It was no secret that they'd lost a lot of troops in the last sortie to bring down the void shield. To compound matters, ammunition for the larger guns was running dangerously low, to 'campaign-unviable' levels. Almost an hour had passed since the disastrous assault, and the Imperial forces were no closer to forging a battle-plan.
Librarian Pyriel surveyed the tactical data before him and saw nothing new, no insightful strategy to alleviate the graveness of their situation. At least the spectres had given up pursuit when they'd entered the grounds of Mercy Rock, though it had taken a great deal of the Epistolary's psychic prowess to fend them off and make retreat possible.
'What were they, brother?' said Tsu'gan in a low voice, trying not to alert the Guard officers and quartermaster who had joined them. Some things - Tsu'gan knew - it was best that humans stayed ignorant of. They could be weak-minded, all too susceptible to fear. Protecting humanity meant more than bolter and blade; it meant shielding them from the horrifying truths of the galaxy too, lest they be broken by them.
'I am uncertain.' Pyriel cast his gaze upwards, where his witch-sight turned timber and rockcrete as thin as gossamer, penetrating the material to soar into the shadow night where the firmament was drenched blood red. 'But I believe the warp storm and the spectres are connected.'
'Slaves of Chaos?' The word left a bitter taste, and Tsu'gan spat it out.
'Lost and damned, perhaps,' the Librarian mused. 'Not vassals of the Ruinous Powers, though. I think they are… warp echoes; souls trapped between the empyrean and the mortal world. The red storm has thinned the veil of reality. I can feel the echoes pushing through. Only, I don't know why. But as long as the storm persists, as long as Hell Night continues, they will be out there.'
Only a few metres away, oblivious to the Salamanders, the Guard officers were having a war council of their own.
'The simple matter is, we cannot afford a protracted siege,' stated Captain Mannheim. Since Tench's execution and the commissar's incapacitation, Mannheim was the highest ranking officer in the Phalanx. His sleeves were rolled up and he'd left his cap on the tacticarium table, summiting the charts.
'We have perhaps enough munitions for one more sustained assault on the void shield.' The quartermaster was surveying his materiel logs, a Departmento Munitorum aide feeding him data-slates with fresh information that he mentally recorded and handed back as he spoke. 'After that, there is nothing we possess here that can crack it.'
Another officer, a second lieutenant, spoke up. His jacket front was unbuttoned and an ugly dark sweat stain created a dagger-shaped patch down his shirt.
'Even if we did, what hope is there whilst those things haunt the darkness?'
A patched-up corporal, his left eye bandaged, blotched crimson under the medical gauze, stepped forward.
'I am not leading my platoon out there to be butchered again. The secessionists consort with daemons. We have no defence against it.'
Fear, Tsu'gan sneered. Yes, humans were too weak for some truths.
The second lieutenant turned, scowling, to regard the Salamanders who dwelt in the shadows at the back of the room.
'And what of the Emperor's Angels? Were you not sent to deliver us and help end the siege? Are these foes, the spectres in the darkness, not allied to our faceless enemies at Aphium? We cannot break the city, if you cannot rid us of the daemons in our midst.'
Hot anger flared in Tsu'gan's eyes, and the officer balked. The Salamander snarled with it, clenching a fist at the human's impudence.
Pyriel's warning glance made his brother stand down.
'They are not daemons,' Pyriel asserted, 'but warp echoes. A resonance of the past that clings to our present.'
'Daemons, echoes, what difference does it make?' asked Mannheim. 'We are being slaughtered all the same, and with no way to retaliate. Even if we could banish these… echoes,' he corrected, 'we cannot take on them and the void shield. It's simple numbers, my lord. We are fighting a war of attrition which our depleted force cannot win.'
Tsu'gan stepped forward, unable to abstain from comment any longer.
'You are servants of the Emperor!' he reminded Mannheim fiercely. 'And you will do your part, hopeless or not, for the glory of Him on Earth.'
A few of the officers made the sign of the aquila, but Mannheim was not to be cowed.
'I'll step onto the sacrificial altar of war if that is what it takes, but I won't do it blindly. Would you lead your men to certain death, knowing it would achieve nothing?'
Tsu'gan scowled. Grunting an unintelligible diatribe, he turned on his heel and stalked from the strategium.
