by Gav Thorpe
‘With the Emperor as my witness, this is the way to fight!’ he told the others.
‘Our newblood has found his calling at last,’ replied Sabrael. ‘Who would have thought that such youthful joy lingered within such old bones?’
‘A fine calling it is, to bring swift death to the Emperor’s forsaken,’ said Zarall. ‘Many are the blessings we must give thanks for.’
‘Enemy, third sector, two hundred metres,’ said Araton. The position indicated was almost at a right angle to their line of attack, behind the lead elements of the force.
‘Put tongues to rest and weapons to purpose,’ chided Cassiel as he steered the squadron to the right.
Annael could see nothing, on display or in his helm view, but the sergeant trusted the report of his brother without question. Several seconds later Annael caught a glimpse of a multi-barrelled weapon beneath a camouflaged canopy, turning towards the lead squadrons. Annael admired the courage of the gunners, to remain hidden while the ferocity of the Dark Angels passed them by, though he cursed them for the cause they had chosen.
‘The net must be woven of some kind of scrambling material,’ he said, still not seeing any reading on the bike scanner. ‘How did you see it, brother?’
‘By putting mind to task and not to chatter,’ replied Araton.
The timely chastisement focused Annael’s thoughts, putting him in mind of the instructions he had received in the Scout Company.
‘Apologies, brothers, if novelty of experience softened my discipline,’ he said, accelerating to come alongside Zarall.
The cannon opened fire before the squadrons’ weapons could be brought to bear, unleashing a stream of las-fire at one of the Land Speeder squadrons swooping around the right side of the citadel. Smoke billowed from one of the craft and it veered wildly to the right, dipping towards the ground. Annael glimpsed the two crew leaping from the dropping machine moments from its impact, hitting the ground hard as the Land Speeder exploded against the inside of the wall.
‘Avenge the spirit of our fallen steed,’ snapped Zarall. A flurry of bolts screeched from his bike’s weapons, slamming into the embrasure of the gun pit concealing the weapon. Annael looked directly at one of the gunners, his left thumb pressing a targeting rune. The guns on his bike elevated and swivelled to follow his gaze. A red lock-on gleamed in his view and a chime sounded in his ears. Muzzle flash lit up the front of his bike as he opened fire, the machine-spirit of Black Shadow keeping the bolters on their target even as the motorbike bounced across the ground and Annael strafed left and right.
Men and cannon were engulfed by a hail of bolts, ripping through padded jackets and metal, filling the gun pit with blood and splinters. Annael fired another burst to be certain, brick dust from the embrasure and fragments of torn cloth and shattered bone spraying across the snaking power cables of the multi-laser.
‘The enemy are abandoning the citadel.’ Grand Master Sammael’s report was softly spoken, yet clearly heard over the din of war. ‘First wave to encircle and contain. Second and third waves to follow across the bridge. Resistance faltering.’
Annael’s squadron were part of the first wave, and it was their duty to cut off further escape across the bridge, while those that had already fled would be herded towards the second compound, providing pause for the gunners within and cover for the following Dark Angels.
‘Be vigilant,’ warned Sergeant Cassiel. ‘The cornered animal fights without fear. This battle is not yet won.’
Retribution
The bridge was wide enough for three dozen men to walk abreast, yet it was still a killing ground. Many of the rebels that had fled at the very start of the attack had reached false sanctuary at the far end, and those wise enough to commandeer half-tracks and ground cars were racing across the half-kilometre span. There were scores still on foot, ill fate, or perhaps misguided bravery, keeping them in their positions for minutes longer than their wiser or more cowardly companions.
The barrel of the storm bolter mounted on Sammael’s steed was glowing hot from firing and he ceased the fusillade unleashed into the mass of humanity pouring onto the bridge. Some rebels, desperate men who at the last chose to spit back at their attackers, turned to fire their weapons at the oncoming Ravenwing. Gunfire flashed past Sammael as he angled Corvex between the towers that guarded entry to the bridge. Smoke poured from the summits of these thirty-metre high bastions, and their upper storeys were cracked and pitted from battle cannon and missile hits. Most importantly, their gun batteries were silent, as were those at the far end.
