by Chris Dows
Balacet raised his glasses. Sure enough, past the milling power-armoured bodies, he saw tanks and infantry streaming from the left and the right towards the gateway. A number of scarlet-clad shapes ran to meet them, but their numbers were greatly reduced thanks to the efforts of the Angels Eradicant. Balacet put his glasses down and looked up to the smashed battlements. Where there had been a line of Space Marines only a few minutes before, now there were none. He assumed they were continuing their fight with the berzerkers, although he found it strange that the Dreadnought had stopped firing.
‘Colonel. Lieutenant Rokej reporting. We are engaging the enemy. Chaplain Venerable Tentera is out of action, sir. As are many of the Angels Eradicant.’
Balacet pushed the earpiece of his vox caster closer to his head. What had he just said?
‘Repeat, Rokej.’
‘We are engaging, sir. The Dreadnought has been knocked out by one of the berzerkers. He has dispatched the Angels Eradicant not fighting the warband with us and is moving towards your location. He appears to be carrying–’
The transmission ended in a fizzle of static, leaving Balacet’s mind reeling. He had to salvage this situation and prevent the enemy from getting past his position, or the High Temple would be threatened on two fronts. In his mind, he could see the fury on Alecia’s face and the frustration on Gaul’s during their tactical council. They had insisted that the only target would be Salandraxis Municipalis and that he should commit all of his forces to defending it, but he had disagreed. He had counted on the Angels Eradicant being more than a match for the enemy, and on them being able to send down reinforcements from their orbiting ships if required. The ships were gone, and it sounded as if the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes were faring little better. Now it was up to him to prevent anyone – anything – getting past his tanks.
‘Order all tank commanders to close up. I don’t want any gaps for these scum to get through. Train all weapons on the gateway. Once you have a clear shot past our forces, blow anything apart that shows its face. We advance in thirty seconds.’
Acknowledgements came in fast. Something nagged at Balacet, and he clicked his vox to the long-range regimental channel.
‘To all Vodorian Grenadiers outside Salandraxis Municipalis. This is Colonel Balacet. Return to Salandraxis Municipalis. We require urgent reinforcement. All previous mission directives are cancelled.’
A series of explosions tore into the gateway, bringing a part of the wall down and the gate itself crashing to the ground. Balacet activated the vox once again.
‘Get here as quickly as you can. The Emperor protects.’
Engines roared and exhausts belched with thick black fumes. The ground of the assembly yard shook with the grinding of tracks, and Balacet steadied himself against his Leman Russ’ turret ring. His tank was right in the centre of the wide line of war machines, just as it should be. He would lead the advance through the gateway, and he was going to destroy every creature from the warp that still drew breath. And then he would turn back to the High Temple, although he strongly suspected his efforts would no longer be required now that the Living Saint had joined the fray.
Balacet jolted backwards as the Leman Russ advanced. He felt comfortable in the open turret, at home, like he had been as a tank commander earlier in his career. Space Marines were extremely hard to kill, he knew that, but nothing withstood the weight of a tank running over its head or the explosive force of massed battle cannons. Twenty of them would be more than a match for ceramite armour. The battling Adeptus Astartes warriors loomed closer. He hoped the remaining Angels Eradicant would get out of his way and allow him to do his duty. Balacet gave the order for battle speed.
At the top of the smashed battlements, a shape appeared above the gateway. For a second Balacet could not understand where the berzerker had come from, but then realised it must be the one that Lieutenant Rokej had reported. The berzerker raised a giant axe to the sky and lingered for a moment. Then, he slowly lowered the grizzly weapon towards the armoured reserve and his gaze came to rest right on Balacet. Above, the darkening clouds parted to give way to a cluster of falling stars.
Orbital strike.
