Burias-Drak’shal snarled in frustration, ripping a man in two as he enacted his dissatisfaction.
‘We flee from these?’ he said as he broke the back of another soldier.
‘No,’ said Marduk. ‘We flee from that.’
‘Bah! We have taken down Titans before. The Coryphaus is weak.’
‘Eyeing his position already, Burias-Drak’shal?’
The possessed warrior grinned ferally before he allowed the daemon within him to reassert itself, and he was transformed beyond being able to communicate. With a roar of animal power, he launched himself back into the fray.
Marduk felt shame and resentment build within him. It was not the way of the Legion to back off from a battle against the soldiers of the Corpse Emperor, though he knew that Kol Badar’s orders were the best path of action for the Host.
Still, it would be a pleasure to see the arrogant bastard taken down a peg when the Dark Apostle received word of the setback.
The Word Bearers’ retreat was perfectly executed as the lines of coteries fell back in textbook order, laying down fields of overlapping fire to cover those that backed away. Those coteries in turn then planted their feet and covered their brethren. Fallen warriors were dragged back, for to leave them upon the field of battle would have been a gross sacrilege, and in addition, the war gear and gene-seed of the Legion were far too precious to abandon. Vehicles rolled slowly backwards, firing their weapon systems towards the Titan.
Most of the daemon engines and Dreadnoughts were dragged out of the fighting by massive chains hooked to heavy, tracked machinery, though they fought and struggled to rejoin the fray. Several of them turned against their minders, killing dozens of the black-robed humans that strained to rein them in, and tipping over several of the heavy vehicles hauling them backwards. Others ripped free of their restraints and launched at the foe, ripping, tearing and roaring, flames and missiles streaming from their weapons before they were inevitably silenced by the guns of the Imperator.
Kol Badar felt the shame tear at him, but he could not allow the Host to be destroyed. The losses had been high, however, and this day would long be lamented.
He had of course made preparations for a fall-back if it was needed, it was just part of the canon of engagement to be ready for any eventuality, but to order a retreat was not something that he had been forced to do for millennia.
With withering, concentrated fire, the Word Bearers drove the enemy back. The Legion slowly retreated, their bolters creating a swathe of death.
Ground-hugging, eight-legged machines skittered forward from the Chaos Space Marine lines. They were smaller than the towering defilers, and operated by beings that had once been lowly humans. Now they were forever linked to the machines through mechanical hard-wiring and black sorcery, the corrupted flesh of their bodies contained within domed, liquid-filled, blister-like eyes at the front of the constructions.
The bloated abdomens of the machines pulsed as circular mines were excreted from their rears, jabbed downwards through the water and into the earth. They scuttled forward, their oversized bellies shrinking as they laid their deadly cargos just beneath the crust of the hard packed salt rock, placing thousands of the mines across the entire breadth of the valley.
Other, longer legged constructions strode through the deepening water, like perverted, multi-limbed water fowl. They liberally spewed a thick, glutinous, oily liquid across the top of the water flows, spurting it out past the Word Bearers that backed away, out into the no man’s land between the two forces.
The Imperials’ fire destroyed dozens of the twisted creatures, and entire sections of the valley were still exploding beneath the horrendous force of the Imperator’s weaponry, but they were disposable and Kol Badar did not care that they were destroyed. They were performing their allotted tasks and their destruction was of no consequence.
The Titan took another massive step forwards, the huge, multi-tiered metal foot slamming down with thundering force, firing its weapon systems at the retreating Word Bearers. Battle cannons atop the Titan’s carapace turned, tracking the Thunderhawks and Stormbirds as they screamed through the storm, veering out towards the ridge-tops.
The words of the First Acolyte rang in his head and his anger grew. Such a victory for the Imperials should never have come to pass and he felt frustration weigh heavily upon his massive shoulders. He had wanted more time to scout out the enemy, to assess its strength and composition, but the Dark Apostle’s wishes had been clear, and time had been a critical factor. To properly evaluate the enemy would have meant facing the foe deeper in the mountains, and he had felt that such a strategy would not have been to the Dark Apostle’s liking.
