The First Wall

by Gav Thorpe

  The primarch hacked apart the Imperial command vehicle as Khârn and the assault column neared. Angron broke open the ammunition stores and the shells within detonated, surrounding his immortal form like celebration fireworks. Blade aloft, his sons a red tide around him, the daemon primarch led the advance. Ahead, the great gates started to close.

  Angron snarled and leapt to the wing, soaring past the ruin of the Capitol Imperialis, becoming a scarlet blur as he gained speed.

  He was perhaps three hundred metres from the still-open gate when a flare of silver light pulsed around him, hurling him from the sky. The primarch crashed, breaking stone, furled wings trailing silvery sparks, eyes aflame with pale light. Roaring defiance, he came to his feet and launched himself again at the fortifications but was repulsed a second time, the silver energy coiling about his limbs like chains as he tumbled to the ground once more.

  On foot he approached, sword and fist pounding at the insubstantial barrier, but every blow was reflected back at him, so that he recoiled from his own fury, armour rent in a dozen places as though his mystic blade had carved it open.

  Khârn’s vigour left him as he witnessed the impotency of his lord, flailing mindlessly at the psychic barrier that kept his daemon form at bay. The defence guns that had fallen silent during the counter-attack came to destructive voice again. Transports exploded under the renewed barrage and legionaries died by the hundred, forced to take shelter in the defences they had overrun, while still-laden transports drew back, seeking sanctuary.

  Angron lifted away, thwarted by the shield, and soared north. Lightning crackled from his wingtips as he tested the extent of the barrier. He disappeared with altitude, and then returned, before winging southwards seeking easier prey.

  Clarity burned through Khârn’s battle rage. His World Eaters would be trapped against the closed gate, super-heavy tanks ready to strike from within, guns pounding them from above. Without their Khorne-blessed primarch the Legion would break uselessly upon the space port’s walls.

  To die in close battle, eye to eye with the foe was one fate, but he would not let Khorne’s favoured be blasted apart from afar, raging at an enemy out of reach.

  Reluctantly, sickened by the notion as his Butcher’s Nails threaded chastising agony through his brain, Khârn voxed the order to withdraw.

  Lion’s Gate space port, surface approach,

  Highway Three, assault hour

  Heaving up a bucket of water, Aggerson doused the breech of the gun again, steam filling the ferrocrete bunker as it hissed from the overheated cannon.

  ‘Give it two minutes,’ said Olexa, the gun captain. She pulled a lho-stick from her pocket and lit it. Aggerson frowned and looked at the three shells lined up next to the ammunition elevator from the magazine below. Olexa shrugged. ‘What? There’s a full-scale attack. Nobody’s doing gun inspections…’

  Aggerson didn’t bother arguing, but exchanged a glance with Maxxis, the third and final member of their gun crew. He came to an unspoken agreement with her and they both moved to the slit in the wall that served as their only window.

  Battery 65-B was situated overlooking Highway Three, which ran north from the Lion’s Gate space port. The other four guns of the battery still fired, sending their shells down into the swathe of purple-armoured figures a kilometre below. Around them larger guns thundered their deadly payloads even further along the road, targeting the command vehicles and super-heavies that had moved up in support of the Emperor’s Children attack. Smaller anti-personnel weapons rattled and barked from emplacements in the lower levels, though much was wreathed in smoke and choked with rubble from the enemy’s attacks.

  Distance gave the scene an unreal quality. Target coordinates would come through on the command feed and they fired at that spot, never really seeing what they were aiming at. Even with the naked eye the procession of Traitor Space Marines and swarms of lesser warriors seemed like something from a vid-projection.

  Aggerson saw a swathe of purples and gold, swirled about with multi­coloured fog that reminded him more of his mother’s incense burners than the smog of battle. Pennants and banners flew from vehicles and company standards, their aquilas and honours replaced with stylised runes that he had never seen before, but which made him feel queasy to look at all the same. Vehicles were festooned with new decoration, like baroque railing spikes with body parts impaled upon them.

