by Gav Thorpe
‘Cordon Two has been overrun, captain,’ reported one of the serfs. ‘Last report was of a massed infantry assault. Enemy casualties heavy.’
‘I suppose there is a little wisdom in leaving behind their armour,’ said Luthris. ‘All of those anti-tank rocket batteries are going to waste. Have their crews stand down at Cordon One and get them to man the line.’
‘Affirmative, captain,’ said the attendant.
Luthris checked the time display. There was a little over three hours, Terran-standard, until dawn. The first wave of attackers would have barely reached the wall before his troops had full visibility. Then the carnage would really begin.
THE OUTSKIRTS OF the Perfect Fortress had an appearance utterly at odds with their purpose. Elaborate hanging gardens sprawled from the roofs and walls of the white buildings, the scent of their flowers filling the air. Colonnaded frontages and overhanging galleries provided cover for the Therions as they advanced towards the gate tower looming over the buildings ahead. The Emperor’s Children had sacrificed nothing of their aesthetic sense in the city’s design, so that colonnaded, alabaster buildings might equally serve as administration offices or tank depots, it was impossible to tell from the outside.
Valerius marched with his men, determined that they would push home the attack with every last iota of strength, even if they were doomed to failure. He had been forced to swallow the ignominy of sacrificing his last command at Isstvan for a diversion, and was determined that his next would not end so ingloriously. The Therions would give a good account of themselves, whatever Corax expected.
A few Sentinel walkers had survived the hours of missile and shell bombardment on the approach to the city. They were several hundred metres ahead, scouting for the three-hundred-strong advance guard. Valerius only knew of this from the constant commentary being fed to him by Tribune Calorium, who followed the sub-Caesari a few steps behind.
‘Sir, lead squadron encountering another defence line,’ Calorium reported, the cup-like vox-receiver clamped to one ear. ‘Taking fire from overhead balconies.’
Valerius glanced up at this news, seeing anew the lines of galleries over overhangs above him. It had been the same ever since entering the city: seemingly innocuous architectural features revealing their true purpose as killing sites, weapons platforms and minefields.
Sensing their commander’s nervousness, Valerius’s bodyguard closed ranks around him, their golden carapace armour and white fatigues stained and muddied by the advance from the landing zone.
‘Perhaps we should move into cover, sub-Caesari,’ suggested vice-Tribune Callista.
‘And where is that, exactly?’ Valerius snapped in return. He had already lost four men from his command section when they sheltered in a flower bed that turned out to have been laced with trip-mines.
Callista looked around uncertainly.
‘Never mind,’ said Valerius, continuing to stride along the middle of the road. It had been frustrating, fighting against unseen enemies, coming face-to-face with his foes only when he saw them retreating to the next defence line.
Not that he was in a mood for such a confrontation. The purple-and-gold-armoured warriors would no doubt take an even heavier toll once they decided to stand and fight. There was small comfort in reaching the city proper; the shelling from towers deep in the fortress’s heart had stopped, no doubt to avoid fire falling on their own warriors.
‘Advance teams are suffering badly,’ announced Calorium. ‘Requesting reinforcement.’
Glancing at the tribune, Valerius’s heart sank.
‘Have Third and Fourth Companies move up in support. See if they can outflank the enemy position. Order Fifth and Sixth to move up from the rearguard. How is Praefector Magellius proceeding?’
The tribune spoke for a short while and then sorrowfully shook his head.
‘Second Phalanx is being pushed back, they’ve lost a third of their men,’ said Calorium. ‘Sir, Third Phalanx is also reporting a stalled advance. They are being cut down by the gate defences.’
An explosion less than two hundred metres ahead sent a plume of ash and smoke into the sky. A few seconds later, debris showered down on Valerius and his men.
‘What was that?’ he demanded, though Calorium was already talking quickly on the vox.
‘Macro-cannon, sir,’ the tribune said. ‘Sited at the junction ahead, concealed on the third floor of a tenement.’
There was shakiness to the tribune’s voice, and looking at the other soldiers around him Valerius could sense their fear. If he continued to push them forwards, they would break and rout. That would not be at all to his liking.
