by Dan Abnett
‘A different age, Kyril,’ said Loken.
‘Quite so,’ said Sindermann. ‘You think of them as your true colours?’
‘Always,’ said Loken. ‘But I am expecting them to provoke some psychological effect.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Sindermann. ‘And your choice of call sign…’
‘A word you taught me. I intend to disagree and challenge. The balance has gone, Kyril. We need naysmiths more than ever.’
‘Do you think our Praetorian is correct?’ asked Sindermann. ‘That he’s coming?’
‘I think there’s a high probability,’ Loken replied. ‘And if not my gencsire, then the best spear-tip in the Legions, for an undertaking like this.’
‘They don’t exist any more,’ said Sindermann.
‘They do, as a twisted parody of that glory,’ replied Loken. ‘First Company. The Mournival. Abaddon.’
Sindermann sighed.
‘Names that were always terrifying, no matter which side you were on,’ the old man said.
‘Back then, there was only one side. Are you here to make an account of this, Kyril? A remembrance? I was puzzled by your presence.’
‘I am,’ said Sindermann, ‘Just a… twisted parody of the old order, to borrow your turn of phrase, but Lord Dorn has seen fit to reinstate us. To record the making of history as an act of faith in a future that-‘
‘You make the history, Kyril,’ said Loken. ‘I’m only here to make a mound of corpses.’
Sindermann paused awkwardly.
‘If he is coming…’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘…what will you do, Garviel? He was your beloved master once, and-‘
‘Kill him,’ said Loken. ‘I’ll kill him.’
Sindermann nodded. ‘History tells us,’ he said, ‘that a culture may be in morbid decline when sons turn on their fathers…’
‘My father turned on me,’ said Loken. ‘I don’t need history to tell me anything.’
‘There you are, damn it!’
Sindermann turned. Conroi-Captain Ahlbom was hurrying towards him, trailed by two Hort troopers in red body armour.
‘I slipped my handlers,’ Sindermann said to Loken, with a sly wink. Loken smiled a little.
‘You don’t find the things you’re looking for if you don’t break some rules,’ Loken told him. ‘You have to walk in a few dark places on your own.’
‘You can’t just wander around, sir,’ Ahlborn was snapping at Sindermann. ‘Do this again, and we’ll eject you. Come, please. There’s a space reserved for you in the command post.’
Sindermann allowed himself to be walked away. He looked back at Loken.
‘Find what you’re looking for, Garviel,’ he said. ‘Wherever it is in those dark places.’
‘I’ll find it,’ Loken called out after him. ‘And illuminate it.’
* * *
They marched Sindermann out. Loken turned back to his preparation. He took up Rubio’s sword, and resumed working the edge on a whetstone.
‘I can find you a better sword than that old blade.’ Sigismund had approached from the neighbouring hall.
‘And chain it to my wrist like a World Eater?’ asked Loken.
‘Then it may never leave your hand, Garviel Loken,’ said Sigismund.
‘You never, ever have to put it down again.’
‘This’ll do,’ said Loken. ‘It’s been with me a while, and it belonged to… someone.’
‘It’s a force weapon,’ said Sigismund dubiously. ‘A brother like you
can’t bring the best out of it.’
‘It’s still a blade,’ said Loken. ‘And its edge is good.’
They stood together, and looked at the two chambers, the quiet men assembled, braced to unleash hell.
‘Are you set?’ asked Sigismund.
‘Yes. You?’
‘Yes.’
‘I liked your oath,’ Sigismund said.
‘The shortest one of them all,’ said Loken.
‘Yes,’ said Sigismund. ‘But a good one. I wish it had been mine.’
* * *
‘Mistress Icaro?’ Archamus said.
Icaro snapped out of her reverie at his prompt.
The next tracking evaluation is due,’ said Archamus. Trickster is waiting.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, resuming work. ‘Commencing.’
It was the ninth evaluation she had run and sent. The processors whirred and chattered.
‘Distracted?’ Archamus asked as they waited.
‘Just updates coming in on the main war maps,’ she said. ‘Colossi Gate and Gorgon Bar.’
‘I saw them,’ he replied.
