[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  Slayte, standing proud in the hatch of his own Chimera, Sergeant Colmm alongside him acting as gunner, gave the order to adopt defensive formations and repel attackers.

  The dark eldar fell upon them like scythed rain. One moment the threat was distant, the next it was amongst them cutting and cleaving.

  They manoeuvred in packs, held aloft on anti-gravitic boards and bikes or borne along by their hovering, bladed skiffs. Long-nosed cannons set at the skiffs’ prows spat dark lances of energy that tore apart metal and roasted flesh. The warriors aboard, gripping long chains and strips of leather as they bent over the long platforms running along the spine of the skiffs, cackled and wailed with perverse glee as they discharged their rifles.

  On one skiff was a horde of semi-naked warrior-wyches, males and females both, though such was the androgynous nature of the race it was hard to tell the difference. They wielded barbs and tridents, nets and glaives, smiling maliciously at the thought of imminent carnage. Together, the raiders moved in low, sweeping arcs. It was obvious they were trying to encircle the Imperial battle group.

  Slayte sighted down his pistol at a trio of xenos mounted on anti-gravitic boards. His shot missed, the shrieking hellions able to change course in an eye-blink. Then Colmm was choking, dropping the heavy stubber before he’d had chance to yoke the triggers. His hands went to his neck where Slayte just made out a long, silver thread. The aide was ripped from the hatch, gurgling blood, and lofted into the air, lost in the hellish Geviox sunlight.

  Around him the sharp crack of hellguns met the whickering report of eldar splinter fire. Men were screaming, spun about, their faces embedded with shards and streaming blood. From his vantage point, Slayte could see lithe figures moving through the carnage, splitting bodies with their blades. One somersaulted acrobatically onto the front of the other Chimera. Major Schaeffen had drawn his laspistol and was firing off bursts from the hatch. But it was as if time had slowed around the wych and she ducked and weaved around every blast. Each step took her closer until she was face-to-face with the Night Devils major who brought his sidearm around for one last desperate shot. With serpentine speed she sent the flat of her hand into Schaeffen’s mouth, propelling the unlit pipe into his throat for him to choke on. As he spluttered his last breaths, turning as grey as his uniform, the wych woman opened him up with her blades and spilled the major’s innards all over the front of his tank. It took seconds, and after she was gone before Slayte could draw a bead.

  “Pull together!” he cried through the loud hailer attached to the hatch. “Hold the line!”

  It was insane. He was insane. They never should have left the bunker. Damn Geviox to the Night-Hells and damn the bastard eldar. He seized the heavy stubber, ripping it from its pintle mount as a cadre of jetbikers hove into view, the general in their sights. Bracing the weapon against the lip of the hatch, he backed against the opposite side of the rim and hauled on the triggers.

  The recoil was so fierce it reminded him of his first Valkyrie air-drop. He’d been a member of the elite storm-troopers back then. So many years ago. They were less complicated times and Slayte found himself longing for them again as the stubber spat hot metal from its mouth. A long line of tracer fire tore into the bikers, winging one machine and exploding another.

  “Feggers,” spat Slayte, employing an old oath from the Night Devils’ home world. The grin on his face was born of fatalistic abandon, for one of the bikers survived the salvo and was coming for him. She didn’t wear a helmet and her eyes were alight with perverse malice as she swung a long, serrated blade around.

  Slayte yanked on the triggers again. His heart sank when the hard chank of a jam came back at him. She’d ducked, the alien bitch, anticipating the move. When she returned, her expression was etched with sadistic glee.

  You’re mine, said the eyes. You’ll suffer, said lips pursed in the shape of a kiss.

  A storm-trooper, looked like Sergeant Donnsk, popped up in the hatch next to Slayte, hefting a hell-gun. A burst of splinter fire from the biker’s front-mounted cannons ripped up half of his face and tore his shoulder to hot, red ribbons of meat. Donnsk dropped without a whimper.

  Slayte had his pistol out again. If this was to be the end then he’d die with a weapon in his hand, by Throne.

