A high-pitched whine assaulted Lucian’s senses, and he looked up. Thirty metres ahead, the grav-tank was advancing, its huge main weapon lowering towards him.
“Sir!” the voice of Lucian’s signalman rang out. “Down!”
Lucian dived to the right and an instant later a hissing roar thundered down the street. He came up in a roll as the missile streaked overhead, and flung himself into the cover of the nearest ruin.
Less than a second later, the missile struck the grav-tank with a deep, resounding wallop. Then something detonated within, and the entire tank blew itself apart. The blast wave vaporised the road surface, throwing up an instant curtain of dust within which flames danced. The grav-tank’s turret was thrown directly upwards into the air, the barrel of its weapon shearing off and spinning away into the distance. Then the turret crashed down into the ruins of the building Lucian was sheltering in, showering him with shrapnel and embers.
Lucian’s power armour took the worst of the shrapnel, though its livery would have to be lovingly reapplied much later, and triple-blessed by a confessor. Though the skin of his face felt singed and bruised, Lucian was alive.
The jade sky above darkened as a figure was silhouetted against it.
“Sir?”
Laughter came unbidden to Lucian’s throat as he focussed on the signalman standing over him. He let it out, giving voice to a deep, booming laugh that must have sounded to the officer like that of a madman.
“Sir?” the signalman repeated, bright cinders dancing around him.
“Glad to see you, lad,” Lucian said when the laughter had passed. “Now help me up.”
The signalman took hold of Lucian’s power-armoured forearm with both hands, and put all his weight into hauling Lucian up. As he stood, dust and ash fell away from Lucian’s armour, the dark red and gold trim of his clan’s colours almost entirely obscured by debris and burns.
The street outside the ruin was wreathed in smoke and a driving rain of glowing embers thrown up by the burning wreckage of the tau grav-tank. Riflemen were rushing past, firing into the ruins as they drove off the remnants of the tau counter-attack. Major Subad was striding towards him, another signalman hurrying behind him. Lucian was relieved when he heard the booming voice of Sergeant-Major Havil further ahead, pushing the riflemen onwards against the remaining tau.
“My lord,” said Major Subad as Lucian stepped outside into the street. “What happened to you?”
“Never mind me, major,” Lucian said as he looked back down the street towards the scene of the grav-tank’s first attack. Company medics were already getting to work on the wounded. “Call in a medicae lander,” Lucian said. “I want those men evacuated.”
“Yes, of course, my lord,” Subad replied, gesturing to his signalman to enact Lucian’s order. “But…”
“What?” Lucian said. It was obvious that the major had bad news.
Subad hesitated. “What?” Lucian repeated, on the verge of losing his temper.
“I have just received word straight from General Gauge’s a.d.c,” Subad said. It was going to be very bad news.
“What did he say?” Lucian pressed. “Out with it, man.”
“He wished that you be informed that Cardinal Gurney has just left the front line, and is returning to the Blade of Woe.”
“He’s what…?” Lucian started. But he was interrupted by the sight of a shining gold shuttle streaking overhead. A moment later a deafening sonic boom rolled across the ruins, and the shuttle was gone.
“Bastard…” Lucian growled. “Subad? Pass me that vox-set.”
Word of the Space Marines’ assault upon River 992 was disseminated quickly through every level of the crusade’s ground army, the command echelons of the nineteen front-line combat regiments passing it down to their line companies, who informed the platoons. The Titans, now in position at the army’s head, strode forwards, ready to support the Brimlock Dragoons as their massed armoured transports raced towards the bridge. As the army advanced, enemy counter-attacks gathered momentum, and soon it was not only Battlegroup Arcadius that was fighting to keep them at bay, but every light infantry unit at the army’s flanks.
But the Space Marines were forcing their way across the bridge, and the order was given. Cardinal Gurney himself had been at the head of the force, bellowing his battle-sermons and filling the hearts of tens of thousands of Imperial Guardsmen with resolve and courage. When the first of the tau counter-attacks struck at the army’s flanks, Gurney redoubled his efforts, ordering that his words were relayed through the command-net and amplified through the vox-horns on each signalman’s set so that every warrior would hear them and take heart.
