A moment of calm descended over Praxor, his closest foes all dispatched for now. It enabled him to take stock of the battle. The Ultramarines had ventured quite far from the ruined basilica and driven a small wedge of cobalt into the necron sea of metal. As it got further, the wedge narrowed like a slow-moving lance seeking out the heart of its foes – in this case, the necron overlord. Another phalanx was moving around to try and stymie the daring Ultramarines’ attack.
Its machine-spirit humming for further death, Praxor pressed his power sword up to his battle-helm to beseech the blessing of the Emperor and the primarch before thrusting back into the fray.
The gilded necron overlord was not easy to miss. Sicarius had the creature target-locked in his left retinal lens. Schemata scrolled across the right, overlaying his vision. Weaknesses were hard to identify in the monster’s metal armature. He was plated like the other necrons, but bigger, the same size as the elites pressing ahead of him in a tight warrior-cohort.
They were of a different caste, these mechanoids; just as implacable but better drilled. The elites stayed close to their lord, just in front of a tight ring of bodyguards. The latter wielded shimmering war-glaives that looked like they’d shear straight through power armour. Much like the elites, these too would need to be broken open in order to reach the overlord.
He had gambled with the Ultramarines under his command, allowed them to fall into the necron lord’s web, all so he could draw the monster out.
‘You have me, creature,’ he whispered to the confines of his battle-helm. ‘Now come and claim me.’
Sicarius’s mind was set: one way or another this war would end between him and the gilded necron. Even if he had to kill every one of the elites and then destroy the honour guard, he would do it. To the death.
The comm-feed in the captain’s ear crackled, indicating long-range interference. He severed a raider’s torso with his Tempest Blade, immolating another with a close burst from his plasma pistol.
‘This is Sicarius. Proceed,’ he growled.
The voice that answered was not who he expected but the news it brought allowed another plan to form in the captain’s mind.
Cato Sicarius smiled.
‘Daceus,’ he said, turning to his second-in-command. ‘Prepare the force to withdraw.’
The veteran-sergeant was pummelling a raider with his power fist as he looked up. ‘Sir?’
‘We fall back to Kellenport as originally planned.’
‘Our forces are boxed in, brother-captain. We have no route of retreat.’
‘Not yet. Defensive postures for all troops. Do it now, brother-sergeant.’
The order was relayed. The Ultramarines who’d fought the necrons back this far were told to give up the ground they’d won and consolidate at the ruins.
‘I have an attack vector to the elites. We can engage. I repeat, we can engage.’
Ixion was soaring on the flaming pillars of his jump pack, locking onto his next target, when Daceus’s voice brought his imagined glory crashing down to earth.
‘Negative. Pull back to the ruins, all squads.’
The feed was cut. Ixion pulled up short, landing in a patch of no-man’s-land with his squad.
Brother Ptolon thundered down alongside him. ‘Sergeant?’
‘We’re falling back to the basilica ruins, all of us.’
Ixion looked heavenwards and saw Strabo was already on his way. He did not question, he did not doubt – he merely obeyed. But Ullyious Ixion did feel his wrath magnified at the denial of his warrior-urge.
He craned his neck, looking up into the stars appearing in the sky, and ignited his jump-jets in a stream of fire. ‘Fly, Avengers!’
‘Bring it down!’
Hektar and Ulius struck the lead monolith time and again but every blazing bolt was simply absorbed by the machine. Inexorably, it came forward with the other two monoliths moving behind it in perfect unison. Slow and ponderous, whatever the triumvirate was about to unleash would be terrible. As he shouted the order, Atavian knew they had to stop it. But as the energy nexus strung between the crystal nodes of each of the pyramids grew into a blazing coruscation, the sergeant was struck by a solemn truth.
We are going to fail.
Emerald lightning crackled around the lead monolith’s apex as the energy tendrils were drawn up its tubular conduits and into its crystal matrix. A corona of light built around the crystal, increasing in intensity with the passing of each second.
Atavian gave the only order he could think of that would make any difference. ‘Get into cover!’
