by Nick Kyme
‘I have seen horrors, things anathema to mankind. I have felt them, Jebez. I never fought at Isstvan. I never set foot upon that bloody sand, but nothing good lingers in that place now. And even when all the warriors are dead, and the fortresses echo like empty tombs, the ghosts will remain. So perhaps something ill did invest itself within our father’s silver arm. We know so little of the metal’s provenance. It could be a conductor for such matter, but to acknowledge that would be to try to exert reason upon madness, and that I won’t do.
‘Our fate is easy to foretell. We stand as one, or we fall as many. The Legion must survive, brother. That is all.’
Meduson proffered his hand.
‘You want to fight, you’ll fight. I was wrong to keep you at arm’s length. I think I mistrusted what the Mechanicum had done to you. I think I had settled into a different regime that excluded you. I erred. I see that.’
Aug nodded and took Meduson’s forearm in a firm grip, and felt his forearm gripped in turn. He looked his old friend in the eye, gaze unwavering.
‘The Legion must survive.’
Meduson smiled warmly. ‘Then let us walk the storm.’
Nineteen
A song of war, its opening verses
An unbroken phalanx of warships filled the oculus, looming, intimidating.
In ancient times, when mankind had yet to conquer the void and ventured across the oceans rather than the stars, great ships of oar and sail would blockade ports to prevent ingress or egress, thus denying escape or preventing reinforcement or resupply. To strike forth into the ready guns of a blockade took a strong-willed or insane captain.
Or a desperate one.
Standing on the bridge of the Iron Heart, Meduson wondered which he had become. The primarch watching silently from the shadows at the back of the bridge did not say. His eyes burned, though, as they set upon the traitors. Meduson did not need Vulkan’s counsel, just his presence. If this victory was to mean anything, it had to come by the Warleader’s hand and his hand alone.
A vast armada flew at Meduson’s command, its ships filled with warriors ready to fight and die in his name.
Many would. The sheer number of the enemy’s vessels, almost double Meduson’s own, would see to that. His eyes narrowed, as if he could find a specific ship amongst the vast throng.
The Lupercal Pursuivant. Tybalt Marr’s ship.
His iron fist clenched without him realising.
Celestial bodies turned slowly in the distance; stars burned in their death throes; nebulas reached across the dark like eruptions of iridescent cloud or erratic spillages of prismatic ink. Closer in, a terminator crossed the face of a world, the planet’s surface lost behind cancerous yellow smog. Beautiful in its way, uncaring of the bloody slaughter to come.
‘Have you ever seen so many ships arrayed like that,’ murmured Mechosa.
He stood by Meduson’s side, the two Iron Hands the sole occupants of a forward dais offering an unparalleled vista beyond the Iron Heart’s forward-facing oculus.
At a distance of several thousand kilometres, the blockade of ships looked like a wall of sea-green iron floating menacingly in the void. The eye of Horus glowered from battle-hardened flanks, painted in night-black. The spikes of lance weapons jutted like needles, gun ports bristled, reactors and latent engine burn gave off a faint phosphorous glow.
‘It’s a war fleet, Mechosa, mustered to one end. To kill us,’ said Meduson. ‘All of us. They aren’t hunting us anymore.’ Despite Goran’s advice, he had failed to get any decent rest. Anger would have to reinvigorate him instead.
Mechosa scowled, his face obscured by fingers of darkness stretching across the bridge. ‘How like the Sixteenth to thrust their chins at us. Ever pugnacious are Horus’ thugs and gangsters.’
‘They are much more than that, I’m afraid,’ Meduson replied, alluding to the prowess and tactical acumen of the Legion. As they closed the distance between the fleets, approaching maximum weapons range, Meduson saw the gaps between the enemy vessels.
‘Enough room to turn,’ said Aug, from another station behind them, observing the opening dispositions of both fleets through the Iron Heart’s tactical hololith, ‘then unleash their broadsides. I see laser batteries, mass-drivers, macrocannons.’
‘A pretty mess they’ll make of us, I am sure,’ said Meduson. ‘How close?’
‘Less than five thousand kilometres.’
