[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn

by Chris Roberson - (ebook by Undead)

  Taloc felt the lascutter slice through back into empty air, and then straightened up once more. The skin of the pipe was wider than his hand was long, but there was now a gap a little over a centimetre wide that encircled the pipe completely. Standing beside the pipe and shining a lume-lamp on the gap, Taloc could see clear through to the other side, with the stars above and the grey ground below.

  “That’s one,” Taloc said, and clambered up onto the blockhouse. Jedrek had already cut through the rightmost of the pipes, and was hard at work cutting a similar gap in the middle of the three.

  When a gap had been cut into all three of the pipes, the two Scouts would set to work positioning demolition charges around the circumference of the entire pipeline. The wide cuts they had burned through the pipes were intended to act as seams that would guide the energy of the resulting blast, forcing apart the severed sections of the pipes and widening the gap even further.

  When the pipes had been blasted open, Scout Fulgencio would set to work in earnest. He was already busy, firing blasts from his melta gun at the slope above the blockhouse, gradually turning the corpse-flesh grey flint and shale of the mountain’s skin into white-hot molten slag. When Taloc gave the word, Fulgencio would cut a channel from this molten rock down to where Taloc and Jedrek now stood, and the slag would pour down the channel to engulf the blockhouse completely.

  That was the intention, at least. But as the hours remaining until dawn slipped past one by one, the work was proceeding more slowly than had been hoped. By this point in the process, Taloc had originally intended to be finished with the demolition charges on the pipeline, and ready to signal Fulgencio to send the cascade of molten slag pouring down over the blockhouse. But as it stood, they were only a little bit beyond the two-thirds mark in cutting through the pipes, with the demolition charges still to be set.

  Taloc resisted the temptation to glance again towards the eastern horizon, to check whether the sun had begun to lighten the sky. He knew that it had not, but had still glanced in that direction already four times in the previous hour, just to be sure.

  And if the sun were to be rising, and dawn almost upon them, it would hardly matter. He and his team would still have a job to do, and they were already moving as fast as they were able.

  A spray of molten rock splashed against the blockhouse near Taloc’s feet, but he did not bother to call out any recrimination to Fulgencio. There was work to be done, and no time to waste in idle banter. Bending down and taking measure of where on the pipe Jedrek was making his cut, Taloc thumbed his lascutter on and set to work, slicing in the opposite direction.

  Dawn was stealing slowly across the sky, and looking east from the main hatch the Imperial Fists could see the rising sun appearing to set fire to the black oil sea which stretched out to the horizon, a burst of blinding white spreading out across the surface of the petrochem ocean from the point where the sun was rising. And while the previous morning had been greeted only by the low mournful howls of the winds rushing over the undulating landscape, this morning a raucous chorus welcomed the dawn, a lunatic medley of high-pitched shrieks and thrumming booms, of droning chants and ear-splitting screams. And beneath the entire riot of sound the constant refrain of thousands of feet pounding the grey earth again and again and again, the drumbeat of an army on the march growing louder with each passing instant.

  Scout Zatori stood behind the waist-high barricades the Scouts had arranged at the lip of the ledge before the main hatch, the plasma gun in his hands and his combat blade sheathed at his side. Beside him along the barricades stood Scouts Valen and Sandor, flamer and bolt pistol in hand. It had been decided that simply sealing the main hatch and sheltering within was too great a risk to take; doing so would give the enemy unobstructed access to the hatch itself, and with time and sufficient amount of demolitions or munitions the enemy would be able to gain access, and would then be free to stream into the Bastion.

  Instead, Taelos had ordered that the hatch be left slightly open, with a team of Scouts on hand to defend the breach from behind the barricades, which had been hastily assembled from large bits of heavy machinery brought from the Bastion’s interior, with a small gap to allow the Fists to descend the ramps cut into the mountain slope if necessary. The opening in the hatch would allow the Imperial Fists to reinforce and resupply as necessary, and while the Scouts behind the barricades on the wide ledge would be partially exposed to enemy fire, they were not to retreat within the safety of the hatch unless the enemy breached the barricades in numbers sufficient to overrun the defenders. Then and only then were they to retreat within the hatch.

