the controls of a Leman Russ Annihilator
battle tank； and its sixty…tonne chassis was heaving； juddering fit to tear itself apart； and yet it was
finding traction； finding a path somehow across the ruins。
Trooper Barreski； up in the turret； was able to look down on the battlefield — and as a knifesharp
blast of wind parted the snow curtain for a second； he fancied he could see the expressions of
surprise and horror on the masses of the traitors； cultists and mutants as they saw what was coming
their way。
Then the debris shifted； and it felt as if the tank had dropped out from beneath him； taking his
stomach with it。
“Hey； Grayle；” he yelled out over the engine’s near…deafening roar； “steady on down there。 You
keep driving like that； you’ll get this crate decorated in a nice shade of this morning’s rations！”
6
As he spoke； the tank tore through the fragile remains of a building； its dozer blade collapsing
the walls with ease。 A stone beam bounced across Barreski’s turret； and he ducked； avoiding
decapitation by a centimetre。 He picked himself up； filled his cheeks with air and expelled it slowly。
He was less concerned with himself； and more with his guns： twin lascannons； objects of great
beauty to him。 It would have been a shame to have brought them this far and not put them to their
intended use。
By the Emperor’s grace； however； there was no real damage done。 The beam had glanced off the
left cannon； put a dent in its barrel； and the calibration had been thrown off a little； but he could
compensate for that。
Then； with another great bump and a dip； they were on even ground； picking up speed； and the
enemy was in Barreski’s field of vision again； on a level with the tank。 No obstructions remained
between them。
The Chaos forces were undisciplined； some paralysed in the face of the approaching juggernaut；
while some tried to fight and others simply turned and fled。 They were getting in each other’s way；
falling over each other； their resistance collapsing before Barreski had loosed off a single shot。
The sponson gunners beat him to it； unleashing heavy bolter fire。 Barreski bided his time； using
his vantage point to survey the scene； seeking his optimum targets and taking aim； knowing that the
lascannons’ slow recharging cycle meant that he had to make every shot count。
He aimed for a giant of a man； towering over the rank and file； his face an eruption of pustules；
his hair clinging to his head in clumps。 Barreski could almost smell the Chaos stink on the mutant。
He gave it both lascannons and let their recoil reverberate through him； through his bones；
invigorating him with their power。 The twin beams seemed to dissect the sky with their thunderous
cracks； and when one of them struck true； the mutant was vaporised。
The Leman Russ ploughed into the Chaos army； pushing its soldiers back with its blade；
mowing down those who couldn’t get out of its way； powdering their bones and pulping their flesh。
Inevitably a few heretics survived — the lucky ones。 And those that did found themselves
behind the tank； in the sponson guns’ blind spots — and； knowing their handheld weapons were
useless against its plasteel hull； they concentrated their fire on the one vulnerable spot they could
see： Barreski’s head。
He dropped down into the turret； abandoning his lascannons reluctantly； like the sponson guns；
they only had a forty…five degree arc of fire。 He swung the pintle…mounted heavy stubber； and laid
down a discouraging hail of bullets in the tank’s wake even though he couldn’t see to aim it
properly。
He was alarmed when a head appeared over the turret’s rim。
The cultist must have just missed being crushed； found himself alongside the tank； behind the
sponson guns； and seized the opportunity to leap on board； to climb。 He was ill…equipped； his body
armour salvaged from many sources； some too small for him； some too large； and his only weapon
appeared to be a knife。 Still； the element of surprise made him a threat。
Barreski managed to shoulder his lasgun in time。 The cultist was leaping for him with a snarl
when a beam stabbed through his heart。 His momentum kept him going； but by the time he hit the
Ice Warrior he was already dead。 Barreski risked raising his head； peering over the side of the turret；
to see a second cultist climbing towards him。 A single las…beam was enough to shake the man’s grip
and send him falling； screaming； beneath the tank’s heavy tracks。
The Chaos army was reacting； slowly； to the incursion of this lone Imperial vehicle into its
midst； starting to turn its war machines around。 This was what the Ice Warriors had wanted； of
