“Enginseer,” Taan tried.
“…the sustained build up of ionised gas…”
“Osiron!” Another wall exploded in a gum-aching eyesore of charged air and melted rock. “Time is a factor!”
“…requires a longer and more forceful venting period than current plasma technology. Use that time to move into cover.”
“Oh.” Darrick killed the vox and shouted to his men, “Grenades at the dreadnought when that cannon is cooling down!” He glanced at the man crouching next to him. Farazien was clutching his grenade launcher. “Any serious ammunition in that?”
“Just frags.”
“Maybe we can give it an itch. 88th, time to stop hiding! Show your faces and kill some Remnant. Anyone with grenades, get ready to offer them up nice and generous, like. Throw for the dreadnought’s feet on my mark.”
Another mausoleum wall ceased to exist under the cannon’s fury. This time, several of Darrick’s platoon were caught in the blast, dissolved by the plasma washing over them. Trooper Jova howled as his arm disintegrated and he stumbled out of his shattered cover to be scythed down by Remnant las-fire. Trooper Haken and Sergeant Taine were half-smothered by the white-hot, splashing plasma — not enough to kill them instantly. As they lay thrashing on the ground, bodies dissolving, Taan’s rifle sang out twice and head-shotted them out of their misery.
He looked over the wall again, sighting the dreadnought. Off-white steam was gushing from the holes bored into the edge of the cone nozzle, and the coiled energy rings layered like a spine across the back of the cannon were glowing bright.
“Now!” Darrick called. “Fire!”
Taan’s men rose and opened fire. Grenades flew to smack around the feet of the dreadnought, and las-fire sliced into the advancing Remnant. Heretics were punched from their feet by the volley.
The cluster of grenades — fragmentation bombs used to kill infantry and break up units of men — went off a moment later. The dreadnought stalked through the resulting smoke, its greenish hull a little blackened in places but otherwise unharmed.
“Damn it,” Darrick said, getting ready to order a fallback. He had nothing that could wound the accursed thing, and the dreadnought marched on.
Its stomping advance suddenly halted as a high-calibre autocannon round hammered into its chest. Shards of armour splintered and flew aside as several more impacts followed. Taan’s men cheered as Dead Man’s Hand stalked past them, wading into the enemy.
Vertain guided his Sentinel from the relative cover of the mausoleums, triggers held down. Red ammo warnings flashed on his control console.
“I’m firing hopes and prayers, here,” he voxed on the general channel. “If anyone has a heroic plan, now’s the time to make it happen.”
“It’s bleeding,” Greer voxed. And it was. The dreadnought’s adamantite armoured shell was, in many places, sheathed over in patches of foul grey flesh. As the autocannon shells tore chunks of armour away, fragments of bloody bone and rancid meat flew aside, too. Taan’s men renewed their return fire, cutting down Remnant with lethal accuracy.
Thade ran into cover alongside Darrick. With him were Rax and Ban Jevrian.
“I heard you had a problem,” the captain said. Venator platoon and the Kasrkin squad were dispersing alongside Darrick’s men. Thade rose, fired his pistol at the Remnant, but his gaze fell over the dreadnought.
One of Dead Man’s Hand was down before it — the Sentinel’s legs sheared off at the knees by the dreadnought’s massive chainblade. Thade saw the pilot, Greer, burst the roof of his walker open and scramble to get away. The dreadnought’s swinging chainblade put an end to that attempt. Greer’s body fell in two gory halves.
Dead Man’s Hand was backing away now, firing sporadically. Thade knew most of them needed to reload.
The enemy war machine was limping, dragging one leg while blood, pus and a black fluid streamed from the gaping holes in its semi-organic armour. Even at a distance of fifty metres and more, it reeked of filth and waste.
“That’s got to die,” Thade whispered.
“My thoughts exactly,” Darrick said.
“Kasrkin, with me!” the captain shouted, gunning his chainsword. “88th, covering fire!”
“You’re joking.” Taan grabbed Thade’s wrist, feeling the tension of cables and steel under the sleeve. “This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
With his free hand, Thade tapped the silver on his own helm.
