The Devastation of Baal

by Guy Haley

  Although he was among the greatest military minds of his age, Dante could formulate no strategy against such attritional murder. Had the void shield not fallen the Chapters of the Blood might have persisted and eventually triumphed. It had been done before, on Macragge, but the Behemoth had been a modest shoaling compared to the Leviathan, and the void shield was gone.

  Dante fought where he could not command. He vented his frustration personally, axe to flesh, against the beasts that would shatter his legacy. Hubris had damned him. He had fallen for the lies of his own legend. Behemoth had been driven back. Surely he, Dante, could do the same with Leviathan?

  The tyranids were closing on the redoubt’s gates. If the keep were to fall, the fight would be over. Strike teams fought on multiple levels, attempting to seal the ways up to the nerve centre of the Arx. He had awarded himself the most onerous sector as penance.

  The Walk of Angels was the broadest, least defensible of the approaches to the redoubt’s middle section. The far end was accessed from the plaza via the impressive Tribunalis Victorum, an architectural wonder become tactical liability. The left of the walk’s curving length was open to the Well of Angels. Stained armourglass that had filled elegant traceries skidded treacherously underfoot. Flying tyranid beasts flew repeatedly at the gaps in the ruined windows. Most were shot down before they could fly through by heavy bolter turrets set into the buttresses outside. They faithfully chugged away, their ammunition feeds protected by feet of rockcrete and plasteel. Even so, several were gone, the turrets ripped free by suicidal attacks. The rest fired on, never tiring, their indefatigable machine-spirits smashing monsters from the air. The few flying creatures that crashed into the Walk of Angels alive were injured and easy prey for the defenders.

  The Axe Mortalis buzzed, motes of dust bursting into nothing as Dante swept it through debris-choked air. A gargoyle, pathetic on the ground, died with a shriek and a burst of shattered atoms. He ran on, killing more maimed winged tyranids as he pounded towards the Arcus Elim. A tall, beautiful arch fashioned in the early days of the Chapter, it had admitted processions of the Blood Angels from the Tribunalis after every victory for eight millennia.

  Dante glanced out into the Well of Angels. Teeth of glass rimmed the caldera where the remains of the Dome of Angels clung to the rock. The serene heart of the monastery was awhirl with flapping, screeching attack organisms. Weapons ensconced all around the volcano’s throat fired endlessly into the swarm. The plaza was yards thick with tyranid dead, but there were not enough guns or enough bullets to kill the numberless millions of xenos still raining down on Baal.

  A mixed group of Blood Angels, Angels Numinous and Blood Drinkers ran with Dante. Drafted mortals and warrior blood thralls provided covering fire, their las-beams cracking down the way, felling gargoyles as they burst through into the walk. Another gargoyle skidded across the floor before Dante, its wing burned off. It screamed at him defiantly. He stamped its head flat as he ran.

  Dante threw himself into the cover of the Arcus Elim’s massive triple-lobed pillars. Angels bearing victory wreaths of green stone looked down with blank eyes, hands held out in blessing towards the long sweep of the Tribunalis Victorum. A hundred yards down the stairs warriors and four Dreadnoughts of the Red Wings held a barricade of smashed stonework against a seething mass of tyranids. No bolt missed a mark. Creatures were blown apart by the score, whole ranks of them blasted into gobbets of flesh and shards of bio-armour. Still they came on. So it had gone on for three days, since the tyranids had broken their way onto the landing below. The stairs were fully enclosed. The Red Wings were free from aerial attack. It was an excellent choke point under any other circumstances but they could not hold the line forever. They simply could not kill all the beasts sent against them.

  A chime pinged in Dante’s ear as another heavy bolter turret on the exterior of the walk fell silent. The walk would not stay defensible for long. The tyranids would break through, and the Red Wings would be cut off.

  ‘Captain Dentinus, prepare to fall back,’ voxed Dante.

  The Red Wings sang as they fired. Their guns steamed from constant discharge. Dante could feel their rage, their desire to spring from cover and attack with axe and blade. The scions of Sanguinius were not made for this kind of war. Frustration worsened their rage.

  ‘We are holding them in place, my lord,’ insisted Dentinus. ‘We can keep the stair free.’