‘It looks as though they are intensifying rapidly,’ she said. ‘Intelligence paints swiftly deteriorating situations in both areas.’
‘Both were predicted as key stress zones by the Praetorian,’ said Archamus calmly. ‘Hence his placement of the Khan and the Angel to command them. I’m watching them both. The War Court is watching them develop across a dozen desks. Reaction plans are in place in event of either becoming non-vi.’
‘They’re getting damn hot, Archamus.’
‘They are. But we have work to attend to. Concentrate.’
‘Track results complete,’ she said.
‘Trickster, this is Grand Borealis,’ said Archamus. ‘Datacasting to you now.’
* * *
Sindermann had arrived at the command post. It was his first look at it. It seemed cramped, crowded, busy, even though the only noise was the low murmur of operators talking.
Therajomas was cowering in a corner.
‘Any news?’ Sindermann asked.
Dorn raised a hand to silence him. He was staring at Mistress Elg. She was perched forward in her seat.
‘Thank you, Grand Borealis. Standby,’ Sindermann heard Elg say. The tactician deftly cast data onto the displays. ‘Tracking seismic pulse,’ she said.
‘Seismic pulse confirmed, forty-one kilometres, spread,’ said an operator. ‘As before, backwash from Europa and Western Projection.’
‘Do we have target track?’ asked Dorn.
‘Analysing…’ replied Elg, concentrating on her screen, her hands twitching as they sculpted invisible data. ‘Freeze there. One-seven-two. That’s a new track. Scrub out the backwash. Clean it up.’
‘Aye,’ said the operator.
‘Mistress Elg?’ said Dorn.
‘Wait please, lord,’ Elg replied, without looking around.
‘Seismic pulse confirmed,’ said the operator. ‘New track, new signal. In motion, inbound. Seismographic confirms, listening watch confirms, auspex confirms.’
‘I have it,’ said Elg. ‘New track detected, my lord. Eight kilometres out from the Saturnine Wall, bearing one-seven-two. Inbound. Significant track, significant echo.’
‘Sub-surface?’ asked Dorn. ‘How low?’
Sindermann knew that all expectations were of a major mining assault directly into the Saturnine fault. The flaw was a narrow seam of cavities and shale, viced between plains of bedrock, the only possible route that would submit to excavation or drilling.
‘No, my lord, surface,’ said Elg.
‘Confirmed?’
‘Confirming now.’
‘Surface?’ said Sindermann, frowning. ‘What would-‘
He shut up as soon as he saw the look that Ahlbom was giving him.
‘I anticipated some surface assault,’ said Dorn. ‘They’ll need to punch us hard, and keep the wall systems busy, no matter what they try and throw at us underground.’
‘Surface track is confirmed,’ Elg called out.
Dorn pulled a hardline vox-mic from its hook, the long cable slapping against his plate.
‘Trickster, this is Trickster,’ he said. ‘Vigil, we have an inbound surface track. What are you showing?’
* * *
There seemed to be nothing but a cold, silen
t night.
The Saturnine Wall was a significant, south-facing section of the great Ultimate Wall, eleven hundred metres high and four hundred metres thick. It ran like a sea cliff for nearly thirty kilometres between the Europa and Western Projection sections. Though the light-shock and distant boom of the endless bombardments at those sections rippled through the chill air, at Oanis Tower, Saturnine’s principal gun bastion, it was quiet. A pitch, storm-heavy darkness hung over the wall and the plains beyond. The air was sub-zero, and dropping with windchill. Hoar frost was forming on the sleek, black barrels of the macro-guns and the armoured shells of the casemates and turrets.
The voids, at optimal output, flickered and shimmered the night air, their skeins of charged particles occasionally conjuring aurorae colours that shifted and slid.
‘Stand by, Trickster,’ said Captain Madius.
The Imperial Fist, one of the newborn, new-made legionaries produced by accelerated recruitment to swell the Terran ranks, handed the link back to his waiting vox-officer, and hurried along the wall. He had been appointed wall master of the Saturnine stretch eight days previously.
‘Come to alert,’ he said to his sergeant as he passed him. He had five hundred Imperial Fists on the wall line, and two thousand soldiers of the Auxilia, not counting the hundreds of gun crews, loaders and technical support personnel.