Pyriel raised his eyebrows.
'Forgive my brother,' he said to the council. 'Tsu'gan burns with a Nocturnean's fire. He becomes agitated if he cannot slay anything.'
'And that is the problem, isn't it?' returned Captain Mannheim. 'The reason why your brother-sergeant was so frustrated. Save for you, Librarian, your Astartes have no weapons against these echoes. For all their strength of arms, their skill and courage, they are powerless against them.'
The statement lingered, like a blade dangling precariously over the thread of all their hopes.
'Yes,' Pyriel admitted in little more than a whisper.
Silent disbelief filled the room for a time as the officers fought to comprehend the direness of their plight on Vaporis.
'There are no sanctioned psykers in the Phalanx,' said the second lieutenant at last. 'Can one individual, even an Astartes, turn the tide of this war?'
'He cannot!' chimed the corporeal. 'We need to signal for landers immediately. Request reinforcements,' he suggested.
'There will be none forthcoming,' chided Mannheim. 'Nor will the landers enter Vaporis space whilst Aphium is contested. We are alone in this.'
'My brother was right in one thing,' uttered Pyriel, his voice cutting through the rising clamour. 'Your duty is to the Emperor. Trust in us, and we will deliver victory,' he promised.
'But how, my lord?' asked Mannheim.
Pyriel's gaze was penetrating.
'Psychics are anathema to the warp echoes. With my power, I can protect your men by erecting a psy-shield. The spectres, as you call them, will not be able to pass through. If we can get close enough to the void shield, much closer than the original assault line, and apply sufficient pressure to breach it, my brothers will break through and shatter your enemies. Taking out the generatoria first, the shield will fail and with it the Aphium resistance once your long guns have pounded them.'
The second lieutenant scoffed, a little incredulous.
'My lord, I don't doubt the talents of the Astartes, nor your own skill, but can you really sustain a shield of sufficient magnitude and duration to make this plan work?'
The Librarian smiled thinly.
'I am well schooled by my Master Vel'cona. As an Epistolary-level Librarian, my abilities are prodigious, lieutenant,' he said without pride. 'I can do what must be done.'
Mannheim nodded, though a hint of fatalism tainted his resolve.
'Then you have my full support and the support of the Phalanx 135th,' he said. 'Tell me what you need, my lord, and it shall be yours.'
'Stout hearts and steely resolve is all I ask, captain. It is all the Emperor will ever ask of you.'
TSU'GAN CHECKED THE load of his combi-bolter, re-securing the promethium canister on the flamer element of the weapon.
'Seems pointless, when we cannot even kill our foes,' he growled.
The bellicose sergeant was joined by the rest of his brothers at the threshold to Mercy Rock, in the inner courtyard before the bastion's great gate.
Behind them, the Phalanx platoons were readying. In the vehicle yards, the Basilisks were churning into position on their tracks. Anticipation filled the air like an electric charge.
Only two Salamanders were missing, and one of those was hurrying to join them through the thronging Guardsmen from the makeshift medi-bay located in the bastion catacombs.
'How is he,
brother?' Emek asked, racking the slide to his bolter.
'Unconscious still,' said Ba'ken. He'd ditched his heavy flamer and carried a bolter like most of his battle-brothers. Dak'ir had not recovered from the attack by the spectre and so, despite his protests, Ba'ken had been made de facto sergeant by Pyriel.
'I wish he were with us,' he muttered.
'We all do, brother,' said Pyriel. Detecting a mote of unease, he asked, 'Something on your mind, Ba'ken?'
The question hung in the air like an unfired bolt round, before the hulking trooper answered.
'I heard Brother-Sergeant Tsu'gan over the comm-feed. Can these things even be fought, brother? Or are we merely drawing them off for the Guard?'
'I saw the Ignean's blade pass straight through one,' Tsu'gan muttered. 'And yet others seized upon Ba'ken as solid and intractable as a docking claw.'
Emek looked up from his auspex.
'Before they attack, they corporealise; become flesh,' he said, 'Although it is flesh of iron with a grip as strong as a power fist.'
'I had noticed it too,' Pyriel replied. 'Very observant, brother.'
Emek nodded humbly, before the Librarian outlined his strategy.