  ‘You will fall back to the Portis Castellum,’ said Dante. ‘The walk is compromised. Its guns die. It must be sealed at this end, and the perimeter re-established at the entry to the redoubt. Prepare to fall back on my order.’

  ‘As you command, my lord,’ said Dentinus reluctantly.

  A Blood Drinkers Techmarine worked quickly at the far support of the arch. He and his servitors had already prepared the column for demolition. A ring of melta flasks adhered to the stone with explosive putty, wires sprouting from their opened cases. It was an ugly executioner for such a work of beauty.

  Dante moved aside to allow another Techmarine to get at the second pillar. He could not tell which Chapter he was from. His armour was covered in dust stuck to oil, his badge obscured. He could have been one of Dante’s own.

  The rest of the warriors with Dante arrayed themselves in a firing line at the top of the Tribunalis.

  ‘Demolition is prepared, my lord,’ voxed the Techmarine.

  Dante walked to the centre of the line. ‘Company! Stand ready to give fire. Dentinus, fall back. Now.’

  The Red Wings loosed a few more shots, some tarrying at their stations, loath to leave the enemy alive. Those with presence of mind locked their bolters to their armour and hauled ammunition crates from dead resupply servitors and retreated under the cover of their fellows. The four Dreadnoughts were the last to leave, walking backwards up the stairs, their guns sweeping back and forth as they retreated.

  ‘Open fire,’ ordered Dante.

  His mixed group shot over the heads of the Red Wings, holding the tyranids back with a storm of fire. The stairs were broad but steep. The Space Marines were able to keep up a constant fusillade until the Red Wings were close. They ceased for a moment as the seventy or so warriors ran between them, then opened up again.

  ‘Dentinus, fall back to the Portis Castellum. Gather up the mortals from along the way. You may begin preparations at the Portis Castellum immediately. You will hold the line there.’

  ‘My lord.’

  The Red Wings streamed back towards the citadel, letting off opportunistic shots into the aerial swarm in the Well of Angels as they ran. Only when they had crossed the last step did the Dreadnoughts swivel their legs around, their torsos following, then break into a stone-shaking run.

  ‘Company,’ said Dante. ‘Fall back on my command, group by group. Covering fire protocol.’

  The tyranids surged up the stairs. Hundreds died, but free of the punishing heavy weapons fire of the Red Wings Dreadnoughts they were able to draw closer to their enemy.

  ‘Group one, fall back!’ shouted Dante.

  Half the Space Marines turned and ran after the Red Wings. With the volume of fire halved again, the tyranids came closer. Their breath steamed in the air. Their shrieks were deafening.

  The first group of Space Marines reformed a hundred yards up the walk, ready to cover the others.

  ‘Group two, fall back!’ shouted Dante.

  The remainder left. All gunfire in the walk ceased. The tyranids roared and poured up the stairs.

  The second group continued running through the first, towards where the Red Wings were establishing a fresh barricade in front of the huge black metal gates of the Heavenward Redoubt. Weapons turrets over the gates came online, ready for the foe.

  Hissing cries echoed up the Tribunalis. The first tyranids ran through the arch, into the guns of the waiting Space Marines.

  ‘My lord?’ said a Techmarine.
He held up an detonator.

  For eight thousand years the Arcus Elim had stood witness to the victories of the Blood Angels. How painfully fitting the last thing it should see was defeat.

  ‘Bring it down,’ said Dante.

  The Techmarine’s thumb depressed the button.

  The charges blew in horizontal columns of rock powder so symmetrical they could have been painted. The arch cracked, slumping towards its middle. Huge chunks of masonry jammed against each other, preventing its total collapse.

  The first tyranids galloped under the arch, sharp hooves slipping on the polished floor beneath its cloak of debris.

  ‘Keep firing!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Heavy weapons, target the arch apex,’ ordered Dante.

  Lascannons and missile launchers finished the demolition as the horde poured through.

  With a wrenching creak, stone ground on stone and the Arcus Elim cracked down and apart. Chunks of masonry smashed into the tyranids, their carvings shattering on the gallery floor. A rush of tumbling rock debris pounded down from above and sealed the way to the Tribunalis.

