The arrival of the psykers was always a fairly accurate indication of how close a military group was to any particular objective. They were close to that shipyard. Too close.

Marten rolled himself over onto his stomach and chanced a cautionary glance over the ridge.

Three psykers. 50 yards east. Dear god.

The hellish roars gradually became a cacophonous combination of shrieks and screams. Fear, suffering, pain, death. Amidst the chaos, the twelfth infantry was being ripped to shreds.

That was their job. That was their entire purpose. Psyker bait.

“We have to stop this war.” Marten thought. “It has to end today.”

A voice screeched unexpectedly into his comm.

“Marten!” the commander yelled. “When they’re finished with the twelfth, where the hell do you think they’re going next? Get moving! The forward line is waiting for us!”