by Gav Thorpe
‘We shall need to trust each other a while longer,’ Malcador intervened, stepping between the Custodian and Keeler. His unwavering gaze met Amon’s. ‘Will you take my assurance?’
Amon hesitated. There was only one being that he fully trusted, but in placing his trust in the Emperor he had to submit to his master’s decision to appoint Malcador as His Regent, with the full authority that entailed. He glanced to Valdor and received a subtle nod in reply.
‘Very well, Lord Regent.’ Amon lifted a fist to his breastplate. ‘I will investigate the plague aspect of the attack and leave the Lightbearers to your appointee.’
‘My officers can provide you with data on field hospitals, plague zones, Death Guard assaults.’ Dorn gestured along the side passage. ‘I will signal Bhab Bastion to be ready to respond to your requests immediately.’
‘Our thanks, Lord Praetorian,’ said Valdor.
‘I shall return to the Sanctum Imperialis with you,’ said Malcador, stepping after the two Custodians. ‘I am sure Lord Dorn would prefer to have no more distractions from his duties at the wall.’
Lion’s Gate space port, mesophex mantlezone,
twelve days since assault
Workshops that had once resounded to the beat of hammers and hiss of forges now rang with the crack of bolters and snarl of plasma. Maintenance lines became bulwarks held by the Imperial Fists, their bright armour smeared with grease and soot, the flare of bolts bright pinpricks in the gloom of the massive halls. Lascannon beams and detonating missiles cast shadows of tractor skeletons and hauler carcasses.
The Sons of Horus pushed from one cavernous workshop to the next, thrusting deep into the territory reclaimed by the counter-offensive. At their head Abaddon and his Justaerin formed the point of the spear, as they had been in so many battles before. The First Captain urged his warriors on by example, plunging into each fresh firefight without relent. Bolter, sword and fist took their toll of the enemy, while at his side the sorceries of Layak split apart their armour and bewitched their weapons. Combi-bolters blazing, the Terminators followed, clearing aside any that survived the wrath of their leader.
The bulk of an auto lathe offered a few seconds’ respite, giving Abaddon opportunity to assess the broader situation. Issuing orders to send a company to the upper levels of the refitting houses, he checked the sensorium of his war-plate. More enemies were arriving from a travel duct that ran along the far side of the installation, the heat plumes of five vehicles approaching at speed.
‘Why do you pause now?’ asked Layak, his blade slaves picking through the fallen enemy, plunging sword-limbs into each. ‘You have the momentum.’
Abaddon regarded him for several seconds, undecided whether he would respond or not. It was no business of the sorcerer what he intended. He signalled for Haork to bring the auspex. The legionary dashed through a sudden flurry of Imperial Fists bolts as he broke from the cover of a half-dismantled cargo loader that looked like a giant, dissected beetle.
‘Only days ago you lamented that the Iron Warriors risked failure by their inability to seize the bridgeways. Now you spend your warriors clearing out maintenance sheds and transit terminals.’
Checking the schematics, the First Captain saw that there was only one way to advance without being exposed – directly through the Imperial Fists’ line. Whoever commanded the local forces had chosen the workshops as a choke point, easily supported from the internal ringway. If the Sons of Horus could break through, they would turn the flank of a five-kilometre-long defence line protecting the upper approaches of the skybridges.
‘When it comes time to seize your prize, you cannot hesitate,’ Layak continued, oblivious to Abaddon’s apathy.
‘I have had a change of heart,’ Abaddon told him. His auto-senses picked up the rumble of the tanks. ‘A longer view.’
He rounded the end of the auto lathe, sighting along his combi-bolter. Spying the flash of yellow behind a pile of gears and other spare parts, he opened fire. The volley sparked from the heap, filling the air with a cloud of shrapnel. Taking his lead, two squads of Justaerin poured fire into the same position, incendiary rounds mixed in with the regular bolts to set the metal pile ablaze.
‘Perturabo wants to seize the space port to bring in Titans for Horus,’ Abaddon explained as he advanced behind the curtain of fire, his own weapon adding half a dozen more rounds to the fusillade. ‘It has not fallen quickly enough, so it is better to use this battle to draw in as many defenders as possible. Every Imperial Fist that dies here is one less to defend the wall.’
