by Nick Kyme
‘Serpentia, engage!’ shouted Drakgaard, advancing steadily with the honour guard as Sergeant Vah’gan and the Kasrkin swiftly moved up in support.
Return fire erupted across the Imperial line, a collimated mix of bolter shells and hellgun las-rounds.
A missile exploded nearby as the Salamanders briefly overloaded armour systems came back online. Targeting reticules lit up the retinal lens displays of twenty fire-born, who unleashed a fearsome salvo against their hidden enemies.
Then silence.
As quickly as it had manifested, all enemy resistance died away to nothing. The last few echoes of Squad Vah’gan’s bolter fire were fading as Drakgaard held up his hand for them to cease.
‘Hold here,’ he said, allowing the Serpentia to reach the stricken form of Sergeant Bar’dak. ‘Apothecary…’
Sepelius broke ranks to kneel by Bar’dak’s side. Taking out his bio-scanner, he assessed the damage whilst the rest of the squad shielded him and the injured Centurion.
‘Life signs are weak,’ he told his captain, noting the arrival of the Devastators through the press of bodies.
Drakgaard nodded grimly before turning to Elysius, who pre-empted him.
‘I’ll see to the others.’
There were three other Centurion war frames lying prone in the dirt. The fifth and final squad member was scattered around the battle site in pieces.
As Elysius went to check vital signs and provide final rites if needed, Drakgaard surveyed the ruins. They were quiet, but that didn’t mean anything. He ordered both Devastator squads to bombard the next city block to be sure of no further surprises. As a massive firestorm engulfed the distant ruins, Sergeant Vah’gan approached.
‘Sir, we’ve just received word from Sergeant Zantho.’
Drakgaard bade him to continue.
‘His armoured column has joined up with Venerable Kor’ad and the Cadians, and awaits further orders.’
‘Tell him to push up. Head east.’ In his mind’s eye, Drakgaard imagined a wave of purifying flame sweeping across Canticus, burning all heretics to ash and finally ridding Heletine of the Black Legion’s consumptive presence. He bristled with fury at the thought, his grip tightening on the haft of his kaskara. ‘We are become two mailed fists, which, when they meet, will crush the heretics utterly.’ Drakgaard allowed himself a vicious smile, which more resembled a snarl on his scarred face. ‘Have Sergeant Kadoran converge on our location. Tell him we’re consolidating our forces before advancing further into the ruins.’
‘And the Sororitas, brother-captain?’
He had almost forgotten about them. Their knowledge of the relic sites had stopped the fire-born from chasing shadows and let them finally engage the enemy. In the wake of current events, these facts seemed somehow less significant.
‘Relay to them to move up in support, but not to get ahead of our lines. This is our victory, sergeant, one for the fire-born not the Ecclesiarchy. They may have whatever relics remain at the end, but I want the honour of breaking these traitors to go to none but us. Am I understood?’
Vah’gan saluted firmly, his eyes blazing with fierce pride.
‘Aye, sir.’
In his wake, Elysius returned. Judging by his body language his mood was less choleric.
‘Bar’dak was the only survivor,’ said Elysius gravely. ‘The rest of the Targons are slain.’
A tremor of anger rippled through Drakgaard at this news, and he felt his old wounds flare in painful sympathy. He had always believed pain was useful if it could be honed into anger and that anger then put to use. His retinal lenses shone in the bright incendiary flare of the concentrated barrage from the Devastators.
‘Sepelius and a squad of Kasrkin will stand guard until a transport is scrambled from Escadan to provide extraction.’
‘It is a great loss to the Chapter.’
‘It will be greater still if we do not march again soon. The Targons will rise again, brother.’
‘You’re more sanguine than I expected, Ur’zan. Bar’dak was a Centurion in more than just rank as his service studs will attest.’
‘I am not sanguine, Elysius, I am wrathful.’
‘And when put to proper purpose, wrath can be useful…’
Drakgaard smiled, though he knew the Chaplain could not see it.
‘Are you reading my mind, brother?’
‘But,’ Elysius continued, ‘if prompted to act rashly, it can be a severe detriment.’
