by Various
‘Evocatus, take the lead and push on to the crash site,’ commands Mikal. ‘Pull down that broadcast station and the clear line of fire. Enemy Warlord, four kilometres to north-east. Warhounds, flank westward. Inculcator, support position theta.’
Affirmatives buzz back across the battle group vox-net, and the Titans break their close formation to disperse through the streets of Ithraca. With Inculcator moving along a parallel route, Invigilator advances. Loyal Imperial Army troops part ahead of the Reaver, the infantry cheering and raising their fists to the defiant war engines as they pass.
There has been no word from Calth command or the Ultramarines Legion. The Imperial forces are still reeling from the surprise attacks and the defence of the city rests upon the shields and weapons of a score of Titans, against three times that number. Mikal barely registers the shouts of encouragement from the infantry swarming around his machine, his mind enmeshed in the sensor net of his Reaver as he monitors the enemy’s movements.
‘Victorix, we need eyes ahead of advance. Five hundred metres. There was a Warhound hunting group to the west but they have disappeared from the auspex. Keep watch for them.’
‘Aye, Princeps Senioris,’ comes the terse reply.
‘Keep communications to minimum, total encryption. If the enemy were able to scramble transmission, they may have possession of our cipher keys and protocols.’
The battle group advances swiftly, leaving behind the rag-tag formations of Imperial Army preparing to repel those who had but hours before been their allies. With the Warhounds scouting ahead, the larger Titans remain within a few hundred metres of one another in close support. An enemy engine, a heavily gunned Nemesis-class, has taken up a position directly ahead of their advance. Scanner returns suggest that the Nemesis is not alone, but all energy signatures are blurred by the background noise of the turbine mills and manufactories.
A kilometre further on, they come within range of unseen enemy artillery. Evocatus takes the brunt of the first salvo, the Warlord’s void shields crackling and blazing as they absorb the shells. A building to the right and a few dozen metres ahead of Invigilator collapses in moments, spilling debris into the street. Through the smoke and dust, the Reaver’s sensors pick up massed infantry and vehicles heading directly for the battle group.
‘Enemy troops, half a kilometre. Several hundred infantry. Battle tanks, number unknown. Inculcator, Deathrunner, engage and suppress. Evocatus, we will continue to advance. Enemy artillery located on the outskirts of Demesnus parklands. Victorix, Firewolf, deal with the guns.’
Whether from bravado, madness or fear of failure, the enemy regiment attacks the Titans directly, pouring into the buildings across their line of advance. More shells and rockets fall, laying waste to city blocks around the war engines.
A lucky salvo engulfs Invigilator, and Mikal feels the pulse of the Titan’s void shields straining to hold back the explosions. A generator fails, the mind impulse feedback feeling like a muscle spasm in Mikal’s gut. In the heart of the Titan, enginseers and servitors race into action to repair the overloaded shield.
The enemy infantry are within range. Evocatus opens fire with its twin carapace-mounted gatling blasters, sending a torrent of shells into an occupied building in reply to the sporadic heavy weapons shots spitting from the windows and balconies. The front of the stuccoed building sags and implodes under the weight of fire, opening up its shattered interior like a gaping wound.
The Warhound Deathrunner breaks into a run, paired mega-bolters shredding squads of infantry as they try to move in the open. Inculcator’s lasweapons chew through a column of battle tanks rounding the junction ahead, turning three into blazing wrecks and blocking the advance of the others.
Mikal highlights the formation in his tactical display. ‘Skallan, target that choke point. Full salvo.’
The apocalypse missile launcher atop the Reaver’s carapace adjusts its trajectory under the coaxing of the moderati and then opens fire, sending a flurry of ten missiles screaming down the boulevard into the heart of the tank formation. Machines and men are ripped apart by the thunderous detonation, spraying the lower floors of the surrounding buildings with shrapnel and wreckage.
Assessing the damage inflicted by the battle group, Mikal reaches a conclusion. The tanks and infantry are nothing more than a distraction, intended to prevent the Titans from reaching the Aratan before the enemy.
