A single round from his outstretched bolt pistol took a necron in the skull, erasing its rictus grin with satisfying lethality. A second three-round burst shredded two others. By now the combined las and bolter fire of the retreating Guardsmen and Ultramarines had joined his, impeding the necrons’ efforts to overwhelm their position quickly.
From the left flank, rolling across a largely uncluttered plaza that was pockmarked with shell holes, a battle tank rumbled into view. It bucked on its tracks, its autocannon chewing a hole in the necron ranks before its heavy bolters poured on further punishment.
Those few crucial seconds gave Scipio and his men a chance to retreat. He was about to signal the driver his gratitude when the immense shadow of a monolith fell across them. The Predator’s turret was still turning when the floating necron obelisk unleashed an arc of power from the energy crystal glowing feverishly at the pyramid’s apex. The blast uncoiled, tearing open the Predator’s frontal armour and gutting it. The fuel tanks went up momentarily, bathing the ruined walls and their fleeing defenders in more reflected fire.
One of Tirian’s men, Scipio could not tell which, had crouched in the lee of a shattered gun emplacement and released a missile from his launcher. The incendiary exploded harmlessly against the monolith’s shielding, a bloom of displaced energy like water flashing on oil. Before the Devastator had time to load another, a gauss salvo reduced him to a ruin of smoking armour.
Scipio muttered an oath for the warrior’s passing, and urged his own troops back.
More tanks were moving in to avenge the destruction of the Predator. Three lascannon bursts lit up the dark. One even penetrated the monolith’s armour, but barely slowed it. They were priming for a second shot when the vast obelisk began to move, crashing down half-ruined wall sections as it simply pushed through them.
Falling debris claimed several militiamen unwise enough to seek refuge behind the stunted remains of the walls, but their death cries barely registered in the chaos.
The tanks fired again, but still the monolith endured. It ripped the treads from one vehicle with a wicked gauss arc. It tore the turret off a second, leaving a smouldering crater in the metal and the hull. Its commander emerged from the flaming crevice, bolt pistol firing. It was more out of defiance than a belief that he could actually stop this thing.
‘All weapons,’ shouted Scipio, out of a desire to go down fighting when he realised they could not escape the monolith. ‘Fire at will!’
Bolter shells and las-beams roared up at the vast floating edifice, mere insect stings against a hide of alien metal. There would be no stopping it, and Scipio began reciting his final litanies, until he saw the lightning storm.
A figure hung within it, suspended several metres from the ground. His body shimmered with coruscation as he sent an arc of bolts hammering into the ground. The necrons pushing for the breach jerked and spasmed in the lightning storm, each jag leaping from one to another until more than a score were smitten into ruin.
Muttering psychic canticles and arcane rites known only by the Librarius, Tigurius hurled a fork of azure power against the monolith. The bolt split against its flank, tearing back the plates of armour and exposing the circuitry within. Chained lightning followed, rippling from the psyker’s brow and tearing off a side bank of gauss flayers.
Its apex crystal flaring in sympathetic anger, the monolith released an energy lash, but Tigurius threw up a kine-shield and bore the blast against it. The psyker staggered, his armour scorched in the violent throes of the particle whip’s dispersion, but not yet finished.
Tracing the sigils of his order in the air before him, Tigurius fashioned a vortex in the very fabric of reality, ripping open a passage to the warp in the monolith’s very midst. Howling, ethereal winds tore at the necron war engine. Potent energies of unmaking cascaded through it. The obelisk endured for a few moments before crumpling in on itself as the destructive fury of a star’s death was ignited in its midst and then faded like a flare of solar wind.
Tigurius resealed the breach in reality. The vortex had left a gaping hole in its wake and an empty crater in the vast necron ranks. The reprieve would be brief. More were coming, undaunted by the fate of the others.
The surviving battle tanks pushed on into the gap in the wall, allowing Scipio and his men to continue their withdrawal.
‘Do you hold here?’ Tigurius asked him as he returned to the ground. He looked tired, but the fury of a psychic storm still raged in his eyes.