‘You are too cautious, my Coryphaus,’ Jarulek would have said. He had insinuated it before.
His caution would have spared the lives of many warrior-brothers this day, however, for the arrival of the Titan had been an unexpected shock. And now, he was forced to fight a retreat.
Still, he would damn well ensure that the enemy took as many casualties as possible during the Host’s withdrawal.
As flames and shrapnel fell upon the thick, oily soup spewed forth by the twisted, long-legged walkers, the valley erupted into tall flames. Burning fiercely, they roared across the entire width of the valley, engulfing dozens of the walkers. They squealed horribly as they perished, legs kicking in agony as flames licked at them. The burning liquid gruel had covered hundreds of mindless Skitarii as they had continued their relentless advance after the retreating Chaos Space Marines, and the flames dissolved their flesh as they marched. Pieces of machinery, having lost the flesh that bound them together, slipped beneath the streaming waters, though they continued to burn, even beneath the surface.
The first tanks reached the mines secreted beneath the salt rock and were thrown into the air as the powerful weapons detonated. Having seen their power, the Imperials would be loathe to continue their advance until minesweepers had been brought forward to clear a path, and the princeps of the Imperator Titan would have no wish to risk his colossal war machine.
He had bought the Legion time, but it was time that he would have to use carefully, to plan and plot the demise of the Imperator Titan. Strategies and ploys were already swimming through his mind. He knew the place where he would face it, having already noted, on his flyover, the narrowing of the valley some five kilometres back.
He raised his bitter gaze to the heavens that were being ripped apart by lightning and falling shells, and repeated the oath he had sworn to the First Acolyte.
‘I will see that god-machine fall by my hand,’ he swore, ‘or may my soul be damned to torment for all eternity.’
Thunder boomed overhead, as if in response to his oath.
He would break the machine-spirit of the beast, and once victory had been achieved, he would stand before Jarulek, the Dark Apostle, and accept whatever punishment he deemed suitable for his failures this day.
The battle was long over, and the intense storm overhead had abated. The waters had receded, flowing further down the mountains, leaving a mire of destruction across the valley. Bodies were strewn all across the battlefield, and burned out vehicles and wrecks scattered the field. Few enemy casualties remained, most having been hauled from the fire-fight, though Elysians wielding flamers torched those that were left behind. All avoided the blackened hulls of the enemy vehicles and cursed engines, for to destroy them utterly would be too labour intensive. Teams of Elysians bearing heavy arrays of detection sensors inched forward, removing thousands of landmines from the ground. They were far slower than the bizarre minesweeper vehicles of the Adeptus Mechanicus that fanned the ground with great sweeps of mechanical analysis arms. But the orders of the Elysian command were clear: the army would advance as quickly as possible, and every man equipped to detect the mines, whether Elysian or mindless servitor, would be employed.
Under the shadow of the stationary Imperator class Titan Exemplis, the adepts of the Mechanicus swarmed over wrecked Imperial vehicl
es, salvaging precious machineries and supplicating the dead or dying spirits of the vehicles. To Brigadier-General Havorn, they looked like nothing more than clusters of carnivorous ants tearing apart the carcasses of dying prey. The adepts swiftly stripped weapon systems from tanks and Ordinatus Minoris crawlers with focused energy, and loaded them alongside working engines, track-works and control systems onto the backs of hulking hauler vehicles for reuse.
Industrious servitors worked tirelessly, hefting heavy pieces of equipment with servo-arms and harnesses under the watchful eyes of the adepts, and the fallen Skitarii were likewise gathered up and taken to rolling factories that followed in the wake of the main army. There they were dropped onto mass conveyer belts and taken inside for recycling. Havorn was unsure what that entailed. He imagined that the weapons of the tech-guard warriors were torn from the dead flesh of their hosts, but he did not know the fate of the dead flesh. Only when the Techno-Magos Darioq had made a cold entreaty to him had he learnt what happened to those desecrated bodies.
