Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine

by David Annandale

  ‘It is not going well.’ She paused for a moment, then said, ‘The Iron Skulls will take Therimachus.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Unknown. But they will. I was speaking with Princeps Spinther of Magnificum Virum. There are two Warlords left, and they are badly damaged. The outcome,’ she carefully avoided saying defeat, ‘is not in doubt.’

  ‘I see. Contact Princeps Spinther again. Tell him we are coming. We will be there by sunset tomorrow.’

  Deyers gaped. He started to say something, but checked himself, waiting for Vansaak to depart. Krezoc fixed him with a stare, warning him to hold his tongue for now. Then she turned to the princeps of the Imperial Hunters, Carrinas of the Reaver Nobilis Arma and the two Warhound officers.

  ‘We mourn with you in your loss,’ she told them. ‘Marshal Syagrius was a great warrior. There can be no doubt that he took many of the enemy down with him.’

  Carrinas nodded his thanks. The other two said nothing. Their faces were riven by grief and anger. Krezoc thought she saw resentment there, too. That was natural. With Syagrius’ death, she was the senior officer of the battle group, and its leadership fell to her. The Imperial Hunters had been resentful additions to her demi-legio, arrogant in the presumption of their superiority. It had seemed to Krezoc that they saw it as their role to somehow monitor the Pallidus Mor, to make sure Syagrius’ orders were carried out, and to report back when they were not. Now they had lost their commander. They had been part of the bloody victories at the Kazani bridge and at Deicoon, and now learned that their parent legio was going down to defeat. Krezoc had no intention of taking advantage of the power shift as long as they did not force her to. They had followed her orders this far, though. She trusted they would continue to do so. This was the moment, then, to show what respect she could for Syagrius.

  You were a fool, she thought. Why did you think this strategy was the correct one?

  Then she saw Deyers’ expression again, and she understood. Syagrius had answered the same call the Kataran Spears had. He had come to destroy the enemy, but also to preserve Katara. Perhaps he had heard the plea for aid more clearly than she had.

  If he did, she thought, that was the mistake. The depth of the corruption saw to that. If salvation was possible, it was only through destruction. She was tasked with the defeat of the Iron Skulls. If Katara was reduced to a cinder in the struggle, she would mourn for the world, but she would not shirk from doing whatever was necessary, no matter how painful.

  Still addressing Carrinas, Krezoc said, ‘I know your first thought is for your comrades at Therimachus. The route I propose is the fastest way of reaching them.’ If any are alive by then, she thought but did not add.

  ‘We appreciate that,’ Carrinas said.

  ‘But the Klivanos Plain…’ said Deyers.

  ‘There is no other route,’ Krezoc said. ‘We take this path, or there is no point.’

  ‘What point? The crossing is impossible.’

  ‘No. Crossing the chasm that has been created in the coastal highway is impossible. Traversing the plain is possible.’

  ‘Unpleasant, though,’ Rheliax said with grim humour. ‘This will be a war in itself.’

  ‘True,’ Krezoc said. ‘And the land will be the enemy. But we can defeat it.’

  Deyers was shaking his head. ‘In Titans, maybe. In tanks… Princeps Krezoc, I’m doubtful.’

  ‘Not certain, though?’ Before he could answer, she went on. ‘I know exactly what I’m proposing, captain. I know what it means to all our forces. Yes, the Titan crews will be above the worst of the flames. Yes, your troops will be closer. Then there is the stability of the ground. What do you think will happen to a Titan if the crust gives way?’ When Deyers was silent, Krezoc turned her head to take in all the officers before her. ‘Princeps Rheliax is absolutely correct. This will be a war. We will have losses. It is also a battle as necessary as any of the others we have fought.’

  ‘We must,’ Carrinas said, grief underlying his urgency.

  ‘There is another consideration,’ said Venterras.

  ‘Yes,’ the Peltast Alpha Trigerrix added. ‘Crossing on foot will not be possible.’

