‘Are you attempting a joke, magos? I thought such a thing was beyond one such as you.’
‘I do not understand the concept of humour, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn. My memory functions contain the information pertaining to the notion, but I have erased my memories of such a notion as inconsequential to the Omnissiah.’
The image of Havorn stared fixedly at the inscrutable visage of Darioq. The magos waited patiently for the Elysian commander to speak once more.
‘Move the Exemplis to the front line. We attack before dawn,’ he said, and cut the connection.
Darioq removed his mechadendrites from the command pillar and the image of Havorn, frozen in a scowl when the Elysian severed the connection, disappeared. A ghostly after-image remained for a second before it too faded.
He stood motionless for a moment, his brains alight with sparks of thought. For a few moments the eyelid of his weak, organic flesh-eye flickered as he accessed information stored deep within one subsidiary cortex, and he plunged the blade of the electro-jack on the tip of one of his mechadendrites back into the column.
Another green-lined image sprang up, hovering above the surface of the command column. It showed the rotating sphere of a planet, a stark, rocky and lifeless world. Polar ice-flows spread out across much of the land. Temperature indicators marked the planet as being far below a temperature that was able to sustain life. A light flashed beneath the hovering image of the planet. It was a date, in standard Imperial time, and it indicated that this was the representation of a planet almost two thousand years in the past.
With a twist of his mechadendrite, Darioq caused a second planet to be projected alongside the first. This was a world dominated by water, seas covering the length and breadth of the sphere, bar two continent. With a further twist, Darioq brought the two glowing planets together, so that they overlapped each other perfectly. The mountains of the two images locked together like pieces of a puzzle. They were a perfect, identical match.
He rotated the overlapping spheres and magnified the image tenfold, zooming in on the north-western tip of the larger continent. The mountain plateau above the sea level rose to a point and then dropped off beneath the oceans. The cliff faces were almost sheer and fell into a series of deep undersea valleys, thousands of metres beneath the ocean. He zoomed closer, focusing on one particularly deep, abyssal chasm.
He abruptly retracted his mechadendrite and the green, three-dimensional depiction disappeared. Only the after image of the overlapping planets remained for a fraction of a second, along with a small line of digits beneath the spheres: c6.7.32. A moment later, they too faded.
It was almost midday, though it may as well have been midnight for all the light that penetrated the thick, roiling, black storm clouds. Torrential, blinding rain still lashed the high peaks of the mountains, and ravines and cracks were flooded with streaming water. In the valley below, vast moving rivers of water cut across the landscape, seeking the lower ground of the surrounding flat lands. Even the highly attuned sensors of the Word Bearers were becoming blocked by the high amount of water and electricity that coursed through the air.
The battle raged on, frenzied and devastating, and the bodies of Guardsmen floated through the mire. The wrecked shells of burned out vehicles and tanks were dragged through the rising waters. The Word Bearers strode through the shallower, knee-deep waters, firing into the massed ranks of the enemy.
Experimental weaponry of the Adeptus Mechanicus crackled and roared, ripping apart traitor vehicles and Dreadnoughts, and shells fell among both battle lines, causing torrents of water to explode into the air along with shattered bodies and armour. Coalescing arcs of energy streamed from the weapons borne upon the backs of tracked crawlers that inched forward through the mire of bodies and rain water.
Kol Badar had seen some of those weapons before. Many were weapons developed to be borne by the colossal war machines of the Titan Legions. Without the technology to continue to construct these behemoths of war, many of which were over a hundred metres in height, the Adeptus Mechanicus had clearly deemed it fit to mount these artillery pieces upon tracked crawler units, but the effectiveness of the weapons remained awesome.
Missiles streamed through the rain, exploding in white-hot blasts of super-heated energy. The ground was ripped apart in deep furrows that were instantly engulfed with water as other esoteric batteries fired, throwing warriors and vehicles aside as if they weighed nothing at all. Giant gouts of liquid flame roared through the darkness, engulfing scores of soldiers on both sides and heating the streaming waters of the valley to boiling point.
Casualties were rising, though the Imperials were losing scores of warriors for every Word Bearer that fell. The fervour, or impatience, of the Imperial commanders was strong. Despite their air raids being almost neutralised by the worsening weather conditions, they drove their forces ever onwards in a grinding battle of attrition, desperate it seemed to push the Legion back.