  The Night Devils were being massacred. Encircled and out-positioned, they were like cattle being led to slaughter. All barring Slayte’s Chimera had been gutted, though now the general came to think of it, there were strange, gurgling noises emanating from below him. Small pockets of resistance made a brave fist of it. These men were some of the Imperial Guard’s finest—even faced with such odds they didn’t flinch or retreat. But the xenos bodies that peppered the almost wholesale slaughter of the humans weren’t enough, not nearly enough.

  This, Slayte perceived as time condensed into a single moment, his last moment upon this iron-soaked, rusting rock.

  The hammer fell on his bolt pistol and the round boomed from the chamber with all the slow purpose of an avalanche. The cone of fire projected from the muzzle flared incandescently for what seemed like minutes, extending and retracting like a flicking tongue.

  She weaved around the burst on her jetbike, as if moving in some different, more advantageous, temporal sphere and Slayte accepted the inevitability of her reaching blade. He expected painful death. He didn’t expect a green comet to come from on high and smite her where she hovered.

  A heavy weight slammed into the Chimera, denting the armoured glacis. It bore the jetbike down with it, the whirr of chainblades cutting the rider’s screams to an inchoate half-shriek.

  Time resumed its normal rate and Slayte beheld the form of a giant standing in front of him. More comets were thundering down around him, across the entire battlefield. The warrior half-turned, showing one side of a battle-helm fashioned into the snarling form of a lizard. At his back, a scaled hide fluttered.

  “To your men,” said the warrior, his voice deep and rambling. “The Salamanders are here for your salvation.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I

  Dragonfall

  From the open side-hatch of the gunship’s troop hold, Praetor beheld a slaughter. The dusk-wraiths were running rings around the Guard’s defensive cordon, pulling their fire hither and thither until it was almost totally ineffective. He marvelled at their discipline, to sustain such grievous casualties but still maintain formation. But discipline would not save them.

  Even now, leather-clad harridans were moving through the Guardsman ranks cutting and shrieking. They used the smoke and processor haze to conceal their assaults, leaping down into the abyssal steam and emerging only to kill before disappearing again. Around the edges of the slowly fragmenting formations, the warriors ranging on the skiffs, hover-boards and jetbikes tightened the noose. From within, their firing lines were undermined by the semi-garbed assassins.

  Through his retinal display, Praetor saw it all. The steam and smoke was no barrier. It angered him to see such wanton massacre. He also saw the larger blade-prowed vessel, kin to the other, smaller skiffs. A command transport, Praetor had no doubt. He knew the dark eldar menace well—the Salamanders Chapter was well-versed in lessons of their depravity. He also knew of their secrets, some of them at least, of the curse they harboured and the malady that had plagued them since the dawning of time itself. Few in the Chapter knew much about it; Praetor was one of them. He’stan’s knowledge of the dusk-wraiths was unrivalled, even by that of the Chapter Master himself.

  Standing alongside him, the Forgefather’s body language was unreadable.

  Behind them, nineteen more Firedrakes had released grav-harnesses and were mag-locked to the deck ready for deployment. The assault pattern was called dragonfall. It had been a while since they’d attempted it.

  Praetor spoke into the comm-feed of his gorget, linked to the Implacable’s pilot.

  “Bring us in close, brother.”

  A clipped affirmative returned from the cockpit. They’d attra
cted some attention already. A lance of dark energy stabbed passed the hull sending heat warnings across Praetor’s retinal display. He ignored them, intent on the battlefield below.

  “Closer,” he repeated, and the gunship dropped another five metres.

  The wind was ripping into the hold with the speed of their descent but the Firedrakes didn’t move. They remained still, only their glowing eyes providing any clue that their power armour was even populated.

  “You must attack swiftly, break the links in the chain and release those men from its bondage,” uttered He’stan.

  Praetor smiled. Only the Forgefather would ever speak like that. It felt old, full of gravitas and import. Even his words and manner were impressive.

  “And you, my lord?” the veteran sergeant returned.

