There was a clatter of ceramite on stone as they obeyed.
Catching Kantor’s eye, Alessio Cortez was the first to say anything. He gestured to the hololithic image above. “Absolute slaughter,” he managed to say between jaws clenched tight with anger.
Forgemaster Adon had opened a link into the fleet communications net so that the council members could all hear what was going on as it happened. The voices they heard were filled with desperation, every word confirming the worst.
“There was insufficient time to prepare,” grated Forgemaster Adon.
High Chaplain Tomasi did not look up at the hololith. Instead he looked at his hands, the fingers interlocked, and said, “So many of the faithful have already made the ultimate sacrifice.”
“They have,” agreed Mateo Morrelis, “but they made it count. The fleet’s kill ratio must not be ignored. Our forces up there are fighting like cornered lions!”
“And we sit here talking,” spat Cortez. “Give us orders, lord. Send us out there.”
Kantor glared at him. “You’ll have all the fighting you want soon enough, Alessio. They are landing their drop-ships even now, and we will greet them with bolter and blade.” He turned to Adon. “Forgemaster, I want every last enemy ship tracked to its landing coordinates. There will be an orbital bombardment soon. The void shields will protect us, but the moment it is over, we will send out purgation squads in our Thunderhawks. I want the entire effort coordinated through the Communicatus and the armoury. Those not selected to launch ground assaults will man our surface-to-orbit emplacements. While even one of our ships continues to fight in space, we will offer every last bit of support we can.”
“The Technicarum is already monitoring the trajectory of each enemy vessel, my lord. There will be no mistakes.”
Kantor nodded, and there was a brief silence, broken when he said, “My Fists, I did not imagine that the ork warlord would risk the strength of his force in the way he has. His gamble has paid off. But, in centuries hence, when men read of this day, when analysts at war colleges across the Imperium look to their historical texts, they must see that we endured, and, ultimately, that we turned this blow aside. We are the Crimson Fists and this is our home. We will deal with the invaders as they deserve to be dealt with.”
“We might manage to hold Sorocco,” offered Raphael Acastus, “but what of Calliona and the Magalan?”
Kantor had already considered this. “The Monitor will liaise with local Rynnsguard forces on both those continents and keep us abreast of developments. But we must secure Sorocco first. The oceans will help in confining the foe to wherever they land. Sorocco must be cleansed first.”
“If the orks create a strong blockade of their own,” said Chief Apothecary Curien Droga, “they will be able to land additional forces wherever and whenever they like.”
Kantor faced the old Apothecary. “I am not giving up on our fleet yet, Curien,” he said. Gesturing up at the spectral battle taking place above the surface of the table, he continued, “Ceval Ranparre has never lost an engagement in his life. Though he is greatly outnumbered, he will find a way to turn this around.”
“The elimination of Snagrod,” said Cortez, “But we cannot even be sure he is here in person.”
“The beast is here,” said Eustace Mendoza. “I assure you.”
“Can you pinpoint him?” asked Kantor. “If we could guide the remainder of the fleet in on him before he makes planetfall—”
Mendoza shook his shaved head. “The warp is in turmoil all around us, torn open so close and in so many places. It will take days, perhaps even weeks before we can read its flows and eddies again with any accuracy. I can sense Snagrod’s foul aura out there among all the psychic death screams, but that is all.”
“If there’s any change in what you sense, tell me at once, brother.”
Something Forgemaster Adon was listening to made him look up. He turned his optic-lenses towards the Chapter Master and said, “The Master of the Fleet has just placed an emergency request to speak to you, my lord.”
Kantor frowned. “Let me hear him, brother.”
The rest of the council looked to Kantor, awaiting his dismissal so that he could converse with the Master of the Fleet in private, but Kantor shook his head and told them, “Whatever Ceval Ranparre has to say must be heard by all of us. You will stay. You will listen with me.”
So they stayed and they listened, and the news was not good.
