by S P Cawkwell
Curt advanced silently, his devastating weapon ready to destroy anything that strayed too close to his charge. The inquisitor had forbidden Isara from approaching the walls without a bodyguard, and since the Space Marines had objectives of their own the duty had fallen to the bounty hunter. The irony of having a bodyguard when surrounded by the Emperor’s finest was not wasted on Isara.
The Devastators moved several more paces forward and at the sergeant’s barked command altered their formation so that the pair had a clear view of the sorcerers and vice versa. Slowly, Isara let her lips part over her teeth in a predatory smile.
Her presence and the instant understanding of what she was had an immediate effect amongst the Oracles of Change. They threw aside all attempts at further arcane attacks and resorted to more direct means. Four of them drew weapons that were slung across their backs and the others unclamped boltguns.
The pause between Isara’s exposure and the sorcerers’ switch to conventional modes of assault was minuscule. The Oracles aimed, but it was not quick enough. The pair of heavy bolters carried by the Devastators burst forth with stuttering fire.
Instinctively, the Oracles threw up a kinetic shield, their arts warding them from harm. The bubble of force was stippled with hundreds of small explosions as the torrent of shells poured over its surface. Isara was close, but not close enough that she could entirely blank their abilities. Unmasked faces rising from suits of crimson power armour were contorted with dark rage and the grim understanding that their warp-fuelled magic could very swiftly be undone.
Isara flinched at the thunderous roar of the heavy weapons. Auto-senses worked into a headband automatically compensated for her hearing, but the noise was still painfully loud. Without such protection, the experience would have ruptured her eardrums instantly. The Silver Skulls Devastators left a smoking carpet of brass casings in their wake as they continued their relentless advance, the bulky hoppers on the warriors’ backs feeding ammunition to the guns at a terrifying rate.
The rain-washed gloom of the evening was suddenly eclipsed as the star-bright blast of the squad’s plasma cannon illuminated the field. A blinding bolt of energy passed right through the failing shield and immolated a sorcerer where he stood. Molten fragments of armour painted the rubble in all directions and all that remained of the traitor was an ashen silhouette indelibly burned into the pock-marked wall.
Isara was acutely aware of the realities of the hideous war happening around her. She watched as though in a dream as an incoming salvo of bolter rounds caught a Silver Skulls warrior in its deadly path, chewing through his armour and spitting out gore and flesh in its wake. The Space Marine continued striding forward as though nothing had happened. Two men away from him, another giant clad in silver lost his head when a perfectly placed shot tore it from his neck. The headless corpse crashed to the ground, the helmet rolling in front of the line of advancing Space Marines. There was a creeping horror in the fact that they could not break stride and the unfortunate Silver Skulls Space Marine’s head was crushed beneath marching ceramite boots.
Bolters roared, and the answering hail of fire from the Oracles’ guns kicked up plumes of shattered stone and chewed great chunks out of the Devastators’ plate armour. The Silver Skulls continued their advance with near-placid determination, intent on crushing the enemy warriors beneath the weight of their fire. Isara had taken cover behind the squad’s sergeant, his bulk effectively shielding her from the enemy’s wrath, but as the last scraps of the arcane shield drizzled away she knew that they had done their job well. They had brought her close enough to be known.
Now the heretics would answer for their treachery.
Gileas and his squad were winning their own battle on the walls. The rebels were plentiful and offered continuous resistance, swarming up onto the Space Marines like insects. The Adeptus Astartes were vastly outnumbered, but the rebel soldiers presented little threat to them. They were armed with weapons that could not hope to penetrate the Silver Skulls armour and they were culled with swift strokes and cool precision. Heads and limbs were severed, showering down from the curtain walls, and the screams joined the sounds of gunfire and chainswords in a perfect recital of destruction.