Meduson nodded, though his gaze remained on the oculus. He’d retire to the hololith soon, and join Aug, but for now he wanted to see this unfold with his own eyes.
‘Slow us down. All ships,’ he said, and the order quickly filtered through the chain of command.
Engines groaned and the strain placed upon the Iron Heart reverberated through its hull as the ship fought to arrest its momentum.
The bridge crew stood in silence as the ship grumbled around them. After several minutes, Meduson spoke again.
‘How far?’
‘Less than three thousand kilometres.’
‘All ships, all stop, but have the enginarium stand ready.’
Again, the order was relayed and met by a chorus of ‘aye, lord’ at each command juncture.
Again, the engines groaned and the hull lurched, a deep basso chime resonating dully across the decks. A low thrum rumbled throughout the ship, felt through armoured boots and bare feet alike as the Iron Heart entered a false hibernation.
Ratings and gun-loaders on the sprawling cannon decks came to a halt, ammo hoppers creaking ominously with their burdens; sweating menials paused in their labours, sweltering in the oppressive heat of the ship’s engines; pilots, human and transhuman alike, waited by their fighters yet to don their helmets; engineers looked up from their maintenance pits or stood holding refuelling hoses. Throughout every level, the crew slowed with their vessel and waited, eyes fixed upon the vox-horns.
Across thousands of kilometres of airless, featureless void the two fleets faced one another.
‘Is he there?’ asked Meduson, barely louder than a whisper.
Aug heard, but shook his head.
Meduson sneered, then sniffed his contempt.
‘A pity. It doesn’t matter. I’ll break his fleet and then I’ll come for him. Ships at the ready?’ he asked.
‘Awaiting your command, Warleader,’ answered Mechosa.
Meduson had planned; he had done so meticulously and predicated his tactics on facing a superior force to the one he possessed. He had contingencies for every conceivable scenario, his rigour and attention to detail ironclad. And yet, now the moment finally came, he felt the weight of decision upon him.
The Legion must survive…
‘First signal is given,’ he said. ‘Lumak, extend our traitorous cousins a warm greeting.’
The vox crackled across the bridge, briefly linking the Iron Heart with the Gorgon’s Will.
‘If you mean kill them, then gladly, Warleader,’ came a typically belligerent response from the captain of the Clan Avernii.
Meduson laughed. Some of the bridge crew smiled too. Levity was good – it would dull the mortals’ fear.
No laughter came from the back of the bridge and the looming figure there.
‘I do mean kill them, brother-captain.’
‘Most egregiously, Warleader.’
He cut the feed as the Gorgon’s Will moved to engage.
The laughter faded, replaced by a grim resolve.
‘No turning back now,’ muttered Mechosa.
‘They die or we do,’ said Meduson.
At the hololith, Aug failed to notice an errant muscle twinge below his eye. A relic of the flesh, anyone would assume if they saw it.
The ship resounded to the mustering of the Iron Tenth as they tramped towards the assault boats. Battered, but battle-hardened, a host of gunships, boarding craft and a
ssault rams stood ready in their berths, attended by hordes of eager yet grim-faced crew.
Low light flashed in the gloomy launch bays, a flickering and silent alarm that painted the bulkheads crimson. The light turned grainy where it hit coolant mist or the pneumatic exhalations of depressurising blast doors.
Men and women in grubby overalls scurried before the warrior-kings in their midst, a sea of urgent grey parting to admit a spearhead of dour black, led by a captain who had seen more battles than most men had seen years.
Lumak of the Avernii had stern features like the crags of a weather-worn cliff, and held his chipped and dented battle-helm under his arm as he walked. The pommel of his Medusan zweihander protruded menacingly over his right shoulder, but he rested his free hand on the stock of an old sickle-magazined bolt pistol. Both venerable weapons, not unlike their wielder.
Those of the Tenth who served Lumak did not march alone. Over the long and bitter years following Isstvan, they had made strong and dependable allies. Fighting and dying together tended to forge powerful bonds.
