Duvall walked at the very head of the column, with Evan close behind and to one side. The boy's sister had not come with them. She was too young, and Duvall still did not know whether Chaos had touched her. She would be safer in the camp.
The narrow underground passage was scarcely six metres wide. Rough-hewn rock and packed earth hung overhead. Every few dozen metres, an antiquated gas lamp had been nailed to the wall, shedding a meagre pool of light.
They were advancing towards the target zone, entering through the fork they had identified earlier. As the main force, they had descended directly through the cellar entrance in Heras City.
The forces led by the other company commanders, meanwhile, had to reach the cellar passages beneath the nearest villages. The tunnels were simply too cramped. Even with only a little more than five hundred men behind Duvall, their column already stretched for hundreds of metres. Any larger concentration would be dangerously vulnerable to a sudden attack splitting its head from its tail and plunging the whole formation into chaos.
Colonel Nathan Fox's earlier decision had therefore been sound. They would assemble in stages amid the tangled, interconnected passages before the shadowed region.
As they advanced, the air grew hotter, thick with the mingled stench of sulphur, blood, and some kind of rotting meat.
The odour was like flesh decomposing in the humid, oppressive heat of high summer. Even Duvall could not help but knit his brow.
They had been moving downward through these branching passages for nearly an hour. The route was longer than expected, rising and dipping, dividing again and again into smaller offshoots. Duvall had to constantly compare their path against the map Colonel Nathan had given him, lest they lose themselves in this labyrinth of tunnels.
Though the Ashen Watchers were inherently well adapted to harsh conditions, and Duvall's [Forced March (Basic)] aided them, the heat and foul air still drove many soldiers to curse under their breath as they stripped off their heavy greatcoats and tied them around their waists. They remained in their flak vests with ceramite armour plates, sweat streaking their dust-caked faces.
Duvall wanted to remove his Commissar's greatcoat as well, but the thought of his station stayed his hand.
Dammit. Why did he have to be a Commissar? Duvall sighed inwardly, then turned and gave the column a swift inspection.
Five hundred and sixty-one men: four companies close to full strength, plus the remnants of Sixth Company. They formed a long, winding grey serpent within the passage. Footfalls, clattering equipment, and harsh breathing blended together, unnaturally clear within the confined space.
The heavy-weapons squad occupied the centre of the column. Two large-calibre autocannons had been dismantled into components and were carried upon soldiers' shoulders. Two veterans bore meltaguns, while the remaining shoulder-fired rocket launchers were distributed among the platoons. When the heavy-weapons squad sergeant noticed Duvall looking their way, he nodded to indicate that all was ready.
At last, Duvall's gaze settled on a figure in Third Company's ranks, head bowed and murmuring an unceasing litany.
Finn Valentine still wore his grey mask, and showed no intention of removing a single garment. He did nothing but recite verses glorifying the God-Emperor, and no one disturbed him.
Duvall began to slow his pace and opened the Legion Soul interface within his vision. A translucent panel floated before his retina. On its right side, text read: "Emperor's Wrath: 300."
The skill tree unfolded.
Duvall's gaze passed over the abilities requiring points, before coming to rest upon a skill within the Sacred branch. Its icon gleamed faintly: [Silence].
He opened its detailed description.
[Upon activation, creates a temporary Reality-Stabilisation Field of moderate radius, centred upon the user. Within the field, the flow of all Warp energy becomes severely impeded. The potency of enemy psychic attacks is greatly diminished. Duration: 30 seconds. Cooldown: 48 hours.]
[Beneath His gaze, every blasphemous whisper of the Warp shall fall into dead silence.]
Activation Cost: 300 Emperor's Wrath.
Thirty seconds. Brief—but Duvall felt it was nothing short of a divine ability, especially when facing Daemons and psykers that were otherwise difficult to counter. Thirty seconds would still be enough to threaten them.
Yet Duvall did not choose the skill lightly. Spending all three hundred points at once gave him pause.
And if he spent every point preparing for psykers, only to find the enemy force contained a great many Adeptus Astartes, he would have no reserve left with which to turn the battle around. He did not select it immediately, instead browsing the other abilities.
There was [Last Stand], which could be activated to forcibly lock morale, sanity, and Chaos Corruption in place; [Martyr's Revenge], which increased everyone's attributes each time an ally died during its duration.
He even saw an active skill called [Living Saint], requiring two thousand points to unlock. It claimed to grant a portion of the power of [???] for ten seconds. Was the Yellow Weasel going to possess him or something? They were all godlike abilities. He wanted every last one of them, but...
Then a signal sounded through the communications channel from the reconnaissance team: two long pulses and one short. Enemy contact.
He immediately raised a hand, signalling the column to halt. Moments later, two scouts hurried back from around the bend and gave their report in hushed voices.
"Cultist patrol," said the lead scout, breathing hard. "Mutants and hounds. About six of them. They are heading this way. Less than a kilometre beyond the next bend."
Duvall immediately checked the map. Their present position was still roughly three kilometres from the shadowed region, while the other companies had yet to reach their assigned positions.
The village cellar entrances used by the other companies were farther away, their routes more complex. It would likely take another one or two hours before the formations had fully assembled.
They could not exchange fire here.
Gunfire would carry throughout the entire underground network, and the enemy would know their position at once. Then it would no longer be five hundred men against a patrol, but five hundred men against the cultists' entire main force—and perhaps numerous Chaos Adeptus Astartes.
Duvall drew a slow breath. The sulphurous reek in the air seemed stronger than ever. He turned towards the column behind him, his eyes passing over faces slick with sweat and dust.
"I need several veterans," he said, his voice low but sufficiently clear. "No shooting. I need men who know how to use a blade."
Hands immediately rose among the ranks.
Duvall selected six soldiers. Just as he prepared to personally lead them to hunt down the enemy, his gaze passed over the sniper still praying softly with his eyes closed.
"Finn," Duvall ordered. "You too."
The man in the black mask ceased his recitation. His deep sky-blue eyes met Duvall's for a moment, then he nodded. He lowered the long-las rifle from his back and drew the combat knife at his waist.
*
Duvall swiftly led the group into the shadows beyond the bend ahead. He pressed himself against the cold earthen wall and raised a hand in a gesture for silence.
Everyone became utterly still.
Chaos hounds possessed an exceptional sense of smell. Even through air saturated with sulphur and blood, they could distinguish the scent of strangers. Waiting passively for death was not an option.
Duvall lowered his voice. "When the moment comes, we charge out together on my command. Hounds first, then the mutants. Make as little noise as possible."
The soldiers nodded soundlessly, tightening their grips upon their combat knives.
The mingled stench of sulphur, blood, and decay grew ever stronger.
Footsteps sounded from the far end of the passage. Duvall heard deep, muffled growls rising from throats, like the roar of savage beasts in some menagerie from his former life.
Duvall listened intently, judging the distance. Fifty metres. Forty. Thirty...
He raised his left hand and clenched it into a fist, signalling the soldiers to prepare.
The men behind him tensed.
The enemy was here.
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