Reuben was matching his squad leader kill for kill and with the rest of the squad members rapidly slaughtering the remaining opposition they were converging on the central gatehouse. Captain Daviks and his warriors engaged the line of sorcerers on the ground outside the walls, their armoured bulk virtually obscuring the figures of the two Inquisitorial agents among them. Looking down on the battle, Gileas blinked away the reams of data that scrolled across his retinas informing him of enemy proximity, strategic objectives, armour integrity and ammunition levels. His eye-lenses focused on Isara Gall and the sight of her reminded him of another less obvious threat.
‘Brother Nicodemus, withdraw from the gate,’ he ordered into the vox. The last thing he needed to deal with was an incapacitated psyker. Gileas had experienced the effect of blanks before. He could see it in the increasingly frantic actions of the sorcerers below. He received a grunt of acknowledgment from the young warrior who was still carving his way through a knot of enemies. The wall guns had been stilled by the efforts of the assault squad, which would finally allow the beleaguered Imperial Guard to advance. Once the gatehouse was breached then they could press the attack on the earthworks. From what Gileas had seen it was likely to be close, brutal and bloody.
Reuben reached the gatehouse at the same time as Gileas, with Jalonis not too far behind; all three of them were blood-spattered, their armour stained with the deaths of the rebels who had dared attempt to hinder their progress. The blocky structure straddled the width of the wall and housed the controls for the massive inner and outer gates. The mural chamber beneath was filled with scanning and security equipment that would have kept a watchful eye on the masses passing through, but with both portals sealed tight nothing could be seen of the interior.
Down on the ground beyond the wall, Daviks and his team were still pouring fire onto the retreating sorcerers. Isara’s presence was not enough to strip their abilities completely, but their powers were nonetheless reduced. Their draw on the warp was strained and difficult to maintain and the effects of the woman’s proximity were starting to tell. Their fire had grown sporadic and wild as they attempted to fall back from the nullifying effect of her gift, with no bonds of brotherhood to unify them in the face of annihilation.
As each sorcerer concentrated on his own welfare, their attacks became increasingly uncoordinated. But even so, they were Adeptus Astartes. They were just as strong, just as powerful and just as wily as their counterparts clad in silver. But the lack of coordination was a hindrance. They separated, opening themselves up to attack. One of the sorcerers was sawn in half by the concentrated fire of the heavy bolters, his body rupturing like a burst fruit. In the split seconds before his gory death, he unleashed several accurate shots from his own weapon. Ceramite chips from Silver Skulls armour flew in all directions.
Death was the absolute right of every battle-brother who took to the field. No Silver Skulls warrior who had lived had ever believed in immortality. They were conditioned to accept the fact that they would die gloriously in service to the Emperor. During the fight with the sorcerers, four young battle-brothers went to the God-Emperor’s side, cut down by the enemy. Each death was more grim and gory than the last and with each loss the Silver Skulls grew in determination, exalting the names of the fallen. The sorcerers were doomed by their own actions.
A second was vaporised by the searing beam of a lascannon directed by the captain. Pinned between the sealed gates and the advancing Silver Skulls, the surviving Oracles were sequentially isolated and destroyed.
The leader of the cabal made a wild charge for Isara, his snarling blade reaching for her skull even as shells plucked and tore at his armour. Curt raised his gun to fire but the weapon was still recharging aft
er blasting one of the Chaos Space Marines. The enemy made it to within three steps of the Inquisitorial agent when a neat hole transfixed his forehead. Then the contents of his skull explosively evacuated from the back of his head as the high-velocity round finished its flight.
‘Thank you, Captain de Corso,’ Isara said as she released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. She didn’t know if she hid the shake in her voice. The whole ordeal was breaking her slowly apart and she was no longer completely convinced that she knew what was real and what was not.
‘You’re welcome.’ The sniper’s own voice was cool and calm as befitted his chosen speciality, and it calmed her. Isara had no idea where Harild de Corso currently was relative to her position, but she was glad that he was there on the vox for her.
‘Captain Daviks, demolitions are ready for the inner gate on your orders.’ Gileas gave his report, and received a curt affirmative in reply.
‘Gileas.’ Jalonis reached out and caught his sergeant’s arm. ‘We might need to deal with that before we take out the gate.’
