by C. L. Werner
Admiral Nostraz went one better, calling for a surgical strike against Oramis. A single run targeting the spoil heaps looming over the city’s northern and western districts would smash Oramis flat under an avalanche of industrial waste. Even if the orks could dig themselves out, they wouldn’t be using the factories to arm any more of their brood. It was a proposal that seemed to be gaining more favour with the Warsmith each day. Having lost his fleet, Nostraz appeared to be manoeuvring to assume Morax’s position as Skylord.
The sharp tang of fresh blood struck Rhodaan’s nostrils as he rounded a marble partition. A flicker of tension passed through the Space Marine’s towering physique, an instinctive reaction to the potential for violence and strife. He paused beside the partition, his fingers closing about the carved figures of daemons writhing along the cold stone. The sound of a murmured litany relaxed the Iron Warrior. There was the potential for violence and strife here, but it was violence he would unleash.
Down a dimly lit hallway, Rhodaan marched, the sounds and smell growing more distinct with each step. Now the niches were filled with different trophies. A diamond-toothed chainsword from the foundries of Olympia. A masterwork plasma pistol crafted by the vanquished abhumans of Freya Seven. The vicious talons of an enormous power claw, each knuckle moulded into the semblance of a grinning skull, a product of the bloodthirsty daemonlings of Zhok, deep within the Eye. Each weapon was more than a simple trophy to Rhodaan. These were battle honours, living symbols of his might and power. Gazing upon them, he could remember not only the moment he had torn them from the lifeless fingers of an enemy, but all his other battles, the wars in which these instruments of death had known him as their master. They had shed blood upon a thousand worlds and would do so upon a thousand more.
The subdued sound of the litany increased as Rhodaan made his way deeper into the confines of his arsenal-chapel. Now he could hear a wet, gurgling noise as well, punctuated by the dull pulsations of a machine. How often had he heard that sound? How often had it presaged the coming of conflict and glory?
Rhodaan turned a corner and stared into a marble-walled alcove draped in pressure-film and the crackling coils of temporal bafflers. The drapery had been pulled back, carefully bound in lengths of leathery hide and parchment conjure-strips. Within the recess beyond, a tall metal stand rested. Between the stand’s splayed arms, a sinister-looking device was displayed. It was a bulky mass of ceramite and titanium, its surface etched with the most elaborate calligraphy. Huge thrusters sprouted from its back, their intakes looking like the fanged mouths of ancient star-devils. Straps of plasteel dangled from its front, merging into a skull-shaped buckle, forming a cobweb of segmented metal and glistening gemstone.
Most striking of all, however, were the folded wings which jutted from the sides of the device. Sheathed in reptilian leather, veins pulsing and quivering beneath the skin, an evil-smelling musk rising from its pores, the wings seemed not only organic but alive.
The Iron Warriors captain smiled as he gazed upon his prize possession. It was named Eurydice and he had claimed it from one of his own battle-brothers, Sergeant Gaos. The Raptor had died in the talons of Rhodaan’s power claw during the violent overthrow of the old Warsmith. Since that time, it had been Rhodaan’s right to wear the daemo-mechanical marvel into battle. It was a thing of the warp, beyond mundane rules of physics and chemistry. Swifter and more agile than any jump pack fabricated by the priests of Mars, Eurydice had served its new master well.
It would have cause to do so again.
A clutch of shaven mamelukes knelt on the floor surrounding Eurydice, the slave-serfs looking like shapeless heaps of grey in their heavy robes. It was from their parched lips that the chords of the litany rose. The humans swayed in rhythm to the archaic syllables, a chorus of adoration and genuflection to the somnolent essence of the jump pack. Rhodaan had scores of mamelukes detailed for no other purpose than to tend Eurydice and keep it ready for him. Artisans who diligently mended every nick and scrape, machinist-fabricators who ministered to every gear and piston, tech-adepts who placated the essence of the device through prayer and ritual.
And the butchers, who satisfied Eurydice’s hunger.
