Now the Charybdis entered the battle, its void shields flaring angrily as it passed through the expanding clouds of debris and residual energy vapour which only minutes ago had been its squadron of escort ships. It struck out with its forward lance batteries, beams of brilliant energy cutting through the Macharius’s void shields and striking its prow, scoring burn lines metres thick into the super-dense material of the cruiser’s armoured beak. On the bridge of the Macharius, Ulanti felt the shudder of the impact run through the hull of the vessel and saw the nervous, edgy glances being cast at him by the command deck crew.
“Helm, hold her steady. Ordnance, be ready to fire torpedoes on my command.”
“Target is changing course, sir,” reported the urgent voice of one of the surveyor section officers. “Its energy emission profile is changing. It’s trying to disengage!”
Outgunned, the Chaos ship was attempting to break off from battle, radically changing course and cutting off the flow of power to its main systems, rendering it invisible to the surveyor senses of other vessels. It was a standard manoeuvre, and, if successful, the Chaos cruiser would simply fade off the Macharius’s target screens, drifting away unscathed and undetected. Ulanti had no intention of allowing that to happen.
“Mister Nyder?”
“That renegade scum’s going nowhere, captain. We have it on lock on,” confirmed Nyder with a snarling grin.
“Fire all torpedoes,” instructed Ulanti.
In a pre-arranged manoeuvre between the two vessels, the Inviolable Retribution fired its bombardment cannons at the same time, the combined salvo finding and striking its target with devastating force, ripping open the Murder class cruiser’s underside and blowing apart its starboard flank. On the Macharius’s surveyor screens, instead of fading away, the target icon of the enemy vessel burned bright and fierce, its position clearly marked by the energy now burning out of the crippled ship.
“Helm, full ahead. Gunnery, prepare to fire starboard batteries.”
At Ulanti’s command, the Macharius moved forward in tandem with the Arbites cruiser, the two Imperial vessels manoeuvring to pass on either side of the stricken Chaos cruiser. At a given signal, they opened fire simultaneously once more, pummelling the Charybdis with dual broadsides and catching it in a merciless crossfire. The enemy ship struck back with its still-functioning portside armaments, lashing the Inviolable Retribution with a hail of fire from its still fearsome array of plasma cannon batteries. Explosions ripped along the hull of the Arbites craft, the Retribution’s own gunners trading blow for blow with their counterparts aboard the Charybdis. Attacked from both sides, already badly damaged, the Chaos ship quickly succumbed to the inevitable. The two Imperial ships sped on towards Belatis, leaving behind them the burning wreck of the enemy ship that they had so clinically destroyed.
There were cheers amongst the junior officers of the Macharius’s command deck crew, but Ulanti knew that the task ahead of them would not be so simply achieved. Enemy ship icons crowded the long-range surveyor screens, all of them closing rapidly on the doomed world. At their rear came the Planet Killer, its target icon almost burning out of the screen with the truly incalculable amount of energy now flowing through it.
“Shuttle ready for launch,” reported Nyder in response to Ulanti’s questioning glance. Ulanti nodded, and Nyder sent the order through to the craft waiting patiently in their launch bays. Seconds later, a large troop transporter shuttle fell away from the Macharius, its pilot hitting his main engine thrusters as soon as he was clear of the carrier ship. It was quickly joined by a squadron of Eagle craft launched from the Arbites cruiser. Circling Fury Interceptors took up position fore and aft of the shuttle formation, forming a protective phalanx around them. The combined formation moved off at speed towards the shining disk of the planet, the two slower-moving warships following behind at a more stately pace.
On the command deck, Ulanti cast a concerned glance at Nyder. “How long is their flight time?” he asked.
“We estimate one hour at full speed, perhaps a little more.” Nyder looked at the command deck’s main tactical display, seeing the enemy target icons spilling across it towards them. “They’ll get there alright, but it’ll be a hell of a fight getting them back aboard again.”
“Prepare your squadrons, Mr. Nyder,” instructed Ulanti. “I want everything we’ve got launched to give them the cover they need.”
