by Gav Thorpe
‘I am Khorne’s blade,’ he muttered to himself. ‘There is no life without death. Hnnh. Kill or be killed, such is the law of battle.’
The readout flashed as they passed the five-kilometre mark. Less than a minute until impact.
As with the rest of the strike on the Starspear, vox-silence was absolute, to give the defenders no warning of what was about to hit them. Other World Eaters were following in gunships, three thousand of Khorne’s chosen, but the point of the spear was Khârn and five hundred of his deadliest fighters.
‘How thick are the walls?’ The question came from Balcoth, who was strapped into his harness four seats down from Khârn, one of thirty in the boarding torpedo. ‘Will the melta-blast cut through?’
‘Hnnh. Too late to ask now,’ the captain grunted back. ‘Should have thought of that earlier.’
Laughter greeted the reply.
‘My knife will feast on the entrails of Sigismund,’ growled Khordal Arukka.
‘If the Blade of Dorn is there, he is mine,’ snarled Khârn. His fingers flexed around the haft of Gorechild. ‘I’ll kill any that challenge my claim.’
Cowed by his assertion, the rest of the warriors lapsed into silence.
‘Ten seconds,’ Khârn told them.
The restraints pressed tighter, hydraulic rams sliding into position along the sides of the torpedo to absorb some of the impact.
Lights blinked amber and then red. Khârn felt sudden deceleration with a surge of relief. Twenty metres from impact the meltas fired, turning the nose of the torpedo into a white-hot lance.
Armour squealed protests and the rams split, showering hydraulic fluid as the prow met ferrocrete. Khârn’s neck twisted hard and he heard a curse from Galdira, who lost his grip on his chainsword, the weapon clattering past them along the deck. Khârn looked at the chains he had used to bind his axe to his vambrace. Yes, he had unfinished business with Sigismund, a lesson to complete.
The booming detonation throbbed along the length of the torpedo even as the remnants of the nose cone petalled outwards into an assault ramp. The restraint exploded upwards and Khârn was out of his seat, plasma pistol in one hand, Gorechild in the other.
The torpedo had struck a gunnery position, punching through the outer revetment of an anti-orbital laser. The remains of the crew were smeared amongst the debris, their environment suits turned to black tatters, their gun little more than twists of molten metal splashed against the walls.
Plunging through the vapour, sirens wailing around him, Khârn headed straight on, hearing the pounding of his hearts and the thuds of his companion’s boots on broken ferrocrete.
Shapes loomed ahead, helmed and semi-armoured. Gorechild roared, taking the head of the first, sweeping the guts from the second. Khârn let his Nails take him to the bliss of destruction, knowing there was nothing but enemies in front.
Sanctum Imperialis, three days since assault
The sky over the Sanctum Imperialis was a sheet of flickering purple and black, and had been for months now. The unnatural twilight had cast its shadow over the Emperor’s capital for so long that Amon barely paid it any heed. Now he looked at it with new insight, wondering if the storm above was more than just a physical symptom of the long bombardment. Was it indicative of that other, invisible war?
He enjoyed a good vantage point on a walkway that ran alongside an abandoned terrace overlooking the Via Principa – the main arterial route from the plaza of the Lion’s Gate to the immensity of the Sanctum Imperialis itself. A city within a city that housed millions, large enough that in past times it would have been considered greater than most nation states. Its populace had been purged initially but as more and more of the outskirts by the Ultimate Wall were demolished in expectation of a traitor breakthrough, increasing numbers of their displaced inhabitants sought shelter in the sprawling shanties that had grown up among the colonnades and fora of the great and powerful.
It was to one of the tent slums that Amon travelled, eyes fixed upon a lone figure in the masses half a kilometre below.
Colonel Nhek Veasna. A decorated officer of the Angkorian Dragoons, itself one of the lauded Old Hundred regiments that had taken part in the Unification of Terra. It was her name that the lieutenant in charge of the quarantine garrison had finally confessed as his introduction to the Lectitio Divinitatus. Finding her had been easy enough; she was attached to the Dragoons’ Third Brigade as a command liaison. A position, Amon had noted, that allowed her to move freely between many different elements of the defence force without hindrance. In all likelihood she had a more senior patron in the general staff of one of the defence regiments, but for the time being Amon had focused on her as the most promising lead to follow.
He’d spent two days trailing her from one Imperial Army garrison to the next, and she had interspersed these duties with visits to several refugee encampments. Amon had decided not to attempt to infiltrate such gatherings, content to know that the only reason for her presence was the proselytising of her faith to the homeless and desperate. A Custodian was not such a rare sight that he drew unwelcome attention, but to get closer to such gatherings he would have to divest himself of his armour, which seemed unwise given that the Palace was under direct attack.
Earlier that day, Colonel Nhek had been summoned to a council of senior officers – arranged at the instigation of Valdor on request from Amon. He had left the request and then initiated blood games protocols on the assumption that the Lectitio Divinitatus could extend as high as the Imperial Senate members. He could not afford for anyone to influence his mission, nor risk any report of it passing beyond the Legio Custodes. Vox-silent, he had single-mindedly tracked Nhek without any further communication with his order, and would make no contact until he was ready to make his report.