'Our forces will be strung out across the killing field, four combat squads as before. I can stretch my psychic influence to encompass the entire Phalanx battle line but it will be a comparatively narrow cordon, and some of the spectres may get through. Adopt defensive tactics and wait for them to attack, then strike. But know the best we can hope for is to repel them. Only I possess the craft to banish the creatures into the warp and that won't be possible whilst I'm maintaining the psychic shield.'
'Nor then will you be able to fight, Brother-Librarian,' said Ba'ken.
Pyriel faced him, and there was an unspoken compact in his low voice. 'No, I'll be temporarily vulnerable.'
So you, brothers, will need to be my shield.
The severity of the mission weighed as heavy as the weather. Captain Mannheim had been correct when he'd spoken in the strategium: for all their strength of arms, their skill and courage, they were powerless against the spectres. Almost.
Pyriel addressed the group. 'Fire-born: check helm-displays for updated mission parameters and objectives.'
A series of ''affirmatives'' greeted the order.
'Switching to tac-sight,' adding Tsu'gan. A data stream of time-codes, distances and troop dispositions filled his left occulobe lens. He turned to Pyriel just as the great gates to Mercy Rock were opening. 'I hope you can do what you promised, Librarian, or we are all dead.'
Pyriel's gaze was fixed ahead as he donned his battle-helm.
'The warp storm is unpredictable, but it also augments my own powers,' he said. 'I can hold the shield for long enough.'
On a closed channel, he contacted Tsu'gan alone.
'My psychic dampener will be low,' he warned. 'If at any moment I am compromised, you know what must be done.'
If I am daemonically possessed by the warp, Tsu'gan read between the Librarian's words easily enough.
A sub-vocal ''compliance'' flashed up as an icon on Pyriel's display.
'Brothers Emek, Iagon?' the Librarian asked with the gates now yawning wide. The gap in the wall brought lashing rain and the stench of death.
Emek and Iagon were interrogating overlapping scan patterns on their auspexes in search of warp activity in the shadows of the killing field.
'Negative, brother,' Emek replied. Iagon nodded in agreement.
The way, for now at least, was clear.
Despite the rain, a curious stillness persisted in the darkness of Hell Night. It was red and angry. And it was waiting for them. Pyriel was drawn again to the patch of wilderness, far off in the distance.
Just beyond my reach…
'Into the fires of battle…' he intoned, and led the Salamanders out.
DAK'IR AWOKE, STARTLED and awash with cold sweat. He was acutely aware of his beating hearts and a dense throbbing in his skull. Disorientating visions were fading from his subconscious mind… An ashen world, of tombs and mausoleums lining a long, bone-grey road… The redolence of burning flesh and grave dust… Half-remembered screams of a brother in pain…
…Becoming one with the screams of many, across a dark and muddied field… The touch of rain, cold against his skin… and a bell tolling… 'We are here…'
'We are here…'
The first was an old dream. He had seen it many times. But now new impressions had joined it, and Dak'ir knew they came from Vaporis. He tried to hold onto them, the visions and the sense memories, but it was like clutching smoke.
With the thinning of the unreal, the real became solid and Dak'ir realised he was flat on his back. A wire mattress with coarse sheets supported him. The cot groaned as he tried to move - so did Dak'ir when the daggers of pain pierced his body. He grimaced, and sank back down, piecing together the immediate past. The attack by the spectral preacher came back to him. A remembered chill made him shiver.
'You're pretty well banged up,' said a voice from the shadows. The sudden sound revealed just how quiet it was - the dull reply of heavy artillery was but a faint thudding in the walls. 'I wouldn't move so quickly,' the voice advised.
'Who are you?' rasped Dak'ir, the dryness in his throat a surprise at first.
A high-pitched squeal grated against the Salamander's skull as a Phalanx officer sitting in a wheelchair rolled into view.
'Bahnhoff, my lord,' he said. 'You and your Astartes tried to save my men in the killing field, and I'm grateful to you for that.'
'It's my duty,' Dak'ir replied, still groggy. He managed to sit up, despite the horrendous pain of his injuries and the numbness that lingered well after the preacher had relinquished his deathly grip. Dak'ir was gasping for breath for a time.
