When it left the place, nothing but dead ashes remained.
Travelling across the surface of the world, it encountered more of the creatures. Its anger grew with each encounter, anger at the realisation that all the children of Asuryan had once achieved here had been swept away by the seemingly endless tide of greenskins.
Now, reaching its destination, it found that this place too had been colonised by the ork pestilence. The animals seemed to have been warned of its coming and rode out to meet it in battle. They bore down on it in waves of their bizarre and noisome vehicles. They whooped and shouted in excitement, firing their weapons into the air.
The burning god met them with the full force of its rising anger.
Another wave of gunfire struck it as it stepped through the tangled, burned-out remnants of an orkoid vehicle, crushing the wreck beneath its burning tread. The gunfire increased in intensity. Many of the projectiles—crudely-cast metal slugs—vaporised into molten mist even as they struck the white-hot iron exterior of its armoured skin. Other, larger calibre shots impacted against it, although it barely registered the blows.
The burning god growled to itself in irritation, turning its glowering gaze towards the source of the gunfire, and sent out a blast of glowing fire with one sweep of its rune-carved sword blade. The line of greenskin vehicles exploded in sequence, the mystic fire jumping from one to the other, consuming their screaming crews in a halo of black fire and detonating ammunition stocks and primitive fossil fuel tanks. Ork infantry ran in panic from the conflagration, and were reduced to ash by another sweep of the burning blade held in the god’s hand. Their shrieks mingled with the sword’s scream as it gloried in the psychic aura of their death agonies.
Three more of the orks’ crude, smoke-belching vehicles rode towards it, spitting out streams of rapid-fire projectiles from the swivel-mounted weapons built upon them. The burning god blew one apart with a brief flick of its mystic blade. The next was armed with some kind of flamer weapon. Had it been able, the burning god might have laughed at the pathetic futility of the attack as the flamer vehicle’s gunner directed the weapon at it and enveloped it in a heavy blanket of chemically-produced flame. The burning god strode through the wall of fire, and swung its sword, shearing through bike, driver, weapon and gunner with one simple slash.
The third vehicle, a rumbling half-track loaded down with howling orks, bore down straight at it. The burning god braced itself in readiness. The orks did not realise it, but, even if they had had one to use, not even a traktor beam weapon could have moved the avatar from the spot where it now stood.
The vehicle impacted against the burning god, completely destroying itself just as if it had run straight into the immobile, immovable foot of one of the humans’ great Titan war-machines. Screaming orks, bursting into flames as they came into contact with the super-heated air around the burning god, flew through the air amidst the wreckage of their vehicle. The burning god lowered its guard and moved on, walking through the scattered wreckage, the heat of its passing detonating the vehicle’s fuel tank and causing ammunition-loaded weapons in the hands of dead and dying orks to explode apart.
More gunfire buzzed through the air around the burning god, the occasional heavier round splattering in a molten mess against its skin. It saw its objective before it, the distinctive, conical-shell shape of the ancient temple of Asuryan still visible amidst the desecrating jumble of barrack huts, watchtowers and weapon workshops that the ork animals had constructed around it.
A haphazardly-designed battlement wall ran round the settlement, its single gate made from a section of scavenged space vessel hull, and firmly barred against the burning god’s advance. The battlements were lined with orks, and sweating teams of smaller orkoid creatures laboured to turn a huge rusty capstan wheel, bringing the wide muzzles of the turret weapons on top of the gate swinging round towards the burning god.
The god spoke, uttering a few sounds which only the most venerable farseers would recognise as being words of power. As it spoke, it thrust its burning blade into the ground at its feet. The earth erupted open, and a blazing line of fire ran towards the gate with preternatural speed. Immediately, the ork shouts of triumph and scorn from the battlement walls turned to howls of fear and panic. A few seconds later, the fire line found its target. The gate and large portions of the battlements on either side of it blew apart in an incandescent fireball.
The burning god walked on, oblivious to the soil, battlement wreckage and orkoid remains showering down all around it from the sky.