  And among the din of engines and crash of weapons he thought he heard music: disharmonies of strident orchestral works alongside nerve-shredding electronic screeches and inhuman wailing.

  ‘They’re pulling back!’ gasped Maxxis, pointing out of the slit.

  Aggerson realised it was true. Under cover of a renewed bombardment, squads of the Emperor’s Children were moving away from the space port, while squads of power-armoured warriors pulled back from the breaches in the lowest batteries. They filed onto their transports, kaleidoscopic smoke belching from engines as the troop carriers picked up speed, heading northwards. Others followed on foot covered by fire from squads positioned along the sides of the highway.

  ‘And don’t come back!’ Maxxis laughed, shaking a fist.

  Aggerson didn’t share her good humour. Something was off.

  ‘Cap, pass me the magnox,’ he said, stepping back from the slit to hold a hand out to Olexa.

  ‘They’re mine,’ she said.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Fine.’ Olexa tossed him the spotter’s magnox, which he only just caught.

  Turning back to the slit he leaned out as far as he dared, magnox raised to his eyes. Autofocus lenses clicked until he sighted on the ground below. He swept towards the main highway and saw hundreds of purple-armoured Space Marines marching back to the road. They were not alone. Each carried or dragged two or three prisoners, some unconscious, others flailing futilely at their superhuman captors. Rhinos, Land Raiders and other tanks crawled out of range of the guns, captives piled on their roofs and strapped to their flanks like bundles of baggage. Most wore Imperial Army uniforms, seized from the lower batteries and the regiments that had been defending the highway approaches.

  ‘They’re taking people,’ he whispered. Scanning along the road, he saw hundreds, maybe thousands being hauled back to the waiting transports. He pulled himself back in and looked at his companions, mouth dry with fear. ‘Why are they taking people?’

  Khârn raises Gorechild to signal the World Eaters’ attack.

  A war song

  Fresh assault

  Flawed iron

  Karachee Flats, seventy days before assault

  ‘Two minutes!’ the call went around, stilling all sound and motion as it moved from one part of the carriage to the next, hopping from squad to platoon to the whole company like an auditory epidemic.

  Two minutes.

  Two minutes was the call on the line to prepare for the shift change. Two minutes to set the safeties on the machinery. Two ­minutes to rack the tools. Two minutes to clear the pipes, secure the cables, stow the lock-bolts and perform the hundreds of other small but essential duties that led to a smooth and safe handover.

  Zenobi looked around, chest swelling with suppressed ­emotion as she saw the company coming to a halt as one. Across the divide she caught the eye of Sweetana, waiting with a few others by the stairwell.

  ‘I been working the line, working the line, working it all day,’ Zenobi began, her voice wavering a little.

  ‘Just like my father before,’ Sweetana sang back in reply, joined by more voices from the company.

  ‘I been working the line, working the line, working it all night,’ Zenobi continued, growing in confidence. She could see Lieutenant Okoye hiding a smile behind his hand, other officers showing a mixture of amusement, pride or contempt. The enforcers stopped their prowling as the chorus grew, swelling to fill the carriage with voices.

  An even louder, defiant burst
of song erupted from the deck below, pulsing through the stairwells like a physical thing.

  ‘All my days, working in the dark, all my days, carrying my own light!’

  Zenobi remembered that Second Company came from the lowest part of the cradlespur, mostly hivecore miners that clawed raw materials back from the city’s ancient substrate.

  ‘I been working the line, working the line, working all shift!’ she cried, her voice almost cracking with effort as she competed with the song from below, the two forming a harmony. The muted words of a third from the lowest deck drifted in and out of rhythm. All three songs rose and fell in competition.

  Zenobi almost choked, her throat tightening with emotion, stalling her words. It didn’t matter, the carriage was almost rocking from the combined voices of all three decks, which segued together into the unofficial anthem of Addaba: Onwards, Lords and Ladies of Industry.

