The Librarians stood as one and saluted.
“By your command, lord,” said Deguerro.
Kantor smiled briefly at him, then turned and left, his pace quick, his boots ringing on stone.
THREE
The Upper Rynnhouse, Zona Regis, New Rynn City
The chamber erupted into cheers and applause. One watching all the congratulatory backslapping, handshaking and even hugging could easily have imagined that the siege was over and the war was won. It was far from it.
Kantor watched them behind the golden lectern. The ministers did not seem to register that the fleet would still have to fight its way through the greenskins’ orbital blockade. Neither did they seem to care that it was still many hours out from the planet. He let them revel in the moment, knowing reality would come down hard on them soon enough. He had seen them eroded over the last eighteen months, proud nobility turned to lifeless husks convinced of their impending deaths. It was he who had ordered them to release their servants so that they might be conscripted into the Defence Force. It was he who had ordered the nobles’ personal stores and stockhouses raided, and the foodstuffs pooled with those of the rest of the city, to be rationed out in accordance with emergency Munitorum law. Fighters eat first.
How they had railed against that! The commissars had been forced to make a few examples. Those who had most openly and vocally challenged martial law had been publicly flogged. It was the first time any noble had received capital punishment in over six hundred years.
Kantor had not attended the flogging, but he approved. These were times of war. Those who did not adapt were destined to die.
He thought of his own efforts to adapt to all that had happened. From leading a force of over a thousand glorious warriors, he had been left with only three hundred and eighteen. Surviving the trek from the Hellblade Mountains all the way across the continent to the planetary capital, he had been reunited with much of his First and Second Companies, not to mention squads from the Ninth and Tenth Companies present in support. The whole Chapter had gone from being a lethal interstellar strike-force to a desperate remnant under constant siege. How had he adapted? Had he, in fact, changed at all?
He was sure he had, but his line of thought was abruptly broken when a voice burst through on his comm-link’s emergency channel. It was Cortez.
“Damn it, Pedro,” he rasped. “Are you there? Can you hear me?”
Kantor turned away from the jubilant politicians and pressed a finger to the vox-bead in his ear. He always wore the tiny mechanism while his helmet was removed.
“I can hear you, brother,” he said.
“I heard word of the approaching fleet,” said Cortez. His voice crackled with static, the transmission hampered by the thick walls of the chamber. “But the universe is cruel. Aid comes too late for us, old friend.”
Kantor was about to demand an explanation when he felt a shudder travel up through the chamber floor. Then another. And another, slow and rhythmic like the groggy footsteps of a newly-awakened god.
“No,” he breathed.
“I’m afraid so,” said Cortez. “The gargants walk!”
“Meet me in the Strategium,” Kantor snapped, then he cut the link and strode out from behind the podium, crossing the thick red carpet of the central aisle at speed. Some of the lords and ladies moved to intercept him, their faces still glowing with joy.
Kantor scowled at them, the snarl on his features making them recoil.
“Move!” he barked. “Get out of my way.”
He did not stop to explain himself. He left them to stare, stunned into silence, eyes following his armoured back as he passed beyond the wide gold and ebonwood doors.
Only now did the members of the Upper Rynnhouse notice the shivering and shaking of the chandeliers above them. They felt growing vibrations travel up through the floor, up through their legs.
They looked at each other, joy giving way to dark apprehension. No one remembered the Silver Citadel shaking like this. Not ever.
They streamed through the doors in a brightly coloured tide, making for the closest antechambers which boasted balconies. Deep down, they already knew what they would see, or at least they suspected, though none wanted to believe it.
Through the pall of smoke and airborne pollutants, vast figures moved in the distance, figures with great angular shoulders and arms of clustered weaponry, figures with horned heads and great skirts of impenetrable armour. Their huge round eyes glowed a baleful red, piercing the airborne murk that still veiled them. The air shook with the noise of their sputtering, fume-spewing engines.
There were six of them in all, and the whole planet seemed to tremble with every crushing step they took.
Ministers fainted, both men and women, falling to the balcony floor among the legs of their fellows. Others sank to their knees, crying out in despair. Others were too numb to react. They stood frozen, their unblinking eyes locked to the gargantuan waddling figures in the distance.
Maia Cagliestra was one of these. She saw that the end had come. The Imperial Fleet would find only ruins, if they made it through the blockade at all. Not even her beloved Crimson Fists, in whom she had never lost faith, could do anything to change that now.
She stood with the others looking out at their doom, weeping silently, nothing left to hold on to.
FOUR
The Cassar, Zona Regis, New Rynn City
Kantor entered the Cassar only minutes after leaving the Upper Rynnhouse chambers, but he did not go straight to the Strategium. First, he made a detour to the Librarius and ordered them to put him in contact with Lord Admiral Galtaire’s fleet at once.
Some minutes later, a fragile psychic link was established and updates were given in both directions. Kantor reported the movement of the gargants, impressing the increased desperation of their situation on the lord admiral. If the fleet didn’t get here soon, there would be no one left alive to assist. Brother Deguerro, locked into a trance, features twisted painfully with the effort, transmitted the Chapter Master’s words while the other Librarians lent their own power to maintaining and securing the connection. There could be no doubt that the orks, too, had detected the Imperial fleet. The enemy ships were already moving to intercept. If the Imperial fleet could outflank them, could just get around them somehow, they might still be able to make a difference.
