by Gav Thorpe
Ortor appeared in front of Rann, asking if he was all right. Rann tried to answer but tasted blood bubbling in his mouth. Pain punched up through his ribcage as he tried to stand and he fell back, desperately trying to suck air into damaged lungs.
‘Sergeant, get him to safety,’ snarled Sigismund. ‘The rest of you, hold ground here.’
Lion’s Gate space port, tropophex core, fifteen days since assault
There had been three Apothecaries in Forrix’s original force, of which only one had made it to the rendezvous – Oumar. Forrix had fought alongside him since the Unification Wars, both veterans of the Terran Legion. Battle cared little for history, but had perhaps a penchant for irony, and so Oumar had been one of the first casualties following the muster. A krak missile had opened up his skull as he had tended to one of his fellow legionaries.
So it was that Forrix patrolled the corridors that had become their home, Gharal at his side, looking at the wounded but with no specialist to treat them. Some were so still that it was only the beat of their armour’s transponders that betrayed any sign of life. Others moaned and writhed without sedation. Pieces of broken battleplate were piled out of the way, removed to get access to las weals, plasma burns and bolter wounds.
Turning down a side passage Forrix came upon a bloody scene, arterial scrawl drying on the wall and ceiling. Two of his warriors were knelt next to a third, holding his plastron onto his chest. Blood foamed around its edges and dribbled from the legionary’s mouth. His eyes roamed sightlessly, fixing on the faint lumen hanging from the ceiling. The two Iron Warriors turned to their superior, one of them delivering a simple prognosis with a shake of the head.
Forrix stepped over the blood spray, fingers flexing in agitation.
‘How many?’ he asked the captain.
‘Left?’ replied Gharal.
‘Yes, left,’ he snapped.
‘Two hundred and four, including walking wounded.’
‘Nearly eighty per cent casualty rate…’ Forrix whispered. Judged against some of the Iron Warriors’ past victories, that would count as acceptable. Had Perturabo tasked him with surviving in the midst of enemy territory for so many days with only a thousand legionaries and no armoured support he would have thought it impossible.
‘Triarch!’ one of the wounded legionaries called out, wheezing breaths breaking the flow every couple of seconds. ‘Help me… up. I can still… fight.’
Forrix looked at the warrior, saw the plasma scarring on his left side.
‘You’ve lost a lung, legionary.’
‘That’s why they… gave us… a third.’ His bloody grin showed broken remnants of teeth.
Forrix offered a wrist and the legionary grabbed it, pulling himself up with a moan. Forrix heard air whistling out of the wound in the Space Marine’s side. The warsmith stooped and picked up the warrior’s bolter, pressing it into his grasp.
‘It’s Zorovar, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, triarch. Sergeant.’
‘It will be lieutenant when we’re reunited with the Legion.’
Zorovar nodded his thanks, a trembling fist raised to his chestplate in salute.
‘See you… on… the assault line.’ He winced with the effort, pain etched into every feature. ‘Triarch.’
Forrix returned the salute and turned away. His pace quickened as resolve hardened in his gut.
‘He’ll not live out the day,’ Gharal said, glancing back at the wounded sergeant.
‘Of course not. If we stay here, none of us will.’
‘I need you to be very clear, triarch. You want us to move from this position?’
‘Only those that can fight,’ Forrix said slowly, fists clenched.
‘We’re leaving–’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘We’re leaving the wounded, triarch?’
‘Yes. We need to jettison the burden.’ Forrix stopped and rounded on the captain, struggling to keep his voice low. ‘We cannot save them, Gharal. Either we die with them or we give ourselves a chance to live.’
‘And if the enemy take them alive?’
‘Let them. What are they going to reveal? That we came in here without a specific objective? That we only have two hundred fighters left? None of this will be news to our enemies.’ Forrix rubbed a knuckle across an itch on his forehead, smearing soot and blood over skin cracking from dehydration. ‘There is a tiny chance that our foes might even treat them. There’s not much honour left in this war, and I know the Fourth had little enough to begin with.’