‘Threat minimal, this is a delaying action. Continue the advance, we cannot afford to waste time mopping up dregs. Nemesis is two kilometres, holding position.’
Mikal considers his options, absently strafing the shattered traitor company as they pass. The opposing Nemesis is only a single Titan, but its weapons are capable of ripping through void shields and slicing through armour. It is the perfect Titan killer. Its position gives it wide arcs of fire and would require a lengthy detour to outflank – a detour the battle group cannot afford to make. Sporadic sensor returns also indicate the presence of supporting troops, probably traitor Skitarii from the Fire Masters Legion.
Weighing up the possible courses of action, Mikal must decide if the risk of losing one or more of the battle group outweighs the time lost by an encircling manoeuvre. It is not an easy choice, but as Princeps Senioris he knows what must be done.
‘Full attack on the Nemesis. If we can break through to the parklands then we have an open route to the Aratan. Evocatus, you must draw its fire from the west. Deathrunner, dare the gauntlet and deal with ground support. Inculcator, you and I will make the main attack.’
To the credit of his fellow princeps, there is no hesitation in their affirmative replies. Leaving the dead in their wake, the battle group presses on through Ithraca.
Amidst the creak of settling debris, Varinia hears voices. She cannot make out the words, but they are coming from down the stairwell. For a moment she wonders if they are other survivors, but their harsh, cruel laughter suggests otherwise.
Pexilius stirs in her arms as she stands up to survey the remains of the apartment. Broken furniture litters the dust-covered floor and the collapsed ceiling blocks off the only other exit. She spies a crawlspace, just large enough for her, where an inner wall has toppled. Pexilius murmurs and opens his eyes as she places him inside the dark space.
‘Hush now, mother will be right back.’
Pushing him a little further into the gap, Varinia returns to the upturned table and tries to lift it. She hears the crunch of boots on the stairs through the broken doorway. The table is too heavy for her to lift completely but she needs something to cover the opening. If not, she might as well stand in the middle of the room. Gritting her teeth, she pulls up the edge of the table and takes a few steps, wincing at the noise as the corner drags through broken tiles. Arms already trembling from the effort, she lowers it gently and takes in a deep breath.
The voices are coming closer, echoing up the shattered stairway. Glass breaks under their approaching tread.
‘Move, damn you,’ she whispers.
There is the sound of rubble thudding down the stairs and a curse as one of the men stumbles. There are words she does not understand, but the tone of them needs no translation. Varinia seizes her chance, hauling the table up onto its side across the entrance to her hiding place. Ducking behind, she pulls a few stray ceiling tiles across the gap, leaving only a sliver of light.
Pexilius is fully awake now. He wriggles in his swaddling, yawning and blinking. Taking him up in her arms, Varinia backs as far into the hole as possible, shaking with fear. Her son seems to sense her fright, brow creasing. She strokes her fingers across his head to comfort him.
‘Not now, little one, not now. Stay quiet for mother.’
Her agitation unsettles the infant and she recognises all too well an imminent cry.
‘Please, Pexilius...’
Through the crack she has left, Varinia sees dark shapes at the doorway. Three men appear. They are dressed in drab Imperial Army fatigues. She does not recognise the
regiment; there have been so many in Ithraca for the mustering that she always lost track during the conversations with her husband.
She wishes he were here now. She wishes her brave lieutenant would kill these damnable looters and take her and Pexilius to safety. Her tears start again, salty on her lips.
There is a sigh from Pexilius and he opens his mouth, eyes screwing shut. Hating herself, Varinia puts her hand over his face, terrified for the both of them. His distress is muffled, unheard amongst the sound of settling wreckage and the thud of the looters’ boots. Holding her breath, sure that the pounding of her heart itself can be heard, Varinia is immobile, not daring to move a muscle lest she disturb the pile of debris above her.
Someone steps next to the upturned table, blocking out the light. Varinia stifles a gasp of fright, clenching her jaw tight. Pexilius struggles beneath her hand.