‘All right, send to all command sections,’ he snarled. ‘Company-by-company withdrawal. Establish a perimeter at the edge of the city. This is to be an orderly retreat. We will have no running away and no panic.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Calorium’s manner and tone betrayed his gratitude for the sub-Caesari’s decision.
Valerius stopped where he was and stood with hands on hips, glaring at the distant towers. He had reached the city, an achievement it itself, but even his reconnaissance forces were more than two kilometres from the inner defence line.
It did not matter what Corax intended, it still tasted bitterly of defeat.
‘THE ENEMY ARE withdrawing en masse, captain.’
‘Ridiculous,’ Luthris replied. ‘They have not even begun to test our defences.’
‘Visual confirmation of scanner data, captain. The enemy are pulling back into the outer reaches.’
The Emperor’s Children officer made a slow lap of the command centre, examining every data stream and display. The evidence was incontrovertible: the attackers were giving up ground on all fronts. It seemed a disappointing end to a lacklustre attack.
‘Any sign of low orbit vessels?’ he asked, settling in his chair.
‘None, captain,’ came the reply. ‘All enemy ships are keeping out of ground defence range. No sign of drop-craft.’
It made little sense to Luthris as he returned to his command throne, but it was foolish to consider the motivations of lesser warriors. No doubt they had been ordered to attack and had complied without knowing the full extent of the opponent they faced. He was not about to be forgiving of the error.
‘Assemble counter-attack companies at gates three and four,’ he ordered, his finger on the comm-switch set into the arm of his chair. ‘Prepare the armourium for mobile columns to make a swift encircling move via the undercity ramps. These fools do not attack our city without retort. Mission objective is the total destruction of all enemy forces. Counter-attack to commence in fifteen minutes.’
He released the comm-switch and leaned back, the chair adjusting to the movement. He looked over his shoulder to Sergeant Turan, who stood by the doorway, plumed helm under one arm.
‘Prepare the assault force, sergeant, I shall personally lead them into battle.’
‘As you will it, captain,’ Turan replied with a bow of his head. He fixed on his helm and banged a fist against his chestplate in salute. ‘We will murder these dogs wherever they try to hide.’
A LASCANNON BLAST burst through the edge of the balcony, obliterating the man to Valerius’s right. Showered with dust and blood, the sub-Caesari crawled back from the parapet to hunker down in the ruins of the window behind. Calorium was still by his side, one arm in a sling, the communications pack on the floor next to him. He looked at Valerius with bloodshot eyes and shook his head.
‘No reply from Praefector Tigurian, sir. I think our left flank has broken.’
‘Two thousand men, tribune, two thousand men!’ said Valerius, slumping against the frame of the window. ‘None of them are left?’
Calorium shrugged in reply.
For an hour the Therions had retreated, and for another they had held against the counter-attack of the Emperor’s Children. Marcus had done all he could, cajoling and encouraging his commanders to stay and fight, to hold the line at all costs, but there was
little time left. He risked standing up, snatching his magnoculars from his belt. Training them to the south-west he could see several dozen armoured figures advancing along the road, no more than half a kilometre away.
‘Please leave!’
Valerius turned and glared at the old man whose chambers he had commandeered as a temporary command post.
‘And go where?’ the sub-Caesari snarled.
‘My wife, she wants you to leave…’
‘Really? Perhaps she thinks that Horus would be better suited as leader of the Imperium?’
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir. I just know that when the legionaries get here, they’ll not leave any of us alive if we’re sheltering you.’
Valerius said nothing more. He could not blame the elderly couple for their fear. He had been fearful before, then desperate, and now had emerged into a state of strange calm about the situation. Nearly ten thousand Therions had lost their lives in the last eight hours, but he felt sanguine about the losses. A sense of numbness had filled him since losing contact with Second Phalanx, an acceptance of the inevitable.
He looked again at the Emperor’s Children. They were taking their time, checking every building along the road. Overhead, Thunderhawks prowled, seeking targets for their cannons and heavy bolters. The streets had become a bloodbath from their initial strafing runs, forcing every Therion to take shelter inside. To their credit, what little it counted for, the Emperor’s Children had not fired on the buildings; perhaps they still believed they were protecting these people.
