He fired the missile launcher in a full salvo. There was no point conserving ammunition, there would be no relent. He could not miss the column of enemy moving quickly towards the nearest gatehouse. A mixture of anti-tank and anti-personnel missiles detonated amongst the vehicles and Traitor Space Marines, punching through battleplate and tank armour, hurling shrapnel at vision slits and exposed workings.
The burring of the assault cannons of the Deathwing warned him that the enemy were getting close. It was time to use the lascannons for some sharpshooting. Adjusting his stance, he locked his legs and clawed feet in place, creating a stable firing platform. The second Dreadnought was one hundred and twenty-five metres away, spearheading a drive directed towards the breach. Its heavy bolters sprayed fire up at the rampart – the explosive rounds would be largely ineffective against the Terminators, as much as if they were targeted at Telemenus. There was a reason the heavy war-plate of the First Company was called Tactical Dreadnought armour.
Telemenus picked his moment to the tenth of a second, opening fire as the Dreadnought was transferring its weight from left foot to right. He had seen that the enemy engine had a limp, a motivator system suffering poor maintenance, which caused the body of the war machine to tilt slightly. Two lascannon beams sliced across the vacuum and through the exposed side armour of the main sarcophagus.
Telemenus had no further time to spare for his opposite number, now a charred corpse inside his battle-tomb. The legionaries that had been accompanying the enemy Dreadnought were moving into range, several squads strong, taking up covered positions among the rocks and debris. He detected the build-up of energy from meltaguns and the charge of the plasma cells.
Another salvo of rockets had cycled into place but he left them in the rack, waiting for a clear target. He contented himself with obliterating some of the smaller rocks with his lascannon, whittling away the cover of the enemy as they came within one hundred metres. A torrent of sparks swept both ways as the enemy fired their bolters in reply to the storm bolters of the Deathwing.
A feeling of throbbing drew his attention to the sky a few kilometres up. A ship was crashing down through the Gorgon’s Aegis, leaving a trail like a meteor. No drop transport or pod, this was a proper voidship, half a kilometre long. The force field flared wildly as the ship smashed through, earthing great lightning bolts into the barren rock and flashing kilometre-long plumes of energy into open space.
Trailing fire and debris, the enemy destroyer was breaking up, but a significant part of the main dorsal structure remained intact even as the Rock’s last line of defence turrets opened fire in a blaze of rockets and shells.
Moments before it hit the wall, Telemenus realised the ship was being crashed on purpose. Its descent was too controlled to be unplanned. Little more than a ball of molten debris, it smashed into the eastern gate, two kilometres to his left. A flash that blotted out all of his senses blinded him for an instant.
In the seconds after, as his auguries established themselves again, Telemenus was left with only the vox-traffic to know what had happened.
‘Estimated forty to fifty per cent terminal casualties. Most of Fifth Company lost.’
‘Reserves from Eight and Nine move to stem the gap. Calling Deathwing counter-strike.’
‘Eastern flank heavily compromised. Second line forces stand by.’
‘Do we hold?’
It took a moment to realise that this last question was directed at him from Caulderain.
‘Our left flank protection is nonexistent now. Right flank will be overrun in time.’ Telemenus could see nothing of the sergeant but Caulderain’s voice was tense. ‘Reserves are being redirected to the eastern breach. Do we hold this position?’
He knew what the sergeant meant. This would be the last opportunity to retreat to the main citadel unmolested. There would be no other Dark Angels coming to reinforce their position, or to cover them if they had to withdraw. In a minute or two, the enemy would be too close for a safe extraction. The sergeant was looking to share an opinion, not to be given an order.
Something flickered in the red sky just above the horizon. For an instant Telemenus thought it was a glitch in his scanner feed – a misinterpretation in the feedback from the Gorgon’s Aegis. But it returned, clearer than before, and there could be no mistake.
Amongst the crackle of crimson lightning was an angel with a skull face, a sword held aloft in one hand, a broken crown in the other.