Scipio shook his head. ‘We make for the streets. These walls are lost.’
‘Then go quickly,’ the Librarian replied before stepping back to summon a gateway of light. He was gone in an eye blink, manifesting in some other part of the city where his supreme prescience told him he was needed.
‘Back, back,’ Scipio urged his men, as the battle tanks sitting in the breach began to fire. They could not hold it for long and would soon need to retreat, too. The city streets beckoned, as well as the prospect of bitter, close-quarter fighting.
The walls around the western gate were barely standing, yet one warrior had not moved from his post.
Chronus had not known Agrippen as he was before being entombed, but if his flesh-and-blood predecessor was anything like the war machine that now stood sentinel in the Courtyard of Thor, the tank commander suspected he would have been a stubborn bastard.
Necrons littered the ground before the mighty Dreadnought, their wreckage unable to phase out fast enough before Agrippen added to the ruination surrounding him. Nothing could fell him, although his armour was rent and torn by dozens of minor wounds. A burst from his plasma cannon gouged a hole in the tight ranks of automatons, before the exhaust vents spiked to cool the weapon down again. There was no respite for the enemy, though, as Agrippen laid about him with his power fist. Chronus saw one necron, armed with claws and draped in a grisly hide of human flesh, seized and crushed by the Dreadnought’s massive fist. Agrippen then used the broken robotic corpse to club another, before pulverising a third beneath his foot.
With a hiss of vented pressure and a low-energy hum, the plasma cannon was fire-ready again. The resulting bolt vaporised an arachnid walker shouldering through the mass to reach the gate. More followed, acting as vanguard for a squadron of arks that trailed close behind them.
Chronus opened up the vox to Reckoner and Triumph of Espandor, directing the Predators’ fire at the more distant arks through gaps in the withered Kellenport defences. He then issued a string of pinpoint coordinates to the Whirlwinds and more advance-positioned Vindicators. A hail of ordnance from the vicinity of the space port and the surrounding region descended a few seconds later, engulfing the walkers and a sizeable portion of necron infantry.
The order to fall back from the walls had been given, so the tanks had moved up in accordance with that to provide much needed covering fire. According to his retinal display and the tactical feed scrolling across one of the lenses, all Ultramarines sergeants who still lived had made an effective withdrawal into the streets.
Chronus ordered the siege tanks back into their defensive positions and told his two commanders to do the same with their engines. He would follow in short order. There was but one matter to attend to first.
‘Ancient,’ said Chronus over the vox. ‘We are falling back.’
‘Then go with Guilliman, Antaro,’ Agrippen replied, not for a moment breaking his destructive rhythm. ‘I shall hold the line here.’
‘None shall pass, Ancient,’ said Chronus, the guns of his battle tanks both close and distant thundering in his ears, despite his battle-helm.
‘None shall pass. Courage and honour.’
‘Yours has been an example to us all.’ It was a bittersweet moment, for Chronus knew the sacrifice Agrippen was making to allow his brothers a chance at escape. Thumping the roof of the Antonius, Chronus signalled the retreat.
The streets were
clogged with bodies and rubble. Most of the necron skimmers had reportedly been diverted to attack the Ultramarines tank divisions, their unarmoured frames and much-reduced manoeuvrability making them too vulnerable in the close confines of Kellenport’s warren of roads and avenues. Instead, the enemy deployed their ground troops in force: roving packs of flesh-cowled horrors, hulking heavy infantry and the ubiquitous raiders.
Though Falka had no vox like Sergeant Iulus Fennion, no means of keeping apprised of the greater warfront, he had discerned that the walls had taken severe punishment across the entire city and would likely not last much longer. They had abandoned their post, him and the few Guard and militia that remained, on the orders of Sergeant Fennion and his men.
They retreated in phases, hunkering down in what scraps of cover they could find before unleashing suppressing fire, rushing to the next scraps and then doing it all over again.
Fire. Run. Hide.
Then repeat.
During the last hour or so, it had become his mantra.
