On Wings of Blood

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘What are you keeping here?’ Dionaki demanded. ‘What are you hiding that has drawn the greenskins here in such force?’

  ‘No,’ said Oblexus, stepping forwards to within a pace of the adept. ‘The xenos came here to steal promethium, that much is true.’

  The Iron Father’s snarling mask turned to the hooded tech-priest. ‘Yet you are hiding something within these vaults.’ He pointed to the hazy gargantuan outline of the ork terror ship hanging in the blazing sky behind them. ‘Keeping your skitarii from engaging the enemy has cast our efforts to pacify this assault, and the survival of this installation, into jeopardy. Tell me what is here that would cause such illogic, or I shall take my brothers and depart this world. We can still withdraw to orbit, but you will burn with this temple.’

  ‘That course of action would not serve your interest,’ rasped Wyn.

  ‘Then we are in agreement,’ replied Oblexus, his eye-lenses like smouldering coals. ‘Take me to the vault. Now.’

  The interceptors of the Medusan Wing burned their engines hot, reforming into the Indomitable attack pattern as they hurtled towards the ork terror ship. Atraxii snarled as he glimpsed the xenos fighters hovering around its bulk like flies circling a beast. Targeting reticules snapped into focus around them, tagging each scrap-fighter in scarlet brackets. As if sensing the target locks, the xenos craft peeled away from the terror ship towards the Medusan Wing on an intercept course.

  ‘Fighters, coming in!’ Atraxii called out. ‘Three marks at two-ten, six others behind them.’

  ‘Spool up assault cannons and las-talons,’ barked Dektaan. ‘Reserve missiles for the terror ship, designated Primary Target.’

  Ironhawk’s spirit loosed a silent roar of predatory fury through its iron bones, prompting a rush of battle stimulants through Atraxii’s bloodstream. The ork scrap-fighters closed, already firing undisciplined volleys of rockets and cannon rounds that dropped ineffectually before the Medusan Wing. Atraxii silenced the chorus of chimes and alarms ringing through the cockpit, running scans of the airspace to his left to compensate for the blanked viewscreen caused by the destroyed sensor bundle.

  The Techmarine’s focus shrank to a single craft at the head of the xenos squadron. The ork ace blurred towards him. It lacked the recklessness to fire its weapons prematurely, saving its payload for the dogfights rapidly coming its way as the two forces collided.

  The air within the Adeptus Mechanicus vault was frigid. Breath feathered out from between Dionaki’s clenched teeth, and she shivered, clearly unaccustomed to the icy conditions after years amid the sweltering forges and refineries above. Oblexus registered the change in temperature via his armour’s diagnostics, though it had no perceptible impact upon the bionics and genhanced physiology of the Space Marine.

  The catacombs lay deep beneath the surface of the forge temple, buried under thundering foundries resounding with the toll of a thousand hammers. The party passed through sealed bulkheads and past the unblinking gaze of robotic sentinels and automated laser turrets. As a final, densely armoured gateway parted before them on grinding tracks, Adept Wyn led the party into the vault proper.

  They moved down an unlit corridor of dark metal, the vault’s walls sloping up at the sides to render it into a hexagonal aspect. The ceiling was threaded with thick, segmented cables, and a thin carpet of mist drifted lazily over the floor plating. The cog-and-skull icon adorned the walls in laser-etched bronze, and Oblexus detected the energy signature of stasis fields from concealed partitions behind the icon.

  ‘The majority of the treasures contained here are devoid of physical form,’ rasped Adept Wyn as she glided ahead of Oblexus and Dionaki. ‘Knowledge, greatest of the gifts from the Omnissiah, cannot be broken, or have its grandeur abraded away to dust by the relentless march of time. Only when it is forgotten is it truly, definitively lost.’

  The wraith-like magi stopped, mist spilling around the hem of her robes like ripples over still water. The skitarii ranger clanked to a halt beside her. While the sniper may have seemed calm to the unenhanced, Oblexus could detect the heightened battle protocols buzzing through her and smell the acrid sharpness of stimulants racing through her base organics. She was tense, as much as a vaunted skitarii sharpshooter could be.

  ‘And yet, there are occurrences when relics are discovered across the void. This installation’s vaults have served on eighteen such instances since its inception, as a way station protecting such items for transit to sacred Mars, so that the secrets they contain may be unlocked.’