Now Drakgaard faced him, seeing the sermon for what it was.
‘Speak what’s on your mind, Chaplain.’
‘We should tread warily.’
‘We will, but with purpose,’ Drakgaard countered, and Elysius saw how the long weeks had taken their toll on an already injured warrior. He was old, and worn like drake hide. Such treatment makes the scale hardy and unyielding, but beat it too much and even the toughest hide will crack.
‘I know you are eager for this, Ur’zan, but we should not overreach ourselves. There is much we don’t know, such as what killed Bar’dak and his squad.’
‘Bar’dak lives.’
‘By a thread! His part in this war is over.’
‘I will take any and all precautions. I am not Adrax Agatone, charging off half-cocked. A pity he did not heed your council as I have.’
‘Would you hear it now?’ Elysius asked.
‘Only a fool would ignore the wisdom of his Chaplain.’
Elysius laughed mirthlessly at the politick answer. Whilst there was respect, a gulf of mistrust existed between them. Where Drakgaard believed Elysius to be suspect because of his former association with Third Company, Elysius was convinced Drakgaard was so desperate for glory that he might neglect his own good sense. None of this could be said aloud, for it would undermine command and it was not the way of Adeptus Astartes to voice such open dissent, but it was the truth.
‘Hold here. Fortify and defend what we have won, and send in scouts to see what lies before us,’ Elysius said.
‘Why would I do that when our enemy retreats?’
Elysius tried not to sound exasperated. ‘It’s a dozen warriors, perhaps fewer.’
‘They are on the run, for the first time since this war began.’
‘We have been afforded a glimpse and know nothing of our foes’ disposition or strength. Look to the evidence of your eyes and see the peril of underestimating what is out there.’
‘Are you a military tactician, Chaplain, or do you in fact advise on the spiritual wellbeing of your brothers?’
Heeding his better judgement, Elysius did not give in to pettiness.
‘I am a servant of the Emperor, as are you, whose solemn duty is to preserve the rituals of the Chapter and guard against false pride.’
Drakgaard was stubborn. He bit back a sharp reply and instead answered, ‘As soon as Sergeant Kadoran arrives, we advance, and nothing shall dissuade me from that course. We have been made fools of by a dwindling warband of heretics who used the terrain to their advantage. That ends. Now.’
It availed them nothing to be at odds now – for good or ill. Drakgaard would receive his full support.
‘In Vulkan’s name then,’ Elysius replied, but the words rang hollow.
Eighteen armour kills littered the field, their shells still burning. Another seven were scattered throughout the connecting streets. Most were light vehicles, with only a few actual battle tanks amongst their number. No Renegade Astartes armour, no foul engines of the Dark Mechanicus. This was a distraction force, thrown together with the express purpose of dragging Zantho’s company deeper into the ruins. The tank commander was beginning to wonder if a real army still existed on Heletine, or if in fact they had been chasing shadows for the past weeks. Such a warren as Canticus made it difficult to know.
Ever since they had cleared and crossed Salvation
Bridge, the route had become ever more crowded with scrap and wreckage. It had taken two hours to destroy the heretic armour. Zantho had been forced to reduce much of the district to rubble in the process. Fortunately, the arrival of Kor’ad and the Guard battle tanks had made bracketing the enemy easier. It was then a simple matter of tenaciously advancing down every road and street that could accommodate a battle tank until nothing remained.
In the end, they had pinned the last recalcitrant enemy armour in an expansive public square. The rare allowance of space did little to improve manoeuvrability, such was the overcrowding of vehicles. Victory came swiftly to the fire-born but felt almost profligate.
‘We should aim south, break through here,’ Redgage indicated a point on the hololith with his gloved finger where a wide road circumvented the city outskirts, ‘and then reroute east as ordered.’
Zantho stroked his beard. It was part of the great red mane of spiked hair that framed his face which, presently, was wrinkled with consternation.
‘A long diversion, colonel.’
‘True, but faster than slogging our way through these streets where we’re at risk of being ambused. Concealed infantry should be our main concern.’
