by Gav Thorpe
The Knights seemed uncaring of the counter-attack to their rear and were, as Radagal had warned, heading directly for the command tower. This brought them across the line of advance of the companies Azrael had despatched in the encircling manoeuvre. The Rhinos of the Dark Angels fell back from the armoured giants, awaiting the support of weapons capable of harming the war machines of the traitor Adeptus Mechanicus.
‘That way.’
Ezekiel had followed close behind and pointed to the north west. Through the murk Azrael could see the red-gold shimmer of opening portals, just like the ones at the Iron Stalagmite, though larger by far.
Midnight-clad vehicles and squads disgorged from the swirling rifts, just a few hundred metres from the aegis-line. Heavy weapons from both sides opened fire, criss-crossing the cratered plain. Azrael counted twenty, then thirty, then forty traitor legionaries, and more still arrived. The breaches continued to widen and the first Land Raiders pushed through. More outlandish creations lurched and lumbered into view – shrieking, snarling monstrosities of metal and unnatural flesh melded together by prohibited sorceries and malign technology. Whip-like tentacles writhed and cannons glowed balefully with their own life.
The force advanced swiftly, contemptuous of the bolter fire that rained down on them. Even with his auto-senses, Azrael found it hard to mark out the Night Lords in the murk of smog and fires. As the traitors advanced they trailed shadows like smoke, coils of concealing darkness that followed them from the warp rifts.
‘Get Sammael!’ he barked over the vox to Radagal. ‘I need an immediate counter-attack! And air support. Target priorities on the Knights for every gunship available.’
He looked up, the flare of fire between the duelling aircraft above not an encouraging sight. As he watched, another portal appeared, perhaps a kilometre above the battlefield. He expected to see aircraft emerge, but the thing that broke out of the exposed warp was no piloted machine. A drake-like body of lightning-wreathed metal and bone hauled itself from the breach with an ear-splitting screech that could be heard even over the raging cacophony of battle.
Jagged wings swept out trailing storm clouds like some obscenely vast chick still wet from its hatching. A thunderclap shook the ground as the beast swooped down. Its serpentine neck flexed with a shriek of tormented metal as it cast its gleaming gaze along the line of defensive embrasures and bunkers. A thunderhead of darkness and lightning streamed as the heldrake dived to the attack.
Date Ident: 113940.M41#0845
The horrific semi-mechanical abomination fell upon the squads of the Fourth Company to the east of the command tower. Bolter fire sprang up from the walls to patter from the armoured skin of the onrushing beast, accompanied by the crack of missiles and sharp flare of plasma.
Raking fire erupted from the cannon set within the beak-like maw of the creature, every round trailing sparks of unnatural energy as they ripped into the armoured warriors manning one of the gun emplacements. Metallic claws flashed as the heldrake crashed bodily into the Dark Angels streaming along the aegis-line. Power armour shattered beneath the terrible assault, half a dozen warriors of the Chapter laid low by the monster’s crushing impact. Its rampage continued, serrated wings shearing through ceramite and bone, the fire of its maw-cannon like the breath of a mythical beast.
‘Radagal, concentrate all available firepower on the Knights. Assault reserve to engage the Night Lords.’ Azrael sprinted to the wall just as Dagonet reached the roof of the tower. ‘With me, brothers!’
The Supreme Grand Master vaulted over the wall. He fell several metres, gauntlet scraping over the Angel of Death cast into the ferrocrete before they found purchase on the crosspiece of its sword’s hilt. Azrael pushed himself away and plunged the last ten metres to the rampart below.
He landed hard but recovered instantly, bounding into a run along the wall towards the mechanical drake. Ezekiel and Dagonet followed at a slightly less precarious pace, a few metres behind their commander.
‘Ballan! Bring half your squads. Now! The rest provide fire support for the assault reserve.’ The Lord of the Rock continued to snap out orders as he pounded along the aegis-line, accumulating squads like a comet’s tail. Reaching the first revetment he leapt, the muscle bundles of his armour launching him onto the roof. He landed without missing a stride and bounded down on to the next line of parapet. ‘Radagal, I want orbital support redirected immediately.’
