activity in the spaceport below。 Perhaps he was worrying about his own place on one of those ships；
wondering how much longer he could afford to wait behind。
“You were lucky；” said the lieutenant at last； in a somewhat quieter voice； “that my platoon was
in the area； that those mutants died before they could break down the door and reach you。 I only
wish they could have been in time to save my sergeant。”
“I wish that too； sir。”
“As far as I am concerned； Trooper Blonsky； you killed Sergeant Arkadin without reason。 I
don’t know why。 Perhaps you were the would…be deserter； and he was standing in your way。 The
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only way to be sure would be to convene a formal tribunal with； as you say； your commanders
present。 Under the circumstances； that would take some time。 It would also mean blackening a good
man’s name； by airing these scurrilous accusations against him。”
“If you say so； sir。” Blonsky could see from the lieutenant’s bearing； the way he could no longer
quite meet his prisoner’s eye； that he wanted to believe what he was saying； wanted it so much； but
that he couldn’t be entirely sure。
The lieutenant let out a heavy sigh； and said； “Go on。 Get out of here。 It would be a mercy to
keep you off the front line anyway。 You belong to the Valhallan 319th； yes？ The regiment that is to
stay behind； that is to be sacrificed。 Well； then； Trooper Blonsky； if you are so zealous； so damn
loyal to the Emperor； then this is your chance to prove it； isn’t it？ This is your chance to make sure
you die for Him！”
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CHAPTER THREE
Time to Destruction of Cressida： 45。57。14
The sight of the Termite stirred something in Sergeant Ivon Gavotski’s heart。
It was just a small vehicle； its chassis almost outweighed by the great cylindrical borer it
supported — but it had been given a distinctively Valhallan make…over； painted with white and
green snow camouflage patterns。 Six flamer emplacements had been added to its sides and four
more flamers mounted on the borer itself。
Gavotski had heard the story many times； of course — about how； after his home world had
been hit by an asteroid； after its lush fields had become frozen wastelands； his distant ancestors had
struggled to survive。 An ork invasion must have seemed like one misfortune too many； back then —
but it had given the Valhallans a reason to fight back； a tangible goal to achieve。
The precise schematics of the ice…boring vehicle they had developed had been lost to history。
But this Termite was the nearest thing； in the modern world； to the vehicle that had won the
Valhallans their war — the nearest thing to the vehicle that had given them mastery of their changed
environment； allowing them to tunnel through the hearts of the glaciers and to strike at the ork mobs
where they least expected。
A single Termite wouldn’t win this war — but with Cressida becoming more and more like
Valhalla each day； it could at least carry one squad of Ice Warriors to where they needed to be。 That
was； if Gavotski could find it a squad to carry。
He had sent out the orders over two hours ago。 Trooper Mikhaelev had been the first to report in：
a quiet； lean； thin…faced man； not at all what Gavotski had been expecting from a heavy weapons
expert。 Anakora had arrived next； her face impassive； her eyes dead even as she had told Gavotski
what an honour it was to be assigned to him。 Then Blonsky had come in； his narrow； black eyes
forever darting about him； alert like a hawk。
That； so far； had been it； apart from a few garbled vox messages。 Two of Gavotski’s draftees
were listed as dead； three as missing in action； although efforts were ongoing to locate them。 Of the
remaining four； including his reserve choices； he had heard and seen nothing。 It was with some
relief； then； that he greeted the approach of a Chimera； although even the jaded sergeant couldn’t
help but raise an eyebrouscular trooper hanging from its side。
The hitchhiker didn’t wait for the vehicle to stop。 He hopped down and ambled up to Gavotski；
his broad； toothy grin a bright white behind his black beard。
“Trooper Borscz； sergeant；” he introduced himself。 “Apologies for my late arrival； but your first
message did not get through。 Machines； you know。”
Gavotski introduced himself in turn； held up a hand to stem Borscz’s eager questions； and
indicated that he should wait beside the Termite with the others。 As the newcomer moved to obey；
the sergeant noted that his eyes flickered； as all their eyes had； towards the brooding figure of
Colonel Stanislev Steele。
Steele stood a few metres away； his power sword at his hip； observing all with a cool but shrewd
gaze。 His bionic right eye glinted in the light of a flaring explosion in the sky； but there were no
other outward signs of his internal augmetics。
It was said by some that Steele’s emotions had been neutered by his cybernetic grafts； that he
had become cold； unfeeling。 Gavotski could see how that myth had been born。 He counted himself
privileged； however； to be one of the few who knew the truth。
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The Chimera had come to a halt； and another two Ice Warriors emerged； exchanging amiable