  Meanwhile, deep within the Bastion, Scouts du Queste and Rhomec were making the final fortifications to the various tunnels which led from unknown subterranean points into the heart of the Bastion, while Veteran-Sergeant Hilts made a final attempt to gain control of the automated planetary defences in the hope that nearby batteries might be used in the Bastion’s defence, or to regain contact with either of the Thunderhawks sent out the day before—they had been unable to re-establish contact with Veteran-Sergeant Derex and Squad Ursus, and as they had received no additional word from Squad Vulpes’ Veteran-Sergeant Karn, they were forced to consider the possibility that Karn and his squad had not survived their encounter with the daemons.

  On the northern face of the mountain, Captain Taelos stood ready to defend Scouts Taloc, Fulgencio and Jedrek, who were still busy trying to seal off the blockhouse and pipeline to the north. If the forces of Chaos were to reach this point on the mountain’s slope before the blockhouse had been completely barricaded and sealed off, they could potentially punch right through into the interior of the mountain, and into the most vulnerable and least defensible regions of the Bastion. Only when Taelos was satisfied that the blockhouse and pipeline had been completely sealed off would he order Scout Taloc and his team to retreat with him to the main hatch, to join Scout Zatori’s team in defending that approach.

  Wherever the Imperial Fists were in and around the Bastion, they could hear the sound of the army growing ever closer, the constant drumbeat of their marching feet, the discordant sound of their howling songs, the high-pitched whine of their sonic weapons being powered on.

  No magnoculars were needed to see the enemy’s composition now. Even the enhanced vision of the Astartes was unnecessary. Even the weak and untrained eye of an unaugmented human, if any of the refugees had been brave enough to stand beside their defenders, could have seen the thousand or more Roaring Blades who were even now stepping onto the lower slopes of the mountain Bastion, and the half-dozen or so Noise Marines who marched at their head.

  With a roar like the voice of hell itself a blast from a Noise Marine’s sonic weapon lanced into the side of the mountain only handspans from where Zatori stood.

  Scout Zatori raised the plasma gun, taking aim with a prayer on his lips.

  “Oh Dorn, dawn of our being, be with us, illuminate us.”

  The blindingly bright bolt of plasma shot through the open air, narrowly missing the Noise Marine but completely disintegrating the head and shoulders of a Roaring Blade standing a metre or so to the left.

  The siege of the Bastion had begun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Scout s’Tonan stood back from the severed pipeline once the last of the demolition charges was in place. On the far side of the pipes Scout Jedrek had done the same, and now both of them signalled readiness to Scout Fulgencio, who was keeping careful watch on the growing pool of molten slag that he had melted behind a small damming ridge a few dozen metres higher up the mountain’s slope.

  Taloc could hear the sizzle and pop of the liquid rock as it sizzled impossibly hot only a short distance away, but only barely, the sounds of the battle which was only now beginning around the wide curve of the mountain now growing louder with each passing instant. Even if the enemy didn’t know about the pipeline and blockhouse, it was only a matter of time before they sent scouting parties to surround the mountain to search
for other points of entrance less well defended than the barricaded main hatch.

  Fulgencio fired the melta gun at the low ridge which dammed the pool of molten slag, and the searing white-hot liquid began to flow sluggishly down the slope towards the ruined blockhouse. To make sure that the molten rock did not begin to cool and solidify en route, Fulgencio continued to fire blasts from the melta gun into the pool above, ensuring that it remained at the highest possible temperature.

  As the molten slag began to pour over the blockhouse, Taloc turned back to the north, where Captain Taelos stood atop the severed pipeline a short distance away. With auspex and magnoculars in hand, the captain was covering all approaches to their position, not only from around the Bastion’s curve to the east but also along the western slope, and from the north across the undulating grey hills.