  He’stan didn’t turn; his gaze was fixed on the battle unfolding beneath. Already, he was reading, predicting, strategising.

  “I will seek the serpent’s head,” he answered, “and cut it off.”

  Praetor felt He’stan tense next to him, the slightest bend in his knees.

  ++You have your mission protocols++ the veteran sergeant said quickly over the comm-feed. ++Shatter that cordon, brothers. Rescue those men++

  Seventeen metres from the ground, he turned to the others.

  “In Vulkan’s name,” he roared.

  Beside him, He’stan leapt from the hold and into the blood-red light.

  A few seconds later, Praetor followed.

  The air thundered past him in a blur, collision warnings flashing amber across Praetor’s tactical display. A few metres below, He’stan had angled his body like an arrow. His spear was held out in front of him, the Gauntlet of the Forge clasped to his chest so he was as aerodynamic as possible. He hit the ground less than five seconds before Praetor but the veteran sergeant marvelled at the carnage he wrought in that short space of time. A blow from the Spear of Vulkan severed a skiff in half, its bifurcated ends pulling away from each other like a sinking ship with its back broken. Fire and shrapnel from the engine explosion tossed ragged eldar corpses into the air. He’stan was engulfed but merely moved through the storm, plumes of fire rolling off his armour in waves. The Gauntlet of the Forge was unleashed and the survivors of the blast burned.

  Praetor lost sight of the Forgefather when he hit the ground feet first, thunder hammer aloft like that of a descending god.

  “We are the hammer!” he bellowed, smashing the weapon’s head down as he landed. A brutal Shockwave rippled across the ground centred at the point of impact that threw dark eldar warriors off their feet. Leading with his shoulder, Praetor kept up the momentum. A screaming wych-woman aimed a barbed trident at his face that he deflected with his storm shield. He missed with his thunder hammer, but dented her face in with the drake boss on his shield. Another he crushed with the backswing. A third he broke with a blow from the hammer’s haft. Even without Terminator armour, he was brutal. Lead by example—that was the Promethean way. Praetor was as merciless as a volcano, as unyielding as an avalanche.

  Sustained bolter fire, raked air already fraught with screaming. Shells streaked past the veteran sergeant as he led the charge, exploding the frail xenos in gory eruptions. Blood and viscera spoiled his power armour in a fine spray but Praetor was undaunted, intent on reaching the edge of the circle and breaking it.

  According to the battle plan, the two squads of Firedrakes had split into four, five warriors each tackling an aspect of the dark eldar’s cordon of death. Upon landfall, Praetor broke off with his squad, the Forgefather ahead of them and fighting where he chose. Halknarr and four of his warriors went northward, designated Assault Point Spear. Praetor was headed east on Assault Point Hammer.

  Daedicus and another Firedrake called Mek’tar, both acting as de-facto squad leaders, came a few seconds later when the Implacable had repositioned, at the opposite arc of the circle. They took Anvil and Flame respectively.

  Used to fighting forces that were outmanoeuvred and outmatched, the dark eldar reeled against the shock and awe tactics employed by the Firedrakes. In moments they’d struck the toughest elements of the xenos force and managed to break the barbed ring around the Night Devils. Slowly they dismantled the raiders.

  “Break them on the anvil, brothers!” Some of Praetor’s old bombast was returning. He crushed the skull of a hellion, who was struggling to rise from the wreckage of his hover-board. With a stomp of his armoured boot, he mulched its fragile ribcage. A squeal of perverse pleasure slipped from the wretch’s lips before it died. Praetor scowled behind the snarling visage of his battle-helm.

  ++These creatures disgust me++

  It was Halknarr who replied.

  ++Then let’s crush them swiftly, brother, and find our Chaplain++

  As he killed, Praetor reviewed the data streaming across his retinal display. Ironlandings’ Capitol was nearby. Elements of the Night Devils were locked in battle around it, having abandoned more advanced positions when the xenos had forced a retreat.

  Galvanise the Guard, cohere them, marshal them forward—once the Firedrakes had achieved that they could penetrate the Capitol and discover Elysius’ fate and that of the Sigil.