Kaether looked up as Altomare came running towards him, the stocky, heavy-set fighter pilot weaving through the lines of bomb- and missile-laden loading trolleys that trundled across the cluttered expanse of the busy flight deck. The air was filled with the shouted instructions of ground crew, the clanging sound of metal on metal as payloads were secured aboard attack craft and the rising whine of thruster engines being test-fired. Altomare had to shout above the din to be heard by his squadron commander.
“Nothing. No sign of him anywhere.”
Kaether cursed volubly and blasphemously, drawing a disapproving stare from a nearby preacher who was bestowing sacred blessings on a payload stack of melta missiles as they were loaded into the belly bay of a Starhawk. “Look again,” said the commander of Storm squadron. “Check every shrine and chapel on the ship. Use whoever else you can get hold of to help you, but find him.”
Altomare hurried off again, already shouting commands at the nearest of Storm squadron’s ground crew personnel, instructing them to stop whatever they were doing and to join him. Kaether cursed again. Every squadron aboard ship had been given its launch alert. Every available attack craft was being pressed into service. Tech-priests and ground crews were hurriedly conducting desperate quick-fix repairs to damaged fighters and bombers that should, by all rights, have been sent to the workshop forges for major overhauls. And now, in the midst of all this, his best pilot had gone missing.
Vandire’s teeth, Kaether cursed to himself once more. Where in the name of the Golden Throne was Reth Zane?
Zane bent down over the corpse. He was somewhere in the maintenance sub-levels below the generarium core, he knew, and the corpse was that of one of the servitor things that inhabited such places. The blood and hydraulic fluids that were splashed on the walls of the passage—little more than a crawl-space, in truth—were still fresh, but the organic, human parts of the creature were already rotting away, revealing metal and wire beneath the grey, slick flesh. It had been killed not so long ago, the wet bloodstains said, but the amount of decay that had already set in suggested that it had lain rotting here for days.
There was something unnatural here, Zane knew. Something secret and foul. And he was getting closer to it all the time. Checking the power level of his laspistol one more time, he set off into the darkness again. He was not afraid, he told himself. He was a warrior in the service of the Master of Mankind. He was one of the Divine Emperor’s Avenging Furies.
SIX
From up high on the corner battlements, Daksha had a clear field of fire across the open area of the square in front of the cathedral’s main entrance. It had been a difficult and laborious task hauling the turret autocannon weapon up here, but the effort was worth it. Panning the weapon left and right, he sent withering lines of shellfire across the square, right into the mass of cultists that filled area below. Another one of the large armoured tractor rigs rumbled forward across the square, crushing the bodies of the dead and wounded beneath its thick tracks. Daksha swung the weapon round, barely even bothering to bring his sights to bear on it. He was used to firing at the swift, darting shapes of enemy fighters as they flitted briefly across his gunsights, often at extreme distance. The slow-moving, lumbering rig was a laughably easy target in comparison. His first stream of shots blew apart the vehicle’s armoured cab and the driver inside, but he continued firing. Riddling the freight space behind the cab with high-velocity armour-piercing shells, ripping apart the human cargo of armed heretics inside. Shattering the vehicle’s caterpillar tracks for good measure.
Exploding the vehicle
’s fuel tank and showering the troops sheltering behind it with a blanket of burning promethium.
Two of the spinning barrels of the autocannon quad weapon stuttered and died. Daksha emitted a short curse in his native tongue. The barrels had jammed again, overheated by constant firing. Steam hissed from the barrels of the weapon as the frateris crew assisting him poured buckets of water over the red-hot metal. In the absence of the weapon’s normal auto-coolant systems, this was the best compromise they could find.
Only one of the over-heated barrels commenced firing again. Daksha knew that soon this would fail too, over-heated to the point of melting. Either that, or he would ran out of ammunition. After that, he would take up his kukri knife and join the other defenders in the battle below, wetting the weapon’s blade with the blood of many enemies, rejoicing in their deaths.