The Emperor.
The apparition broke into a shower of descending stars, which fell upon Telemenus in an auric flutter. A blessing, no doubt. An assertion of protection. A repayment of faith.
‘The command was to hold the breach,’ said Telemenus. The Traitor Space Marines were gathering for an attack. His targeting systems were the first back online and he fired the lascannons at a white-armoured warrior who was stepping out from behind a boulder. The warrior’s chest evaporated in a splash of molten ceramite. ‘Our brothers at the eastern gate need us to hold this flank for as long as we can.’
‘I concur,’ said Arloch. ‘We must give the eastern force every chance to recover.’
‘We are agreed, then,’ said Caulderain.
Telemenus unleashed an anti-tank missile at a siege vehicle creeping along the road towards the main gatehouse. It exploded against the large-calibre cannon mounted in the front of its hull, piercing the stubby barrel.
‘We are agreed,’ said the Dreadnought pilot. ‘For the Rock. For the Lion. For the Emperor. We hold or we die.’
Battle For The Rock
Not since the time of the Horus Heresy had any foe set foot in the hallowed halls of Aldurukh. For ten millennia the Tower of Angels, the Rock, had never known the insult of invasion.
That had changed the moment the first of the traitor drop pods had landed.
Belial was filled with an ever-present rage by the thought. He did not allow it to cloud his decisions, but it was there, an affront to every dignity he held to. The Dark Angels fortress-monastery was being violated. It was not just the physical offence that drew the Grand Master’s ire, but the impudence of the slight.
The enemy dared to attack the home of the Dark Angels. The mere thought of such an act should have left any foe trembling with dread. That the enemy believed they were capable of inflicting this hurt, that they were somehow immune to the retribution of the Unforgiven, could not be discarded as folly. It was a calculated barb, a thrust spear piercing the pride of the Chapter.
Belial would demonstrate to the foe the immense error of their decision.
The loss of the outer eastern gate had been a blow. With the fleet engaged with the enemy warships, Belial believed he should have foreseen such an attack. Not that there was anything to be done – there was not a shield or gun on the Rock that could have stopped the suicidal impact.
From the inner gate he looked out at the blazing ruin of the curtain wall. It had been flattened for a kilometre to the south and north, lit by pools of burning promethium, scoured by plasma blasts. In scattered bands the Dark Angels that had miraculously survived the impact fell back to the Tower of Angels, battered but not broken. They raised ragged cheers when they saw Belial and his Knights standing before the gates, defiant to any attack.
The foe did not pursue with heedless disregard, but advanced in the wake of the disaster with careful manoeuvres. They were Space Marines, or at least had been long ago. Though they had thrown their fate into the lap of uncaring dark powers, they retained much of their discipline and fearlessness.
Belial had faced enemies such as this before. Heedless of injuries that would fell even a Dark Angel, immune to pain, they were worshippers of the Lord of Decay. Where once Legion banners had fluttered proudly – standards of the warriors recorded in history as the Death Guard – now there were raised icons of rusted metal and pitted bone, fashioned in praise to their insane god. Armour onc
e white was encrusted with filth, the ceramite stained by millennia of disrepair. Yet the centuries of poor maintenance seemed not to affect the functioning of the war-plate, as salvoes of bolts were shrugged off by the advancing columns.
Heavier weapons laid down shells and beams of laser energy, the detonations and blasts throwing up clouds of dust and pulverised rock. The gravitic field did not extend beyond the outer wall, so that clouds of burning metal and molten rock swathed the battlefield with a fiery smog.
Vehicles came with them, ancient patterns of Land Raiders and Predators, Rhino transports that had seen battle at the Siege of Terra. There were other war machines too, that owed no heritage to the Legions of the Emperor or the Mechanicus of Mars. Six-legged walkers with scorpion claws and battle cannons. Beetle-like armoured cars with plasteel-plated balloon tyres and barnacle-like pods sprouting heavy bolters and autocannons.