  Slowly, Adept Wyn turned to face Oblexus, her movements so smooth and silent that it was as if she had no weight at all. ‘Son of Medusa, are you certain of the path you walk upon?’

  Dionaki’s eyes flashed up at the Iron Father, her jaw set.

  ‘Events such as these have the potential to result in repercussions of adverse consequence. This bears your consideration.’

  ‘Enough posturing.’ Oblexus’ mechanical voice was rendered even harsher within the close confines of the vault. ‘Repetition of what I have said will serve no purpose.’

  ‘Very well, but regardless, the relic contained within is bound for Mars, and cannot be diverted from its course.’

  The cowl of Wyn’s robes twitched slightly. ‘A commonality.’

  Oblexus and Dionaki remained silent.

  ‘Contrition,’ said Wyn quietly after a moment. ‘An attempt at humour.’

  The Cult Mechanicus adept raised a robed arm. A pair of serpentine mechadendrites slithered from the sleeve, undulating through the air before coming to rest over the cog-and-skull icon set into the wall beside them. A tiny aperture iris peeled open in the centre of the icon. The mechadendrites slipped into the aperture with a sharp click. Adept Wyn gave a brief shudder and drew them back within her robes.

  For several moments, nothing happened. Dionaki flexed her hands, the metal fingers slipping against one another like dry leaves dancing over stone. Oblexus considered the bronze icon on the wall, before he detected a power surge from behind it.

  With a gasp of thin vapour, the outline of a panel appeared in blue light around the cog-and-skull icon. With a muted clunk of concealed machinery, the panel opened outwards, exposing a rectangular stasis chamber behind it. The object within the crackling stasis field hung suspended in pale azure light. Oblexus took three full seconds to observe the object, to verify what it was.

  Wyn took a gliding step forwards, freezing as the Iron Father’s power axe blurred into her path.

  ‘Take another step, adept,’ growled Oblexus, ‘and I will leave precisely enough of you alive to watch the xenos burn this temple to cinders.’

  -18.0-

  The air between the Medusan Wing and the squadron of ork scrap-fighters exploded with detonating ordnance. Fighters twisted through the burning pall, seeking each other’s ruin at blistering speed. Blazing chains of tracer fire linked them for heartbeats, before the fallen vanished in clouds of vaporised metal.

  Atraxii wove through the chaos of the battle, pushing his skill as a pilot to the limit and relying on his burgeoning union with Ironhawk’s primal machine-spirit to sharpen his abilities. The Stormhawk interceptor flew faster, turned sharper and was more devastating with its weapons now that the craft and its pilot were in sync. It was clear to the Techmarine how the Iron Father had so dominated the skies with the venerable machine.

  Through the blur of duelling fighters and curtains of exploding flak, the Techmarine sought out his target. The ork ace was easy enough to recognise from the garish flames crudely daubed on the hull of its scrap-fighter, but even such a provocative target was difficult to locate amidst the battle.

  As he dived down to tail a xenos fighter from above, ­Atraxii’s bionic eyes traced the targeting reticule for Ironhawk’s underslung las-talon as he swung behind his target. The brackets weaved over the tail of the rattling aircraft, piercing through the thic
k plume of exhaust it left in its wake. Atraxii tightened his grip on the control sticks, thumb hovering just above the firing rune.

  The reticule strobed, emitting a low chime as the weapon’s targeting lasers made contact. Atraxii punched down on the rune. A stuttered pair of energy blasts lanced out from the las-talon and into the ork fighter. The craft’s rust-eaten armour boiled away to slag as the bolts burned through its superstructure, detonating its fuel tanks with a krump. The fighter disintegrated, its wreckage spinning down through the dense clouds of Halitus IV.

  ‘Medusan Four.’ Dektaan’s voice filled Atraxii’s helm. ‘Rally on my location.’

  The ident-rune representing the Medusan Wing’s lead fighter leapt up onto Atraxii’s retinal display. He pulled Ironhawk into a climbing turn in Dektaan’s direction, keeping his flight path serpentine to shake loose any enemy pilots. Atraxii saw the ident-runes for Colnex and Enych spin about his display, staying in close contact to support one another.

  Atraxii pulled Ironhawk alongside Dektaan’s port flank, dipping his wing in salute.

