Sergeant Barnier lumbered nearby, still hauling those two who had succumbed to the whispers, his armor's servos churning, struggling as he staggered through the chaos.

  Retreating was a bloody mess, a brutal slog of fire and death, explosions tearing through the air all around as grenades were lobbed, almost rivaling the prevalence of the fell barrages, blocks invoked on the move, weapons blaring, a defiant hymn against the unholy tide.

  Soulreapers kept swarming, their scythes stealing souls, their auras devouring the weak, shadowfiends intermixed with them now.

  Vas holstered his sidearm, then his fingers fumbled for a grenade. It sailed into a cluster of reapers, erupting in a blaze of purifying flame, granting a moment’s respite.

  The gateway spewed more of the filth as he lobbed another grenade at a pack, then another, then a fourth moments later.

  That was his last. His belt was empty save for a plasma charge, which he hurled at another encroaching swarm, its detonation searing the profane to ash.

  The ground trembled as the Furor landed a short distance to Vas’ rear, its engines’ blare like a prayer of salvation.

  Almost everyone turned, picking up the pace, those that could, sprinting to the ship. Vas turned to do the same, but a reaper’s aura enveloped him a split moment before something bit deep into his back, tearing through armor and flesh.

  He twisted and jerked hard, rolling across the blighted earth, the blade ripping free as the aura ate at his life.

  On his back, he drew his pistol, activating Repent, frantically squeezing the trigger as Holy rounds punched through the reaper’s leering skull.

  A brother running past finished it with a blaster burst, the creature dissolving into foul wisps, leaving behind only its shroud and scythe.

  Vas scrambled up, sprinting for the Furor’s ramp for all he was worth, praying he wasn’t in the way of any of its weapon systems.

  The Furor had never looked so beautiful, all the length of it, shaped like a scarred arrowhead, forged for this grim work, the thrusters flaring, ready to go, the ramp open like a beast’s maw, inviting him into its armored belly.

  The Furor’s weapons whirred in bursts, barking in righteous fury, stitching the air with tracers and beams that carved through the Hellspawn.

  Hull-mounted cannons roared, explosions bloomed amid the horde, spectral forms splattering in bursts of profane vapor, the armaments reaping the reapers.

  Marko’s turret now dragged along the ground, blood seeping from a gash in his helm, his growls fading to pained gasps. His steps faltered, the Knight spent. Vas hoped his madness was spent too.

  He had no idea where Voluntas was. He hadn’t seen Dilk in a bit, and he hadn’t heard a word from First Lieutenant Kael since the second gateway kicked off.

  Kael had been situated between alpha and bravo teams, but Vas caught no trace of him in the retreat, no comms, no silhouette, his absence like a cold knife of loss in the chaos.

  He slowed, stowing his sidearm, wrapping his good arm around his brother, hauling Marko’s slumping form up the ramp.

  He exhaled as Dilk emerged to his right, his armor corroded and rent, dragging a brother backward up the ramp, step by armored step, his blaster spitting one-handed bursts as others stumbled past him.

  Third squad’s remnants and the Furor’s Lay crew, mostly the technici, unleashed a storm of fury from up at the ramp’s mouth, their fire searing into the encroaching reapers.

  Halfway up, pushing Marko ahead, a scythe clanged off the ramp in a shower of sparks beside him, as iridescent blasts from those atop shrieked past, burning into enemies behind.

  Brothers jostled one another, someone nearly crushing Vas against the hull as they stormed past.

  As he crested the threshold, a fell bolt struck his back, shoving him forward, colliding with Marko, both of them tumbling onto the bay’s grated deck.

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  The hit felt like being lashed with a Nerve-render, sending agony through his whole body, stealing his breath.

  He gasped, struggling to suck in air, his brothers fighting around him in the bay as others battled aboard, spells hammering the ramp and hull, corroding plates with sizzling hisses.

  The Furor’s cannons answered in kind, tearing into the horde with righteous fury as brothers stumbled across the ramp’s threshold.

  Many were on the ground. Some collapsed in relief, others in agony, and others in death’s cold embrace. Someone had hauled the Harbinger Company’s banner aboard, giving Vas some relief at that.

  As Sergeant Barnier climbed the ramp, it began groaning upward, its hydraulics whining under strain, and the ship’s thrusters roared louder, lifting up.

  More would survive than Vas had assumed would, praise the Three.

  But the soulreapers were relentless, their hunger unyielding, and at least a dozen of the horrors slithered onto the raising ramp, rushing to make it aboard, their tattered cloaks billowing behind them, their scythes slashing.

