by Gav Thorpe
His thoughts were disturbed by the clang of Peliel’s boots on the ladder behind the Chaplain. Boreas walked to the edge of the roof tower, which was surrounded by a thick wall that reached to his waist. Small, cowled figures with angels’ wings stood as silent stone guardians, each gripping a sword in its gauntleted fists.
‘The basilica is ours, Brother-Chaplain,’ announced Peliel, joining Boreas as he looked over the main square. He could see movement on both sides, but for the moment the firing had ceased.
‘Your actions have proven your dedication, brother-sergeant,’ Boreas said, turning his head to look at Peliel. ‘This would make a fine firepoint for Sergeant Heman and his Devastators.’
‘Indeed it would. Or perhaps Sergeant Naaman and some of his Scout snipers.’
‘Naaman? Naaman can be skittish, far too prone to acting on his own whims. Maybe that is a desirable trait for one who operates on his own for so long, but it is not a good example for those he is training. No, I will contact Heman and tell him the basilica is ready for his squad.’
‘Do you think the orks will attempt another attack here?’
Boreas considered this. In the growing light, he could see movement through the alleys and buildings to the west. The enemy were already gathering their numbers.
‘It is certain. I do not think the orks desire the basilica other than because we also wish to possess it. It is beyond them to comprehend its spiritual significance to us, and I doubt that they can understand the strategic importance of its location.’
‘It was one of their first targets of attack when they entered the city, Brother-Chaplain,’ countered Peliel.
‘Coincidence, brother-sergeant.’ Boreas pointed out the line of the orks’ first advance. ‘The basilica is situated on the main route through the city. We chose to defend this place, so it was inevitable that they would attack it. The ork mind is not complex, brother-sergeant. They fight where the enemy are, for the love of the fighting itself. Had we defended a market hall or the fish exchange, they would have attacked with equal vigour.’
‘What is your plan for the defence, Brother-Chaplain?’ asked Peliel, stepping away from the wall to survey the other approaches to the basilica.
‘With the catacombs sealed, it will be a simple matter to protect the other routes of entry into the main hall. If we can hold them at the main shrine and prevent them entering the upper storeys again, the task should be within the capabilities of a single squad. We must build such barricades and defences as we can and then it is merely a matter of waiting.’
‘The orks have displayed some cunning in their tactics so far. Breaking into the catacombs from the sewers was unexpected. Should we not expect them to try by some means to gain direct access to the upper levels? Jump-pack troops, perhaps? Or some other means of circumventing our defences on the ground.’
‘You make a good point. A combat squad positioned on the roofs, with a spotter here, should be sufficient to deter such a move.’
The two of them crossed over the tower to look at the sloping tiles atop the rest of the basilica. A single roof more than a hundred metres long dominated, broken by several small towers along each side. At the far end, the rear of the cathedral, garrets and sub-structures nestled together. Here and there smoking holes had been torn in the slate by explosions within the shrine. There was a gap of some thirty metres between the roof and where they stood atop the rectangular main spire.
‘As you say, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Peliel. ‘A combat squad can move freely enough to counter an attack from any direction.’
Boreas glanced again to the west. He wondered how the rest of the company was faring in the docks, where they were fighting to contain the main force of the orks. It was only that containment that prevented the enemy bringing overwhelming numbers to the centre of the city. In their race to secure the docks and its power plant, the orks had allowed themselves to be cut into two: one in the harbour, the other in the commercial and residential districts west and north of the basilica. It was vital that the two forces were not allowed to join. The basilica was only the first part of a plan that would see Boreas and his Space Marines lead the Free Militia against the smaller concentration.
It was a sound strategy, but relied on Master Belial keeping the orks at the docks from breaking out. A strange localised atmospheric interference – possibly some unknown contrivance of the orks – was making long-range communications all but impossible. Boreas simply trusted Belial to succeed in his part of the plan.
‘We should return to the others, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Peliel. The sergeant walked to the ladder. ‘There is still much to be done.’
