By the time Duvall left the command post, the snowfall had grown heavier still.
Fine flakes spun in the freezing wind, like countless grey moths fluttering down towards the earth. The artillery fire on the distant horizon had fallen entirely silent, and the whole world had sunk into an endless hush. Only the crunch of boots upon packed snow and the howling wind echoed along the empty streets.
The war council had lasted two hours. Colonel Nathan had not excluded Duvall merely because of his recent promotion. Instead, he had permitted him to observe the entire proceedings. Six officers had gathered around a long table buried beneath maps, each man's expression as leaden as the sky beyond the windows.
The Astra Militarum force suppressing the rebellion on Falak IV included, alongside the 101st Ashen Watchers Regiment, Cadian Armoured Regiments, Valhallan Ice Warriors, Mordian Iron Guard, and other Imperial Guard formations. One hundred and sixty thousand soldiers in all, under the unified command of a Lord General.
The Heras City defensive line had originally endured fierce assaults from the cultists. Then, three days ago, those attacks had abruptly ceased.
And not only here.
Reports from the other regiments showed that the cultists across the entire planet had reduced the frequency of their attacks at almost precisely the same time. At first, High Command had attributed this to the cold disaster. After all, temperatures of minus forty degrees were enough to make movement difficult for any army.
But the notebook Duvall had brought back, the appearance of a Chaos Space Marine, and the news that the vast subterranean network beneath Falak IV was interconnected had made every heart sink into the abyss.
The enemy had known the cold disaster was coming.
They had known all along.
What concerned the senior command even more was the network of interconnected cellars between the cities.
The rebel formations that had appeared and vanished without warning, the sudden assaults that had bypassed the defensive lines—now all of it had a rational explanation. The cultists had no need to march across the surface. They could travel underground.
And while Duvall had lain unconscious, Astra Militarum reconnaissance teams had uncovered seven further underground blood-sacrifice sites. Combined with the frequent reports from front-line soldiers of cult rituals, High Command had reached a conclusion chilling beyond measure: the enemy was preparing a large-scale Warp ritual.
A daemonic incursion from the Warp.
The phrase had echoed relentlessly in every mind. But where would the enemy conduct the ritual? And by what means?
At the council, Duvall had voiced his own suspicion. He described the fork he had encountered during the final stretch of his return to Heras City—the left-hand passage, and the nauseating sensation it had stirred within him, an oppressive discomfort that made his head feel as if it would split merely by approaching it. Colonel Nathan had listened, fallen silent for several seconds, then nodded.
"I will report this," the Colonel had said. "For now, return to the camp and rest. Your wounds have not yet healed."
Duvall had not refused. He truly did need rest; the bandages on his back were still throbbing with a muted pain.
He followed the snow-covered road towards the rear. The regiment's camp occupied an industrial district not far from the defensive line.
Just as he entered the complex, a familiar figure came into view.
It was Evan.
The boy wore a grey greatcoat plainly too large for him, its sleeves rolled up several times before his hands emerged. He carried a tin pail and trudged unevenly through the snow, the bucket filled with daily necessities. Snow settled upon his golden hair and shoulders, making him look like a walking snowman.
"Evan," Duvall called.
The boy jerked his head up. His eyes lit up when he saw Duvall. Carrying the tin pail, he jogged through the snow and stopped before him, a delighted smile spreading across his face.
"Sir! You are awake!"
Duvall nodded and reached out to pat the boy's shoulder. "Thank you for throwing that melta grenade that day. Without you, all of us would have died there."
Evan blushed. He scratched the back of his head, and snow sifted down from his hair. "Honestly, I... I was scared then too. I did not really think about it."
"You did exactly right," Duvall interrupted, his tone grave. "You saved every one of us."
The two walked side by side towards the barracks. Duvall asked Evan why he was here. Surely the refugee camp in the city was safer?
"The camp is full," Evan said, his breath turning to white mist that swiftly dispersed in the freezing wind. "When Colonel Nathan learned that I had saved you and Sixth Company, he let my sister and me stay at the regimental camp. He said there was heating here, at least."
Heating.
The word passed through Duvall's mind like an electric shock. He stopped dead.
Evan took two more steps before realising Duvall had not followed. He turned back, looking in confusion at the Commissar standing motionless behind him.
"Sir?"
Duvall did not answer. His thoughts were racing. The city hospital had heating. The command post had heating. The barracks had heating. Were the heating systems of those buildings independent? No. Impossible. In a city this large, there had to be a central heating core.
"Evan." Duvall's voice became stern. "You said just now that the camp has heating. How is that heating supplied?"
The sudden shift in Duvall's tone startled the boy. He blinked and answered cautiously, "It is... geothermal heating. There is a geothermal heating core deep beneath the city. All the buildings receive their heat from there."
The geothermal heating core.
Duvall felt his heart beat faster. He stared at Evan and asked, one word at a time, "Can the underground passages—the cellar tunnels linking the cities—lead directly to the geothermal heating core?"
Evan furrowed his brow in thought. Snowflakes settled on his eyelashes, and he blinked them away.
"Under normal circumstances, probably not," the boy said. "The geothermal core and its control room are very deep underground, and they have dedicated access passages. To get there from the cellar network, you would have to come back up to the surface first, then go down through an entrance in the city..."
But Duvall was no longer listening.
Something was wrong.
What was wrong?
He remembered the pried-up rails in the underground passageways. He remembered the mountain of skulls piled in the granary. He remembered the blood-red words on the final page of that notebook: "The cold disaster approaches; all things shall perish. Better to burn without restraint before destruction comes."
The enemy knew the cold disaster was coming. They knew the vast underground network was interconnected, yet they had not used it to launch raids. Instead, they had spent vast numbers of expendable bodies assaulting Heras City head-on. They were conducting cult rituals underground...
And if the geothermal heating core were overloaded until it ruptured in a fiery detonation, then, combined with the cult ritual, the resulting power could very well...
"I have to go back," Duvall said. His voice was low, as though he spoke only to himself.
Evan froze. "Go back where?"
"The command post." Duvall had already turned away. "I need to see Colonel Nathan."
He did not run. The wound in his back would not permit such violent exertion. But he walked swiftly.
He returned along the street and once more reached the warehouse that housed the command post. The sentries at the entrance looked surprised to see him return.
"Sir? Did you forget something?"
"I need to see the Colonel. Now." There was an urgency in Duvall's voice that brooked no question.
The guards exchanged a look. One of them lifted the canvas flap. "The Colonel is still in the briefing room."
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