  She heard the first faltering notes disturbing the song a few moments before movement drew her eyes to the ladders from the upper deck. The singing fractured as one after another the troopers caught sight of Integrity High Officer Jawaahir. Disconcerted by the disharmony creeping in from the upper deck, perhaps wondering what was amiss, the companies below stuttered and quietened in the following minute.

  Other integrity officers filed past their leader, heading to the lower decks, silencing the last voices raised in song.

  ‘You need not silence yourselves on my account,’ said Jawaahir, her voice raised to carry across the hall-sized compartment. ‘But perhaps it is time to stop singing about the past. You are not on the line any longer. Now perhaps turn hearts and tongues to the future. A new song for Addaba. A war song.’

  This declaration was met with speculative muttering, soon silenced by whispered threats from the lieutenants and sergeants.

  ‘It is time,’ the chief of the integrity officers declared, rubbing her hands together with relish. Quite what she was so animated about, Zenobi didn’t know. As the order was passed round to prepare for disembarkation, she remembered a piece of advice from Menber and tried not to think about it too much.

  Katabatic Plains, four hours since assault

  Forrix found himself viewing the continuing attack from the roof of a burnt-out way station, about seven kilometres from the Lion’s Gate space port. The highway that ran alongside had been churned to ferro­crete grit by the passage of so many tanks and mobile fortresses.

  The IV Legion had created circumvallation works in a twenty-kilometre arc around their objective, formed of armoured vehicles and self-creating fortifications based on ancient Standard Template Construct systems. The Khan had led his White Scars against the engines of the Pneumachina and Mortarion’s warped legionaries and caused great damage and delays, and the surprise sally by the Imperial Fists against the opening assault had caused Kroeger to reflect a little on his impatience. If Dorn or any of his allies thought to launch another counter-attack against Perturabo’s Legion they would find far stiffer opposition.

  Thoughts of what had happened to the Death Guard gave Forrix pause. There had been no formal report about their delayed arrival, but it was clear their transit through the warp had met with complications. Those he had once known as Dusk Raiders were no more. Their primarch had become an embodiment of nightmare, like Angron and Fulgrim, and their bodies had been changed by ­exposure to something beyond Forrix’s knowledge. He was not naive about the forces to which the Warmaster had pledged himself, but he was no expert either. He had seen daemon-altered Word Bearers and mutated sorcerers, as well as the results of the Pneumachina’s experi­ments with previously forbidden warp tech. Watching the sea of once-human and pseudo-human creatures hurling itself at the outer defences left a sour taste in his mouth. The thought that the Iron Warriors might one day succumb to that kind of degradation made him feel sick.

  He turned to his companion, Soltarn Vull Bronn, who was known as the Stonewrought. Overall commander of the barrage, he was observing the effectiveness of his cannons and rockets. A cluster of Cataphractii Terminators loitered behind him, their presence more a badge of the Stonewrought’s rank than a military precaution.

  ‘I’m glad at least one true Iron Warrior stands alongside me still,’ said Forrix.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The Stonewrought did not turn his head, gaze fixed upon the conflagration engulfing the Lion’s Gate space port.

  ‘I’d have you in the Trident, you know? You have a talent for destruction.’

  ‘I am content with my allotted role,’ Soltarn Vull Bronn replied. ‘The Trident is not missing a member.’

  ‘It would be an outrageous stretch of fortune if all three of us survived this battle, you know that. I would rather have someone steadier at my shoulder.’

  Now the Stonewrought turned, his burnished helm catching the light of a thousand fires, sparkling as volcano cannons spat back their fury in counter-battery fire against his siege machines.

  ‘You assume that you will survive while the others might fall. That borders on a threat.’

  ‘None was intended, to you or them.’ Forrix stepped closer, dropping his voice. ‘However, the loss of one or both of my fellow triarchs would cause me no grief. Personally, and as a commander of the Fourth, I have grave reservations.’

