‘Good kills,’ said Honsou as his Iron Warriors dropped into the trench, spreading out and securing their entry point. He ran over to the communications trench at the back of this widened area and ducked his head around the corner. Just as he had expected, he could only see partway along it, the trench following a standard zigzagging course. Further down its length, he could see red-liveried soldiers and slaves.
‘Have you no imagination, Berossus?’ he chuckled to himself. ‘You make this too easy.’
He turned away and gathered his warriors about him. ‘It is time. Let’s go, and remember, as far as anyone here knows, we are loyal Iron Warriors of Berossus. Let no one challenge that.’
His warriors nodded and, with Honsou in the lead, they set off down the communication trench. They walked with the confident, easy swagger of warriors who know they are without equal, and all the human and mutant labourers of Berossus abased themselves before them as they passed.
They passed dugouts filled with twisted mutant creatures gathered in chanting groups around shrines to the Dark Gods, their mutterings overseen by sorcerers in golden robes. None questioned them, none had any reason to, honoured to have ancient warriors of Chaos pass by. Honsou saw bright arc lights suspended on baroque towers of iron that reared into the night and were hung with all manner of bloody trophies. Chanting groups of robed figures surrounded them, Honsou stopped and asked, ‘Zakayo, what are these towers? This doesn’t look like something Berossus would do.’
‘I am not sure,’ replied Obax Zakayo. ‘I have never seen their like.’
‘They seek to break the walls of Khalan-Ghol with sorcery,’ said Onyx. ‘The towers are saturated with mystical energy. I can feel it, and the daemon within me bathes in it.’
‘What?’ hissed Honsou, suddenly wary. ‘Are their magicks strong enough to overcome the kabal and the Heart of Blood?’
‘No,’ said Onyx. ‘Not even close. There is great power here, but the Heart of Blood has endured for an eternity and no power wielded by a mortal can defeat it.’
Honsou nodded, reassured that the mystical defences of his fortress would hold. He glanced at the towers.
‘This smells of Toramino,’ he said. ‘Berossus would not have thought of it.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Obax Zakayo. ‘Lord Toramino has great cunning.’
‘That he does, but I’ll see that arrogant bastard dead before he takes Khalan-Ghol, sorcery or not.’
Passing beyond the towers, Honsou and his warriors emerged from the trench lines without incident, watching as the sweating, straining army of Berossus sought to bring his fortress to ruin. Tracked dozers laden with shells rumbled past behind high earthworks and Honsou was forced to admire the thorough completeness of the siegeworks. Forrix himself would have been proud.
Plumes of fire shot up from an iron refinery. The thunder of processing plants producing explosives and the hammering of forges filled the plains: millions of men working to bring him down. Stockpiles of ammunition and brass-cased shells were stored in armoured magazines and as they passed each one, Obax Zakayo would enter and place an explosive charge from the dispenser on his back. Honsou knew that Obax Zakayo was, in all likelihood, a liability, too entrenched in the old ways of his former master to be part of Honsou’s cadre of lieutenants, but no one knew demolitions and explosives like he did.
And he had a cruelty to him that appealed to Honsou’s sense for mayhem.
The further back they travelled from the front trenches, the greater the risk of discovery became. He saw sturdily constructed barrack-bunkers and great artillery pits that had obviously been built by Iron Warriors, and heard roaring bellows of madness that could only mean the cage-pits of the dreadnoughts were near.
‘It is folly to continue, my lord, we should retreat now,’ said Obax Zakayo. ‘We have placed enough explosives to disrupt Berossus for months.’
‘No, not yet,’ said Honsou, a reckless sense of abandon driving him onwards as he caught sight of a familiar banner flapping in the wind atop an armoured pavilion. It squatted in the shadow of one of the colossal Titans, beyond a forest of razorwire and a staggered series of bunkers. ‘Not when we have a chance to deliver something a little more personal to Lord Berossus himself.’
Obax Zakayo saw the banner and said, ‘Great gods of Chaos, you cannot be serious!’
‘You know I am, Zakayo,’ said Honsou. ‘I never joke about killing.’