banter。 They introduced themselves as Troopers Barreski and Grayle。 That made six — eight；
including the sergeant and the colonel。 It was enough to make do； but two short of the full squad for
which Gavotski had hoped。 He glanced at Steele for instructions； but could see that； as always； he
was happy to trust his sergeant’s judgement。
He decided to wait another ten minutes。 With luck； Palinev might still make it； and bring the
count up to nine。 Beyond that…
Gavotski had had high hopes for one more Ice Warrior。 He had added Pozhar’s name to his list；
despite his chequered service record； despite Steele’s concerns； because he had worked with the lad
before and judged him to have potential。 Pozhar was one of the three MIAs — which meant that
Gavotski was now praying for a miracle。
Or； to put it another way； he was about to find out if his faith had been justified。
Pozhar had lost all track of time。
He was so close to his goal； so close to getting back to his comrades； the returning hero。 It
seemed like days since he had been separated from them； days since he had lain on the battlefield；
almost gagging on the stench of the fallen Chaos worshippers whose bodies had protected him。
Now； he was just a few metres away。
A few metres — but it may as well have been a few thousand。
It was not in the young trooper’s nature to lie still for long。 Anyway； the grumbling of
approaching engines had alerted him to a new danger。 The Chaos army had pressed forward； most of
its foot soldiers passing him by without seeing him； but behind them had come the heavy artillery；
the tanks and the battle cannons； and he had had to act fast to avoid being crushed beneath their
wheels。
Pozhar had scrambled to his feet； feeling the sting of cold air on his face； expecting to be shot
down as soon as he was seen。 Instead； surrounded by the enemy； he went unnoticed。 He had realised
that his uniform was dishevelled and torn； coated in grime and blood； and thus there was no real
visible difference between him and any number of Traitor Guardsmen on the battlefield。 Thinking
quickly； he had ripped off his unit badge to further this illusion； and had considered taking a coat
from one of the fallen traitors； one daubed in Chaos sigils； but the thought of wearing such a thing
had made his stomach turn and his skin crawl。
He couldn’t just stand there； he had realised。 He had to do something； make it look like he
belonged here； give himself time to think； to find an escape route。
Casting around； he had seen a pair of cultists bickering over an upset cart。 A purloined plasma
cannon； too heavy to carry； had spilled from the rickety contraption； and Pozhar had rushed to help
lift it back into place。 In so doing； he had brushed against a cultist’s arm and felt something shifting
beneath his cloak。 He had caught a glimpse of a slimy black tentacle； and had almost vomited on the
spot。
Pozhar had ached — truly； physically ached — with the driving need to pull out his lasgun； to
blast these freaks to whatever afterlife they believed in； and he would have done it too had it not
been for the vox…message… had it not been for the fact that Colonel Stanislev Steele needed him。
He wished he knew how long it had been。
He had slipped away from the cultists at the first opportunity； leaving his last frag grenade in
their cannon’s barrel。 When the weapon was fired； the grenade would burst and； Pozhar hoped；
trigger a devastating plasma explosion。 He had made his way to the edge of the battlefield； trying to
remain innocuous； finding cover where he could in deserted； half…demolished buildings。
He had not counted on running into civilians。 Four women and six children were huddled in a
dark corner of one of those buildings； somehow overlooked by the heretics that had burnt out their
homes and slaughtered their men。
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At first they had been an unwelcome burden； because Pozhar would certainly have become a
target as soon as he had stepped out into the open with them。 But； emboldened by the appearance of
an Imperial Guardsmen； their saviour； the women had told him of a way out： a hatchway into the
underhive。
And so； Pozhar had ended up here； in a tunnel mouth； up to his ankles in the filth of a billion
departed slum…dwellers； as the women waited some way behind him and tried to keep their children
quiet。 And the ladder that would take them all back up to the surface； back to Pozhar’s comrades；
was just a few metres away… a few metres away； but guarded。
It had been a shock to find cultists in the underhive。 Fortunately； the women had known their
way around； and； so far； they had been able to keep out of sight； though a number of diversions due
to blocked tunnels had left Pozhar fretting with impatience。 His greatest fear was that Colonel Steele
might have given up on him by now — worse still； might have written him off as a coward or a
traitor。
Four cultists。 He could take them； he thought； especially as their guns were trained on the
manhole above them。 They were expecting trouble from above； not from below。 They weren’t
expecting him。