The smell of blood emanated from a circular framework standing in the hall outside the alcove. Two wizened mamelukes attended the cobalt-hued skeleton of rods and tubes, their faces locked behind snarling fetish-masks. Upon the frame itself, limbs spread wide, was the limp paleness of a naked slave. From the shackle attached to each wrist and ankle, a fat tube snaked away from the body, undulating across the framework before dipping down into a reservoir. With each breath the slave took, the tubes shuddered and a spurt of crimson fell into the reservoir.
The exsanguinator was a fiendish device of torture, exploiting the victim’s own pulse to bleed him dry. But it was not mere torture which caused Rhodaan to order its use. One of the butchers held a long, brush-like instrument in his withered hand. As the reservoir filled, he would dip the bristles into the collected blood. Once the brush was saturated, the mameluke would approach Eurydice and paint the reptilian wings with the sanguine fluid. It was almost possible to see the blood soaking through the skin and swelling the veins beneath.
Rhodaan paid scant attention to his slaves and even less to the dying wretch in the grip of the exsanguinator. He had eyes only for Eurydice. Would its essence be placated? Would it accede to his demands, or would it be capricious and betray him the way it had Gaos?
He could almost picture the scene in his mind, the reptilian wings folding in upon themselves, dropping him to his destruction. He could see Vallax gloating over his corpse as the Over-Captain stripped Eurydice from him.
Rhodaan reached out, seizing one of the chanters by the neck. His fingers tightened about the slave, crushing his windpipe, pulverising his vertebrae. As he felt the man’s death spasm against his palm, an icy determination filled his hearts. His hated superior would never plunder Rhodaan’s treasure. He glared at Eurydice, eyes boring into the empty sockets of the skull-buckle. Whatever awareness the jump pack’s essence had, it could not fail to mistake the Space Marine’s warning. He would not be a mere victim like Gaos. If Eurydice failed him, Rhodaan would destroy them both. The jump pack would never serve a jackal like Vallax!
Thoughts of the Over-Captain brought a tightening of Rhodaan’s hand and torn skin and sinew oozed through his fingers. He stared down at the dead slave, then let the carcass slump to the floor. Vallax had been conspiring against Rhodaan’s Raptors, picking the choice assaults for his own squad and assigning the less prestigious missions to his subordinate. It was a strategy calculated to ensure Rhodaan remained in obscurity while Vallax’s name was ever before Warsmith Andraaz.
The next mission was no different. While Vallax led a raid against an important ork staging area, Rhodaan would coordinate the evacuation of material from a mining outpost in the path of the latest xenos incursion east of the Convallis Robigo. There would be glory for Vallax, leading an attack against the invaders. There was none for the man who organised a retreat.
Of course, this effort on the Over-Captain’s part to relegate Rhodaan to the most ignominious duties could simply be a clever ploy to put his rival off guard. It was no secret that something would need to be done about the ork presence in Dirgas. Since Algol’s abandonment of the city, the xenos had transformed it into a fortress bristling with anti-aircraft batteries. Morax’s Air Cohort had suffered tremendous losses in their last run against Dirgas, exchanging only the most minor damage to the city for their efforts. Since then, the Skylord had been making one excuse after another to avoid Dirgas entirely, pleading a campaign of strategic isolation to neutralise the ork stronghold’s impact on the overall war effort.
It was a tactic which was only a stop-gap. Eventually, Warsmith Andraaz would order the Dirgas problem settled. When that time came, it would be the Raptors who would be in the vanguard. All of them, both Vallax and Rhodaan. The Over-Captain wouldn’t be able to sideline his rival
when it came to knocking out the invader’s stronghold. He would need to find another way to keep the glory for himself.
Which brought Rhodaan’s thoughts back to a conversation he’d had, a clandestine liaison with Uhlan, one of the Raptors from Vallax’s squad. Uhlan was a half-breed, his gene-seed cobbled together from the plundered glands of butchered enemies. It was a fact Vallax never allowed his subordinate to forget. Such treatment had eroded the other Space Marine’s loyalty to the Over-Captain, moving him to look for a more supportive patron.
Rhodaan felt contempt course through his gut. He was a pure Iron Warrior and the temerity of a half-breed like Uhlan disgusted him. Such creatures were a necessary evil to maintain the ranks of the Legion and allow them to prosecute the Long War, but for such abominations to think they were equals was absurd! He would have laughed in Uhlan’s face if he hadn’t realised the mongrel’s delusions might prove useful. He had disclosed something to Rhodaan that the captain had suspected from the first. The crash of his assault boat during the attack on Vorago hadn’t been entirely the work of orks. Vallax had the opportunity to take down the ork who shot down Rhodaan’s transport, but the Over-Captain had refrained from action.