He drew his pistol. It seemed important that he had a weapon in his hand.
‘Forget that,’ he told his tribune, looking at the vox-unit. ‘Get your lasrifle.’
Calorium pushed the heavy pack aside and dropped the receiver. He flinched as another las-blast tore into the sculpted architrave above them, melting through the relief of a war chariot charging against a horde of barbarians. On his knees, he crawled over the dead Therions and retrieved his weapon before returning to Valerius’s side.
‘You said to trust you,’ Valerius muttered to himself. ‘Weather the storm and trust you. Well, Corax, the storm is upon us.’
THERE WAS LITTLE honour in slaughtering the poorly-armed soldiers. Their lasguns were pitiful against Legiones Astartes armour, their gold-coloured flak vests no defence against boltguns. Luthris could not even enjoy the slaughter: it was too one-sided and little test for his tactical acumen or his physical prowess.
At the head of his squad, he strode up a sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors of a guesthouse. He fired his bolt pistol at the men hunkering down behind the balustrade above, his shots finding their marks between the wooden pillars.
‘Squad Andilor, proceed to the third floor,’ he said, shooting another soldier in the leg. The bolt tore the man’s hip apart, sending him sprawling. Luthris casually drove his sword into the man’s chest as he stalked past. ‘Squad Collonius, fourth floor.’
‘Heavy weapon on the roof opposite, captain,’ reported one of the sergeants. ‘Multi-laser.’
‘Call in a Thunderhawk strike, sergeant,’ Luthris replied. ‘Must I make every decision?’
‘Affirmative, captain. Calling in airstrike.’
With an armoured boot, the Emperor’s Children captain kicked open the door at the end of the landing. He quickly scanned the rooms beyond but they were empty. With a sigh of disappointment he turned back to the stairwell.
‘Captain!’
The shout came from below, not over the vox. Striding to the edge of the landing, Luthris saw Squad Argentius backing into the foyer, bolters aimed towards the outer doors. One of them yelled a warning and they opened fire, but Luthris could not see their target.
‘What’s happening?’ the captain demanded. ‘Speak to me!’
Before he heard the reply his comm-bead crackled into life.
‘Captain, we have detected sub-orbital craft, approaching at speed.’
‘From where? How did they launch?’
‘We do not know, captain. Orbital scan is clear.’
Even as he tried to absorb this information, Luthris watched the squad below. Two of the legionaries were heaved into the air, blood spilling from gaping rents in their armour. The others fired at nothing, though their bolts seemed to deflect from thin air, exploding against emptiness. Sergeant Argentius stepped forwards with his chainsword roaring. A moment later his arm and head flew away, cut clean through by some invisible force.
Luthris could not believe what he was seeing. Within a few seconds, the whole squad were dead: dismembered and decapitated.
‘Sorcery,’ he muttered. There was no Librarian close at hand to help him.
Bringing up his power sword, he took up a guard position at the top of the stairs. He thought he saw something for a moment and fired his pistol. The shot detonated a few steps up from the bottom of the stairs.
A moment later he was looking into two jet-black eyes, centimetres from his face. Stepping back, he realised what it was that confronted him. The warrior was half again as tall as Luthris, armoured in pure black splashed with gore, a winged pack upon his back. His face was bone white, his hair shorn at shoulder length. In one hand the warrior held a crackling whip; the other was sheathed in glowing claws. The apparition bared its teeth in a wordless snarl and raised its talons.
‘For the Emperor!’ it whispered as the claws slashed down.
CORAX MOVED FROM room to room, slaying any Emperor’s Children he came across. His claws cut them to ribbons and his glowing whip sliced through polished armour. Reaching the highest storey of the building, he walked out onto the balcony overlooking the main street. Looking up he saw the dark blur of drop-pods falling from the heavens. Beyond them came the contrails of Thunderhawks and Stormbirds.
It was time to head for the gate.
