Old Earth

by Nick Kyme

  ‘Mechosa,’ said Meduson via the vox. He adopted a refused position behind Aug’s mailed fist of Immortals. The core of Meduson’s troops were Iron Tenth, all veterans, though a handful of Salamanders in Cataphractii-pattern war-plate bulked them out and added sheer force if it became needed.

  It hadn’t been. Not yet.

  ‘Right flank secure,’ the captain of Clan Sorrgol replied a moment later. ‘No casualties. Pressing on.’

  The tactical display in Meduson’s helm confirmed it. Mechosa had made significant gains.

  Meduson turned to the warrior at his shoulder, who bore the caduceus of the Apothecarion on his armour.

  ‘Seems you’ll have precious little to occupy you when this is done, brother.’

  Gorgonson gave a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘It’s not done yet, Shadrak.’

  Meduson’s squads waded through a hail of las-beams, Aug’s Immortals bearing the brunt of it. ‘Feels no worse than a heavy rain, eh, Goran?’

  The defenders had set up a firing line, three ranks thick. Bright red beams stabbed out of the dark.

  ‘Not been out in many storms, have you, Shadrak,’ the Apothecary replied.

  Meduson laughed, a thunderous bellow that drowned out the whine of enemy fire. ‘I have walked the storm, as have you brother. On Terra.’

  Explosions stitched across the firing line, and tore it apart.

  ‘Then it is your memory that’s at fault, I see,’ said Gorgonson, watching the heavily armoured Salamander responsible for the recent destruction auto-load his shoulder mounted Cyclone launchers and move on. ‘Alas, I have no cure for that.’

  Another hearty laugh echoed across the battlefield. ‘Fair enough,’ Meduson conceded, ‘but let’s get through these wretches and to the real enemy. Only cowards hide behind the weak.’

  He raised Lumak, who had met heavier resistance on the left but was maintaining a steady advance. Numerous fires, reaching high above a ring of gutted watchtowers to the south, confirmed Nuros had made significant inroads. The bulk of the infantry had been drawn here. It had been the first point of ingress, and the loudest. It had drawn a crowd. Now that crowd burned.

  ‘Nuros,’ voxed Meduson, ‘have you sated your anger yet?’

  ‘Only warming up, Warleader.’

  Meduson grinned behind his faceplate. ‘For a Nocturnean, you have a passable wit,’ he said.

  ‘And this coming from an Iron Hand,’ Nuros replied, the roar of ­flamers in the background. ‘I don’t know if I should take that as an insult?’

  ‘Tell me you’re making progress and you can take it any way you’d like.’

  ‘We’re mopping up here. Nothing left but charred corpses. Even their bones are ash.’

  ‘Any sign of the Sixteenth?’

  ‘Not even their treacherous stench, Warleader.’

  Meduson frowned. The northern defences had collapsed. Mechosa and Lumak drove up the east and west, and Nuros had all but purged the south and put it to flame.

  ‘They are gathering their forces, whatever remains,’ he said to the Salamander. ‘Surrounded, they can’t win this, but they will try to hurt us.’

  ‘I agree, Warleader. A cautious approach is called for.’

  ‘Leave no stone unburned, Nuros. Scorch the earth. Then move to converge with Captain Mechosa.’

  The Salamander signalled an affirmative and then went about his orders.

  Resistance from the north had ebbed to a trickle. Enemy fighters were being rounded up and executed. Even the ones who surrendered got no quarter from the vengeful Iron Tenth.

  A pair of large bunkers exploded in quick succession. Makeshift ablative armour bent and flew outwards. Fire and smoke spilled through their viewslits. Krak charges laid by Aug’s Immortals had blown them wide open. Frag grenades tossed into the breach made sure they were clear.

  ‘The core is open, Warleader,’ said Aug over the vox, his back to Meduson as he consolidated the position just won by the Immortals.

  Enemy fire still came in at them, but it was weak and desultory. A missile salvo struck nearby, but did little more than kick up dirt and smoke.

  ‘Confirmed, Aug. We shall join you at the tip of the spear momentarily.’ He switched channels to his flanks. ‘Mechosa, Lumak.’

