Bastion Wars

by Henry Zou

  ‘This is impressive, Master Golias,’ Celeminé whistled. A mechanical nectar bee crafted from golden clockwork buzzed onto her shoulder and misted the air with an artificial fragrance before darting away.

  ‘Oh this? This is nothing. It’s all worthless once the Archenemy take this city,’ Golias shrugged. He plucked several permellos from an overhanging bower swollen with fruit and handed one to Madeline.

  ‘This is why you need to offload your item in such a hurry?’ Madeline asked.

  ‘Offload is an inaccurate term. I have plenty of prospective buyers for this item. Particularly from the Imperium, if the rumours are to be believed,’ said Golias as he shed his robes and slipped into the pond.

  ‘Rumours?’ said Celeminé, her face suddenly serious.

  ‘Indeed. Rumours abound. Have you ever heard of the Old Kings of Medina?’

  ‘In passing.’

  ‘You know the children’s tales. Artefacts from the War of Reclamation, something like the Emperor’s own balls or what have you. Either way, I have something valuable in my hands.’

  ‘You have the Old Kings in your possession?’ Madeline exclaimed, loudly enough to lose any pretence of bargaining power.

  Golias snorted as he floated on his back. ‘Perhaps not. But what I have is a relic that reveals much about the nature of the Old Kings, most likely sourced from the same origins.’

  Celeminé dared to press. ‘Master Golias. The Imperium could have much to benefit from that. Especially during such a time of war. Is it right for you to keep it?’

  ‘Who are you, the Inquisition?’ he cackled crisply. ‘It’s exactly because they want it so badly that a private collector from the Alypsia Subsector offered me half a continent worth of holdings for it.’

  Golias waded to the edge of the pond and licked the water of his lips with a predatory smirk. ‘If you have what the Imperium wants, that is power.’

  ‘That’s treason,’ Celeminé said flatly.

  ‘Who is this bitch and why is she in my house?’ snapped Golias, pointing at Celeminé. His demeanour changed with a volatile reaction, on no small amount of alcohol and residual narcotics.

  ‘Please, Master Golias,’ Madeline stepped in. ‘She means no offence by it.’

  Golias glared dangerously at Celeminé, his pupils dilated and his breath snorting his nostrils in ragged jags.

  ‘We can surpass your highest offer. What Lady Celeminé means is, why you would wish to sell such a valuable item so hurriedly?’

  That seemed to placate Golias somewhat. For a moment Golias’s temper wavered before his features softened. ‘Because I enjoy a fine life. Kholpesh will not live forever and I have something the Imperium may find very valuable.’

  Golias hauled himself out of the impluvium, shaking down his wetted mane from side to side. ‘Better I take what I can now and live than die waiting for the highest bidder. Let me show you this.’

  Naked, Golias crossed over to them and parted the waxy folds of vegetation. He led them through the garden, rustling through the curtain of fronds and leaves until they reached an alcove in the atrium, previously obscured. Beyond the alcove window on a rooftop landing pad could be seen the hook-nosed beak of a military flyer.

  ‘This is why I need to liquidate my assets,’ Golias proclaimed proudly. He led them outside to his landing pad, so high up that they could see the pulsating flashes of war in the horizon.

  Outside, like an eagle in its roost, wings folded and landing struts clawing the ground was a Golem-pattern cargo flier. Thirty metres long, it was turbine-nosed and round-bellied, ugly in the utilitarian way that only military logistics equipment could be. The Golem was a supply craft, ferrying cargo within fleet cruisers and more than capable of short-distance space flight. Madeline was not the least bit surprised that Golias had been able to procure one.

  ‘I take it I should not ask you how you obtained this?’ Madeline said.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the things I had to do to pilfer one of these from the Governor’s facilities,’ Golias laughed as he patted the cannon-mouthed propulsion thrusters on the Golem’s wing. Where Golias’s hands rested, Madeline could clearly see the scraped-off paint scars of a Munitorum serial number.

