+Then find him! The vox interference is savage and we are deaf to the planet below. We cannot throw our drop-pods blindly at the surface, Seth. The Shadow is dying. We need coordinates quickly. +
+It will be done.+
“Master Sergeant?” Seth’s voice was an unhealthy rasp, but full of cold threat. It made Jevrian’s skin crawl.
“What?”
“On the authority of Brother-Codicier Zaur of the Raven Guard Astartes Chapter, get me to the captain immediately.”
“What in the hell are you—”
“Silence, blunt.”
The stone walls of the undercroft sparkled with the faint kiss of psychic frost. The Kasrkin, those that survived the Death Guard assault, saw their breath steam before their faces. Seth felt the telepathic withdrawal of the Astartes psyker with a pang of bitterness. Zaur’s power was intoxicatingly strong. It left Seth feeling weak and wretched in its wake.
He reached out again with his ghost-voice, not to Zaur, but to someone much closer. +Captain Thade.+
The Death Guard Marine had, in a life almost forgotten now, been Battle-Brother Ammon. He’d turned from the light of the False Emperor at the behest of his Legion commander, the mighty First Captain Typhon. His weapon, the bolter still in his fists today, had roared at the Siege of Terra in the fiery pinnacle of the Horus Heresy ten millennia ago. He’d existed, but not quite lived, each day since the Traitor Legions’ defeat, hating everything uncorrupted and untainted in the galaxy.
In this attitude, he was hardly unique in the Death Guard.
Ammon had survived ten thousand years of war, existing as the host of a daemonic disease. He was immortal unless slain, ageless, deathless. The perfection of corruption. His plague-bloated body maintained its own twisted form of life, the way a cancer will feed on healthy cells and fuel itself off a victim’s own body.
Amnion’s fondest memories were of the great betrayal. The purification of the Legions, the virus bombs falling on their foolish brethren who refused to turn against the Emperor and, of course, the Dropsite Massacre. Astartes fought Astartes and a hundred thousand bolters roared. He still remembered the sound. It rang in his memory’s ear like a daemon’s screaming rage.
He had killed Iron Hands that day. He had killed Salamanders. And he had killed Raven Guard.
Ammon stalked down the corridor, mucus leaking from the snarling joints of his antique power armour. This area of the Herald’s flagship was largely unpopulated except for the blooming diseases growing from the semi-organic metal walls. A sacred place. Holy to the Herald and the pestilence god. A breeding ground for the plagues that trailed Terminus Est and ravaged planets in the vessel’s wake.
Ammon saw the defilement, black as coal and as large as a troop transport. A Raven Guard assault pod — the hull around its impact twisted and burned. A mag-locked bulkhead stared at Ammon, closed, silent. He knew it contained the loyalist fools within, and voxed for his brethren to come forward, ready to open fire.
“Great Herald,” he voxed. The fluids in his throat made him sound like a man speaking underwater. “We have located the first pod.”
On board The Second Shadow, standing by the command throne of a shuddering, burning bridge, Brother-Captain Corvane Valar made a cutting gesture with his black-armoured hand.
At the order, a servitor entered a five-digit code into its console.
Ammon, his brethren squad, the various mutated things with him, and a significant portion of three decks of the Terminus Est, were vaporised as the first of the assault pods detonated.
Explosions of similar size tore through the starboard side of Terminus Est as the other pods — each rigged with warheads and munitions from The Second Shadow’s weapon bays — detonated on cue.
The flagship listed, rolling off course, its insides flooded with alarms, screams and flame. In the course of a single battle with a grossly-outnumbered Imperial fleet, the Herald’s vessel had sustained more damage than it had since the Siege of Terra. Bleeding and streaming ghostly, unnatural fire from its wounds, the huge ship broke off its attack run.
A great cheer sounded on the Shadow’s bridge, cried by Astartes and Chapter serfs alike. Corvane let the cheer subside, feeling satisfaction course through him.
“Servants of the Chapter, you have served us well. Today you may die knowing your duty is done, and each of your names will be etched in the Chapter’s records.”
Then he turned to his brother giants in their black armour. “Raven Guard to the drop-pods. Make ready for planetfall.”