  Krezoc nodded. There were environments that even the augmented, armoured secutarii could not survive. The readings sent down from the Nuntius Mortis showed conditions worthy of a death world. ‘We won’t be needing infantry support during the crossing itself,’ she said. ‘The secutarii will be transported. Alpha Venterras, Alpha Trigerrix, I will ask that you divide your forces between those who will travel in the Titans and those who will accompany the Sixty-Sixth.’ She glanced at Deyers. ‘The mutual aid could prove useful, wouldn’t you say, captain?’

  ‘It could,’ he conceded, clearly not convinced that Krezoc hadn’t ordered mass suicide.

  ‘Good,’ Krezoc said, seizing on the letter of his words and ignoring their spirit. ‘Then we should begin.’

  The Company of the Bridge did not venture far into the city. As yet, that was impossible. The streets were deep in lava. The individual firestorms had coalesced into a single hurricane of fire that consumed most of the sectors surrounding the caldera. Ornastas took his troops to the wall. There was a battle to be won there, and that was good enough, for now. This was the start, the beachhead. Here was where the reclaiming of Deicoon would begin.

  They had climbed the nearest portion of the ruined wall. It was a heap of broken rockcrete a few hundred yards long. It was wide, and the top was like a sea of stone, with waves of rubble cresting in storm. Hundreds of figures fought each other along its length. The battle was as savage as it was primitive. There were no firearms. The combatants attacked each other with chunks of rockcrete and rebar, and with their bare hands. At first, Ornastas had trouble telling the difference between heretic and loyalist, and that disturbed him. If there was only chaos in the battle, if it had degenerated to the point where violence fuelled violence and there was no goal except blood, then he had been wrong to come back.

  All the people here were in rags, and all were bloody. Ornastas paused at the top of the slope. He raised his arms, holding back his troops. Father of Mankind, he thought, do not abandon this city. Do not abandon this world. We fight for you still. Show me the way. And he saw there were still differences. The heretics bore ritual scars. Many of them had icons of brass or necklaces of skulls around their necks. The people who fought them screamed in anger, but Ornastas could also see fear and determination on their faces. They had not fallen yet.

  He lowered his arms and sent his followers into the fray. ‘See the enemy!’ he shouted. ‘Know them by the signs of their heresy!’ Then he rushed to join the struggle.

  Within seconds, he knew he had made the right choice. The Company of the Bridge was greeted by an energised roar from the beleaguered faithful. He waded deeper into the maelstrom, smashing his staff from side to side, crushing ribs and dealing out paralysing electrical shocks. Every breath was pain, ash scraping his lungs. But every step was another small victory, another step down the path of holy service to the God-Emperor. He fought in swirling clouds of smoke and stinging ashfall. In the wavering light, crimson slashed with streaks of black, the faithful and the heretics more than a few yards away from him became indistinguishable silhouettes, the conflict reduced to abstract shapes, a murderous dance of violence and retribution. Because that, he knew, was the essence of the struggle. The heretics fought for the bloodshed alone. Through it, they were engaged in an unholy communion with their dark god. The faithful refused to be sacrifices. They refused to surrender their city. They refused to abandon the God-Emperor.

  In their adamantine stand, Ornastas found the wellspring of hope. It would have been easy to despair. That so many citizens of Katara had been corrupted was dishonour greater than any Ornastas had seen in his life. He could not pretend they were invaders. The sickness had grown beneath the surface of the cities, and it had
called the Iron Skulls to Katara. The reckoning for the people’s sins was long from complete. But the corruption was not complete. There were people left to fight the heretic. And they would triumph. He would see to that.

  A cultist leapt for his throat. Ornastas reared back and caught the man in the neck with his staff. The man fell. Ornastas held him in place, jabbing the staff into the wretch’s chest. The heretic squirmed like the insect he was. Wracking coughs shook Ornastas’ frame and his grip on the staff weakened. A figure ran at him through the smoke. It became a woman, her face covered in blood, her clothes flaking from burns. She held a block of rockcrete over her head with both hands. Ornastas tensed, but could not stop coughing. The woman brought the block down on the cultist’s head, crushing it to pulp. Crouching, she looked up at Ornastas. ‘Confessor,’ she rasped, ‘you bring the light of the Emperor with you.’ She smiled, and tears streaked the blood on her face. Then she seized another piece of rubble and took off into battle again.