  ‘Both have the favour of Perturabo.’ The Stonewrought paused as hundreds of rockets flared overhead, lighting the sky as if it were a celebration day. His head turned as he followed their progress, and gave a nod of satisfaction as they dipped and fell onto the lower levels of the port, not far from the foremost lines of attacking infantry. He returned his attention to Forrix. ‘To speak against them is to speak against the primarch.’

  ‘Favour is fleeting, you know that as well as I do. Just ask Berossus. Kroeger is fast becoming unstable. I saw him with the World Eaters and even in a span of hours he has become even more irrational, as though tainted by their bloodthirst.’

  ‘It is no secret that you desired Toramino to replace Harkon, but Kroeger was raised in his place. Your disdain for Falk I find more surprising. His recommendation spilled easily from your lips when Harkon was dishonoured, but now you speak against him.’

  ‘That was the Barban Falk we knew.’ Forrix stepped beside the Stone­wrought and gripped the remains of the wall that edged the flat rooftop. Ferrocrete crumbled beneath his fingers, weakened by anti-fortification viruses that had been released into the air by the Pneumachina. ‘The thing that insists on being called the Warsmith is not the same Barban Falk.’

  ‘And you have a common complaint against both of your companions?’

  ‘Their loyalty is questionable,’ said Forrix. ‘I sense that Kroeger has set foot on the road that leads him to the same mania as our allies in the World Eaters – the whisper of a bloody power now speaks in his ear. As for the allegiance of the Warsmith, I do not believe it is for mortal concerns any longer.

  ‘This malaise, this power that grips our once-proud cousins and strips away all honour and humanity… It comes from the ­Warmaster himself, and hungers for us all.’

  ‘We have already turned traitor on the Emperor, would you have us turn once more, on the Warmaster? Or even against our genefather?’

  ‘No!’ The thought that such an accusation might reach the ears of Perturabo made Forrix shudder. The primarch’s hands were bloodied already by subordinates that had wronged him, for crimes both real and imaginary, and Forrix had no desire to dare such wrath. ‘That is not what I said. But Horus is not our genefather, and he is using us just as the others have used the Fourth since we left Terra.’

  ‘I wish for no part in your conspiracies, Forrix.’ The Stonewrought gestured towards the Lion’s Gate space port. ‘I have a task at hand and it is all the occupation I need. Since the battle with the eldar… Since we saw what became of Fulgrim and his sons… I prefer to focus on immediate, physical problems these days. I have no desire to venture into the
less tangible realm, and that is what your plotting would entail.’

  ‘I cannot force you to share my doubts, but I would give further warning. These powers at play are courted by some of our brothers, knowingly or not. They desire us, and ignoring them will not rid us of their threat. When we are done with the Emperor’s lackeys there will be reckonings within the Legion.’

  ‘I hear nothing,’ said the Stonewrought, and turned away.

  The Lord of Iron baulked

  A sorcerer’s aid

  Piercing the Starspear

  The Vengeful Spirit, Terran near orbit, ten hours since assault

  Abaddon despised Horus’ court chamber aboard the Vengeful Spirit. Each time he returned it seemed more a ­mockery of what it had once been, what it had once meant to him. His master spent ever more time behind the portal of the empyrean, supposedly to do ­psychic battle with the Emperor Himself, though Abaddon wondered if there might be darker ­reasons why the Warmaster retreated so regularly to his unreal sanctuary.

  Word had reached the Vengeful Spirit of the failure of Angron and Fulgrim to enter the Lion’s Gate space port. Like the Palace proper it was under the Emperor’s protection. No being of daemonic origin could cross the threshold. Was there a similar price for Horus to pay when he was not awash in the energies of the empyrean?

  The leader of the Mournival was surprised to find himself the only member of that honoured group present, and dismayed to see that the Crimson Apostle shadowed him as usual. Zardu Layak and his silent blade slaves slipped through the shadows around the periphery, perhaps choosing to observe rather than intervene for a change. The Word Bearers sorcerer’s mask-eyes shone, six flashes of yellow in the gloom.