  Madeline and Celeminé circled around the craft, prodding at the fuselage pretending to be impressed. Golias had balls, they gave him that. Since the Medina Campaign, Imperial mandate had decreed a ban on all non-Imperial military fliers. Refugee barges transiting off-world were few in number and even then, most placements were allotted to Imperial authorities and military chieftains. Most on Kholpesh simply did not have the means to escape.

  ‘As you can see, I am well prepared once the void shields come down. I have a chartered trade frigate waiting to ferry me beyond the Bastion Stars. What you choose to do with the artefact once I am gone is no concern of me. Most of my prospective buyers will probably want to sell it for magnified profits to the Imperial war machine.’

  ‘If you could lever a greater price from the Imperium, why do you sell to private buyers knowing they will sell on?’ Madeline questioned warily.

  ‘Because I have no desire to deal with the Imperium. None. You can do whatever you want. I’ll be on my vineyard several subsectors away by then,’ Golias grinned.

  ‘Can we see this relic?’ Celeminé asked.

  Golias looked at her incredulously before a burble of laughter snorted from his nose. ‘Absolutely not. Are you an amateur at this business?’

  ‘How do I know what I am paying for?’ Celeminé protested indignantly.

  ‘Again, who is this bitch? Does she know nothing of the network? Who was your broker?’ snapped Golias.

  Celeminé pushed Madeline aside.

  ‘I have rank and authority,’ she said, before Madeline could restrain her.

  Golias looked incredulous. ‘Who are you?’ He snapped. ‘Military? Ecclesiarch? What in Throne’s name is going on?’

  Madeline tried to mediate, cupping her hands in supplication. It was no use. Celeminé had said too much. Golias was heading towards the door. Madeline gripped the inquisitor by the arm and pulled her away.

  ‘Guards! Guards!’ Golias began to shout.

  Madeline and Celeminé turned and fled. They clattered through Golias’s finely appointed home, shoving aside his many dismayed house guests. Hiam Golias chased after them. His guards were with him now, toting shotguns that they dared not fire into the clusters of house guests.

  ‘Seize them!’ Golias called from the upper-storey landing of his staircase as Madeline and Celeminé reached his entrance foyer. A noble in an avian mask and costume made a clumsy swipe to grab them as the two reached the door. Celeminé struck him on the side of the neck, digging her wrist into his carotid artery. The bird-faced man crumpled, and with that they dashed out the grand double doors of the Golias Estate.

  The rain swept in horizontal sheets.

  It was some time in the haze of afternoon, and pre-dusk always brought rain on Kholpesh. Like pressurised steam, the whirling pattern of storm clouds would build up throughout the day until finally the sky would burst into a torrential downpour.

  The Seventh and 22nd advanced at a despondent trot, their horses drooping under the downpour. Out here, the poison gas remained active in the soil for several days given the constantly humid weather conditions, and the ground was a solvent yellow. Rebreathers were a necessity in order to move through the tainted soil. Men and horse alike had faces shod in the bug-eyed sheathing of Cantican MK02 gas filters.

  Before them, the open mud flats that separated the warring trenches had become a morass of sink soil. The dragon’s teeth of tank traps and coils of concertina wire rose out of the mustard-grey bog. In some places, half-submerged corpses lolled like hump-backed marine life.

  Roth and Captain Pradal, along with a platoon of lancers, moved ahead of the main line of advance. T
hey dismounted and crawled forwards on their stomachs, cutting breaches in the cordons of concertina wire, of which there were many. It was a slow and arduous process, probing the soil around the barbed coils for mined explosives before signing the all-clear for the battalion advance.

  Roth slithered close to an Archenemy trench. It was so close, Roth could have spat into it had he wished to. A lone sentry stood on the firing steps, squinting into the grey curtain of rain. He was manning a drum-fed autocannon; both he and his weapon were draped underneath a pattering plastek sheet.

  Once the way was clear, the forward advance party slithered back towards the main line of advance. Four hundred horsemen mounted on slab-muscled destriers were waiting patiently in the rain. Their horses pawed at the soil, snorting and shaking their heads. Of the men, some were praying while others stared in silence at the enemy lines they could not see. Their sabres were drawn and their lances were steadied. They had been briefed by their commanders to ride in a staggered line. Upon contact with the enemy trenches, the Seventh Light Horse would dismount and engage the Archenemy positions. The Lancers would continue on using their momentum, their speed and the shock of cavalry to seize upon the undefended rear-echelon armour. It was simple enough, and the Archenemy would not expect such aggressiveness from the thus far soundly defensive Imperial positions.

