by C Z Dunn
By the time they reached the lower decks, each Space Marine was fully armoured and battle ready. The disoriented serfs remained on the lift platform while the Dark Angels surged forwards a squad at a time to take their place in the drop pods. Balthasar’s squad were the first to board and, as they were taking their places, Turmiel and Ezekiel joined them, but not before the Epistolary had smacked a huge gauntleted fist against the control button that released the unmanned drop pod alongside them. Balthasar gave Ezekiel a quizzical look as he took his seat.
‘Watch and learn, sergeant,’ Ezekiel said as he mag-locked his armour to his seat.
Allix moved amongst the Mordians, Mute in tow, occasionally stopping to ask an officer if they had seen Marita or knew where she was. Though most were curt, the constant threat of ork invasion trying everyone’s patience, the response to Allix was less hostile than if the question had been asked of a Vostroyan.
They had been searching the city for over a week and not a single soldier from among the Mordian ranks, nor the few Vostroyans who deigned to speak to any of Ladbon’s squad, had seen the pretty, red-haired Honorian, or knew of anybody who had. During the day, when the squad was supposed to be on patrol, one or two of them would remain behind in the city, visiting the countless barracks and encampments that had been given over to the Astra Militarum defenders. Technically, their actions were in breach of multiple regulations within the Primer, as well as being counter to their direct orders, but the sheer number of Imperial forces within the capital’s walls provided a convenient mask of confusion. On the few occasions they had been challenged by either commissars or ranking officers, their excuse of having become separated from their squad had been accepted without further question.
‘Let’s just give it a while longer,’ Allix said in response to Mute pointing at his wrist chron. The squad would be back from patrol before nightfall and the two of them still had to make the long trek across the city to sector nineteen. ‘If we don’t have any joy then we can consider sector four a bust, and Gaspar and Grigori can make a start elsewhere tomorrow.’
Mute shook his head and rolled his eyes but followed Allix, who was already asking a Mordian captain the same question that had been asked a thousand times that day. He was just about to insist again that they head back to their billet, lest they be brought up on charges of desertion, when Mute felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face a skinny Mordian youth, his uniform tattered and stained.
‘Are you the ones who have been looking for the translator girl?’ the Mordian asked in a thick accent. Even though he was speaking Low Gothic, it took the two Vostroyans a moment to process what he had said.
‘That’s right,’ Allix said. ‘I take it you know where she is?’
The Mordian looked confused for a moment, staring at Mute.
‘He’s not being rude, he just can’t speak.’
The youth nodded in understanding.
‘So, do you know anything?’ Allix said.
‘I may do…’ the Mordian said coyly.
They had been prepared for this. Though Allix’s usual response would have been to try and beat the information from the snotty brat, Dmitri had worked some of the contacts he had made since they had arrived to come up with a more attractive and less violent solution. From out of the folds of his field coat, Mute produced two unopened packs of lho-sticks and a small pack of freeze-dried recaff. The Mordian’s eyes went wide at the sight of what he was being offered.
‘That’s right,’ Allix said. ‘A governor’s ransom under current circumstances, and it’s all yours if you just tell us which sector she’s in and who she’s assigned to.’
Mute shook the packets by way of encouragement. The Mordian laughed and held out his hands to receive his reward.
‘It’s not which sector,’ he said, furtively pocketing the contraband. ‘It’s which fortress. She’s no longer in the city.’
The drop pod hit the snow-covered surface of Honoria with enough force to gouge a crater over a metre deep. The impact triggered the drop leaf doors of the craft and no sooner were they on the ground than First Squad and the pair of Librarians were out of their seats, weapons raised. Using the walls of the crater as cover, the ten green-armoured Dark Angels and Turmiel assessed the situation.
Ezekiel simply strode brazenly out of the freshly torn depression and onto the open plain in front of him, the white snow stained almost completely red with ork blood.