‘A request, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn,’ said the techno-magos in his monotone voice. ‘It is my understanding that the flesh bodies of your inactive soldiers are being gathered. Are they to be taken to the reprocessing factorum units of your regiment? I was not aware of the presence of such facilities within your expedition force.’
‘Tokens of Elysia will be placed upon the eyes of my fallen soldiers and their flesh will be consumed with cleansing flame. The priests will guide their souls on their way to the Emperor’s side,’ replied Havorn, unsure of what the techno-magos spoke. ‘It is the way of the Elysians. Each man carries with him his twin tokens of Elysia,’ he explained, reaching beneath his robe and jangling a pair of round metal coins that hung around his neck, a fine chain running through the holes in their centres. ‘This has long been the custom of my people. We specialise in drop attacks, and it is seldom possible to extract our dead, but it matters not where the body lies, merely that the spirit is guided on its way.’
‘The dead flesh husks are burned? That is illogical. It is a waste of resources, both of promethium and of the flesh husks. And what of your flesh units that have been rendered inoperative but not yet fully non-functional?’
‘My wounded, you mean?’ asked Havorn, his voice icy.
‘If you wish.’
‘My wounded soldiers are removed from their platoons and taken to the medicae facilities within my mass transport-landers. Those with fatal wounds are comforted as much as possible before their spirits are guided on their way.’
‘I would make a request of you, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn.’
‘Ask away,’ said the Imperial commander, though he felt wary, not knowing where the magos was leading.
‘It is illogical and irrational to dispose of your non-functional flesh units as you do. I would ask that upon the conclusion of your priestly rituals, that the flesh husks are collected for reprocessing by my adepts.’
‘Reprocessing into what?’
‘Into a semi-liquid, protein based nutrient paste.’
Havorn blinked as if he could not possibly have heard correctly.
‘You… you wish to turn the bodies of honoured Elysian soldiers who have fallen in battle against the enemy into paste.’
‘It is a logical use of limited resources. My Skitarii cohorts are well fuelled, but a replenishment of feed levels would be advantageous.’
‘There really is not an ounce of humanity left in you is there, you wretched, base machine?’ said Havorn, his voice trembling with emotion.
‘Correction. There are exactly thirty-eight Imperial weight units of living flesh and tissue upon my frame, Brigadier-General Ishamel Havorn. I am neither wretched nor base, although their usage in such a context is a new piece of data memory to be stored. And I thank you for calling me “machine”, though I am not yet so fully esteemed within the priesthood of Mars as to become truly one with the Omnissiah.’
‘Your answer, magos,’ said Havorn, ‘is that you can go and burn in hell before I hand over any of my soldiers to you, dead or alive.’
Seeing no immediate response forthcoming from the magos, he added, ‘That means no, you cold-hearted bastard.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘We have identified the location from which the enemy has chosen to face us, brigadier-general,’ said Colonel Laron.
‘Show me,’ said Havorn. The large table between the pair lit up at Havorn’s word, thousands of twisting green lines of light springing up to show a detailed schematic map of the surrounding area. At Havorn’s instruction, the crouching servitor built into the table’s base manipulated the rendered image, scrolling it across the surface of the table and zooming in on valleys and ravines. At another word, the densely packed lines began to rise above the table, giving a three dimensional view of the mountains.
Taking a moment to study the detailed map, Laron pointed.
‘We advance along this main valley bed here. Our scouts move along the ravines here, here and here,’ he said, indicating two thin valleys a few kilometres away from where the main force advanced. ‘And our drop-troopers have landed at these points,’ he said, picking out a dozen key, strategic high points.
‘As you have read in my reports, our attacks to take the high lands up to here,’ he said, indicating, ‘have been fierce, but a success.’