A thick beam of power pulsed from the lead monolith’s crystal. It struck the steps just below the Titan Slayers’ position, turning the air to steam and the world to fire around them. The shockwave lifted the Ultramarines off their feet. Motes of dust and debris were suspended briefly in the blast radius. It resonated outwards like an earthquake, splitting the ground with a web of cracks centred at the origin point.
Despite the dampeners built into his helmet’s systems, Atavian’s auditory canal was overloaded with sound. Blood vessels burst in his nose and ears, nulling two of his senses instantly. Retinal lenses couldn’t process the sudden influx of intense light; excessive heat warnings raced across the internal display before they too capitulated against the sheer strength of the blast. He remembered crouching down before the blast hit and the section of wall disintegrating in front of him. It was what he imagined an atomic explosion to be like. A sense of weightlessness overtook his body as Atavian realised he’d been lifted off his feet. Propelled backwards he slammed into a still-standing column and slumped, knocked onto his backside.
Ultramarines lay scattered around him, some Tirian’s, some his own. They were thrown like debris before a storm – the deadly emerald beam showed no respect for the heirs of Guilliman. It was death. Pure and undistilled. Despite himself, Atavian couldn’t help but feel awed by its incredible power. It didn’t stop him from wanting to destroy it.
Cobalt-armoured bodies were stirring. Smoke and fire wafted and flickered between them. The stone steps were levelled, most of what was left of the ruins too. The sound of scraping battle plate came from all around him as Atavian’s battle-brothers got up and tried to regroup. Defeat was not a word in an Ultramarine’s vocabulary, or so the sergeant believed. Pain-suppressing drugs were already flooding his nervous system and Larraman cells began the process of rapid blood-clotting as Atavian rose to his feet. A pall swathed the atmosphere from the displaced dust and debris. Patches of steam lingered in tiny squalls before crystallising as the cold reasserted dominance.
Atavian’s tactical display revealed a lot of amber runes – almost all of the Ultramarines in the rearguard were injured. There were some red icons too, the disabled or dead. Ineffective battle-brothers were not his concern right now; he needed firepower, and quickly. He’d reached the end of the blast zone – perversely, the resulting crater provided some rudimentary cover. Several of his squad and what was left of Tirian’s, including the sergeant himself, were already hunkering down.
Tirian handed Atavian his magnoculars.
‘Barely even a scratch.’
Atavian had to agree. It was a slow march that brought the necrons and their monoliths to the rear of the Ultramarines lines but for all the damage done to them they could have been advancing one step a minute and they’d still reach the Devastators intact.
He handed the scopes back. ‘Its weak point is the crystal power matrix at the machine’s apex.’
Tirian nodded. ‘An easy enough target.’
Ulius was crouched down next to Atavian and said, ‘If something weren’t fouling our auto-aiming systems.’
Removing the targeter from Ulius’s lascannon, Atavian took a look. ‘Trajectory is off.’ He made some adjustments, looked again. ‘Still off.’ He gave the device back to Ulius and glanced around the crater. ‘Where is Hektar?’
‘Dead, sir.’
‘Where is his lascannon?’
‘With his body, brother-sergeant.’
Atavian’s gaze was on the advancing monoliths.
‘Bring it here.’
Ulius did as commanded. He kept his head down as the fire from the Devastators started up again. His caution was unnecessary. The monoliths were recycling, spewing repaired and revivified necrons from their portals and undoing all the damage inflicted by Guilliman’s Hammer. Tirian was unimpressed.
‘We’re wasting ammunition,’ he growled, calling for a cease-fire. Missile launchers stayed primed but still; heavy bolters stalled with belts ready-fed. ‘The war machines must be neutralised.’
Since the blast, Atavian’s Titan Slayers hadn’t fired a single shot.
‘While they’re regenerating infantry, they’re not using those crystal matrices to eradicate us. It’s a cycle. Once it’s complete, the monoliths will charge those conduits and unleash the beam weapon.’
Ulius returned, hefting Hektar’s lascannon and setting it down next to his sergeant.
‘What are you seeing, Maxima?’ Tirian’s use of his first name made Atavian turn to face him.
