In response, the distant Imperial ship swung to starboard, showing the raiders her battle scarred flank and her broadside of heavy guns. Along the battle cruiser’s dorsal hull, two massive turrets slewed to port, bringing their energy projectors to bear on the incoming enemy craft. Arcs of cyan light crackled and seethed within the huge accumulation chambers of the lance batteries, gathering intensity with each passing moment until the blunt projectors were shrouded in a haze of voltaic wrath. Though the Fist of Russ stood alone against the raiders, and her hull was battered and broken, the reach of her guns was longer than most other ships in the Imperial fleet.
The lance batteries fired half a second apart. Twin beams of irresistible force crossed the black gulf in the blink of an eye, converging on the foremost raider in the pack. The first energy lance crashed against the raider’s void shield, blazing white at the point of impact and shooting arcs of cyan and magenta lightning across its curved surface. For perhaps a millisecond the powerful shield held, but then the semi-invisible shield flickered and flared as it struggled to dissipate the lance’s tremendous power. It failed in a spherical flash of light, like a bursting bubble, and then the second lance beam struck home. It tore the raider open from stem to stern, ripping open its flank like a fiery talon until it penetrated the small ship’s reactor decks. The Chaos ship disappeared in an incandescent ball of plasma and radioactive vapour, wreathing its fellows in streamers of purple and magenta fire. The Fist of Russ had claimed first blood.
Thrusters flaring, the rest of the pack raced on, plunging through the expanding cloud of debris. Though their main guns were still out of range, the raiders were far from toothless. Three of the Chaos ships surged ahead of the rest, ordering themselves into a rough line abreast. Blackened, pitted blast doors drew back from launch tubes recessed into the ships’ angled bows, and a pair of powerful anti-ship torpedoes, each more than forty metres long, streaked towards the battle cruiser on boiling plumes of fiery gas.
“Torpedoes incoming!” shouted one of the tactical officers from his station on the command deck.
Ragnar caught sight of the tense expression on the man’s face as he glanced towards Shipmaster Wulfgar.
“Lance batteries switch to antimissile targeting,” the ship’s master declared. “Portside batteries lock on to those torpedo ships and fire at will!” Wulfgar turned to a trio of officers clustered around a set of consoles to his left. “Ordnance officer! What is the status of our close-in turrets?”
“Defensive guns at sixty per cent to port,” the senior ordnance officer replied.
“Very well,” Wulfgar said gravely. “At this range they’re not likely to miss. Damage control parties stand by!”
The six torpedoes fanned out in a broad arc, blanketing the area around the Fist of Russ. The weapons were powerful but unguided, their trajectories planned by the infernal logic engines aboard their parent craft. Swift as thunderbolts, they streaked towards the battle cruiser’s kilometre-long flank. Though her thrusters were roaring at near full power, for all intents and purposes the Imperial ship might as well have been standing still.
Twin cyan beams lashed through the darkness at the oncoming torpedoes, detonating four of them in globes of nuclear fire. The final pair of deadly missiles slipped past the raking beams and plunged towards the Fist of Russ.
At fifty kilometres the battle cruiser’s defensive turrets clattered into action, hurling a torrent of energy bolts and explosive shells into the path of the oncoming weapons. A close burst from one shell punctured the fuel tank of one of the enemy missiles and the resulting explosion blew it apart. The second torpedo flew on unscathed, flying by unholy luck through a gap in the ship’s flak coverage. It struck the Fist of Russ just forward of the portside hangar deck, its nuclear warhead detonating like the hammer of an evil god.
The ancient warship shuddered beneath the blow, and a roar like thunder reverberated through the battle cruiser’s hull. Men were thrown across the command deck by the impact. Gauges burst and sparks erupted from power conduits on the port bulkhead. On instinct, Ragnar gripped the hololith table to steady himself and wrapped a protective hand around Gabriella’s waist. On the bridge deck below, wounded men cried in pain, and a tech-priest cried out a prayer to the Omnissiah.
“Damage control report!” Wulfgar roared from the command pulpit.