‘Be proud of your actions today,’ said Boreas as Peliel swung himself onto the top rung.
‘I am, Brother-Chaplain. Thank you for keeping faith in me.’
Boreas lingered for a short while longer. It was doubtful the orks would know yet that the basilica was again in the hands of the Space Marines. He unfastened the seals on his helmet and took it off, filling his lungs with the Piscina air. The salt of the sea, the smoke of explosions, the soot of chimneys, the tang of blood from the ork bodies below, all combined into a melange of sensation.
His eye fell upon one of the stone guardian angels atop the wall. Its left wing had been broken at some point in the fighting, alone amongst all of them. The missing piece lay on the roof behind the wall, its intricately carved feathers chipped. He hung his crozius from his belt and picked up the broken wing, turning it over in his fingers. He reached to the belt pouch below his backpack and brought out a slab of two-part resin that was used to make rapid battle repairs to armour. He kneaded the putty into a blob and delicately fixed the broken wing back in place, discarding the surplus resin over the parapet. It was a poor fix, but it would do. When the orks were driven from Piscina, he would have one of the Chapter serfs effect a cleaner, permanent repair.
It didn’t matter that fires raged in Kadillus Harbour and the rest of basilica was half in ruins. Here, where he stood, everything was as it should be – or as close as he could get it. What was the point of being a Chaplain if one let the small things go unnoticed?
Pleased with his efforts, he turned and headed back to the others.
Not a single window pane remained unbroken, and every inch of the floor was covered with dust and debris. The basilica’s wall hangings had all been torn down, many of them burnt beyond recognition. The altar tables had been smashed, their remnants of stone and wood used as barricades. The screens between the main nave and the sanctifying area beneath the gallery had been toppled to block access to the upper levels. Grotesques and statues lay in pieces across the floor.
At the head of the main hall, a single statue stood, four times the height of a man, eyelessly glowering over the scene. It was a figure robed and cowled, face hidden, a bastard sword held between its gauntleted hands, its tip upon the plinth. The folds of the robes were much chipped by gunfire, the white marble stained with soot and blood. At some point during one of the many ork occupations, a greenskin had decided the statue had been lacking and had daubed a line of glyphs down one side in vivid red paint.
Boreas spared no thought for the lone survivor of the battle. For five days since the orks had first stormed the basilica he had battled for control of the shrine. Having had no time for food or drink or sleep, he was sustained wholly by the systems of his armour, and even they were showing signs of fatigue. Battle damage had impaired several of the muscle-like fibre bundles in the suit’s limbs, and in particular the right arm jury-rigged by Hephaestus had developed the annoying tendency to seize up if he extended his elbow too swiftly. The air in his helmet had a bitter tang to it, evidence that the filtration systems needed to be cleaned. The Chaplain’s veins were constantly abuzz with the stimulants pumping through him, from his own altered organs and the power armour. There was a dull ache inside his gut caused by his implanted organs working so hard to clear out the impurities in the fluids pumped through his blood vessels.
Despite these inconveniences, Boreas was as sharp as ever. He scanned the ruined doorways and windows, eyes searching the buildings on the western side of the basilica for warning of the next ork attack. For the last day the Space Marines had decided against clearing out the corpses, hoping that they would serve as a deterrent to further ork assaults. Flies hovered in a thick swarm over the bloated, bloodied bodies.
Ammunition had been dangerously low for the last two days. That was no longer a problem: Squad Exacta had arrived from the docks, despatched by Master Belial with supplies and information. The company master had confined the orks to the south-eastern arc of the dockyards, an area around the geothermal power station that provided Kadillus Harbour with energy; the master would be sending further reinforcements to Boreas as soon as possible. The Chaplain knew he had only to keep the basilica safe for a few more hours – and the ork lines broken – before the Dark Angels 3rd Company would be united again.