Sammael’s command squad fanned out to either side of him, guns roaring. The men ahead were cut down in twos and threes, legs ripped from beneath them, bodies shredded by explosive bolts. Drawing his power sword, the Grand Master of the Ravenwing fell upon the rearmost stragglers. His blade cut the head from the first, who had not the time to turn to see his death approaching. The next, a brief moment later, was sent tumbling to the ferrocrete with spine severed and arm spinning through the air.
On Sammael’s left, Epistolary Harahel held a gleaming force axe, psychic fire licking along its edges. He swung the blade between the shoulders of a fleeing rebel and wrenched the axe free in a mist of steaming blood. Chainswords snarling, Brothers Daedis and Athelman slashed and hacked as the squadron caught up with a group of fleeing rebels. The aquila-headed crozius arcanum of Chaplain Malcifer shimmered with a powerfield as it smashed in the skull of another running trooper.
Alerted by a warning signal in his ear, Sammael swerved Corvex to the right, moments before a rocket sent up a shower of ferrocrete shards from the road ahead. It had come from a small half-tracked wagon halfway along the bridge; a litter of broken track links from a weapon hit testified to the reason for its immobility.
More rockets screamed from the launcher atop its rear compartment, many of them passing overhead to explode between the towers behind Sammael. One rocket impacted on the high guard wall to the left, shower-
ing Daedis with blocks of jagged ferrocrete. Fighting to control his bike, the Dark Angel veered into a clutch of bodies piled on the roadway. Bone splintered and flesh spattered across the ferrocrete as the heavy bike ploughed through the human debris. Smoke dribbled from damage to the bike’s engine.
‘Lion curse it,’ snarled Daedis as his mount slowed to a halt and the command squadron swept on.
Sighting on the half-track as two crewmen appeared on its roof, hurriedly trying to reload the rocket launcher, Sammael powered up his steed’s plasma cannon. He felt the shudder of the energy coils peaking through the constant throb of Corvex’s anti-grav engines and pushed the firing rune. The plasma cannon spat a ball of azure-and-white lightning that slammed into the side of the half-track a few moments later, rocking the vehicle and hurling the half-disintegrated remains of the crewmen from the top. Another second passed before a lascannon beam from a circling Thunderhawk punched through the armoured compartment.
Pulling back on the controls, Sammael soared over the flaming ruin of the half-track and plunged down on the other side; straight into a knot of men who had been heading for cover behind the vehicle. One was flung aside, body smashed by the prow of the Corvex. Acting without thought, Sammael lashed out with his sword, slicing through the chest of two more.
Arrestor vanes flared as he hauled his mount sideways and braked, spinning to confront the three survivors, the storm bolter stitching a line of small explosions across the side of the half-track before the cannonade cut down the men. Maintaining the momentum of the turn, Sammael wrenched Corvex full circle before firing the thrusters.
Within seconds he had caught up with the rest of his squadron.
Ahead, the second citadel loomed large, its light grey walls lit by the rising sun. Sammael activated the command link to Sergeant Seraphiel.
‘Closing on second objective, commander,’ he said. ‘What is your status?’
; ‘The rebels started fleeing the third objective right after the bombardment, Grand Master Sammael,’ Seraphiel reported. ‘They are heading straight for us.’
‘Good. Let your guns give them the greeting they deserve.’
Escape Thwarted
To the north of the fortresses the hills banked up into wooded mountains with snow-capped peaks. It was from hidden caves and secluded valleys that the rebels had first attacked, and they would return to these lairs if given the chance. To prevent escape, the squads of the Fifth Company had landed alongside the road that looped around the outskirts of Hadria Praetoris, and stretched twenty warriors on patrol across the heathland directly north of the compounds.