“Point taken,” Darrick amended, letting go of Thade. “This is the second-stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Are we doing this, or what?” Jevrian snapped. “There’s a war going on, you know.”
“Watch it, glory boy,” Taan smirked.
“For the Emperor!” Thade shouted as he broke into a run. Jevrian and the Kasrkin sprinted after him, with Rax running alongside.
What followed took place in the span of half a minute. To Taan, watching as he and his men provided covering fire, it lasted a few seconds. To Thade, it felt like an hour.
The dreadnought was wounded. Dead Man’s Hand had seen to that. He’d never have tried something this… this stupid, otherwise.
Thade led the Kasrkin across the open ground. The wounded dreadnought turned in a ponderous arc, seeking to bring its plasma cannon to bear, but the Cadians were already too close. Thade’s chain-blade sang at the back of the war machine’s knee joints, ripping through cables slick with filth. On the backswing, as the dreadnought roared its anger, the whining sword slashed at a hip joint and dug in. Thade clenched his teeth as the blade bucked in his hands, the teeth ravaging the softer mechanics of the dreadnought’s waist joint.
The Kasrkin fanned out, opening up with their hellguns and shooting into the surrounding Remnant, forcing them back from Thade’s insane melee. Jevrian ran at the dreadnought’s front, his power sabre gleaming with crackling energy as he activated it. He fired his hellpistol at point-blank range, spearing holes in the great, rotting hulk that towered above him.
“Hurry the hell up!” he yelled. Thade sawed, head turned from the outpourings of stinking, oily blood that gushed from the severed pipes and joint cables.
Jevrian threw himself to the side as the wailing dreadnought lashed out with its massive chainfist. Even prone, he was still in its arc, and at the last second his power sword clashed against the falling blade to block certain death. The impact was beyond jarring; he felt something snap in his shoulder and was thrown ten metres away, landing in a ragged heap of dented armour and Cadian oaths. He staggered to his feet, seeing stars and clutching the hilt of his shattered power blade. With a Kasrkin battle cry, he ran in again while still half-dazed and with a broken arm.
“Never fall! Never surrender!”
The Kasrkin ringing the duellists shouted as they fired at the Remnant daring to approach. “Never outnumbered! Never outgunned!”
Thade heaved back on his chainsword to pull it free, and hammered it back into the mutilated hip joint with all his strength. The blade bounced for the ghost of a moment, then the whirring teeth snagged on the mechanics again, biting in with renewed ferocity. The dreadnought tried to spin on its waist axis, but its attempt amounted to little more than a grinding of broken gears and squealing, mutilated joints.
Thade felt the teeth bite solid metal, sawing into the core of the dreadnought’s leg, eating through the machine’s metal bones. It began to stumble, slashing its chainfist wildly and unleashing a torrent of plasma fire at the ground.
“Go!” Thade shouted, finally ripping his sword free. He ran back, clearing the dreadnought’s immediate radius of destruction as it sagged and staggered, lower to the ground now.
Jevrian scaled the war machine one-handed. His broken blade, crackling with its power field unstable but still active, rammed into the staggering dreadnought’s frontal armour and sank to the hilt. The Kasrkin sergeant’s gloved right hand sought purchase, finding it in an oozing hole made by an autocannon shell. He hauled himself up with one hand, his boot o
n his impaled sword hilt for support.
As the Death Guard war machine flailed and staggered, half-crippled and trying to shake off the human that clung to its front, Jevrian jammed the muzzle of his hellpistol into the finger-thin vision slit on the dreadnought’s ornate face and pulled the trigger.
It fell. The pilot of the dreadnought had once been an Astartes, interred within a walking adamantite tomb of ancient Mechanicus design. The pistol fire lanced into the withered husk that was all that remained of the warrior within, cutting the once-man to pieces and ending the dreadnought’s last vestiges of life.
A low whine rang out as the hulking mass powered down. Jevrian leapt clear in case it toppled. It didn’t; it merely stood slouched, arms hanging dead at its sides. Having seen their champion fall, the Remnant force was in full retreat. Cadian las-fire flashed after them, biting into exposed backs and sending more of the Archenemy’s troops to the ground.
Thade and Jevrian walked back to Taan, both out of breath.