The Coryphaus had ordered the reserve of the Host forward, to reinforce the line of Word Bearers holding the valley. He had also demanded that Marduk leave the command of the ridges to the Warmonger, and for him to bolster the valley. While the lighter Imperial aircraft had been forced to pull out by the buffeting, gale force winds and lightning that had ripped many of their fighters from the air, the heavier Thunderhawks and Stormwings of the Word Bearers were able to remain airborne, albeit for only short flights before they retreated from the heart of the storm.
Marduk had fumed at the condescending tone of the order, but could recognise the danger. Holding the Imperials back was imperative, or the losses that they had already suffered were for nought, and the determined drive of the Imperials threatened to push through the Word Bearers’ defence.
Roaring barrages continued to rain down from the ridge-tops, and lascannons and missiles lanced out of the darkness from the cliffs, targeting the tracked vehicles of the Mechanicus and the battle tanks that were rolling into the fray. Soaring missiles and rockets returned fire against the warriors under the Warmonger’s command high above, but there was little that could truly reach them, high in the rocks. Nevertheless, it seemed not even to slow the ponderous advance of the Imperials, as ever more troops and vehicles filtered into the valley.
Chimera APCs spat sharp bursts of las-fire from their turret mounted multi-lasers, and strong waves were created as they ploughed through the deeper rivers that flowed across the battlefield. Easily as capable in the deep water as on land, the vehicles churned through the corpse-strewn mire to unload their cargoes of Guardsmen. Smoke-launchers fired, cloaking the battlefield behind white smoke that blocked even the auto-sensors and targeting arrays of the Word Bearers, but Marduk laughed as the smoke almost instantly dissipated in the gale. Several of the Chimeras were halted in their tracks as missiles and autocannon fire raked their hulls. The men scrambling to vacate the sinking metal coffins were gunned down by bolter fire. Another of the Chimeras was lifted into the air as it reached more solid ground when a Dreadnought struck its side with a massive siege ram before unleashing a flurry of missiles into another vehicle.
A formation of tracked units advanced through the gunfire, bolter fire pinging off their armoured forms. Humanoid upper bodies were integrated into the mechanised units and cannons protruded from the stumps of their arms. Marduk hacked through the metallic torso of a servitor warrior, spraying oil and blood, and broke into a loping run towards the strange, centaur-like creatures.
He felt the presence of Burias-Drak’shal at his side, the daemon soul of the warrior burning hotly. Two coteries of Word Bearers launched themselves forward in support of the First Acolyte and the Icon Bearer, bolters barking as they tore through the Skitarii warriors towards this new enemy,
Their movements jerky, the tracked centaur units fired controlled bursts from their rotating cannons as they rolled forwards. Their bodies were a mass of augmetic, metal body plating, and their heads were almost completely hidden in dark metal encasings,
the only exception being the dead, staring left eyes that peered out from white flesh.
The lead unit turned its head jerkily in Marduk’s direction and he felt the warning buzz from his auto-sensors as the mass of targeters arrayed over the servitor’s right eye fixed on him.
With a snarl, Marduk threw himself into a roll as the mechanical warrior jerked the rotating barrels of its weapon in his direction and bullets began to spray towards him. They clipped his shoulder pad, taking chips out of the thick ceramite plating, and he fired his bolt pistol as he rose. Two bolts slammed into the face of the mechanised warrior, blowing a crater out the back of its head.
The other machines fired into the Word Bearers with short, sharp bursts. Marduk saw the chest of one warrior-brother ripped to shreds and the head of another pulverised.
With a roar, Burias-Drak’shal leapt onto one of the tracked machines as it rolled slowly forwards. He drove the daemon talons of one hand into the side of the Skitarii’s head with such force that it punched through metal and bone, and pulverised the fused brain-hemispheres within. A burst of fire slammed into his lower back and the daemonically possessed warrior staggered. With a bellow that came from the pits of the Immaterium, Burias-Drak’shal spun and hurled the icon of the Host through the air like a spear. It slammed into the chest of the tracked creature that had shot him, impaling it on the large spikes that made up the eight-pointed star. Fluids ran from the wound and sparks engulfed the torso of the tracked machine, and it began to twitch convulsively. At a barked command from Burias-Drak’shal the icon ripped free of the malfunctioning machine and flew back to its master’s hand.
