A jagged, star-shaped gateway of blood-red obsidian erupted from the cracked earth, the points twisting upward like a crown of thorns forged in an infernal foundry, the edges lined with gnarled, claw-like barbs that dripped viscous shadow.

  The shadowfiends spilled from a Serious-rated portal, rank four of ten. This was Critical-rated, seventh rank.

  Templar Companies handled these, or a mass of regular companies, four or five with rear military support, artillery and such.

  It gaped wide, a maw of crimson void, and from it poured hundreds upon hundreds of soulreapers, a tide of spectral nightmare that made the shadowfiends seem like vermin by comparison.

  They were tall, emaciated things, cloaked in tattered shrouds of writhing darkness, skeletal bodies beneath, bones gleaming like polished ivory veined with necrotic green.

  Hooded skulls leered from within, eye sockets burning with unholy hunger, and in their bony grips they clutched scythes of coalesced shadow, blades that stole the souls of those whose lives they drank of.

  But it was their fell powers that filled Vas' chest with dread, as the gateway spawned close enough to be within their range.

  If he remembered right, soulreapers lanced bolts of rancid energy from outstretched claws, arcs of draining magic that struck like killer leeches, siphoning life.

  Up close, they were worse, emanating an aura like draining acid, siphoning away life, pulling at the essence of a man until his eyes dulled and his screams faded to nothing, ripe for their scythes to capture a soul.

  The soulreapers were not like the shadowfiends with their animal cunning. These were mindless, ravenous things, swarming like locusts driven by a blind, feral hunger.

  Their skeletal forms, cloaked in writhing shrouds, surged from the crimson maw of the gateway, a tide of death that cared only for slaughter.

  If they had alphas, they were visually indistinguishable from the others.

  “Peel off, brothers!” Captain Torn’s voice roared sharply through the comms. “Fighting retreat west to the pinned point! The Furor descends for extraction!”

  But the situation was falling apart, crumbling under the twin hammers of fate. Shadowfiends pressed forward as attention was turned rearward, while soulreapers stormed from behind, bolts of fell energy arcing from their outstretched claws, searing the air with a sickly green glow that burned Vas’ eyes even through the visor’s filters.

  The whispers clawed at his mind, an evil chorus of despair that sought to drown all in darkness, unraveling resolve, turning some into husks awaiting unholy possession, plunging others into shrieking madness.

  He gritted his teeth, shrugging off the assault, his Purgator barking in defiance as he prepared to fall back, but the center of the line, where his squad lay, was targeted by a barrage of fell energy.

  He vaulted over his block, ducking behind its shimmering bulk as the ground around him erupted in corrosive blasts.

  He risked a glance over the block. Lir, a brother of two years’ campaigns, but still only mid-second Tier, stood frozen in the open.

  A soulreaper’s lance had struck him square in the chest, his Armiger armor corroding under a cascade of unnatural light.

  Some shimmering fragments of his life were torn free, spiraling back to the leering horror that fed upon him.

  Vas lunged, shoulder lowered to drive him away from the channeled power, but Lir collapsed, lifeless, his vitals fading to black in the helm’s display.

  The dark whispers must’ve claimed him, binding his mind into a thrall-like stupor, a Lost, his body locked in place as if awaiting an unholy tenant, a stationary target for the reaper’s draining bolts.

  Marko, to the left, growled like a beast, hefting his mounted weapon in both arms, spewing a relentless storm of sanctified rounds as he backpedaled.

  Scanning around, he saw too many brothers frozen, their minds ensnared. Some succumbed to madness, screaming like lunatics as they fired wildly. Vas hoped they weren’t gone enough that they needed putting down.

  “Move!” Sergeant Dilk’s urgent voice cut through the comms. Leaving Lir, Vas dove back behind his block, using the next as cover as he retreated, his blaster spraying blindly toward the encroaching horde.

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  Voluntas hunched down the line, his lancer bucking as he fired, fighting like the captain’s and Dilk’s order to retreat had never reached him. He was lower level than Lir, but unbowed by the whispers.

  Vas seized his arm, hauling him to his feet.

  “Go!” Vas bellowed through the external comms, blaster spitting fire as he stumbled down the line, catching up to Marko, whose turret still thundered in his hands, his retreat a blind stagger, almost backing into a pit.

  “Cross the blocks, Marko!” Vas barked out, pointing to his safer side, the one providing a little cover, without pits to trip into.

  Dilk and the remnants of bravo team closed in, Sergeant Barnier bearing two brothers over his shoulders, most likely victims of the dark whispers, his turret abandoned to haul them instead.

  Second squad’s survivors, strung out to the east, sprinted toward bravo team, their weapons blazing as the soulreapers blurred into mist, evading fire between the loosing of draining bolts.

  Past second squad, Gao clawed at his helm, shrieking as he fired his lancer into empty air, lost to madness.