“Shitting hell,” Darrick said.
“Yeah,” agreed the Kasrkin sergeant. “My arm’s broken,” he said, just noticing. Thade smiled his crooked smile, absently patting the top of Rax’s chrome head.
“I hope we never see another one of those.”
Seventeen seconds later, a tank-sized pod — painted black and scorched blacker from planetfall — smashed into the ground fifty metres from the 88th front line. A wave of dirt was thrown up with the impact, some of the smaller earthen debris clattering off the Cadians’ helmets and shoulder guards. With a snarl of moving parts, the sides of the drop-pod opened like a flower facing the sun. The sides clanged onto the ground, becoming ramps by which the Raven Guard descended.
The ten giants came out, bolters up, seeking targets. After a moment, the ten Astartes lowered their weapons in unison. They gathered around the mangled, dripping hulk of the dead dreadnought. Faint vox-clicks reached Thade’s ears — the Astartes were talking to each other about what they were seeing. One of them moved over to the exhausted soldiers. Thade recognised him from his armour and made the sign of the aquila. His men mirrored the salute.
“Victory or Death, brother-captain.”
The Astartes didn’t reply at once. Then, in the most human gesture Thade had ever seen from one of the Emperor’s chosen, Corvane Valar hiked a thumb over his massive shoulder plate, in the direction of the downed war machine.
“Impressive work, captain.”
“Thade felt himself smiling as he spoke to the giant in black, Thank you. Incidentally, you’re welcome to help out with the next one.”
CHAPTER XII
Alone
Solthane, Yarith Spire Graveyard, Monastic sector
Two hours later, the Cadians abandoned their dead.
“The Reclamation is over until reinforcements come,” Inquisitor Caius had addressed the 88th survivors as the skies darkened with the threat of rain. “I have spoken with the Raven Guard commander and established limited contact with what remains of the Imperial Guard force in Solthane. The picture is grim. The Astartes have departed to secure their own objectives in the city and battle the Death Guard on their own terms. That leaves the Imperial Guard regiments to create whatever unified resistance they can forge from the ashes of this… this disaster.”
The Cadians, barely a hundred and fifty still standing, clustered around the speaking inquisitor.
“What about the rest of the regiment?” a trooper called. “What about Colonel Lockwood?”
“We’ve lost contact with whatever remains of the colonel’s forces,” Thade said. “They were attacked by a force that far eclipsed the Remnant assaulting us. Odds of survival are unfavourable.”
“What about the colours?” Darrick asked. “If I’m going to die here, I want to do it under the banner of the 88th.”
“He’s right, sir,” Vertain said. “If we’re all that’s left, we can’t leave the standard in the mud.” A chorus of agreement met this. Thade crossed his arms and looked at the inquisitor with a raised eyebrow.
“I told you they’d say that,” he observed.
It was decided a short time later. The 88th under Thade’s command would travel to the last known coordinates of Lockwood’s men and look for survivors. The regimental banner had to be retrieved. They would do this on the way back to Reclamation headquarters.
“Are we going back for the tanks?” Ban Jevrian asked. The Kasrkin sergeant was a mess of bruises and cracked carapace armour.
Thade nodded. “Count on it.”
“Good,” Darrick cut in. “I’m tired of walking everywhere.”
“Platoon leaders, see to your wounded. We leave no one behind.” Thade scanned the crowd — all that remained of his regiment. “On the way to Colonel Lockwood’s last coordinates, we stop to load the Chimeras. Then scouts will enter the main Reclamation base and look for supplies. Priorities are water purifiers, anti-infection medication and ration packs. Any questions?”
Silence answered this. “Good,” Thade finished. “The Emperor protects. Now move.”
As the men moved out, Thade fell to the back of the column, walking with Inquisitor Caius. Once the two men were out of earshot from the others, Thade opened with a rueful smile.
“That business with Tionenji…”
“He’ll see you all shot and be well within his rights to do it. But for now I need you, so you get to live.”
Thade nodded, expecting no less. “That’s not the reason I wished to speak with you. Don’t make me beg for the answers I need, lord.”