Marduk launched into the Catechism of Hate and raising his daemonic chainsword high into the air, led the Word Bearers forward into the enemy. He pumped shot after shot into the mechanised torso of one of his foes, scoring deep craters across its armour. His chainsword bit through the thick tracks of the machine, and it floundered. Its expressionless face looked down upon him as it brought its weapon to bear, but Marduk moved swiftly around the immobilised machine, holstering his pistol. He pulled a krak grenade from his belt, pressing its igniting rune, and thrust it into the spinning cog-wheels of the damaged track unit.
He drew his pistol again as he charged towards the next machine, and the grenade detonated behind him. Flames washed over another machine, liquefying its flesh, but it fought on, its spinning cannon ripping the legs from a charging warrior at Marduk’s side.
The press of the enemy was heavy, as other cohorts moved inexorably to support their kin, and Guardsmen pushed desperately forwards, vainly trying to drive the Word Bearers back. Las-bolts struck Marduk’s armour and flames washed over him. Rapid firing rounds from the tracked machines raked him and he hissed in pain as one cracked a chink in the armour of his chest-plate.
His fiery words drove the Word Bearers on and they fought deep into the enemy formations. Blood flowed freely as he carved his screaming chainsword through the head of a Guardsman. A man stumbled towards him, his arm missing from the elbow down, and Marduk smashed him to the ground with the butt of his pistol before putting a round through the back of his head.
He felt savage joy as he slaughtered any who drew near him. He stumbled suddenly as a las-bolt pierced the armour of his thigh, searing the muscle beneath. He shot another man in the chest, his ribs exploding outwards as the explosive bolt detonated within.
An explosion tore the life from a pair of Word Bearers, and Marduk was rocked by the sudden blast, staggering to keep his footing as shrapnel scored across his armour. He saw a battle tank advance, the barrel of its turret smoking.
A heavy blow from his side smashed him to the ground and he felt the blessed ceramite of his shoulder pad compress as it absorbed the force of the blow. A servo-arm clamped around his torso as he tried to rise and he hissed in pain under the pressure. Power assisted pistons hissed as the clamps of the servo-arm tightened, and Marduk felt his ancient ceramite begin to buckle beneath the force.
He swung his chainsword into the neck of the servitor, and flesh and mechanics were ripped apart by the whirling teeth of the weapon. The fused bones of his ribcage strained as the pressure increased and he tried to bring his bolt pistol around for a shot, but the hold the combat servitor had on him made it impossible. Marduk pushed with all the force of his arm, driving his chainsword deeper into his foe’s neck, but the crushing force did not relent.
A combi-bolter was placed into one the armature joints of the servo-arm, and bolts tore into the weak point, severing the limb. The combat servitor reeled backwards, the stump of its servo-arm spraying oil and milky liquid as it waved ineffectually, before another blast from the combi-bolter tore the servitor’s head from its shoulders.
‘One day the pleasure of killing you will be mine, and mine alone,’ came a snarling voice. ‘None will steal that prize from me.’
Marduk looked up at Kol Badar, standing over him. He could just imagine the smirk on the whoreson’s face beneath his quad-tusked helmet, and he rose to his feet quickly, his face burning with shame and fury. His hand tightened around the grip of his chainsword, and he felt the daemon Borhg’ash willing him to lash out at the Coryphaus.
Kol Badar laughed as he turned away from the First Acolyte, his combi-bolter tearing another enemy to shreds. With a swat of his power claw he sent one of the tracked units toppling onto its side, where an Anointed cult member turned its head to molten metal and liquid, burning flesh with a searing blast from the meltagun slung beneath his bolter.
Simmering with anger, Marduk watched as Kol Badar grabbed the track unit of the battle tank in his massive power talons, ripping it clear in a shower of sparks and smoke. As the tank jerked to a halt, the warlord of the Word Bearers clenched his talons into a fist crackling with energy and, with a roar, smashed it into the armoured plating of the vehicle. The reinforced armour buckled under the power of the blow. The second blow punched straight through the armoured hull and Kol Badar wrenched his fist free, tangled metal screeching horribly. Placing the muzzle of his combi-bolter through the hole, he unloaded his clip inside the tank. The bolt-rounds ricocheted around the enclosed space deafeningly and there were screams from within.