THE DROP-POD OPENED up like the petals of an iron flower, metal ramps crashing into the wall rampart. Navar was the first out of his harness, bounding down to the wall with easy strides. Unarmoured soldiers were manning a gun post ahead of him. Slipping a taloned finger into the guard of his bolter, he gunned them down with three shots.
Behind him, Carval growled and hissed. With a glance back at his fellow Raptor, Navar nodded. He had no idea what Carval had tried to say, but he understood his brother legionary’s intent.
‘For the Raven Guard!’ Navar cried as he dashed along the wall, opening fire when a squad of Emperor’s Children burst out of the tower ahead.
Bolt-rounds flickered back and forth between the two squads, ripping chunks of ceramite from armour. A shadow fell over Navar and he glanced up to see Lord Corax soaring over the edge of the wall. The primarch’s whip lashed out, shredding two of the Emperor’s Children from the waist up. Behind Corax came more Raven Guard, dropping down from the top of the tower ahead, their jump packs flaring to slow their descent. Plasma pistols and chainswords ready, the assault squad fell upon the rear of the Emperor’s Children.
There was shooting from inside the wall. Navar glanced down to his left and saw three yellow-armoured squads fighting their way across a narrow courtyard, pushing back the Emperor’s Children. Captain Noriz’s Imperial Fists would not miss out on the victory. On a rooftop further from the wall, two more drop-pods were opening up. Custodian Guard in their gleaming gold armour stormed out, unleashing bursts of energy from their guardian spears, cracking open the power armour of their foes.
Beyond the wall the Therions were advancing again, taking revenge on the Emperor’s Children who had slaughtered their fellows. Though their lasguns were not as powerful as their foes’ bolters, their weight of fire and tenacity was driving the traitors back towards the gates.
Lord Corax circled once, no doubt taking stock of the battle’s progress, before he landed a little ahead of Navar. The primarch pointed towards the centre of the city, to where the central tower of the Perfect Fortress soared more than three hundred metres above the buildings surrounding it. Navar looked to wher
e Corax gestured and saw thousands of Raven Guard pouring out of drop-pods around the tower. He recognised the beak-faced Mark VI armour of the first Raptors as they led a charge against the central citadel, alongside loping and shuffling warriors of the last generation. Bolters, plasma and laser scoured the gardens and porticos of the enemy installation. Other legionaries, from the Hawks and Talons, jumped down from hovering Thunderhawks to set up crossfires on rooftops and inner walls, cutting down the retreating Emperor’s Children. Stormbirds looped slowly, their guns blazing at pockets of resistance, reserves of more Raven Guard inside ready to commit to the fight.
It was a joyous sight, the whole Legion acting in concert, and Navar understood why his primarch was grinning.
‘NOT SO PERFECT,’ said Agapito.
Corax had gathered his command council in the chambers of the garrison commander. It reminded him of the officers’ mess hall on Lycaeus where he had decided to use the atomic charges on Kiavahr. The carpet underfoot was thick, the walls panelled with red lacquered wood. Finely sculpted statues stood on marble plinths around the edge of the room.
‘We certainly can’t hold it,’ said Branne.
An exquisite alabaster bust of Fulgrim toppled to the floor with a dull crash as the commander leaned deliberately against its pedestal. Glancing down at the fragments, Branne dropped a heavy foot onto the remnants, crushing them into the carpet. ‘You know that Horus will respond.’
‘I am counting on it,’ said Corax. ‘We will not be here.’
‘So what was the point?’ demanded Valerius. He looked like a child, sitting in a deep armchair made for one of the Legiones Astartes, his feet off the ground. Behind him, his aide had salvaged a decanter of wine from a cabinet and was hunting for an intact glass amongst the ruin of shattered cupboards and shelves. ‘A lot of Therions died just to hand this world back to the traitors.’
‘We’re leaving, you’re not,’ said Corax. ‘The rest of your Cohort will be arriving, nearly five hundred thousand men. The Legio Vindictus has already departed from Kiavahr with a dozen Titans. Other Imperial Army elements are also on their way, nearly a million more soldiers. Horus will be getting a hot welcome if he does come here.’