He was still three hundred metres from the rampaging monster. Master Zadakiel had rallied several squads around his banner and was directing fire at the beast flapping and screeching along the wall. Bolt rounds exploded harmlessly against the infernal construction; missiles left blackened blossoms against the lightning-wreathed metal but did little damage.
Fire screamed in from the Rhamellian tanks not yet engaged by the Deathwing. Shell detonations rippled along the rampart in a rolling salvo. Flame and shrapnel surrounded Azrael as a round exploded right in front of him. He plunged on through the shock wave, ignoring the shriek of his power armour’s warning chimes.
Through the churning thoughts that swirled in his head, Azrael realised that the Night Lords had held the advantage since the outset and he had acted exactly as they had desired. The orbital strike against the artillery had drawn away the wrath of his deadliest guns. The Ravenwing had been forced to the flank of the army by the armoured thrust, away from the Night Lords’ point of entry. Even his premature commitment of the reserves had only served to direct forces away from the aegis-line, to allow the Night Lords the opportunity to emerge within the outer line against a depleted defence.
As he hurdled a Rapier Destroyer he could not help but think he was doing exactly as his foes intended. The heldrake was just close enough for the counter-attack, but far enough to draw forces from directly in front of the Night Lords’ line of advance.
But he could not do otherwise. The line was tested at four points along its length and he could not afford to allow one part to fail. He needed the gun turrets and squads of the centre to hold back the Rhamellians. He did not appreciate the irony that the foe he deemed weakest was the most likely to break through at that moment.
Blurs of darkness sped overhead as Thunderhawks, Nephilim fighters and Dark Talons banked hard over the aegis-line to engage the renegade Knights. Ion fields flared into scarlet clouds as they shunted aside battlecannon fire and missiles. Super-heavy weaponry roared and crashed in response; the blast of laser and volleys of shells scythed through the smoke-filled air. Azrael watched a Thunderhawk split open from cockpit to tail by a coruscating beam of energy, its burning remnants crashing down into the hereteks surging towards the Dark Angels wall.
The constant stream over the vox had become a half-heard murmur. Azrael listened only for one voice – Radagal’s. The logistarius filtered out the mass of communication; his calm reports highlighted only the most pertinent developments.
Despite the anarchy that seemed to reign, the battle was still in favour of the Dark Angels. The Night Lords had used all their cunning and sorcery to gain every advantage, and the numbers of the hereteks and renegades would soon start to take their toll, but for the moment the line held.
Crossing the roof of another strongpoint, Azrael threw himself down onto the wall just one hundred metres from the warp-spawned monster. He unslung his weapon – the artificer-created bolter-plasma gun known as the Lion’s Wrath – and drew the Sword of Secrets.
Behind him, Traitor’s Bane trailed cerulean fire in Ezekiel’s fist and sparks of psychic energy flashed in the Librarian’s eye. The aquila-shaped head of Dagonet’s crozius arcanum gleamed with a silvery powerfield, a plasma pistol in his other hand.
‘Keep it grounded,’ Azrael bellowed as he raced towards the beast.
The heldrake swung towards him, a flailing battle-brother gripped in one claw. The creature opened its maw to reveal the multi-barrelled cannon that jutted from its throat. The weapon started to spin with a building shriek.
Azrael opened
fire at the same moment that Ezekiel unleashed a blast of psychic fire. Plasma and unearthly energy slammed into the creature’s mouth. Molten metal spat and streamed as the heldrake thrashed backwards, coughing streams of liquid fire.
Bolts continued to spatter harmlessly from the silvery metal of its hide. Its tail whipped back and forth, slashing the head from another Dark Angel. Rivulets of cooling metal hung between sword-fangs as the heldrake lumbered towards Azrael, claws striking sparks from the armoured floor of the rampart.
Dagonet dashed past, his crozius lifted to deflect the claw that swung towards Azrael’s head. The Master of Sanctity flew back from the blow, clattering hard into the battlement. Azrael struck, cleaving the edge of the Sword of Secrets into the exposed neck of the mechanical nightmare. He ducked underneath the reeling monstrosity, dragged his blade free in a spray of oily blood.