Gileas looked down to where his battle-brother pointed. Inside the wall lay a plaza, an open space flanking the highway from the gates right up to the looming palace. It had been ripped apart: dug into a line of trenches and then fortified with numerous barricades, presumably as a measure against the kind of breach the Silver Skulls were attempting. Emerging from the earthworks with a heavy, unhurried stride was one of the largest Chaos Space Marines Gileas had ever seen. Held in his gauntleted hands was a long-hafted, double-edged sword with a wicked, serrated edge. The warrior wore a helmet with long, curling horns at the crown and as he approached the gate, he raised the sword in his right hand, a mock-salute to the warriors on the walls.
‘Slaves to the False Emperor!’ His words resonated with the reverberation of a thousand voices. ‘Know me now! I am Chuma, the blooded. I command these walls and I bring your death!’ Reuben stared down at the warrior, and Gileas could feel the hatred seething from him. He shook his head once.
‘Our orders are to hold the walls, not to engage the enemy.’ Gileas looked down at the champion. ‘We do not fight. We maintain our primary objective.’
Gileas’s primary objective was subjected to a sudden re-evaluation when a moment later Chuma unleashed his sorcery and struck the sergeant with a crackling blast of warp lightning. Still trapped outside the walls, Isara’s gift was too distant to shield him from the attack and a nimbus of purple-black energy bathed his battleplate in tainted power.
Jalonis and Reuben both put out hands automatically as Gileas’s body was wracked with convulsions. The sudden charge of warp energy wrapped around him in tendrils, shorting out senses, locking up vital joints and crazing his vision with screeds of nonsense data. He fought back against the attack valiantly, bellowing a litany of faith in a stuttering voice. Below, Chuma made a nonchalant gesture with one hand and dragged the sergeant from the wall, caught in a noose of unseen force. Gileas had sense enough to fire his jump pack in time to blunt the trauma of the impact, but his landing still ploughed a furrow in the ground and buckled his shoulder plate.
‘Now we fight,’ said Chuma, lowering his hand and swinging his massive sword in a menacing arc before him. ‘I will prove my worth and you and all your miserable kin will die in this place, morsels for the furies to dine upon.’
Gileas dragged himself to his feet and thumbed the activation stud on his chainsword, letting it spit and roar into life. ‘So be it, traitor,’ he roared, already rushing to meet the hulking champion. Chainsword and hellblade came together with a tortured howl and a shower of sparks, weapons clashing as the warriors struggled to overcome one another through brute force. Superhuman muscles strained for several moments and then with a roar of fury Chuma hurled Gileas back, chasing him with his blade.
Firing his jump pack once again, Gileas retreated from Chuma’s attack, but his options were limited. With his back quite literally to the wall and an opponent who could reach out to him with arcane power there was little to do but press forward. No matter, he reasoned. He had ever favoured the most direct approach.
Another arc of warp lightning lanced towards him, scorching the side of his helm and shorting out one of the thrusters in his pack. Unfazed, he cut the power to the remaining jet and allowed gravity to do the rest of the work. The plunge brought him down on top of Chuma, both boots slamming into the Traitor Space Marine’s desecrated breastplate and pushing the other warrior back towards the trench line.
Chuma gave voice to his fury, venting it in a scream that made Gileas’s ears whistle painfully before the auto-senses in his helmet shut it down, protecting him from its effects. The nearby rebels were not so fortunate. Seconds later, their skulls burst from the pressure generated by the attack. Gileas continued his advance, trading a succession of swift blows. The air was filled with sparks and the shriek of stressed blades. Then the swords locked, warp-forged steel vying for supremacy with sanctified technology.
With a titanic heave Gileas forced his weapon down, its teeth scraping against the ceramite of corrupted armour. Razor-edged chips spat as they ground in, but he could not get purchase. With warp-given strength, the sorcerer threw Gileas back and the sergeant narrowly kept his footing as he staggered away. In a swift motion, he drew his bolt pistol and fired, but his opponent deflected each round as easily as though he were swatting away flies.