“Hull breach from decks thirty-five to thirty-eight at frame 412,” the damage control officer reported. Blood flowed freely from a cut on the bondsman’s scalp, and he wiped it away with a savage swipe of his hand. “Fire on the flight deck!”
“All available crew to the flight deck and commence firefighting procedures,” Wulfgar ordered. The master of the ship turned and addressed Wulfgar. “I advise you make for the starboard hangars at once, lord.”
Ragnar shot Gabriella a worried glance. The Fist of Russ was hit hard, and the battle had only just begun. The Navigator caught his eye and gave a stern shake of her head. The young Space Wolf nodded and raised his head to Wulfgar. “We stand with you, Shipmaster Wulfgar,” he said. “Fight on, in Russ’s name!”
The ship’s master turned back to his task. Ragnar caught Sigurd glancing his way, and was surprised at the Wolf Priest’s approving nod.
Off to the right, one of the ship’s gunnery officers looked up from his data screen. “Enemy ships in range of our broadsides!” he said with a vengeful snarl. “All gun decks report weapons lock!”
“Then give the bastards a taste of hell,” Wulfgar replied.
The flank of the battle cruiser was limned in red from the molten wound of the torpedo hit. Jets of burning atmosphere vented from the hangar decks aft of the impact site, casting a flickering glow over the dozens of huge gun turrets that swung into action. Macro-cannon barrels elevated into position, aimed by complex gunnery rituals performed by machine-spirits on the battle cruiser’s bridge. The enormous weapons fired in sequence, hurling shells the size of land raiders at the oncoming Chaos ships.
Salvoes of explosive shells bracketed the three oncoming torpedo ships, hammering relentlessly against their void shields in staccato bursts of fire. Without warning the shielding on one of the raiders faltered, and a cluster of shells erupted on the warship’s rune covered bow and superstructure. One shell tore through the iron decks and found the raider’s forward magazine. The resultant explosion ripped the traitor vessel in half.
Half a second later, another raider succumbed, its hull pierced in a dozen places and its superstructure ablaze. The last remaining torpedo ship continued on, its shield overloaded, but otherwise unharmed… until a cyan bolt from the battle cruiser’s lance batteries tore the raider apart.
Nearly half of the raiders were gone, but the rest plunged ahead. They were less than fifteen seconds from entering gun range.
“Two of the raiders are angling aft!” the senior auspex officer declared. “They’re going after our engines!”
“Hard to port!” Wulfgar ordered. “Show them our bow!” The ship’s master chuckled bleakly. “Maybe if we’re lucky one of the blasphemers will try to ram us!” He turned to the gunnery officers. “Port and starboard broadsides, stand by for salvo fire!”
With a tortured groan of metal, the command deck angled beneath Ragnar’s feet as the huge ship swung onto its new course. He could see streaks of red and yellow through the tall viewports as the first enemy shells began hurtling past the struggling warship. Once again, he looked to Gabriella, but her eyes were closed, as though deep in thought or prayer. He thought to ask her once more if she wished to head for the hangar bay, but after a moment’s thought he chose to hold his tongue.
The battle would be decided in the next few seconds. If the battle cruiser was doomed they would never reach the hangar deck in time.
Slowly, streaming a trail of frozen oxygen and melted debris, the Fist of Russ turned to face her attackers. Wulfgar had timed his move carefully, bringing the warship’s heavily armoured prow into position just as the enemy ships hove into
range. Macro-cannons and magna bolt projectors spat torrents of fire at the oncoming Imperial ship, bracketing her void shields with an unrelenting storm of explosions. The first layer of shielding failed. Then, seconds later, the inner shield gave way as well. Fierce blasts pummelled the battle cruiser’s bow and superstructure, leaving scorch marks against fifteen-metre thick adamantium plate.
Moments later the raiders were plunging past the warship like burning meteors, their weapon batteries still blazing away at their foe. The Fist of Russ answered, her broadsides roaring to port and starboard at the swift moving Chaos ships. The nearest raider to port flared cyan under the lash of one of the battle cruiser’s lance batteries, before a salvo of macro-cannon shells blew it apart.