  There was a large slab a few yards to Ornastas’ right. It was canted, its side angled sharply upwards. Ornastas ran to the slab and scrambled up. Balanced on the edge, he looked down at the battle before him. The Company of the Bridge had turned the tide decisively. The heretics were in retreat. The army of the faithful had grown again. Something almost like order had come to the broken wall. The crowd before him moved with focus, not madness. The people were renewed with hope. As they took down the remaining heretics, Ornastas heard prayers and chants.

  The coughing fit passed. He gave thanks for the reclamation he saw before him. In another few moments, this portion of the wall, this broken piece of the city, would belong to the light of the Emperor once more.

  A war-horn sounded, its overwhelming blast a second gale that blanketed the city. Ornastas hunched, then stood tall in the colossal cry, ecstatic in the strength of the servants of the Emperor. After the war-horn came the long thunder of Titans on the march, the hum and roar of their power plants punctuated by the concussive tremors of their footsteps. The Pallidus Mor had begun its march. Ornastas craned his head back to take in the walking mountain of Gloria Vastator. The blast of its war-horn felt like a salute, and he took a knee before the god-machine. The captured hill of rubble erupted in cheers. The Company of the Bridge, grown even larger, celebrated the Titans. The people stood atop ruins, breathing ash, their skin baking in the heat of the lava-filled streets, and they knew joy in this moment. They were ready for sacrifice, complete and total sacrifice, in the cause of the holy war. They drew strength and courage from the immensity of the god-machines. A city of war walked before them, and it too was heading to sacrifice. Ornastas didn’t know what conditions held at Therimachus. Nor did his followers. But they had all seen the size of the traitor battle group.

  Katara might be doomed. The victory Ornastas felt now might be brief. The journey into flames might be nothing more than a journey onto a funeral pyre. If that were so, then he would die with a glad heart, because he marched for the Emperor.

  He did not believe Katara would fall. He had too much faith for that.

  He watched the Pallidus Mor move off until the demi-legio was lost in the swirl of the ashfall. Then he lowered his eyes from the heavens of the gods to the ground and the task before him. He turned around, scanning the chunks of wall on either side of the rampart the company had taken. Take the wall, he thought. Create a ring of purity around the city, and then move in.

  Across a gap a hundred yards wide, there was another tumbled mass, larger than the one where Ornastas stood. Portions of a manufactorum complex had collapsed against the wall, creating an irregular plateau of rubble. A large gathering had appeared on its surface. The figures were motionless, facing towards Ornastas and his company. They were too far away from him to make out any details. He didn’t need to. Their anger thrummed across the intervening space. One silhouette stood out at the head of the crowd, separate from the others.

  A leader.

  You, Ornastas thought. You are the one. You will be held responsible.

  ‘Look,’ Ornastas shouted to the company. ‘Look!’ He pointed with this staff. ‘There! He faces us! There is the betrayer of Deicoon!’

  There was nothing else he needed to say. Everyone felt the call as he did. Shouts and prayers and song melding into a thunder of faith, the Company of the Bridge charged down from the hill, racing to war and to justice.

  ‘Look on the walls,’ Krezoc’s voice said over the vox. She was speaking to the entire battle group.

  Deyers did as she asked. As Bastion of Faith rumbled past Deicoon’s broken defences, he saw the ecclesiarch’s improvised army in combat, overwhelming cultists and adding to its ranks. The people were mad, he thought. They had escaped the destruction of the city only to plunge back into it. There was nothing to save. Why are they throwing their lives away?

  ‘There is our model,’ Krezoc said. ‘They march into the fire. Knowingly. They do it because they must. We will do the same.’

  ‘How can they do it knowingly if they’re mad?’ Deyers muttered.

  ‘Your presumption is incorrect, captain,’ Venterras said. He was riding with the Leman Russ and had chosen, for the time being, to sit on its hull. He crouched on the turret behind Deyers’ hatch as he spoke. ‘They are not mad.’

  Not taking his eyes from the wall, Deyers said, ‘Aren’t they?’

