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Loading　as　he　did　so　in　deference　to　the　machine…spirits。
So；　Pozhar　held　his　fire　until　dark　shapes　began　to　loom　through　the　haze；　and　then　he　thumbed
his　power　pack　setting　to　full　auto　and　squeezed　off　fully　a　quarter　of　its　charge　in　a　deadly；　lowlevel
barrage　across　the　rubble。
Many　of　the　shapes　crumpled；　but　as　always　there　were　more　out　there；　many　more。　They
clambered　over　the　bodies　of　the　fallen；　bearing　down　on　him。　They　were　greeted　by　the　percussion
cracks　of　a　hundred　more　lasguns；　Pozhar’s　comrades　following　his　lead；　and　a　score　of　frag
grenades　burst　and　filled　the　air　with　a　cloud　of　blood　and　dismembered　limbs；　but　still　they　came。
Pozhar　could　see　them　now；　and　he　felt　a　surge　of　rage　at　the　sight　of　their　tattered　uniforms。
They　were　the　worst　kind　of　foe：　Traitor　Guard。　He　didn’t　recognise　their　colours。　So　many
regiments　had　turned　on　Cressida　in　the　past　few　years　that　he　had　lost　track　of　them　all。
They　were　close　enough　for　the　Valhallans’　cover　to　mean　very　little。　The　traitors　raised　their
guns；　and　Pozhar’s　ears　popped　with　the　retorts　of　las…fire　from　both　fronts。　He　had　been　crouching
behind　a　half…demolished　wall；　but　it　had　been　all　but　chipped　away　by　las…beams。　A　lucky　shot
penetrated　the　fur　hat；　and　the　head；　of　the　trooper　beside　him；　and　Pozhar　was　left　exposed。
It　could　only　be　a　matter　of　minutes　now。　Soon；　the　order　would　come　to　fall　back　again；　to
surrender　a　little　more　ground　to　the　enemy。　But　Pozhar　was　a　Valhallan　Ice　Warrior；　and　until　that
order　came；　he　would　not　give　a　centimetre。
The　traitors　swept　over　him；　hardly　seeming　to　notice　that　he　was　alive　and　still　standing。
Perhaps　they　expected　him　to　fall　and　be　trampled；　but　instead　he　cannoned　into　the　stomach　of　the
nearest　of　them；　disarming　him；　sending　him　to　the　ground。　Two　more　traitors　rounded　on　Pozhar；
5
but　he　dropped　beneath　their　lunges　and　swung　his　gun　like　a　club；　scoring　a　pair　of　palpable　hits　to
a　chin　and　a　forehead。　Then　his　micro…bead　earpiece　crackled　into　life；　and　he　heard　the　urgent　voice
of　a　vox…operator；　instructing　him　to　fall　back　and　report　to　the　platoon　commander。
He　could　almost　have　laughed　at　the　timing　of　it。　The　traitors　were　pressing　in　all　around　him；
and　he　could　measure　the　rest　of　his　life　in　seconds。　It　didn’t　matter。　A　red　mist　had　settled　over
Pozhar；　and　he　felt　as　if　he　was　standing　outside　of　his　body　as　instinct　took　over　and　he　punched
and　kicked　and　swiped；　and　jammed　the　muzzle　of　his　lasgun　into　one　traitor’s　stomach　and　blew
out　his　guts。
It　was　over　too　soon；　of　course。　He　was　borne　to　the　ground　by　sheer　weight　of　numbers。　He
reached　into　his　greatcoat　for　a　frag　grenade　and　prepared　to　go　out　in　a　ball　of　fire　that　would
consume　ten　or　more　alongside　him。
“Do　you　hear　me；　Pozhar？　Get　your　sorry　carcass　back　here　fast。　Word　is；　you’re　being
reassigned；　by　order　of　Colonel　Steele　himself。”
The　explosion　deadened　his　ears；　heat　searing　his　skin；　and　he　thought　for　a　moment　that　his
senses　were　deceiving　him　because　he　hadn’t　yet　pulled　out　the　pin。
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　h