Wrath of Iron

by Chris Wraight

  Nethata raced along the ridge, back to where Malevolentia had been left. His escort struggled to keep up with him, weighed down by their sealed environment suits and heavy weaponry.

  ‘Respond, Slavo,’ he ordered, getting testier the longer he was kept waiting. ‘This is–’

  He stopped when he entered the chemical facility yard. Malevolentia was gone. One of the walls on the northern edge of the space had been entirely demolished, and tell-tale tracks in the concrete told him exactly where his command vehicle had gone.

  A lone Ferik watch officer, swathed in an orange chem-suit, waited for him in the centre of the yard.

  ‘What is happening here?’ demanded Nethata.

  The officer saluted smartly.

  ‘Your orders, lord,’ he said. ‘Squads detailed to rendezvous with the Iron Hands have begun deployment. I thought–’

  It was as if the world had suddenly given way under Nethata’s feet. He felt briefly dizzy, and glanded a quick burst of adrenaquil. He hadn’t needed to do that for a while.

  ‘When did this happen?’ asked Nethata, his mind racing.

  How many units has he taken? How did he organise it? When did he do it?

  The watch officer checked his chrono.

  ‘Ten minutes ago. I assumed these were your orders – the authorisations checked out. Oh, and the Commissar-General left this for you.’

  The officer handed something to Nethata, who absently took it. Only when he looked down did he see what it was: Heriat’s bolt pistol.

  For a moment, he had absolutely no idea what to do. He stared at the pistol stupidly, his mind locked in a vice of shock.

  Heriat. Of all of them. I should have listened. I should have been more careful.

  Nethata was still standing there, still too shocked to make any decision, when the explosions went off. Even from so far away, they crashed out across the wasteland like the immense, crushing reports of nova cannons.

  Nethata looked up sharply, stung out of his paralysis by the sudden barrage of detonations. To the north, out on the edge of unaided sight, the summit of the Capitolis spire was being ripped apart. The explosions kept on going, lighting up the northern horizon with huge, rolling balls of fire. It wasn’t the tanks – they were still far too far away.

  Nethata turned to the watch officer, hardly bothering to hide his surprise.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  Heriat felt the rhythmic drum of Malevolentia’s engines semi-reassuring. The promise of mechanical reliability made his decision feel slightly less capricious, slightly less shabby. Even though he’d known what had to be done for several days, and even though he’d spoken to his selected company commanders over an even longer period of time, when he’d actually come down to it the action had made him feel wretched.

  If it had been anyone other than Nethata, he wouldn’t have hesitated. If it had been anyone other than Nethata, he’d have long since had enough of the minor slights, the disregard, the monomania. A lifetime’s friendship wasn’t easily thrown away, though, and in the event it had taken outright treachery to push it over the edge.

  Heriat’s life was as full of certainties as other men’s were not. Nethata evidently didn’t view his actions as treasonous. A casual glance at the Guard conduct manuals or the precepts of the Adeptus Terra would have corrected that impression. Rauth was the senior commander on Shardenus; short of an order from the Imperial authorities themselves, all loyalist forces on the planet were bound to follow his orders. It didn’t matter whether those orders were wise or foolish, enlightened or despotic. That was the nature of commands; you followed them.

  The Imperium was nothing without discipline. Everything else – loyalty, fervour, duty, friendship, devotion – it was all nothing without the iron fist of control. Humanity, as the Commissariat knew well, was a wayward species. It had to be protected from itself. When it wavered, it had to be corrected. When it doubted, it had to be conditioned. When it faltered, it had to be punished.

  Position runes danced across the command console’s forward sensor array. Heriat looked at them carefully. Nearly half of the companies under Nethata’s command had broken rank and followed his orders. That was encouraging. All of those he had approached had been persuaded by his arguments – or his threats. Those he had judged too close to Nethata to accept the possibility of betrayal would now have to examine their options – would they remain behind in a diminished rump of a fighting force, or would they advance with him, fulfilling their duty to the Emperor and to the Guard?

