The Confessor didn't turn to look back, but he was fairly satisfied that after his rallying cry he heard the movement of feet followed by munitions flying over either shoulder to show that it worked. As he reached the enemy, he was pleased to find the first few men he planned to give a taste of the old maul had already died in the counter-charge of the loyalists. But there were still more than enough to go around and with a low pitched growl he swung his weapon hitting a too late to dodge heretic right in the stomach. That part of the man affected was flattened, before hitting the ground making the poor fellow bisected. The next one seemed a little more clever, ducking under the first swing of the Confessor, then the second and jumping over the third. As his feet hit the ground the villain extended a cleaver bearing hand to get Horacio by the armpit where his carapace wouldn't protect him. It hurt oh how it hurt, but the Cleric squeezed pressed his arm to his torso so the man couldn't retract his blade back and in his surprise got a kick in the fork. Craning over in sudden pain the warrior didn't have long to suffer as his head vapourized thanks to a swing from the maul. 

The Confessor was bleeding, and already the mere two kills had gotten his aged body some tiredness. But a rage at the sight of everything before him filled his veins and he couldn't even wait to end the next foe in melee combat. His shotgun was unslung and the rack of the slide was the only thing that would precede things going dark for a heretic. A hearty laugh emanated from the geezer as he almost perfectly imitated the two kills with his maul by first splitting a crying man in two, before having his blast liquefy another man's head. He forced it down as it seemed combat was dying down, and the frog-like laugh from the belly wouldn't be appreciated (especially if casualties were taken). Horacio scoured the battlefield, looking among the dead heretics for those who might still be alive. A quick thump with the maul would make sure they were dead very fast. It wasn't a mercy killing, oh no these men deserved to die. But he knew that as one's last energy escaped them it often left altogether giving some men a chance to give a final pull of the trigger. 

A slight whistle was under his lips to take his mind off of the blood coming from his armpit, he had more urgent things to do. He took out his Rosarius and reached for some incense, using the power-field of his power maul to ignite it and let off some smoke. Waving his Rosarius in one hand and swinging the smoke-belching maul in another Horacio walked around the battlefield muttering a simple prayer under his breath. After several minutes of this he finished his words, and went to a clump of the Cekrov Guards. "Oi, you lot." He said, motioning to them with his power maul. "Gather the bodies of the foe, and their weapons. Pile it up so I can burn it. No nicking any of their shit or you'll end up just like them... come on, get to it!" he bellowed, giving a few authoritative waves of his maul to them. Watching them to go on following his [i]not exactly orders because a Priest can't order a soldier but he can do much much worse[/i] he picked up a dropped tabac stick of one of the men, and with a single heavy pull finished the entirety of the thing's length. 

He followed the troopers, leaning on his maul with his hands on the handle to make a rest for his chin. Noticing the dripping of blood again he reached for a handkerchief he brought with him, rolling the thing up and then squeezing it between torso and arm just as the cleaver not too long ago. With that done he went back to watching the soldiers in their duty, pointing out if they missed an ear or a magazine or knife on the ground, even telling one of the men to get a rag and soak up a puddle of blood in it after he noticed the man's grumbling. When the Guards were finally done he told them to sod off, before going to the foul smelling pile. Horacio removed a tank of promethium from one of the flamers and poured out its remaining contents across what was about to become a pyre leaving a few droplets to make a trail for ignition. He dropped his bloody rag on it, before striking down with his maul again to have the powerful set it all ablaze. 

"[i]Dies Irae Dies Illa....[/i]" The Confessor sang, letting incense smoke join the foul haze made by all the dead burning. This was a job that had to be done right away. Many worlds thought they dealt with their corruption when they simply killed the heretics and buried them somewhere far off or even dumped their corpses in a forest. But be it plucky children digging in cursed graves or animals consuming flesh of the damned, if improperly disposed of the presence of heresy would always resurface almost cyclically until eventually a loyal world would fall. Finally, with this duty done he put away all his tools of trade and approached his group. He didn't really say anything, he didn't have much energy left in him but he had enough to listen to wherever it was deemed they would go next.