The men sound disappointed, snapping at each other. She sees fingers grabbing hold of the table. She shrinks back, trying to make herself as small as possible.
Five staccato bangs echo deafeningly in the room, cutting short a cry of pain. Something crashes against the table, dislodging the tiles.
A heavier tread thuds across the apartment. She realises she still has her hand clamped across Pexilius’s mouth. For a moment she is filled with the terror that she has suffocated her child. She pulls her hand away, the lesser of the two evils, and Pexilius takes a gasping breath. She waits for his cries to start and cannot stop herself, her words little more than a breath.
‘Hush, my beautiful boy. Hush. Mother is here. It won’t hurt for long.’
She shrieks as light floods the hiding place, the loose debris above her wrenched away. Varinia finds herself staring into the wide barrel of a gun, pointed directly at her. She screams again before taking in everything else.
Behind the gun is an armoured figure, dwarfing any man Varinia has ever seen. She lets out a choked cry of relief, recognising the livery of the Ultramarines. The legionary has lost his helm and stares at her with cold blue eyes, his broad jaw set. His hair is dark, cropped short, and there is a golden stud in his brow above his right eye.
‘Survivor. Nothing more. Move out.’ The words are uttered without emotion.
As the warrior turns away, Varinia surges out of her hiding place, holding little Pexilius tightly. The sound of more gunfire drifts down the stairwell, startling her momentarily. She steps in a spreading pool of blood and almost slips, putting out one hand upon the overturned table to steady herself. The three looters lie scattered in the broken tiles and dust, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Shuddering, Varinia covers her child’s eyes and steps after the Space Marine.
Past him, on the landing, another Ultramarine stands at the window. In his hands he has a large, multi-barrelled cannon, carrying it as easily as a normal man hefts a lasgun. He fires at something in the street, and a torrent of shell casings spill to the floor. Varinia winces at the sudden noise, trying to shelter Pexilius from the din.
‘Take your child to safety, woman.’ The helmetless Space Marine gestures at Varinia as she attempts to protect her son. ‘The Word Bearers and their treacherous allies have brought war to us all.’
Then he strides away, with Varinia at his heels.
‘Wait! Please wait!’
He stops, seeming to stiffen, and turns his head. His gaze is harsh. ‘We are heading for further battle. It will not be safe.’
‘Safer than here,’ replies Varinia. ‘Please, take us with you.’
The Space Marine at the window speaks without turning. ‘There is an evacuation point being set up in the Demesnus park. Go there.’
‘On my own?’ Varinia’s limbs feel even weaker at the thought. ‘That’s nearly five kilometres away.’
Another Ultramarine descends from the floors above, fallen masonry shifting under his tread. He stops when he sees Varinia. The three warriors seem to pause, exchanging words via their communicators.
‘We won’t be any trouble, I promise. I’ll stay out of your way. Please. Please don’t leave us here. There could be more… of them.’
There is another exchange between the Ultramarines, the one without his helmet remaining silent and grim-faced. He turns to look at Varinia and nods once.
‘No guarantees,’ he says. ‘We are heading to the muster point. We will take you that far.’
The other two warriors head down the stairs, leaving him to wave Varinia onwards.
‘Thank you, thank you so much. What are your names, so that I might praise them to my husband when we find him? Have you any news from the administration centre? He was there to receive orders.’
‘A ship came down in the area of which you speak. Communications are fractured. Enemy forces converge on that position, but there are survivors still fighting…’
The words bring renewed hope to Varinia. As they reach the last flight of steps, she realises the Space Marine did not answer her question.
‘Your names, please. I am Varinia, and this little one is Pexilius.’
The lead Ultramarine laughs, the sound strange through his armour’s external speakers. He stops by the shattered remnants of the double doors leading onto the street.
‘Our captain was called Pexilius. He would have been proud.’
‘That is Gaius,’ says the warrior behind her. ‘My companion with the rotor cannon is Septival. I am Sergeant Aquila. Tullian Aquila.’