Squad Amanael had been assigned to the road, and were deployed alongside the Devastators of Sergeant Athrael. The heavy weapon-armed Space Marines were split either side of the road, sited with a view down a straight stretch coming down the hill from the forts. Telemenus and the others were sweeping the woods to the south, right of Athrael’s position, to intercept any rebels trying to escape cross-country. Sergeant Amanael had split his squad into two combat teams, each five-strong, to cover more ground, with Telemenus in the sergeant’s section along with Menthius, Daellon and Apollon.
Century-old pines speared into the sky across the hillside, but there was little undergrowth beneath to block visibility. The crisp chill of autumn created vapour from the heat exchanges in the Space Marines’ backpacks as they advanced across a carpet of brown pine needles. Apollon held the auspex, gently swinging the scanning device left and right seeking a return. The distant boom of cannons had put all of the birds in the vicinity to flight, so the woods were tranquil as the combat squad advanced.
‘Let us hope that the rebels seek cover beneath the canopy,’ said Daellon. ‘If they are foolish enough to use the road Athrael’s squad will score a great tally.’
‘Concerned for my honour badge, brother?’ asked Telemenus. ‘Your support will be remembered in my litany of acceptance.’
‘Apologies sergeant, for swelling his damned head further, but it was not my intent,’ said Daellon.
‘I shall inform the armoury that Telemenus’s helm will need replacing on our return,’ replied Amanael. ‘He can pick it up when he has made suitable recompense to the Chaplains for his prideful words.’
‘It is not pride to take pleasure in the slaying of many foes,’ argued Telemenus. ‘My accomplishments increase the honour of the Chapter, not diminish it.’
‘Contact, four hundred and fifty metres.’ Apollon’s warning silenced the Dark Angels, who waited for further information. It was forthcoming a few seconds later. ‘Definitely enemy, moving at an angle to our advance. Large mass, I would say twenty or more. On foot.’
Amanael held a hand up for the squad to stop and joined Apollon to read the display for himself. The sergeant looked around and pointed to a rise in the ground off to the squad’s right.
‘They will have to cross that ridge. We shall wait for them at the top.’
Now with a focused purpose, the Dark Angels lengthened their strides and moved swiftly up the slope, their dark green armour blending naturally with the gloom beneath the canopy. Ten metres ahead of Telemenus, Apollon came to a sudden stop.
‘Something else in the woods ahead, below the lip of a cliff. Getting high metallic readings.’
The sergeant ordered them into a run to investigate, leading the squad along the ridge line as it rose up from the forest floor, with the ground on their right dropping away steeply until it became a near-vertical gorge. Keeping watch along the line of the enemy advance, Telemenus saw nothing of the rebels, though a check with Apollon confirmed that they had not deviated from their route.
‘I see nothing,’ said Telemenus. He intensified the magnification of his autosenses and scanned between the trunks of the trees, but the slope of the ground worked against him and he could see no more than two hundred metres.
‘I have found their destination,’ declared Menthius, who had moved ahead several dozen metres. ‘A small facility, built into the face of the cliff. Some kind of bunker, I think. No weapons systems visible.’
They caught up with Menthius, who stood at the edge of the precipice looking down. Joining him, Telemenus saw a ramshackle collection of outbuildings with sheet metal roofs surrounding a ferrocrete emplacement that looked as though it had been extruded from the rock of the cliff. Just beyond the shacks was a circular expanse of black plascrete, the trees cleared for it. A two-rotored gyrocopter sitting on the landing apron made its purpose obvious.
‘Tunnels,’ said Apollon, attracting the looks of the other squad members. ‘The readings are indistinct because the enemy are approaching via tunnel. They seek to slip away without attention.’
‘Perhaps the tunnels stretch all of the way back to the fortresses,’ said Telemenus. ‘An escape route long-planned.’