Seth’s warning was weak — the psyker had long sensed the captain was resistant to psychic contact, even for a blunt, but the message got through. With most of his surviving units reunited, Thade commanded over two hundred men defending a cluster of mausoleums in the graveyard grounds of Yarith Spire.
Squads were stationed in a ring around a central building — an ornate tomb raised in honour of a pilgrim of great worth who’d died some six thousand years before. The cover was better here; the Cadians moved between the mausoleums, firing out at the advancing Remnant horde. Thade’s few weapons teams set up their heavy bolters in the shadows of these gargoyle-encrusted buildings, adding their furious rate of fire to the onslaught of lasrifles on full-auto. Dead Man’s Hand stalked the edges of the Cadian defensive line, autocannons pounding into the disorganised ranks of the Archenemy.
Vertain swore as another group of Remnant cowered behind a small shrine building. A single round from his cannon would annihilate the marble structure and expose the enemy troops. Instead of firing, Vertain turned his Sentinel aside with a curse, opening fire at another group out in the open.
“This would be much easier if we could fire at the damn scenery,” he muttered.
“Copy that,” Greer voxed back.
“We’re dead, either way.” Vertain switched vox-channels. “Captain?”
Thade was in the centre of the Cadian defence, speaking with several officers, including Commissar Tionenji, Seth and Inquisitor Caius. He turned his head and clicked his micro-bead. “Thade, go.”
“Sir, requesting permission to ignore Reclamation protocol and open fire on blessed structures in order to prosecute the enemy to maximum effect.”
Thade laughed. “Delicately phrased. Does the Emperor like gold? Fire at will. Inform the other squads.”
Tionenji narrowed his eyes. “What was that order?”
“The order to abandon Reclamation Protocol Zero-Nine.” Thade met Tionenji’s eyes. “A problem, commissar?”
“The protocols are the underpinning of this entire venture. The destruction of holy structures is counted as blasphemy against the God-Emperor.”
“The protocol is a waste of life and a sure way of ensuring we lose this war. It’s a rule set down by Lord General Maggrig, who — if reports are correct — is dead.”
“Confirmed,” Janden said. “The landing site was overrun twenty-seven minutes ago. Lord General Maggrig’s death was confirmed by Vednikan scouts. He was crucified by the Remnant.”
“I heard the damn reports!” Tionenji fumed.
“We’ll minimise collateral damage as much as can realistically be allowed for, but by the Golden Throne, I will not die here so some Ecclesiarchy bastard can smile in a few years about how we helped save on reconstruction costs in one paltry square kilometre of a city the size of a continent. Winning the war is more important than saving a handful of credits.”
“You are committing heresy. I am within my rights to execute you.”
“I’m fighting a war. Which is the greater sin: losing the world to Chaos, or losing a few shrines in the world’s defence?”
“Semantics, captain. Semantics that fail to justify blasphemy.”
“We’re fighting a war almost entirely without our heavy weaponry, which was left neatly packed in crates aboard ships that are now nothing but wreckage in orbit. My men are as pious as any in the Imperium, Commissar Tionenji. They will use moderation.”
Tionenji did w
hat Thade had been expecting since the moment he met him. He went for his side arm.
Tionenji was a fine example of the Commissariat’s standards of training. He drew fast, his hand a blur, and had the pistol aimed at Thade’s face before his heart had beat a second time.
“If you will not do your duty—” Tionenji began.
Then he swallowed, listening to the threatening buzz of live weapons. Thade stood unmoving, his violet eyes glaring into the commissar’s own. Next to him, Ban Jevrian was holding his hellpistol in both hands, aiming at Tionenji’s eye. At Thade’s other shoulder, Lieutenant Horlan had his laspistol raised and similarly aimed. Tionenji flicked his glance left and right. Every Cadian officer had his weapon aimed at the commissar, even the fourteen-year-old boy. “Drop it,” hissed Jevrian.
“Commissar or not,” Lieutenant Horlan said, “you die if that gun stays out of its holster.”
Tionenji smiled. “Gentlemen, you have just signed this regiment’s death warrant.”
