Then there was the deep sense of disquiet that the farseer’s words had brought him. Cassian was a Primaris Space Marine, one of Archmagos Cawl’s original warriors who had stepped directly from stasis and taken up arms during the Ultima Founding. Ingrained into every fibre of his being was a sense of purpose and duty, a certainty that his every thought and deed served the Imperium of Mankind. It was, in a very literal sense, what he had been created for.
That certainty had been shaken, first by his defeat at the hands of the Death Guard, then by the aeldari’s intimation that he now walked their path.
Cassian was unused to the idea that his fate lay in anyone’s hands but the Emperor’s.
He found himself scrutinising his every thought, deed and utterance.
Space Marines were not religious in the way that most Imperial servants were; they did not, as a rule, deify the Emperor, nor pray to Him for direct intercession. Yet they were still deeply spiritual beings in their own way, venerating their primarchs and their Emperor, and deriving strength from their examples.
It was this that had allowed Cassian to finally calm his mind, to centre his thoughts and slip into a meditative state during which he had dissected every fragment of information he had gathered, analysing it from every angle.
Now Cassian’s eyes opened and he raised his head, an expression of fierce determination on his noble features.
‘Thank you, Emperor, for your guidance,’ he intoned. ‘Thank you, primarch, for your clarity. I will not fail you again.’
Cassian rose and sheathed his blade. He flexed his wounded arm experimentally, nodding to himself as he felt reknitted muscle tense and reset bone hold strong.
‘Sufficient,’ he said. ‘There is much to be done.’
An hour later, Cassian held his council of war within the lower narthex of the cathedrum. Rainwater dripped through shattered windows and fell from ragged holes in the ceiling high above. A foul mist drifted at ankle height, while plump flies meandered through the still air. Stained glass crunched underfoot as Cassian, Keritraeus, Dematris and their senior sergeants gathered. The two Dreadnought battle-brothers were also present, for they had fought since the earliest days of the Indomitus Crusade and had gained much strategic insight. The Cadian captain Dzansk completed the gathering, albeit as a grainy green ghost beamed from a holoprojector.
‘Honoured warriors of the Imperium,’ began Cassian, ‘we have suffered at the hands of the heretic invaders, but that ends now. We are going to defeat them in the Emperor’s name, and see to it that every trace of their filth is cleansed from this world.’
Several of his sergeants slammed their fists against their chest-plates in
salute, and Brother Marius rumbled a near-subsonic ‘Hear, hear.’
‘We are with you, lieutenant,’ said Keritraeus. ‘But how?’
‘The Emperor has gifted me with insight into the minds of our foes,’ said Cassian. ‘They worship a god of plagues, and are empowered by his unclean gifts. I believe that their god, and by extension the Death Guard themselves, derive much of their power from sickness and misery – from entropy.’
‘Based on what, brother?’ asked Dematris.
‘Consider,’ said Cassian. ‘They bombarded the city before their initial landing. Why use a mixture of targeted ordnance and bio-phages? Why not just hammer Dustrious into ruin and move on? With so superior a force, it was strategically inefficient at best.’
‘The astropathic fortress, brother-lieutenant,’ said Sergeant Gallen. ‘I would suggest that they want to capture the astropaths and use them for their own purposes.’
‘Likely, but then, they have overwhelming numbers – if they had wished to crush Imperial resistance here and claim their prize, they could have done so in a matter of hours, not weeks. I mean no disrespect to your brave fighting men and women, Captain Dzansk.’
‘No offence taken, my lord,’ said Dzansk in a static-furred voice. ‘We have been wondering the same thing since day one. It seems unlikely that the enemy commander is so incompetent as to have misjudged the comparative disposition of our forces. Our best guess was that he was waiting for something, perhaps for sickness to decimate our ranks.’
‘In a way, I believe that he was,’ said Cassian. ‘I believe our enemy is deliberately drawing this battle out. The Death Guard are causing as much misery and suffering as they possibly can, for by doing so they best honour their god.’
‘A devotional offering,’ said Dematris in disgust. ‘They torment this planet and its populace as one might light candles in an Imperial shrine.’
