Bastion Wars

by Henry Zou

  Men of the 26th witnessed Inquisitor Roth drive his power fist through the engine block of an FPV. The inquisitor tore the light-skinned vehicle right down the middle and gunned down the occupants in the cab. Visibility was poor and the men fought blind, gouging and flailing at heavy black shapes.

  Despite their small numbers, the counter-attack blunted the momentum of the Ironclad push, halting them just short of the razor wire. At eight minutes into the assault the Ironclad withdrew, chased back into the shadows by drizzles of las-fire.

  Celeminé settled into a cross-legged lotus posture, drawing deep, relaxing breaths. It was severely difficult to concentrate with the constant fighting outside her cave bunker. Since her arrival, the fighting had almost been incessant. There was nothing she could do about that.

  She had tried her best to find the most suitable cavern for her needs. After a little searching, she had come upon a shelved pocket deep in the heart of the Barbican. A gaudy papier-mâché saint slathered in garish pastels had once dominated the chamber, draped with garlands of grain and prayer beads. Since the Atrocities, the saint shared her shrine with ammunition pallets and stacked drums of fuel. Cantica had once been beautiful, and wistfully, Celeminé wished she could have visited it before the Medina War. If only.

  Slowly, Celeminé drew herself into a meditative state. The distant drumming of gunfire faded. She was trancing. The temperature in the cave plummeted. Candles arranged in geometric patterns flickered out all at once. Celeminé’s breath, steady and rhythmic, plumed frostily.

  A gentle calm pervaded throughout the chamber. The saint, kneeling with hands in benediction, watched over Celeminé with glassy eyes. Condensation formed on the saint’s cheeks, curling the paper skin and melting the pigmentation from her face. As Celeminé’s consciousness drifted from her body, the last thing she saw was the gaudy saint crying in prayer.

  From the port side of the Carthage, the satellite suns of Medina glimmered through the glare-shutters of the tall, arching viewing bays. Judging by the alignment of the suns, it would be hazing dawn on Cantica.

  In his stateroom, Forde Gurion’s chron, synced to Cantican time, struck three in the morning. He sat in a deeply cushioned high-back. Because of his hoofed augmetics, Gurion seldom needed to sit, but he often did out of courtesy and to make his guests at ease. It was very important to make the man, sitting in the chair across from him, very much at ease indeed.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Gurion said, gesturing at the thimble of ambrose in his hand. He did not need to gesture, however: the man was blind.

  ‘No, my thanks. Liquor distorts mental clarity,’ said the man with the sunken, hollow eyes. The embroidered robes, spilling over the armrests in a radiant sheen of emerald, marked him as an adept of the Astra Telepathica.

  ‘Oh but of course. I ask you every time, don’t I?’

  ‘The last two times we have tried this. Yes.’

  ‘Let us hope we are more fortunate this time,’ said Gurion, webs of worry crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  ‘If the Emperor wills it,’ replied the astropath in his monotone voice.

  With this, the astropath sidled down deeper into his robes, sinking back into the chair. His head tilted forwards and for a long time he was very still. It almost looked as if the psyker had nodded off to sleep. Then, despite the wrought-iron heating grille set into the stateroom fireplace, it grew colder by a dozen degrees. The air took on a scent of residual ozone.

  Gurion felt uncomfortable, but not because of the chill. It was the astropath. In over a century of service to the Inquisition, Gurion had dealt with astropaths many times, but it never made it easier. It was the way they writhed and squirmed in their trance, their faces twisting and leering in pantomime agony. Or perhaps, it was the fact that their minds were swimming through the warp. Gurion had always believed that the only barrier between the warp ghosts and him were the astropath’s eyelids. That if the man were to suddenly arch up his stomach, with his mouth partially open, then his eyelids would snap open and all the warp would come streaming through.

  Gurion slammed down the thimble and shook his head vigorously to clear it. The tart spice and earthy terroir of the Mospel River vintage anchored his senses. Just in case, he placed a small nickel-plated autopistol in his lap and waited while watching his chron.

  ‘Gurion…’ the astropath murmured after a long period of silence.

