“Take him,” ordered Derrida, stepping backwards.

  The Chaos thralls pounced.

  Time slowed around the Space Marine as his combat metabolism kicked into gear, burning energy at a pace that would murder a standard human. Melancthon saw the horde crush in towards him. They possessed every advantage. Vast numbers. Familiar terrain. And the Warp. Elazar felt it in the air now. It crackled with unconcealed malice. Having tried temptation, his enemies now resorted to sheer brutality.

  Well, let them try.

  He slashed his chainsword laterally, buying time and space. The blade’s teeth gnawed through sinew, bit into bone. Aiming low with his other hand, he snapped off three shots from his bolter. The rounds crunched through his enemies and struck their primary target. A second bookshelf toppled, this time crashing inwards, plummeting towards Melancthon.

  He dropped to one knee, bracing, yanking his arms in close to him as the tide of cultists hit him. The mongrels whooped and sang. And then screamed.

  Melancthon hissed in pain as the weight struck him, ancient wood splintering around his armored body. The floor trembled beneath him.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Keep moving, he thought.

  He drove upwards, his armor servos squealing in protest, and exploded through the spine of the shelf.

  The Reliquary blazed like a bonfire. The flames chewed through priceless codices, devouring everything in their path. Smoke filled the air like the incense of some unholy temple. Strange, obscene creatures capered in the firelight. Their laughter mingled with the crackle and snap of angry flames.

  But they had not forgotten him.

  Melancthon tore himself free from the wreckage and made for the next set of stacks. Placing his back to the shelf, the Space Marine made his stand. His foes lurched towards him, burning torches, the stench of their scorched flesh seeping into his mask and filling his nostrils.

  He made his first dozen plus kills with his bolter. His targets, chosen with tactical precision, were the largest and heaviest of his foes. He could fight like this for hours, if needed, so long as he maintained a clear field of view. His opponents numerical advantage favored them in the round, but forced to approach Melancthon straight on, they discovered just how it was the Space Marines had earned their legend.

  But not every opponent proved totally wanting. One creature, a huge beast sporting four chitinous limbs, survived two bolt rounds and still pushed inward. It screeched as it came on. Melancthon slashed his weapon in a vertical stroke, stepping into the blow. The blade ripped through the creature’s collarbone and into its vital organs.

  The blow should have been fatal. Incredibly, the thing refused to die. It locked its insectile maniples around his helm and tore at it. His armor locks whined and finally gave way. The creature bit. Its teeth closed around the Space Marine’s naked face. Its incisors tore at his cheeks before locking around his nose. When it ripped its head back a split second later, a long strip of fleshy cartilage hung between its clamped lips.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  This one was a weapon. Hand-crafted, perhaps, by Derrida or Marius for a moment such as this one. Well, Melancthon was a weapon too.

  His Betcher’s Gland activated, filling the Space Marine’s mouth with acidic poison. He vomited into the creature’s eyes and was rewarded with a muffled scream as it choked on its bloody prize. The angel wrenched his blade free from the creature. Half of its torso dropped limply to the ground. The other half soon followed. Its blind eyes never saw the armored boot that crushed the life from them forever.

  The smoke was horrifically dense now. Even Melancthon’s gene-built eyes could barely make out the shapes which clawed their way through it. He slew two more abominations with a sweep of his chainsword. Then, bending down just long enough to snatch up his helm, he was moving.

  Every Space Marine knew that battles were living things. Change the environment and you changed the nature of the conflict. Blinded, his enemies were forced to target his last known position. He had no such limitations.

  He trigged his helm’s augur scanners, searching for the hottest part of the library’s blaze, and found what he needed. A white-hot inferno a dozen meters to his left. Even the most Warp-drunk cultists steered clear of that spot. He sprinted towards it, raising his bolter as he went.

  Derrida had said that bombings had weakened the lower levels. Melancthon silently prayed that the man had, at least in that one instance, been telling the truth. There would be no conventional way out of this accursed place. Doubtless, even now, Marius’s forces surrounded the Reliquary, blocking every possible exit. All except one.

  A collapsed stack, its supports dissolved, burned in front of the angel. Melancthon grinned, blood oozing between his teeth, as his helm’s visual display flashed a temperature warning across its screen. Given protracted exposure, the fire at this spot was hot enough to melt ceramite.

  Melancthon mag-locked his sword to his hip. Gripping his bolter in two hands, he leveled it at the burning heap. Then, whispering a prayer to the weapon’s Machine Spirit, he fired.

  The bolt buried itself in the floor. But nothing happened.

  Melancthon cursed. He fired again. The floor held.

  Perhaps Derrida had lied. Perhaps the bombings had been real, but the damage had not extended to the floor directly beneath him. Or perhaps the Lucean had simply attended to the repairs with the same efficiency and care they devoted to everything else that they did. Whatever the case, the floor held, leaving Melancthon trapped in a burning building.

  He heard voices. Fell whispers mingled with the crackle of the flames.

  Elezar, it is not too late. Serve us, Elezar.

  He turned and saw the book. It floated in the air a few meters away. Etheric purple light cascaded down from its open pages. Wherever the light touched the ground, the fire drew back.

  Elezar, cease your striving. Rest now, Elezar, with us.

  The taint of the Warp washed over him. It sucked at the back of his mind. It drained the strength from his bones. Why should he perish alone here? Who will remember his final stand? He had done all that he could. No one would dispute that. The Emperor himself would commend him for his efforts. Except…

  The Emperor.

  Far away, on humanity’s birth world, a lone figure sat upon a throne of burnished gold. For ten-thousand years, that figure, that man, had held back the terrors of Old Night and given hope to countless trillions. Even an angel might falter and fall, but not him, never him.

  For the Emperor protects.

  Elezar, come to us, the voice whispered. Elezar—

  The voice’s seductive keening transformed into a horrified wail as the Space Marine raised his bolter and fired.

  Then the world exploded into shimmering violet light.