  Both enemy flanks had capitulated to the intense pressure. The Iron Hands captains had begun an advance on the core. With Nuros also coming from the south, they had the Sons of Horus surrounded.

  ‘All forces converge on the municipal structure. We’re ending this.’

  The traitors had mined the main approach to the municipal structure. A tectonic detonation rippled outwards from a concealed trigger plate as a bank of incendiaries went up, unleashing a ferocious firestorm.

  Several Medusan Immortals fulfilled their final oaths and died in the blast. One of the Cataphractii-armoured Drakes fell too.

  The losses stung, but Meduson remained undaunted. He took the lead now, Aug and Gorgonson at his side. If his reputation was to mean anything, he had to be in the front line when they met the traitors.

  Meduson drew and raised his gladius. An old blade, as old as the Legion, it had been forged from the hardest Albian steel. Meduson used it as a talisman. Through the smoke and dying flames, the Iron Tenth pressed the advance.

  A narrow gallery gave way to a much wider and longer hall. The allies spread out, moving slowly and cautiously, the cavernous chamber stretching before them. Gaps in the roof opened by stray ordnance let in hazy shafts of half-light that picked out columnar statues, recently defaced. Dawn approached, slowly shedding light on more storage crates, stacked munitions and the full extent of the carnage.

  Cracked flagstones echoed to the thud of armoured footfalls. Dust motes lingered like unquiet spirits.

  An odd silence pervaded after the din of heavy explosives had ceased echoing. A vox crackle, augmented by a loudhailer, broke the false peace and brought the Iron Tenth to a halt. A voice rang out, thickly accented Cthonian. A gutter tongue, used by gangsters and thieves.

  ‘Welcome, cousins,’ it said. ‘Surrounded, no quarter given… I think most of you know what that feels like. Now, so do we.’

  Several requests for permission to engage lit up on the Meduson’s helm display. He denied every one. Even Lumak’s. The mined entrance had been a salutary lesson he did not intend to ignore.

  ‘My name is Karbron Velx,’ said the traitor. ‘I fought at Isstvan V, so did most of the men here. You killed many of my brothers during that fight, though you had the worst of it. Know that we are glad to join them! Know that we are not so blind as to let an enemy slip a blade into our backs. Come and die with us, if you are ready. We are.’ A sword scraped from Karbron Velx’s scabbard, loud across the vox. ‘Come and die with honour if you–’

  A chain of small explosions erupted in the ceiling above where the silhouettes of the traitors were lurking. Two ragged lines ran from corner to corner. A few looked up, Velx among them, at the hefty slabs of falling masonry from the roof. Dust and grit rained down, covering the traitors in filth, fouling auspex and sensors. A flock of warriors in shadow-black descended with it, their blades dulled so as not to reflect the light, filled with murderous intent.

  A shout echoed in the traitor ranks, Velx’s attempt to hold on to order. It fled almost as soon as Dalcoth and his Raven Guard were amongst them.

  ‘Forward now!’ roared Meduson, and took up a run.

  So did his brothers. The hulking Cataphractii and the Immortals, burdened by their breacher shields, fell behind. The throaty burr of chainswords led them on, though. They had but to follow it.

  A deadly fusillade of heavy las-fire cut angry streaks through the gloom as a battery of static rapier laser destroyers opened up. Its efficacy diminished almost immediately as Dalcoth’s warriors saw to the heavy cannons. Secondary explosions threw off sporadic flares o
f light from detonating krak charges.

  Eight Iron Hands had fallen in the first round of shots. If not for the Raven Guard, it would have been more.

  Meduson ran the hundred metres from the chamber entrance to his enemies in seconds. The last few he leapt, launching himself into a warrior in sea-green armour, plunging his sword into the gorget and out the other side. He wrenched it loose, jerking the blade so that it almost took off the cur’s head.

  Less than a second later, Aug had piled in. The rest of the charging Iron Hands came with him.