Tirian’s scarred battle-helm was reflected back in his crimson lenses. ‘It’s what I’ve seen, brother.’
Overhead, stabbing beams of emerald were thickening the air. The necrons were within gauss-flayer range and releasing sporadic bursts as they advanced. Bolter fire answered but it was no more than a perfunctory response.
Atavian continued, ‘We cannot trust our auto-targeters. The necrons are machines of a type. Affinity with mechanisms is a component of their xenos construction. We are feeling their influence.’
‘The machine-spirits of our weapons are corrupted?’ Tirian sounded incensed.
‘No, but they’ve been compromised. The adjustments I made to Ulius’s targeter should have corrected the aim – they didn’t. Destroying those crystals will take accuracy but it must be done by instinct.’ Detaching the seals on his gorget, Atavian removed his battle-helm. Without the voice-augmentation of his armour, he had to shout to be heard. ‘By naked eye alone.’
He hefted the lascannon onto his shoulder. The weight of it felt good, almost nostalgic. Atavian side glanced at Ulius. ‘Follow my lead, brother.’
Jettisoning his helmet and mag-locking it to his thigh, Ulius tried to gauge his sergeant’s aim.
‘We are targeting the thirdmost machine?’
‘Yes. Wait until they’re powering up the main weapon. I will give the order when to shoot.’
It was sniper shooting with a lascannon. Tanks, Dreadnoughts, installations – a lascannon’s usual prey was large and relatively static. The monoliths were slow but whatever fouling technology the necrons were employing had narrowed the target-window considerably. It required peerless accuracy.
A sniper often prepared for days, scoping out the area, finding optimum position. They would gauge all variables: light, wind speed, weather anomalies, a target’s weak points. Though much more powerful, a lascannon lacked the subtlety of a rifle. Instead of days, Atavian had only minutes to prepare his shot. He considered recoil, trajectory, projected impact point. In the end he trusted to two things: instinct and faith.
The last of the repaired raiders emerged from the portals, prompting the crystal nodes on the monoliths to energise again. Frantic lightning arcs sprang from the central machine, creating a link between the other two. Power was fed to the main crystal and the energy coruscation swelled brightly.
‘On my signal…’ said Atavian, adjusting his position by a fraction. Gauss-fire was chewing up the earth around the Ultramarines, taking chunks off the crater’s edge and spitting the debris against their armour. Sergeant Tirian had opened up with his heavies again, trying to give the lascannons some protection.
The glow around the lead monolith’s crystal was still growing. Beam release was imminent.
‘Make your blow quickly, brother,’ warned Tirian.
‘It will fall heavily. At my signal…’ Atavian muttered, bringing his cheek to the side of the lascannon and lowering the barrel tip by the smallest fraction.
When trying to disable a fast-moving target, let it come to you.
One of the rubrics of his old masters came to the forefront of his mind.
The monoliths advanced into prime firing position. It also brought them into Atavian’s crosshairs. He lifted two fingers from the cannon trigger. That was the signal.
Twin lascannon beams hit the thirdmost monolith as it was feeding the last of its power to the hub-crystal, shattering the node and sending a backwash of energy into the other two.
The struck monolith shuddered as a chain reaction of catastrophic damage rolled through its structure. Cracks formed in its pyramid hull, exuding sickly emerald light. Actinic fire bloomed out of its portal as the vast machine crashed to the ground and stopped. Rampant energy spikes crippled the other two, forcibly aborting the beam projection. Stung and in sudden need of repair, the remaining monoliths began a slow retreat, leaving the shattered war engine behind.
Despite himself, Atavian gave a shout of triumph.
It was echoed by some of the others in the rearguard. The defeat of the monoliths sent a ripple effect through the advancing infantry, who were being chewed up by the combined fire of both Devastator squads. Without the portals they could not immediately repair and redeploy. At last, their numbers were thinning.
A second problem compounded the first for the necrons. Tirian saw it through the magnoculars.
‘Brothers, we are reinforced.’ The savage joy in his voice was obvious.
Atavian felt it too as he was given the scopes.
