by Gav Thorpe
‘I will pass that on to Rogal Dorn. Malcador informed me that Keeler believes there may be some central figure or group responsible for the occurrences.’
‘She has shared that theory with me.’
‘You disregard it?’
‘No, but speculation is unproductive. The connection to the Death Guard and the power they now serve is plain. Whether they have operatives, sympathisers or unwitting allies within the Palace does not change matters.’
‘This fascination with the Lightbearers seems to be personal. It is a distraction from the task of combating the daemons.’
‘The two are linked. Faith is growing in correlation to daemonic presence. I have yet to determine if there is causality, and in which direction. I do not deny my personal distaste for the misguided belief in the Emperor as a deity, but we cannot ignore the evidence.’
Amon took a breath, readying himself for what had to come next.
‘I believe that even if she is not directly responsible for the daemonic attack, Keeler’s spreading influence is a threat. It is too late to simply incarcerate her again, and as we saw with Sindermann, she has associates that will find ways to aid her and promulgate her creed.’
‘You propose to kill her?’ Valdor asked the question without sign of surprise or judgement. ‘To be clear.’
‘Yes, captain-general. If she is the source of the daemonic breaches, they will end. If not, we have still curtailed the rise of a dangerous anti-Imperial demagogue.’
They continued on in silence for several minutes. Amon knew not to prompt his superior for a reply but instead reviewed his own plan for the execution should Valdor ask for it. They were almost at the gate into the halls of the Senatorum Imperialis when Valdor spoke.
‘No. Keeler is not to be harmed.’
It was not in Amon’s nature to question the judgement of his superiors, but he could not hold back his question.
‘What good do we achieve by letting her live?’
‘The enemy of my enemy…’ Valdor stopped, about fifty metres short of the steps leading down to the sealed gates. Two Custodians stood guard at the portal, their auric armour partly concealed behind surcoats of white that indicated they had been assigned as bodyguard to Malcador.
‘Horus sent an assassin after Keeler,’ Valdor continued. ‘Until she presents a provable threat to the immediate safety of the Emperor, I take guidance from that fact. If the renegades desire Keeler dead, I suggest to you that it is in our interest to keep her alive. It may well be for the very acts we see now that her assassination was ordered.’
‘I had not considered that,’ admitted Amon.
‘I will take command of the wider fight against the daemons, in concert with the Silent Sisterhood.’ He raised a finger to stall Amon’s next words. ‘This is not admonishment, simply practicality. I need you to focus on the cause. The threat has expanded far beyond the original intent of your investigation, so I am commanding you to focus on that first purpose. Examine Keeler and the Lightbearers, and determine with certainty whether there is a connection between them and the Neverborn attacks. If there is, we will deal with it appropriately. If not, we can make use of them and spare ourselves the distraction.’
Amon knelt again, this time out of gratitude for a renewed sense of purpose.
‘As you will it, so I obey.’
Himalazia, undisclosed location, twenty days since assault
Excitement rippled through the mustering base, moving from one camp to the next like a virus.
The order to attack had arrived.
For the Addaba Free Corps the next twelve hours were spent waiting for their companion regiments to get ready. There was little enough for Zenobi and her companions to do other than pack their kitbags and make sure they were ready to march. Their lost heavy weapons had been replaced by donations from other regiments, along with other supplies such as the rations they’d been eating while awaiting their new mission. The muster point had been well victualled – evidently Dorn had expected his reserves here, and perhaps in other places around the Himalazia, to be waiting for some time.
Unlike with the looting of their first transport train, this time the troopers from Addaba didn’t load themselves down with unnecessary supplies. They took only power packs, grenades and anything else that could be used for fighting. For them the war was almost over, the day of glory upon them.
‘Aren’t you off to see your lover?’ asked Menber, when he and Zenobi were left washing the squad pans after breakfast.
‘No. We’ve said goodbye every night as though it was the last time. There’s no need to make this difficult.’
‘You mean more difficult?’
‘No. This is what we’ve been waiting for. I’m happy it’s here.’
Egwu brought them together to address the entire corps. A couple of armoured command transports had been liberated from one of the other formations and it was from atop one of these that the general-captain spoke, voice amplified by the voxmitters below.
‘Now is the day of our first and last test. Rogal Dorn has sent word for the reserve force to advance on the Lion’s Gate space port. It is sorely contested, the strength of the Imperial Fists and their allies matched against the might of the Iron Warriors and their supporters.’
She paced along the roof of the vehicle, baton in hand.
‘The timing of the attack will be crucial, I have been told. This force, this mechanised column, will arrive along an axis that will turn the flank of the Warmaster’s forces. A counter-attack from within the Palace will be mounted as the blow from this army falls, catching the Iron Warriors unawares.’
She stopped her walking and took the baton in both hands, staring down at the ranked squads of her companies.
‘Lord Dorn has impressed upon the command staff the necessity of this attack. It is the engagement for which he has been waiting, one to which we have been delivered by fate to witness. The position of the Emperor’s forces will be untenable if this attack fails. I do not need to tell you how happy that makes me! This is the battle that our cause has needed. This is the opportunity to prove ourselves that we have wanted for seven years. Some of you will be detailed with special operational preparations. The remainder of the Free Corps will stand ready for my commands.’
