by Guy Haley
The pounding of the city’s batteries deafened him. Giant towers of spray lofted high where they hit the sea, columns of broken rockcrete mingling with shattered corpses where they hit the land. Devorus did not hear the returning fire of the enemy creeping towards him. It all mingled into a raw wall of furious noise.
Next he knew, he was flying, knocked skywards by the ruthless slap of overpressure. The air was driven from his lungs so hard his vocal chords involuntarily sang. He glimpsed the ground rushing at him, and then that hit him too, and less gently.
His ears rang. His vision lost colour. He felt displaced from himself.
Even so, he staggered up, the drive to live too powerful to overcome, and limped towards the second line. The ringing in his ears shut out all external sound.
He lost himself for a while into a foretaste of death. He came to, his environment suit and uniform shredded down the left-hand side and his arm bleeding. He was leaning against the smoking wreck of a bunker, whose plascrete, liquefied by plasma strikes, dripped dangerously near to him. He expected to die, but a curious sight greeted him as his consciousness regathered itself.
The flies had banked up, as if running into an invisible window. They battered at the obstacle, droning in annoyance. The dead passed this barrier, but as they walked through they became enfeebled, and when shot they fell easily and did not rise. Only the Plague Marines were unimpeded, but they felt something. Those of a jocular nature ceased their jokes and laughing. Those who were grim became grimmer still. Of most note were the sorcerers, whose power raced away from them as soon as they crossed the invisible line. Their enraged cries penetrated the battle noise. Devorus was amazed as they raised their rusted gauntlets and their warp-born power fizzled and dribbled away.
The enemy continued to advance. Their arcane might was diminished, but their guns still had teeth. A deadly crossfire hatched the kill zone between defence line and harbour. The Death Guard advanced through it carelessly. And although a handful more of them fell, it was far fewer than should have. Energy beams and bullets whined overhead, blasting apart the mob of living dead. Without the flies to choke off las-beams and obscure targets, it made a little difference, but not enough. The Heretic Astartes were still moving in. Lines of men formed a desperate rearguard, firing and retreating by ranks, blasting the approaching monstrosities at close range, then point-blank range. One more fell, then two, three. Only three. Hundreds of shots fired, enough to shatter an army, for three dead enemies.
The Death Guard worked themselves up to a lumbering jog to close the distance. It could not be called a run. They were too obese and diseased for that, but their speed was deceptive. The men of Calth admirably held their nerve and received the charge with fixed bayonets. The Death Guard swatted them aside. Men screamed as their bones were pulverised by heavy blows, and unnatural disease rooted itself in their organs.
Even without their shrouds of flies and their sorcerers, the Death Guard were massacring the Astra Militarum.
Dazed, Devorus prepared to die. He sank to his knees, grasped his aquila pendant in his rubber gloved right hand, and prayed.
Roaring jet engines started him from his misery. A two-hulled gunship blasted overhead, guns barking, missiles streaking from its wings, and came to a hovering stop. Space Marines leapt from its open doors, guiding their grav chutes into the heart of the enemy. They were of the Primaris type, skull-faced warriors with long knives. More wearing flight packs rocketed in after the giant assault craft, guns blazing.
Further craft flew in, roaring to a stop, and putting down. Adeptus Astartes in heavier armour deployed.
The Death Guard abandoned their persecution of the Astra Militarum, turning their wrath on their hated brethren. Seeing the traitors face down Imperial Space Marines was terrifying. The energy released by the fighting shook the world.
Clean-armoured Primaris Ultramarines battled rotting hulks. Now they were set against one another, Devorus could appreciate more how far the Plague Marines had fallen. The ferocity with which they fought the newcomers was telling. The Primaris Marines reminded the Death Guard of what they had been.
The two sides were evenly matched. The Primaris Marines were durable, albeit in a different way to their damned cousins. They took hits that would obliterate a mortal man and fought on, though blows to the head or the chest seemed to kill them, whereas the Plague Marines absorbed all manner of pain before dying.
