"Hurry! Just ahead!"
Saolis's voice rang out over the vox channel, hoarse and urgent.
His mangled left arm had received basic treatment and hung against his chest in a makeshift metal brace, but his pace never slackened.
Takidin followed close behind, flanked by the few surviving members of the Primarch Guard. The Dark Angels' Ironwing squad brought up the rear in silence, their heavy footsteps echoing through the empty passage as they struck the metal floor.
They passed through one battle-ravaged junction and compartment after another, stepping over the remains of xenos and warriors.
The lingering smells of gunsmoke, blood, and energy burns mingled into a nauseating stench.
No one spoke. There was only hurried breathing and the scrape of armor.
An ominous foreboding weighed on every heart.
At last, at the end of a broad corridor, beneath the sickly green glow of emergency lighting, they saw the fallen golden figure.
Saladin lay facedown on the cold floor.
His golden armor was covered in scratches, dents, and blackened marks from energy burns. Several particularly deep gashes scored his breastplate and pauldrons, their metal edges melted.
His scimitar lay a short distance from his hand, its blade coated in thick, dark-purple xenos blood that had nearly dried.
Around him, the corpses of three Rangdan Warmasters lay sprawled in a fan.
These xenos commanders wore even more ornate and imposing armor, but now all signs of life had left them, and they lay collapsed in various twisted postures.
"Primarch!"
Takidin's pupils contracted sharply. He lunged forward, dropped to one knee, and carefully examined him.
Saladin still had faint vital signs, but he was in a deep coma, unresponsive to any external stimulus.
His helmet's faceplate was cracked, but it had not shattered completely.
"Hurry! Get the Primarch out of here! Now!" Takidin