The Hammers of Dorn had always followed the Codex Astartes to the letter, but in this case, conventional planetfall tactics had turned out to be ill-advised. This was a massacre, nothing less. Apothecary Antaloch edged over to a fallen battle-brother. The dying warrior had a hole in his chest that Antaloch could fit his fist through. Releasing the armour’s cuirass, he plunged his reductor deep into his comrade’s neck. A thick churning sound grumbled under the roar of battle as Antaloch extracted the progenoid glands and stowed them with the dozens of others he had flasked thus far. The Apothecary was intoning the last rites when there was a crack of impact; a xenos warsuit thumped down in front of Antaloch and pressed the muzzle of its energy rifle to his helmet. The Apothecary froze. The alien assassin filled his vision, statuesque and lethal. The figure would have dwarfed a Terminator. ‘It is unclear,’ stated the giant in stilted Imperial Gothic, its hidden speakers uncannily like a real voice. ‘You must know this one does not live, ministratormedic- equivalent.’ ‘Aye,’ growled Antaloch, ‘and yet his due must be given.’ ‘Despite the likelihood of sustaining lethal damage yourself.’ ‘Just so,’ said the Apothecary. He fought the urge to cover the precious geneseed flasks. A moment of stillness passed.

‘Your stance is defensive, yet not indicative of self-preservation,’ stated the warsuit. Before he could reply, bolter shells detonated between the giant’s jump engines. Its shoulder-mounted blaster whirred around, obliterating the Space Marine running in behind it. Its energy rifle never moved from Antaloch’s helm. ‘A theory. During the death ritual, you recover a substance and/or information code that your warrior caste deems vital.’ Antaloch stared up at the towering figure, but said nothing. ‘Interesting,’ said the xenos giant. ‘Proceed then, by all means.’ Raising its rifle in a brief salute, the battlesuit boosted up into the skies on twin tongues of flame. Blinking in disbelief, the Apothecary voxed, ‘Captain Rumann? When this is over, we need to talk.’