  All that mattered was the Sigil.

  In the distance, Mek’tar’s combat squad made landfall. Praetor pressed on. Already, the Forgefather was getting ahead of them. One of their squad seemed to be keeping pace, however.

  Tsu’gan revelled in the act of war. He had fought battles before, many of them. The blood he’d shed in the Emperor’s name and the name of the primarch would turn the Pyre Desert red, or so he’d always imagined. Death had haunted his dreams, now it plagued his waking hours too—only by enacting it upon his enemies did he feel any peace. This was different, though. Firedrakes made war like avatars of death. Though stoic and implacable as any Salamander, they fought with such… fire. Stripped of their Terminator armour for this mission, they moved with a dynamism and intent that belied their Nocturnean heritage.

  A spit of flame surged across Tsu’gan’s flank. His snarl turned to a feral grin as he watched the xenos who were caught in its blaze burn.

  Brother Vo’kar offered no apology as he ran on, twisting around to send another burst of super-heated promethium into the dark eldar ranks.

  Increasing his pace, Tsu’gan overtook him. The Forgefather was just ahead in the thick of it. He was determined to stay on the great warrior’s heels. Something about him, his spirit or his unknowable presence quieted the darkness in Tsu’gan’s soul. He saw more than a hero before him, rending and burning the xenos scum; he saw the possibility of salvation.

  Thick squalls of factorum-steam from the ore processing plants were swathing the battlefield now. Blood-mist from exsanguinated Guardsmen merged with heavy metal dust, filling the air with a coppery stink. Filtering out the interference through his retinal display, Tsu’gan found He’stan.

  He had a dark eldar impaled on his spear, hoisting it into the air before turning it to ash with his gauntlet. Even as the corpse was flaking away on the breeze, He’stan swept the haft around and decapitated a screeching wych-warrior with the blade.

  Coming up alongside him, Tsu’gan hacked the headless corpse down with his chainsword before gunning another apart with his bolter.

  More dark eldar were coming. They pressed in from the sides, slipping through the ragged Night Devils ranks with ease and closing on the real threat, the Space Marines in their midst. Tsu’gan missed the clash by the smallest of margins as Praetor and the others were swept up in a tide of mutated beasts and dark eldar cult warriors now running rampant across the field.

  ++Stay with him!++ urged Praetor through the comm-feed.

  Tsu’gan released a burst from his combi-bolter, shredding a wych, before switching to the flamer attachment and burning down a horde of gibbering mutants. He had no intention of letting He’stan fight alone.

  “This rabble are nothing,” he cried.

  “Hone your anger, Tsu’gan,” said He’stan
, allowing the Firedrake to come up alongside his left flank. “Use it.”

  Another Firedrake had once said something similar to him. Gathimu. But that warrior was long dead. Tsu’gan used his rage to quash the sudden grief welling inside him.

  “They already flee, though, my lord.”

  Tsu’gan was right. Jetbikers and board-riding hellions were pulling out of the fight, letting the fodder take the strain. A distant, but closing, figure railed at them to return from the back of his skiff but the xenos only laughed and jeered.

  “Honourless dogs,” muttered He’stan. His gaze was locked on something ahead, something through the mists that Tsu’gan couldn’t see.

  They pressed on through a sudden surge of dark eldar warriors diverted from slaughtering the Night Devils, presumably at the distant commander’s bidding. He’stan cut a bloody path through them, intent on the skiff and the leader of the raiders. Two warrior wyches closed in on either flank, their blades flashing like lightning on the sun. The Forgefather caught one in his armoured fist and snapped the other with a blow from his spear.

  Together, they cut through the warriors. The brief engagement ended when Tsu’gan gunned down the startled wyches with a pair of bolter bursts.

  ++Close the dragon’s jaws++ said He’stan over the comm-feed. ++I have the serpent in my sights++

  Three command runes winked on Tsu’gan’s retinal display, confirmation from the squad leaders. The icons representing his brothers’ positions in the field started to close in.