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fought two-handed, cleaving his blade through alien flesh, and bellowing at his warriors to stand firm as a seething tide of Laer surrounded them.

THREE
    The Cost of Victory
    Up the Centre
    Predator
    S TRIDING THROUGH THE shredded carcasses of the Laer, Marius Vairosean watched impassively as the warriors of Third Company gathered up their dead and wounded as they prepared to continue their advance. His stern face was lined with displeasure, though at who or what he couldn’t say, for his men had fought as bravely as he would expect them to and Lord Fulgrim’s plan had been followed to the letter.
    With the landing zones and objective secured, all that remained was to link his forces with those of Solomon Demeter’s Second Company, and Atoll 19 would be theirs. The cost of winning this victory had been damnably high: nine of his warriors would never fight again, their gene-seed harvested by Apothecary Fabius, and many others would require extensive augmetic surgery upon their return to the fleet.
    The flaring pillar of energy that had been their objective was secure and he had split a detachment to hold it while they sought out Solomon’s warriors, a hunt that might prove easier said than done. Explosions, gunfire and the blaring howls of the towers echoed strangely through the twisting coral streets of Atoll 19, and with the vox-network scrambled it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where the fighting was coming from.
    ‘Solomon,’ he said into the vox-bead at his throat. ‘Solomon, can you hear me?’
    Crackling static was his only answer and he swore silently to himself. It would be just like Solomon Demeter to have removed his helmet in the heat of battle to better experience the sensations of combat. Marius shook his head. What manner of fool would go into a firefight without all the protection he could muster?
    The sounds of battle seemed to be coming from the west, though how to get there was going to be problematic, as the streets – if they could even be called that – snaked through the atoll in meandering paths that might take them kilometres out of their way.
    The idea of setting off without a detailed plan rankled at Marius, a warrior for whom each advance and manoeuvre was planned with meticulous perfection and enacted without deviation. Julius Kaesoron had once joked that he should have been selected to join the Ultramarines, meaning it as a friendly jibe, but Marius had taken it as a compliment.
    The Emperor’s Children strove for perfection in all things and Marius Vairosean prized this striving above all things. The idea of not being the best made him feel physically sick. To be less than the best was unacceptable, and Marius had long ago decided that nothing was going to stop him from achieving his goal.
    ‘Third Company,’ he shouted, ‘Move out on me!’
    Instantly, his warriors were ready to move and formed up on him with parade ground precision, their weapons held at the ready. Marius led his men off with a ground-eating stride that Astartes warriors could maintain for days on end and still be ready to fight at the end of it.
    The glistening coral walls of the city twisted and turned, fragments of crystal and stone crunching under their armoured boots as they made their way through the city. Marius kept following the path he thought best led to the sounds of fighting, encountering scattered bands of Laer warriors that fought with the desperation of a cornered foe. Each of these fights was easily won, for nothing could stand before the warriors of the Third on the advance and live.
    He kept checking the vox for any word from Solomon, but eventually gave up on his fellow captain and switched channels. ‘Caphen? Can you hear me. This is Vairosean. Answer if you can hear me!’
    More static spat from the earpiece in his helmet, but it was swiftly followed by the sound of a voice, chopped and garbled, but a voice nonetheless.
    ‘Caphen? Is that you?’ asked Marius.
    ‘Yes, captain,’ said