Piers didn’t budge.

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’.

Because he always lied.

‘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.

Piers aimed Old Bess.

‘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.