It was not to be. Seconds later, hidden artillery guns on the other side of the square opened fire in response to the stream of autocannon fire, quickly zeroing in on Daksha’s position and blowing apart that area of the cathedral battlements. The remains of the weapon and the feralworlder turret gunner and his crew crashed down onto the blood-soaked, cobbled ground below.
The heretic wave swept towards the cathedral, overwhelming the last few die-hard defenders still manning the shattered remnants of the barricade. “Fallback positions!” commanded Semper, firing into the black mass of cultists, dropping several of them with a final burst of his last few precious autopistol shells.
Along with the scattered line of frateris, Semper ran for the cathedral doors. Bullets and las-fire from the pursuing heretics filled the air around them, gunning down many of the retreating defenders. Semper felt something sear into his side. He stumbled, falling to the ground, only to be caught by a powerful grip. Maxim Borusa, that most unlikely of all guardian angels, hauled him back to his feet, almost carrying him through the open doors, sprinting with him down the hallway and depositing him behind the cover of the final barricade that had been thrown across the broad vestibule entrance to the main cathedral hall. “Fallback positions, sir. Can’t be leaving you behind now,” rumbled the big hiveworlder.
Seconds later, the first of the heretics burst through the doorway behind them, charging en masse down the hallway. Devane, commanding the secondary and last line of frateris defenders, allowed them to get within ten yards of the final barricade before he gave the order to fire to the gunners of the two remaining autocannon weapons salvaged from the shuttle wreck.
The eight spinning barrels fired as one, transforming the hallway into a hell of gunfire and death. The first few ranks of attackers simply disappeared in a red mist, ripped to shreds by the massed volley of autocannon fire. Armour-piercing shells designed to blow apart the armoured hulls of starfighters ripped through soft human tissue, passing through body after body amongst the cultists packed into the close confines of the stone hallway. Stray shells ricocheted off the fresco-covered walls and blew apart statues and scripture-engraved stone plinths and memorials, destroying the work of centuries of Ecclesiarchy craftsmen.
The cultists pressed on, suffering truly horrific casualties, those behind pushing those in front onwards and into the gun-sights of the chattering autocannons. To Semper and the other defenders, it seemed as if the cultists were banking on winning out in a simple and brutal battle of numbers, gambling that the autocannon would ran out of shells before they ran out of troops. Devane had talked of making the Chaos followers wade through their own blood in order to get down the hallway, and now those words had become far more than bloodthirsty and bravado-filled battle talk.
Suddenly, a figure stepped forward out of the autocannon-ravaged ranks of the cultists. The air around it swarmed with psychic power, a hazy energy shield forming around the figure to deflect away the hail of autocannon shells. It raised its sword, a crackling nimbus of black-glowing energy surrounding the weapon blade. “Look out!” called Devane, too late, as daemon fire streamed out from the weapon, exploding amongst the barricade defenders.
Men screamed as the daemon energy consumed them, transforming them into blackened, withered scarecrows. One of the autocannon weapons exploded as the ghost fire played over it, showering both gun crews and all those around them with deadly shrapnel.
Semper stood up, drawing his sabre, ignoring the pain from the las-burn in his side, ignoring the burned and bleeding bodies around him. Seeing only the renewed charge of the cultists now creeping again towards him. Seeing the figure of the Chaos champion that led them, locking eyes with the heretic leader, and somehow seeing his doom written there in the inhuman creature’s grotesquely shifting features.
So much for being destined not to die here today, thought Semper, as he rallied what remained of the defenders and led them in a counter-charge to meet the final enemy attack.
The sound of gunfire and the clash of weapons echoed loudly through the cathedral’s interior, carrying into the side-chapel at the rear of the main hall. Vittas Sarro whimpered in fear, burrowing his face further into his sister’s shoulder. “What is happening, sister? The navy captain said that rescue was on its way, but all I hear is the sound of battle. When will it all be over?”