  Heriat sat back in his seat and issued the command to release his vox-message to Rauth. Soon the clan commander would know that he still had mortal allies willing to do what was necessary for victory. Heriat himself knew perfectly well what was required of him, as he had been the one who had listened in detail to the increasingly angry missives from the Iron Hands command group over the past few days. He knew where his tanks were to be deployed, and what role they were to play. Valien’s transmissions had been useful in that respect, as had the schematics he’d sent before all comms had died.

  Heriat knew perfectly well that the forces under his command, including Malevolentia, would be destroyed within a few hours of coming into range of the Capitolis’s defences. All of this was understood. Nethata and he did not disagree on the practicalities of the situation; it was the principle that was at stake.

  And yet, for all his certainty, Heriat did not rest easily in his seat. A perfectly certain man would not have handled things the way he had done. A perfectly certain man would have carried out the ultimate sanction – he would have killed Nethata at the first sign of treachery and taken over command from the very beginning.

  The fact that he hadn’t done so was evidence of failure. Heriat had left the bolt pistol for Nethata to find, knowing that he would understand the symbolism.

  It wasn’t as if, in all conscience, he’d had any choice. Heriat couldn’t have killed Nethata. Not since the transplant that had saved his life after the action on Goetes IX, staving off the ravages of early-stage skietica and keeping him alive for another fifty years. The price Nethata had paid for that donation, made in a filthy battlefield medicae station under constant fire, had been high – for all the miracles of the chirurgeons’ art, he had been condemned to spend the rest of his life addicted to a cocktail of high-strength glanded narcotics to compensate for what he had given up.

  Perhaps all that adrenaquil and tranquilox had begun to affect Nethata’s judgement at last – it would not have been the first time. If so, then Heriat’s sickness had been the cause of Nethata’s sickness, and applying the final sanction would have made his actions even more wretched than they already were.

  Heriat felt the sores around his mouth itch painfully, and resisted the urge to scratch. His expression remained stony. The flesh, as Rauth would no doubt have relished telling him, was weak.

  ‘Commissar-General, we have sensor readings from the spires,’ came a vox from Malevolentia’s command chamber.

  Heriat stirred from his thoughts. The forces under his command were still some way from their final positions.

  ‘Put them through,’ he said, switching the screen on his console to a forward vid-feed.

  Just as he did so, he saw the explosions go off. Even from so far away, they burst through the audio transmitters with a static-fuzzed crash.

  Heriat started, stung by the sudden barrage of detonations. Picked out in grainy detail on the pict screens, the summit of the Capitolis spire was being ripped apart. Auspex data started to flood into his tactical systems – target runes, comm-signal ranges, power build-ups. The explosions kept on going, lighting up the northern horizon with huge, rolling balls of fire.

  Heriat slumped back in his seat, watching the damage unfold.

  ‘What is that?’ he asked.

  The daemon’s claws ripped through him, tearing up his
already tortured flesh and flaying layers of armour like falling leaves. Then, its work done, it dropped him.

  With his last flickers of awareness, Valien saw where he was headed. The empty throne rushed up to greet him, replete with the nascent horror that it cradled between its arms.

  Before he hit it, he only had time to do two things. The first of those was to scream. The second was to activate the explosive implanted in his chest.

  He didn’t feel the explosion. It was so huge, so powerful, so destructive, that he was reduced to atoms in an instant. He didn’t see the enormous pool of fire surge out from his destroyed body, sweeping across the corrupted audience chamber and shattering the immense panes of glass in a rain of silver. He didn’t see the external walls of the spire blow out into the atmosphere, showering burning stone and metal down the long flanks of the upper hive. He didn’t see the secondary incendiaries in the cluster ignite, sparking the inferno that would reduce the entire governor’s complex to rubble and crack open the powerful shields that protected the Capitolis from sensor probes and psychic attack.

  None of that mattered, for he had fulfilled the order given to him by Heriat at last.

