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Light shone over a part of the battlefield. The Sanguinor hovered, five hundred feet away, sword held upright, finger pointing downward. Warriors in black battleplate appeared from the shimmering air, their armour covered in skulls and bones. Fire streamed from their eyes and mouths, and when their bolters fired, they shot strange ammunition of blue flame. The Legion of the Damned had come to aid the sons of Sanguinius in their hour of need. Dante blinked, but this vision did not disappear. His warriors shouted and howled, regaining some of their humanity, and pressing on after the revenants deeper into the hordes of tyranids. The tyranids fell back before their unearthly assailants. The trumpet sounded again, and the Sanguinor pointed again with his blade at a spot on the field. When Dante looked where the herald indicated, the reticle in his helm beat madly and flashed green. He blinked. In his fury he had forgotten his mission. His vision blurred, and the Sanguinor became an angel of flesh and blood, huge and mighty, clad in blood-red robes. 'Sanguinius?' Dante said. He pushed on, shoving his way through combatants whether alien, revenant, or Space Marine. A carnifex reared up before him, barring his way. Dante prepared to tackle it, hefted the sparking Axe Mortalis, but a helmless warrior barged past him, face locked in a savage rictus, teeth exposed, and engaged the creature in a hopeless, one-sided battle. Captain Fen, a quiet part of Dante remarked. The Angel Vermillion had been good to his word. Dante ran past, his last embers of intellect telling him he needed to reach the Sanguinor before he lost himself for good. He fought on, sometimes alone, but as he pushed on, he was surrounded by the ghostly shapes of the Legion of the Damned, whose ceaseless, uncanny fire felled aliens all around the Chapter Master, and so he drew nearer to the Sanguinor. He passed the first of the beasts of Amareo. The red-skinned giant lay curled up, childlike, surrounded by the rent bodies of tyranids, its face at peace as if sleeping after long efforts. The second came soon after, then the third. All were dead, their immortal bodies pierced in a hundred places each. The Sanguinor maintained its position, pointing downwards. Warriors from all over the field were converging on the point, not for tactics or for glory, or even for survival. They did it for fury. They did it for blood. They did it for their primarch. Sanguinius reached out to his sons through his herald, and commanded they strike one final blow in his name. They obeyed.