But the tanks had drawn the attention of the enemy inside the keep. They were the visible target. And the window of opportunity opened for Krezoc.
‘Full force,’ she commanded. ‘Take down those shields. Warhounds, advance at speed. Get under the guns.’
The Thunderstrike hurled another shell at the Spears, its terrible devastation a blow at the wrong enemy. Gloria Vastator’s main armament fired at the same time as that of Fatum Messor and of the Reavers. The Warhounds of two maniples closed in on the keep, sheltered from the Iron Skulls’ barrage by their smaller size and the bulk of the greater Titans. Volcano and quake cannons, macro-gatling blasters and plasma annihilators hit the keep with a fury that was the match of its destructive power. The traitors within had the weaponry to engage in an orbital bombardment from the centre of the city, but they struck out in all directions. What hit them was disciplined anger. It overwhelmed the void shields in an instant. Their death-cry was a violet sun, the shock wave racing out across the entire city.
The Thunderstrike cannon tracked towards the Titans as far as it could go. It fired. The shell went wide of Krezoc’s formations, but only just. The blast washed over the god-machines, straining their shields. Missiles rained in from the east. On the vox, Rheliax cursed as Crudelis Mortem rocked under the hits. The ground under Gloria Vastator’s left foot gave way, collapsing into the tunnels, pipes and drainage systems of the undercity. Gas mains erupted, sending sheets of fire up the god-machine’s flank. Krezoc leaned unconsciously in the throne, her body sympathetically compensating for the Warlord’s precarious balance. She sensed the collapse as it began and brought the leg up and forwards. The manifold sent urgent demands to the enginarium plant. Krezoc felt Thezerin’s immediate energy redirects, the arms of the Titan jerking to the right to compensate for the precarious balance. Gloria Vastator remained upright, and when the left foot came down again, the ground held.
The Pallidus Mor hit the keep with the next round of the barrage. Even without the shields, the walls were twenty-feet-thick reinforced rockcrete and armour plating. Nevaeh Eukrolas’ pride in Deicoon’s incorruptibility had been misplaced. Her pride in the formidable defences had not been. The keep, built and reinforced by generations of the Eukrolas dynasty against an enemy never really expected to arrive, withstood the hit. Where many other redoubts would have vanished, blown to rock fragments and vaporised metal, it remained standing, though portions of the wall sagged and flames burst from the windows. The fortress was burning, but it still fought. The Thunderstrike appeared to have survived the blast too, though smoke rose from the length of its barrel.
The bombardment from the Kataran Spears continued, the shells pockmarking the façade of the keep. The intensity of the fire was encouraging. The regiment had not been destroyed.
‘Captain Deyers,’ Krezoc voxed. ‘You troops have done what was needed. Withdraw now. Put distance between yourselves and the keep.’
‘Because the enemy is going to target us again?’
‘No, because of what we are going to do to the enemy.’ She switched channel and ordered the secutarii to pull back and take cover as well. Gloria Vastator led the advance again, two more steps in the time it took the traitor forces to reload the monstrous macrocannon. The enemy was slower, struggling for control as the damage to the interior spread. And now the Warhounds, hunting as a pack, reached their prey. They were too close for the Thunderstrike to fire downwards at them, though still far enough away from what Krezoc planned to unleash. A stream of fire from plasma blastguns and Vulcan mega-bolters struck upwards, hitting the barrel and the base of the cannon.
‘Aim for the centre mass of the keep,’ Krezoc commanded the rest of the Titans.
Still another cataclysmic barrage slammed into the structure. It blew open the walls. A hurricane of fire and plasma stormed through the fortress.
In their rage and in their foolishness, the traitors fired again.
The barrel of the Thunderstrike was warped and punctured. The shell exploded inside the gun. The entire east face of the keep blew up. The fireball reached out and within. Destruction struck the most well-protected core of the building. For a few seconds, titanic blasts shook the structure but it kept them contained. Then all the shells of its arsenal went up.