Jevrian’s hellpistol whined as it reached full charge. “I said drop it.”
“I’ll see you all dead for this.”
“We’re all dead anyway,” young Kel grinned without humour.
“Stop pointing that pretty pistol at a warden-captain of Cadia,” Horlan said. “Right now.”
“Right now,” Jevrian growled as he repeated Horlan’s words, “or I kill you where you stand, you off-world son of a bitch.”
Tionenji holstered his laspistol, a patently false smile creasing his lips. “Very well.”
The Cadians slowly lowered their weapons, each man still on edge. Thade cleared his throat, taking a breath before speaking. He almost looked shaken. It was clear he’d not expected his men to behave as they did.
“That was… unpleasant. Now, if we may focus on the matter at hand?”
“By what authority—” Tionenji started again, but Thade interrupted.
“By the authority that I am the highest-ranking officer in the Imperial Guard left alive on this world. That makes me Overseer of the Kathur Reclamation until a higher Imperial authority says otherwise.”
Inquisitor Bastian Caius coughed politely.
Thade and Tionenji turned to inquisitor. They’d both forgotten he was there.
“Are you quite done, gentlemen?”
Tionenji saluted. Thade nodded. Caius fixed Thade with his unnerving gaze, false eyes whirring as they focused. “Captain, I am the highest echelon of Imperial authority here.”
“Lord—” Thade began. Throne of Terra, the inquisitor had just seen that standoff…
“Enough! Your cancellation of the deceased lord general’s orders is acceptable. As for your confrontation with your commissar, I couldn’t care less. It will be dealt with by the proper authorities when the time comes. Focus, you fools. We have a duty to do.”
Thade and Tionenji glared at each other until the captain broke the stare.
“Janden, are the coordinates ready to send to The Second Shadow?”
The vox-officer nodded. Through intense vox-tuning, he’d compiled a list of the remaining regiments and their locations within Solthane. It was a short list, and no officer above the rank of lieutenant still lived. The coordinates he’d gathered were precise landing points — no danger of hitting friendly troops or crashing into buildings on the way down.
“Good work,” said Thade. “Seth, how long has it been since you received the Astartes’ message?”
The sanctioned psyker checked his wrist chronometer. “Just under six minutes.”
“Is vox clear enough to send the coordinates up there?”
“It’s a fifty-fifty chance at best.” Janden looked ashamed. “My set was winged in the last fight. I can barely get it working shortwave.” He tapped a nasty looking bullet hole that had sheared off a chunk of the vox-caster’s casing.
“I can’t send it,” Seth shook his head. “I know what you’re thinking. I can’t link minds over that distance. Sorry, sir.”
“Noted. Thade to 88th. Any vox-casters still functioning in a worthwhile capacity?”
A chorus of negatives came back over his vox-bead. Blood of the Emperor, they’d taken a beating. Thade’s three hundred men had six of the powerful vox-casters between them. And now, down to just under two hundred soldiers, their high-end communications gear was either lost in battle or scrambled by interference to the point of uselessness.
“No more delays. Punch it, Janden.”
“Sending. If they launch immediately, they’ll touch down at our western perimeter in just over two minutes.”
The western perimeter. Darrick was there, leading his remaining platoons. He’d encountered the least resistance in this latest consolidation, and Thade knew that made Darrick’s zone the clearest for an orbital landing.
Thade wasn’t lying with what he’d said to the commissar. He was as pious as any Imperial citizen, but he sometimes wondered if the Emperor manipulated certain events just to see him squirm out of them. This was one such time. Darrick’s voice broke across the vox, distorted and shouting.
“Captain! Captain! Throne in flames! Captain! Primary threat contact. This one’s the biggest bastard yet.”
“What the hell? Darrick, you told me you could keep your area clear.”
“And it was going great, sir. Until this dreadnought showed up.”
The Second Shadow trembled in its death throes. In the red-lit confines of a drop-pod, Brother-Captain Corvane Valar looked at nine of his brother Astartes, each one strapped into their descent seats, facing inward. They sat in silence, trusting their fates to the Cadians below.
