‘Piers returned to the yard where they had raised the battle banner, him and the boy. They had propped it up, wedging the poles with sandbags and fuel drums, so it could flutter in the wind. There He was, the Emperor Ascendant, the Big Man, in His sunburst, looking down at him.
They had raised it up, him and the boy, him and Hari, then they had gone back to round up others to stand with them, others to crowd around the banner in defiance. Show their good faith. Rally around it, and protect it, so that He would see them and protect them.
But there were no others. And the boy, he hadn’t come back.
Piers felt bad about that. He’d seen it all. Hardened to horror, was Olly Piers. Nothing got to him.
But some losses were oddly hard to take.
The old grenadier straightened his shako, and sniffed, and rubbed his eyes. Stupid old bastard. You’ve seen worse.
He could hear it coming. Like a storm in the high Uplands. He heaved up Old Bess, and checked her charge. ‘Don’t let me down,’ he muttered to the caliver.
He stood before the banner. Right before it. No other place to stand. If the boy had been there, he’d have stood at Piers’ side. Of course he would have. The others would have too. They all would have–
It had arrived. Shitting shit. Look at that, boy. The size of god. It’s got wings! Wings like a daemon-bat… Each slow step towards Piers a little earthquake. The drone of the axe.
So that’s what a primarch looks like. Shitting ball-bags. The Lord of the Eaters. Big as hell itself.
If the boy had been there, he’d have asked Piers if he was afraid. Because he always asked such stupid questions. But Piers would have answered him. He’d have said ‘no’.
‘Come on, then,’ Piers cried, ‘and see what happens!’
“The winged monster snorted. Its berserk pace had slowed. It plodded forward, as though it was curious, puzzled by the little man, and his little gun, and his ragged banner. It snorted, a great bellows snort like a bull. Liquid drooled from its lips.
‘Come on then,’ he yelled. ‘Show me what all the fuss is about!’
Come on now. Don’t let me down. Come on now, spirit of Mythrus, I’m right here. Your loyal bloody soldier, Olly Piers. That’s Olympos Piers to you, fickle mistress of war. I’m your chosen one. You know me. Come on, now. Don’t keep me waiting. Come on, war-lady, come on, Dame Death, you useless bitch, wherever you are, send your old soldier some grace, for shit’s sake. I know I ask a lot, but you’ve only got one bloody job. Come on, now. Come on. I’m asking you nice.
Angron, the Red Angel, started to charge. The yard shook. The banner shivered.
Olly Piers fired Old Bess, beam after beam, dead centre. Bloody shitting centre mass, you big ugly bastard!
‘Upland Tercio, hooo!’ he screamed. ‘Throne of Terra! Throne of Terra!’
Bathed in blood, Angron raised his fists to the sky, flexed his arms, spread his gigantic wings, and let out a roar so loud, the burning guntowers of Monsalvant Gard shook.
And the banner, soaked in sprays of blood, slipped from its broken pole and fluttered to the ground.’
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