  Penetrate the Capitolis, he’d been commanded. Find out what’s in there, report back with visual records. We need to see what’s waiting for us inside.

  He hadn’t been able to send visual records. For a long time his instruments had been deaf and mute, and he’d been crawling silently though the dark like an insect. Only the final resort, the devastating explosive core that every Talica operative had implanted in their chest cavity, had the capability to achieve that goal. Only that device had retained the power to blow open the walls of the Capitolis and expose the horror within.

  And so, even in his dying scream, a sliver of satisfaction penetrated Valien’s consciousness. He knew, as he died, that he had reported back as best he could. He knew that if any loyalist troops still fought their way towards the Capitolis they would now be fully aware, in exact and terrifying detail, just what was waiting for them inside.

  It might not have made up for his many sins. Nothing, perhaps, could have done that; but it was a contribution, a small act of penitence.

  In a way, it was restitution. In a way, it was enough.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Telach felt his mind flood with visions as soon as the explosions broke out. He didn’t need to let his mindsight roam free – the images crowded into his waking consciousness in a mad, overlapping rush.

  All of the Librarians felt it. He could see his three Codiciers – Nedim, Malik, Djeze – reeling from the sudden deluge. Even the non-psychic battle-brothers responded.

  Daemonspoor. Huge, huge daemonspoor.

  Telach lifted his power staff high, and pure warp lightning licked along the shaft. Anticipation surged through his body.

  ‘No time remains,’ he said, turning to Rauth. ‘Forget the mortals – we must fight this.’

  Rauth hesitated, caught between his stated course of action and the sudden change in events.

  ‘What do you see?’ he asked. ‘Tell me quickly.’

  Telach’s hearts were already thumping hard, fuelling his body for the imminent fighting ahead. Now that he knew the nature of what awaited them in the spire, all room for debate had ended.

  ‘A rift,’ he said. ‘A gateway between realms. It is almost open. This world stands on the edge of damnation – we have not been fast enough.’

  Still Rauth hesitated. Telach felt impatience rise up in him. He knew why Rauth resisted giving the order – the Imperial forces were in disarray, riven with discord and rebellion. Even if all of Nethata’s forces had been committed to assault alongside them, their chances of taking on what waited for them beyond the portals were slim. Even Iron Hands couldn’t kill that fast.

  Khatir ignited his claw-flamers with a flourish.

  ‘Is there any other way, Librarian?’ he demanded.

  Telach looked squarely at him.

  ‘There is not,’ he said. ‘Whatever else happens, I am going up there.’

  Just as he was about to stride off towards the gates, a crackling comm-signal broke through on the command channel. Even with the destruction of the shielding surrounding the Capitolis, it was faint and broken. All those in the primary clave picked it up.

  ‘Priority signal for Clan Commander Rauth from Commissar-General Slavo Heriat of the 126th Ferik Tactical. Lord General Raji Nethata relieved of command due to insubordination. Remaining Galamoth and Ferik armoured divisions heading for deployment coordinates to follow in transmission 5-78, tactical outline appended. Bombardment to commence immediately. The Emperor protects the faithful.’

  Rauth turned to Telach. As he did so, he ignited his power blade, and its ice-blue surface blazed in the dark.

  ‘So there is mettle in humanity yet,’ he said. ‘So be it. Open the gates.’

  Telach immediately fed power to his staff. Warp essence burst out strongly, flooding the chamber before them with dazzling electric-white light. Each of the Codiciers did the same, sending snaking lines of energy lancing up towards the sealed portal.

  ‘Warriors of Raukaan!’ roared Khatir, striding up to the doorway with his arms aloft. ‘Now comes the final test!’

  The claves responded instantly. They drew blades and slammed magazines into place. Many still carried horrific injuries, and nearly all had sustained damage to their armour plate. Of more than a hundred Space Marines who had entered the tunnels, less than seventy remained.

  Telach felt the massive doors tremble. He had closed them with layers of wards against the daemonic, all of which took time to unravel. As the psychic barriers came down, he could hear the howl of the creatures on the far side. They were already clawing at the metal.