  Roth’s steed was a fine specimen of war horse, twenty-five hands tall with rolling, mountainous muscle. The horse shifted its bulk underneath Roth’s legs, teetering him precariously. Roth had been a fine leisure rider but of combat riding he knew little. Besides, it had been many years since he had ridden.

  Roth looked up into the sky. The clouds were a solid ashen grey and he could barely see the riders to either side of him. It was not, he reflected, the best way to reacquaint himself with the equestrian arts.

  Major Arvust trotted over to Roth. ‘We’re all in place, signal the charge,’ he whispered as he handed him a tin officer’s whistle.

  Roth shook his head. ‘No. They’re your men, you do it.’

  They waited breathlessly for several more seconds, savouring the heavy staccato of rainfall. Then the major blasted the whistle.

  With a tidal roar, the CantiCols rose from the mud flats and charged towards the enemy trenches. They charged into the heavy fog of grey mist, seeming for all the world to be charging at phantoms.

  The Archenemy fired blindly at them. Rods of las-fire hissed from the murky mist to their front. A spear of light hit a lancer to Roth’s left. Rider and horse bucked backwards, their forward momentum suddenly arrested. The last Roth saw of them as he galloped past was the silhouette of hooves flailing in the air.

  They were close now. If Roth squinted against the lashing raindrops he could see the ominous silhouettes of Archenemy soldiers, prowling on the firing steps of their trenches. At fifty metres out, the enemy saw them and the fire became accurate. Thudding tracers began to bowl over the Cantican cavalry. But by then, the horsemen were already on them.

  Abruptly, the foggy grey was lit up by flashes of searing orange. The Guardsmen announced their presence by lobbing grenades into the unwary trenches. A fluttering chain of detonations pounded Roth’s ear drums into a tinnitus ring.

  To the credit of the Lancers, they executed their battle plan to the letter. The first wave of cavalry, once having unleashed their explosives, dismounted and assaulted the trenches on foot. The second wave continued on mounted, clearing the trenches with jarring crunches of hooves on soil, galloping for the secondary defences.

  Roth stood up on his stirrups, screaming as he ignited his power fist. His horse sprinted the last few metres into the enemy lines, and Roth rolled off the saddle into an ungainly dismount. Grenade flashes hazed his vision, and the inquisitor half-charged, half-fell into the enemy trench.

  It was utterly disorientating.

  Dirt and debris swirled about him. Detonations sprayed the entrenchments with feathery streaks of gore and shrapnel. Archenemy soldiers reeling from the aftershock of explosives were struggling to fight back. Looking up, Roth spied a Cantican Guardsman teetering above him on the edge of the trench, his face collapsed by a las-shot. The man was dead but still sat upright in his saddle.

  Roth struck out with his fist on instinct, rendered senseless by smoke, rain, blood and the sheer aural assault of close combat. They could not use firearms for fear of friendly fire, and the cramped confines did not allow for the use of fixed bayonets. They fought with whatever was at hand.

  An Ironclad wielding a rectangular cleaver circled around to Roth’s left, hacking at his thigh. The blade sparked off trauma-plate as they connected. Another enemy soldier swung a barbed trench pike into the back of Roth’s head. Blunt, brutal pain spread in the back of his skull. Roth bit his tongue and blood began to drool from his chin.

  Dazed, Roth leaned down and threw out his hand in a backfist. It was a wild, desperate technique but the enemy were too close, too pressed to avoid it. The back of his power fist clipped into his unseen assailant’s jaw and catapulted the entire head clean out of the trench. Still snorting like a wounded bull, Roth hammered his palm down on the cleaver-wielding Ironclad. The Archenemy folded at a crisp ninety degree angle and hit the mud without further movement.