Layak appeared at his side, black energy leaping from his staff. The sorcerous lightning engulfed an enemy squad pulling back from the Terminator attack, leaping from one Space Marine to the next. They crashed to the ground in turn, bloody vapour coiling from shattered eye-lenses and ruptured armour joints.
‘Time is our enemy, you know this.’ The Word Bearer thrust his staff forward and his blade slaves stormed ahead, the detonations of enemy bolts across their half-armour skin no dissuasion. Vaulting the next line of work benches, they set upon the Imperial Fists beyond. Abaddon ran after them, exploiting the gap in the enemy fire created by the sudden assault.
‘The threat of Guilliman may be overrated,’ he growled back.
‘The arrival of Guilliman, the Lion and Russ is not the only factor,’ Layak warned. ‘You have seen the toll paid by your master to channel the energy of the True Gods. Every day he must contain their power is a day closer to his ruin.’
Abaddon smashed a bench out of the way with his power fist, flipping it into the armoured warriors beyond. He followed up with a burst of fire that cut down two sons of Dorn.
The roar of vehicle engines shook the workshop, flakes of rust falling on both sides from the high rafters. Abaddon’s focus was on the foes to his left and right as he clamped his bolter to his armour and drew his blade, parrying the chainsword of an Imperial Fists sergeant. His fist closed about the legionary’s arm, crushing armour, flesh and bone to a pulp of blood and broken ceramite.
The thunder of heavy bolters and autocannons cut across the din of the escalating melee, followed by the crack of breaking war-plate. The vox was strangely silent for a few seconds. Abaddon turned aside a boarding axe with his glove and cleaved his blade into the bearer, parting his foes for a glimpse at the armoured squadron pulling up beyond the main gateway.
He saw dark metal armour broken by stripes of red and black, their hulls festooned with scrawled dedications to Perturabo and Horus. Skulls and pieces of armour hung like bunting from exhaust stacks and weapon pintles.
Iron Warriors.
From a pair of Land Raiders emerged two squads of iron-clad legionaries, just as the transports and their escort of Predators opened fire again. Lascannon blasts and explosive shells raked into the surrounded Imperial Fists, tearing apart war-plate and genhanced bodies.
‘Hold position!’ Abaddon bellowed to his warriors, concerned that they would charge forward into the fire of their allies. ‘Mark your targets.’
Bolters adding to the fury of the attack, the Iron Warriors advanced, more squads arriving behind them in a wave of Rhinos. In their midst strode an officer with old-style Cataphractii plate, armour coated with bloody handprints as grisly livery.
‘Warsmith Kroeger,’ said Layak. ‘Come to welcome the right and left hands of Horus.’
A knot of several dozen Imperial Fists tried to break out, turning from the newly arrived legionaries to seek escape through the Sons of Horus. Abaddon despatched his Justaerin with a word and gesture, his focus turned to the Iron Warriors commander.
Kroeger used a crackling fist in great sweeps, breaking open helms and plastrons without any thought of defence. He advanced without pause, treading over the slain of both sides, rivet-studded boots cracking ceramite beneath his weight.
Abaddon sheathed his blade and took up his bolter once more, tu
rning to fire the rest of the loaded magazine into the withdrawing Imperial Fists. He passed the weapon to one of his companions to reload as he came face to face with Kroeger. The Iron Warrior’s shoulders heaved as though he were panting, something primal in his hunched stance. His blood-specked mask looked up at Abaddon, eyes hidden behind red lenses.
‘Captain Abaddon,’ Kroeger grunted, raising his fist in salute.
‘Warsmith Kroeger.’ Abaddon touched a finger to his brow in return. ‘I was not expecting you.’
‘Been looking for you. Came on a Dorn-scum flying column and wondered where they were going. Saw there was a fight going on where one of my companies were, so I took them out on the way and came here to see what the fuss was.’ Kroeger took in a shuddering breath. ‘Here you are. Haven’t heard from your Legion command since you captured the upper sensoria.’