Zauren had tried to contact the sanctioned psyker several times, not trusting the shattered Imperial vox-channels to convey the coordinates. The nearness of so many warp-tainted Chaos vessels was ruining his psychic strength. Each time he felt his concentration reaching out to Seth, the feeling of connection was lost almost immediately. He feared it was more than natural warp distortion from the Archenemy’s proximity. The pressure on his sixth sense was warm and insidious, almost alive. It occluded his psychic sight like a blanket thrown over his true eyes.
So the Raven Guard waited for a vox transmission they knew might never come. Corvane had given orders to launch the pods no matter what if they were still aboard when the ship’s destruction came. But they were holding on until the last moment. To die as a drop-pod careened off a building and exploded on the ground was no way for a warrior to perish. With the Shadow’s scanners down, they needed those landing coordinates from the surface.
“The ship shuddered with supreme violence. Throne,” said Zaur quietly. It was the first word spoken in the pod since the Astartes had boarded minutes ago.
“Initiating drop,” blared a mechanical voice over the pod’s internal vox speakers.
“For the Emperor!” one of the Astartes cried. Dockings uncoupled, locks released, and five night-black pods slashed from the hull of the burning Second Shadow.
Aboard Corvane’s pod, the world was reduced to darkness and heavy shaking as it fore down through the planet’s atmosphere.
“Two minutes,” he called out to his men. In answer, nine of humanity’s finest warriors, gene-shaped from the genetic material of the Emperor and His beloved primarch sons, made the sign of the aquila to their leader.
Above them, the strike cruiser went critical. The explosion sent wreckage slicing through space, wounding Chaos vessels that were, in their mindless eagerness to destroy the Raven Guard, too close to evade the blast radius. Even in death, the Raven Guard vessel claimed traitorous lives.
The Archenemy war machine was approximately four metres tall and almost as wide. Roughly humanoid in shape, it walked in a stomping, short-legged stride that would have been comical had the war machine not been one of the deadliest things Taan had ever seen in his life. The walker’s arms were weapons: the left was a steel limb ending in a wide chainsaw fist the size of a grown man, the right was a long cannon with coils along its length that glowed wit
h dull blue heat.
Dreadnought. A thickly-armoured shell bearing hideous weapons. Darrick had seen one, and only one, before. The Flesh Tearers Chapter had fielded one of these relic war machines during the Black Crusade three years before. Darrick had watched with wide eyes as it had torn a tank to pieces with its steel-rending claws, ignoring endless streams of small arms fire clattering off its hull. Not much in this galaxy had managed to unnerve Lieutenant Taan Darrick in his years within the Shock, but that had been one of them.
And it had been on his side.
This one was not. It had walked from the city, surrounded by a mob of howling Remnant as it strode through the graveyard.
Darrick looked left. He looked right. His platoon, taking cover from the Remnant in the garden of mausoleums, was armed almost entirely with their standard-issue lasrifles. The ground shook as the dreadnought stomped closer.
“It’s firing!” someone cried. Darrick didn’t need to be told that. The air tingled and made his teeth ache as the dreadnought’s plasma cannon charged up. To Taan, it was like a great beast was drawing breath to roar. He took a breath, looking around over the top of the waist-high marble wall he’d been crouched behind. The Remnant was still advancing, supported by the Death Guard war machine.
It fired. A horrendous stream of retina-burning light flared from the plasma cannon’s steaming nozzle, striking the side of one mausoleum and washing the white stone in superheated energy. The first stones touched by the kiss of the beam weapon were incinerated into nothingness, and the surrounding rock melted a heartbeat later. The wall ceased to exist, and the Cadians nearby broke cover and fled. Most were gunned down by the advancing Remnant.
“Oh, that’s just got to die,” Darrick said. He clicked his vox live. “Darrick to Enginseer Osiron.”
“Osiron here.”
“Plasma cannon, big one, and I’ve got nothing that can crack open a dreadnought. Alliance is very, very Broken.”
“The plasma technology used by the Traitor Legions is primarily Heresy-era grade. That means—”
[Imperial Guard 07] - Cadian Blood Page 18