'Lieutenant Bahnhoff?' he said, remembering; a look of incredulity on his face when he saw the wheelchair.
'Artillery blast got me,' the officer supplied. 'Platoon dragged me the rest of the way. Took me off the frontline too, though.'
Dak'ir felt a pang of sorrow for the lieutenant when he saw the shattered pride in his eyes.
'Am I alone? Have my brothers gone to battle without me?' Dak'ir asked.
'They said you were too badly injured. Told us to watch over you until they returned.'
'My armour…' Dak'ir was naked from the waist up. Even his torso bodyglove had been removed. As he made to swing himself over the edge of the cot, enduring still further agonies, he saw that his battle-plate's cuirass was lying reverently in one corner of the room. His bodyglove was with it, cut up where his brothers had needed to part it to treat his wounds. Dak'ir ran his finger over them. In the glow of a single lume-lamp they looked like dark bruises in the shape of fingerprint impressions.
'Here… I found these in a storage room nearby.' Bahnhoff tossed Dak'ir a bundle of something he'd been carrying on his lap.
The Salamander caught it, movement still painful but getting easier, and saw they were robes.
'They're loose, so should fit your frame,' Bahnhoff explained.
Dak'ir eyed the lieutenant, but shrugged on the robes nonetheless.
'Help me off this cot,' he said.
Together, they got Dak'ir off the bed and onto his feet. He wobbled at first, but quickly found his balance, before surveying his surroundings.
They were in a small room, like a cell. The walls were bare stone. Dust collected in the corners and hung in the air, giving it an eerie quality.
'What is this place?'
Bahnhoff wheeled backwards as Dak'ir staggered a few steps from the cot.
'Mercy Rock's catacombs. We use it as a medi-bay,' the lieutenant's face darkened, 'and morgue.'
'Apt,' Dak'ir replied with grim humour.
A strange atmosphere permeated this place. Dak'ir felt it as he brushed the walls with his fingertips, as he drank in the cloudy air.
We are here…
The words came back to him like a keening. They were beckoning him
. He turned to Bahnhoff, eyes narrowed.
'What is that?'
'What is what, my lord?'
A faint scratching was audible in the sepulchral silence, as a quill makes upon parchment. Bahnhoff's eyes widened as he heard it too.
'All the Munitorum clerks are up in the strategium…'
'It's coming from beneath us,' said Dak'ir. He was already making for the door. Wincing with every step, he betrayed his discomfort, but gritted his teeth as he went to follow the scratching sound.
'Are there lower levels?' he asked Bahnhoff, as they moved through a shadowy corridor.
'Doesn't get any deeper than the catacombs, my lord.'
Dak'ir was moving more quickly now, and Bahnhoff was wheeling hard to keep up.
The scratching was getting louder, and when they reached the end of the corridor the way ahead was blocked by a timber barricade.
'Structurally unsafe according to the engineers,' said Bahnhoff.
'It's old…' Dak'ir replied, noting the rotten wood and the gossamer webs wreathing it like a veil. He gripped one of the planks and tore it off easily. Compelled by some unknown force, Dak'ir ripped the barricade apart until they were faced by a stone stairway. It led into a darkened void. The reek of decay and stagnation was strong.
'Are we going down there?' asked Bahnhoff, a slight tremor in his voice.
'Wait for me, here,' Dak'ir told him and started down the steps.
'STAY WITHIN THE cordon!' bellowed Tsu'gan, as another one of Captain Mannheim's men was lost to the earth.
An invisible barrier stretched the length of the killing ground that only flared incandescently into existence when one of the spectres struck it and recoiled. Like a lightning spark, the flash was born and died quickly, casting the scene starkly in its ephemeral life. Gunnery teams slogged hard to keep pace and infantry tramped hurriedly alongside them in long thin files, adopting firing lines once they'd reached the two hundred metre marker. Las-bursts erupted from the Phalanx ranks in a storm. Barking solid shot from heavy bolters and autocannon added to the sustained salvo. So close to the void shield the energy impact returns were incandescently bright and despite the darkness made several troopers don photoflash goggles. For some, it was just as well that their vision was impeded for shadows lurked beyond Librarian Pyriel's psychic aegis and not everyone was immune to them.
Hell Night - Nick Kyme Page 4