She bowed her head and her voice was barely audible even over the voxmitters.
‘Soon the effort and sacrifice and blood we have shed will be made worthy.’
The companies were dismissed and a tense quiet descended on their encampment, pregnant with expectation. These last hours were the worst for Zenobi, far more excruciating than the weeks and months that had come before. To be so close and yet not quite at their goal made every minute tick past with torturous slowness.
By midday, the reserve force was almost ready to move out. A few scouting companies had been despatched already to provide reconnaissance on the route to the Imperial Palace. The Free Corps made their way to the main highway, bringing their new lascannons, heavy bolters, mortars and other weapons with them. Running the length of the enclosed base, a viaduct gave them a vantage point that looked out across the regiments both historic and newly raised.
Zenobi and first squad received the call to attend to Egwu. She started shaking as they marched along the road for the head of their column. Memories flocked for attention, of family and friends, time spent on the line and the experiences she’d had since leaving Addaba. All of it crammed into her thoughts, bringing her to that time and place.
So much labour, so much loss, all in the name of the Emperor. It was this thought she held on to as she clambered to the top of the command vehicle, assisted by Menber and Kettai.
Egwu waited there, Jawaahir alongside. The integrity high officer spared a brief smile for the standard bearer and with a flick of a finger directed her to place herself next to the general-captain.
&n
bsp; The smog of hundreds of engines blackened the sky, adding to the gloom of the filth-choked heavens. The thunder of tanks and transports, some the size of city blocks, created a deafening wave of sound that reverberated from the mountainsides, an assault on ears already numbed by the winds of the high Himalazia.
The growl of machine voices all but drowned out human shouts, even those amplified by voxmitters. Electronic clarions howled into the whirl of noise, sounding the advance or stand-to, their modulated calls overlapping.
Everything was sudden movement, dust billowing from treads and boots alike.
‘This is it.’ General-Captain Egwu did not raise her voice, but her words were carried by the tongues of those under her command. ‘Everyone stand ready.’
Beside her, Zenobi Adedeji fidgeted with the cover of the banner she carried, eyes flicking between her company commander and the scene of organised bedlam being enacted around the troopers from Addaba Hive.
‘Everything we have done, the oaths we have sworn, the hardships we have endured, has led to this moment.’ Now Egwu shouted, not simply to be heard, but filled with passion. Her remaining eye stared wide amongst the burn scars that covered most of her face, fresh tissue pink against her dark skin. ‘Now is the time we strike at the enemy! Our families laboured and died to deliver us to this place. Our courage and determination has carried us this far. We may not live beyond this day, but our deeds will!’
‘Now?’ asked Zenobi, her voice quavering with emotion, a shaking hand reaching towards the cover of the standard.
‘Yes,’ said the general-captain. ‘Now.’
The cover fluttered from Zenobi’s grasp and the banner unfurled as she waved the pole, greeted by a roar from the troopers arrayed along the roadway. The voxmitter picked up her cry as the cloth straightened to reveal a red flag, a black stylised eye embroidered upon it, the names of thousands of Addaba families stitched in long lines beneath.
‘For freedom! For Addaba!’ she shouted as las-fire ripped into life around her. A series of sharp detonations echoed across the base, plumes of yellow fire erupting within the tank columns and artillery batteries from demolition charges concealed that morning. ‘For the Warmaster!’
Dorn capitulates
Shattered iron
A terrible revelation
Bhab Bastion, twenty-one days since assault
Standing on the central platform of the Grand Borealis Strategium, Dorn turned his head one way and then the other, sensing a change in the atmosphere. It had been the first time in a week since he had been able to return, forced to lend his physical presence to the most pressing battles for the wall. His brothers did likewise, each of them needed in more places than they could reinforce, moving from one battlezone to the next without pause. Only the necessity of retaining his overview of the siege had brought him back.
There was muttering. Not the quiet conversation of reports being made, communications being passed along. Murmurs of disquiet. He saw Imperial Army adjutants hurrying from one display to another, exchanging concerned looks. The few remaining Imperial Fists officers – those with fresh wounds or older injuries that prevented them from fighting – gathered in conspiratorial clusters.
One of them, Captain Vorst, broke away and limped across the strategium as fast as his augmetic leg allowed. Dorn regarded him without comment as he ascended the steps to the command platform. The captain’s hand rose to his plastron and fell quickly in a hurried salute.
‘Lord Dorn, all contact has been lost with the Lion’s Gate space port.’
The agitated manner of the equerry was at odds with the normally calm demeanour that made him so suited for his position. Even with such momentous news, Dorn could not allow any laxity in discipline.
‘Steady yourself, captain.’ Dorn’s gaze took in the great sweep of the strategium. ‘Others are looking to you for example.’
‘Apologies, Lord Dorn.’ Vorst straightened as best he could with a crude hunk of metal for a leg, banging his fist to his chest in sharper salute.
‘When was the last communication?’ Dorn asked.