Corroded exhaust stacks spewed oily smoke that moved and veered like swarms of flies, swathing the approach with a misty gloom. Yellow headlights seemed to weep greasy tears. Holes left by missing rivets and joins between armoured plates seeped sap-like fluid, while hatchways and turret rings sprouted colourful fungi.
In the burning sky dragon-like attack craft with jagged wings swooped and circled, evading the batteries of anti-air guns that filled the heavens with airburst munitions and rapid pulses of laser fire. Belial thought he could hear the half-machine creatures screeching, in his mind rather than with his ears.
Around the helldrakes swarmed lesser craft – flyships with single pilots, kept aloft in the thin atmosphere by the blur of insectile ornithopter wings.
There were other entities too, reminiscent of the daemon-foes he had faced at Ulthor. Enormous slug-like beasts with howdahs slung in pairs, brimming with guns and armoured warriors. Fusions of tanks and bipedal monsters that lumbered along behind the infantry advance, crescent-shaped blades and fume-spilling censers swaying from dozens of chains hooked into their leathery bodies, claws and fangs sheathed with some exotic material that sparked and flared in the darkness.
So intent on the enemy was Belial that he had not noticed his Knights had been joined by other warriors. He turned to see five Terminators in the livery of the Consecrators standing to his left.
‘Your duty would put you at the side of Chapter Master Nakir,’ Belial told them.
‘The Grand Master sent us to you with his kind regards,’ replied their leader. He lifted an ornate power sword in salute. Even at a glance Belial could see that it was master-crafted, a beautiful weapon made by the best artificers at the dawn of the Imperium. Three blood-drop rubies glittered in the channel of the blade – carefully wrought power field lenses, he assumed. He wondered what other treasures the Consecrators owned, if such a marvel was in the hands of a sergeant, even one that was head of the Chapter Master’s guard. ‘I am Seneschal Maalik, and my sword is yours to command.’
‘I cannot argue that I need the warriors,’ Belial replied. He considered the current disposition of his forces and the lines of advance of the enemy, but came to a simple conclusion. ‘I want you at my back. If my Knights fall, I want you to be ready.’
‘As you wish, Master Belial.’ There was a pause while Maalik issued orders to his squad over their vox. The Terminators turned and filed back towards the gateway, leaving the seneschal with Belial. ‘Gratitude, it will be an honour to fight beside you.’
Belial said nothing as Maalik joined his warriors. His thoughts had already moved back to the unfolding attack. The Death Guard had reached the break in the curtain wall where the eastern gate had once been. This brought them into range of the main defence batteries, which rained down artillery and plasma from fortified positions built into the Tower of Angels.
Into this maelstrom advanced the warped legionaries of the Death Guard, heedless of the danger. Where once had been a flat killing ground, marked by bunkers and gun pits that had held two hundred Dark Angels, there was broken devastation, littered with burning debris from the crashed ship and cracked remains of the curtain wall, which continued to fall like giant fiery hail across the wasteland.
Fire zones and crossfires had been blocked, craters and shattered blocks of masonry providing ample cover against the storm of fire. Sortie gates linked to tunnels beneath the bare ground had been sealed by the blast waves of plasma and thousands of tonnes of rubble.
The vox-link hissed into life, bringing the voice of Chapter Master Nakir. Belial did not know what other matters occupied Azrael nor why he had deferred to the Consecrator, but it was not the time to raise issues regarding the chain of command.
‘We cannot allow the enemy attack to reach the Tower of Angels uncontested,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The loss of the outer gate is a setback, not a defeat.’
‘I concur,’ said Belial. ‘A counter-attack across the western axis of their assault will turn their advance away for a while.’
‘A diligent course of action, Master Belial, but I prefer a more direct approach. I have despatched armoured units to your position for a full assault across the battlefront. You will retake the perimeter of the curtain wall and establish the line of resistance from that position.’
Belial was left momentarily speechless by the audacity of the plan.