For the moment at least, Falka, sixteen other men and a battle-brother called Venkelius were taking cover as Iulus and another group raked the end of the alleyway with las- and bolt-shells. He saw one Ultramarine step out into the street and release a plume of fire from his flamer. It roared across the ground like some serpent of old myth, devouring the skin-wearing necrons scuttling into its path.
Several made it through, still burning, but the others brought them down with a brutal salvo.
Iulus waved them on, urging, ‘Retreat in good order!’
Venkelius filtered the Guardsmen and militia in single fire, whilst Falka did what he had done for the last hour. Head down, he ran. He kept his lascarbine close to his body, just as he had been shown. It was not his original weapon. When his power pack had run dry, he had taken a fully charged replacement gun from one of the dead. He could not bring the man’s face to mind and was surprised at how much that bothered him, even as he was struggling to survive the chaos of the streets.
As far as Falka could tell from the snatched pieces of vox-communication between Sergeant Fennion and his warriors, they were not the only ones. He got the impression the Ultramarines were stretched across the length of Kellenport, dispersed amongst the few Guard and militia regiments that were alive and holding their nerve. On more than one occasion, Iulus had tried and failed to reach one of his fellow sergeants. Falka took this to be a bad sign, but said nothing and kept his eyes down when confronted with the wrathful-looking Space Marines protecting them.
Death was part of duty, Falka had learned that about the Ultramarines from Iulus, but this was tantamount to slaughter.
As if to emphasise the fact, gauss fire from the necrons following up their skin-clad comrades fizzed and crackled in the tight alleyway. An Ark Guard trooper who had run ahead of the line and caught up to Falka was spun, his innards terminally flayed away. Falka did not see him fall; to look back now would mean death. Another did, though, and barrelled into the ex-rig-hand, recoiling in horror from the dead man’s extremely visceral demise. He took Falka off his feet, and sent him tumbling to the ground. Falka’s last sight was of Sergeant Fennion, putting up a hand and rushing towards him.
Something hot lashed his face and for a moment he thought he had been struck, but it was the fleeing trooper’s blood as a gauss beam eviscerated him and pasted his remains across everything in close proximity, including Falka.
He got to his knees, dimly aware of the men screaming around him and the Space Marines urgently shouting in front and behind. He heard the necrons too, the cold metallic sound of their footfalls, the crackling burr of their gauss weapons re-powering.
Out the corner of his eye, as he broke into a shambling run, Falka saw Venkelius shoot one necron at close range, thrusting the muzzle of his borrowed bolter into the creature’s midriff and pulling the trigger. It broke apart, its soulless existence ended by the Ultramarine’s fury, but more were coming.
As the telltale whine of a gauss flayer discharge made the hair on the back of Falka’s neck prickle, Iulus suddenly arrived out of the shadows and was putting his armoured body in harm’s way. The beam seared him, raking his plastron and left shoulder guard.
Thrown into cover, Falka cried out just before he hit the ground, ‘Brother-Angel!’
Iulus staggered, almost to one knee, but cracked off a three-round burst that destroyed his attacker. Venkelius hurried by a splitsecond later and hauled his sergeant from the path of further return fire. The entire alleyway was stitched with it, an unrelenting swathe of viridian gauss beams from rifles and the heavier cannons wielded by the hulking necron elite.
Venkelius and Aristaeus, the one who had stepped out with the flamer, were replying in kind, but the firestorm levelled against them was fearsome and they barely got off more than a shot each.
Gasping in pain, Iulus slumped to his haunches and they hunkered down behind an empty ore silo. It was reinforced adamantium with a ceramite over-layer, so Falka knew it could take a battering. But it would not last indefinitely.
‘How far?’ asked Iulus, rasping as he removed and discarded his battle-helm. It was wrecked to all hell, and without its functioning systems impeded his breathing. He wore a rebreather underneath it, but tore this away too as he took a gulp of air.
‘Not gakking far enough,’ Falka replied. He scowled, trying to gauge the distance from their position to the necrons and then the end of the street. ‘Thirty-three metres for them to advance, twenty-six for us to run.’