“The situation is now desperate,” crackled the voice on the link. “I say again, put me through to the Chapter Master at once. There is no time for delay.”
“Can he hear me?” Kantor asked Adon.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ceval, this is your Chapter Master. Report.”
Kantor had known the Master of the Fleet a very long time, and, despite Ranparre’s best efforts, he could easily detect the strain in his voice. It disturbed him far more than the words themselves. He had always believed Ranparre unflappable.
“My lord, we have lost more than fifty-six per cent of our force, and more ork vessels are still translating into real space. I no longer believe this conflict can be won in space. You must prepare for a ground offensive of significant proportions.”
Kantor imagined his own expression was reflected in the dour looks he could see on the faces of his fellow council members. “Are you telling me, Ceval, that you can do no more up there?”
There was a pause. Ranparre seemed taken aback by the question. “My lord? I’m not sure I understand the question. We will fight to the very last, naturally. Every ship we eliminate means less greenskins on the ground.”
“That is not what I am getting at, Ceval,” said Kantor. “I need to know if you feel it would be wiser for our surviving ships to disengage.”
Again, a pause.
“I cannot see any circumstances, my lord,” said Ranparre in tones heavy with emphasis, “that would cause me to consider disengaging. Every ship we have lost so far has accounted for a great many enemy craft. It would do our fallen a great disservice, and myself a great dishonour, were I to leave this fight without claiming victory in their name.”
“There is no dishonour in a tactical withdrawal,” replied Kantor, “least of all one that I order. I cannot have the entire fleet destroyed. Things are already far worse than we anticipated. Order The Crusader to reposition. She is to make for Segmentum Headquarters and solicit aid. I will not let pride to be our undoing.”
“She cannot possibly jump this close to a gravity well, my lord,” said Ranparre. “And she will not break through the ork fleet alone.”
Kantor frowned. He knew he had no choice. “Then commit all remaining ships to getting her through. She will have to risk the jump. Many of Snagrod’s ships survived it. She can, too. These are my final orders to you, brother. After The Crusader is away, you may fight on to a worthy end. Your legend will live on forever.”
Ranparre would never know just how hard that had been for Kantor to say. He answered, “Thank you, lord. Fight well. May Dorn watch over you all.”
The link went to static as Ranparre broke the connection.
“Farewell, brother,” said Kantor solemnly, almost to himself. “I will see you again at the Emperor’s side.”
FIFTEEN
The Cassar, New Rynn City
Alvez did not sit. He paced back and forth at the head of the table, armoured boots heavy on the granite floor. The others watched him wordlessly.
The Cassar boasted only a small Strategium. Unlike its equivalent at Arx Tyrannus, it was square and boasted no ceiling dome. The table, too, was different—angular, fashioned from ebonwood rather than crystal, and as old as the building itself. Around it sat twelve Crimson Fists, including Huron Grimm, Epistolary Deguerro, and squad leaders from both the Crusade, Second and Third Companies.
The captain finally stopped, turned to scan the eyes of his fellows, and said, “Rynnsguard High Command is sending an armour and infantry column down f
rom Targis Fields, so I want Carriageway 2 held secure at all costs. The moment that armour passes through the Umbris Gate, I want it sealed and barricaded. Orks tend to follow the lay of the land. The mountains of the Anshar Minoris protect our northwest flank, but they will also funnel the enemy down towards the northern districts. I’m expecting the Umbris Gate to come under heavy attack in the opening phases of the invasion.” His eyes settled on one of the veteran sergeants seated at the far end of the table, a narrow-faced Astartes with a sharp chin. “Sergeant Delos, you will be responsible for that section of the wall. There are four Rynnsguard platoons already stationed there. Assume command the moment you arrive. Make sure their senior officer understands exactly who is in charge.”
Delos gave a tiny bow of his head. “Understood, my lord.”