Scores of explosions ravaged the Imperial ship’s flanks. Many were turned aside by the vessel’s armour plate, but here and there the enemy shells struck home. One of the battle cruiser’s huge lance turrets blew apart, its massive power capacitors detonated by an enemy shell. Hundreds died on the Imperial ship’s gun decks as armour piercing shells opened airtight compartments to space.
A raider on the starboard side of the ship was struck by a salvo of heavy shells that collapsed its shields and tore into its thruster banks. The small ship spiralled out of control, trailing a blazing wake of plasma and molten debris until its reactors overloaded moments later in a spectacular burst of light.
Then the surviving raiders were gone, hurtling aft of the Fist of Russ and opening the range while the battle cruiser’s beleaguered crew struggled to keep the ancient vessel alive.
Flames billowed from the bridge, sending clouds of dark smoke roiling over the command deck. Men screamed in terror and pain as the emergency lighting flared to life. Officers picked themselves up off the deck and staggered back to their stations. Ragnar held on to Gabriella and peered warily through the smoky gloom, wishing to the Allfather for a foe he could come to grips with.
The senior damage control officer sang out through the smoke. “Hull breaches on multiple decks! Dorsal lance battery out of action! Starboard gun decks report heavy casualties. Shields at fifty per cent. Our reactors are stable, but power output is limited.”
“Very well,” Wulfgar replied as he staggered back up to the pulpit. “Helm! Can we still manoeuvre?”
“Aye, sir,” the chief helmsman replied. “She’s sluggish, but she’s still answering the helm.”
“Bring us two points to port,” the ship’s master ordered. “Let’s clear our wake and see where those raiders went.”
All starships were blind directly aft, where the roiling wake from their thrusters made sensor returns impossible. Slowly, ponderously, the battle cruiser swung around, streaming twisting ribbons of fire.
The seconds stretched upon the command deck as the ship’s augurs searched for the Chaos raiders. Fire-fighting crews were hard at work on the bridge deck, and already the choking smoke was dissipating. Ragnar breathed slowly and evenly, allowing his enhanced respiratory system to filter out the worst of the fumes. He bent low over Gabriella. “Are you all right, lady?” he asked. “Shall I call for a medicae?”
“No, no,” the Navigator protested waving a soot stained hand. Her eyes were bleary from the smoke, but her expression was determined. “The God-Emperor knows they’ve more serious problems to worry about.”
“Fire-fighting teams on the flight deck say they have evacuated the hangar and vented it to space,” the damage control officer reported. “The fire is out.”
“Very well,” Wulfgar replied. “Where are the enemy ships?”
The chief auspex officer looked up from his screen. “No contacts aft,” he replied, his voice tinged with relief. “The remaining enemy ships have shut down their augurs and gone silent. They’ve disengaged!”
A ragged cheer went up from the command crew. “Belay that foolishness!” Wulfgar bellowed. “We’re far from safe harbour yet. Gun crews and augur teams will remain at their stations. All other crew will report to local damage control stations and lend assistance.”
The ship’s officers scrambled to obey. Wulfgar stepped wearily down from the command pulpit and approached Sigurd and Ragnar. Neither of the Space Wolves had moved from their places. Barely four minutes had elapsed since the battle had begun.
Wulfgar bowed his head to the Wolf Priest. “We’ve fought our way clear for the moment,” he said grimly, “but I fear the Fist of Russ is crippled, lord. A Thunderhawk can reach Charys orbit in less than three hours. I suggest you and your warriors depart for the planet at once. The enemy could return with reinforcements at any time.”
Sigurd nodded gravely. The young Space Wolf Priest looked around the damaged command deck, apparently stunned by the devastation his orders had wrought. He slowly raised his crozius over Wulfgar’s head. “Praise Russ and the Allfather,” he intoned in a powerful voice. “You and your crew are to be commended, Shipmaster Wulfgar. It was wrong of me to suggest that a man like you was without honour. The courage of you and your men shames me.” The priest placed his hand on Wulfgar’s head and pronounced the Benediction of Iron, an honour normally reserved for members of the Chapter. When Sigurd was finished, Wulfgar looked up at the Wolf Priest in speechless awe, nodded respectfully to Ragnar and returned quickly to his station.