Brought to the Sanctum Imperialis, Nhek Veasna had used the opportunity to make contact with several other heralds of the Lectitio Divinitatus. She had barely attempted secrecy, such was the growing confidence of the cult that they would not be prosecuted. It was not Amon’s decision to make, but he was of a mind to argue for a very visible and memorable chastisement.
Amon could understand their weakness of spirit, but he could not forgive it.
Nhek had also been granted a leave of twelve hours before being posted back to her commander. The first six she had used for rest and sampling some black-market luxuries – nothing specifically contraband, just consumables that were becoming very rare like fresh water, menthol lho-sticks and some mild alcoholic beverages.
Amon had been on the verge of following up some of her contacts he had discovered when he realised that he had been party to a well-organised deception. It was not aimed at him specifically, but the more obvious meetings and exchanges had been intended as lures for anyone following the colonel. Six hours of low-grade indulgence provided the perfect opportunity for any move to arrest Colonel Nhek, and at the same time offered cover for a far more subtle communication. After all, what did a colonel have to exchange for rare goods? Currency had rapidly fallen out of favour except among the most optimistic dealers who thought it would have value after the siege was lifted. For most it was information or barter, but Nhek Veasna had not been misappropriating supplies. The same applied to sensitive data that her position afforded her. There was no evidence she was betraying the trust of her military rank.
That left only spiritual exchange.
If his suspicions were confirmed, he was following Nhek to a secret gathering of faithful inside the Sanctum Imperialis, consisting perhaps of a few high-ranking officials with dealings in the black market themselves. The illicit trade was a convenient mask for those wishing to communicate about an even more sensitive issue, and those that acted as vendors would be as likely to trade information about faith and the Emperor’s divinity as they were powercells and rations packs purloined from front-line consignments.
She faded into the thousands-strong sprawl of humanity that swelled around the Processional 16 gate, where almoners from the Palace distributed medical and nutritional packages to the needy. Amon’s research had shown that burgeoning religions frequently preyed upon the least fortunate for support, and he expected the Lectitio Divinitatus was no different.
Reaching the conveyor at the far side of the terrace, he lost sight of Nhek, but he was not concerned. Her particular scent – enhanced by illegal beer and pungent lho-sticks only an hour earlier – would make her easy to track even through the interior of the Palace.
Descending to almost ground level, Amon crossed to the outer districts of the Senatorum building about three hundred metres from where the Via Principa ended at the huge Bastion Argentus. Once inside he picked up Colonel Nhek’s trail near the Concordia Central, and from there followed it until he had her within sight in the concourse leading to the Hall of Widows. He saw her enter by a side door, and ascended several floors to come upon a sentry balcony overlooking the main hall. As he approached, he found the sentry post unguarded, the guards doubtless relieved from duty while the conspiratorial gathering took place.
Slipping inside he picked up the babble of voices from below – far louder than he was expecting. Moving up to the curtained edge, he peered down into the amphitheatre and saw that there was at least a hundred people gathered. Others were still entering.
At the same time he observed this Amon’s senses prickled, drawing his eye to one of the other sentry balconies on the opposite side of the hall, about three storeys lower down. A woman of middle years was standing there looking directly at him. She was blonde, pale-skinned, dressed in a long skirt of light blue and darker blue blouse. She picked up the closed-vox dialler on the wall and an instant later the device installed on his balcony purred into life.
He answered it.
‘How are you here?’ he asked.
He had recognised the woman the moment he had laid eyes on her. Like many of those detained by Dorn or Malcador, her image had been circulated amongst the Custodians in case she somehow escaped her confinement. Now she was looking at Amon with a wry smile, obviously expecting him.
Euphrati Keeler.
Technophage
Unexpected assistance
Smoke and fire
Lion Primus Strategium, four days since assault
Rann disliked red lights and sirens. The Lion Primus Strategium was alive with both in strobing, screaming harmony. Though he was immune to panic, lesser soldiers were not and he felt that sudden clamour was a poor way to bring about quick, clear thinking. Despite his misgivings, the adjutants, logistaria and legionaries moved with brisk purpose from console to console, updating the primary and secondary displays in wake of the latest alert. Schematics of the Lion’s Gate space port flashed up on every screen, covered with warning symbols and scrolling runes.
It was almost an hourly occurrence as fresh enemy attacks from above and below assailed the defenders. Surveyor malfunctions and system errors had made a mockery of trying to predict their landings and movements, and this time it appeared as though the entire port was on the verge of being overrun. It was impossible, the enemy were far from such a victory, but the sight of hostile signal returns throughout his command zone was a shocking reminder of what Rann was trying to prevent.
‘Shut off that noise, and those lights too,’ he snapped. Rann leaned over the main display table, trying to take in the sudden wealth of information. He rounded on the logistaria at the control panel. ‘How is this happening?’
The tech-priest clicked and warbled for a few moments, brass eye-lenses dilating and narrowing several times within the folds of her red hood.