At last, Alvez deigned to sit. He put one gauntleted hand on the table and leaned back in his chair. “We bear a great burden, my brothers, but we are more than equal to the task ahead. The Chapter Master is depending on us. Word has just come through that the blockade has fallen. The orks will pour down on us like monsoon rains. It has already begun. The city is to be placed under martial law. Those citizens who are able will be drafted into militias. All food stores and key resources will be pooled and distributed in accordance with emergency Munitorum protocols. These things are of peripheral concern to us, of course. Let the Rynnsguard and the Arbites deal with the civilians. Our role is much simpler. We are here to win a war. To succeed, we need only remain standing when the last xenos falls.”
A few of the others nodded at this. Others murmured their assent, or sat in silence, as Huron Grimm did, with dark looks on their faces.
“The city walls are solid,” Alvez continued. “They are strong, and they will hold if we allow no mistakes. The gates are even stronger, and I have already assigned our heavy armour to guard them. Any breach will be met with immediate Predator and Vindicator fire. The Techmarines are on the parapets as we speak, readying the Thunderfire cannons for operation. While we have ammunition and supplies equal to the task, I have absolute confidence in our ability to resist the foe, at least on the surface. The city underworks are another matter. I have no choice but to assign all our Terminator squads, with the exception of those posted at the spaceport, to the task of holding the tunnels.” Preempting a protest from the Crusade Company sergeants seated before him, he held up an armoured hand. “I would not issue this order if it were not absolutely necessary, brothers. Dorn knows, I would rather place you at the city gates, but the orks will try to infiltrate our lines via the tunnels, and tactical Dreadnought armour is best suited to resist them there. At least you will have your share of killing. We cannot afford to collapse the tunnels, since at least some are part of the city’s anti-flooding system. Others carry power and coolant to critical defensive emplacements. They must be secured.”
“Then they shall be,” said Barrien Gallacus, the sergeant in charge of the 1st Vanguard Squad. “We will choke them with greenskin dead.”
“See that you do,” said Alvez.
He leaned forward, eyeing each Astartes in the room, a feral grin on his scarred and weathered features.
“Rejoice in the battle to come, brothers,” he added. “This is what we live for. This is what we were born to do. We will prove our strength in the heat of combat. We will breathe victory in like air. Trust me, legends will be made here.”
SIXTEEN
Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains
They came.
In later days, this night would come to be known as the Night of the Burning Sky, and well it deserved that name. The entire length of the Hellblades, over a thousand kilometres of jagged mountain range, shook and flashed with sharp detonations. The greenskin fleet, having swept aside the hastily prepared defensive blockade, launched a planetary bombardment that would claim the lives of millions. Snagrod’s ships had come prepared to carpet the towns and cities in flame. They didn’t need to be accurate, not with the sheer amount of ordnance at their disposal.
Pedro Kantor clenched his jaw as he watched the deadly rain of bombs fall around him. Behind him, the brothers in his Honour Guard were restless, uneasy. In the sky above the Sercia Bastion on which they stood, alien payloads fell without cease. None struck the fortress-monastery. Those that should have done exploded harmlessly a half a kilometre above Kantor’s head, unable to penetrate the powerful void-shield defence system that protected Arx Tyrannus.
Every explosive impact on the shimmering shields caused the landscape below to flicker bright as day.
With the void-shields at full power, the air became close and clammy, almost oppressive, and there was a constant loud hum in the air, discernible in the spaces between the thunder of the relentless barrage.
Kantor called Ordinator Savales to his side. The seneschal had been following his lord at a respectful distance, braving the greenskin storm in case Kantor should need him for anything. Now the Chapter Master wanted Savales safe. The moment the bombardment ended, the void shields would be lowered to allow return fire. Keeping the shields up was safer, but it would allow the orks to land wherever they wanted with relative impunity, challenged only by the scattered plasma defence installations operated by the Rynnsguard.
At his lord’s command, Savales stepped forward and stood before Kantor with his head bowed. “What does my lord wish of me?” he said, and looked up.