  Roth looked around, blood cascading from a gash at the top of his head into his eyes. It was a deep cut, he could feel it by the way it was numb instead of painful. He only hoped his skull was intact. Blinking the oily crimson from his eyes, Roth tried to gather his senses.

  Captain Pradal lurched into his field of vision, slashing the air with his trench club. His right hand hung at his side, blood soaking the sleeve up to the elbow. He was missing two fingers from that hand.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’ Roth yelled above the rattling clamour.

  Pradal looked and his mangled fist and laughed, almost surprised. ‘Didn’t even notice,’ he cackled.

  Their rage was up now. That was dangerous, Roth knew. They could not become mired in a protracted engagement in the trenches. It would not be long before the Archenemy began to filter in through the trench networks and overwhelm them with numbers. They had to keep moving.

  ‘Keep advancing, targets on our axis of advance,’ Roth screamed. He pointed up the undulating slopes and the enemy armour that dotted them.

  Major Arvust blasted his whistle. ‘Fuses! Fuses!’ he cried, ordering them to disengage with more grenades.

  To their credit, the Cantican discipline held and they broke away from their staggered enemy. Leaving their horses panicking on the other side of the trenches, they surged up the hill on foot. The Guardsmen tossed delay-charged fuse bombs in their wake to deter pursuit. Having cleared the first line of trenches, the Cantican cavalry moved to join the second wave in the skirmish on Magdalah.

  Roth pounced onto the front cowling of a KL5 Scavenger.

  He climbed onto the tank, boots slipping against the smooth plating as he fought for purchase. His power fist gouged deep molten holes into the sloping frontal hull as he hauled himself up.

  The turret hatch swung out and an Ironclad writhed out. Roth backhanded him back into the vehicle. A Cantican Guardsman climbed atop the turret and dropped a frag grenade into the opening. It clattered into the cab with a metallic echo. Roth slammed the hatch shut and both men leapt off as a muffled crump shook the tankette.

  All around, the men of the Seventh and 22nd swarmed over the Archenemy war machines. The hull-down vehicles snarled back with thunderous 105mm shells and the chain rips of cyclical cannon fire. Many of the Canticans had dismounted, weaving amongst the vehicles and sowing explosives.

  The fuse bombs and frag grenades cut through the downpour of rain as miniature claps of thunder – incessant, sparking up like water being poured onto electric circuits. The most devastating were the PK-12 drill-charges. A small clamp mine, the drill charges could be magnetised to the side of a vehicle. Upon ignition, the
charge propelled a molten core of copper with an armour penetration of ten centimetres. Each Cantican carried at least three or four.

  Roth circled around to the periphery of a Leman Russ. The behemoth was a ransacked Guard vehicle, its old camouflage blistered and scraped down to a burnished metal hide. The Leman Russ was hull-down in a wide earthen pit, the monstrous snout of its turret cannon trying to track its sprinting human targets. PK-12 in hand, Roth slapped the charge onto the gap between turret and chassis. He was moving again before the heavy guns could track him. Behind him, an expanding shockwave chased his heels and a sheet of flaming wreckage slashed overhead.

  It was a brief, brutal clash. The Ironclad infantry were in disarray and many abandoned their positions as the cavalry penetrated their front-line trenches. The wave of flashing hooves and incendiary explosives were too much for them. These were not the same broken Guardsmen who held the Magdalah trenches by the skin of their teeth. The Ironclad were not prepared for it.

  Roth saw a light horseman land behind the mantlet of a Basilisk. The Cantican laid into the Ironclad crew with lance and sabre, killing two before being dragged off his steed. To Roth’s immediate right, a lancer Guardsman unleashed his rocket tube at an oncoming FPV. The hood of the Ironclad vehicle peeled back like blistering skin. It ran over the lancer and kept going, a fireball carried on by wheels of melting rubber.

  A tankette went up in a star of exploding pieces. Spikes of las sizzled past Roth, so close he could feel the steam of rain drops as the rounds punched through them. A grenade went off close by.

  ‘Regroup! Regroup!’ Roth ordered, pulling hard on his reins. In their fury, the cavalry charge had dispersed, chasing individual targets and scattering the enemy. It was to be their undoing.