Ezekiel swung two-handed, lopping away a claw raised against the Supreme Grand Master, tendrils of psychic energy playing from sword to wound.
A flare of plasma flashed into the beast’s eye from Dagonet, who crouched at the wall’s edge, one arm hanging limp at his side. Azrael moved quickly, rolling under a wing that tried to buffet him from the wall. The Sword of Secrets sliced through intestine-like cables in the creature’s underbelly, bringing forth fresh rivers of life fluid that splashed across the Supreme Grand Master’s armour.
The heldrake reared back, wings beating frantically. Ezekiel lashed a bolt of lightning into the beast’s chest, scorching through metal and bone with an explosion of multicoloured sparks. Azrael dropped the Lion’s Wrath and thrust his fingers into the ragged wound he had carved into the monster’s gut. As it lifted from the ground with laboured sweeps of its wings, Azrael rose with it, his grip tight about a metallic brace inside the beast’s body.
The Lord of the Rock rained blow after blow against the exposed innards, twisting, thrusting and hacking with little skill or grace, widening the wound to a gash two metres long. His robe was soaked through with gore and lubricant, the heavy fabric clinging awkwardly to his armour joints. One final thrust pushed the point of his blade deep towards the heldrake’s chest and the semi-daemonic beast spasmed, one wing furled as it spiralled away from the wall before rolling over towards the ground.
There was no chance to get clear and Azrael was dragged down with the monster. It crashed into the inferno-baked earth amidst a storm of metal splinters and exploding rock shards. The impact almost tore Azrael’s arm away and whiplash cracked his head hard against the beast’s metal flesh.
Dazed, Azrael rolled away, falling heavily from the carcass. Ears ringing, he struggled to stand. A death-judder from the heldrake sent a twitching wing crashing into Azrael just as he gained his feet, knocking him to his back again. His fingers groped for the Sword of Secrets as he turned to his stomach and looked up. He was several hundred metres from the aegis-line. Armed once more, he staggered away from the steaming corpse of the heldrake.
The dull thump of munitions and crack of bolters seemed strangely muted and distant.
‘This is Azrael, respond,’ he said even as his fingers moved to the side of his helm and found a finger-long rent across the side where the vox transmitter was located. Only crackling answered. A distracting static buzzed across his auto-senses and he twisted off his helm with a hiss of escaping air.
He drew in a deep breath, the air tainted with the fume of battle and the stench of blood. Recovering his senses, he assessed his situation.
The enemy had reached the wall at several points. The Night Lords were almost at the aegis-line and several hundred hereteks scrambled over piles of their own dead to reach the rampart while purpose-built siege automatons strode through the dying masses with crackling hammerhands, telescopic ladders and grapnel launchers at the ready.
One of the Knights had been felled; its burning wreckage spilled more black smoke over the oncoming hordes of traitor soldiers. The other two mechanical giants loomed through the murk, barely half a kilometre from Azrael’s position, only minutes away from the command tower.
The Deathwing were closer than the wall, their ivory armour stark against the camouflage green-and-grey of armoured vehicles and the blackened earth. Around Lanval’s banner a knot of Deathwing Knights led the counter-attack. Their blades and maces broke open the hulls of tanks, shields raised against the torrent of incoming fire.
Azrael took several steps towards them, picking his way across the strewn wreckage of the heldrake while flames consumed the unnatural corpse. A hissing sound caused him to slow and turn.
Just past the burning remains the air churned. At first he thought it vortices of the fire, a trick of heat haze, but over several seconds the whirling became stronger, more distinct. Motes of energy danced in the smoke, spiralling towards a central point where a star was beginning to form.
Run!
The word slammed into his thoughts like a boarding torpedo breaching a ship’s hull. He winced as pain flared behind his eyes.
Run, Azrael!
It took a moment before he recognised the voice of Ezekiel, though louder and fiercer than he had ever heard it pass his lips. Despite the Librarian’s insistence, Azrael’s body refused to respond. He stood transfixed as the swirl of particles became a pulsing hole, a widening gap through the barrier of reality into a place far removed.
He averted his gaze at the last moment, knowing that to look into the abyss of Chaos itself was an invitation to madness, even for an iron-willed Space Marine. The thunder of the portal’s opening shook the ground and the carcass of the heldrake heaved and fell into a widening ravine as rents opened crazily in the hardened earth.