  Gurion started inwardly. When the man spoke, it was not with the monotone he had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was the soft, canting lilt of Felyce Celeminé. It never failed to disturb him. Someone had once explained to Gurion that through the psychic connection, the mediator became one with the messenger, mimicking emotions, voice patterns and even body language. That did not make it any less disconcerting to an old non-psyker.

  ‘Gurion…’ called Celeminé’s voice.

  The old inquisitor leaned forwards, the servomotors in his hip whirring. ‘Yes. Yes, Felyce, I am here, it’s Forde Gurion.’

  ‘Gurion. I don’t know if it’s safe to commune. It’s very loud here. Very violent and colourful. I need you to listen to what we know,’ mouthed the astropath.

  ‘Of course. Tell me, dear,’ nodded Gurion. He picked up a data-slate from an adjacent stand and made ready to scribe with a gilded stylus.

  ‘Where do I start?’

  ‘From the beginning, please, dear.’

  Word after word, Celeminé began to recount their findings. She told him of Delahunt’s fate, his research, and the fall of Cantica. Most importantly, she told him that the Old Kings were not on the conquered planet. That it must be, by reason of deduction, hidden on one of the other two core worlds. By the time the astropath finished talking, Gurion realised his augmetic left hand had clenched so hard it had gouged small crescent moons into the leather armrest of his chair.

  ‘And what of you two? Are you well? Is Obodiah well?’

  ‘Roth is… I am well. But Inquisitor Roth wishes to stay and die on Cantica. He says we have nowhere to run, so we should die fighting… I–’ began the astropath.

  Gurion shook his head. ‘No no no. That will not do. The Conclave still needs you.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ said the astropath. Gurion was not sure, but it seemed the man actually breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘No. Celeminé, listen carefully. Inquisitor Vandus Barq on Aridun has uncovered something crucial to our work here. We can’t risk transmitting the information by vox or astro-telepathy so I need Roth and the Overwatch Task Group to travel to Aridun. It matters not how you get there, just depart with all possible haste. Vandus Barq is in the Temple of the Tooth, on the Antillo continent. That is all I can tell you and I fear I may have already said too much. Can you rendezvous with him?’

  ‘We can try,’ said the astropath, shrugging his shoulders up high like Celeminé would.

  ‘That’s all I expect, Celeminé. Try to arrive within two weeks’ time. Vandus will wait for you.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Gurion. I have to go now,’ said the astropath, octaves wavering between a female and male voice.

  ‘Take care of yourselves,’ Gurion pleaded. He gripped the astropath’s hand earnestly, then immediately felt foolish for doing so.

  Roth had been waiting for news from Celeminé for some time. Anxious with anticipation, he had attempted to occupy his mind with other activities. At the behest of Colonel Gamburyan, Roth and the battalion commander elected to conduct a general assessment of the forward defences.

  He followed Gamburyan from bunker to bunker, conversing with soldiers at their posts, praising them for a job well done and sharing tabac. It was the standard officer’s inspection. But it also served to give them a realistic assessment of their situation. The Guardsmen were tired, their nerves frayed from ceaseless fighting. Some took it well, becoming inured to the threat of constant enemy attack; others less so, their hands trembling,
their faces offering only blank stares. Supplies, especially clean water, were running low and dysentery was becoming endemic. If the Archenemy didn’t kill them, starvation and infections would.

  At designated cave bunker two-two, a mid-line gunpit housing a heavy stubber draped with camouflage netting, they came upon a dying man. His name was Corporal Nabhan, and he was feverish with gangrene. Wrapped in a blanket and clutching his lasrifle, the Guardsman had volunteered to hold bunker two-two on his own until he died. Dehydration and infection had leeched the corporal into a pale wisp of a man. Colonel Gamburyan knelt by the Guardsman and administered him several tablets of dopamine. There was little else Roth could do.

  As Gamburyan nursed capfuls of water from a canteen for Corporal Nabhan, Roth heard a knock on the support frame of the cave tunnel. Celeminé entered the cave, ducking low to avoid bumping her head on the support beams.

  ‘Lord Gurion’s astropath contacted me,’ she said, biting her lip.

  ‘Very good. What does the Conclave say?’ Roth asked. For a man who seldom flinched when being shot at, Roth was suddenly nervous.