  ‘We will take them with speed!’ cried Khatir, sounding as eager for the fight as he ever did. ‘Advance! Pause for nothing! Destroy all in your path! Show no restraint!’

  Telach unbound the last of the wards. A great, echoing crack ran down the length of the gilded doors. The shrieks of the daemons rose in volume, and the bronze surfaces buckled.

  Rauth strode up to the portal, taking the position of honour. In one hand he carried his storm bolter; in the other his shimmering power-blade. Clad in his heavy void-black Terminator plate, he looked immense. Clave Prime formed up around him, each warrior massive and silent.

  Telach could feel the pent-up energy coiled inside them all. He knew what was about to come.

  The Iron Hands had fought in the manner of their Chapter doctrine – cold, methodical, remorseless. Now the urgency of the task had become fully apparent, as had the scale of the abomination before them.

  Such straits demanded the casting-off of fetters, the abandonment of control. Only rarely did the sons of Manus abandon their meticulous way of war and adopt the ancient rage that lay deep in the gene-heritage of all the Adeptus Astartes.

  When that happened, there were few forces in the galaxy capable of resisting it: ten thousand years of anger, of rage, of bitterness, all concentrated into a single, machine-augmented storm of vengeance.

  Now the storm was coming. Now Shardenus would face the wrath of iron.

  Telach crashed his staff onto the ground, shattering the rockcrete. Above him, the massive doors burst open with a booming crack. Sheets of aether-light rushed out, spinning into the dark. Lightning snapped across the widening gulf as the heavy doors ground slowly inwards. Shrieks and screams echoed from within.

  ‘For the Emperor!’ roared Khatir above the gathering tumult, sending gouts of vivid flame streaming high into the poisoned air.

  And then, for the first time since the bloody campaign had begun, the Iron Hands responded. The sound of their massed battle-cry, hurled up defiantly into the vaults, was deafening, outmatching the screams of the neverborn, outmatching the low grind of the opening gates, and echoing through the b
owels of the Capitolis like the coming of the gods themselves.

  For the Emperor! they cried, sweeping up to the portal in a tide of darkness, charging into the maelstrom with murder in their eyes, blood on their armour and death kindling on their blades.

  Morvox ran hard. A Space Marine in full battle-plate was a huge object weighing many tonnes; at speed, his momentum was formidable.

  He leapt through the portal at the head of his clave. Seven of them remained from the fighting in the tunnels, and two of those – Gergiz and Kozen – carried serious injuries. They all ran at the same pace, hitting the ground hard with heavy armoured treads.

  Beyond the gates, the Great Stair snaked away into the preternatural darkness, winding around a core of solid granite. It spiralled upwards, immense and majestic, curling like a massive python about the structural core of the hive spire. That core was gigantic – over sixty metres in diameter and lined with basalt pillars and mammoth iron bracings. Eyeless angels perched along its width, gazing sightlessly out over the enormous vaults. The Stair swept upwards around the core, vanishing into a dark haze as the marble-lined steps wound ever higher. It was surrounded on all sides by a vast gulf of emptiness, breached only by a web of flying buttresses and high arches that spanned it, branching out and forming a sprawling lattice linking the stairway to the rest of the hive. On the far side of the abyss, the vast inner walls of the hive spire stood, shrouded in shadow and smoke.

  The Great Stair had once been an empty place, clothed in darkness and disturbed only by the whispers of adepts shuffling from intersection to intersection along its immeasurable length. Now the warp itself burst out from the walls at all levels. Enormous growths snaked down from overhanging gargoyles, luminous and clutching. Screams echoed down from the high places, bouncing and refracting from twisting structures of living, weeping metal. Blood swilled down the stairs, frothing and boiling as the Iron Hands crashed up through it. Angry, violent lights wheeled and flickered in the vaults above, turning the echoing spaces into psychedelic, hallucinatory nightmares.