Protective filters dropped over the armourglass eyes of Gloria Vastator. Krezoc still winced at the light. The detonation was colossal, a blinding tribute to the might of the Pallidus Mor. The fireball banished the gloom of the city. It etched Deicoon’s broken lines onto the eyes, leaving the dazzling negative of a city. It was as if a volcano had erupted in Deicoon, and had done so with such violence that its cone was blasted apart. The keep ceased to exist. The centre of the city, for blocks around the structure, shot high into the air in a thunderous column, a mushroom cloud of dust that roiled with lightning in its head.
The crater left behind was a mile wide.
The barrage from the Iron Skulls faltered. The devastation was so huge, perhaps they did not know whose victory they beheld.
‘Now we march for the gates,’ Krezoc voxed her demi-legio. ‘Now we bring this battle to the Iron Skulls.’
Chapter 9
Flames and Ashes
Governor Pheon Markos of Therimachus, cousin to Nevaeh and Hallard Eukrolas, now sole representative of the Eukrolas clan and by default lord-governor of Katara, was already in his bunker. Syagrius had come, at the governor’s request, to meet him at the palace, which stood on the highest of the city’s four hills, in the north west of the hive. Syagrius had expected to meet with Markos where they had spoken before, in the governor’s quarters. Markos had received the marshal, when the Imperial Hunters had first arrived at Therimachus, in a handsomely appointed study. The chamber’s twenty-foot vaulted window looked to the south east, over the enormous expanse of Katara’s largest population centre. The study was the space of a man who was a scholar at least as much as he was an administrator. The walls were lined with chronicles of Katara and exegetical texts. Markos served Syagrius an excellent vintage of amasec. The two men had discussed the conduct of the war in an atmosphere of calm and mature thought. Syagrius had come away from his meeting impressed.
He was not impressed now. Instead of taking him and the officious, sweating major domo hundreds of feet up into the clearer air of the hive, the grav lift descended five hundred feet beneath the foundations of the palace. It deposited them outside an immense vault door of reinforced adamantium plate.
The major domo placed his hand on an identity plate next to the door, stood still for a retinal scan and spoke into a vox-speaker, announcing Syagrius. After a pause, the door rolled aside into the granite and rockcrete walls. On the other side of the doorway was a guard chamber. The officers wore the uniforms of the Eukrolas family’s private militia. On the other side of the chamber was an even larger vault door. The sergeant and the major domo repeated the identification procedures, and when this door too opened, Syagrius entered a corridor that was disproportionately low for the imposing portal that covered it. The major domo led him into the bunker proper. The space was much more cramped than Markos’ study. There were shelves of books here too, but the governor’s desk was functional rather than ornate. All of one wall was given over to a shrine to the Emperor. Syagrius guessed many prayers had been offered to it over the last few hours.
In the centre of the chamber was a tacticarium table. Markos was pacing back and forth before it, on the far side from Syagrius. His eyes flickered between the marshal and the hololithic display. ‘Thank you for coming, Marshal Syagrius,’ he said. He spoke rapidly, and with a faint tremor. He was sweating. His fingers tap-tap-tapped the edge of the table as he paced. He did not look like the academically inclined aristocrat who had welcomed Syagrius to Therimachus.
Behind Syagrius, the massive door rolled shut once more with a reverberating boom. Markos did not relax in the slightest.
‘How can I be of service, governor?’
Syagrius asked. He was about to ask why Markos was down in the bunker, then decided not to. The answer was obvious. The man was terrified. Confronting him with his cowardice would not be useful at this moment.
Markos waved at the display. ‘I’m trying to get a full understanding of our situation,’ he said. ‘I want to know where we stand.’
Syagrius stepped up to the tacticarium table. Markos’ information was correct. The map showed Therimachus, Deicoon and Creontiades, and the regions between them. Therimachus appeared in considerable detail, despite the scale. The other two cities were red smears, as if they no longer existed. There was a bright patch in the centre of Deicoon, designating the massive heat bloom that had been detected there a short time before. Runes and arrows indicated the position and movements of Imperial and enemy forces. ‘Your data appears to be up to date,’ Syagrius said.
‘I know it is,’ Markos said. ‘But I want to know what it means.’
‘I don’t follow.’
The governor stopped pacing. He stared at Syagrius with wounded, fearful eyes. ‘Marshal, is Katara lost?’
Syagrius stiffened. ‘Of course not. The mere question is offensive.’