‘I am the Sons of Horus command,’ Abaddon said pointedly. ‘I choose our objectives and the manner in which we will achieve them.’
‘I’m not here to tell you otherwise,’ said Kroeger. ‘You’re Ezekyle Abaddon, one of our greatest commanders! But if you find yourself wanting something to do, I think we can stop this counter-attack within the day.’
‘How do you plan to do that?’ asked Abaddon.
‘An unstoppable force, Captain Abaddon. My Dodakathik Guard will take the brunt of the fighting. Hardened warriors, unshakeable. Dreadnoughts, automatons, mobile support weapons. Khârn and his Blooded are joining me.’
‘A keen blade edge to cut through the morass,’ said Layak, tone betraying his relish at the idea.
‘You must be the Crimson Apostle, the Warmaster’s daemon-caller.’
Abaddon felt a stab of amusement at the petty title, but Layak bridled.
‘I am the spiritual aide of Horus Lupercal, prophet of the Dark Gods, Lord of Mysteries.’
‘Have you broken the Emperor’s psychic shield yet?’
‘The process is ongoing. One does not pierce a–’
‘Thought not,’ said Kroeger, turning back to Abaddon. Horus’ lieutenant was drawn to the warsmith’s brusqueness, so at odds with the theatrics of Layak.
‘I thought you were trying to link up with the force inside Sky City,’ Abaddon said, noting that the blade slaves had closed in on Layak, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate Kroeger. ‘What of the warsmith trapped behind the lines?’
‘Plans change,’ Kroeger said with a shrug. ‘I’ve not heard from Forrix in days. Probably dead.’
‘You would abandon one of the Trident?’ said Layak. ‘One despatched by your own orders?’
‘Don’t think Forrix would spare a second thought for me, warp-talker. He had a fighting chance, which is more than he’d give to those he wanted rid of.’ Kroeger swung his gaze to Abaddon. ‘Think about it. You, me, Khârn of the World Eaters… Just let them try and stop us.’
Abaddon was thinking about it, very carefully. In a war of gods and demigods, here was a chance for the Legions to prove their strength was undiminished. Even as his genefather drew ever greater strength from his immaterial patrons, it would be wise to remind him of the mortal power still at his command.
There was still much that could be done with a bolter and a blade, and a legionary behind them.
Lion’s Gate space port, stratophex core,
twelve days since assault
‘Phosphex!’
The call echoed down the passage and across the vox, just seconds before a junction thirty metres ahead of Forrix brightened with yellow light. He thought his engineered body was already pushed to the limits but that single word set his hearts racing, his armour pumping the last drops of stimulant into his body.
The squads nearest the attack had no chance. The air around them ignited, a cloud of fire crawling through nothing to engulf their armoured forms. Their shrieks – noises that no legionaries should ever produce – were thankfully brief. The silhouettes of diminishing figures danced in after-image as Forrix tried to blink away the glare of the phosphex, having been forced to discard his damaged helm the day before. Even at this distance, he felt the prickle of impossible heat in the first moments and was turning to run even as he bellowed the order to pull back.
Space Marines did not panic, but the retreat from the living flames was hurried and disorderly. Snaking tendrils of fire raced along the high ceiling, overtaking the slowest runners, droplets raining down on their helms and pauldrons. The phosphex made fuel of whatever it landed on, and it devoured with all the rapaciousness of a starved glutton. A fully armoured legionary was reduced to ashes in less than seven seconds, and once they started burning there was nothing that would stop it.
‘Dorn’s bastards!’ swore Uhaz. ‘Burning their own city!’
It was a terrible but effective tactic, and Forrix was grudgingly impressed that the commanders of the VII Legion had the stomach for such a move. Unless, and he voiced this thought to nobody, the phosphex had come from the Iron Warriors’ own bombardment. It was possible that some of the barrage unleashed on the first day was still creeping around the space port like a burning mass murderer looking for fresh victims, even fourteen days later.
Three more legionaries thrashed their last as the phosphex speared after them, creeping up from their boots to swallowed them legs first, the rounds in their bolters snapping as they detonated, spraying flecks of metal that turned to mist in the heat of the flames.