Whatever happens,+ Ezekiel sent telepathically to Turmiel, +do not use your psychic powers.+
The roar of assault cannons sounded continuously as the Deathstorm drop pod that Ezekiel had despatched in advance tore through any ork curious and stupid enough to see what had fallen out of the sky. Scores already lay dying and with each moment that passed more joined their number. Ezekiel carried on walking towards the encroaching orks, the assault cannons falling silent as he crossed into their line of fire, their targeting systems identifying him as friendly through biometrics.
With the weapon noise abating, the only sound save for the battle-cries of the handful of remaining orks was of the other Dark Angels drop pods crashing to the ground over an area of many kilometres. Shortly after each landing, bolter fire rang out as newly disembarked squads engaged the ork vanguard.
Without fear of being torn to pieces by the devastating wall of fire from the assault cannons, two of the orks charged the lone Librarian. The first of them barely made it within two metres of Ezekiel. Raising its axe to strike the Dark Angel down, it exposed its stomach, which Ezekiel tore through with the edge of his force sword. Such was the power of the blow, it cut the ork in two, the beast’s upper half thrashing about in the snow not yet comprehending its fate. In keeping with Ezekiel‘s instruction to Turmiel not to use his powers, the blade of his sword remained inert, the crimson of ork blood staining its length in place of psychically imbued blue.
The second ork made it closer to him, though not by much, before its head parted company with its neck. The body staggered onwards, past the still advancing Librarian before it crashed to its knees and toppled to the ground, finally acknowledging its own death.
A wave of fear broke over the remaining orks, soon neutralised by a roar from the largest among their number. Ezekiel raised his blade and pointed it at the huge ork, obviously this particular warband’s leader, by way of challenge. The brute roared again in acceptance.
From behind him, Ezekiel could sense that First Squad had moved out of cover and were moving to engage the orks.
Keep your squad back, sergeant,+ Ezekiel sent to Balthasar. +This one’s mine.+
Balthasar complied, signalling for First Squad to maintain their position and hold fire. The orks mirrored this, forming a semicircle behind their leader, who was approaching the Librarian.
The two combatants faced off against each other. The ork, as big out of armour as Ezekiel was in his battleplate, two huge tusks jutting out from its lower jaw, face daubed with crude markings that masked a multitude of scars, wielded a massive double-headed axe in one clenched fist. In an attempt to intimidate its foe, the ork began to toss the weapon from hand to hand.
In response, Ezekiel took his sword and thrust it tip first into the snowy ground, abandoning it as he took a step towards the ork.
The greenskin laughed, its amusement turning to rage as it hefted the axe above its head and charged with an almighty bellow. It swung the weapon hard, a lethally sharp edge connecting at the Space Marine’s chest height.
Except Ezekiel was no longer there. Anticipating the attack, he had already spun away and under the axe, coming up within reach of the ork and thrusting an armoured fist into its throat. The beast staggered backwards and swung again with a back stroke, aiming once more for where it thought Ezekiel should be.
Its blow came up short, its forearm ending up in the Dark Angel’s grip. Ezekiel grasped it around the wrist with his other hand
and threw the arm over his shoulder, pulling down hard and reversing the plane of the limb. The ork tried to cry out through ruined vocal cords, but all that emanated was a wet gurgle. It released its grip on the axe, which Ezekiel caught and tossed away in the same motion, bifurcating one of the spectating orks and mortally wounding another standing behind it.
Ezekiel took a step backwards, preparing for his next assault. The ork threw a punch with its good arm, the other a limp ruin at its side. The Librarian took another half-step backwards, catching the fist as it flew in front of him and pushing it away harder in the direction it had been travelling, unbalancing the ork.
Showing no mercy, Ezekiel was upon the ork, grabbing its head as it lost its footing and thrusting an armoured knee upwards, hard into its face. The first blow shattered one of its tusks, the second spread its nose across its face in a shower of blood; the third ruptured a cheekbone so hard that one side of its face was rendered concave.
Ezekiel was unrelenting. A fourth, fifth and sixth blow went in, each one removing yet more of the ork’s features. The second tusk broke off along with most of its teeth, and it began to choke as it swallowed them along with pints of blood. Bone cracked, each impact from Ezekiel’s knee shattering yet more skull. The ork was no longer putting up any resistance, all fight long fled from it, but still Ezekiel persisted.
