His leg ached. He’d lost the medipack that covered it, somewhere. A cursory glance at his pack reminded him of the blade-encrusted vehicle-monster and he shuddered, secretly grateful that he’d been under the effects of the madness. In a more rational state of mind, beyond the ravaging effects of exhaustion and the rage, he couldn’t have hoped to deal with such an enemy.

Was the Mont’au to thank, then, for his deliverance?

More rogue thoughts, there. Displacement was the key, he decided. Stay busy. Don’t think. He stood up, testing his body, and was astonished to find himself refreshed. He stretched languidly, arching his back and rubbing at his arms, enjoying the feline sensation for its mundane normalcy.

Something loud punctured his comfort from outside the pod. He blinked and ignored the ugly sound, concentrating on himself.

Tapping at a small control on his wrist (mercifully undamaged), a small tube flicked into position alongside his mouth and he sipped gratefully on a high-energy soup of j’hal nectar, imagining it spreading through his body like a warm lattice of glowing tendrils. It felt that way.

“‘A well-maintained warrior’,” he said aloud, not feeling foolish, “‘is an effective warrior.’ Sio’t meditation twelve, lesson four.”

A series of explosions, somewhere nearby, rocked the drop pod lightly — like a faint wind. He scowled and put it out of his mind, not prepared to deal with that reality yet.

He picked up the burst cannon, examining its smooth lines. It was pitted and scratched in places, and as he drew a gloved finger along the barrel he was careful to avoid such imperfections, as if by refraining from any contact with the brutality of his memories he might successfully eclipse them. The dull report of distant explosions grew more frequent — stuttering gunfire and moaning aircraft engines entering the general background hum.

“‘A single blade of grass’,” he recited loudly, blocking the sounds of war, “‘will bend and falter in the lightest wind. But where grass grows in pasture, in field or savannah; each blade feels but a fraction of the wind’s full force. It prospers due to the common purpose of its fe—’”

“Xeno? Are you undamaged?”

Kais stopped, startled.

The voice had sounded like it came from behind him. He fought the irrational desire to spin on his spot, looking for the speaker. He already knew the pod was empty. He coughed and started again, even louder.

“‘A single blade of gr—’”

“Xeno? Xenogen, are you receiving this?”

This time the voice was impossible to ignore — more clear than previously and full of urgency. It spoke directly into his ear in the gue’la language. He resolved to ignore it.

“Guilliman’s oath, alien! If you’re there, answer me!”

“Who is this...?” he whispered, cold sweat gathering inside his helmet.

“Ah! You’re alive.”

“Who is this?”

“What do you mean? It’s Ardias, of course.”

The memories came tumbling in, and this time he couldn’t turn away from them.

At the height of the madness there’d been a voice in his head. This Ardias, he realised. The blue-suited Space Marine, with his grey on grey scarred features, his grizzled frown and his no-nonsense voice, helmetless and scowling. Instructing him how to destroy the weapon stacks, talking him through the worst of the murder rage. Part of his madness, he’d surmised. A gue’la in his ear.

“Ardias,” he said, trying out the sound of it. For some reason it was hard to visualise anyone other than Lusha at the end of the comm.

“That’s right. What’s your status?”

“Landed. I’m on the surface.”

“Obviously. I meant, whereabouts on the surface?” The voice was thick with impatience.

Struggling against the inertia, Kais dragged himself towards the gaping exit of the pod and peered out. The desire to withdraw and wrench closed the door was almost overwhelming.

A Barracuda shrieked overhead, heavy weapons throbbing at the air. Sooty arcs of dust and debris fountained skywards all across the horizon, bulbous mushrooms of flame and red-black smoke rising upwards at their hearts. A gue’la city spread out before him, crude earthen buildings of angry right angles and flat topped mundanity stretching away into the distance. He recognised certain landmarks — here and there the tall steeples of prefabricated chapels, erected by the book to mirror one another exactly. A serried rank of blocky factories and vast hangars cast a long shadow across the district. Somewhere behind him, long since deserted, were the trenchways where the madness had begun.

The drop pods came down like meteors hurled out of space, glowing red hot from the descent. Shrieking out their plummet like a tide of banshees, they ripped from the clouds and pummelled the city. Buildings dissolved to mud and dust, belching their pulverised walls air-wards. Streets were gouged and dented, succumbing to an artillery bombardment that spawned dizzy, shell-shocked passengers, gue’la and tau alike. They crawled from craters and wreckage groggily, clutching at heads and weapons and each other.

“There...” Ardias voxed. “We have a fix on your position. Stay out of the pod — it interferes with your communicator.”

Kais wasn’t listening. He’d seen something.

They came along the street like walking tumours. Armour articulating fluidly, dragging chains and horsehair capes behind them, ugly weapons chattering and crooning into the devastation. One of them had daubed seven-pointed stars across his armour using tau blood, opaque and bright against the matt-black shell.

Its private constellation of gore dripped and ran together as it killed. One wore no helmet, and its face was a bloodless white maggot-mask with eyes like embers. A nearby gue’la shot it, screaming out a prayer at the top of his voice, and ripped off the monster’s ear. Blood the colour and consistency of oil snaked along its neck and it smiled, enjoying the sensation.

One ripped open a building with a greasy krak grenade, laughing and cackling as the dust blossomed around it. It stalked into the wreckage and dragged the building’s mewling occupants into the street.

Then it...

It...

Kais watched until the civilians were all dead. It took a long time.

Mont’au Marines. Twisted versions of the blue-armoured colossus on the comm. He’d seen their kind on the Enduring Blade, of course, his memories were thick with their cruel laughter, but in that decaying ship tomb, overcome by the rage and the bitterness, he’d been beyond speculation. In the grips of the Mont’au he’d seen only beings to be destroyed, never differentiating between enemy or ally, never asking the question that now settled on him heavily.

“What are they...?”

“The enemy?” Ardias voxed, sounding matter of fact. “Chaos. Evil.”

Kais sought for words, hunting for resolve that he didn’t feel.

“The sio’t teaches us that evil is a falsehood,” he said, clutching at the display wafer in his pouch. “A-all truth is subjective. Evil is just valour, regarded from a different perspective.” He tried to put conviction into his voice, attempting to believe the dogma.

“Spare me your heresy!” the Marine voxed, angry. “How can you doubt the evidence of your own eyes?”

“How... how can we fight this?”

“A question that only a coward need ask, alien.”

Kais’s temper snapped, horror becoming anger in a flash. “Answer me! How do you fight this?”

“Ceaselessy, xeno. Ceaselessly.” The voice sounded tired suddenly, sighing heavily over the bolterfire chattering in the background of the channel. “This thing... this ‘Chaos’. You need to forget everything you know when you fight it. Do you believe that superior numbers matter? Do you think the calibre of your weapon, or... or the strength of your armour will avail you now? They won’t. There are no longer any rules. There are no approved tactics. All you can do, xenogen, is the best that you can.