Ragnar watched as Sigurd looked around the damaged command deck one last time, clearly shaken by the fierce battle. When the Wolf Priest’s gaze fell upon him and Gabriella, however, his expression hardened once more. “We will leave for Charys at once,” he snapped at Ragnar. When he turned to Gabriella, his voice was far more moderate. “Will you accompany us aboard one of our Thunderhawks, lady? It is no longer safe for you to remain aboard, I fear, and it will be some time before the Fist of Russ has need of your talents.”
“Your concern is noted, holy one,” Gabriella replied smoothly, “but I and my Wolves will follow in my personal shuttle.”
“As you wish,” Sigurd replied with a curt bow. To Ragnar, he said, “Report to headquarters as soon as you’ve made planetfall.” Then he strode swiftly from the command deck.
Ragnar watched the young priest depart, admiration mixing with outrage. Later, he vowed, Sigurd would answer for his insults to Ragnar’s honour. For now, they had a war to fight.
SIX
Unto the Breach
By accident or a pernicious twist of fate, the enemy rocket attack began just as the landing craft from the Fist of Russ began their final approach. Two kilometres north across the cratered and smouldering expanse of the Charys starport, the barrage siren began to wail from the central bunker complex, the notes barely perceptible above the rising shriek of the Thunderhawks’ turbines. Seconds later a salvo of rockets roared in from the rebel artillery positions to the east, just as the first assault transport raised its armoured prow and flared in for a vertical landing. The unguided warheads fell at random across the ten-kilometre square starport, detonating amid empty revetments, burned-out warehouses and blackened administration buildings. One came down on the other side of a storage shed less than two hundred metres from where Mikal Sternmark and the assembled honour guard were waiting at the edge of the landing field. The blast hurled chunks of burning flakboard and pulverised ferrocrete into the air with a thunderous explosion. Neither the Space Marines nor the armoured platoon of Imperial Guardsmen seemed to notice.
Roiling clouds of dirt and grit sped in a widening circle as the descending craft touched down in a rough diamond formation at the centre of the landing field, less than a hundred yards away. The hot wind tangled Sternmark’s dark hair and pulled at the tattered ends of the black wolf pelt across his shoulders. Needles of pain stabbed along the length of the ugly, ragged wound that marked the left side of Sternmark’s head, but the Wolf Guard grimaced stoically into the hot, stinging wind and tightened his grip on the haft of the power axe in his left hand. He’d had little occasion to carry it recently, and he drew comfort from its familiar weight.
He’d carried an entire world on his should
ers for the last three weeks, and now he could gladly set that burden aside. It was one thing to lead men into battle and come to grips with the enemy face to face, Mikal had done that for more years than he could count, and he was good at it. Directing a planetary campaign from a dimly lit bunker, with thousands of troops and tens of millions of civilians to contend with was something else again. Once upon a time, he’d dreamt of rising to the lofty rank of Wolf Lord and holding the fate of star systems in his hands. Charys had shown him the folly of his ambitions. He was a warrior, and a leader of warriors, and he longed to return to the front lines where he belonged.
The ferrocrete landing pad trembled as the transports touched down. Mikal saw with some bemusement that one of the craft wasn’t a Thunderhawk at all, but a richly appointed shuttlecraft with the insignia of House Bellisarius emblazoned on its flank. Must be some kind of advance party, he thought, and waited patiently as the transports’ assault ramps lowered with a clang and the first troops clattered out into the late afternoon sun.
Dust swirled around the legs of the Space Wolves as they loped onto the ferrocrete and formed up in ranks. Here and there the billows of dust seemed to mask larger, more hulking shapes that stalked menacingly at the corners of Mikal’s vision. He shook his head sharply to try and clear it, which only set his wound throbbing again. The hellblade that had struck him during the frenzied retreat from the governor’s audience chamber had not been poisoned as far as the company’s Wolf Priest could determine, but the injury wasn’t healing as it should.
[Space Wolf 06] - Wolf's Honour Page 9