‘And likely known only to the upper hierarchy,’ concluded Amanael. He strode to the lip of the ridge and examined the drop. ‘Too deep to jump. Too far to go back down and come around below. We must trust to our aim from here. Achamenon, new orders. Converge on our position with all haste. Keep to the low ground.’
An affirmative returned over the vox from the leader of the other combat squad.
‘They are almost here,’ said Apollon. He hooked the auspex to his belt and gripped his bolter in both hands. ‘One hundred metres behind us, seventy metres below.’
Telemenus lowered to one knee at the very edge of the cliff and brought up his bolter to the firing position. In his right eye the aiming reticule of his targeter sprang into life as his finger settled on the trigger. The angle made it hard to see the opening of the tunnel, but the atmospheric craft was in plain sight.
‘Hold fury until my word,’ said Amanael. ‘We must wait until they are too far to retreat back to their hiding place, in case there are other exits to which they will head. I have no desire for a sewer hunt.’
Taking his sergeant’s words to heart, Telemenus lowered his weapon a fraction, lest the instinct to fire betrayed him. He watched as two men clad in camouflaged fatigues walked from the fortified tunnel entrance. They carried lasguns at the ready but were poor lookouts, their gazes turned to the forest floor around them rather than the clifftop above. One of them turned and waved and a few seconds later three more men emerged, to move out through the outhouses into the woods to either flank in an amateurish attempt at creating a perimeter.
Another half-dozen rebels followed, running across the apron to the low, broad form of the gyrocopter.
‘We risk discovery,’ said Menthius. ‘If they reach their transport we have no weapon to bring them down.’
‘Hold fire,’ replied Amanael, speaking calmly. ‘Wait for my command.’
Three of the rebels clambered into the cockpit of the aircraft and soon the whine of its engines drifted up to the Space Marines, accompanied by the acrid smell of poorly refined fuel. Thick smoke chugged from the exhausts as the twin rotors began to turn, gathering speed as the pitch of the engine increased.
‘Sergeant?’ said Telemenus, lifting his weapon once more. He moved his aim until the visor reticule settled on one of the rotor hubs. A good hit would be enough to ground the craft. ‘An immobile target is much easier to hit.’
‘I thought your aim better than that,’ said Amanael.
‘The rebel leader may already be aboard,’ said Telemenus. ‘We should attack now.’
‘Not so,’ said Apollon. ‘The verminous traitor makes his appearance.’
Looking below, Telemenus saw a huddle of men dashing from the tunnel entrance. Most were garbed in the military gear of the others, but two wore black robes threaded with gold and silver. They certainly had the look of demagogues as they hurried towards their aircraft.
‘Open fire.’
The words from Amanael came as a relief to Telemenus.
Panic gripped the gaggle of rebels, but the guards stayed true to their purpose and closed around the two robed men as they broke into a run for the landing apron. Bolts from the other Space Marines cut through the air, striking down the men sent out on sentry as they turned their lasguns up to the clifftop. The bark of the squad’s bolters echoed down the gorge and from the trees around them while bolt propellant cut criss-crosses of fire in the air around the tunnel entrance.
Telemenus ignored everything else as he focused on the patches of gold amongst the reds and browns of the camouflaged bodyguards. He fired another single round, aimed at the bald head of one of the leaders. Even as the bolt sped from his gun a minder stepped unknowingly into its path. A second later the rebel’s skull exploded, spattering the demagogue with blood and brains.
‘Caliban’s fate,’ Telemenus cursed as he took aim again. ‘Luck guards these men better than any armour.’
There were exchanges between the other Dark Angels as they fired, passing information on the positions of their targets and voicing alerts to return fire. Telemenus absorbed the talk without consciously hearing the words, his focus on the group heading for the gyrocopter. The party had made it to the apron and was splitting apart as bodyguards fell to fire or turned to bring their weapons to bear on their attackers. Las-bolts spat up to the clifftop but they were of no concern to Telemenus.