  ‘Follow me in, Medusan Four,’ said Dektaan. ‘We are engaging Primary Target with an attack run while Medusan Two and Three hold its escorts.’

  ‘Affirmative,’ replied Atraxii.

  The two Stormhawks dived below the storm of battling fighters and blasted towards the massive ork warship. ­Atraxii’s eyes flicked over his scopes and auspex. For the moment, no enemy fighters had peeled off to intercept them.

  ‘We should come in low,’ called out Atraxii. He pulled up a hololith schematic of the ork vessel and the promethium reservoir it had moored itself to. ‘If we strike the fuel intakes, it may be enough to disrupt or potentially destroy Primary Target.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Atraxii blink-clicked an icon on his retinal display, transmitting the hololith to Dektaan. The squadron lead was silent for a heartbeat as he analysed the data.

  ‘Granted. With our limited ordnance, it is the course with the highest probability of success. Prepare to engage.’

  A freezing blade stabbed into Atraxii’s mind. He banked, rolling Ironhawk aside as a volley of rockets screamed past. A pair of missiles smashed into Dektaan’s Stormhawk, kicking the fighter into a flaming tailspin. The garish silhouette of the greenskin ace ripped past Atraxii, closing on Dektaan’s reeling fighter to claim its kill.

  ‘Brother!’ Atraxii broke from targeting the fuel lines tethered to the terror ship to come to the leader of the Medusan Wing’s aid.

  ‘No!’ Dektaan’s voice could barely be heard over a buzzing squall of distortion. ‘Stay on your target. I will draw it off as long as–’

  The vox-link severed in a burst of static. Atraxii shunted down the snarl of rage bubbling up from his chest and hauled Ironhawk back on course for the attack run. His instruments strained to parse through the tempest of flak and exploding fighters filling the air, rendering his scopes and auspex effectively blind. He did not see Dektaan fall, but lost his ident-rune as it vanished from his retinal display. Neither could Atraxii see the ork pilot that had killed him.

  Atraxii pushed a deep breath through his teeth. He blink-clicked away his overloaded instruments, leaving nothing in his visor but the targeting systems for his two remaining krak missiles. He glared down at the juddering fuel intakes connected to the xenos warship, sunk into the promethium reservoir to syphon its fuel. Atraxii laced the targeting reticule over the first of them.

  Screeds of data from Ironhawk’s rangefinders scrolled beside the terror ship in neat lines of Ekfrasi runes. Atraxii pushed the engines to full power, rapidly closing to maximum range for a firing solution as the distance between them quickly evaporated. The brackets flashed into deep crimson, and the Stormhawk’s machine-spirit sang with a ringing chime. Atraxii fired.

  The krak missile leapt free of the pod mounted on Ironhawk’s fuselage, roaring on a column of white-hot flame. It tore towards the ork warship, blistering the air around it into shimmering heat haze. Within the armoured nose cone of the missile, the weapon’s crude animus primed its explosive payload. It was ready to hurl itself into oblivion and drag the enemy down into the blackness with it.

  A buzzing storm of metallic splinters tore into the krak missile from above. The warhead detonated, scattering flame and shrapnel harmlessly across the terror ship’s scrap-iron hull.

  Fury pulsed in insistent chains down Atraxii’s spine as the ork ace intercepted the missile. Ironhawk’s spirit howled in silence. Atraxii blinked the targeting data for his last krak missile into transparency on his peripheral vision and spun up his assault cannons.

  The Techmarine was finished playing games with the abominable greenskin pilot. The ork needed to die, and it needed to die now. He felt the spirit of Ironhawk howl its assent through the fighter’s bones as the engines burned hotter. Atraxii scanned through the miasma of smoke and dense cloud, and spotted his target.

  The ork ace blasted past Atraxii, pulling its nose around in a skidding flip to come up behind him. Missile warnings blared in the cockpit as Atraxii fired the infernum halo launcher, catching the lethal projectiles in a cloud of blinding countermeasures that obscured him from his pursuer. The Techmarine blasted ahead of the trailing xenos scrap-fighter, gathering distance before executing a wingover.

  Bracing for the G-force, Atraxii rolled Ironhawk’s wings as he banked the fighter into a sharp turn. The Stormhawk rattled as momentum clawed at its superstructure. Slashing through a cloudbank, Atraxii pulled the nose of the fighter around, now set head on against the greenskin.