  Aug’s power axe took off a traitor’s arm. A dead finger tightened around the trigger of the legionary’s boltgun as it fell, releasing a burst that raked a second traitor, before Aug finished him with a blow that nearly split his torso down the sternum. He took a blow against his arm, and let the chain teeth snag against the metal before firing his pistol into his opponent’s face.

  Skirmishes erupted across the width of the hall as warriors from both sides engaged. Brief firearm bursts accompanied the regular clash of close combat weapons as a vicious melee unfolded.

  The rapiers were all but silenced now, their crewmen seeing the futility of their old orders and drawing pistols and combat blades by way of improvisation. They were swept up by the Immortals, who crushed them with their breacher shields.

  Dalcoth killed the leader. Meduson had been battering a way to him when a shadow descended from on high. Velx had offered up a war shout, raising his chainblade in salute. It had ended half-finished, his words trapped on a dead tongue inside a head separated from its host body.

  The Sons of Horus had fought on to a man. Of course they had. They were traitors, but still Legiones Astartes. Horus had sown resilience into their ranks as well as misguided devotion and treachery.

  The fight reached its death throes soon enough. A lone traitor, his left arm hung by a thread of sinew, his breastplate gouged and bleeding black, faced off against a pair of Raven Guard.

  ‘Stand aside,’ Dalcoth commanded, in that harsh and eerie way of his.

  The two warriors did as bidden, withdrawing with blades held up protectively.

  The Sons of Horus legionary had armed himself with a saw-toothed spatha. It was red and dripping.

  ‘You wish to add to my tally?’ breathed the renegade, his voice ragged and edgy. He swivelled the blade around in his hand, a needless half-circle flourish.

  Dalcoth threw his tomahawk axe. He hissed, ‘No.’

  The two dark feathers protruding from the haft trembled a little as the weapon shivered, and the blade embedded itself in the traitor’s skull.

  Meduson retrieved Dalcoth’s axe for him, stooping to wrench it noisily from the corpse.

  ‘Fine throw,’ he said, handing the weapon back to its owner.

  Dalcoth gave a slight nod as he took the axe, depowering it before he sheathed the blade again.

  ‘And a timely intervention also,’ said Aug, standing straight with the pommel of his own, longer axe firmly planted in the ground.

  ‘As I said, a hybridisation of tactics.’

  Aug smiled at the Raven Guard captain. ‘That you did, brother.’

  Meduson nodded, pleased with everything they had wrought. He raised his voice and then his Albian sword. ‘Another victory, another thorn for Horus and his lackeys to consider.’

  ‘Meduson!’ a solitary cry rang out a moment later.

  ‘Meduson!’ came the echo of several more voices.

  ‘Meduson!’ they chanted over and again, the entire chamber erupting in affirmation.

  Their saviour kept his sword aloft, and revelled in the glory.

  It took several hours to denude the last camp of everything of use that could reasonably be carried.

  The Iron Tenth and their allies moved quickly. They would need to disband soon, scatter and then regroup again only when it had been deemed safe. Much-depleted supplies were gratefully replenished, the surplus designated to various hidden caches known only to certain captains and Iron Fathers.

  Meduson had since left Hamart III and returned to the Iron Heart, his flagship. He was in the midst of accounting exactly how successful the raid had been when he heard footsteps at the door to his quarters.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, looking up as the door opened. ‘Oh, Jebez. It’s you.’

  Jebez Aug framed a deep bow, prompting a curt and rueful laugh from his Warleader.

  ‘Such deference,’ said Meduson. ‘I am no king, brother.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Aug, ‘a mild jest. You appeared to revel in the role.’

  Meduson returned to the reports he had laid out in front of him. He worked at a simple scribe’s desk, and sat upon a reinforced stool.

  ‘Hardly, brother.’ He smiled, and gave Aug a half-glance. ‘I am busy here with the paperwork.’

  Aug laughed and joined him. Meduson watched the Iron Father keenly as he absorbed the supply data.

  ‘An impressive amount of plunder,’ he conceded, and met the Warleader’s gaze. Meduson held it for a few seconds. ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Aug, unflinching.

  Meduson shrugged, returning to his reports.

  ‘You look strong, Jebez. And you fought well.’

  ‘Is that surprising?’