  The few tyranids who made it through were gunned down.

  The company let out a ragged cheer. The way to the redoubt was blocked.

  Dante remained silent. He stared at the billowing dust. There was no victory in that moment. It was Arnupul, Hollonan, Rogets Gift and Cryptus all over again. A pathetic gesture, a pebble placed in the path of the flood, and worse for being lesser than all those that had gone before. Dante let his men cheer, but they might as well save their breath and cheer at the last tyranid they downed before their heads were torn free of their necks. It would mean as much.

  Silently, the Chapter Master turned on his heel and strode back to the Portis Castellum.

  Dante waited impatiently while forge thralls worked on his armour. Blue sparks fizzed from arc welders. Plasma torches warmed the ceramite to temperatures deadly to mortals. The pristine gold was dented and covered in lubricant, sealant foam, sacred healing oils, alien blood and rock dust. These running repairs were all that kept it going.

  Captain Adanicio addressed a gathering of battle-worn captains from numerous Chapters.

  The strategium shook. Dust sifted from the ceiling, interfering with the tactical hololith. The Arx Angelicum took centre stage in the light map, its black rock described in blue angular lines. A wash of red lapped around its feet. More red dotted its ramparts and its galleries. It was a giant corpse infested by maggots. Every blob represented a brood of tyranids. Each brood could be dozens strong. The blobs ran into each other, a blanket smothering the life out of the fortress monastery. Individual components in the red were indistinct unless zoomed in to the finest level.

  Then I should go out into the thick of them, boltgun in hand, and count them myself, thought Dante furiously.

  ‘The lower halls are still contested,’ Adanicio was saying. ‘The Angels Numinous hold the Gallery of Arts, but they are losing numbers all the while. We have major problems here, in the Well of Angels. The Verdis Elysia is overrun on all but the ninth circle. We retake the plaza only to lose it to the enemy daily. I suggest we abandon it. Until now, all enemy reinforcements have been coming down the Well of Angels, where our guns might take a toll on them, and via the Portis Gehenna. The enemy are making more inroads. Three hours ago, tyranid burrowing organisms penetrated the Arx Murus here and here.’ Bright white tunnels pushed their way through the thickness of the volcanoes’ walls. ‘They outflanked us at the Elohim Gate and Gates of Dondris. Soon, they will have them open.’

  ‘How did this happen?’ said Dante angrily. ‘Where is Zargo? Where are the Angels Encarmine? They were tasked with holding the fourth sector.’

  Adanicio glanced at Captain Sendroth of the Blood Angels Ninth.

  ‘Answer me!’ said Dante angrily.

  ‘Zargo died an hour ago, my lord, along with two thirds of his Chapter,’ said Sendroth. ‘The Angels Encarmine are devastated. Half of them could not restrain themselves at the loss and let the thirst take them. They killed many before they fell. There are barely a company’s worth of them left.’

  ‘Were you not informed, my lord?’ said Adanicio. ‘I sent out runners.’

  Dante shook his head. ‘They never reached me.’

  ‘Without a wider vox network, we are doomed,’ said Captain Illius of the Sanguine Host.

  ‘We are attempting to boost our vox gain to break through the tyranid jamming field, but their methods have become more sophisticated since we last fought them,’ said Incarael. ‘They seem to know which frequencies to shut down as soon as we open them up. Only brute force will overcome it, but when we push, they push back harder. Our capacity to overcome their denial broadcast is lessening. They make a priority of our vox and augur arrays.’

  ‘Our hardlines are being targeted, along with our energy network. We have power outages in every area except the upper levels of the redoubt and the librarius,’ said Quaeston, forge master of the Blood Drinkers. ‘They are deliberately crippling our communications.’

  ‘So soon we shall be deaf and blind,’ said Dante angrily.

  The representation of the Arx glowed solidly, challenging Dante to find a solution. He could see none. All but the upper levels of the Arx Murus and the redoubt itself was contested or overrun. The galleries on the mountain side were lost. A handful of bastions held out. They were isolated islands in an ocean of xenoforms, though their guns kept firing for now. Dante had not looked outside the fortress monastery to see what awaited them in the desert.