‘Open–’
A sheet of flame roared in front of Balacet’s face. His ears were ringing and he could feel the tank grinding to a halt beneath him. He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was a red haze. Another huge blast of air hit him from the left, and he felt the Leman Russ rise on one side before crashing back down. Balacet reached over to the vox transmitter, but when he looked down he could not see his fingers. Instead there were ragged stumps of bone with blood pumping around them. The pain cascaded through him as he touched his face with his good hand. Instead of flesh, he felt wet bone. The realisation of what had happened swept over him in a panicked wave. He could not hear his own voice, only the hammering of blood inside his head.
Balacet tried to get himself out of the burning machine, but he could not move. Another shock wave rocked him from the opposite side and he blinked furiously. There was just enough time for him to see two tanks running into each other and the front of a third bursting into flame.
A shadow moved on his right, and he turned back to face the gateway which was now only yards ahead. His left eye stopped working altogether, and the world changed to a series of scarlet blurs streaming towards him. And then, there was something standing on his burning tank, blocking his view completely. Shaking his head, he stared through a crimson mist. An object resolved itself, huge and flat, racing towards him. It looked like the blade of some enormous chainaxe.
Samzar opened his eyes and tried to blink the throbbing after-image from his sight. It was made all the more pronounced by the fact that he was staring up into the sky, so he moved his head down to see just how far the blast had thrown him. He was many yards away from the foot of the body-strewn steps to the High Temple where the glowing figure still stood. Samzar realised he was looking upon the form of a Living Saint, and the blood started racing within his veins. What a prize his skull would make for the Blood God! He would be elevated above all others, perhaps even Khârn himself, were he to claim him as a trophy.
Samzar tried to right himself and the base of his spine exploded in a cauldron of heat. He had experienced pain before, but nothing on this scale. Reaching down and behind, his fingers traced the melted hole blown in the ceramite of his armour by the Sister of Battle during the encounter with the armoured column. He felt the slick, warm sensation of blood running freely down his legs from the gaping wound she had created. That did not bother him in the least. Something else was making him feel strange, as if a great veil had been taken from his thoughts. He felt focussed, able to think and plan. He realised it was a moment of lucidity, that the Butcher’s Nails had receded to a whisper at the back of his mind for a moment.
His thoughts turned to Lukosz. How he would have revelled in this battle.
Something moved towards the golden being at the top of the steps. It was the Chapter Master he had fought so savagely. Samzar’s rage began to boil over. All thoughts of tactics fled into the bloody shadows cast by the Nails, consumed in hatred and loathing. He made no attempt to resist. Samzar had but a single reason to live – kill all that stood before him, and do it before anyone else claimed their heads for their own glory.
Clambering to his feet over the corpses on which he had landed, Samzar became aware of movement all around. The blast might have cleared the entranceway to the High Temple and swept all that stood before it down the steps, but it had not killed many of his warriors. At least a dozen of the warband were rising, weapons drawn and raging at the Angels Eradicant assembling in front of their Living Saint. All Samzar felt now was the favour of the Blood Father upon him. He did not care if the other berzerkers fought with him or against him. Bellowing an oath to Khorne, he began running back towards the steps, the searing pain in his back completely masked by his Butcher’s
Nails. In seconds he was nearing the top, having rammed his way past other berzerkers in his bloodlust. The Angels Eradicant Chapter Master stood only yards away, shoulder to shoulder with his battle-brothers to form a wall between the attackers and the golden figure who had stepped back into the open doorway of the High Temple, his own weapon and shield still raised. Without warning, the Angels Eradicant charged forwards in a line filling the width of the steps, sweeping down with chainswords and power axes. Something at the back of Samzar’s mind tried to tell him they had the higher ground, but the thought was fleeting and held no interest. Samzar threw himself at the nearest Space Marine, swiping his half-chainaxe outwards and ramming into the Angel Eradicant’s exposed chest armour with his left pauldron. His attacker pivoted around on one foot and stepped downwards to save himself from falling. This was exactly what Samzar had hoped for, and he sliced down into the thigh armour, ripping through it and into the flesh and bone within.