‘I see conscripts, Guard formations too.’ Increasing magnification, he added, ‘Iulus Fennion and his Immortals lead them.’
Tirian laughed, surprise and relief colouring his tone. ‘I confess I thought the Kellenport defenders vanquished and us an island in a sea of foes.’
Atavian handed off the lascannon to Hektar’s replacement. Now the monoliths were neutralised, at least for a time, he resumed his duties as sergeant.
‘We are still an island, brother,’ he asserted, ‘but now we have a channel taking us back to land.’
Orders from Daceus were already coming from the front line.
A full retreat was in effect. All forces were to return to Kellenport. With the concentration of Ultramarines in the area, several necron phalanxes had rerouted to tackle them. Somewhere in their midst, a necron overlord directed their efforts. Sicarius must have irritated them and now baited the trap. Kellenport’s walls were as good a staging ground for a pitched battle as any other.
‘It’s as if he planned it,’ said Tirian. The necron infantry was being pressed on both sides.
Before he donned his battle-helm, Atavian met Tirian’s gaze. ‘What makes you think he didn’t?’
Barring a skeleton force of defenders, Commander Sonne had virtually emptied Kellenport. Entrenched gun positions were dug out and formed into heavy weapon teams; the troopers from disparate squads were reappropriated into platoons; conscripts were armed and armoured from the dead and forged into their own battalions; and what was left of the Damnosian armour rode out into the wastes led by a small group of cobalt Angels.
Adanar was in the cupola of the lead tank, a Leman Russ with a damaged battle cannon but whose side-sponson heavy bolters worked well enough. Two others followed it in staggered formation, one either side. Both were damaged but still had some firepower left. Sentinel walkers, some without functioning weapons, and Hellhound tanks ranged the flanks. A stoic block of Chimera transports brought up the rear, with one exception. This vehicle was at the head of the slow-moving armoured column. Its roof hatch had been ripped off by a gauss-blast, so too most of the roof. The rest of the Chimera’s hull was intact, as were its tracks and engine. It made the perfect transport for Sergeant Fennion and four of his men. The others were amongst the infantry platoons, their presence more galvanising than any tank.
For the first time since the siege
had begun, Adanar felt something other than despair. It wasn’t hope, only reunion with his dead family could restore that; it was something else, something that at least dulled the fatalism seizing him – it was vengeance.
The One Hundred seemed to Falka like a misnomer now. He wasn’t sure there’d ever been a hundred poor souls in his improvised regiment in the first place, not exactly. It didn’t matter, the name had resonance and the ex-rig-hand turned soldier liked that. What was left of the men marched with him in lockstep alongside the Ultramarines. The Chimera transport of the Space Marines moved slowly so the conscripts could keep up. Sergeant Fennion had initially dismissed the idea of riding aboard the tank, wanting to march the wastes as the humans did, but Falka had convinced him that he needed to be seen. He was a beacon, something for the others to look to, and more inspiring than any banner. Reluctantly, the Ultramarine had agreed.
‘What are you thinking, brother-Angel?’ Falka asked, looking up in the direction of the Chimera’s ragged hull. He caught the last dregs of the sallow sun fading into the horizon. It painted the distant tundra red and rimed the edge of the mountains.
Iulus glared straight ahead as if he beheld destiny. ‘That you ask many questions and are impudent in the extreme, Trooper Kolpeck.’
Falka laughed.
‘That is why you like me so much.’
Iulus glanced at him askance. There was the shadow of a smile on his lips then it was gone again.
‘Are you ready for more war, Brother Kolpeck?’
Falka nodded. ‘Aye, my time is almost up I think. I’ll be happy to leave my blood here, just as long as I take a few of those metal bastards with me.’
‘Fearless and well spoken, brother. You would have made a fine Ultramarine.’
The necron lines were close now. Some of the mechanoids were turning in response to the new threat and sporadic bursts of emerald gauss-fire came rippling their way. It was different to the battle in the courtyard, even the fight to hold the walls. That was desperate, there was no choice but to take up arms or die. This was not like that. A silver sea stretched before the Imperial defenders composed of alien killing machines Falka didn’t understand or truly want to face.
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