It strode through the cratered hole where the gates had stood. A crude, clanking ork machine-thing lumbered forward to meet it. The burning god advanced on it, ignoring the pounding hail of shells from the machine’s weapon arm which hammered against its iron skin. Reaching the machine, the burning god severed the thing’s clumsy power-claw limb with one blow from its wailing blade. Sparks and black hydraulic fluid sprayed out from the twitching metal stump, and the machine-thing staggered back as if it were in pain. The burning god ran it through with its sword, the weapon wailing with surprised glee as it tasted the flesh of the ork pilot hidden inside the machine.
The burning god continued into the ork settlement, killing everything that attempted to stop it.
A massive ork in primitive power armour charged at it, roaring in ferocious anger as it swung a whirring, double-handed chainsword round its head. The burning god reached out and grabbed the ork by the throat, lifting it clear off the ground. Holding it by one hand, it shook the screaming ork as if it were nothing more than a puppet. The unnatural heat from its hand melted through the stuff of the ork’s armour, igniting the creature’s flesh. In seconds, the creature was ablaze from head to foot. The burning god shook the blazing puppet-thing, causing pieces of it to fall to the ground in a rain of fiery gobbets. Finally, it dropped the empty, fire-blackened armour to the ground and continued on.
A strange, giggling ork in brightly-coloured robes danced and capered before the god on the steps of the temple building, waving a brass-knobbed staff at the burning god as it chanted out a stream of gibberish. The air between them swam with psychic energy, and flickering ribbons of destructive warp power crackled harmlessly against the god’s skin.
The avatar killed the ork psyker with one fiery glance. The ork collapsed onto the steps, rolling in agony. Smoke and weird-coloured flame emerged from its mouth, nose and eyes as the contents of its skull ignited from within.
The burning god entered the temple. It could sense the faint aura of the hidden webway portal buried deep amongst the building’s foundations. It would take some time to locate the portal, and more time still to activate and open it.
Unhurried and relentless, the burning god continued on its journey. It sensed the events unfolding at its ultimate destination. This detour and the unnecessary distraction of having to deal with the greenskin animals had cost it much precious time. Now it was no longer sure it would be able to arrive in time to change the course of those events.
TWELVE
“As commander of this vessel and the man responsible for your safety, inquisitor, I really must protest in the strongest possible terms to this course of action.”
Yes, and also as the man whose head Lord Admiral Ravensburg will surely serve up on a silver platter to the Inquisition and the High Lords of Terra, should anything happen to their personal envoy to the Gothic sector, thought Semper, no longer caring about the unknown possibilities of Horst’s mind-reading abilities.
“Duly noted,” said Horst smoothly, as they rode the elevator together down to the shuttle bay. “You may, if you wish and with my full approval and Inquisitorial authorization, register your protest with Monomachus, who, in the event of my not returning from the planet below, will convey it to Battlefleet Command when this mission is over.”
Horst caught the look of surprise on Semper’s face. “If, as you suspect, this is indeed some kind of xenos trick, commodore, then my mission is already a failure. T
he war will go as it has done already, and the interests of Battlefleet Gothic will be poorly served by blaming one of its most able commanders for my mistake. This mission is my idea alone, and I take full responsibility for its outcome, including the possibility of my own death.”
Semper nodded in silent thanks, surprised by Horst’s words. While he was still dwelling on the inquisitor’s unexpected depths of selfless practicality, the elevator doors rumbled open, and they strode together out into the shuttle bay flight deck. Rows of booted feet crashed together in unison at their arrival. Now it was the inquisitor’s turn to be surprised as he looked at the four squads of armsmen lined up on the shuttle deck, all of them in carapace armour and bearing fearsome shotcannon weapons and bolstered navy pistols.