‘I fear that, if you are correct, it may be worse still,’ said Keritraeus. ‘I told you that the empyrean feels agitated here.’
‘You did,’ said Cassian, ‘but is that not simply the aftermath of the warp storm that marooned us?’
‘I thought so at first,’ said Keritraeus, ‘but if you are right about this, then the storm on high, the agitation in the warp, the silence of the astropaths… It could be the effects of a wider, ongoing ritual – signs that the Death Guard
are making an offering to their god, and that it is being accepted.’
‘You’re talking about the summoning of daemons,’ said Dematris.
‘Perhaps,’ said Keritraeus, ‘or some other foulness that sane minds cannot even guess at. Whatever the case, it seems logical that the astropaths would be the final offering, the heart’s blood that seals the compact.’
‘By the Throne!’ said Aggressor Sergeant Temeter. ‘If this is true then the heretics are using this entire world as their sacrificial altar. The consequences of such a vast ritual would surely be disastrous.’
‘Just so,’ said Cassian. ‘You see now why we cannot continue to offer this enemy a battle of attrition. That is precisely the war they want. We must resolve this swiftly and decisively, and capture the astropathic fortress before they are able to make use of it.’
‘I ask again,’ said Keritraeus. ‘How? Impetuosity has already failed us once.
They outnumber us, even with the Cadians added to our own forces. Our losses during the ambush were considerable, and even with the Primarch’s Sword to support us, I believe we will be hard-pressed to defeat this foe.’
‘In a straight fight, that is true,’ agreed Cassian, ‘but just as they are the twisted progeny of their primarch, so we are the true sons of ours. We will outmanoeuvre them, find their weaknesses and exploit them. Their heretical faith compels them to behave in ways that seem like madness. They may be working to a plan that we cannot fully fathom, but they have also ignored strategic practicals that we will not.’
Cassian felt a frisson of disquiet at how closely his own words echoed those of the farseer, but he pressed on regardless.
‘Sergeant Marcus has identified one such strategic option,’ he said, turning to the Reiver sergeant.
Marcus nodded. ‘During our scouting sweep, we located a partial tunnel entrance at this location,’ he said, exloading coordinates to his comrades’
auspex-maps. ‘It lies amidst the ruins of a generatorum block, and presumably was opened by the enemy’s initial bombardment. Binaric interrogation of functioning cogitators within the generatorum complex revealed this as an entrance to Dustrious’ municipalis support grid. It’s a backup power supply, whose conduits run beneath the astropathic fortress.’
‘Is it a route in, then?’ asked Keritraeus. ‘If so, are we to assume that the enemy have simply overlooked it by chance?’
‘To the first question, yes, we believe so,’ replied Marcus. ‘Data-schematics
suggest that an exit hatch could be used to emerge within the outer cloisters of the fortress. But to the second, no, the enemy have not overlooked it.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘We eliminated a small herd of the plague mutants penned in a cordon around the entrance. We further disarmed a substantial quantity of tripwires linked to viral grenades, and heard the groans of more of the creatures from the tunnel’s mouth. The
y were not there by chance.’
‘Then we are to believe they have simply ignored this route into the heart of the fortress?’ asked Dematris doubtfully.
‘The tunnel confines would be tight,’ said Marcus. ‘An unaugmented human could progress down them, or Primaris Marines in light combat armour such as my Reiver squad. Anyone larger would struggle. The exit point would also be overlooked by servitor-guns on both the outer and inner fortifications.
Attrition amongst the initial attackers would be high.’
‘All of which, the Death Guard could have overcome with sufficient ingenuity and belligerence,’ said Cassian. ‘But I believe that doing so would have ended their war too soon. A virus that kills its host is inefficient, and ultimately self-destructive. To thrive, it must allow its victim to live.’
‘At least for as long as serves its needs,’ added Keritraeus, nodding. ‘So how do we exploit this omission by our foes? We can hardly move the bulk of our forces through such a narrow conduit.’
‘True,’ said Cassian, ‘but we can send Squad Marcus through it, and thus gain access to the fortress. The Reivers will link up with whatever garrison remains within. They will manually direct its guns, and stand ready to support our strike for the gates.’
‘It’s to be another direct assault, then?’ asked Dematris.