‘We could finish them ourselves,’ Gharal suggested quietly, hand tapping the side of his bolter.
‘We haven’t got the ammunition,’ Forrix told him with a frown. The warsmith stepped back and waved towards a pair of legionaries slumped against the wall nearby. ‘And do you really want to take your blade to their throats?’
Gharal’s helm turned as his gaze moved between the triarch and the injured. Back and forth, deliberating. Forrix would have told Gharal it was a command, that his opinion mattered nothing, but the warsmith was living off borrowed authority. If Gharal, or one of the two surviving lieutenants, decided to lead a mutiny, there was a good chance Forrix would get a bolt in the back of the head.
‘I am thinking about those of us that have a chance,’ said Forrix, grabbing the captain’s arm. ‘We need to break through to the outer levels. There’s a monorail terminal one kilometre north of here. We’ll move fast, head down the track to a skybridge.’
‘Towards the Imperial Palace, triarch?’
‘Better than deeper into the space port.’ Forrix cocked his head and raised a finger, indicating for Gharal to listen. The distant pound of explosions had become nothing but background noise. ‘The barrage continues. Lion’s Gate space port is still contested. If we can get to the outer levels, we might be able to contact Legion command.’
‘Fast. Precise. We can do this.’ Gharal pulled free his arm and offered his hand for Forrix to grip. The warsmith did so, wrist to wrist in Olympian custom. ‘We will live so that we can remember the fallen.’
Himalazia, undisclosed location, twenty-eight days before assault
The valley opened out, stretching a dozen kilometres from side to side. The mountainsides around it were artificially hewn, a semicircle of laser-cut cliffs that soared hundreds of metres above the mustering site.
Zenobi had a perfect view perched alongside the battle cannon of Breath of Wrath, able to see down the road as it dipped below two bastions built out from the slopes themselves. Gun turrets as big as the tank festooned each pillar tower, tracking the incoming column with macro cannons and immense laser batteries.
Overhead the sky was black and grey, swathed with smog from the bombardment. Nothing could be seen of the fluctuating aegis of the Palace itself, a hundred kilometres beyond the far wall.
Even more incredible was the sea of machines and people that thronged the artificial caldera. Squadrons of walkers, batteries of self-propelled guns and artillery were spread out along a grid of roads stretching from the main highway, as well as companies of mechanised infantry with troop carriers.
‘How…?’ Zenobi looked up again, seeing just the faintest shimmer of an energy field distorting the dark clouds and streaming embers. A faint drizzle of rain misted the air. Debris was still falling from orbit weeks after the void battle had ended, streaking the fumes with false meteors.
‘It’s a special type of void shield, called a reflex shield,’ said Nasha. He shrugged. ‘They briefed us before we left, but I’m not sure how it works. All I remember is that it’s keeping the muster base hidden from scans. Even light doesn’t escape. One of the traitors’ aircraft could be right overhead and they’d just see a haze of rock.’
‘But there’s so many troops here,’ said Zenobi. ‘Why aren’t they fighting?’
‘Some plan of Dor
n’s, I’d say. A reserve force.’
The column continued on. It was joined a few minutes later by a score of provosts on motorcycles, the flashing beacon lights of their steeds guiding the tanks to their allotted encampment. The roadway was raised here, giving them a view across the crater. Nasha pointed out various companies and regiments as they passed.
‘Over there,’ he said excitedly, pointing to a company of building-sized tanks in black-and-red livery, stark among the camouflage of the surrounding regiments. ‘Anzakk Heavy Brigade. Those are the very same Baneblades that broke the Noose of Kabbala!’
‘How do you know this?’ Zenobi laughed to see him so enthused, like a child allowed free rein with another’s toys.