“I assume this is something more than an honour guard formed to see me politely aboard my shuttle,” noted Horst dryly, seeing the strings of ammunition bandoliers worn by each armsman, and the bulging pouches of grenades, power cells and rebreather rigs hanging from their equipment harnesses. Hito Ulanti and Maxim Borusa, both also in full naval battle dress, stood nearby. Ulanti was armed with his sabre and a holstered laspistol. Borusa had a brace of holstered navy pattern pistols and a heavy bolter, holding the cumbersome heavy weapon as if it were nothing more than an ordinary bolter.
“Let’s just call it an extra precaution, inquisitor,” answered Semper. “You have your mission, but I also have mine, and that mission it to safeguard your life to the best of my abilities. With your permission, Lieutenant Ulanti and four squads of my ship’s best armsmen will accompany you and your group down to the planet’s surface, to provide additional security.”
Semper saw the look of wry amusement in Horst’s eyes. “We can’t have it said that Battlefleet Gothic and the captain and crew of the Macharius don’t know how to look after their guests,” he added, with the same wry smile.
“A fine idea,” nodded Horst, diplomatically. “It will be reassuring to know that the forces of Battlefleet Gothic will be watching over us both from up here and closer by on the planet’s surface.”
A klaxon sounded, signalling the beginning of the shuttle launch procedure. The deck shook under the impact of dozens of pairs of heavy boots as the armsmen squads and Horst’s bodyguard marched up the ramps into their separate shuttles. The shaking increased tenfold as, one by one, the three armoured troop carrier shuttles fired up their engines in preparation for take-off.
Semper retreated back towards the deck’s safe zone. He spotted Ulanti climbing the entrance ramp of one of the shuttles, and saw him turn to salute him from the top of the ramp.
Semper returned the salute. “Good hunting, Hito,” he shouted as an afterthought, aware that his words would certainly be lost amongst the rising howl of the shuttle engines. It was the traditional good luck farewell call of Battlefleet Gothic, exchanged whenever a ship left port for battle or just routine patrol. Its use here seemed somewhat inappropriate, Semper knew—this, after all was supposed to be a parley with what could incredibly turn out to be potential allies—but he was unable to explain why he had suddenly felt the urge to use it now.
A foreboding, he thought briefly, and then did his best to dismiss the thought. He did not trust xenos, but he had his orders, and he knew that, on this mission, battle was to be avoided at all costs.
Ulanti paused at the shuttle hatch, grinning and flashing his captain a friendly salute of acknowledgement. He may not have heard Semper’s words, but he had obviously guessed their meaning.
The howling scream of the shuttle engines increased in pitch even further. The very air of the launch bay throbbed with the vibration, and the atmosphere of the place was filled with the heavy chemical reek of expelled promethium. Semper turned to exit the bay, leaving only the servitors and human ground crew in their thickly-armoured protective suits to conduct the final technical checks in the almost unbearable atmosphere of the shuttle bay, just prior to the final launch moment.
As he turned, he almost collided with the black-coated figure of Koba Kyogen. Semper immediately noticed the ammo pouches and rebreather rig Kyogen was wearing, even as the Ship’s Commissar offered him a stiff-armed formal salute.
“Permission to join the mission to the planet’s surface, commodore. As Ship’s Commissar, I believe it is my duty to oversee the actions of the crewmen you have selected for this mission, particularly since they may come into contact with xenos abominations. If this is the case, then I must be on hand to keep a close guard over the morale of our men, and to protect their minds and spirits from any signs of alien contamination. The servants of the Inquisition might be used to bargaining with the enemies of mankind, but the men of the Imperial Navy are thankfully not.”
His voice was thick with undisguised scorn for the idea of this attempted parley with the alien eldar, and there was nothing but pure loathing in the way he had described them as “xenos abominations”.
“Permission granted, commissar,” Semper said, almost shouting over the sound of the shuttle’s engines. Kyogen nodded in thanks, although both men knew that the request had been purely cosmetic, since commissars could and did do exactly what they wanted aboard an Imperial Navy vessel.