Madius entered the wallguard fire control station at the junction of the main wall and Oanis Tower. The vigil officers and gunnery masters were all on station, as they had been every day and every night since the start of the siege.
‘Hardlink!’ Madius shouted as he walked in. An adjutant ran to him with a cable, which Madius plugged into the jaw of his helmet as he stepped onto the command plate.
‘Visual?’ Madius called out.
‘Nothing, lord.’
‘Auspex?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Full sweep, do it again,’ said Madius. ‘Increase depth, detector field, ten points.’
‘Ten points, aye,’ replied a vigil officer. Madius watched the phantom green patterns twitch and shift on the main grid.
‘Auspex now showing track,’ a vigil officer announced. ‘Incomplete, obscure. Seven kilometres out, advancing, bearing one-seven-two.’
Madius activated his hardlink. ‘Trickster, Trickster, this is vigil. Showing your track now, seven kilometres out, advancing, bearing one seven-two, incomplete. Echo only, visual scanning negative.’
‘Come to alert, Madius,’ the link crackled.
‘Already done, lord,’ Madius replied.
‘Full repulse order.’
‘Full repulse order acknowledged, Trickster,’ said Madius. ‘Wallguard! Full repulse, arm systems!’
The room stirred. Men started speaking urgently into their vox links. Amber runes began to flash silently over the hatch frames and on the wall pillars. One by one, hololithic screens blinked into lite in the air, scrolling with preparatory target data. Madius heard the whine of turrets realigning, the clatter of hatches opening on casemates and down-wall gun-boxes. He heard the rising thrum of power as reactors fast-fed power to the primary energy weapon banks, and the ticking of vast quantities of projectile munitions streaming out of the magazine chambers deep in the girth of the wall.
‘Vigil, this is Trickster. Do you have target visual?’
‘Negative, Trickster. Echo track only. Now… Six and a half kilometres out. We should be able to see something.’
‘You certainly should, vigil,’ the link sizzled.
‘Auspex, I want definition,’ Madius called out. ‘Isolate that echo track. If we can’t see it, let’s hear it. Acoustic profile analysis. Is it tracks, infantry, engines? Boost audio.’
‘Boosting audio, sir.’
Madius waited. A steady, muffled, thump-thump-thump like a cardiac beat echoed out of the speakers.
‘Can we estimate mass from that echo?’ he began to ask.
A scream tore through the chamber. It was so shrill, and so loud, glass panels shattered spontaneously. Consoles shorted out. Hololithic projector plates disintegrated into fragments. The noise suppression systems of those present wearing helmets kicked in automatically, saving them from the worst of it, but the personnel without helmets went into seizure. They collapsed across consoles, or onto the deck, blood running from their ruined ears, out of their noses, out of their tear ducts and the comers of their mouths.
The scream persisted for six seconds, until all the chamber speakers blew out in flurries of sparks and ruptured components.
* * *
‘Vigil? Respond. Vigil, this is Trickster. Respond.’
Dorn waited.
‘Hardline is down,’ an operator reported.
‘How is it down?’ asked Dom.
‘Checking…’ the operator said.
‘Assessing all hardlinks and datacasts,’ said Elg. ‘Trickster, this is Trickster. All stations, send confirmation signal.’
Her desk buzzed and chattered.
‘Datacast is intact to all kill teams and support, and hardline to Grand Borealis is sound,’ she reported. ‘We have lost hardline link to the wallguard.’
‘Fault?’ asked Dorn.
‘Unable to confirm, my lord,’ Elg replied. ‘Despatching repair crews immediately.’
‘Get that link back up,’ said Dorn.
* * *
‘Stations!’ Madius yelled. His head was still ringing. He could feel blood trickling inside his helm. Medicae were dragging the injured clear. Some were still screaming. Support staff were rushing in to take over their positions.
‘Headgear! Noise reduction!’ Madius ordered. ‘What in Terra’s name was that?’
‘Acoustic event registered at two hundred and sixty-two decibels,’ an officer said.
‘No, Faltan, what in Terra’s name was it?’ Madius asked. He adjusted the cable plugged into his helmet. ‘Vigil, this is vigil. Trickster, do you respond? Trickster, respond.’