  “Sir, it shouldn’t be long now,” Taloc voxed rather than called out, to ensure clear communication over the growing clamour from the mountain’s eastern slope. “Given the current rate of flow, we should have the blockhouse and pipe junctions completely sealed off in less than an hour, possibly even sooner.”

  Captain Taelos lowered his auspex and glanced in Taloc’s direction. “Very good, Scout s’Tonan. Now I want you and Scout Jedrek to take up defensive positions to the north-east and north-west”—he pointed to either side of the pipeline—“and cover all approaches. Just because the main body of the enemy forces are approaching from the south, we can’t be certain that other elements won’t be coming from different directions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Taloc and Jedrek replied almost in unison.

  As Taloc moved into position, he drew his combat blade from its sheath, and found some comfort in once more having a sword’s handle in his fist. Working through the night and morning with lascutter and demolition charges had been a necessary task, and a duty that Taloc had been only too eager to carry out; but in his hearts, Taloc could not help seeing such fortifications as the work of labourers, not of warriors. He knew that the Imperial Fists prided themselves on their mastery of defence and siege warfare, and that by assisting in the fortification of the Bastion he was, in a sense at least, following in the footsteps of Rogal Dorn himself, who had fortified the Imperial Palace on Terra, and led the Imperial Fists in defending the Palace against the onslaught of Horus’ heretic forces.

  But it was not until he drew his blade that Taloc truly felt himself the inheritor of Dorn’s legacy. Perhaps it was his upbringing on Eokaroe, and the esteem with which the warrior-clans had held their ironbrands, that led Taloc to identify more with the Chapter’s cult of the blade than with the Fists’ pride in siege warfare. But there again, Taloc thought, perhaps it was his affinity for the sword that had led him to be selected as a neophyte in the first place.

  Taloc’s musings were interrupted when he caught a flash of movement off to the north, a few degrees to the east of the pipeline.

  “Captain?” Taloc said, drawing his bolt pistol and pointing with the tip of his combat blade towards the movement. “There’s something fast approaching from—”

  “Daemons!” the captain said angrily, before Taloc was even able to finish his statement. The captain secured auspex and magnoculars at his waist, and then drew his power sword from its sheath, energy already coruscating up and down the blade.

  In the time it took Scout s’Tonan to turn from the captain back towards the north, the faint blur of motion had already grown into a handful of daemons, racing across the grey hills at an impossibly fast speed.

  Taloc knew that a significant enemy force was necessary to summon just a single daemon. But to incarnate so many? There was a much larger enemy presence on vernalis than any of them had suspected.

  Captain Taelos raised his bolter in his other hand, and leapt down from the top of the pipeline onto the flinty ground a few paces from where Taloc stood.

  “Fulgencio, keep at it,” the captain shouted and voxed simultaneously. “The rest of you, form on me.”

  As Jedrek leapt up onto the pipeline and came to join them, the captain turned to Taloc, gesturing to the bolt pistol in the Scout’s hand with a quick nod. “This strain of daemon is unnaturally swift. Be wary.”

  Taloc nodded, jaw set. “Yes, sir.”

  Scout Jedrek came to stand on the captain’s other side, and the three Imperial Fists stood together against the onrushing daemons, now just outside the range of their bolter-fire.

  “Try to lead their motions with your shots,” Taelos said, “but even so they may jink or dodge before your bolt strikes true.” The captain lifted his power sword, the energy dancing along its edge. “But if they should close with us, they’ll have our blades to contend with.”

  Taloc tightened his grip on his combat blade’s handle, and a slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps he was not standing to the tourneys with a named ironbrand in his hands, but still this was the work he was born to do.

  As the captain had ordered, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts was at the makeshift vox-caster assembly near the control room at the Bastion’s heart, making one final attempt to re-establish contact with either of the two Thunderhawks. If this attempt failed, his orders were to join Scouts du Queste and Rhomec who were finalising the fortifications in the catacombs and tunnels beneath the mountain before joining Scout Zatori’s team in manning the barricades at the main hatch.