As if feeling Marduk’s gaze, Kol Badar turned towards him, and pointed at the First Acolyte with one of his crackling power talons. The message was clear: your time will come.
I welcome that time with open arms, thought Marduk, flushed with anger and bitterness.
The Imperial forces were being butchered. Despite their efforts to drive against the traitor Legion, they were making no ground. Worse, they were losing ground, being slowly pushed back by the fury of the Chaos Space Marines’ resistance.
But that was soon to change.
The earth shuddered with each step of the Exemplis. It rose out of the gloom like a colossus of the ancients, a towering behemoth of awesome power. The mountains shook to their foundations as thousands of tonnes of metal slammed into the hard, salt packed earth of the flooding valley with each titanic step.
Those legs alone were mighty bastion fortresses, complete with battle cannon batteries and crenellated walls from which soldiers could pour fire into the foe. Within each leg was a demi-cohort consisting of Hypaspists and the elite biologically and mechanically enhanced Praetorians. But the leg bastions were the least of the weapons of the Exemplis.
Heaving some of the most powerful weapons ever conceived by the Adeptus Mechanicus, entire traitorous planets had surrendered at the mere appearance of the Exemplis. With weaponry the size of towering building blocks, each capable of demolishing cities and laying ruin to armies, the Exemplis had been in operational use by the Fire Wasps of Legio Ignatum since the time of the Great Crusade.
The plasma reactor, burning with the contained energy of a sun, roared with terrifying power as a fraction of its energy was siphoned into the giant weaponry of the god-machine.
The Exemplis was one of the last remaining Imperator Titans of Legio Ignatium of Mars and was wo
rshipped by the adepts of the Cult Mechanicus as an avatar of the Omnissiah. With thundering steps, it strode to war once more against the traitors that had turned their back on the Imperium of Man.
CHAPTER TWELVE
There was something distinctly wrong about the tower, something far more perverted and unearthly than Varnus could truly conceive. It was almost as if it was a sentient being, that it had thoughts and ambitions of its own, and that these thoughts and ambitions were seeping into the slaves that laboured over its living form.
It was large on an unfeasible, maddening scale, and continued to rise hundreds of metres into the sky with every passing change of shift. It was so high that were it not for the vile, living re-breather masks that had been attached to the slaves’ faces, they would start to struggle for oxygen in the increasingly thin air, not to mention the noxious fumes that blanketed the shattered city. The smog fumes seemed inexorably drawn towards the tower, and they circled it lazily.
At times, the tentacles of the creature burrowed deeper into his skull, wriggling and twitching agonisingly. It could not be removed. He wondered if it could ever be removed, even under surgery, and he had seen more than one slave die while trying to tear the thing from their face. They ended up choking to death, blood seeping from their ears and eyes as the powerful, leech-like tentacles burrowed through their brains, seeking solid purchase, and the tubular, living pipes that ran down their oesophagi clenched shut.
The appearance of the slaves was drastically altered by the foul masks; they looked more like devotees of the dark gods than Imperial citizens, and Varnus realised that he too must resemble one of the hated ones.
The work on the tower was never-ending and the slaves were worked at a brutal pace, the overseers viciously punishing those that failed to meet their exacting demands. It was as if the whole operation had gone into overdrive, that there was a looming deadline fast approaching and the tower had to be completed. There must have been around two hundred thousand slaves working atop the walls alone, he estimated, and many more hundreds of thousands working down in the sink-hole that disappeared inside the shaft of the tower, burrowing ever deeper into Tanakreg’s crust, down into the depths of the planet. All told, he estimated that there must have been a million slave workers toiling over the construction at any one time. More crane engines had been constructed, and along with thousands of slaves, they were strengthening the base of the tower, making it thicker with additional layers of bricks even as the tower soared up towards the heavens. In addition, they began work on a massive spiralling walkway, wide enough for a battle tank, that coiled its way around the exterior of the tower. It was a mammoth undertaking, but one that progressed at an astonishing pace.
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