  ‘No, but you were near broken after Oqueth. I am impressed with your recovery, that’s all.’

  ‘Then I am pleased to meet with your approval. Perhaps you will deign to share with me your plans? My mind is also fully recovered.’

  ‘All in good time, Jebez. For now let us make a good account of our new supplies.’

  ‘Of course,’ Aug replied, his voice neutral. ‘I might then have news that will interest you.’ He laid a hololith orb in front of Meduson, who frowned as he picked it up.

  ‘What is this?’

  Aug pressed the activation stud and a galactic map shimmered into life projected from the orb, bathing the room and its occupants in a cone of grainy green light.

  ‘A map,’ he said. ‘Routes of ships. An enemy flotilla. Some supply ships, some patrols. It was found inside a lock chest in an underground vault. Seal had to be burned off.’

  Meduson looked askance at Aug, his interest piqued. ‘Anything else in there?’

  ‘Just this. I broke the security cipher myself. It took a little time, hence why I am only coming to you with this now.’

  Gazing at the translucent image, Meduson rubbed thoughtfully at his chin.

  ‘Is it verified?’

  ‘As far as it can be,’ replied Aug. ‘It’s authentic.’

  Meduson regarded the image for a few more seconds before deactiv­ating the device. Then he got to his feet.

  ‘We have to act on this. Now.’

  Aug frowned, unable to hide his alarm.

  ‘Act how, exactly?’

  ‘We take the flotilla. Gut it. It’ll hurt them. It’ll hurt him.’

  ‘The entire flotilla?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I thought the information could be used to avoid the larger patrols, or perhaps take a single ship. One of the stragglers. We hit it hard, then retreat like ghosts into the void.’

  Meduson scoffed. ‘You sound like Dalcoth.’

  ‘Isn’t he one of your council?’

  ‘Yes, I only meant–’

  ‘Adapting our tactics has been working, Shadrak. This…’ Aug gestured to the empty space where the image had been. ‘This is beyond ambitious.’

  ‘It is. Which is why I need you to summon the other leaders. The de facto clan-fathers, the Iron Fathers, captains. Everyone in our ambit.’

  ‘For what exactly?’

  ‘To muster for an attack,’ said Meduson, an angry scowl creeping onto his face. ‘Is my every order to be questioned by my Hand Elect? Am I not Warleader? One voice, one purpose. It has been agreed.’

&nbs
p; Aug held up his hands, contrite. ‘I apologise, Warleader. You are right, of course. It shall be done at once.’

  Aug turned, about to leave when Meduson spoke.

  ‘Jebez, I am sorry. I misspoke. Perhaps I have been spending too much time with Lumak. His curt temper must be rubbing off on me. Please, brother–’

  ‘Understood,’ said Aug. He gave Meduson a weak smile. ‘All is well, Warleader. All is well. One voice, one purpose. You have guided us to glory. Please, do not concern yourself. I will see it done.’

  He left and Meduson watched him go.

  Recent events had taken a toll, he knew, and attacking the flotilla would not be easy, nor garnering support for the endeavour. But if it came at the cost of Aug’s friendship…

  ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, and returned to his reports.

  Three

  The mountain, unknown

  The cleft in the mountain gaped like an ugly wound, spitting fire and billowing smoke.

  From sixty kilometres out, under a blood-red sky, it had appeared no wider than a crack, an insignificant fissure in the rock. Up close, it was a chasm of fathomless darkness and endless fire. Violence burned in those depths, and they promised only destruction.

  A gunship fought against the flung dirt and burning air, its flanks relentlessly battered and stained with soot. It rolled hard against the currents, engines flaring as it turned its flank to the side of the mountain. The drake icon emblazoned on the side of the gunship caught the magma glow, flickering in lurid orange light that bled in through the viewslits.

  Though the ship trembled, the two warriors in its hold were unmoved.

  Zytos leaned on his thunder hammer, the head of the weapon steady against the quivering deck. His large gauntleted hands wrapped the pommel, one atop the other, clenching and unclenching. His helm sat alongside him, snarling at shadows, mag-locked to the grav-bench.