‘I’m sorry, marshal. I don’t question the courage and skill of the Imperial Hunters. But it’s the numbers. I can’t put aside the numbers.’
Syagrius said nothing. He waited for Markos to go on, cursing that the man had zeroed in on the very thing that had been troubling him too.
Markos pointed to the bright spot in Deicoon. ‘That explosion…’ he began.
‘It was caused by the Pallidus Mor,’ Syagrius said. ‘That was a blow against the enemy.’
‘Oh. Oh, good. So they’re still in the fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they on their way to reinforce us?’
Syagrius kept himself from grimacing at Markos’ lack of faith. ‘I have sent word to Princeps Senioris Krezoc to make for Therimachus when possible. The Pallidus Mor is still engaged in combat, however.’ He shouldn’t have to point this out. The estimated numbers were there in glowing numbers on the table. The precise dispositions in Deicoon were unknown, however. Syagrius knew Krezoc was fighting. He knew the situation was far from resolved. Beyond that, there were too many unknowns about who or what might march from Deicoon to Therimachus.
Markos was nodding to himself like a nervous rodent. ‘I see. I see. And the main force of the Iron Skulls is heading our way.’
‘Yes.’
‘And the road…’
‘Yes, the road is no longer passable.’ He was growing tired of confirming what Markos already knew. The highway from Deicoon ran along the coast. In orbit, the Currus Venatores had picked up geological deformations occurring in the wake of the Iron Skulls. Behind the enemy and Deicoon, the tremors had opened fault lines deep into the mainland. Canyons now ran from the strait to the coastal mountain chain that separated the two cities. They had swallowed large sections of the road. Nothing was going to come by that route. The terrain west was even more mountainous. It would take weeks to make such a crossing. In between the two main chains, offering an illusion of an easier path between the cities, was a wide desert plain that was a virtual lake of promethium.
The tacticarium table had covered the region of the plain with another red glow. Markos pointed to it now. ‘Is it true about the Klivanos Plain?’
‘Yes.’
As far as the Currus Venatores’ auspex array had been able to tell, the main battle group of the Iron Skulls had launched a sustained barrage of missiles into the plain as they were moving beyond Deicoon. The rockets had flown over the horizon from the Iron Skulls’ position, and fallen over a wide area of the Klivanos. The explosions had ignited the promethium, creating a sea of fire that already covered thousands of square miles and was still growing. The ground of the Klivanos would have been treacherous in the best of circumstances. There would be nothing coming that way now.
‘So,’ said Markos, ‘and I say this with no disrespect intended, but your orders notwithstanding, there can be no possible reinforcements from the Pallidus Mor. Deicoon is cut off.’
It was. ‘The force the Iron Skulls left there will not be reaching us either,’ he pointed out. He sounded like he was on the defensive, and he became irritated with both himself and Markos.
‘But the size of the contingent that is marching on Therimachus is larger than yours, isn’t it?’
‘War is not reducible to numbers,’ Syagrius said.
‘No. No, it isn’t.’
Markos did not sound reassured. He started pacing again, now looking as if he was summoning the courage to say what was on his mind. Still walking, he said, ‘Forgive me, marshal, but war isn’t reducible to opposing armies, either. There is also the battleground, and what is contested, which are sometimes the same thing, but not always. I do not question your war expertise, but I do know Katara, and my city, and their history, and the landscape. When it comes to defence, Therimachus is not Deicoon. It is not even Creontiades. Therimachus’ greatest periods of growth came centuries after there had been any wars on Katara. Their memories are longer in Deicoon. That branch of the family made sure of that. But here…’ He stopped and waved his hand over the hololithic representation of Therimachus.
Syagrius began to understand what Markos was driving at. There was nothing the governor was saying that Syagrius did not already know. The tactical situation of Therimachus was obvious. The hive had expanded beyond its walls so many times over the centuries that new ones had stopped being built. There was no point. So the city was a gigantic sprawl over the landscape. It was not a city that would ever be besieged because it could not be defended in the traditional sense. What Markos needed was to know that Syagrius understood this. And he needed to know what the marshal planned to do.
‘We are not waiting for the enemy to arrive at Therimachus,’ Syagrius said, only just holding his temper. He did not worry if he sounded condescending. ‘We will march out to meet the Iron Skulls and destroy them before they arrive here.’ He doubted he could make things any clearer than that.