By the time the twentieth blow had landed, the ork was dead, but still Ezekiel did not stop, raining in yet more attacks. What was left of the greenskin’s head disintegrated, the little brains it had possessed splashing messily to the ground, now devoid of snow because of the warmth of its spilled blood.
Finally satisfied, Ezekiel grabbed the corpse by the stump of its neck and threw it to the ground in the direction of the warband stragglers. Several of them were already turning to flee but a couple, blessed with even less sense than their leader, were in the process of taking up arms against the Librarian. Unconcerned, Ezekiel turned and retrieved his sword, striding towards First Squad, who had already opened fire on the vengeful orks, putting them down in an explosive hail of bolt shells.
As they rushed past him, hunting down the routed xenos, Balthasar gave him a respectful nod.
Leave some alive,+ Ezekiel sent. +Make sure they spread the message about who they are dealing with here.+
Chapter Six
Sporadic bolter fire rang out across the snow-blanketed steppes, the squads assigned guard detail dealing with the last of the orks in the region. In the pale grey skies above, drop pods rained down to join those already on Honoria, Ancient Azmodor and the other Dreadnoughts under Zadakiel’s command taking their place alongside their brother Dark Angels. In their wake came the two Thunderhawks assigned to the Sword of Caliban, Rage of Angels and Undying Vengeance, the former relaying Rhino transports to the surface, the latter Chapter-serfs to aid their masters in the ground campaign, which might begin in earnest at any moment. Both craft had made the journey down several times already and each bore damage from running the gauntlet of ork vessels engaged in orbit.
In the rear of the Land Raider Perfidy’s End, Zadakiel, Rephial, Puriel, Ezekiel and Serpicus stood huddled around a hololith, displaying the surface of Honoria, data captured by the Sword of Caliban’s sensors and relayed to the Dark Angels planetside. At the base of the vehicle’s ramp, the servitors that always accompanied the Techmarine into battle stood watch, a quintet of cybernetic sentries all running protocols compelling them to open fire on anything not identified as a Dark Angel should it come within one hundred and fifty feet of Perfidy’s End.
‘I have never seen its like before,’ Rephial said, echoing the surprise of the assembled Dark Angels at what the hololithic map of Honoria’s surface was showing them.
‘The construction must have taken millennia,’ Puriel said. He circled around the flickering three-dimensional projection, marvelling at what each new viewpoint revealed.
‘It covers eighty per cent of the planet’s surface at least,’ Ezekiel added.
‘Eighty-two point seven nine three per cent,’ Serpicus interjected. ‘To be precise.’ The Techmarine could not take his eyes from the map. Tens of thousands of perfectly straight lines ran at angles, each one terminating at one of hundreds of vast fortresses, monolithic structures rising high above the surface. Serpicus gestured over the hololith and zoomed in on one of the fortresses.
‘The walls are two hundred and sixty feet high. The only points of ingress are deep, smooth-sided channels that lead to gated citadels.’ Serpicus pointed out each detail as he spoke. ‘And each gate is defended by one of these.’ He pulled his arm back to its full extent, commanding the hololith to show as much detail as possible.
‘Impressive,’ Zadakiel said. ‘I’m beginning to understand why the Adeptus Mechanicus have shown such interest in this world.’
All five Dark Angels circled the glowing green representation of a weapons emplacement the likes of which they had never seen before. At the heart of it was what appeared to be a multi-barrelled lascannon mounted on a sphere, granting it not only a full three hundred and sixty-degree firing arc but also virtually unrestricted vertical traversal. Around it sat four smaller spheres, atop which were placed anti-aircraft weapons, defending it from the likeliest route of attack; as a result of their mounting, they could clearly be directed towards the ground too, adding their firepower to the main weapon.
‘Those gates are unassailable,’ Puriel said, incredulously. ‘Any attacker is forced down those channels – on foot – only to be ripped to pieces by the guns above. The only hope is to take the turret out from the air, which is virtually impossible thanks to its secondary weapons systems.’
‘Almost unassailable,’ Serpicus said. ‘You’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What am I forgetting, brother?’ Puriel said, irritated.