‘Do you think that the orks understand their predicament, Brother-Chaplain?’ asked Sergeant Andrael. His ad-hoc squad, drawn from across the 3rd Company, were positioned behind a line of upturned desks and lecterns brought down from the upper floors before the gallery had been cut off.
‘It is possible, but not likely, brother-sergeant,’ Boreas replied. ‘I do not think their tactical observation skills would recognise the threat to their position.’
The telltale rattle of debris drew the attention of all the Space Marines, weapons swinging to point at the western doors and windows. The noises stopped for a second and then a throaty roar engulfed the basilica as green-skinned warriors poured into the building, charging across the street and through the splintered doors, more of them clambering over the sills of the demolished windows.
The war-cry of the orks was met by a thunderous salvo of fire from the Dark Angels. Boreas fired his bolt pistol into the mass of aliens plunging through a window to his left. Torrents of flame erupted from his right, engulfing a mob surging through the doorway. The feeling of repetition was startling. This scene had been played out a dozen times already: sometimes the orks forced the Space Marines to withdraw; other times they were beaten back before they could establish a foothold. With victory so close, the Chaplain was determined that it would be the latter this time around.
As more greenskins poured into the hall, Boreas fired without pause, every bolt finding a target, emptying the magazine of his pistol. He reloaded quickly and wondered for a moment if the greenskins had, against his expectation, recognised the plight of their position and were making one last push towards their leaders in the harbour. It seemed inconceivable that this many orks did not make up their remaining forces in the centre of the city.
Despite the heavy toll taken by the flamer and bolters of the Dark Angels, the greenskins reached the barricades. Alien and Space Marine traded blows across the splintered wood and piles of rubble. Boreas parried a buzzing chainaxe aimed at his head and smashed the brow of his helmet into the wielder’s face, splitting the skin with a deep gash. A rivulet of blood trickled from the wound. The ork stepped back, licked the thick fluid from its lips and launched itself at the Chaplain with a snarl. Boreas fired his bolt pistol into its gut as he caught the whirring blade on the haft of his crozius. Blood and intestines erupted over the broken plascrete and the ork fell back. The Chaplain stepped up into the space the ork had occupied and swung his crozius at the back of another’s head, caving in the creature’s skull.
A sputtering rocket caught the Chaplain in the chest, knocking him sideways. As he extended his leg to keep balance, the rubble shifted under his weight, falling in a small rockslide that sent him toppling backwards. Twisting to right himself as he fell, Boreas stuck out his right arm. He cursed the instinctive move as the elbow joint whined and locked in position, jarring his whole arm as he crashed onto the floor. Ork boots and blades rained down on him as he struggled to roll to his back, encumbered by the useless arm. His vision blurred as something crashed into his head.
He kicked out as best he could, sending three orks toppling down, their leg bones shattered. With a grunt, he heaved himself onto his right side, fending off the orks with the crozius in his left hand. A heavy blade connected with his left wrist, shearing through the armoured seal into the bone within. Boreas’s hand spasmed and he let go of his crozius, the gleaming eagle-headed weapon clattering out of view beneath stamping ork feet.
Peliel arrived at that moment, a blue-bladed power sword in his fist. The sergeant carved through neck and limb, cutting down half a dozen orks as he fought his way through the press to stand protectively over the fallen Chaplain. With a few seconds’ respite, Boreas was able to heave himself half-upright. He grabbed onto Peliel’s backpack to pull himself the rest of the way up. The Chaplain’s right arm jutted uselessly out to one side, pistol still in hand. He swung his whole body to direct the weapon at the orks and fired the three bolts remaining in the weapon.
Two more of Peliel’s squad waded in with bolters and knives, pushing the orks back to the doorway. Boreas powered down the energy to his right arm and let the limb flop uselessly. His eyes scoured the floor for his crozius, but he could see no sign of it amongst the debris.
