by C. S. Goto
As soon as the second blast struck, Tanthius and his squad of Terminators were storming towards the felled section of the wall, their storm bolters spluttering with fire, punching stones and chunks of rockcrete out of the edges of the ruined structure, widening the breach. Lumbering along behind them was the Third Company’s massive dreadnought, piloted by the ancient form of a near-dead Blood Raven, held away from death by the sarcophagus in the heart of the great war-machine. Thousands of years before, Blood Ravens Captain Trythos had been mortally wounded whilst on secondment to the Deathwatch. His soul had refused to die, and he had been enshrined in the Third Company’s dreadnought so that he might continue to vanquish the foes of the Emperor beyond his natural years.
Dreadnought Trythos stomped into the breach, pushing ahead of the Terminators, its multi-melta hissing with power in one hand and great plumes of chemical flame jetting out of the other. It stood dramatically in the gap in the wall as debris rained down around it and dust hazed the crimson of its massive armour. Already, sprays of shuriken fire were bouncing off it, as the eldar started to reposition their forces to focus on the breach. But the small arms fire meant nothing to it; as it plunged forward into the city and out of Gabriel’s sight, with Tanthius’ Terminators close behind.
Gabriel and Isador were pounding across the level ground in front of the walls, sprinting for the breach. Behind them came the Devastator squad, still launching salvoes of grenades over the wall towards the eldar positions, even as they ran. The Typhoon land speeders zipped through the gap ahead of them, flashing over the piles of rubble as though the ground were a smooth road. They tore into the city in support of Trythos and the Terminators, heavy bolters strafing a line of fire before them.
By the time Gabriel reached the breach, the battle on the other side of the wall was already joined. The hole in the wall was just to the west of the main gates, and Gabriel could see that the eldar had been forced to abandon many of their fortifications as the Blood Ravens had blasted through the wall behind their positions. But some of the aliens remained dug in on the east side of the gate, although they were being pestered from above by volleys of fire from Matiel’s Marines.
At the north side of the wide courtyard, the bulk of the eldar defences were under attack by the Terminators and the dreadnought, which advanced relentlessly despite the torrent of fire that flooded out of the eldar lines. The two Blood Ravens’ Typhoons had vanished into the streets of the city, searching out the location of other eldar emplacements.
A massive explosion shook the wall, sending great chunks of rockcrete tumbling down into the breach. As Gabriel turned back to the east, he saw the city gates blow inwards, cracking off their massive hinges and crashing down into the courtyard. Out of the cloud of fire and dust rolled the Vindicator tank, crumpling the remains of the gate under its heavy tracks and spitting huge gouts of power from its demolisher cannon towards the main eldar force, incinerating sections of barricades with each blast. Flanking the Vindicator on both sides, and squeezing past it to rush through into the city streets, streamed a line of assault bikes, making the most of the smoother ground. And rumbling in behind came two Predator tanks, one sending out jets of las-fire and the other chattering bursts from its autocannon turret.
By now the eldar seemed to be in disarray, swamped by the awesome firepower of the Blood Ravens that converged on their positions, pummelling them from a distance. But Gabriel was uneasy-the eldar didn’t seem to be engaging. Whenever their positions came under fire, the alien warriors would abandon them and move further back into the city, sucking the Blood Ravens northwards, into the central avenue. Searching the battlefield with his eyes, Gabriel was also concerned to see relatively few eldar corpses.
And then it happened. As the Terminators pursued the gradual retreat up into the wide boulevard, a flurry of Falcon tanks skimmed out of the side streets, strafing the Terminators with lines of shuriken from their catapults and blasting javelins of lance fire into their midst. A tremendous blast of las-fire lashed out of one of the side streets, punching into Dreadnought Trythos as it doused the retreating eldar in flames; the thick pulse of energy virtually vaporised the dreadnought where it stood. Its giant limbs clattered to the ground as its body was utterly shattered by the incredible blast.