‘We have our own claim to the Old Hundred. The Golden Hegera came from Bakk-Makkah. Well, the Old Precincts that were there before it. My ancestors have been fighting for the Emperor since the earliest days of the Unification Wars.’
‘And now you’re following that proud tradition,’ she said.
‘Maybe not my ancestors… I’m not from any of the heralded bloodlines. My family are algae farmers mostly. A few made it onto the local council, but that’s it. If not for the Warmaster, I’d be slopping wet mush from vaporators instead of commanding this magnificent metal creature.’
They came to a halt about two kilometres from the entrance, squadrons of tanks peeling to left and right. At shouts from their officers the Addaba Free Corps spilled from the backs of the parking vehicles, like a metal snake shedding its skin from nose to tail.
‘I need to be g–’
Nasha grabbed her arm and pulled her close, his lips finding hers a heartbeat later. Tears welled up as she tasted him, wondering if it would be the last time. Eventually they parted.
‘Red border, gold braiding, green pennant,’ he told her, nodding to the banner flying from a pole at the back of the turret. She gave him a quizzical look. ‘There’s a lot of tanks here, but only my one has that flag.’
‘Red border, gold braiding, green pennant,’ she repeated, fixing the sight of it in her memory. ‘I don’t know where we’ll be…’
‘If you don’t find me, I’ll find–’
‘No, don’t do that,’ Zenobi said sharply, causing him to flinch. She softened, stroking fingers down the lapel of his tanker’s jacket. ‘We have… security officers that would punish us both if you were found.’
‘So, this is it?’
‘Maybe not. I’ll find you if I can.’
She kissed him again, gently, lingering in the moment of connection.
It took more effort to drag herself away from his embrace than it had to forge through the blizzards. Zenobi mustered the strength to do so, turning away. She picked up her kitbag and tossed it down to where Menber was waiting beside the tank. She handed him the standard pole next and then followed, her lasgun slung over her back by its strap.
‘Saying farewell, cousin?’ he said, expression stern. Everybody else had moved away, leaving just the two of them. ‘You know nothing can come of it.’
‘Something already has,’ she said with a smile.
‘Say nothing to the integrity officers. If they think… If they question your loyalty for an instant…’
‘I’ll be careful, cousin. I promise.’
Lion’s Gate space port, tropophex mantlezone,
sixteen days since assault
There were breakthroughs all across the boundary levels between the Starspear and Sky City. Sigismund did the best he could to shore up the weakening defence, but he leaned heavily on Lieutenant-Commander Haeger to see through the implementation. Remembering the words of Keeler, the Templar put himself in the forefront of every counter-attack, and for two solid days had fought as though he could single-handedly drive back the Iron Warriors and their twisted allies.
‘First Captain, new report from the core patrols.’ Haeger had timed his vox call to coincide with Sigismund’s transit from one embattled area to the next, a window of a few minutes’ relative peace. ‘Captain Thudermann requests reinforcement or withdrawal orders. We are experiencing augury blackout on the orbital scans. Lord Dorn has sent instruction that we hold for another eighteen hours.’
Boarding the Rhino that would take him across the level to the conveyor station around the besieged skybridges, Sigismund considered each of these in turn.
‘Tell Thudermann to pull back to the second cordon. There is no gain in getting trapped between the two advancing forces. The augurs are in the purview of the tech-priests, we can do nothing except stand ready for the enemy to receive more troops from orbit. As for the third… I plan to hold as long as possible. Did Lord Dorn indicate what would happen after eighteen hours?’
‘He said there would be further assistance but did not care to share the details.’
‘Transmit to Legion command that we will hold the Lion’s Gate space port for as long as the Lord Praetorian wills it so.’ Sigismund spared a moment to check the Rhino’s progress on the telemetric display. ‘We shall be at Gate Stratos-Fourteen-Delta in two minutes. Have the companies on levels seven hundred and eight through seven hundred and thirteen push to my position for counter-attack.’