Flashes of silver and heavy impacts either side of Gileas heralded the arrival of Jalonis and Reuben who, having slaughtered the occupants of the gatehouse, dropped from the walls to join in the fight. Both had their own chainswords active, and as a unit they converged on their enemy, who found himself suddenly at the mercy of three grimly determined warriors instead of just the one. The enforced slowing of his reactions proved costly.
Jalonis and Reuben circled the sorcerer and Gileas moved forward, his pistol raised before him. He emptied the magazine, the hail of fire pushing Chuma back still further towards the trenches. The final pair of shells found their way past his arcane defences and blasted craters in his crimson armour.
Chuma unleashed another psychic scream, killing more of the entrenched soldiers and fracturing one of Gileas’s eye-lenses. The pain was intense, but Reuben silenced the piercing howl with a shot that smashed into the traitor’s helmet and tore off one of the horns.
Jalonis threw a grenade at Chuma’s feet and the three Silver Skulls hurled themselves away as the ensuing explosion engulfed their enemy. Dirt and smoke geysered into the air and blasted Chuma from the ground, his armour ruptured in a dozen places and weeping dark fluid; oils and chemicals and thick, richly oxygenated blood.
‘Now, Reuben!’ Gileas bellowed. ‘Finish him!’
Snatching up his fallen sword and gazing hatefully at the surrounding Silver Skulls, Chuma spoke in his odd, multi-timbred voice. ‘Nothing but death awaits you on this world, Silver Skulls. You cannot escape it. It has been foreseen and it must come to pass.’
Reuben’s blade descended in a decapitating arc, but before the fatal blow could land Chuma spoke a single word and simply vanished from existence. The chainsword cleaved empty air and chewed a furrow in the soft earth, its purpose frustrated.
‘Where…’ Reuben’s voice held a note of incredulity.
‘There is no time for that question, brother. We must finish our job here. Get these gates down so that the siege company can move in and deal with the palace defences.’ Gileas tossed a melta charge from his belt towards Reuben. ‘Jalonis. Inform Captain Daviks that we are opening the way for him.’
Twelve
The Emperor’s Grace
In his many years of service, Siege Captain Rasheke Daviks had seen many unusual things. The collapse of stars, the destruction of planets, alien species previously unknown. He had witnessed the horrors of the warp and he had lived through the deaths of countless battle-brothers. He had never once seen a Space Marine, tra
itor or not, so desperate to escape a battle.
He remained expressionless as he watched the wounded sorcerer struggle back towards the walls, armoured fingers scrabbling in the rain-slick rubble as he dragged himself agonisingly slowly. Heavy fire had cut the warrior into two ragged pieces held together by a thin strip of flesh. He left a dark trail of tainted gore in his wake. Every centimetre brought a fresh scream, but Daviks suspected that this had less to do with his fatal injury and more to do with Isara Gall, who was keeping pace beside him, negating his psychic ability.
The vox-bead in his ear chirped and Jalonis’s voice sounded across the network.
‘Melta charge primed and ready, Captain Daviks. The gate will be yours to claim in minutes.’ Daviks nodded and his moment of reflection was replaced by his unerring sense of duty.
‘Received and understood.’ The captain turned his attention to positioning his squads effectively and laying the charges for the demolition of the outer gates. He placed squads on overwatch, protecting the flanks of the main battle force. Orders went out to Vindicators to sweep east in preparation for the upcoming breach whilst the Whirlwind battery were primed to unleash barrage fire on the manufactory district.
He watched as a trio of blocky tanks rumbled away through the ruins, their armoured prows smashing aside the remains of the habs or grinding them beneath their treads. A Techmarine with a pair of Thunderfire cannons in tow moved them into place and signalled to the siege captain that they were ready to fire.
There was a shriek of atomised air as Curt finally grew tired of the screaming and turned his melta on the wounded traitor. Little remained afterwards other than a pool of liquid plascrete and an expanding cloud of vapour. Isara gave a short, barking laugh. It was not the laugh of a focused mind and alarm bells began to sound.