The first line of Primaris Marines to attack were gunned down by a hail of shot. As the first ranks of the Plague Marine band fired, their brothers behind pulled free mummified heads with wax-stoppered mouths and stitched eyes. Some of these were mounted on short poles in the manner of stick grenades, and they threw them in a similar manner, all of them at once, pelting the Primaris. The grenades slapped against them like rancid fruit, spilling diseased matter over their pristine armour. Paint bubbled and blackened. Ceramite, made brittle, shattered from movement alone. Space Marines, who no mortal disease could kill, spasmed, bloody foam spurting from their breathing grilles. Bolts hammered into the Death Guard, killing a few here and a few there. They dwindled, but still not quickly enough. The Primaris Marines lost many in return.
But the Death Guard’s time on the shores of Tyros was short. Still more aircraft were flying in from the east.
Despite their foul appearance, the Death Guard had lost none of their tactical acumen. Seeing reinforcements inbound, they formed up into a phalanx, and began to retreat. The fire from the far side of the sea intensified. Shells rained down on the wharfs while lascannon barrages forced the gunships away. The Death Guard fell back under fire from the walls, defence line and the Ultramarines. They passed over the tongue of the bridge, their flies enveloping them again, and vanished into a foetid mist.
Bigger guns were firing on the far side of the harbour channel. The Death Guard bombardment ceased shortly after, leaving Devorus reeling. It was not truly quiet; gunships were dropping down and delivering Space Marines of old and new kinds, and their voxmitted shouts were blaring and harsh. But without the shelling, without the constant crack of lasguns and cough of bolters, it seemed almost peaceful.
The mist was creeping back. Gunfire flashed in the docks over the water.
Devorus wrenched his mask off and vomited. Adrenaline left him a palsied wreck. With difficulty, he pushed away from the ruined bunker.
By then grav-tanks were pushing across the ocean, their impellers forcing deep valleys into the sea and sending the displaced water up high. When they hit solid ground, the water crashed back down and cascaded from their sides. Their grav fields flattened everything, and their engines made a tremendous, growling pounding.
Their ramps opened as soon as they crossed onto dry land, and more Space Marines jumped out. Medicae personnel followed, dispersing towards the casualties. Devorus thought they would find few alive.
Smaller lighters and unarmed shuttlecraft followed soon after. Many bore the helical badge of the medicae. These roared overhead, heading towards the city.
Devorus limped through all the tumult. He had no clear idea of where he was going.
A heavily decorated Space Marine was asking questions of a soldier on a casualty bier. The man raised a weak arm and pointed in the direction of Devorus. The warrior immediately made for him and announced himself.
‘I am Captain Sicarius, of the Ultramarines Victrix Guard,’ he said. ‘You are the ranking officer here?’
‘You took your damn time,’ said Devorus, all sense of deference battered from him by the fight.
‘We are here now,’ he said. ‘You are Major Devorus?’
Devorus managed to straighten his back and nod. ‘I am.’
‘My orders are to secure this city for the primarch. Tell me quickly, what is the manner of protection about this place?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The enemy’s magic was halted
before the city perimeter. What caused this? Tell me now, and do not lie. Tyros must be secured.’
Devorus was puzzled. ‘That wasn’t you?’
‘It was not,’ said Sicarius.
Devorus’ mind was a blank. The answer came to him unexpectedly, and with it his wits returned. He looked up at Sicarius wonderingly.
‘The child. There is a child here, a wondrous child, not far from adulthood, but a child still. It must be her!’
‘A psyker? Is she sanctioned?’ Sicarius took a step closer. The tone of his voice frightened Devorus.
‘She is not a psyker,’ said Devorus with absolute certainty, though he knew as he spoke he had no claim to any knowledge that could back this statement. He just felt it.
‘What then?’ said the Space Marine.
‘She is a miracle,’ said Devorus.