The Space Marine collapsed forwards, taking Samzar’s embedded weapon with him. Samzar had to relinquish his grip on it to avoid following his victim down to the bottom of the steps. Looking to the bodies before him, he spotted a fallen berzerker holding his weapon in a death grip. Turning to retrieve it, he felt a fresh burning sensation across the top of his right shoulder, and his arm went numb. The Angels Eradicant Chapter Master was upon him, and Samzar was astonished to see his weapon had cut its way through most of his arm and deep into his chest. Samzar punched forwards with his good hand, hitting the Space Marine squarely in the upper chest and pushing him upwards and away. Samzar staggered backwards, unbalanced by the sudden limpness of his right arm, and scrambled towards the weapon of the dead berzerker even as the Chapter Master bore down on him again. His relic blade came up high. If this was to be his fate, then so be it. But he would not go before Khorne without a weapon in his hand.
The Chapter Master flew backwards in a cloud of blood and ceramite fragments, crashing onto his back and rolling to one side. To his left and right, his battle-brothers were struck by a volley of bolter shells and las-fire, some of them dropping instantly, others turning to look past Samzar to the bottom of the steps behind him. Realising they had a new enemy, the Angels Eradicant surged past the kneeling Samzar, pushing the berzerkers into the advancing line. Samzar heard the clash of bodies in close-quarters fighting around him. Despite his dreadful injury, his Butcher’s Nails were howling at him to fight. His legs still worked, he could still grip a weapon.
Get up, Samzar.
‘Kill!’
Take up that weapon.
‘Maim!’
Turn and face your enemy.
‘Destroy!’
Samzar turned. The approach to the bottom of the steps was a sea of black and brass armour flecked with red, smashing against the few remaining Angels Eradicant in an unstoppable tide of destruction. Jumping down behind the loyalist forces, Samzar plunged his new chainsword into the back of an Angel Eradicant, pushing and screaming until it could go no further into his body. A handful of berzerkers who had survived the Angels’ charge followed his lead, hacking and slashing at the dwindling line of black-and-sand-coloured armour. Such was the ferocity of Samzar’s attack that the body of his victim would not relinquish his weapon. Samzar had to raise his foot and push to withdraw the gore-flicking chainsword. Through the gap came several black-armoured figures, and all but one of them rushed towards the top of the steps in their own murderous charge. The brilliant light filled Samzar’s head again but this time he ducked, the bodies that had thundered past him tossed back into the main force from which they had come. The light receded and Samzar struggled to his feet, using the chainsword to push himself upright. Looking up the steps, he could see the doors to the High Temple were now firmly closed, a line of Sisters of Battle and a smattering of Angels Eradicant forming a last line of defence. His blood boiled with the strength of his need to claim their skulls, and he took a step towards them, his chainsword spinning up to full speed.
‘Samzar.’
He stopped. The voice was familiar, but from where he was unsure. Samzar wanted to charge back up the steps and get to the Living Saint, but something told him to turn. Before him stood a Hound of Abaddon. He had his hand raised, signalling the Black Legion warband behind him to await his command. Samzar saw the remaining berzerkers shift warily, unsure what to do. The figure took off his helmet slowly, and stared impassively at Samzar. What was his name? Locq. That was it. Captain Locq. Realisation lifted the scarlet veil from his mind.
‘Does Khârn live?’
Samzar could not quite understand the question. He had not seen Khârn since battle had commenced.
‘Of course he lives. He is the Chosen of Khorne. What business is it of yours?’ Samzar gasped the words, struggling to breathe. Had this upstart come to take their glory from them, after all the blood that had been shed by his warband? Samzar’s hand tightened on the chainsword. His would be an excellent skull to take. Locq looked past Samzar and up towards the High Temple, then over to the few remaining berzerkers. He began to smile, raised his hand and made a fist. Samzar’s Nails screamed for him to act. He thrust his chainsword towards Locq’s throat, but his wounds made him slow. As the Hounds of Abaddon surged over the fallen bodies of the Angels Eradicant and into the handful of berzerkers on the steps, Samzar felt a terrible vibration run through his abdomen. Locq’s face was pressed up against his helmet, a sneer playing on his lips. He did not have to look down to witness the fatal wound Locq had struck. This time, he knew without a doubt he was going to die. An extraordinary silence filled his head, and as he felt himself fall, he realised the Butcher’s Nails were no longer screaming at him. Through his fading vision, he saw Locq staring down at him, readying his weapon to take his skull. Samzar cared not.