Clad in emerald war-plate, draped in drakescale, the red-eyed devils were well known to the crew of the Gorgon’s Will. They hefted saw-toothed axes, fanged pikes, spike-headed hammers and flanged maces, and carried boltguns of astonishing artistry. Dragon-mouthed flamers, their gilt frames ruddy in the light, appeared side by side with scalloped fire gauntlets and drake-headed plasma guns. Their bearers smiled and nodded as they passed amongst the crew, so unlike their iron-wrought brethren in funerary black.
Their father had returned, a patriarch thought long-dead, now fighting alongside them for one last battle. One of the Drakes began to sing, and though neither Medusan nor the Iron Hands Terran knew the language, they felt the unyielding strength of the words. Spear hafts and axe pommels beat against combat shields and breastplates as the Salamanders made their own music, a tribal refrain of Nocturne, a fable of fire. Though few, their passion and vigour enhanced their meagre numbers.
The rhythmic tattoo grew louder as the ships grew nearer, until it reached a bellowing crescendo. Silence crashed in its wake. War called and none could vie with its song.
Ramps lowered on protesting hinges, but only a few needed the encouragement of a heavy wrench or hammer to open. Fuel pipes were coiled and ferried away by efficient crewmen. The fog of preparation faded, revealing the battered flanks of gunships eager for cargo.
The legionaries began to form boarding squads, seeking out their assigned ships from a predetermined roster. Not enough Drakes remained aboard the Gorgon’s Will to warrant their own vessel, so they had to share another’s.
‘Rather overfond of wailing, you Nocturneans,’ said Lumak. ‘What did you sing about?’ He had come to a halt so he could speak with his old sparring partner, both inside and outside the battle cages.
Urging his warriors to go in his stead, Nuros came to talk to the Iron Hand.
‘I sang of the unflinching resolve of our Medusan brothers,’ he declared boldly, ‘and how the metal staves you have all sat upon will be difficult to remove.’
Lumak said nothing, his face a mask of resolve. It lasted a few seconds before it cracked, and the Avernii captain roared with laughter. He laughed so hard, he clutched his side and tears welled in his eyes. Several of the crew turned at the sudden commotion, wearing confused expressions.
It took almost a minute for Lumak to recover his composure, but when he did he clapped Nuros’ arm in a fierce grip, his eyes like flint again as he held the Salamander’s fiery gaze.
‘A strange time to discover levity, iron brother,’ said Nuros.
‘It feels auspicious,’ Lumak replied, revealing another crack in his steely facade as he smiled. ‘And I am glad this bad blood is behind us.’
A shadow flickered across Nuros’ face but quickly faded again.
‘I keep my anger for our enemies, iron brother. I should not have doubted you or Meduson.’ He looked up at the craft idling in its berth, a beaten-up old Thunderhawk, its toothy prow stripped down to gleaming silver. ‘That is an ugly boat. Are we certain it won’t spring a leak once underway?’
Lumak regarded the ship. ‘Not remotely. I don’t think it wants to die easily, though, if that’s any reassurance.’
‘Stubborn,’ said Nuros, nodding.
‘They’ll have to kill it piece by piece.’
‘Yes, they will, iron brother,’ said Nuros, no longer looking at the ship but at his friend.
Lumak released him from his grip.
‘I hope it’s glorious.’
Nuros grinned, the crescent of pearly-white stark against the onyx-black of his skin.
‘Perhaps it will be worthy of a song.’
In the background, the last of the boarding squads had almost embarked. A legionary in coal-black war-plate handed the captain a breacher shield on his way to the Caestus.
Nuros glanced over Lumak’s shoulder.
‘Is that sword of yours still going to be unremembered?’ he asked.
Lumak scowled. ‘This again… I yearn for death,’ he said, turning and setting foot on the ramp, ‘if it means an end to your ceaseless nagging.’
Nuros followed close behind. He stooped into the tight confines of the troop hold, lowering a grav-harness across his shoulders and chest. As the engines trembled, a low rumble presaging a much louder roar, he turned his head slightly, just enough so Lumak could see the many honour scars branded into the side of his face.
‘What about Wrath? Wrath is a good name.’
As the Thunderhawk stirred, warning klaxons began to wail and drowned out Lumak’s colourful reply.