Gurney’s sermons drove the beleaguered flank units to superhuman efforts, his furious imprecations ringing in the ears of the combatants, lending strength to the arm of the Guardsman, succour to the wounded and dying, and even planting fear in the hearts of those tau warriors close enough to hear them. Enemy units mounted in fast-moving grav-effect carriers looped wide around the Imperial army, the passengers disembarking to unleash fusillades of withering fire at the flank companies. At one stage the fastest of enemy cadres threatened the army’s mobile artillery concentrations at the rear, which were moving forward in great, bounding advances while keeping up a storm of supporting fire for the front-line regiments. The Brimlock Light Infantry moved swiftly to counter the sudden threat, redeploying seven companies and holding the enemy at bay long enough for the heavy weapons companies to set up their field pieces and drive the enemy off completely. The fight was bitter and intense, but Gurney’s words rang out across the battlefield as the sun reached its zenith in the jade sky, pushing the warriors of the Emperor to ever-greater feats in the service of their lord and god.
Then something happened. It would never be known who sent the original transmission, but as quickly as word of the Space Marines’ assault across the bridge had reached the lowest levels of command, so this new piece of information spread equally as fast. Cardinal Gurney, so the message stated, had quit the field of battle to return to orbit. Yet, how could this be? The cardinal’s voice boomed out of every vox-horn on the battlefield. Surely, Gurney was at the very leading edge of the army, only waiting for the Space Marines to take the bridge before he would lead the faithful across, into Gel’bryn and on to victory.
Then where was he? Concerned that this rumour would undermine morale, commanders and commissars alike hounded their vox-officers to seek clarification. But every channel was filled with Gurney’s sermons, and no other transmissions could penetrate.
The rumour spread far and wide, sowing confusion in its wake. Where Guardsmen had fought with righteous fury, now doubt gnawed at the edges of their courage. Where previously las-rounds had flown with vengeful and unerring accuracy, now they wavered. Where men had stood firm in the face of overwhelming odds, now they cast wary glances backwards. Where the order to fix bayonets and charge into the very teeth of the enemy had been obeyed without question, now men hesitated.
And still, none could locate the cardinal.
Runners were sent from regimental commands, intelligence cell liaison officers seeking out their opposite numbers in the other units. Where is Gurney? Is he with the armour? The infantry? The artillery?
He was nowhere to be found, for he had indeed quit the field of battle. His transmissions were recorded phono-loops, broadcast by a vox-servitor left at the landing zone while Gurney sped away in his gold-liveried personal shuttle towards the waiting Blade of Woe. This fact took longer to discover and disseminate than the previous rumour, but despite the best efforts of the Commissariat, it could not be contained for long. As the runners returned to the regimental commands and informed their superiors of what they had heard, others overheard and repeated the tale.
Gurney was gone, so the initial rumours stated. Gurney was dead, so others said, but that could not be so for his voice still rang out from the vox-horns, dominating every channel. Gurney had fallen hours before, others s
aid, and his sermons were being looped over and over so that none would ever know. Gurney was dead, still others claimed, and was preaching to the faithful from beyond the grave!
Regardless of the exact rumour men heard, the effects were universal. The advance lost momentum even as the Titans closed on the nearside shores of River 992 and prepared to wade across. First the armoured and mechanised units slowed, the gap between them and the Titans increasing all the while. Then the infantry faltered as first confusion, then panic swept through the ranks. Men refused to advance, and the commissars were forced to execute dozens.
As the advance stalled, the tau redoubled their attacks on the army’s flanks, and men previously galvanised by the cardinal’s presence were suddenly terrified by his absence. Those platoons at the battle’s leading edge began to fall back, and soon entire companies were retreating in the face of an enemy they had previously had no fear of whatsoever.
It was midday, and Operation Hydra hung in the balance.