‘I see.’ Markos had stopped pacing again, and was staring down at the table disconsolately.
‘You’ll be returning to your quarters in the palace?’
The morale of the populace was not normally Syagrius’ concern. It mattered more now, though. The question about cult activity hovered unspoken in the air between them. There had been no sign of heresy in the city. There hadn’t been in Deicoon either. The Adeptus Arbites and Markos’ security forces were taking their investigations even deeper than before. But in a population of so many tens of millions, covering so wide an area and so many levels above and below ground, the task was immense. That nothing had been found meant little. So Syagrius wanted to see Markos visible and confident. He wanted the population of Therimachus under control.
‘No,’ said Markos, very quietly. ‘I will not.’
‘May I ask why?’
The man’s refusal was insulting.
‘I said I knew the history of my city, marshal. That matters too.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Therimachus has always been taken. It is the indefensible city. In this world’s ancient past, in every war of conquest, the city fell to the invader. It accepted the new rule, and so survived. That is not an option this time. If we fall, marshal, and we will, then we are doomed.’
Syagrius snorted. ‘I could have told you that.’ He leaned over the table towards Markos. ‘Leave this bunker. Get back to doing the business of governing instead of hiding like the coward you are. Do your duty or I’ll shoot you myself.’
He spun on his heel and strode out of the bunker. He looked back when he was in the guard chamber. Markos was standing quite still, and watching him with deep sorrow. He gave no sign that he was going to obey. Then the massive door rolled shut again, sealing the small man inside.
‘The marshal wants us in Therimachus?’ Drahn voxed.
‘So it would seem,’ said Krezoc.
A line of rocket blasts stitched up the height of the building to the right of Gloria Vastator. The hab tower collapsed, its lower floors imploding and the upper half falling forwards in a disintegrating heap. Krezoc pulled the Warlord back a step. ‘Volcano,’ she said to Grevereign. The worst of the rubble avalanche landed in front of the Titan. Large chunks of rockcrete bounced off the adamantium hull as the weapon powered up. Krezoc pivoted Gloria Vastator and fired the cannon. The beam slashed through the deep, gritty obscurity of the dust and smoke. It struck the Banelord that had toppled the building at the joint of its left arm and torso. Krezoc was rewarded with the flash of overloaded void shields.
‘That’s nice,’ Rheliax said. ‘How does he expect us to get there?’
‘He didn’t say.’
Krezoc followed up with a flight of Apocalypse missiles and a prolonged burst from the mega-bolter. More blasts hit the traitor’s arm and joint. The arm blew up. A comet of flame roared up the limb. Internal explosions turned it into a twisted wreckage, and it hung downwards, a useless weight dragging on the Titan’s movement. ‘First we have to get out of Deicoon.’
The Iron Skulls had closed in before the fireball of the keep’s destruction had dissipated. Krezoc had led the Pallidus Mor in a march east to escape the encircling movement. She had no intention of retreating from the city. She would not leave until the last of the traitors present was reduced to slag. But she was no longer going to fight this war on the enemy’s terms.
The demi-legio was less than a mile away from the wall. Two Banelords and a number of smaller Titans were in the near vicinity. Harrying fire came from the enemy approaching from the other directions, but those traitors were still too far off to bring their numbers to bear effectively.
The Banelord’s shoulder racks sent streaks of missiles against Gloria Vastator. The Warlord shook with the pounding impacts. Krezoc walked forwards, deeper into a new dust cloud, and made a temporary shield out of the building shells on her right. Canis Ignem and Canis Vindictae shot forwards near the Banelord’s feet and strafed the monster with mega-bolter shells. The beast did not turn to fight them, but it hesitated for a moment between targets, giving Krezoc the few moments she needed. The traitor’s Ferals lunged over the rubble at the Warlord, their nuisance fire exploding against its legs, and blowing up the street where the secutarii and cultists fought. Krezoc had expected them and ignored them. Makthal in Tempestas Deorem hit one with the Reaver’s power fist, crushing the Feral’s flank. The traitor turned, limping, into a second hit from the fist.
Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine Page 16