  ‘Well, in light of our recent findings, Gurion orders us to make for Aridun and–’

  ‘Absolutely out of the question,’ Roth interrupted.

  His answer evidently jarred Celeminé. Her eyes took on that particular tint of rose before tears, a sad ruby kohl that made her seem suddenly vulnerable. Roth felt a spike of guilt.

  ‘Apologies for my lack of courtesy, madame. I simply mean that it is not possible for us to leave. We have been hunted ever since landfall. Better we make a stand here.’

  Celeminé’s eyes hardened. ‘In truth, Roth, I don’t want to die here. There is still much to do.’

  ‘I understand how you feel, but we have little choice. We’ve finished what we needed to.’

  ‘Roth, I’m sorry but I really don’t think you do. I’m too young. I have more to accomplish.’

  But Roth did understand. He remembered his virgin deployment to Sirene Primal in 866.M41. Caught between a secessionist insurgency and an alpha-level xenos threat, that first assignment had almost killed him. The fatalistic part of him always believed he should have died on Primal, and that every moment since was an extension granted by the God-Emperor. An inquisitor could not function to his fullest capacity if he was preoccupied with self-preservation. That was what he had always believed, anyway.

  Roth walked close to Celeminé and touched the tips of her hair. He was not sure why he did it. It was an awkward gesture but it had a calming effect. ‘Be as it may, Celeminé, we can’t leave. Look around you. We are under siege. We are surrounded and nowhere close to our transport. Our work here is done. There is nothing left to do.’

  ‘There is one thing, inquisitors,’ said Colonel Gamburyan crisply. He stood at the cave mouth, trying to light the frayed end of a tabac stub. Taking his time, he walked towards Roth with his rolling officer’s gait and paused contemplatively before continuing.

  ‘The 26th can conduct a ground assault from the Barbican. All of us, every last one. You and your Task Group can make your escape under the cover of our offensive,’ announced the colonel in slow, measured tones.

  Roth considered himself a scholar with a rogue’s wit, seldom at a loss for words. But he quite simply did not know how to react. Colonel Gamburyan continued to speak before Roth could muster any protest.

  ‘Let’s be realistic for a moment, inquisitor. We are running dry of food, water and most critically ammunition. Every day I lose more good men. How long can this go on for? Two weeks? A month? It wouldn’t matter. What you could do for the subsector would far outstrip anything my battalion could potentially achieve here.’

  ‘I cannot have your men die for me,’ muttered Roth weakly.

  ‘We’re already dead, Roth. No one will remember us here, unless you go. Let us have one last moment under the stars. A strident last charge, wouldn’t that be grand?’ laughed the colonel.

  Roth paused, hesitant to answer. They were right of course; they were both right, damn them. An inquisitor should not live in fear of death, or he could not serve the Emperor, Inquisitorial doctrine had taught him that. But his mentor, old Inquisitor Liszt, had also taught him no service could be done for the Imperium if he died a stupid death. Roth’s reflection was interrupted by a weak voice from the gun-post of the bunker.

  ‘Sir… if there is a last charge can I please go with my unit?’ rasped Corporal Nabhan, his eyes staring at the dripstone on the cave ceiling.

  ‘Son. If there is a last charge, I would not be the one to deny you,’ answered Colonel Gamburyan. At this, he levelled his gaze on Roth and smiled broadly.

  The last charge was scheduled for 06:00 hours on the thirty-sixth day.

  At 05:00, the five hundred and twenty-five men of the 26th Colonial Artillery began last equipment checks. At the foot of the Barbican, a sombre line of soldiers locked their bayonet spikes and adjusted their canvas webbing in silence. They loaded up their equipment satchels with musette pouches, grenades and exactly two spare cells each.

  By 05:30, Colonel Gamburyan made last inspections. In close order rank, his five hundred men stood to attention in the brown blazers and tall white kepi hats he had grown so accustomed to in his twenty years of service. They stood in the open prairie, waiting for the enemy to see them, taunting them with their presence. The colonel thought of his wife, the wife he had not seen since the Atrocities and who would never again tease him for his scowl, or pick the loose threads from his uniform. He thought of her because it steeled his resolve.