Lord Admiral Galtaire, speaking through his most powerful astropath, expressed grave reservations, but he was not about to let a Chapter like the Crimson Fists become extinct while his pride and joy, the flagship Septimus Astra, was so close. He swore an oath, then and there, that he would succeed or die trying.
It wouldn’t be as simple as slipping around the ork blockade, of course. Galtaire needed those already on the ground to do something for him, and Kantor’s blood ran cold as he heard what it was.
The Crimson Fists would need to retake New Rynn Spaceport.
Securing that facility was the only chance they had. It was large enough on which to land heavy craft, including carrier-shuttles belonging to the Legio Titanicus, close enough to facilitate the immediate launch of Marauder bombers which would fly to the aid of the Silver Citadel, and armed with a defence grid capable of protecting the reinforcements as they flew in… if the orks hadn’t dismantled it already.
After almost eighteen months of protecting the city walls, of guarding the gates to an ever-dwindling stronghold, Kantor and his Crimson Fists would have to go out and face the horde after all. They would have to cross ork territory filled with impossible numbers of enemy troops and all the weaponry at their disposal.
They would have to infiltrate and secure the spaceport.
The odds of success were laughable, but, if they didn’t try, they were dead already. Of that, there was no doubt in Pedro Kantor’s mind.
The atmosphere inside the Strategium was charged and tense. Cortez had done as ordered. He had gathered as many senior members of the Chapter as were left within the walls that protected them
. Techmarines, Apothecaries, Librarians, Chaplains, Crusade Company veterans, all were represented. Kantor laid the situation out before them.
Cortez felt his blood surge in his veins as he listened.
At last, he thought. The moment has come. Blade against blade, fist against fist, armour splashed with the blood of our enemies—if we’re to die, by Dorn, let it be a worthy one. I’ve waited for this. I’ve wanted this since the day we got here. Static defence be damned. Finally, it is time to do what we do best.
With supporting information and tactical hololiths provided by Brother Anais, the most senior Techmarine present, Kantor briefed them on exactly what was needed of them.
“It must be done as quickly as we can manage it,” he said. “The first objective, naturally, will be to cover the ground between here and the spaceport limits. It is well that the city underworks were never collapsed, because they are our only hope of getting to the spaceport alive. Our Terminator squads have held them for months, choking them with ork dead that sought to sneak under our guard. We will need flamer and melta units up front to clear the tunnels of the xenos dead. Almost sixty kilometres of tunnel between us and the spaceport… We may find ourselves engaged along the way. Again, it is our Terminator squads that are best suited to lead us through. Rogo Victurix will coordinate this phase of the operation.”
Kantor nodded to the senior Techmarine, Brother Anais, and, a second later, the air over the table flickered to show an angular network of long, glowing tubes. These were the underworks, and every Fist in the room committed them to memory while the Chapter Master looked over the ebonwood table at Rogo, whose eyes were bright with enthusiasm for the task. “Speed is key, my brother,” said Kantor. “Push fast and push hard. The gargants will take between four and six hours to reach the Silver Citadel, and the void-shields will hold the people safe for some time after that, but we have no idea exactly how long. We have to retake the spaceport fast.”
“Our Terminator squads know the underworks back to front, lord,” said Victurix, his voice a gravelly rasp. “Trust in us.”
Kantor did.
Again he nodded to Anais, and the Techmarine’s fingers flickered over a hololith control panel. There was a burst of green static above the table, and schematics of the spaceport appeared.
It was the largest single facility on the planet, capable of accommodating three massive trans-orbital cargo lifters at a time, one on each of its specially constructed grav-suspended landing plates. Sub-orbital craft, both military and civilian, were served by several dozen airfields within the spaceports outer walls.
It was a curious structure unlike any other building in the capital. Shrunk down to tabletop hololith size, it resembled three upturned bowls clustered together around a triad of slim spikes. These spikes housed the spaceport control towers, including the control rooms for the communication and defence systems. It was these, more than any other part of the spaceport, that Kantor and his Fists needed to secure.
“Every able-bodied battle-brother we have will be going in,” said the Chapter Master, “with the exception of our Dreadnought brothers, who are simply too big to negotiate the tunnels. Instead, they will stay here to protect the Silver Citadel, fighting from the walls alongside the Rynnsguard and the militias. The people will draw great strength and comfort from their presence, I’m sure of it.”
There were no Dreadnoughts in the room to argue the point, and Kantor was glad of that. He would go to them himself and explain all before he left.
“Most of our squads,” Kantor continued, “will exit the tunnels close to the inner perimeter of the spaceport grounds. They will retake the facilities defensive walls and hold them against ork retaliation from outside. The rest of us will fight to secure each of the landing towers. Captain Cortez and I will be leading a further contingent into the control towers to reactivate the defence and comms networks. Dorn willing, we will have our reinforcements shortly after that. Lord Admiral Galtaire is confident in the forces he brings to our aid. There are entire companies of Astartes from our brother Chapters waiting to join us in battle. The Adeptus Mechanicus have brought their mighty Titans to rip apart the gargant abominations. And the Navy has enough Marauders to bomb the xenos back to the Age of Strife.”