A flotilla of ships surged across the void, engines at maximum burn. They had broken off from the extreme left flank of the Iron Tenth’s formation and were anchored by the cruiser Gorgon’s Will, a veteran of countless engagements. A survivor of Isstvan, her hull etched with scars, the Gorgon had a belligerent spirit eager for retribution.
Silent lance fire erupted from Sons of Horus warships as the Gorgon’s Will closed to within range. The barrage of concentrated las-beams flared brightly as they struck shields. A tempest raged across the forward arc of the Iron Hands ship and the vessels who flew at her side. Short-lived flashes of dissipating energy bloomed with every incandescent impact.
The Gorgon’s Will was the bleeding edge of a charge, her prow angled like a spear, sallying forth to probe the edges of the blockade.
Slowly, she pulled ahead of the other ships, feeding power to her defences and engines, saving nothing for the guns. The Saurod and two massive junkers, the Ser Barnabus and Rennard Maximal, flew directly in her wake, shuddering with engine strain, held together only by willpower and the profusion of iron armouring their flanks.
Two others cruisers, the Unyielding Glory and Ferrum Unbowed, flew to the Gorgon’s port side, as hoary as the old ship for which they played outrider. They were followed in turn by the frigates Bellicose and Karaashi. The vessels moved forwards in an oblique line, offering a refused flank to the enemy and close enough that their shields overlapped one another in protective concert.
The flotilla closed and the fury of the enemy’s guns redoubled. Torpedoes surged into the night-black of space, a deadly flock charged with dismantling the Gorgon’s obstinate resistance. A second array of torpedoes pursued the first, corkscrewing in the void, bleeding contrails of propellant gas. Ship killers flew in the wake of shield breakers, only seconds apart.
Flak turrets on the Gorgon’s Will answered, turning and auto-targeting with precision, stitching a rapidly propelled cannonade across the gulf between the ship and the arcing ordnance coming to end her. A rash of explosive detonations signalled the turrets’ success, a short-lived firestorm starved of oxygen and quickly extinguished.
The Gorgon and her allied warships launched missiles in response, a plasma payload meant to irritate rather than cripple. Struck
shields flared amongst the Sons of Horus vessels, sections of their aegis made briefly visible by the impacts, but no discernible damage was caused.
Frustrated by the enemy’s refusal to die, several Sons of Horus ships had begun to come about, edging forwards and committing to the turn to bring their more numerous and powerful broadsides to bear. Laser batteries glowed as they built to optimal charge, and heavy macrocannons emerged from gun ports. Urgency spoke of desperation in the Sons of Horus fleet, as the Iron Hands took every punishment meted out but kept on coming. Slowly but inevitably, a boarding action loomed.
Meduson watched in silence through the oculus, a statue wreathed in shadow on the forward command dais of the Iron Heart’s bridge. Mechosa had returned to his station by the helm, while Aug relayed updates via the tactical hololith.
‘Shields on the Gorgon’s Will are diminishing rapidly,’ he said.
‘She can take it,’ Meduson replied.
‘At this rate, I estimate a total collapse in under five minutes.’
‘She can take it.’
The Gorgon’s Will ploughed on in the face of unrelenting punishment, but Meduson had his eye on the rest of the blockade. As he watched, the oculus pushed to maximum magnification, he saw the pale glow of engine ignition.
‘I read engine signatures from further down the blockade,’ said Aug.
Meduson nodded, his face a mask of cold determination.
‘Engage plasma drives, but keep it at a crawl.’
As the lonely flotilla further distanced itself from the greater concentration of Iron Hands ships, proximate vessels in the blockade started to break position, too far away to strike at the core of the Iron Hands fleet, but close enough to its impudent vanguard to warrant a response. Six Sons of Horus ships decided to engage. Led by the Potentate, they pulled away from the other renegade vessels and burned towards the oblique line of cruisers and frigates shielding a battered ironclad and two junker escorts.
Searing lance beams lashed out from these chasing ships. Shield arrays on the distant Bellicose and Karaashi flickered but held, forcing the Sons of Horus ships in the hunting pack to come closer to enhance the potency of their forward guns.