course。 Their attack had been calculated to distract； to take the pressure off their front lines； and to
give their comrades time to regroup； to renew their defence of a stretch of land that would otherwise
have been lost。
There were hundreds of foot soldiers in the path of the Chaos tanks； but their operators seemed
no more concerned than Grayle had been about who they might crush beneath their treads。
7
Explosive rounds burst against the Leman Russ’ armoured hide； but this was where its lascannons；
with their superior range and firepower； came into their own。 It was not for nothing that they were
known as tank…killers。
Barreski was in his element as his cannons roared。 He concentrated his fire on a Chaos…held
Imperial Salamander； its slight form surging ahead of its fellows； its autocannon spitting furiously。
He scored one direct hit； two； three； four； until he had blown it apart。 In the heat of the moment； he
could almost have forgotten where he was； seeing only his targets lined up in front of him as if on a
range。
And then those targets were close enough to start to hit back； for their own guns to do some real
damage； and Grayle had slammed the battle tank into reverse； but Barreski knew he couldn’t go far
with the ruins still piled up behind him。
The cannons were out of power。 Barreski yelled down at the loader below to work faster； to
chug the heavy； new cell into place； to give him more shots while he could。 The Chaos tanks had
formed an arc in front of them； closing in； the port sponson gun was lost； and of course there was no
hope of back…up out here。
He couldn’t complain。 The whole crew had known what they were getting into when Barreski
had suggested this； when Grayle had confirmed that he could drive them into position； when the
tank commander had approved their plan。
They had achieved their goal； delivered a good； solid blow to the enemy and slowed their
advance； and that was all they could have hoped for。
This had always been a suicide run。
The war on Cressida was lost。
Trooper Mikhaelev had seen it weeks ago。 There was something about the scent； the feel； of the
air； as if the planet itself had given up。 He had heard that whole continents had been transformed in
days； verdant fields devolving into arctic tundra — and even here； where the walls of civilisation
had only just begun to come down； there were patches of a freezing purple fungus sprouting amid
the wreckage。
Mikhaelev knelt on the plinth of a statue — of whom he couldn’t tell； as a frag blast had cut it
off at the knees — and steadied his missile launcher against his shoulder。 He saw the shape of an
enemy tank； and he sent a krak missile whistling over the heads of his squad； and of nine more ranks
of Ice Warriors。 He didn’t wait to see if he had struck the tank； too busy with the cumbersome task
of reloading。 He should have had a comrade to assist him； but the last one had been cut down in the
enemy’s last push and hadn’t yet been replaced。
When he tried to fire again； the launcher clicked and jammed； and Mikhaelev let out a resigned
sigh and reached for his lasgun。 At the rate at which his comrades were falling； he would be on the
front line soon； anyhow。
It was all right for the clerks at Naval Command； he thought。 They could afford to dither； so
reluctant to lose a productive world that they had hung on to hope long after hope had died。 They
should have ordered this withdrawal long ago。 They could have spared millions of Guardsmen to
fight again — but to them； those Guardsmen’s lives were only numbers on a data…slate； so what did
they care？
It didn’t especially bother Mikhaelev that he was going to die today。 It just rankled with him that
it would be for nothing。
Then a voice crackled over his earpiece； and rewrote his destiny。
He slipped down from the plinth and made his way deeper into the hive； still lugging the useless；
heavy missile launcher along with him in case a tech…priest could salvage it。 He thought about the
summons he had received； and it cheered him up a little to think how irritated his commander would
be to let him go。
8
So； Colonel Stanislev Steele was putting together a special mission； and he wanted Mikhaelev
on board。 The only question Mikhaelev had was… why me？
9
CHAPTER TWO
Time to Destruction of Cressida： 47。04。33
The Sentinel walkers were equipped as power lifters； not intended for combat use。 The lost and the
damned had got hold of a pair somehow — either they had captured them or their pilots had simply
defected； as so many Guardsmen had done during this war — and their Imperial