He eyed them all as he spoke, one by one. “But it all depends on us.”
Serious faces nodded back at him.
“Are you ready to take our world back, brothers?” he asked them.
“For the Chapter!” they roared. Some pounded on the table, those standing clashed a clenched fist on their chests.
Kantor smiled a hard smile at them and stood.
“Then get ready to move out. Take every bit of ammunition you can carry. Have the Chaplains bless your amour and weapons. I go now to give orders to the Dreadnoughts, and to tell the governor and General Mir that we are leaving.”
His Fists saluted him as he turned and left, then they turned to each other and clapped those nearest to them on the shoulders. Rough laughter sounded from some. Others grinned. They were going back on the offensive after so long. It felt right.
And none believed that more so than Alessio Cortez.
FIVE
The Underworks, New Rynn City
The tunnel along which Kantor’s assault group moved was dark and damp, the concrete walls covered with slick algae and thick ceramic pipes that had been broken open in places. Even in the glare of the lights mounted on the Terminators’ armour, the tunnel floor was invisible beneath a soupy black liquid some ten centimetres deep. It was impossible to move quietly, so the Crimson Fists didn’t try. They moved fast instead, or at least as fast as the Terminators on point.
It was a relatively smooth journey at first, not just for Kantor’s group, but for all the assault parties he had formed for the operation. Right now, there were more than twenty detachments of Crimson Fists making for the spaceport along the tunnel networks, each with their very own Terminator out in front, clearing the way with flamer and melta when the xenos bodies were heaped too thick to pass. The orks had been held back quite far out from the Silver Citadel. Over the months of the siege, they had slowly learned that any efforts to infiltrate via underground routes led to their immediate slaughter. Victurix and the other squads from Crusade Company had not relaxed for a moment. The role may have seemed inglorious to others, but the Terminator squads knew it was critical all along. They had never complained about spending days on end down here in the dark. They killed thousands of the foe down here.
Throughout the entire journey, the tunnels shook with the footfalls of the gargants overhead, but it was only after two hours that this became a danger. Victurix himself, who had been charged with guiding Kantor’s assault group, called back to the Chapter Master when the tunnel’s shaking was at its worst.
“We must be directly underneath one of them, my lord,” he bellowed over the comm-link. “There are cracks in the tunnel ceiling, and they are getting wider.”
Kantor judged the sergeant’s words accurate. Step after massive step was knocking dust and small chunks of stone down onto his helmet and pauldrons.
“Press on as fast as you can,” he told Victurix. Dorn forgive us if we’re buried down here without even a chance to fight, he thought. But they were not buried.
Another two hours passed. The earthshaking power of the footfalls dissipated as the Fists pushed on, further and further away from them, and soon Kantor judged that he and his brothers would soon be within the outer perimeter of the spaceport grounds.
Communication was impossible with the other assault groups while everyone was underground, but they had their orders. They had synchronised their visor-chronometers. They would do exactly as he had asked of them.
Another hour brought Kantor and his group to the final junction before they must return aboveground. Where two tunnels met, there was a little more room to move, and Kantor stepped to the fore to look ahead between the shoulders of the Terminators. There was a dark archway set into the lef
t of the tunnel about thirty metres from him. Cortez came up and stood by his side.
“Through that archway,” said Kantor, “is the stone stair that will take us up into the basement level of the Coronado Tower.”
“I’m ready,” said Cortez.
Behind him, four squads of Crimson Fists readied their weapons. “You want to be first in, Alessio.” It wasn’t a question.
Beneath his helm, Cortez grinned wickedly. “You know I do.”
Kantor checked the chronometer display on his visor. The other assault groups would be in position within four minutes, explosives fixed to the access hatches and manhole covers they would rush from, bolters cocked and ready to rip their hated enemies apart. All across the spaceport grounds, the orks wouldn’t know what hit them.
“Let’s get everyone onto the stairs,” said Kantor.
His visor now told him he had thirty seconds to go before the assault began.
Behind him, his battle-brothers were coiled, ready to strike. He had brought three squads in standard MkVII aquila-pattern power armour, one in Terminator armour, and two Techmarines—Brothers Anais and Ruzco. He knew their blood was up, all of them, knew they were anxious to be in among the foe, tearing them to pieces.
Twenty seconds… ten seconds…
He looked at Cortez and said, “When you go in, brother, go in hard!”
The captain barked out a laugh.
“I always do!”
The explosive charges they had placed on the inner surface of the access hatch exploded with a bang, and stone chips and smoke blew back over the Astartes.
They didn’t wait for the smoke to clear.
“Charge,” roared Cortez as he burst forward.
The assault had begun.
All across the spaceport grounds—in the lower levels of the defence towers, in basements and hangars and fuel storage buildings and more—the Crimson Fists exploded up from the tunnels with armour shimmering and weapons stuttering.
[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Page 30