DUG SEVEN METRES down into the rock, the sides of the artillery pit were reinforced with steel-laced rockcrete, at least two metres thick. Angled parapets, designed to deflect enemy artillery strikes swept up over the embrasure the huge siege gun would fire through. Honsou knew that none of his artillery pieces could reach this far and that such endeavour was wasted effort, but it was so like Berossus to have them built anyway.
The mighty cannon’s bronze barrel was silhouetted against the roiling clouds above, etched with great spells of ruin and hung with thick, drooling chains of desecrated iron. It sat at the base of an incline on rails, so that after each shot it would roll back into its firing position.
Perhaps a hundred human soldiers surrounded the huge cannon, guards to protect the mighty siege gun. Honsou and his warriors brazenly marched towards the artillery pit, daring the soldiers to stop them. Though he and his warriors proudly displayed the heraldry of the Iron Warriors, it would not take the soldiers long to realise that they did not belong here and raise the alarm.
Honsou could see they were attracting stares, but pressed on, pushing the bluff to the limit as an Iron Warrior with a heavily augmented head and arms climbed from the artillery pit. Red lights winked on his helmet, fitted with range-finders, trajectorum and cogitators, and Honsou knew he looked upon one of Berossus’s Chirumeks. More machine to him than man, the practitioner of the black arts of technology scanned him up and down before a huge gun affixed to his back swung around on a hissing armature and aimed at them.
Onyx never gave him a chance to fire the weapon, leaping forward with the speed of a striking snake. His outline blurred, becoming oily and indistinct as he moved. A flash of bronze claws and a rip of flesh and the Chirumek collapsed, his spinal column held aloft by the daemonic symbiote.
‘Hurry!’ shouted Honsou, running for the artillery pit now that all hopes of subterfuge were gone. He dropped into the artillery pit, firing his bolter at its other occupants. Loader slaves died in the hail of fire, blasted apart by his explosive shells and Chirumeks dived for cover as the Iron Warriors stormed-in.
Yells and shouts of warning sounded from the human soldiers, but as the bark of gunfire continued, most were soon silenced. Honsou knew they didn’t have much time and shouted, ‘Zakayo, get down here!’
The lumbering giant climbed down into the pit as Honsou and his warriors slaughtered the remainder of the gun’s crew. The huge cannon hissed and rumbled, revelling in the bloodshed around it and he could sense the daemonic urge to kill bound within it. Obax Zakayo climbed to the gunner’s mount and began hauling at the bronze levers there.
Laughing at the irony of the moment, Honsou also climbed the ladder to the gunner’s position as the turret emitted a bass groan and the barrel began turning from Khalan-Ghol towards the pavilion of Berossus.
The growling barrel depressed until it was virtually horizontal as bolter fire rattled from the sides of the artillery pit and Iron Warriors from Berossus’s grand company poured from their barracks – together with their human auxiliaries – to launch a counterattack.
‘Can’t you hurry this up?’ snapped Honsou.
‘Not really, no!’ shouted Obax Zakayo, pulling thick levers and heavy chains fitted to the daemon gun’s breech. Honsou leaned over the railings of the gunnery platform and shouted down to his warriors. ‘Get ready to reload this gun when we fire! I want at least a couple of shots before we have to escape!’
Four warriors broke from the defence of the gun pit and began hauling on the pulley chains that led down through a great iron portal in the
floor of the artillery pit to the armoured magazine below. Within seconds, the iron gate groaned open and an enormous shell emerged. Grunting with the effort, the Iron Warriors manhandled the shell onto the gurney that would deliver it to the gun. It was extremely dangerous to have the magazine open while firing, but Honsou figured that since it wasn’t their gun anyway, it didn’t matter whether it got blown up or not.
‘Ready to fire!’ shouted Obax Zakayo.
Honsou sighted along the aiming reticule and laughed, seeing the roof of Berossus’s pavilion and the gold and black heraldry of his banner.
‘Fire!’ he yelled and Obax Zakayo yanked the firing chain. Honsou swayed as the gun’s massive recoil almost hurled him from the gunnery platform, the roar of its firing nearly deafening him. Thick, acrid smoke belched from the barrel as the great cannon screamed in pleasure. The daemonic breech clanged open of its own accord and his Iron Warriors ran the next shell along the rails and into the weapon.