Strategic inaction. It was the most cunning sort of treachery, the kind only a psyker could prove. And the only psyker of such power on Castellax was the Speaker, whose talents could be exploited only on the express orders of Warsmith Andraaz. It was clear from the Warsmith’s remarks that the Speaker would be detailed to other duties for the duration of the siege. Vallax had nothing to worry about from that quarter.
But he did have a victim who was aware of his treachery now. Rhodaan would know what to watch for and he would know what steps to take to ensure that when the smoke cleared, he would be the man left standing.
Perhaps he would even thank Uhlan before sending the half-breed to join the Over-Captain in hell.
Rhodaan nodded as he watched the mameluke paint another coat of blood on Eurydice’s wings.
It was never wise to trust a traitor, the Iron Warrior reflected.
Brother Uhlan stole through the maze-like network of vaults running between the sub-levels of the Iron Bastion’s cellars. Thick bundles of pipe and wire snaked along the vaulted ceiling above his head, the parchment attendance-liturgies brushing against his helmet as he passed them. A thick, cloying stink of promethium fumes filled the narrow corridors, in places becoming so dense as to make spots flicker across his lenses.
The Raptor growled in irritation. It galled his pride to slink through these black vaults, creeping around in the darkness like some kind of sump-rat.
Ahead, a red light winked into life, its beam strobing through the darkness. Uhlan quickened his pace. It was the signal he had been watching for. Soon he could be quit of these forgotten cellars.
The source of the light was mounted in the shoulder of a tall, gangly figure, its metal knees folded back upon themselves to allow it to clear the overhanging pipes. The thing’s face was pale and corpse-like, its gaping mouth stuffed with the copper honeycomb of a vox-caster. Insect-like lenses protruded from the pits of its face, clicking and whirring as they adjusted to focus on the approaching Iron Warrior.
‘You were not followed,’ the servitor announced, its voice shrill and fleshless.
Uhlan smirked at the statement. He did not need the cyborg to tell him that. After centuries of warfare, he could smell a lurking enemy at fifty metres; hearing a slinking spy following him in the abandoned tunnels would have proved no challenge. Sneering at the servitor, he told it as much.
‘There is always the chance,’ the robotic voice intoned. ‘Flesh is weak and can be deceived. Only the machine is infallible.’
The Space Marine’s hard features curled in an angry snarl. ‘Machines are only tools,’ he growled. ‘They cannot compare with the perfection of the Iron Warriors. The machine is nothing beside the flesh that commands it, the flesh that designs it, the flesh that builds it. There is no weakness in the flesh of an Iron Warrior.’ His eyes hardened as he stared into the servitor’s optics, making sure their image was conveyed to the cyborg’s secluded master. ‘Have you forgotten what it is to be an Iron Warrior, Oriax? Buried in your cobweb of machines, have you forgotten what it is to stalk among the stars, to spread the terror and the glory of the Legion wherever you tread? To know that billions live only because you have not brought death upon them? Do you remember the power and the glory, or has that memory rusted away, Fabricator?’
There was no change in the monotone of the servitor’s broadcast. If Uhlan’s reprimand had drawn any emotion from Oriax, it wasn’t conveyed by the cold, metallic voice. ‘I remember more than you have forgotten, Uhlan Half-blood. While I function, there is purpose. While you function, there is purpose.’
‘I have done what you asked,’ Uhlan said. ‘Captain Rhodaan has been made aware of Over-Captain Vallax’s actions during the attack.’ The Iron Warrior paused, directing a concerned look at the servitor. ‘It is a dangerous game, playing the two against one another.’
The servitor lumbered forwards on its segmented legs. ‘The rivalry has been there a long time. It is only now that it becomes propitious for exploitation.’
Uhlan’s hand tightened into a fist. ‘So long as Vallax is brought low,’ he vowed.
The servitor’s lenses glistened in the crimson light. ‘He will be,’ the modulated voice promised. ‘And when he is, you shall have your reward.’