Kyogen sprinted across the deck of the launch bay, scrambling up the ramp of one of the shuttles just as it began to retract into the underside of the shuttle’s hull. He stumbled at the top of the ramp, fire traces from the shuttle’s roaring belly thrusters licking at the tails of his heavy commissar’s coat, and a surprised-looking Hito Ulanti, assisted by two armsmen, leaned out to haul him into the safety of the shuttle’s interior, just as the airlock hatch began to slide shut.
Semper saw all this through the glasteel viewing plate set into the heavy-duty blast doors which now sealed off the launch bay from the rest of the ship. A few seconds later, and the image was gone, washed away by the torrent of flame which now filled the interior of the shuttle bay as the pilots of all three craft brought their engines up to launch thrust.
A few more seconds, and the fire was extinguished as all remaining oxygen inside the place was siphoned away and the launch bay doors rumbled open, exposing the bay to the vacuum of space. Released from their grav-lock moorings, the three shuttles lifted off and exited the Macharius.
Moments later, flying in triad formation, the shuttles made rendezvous with the waiting flight of Fury escorts. The Furies, a model adapted for planetary atmospheric flight, took up a protective position around the shuttles and guided them down towards their destination.
Inside the lead shuttle, Koba Kyogen settled into his seat harness, staring in sullen challenge at the figure seated across the narrow, cramped aisle. Maxim Borusa stared disinterestedly back, chewing slowly on a fresh wad of tajii root. The two men’s eyes met and locked in undisguised mutual hostility.
“Good to have you with us on this little jaunt, commissar. Me and the rest of the boys feel more reassured, knowing we’ve got a silver skull like you along for the ride and watching our backs.”
Maxim grinned, launched a thick stream of tarry tajii root juice at the decking in front of Kyogen’s gleaming, black polished boots and then settled back into his seat, closing his eyes and seeming to simply will himself to sleep through the remainder of the short but violently bumpy orbital descent down towards the surface of Stabia.
When he opened his eyes again, twenty minutes later as they touched down upon the planet’s rocky surface, Kyogen was sitting exactly as he had been the last time Maxim had looked at him, still staring fixedly at Maxim, the way a predator measures up its intended prey.
“We should not be doing this. They are mon-keigh, they are animals without souls. They cannot be trusted, and they should not be bargained with. Let them die at the hands of the Abomination. What do we care of the fate of them and their corpse-god emperor?”
Lileathon stood upon the bridge of the Vual’en Sho. Around her, the pictskin-projected images of the human ships swirled and spun in the incense-hazed air of the command deck.
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Kariadryl sensed the bristling outrage of the Aspect Lord, Darodayos, standing beside him. Others of his bodyguard retinue also reacted with quiet yet distinct displays of disapproval at the eshairr outcast’s lack of respect to craftworld An-Iolsus’s most venerable farseer. The Dark Reaper called Chiron shifted in unease, the heavy plates of his carapace armour striking noisily together in less than subtle warning. Freyra, Darodayos’s other Striking Scorpion lieutenant, hissed in angry indignation at this seeming display of contempt to Kariadryl and quietly assumed the ominous body language stance that signified the assumption of thyerr shu-mon: declaration of support, backed up by force of arms, if necessary, towards an insulted kinsman.
Kariadryl reached out with his mind to cast a subtle aura of calm over the proceedings, and looked towards Lileathon, gesturing to her in respectful supplication. No matter what he and the others may think of her, she was the craftmaster of this vessel, and their lives were all in her hands. Now was not the time to provoke a fight.
“An-Iolsus commands, honoured sister and craftmaster. The agents of the mon-keigh corpse-god have made known to us something of the true plans of the enemy they fight. If what they have revealed to us is true, and that is what we are here to determine, then An-Iolsus and its sister craft-worlds can no longer afford to stand by and allow the servants of the Great Abomination to achieve their victory. If a temporary pact with the mon-keigh is the price we must pay for keeping the Talismans of Vaul out of the hands of the Great Abomination, then that is what we must do.”
[Battlefleet Gothic 02] - Shadow Point Page 16