Sicarius’ vox equipment clicked as he switched channels. He did not enable privacy settings and spoke openly through his helm grille. ‘Inform the tetrarch there is something strange here. I request his counsel. Tell the primarch that I advise he wait before he puts down. This could be a trap.’
‘The primarch?’ said Devorus. An entirely different kind of terror afflicted him. Ridiculously, he reflected later, his first thought was for the battered state of his uniform. ‘The primarch is coming here?’ Guilliman had returned in the time of Devorus’ great-grandfather, but he never thought to actually see him, even when the news came he was retaking the planet. Devorus thought he would fight in the same war as the lord of Ultramar, but to actually see him… Guilliman was as much a myth to Devorus as he had been to earlier generations, when he still languished in stasis.
‘Not yet,’ said Sicarius. ‘Not until I have had chance to vet this child for deviancy.’
‘I shall–’
Sicarius held up his hand for silence while he listened to a private message.
The Space Marine growled and looked skywards. More ships were racing down. ‘Damn all priests,’ he said. He looked at Devorus, who saw accusation flashing in his ruby eye lenses. ‘Do you know what is happening in the city?’ he demanded.
‘What?’ Devorus said, afraid again. Having given in once to fear, it took him for its plaything.
‘This procession,’ barked Sicarius. ‘This child of yours at its head. I have reports from my scouts. The whole damn population is on the streets. You’re in charge here, correct?’
Devorus shook his head numbly, though he was in charge. ‘My voxman is…’ he looked about, helpless. The giants in blue were so arresting he couldn’t see anything else, his eyes wouldn’t let him. ‘I don’t know where he is. My equipment’s ruined. I’ve been down here since dawn. No contact. I told them to stay indoors. I ordered it!’
Sicarius gave him a conciliatory grunt. ‘You lead from the front. Hard fight.’ He switched vox-channels. ‘Captain Sicarius to Strike Force Tyros Relief. Secure the harbour areas on the mainland and the island.’ He responded tersely to replies Devorus could not hear.
On the far side of the water, fire flash and explosion skipped across the docks. The ongoing fight drew away from the River Sea grudgingly, pulling its pall of mist after it. The revealed shore was a skeleton yard of tumbled structures.
Three Space Marines in armour that exceeded in beauty all artwork Devorus had ever seen jogged up to the captain and wordlessly walled him in. Sicarius became a blue keep in a cobalt fortress encrusted with gold.
‘You are coming with me,’ Sicarius said to Devorus. ‘Now.’
Chapter Sixteen
The Emperor Protects
Mathieu made his way through the streets of Tyros. Tall, steep-sided towers were favoured by the Parmenians, and made up the bulk of the city’s architecture. They were all the same height and design, so tightly packed the city looked like a bed of nails from the air.
Open spaces made by the enemy broke the pattern. Around bomb sites and lance strikes, destruction ordered itself in concentric rings of graduated severity. At the middle nothing stood. Fractured ground was broken through to sub levels, pipes and transit ways peeking shyly from the rubble. Next was a flattened area carpeted with pulverised rockcrete fused into brittle glass. Ringing the flatness was a maze of shattered structures where the angles of walls and structural members bent by force defied navigation. A step up led to the next circle of taller walls leaning in disarray, and lastly around the damage were towers hollowed out by fire, their exteriors livid with heat bloom.
The city’s grid of streets was interrupted. Broken facades slumped into the roads in unstable fans of ferrocrete. To allow foot traffic, narrow pathways snaked through the rubble, carved haphazardly, debris kept off by sheets of corrugated plasteel bolted into place and constricting nets sprayed from industrial webbers. The damage was worst around the breach of the Hecatone portwall. There the skyline was sculpted ragged for half a mile within the city. Artillery carved straight lanes through tower after tower, opening up queer passages and strange, vitrified alleyways that led nowhere.