  Vas tripped over a brother’s corpse, his boots catching on its corroded armor. Cursing, he steadied himself, glancing back to spot other hazards along the path, but Captain Torn caught his attention, charging through the field, storming the soulreapers alone.

  Sixty meters past the line’s center, he planted his turret’s tripod into the cursed earth, its barrels erupting in a blazing salvo that seared the haze with Holy fire.

  “Get to the extraction!” he roared over the comms, his tone commanding and final, brooking no dissent. “Move!”

  Fell energy screamed past Vas, bolts of rancid green tearing furrows in the cursed earth, spitting shards of rock that clattered against his armor like hail as he fell back.

  Torn blazed defiantly, his turret’s barrels bucking with ceaseless fury, the roar of discharge drumming through the air, cutting through the chaos. “We few!” he bellowed over comms, the chapter’s motto a final challenge to the unholy tide.

  The scattered, bloodied survivors answered in kind over the open channel. “We few!” replied a chorus of resolve in ragged voices, acknowledging his sacrifice.

  Vas switched out the Purgator’s empty cell, backpedaling as his blaster spat fire into the charging horde, their skeletal forms weaving through the ashfall.

  Fell bolts hammered Torn’s Cataphract plate, corroding its sacred engravings in black fumes. He still pivoted the turret with grim accuracy, dodging the arcs that sought to channel and drain him, refusing to stand as a static victim, his salvos carving bloody paths through the swarm as he roared out in pain and defiance.

  Then their vanguard closed, their scythes ripping through the air. Torn dodged one sweeping blade, blocked another by seizing the reaper’s bony arm, then drew his energy-blade in a flash, driving it deep into the leering skull with a sizzle and crack of shattering bone.

  More piled on, at least a dozen with plenty more surging behind, right on their tail. A storm of scythes answered his attacks, their obsidian edges piercing his armor, biting into flesh with sprays of blood.

  Torn roared again, stabbing another through its shrouded chest before collapsing like a broken doll, his soul wrenched free by the blades in a profane wisp, reaped by one of these unholy monsters.

  Then the corpse erupted, engulfing him and the swarming horrors in a blinding conflagration.

  Torn, that rough bastard, defiant to the last, had primed a plasma charge in his final moments before falling.

  Secondary blasts ripped through the air, killing more reapers and finishing off those that had survived the initial explosion.

  A shockwave slammed Vas, nearly causing him to stumble, and spectral filth rained down upon the field.

  He felt it in his gut. He’d fought under Torn for near a decade, wading hip-deep in the muck alongside him.

  Now, Torn’s duty ended, and ended gloriously, buying them a chance.

  The retreat blurred into madness, the whispers clawing Vas’ mind, killing what he could along the way, doing his job.

  A soulreaper closed on Sergeant Dilk, its aura of palpable miasma sapping life.

  Dilk staggered, his blaster firing wild, his comms crackling with a gurgling plea as Vas swung his Purgator around, sending a burst of Holy rounds shattering the thing’s skull in a spray of wafting vapor and ichor.

  The survivors of the company peeled back in chaos, doing it all wrong, no disciplined retreat, just a desperate rout.

  Doctrine demanded squads leapfrogging, first and second covering third, laying down the hate before peeling back in turn.

  But the soulreapers were too fast for that, and the numbers were against them.

  Hundreds became a sea, fell bolts raining down, eating through armor and resolve alike, dark whispers slithering into minds, the shadowfiends swarming in behind too, getting close.

  Just running and gunning as Energy Points plummeted, using everything they had, many brothers lobbing grenades and charges at swarms.

  If anyone survived this muck, there’d be a lot of bodies to recover.

  Vas took a hit to his arm in a flare of terrible agony, leaving it dead weight, forcing him to fire one-handed, his blaster’s cell near spent. Pain flared, but worse were the whispers surging, urging him to kneel, to let it end.

  He growled out a prayer to the Three as he sprayed, shaking off the unholy grip, refusing to join the mindless or the mad.

  When off cooldown, those that could dropped Holy Fortifications, providing some shielding for those passing by during their retreat, at least before shattering under the onslaught.

  The HUD wasn't feeding the company vitals as usual. Because Captain Torn was down, most likely.

  Vas rushed forward to cover Marko, still hauling his turret, its barrels still roaring, acting in a way that made Vas certain the darkness had driven him insane, or at least a little mad.

  On his way, another brother stumbled nearby. Vas juked, heading for him, but the man was done, his soul torn free, his body falling, a husk amid the scrub.

  The reaper responsible for that kill lunged as Vas’ blaster’s last rounds ripped into its hide.

  Just as its aura engulfed him, he dropped the weapon, drew his sidearm, and fired until the creature fell, killing it just as it went to cut him down with its scythe.

  He could clearly hear the Furor approaching, the engines no longer howling from on high, much closer now.

  As further proof of that, the ship opened up into the horde, armaments cracking, beams tearing into the swarms of reapers and fiends past the company’s retreating remnants.