‘Thirty minutes ago. Lieutenant-Commander Haeger reported that the enemy were within five kilometres of the skybridges, my lord. Captain Sigismund had drawn down all remaining forces from the Starspear to contain the threat.’
‘And what are the enemy dispositions now?’
‘Unknown, my lord.’ Vorst glanced up at the long line of sensor terminals on the level above. ‘All comms and scanners are being jammed.’
‘How? We have the most powerful, most sophisticated surveyor arrays in the Palace.’ The scale of such an event explained his equerry’s discomfort.
‘It seems that the space port’s own scan and docking systems have been corrupted, my lord. Inverted, so that they are blocking every conceivable spectrum analysis and communications frequency. It’s silenced and blacked out every link we have with the forces inside.’
Dorn swallowed back his immediate reaction, which was to demand how such a thing was possible. If there were an explanation it would have been offered, even if highly speculative. Another recent loss of communication came back to mind.
‘Any further report on the relief force at Station Ultima?’
‘Scattered vox-chatter. As previously reported, it seems there was a rogue element introduced into the relief camp, my lord. Nobody is sure how. They attacked the camp from within. It will be another eighteen hours before they are in any state to mount an offensive.’
Dorn ground his teeth, fists clenched. The timing was disastrous. Though he had other reserves, of much less strength, the Ultima force had been ideally positioned to strike behind the siege lines at just such a moment. It seemed more than coincidence that traitors should attack from within just as his need was greatest.
Similar stories had been trickling in from across the Palace. Imperial Army units not responding to orders. Others disappearing entirely. Turncoats, from a few dozen individuals to whole regiments, were turning on their companions, gunning down former comrades, bringing their tanks and artillery to bear upon loyalist positions. A few incidents had become a much deadlier phenomenon over the last twelve hours.
All was building to a long-anticipated crescendo.
‘This is it,’ said the primarch. ‘He will be coming now.’
‘It is what, my lord? Who is coming?’
‘Perturabo. The Lord of Iron. This is his masterstroke, he thinks. Blinded, cut off, our forces are ripe to be swept away by his arrival. A self-indulgent finale to his victory.’
‘Why now?’
‘Sigismund has been too focused on the bridges. He has forgotten he needed to defend the Starspear as well.’ Dorn let his pent-up anger free, slamming a fist into the palm of his other hand. Vorst withdrew a step, aghast at this unusual display from his lord. ‘This has always been a battle for the docks, not the bridges. With the upper guns overrun or blinded, my traitor brother can bring in as many ships as he wants. He can bring in whatever strength he needs to overrun the space port terminals.’
‘Titan transports,’ said Vorst, hushed by the notion.
‘Or a battle-barge,’ snarled Dorn. He turned his gaze upwards, as though looking into orbit, imagining his brother on the bridge of the Iron Blood. Would he be brooding or exultant? His first victory on Terra was close at hand. How did it feel, taking that step closer to the Inner Palace?
‘Orders, Lord Dorn?’
The primarch realised it was the second time of asking.
‘Alert all forces at the Lion’s Gate. Prepare supporting fire and sally attacks to cover the withdrawal at the space port. Keep trying to signal Sigismund. He is to order full, strategic retreat to the bridges and then to the Lion’s Gate.’
‘Retreat?’
‘The space port has fallen, Vorst. It is just a matter of time, and how many of our warriors we can extricate fr
om under the enemy guns. Every soldier saved today will stand to fight tomorrow.’
He strode towards the steps, reaching for the helmet that hung on a stand at the back of the platform.
‘You are leaving, Lord Dorn?’ Vorst hurried after him.
‘Yes. Prepare my gunship and my Huscarls.’
He had matched wit and will with Perturabo across star systems, siege lines and palace walls. Now it was time to face his brother in person.
Lion’s Gate space port, tropophex exterior,
twenty-one days since assault
Sigismund’s sword sheared through the bolter of the Iron Warrior that faced him. The blade detonated the round in the breech so that his sword was aflame as it cut deep into the legionary’s helm. The warrior of the IV Legion stumbled back, blood flying. Sigismund followed, relentless, driving the point into his target’s throat.
Around him bolter and blade made a cacophony of war, but he fought as though in a bubble of silence. The battle had sprawled out into the concourses and galleries around the skybridges, so that gunships and anti-air cannons roared and thundered above while gun batteries upon the skin of the space port tracked fire across the melee, seeking foes of opportunity. Loyalist and traitor were too embroiled with each other to mark friend and foe apart, like two combatants with blades in each other’s guts and hands clamped to each other’s throats.
Striding past the falling corpse of his enemy, Sigismund looked not at the next Iron Warrior but beyond him to the great conflagration that had erupted around the monorail terminals and the immense archways that led to the outer platforms. Dreadnoughts and tanks duelled along the kilometres-wide station front, while in the further distance thousands of others ebbed and flowed like a tide of power armour, as the last of both forces committed to this final battle.
Far below, where mortals could breathe the polluted air, hundreds of thousands of Imperial Army troopers toiled against the horde of turncoats, beasts and mutants, but their war was without victory even if the cost continued to rise – the fate of the space port would be decided in the next hours at the gates of the skybridges.