‘A coordinated strike,’ replied Cassian, ‘with the intent of denying the enemy their prize and contacting the crusade’s forces. We cannot overcome this foe with our current strength, but nor can we leave them to complete whatever foul ritual they are attempting. Thus, if we cannot rejoin the crusade as duty compels, we will bring the crusade to us.’
His comrades nodded. He saw hope in their eyes.
‘Captain Dzansk,’ said Cassian. ‘Are you ready to serve your Emperor?’
‘Always, my lord. Cadia stands.’
‘Very well. What I ask of you is no easy thing, captain, but it must be thus.
You will mobilise all your remaining forces and engage the Death Guard in a
diversionary attack shortly before we launch our own assault. Draw them in, and tie up as much of their strength as you can.’
‘That will cost us dear, my lord,’ said Dzansk. ‘Many of my soldiers are sick, or wounded. Our ammunition stocks are low. If the Death Guard respond in force, we will not endure their wrath for long.’
‘I understand,’ said Cassian. ‘While your forces engage the enemy, ours will move swiftly into position and secure the main fortress gate. Sergeant Marcus will already be inside, and he will open it to allow us access. We will then hold the gate for you for as long as we can before falling back within.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Cassian heard something in the captain’s voice – doubt, perhaps – but victory here was too important. So long as the Cadians did their part in the Emperor’s name, that was what truly mattered.
‘Keritraeus,’ he said, ‘what of the enemy’s apparent invisibility to our auspex?’
‘The storm continues to interfere,’ replied the Librarian. ‘And in theory, they may be able to conceal themselves as they did before their ambush. But we have visual confirmation from our Inceptor squads as to enemy movements. After the ambush, the Death Guard appear to have tightened their cordon around the astropathic fortress.’
Cassian nodded, then addressed Dzansk’s hologram again.
‘Captain Dzansk, ready your forces to launch their attack at seventeen hundred hours sidereal. Sergeant Marcus, you know your duty?’
‘I do, brother-lieutenant,’ said Marcus with a salute.
‘Then ready yourselves, brothers. We go into battle again, and this time to victory or death.’
Lord Gurloch stood amidst the ruins of the Mons Aquilas counting house and stared up the hill at the astropathic fortress. Another wave of groaning poxwalkers was stumbling towards it, falling rank by rank to the fortress’
guns.
‘How soon… until the loyalists attack… again?’ asked Thrax.
Gurloch responded with a heavy shrug that sent foul fluids trickling down his armour.
‘We gave them a sound beating, for all that they wounded us also, but the Emperor’s lapdogs have never known when to admit defeat. I doubt they’ll
be dissuaded for long.’
‘Should we… accelerate… the attack?’
‘And spoil so fine a broth?’ asked Gurloch in a tone of genuine surprise.
‘No, Thrax. Allowing these new arrivals to force our hand would waste all our hard work. The sorcerers assure me the empyrean churns like a cauldron of poxes. Beyond the veil, our plague of misery is brewing nicely. Let the loyalists come at us again, and again. We have the numbers, the commanding ground, and the gifts of Nurgle and Mortarion both. We are Death Guard, Thrax – we will endure while they suffer and die.’
‘And when… the plague is… ready?’ asked the Biologis Putrifier.
Gurloch heard the relish in his gargling voice, and knew that Thrax already knew the answer to his question; he just liked to hear it spoken aloud.
‘Why then, old friend, we will demonstrate the true generosity of Nurgle,’
he said. ‘We will swat aside the paltry forces arrayed against us, claim the astropathic fortress for our own and use its psycho-amplific machineries as the vector for our wondrous new disease. We will disperse it through the ether like flies from a bursting corpse, like spores from fungus, like Nurgle’s Rot through a healthy body. We will beam our psychic contagion across the stars to every Imperial world in this sector. We will raise an epidemic the like of which has not been seen in millennia.’
‘And with it… we will praise… Nurgle.’
‘And with it,’ said Gurloch cheerily, ‘we will earn Nurgle’s praise!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dropping down into the ferrocrete confines of the tunnel, Reiver Sergeant Marcus held his bolt carbine in one hand and his long blade in the other. His auto-senses overlaid his sight with multiple spectra, driving back the darkness and revealing shambling half-shapes amidst the deeper shadows.