Sarik yanked his screaming chainsword from the torso of a tau warrior, the screeching teeth back-spraying a torrent of purple blood as he used his armoured boot to force the body down. The far end of the bridge was less than thirty metres away, but the tau were making his force bleed for every metre the Space Marines took. Already, over a dozen battle-brothers lay slain on the once-pristine, now bloody and scorched surface.
“Missile launcher!” Sarik bellowed as yet another battle suit dropped out of the air, coming to a smooth landing thirty metres in front of him. Sarik was learning to recognise the tau’s weapons, and their capabilities. This one’s arms were twinned fusion blasters, each capable of melting a fully armoured Space Marine to bubbling slag.
“Ware the fore!” a battle-brother yelled, and Sarik pushed himself sideways, right to the edge of the bridge. He turned his head, and for an instant looked directly down into the glistening waters of River 992. Then the missile screamed overhead, and Sarik gritted his teeth against the imminent explosion.
But none came. He rolled over, raising his boltgun as he looked back towards the end of the bridge. The battle suit had leaped high, the missile streaking beneath it and off into the roiling smoke beyond the bridge. It was coming down to land right in front of Sarik, its deadly blasters locking onto him.
Sarik squeezed the trigger of his boltgun, unleashing almost an entire magazine of mass-reactive explosive bolts directly into the enemy’s torso. The first shots sent it reeling off-balance and it stumbled backwards on its claw-like mechanical feet. As more shots impacted against its armour, detonating with furious staccato flashes, it swivelled around again, bracing itself against the fusillade as it raised its blasters.
Then a crater appeared in the centre of its torso armour, and Sarik concentrated his last few rounds on that exact spot. Round after round buried themselves in the wound, and detonated as one. The battle suit quivered as its systems sought to respond to the nerve signals coming from the dying pilot’s mind; then it shook violently as a jet of purple blood and gristle spurted out of the wound.
The battle suit collapsed in a still-quivering heap in front of Sarik, and in an instant he had leaped upon it and was brandishing his chainsword high. Utter savagery filled Sarik’s heart, his conscious mind struggling to maintain control over his battle-rage. That part of him that was a supremely trained, genetically enhanced, psycho-conditioned warrior-champion of the Emperor of Mankind was fighting a constant battle against the other part, perhaps the greater part, that was a wild, untamed, undisciplined son of the windswept steppes of the feral world of Chogoris. No amount of conditioning or training could entirely rid a son of the steppes of that warrior spirit; indeed, it was the very heart of all that the White Scars were.
At times such as these, it was the savage that won the battles.
Sarik swept his chainsword down, pointing it directly towards another squad of enemy warriors rushing forwards in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to hold the far side of the bridge. He snarled an incoherent oath, and leaped forwards as his warriors joined him. As Sarik and his battle-brothers closed the last thirty metres of the bridge, the tau opened up with a fusillade of energy bolts so dense it felt as if he were charging through raging sheet lightning. A brother went down, his head split in two; Sarik could not see who it was. He bounded over the body even before it came to rest, gunning his chainsword to full power as he closed the last few metres.
Then he was in amongst the tau. His chainsword hacked left and right, and aliens died with its every stroke. Purple blood sprayed in all directions and stringy gristle threatened to jam the blade’s action. He roared with savage battle lust as enemies fell at his feet to be crushed to paste beneath them. The white-armoured forms of his battle-brothers pressed in, and behind them came warriors bearing the deep blue of the Ultramarines and the black and yellow of the Scythes of the Emperor. Bolt pistol fire rang out from all about and combat blades flashed in the midday sun. The white of the bridge’s surface was stained purple with tau blood and the air was filled with the mingled sounds of the Space Marines’ battle cries and the aliens’ terrified screams.
Quite suddenly, there were no enemies within Sarik’s reach. Those not slain in the charge were fleeing headlong towards the ruins of Erinia Beta. Sarik bellowed in frustration and denial, and sprang forwards after them, cutting the closest down from behind with a horizontal sweep of his chainsword that hacked the alien’s legs from out beneath it.