  ‘The redoubt is our last refuge,’ said Dante. At his words, Adanicio highlighted the Heavenward Redoubt. The castle keep of the Arx was a tall drum built into the murus, topped by the Citadel Reclusiam. ‘There have been no incursions within the walls here, unless there are more bad tidings I am unaware of.’

  ‘The redoubt remains inviolate,’ said Adanicio. ‘For now.’

  ‘Then we must withdraw again,’ said Sendroth. ‘Bring all our warriors into the keep. Our forces are being isolated and cut off. We will be shattered, and eliminated piecemeal. Concentrated within the citadel, we may hold out for months if need be.’

  ‘Until help arrives,’ said Sendroth.

  ‘If help arrives,’ said Captain Borgio leadenly. The master of recruits had seen most of the Blood Angels scouts die over the last week.

  ‘What is the situation beyond the walls?’ asked Dante.

  ‘Skyfall has been lost,’ said Adanicio. ‘Captain Zedrenael is dead, of that we are certain. We have lost contact completely with Baal Primus. Intermittent contact from Baal Secundus suggests Angel’s Fall still stands, as does the astropathic relay under the Carmine Blades. Elements of the fleet continue to harry the swarm in the void, but their combat effectiveness has now hit the steeper slope of decline, and will soon dwindle to nothing. Mephiston has not been heard from. We fear he is also dead.’

  ‘All is not lost. With the relay intact, we can yet summon help,’ said Malphas. The Chapter Master of the Exsanguinators was barely holding the thirst in check. The whites of his eyes were as red as his armour.

  ‘If there is any help to come,’ said Captain Essus of the Blood Swords.

  ‘We cannot rely on help. We must look to our own,’ said Dante. ‘There is precious little on our worlds for the tyranids to harvest. They will run out of monsters to throw at us eventually. All we must do is persist. We have the citadel. There remain several thousand of us. We have already slaughtered millions of them. By the Blood, we shall endure.’

  ‘By the Blood, we shall endure,’ repeated the others.

  ‘Give the order to fall back to the citadel now,’ Dante commanded. ‘All warriors are to salvage whatever they can and bring it back with them. We have lost too many of our supplies already. Whatever occurs, this will be a long siege.’

  The servitors and thralls finished w
ith Dante’s armour and withdrew.

  ‘Now, Adanicio, today’s casualties.’

  Adanicio began the solemn listing of the dead, as he had every day since the invasion began. As he spoke, Ordamael and his Chaplain brethren chanted prayers for the souls of the lost.

  The list was lengthy. Dante struggled to listen. Light-headedness robbed him of concentration. He swayed on his feet. Adanicio’s voice faltered and stopped. Pressure built behind Dante’s eyes. An unnatural silence fell on the strategium. He felt as if he could not breathe, that the weight in his head was sinking into his throat and compressing his lungs. For a moment he thought he alone was afflicted, but it was not so.

  ‘What new evil of the tyranids is this?’ gasped Malphas.

  ‘This is not the tyranids,’ said Essus.

  All at once, the strategium servitors began to moan and jabber in myriad tongues. Something evil swept through the gathering, causing men to fall into convulsions and Space Marines to drop to their knees with grunts of unaccustomed pain. The few psykers present in the strategium, mortal and Adeptus Astartes alike, screamed in agony. Thunderclaps sounded outside the monastery, and the Arx shook. Sparks fell from the ceiling. Machines gave out with bursts of fire. The world vibrated. A dreadful shriek penetrated from outside, going on and on.

  Dante staggered across a heaving floor, though if it moved or if it were a product of his mind he could not say.

  ‘Open the shutters!’ he commanded. He grabbed at chairs, statues, railings, anything to keep himself upright as the world convulsed under him. He staggered through the wide strategium to the far wall where, in more peaceful times, huge windows looked out over the dunes of Baal.

  ‘My lord, the tyranids–’ began Adanicio.

  Dante rounded on him, his fury potent enough to match the outrage depicted on Sanguinius’ golden face. ‘Do it. Now!’

  The Arx swayed impossibly; nothing short of exterminatus by cyclonic torpedo had the force to rock a mountain like that, and yet they were still alive. This was not a physical phenomenon.