  ‘Look,’ was all Venterras said.

  The patchwork army was victorious. They controlled their ruin. They seemed to be bowing now towards the passing battle group.

  ‘That is a first victory,’ Venterras said. ‘It will not be the last.’

  Won’t it? Deyers thought. He said, ‘So we hope.’ He turned to keep watching. He kept his eyes on the ecclesiarch’s crusaders until they vanished in the distance. ‘Is their example the best we can hope for?’ he asked Venterras. ‘To fight for what has already been destroyed?’

  The secutarii regarded him without expression. Deyers felt like he was speaking to a machine more than a human being. With no change in his inflection, Venterras said, ‘If that is what we must do, will you refuse to do it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Deyers snapped. He looked forwards again. The Titans were leading the march. As the battle group swung around the perimeter of Deicoon, Deyers was able to make out the glow of the fires on the Klivanos Plain. There were mountains ahead, and a wide cleft between the east and west chains. The Pallidus Mor marched towards the gap and the red aurora beyond. ‘Is it wrong for me to wish to save my world?’

  ‘Is this not what we are engaged upon?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Deyers. He waved back at Deicoon. ‘I don’t know that we saved anything there. I don’t know that a suicidal run to a battle that is already lost is serving a useful purpose.’

  ‘I did not hear you propose an alternative course of action.’

  ‘No,’ Deyers admitted. Because there isn’t one, he thought. Even so, he resented the prospect of a useless death for himself and his troops.

  Machine-like though Venterras was, he seemed to read Deyers’ thoughts. ‘There is no other way, captain,’ he said. ‘If we took weeks to arrive at Therimachus, that would be futile. This strategy is the only valid one.’

  ‘Then we must follow it,’ Deyers said, without enthusiasm.

  He had done his best to sound committed to the plan when he had explained it to the regiment. Either he was too transparent or the scale of the folly was too apparent. There had been no mutiny, but the unhappiness of the Spears was palpable. Deyers looked back at the column of tanks following Bastion of Faith. He wondered how many of their number would reach the far side of the Klivanos Plain.

  The battle group moved through the wide pass. The mountains rose up on either side of the tanks. Midway through, the ground, which had been rising steadily since Deicoon, began to drop again. Two hours later, the cleft ended suddenly, and the hell of the Kliva
nos stretched ahead.

  The plain was wide and long. The crossing would be hundreds of miles long. Deyers could see no more than a mile ahead, sometimes less. Fire roared over the plain in sheets. Geysers of burning promethium vomited flame to the heavens. Wherever Deyers looked, he saw fire. Smoke choked the sky, turning the late afternoon into full night. The terrain was a rocky crust that Deyers did not trust for a second. It looked brittle, a shell covering an inferno. It was webbed with cracks glowing an angry red. Warring winds roared across the plain, creating cyclones of fire where they collided. Huge lakes of promethium burned like suns. Their flames, hundreds of feet high, waved back and forth in the hurricane winds of their own creation. The breath of the Klivanos blew into Deyers’ face. His eyes dried instantly. When he breathed, his lungs shrivelled in his chest.

  There was no obvious way forwards. There were gaps between the burning fountains, but they were filled without warning by huge billows of flame roaring in from the lakes. Deyers bit back a howl of despair. This was madness. The crossing was doomed before it began. The tormented, screaming landscape became all of Katara for him. It was the entire world, consumed by holocaust, a hell of rock and flame. There could be no salvation here. There was only death.

  This was the end of hope.

  ‘How can we cross this?’ he said. His body was numb with horror.

  ‘We cross it inside,’ said Venterras. The secutarii straightened up. He stood over Deyers, waiting for him to descend through the hatch.

  Deyers nodded. He climbed down the ladder. Venterras followed and sealed the hatch. Inside, Platen looked ashen. There would be nothing for her to shoot here. She and Deyers would be helpless to govern their fate during the crossing. Medina, at least, would be active.

  ‘Follow the Titans,’ Deyers told Medina. ‘Let them find the route of solid ground.’

  ‘Yes, captain.’ He didn’t sound any happier than Platen looked.