Eleven days.
Forrix reached a stairwell and turned into it, throwing himself up the steps with the others. Distance was the only saviour.
Eleven days since they had mustered, expecting reinforcements after two days. They had certainly tested the defenders. The Imperial Fists had stopped sending their allies after eight days, perhaps baulking at the immense casualties inflicted by the warriors of the IV Legion. It was the ideal fight, in a way, for an Iron Warrior. Fighting stubbornly for its own merits. No broader strategy. No vague objectives or collateral concerns.
Engage.
Kill.
Survive.
Forrix continued past the next landing, seeing through a set of open doors that the level above was already flickering with eerie phosphex light.
‘Regroup at seventy-five metres up,’ he voxed to all in range. He transmitted to the command channel as he ran, gulping down breaths that tasted of his brothers’ charred flesh and molten armour. Glancing down the stairwell he saw the phosphex creeping towards the steps. ‘Gharal! What is your position relative to the eastern stairwell in designated sector six?’
There was no reply. He tried again, wondering if it was his vox malfunctioning, or a problem with Gharal’s reception.
‘Engaged by Dreadnoughts and heavy gauge power armour. Cataphractii and other squads.’
‘There is phosphex creep from level eighty through eighty-three.’
‘Understood. Has it reached the maintenance bays we moved through last night?’
‘I don’t think so. Seems to be moving vertically more than horizontally, burning down through the plasteel decking around here.’
‘I’ll lead the heavy infantry towards it then. Let’s see Dorn’s filth run away from the stuff for a change.’
Gharal chuckled and the link cut off.
Forrix reached the summit of the spiralling stair and slumped against the wall. Every muscle burned with fatigue, even with the assistance of his war-plate. He waited while scores of Iron Warriors hurried past, most of them sporting broken and patched armour, wearing elements of yellow stolen from their foes, burned and scarred and riddled with craters from bolter impacts. Others bore heavier injuries, missing hands and arms, their skulls exposed or cheeks pierced by shot.
Those without helms met his gaze, and all he saw in them was determination. This was the iron in their blood, the metal of the spirit. The retreat slowed to a steadier pace, becoming a march. A chant started, the wor
ds issuing to the beat of armoured footfalls.
‘From iron cometh strength. From strength cometh will. From will cometh faith. From faith cometh honour. From honour cometh iron.’
Never had Forrix seen his warriors so undaunted and formidable. The longer they were hammered upon the anvil of battle, the harder they became.
But it would not be enough. Forrix had been keeping track of their losses and movements, and they were being hemmed in, corralled by the Imperial Fists. Contained. That was not the act of a foe worrying about assault from further afield. Something disastrous must have happened to the main assault, leaving Forrix’s force the only functioning Iron Warriors formation. And he was running out of room to fight. Once they were cornered it was over.
It was a testament to their character that they had lasted this long, but they could not prevail indefinitely. Perhaps two more days at most. That’s all they had left.
He needed a better plan.
Himalazia, thirty days before assault
They heard engines long before they saw the tanks. The rumble of scores of vehicles reverberated along the valley, following the course of the road as it wound towards the highest peaks.
‘Off the road! Off the road!’ The bellow echoed from officers and integrity officers, sergeants and troopers alike.
With the rest of the platoon, Zenobi broke left, up the slope of the mountain. There was little enough cover – boulders and outcrops. There were no trees, but thousands of knee-high stumps, every square centimetre of forest having been stripped for materials to bolster the Imperial Palace. They hunkered down as best they could, plumes of white following them as they waded through the snow.
The growling grew louder and louder, until it rivalled the dull, constant noise of the production line. Gears clanked, metal creaked, adding mechanical voices to the continual background wail of the Himalazian winds.
Lying down in the snow made little difference to Zenobi. She had long since lost any real feeling in her legs. Her feet were a constant aching throb inside her boots, and her hands, even inside three gloves, barely flexed. She stripped off the gloves to use her fingertips to clear ice from the trigger guard of her lasgun.