The Lady Malissa kissed her brother’s forehead, thinking of what they had been told. She had always feared the Arbites commander, and the news that he was leading the rescue mission filled her with foreboding. She knew what she had to do now. It was regrettable, but she had always known that it would one day come down to this. No matter what happened now, her weakling of a brother had finally outlived his usefulness.
“Soon,” she whispered, caressing his cheek with the crystal edge of her ring. “I promise you it will all be over soon.”
Khoisan cut a path through the press of bodies, killing his own followers and those of the false Emperor alike. The bloodlust was strong in him and he was eager to kill his enemy and fulfil his pact with the powers of the warp. Cleaving through the last of the human obstacles in his path, at last he stood before his prize. The man’s face registered shock and fear—paltry human emotions that the Faceless One would soon leave far behind him after his glorious ascent to daemonhood—but then, with a cry of despairing rage, threw himself at the Chaos champion.
Khoisan turned the attack aside with almost contemptuous ease, the blade of the human’s sabre shattering against the otherworldly, obsidian-like material of his own daemon weapon, the impact of the blow sending the man sprawling. Khoisan raised his sword to deliver the killing strike, but suddenly two more were there to defy him. One of them blocked his blow with a power sword, the energy fields of the two weapons—one warp-born, the other human-made—clashing angrily together. The other human—so large and savage-looking that he might have easily been a follower of the Blood God—thrust a crude pistol weapon forward, pumping bullets into the Chaos leader’s chest. Khoisan felt pain as at least one of the heavy calibre bullets penetrated into his flesh, reminding him that he had not yet left behind such human weaknesses. He lashed out angrily, knocking aside the human with the pistol, cleaving his blade through the arm of the human with the power sword, severing the limb, and continuing the blow on through into the weakling human’s chest, splitting him open.
Roaring in victory, the Faceless One turned back to the human his masters had commanded him to kill. Turning just in time to see the human snatch up the fallen power sword. Seeing this weak, pitiable mortal wield the weapon with surprising deftness. Seeing him slip the point of the blade past the Faceless One’s guard, thrusting it through his armour and deep into his body. Khoisan gasped in shocked disbelief, feeling the stuff of his Chaos-altered body writhe and react as the energy-sheathed point of the blade burned through him.
Khoisan fell back, bubbling black blood spilling out of him from the terrible energy weapon wound. All around him, he heard his followers cry out in despairing disbelief. His soul cringed as he felt the unforgiving powers of the warp withdraw their favour from him. Senses dimming, he heard a screaming sound, faint at first a
nd then growing in intensity. For a moment, he thought that it might be the Gods of Chaos themselves, bellowing forth their rage at his failure, but then, in a last lucid thought, he recognised it for what it truly was and realised then that his failure was now complete.
It was the screaming of shuttle engines coming in to land in the square outside.
The Arbites Eagle craft flew low over the cathedral square, sending missiles streaking into the cultist artillery positions in the buildings around the edge of the square, the turret gunners sweeping clear the landing zone with fire. As they came into land, Arbitrators leapt out even before they had settled, opening fire with their shotguns to pick off any stray targets that had escaped the turret gunners’ attentions. Their champion fallen, their numbers decimated, the remaining cultists fled into the ruins of the burning city, there to await in terror the coming doom that was now only minutes away.
With the landing area secured, the shuttle from the Macharius came to rest amidst a roar of lifting thrusters. From it emerged Byzantane and Kyogen, the former quickly linking up with the Arbites troops from the Inviolable Retribution, the latter taking charge of the armsmen detail that descended from the interior of the troop shuttle. Kyogen looked dispassionately around him at the scene of destruction that was the battle-ravaged cathedral square. “Find the captain,” he commanded the armsmen from the Macharius. “We do not leave this place until you have.”
Inside the cathedral, Semper staggered to his feet. Nearby, Maxim, groggy from the blow he had received from the Chaos warrior, did likewise. Caparan too had survived the attack, although Ko had not been so fortunate. The tech-priest’s fused and blackened remains lay amongst the other human wreckage left in the wake of the heretic commander’s daemon fire attack.
[Battlefleet Gothic 01] - Execution Hour Page 30