‘Hardline is blown, lord,’ said one of the officers.
‘Get it back up!’ Madius barked.
‘In work, lord.’
‘Visual contact reported!’ a gunnery master called out. ‘Six kilometres out.’
‘Show on screens!’
‘Screens are down. Visual displays are down.’
Madius cursed. He strode out of the chamber, yanking the plug out of his helm and casting the cable aside. Outside, he ran to the wall’s main bulwark. Space Marines were already in place, manning wall weapons, or braced with boltguns ready.
‘Incoming!’ Sergeant Kask reported, pointing.
Madius looked into the darkness, cycling the gain of his visor’s optics.
The Donjon-class siege engine was an uncommon machine. Made by the Forge of Mars in the early years of the Great Crusade, its pattern had seen service in many theatres, though it had never been produced in significant numbers due to its bulk, cost of production, and cumbersome vulnerability on the field of war. Better doctrines, exploiting the fluid versatilities of the Legiones Astartes and the rapid aggression of the Titan engines, had consigned the Donjon to support and rear-line operations that it had not originally been designed to perform.
The Donjon engine was a quadruped, striding on a brace of the same motivator systems that propelled Warlord-class machines. I he four massive legs supported a huge, flat-top carrier deck, a platform large enough for a squadron of aircraft or a full motorised company. The platform’s rim bristled with heavy gun ports, and through-deck elevators were equipped with bulk machinery that could lift extending siege towers and scaling bridges to the highest battlements. But the Donjon was slow, painfully hard to manoeuvre, and its void systems were over-extended because of its mass, and prone to gapping.
First Captain Abaddon had procured three of the immense, rare beasts from the adepts of the Dark Mechanicum, and he had given them to the Phoenician Lord of the Emperor’s Children.
The three be
hemoths trudged towards the Saturnine Wall, relentlessly advancing over the ragged, lifeless plain. At their heels came streams of armoured support: troop carriers, motorised mortars, wall-breaker gun carriages and assault belfry lifters. Range locked, the advancing giants began to fire. Plasma destructor mounts and inferno guns along the platform rims started to retch and spit searing pulses and beams of annihilation. Mega-bolters shrilled as they unleashed blizzards of explosive ordnance. Launch racks dispensed streams of darting anti-void missiles. Bulk las-blasters pumped in their arrestor frames as they kicked out giant spears of light.
The face of the Saturnine Wall around Oanis Tower lit up, as the storm of incoming fire kissed the shields. Vast backflash blinked as the voids struggled to absorb the bombardment. The wall guns responded immediately, some systems keying to automatic threat-registers, others manually commanded. Casemates, gun boxes in the tiered flank of the wall and main wall-top batteries commenced a staggering onslaught of defensive fire, raking and pummelling the forward voids of the plodding, stoic giants.
Madius, waiting for the hardlink to be repaired, watched the catastrophic exchange. It was his first time facing mass-scale assault. It was his first time in any combat. Few in the Palace had ever seen a Donjon stride into war. They were awe-inspiring, leviathan machines, terrible in aspect.
But he had studied. He knew their weaknesses, and the compounding vulnerabilities that meant they were seldom used. It was all very impressive, but he was sure the wall’s devastating firepower would crack their shields, and bring them all down, burning and torn, well short of the ramparts.
The Phoenician had made some changes to the siege engines he had been loaned.
His sound-wrights, inspired by acoustic nightmares whispered to them by the Neverborn, had masked the approach of the bulk engines in sonic fields that had turned the air opaque, and wrapped the Donjons in manufactured night from thirty kilometres out. The profligate gossips of Slaanesh had blurted secrets of noise-death to the disciples of the Kakophoni in their dreams, and psycho-sonic weapons had been fashioned and tuned, blasting their insanities from the foredecks of the siege engines, through gaping chromed vents, and broadcasting them on every frequency from infra to ultra.Already, they were generating a screaming aura ahead of the advance, a pattern of warped sound that made the air ring as though a giant tuning fork had been struck, and then the lingering note twisted into a distressing, atonal pitch that made blood shiver and tissue quake.