Tanthius let out a yell as Trythos collapsed to the ground, and he pounded off in the direction of the blast. As he rounded the street corner, he skidded to an abrupt halt as the huge, crystalline turret of an eldar Fire Prism tank flared with energy before him. He dived for the ground, crashing the immense weight of his Terminator armour into the flagstones as the powerful pulse of energy lanced over his head. He could hear the explosion behind him, and shuddered at the thought of what the Fire Prism had just hit. Climbing back to his feet, Tanthius rolled into the cover of the building on the corner of the street.
Meanwhile, back on the main street, the eldar had been reinforced by a squadron of war walkers that came striding out of cover behind the various statues and monuments that lined the avenue. The Blood Ravens Terminators were now under heavy fire, drawn into a narrow column where their power was compromised.
As Gabriel broke into a run towards the beleaguered vanguard of the battle, one of the Typhoons burst back into the courtyard in front of the gate, and slid to a halt before the captain.
“Captain Angelos, we have found the co-ordinates that you gave us. There is a great statue in the centre of the city, and it is being guarded by a heavily armed group of eldar warriors. They appear to be engaged in some kind of ritual,” reported the pilot breathlessly.
“Very good, pilot,” replied Gabriel. “Thank you.” He turned to Isador. “This battle is a distraction, designed to keep us away from the key while the eldar take it for themselves. The aliens are drawing us into a stalemate in that avenue, to slow us down.”
“I thought that this was too easy, Gabriel. The eldar are cunning indeed,” replied Isador.
“How many aliens are defending that site, pilot?” asked Gabriel, his mind racing with a plan.
“No more than twenty, captain, but they look different from the warriors here,” said the Marine, indicating the forces defending the courtyard and those in the wide avenue up ahead. “Their armour is different, and their weapons are more elaborate.”
“Twenty we can manage,” said Gabriel, clicking his vox channel into life and turning away from the Typhoon. “This is Captain Angelos. Get me a squadron of assault bikes and a Rhino, and get me them now. Matiel? I’m going to need you down here in the courtyard in two minutes.”
“Brother,” said Gabriel, turning back to the pilot of the Typhoon, “I am going to need your vehicle.”
“They are already inside the city, sorcerer. Perhaps, if you really have a plan, now would be a good time to act?” scoffed Bale, his face taught with anger and frustration.
“Yes, my lord. Now is the time to move,” replied Sindri, dismissively, turning away from the Chaos Lord and striding back into the cave, vanishing into the curtain of smoke before Bale even had chance to speak. Instead, the Chaos Lord stomped after him, cursing under his breath.
The sorcerer picked his way through the temporary camp inside the cavern, moving around the fires and the clutches of seated Chaos Marines, whispering into the darkness as he went. His words curdled and swam with the threads of smoke, easing themselves into the clouds that hung from the stalactites in the low ceiling. As each of the Marines breathed in gulps of the damp, smoky air, their lungs were inflated with his intent, and they stirred into motion as though commanded.
By the time Sindri reached the back of the cave, where a narrow tunnel bored down into the rock, the Alpha Legionaries were already arrayed behind him, their weapons braced and their dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. Lord Bale pushed his way through his men, shouldering them aside as he made his way to the front of the group.
“This had better work, sorcerer,” he hissed, pushing Sindri in the back with the pole of his scythe so that the sorcere
r stumbled forward into the tunnel. “You first,” he added, bearing his yellow teeth in the faint light.
The tunnel was narrow, only wide enough for one Marine to pass at a time. It had clearly not been built with such huge figures in mind, and the line of Alpha Legionaries grumbled and complained as they stooped and ducked their way deeper into the side of the valley. Sindri removed his high, bladed helmet, stowing it under his arm as he pushed his glowing staff out before him as a torch.
As the passageway plunged down into the cliffs of the valley, bringing the Alpha Legionaries closer to the level of Lloovre Marr, Sindri noticed that the rock walls were becoming moist. In the gentle glow of his staff-light, the rocks began to shimmer and shine, casting dull reflections through the tunnel, making the shadows flicker and dance. The ground underfoot was becoming slick and slippery, as the moisture ran down onto the rocky floor, but the Marines were sure-footed and alert.