‘My main concern is following my commander’s orders,’ Zantho replied, looking up from the grainy map image to see the Vindicators had almost cleared the enemy wrecks with their attached dozer blades. Embarkation was imminent. ‘But you’re right,’ he conceded, looking back at Colonel Redgage. They had only lost four vehicles during the battle, and all of those to hidden demolitions teams. ‘I’ll give the order to head south.’
‘Right you are, sir,’ said Redgage, smoothing his grey moustaches. ‘My lord,’ he added, looking up nervously to Zantho’s left before saluting crisply and returning to his tank with his men.
The three commanders had met in the square in the shadow of Zantho’s Predator. Redgage had come with his entourage. Zantho was alone, so too the third officer of this gathering.
‘You cannot bear me a grudge for following orders, brother.’ Zantho kept his eyes level, and didn’t look up. ‘Had I not acted as I did, further lives may have been lost.’
‘Lives were lost,’ a deep, mechanised voice replied, conveyed through a vox-emitter.
‘It is war. That is its currency,’ said Zantho, finally gazing up at the towering form of Venerable Kor’ad.
‘One which I have long accepted, since before you were even an initiate.’ The Dreadnought turned a fraction, easing his sarcophagus over the sergeant to glower through his vision slit at him.
‘For an ancient, you are petty, Kor’ad.’
‘For an ancient, I am temperate!’ roared the Dreadnought, stomping towards Zantho so he had to back away or be crushed. ‘But do not think me blind, either,’ he said more calmly. ‘I know what Drakgaard ordered you to do, as I know my own orders. He is frustrated and believes he can lose this war. To compensate he throws himself into the crucible without proper caution.’
Only an ancient such as Kor’ad would ever openly criticise his commanding officer in this way. Such things, whilst incredibly uncommon, were not without precedent. Yet the fact of hearing it still rankled with Zantho.
‘Defeat is always possible. Though, I never took you for cautious, brother.’
‘Not for the victors. And I am mindful. There is a stark difference.’ Kor’ad paused, letting the harsh grind of servos articulate his mood. ‘If you are so certain of our captain, why are your largest war engines languishing in Escadan?’
‘To reinforce us. I am being prudent.’
Zantho didn’t feel it, though, and Kor’ad was wise enough to see that.
‘Grind down a blade enough,’ uttered the Dreadnought, ‘and soon even the sharpest sword will lose its edge.’
‘Zen’de, but what has philosophy got to do with any of this?’
‘Our captain functions with blunted purpose.’
‘Then it is our duty to help restore it. I say again: what is your meaning, Kor’ad?’
‘Be mindful, that is all. As we speak, Ur’zan Drakgaard is dangerously close to being reckless,’ said Kor’ad, turning and stomping away.
The last words of the ancient troubled Zantho, for he too had noticed the strain Drakgaard was under. His old wounds had made him bitter, the fact of his being sidelined to the reserve companies even more so. This was a great opportunity for him to show his mettle and, in his opinion at least, restore the Chapter’s reputation. Drakgaard had needed a war of his own; he just didn’t need this one.
Climbing back aboard his Predator, Zantho took up position in the cupola hatch and stared out into the dark horizon. The way ahead was occluded but he felt a cold wind against his face and wondered what it might portend.
Naeb landed with a minor ignition flare from his jump pack, burning the earth around him and searing the short grass underfoot. This part of Canticus had once been its ornamental gardens and vineyard, but the war had made it a dirty brown mess of felled trees, broken statues and fire-blackened vegetation. The grass was churned to dark earth from the tramp of booted feet, the fountains were broken or choked with chemicals. A single tree stood alone in the midst of this destruction, the fruit on its branches withering and rotting in the actinic air.
‘A world has lost its innocence, brother,’ Va’lin remarked as Naeb killed his turbine engines.
‘I’m not sure if Heletine was ever innocent, but it has certainly lost much.’
An explosion detonated fifty metres away, turning a fallen ornamental arch into rubble but neither fire-born reacted beyond a glance.