Kantor searched the man’s expression for fear, and was proud to find none. Savales was as composed as ever. He should have been one of us, thought Kantor. He might have carved a fine legend for himself.
“Return to the central keep, Ramir. The shields will go down soon, and I’ll not have you out in the open.”
The old seneschal held his lord’s gaze. “My place is by your side, lord, whatever the danger, to see to your needs.” There was no defiance in his tone. He simply stated this as plain, inarguable fact.
“My current need is to have my seneschal return to the keep as ordered,” said Kantor. “The dead serve no one. Gather the youngest of the Chosen in the Refectorum. They will be frightened, and you will teach them to deny their fear.”
Savales let his reluctance show, but answered, “I will do as my lord commands, of course. Should you need anything of me, you need only call, no matter the circumstance.”
Kantor was not prone to smiling. It was not an expression that came naturally to his long, solemn features. But, he smiled now, briefly, at a memory still crystal clear. Though Savales looked far older than he, Kantor felt an almost paternal affection for the man. He remembered Savales as a dejected youth, remembered his face as he had sat in that cell so long ago, believing death the only escape from his despair at failing to become Astartes. He remembered, too, the change in that face when the boy had been offered a new and worthy purpose.
Savales bowed deeply, excused himself, turned and strode off in the direction of the main keep, his robes billowing behind him. Explosions continued to flower and boom in the air above.
On the comm-link, Kantor heard the voice of the Monitor.
“My lord, we have just lost contact with Scar Lake Airbase. I have tried all secondary and tertiary frequencies, but there is nothing. Nor can I communicate with the Rynnsguard forces stationed at Caltara, Sagarro, Mycea… I—I cannot explain it, lord.”
The Monitor’s agitation was well founded. Losing contact with one of the provincial capitals would have been bad enough, but the airbase at Scar Lake was heavily defended. If the orks had already knocked out the base’s communications, it would not be long until they overran the base itself. Were they even now marauding through the streets of the provincial capitals, cutting down whole families that fled before them?
“What of New Rynn City?” Kantor asked through the vox in his helmet.
“The signal is weak,” reported the Monitor. “Sporadic. But we are still in contact. The reports are grim. Ork landers have been spotted descending on all sides, a great many in the marshes to the south, near Vardu
a and Porto Kalis. The city’s entire defence grid is still engaging with surface-to-orbit munitions, but the density of targets…”
Yes, thought Kantor. And they will try to land here, soon.
“Do all you can to maintain links with the capital,” he told the Monitor. “And keep me updated.”
He turned to his Honour Guard and barked, “Our brothers have this bastion well in hand. We will proceed to the Protheo Bastion next. Follow.”
The five-man squad barked out a unified response and fell in behind him. As they walked, Kantor looked west over the battlements and saw, even through the bright rippling fire of detonating bombs, the entry glows of all too many xenos craft. All across Rynn’s World, ugly, filthy, noisy ork vehicles would be rolling down ramps and racing out over the hard-packed dirt in search of slaughter.
The farming communities will be devastated, thought Kantor. The orks will descend on them like locusts, and nothing will be left alive. The beasts will have a bloodlust on them. If only the damned bombardment would cease so we can start knocking them out of the sky.
His view from the Protheo Bastion only added to his concern. Where the mountains dropped to the low hills, and the hills dropped to the steppes, bright fires studded the night. The sky boiled with descending craft, their trails cutting across the black canvas of the sky in long curving arcs. Bombs continued to fall from space, cratering the mountains where the umbrella of the void-shields ended.
A disaster, thought Kantor. In the history of the Chapter, my name will forever be linked with this night. I must do all I can to ensure that it is remembered with honour, not shame. I will not be the Chapter Master who faltered on his home ground.
When the bombardment began to slacken, as it did now, he noticed the change immediately. Soon, the fiery bursts above the fortress-monastery died off completely. It was a sign that the orks were coming.
Soon, they would try to land nearby and launch their ground assault on Arx Tyrannus. He would teach them what a mistake that was!
[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Page 13