‘Those guns have to be fired by somebody and whoever operates them is fallible, like all humans,’ the Techmarine said.
‘Still, brother, I struggle to understand why the Mechanicus requested our assistance when they have such potent technology at their disposal,’ Zadakiel said.
‘Perhaps we’re about to find out,’ Serpicus said. All five of them had just caught the rumble of an approaching engine and they descended the ramp to ascertain its source.
Serpicus, his augmented vision far in excess of even his brothers’ genetically enhanced sight, was the first to spot it. ‘Triaros armoured conveyor in the livery of Atanix Triumvirae.’
Several kilometres away, snow was being ploughed into the air by the mighty tracks of the Heresy-era relic, a fountain of white heralding its arrival. Instead of the usual red or red-derivative colours favoured by the acolytes of the Machine-God, the transport was jet-black in honour of the millions who paid with their lives when forces loyal to Horus invaded the forge world of Atanix Triumvirae ten thousand years before. Twice the size of a Rhino, the shock ram fitted to the fore of the vehicle was curved inwards, forming a prow that acted as a surprisingly efficient plough through the deep snow. Huge brass cogs at the rear powered the tracks that sat proudly on either side of the transport, sloping gently upwards before falling away again halfway along a hull adorned with accoutrements made from the same metal.
As the Triaros reached the perimeter of the Dark Angels’ landing zone, a lone Space Marine approached the vehicle and ordered it to halt. He disappeared behind the vehicle, re-emerging almost immediately and waving it on. Moments later it powered over to where the five warriors awaited it and came to an abrupt halt. The circular hatch at the rear slid open with a hiss. In response, the five servitors under Serpicus’ command came to attention, weapons ready.
‘Serpicus!’ Zadakiel hissed over the vox. ‘Get those things under control.’
‘I don’t think it’s going to be a problem,’ he replied.
From around the back of the Triaros, a figure in robes the same colour as the troop carrier hobbled into vie
w on a pair of augmetic legs. His going was slow in spite of his bodily enhancements, but the servitors struggled to target him, their weapons jerking erratically as they locked on briefly before becoming confused and aiming in another direction altogether. The robed tech-priest seemed oblivious, looking around as if bewildered and blinking through a pair of ornate, augmetic eyes.
‘Arch Magos Diezen,’ Serpicus said, partly addressing his former mentor, partly introducing him to his fellow Dark Angels.
‘Where?’ Diezen said, looking around furtively before succumbing to a long, metallic chuckle. ‘Oh yes. That’s me, isn’t it?’
He hobbled closer to the waiting Space Marines, his attention now grasped by the confused servitors. Leaning into each of them in turn, he whispered something in binaric cant, instantly deactivating them. Though inert, Diezen continued to be fixated by Serpicus’ creations.
‘Do you not remember me, magos?’ Serpicus said, rapidly losing patience. ‘You tutored me on Mars not two centuries ago.’
Diezen stiffened to attention at the mention of the throneworld of the Cult Mechanicus. He looked up at the Techmarine, his artificial eyes irising wide in recognition. ‘I do remember you! It’s Spartacus, isn’t it?’ Not waiting for an answer, he returned his attention to the servitors, pulling what was once a hand from beneath the sleeves of his robe to reveal fingers that were an assortment of tools. Selecting the right one, he began to loosen a bolt that attached a heavy bolter to one of the weapon servitors. Halfway through his task, he stopped abruptly, and turned back to the Dark Angels. ‘Space Marines? What are you doing here?’
‘You summoned us here, arch magos. I am Zadakiel, Master of the Dark Angels’ Fifth Company, faithful sons of Lion El’Jonson, sworn servants of the Golden Throne and ancient and honoured allies of the Adeptus Mechanicus,’ Zadakiel said. ‘We are here to honour the Pact of Kulgotha.’
Removing the bolt, Diezen placed his other hand – which was altogether more hand-like – into the folds of his robe and rummaged around. For almost a minute he proceeded to pull assorted screws, nuts and washers from out of his pockets until eventually he found what he was looking for.