Eventually, after the tunnel had dropped another few metres, the rock on the ground gave way to a soft earth. Lord Bale paused for a moment, watching the figure of Sindri stumble and stoop ahead of him. He knelt briefly, pressing his hand onto the ground to feel the new surface, wondering whether they had already passed through the cliff-level and down into the soil-strata of the river-basin itself. The ground was soft and saturated with water; it squelched under his hand like a swamp. He shook his head slightly, disliking the confined space and the prospect of a flooded tunnel if the passageway dropped any lower. This would not be a fitting place for the death of an Alpha Legionary, let alone a Chaos Lord.
“Sorcerer!” he bellowed, his voice bouncing and echoing through the tunnel. “Sorcerer! Where does this tunnel lead? This had better not be some kind of trick,” he said menacingly, realising how vulnerable he was to the powers of the sorcerer in this narrow space, and how useless his scythe would be if it came to combat.
Up ahead, Sindri stopped walking. He stood upright, unfolding from his stooped position, with his back to the Chaos Lord. He did not turn around. “It leads to power and glory, Lord Bale,” he said in a barely audible whisper that seemed not to echo at all. With that, the sorcerer pressed on into the darkness, and Bale, unsatisfied but trapped before a line of impatient Marines, walked awkwardly after him.
After a while, Bale saw Sindri draw to a halt a little way ahead of him. He stood upright and then vanished from view. The Chaos Lord roared his rage into the tunnel, filling it with palpitations of anger as he stormed forward in pursuit of his sorcerer. The cursed sorcerer has tricked me after all, he thought, thrusting his great scythe in front of him and watching its blade glint with thirst. Behind him, he could hear his Marines breaking into a run to follow him-the sound of weapons being readied for firing rattled through the passageway.
Suddenly, Bale burst out of the confined tunnel into a wide chamber. He lost his footing as he charged into the subterranean cavern; the ground dropped away from a ledge at the end of the tunnel, and he fell a couple of metres into a pool of liquid. Landing on his feet, Bale flourished his scythe in a dramatic arc, ready for whatever lay in wait for him.
Splashes sounded all around as a squad of Marines leapt down into the water to support their lord, and behind him he could hear the clatter of footfalls as the rest of the detachment fanned out around the stone ledge.
The darkness was dense, and Bale opened his augmented eyes wide, straining to see the details of the chamber. But there was hardly any light this far under the ground, and he could make out very little. Then, far away, presumably on the other side of a huge chamber, Bale saw the glimmer of Sindri’s staff.
“Sorcerer!” yelled Bale, formulating threats in his mind as his deep voice resonated through the cavern.
The point of light stopped moving, and then rose into the air, growing brighter as it did so. Bale shot a signal to his squad to spread out and prepare to return fire. But the light continued to increase in intensity, and the radius of its reach started to seep out across the cavern, lighting Sindri himself like a target on the ledge against the far wall.
After a few seconds, the full extent of the massive chamber began to become evident. The ceiling was a giant rocky dome, vaulted and grand, as though carved out to approximate the interior of a cathedral. The stone walls above the ledge were curved in a huge circle, and they were covered in frescoes and images, painted crudely in a deep red ink. Below the ledge was a vast lake of liquid, big enough to submerge a small city. The ledge itself seemed to mark the intersection of the rock-layers of the valley walls from the soft soil-strata of the river basin on the valley floor.
Bale looked around the chamber in amazement as the orb of light from Sindri’s staff flooded out to fill the whole space. As the light crept over the surface of the water, Bale noticed that it was not water at all. Scooping his hand down into the dark liquid, he lifted a fistful up to his mouth, tasting the rich iron as the thick liquid gushed down his throat.
It was blood.
This was a vast, underground reservoir of blood, cut into the river basin below Lloovre Marr and, from the look of it, it had been lovingly created and cared for over a long, long time.
“We are nearly there, my lord,” came Sindri’s voice from the other side of the chamber, apparently unsurprised by the scene around him. “But we must hurry. The path heads back up into the cliffs now, and it will take us up into the heart of Lloovre Marr itself. Come.”