‘You have promised me considerable–’
‘It has all been arranged, all factored into my calculations,’ Oriax’s words droned from the servitor’s speaker. ‘From this crisis, the Third Grand Company will embrace its destiny and you will have a part in that destiny.
‘All of us will.’
Chapter VI
I-Day Plus Forty
‘Incoming!’
Blared across the vox-casters bulging from the stone faces of the gargoyles leering down from the rooftops, the warning was almost drowned out by the steady crump of artillery. The streets seemed to bounce as a barrage slammed into the hills five kilometres away. Plumes of dust and smoke exploded into the air, sending a foul brown smog rushing down into the settlement.
Taofang dived into the dubious cover of an open trench he hoped had been dug as a shelter rather than a latrine. The soldier landed in a tangle of bruised flesh and virulent curses, the protesting mass of a motorman breaking the impetus of his fall. Snarling his own oaths, Taofang drove the butt of his lasgun into the rail-worker’s back until he made room for the janissary. Somehow, the motorman managed to squeeze himself into a small gap between the wall of the trench and a trembling tech-adept.
Taofang hugged the bottom of the trench and opened his mouth, hoping to keep his eardrums from bursting under the shock of the barrage. Ork artillery was wildly unpredictable, over-shooting the target and falling short with utter abandon, often within the same salvo. About the only consistency was a general direction, yet even that was never totally dependable when it came to orks. The settlement was pock-marked with the evidence of their chaotic ideas of accuracy.
Gamma Five was the only designation the mining settlement bore on the maps. If its inhabitants had some other name for it, Taofang neither knew nor cared. Crouched in the shadow of a string of rocky hills, stinking like a chemical bath and coated in a green scum of pollutants, the settlement was like a sore on the buttocks of Castellax. If the orks wanted the rotten jumble of hab-pens and ore-crushers, the xenos were welcome to them as far as Taofang was concerned. The thought of dying over such a forsaken piece of land made the janissary’s insides turn.
But they were dying. Nearly ten thousand janissaries had been dispatched to Gamma Five. If a quarter of them ever left the mining settlement, it would be a wonderment. Over the course of five weeks, the soldiers had been engaged in a protracted campaign against the orks.
At first, it had been the humans who were on the attack, striking out in mechanised columns to harass the advance elemen
ts of the alien invaders. The orks were establishing themselves in the bombed-out ruins of a transport nexus along the Dirgas-Aboro rail-line, using it as a base from which to expand outwards. The stated objective of Colonel Nehring’s ‘reconnaissance in force’ had been to disrupt the alien advance, to prevent them from establishing advance camps further along the line. A series of lightning raids against the xenos march which would blunt the thrust of their attack and force the orks to withdraw and dig-in. Such was the intention of the campaign.
In practice, it had been so much less. The orks were always more numerous than expected; their absurd vehicles, knocked together from seemingly random jumbles of scrap, outgunned anything the janissaries had. It was easy enough to surprise the aliens and throw them into confusion, but the janissaries quickly discovered that a confused ork didn’t break and run. A confused ork just started shooting at the closest target and didn’t stop until it ran out of ammunition.
Hit and run quickly became the watchwords. The soldiers would strike from the shelter of a spoil heap or ash dune, assault the flanks of the ork column, then fade away before the xenos could muster an effective response. It was the strategy of harassment, not victory, dealing little real damage to the orks. Perhaps if the raids had been carried out by Iron Warriors rather than mere mortals, the results would have been different. Indeed, Taofang wondered if the campaign had been conceived by the dread masters of Castellax, with little consideration for the abilities of the men who would be tasked with carrying out the actual fighting.
As the weeks grew, however, a grimmer prospect occurred to Taofang. The Iron Warriors had conceived the campaign and they knew the limitations of their human janissaries. The harassing attacks might not have done much damage to the orks, but they had drawn the aliens’ attention. In steadily increasing numbers, the invaders had been striking northwards, advancing for the janissaries’ staging area of Gamma Five. There had never been any intention of recapturing territory from the orks. Taofang and the other soldiers were nothing more than a diversion, a distraction to keep the aliens in the vicinity of the Convallis Robigo.
