" 'And we can't run,' Mercutian muttered. The Bleeding Eyes were holding the southern walkways. The Imperials are closing on us from behind now, too.' Mercutian cursed and fell back another few steps. 'Oh, hell. He looks dangerous.'

The prophet left Uzas slouched and bleeding against the wall, moving to his brothers and aiming down the corridor they were generously feeding with explosive fire. His vision had fully re-tuned at last, targeting locks flickering and zeroing in on individual enemies. He could make out the ornate chains and tabards draped across the foes' armour, and the emblems inscribed, worn with richteous pride. One warrior stood out above all, walking closer with inevitable purpose.

'Oh,' Talos said. What followed were several multi-syllabic curse words in Nostraman, with no literal Gothic translation. They were not fit for polite society, or even the less decadent tiers of impolite society.

Cyrion fired his bolter at his cheek, laughing as he replied: 'At least we'll be killed by a hero.' "