  Everyone covered Sergeant Barnier as best they could as he dove forward, spilling his two wards before rolling and drawing his sidearm, joining the fray.

  As the door sealed, and the battle fully spilled into the bay, Vas tore his pistol from its holster, barking rounds in the confined space along with the technici and those brothers still standing or capable of fighting.

  Abilities activated, shimmering barriers flared into being, taking up precious space to maneuver, while blessed rounds tore into unholy filth.

  Nearby, almost stepping on Vas’ leg, Hesther, a technicus in a custom set of power armor, unleashed some sort of purging blast, Holy fire consuming one of the creatures in a radiant inferno.

  The whispers slithered anew, surging, and Marko stirred, muttering garbled muck as he tried to stand. Vas shifted, leaning his weight on him, keeping him grounded in case madness still gripped him.

  Second Lieutenant Regalis, probably out of ammo, swung a sword in melee, moving to block a reaper headed at Vas.

  One of the two Barnier hauled aboard, Thyme, rose and lunged at Carter, a gubernator, grappling as his armor began growing a sickly green, possessed by something unholy.

  Weapons tore into him until he lay twitching on the ground. Vas clenched his jaw. Thyme had been in first squad for going on four years.

  Knights and Lay crew alike all fought with fervent desperation, safety finally lying in reach, just beyond this brutal stand, pouring all they had into purging the last of the Hellspawn to make it aboard.

  The reapers’ auras alone finished off a few wounded, eating at the little life left within them.

  Sergeant Lhamo of third squad, firing from his back on the ground, helmetless, blood leaking from a head wound, dropped his weapon, slumping, eyes going dead as he gasped his last breath, his life drained to nothing.

  Vas felt it too, sapping him as he fought on, fraying his mind, reducing the battle to flashes as panic set in.

  He knew this was his end. He felt the life leaving him, being sucked out.

  Then, silence reigned.

  Nothing remained to shoot at.

  His mind settled.

  All the reapers aboard were dead.

  Dilk helped someone to his feet, mumbling something. Second Lieutenant Regalis’ voice crackled tiredly over comms. “Doc survive? He here? The chaplain? We have some needing exorcism.”

  Vas exhaled, his head collapsing back onto Marko, relief flooding his battered and bloodied body.

  He closed his eyes. And just breathed, reveling in the victory.

  They won.

  Or the ones left had. A brief respite from the grind, the endless unholy hunger, testing resolve and faith until the last breath.

  Marko twitched, nonsensical profanities spewing from his helm. Vas leaned harder, putting more of his weight on him.

  It took a second for the noises to penetrate, for Vas to realize what he was hearing. His eyes snapped open, seeing the survivors looking around.

  Clanks and thuds echoed through the bay, coming from every side, from everywhere.

  The tip of a scythe pierced through the ramp.

  Outside, there had to be a hundred soulreapers or more swarming the Furor’s hull like ravenous insects, their spells, scythes, and claws assailing the Furor.

  The ship shuddered as it continued getting altitude, the thrusters roaring at full.

  Vas prayed the air’s drag would scour the horde away. He doubted they had to worry. The ramp was a weak point, the tip of a scythe piercing through it testified to that, but he’d wager they couldn’t do much damage to the hull.

  Though the lack of a System message, indicating combat hadn't ended, caused some worry.

  Then, alarms wailed as the lights turned red, flashing, pulsing like blood. All the technici took off sprinting.

  The Furor bucked in the air. Vas could make out retorts of the ship's armaments firing, and he was glad to hear it. They’d be alright.

  A moment later, the Furor veered wildly. Maybe to shake off the clinging horde? He hoped so.

  “Brace for impact!” the helmsman’s voice screamed through the amplifiers. “We’re going down!”

  The Furor listed hard, its engines clanking terribly. Or something was clanking terribly, making a horrible noise it definitely shouldn’t.

  Vas gripped Marko, rolling on top of his body, doing what he could to shield his brother.

  And they plummeted.

  His helm cracked against the bulkhead as the ship crashed, slamming into the cursed earth with a booming impact that scattered the survivors around like chaff.

  Pain seared through him, and his vision blackened then blurred, his mouth filling with blood. He clung to Marko, praying his friend still lived.

  Dust or ash filled the hold, brothers in cracked armor groaned, and outside, the soulreapers' unholy wails rose in triumph.

  If the 11th Templar didn’t reach them soon, all thirty-four names of Harbinger Company would adorn Shadeveil Cloister’s walls, etched in gold as martyrs.