If dying meant silence, he embraced it.
The second flash of light came just as Khârn was taking the head of the last Angel Eradicant from the wall. Behind him, the explosions from the orbital bombardment were still tearing the remains of the defensive armoured column apart as the berzerkers ran amok between the tanks, slaughtering the Imperial troops in a sea of blood.
‘Roderbar, cease fire and proceed as you will. I am inside the shrine city.’
Khârn cut the vox-link before Roderbar could reply. Whatever happened to the shipmaster and his captured White Scars cruiser after this battle, he had proven his worth to Khârn and their god.
As the light flooded over the rooftops of the city from the top of the hill, Khârn was again reminded of his vision, of a golden corona destined to be extinguished by the Blood God’s will. Salandraxis had already provided an offering of considerable power to Khorne in the shape of the Dreadnought pilot’s skull, but far greater trophies awaited him. This was a beacon, yet another sign calling him to the Red Path. Hefting Gorechild before him, Khârn ran through the narrow alleyways of Municipalis, sweeping between the tall buildings that still burned from the orbital bombardment. The citadel was blackened and charred, its gleaming white stone smothered by the hand of Chaos. Khârn gloried in the desecration.
Through the smoke and flames Khârn could see the end of a deserted passageway. Beyond it stood a golden statue to the Emperor, arms raised out as if to welcome Khârn to the once ornate square in which it stood. Further ahead still, a wide avenue swept up the hill to the rear of the High Temple, and while he could see fighting going on around the curved walls he was surprised that the Imperial forces had not set up a roadblock in such an obvious approach. The curiosity was still lingering in his mind when the roar of jump packs thundered in the air. Fire exploded all around, thumping into his armour and shattering the cobblestones underfoot. Khârn looked up to see the air filled with Seraphim, their twin bolt pistols pouring down projectiles as they swooped and flitted towards their target. Khârn swept upwards with Gorechild, but the Sisters were far too experienced to be caught out so easily. More fire cannoned down, and Khârn thr
ew himself against the ruined stone wall of a burning building, bringing up his plasma pistol and firing into the black-clad shapes. Such was the density of their attack between the narrow confines of the passageway that his first shot brought down two Seraphim at the same time. The second hit a third Sister in the jump pack, blowing her up and taking two others with her in the inferno. The remaining combatants broke to avoid the same fate, before rapidly reforming and descending on him from all directions.
The first to land were quickly dispatched by Gorechild, but with screams to the glory of the Emperor they kept on coming. To his left, Khârn saw more Seraphim landing and running across the square to join the attack, and spotted some of them heading for the raised pillar of the statue where they could aim with care and fire over the heads of their fellow Sisters.
Khârn crouched down just as they opened fire on him. The stone exploded directly above his head, chunks of masonry clattering off his helmet. Khârn thrust outwards with a roar, sweeping Gorechild in an arc from left to right. Several Seraphim were hit by shrapnel, but still they pushed forwards, firing their braces of pistols while chanting oaths. A stream of ignited promethium from a hand flamer enveloped the ceramite on his pauldron and a warning rune blinked red. Shots rang out from Seraphim who had jumped into the air to hover above the melee, hitting Khârn on the back of the neck and glancing off his shoulders. Their tactic might have been effective against a normal opponent, but not Khârn. He span himself around with Gorechild in both hands, three more falling to his mighty chainaxe. Enraged, the airborne Seraphim swooped down, but Khârn shot them at point-black range and let them fall onto the lifeless bodies of their comrades. The Sisters at the base of the statue kept on firing, but Khârn moved too fast for them to get a killing shot. Three of them took flight before he was on their position. Those who had stayed on the ground he carved into pieces.