Aaron Aaron Dembski-Bowden - Cadian Blood

“…raised by dogs, you ungrateful…” he trailed off, clicking “Send” on the helmet picter. “Can you see that?”

“Quite a party in there. Patching it through to Cruor now.”

“No rush.” The pew shook as a massive chunk of its front detonated under the full force of a direct heavy bolter round only three metres away. “Take as long as you need. I’m starting to get comfortable.”

Taan couldn’t resist. He looked up, taking a pict of the stained glass dome. It was the only point of entry unless the Valkyrie was going to drop Cruor through the hole blown in the wall. That was unlikely. Darrick clicked “Send” a second time, transmitting the pict of the pristine dome.

“See that second pict? I’m not seeing much deployment here.”

The pre-dawn light filtering through the dome darkened under an avian shadow. The Valkyrie hovered, its thrusters screaming as they burned. Several of the Remnant cried out as coloured melted glass rained on them in sticky, agonising drips.

“Now!” Taan called to his surviving men. They used the momentary distraction to break cover, twelve rifles firing. Twenty-two Remnant soldiers went down, hit in the first or second volley. Two shots went wide. Taan laughed as he ducked back into cover.

“I saw that, Kallo! Are you sure your mother had violet eyes?” He knew Kallo had been hit in the shoulder and it was ruining his aim, but still… “Two misses! The captain will hear about this!”

Kallo offered no excuse. Taan called out the Litany of Forgiveness with a wicked grin. “Sweet God-Emperor, forgive Your servant Kallo his sins. Remember he is just a man!”

Several of the soldiers sniggered in their cover.

The gunfire renewed, but in less force. Some of it was angled up towards the Valkyrie, but the greatest difference was the fact that a third of the force was no longer firing.

“Strike Team Cruor confirm receipt of tactical situation. Deploying.”

“Oh? Nice of them to finally drop by.”

“I heard that,” came a deeper voice that Taan recognised instantly. “See you in a second, joker.”

Taan grinned as Strike Team Cruor made their entrance.

Ten men in night-black carapace armour fell through the melted ruin of the glass dome. Boots first, they dropped like knives, firing as they plummeted. The Valkyrie above stayed locked in hover while the squad rappelled down.

On maximum power, standard issue lasguns constructed on the Cadian armoury world of Kantrael fired a finger-thin red beam of superheated laser energy. The blasts roaring from the ten rifles in the falling men’s gloved hands were headache-purple with a blinding white core. Several of the Remnant hit by the las-fire burst into flames as their clothes caught light. They dropped to the ground, already dead, their clothes aflame.

“Stormtroopers!” one of the Remnant cried, and the devastated remains of the enemy force turned to flee. One of the black-clad soldiers cut down two enemy either side of the shouting Remnant warrior, and disconnected his rappelling cable. He caught the running Remnant in three strides and bore him to the ground, punching down with a double-edged combat knife.

“Stay awhile,” the soldier said, burying his blade in the traitor’s neck.

The rest of Taan’s men joined Cruor, leaping the cover of the pews and cutting down the foe. For a handful of seconds, the chamber was illuminated in an insane display of strobing laser light: red from the lasguns, purple-white from Cruor’s hellguns.

Except for the ringing in the Cadians’ ears, the chamber was silent less than a minute after Cruor deployed. The last surviving Remnant soldier was put down with a las-round to the forehead while he pleaded for his life, on his knees, insisting he had no choice.

“Ain’t that a shame.” His executioner, faceless in his dark rebreather and full visored helm, turned from the falling corpse, scanning the room. Master Sergeant Ban Jevrian sighted Taan through the green glare of his visor. He popped his helmet seals in a hiss of air pressure as he strode over to the lieutenant, removing it to reveal a shaved head and the suggestion of brown stubble around his thin mouth. Jevrian wasn’t so much in athletic Cadian shape as he was a layer of slab-like muscle over thick bone, encased in black carapace armour. His hellpistol, connected to a humming backpack via thick cable feeds, purred as he lowered the setting and holstered it.

“Sir.” He offered Taan a salute, his deep voice resonating across the chamber as he made the sign of the aquila over his chestplate. “Kasrkin squad Eight-Zero-Eight reports successful deployment.”

“Took your time,” Taan saluted back.

“That’s funny. You’re a real joker,” Jevrian said, unsmiling. He didn’t smile much. Jokes that had most men in stitches might, if they were truly worthwhile, lift the corners of Ban Jevrian’s lips for the ghost of an instant. “Where’s Yaune?”

“Dead,” Darrick said. “Blown out of that hole in the wall.”

The Kasrkin shrugged. “He owed me money.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Whatever. Orders?”

Taan did a quick count of his remaining men, thinking of the names he’d be writing on death notices once they were clear of this hellhole.

“Thade’s pulling us back. We’re running.”

“We don’t run.”

“We’re running. Captain’s orders. When you wear the same silver on your helmet that he does, I’ll start giving a damn about what you think, master sergeant.”

“We never run,” Jevrian almost growled. Talking to the Kasrkin sergeant was like talking to a bear in an insect’s black armour. But he was right. The Cadian Shock didn’t run. It was a point of pride, and had been for ten thousand years. The Lists of Remembrance were filled with hundreds of regiments that had been destroyed rather than flee before the Archenemy.

“We never run,” Jevrian said again. His hulking form promised pain. He bristled with firepower.

“No? We ran two months ago,” Taan said softly. “We ran on Cadia.”

Jevrian had no response to that. He turned back to his strike team and raised a hand, closing it into a fist—the signal for forming up.

“Cruor, weapons hot. Let’s do what the hero says.”

“Immediate fallback to the Chimeras.”

Thade’s words had spread through the squads with the speed and fervour Osiron’s warning had only fifteen minutes before. The 88th was breaking orders and running. It stuck uncomfortably in many throats, but none of the officers argued with the captain’s appraisal of the situation.

“If we stay here, we die. If we die, we fail to meet our objectives anyway. The Janus 6th is finished. Our orders were to reinforce them, or hold this monastery if the Janusians fell. Our numbers make that an impossibility now we’ve come face to face with the reality. Immediate fallback to the Chimeras.”

Every squad but one obeyed this order. Thade’s own didn’t. The captain wasn’t leaving until he saw the truth of Seth’s proclamation. “Traitors” was a word that covered a multitude of potential sinners. He wanted to know for sure.

“Open those doors,” Thade pointed at the set of double doors with his deactivated chainsword, but shook his head when Zailen raised his plasma gun. “No, Zailen. I want you ready to fire when the doors open. Seth, if you please.”

The psyker clutched his dark grey leather jacket tighter around his wasted frame. A hand gloved in the same grey leather reached out, fingers splayed, towards the great doors. The temperature dropped a few degrees. The Cadians’ breath steamed from their lips.

The doors shook once. Twice. Dust rained from the surrounding archway, as if the stone angels were shedding powdered skin. On the third shake, one of the angels—a winged representation of Saint Kathur himself—toppled to shatter on the red carpet.