Navigating Tyros was no longer easy. Flat, straight roads had been turned into paths as tricky as any mountain way. Mathieu could have had his pilot land in the centre of town, but he had instead ordered to be set upon one of the Keleton-ward towers, furthest from the arriving Imperial troops.
Despite Mathieu’s sly departure from the fleet, news of his mission would get to the regent. Mathieu had a limited time to work. He expected Guilliman to be furious. He would bear whatever punishment was given him. His duty trumped all other concerns.
He had to find the girl from his vision.
There were many people on the streets, drawn out by the roar of craft coming in from orbit. News travelled fast through the cramped underground shelters. The siege was broken, the word said. The primarch was coming. The Tyreans came from their hiding places in the cellars and transit network to greet their saviours, slowly, slowly, and then in a flood.
Mathieu’s ears were alive for news of the girl. He was not disappointed. Knots of excited people pushed past him, swapping rumours. They were jubilant, happy. Deliverance was theirs.
‘She stopped the sickness!’ said a chattering woman. Like many of those abroad, she had painted a skull mask on her face in powdered rockcrete and soot. Mathieu had seen this before, on other worlds. It was a token of faith with the Emperor, that the wearer would not accept the diseased unlife of the enemy, but stated their intention to seek a clean end in service to the Master of Mankind. Mathieu approved of the display. In other cities and on other worlds, loyal men and women had lost their senses to the psychic diseases of Mortarion’s warp network and cast their lot in with the traitors, even on Macragge. But not so, it seemed, in Tyros. Surely, that was a sign.
Mathieu slowed to match the woman’s pace, listening unobtrusively.
Under the scowl of the death’s head, the woman’s expression was rapt, and her eyes sparkled. ‘Elody was on the Imperial Way,’ she said, ‘I told her not to go out while the curfew was on, but she did, and she saw the Sisters bring out the saint on a golden throne, and take her nigh to the wall. There, light shone around her, and the enemy stopped, ran away, Elody said. They went! Then the Space Marines arrived, called down by her grace!’ She was elated, and gabbling. ‘I told Elody off for being out, I was going to punish her, but she saw the miracle. She brought the news to me. When she told me…’ the woman was swallowed up by the gathering throng. Mathieu caught one last glimpse of her, still talking.
Rubble spilled into the road ahead, and the street pulled into a narrow. The growing crowd slowed and swirled, caught in a bottleneck. Mathieu was drawn slowly into the alleyway through the debris. It was dark in there, close with the smell of people who had been trapped without proper sanitation for weeks. Mathieu had spent a lot of time with humanity’s common herd. Mankind’s scent was a holy odour to him, and did not offend. No one noticed him, no one knew who he was. He re
velled in his anonymity. There was enjoyment in being a part of the mass, faceless among the painted skull masks.
The man in front was talking to a woman, perhaps his wife.
‘She’s a saint. A real saint. Come with the blessing of the Emperor!’
‘Jarrold saw it,’ said another. ‘He was there when she cleansed the well. And they say He has abandoned us. People should be burned for that talk. The Emperor protects. He came, He came!’
And again, ‘The Emperor protects.’ And again and again, ‘The Emperor protects.’
All around him Mathieu heard the warding phrase, and the repetition of, ‘Saint, saint, saint,’ so that the words laminated themselves, building a palpable aura of faith from sound and belief.
‘The Emperor protects, the Emperor protects, the Emperor protects.’
He felt their joy, secure in the knowledge that the eye of their god had come to rest upon their world, and, seeing their plight, He had sent His saints and His son to bring them out of the dark.
Past the alleyway the crowd filled the street side to side. Candles appeared in hands. People were singing as the Angels of Death blazed their way in on wings of metal, their craft shaking broken windows with supersonic bangs. Blessed Guilliman was merciful. He would already be landing aid for the populace. There would be food, water, and medical supplies hard behind the missiles and the grim warriors of the God-Emperor. Guilliman was so holy without knowing what he was. His mercy was but one proof of that.