As they fetched another shell from the magazine, Honsou saw that the first shot had been uncannily accurate. The banner of Berossus was no more, destroyed utterly by the explosion. The top portion of the pavilion was gone, nothing but a saw-toothed ruin left of its upper half. Even as he watched the debris rain down, secondary explosions were touched off by the burning wreckage as the gun fired again.
This time he was ready, but even so, was again almost dislodged by the recoil. Once more the pavilion vanished in a sheet of flame as their second shell impacted. Another shell was rammed home, but as the breech clanged shut, Honsou felt a huge tremor pass through the earth, swiftly followed by a second.
He looked up through the murk in time to see a massive shadow moving through the darkness and saw with a thrill of fear that one of the Titans was making
for them. The ground shook to its tread, the footsteps of an angry god of war come to destroy them.
‘Come on!’ he shouted to Obax Zakayo. ‘One more shot, then it’s time we were gone!’
Obax Zakayo nodded, casting fearful glances over the gunner’s mantlet with each booming footstep of the approaching Titan. Once again the mighty daemon gun fired, this time striking the barrack block beside the pavilion and reducing it to flaming rubble.
‘Everyone out!’ shouted Honsou, leaping from the gun and running towards the ladders that led from the artillery pit. Honsou wrenched open the iron door to the magazine as he passed and lobbed a handful of grenades inside. He leapt for the ladder as a huge shadow enveloped the artillery pit and looked up in time to see the massive, clawed foot of the Titan descending upon him.
He scrambled up the ladder and rolled aside as its thunderous footstep slammed down, obliterating the daemonic gun in a heartbeat and missing him by less than a metre. He rolled away and lurched to his feet, still dazed from the concussive impact of the Titan’s foot when the grenades he had dropped into the magazine detonated.
The ground heaved and bellowed, huge geysers of flame and smoke ripping from the ground as hundreds of tonnes of buried ordnance exploded in a terrifyingly powerful conflagration. Honsou was lifted into the air and swatted for a hundred metres or more by the blast, slamming into an earthen rampart and rolling into a pile of excavated soil.
He picked himself up, coughing and reeling from the impact to take stock of his surroundings. He turned as he heard a groaning sound and saw the Titan that had destroyed the gun pit sway like a drunk, its leg destroyed from the knee down by the magazine’s explosion. Sparks and plasma fire vented from shattered conduits and sparking cables. Even as he watched, the massive daemon engine began to slowly topple over, its piston-driven arms flailing for balance as it fell.
He turned away, laughing as dismayed soldiers and horrified Iron Warriors watched one of their mightiest daemon machines destroyed before their very eyes. The ground shook as the Titan hit the ground and was smashed asunder, but Honsou was already making his way back to Khalan-Ghol. He had no way of knowing what had become of the rest of his warriors, but trusted that they were experienced and resourceful enough to get back to Khalan-Ghol on their own in all this confusion.
A dark form emerged from the smoke beside him and he recognised the sinuous form of Onyx. The daemonic symbiote’s claws were unsheathed and bloody, the glittering fire of his eyes shining with a deathly lustre. He had hunted well.
‘A successful foray,’ said Onyx with typical understatement.
‘Aye,’ agreed Honsou. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’
THE SANCTUARY ARDARIC Vaanes had spoken of turned out to be secreted in a shadowed valley overlooking the plains before the mighty fortress shrouded in dark clouds and explosions. The sounds of battle still raged from below and Uriel could see a tremendous blaze deep in the besieger’s camp. Their flight from the Unfleshed had been a helter-skelter journey of false trails and looping attempts to prevent the beasts from following their tracks. Uriel could not shake the sound of the Unfleshed feasting on the prisoners, but was surprised at how little it bothered him now. Perhaps Vaanes had been right, there was nothing anyone could have done for those poor unfortunates, and death was the best thing for them.
The renegades had split up once clear of the death camp and now returned to their base in ones and twos, climbing down the valley sides or hiking up from below.