  It was quickly becoming apparent that this final attempt to re-establish contact would be no more successful than the previous attempts had been.

  “Operational HQ to Thunderhawks Ferrum and Pugnus, Operational HQ to Thunderhawks Ferrum and Pugnus, this is Veteran-Sergeant Hilts transmitting from the Bastion. Affirmative?”

  Nothing but static hissed from the vox-caster’s speakers.

  Resolving to make one final transmission before joining the Scouts who were fortifying the tunnels below, Hilts checked the settings and readouts on the vox-caster’s controls. And it was then that he noted something unusual for the first time.

  Though the communications system of the planetary defences was still in a fully automatic mode, transmitting and receiving routine machine code from the batteries and sensory emplacements scattered all across the planet’s surface, it appeared that there was another signal being broadcast from within the Bastion, one which Hilts’ equipment had previously been unable to detect.

  Adjusting the gain, Hilts was able to tune in the signal, which appeared to be piggybacking on the defence systems’ broadcast array in much the same way as his own jury-rigged assembly.

  Encrypted comm traffic squealed out from the vox-caster’s speakers, discordant and deafeningly loud.

  Hilts lowered the volume on the audio output, and picked up his auspex. But the unit was unable to decrypt the communication, registering it merely as unintelligible noise.

  So who else was broadcasting from within the Bastion? If it was an automated message and not an active transmission, who had originated it? And to whom was the signal directed?

  Hilts scowled, his brows knitted. He suspected that he would not like the answers to any of those questions, assuming he lived long enough to find them out for himself.

  Scout Zatori fired another blindingly bright burst of plasma over the barricades at the nearest of the enemy, and then crouched down behind the protective cover of the barricades while he waited for the coils to recharge and to cool enough to fire again without overheating.

  While Zatori was temporarily behind cover, Scouts Valen and Sandor poured superheated clouds of vapour from their flamers down the slopes at the enemy, while projectile slugs and las-fire pocked the barricades below them and the surface of the hatch behind them.

  The sound from the enemy forces massing before the hatch was all but deafening, a mad chorus of shrieks and squeals, booming thuds and thunderous howls. The Scouts on the barricades had long before given up trying to make themselves heard audibly to one another, and were now communicating entirely by micro-beads, the pickups on their throats sensing their subvocalisations
.

  At the moment, there appeared to be somewhere just north of a thousand Roaring Blades and five Noise Marines arraying themselves in a skirmish line a hundred metres or so from the ramps leading up to the hatch. The army was using its ranged weapons—lasguns, stubbers and the massive sonic weapons carried by the Noise Marines—in an attempt to pick off the three Scouts at the barricades.

  Whether by design or by impulse, one of the Roaring Blades broke through the skirmish line and surged ahead of the rest of the Chaos army, racing up the southern ramp cut into the slope of the mountain towards the barricades, waving a long sabre in a two-handed grip. His mouth was open and his head thrown back, but if he was howling the sound couldn’t be heard over the din of the army behind him.

  “I’ve got him,” Scout Sandor voxed before Valen could even point him out.

  A single spray from Sandor’s flamer doused the Roaring Blade in a curtain of fire. As the flames engulfed the heretic, he screamed in agonised ecstasy, his pleasure centres overloading as the sensations of his body being burned alive flooded into his brain.

  “Coils are stable,” Zatori voxed, glancing at the status indicator on the plasma gun’s stock. “I’m ready. Targets?”

  Zatori asked the question but already knew the answer. The Chapter’s protocols for a siege defence of this type were for the Imperial Fist with the longest range and most effective ranged weapon to prioritise his targets on a sliding scale of threat profiles, weighted towards the ability of the target to effect damage at a distance—that is, whether the enemy carried a ranged weapon—the capacity of the target to inflict damage if they reached the barricades—their strength and destructive capabilities, whether they wore power armour or not, and so on—and the distance of the target from the barricades.