‘To attack into the heart of the enemy assault could break the back of the attack in one move, Chapter Master, but we have already committed our reserves. If we suffer a reverse, the whole sector will be lost.’
‘Would you prefer a slow death, Belial?’ The Deathwing commander could not tell over the distortion of the vox whether Nakir was being humorous or not. ‘Better to muster our strength into one retaliatory blow than wage a war of attrition we cannot win.’
The plan made sense in that context, but Belial was still reluctant to issue the order for an all-out attack. He had no basis for his reticence other than an instinct to marshal whatever forces he had to hand for as long as possible. Nakir’s gambit, and it was a gambit, could throw away the fortress-monastery of the Dark Angels in one ill-considered move.
‘I await your acknowledgement, Master Belial. Are your orders unclear in some fashion? Do you wish to make an alternative suggestion?’
‘Orders received, Chapter Master,’ replied Belial. Nakir was correct. Fear of losing the battle should not stay their hand. They were Space Marines, Dark Angels, and their fury could not be abated. Belial came to the conclusion that he was overcompensating for his anger. His instinct to strike out, to chastise the enemy with blade and gun, was driven by strategic logic not personal feeling. It was right that he recognised the Consecrator’s insight. ‘A wise command, Master Nakir. We will prevail.’
‘I have no doubt of that. The Deathwing are the envy of the Unforgiven, brother-captain. I am jealous that it is my honour guard and not me that will participate in the glorious action.’
Again Belial wanted to ask what had become of Azrael. It was better that questions were not raised. It likely involved Cypher, of that there was little doubt. To make inquiries would only promote queries from Nakir as well.
As the Rhinos, Razorbacks, Land Raiders and Predators of the armoured column powered their way from the armoury garages, the leading elements of the Death Guard attack advanced into range. Heavy weapons squads with ancient plasma cannons, reaper autocannons and lascannons took up firing positions in the smouldering ruins. Belial directed his own Devastator squads to counter-fire and the battlefield was lit by the exchange of missiles and las-blasts, plasma bolts and hails of heavy bolter fire.
While this crossing fusillade continued, half a dozen enemy Rhino transports made a foray towards the west, outflanking beyond a line of burning wreckage several hundred metres long. There was little Belial could do to combat this advance, other than to signal to the defence batteries to concentrate their firepower against the attack. The thunder of the guns left a swathe of craters across the path of the flanking force,
baulking it for the time being. Power-armoured legionaries spilled from the transports, slowed but not stopped.
He could spare no other response and had to hold his nerve. If he despatched any of his forces to reinforce the flank he would weaken his counter-attack. Now that he was readying for the riposte, it was imperative that the Dark Angels hit back with all the warriors they could muster.
Within two more minutes the column sent by Nakir arrived. Belial assigned transport duties and arrayed the tanks and troop carriers into a spearhead formation, with the Terminators in their various patterns of Land Raiders in the vanguard, and the brothers of the Third, Fifth and Seventh companies spread through the Razorbacks and Rhinos.
‘I would be honoured if we could ride with you, Grand Master,’ Maalik told him over the vox. ‘We would not fight anywhere else than at the heart of the attack.’
‘Of course,’ Belial replied. ‘Assemble at my position.’
He led his Knights towards the Land Raider Crusader Lion’s Fury. Designed for urban assault, it lacked long-range weapons but would be ideal for punching a hole through the Death Guard line. Belial knew that he would be where the fighting was fiercest, his Terminators drawing the enemy ire like a lightning rod so that the other squads could reach their objectives.
The Deathwing Knights boarded the Land Raider while Belial waited on the ramp, taking a last look at the Tower of Angels. For centuries it had been his home, his fortress-monastery. He had hardly given it a second glance approaching by gunship or shuttle. He had always accepted that it would provide him with sanctuary and succour. The thought that it might fall – not just today, but ever – turned his stomach.
The Unforgiven - Gav Thorpe Page 26