Caius turned his head to face the captain, and his psycannon pivoted accordingly. “Throne,” Thade complained, “doesn’t that ever shut down?”
“No. Now get to the point.”
“The Ordo Sepulturum. What are you looking for on Kathur?”
“Do not mistake me, captain, your recent defence was exemplary. You are a fine officer, and using that cluster of mausoleums as a firebase was inspired thinking. The Reclamation’s restriction on heavy weaponry has proven a chore, but even with this disadvantage you have done well. But try to be realistic with your ambitions. You do not have the ear of the Holy Ordos of His Majesty’s Inquisition.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
“I am running out of patience with this course of conversation.”
“Listen to me.” Thade rested his augmetic hand on the inquisitor’s shoulder. The psycannon hummed for a moment, powered up on instinct and quelled by the inquisitor’s psychic command.
“I am listening.”
“We are trapped on this world for the next month or more without reinforcements. The main bulk of the ground forces’ water purification was performed by recyclers aboard the orbiting fleet. While we have enough food and anti-ague medication on the surface, we’ll lose all of it if the Death Guard or the Remnant take over the Reclamation’s base — which, by all reports, they already have.”
“I am aware of the situation we face.”
“No, inquisitor. You’re not. You’re missing something rather vital.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Look at these soldiers,” Thade nodded to the marching column ahead. “Take a long look. What do you see?”
“Your men.”
“Look harder.”
“The Cadian 88th.”
“Try again.”
“I am not obtuse, but I am far from patient. I asked you to get to the point.”
“Humour me.”
The inquisitor, curious now, looked at the soldiers up ahead. What did he see? Brain-dead servitors walked in their shambling gait around the red-cloaked form of Enginseer Osiron. The surviving Kasrkin kept together in their own dark-armoured pack, a little away from the others. Caius noticed, for the first time, a tattoo on the back of Ban Jevrian’s bullish neck. “Unbroken” it read, in stylised Gothic script. Seth Roscrain walked alone, leaning heavily on his black staff. While the Kasrkin kept their distance, the soldiers seemed to instinctively avoid the sanc
tioned psyker.
The main bulk of soldiers were ragged, dirty, but straight-backed and alert with their weapons at the ready. The formation was orderly and efficient, with the stretcher bearers carrying the wounded — each pair surrounded by a fire-team of men from their platoon. The Sentinels, the four still in working order, stalked in a ceaseless patrol around the marching column.
Caius’ psychic sense picked up on what his natural senses did not. The air around the Cadians was powerfully grim — every man’s thoughts turned to the trials of surviving the next few hours, let alone the next five weeks until reinforcements reached orbit. The sense of defeat was palpable now.
“I see…”
“Yes?”
“…your point, captain.”
“I thought you would. Our regiment was a thousand strong. Just over a hundred remain alive, and we’re looking at the prospect of dying of starvation or Chaos-tainted infection unless we can secure our conquered base. Now I know what you want. You want to continue your search, seeking whatever it is that brought the Curse of Unbelief to this world. I’m telling you in cold honesty that without answers, without hope, that’s not going to happen with us at your side. And now we face execution if Tionenji wishes it.”
Thade drew a breath and continued, “This is not about Inquisitorial authority, lord. This is about war, and this is about Cadia. Every single man here expects to die today. I expect to die today. And we want to die, because one last charge against the Death Guard and killing as many of them as we can is one hell of a way to go. Since childhood, we’ve all known we were born to die in war. Walking across a plague planet for days on end until starvation sets in is not the way any Cadian wants to die. Nor is a firing squad because of one overzealous other-worlder seen as a prime way to meet the God-Emperor in the afterlife.”
“You’re wrong. This is about authority, Thade. And I hold it. I demand that you serve me.”
“Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter. I could disobey this order and never suffer punishment, as being dead in the coming battle would leave me far from harm’s way. So let me be clear, lord. I’m charged with leading my men into battle and ensuring above all that they fight and die for the Golden Throne. So convince me. Convince me that one last charge against the enemy and killing a horde of them isn’t the best way to serve the Throne. Convince me the God-Emperor wants more from us, or we die in battle for Him tonight.”
[Imperial Guard 07] - Cadian Blood Page 19