‘Our sanctuary,’ said Vaanes, pointing towards a series of crumbling bunkers and blockhouses that had fallen into disrepair and had clearly seen better days. Partially filled-in trenches and rusted coils of razorwire were angled before the dilapidated constructions, but Uriel’s practiced eye could see that this place was not without its defences. Barely visible gun nests overlooked the approaches and he doubted that anyone could approach without some warning being given.
‘What was this place used for?’ asked Pasanius.
Vaanes shrugged. ‘An old ammunition store, a barracks, a construction exercise? Who knows? All I know is that when we found this place it was abandoned and no one ever came near it. That’s good enough for me.’
Uriel nodded as they crossed a trench via a series of iron sheets and Vaanes moved ahead of them towards the blockhouse beyond the bunkers.
Pasanius leaned close to Uriel and whispered, ‘What are we doing? These Space Marines are renegades! Are we to damn ourselves even more in the sight of the Emperor?’
‘I know,’ said Uriel bitterly, ‘but what choice do we have?’
‘We can strike out on our own.’
‘Aye, and maybe we will, but they have been here longer than us and we may learn something of this world and its dangers.’
Pasanius looked unconvinced, but said nothing more as they reached the armoured doors to the blockhouse. Whatever mechanism had once opened and closed them obviously no longer operated and Vaanes hauled them open with brute strength before disappearing within and indicating that they should follow.
Uriel ducked inside the blockhouse, the interior surprisingly well-lit by numerous holes pierced in the roof. Shafts of dead white light pooled on the rockcrete floor and reflected from the peeling, flakboard walls.
‘I realise that this might be a little more luxury than you’re used to as Ultramarines, but it’s the nearest thing we have to a home just now,’ grinned Vaanes as he walked ahead of them into the blockhouse’s main chamber.
Light streamed in through the firing slits and Uriel could see that the chamber was full of the same Space Marines who had attacked the camp earlier. Most were engaged in cleaning their weapons or repairing their armour and Uriel was shocked at the sheer number of different Chapter symbols he saw on display.
Howling Griffons, White Consuls, Wolf Brothers, Crimson Fists and many others he did not recognise.
But most surprising of all were two figures crouched in the corner of the main chamber cleaning lasrifles. Dressed in the battered fatigues and torn uniform jackets of the Imperial Guard, they looked up as Uriel and Pasanius entered. Both men were so filthy and dishevelled that it was impossible to tell what regiment they had belonged to, b
ut both wore expressions of tired, proud courage.
‘Two new warriors for our band!’ called Vaanes before slumping against one wall and removing his helmet.
Uriel refrained from qualifying that statement as the leaner of the two Guardsmen rose to his feet and limped towards Uriel. His skin was pale and wasted looking blotchy and unhealthy, his eyes bloodshot.
The man extended a palsied hand and said, ‘Lieutenant Colonel Mikhail Leonid of the 383rd Jouran Dragoons.’
‘Uriel Ventris, and this is Pasanius Lysane.’
‘What kind of Space Marines are you?’ asked Leonid, stifling a cough. ‘I don’t see any markings.’
‘We are Ultramarines,’ replied Uriel. ‘Sent from our Chapter to fulfil a death oath.’
Leonid shrugged. ‘A better reason than most for being here.’
‘Perhaps,’ nodded Uriel. ‘And how is it that a colonel of the Imperial Guard comes to be here?’
‘That,’ said Leonid, ‘is a long story…’
CHAPTER EIGHT
LEONID AND SERGEANT Ellard, the softly spoken companion of the colonel, spent the next hour and a half regaling Uriel and Pasanius of how they had ended up in slavery on the bleak daemon world of Medrengard, beginning with the devastating assault of the Iron Warriors on the world of Hydra Cordatus just prior to the Despoiler’s invasion through the Cadian Gate.
He spoke of weeks of constant shelling, of tanks and Titans and of the lethal cancers that base treachery had infected the men and women of his regiment with. But more than this, he spoke of noble courage. He spoke of a warrior named Eshara, a Space Marine of the Imperial Fists, and the sacrifice he and his men had made before the Valedictor Gate. Uriel felt a fierce pride well within him at the thought of such a noble warrior standing before impossible odds, and wished he could have met such a brave hero.
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