The farseer slumped to the ground, exhausted and spent, as the pool of warp-energy on the flagstones faded out of existence. A couple of Striking Scorpions sprang forward from their places in the defensive emplacements around the monument, gathering the farseer into their arms and carrying her back behind the elegant barricades, leaving the figure that had just emerged from the pool crouched into a ball on its own. It looked as though it had just been born, fully formed and terrible. The figure was huge, much bigger than any other eldar, even in its crouched posture. As it gradually unfolded itself, drawing itself up to its full height and stretching its metal skin in the dying light of the red sun, even the Striking Scorpions shrank back from it.
The Avatar of Khaine threw back its head and let out a blood-curdling howl that could be heard for several kilometres in every direction. Macha narrowed her eyes in pain as the hideous sound scraped into her ears, grating against her finely tuned sensibilities like teeth down the blade of a sword. She knew that every eldar in the city would hear the cry, and that they would fight with renewed passion as the spirit of Khaine riddled their souls with the lust for blood.
Great bladed horns rose from the avatar’s ornate wraithbone helmet, and a plume fluttered between them, displaying the colours of the Biel-Tan. Its armour burned with a fiery red, as though its molten blood radiated through the plates, and the intricate web of runes that laced its body glowed with ancient powers, forgotten even to the eldar themselves.
Its left hand was a dripping mess of blood and pulp, as though it had been melted in the wet heat of boiling oil. But this disfigurement was a mark of distinction and, more than anything else about the avatar, it was this bloody hand that would inspire the Biel-Tan to greater feats on the battlefield. It was the mark of Kaela Mensha Khaine himself-echoing the injury inflicted on him at the beginning of time, when the Great Enemy had destroyed him and scattered his substance across the material realm. This Avatar of Khaine was the embodiment of one such fragment-a fragment kept in the heart of the Biel-Tan craftworld until its moment of greatest need.
Jaerielle? asked Macha, speaking her words directly into the avatar’s mind, searching for any spark of recognition. But there was nothing, just a cold blast of psychic energy that washed back into the farseer’s mind, chilling her to her soul.
Pulling herself onto her feet, Macha drew her own ancient force sword from its holster on her back and walked gingerly forward towards the avatar. For the first time in the history of the Biel-Tan, the avatar had been incarnated without its Wailing Doom-the ancestral weapon of this god-eldar.
The
Ceremony of Awakening had been performed too quickly, and shards of the avatar’s energy were still missing. It was born incomplete.
As Macha stumbled, too weak to support the weight of her own weapon, the two Striking Scorpions rushed to her aid once again, grasping her elbows and supporting her weight. Her blade was a pathetic shadow of the great Wailing Doom lost on this very planet three thousand years before, but it was the finest blade on the whole of Biel-Tan, and a weapon worthy of a great eldar warrior.
The farseer walked towards the avatar, and dropped to one knee before it, holding her long, two-handed force sword out in front of her. The avatar looked down at the small figure of the farseer and tilted its head slightly, as though confused by an inappropriate sight. Then it reached out its right hand and lifted Macha back onto her feet, before kneeling itself and bowing its head to the farseer who had brought it back from the fathomless depths of Biel-Tan’s infinity circuit. Macha nodded with satisfaction and held out the sword. Without a word, the avatar took the great blade into one hand, and leapt backwards away from the farseer, flourishing the sword in a complicated and elegant pattern. Then, as it turned its back on her to set out into the city, a Typhoon missile blasted out of an adjoining street and smashed into its chest.
The land speeder banked around the building on the corner of the street, bursting out into the plaza. Gabriel hit the brakes hard and skidded the Typhoon, banking again to bleed some energy as Isador punched the trigger of the missile launcher. The rocket roared out of the turret and spiralled straight into the chest of the monstrous warrior in the centre of the plaza, where it exploded in a shower of flames.
Meanwhile, the Blood Ravens assault bikes poured into the plaza out of the street behind them, each skidding to a standstill in a neat formation across the square, training their front guns on the green eldar figures that flickered with motion behind the structure around the statue of Lloovre Marr. As the bikes opened fire with their twin-linked bolters, battering the barricades with a tirade of explosive shells, the Rhino finally rolled into the plaza, spilling Matiel’s Marines out of the back before it had even stopped moving.