Azrael dared a glance at the abyssal breach and saw darkness coalescing into a monstrous humanoid form. While he watched, smaller breaches tore at the fabric of the material world, orbiting the central portal like slave moons. Outlandish shapes writhed in their hearts, embryonic nightmares clawing and gnawing at the veil to spawn into the world of mortals.
RUN!
The psychic imperative forced its way through his mental defences and earthed through his nervous system like lightning down a rod. His body responded before conscious thought caught up with events and his legs took him away from the portal and the emerging nightmares.
Adding will to psychically impelled instinct, he pumped his arms, covering the ground with three-metre strides. He ran with a steady pace, fuelled not by the raw fear of a normal man, but the cold knowledge that his doom was truly bearing down on him. He could see his battle-brothers flooding to the rampart ahead, a thicket of bolters and heavy weapons springing into view. A golden gleam signalled where Ezekiel stood, one hand held aloft as psychic forces churned and swirled the air around him.
The shadows he had glimpsed danced at the edge of his thoughts, daring him to look back. He tried to fix his gaze and thoughts on the sanctuary of the aegis-line but the phantasms created by his imagination were more compelling – he knew the reality could not be as nightmarish as the mirages conjured by his primal reactions.
He glanced back and found that his imagination was poorly matched against the insanity of the warp.
Date Ident: 114940.M41#0852
Blackness coiled from the writhing warp portal, streaming like vapours from the jagged edges of the tear between dimensions. The thing that lurched from the abyss was made of the shadow, real and not real, twice the height of Azrael. Faceted spider eyes clustered at the centre of its mass, glinting in the flare of battle. Tenebrous limbs more tentacle than jointed legs propelled the daemon onward, six of them, tipped with iron claws that fountained sparks of red from the ground where they touched.
And mouths.
More mouths than Azrael could count, filled with serrated fangs; shifting, gnashing, whip-tongued maws that appeared and vanished across the shadowbeast’s body.
Distracted, Azrael did not see a jag of broken Thunderhawk hull buried in the ravaged earth. His foot caught against it and he fell, rolling onto his shoulder out of i
nstinct as a razor-edged fin of armour speared up towards him.
He crashed and tumbled, grip tight on the Sword of Secrets as he slid down the slope of metal, churning fresh welts across the burn-scarred paint.
Snake-quick, he regained his feet, blade at the ready.
The shadowbeast came on, but it was not alone. The black tendrils that seethed back to the portal gathered together, twining about each other like rope.
A clawed fist appeared, holding the shadow-lines.
A leash.
The monster that followed was as tall again as its insane hound, twice the size of a Dreadnought. It was clad in a warped mockery of Tactical Dreadnought armour – thick plates of midnight blue that bulged and shifted like flesh, edged with gold and white like the armour of the Night Lords it led. More lightning flickered, crawling across the armourskin in waves, pulsing with the tread of hooved boots.
Its head and face were elongated and fleshless, with growths flaring from its temples. A winged skull, the symbol of the traitor legion. True wings swept out fromt its back, in span the equal of a Nephilim fighter.
The hand not holding the shadowbeast’s tether was almost as big as Azrael, a dagger-tipped gauntlet that gleamed with hellish energy. A nightmarishly exaggerated power fist, the Supreme Grand Master realised, with the twin muzzles of a large cannon protruding from the back, a ruddy infernal gleam emanating from the barrels.
The empty sockets of the daemon prince’s eyes fixed on Azrael and a coldness chilled him.
‘What have we here?’ The daemon’s voice carried like a cold wind, soft yet biting. ‘Another whelp of the Lion, come to deny me my rightful conquest.’
‘You have no place here, spawn of nightmares,’ Azrael growled. He took a pace closer. The plate of Thunderhawk armour creaked under his weight. ‘This world belongs to the Emperor.’
‘The Emperor is dead, orphan of Caliban. He died at the hands of Horus. You have been lied to for ten thousand years, lion cub. There is no power on Earth, just a carcass whose strings are pulled by the ambitions of weak humans.’