Inside the command vehicle at the center of the rumbling Word Bearers Sicaran formation, Frick stared ahead. As the towering pillar of fire faded, the Shadow of Order battle line emerged on the other side.
His eyes narrowed. His opponents were no longer the uncanny Shadow of Order Librarians, but tanks like those in the column he commanded: Shadow of Order Sicaran Battle Tanks.
Their markings had changed, too. Gleaming stars had given way to dark full moons.
The Shadow of Order's Third Legion!
They, the Iron Hands, and the Iron Warriors were considered the finest armored forces.
The Iron Hands emphasized coordinated firepower, the Iron Warriors pursued overwhelming firepower, and the Shadow of Order were more versatile.
Their coordination rivaled the Iron Hands'. More frightening still was their unique Psionic Energy, which could plunge enemies into an eerie slumber.
Flames crackled as Frick opened the Communicator.
"We're about to fight the finest tank force there is. This is our moment to prove our faith."
The Chaplain's fervent voice followed. "The Gods' eyes are upon Mirhand. They have granted us strength."
Crimson Light enveloped the steel hulls, staining the newly built, unpainted Sicarans deep red.
Machine Spirits shrieked, and engines roared. The Sicarans surged forward without any input from their drivers. Flames rose and slapped against their undercarriages as the vehicles bounded through the blaze.
"Praise the Gods!"
"The Gods favor you. In the name of their power—"
The Chaplain's words cut off. He slumped against his seat with a thud.
Blood spilled from his eyes and dripped down.
The same thud sounded inside the command vehicle of the Shadow of Order's Third Legion, Second Company. Mikhailovsky's face was pale.
Four evil figures lingered in the Soul Assurer's mind:
Roaring blood red pounded against his heart, making his veins bulge.