Not breaking stride, he powered onwards, the remaining tau fleeing before his wrath. The first aliens to reach the ruins turned to raise their weapons to cover their companions’ retreat, but upon seeing Sarik’s fury abandoned the notion and fled deeper into the wreckage and out of his sight.
As the last of the tau disappeared into the smoking ruins, Sarik came to a halt. His breath came in great ragged gulps. He spat, surprised to see blood in the spittle, and wiped his bloody face with the back of his gauntlet as a hand settled on his shoulder plate.
“It is done, brother-sergeant!” shouted Qaja.
Sarik stared his battle-brother in the eye, but it took him a moment to recognise his old friend. Then reason dawned on him and the red mist lifted. Qaja’s face was stern, his eyes dark and unreadable. After another few seconds, Qaja nodded back across the river, and Sarik followed his gesture.
The Warlord-class Battle Titan was striding through the ruins of eastern Erinia Beta, every tread of its huge mechanical feet crushing an entire building. The settlement, already reduced to ruins by the crusade’s bombardment, was now flattened to rubble as the engine strode forwards towards the edge of River 992.
The ground trembled with the Titan’s every step, the waters of the river quivering as crazy patterns sprang into being across its surface. Its sculpted head gleamed blindingly bright in the harsh noon sun as its gaze swept across the scene on the far side of the bridge. It looked to Sarik as if that beatific face was casting its benediction on the battle fought to capture the bridge, granting its approval of the alien blood spilled in the Emperor’s name.
The Warlord came to a halt at the river’s eastern shore, its Reaver-class consorts stepping to its side, three on its left and three on its right. The seven Titans halted, forming a towering line along the river as solid and massive as a fortress’ curtain wall. An odd stillness settled upon the scene as the Titans stopped moving, the only sound that of pulsing plasma generators and sizzling void shields.
Then the sirens spoke. The Warlord’s voice was deep and resounding, its war horn filling the air with a slowly rising and falling dirge that sounded to Sarik like the dying cries of a gargantuan beast. But this was no mournful lamentation; it was a warning, and a dire one at that.
Friend or foe; be warned. I am the God-Machine, and I am your doom.
“All commands,” Sarik was forced to shout over the terrible drone. “Heed their warning and get your heads down!”
Then the six Reaver-class Titans added their own voices to the Warlord’s, and now it sounded
like the end times were truly come to Dal’yth Prime. Space Marines boarded their Rhinos, which made for the one place nearby they knew the Titans would leave untouched—the bridge. As the apocalyptic chorus wailed on, the Space Marines formed up in a long column along the bridge, the vehicles packed closely for mutual cover. The assault squads, who did not have their own transports, swept down amongst the armoured vehicles, each Assault Marine taking what cover he could find.
Then the sirens powered down, the pitch and volume falling to the subsonic. A brief moment of utter silence stretched out, and then the line of Titans opened fire.
The first weapon to fire was the Warlord’s gatling blaster. Rounds the size of men were cycled into the weapon’s chamber, and fired with explosive force before the next barrel rotated around to fire the next shot. If a man-portable assault cannon sounded like a bolt of silk being torn in two, then the Titan’s equivalent sounded like the air, the sky, the very fabric of reality being torn apart.
Round after round hammered from the rotary weapon in impossibly fast succession as the Titan swept its fire from right to left across the far bank. Each round was as powerful as a heavy tank shell, blowing out the already damaged structures across the river one by one as the line of fire swept along their length in seconds. Sarik had only previously seen such devastation from a low-level bombing run conducted by an entire wing of fighter-bombers, each successive explosion coming microseconds after the last as the detonations walked across the line. It was an impressive sight, even through his Rhino’s vision block, and his transport shook violently with successive blast waves.
As each shell pummelled into its target, a blinding white blast preceded a rapidly expanding cloud of dust and rubble. Seconds later, shrapnel and debris began to fall on the Space Marine vehicles, some pieces razor-sharp fragments that zipped through the air and pinged on armoured plates, others large chunks that clanged heavily upon upper hulls.
[Rogue Trader 03] - Savage Scars Page 22