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The Sons of Slaughter made it halfway across the battlefield before coming under enemy fire. One moment, Tholos was dashing through the mud and bodies of no man's land with his autogun clutched close. The next, his goggles were spattered with blood and the drumming thunder of exploding bolt shells had deafened him. Lesser men might have dived for cover, but Tholos' soul sang with the Blood God's wrath. Beneath his gas-hood, his face contorted into a rictus of fury, and he ran on through the deadly storm. All around him warriors were blown off their feet, ripped apart as bolts detonated within their flesh.
Ahead, Tholos could see the rot-bodied worshippers of Nurgle. They were rising from their trenches to meet the Cultists' charge, huge hulks whose slug-white flesh bulged obscenely from cracks in their power armour. Bolters thumped in their fists, and more Sons of Slaughter fell by the second. Howling his devotion to Khorne, Tholos raised his own gun and fired on the move. The weapon kicked against his chest as it sprayed bullets at the foe, and a lucky round shattered the eye-lens of one of the Death Guard warriors. The Nurgle-worshipper staggered, then continued to fire even as pus and writhing worms bubbled through the hole in his helm.
Screaming their frustration, terror, and rage, the last handful of Khornate Cultists flung themselves at the foe. For a few, frantic moments, Tholos hammered his gun butt against the rusted breastplate of his opponent. Then, a slime-stained knife slammed into his throat, and his blood sprayed. Agony flared, and the muddy ground rose up to smash Tholos in the side of the head. Fighting for his last painful seconds of life, the Cultist's eyes widened as he saw his lifeblood flowing like mist into the air. Hellish light played across the Death Guard as the veil tore wide, and with his last, rattling breath, Tholos gurgled praise to Khorne.
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