As expected, bulky power conduits took up most of the tunnel space, while the ceiling was low enough that Marcus was forced to stoop to avoid catching his skull-faced helm on low pipes and jutting gauge assemblies.
‘Targets ahead,’ he voxed to his squad. ‘We’re going to have to advance single file and engage as best we can. Brother Ignatio, you have rearguard.
Brother Tanus, mapping. Keep us on the right path if we’re busy with battle.
Blades only unless in extremis.’
Vox clicks came back to him, signals that his squad had received and understood their orders. There were eight of them in all, down from ten after the hard-fought battle earlier that day – more than enough, however, to complete their mission.
Sergeant Marcus led off along the tunnel, setting a swift pace. The first plague mutant died before it even knew he was there, his blade punching through the back of its neck and all but sawing its head off. The second fell as it turned towards him, a foot-and-a-half of combat knife sliding through its eye socket into its rotted brain.
More of the creatures staggered towards him, their moans filling the enclosed space. The sounds made him feel nauseous, as though some sort of poison were seeping into his mind.
‘Mute your audio-intakes,’ he ordered as he hacked and tore his way through the creatures. ‘Vox communication only.’
‘You feel that too, sergeant?’ asked Tanus.
‘There is some heretical taint to their voices. I will not risk its corruption.’
Marcus punched his gun butt into another rotting face, shattering the thing’s blast goggles and snapping its head back in a spray of fluids. The corpse-mutant crumpled, still grinning. ‘That’s the last of them for now.’
‘Movement at our rear, sergeant,’ said Brother Ignatio.
‘Keep moving,’ he replied. ‘We can’t let these abominations slow us down, or the whole attack fails.’
; He set off along the tunnel, scanning the darkness for threats and watching the chronometer on his helm display as it ticked slowly downwards.
Captain Dzansk stood atop a Chimera, ignoring the oily rain that poured down upon him. He surveyed the last of his forces, a few hundred fighting men and women clad in the battered and stained uniforms of the Cadian Imperial Guard. The last few regimental preachers and commissars moved through the ranks, offering a muttered benediction here, a stern gaze there. A half-company of Leman Russ tanks idled off to one side, engines rumbling while their commanders sat high in their cupolas to listen to his address.
‘Soldiers of Cadia!’ began Dzansk, his voice amplified through the speaker on Voxman Kavier’s pack. ‘You have fought long and hard for this world, and I salute your tenacity! Your bravery! Your faith!’
Many of his warriors made the sign of the aquila, but their faces remained grim. They knew what was coming.
‘Yet our work is not done,’ said Dzansk. ‘The enemy remains. Our Emperor asks more of us, and we shall answer, “Yes!”’
He saw the determination in their faces. They were strong, Cadian steel still in their spines despite the weeks of hardship they had endured and the threat of almost-certain death.
‘The heretic foe have poured their filth down upon us. They have inflicted every hardship and horror that they could. Lesser soldiers would have faltered long ago, but still we stand strong! I look upon you and see not broken souls, but brave soldiers of the Imperium, and it swells my heart with pride!’
He saw a few heads rise a little at that, a few shoulders straighten.
‘Perhaps our enemy thought us defeated, just as the Despoiler thought us defeated when he shattered our world beneath our feet! But we were not
defeated then, and we are not defeated now! I keep Kasr Partox in my heart, and I know you all do too! Today we go into battle alongside the glorious Adeptus Astartes of the Ultramarines Chapter, in the service of no less than Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself, and we will prevail!’
This raised a cheer at last, albeit a hollow one. He saw the waxy pallor of his soldiers’ skin, the lesions and marks of sickness that clung to so many, just as they marred his own flesh beneath his sodden uniform. Dzansk and his regiment had been immersed for too long amidst the contagions of the enemy – and put down too many of their own sick – to believe that they were making it off Kalides alive. He had agreed when Lieutenant Cassian had outlined his plan to retreat through the gates of the astropathic fortress, but he had done so knowing that he could not risk bringing disease inside those walls.
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