‘The enemy has defended them half-heartedly,’ said Havorn. ‘Your men took them too easily, and I mean no slur upon them. When they choose their place to stand and fight, then they will face far stiffer competition.’
‘My sentiment exactly, brigadier-general, and I believe we have found that place. Early forays to take these points here,’ he said, indicating the ridges some ten kilometres into a particularly thin stretch of the valley, ‘show high concentrations of the enemy. Our attacks have been rebuffed.’
‘And with high casualties, I see,’ growled Havorn.
‘Indeed, the enemy will not budge. That is where they will make their stand.’
‘It is a good place for it. The twisting valley is at its narrowest there. There is not a straight line of fire longer than a kilometre, rendering our ordnance of limited use, but their warriors will excel. It means that the Exemplis will have to get close to them to engage, rather than blasting them from five clicks out. It is a cunning place to make their stand. But it could be a ruse. Have you scouted for ambush points ahead of this position?’
‘I have, brigadier-general. The valley thins some ten kilometres further up, here. It shrinks to a width of less than a hundred metres at several points; that’s a tight fit for the Imperator. That would be the place to launch an ambush, but there are more than forty places where the valley contracts in such a way.’
The brigadier-general grunted.
‘Any sign of enemy movement? If we walked into that valley and the enemy had control of those ridges, we would suffer heavy casualties.’
‘None, sir. I have sentinels scouring the region, but they have engaged nothing more than cultist outrider vermin that were skulking parallel to the valley. They were all slain.’
‘The enemy commander is no fool. If I were him, I would plan something here,’ said Havorn, pointing towards one of the narrower areas of the valley. ‘The minesweepers have found nothing as yet?’
‘No dedicated minefield, only mines scattered every hundred metres or so.’
The Imperial forces had been slowed to a crawl behind the sweeper units. Though no further minefields had been discovered, the traitors had placed sporadic patches of mines down, just enough to force the Imperials into scanning their entire advance.
‘A series of cracks riddles the cliff faces all along this stretch. I have ordered flame units to advance along the cliff walls and cleanse any cave systems. Scanner teams are accompanying the flame units, sweeping the area for life-signs and power outputs.’
‘Order demolition teams to cave in the larger crevices,’ said Havorn.
‘Yes, sir.’
Keen auto-sensors alerted Kol Badar to the questing machine-spirit of an enemy auspex, and the last systems of his Terminator armour were automatically shut down. He was barely breathing, and his twin hearts beat but once per minute. He had long ago shut off his air-recycling units, and the massive weight of his armour hung upon him as the last of the servos were deactivated.
Dully he heard the muffled thump of detonations, and dust and rock crumbled down upon him as the ground beneath his feet rumbled. Heavier chunks of salt stone broke upon him, but still he stood immobile in his state of semi-suspended animation. It was not the deep slumber that the Legion was capable of, for that would require the attentions of the chirurgeons to reawaken him, and would not allow him to remain at least partially alert for the signal that his prey was near. It was however a deep enough state that any auspex sweep of the enemy should not detect his life signals, particularly while he was shielded behind the thick, insulating plates of his sacred armour.
An indeterminable amount of time passed, and flames washed over him. His heartbeat increased as he registered the brightness of the promethium-based conflagration lapping over him and the sharp rise in temperature. The heat was almost unbearable, the inbuilt heat regulators of the suit having been shut down along with all its other functions, so as not to give off any tell-tale signs of radiation.
The flames lit up the narrow cavern brightly. He could see other members of the cult of the Anointed, immobile as he was, flames licking at them. He saw the external ribbed piping of one warrior-brother’s early mark Terminator suit flare brightly as it melted, and the warrior pitched backwards to the cavern floor, his lungs undoubtedly on fire. Kol Badar was pleased to see that he did not cry out as he perished.
As his breathing became more regular in conjunction with the quickening beat of his heart, he began to use too much oxygen, and there was not a lot of that remaining in his suit. He settled his breathing and his heart slowed until once again it almost stopped.
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