  Both fighters opened fire simultaneously. Assault cannon fire met the fusillade from the ork’s high-calibre guns to form a firestorm of high-velocity death. Atraxii swayed and rolled Ironhawk through the storm, keeping the ork in his crosshairs. Impacts hammered across the hull, bucking the craft and shearing away plates of ablative ceramite armour. Atraxii maintained his fire, dragging it across the greenskin’s left wing in a burst of flame and smoke.

  The ork banked, fleeing for the security of the terror ship’s point defence guns. Atraxii surged after it, following the juddering trail of smoke the xenos left in its wake. He blink-clicked a rune on his retinal display, re-engaging the targeting system for his last krak missile. The targeting reticule danced over the ork fighter. Atraxii gripped the control sticks tighter, lacing the brackets over the labouring craft’s tail.

  Alarms sang as balls of exploding smoke erupted in a wall around the fighters. Atraxii had entered the range of the terror ship’s guns. While inaccurate, the sheer volume of shots fired from the side of the ork warship guaranteed that staying this close would see Atraxii dead.

  The missile lock chimed. A thin smile ghosted across ­Atraxii’s face. He fired the missile and peeled away, rocketing out of the range of the terror ship’s guns.

  The krak missile smashed into the ork ace’s tail, sending the fighter tumbling end over end beneath the terror ship in a whirlwind of smoke and flame. Unable to control the scrap-fighter, the ork within was helpless as it rocketed straight into one of the pulsing fuel intake lines.

  The fighter exploded, setting the promethium within the fuel line alight in both directions. Ignited fuel blasted from the cable like a chain of fire. The terror ship rocked as its fuel detonated, listing as if struck by a torpedo.

  The fire raced down the intake line, burning everything in its path before it reached the promethium reservoir.

  A blinding flash filled the sky. A searing column of screaming flame blasted up through the ork terror ship, splitting the vessel in two. Secondary detonations blasted up across the surface of the forge refinery for miles. A towering mushroom cloud bloomed as the severed halves of the ork warship fell away in ruin. Shock waves tore across the floating platform, thundering like the pounding fist of an enraged god.

  The Medusan Wing raced from the blast wave, a trio of dark shapes darting away from the expan
ding ball of hellfire. Ork fighters were vaporised. The Iron Hands rode the edge of the concussion, their hulls jarred and rattled, but inviolate.

  Atraxii released a breath and sensed the warm pulse of ­satisfaction from Ironhawk as its prey burned. He ran an auspex sweep and opened a vox-channel.

  ‘Medusan Wing, form up on me. We have cut the head from the beast. Now we must complete the purge.’

  -19.0-

  The greenskins watched the terror ship die in the skies above them, speared by a column of blinding fire. An ork exists to fight, to make war, and there is no other acceptable way for one to meet its end than in battle. The xenos arrayed across the surface of the forge refinery were no different, but as their flagship burned, their cohesion perished with it.

  The hordes devolved into a senseless, directionless mob. Orks tore each other apart as fledgling tyrants fought to cement themselves and assume the mantle of control. The assault against the forge temple faltered, breaking like a filthy green tide against the last bastion of Imperial resistance.

  Seeing their opening, Colonel Dionaki and the commanders of the skitarii battle-maniple launched a blistering counter-attack. Though their forces were reduced almost entirely to battered, exhausted infantry, the Imperials leapt upon their invaders with vindictive fury. Marching at the tip of the spear, implacable in scarred black armour, strode the Iron Hands. The Space Marines advanced in unison, their gait metronomic. They did not slow. They did not charge. They marched, even and silent, their boltguns bucking in bionic fists as they blasted the vile aliens into ruin. They would sweep across the face of the foundry city that hung in the clouds of Halitus IV, and they would not leave a single one of the greenskins alive.

  Oblexus brought a hand up to the hull of Vengeance of Santar, brushing its ebon armour with silver fingertips. The sensors within his bionic limb detected the baking heat radiating from the dark plating. The Iron Father had taken to the skies in the Stormraven during the final cull of the xenos, purging their last remnants with salvoes of rockets and walls of mass-reactive death unleashed from the barrels of its hurricane bolters.