Redgage’s engineers were demolishing the gardens, clearing a path for the tanks to traverse unimpeded. Until they were needed elsewhere, the Wyverns had been tasked with ensuring the sappers’ safety.
Va’lin stared into the darkness, willing the enemy to appear. Since Salvation Bridge, he had seen little in the way of combat and now the silence of that was becoming deafening. Instead of foes, though, he saw the squad widely dispersed over the expansive area, patrolling in loose pairs. His mood darkened further. With the deaths of Sor’ad and Illus, they had been reduced to eight.
‘You saved Dersius and I,’ said Naeb softly, as if guessing Va’lin’s dark thoughts. ‘Illus died a Wyvern, fighting hard and on his feet. None of us can ask for more.’
‘Then why does it bother me still?’
‘Because they are dead, and we would wish them not to be. It’s not so hard to understand, brother.’
‘You have an over simple view of the world, Naeb.’
‘And you think too much.’ Naeb gestured to Dersius as he landed nearby and within earshot. ‘Try being more like the Themian. An anvil feels nothing.’
Dersius did not rise to the bait as Iaptus and the rest of the squad landed a few seconds later. In the distance, a Chimera had arrived to ferry the engineers. Evidently, their work was complete.
‘We push north,’ Iaptus told them, ‘acting as escort for the armour. Brother Orcas will provide infiltration momentarily.’
‘Do we have eyes on the enemy, brother-sergeant?’ asked Va’lin.
‘The Black Legion? Not yet. Nothing since the bridge, but apparently Captain Drakgaard is confident we are close.’
Above, they could all hear the heavy whip of a gunship’s turbo fans as it came in to land.
‘Even the skies fall quiet…’ muttered Ky’dak as the vague outline of the Thunderhawk appeared overhead.
‘They will be aflame soon enough,’ said Iaptus, flatly.
Arrok ventured a question, ‘Brother-sergeant, what of the Sororitas? Have we received word of their movements?’
Iaptus looked up at the descending gunship, which was close and right above them.
‘Nothing beyond their pledged support.’
‘I, for one, am grateful of it,’ said Xerus, the veteran having
nothing but praise for the Seraphim who had fought beside them on Salvation Bridge.
Iaptus nodded, but kept his own counsel.
Ky’dak exchanged a glance with Va’lin, their discovery of the Sororitas scavenger in the ruins still fresh in the mind.
‘Tell me, brother,’ said Naeb, his words lost to the others in the down wash of heat and noise as Orcas brought the gunship down to land, ‘I neglected to ask, what did she say to you on the bridge?’
‘She said we were too few,’ Va’lin replied as the ruckus from the engine was diminishing.
Everyone heard him – their silence provided the same answer.
They were too few, and alone could not win the war.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Heletine, Solist
In the early days of the war for Heletine, Solist had suffered in the punitive bombardments of the local militia. Its name had once meant ‘sanctuary’ in native Heletian, but had become a thing of bitter and chilling irony. For days, falsely believing it to be the heretics’ muster point, macro cannon bursts and ceaseless missile salvoes had pummelled the city into a desert of grey rock and partially irradiated dust. The desperate actions of the now-dead planetary governor achieved little except the wholesale destruction of one of Heletine’s major cities, together with its unwillingly sacrificed populace.
Only bones inhabited Solist now.
Picked clean by the carrion that roamed the wastes, a skeletal hand reached up out of the sand trying to grasp the sun. The clawed stanchion of a black gunship crushed its bleached fingers, its turbine engines kicking up dust in savage, twisting squalls. The embarkation ramp was descending before the ship had touched down, Angerer’s silhouette framed just inside it by the hold’s internal illumination.
‘Laevenius…’ said the canoness, summoning her second-in-command, and allowing the ship to land before she stepped out.
The Sister Superior followed, twenty Celestians looming behind but waiting aboard the transport. As she walked down the ramp, Laevenius’s armoured grip tightened around the leather book, her gauntleted fingers digging in. Though to a casual glance it would appear nondescript, the book was far from ordinary. It described the identities of traitors, those believed shown to Dominica by the Emperor before she was sainted.