Boreas and his companions were slowly forced along the hall towards the statue. Another storm of gunfire engulfed them. Peliel went down, a lucky hit exploding through the exposed seal around his neck. Boreas stooped to pick up the fallen sergeant’s sword just as a grenade landed at his feet. The detonation threw the Space Marine back against the statue plinth and sent the weapon flying in the opposite direction. In the smoke and confusion, Boreas found himself cut off from the others, one arm useless and without a weapon.
A burst of plasma fire from Squad Exacta at the far end of the hall cut through the orks, vaporising their bodies with white-hot balls of energy. In the moment of distraction this provided, Boreas slipped behind the plinth and analysed the situation.
Andrael and Squad Exacta were penned in beneath the gallery. No more orks were coming in from the street; those within appeared to be the last. Several dozen of them exchanged fire with the Space Marines from behind the columns and piles of rubble. To his right, Boreas spotted a small group sneaking through the gloom, trying to outflank Exacta’s position. He recognised the telltale glitter of power weapons in their hands – these must have been the same orks that had pushed Peliel from the catacombs days before.
The Chaplain took an instinctive step towards the orks but stopped himself. Even with both hands he would be unlikely to overcome them unarmed. He cast about for a discarded knife or bolter or anything he could use as a weapon. Seeing nothing, his gaze was drawn up to the massive statue. There was only a small gap between the stone Dark Angel and the wall. Boreas pushed himself into the space and pulled himself up a few metres with his good arm, pushing with his legs.
Bracing his shoulder against the plascrete of the wall, Boreas bent his knees and drew his feet up, placing them against the back of the statue. Diverting what power he could spare to the leg servos, the Chaplain thrust out with all of his considerable strength. Thick, waxy sweat beaded on his brow as he strained every muscle. Orange warning lights flickered to red as the power armour fibre bundles fought against the weight of the statue.
A loud crack resounded across the hall as the statue broke from its plinth. It tottered forwards and then settled back again.
‘For the Lion!’ Boreas roared, pushing with every ounce of his strength.
Slowly at first but gathering speed, the statue fell. With ponderous grace, it crashed down onto the orks, smashing them into the rubble, shattering into shards that cut down those that had survived the impact. With nothing to brace against, Boreas plummeted to the floor, head bouncing off the wall before slamming into the plinth.
Ears thudding, half-blinded, Boreas dragged himself to his feet. Supporting himself on the edge of the plinth, he limped through the rubble to see the results of his handiwork. There were mashed body parts beneath the
broken remains of the statue, and several orks crawled away trailing blood through the dust. Zamiel’s flamer crackled, engulfing the surviving orks with a sheet of burning promethium. The racket of bolters died down and silence descended.
‘All enemies purged, Brother-Chaplain.’ Andrael’s voice was quiet and hissed with static over the comm.
Boreas looked across the nave of the basilica. There were greenskin dead heaped amongst the rubble; the head of the shattered statue leant against the crushed remains of an ork. In his mind he did not see the smashed windows, the charred and ripped tapestries, the hacked and burnt wood. He saw the basilica as it would be again, filled with the light of lanterns and thousands of candles, echoing to the solemn recitals of the Dark Angels and their serfs. At the lecterns and illuminating desks on the ravaged floors above, the scribes would again copy out the great texts of the Chapter, recording and refreshing the wisdom of the Emperor and the Lion.
Sometimes you had to bring a thing to the brink of destruction to preserve it, so that it could be built anew from the ruins; just as had happened with the Dark Angels themselves.
‘Praise the Lion for his enduring will,’ Boreas said.
From the wall tower, Boreas could see the smoke and dust of the forces to the east moving into position along Koth Ridge. To the west and south, there was still vicious fighting around the harbour, where the orks were holed up around the power plant.
‘It’s only a matter of time, Brother Boreas.’
The Chaplain turned and saw Master Belial striding into the tower from the curtain wall. He was wearing full armour, his personal standard hanging from a back banner, the white robes of the Deathwing over his green armour. Beneath the robe was evidence of the master’s fight with the ork warlord, and Boreas could only guess at the injuries Belial had sustained.