‘Thank you, Tullian Aquila.’
‘Do not thank me yet. Five kilometres through Ithraca is no easy journey today.’
The flicker of firelight in the windows of the villa makes it look like the building is laughing at the destruction, eyes glinting with glee. Tyhe laughs with it, delighting in the death and misery that stalks Ithraca alongside him. His weapons are like fists of fire, obliterating everything he comes across. In his wake the streets are littered with corpses and wrecks.
The villa holds a few dozen desperate men. They think they have found safety but all they have located is their tomb. Tyhe has chased them for an hour, goading them with his war horns, forcing them back with his mega-bolter when they think to turn and fight.
Some tried to make a stand, turning their autocannons and plasma guns against his armoured form. They did not even overload his void shields. In repayment, he wiped them from the mortal world, turning flesh to bloody ruin and vehicles to tattered metal. He has forced the survivors up the hill to a patrician’s home overlooking the parklands. It gives him reason to destroy this place, sating a desire that has filled him since he first spied the column-fronted compound, lording it up over the common city below.
‘An eyrie for the arrogant eagle, now to fall to ruin!’ he cries, pleased by his own poetic tone. He throws out a full spectrum scan of the villa and the men hiding within. ‘Fifty, no more. A fitting sepulchre we shall make of this fine palace, my sweet Denola. I wonder where the master of this house is now. Perhaps he still cowers within? Or maybe he flees the city, abandoning even his own slaves to save himself.
‘Such shall be the fate of all tyrants. The liberation begins here and will end upon shackled Mars! The gears of war will grind the eagle to a bloody smear, and then we shall reclaim the galaxy! Horus shows us the way, and by the word of Lorgar has it been promised!’
He fires the turbo-laser, smashing through one wing of the villa, blowing out the power generators within. A gasline explodes and sheets of flame erupt from the windows, setting fire to the lawns and trees of the trampled gardens.
Tyhe steps easily over the wall of the compound as futile lasgun fire sparks from Denola’s void shields. It feels like rain on his skin; persistent but not unpleasant.
‘Cease your pointless resistance!’
His bellow roars from the Titan’s external speakers. There are defiant shouts, small and weak, from the men trapped inside the building. Tyhe spots a handful trying to escape – he steers his engine through the gardens, trampling an orchard to block the rear roadway. He guns down the men emerging f
rom the building and tears through the parade of windows into a ballroom beyond. Drapes are shredded and the lacquered wooden walls shattered into splinters.
‘Let me lavish upon you the feast you deserve, my friends! You no longer feed from plates borne upon the backs of the conquered, but must now taste the ashes of defeat and humiliation. I shall heap upon you the just rewards for the lies you have spread, the misdeeds you have performed in the name of “compliance”. It is you that shall comply, for you are mere men and we are Denola, immortal agent of the Machine-God!’
The sport provided by the ragged band of men does not last long, and they retreat into a basement, not daring to fight. Tyhe considers kicking his way in through the walls, but is not so desperate for their blood that he will risk becoming snared in the ruin.
He breaks away from the compound, descending the hill into the greenery of the park in search of a fresh challenge. Not far away, no more than ten kilometres, the Nemesis-class Revoka is carefully striding backwards along a tree-lined road, gatling blasters and volcano cannons blazing at an enemy Warlord. The other Titan’s void shields are a riot of colours under the constant hail of fire, writhing and spitting with every shell impact.
The Praesagius engine cannot take any more punishment. With a flash that momentarily whites out all of Denola’s scanning systems, the Warlord’s reactor detonates. Almost twelve city blocks become a glassy crater in that instant, mottled with grey as droplets of molten slag fall to the ground. It is all that remains of the war engine.
Tyhe can see that the enemy’s sacrifice is for a purpose – Revoka is being outflanked. Two Reaver Titans are approaching from the south. He is too far away to intervene and watches as Revoka is caught in a withering crossfire. The Nemesis’s shields try to hold back the fusillade but fail in spectacular fashion, flattening trees and ripping up the turf all around.