More artillery shells screamed in, and their impact was echoed by the cries of the fallen.

Sorvane crouched behind the scorched remains of a Predator tank. The vox was full of chatter. Pleas for aid, reports of enemy massing, the ravings of lunatics as madness finally took them. The Iron Warrior’s armour was scarred and pitted, the broken remnants of an Imperial aquila still clinging to his shoulder pad. 

Before him, the city burned. Streaks of fire came from the sky ahead of the advancing Imperial forces. Behind him, the transports were taking off in relays, running the gauntlet of the Imperial fleet to escape to orbit. 

His marines were keeping discipline for the moment, but the crowds waiting to clamber aboard were only a few steps from rushing it as a mob. As he watched, an Iron Warrior executed one loud-mouthed ringleader, buying them a few more minutes. 

Sorvane moved to sight his magnoculars. Iron Warriors were on the other side of the bridge, past the toxic sludge that had drained from the chem farms and mines for generations. The rearguard was stopping the retreat from turning into a rout. They had held together throughout the long retreat, but the might of the Imperium was overwhelming them. 

He could see ruined barricades and the burnt-out wrecks of vehicles. Cultists and traitor soldiers fought alongside Astartes to blunt the Imperial assault. The iron will of the Imperium strove to grind the traitors to dust. Armoured vehicles advanced en masse alongside waves of infantry.

The situation was deteriorating by the moment. He watched two Astartes limp back carrying a third before a tank shell destroyed them. Mortals died en masse, but Sorvane only cared for his fellow Iron Warriors. It had been like this on a hundred worlds during the long retreat after Horus fell above Terra. They had covered the retreat while relentless Imperials scoured the planet of all traitors. But no help was coming for them.

Many of the rearguard had been in his company. He could see their faces, remember their voices. Now he watched them fight and die, succumbing to wounds and superior numbers. An Iron Warrior went down, swarmed by half a dozen Imperial infantry like a spider fighting ants. The remainder were streaming back in broken order, blurry shapes through the smoke and debris of the battlefield.

Sorvane hesitated but only for a moment. He gave the order for the artillery to sight on the bridge. 

‘Hello Sabre, this is Targe, message.’

The message jolted him from his musings. 

‘Sabre, send.’

 The vox-operator on the other end sounded as exhausted as he did. He recognised the voice, Calan. 

‘Targe, requesting immediate reinforcement.’

‘There’s none available, brother.’ 

The soft-spoken regret was at odds with the brutish appearance of the space marine. A barked laugh was his answer before Calan spoke, ‘Understood, I will order our brothers to retreat.’

Sorvane silently shook his head at his battle-brother’s optimism.

‘There’s no time.’ No sympathy, anger, or blame. It was just a statement of fact. 

Calan didn’t even sound surprised. ‘Acknowledged. Iron within, iron without.’ 

Sorvane felt genuine emotion, something he’d been free of for decades. He and Calan had been initiated together, surviving the trials on Olympia.

Sorvane cut off the memory and keyed his helmet’s command rune. 

‘All batteries, grid Theta-Nine, commence saturation bombardment.’

The thunder of artillery resumed again, and the shells began to scream down on loyalists and traitors alike. Men who had fought alongside him for years and in some cases even saved his life. He watched his men die. He owed them that much.

Then silence, broken only by the vox. 

‘All rounds expended. Preparing for new fire mission.’

He had been there at the Drop Site Massacre, the fire fields of Istvaan V. He had watched as Astartes had fought Astartes while Horus revelled in the slaughter. This betrayal hurt much more.

The noise returned, and he could see the shape of more Imperials through the smoke. It was time. There was nothing more for him here, no more of his brothers to save.

Sorvane dropped the magnoculars and strode towards his Thunderhawk, flanked by his bodyguards. He ignored the clamours and pleas of cultists and traitor soldiers. One attempted to block his passage and was battered aside with a ceramite fist. He tore the ruined sigil from his armour and cast it aside.

The Thunderhawk’s ramp closed, sealing off the sounds of battle. Its engines roared as it rose through the polluted skies. Sorvane tried to stave off the feelings, but the rage and bitterness were unstoppable. Below, the remainder of the spaceport was subject to orbital bombardment, a last denial to the loyalists, leaving nothing but ashes. The traitors cried to their gods, but the gods didn’t answer. There was no answer, just the echo of his betrayal, ringing louder than the guns. Below all that remained of his brothers were ashes and ruin.

Let them call him a traitor; he had been betrayed first.