92. The Ill-Fated Second Captain

Angard rotated his wrist, letting the black sword in his hand spin once with its own momentum. He had been the Emperor's Champion for eleven years, and this was one of the many habits he had picked up in battle.

Once he had done that, he lifted his right foot high. Artificial muscle and servos moved smoothly, his own strength stacked atop them, and as his foot came down hard, an Ork head that had just been severed was easily crushed into pulp.

Yes, this was another of his habits.

"Champion."

A voice sounded in his vox-channel. It was the Chaplain's voice. He had cast away his original name with his own hands and declared that he would never use it again until his shame had been washed clean. There were many Chaplains among the Black Templars, but if you said only "the Chaplain," there was only one man anyone would think of.

Unlike the fervent voices most Chaplains had in battle, his voice was extremely calm. "Brother Kengar reports that an Ork broke through the trap they laid and is charging toward the corridor under your watch."

"Understood." Angard returned to the very center of the corridor and drove the black sword steadily into the floor. "Any other news?"

"Proceed with caution," the Chaplain warned. "Do not let this monster become your death."

Angard gave a cold snort. "It won't."

As soon as the words fell, as if summoned by some unseen force, a twisted-faced, ugly, powerful beast charged from the far end of the corridor. It was covered in blood and chunks of flesh, and there was a deep wound across its abdomen. Angard knew that should have been the mark left by Kengar and the others' trap.

A trace of a smile appeared at the corner of