  At 06:00, it was Gamburyan who sounded the charge. Strung out in an open line, the battalion broke into a steady cant that rolled momentum into a roaring charge. Bugles sounded, officers blew on tin whistles. Guardsmen screamed themselves hoarse as the regimental standard was borne aloft. The wind caught their colours: the sabre and stallion of the CantiCol regiment, embroidered with the chain-link wreath of the 26th Artillery, snapped high on a brisk easterly.

  It was during all this that Inquisitor Roth, Celeminé and an understandably reluctant Captain Pradal made their escape. They threaded west, hugging the Erbus canal towards the coastal headlands. During their flight, they went to ground many times in order to avoid the Ironclad elements moving in the opposite direction, storming towards the cave temples. By the time the battle was over, Roth and his group were clear of the red zone. Regional Archenemy commanders were so preoccupied with the last stand of the 26th that a lone stratocraft powering up on the western shores did not warrant their attention.

  Roth never saw the last stand on that hot, brittle plain of undulating grass husk and dog-tooth stone. In the thick of the fighting, the battalion formed a large defensive square, two soldiers deep. For the first time the Ironclad engaged the Imperial Guard point-blank. The Archenemy were seized by a predatory glee, eager to pounce upon the Guardsmen who had held them at bay for so long. They were eager to claim heads and ears. Even the crew of light and heavy armour clambered from their vehicles with blades and weapons of blunt trauma. Every Ironclad warlord and underlord within a twenty-kilometre radius mustered his forces for the attack. No less than eight thousand Ironclad foot-soldiers and as many armoured and light-skinned fighting vehicles converged on the Barbican plains.

  Despite the shock of the Ironclad charge, the Cantican Colonials seemed like a bulwark that could not be moved. They stood firmly, shoulder to shoulder, forming a bristling phalanx of lasguns, heavy weapons, cannon and rocket. They laid down a furious killing zone two hundred metres out, hewing down the churning press of Ironclad.

  Despite sustaining las-rounds to the leg and upper torso, Colonel Gamburyan continued to rally the battalion. At the battle’s apex, when the CantiCol phalanx was punctured, ragged and beginning to fracture, Gamburyan attempted to hold a breach in the line alone. The colonel died behind the post of a smoking heavy bolter. He was shot a total of th
irteen times, but it was a ricochet slug entering beneath his chin that finally claimed him.

  In all, the Guardsmen withstood the assault for eighteen minutes even though the Archenemy several times broke into the interior of the Cantican square. Many years later, this scene would be rendered in oil pastel by the revered muralist Niccolo Battista. Awash with vivid colours on the ceiling of the Saint Solomon Cathedral on Holy Terra, it gave the men of the 26th CantiCol a voice in history.

  Chapter Eleven

  The holding cell was a cold, rusted, disorientating affair.

  Silverstein no longer knew how long he had been captured for. He spent his days wrist-chained to the grate alongside the Cantican five. Their cage was no larger than a Munitorum shipping crate, and hung like a pendulum from the ceiling of a docking berth. By the nature of its design, there was no room to sit or crouch and the constant shifting of his companions to ease their joints caused the cage to swing nauseatingly. His captors sporadically dealt them scraps of sustenance, at odd hours and without any semblance of pattern.

  All that Silverstein knew was that he was aboard some kind of frigate in transit. It was a bloated Archenemy troop carrier en route to somewhere. The Elteber had promised Silverstein that they were being taken to ‘dine’ with Khorsabad. Who or where Khorsabad was, Silverstein did not know. Regardless, the huntsman had vowed to escape at the first opportunity. He and his fellow captives discussed the escape endlessly. It was the only thing that kept them sane.

  Sometime into their journey, whether it was days or weeks, an Ironclad slaver lowered the suspended holding cell by means of a clanking lever. The slaver was swathed in chainmail and a frilled mantle of feathery scrap iron. Slinging a two-handed mace casually across his shoulders, he entered their cage and chose Varim, a clocksmith with steady hands who was a keen shot with the las. Without warning the Ironclad lashed the studded maul into Varim’s head. It was one swift brutal strike that lathered everyone in a mist of blood.