‘Affirmative, First Captain.’ There was a pause of several seconds but the link did not cut. ‘I have heard that a new enemy strike force has been assembled and is cutting through our defences more swiftly than we can recover.’
‘Is that a report, Haeger?’
‘More of a rumour, but there is scattered vox-traffic that claim sightings of Sons of Horus led by Ezekyle Abaddon himself. We are losing contact with anyone that they come upon.’
A shudder of apprehension and excitement coursed through Sigismund. This was the words of Keeler made clear, his purpose suddenly revealed.
‘Where was this last rumour, Haeger?’
‘If I extrapolate, I would say that the enemy strike force is heading for level nine oh two, somewhere near beta quadrant.’
‘Redirect all commands in the bridge sector to my direct authority. Full assault preparation.’
‘What of Lord Dorn’s command to hold?’
‘If we do not parry this strike before it lands, there will be no point holding.’
His fingers moved to the runes of the terminal, keying in commands to locate the shortest route to beta quadrant of Sky City. Visions flashed through Sigismund’s thoughts, of himself with blade in hand standing against the lord of the Mournival. Surely if Abaddon fell beneath the blade of the Templar it would be a great victory for the servants of the Emperor.
Intrusions
The half-born
Dangerous relations
Europa Wall zone, sixteen days since assault
Some would have called it luck, others destiny. Amon suspected Keeler would attribute his timely arrival to the will of the Emperor. As far as he was concerned it was nothing of these, simply the inevitable result of diligence and logic coupled with a pre-emptive attitude.
He was swiftly becoming more absorbed in the nature of the Lectitio Divinitatus, day by day getting more acquainted with their customs, personnel and movements. What had seemed a disorganised clutter on the surface belied a sophisticated, organic communications network on par with the most complex espionage cell-systems he had encountered. But it was all the more remarkable because there was no nefarious puppet master at the centre, nor were the vast majority of those participating in the movement even aware of the greater part of the whole.
By ways and means originating in necessity, the faithful had discovered how to identify each other without direct contact, centring themselves around commonly regarded symbols, phrases and mannerisms without ever directly communicating them. It was like a virus, passed on by contact, embodied in the sermons that were delivered, the pamphlets handed out, the pages of the Lectitio Divinitatus itself.
The similarity to the spread of a
disease was not lost on Amon, and he had coined a term for it: the plague of belief. It was, he was sure, as potentially threatening as any physical malaise, being a corruption of culture that undermined the tenets of the Emperor’s vision for humanity.
As soon as he had considered the spread of faith as an epidemiological issue he had found tracing it from one place to another far more straightforward. Though he had begun with plague victims and medicae facilities, the premise had led him farther afield, beyond the Sanctum Imperialis to the Ultimate Wall itself.
And in doing so he had noticed a pattern, or rather a void in a pattern. Despite the clandestine support of a handful of higher-ranking Imperial Army officers, the worship of the Emperor was still forbidden among the ranks of the troopers. As such, soldiers were forced to gather off-duty or to make time and space within their duties when not directly engaged – opportunities for either were exceedingly rare with the enemy at the walls themselves.
A break in vox-chatter, uncovered by Amon, had piqued his interest. A patrol that had made excuses for a late return, whose sergeant had been absent or delayed on other occasions. He might have ignored it, but their proximity to the garrisoned quarantine zone where the matter had been brought to light demanded further investigation.
He came upon the bodies in a disused way station about a kilometre and a half inside the curtain wall, just within the perimeter of the Palatine Arc quarantine zone. The detritus scattered about the bare chamber had all the markings of an impromptu fane, including a bloodied copy of the Lectitio Divinitatus. It seemed likely that others from the garrison had performed a rite in this place.
The corpses had been torn open, ribcages splayed from the inside, skin and flesh hanging in tatters from broken bones. Amon had not seen the like; it was as though the killer had emptied the victims of their insides. Each had been hollowed out, the tattered edges of ribs and breastbones showing striations like gnaw marks.