‘There has been another noospheric intrusion, Commander Rann.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ Rann waved a hand at the data still accumulating on the display. ‘Is this real, or not?’
‘There have been confirmed enemy landings on the mesophex platforms, Commander Rann. There have been confirmed enemy contacts in the stratophex core, Commander Rann. There are ongoing engagements in the tropophex skin- and mantlezones, Commander Rann.’
‘But many of these signals are… false? Errors?’
The logistaria worked the panel controls and a pulse of static rippled across the display, in places turning some of the red data sigils blue, and in others green. There was still a lot of red all across the space port. Much of the base was swathed in green, which Rann took as a good sign until the logistaria spoke.
‘The green runes signify confirmed contacts with enemy weighted eighty or more on the threat-factoring scale employed by my data set, Commander Rann. The blue runes signify confirmed contacts with enemy weighted thirty or less on the threat-factoring scale employed by my data set, Commander Rann. The red runes signify unconfirmed contacts with enemy of unknown weighting on the threat-factoring scale employed by my data set, Commander Rann.’
‘So, the red ones are fakes?’
‘Unknown. The red runes may represent legitimate but unconfirmed enemy contacts of variable threat level, Commander Rann.’
‘Do what you can to confirm the reports and scrub the rest,’ he told the Martian.
He gave the screen one last inspection, trying to see if strategic experience could tease any truth from the clusters of flashing icons. If he looked at the patterns in a certain way, there appeared to be a general movement from the uppermost levels down. There were certainly enemy in the surrounding areas of the bridgeways and monorail connections to the main Lion’s Gate. The connecting rails and roads were well defended, but if they were to fall into the hands of the enemy, the traitors would be within striking distance of the gatehouse itself.
Rann knew his strengths, and the limitations of his authority, and both were being tested by the impending crisis.
‘Comms, I need an urgent connection to Lord Dorn. Urgent.’
‘Yes, commander. Prioritising a command vox for you.’
He felt like he should be reeling off orders to deal with what was happening, but the truth was Haeger was already in place to make those decisions. The majority of his field commanders were experienced enough to assess for themselves the local situation; better than he could with unreliable battle-data.
He checked the display again, but it was no clearer than thirty seconds earlier.
‘Commander, I have Lord Dorn’s equerry in vox-contact.’
‘Tell him I need the primarch. I need to speak with him immediately.’
There was a quiet exchange between the legionary and the equerry at the other end of the vox-link. For the first time in several years the commander heard several Inwit curse phrases, including a pointed comment that the listener would go into an ice storm without a coat, one of the gravest insults from Rann’s home world.
‘Shall I connect the channel to the briefing room, commander?’ the vox-operator suggested, nodding his head towards the adjacent chamber.
‘That seems sensible,’ replied Rann, realising that some discretion might be needed in the circumstances.
Rann strode into the chamber and sat down at the broad oval desk within, punching the vox-connecting button set into a rune pad upon its surface. The speaker built into the ceiling hissed into life.
‘I am conducting contra-siege operations against the Death Guard attack, and Lieutenant Takko is demanding an honour duel with your vox-officer. Explain quickly.’
The lord seneschal took a breath, figuring out where to begin. There was no point trying to be coy about the situation.
‘The defence of the Lion’s Gate port is compromised, Lord Dorn. The traitors have made ground through the base, established a presence in Sky City and in the last hour conducted massed landings in the docking spires. Our response is being hampered by an intervention through the noosphere and electronic systems, rendering augurs and comms erratic.’
‘Give me an assessment of the threat. Can you recover the situation?’
‘It depends on what you want me to do, Lord Dorn. If I concentrate defences around the gate connections I will have a static position that can hold for some time. If you want me to retake lost ground… The attack in the base can be contained but I think that if we do not press them in the Starspear, they’ll have a steady reinforcement route. Of course that will leave the bridges vulnerable.’
‘Do not allow the enemy to gain a foothold. It sounds as though you have a plan, what do you want from me?’
‘Permission to destroy the bridges, Lord Dorn.’
‘Denied. Retaining possession and access to the space port is preferable. Time is of the essence and it may be the case that when Roboute Guilliman arrives we will need the Lion’s Gate port to bring down his troops with sufficient speed to turn the battle. Every hour could be the difference between the Emperor’s victory or defeat. The bridges also provide the means for a massed counter-attack should too much of the port be overrun.’
Rann bit back the arguments that rose to his tongue, knowing that the primarch had made up his mind.
‘Understood, my lord. In that case, I request the despatch of a second ranking commander to ensure redundancy of leadership. I intend to take to the field to combat the enemy gains.’
‘You have someone in mind?’
‘First Captain Sigismund’s presence would be invaluable.’
Rann resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the table edge as he waited for Rogal Dorn’s answer. That the request had not been turned down immediately was a good sign, he thought, but he started composing his arguments in favour of the decision just in case.
‘I can spare three thousand more legionaries. It will take some time to assemble them from across the Palace so that we are not weakened elsewhere. You will have to make do with that.’