Iulus sagged a little further, then checked the ammo gauge of his bolt pistol. His expression suggested what he had seen was not welcome news.
‘Sorry, Sergeant Kolpeck. I said I’d save you…’ he breathed, making an abortive effort to struggle to his feet with Falka’s help.
‘I’m not a sergeant, Brother-Angel, and you already did save my life. More than once. Our debt is paid.’
‘It was never to you that I was indebted, Kolpeck.’
The necrons were closing, a firing line of raiders as a dogged vanguard with a rear echelon of heavier elites behind them.
Falka closed his eyes and thought of Jynn, glad that she had made it off-world. He hoped she would find the strength she needed to rebuild her life and begin again, just as all the refugees of Damnos would have to.
Venkelius ducked back into cover to make a quick report.
‘At least thirty raiders and half as many in immortals, brother-sergeant. And I saw reinforcements en route, also.’
‘We are the Immortals, brother,’ Iulus told him. ‘Never forget that, even if that honorific is about to be sorely tested.’
Venkelius nodded.
‘What about the others?’ asked Iulus, inquiring about the rest of the squad and the staggered Second Company.
‘Seems long-range is down in this district. We have no way of knowing.’
Iulus snorted ruefully. ‘Let’s hope they’re doing better than us, eh? Are you ready to die on your feet with a bolter in your hands, Venkelius?’
‘I have prayed for this day to be so glorious, brother-sergeant.’
Iulus angled his head towards the other Ultramarine, who had exhausted his flamer’s ammunition and was down to his sidearm. ‘And you, Aristaeus?’
‘Venkelius and I are of the same mind, brother-sergeant.’
They helped the injured sergeant to his feet, with Falka’s aid. Intense gauss fire reflected on the stern-faced Guardsmen and militia who remained as they contemplated their almost certain, imminent deaths.
‘You are all heroes of Damnos,’ said Iulus as he drew his chainsword and set it growling. ‘Show me why, one last time.’
But the charge into death never happened. The left flanking wall collapsed instead, a half-dozen necrons crushed beneath it and the emergent bulk of Merciless Orar and The Vengeful. Their names were daubed on their battle-scarred hu
lls, but Falka scarcely had time to read them as the tanks turned and punitively hammered the mechanoid foot soldiers thronging the alleyway. It took eight seconds of sustained fire before the necron ranks had been thinned enough to earn a brief respite for the survivors.
With the smaller The Vengeful maintaining a sentry position in the middle of the broken alleyway, the imposing form of Merciless Orar turned about and lowered its embarkation ramp. An Ultramarine emerged from its roof hatch and beckoned them inside.
Iulus stepped forwards. ‘What news from the wall?’
‘Completely overrun, barring the western gate where last I heard the Ancient was holding firm,’ said the tanker.
‘And the streets?’
‘According to the Thunderhawks, a fresh necron offensive is moving in. Much larger than this last one. Streets are being abandoned. We’re pulling back, all the way to the space port. Final evacuation.’
Iulus nodded, and ordered all of them aboard.
Falka stalled as the shadow of the immense battle tank fell upon him.
‘It’s just a Land Raider, Kolpeck,’ Iulus assured him. ‘I am sorry for your world, but it’s beyond saving now. But you are not. Now get aboard.’
The Rage of Antonius was close to shutdown. Warning sirens screamed inside the hull, accompanied by flashing crimson icons across every console. Despite exploiting the natural cover and giving a good account of themselves against the necrons, the data feed rolling across Chronus’s retinal lens display told him that the battering they had taken was close to reaching the venerable battle tank’s limit.
‘Just a little more, old friend…’ he muttered, having already rerouted power and jerry-rigged a half-dozen battlefield ‘fixes’ to keep the Predator moving and its weapon systems functional. Reports from the Triumph of Espandor suggested it was also on the brink of expiry, and they had lost Reckoner a short while back when three heat beams had finally transfixed it and resulted in the engine’s catastrophic failure.
Damnos - Nick Kyme Page 46