She froze. There was so much hatred there. Raw, animal hate – not just for her, but for who she was and all she represented. She raised her gun again. But before she could fire, she heard the wet scrape of meat on stone. The world stuttered to a halt. A stink like fresh-spilled offal washed over her. She turned. Slow, too slow.
A mountain of muscle and metal rose over her, its face impossibly beautiful. She saw a massive blade sweep back, and knew it would split her skull and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing at all.
Karros shoved her aside, dislocating her shoulder with the force of his blow. She cried out as she hit the ground, and lost her grip on her weapon. She saw the monster’s blade fall, and Karros’ hand spun away in a spiral of red. The Raven Guard made no sound as he shoved his bolt pistol into the thing’s chest and pulled the trigger until the weapon was dry.
The monster roared and smashed Karros to the ground. It whipped its blade up, ready to strike the prone Space Marine. But a combat shotgun roared, and the monster whirled with a shriek. She saw Desh stumble back. The enforcer fired again and again, pumping shot after shot into the advancing creature. It reached for him, and he flung himself back. As it made to lunge after him, Karros leapt onto its back, his wounded limb wrapped around its throat.
It dropped its blade and clawed at him, tearing great, sparking gouges in his armour. Reyes smelled the acrid stink of trans-human blood, and winced as Karros was slammed into the floor hard enough to split the ferrocrete. She was on her feet by then, arm numb, but she had her plasma-cutter. The tool spat and flamed as she thumbed the activation rune.
The monster turned, and she saw that Karros had managed to ram his combat blade into its throat. It wheezed, ichor bubbling from the wound. It bent, reaching for its blade. ‘No,’ she said. The plasma-cutter hissed, and the monster screeched as the solid spike of heat burnt through its talon. It swept its good hand at her, and she lurched under the blow, stabbing at it with the cutter. She smelled something like burning oil, and the creature staggered, wailing. Off balance, she hit the ground, jarring her arm. Cursing, she lashed out wildly, scraping the cutter across the beast’s legs.
It howled and fell. She scrambled back as it flailed at her. It lunged again, and she thrust the plasma-cutter into its face. Its momentum carried it into her, and she screamed as it jostled her arm. It twitched. Gurgled. Lay still. The smell of its dying enveloped her, nearly causing her to pass out. She heard shouting, and then the weight was being levered off her. She saw one of the other Raven Guard – Deron, she thought – rolling the corpse away. ‘Do you live, Ore-loader Reyes?’
She coughed and nodded. Desh was there a moment later, helping her to sit up. ‘You killed it,’ he said. He didn’t sound shocked, so much as thankful.
‘Somebody had to.’ She clutched her arm and cried out, as Desh helped her to her feet. ‘Where’s Karros?’
Deron stepped aside, and she saw the leader of the Raven Guard laying in a heap. One of the other Space Marines – she thought his name was Chayn – was crouched beside him, speaking softly. Chayn looked at Deron and shook his head. Reyes fell to her knees beside Karros.
They had removed his helmet, exposing battered, swollen features. His chest-plate had become a concave mess, and she could hear the rasp of his lungs. Blood spilled from the cracks in his armour. One of his eyes had burst, and the remaining one fixed on her. His limbs jerked limply, and she realised that his spine had been broken. His lips twitched, as if he wanted to speak. But he said nothing. No final words. No goodbye. No explanation.
His eye dulled, and his breath rattled. A moment later, he was still.
Deron dropped to his haunches beside her. ‘His ribs shattered. Both hearts were pierced. His spine was broken, and there was swelling in his skull.’ He spoke calmly, as if Karros had been a stranger. Maybe that was just how they talked about each other.
‘He saved me.’
Deron nodded and rose. ‘Their leader fled. We will find him.’
Reyes struggled to her feet. ‘I’m coming with you.’ Desh was at her side a moment later, steadying her. She caught his hand, and squeezed it. Desh returned the gesture. He wasn’t so bad, for an enforcer.
Deron didn’t argue with her. ‘Gather your people. It is time we finished this hunt.’
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Calder had once heard Dorn describe a siege as a thousand moments of unseen heroism. Patched into the picter-feed that the Raven Guard had given him access to, he witnessed them all, if only out of the corner of his eye.
He saw the crime lord Stella Drumm balance a lascarbine atop a shattered window sill and fire at the daemon-worshippers howling in the streets below. She spat orders at her followers, and one of them hefted a missile launcher. There was a red flash and the street shook from the resulting explosion.
Elsewhere, he saw enforcer rumblers skidding through the shattered streets, sirens blaring. They took a sharp turn, swinging around a corner. The assault cannons mounted on their chassis stuttered and a mass of bodies was reduced to red ruin. The rumblers sped on, rolling easily over the broken corpses.
Somewhere to the east, in an alleyway, red-uniformed soldiers hurriedly hauled a lascannon into position as a tracked troop carrier rumbled past, unawares. He saw grey-armoured Battle Sisters hurry through the burning ruin of a Low Town shrine, the firelight reflected in the visors of their helms. He saw all of this and more. A thousand last stands. A thousand glorious charges. A thousand deaths.
Numbers clicked over as he altered strategies based on these deaths. He did so without setting aside his bolt rifle. Mechanically, he ejected an empty magazine and reached for a replacement, relaying orders across continuously cycling vox frequencies as he did so.
‘Lieutenant Gavriel to sector tertius, grid-marker omega-nine. Reinforce Sergeant Ablet. All available units in sector secundus to grid-marker zeta-one – hold the eastern reliquary boulevard. Tyre – do you copy?’
‘Copy, lieutenant.’ Tyre’s voice was distorted by static, but intelligible. Ricochets glanced from Calder’s battleplate and a targeting rune flashed. Without turning, he snatched his bolt pistol from its holster and fired. The rune went dark. He holstered the pistol and lifted his bolt rifle.
‘Status of the Processional Way?’ From the command bunker, Tyre would have access to the full tacticum map of the city. He would be following the battle in real time.
‘Holding. It’s mostly chaff – the arch-heretics have not yet shown themselves in any great number. But there are reports of siege weapons advancing to the north.’
‘I’ve already ordered Rukn and Solaro to deal with them. What is the cardinal-governor’s status?’ Eamon was under guard in the command bunker. That was the safest place for him, theoretically.
‘Anxious. He wants to be out there with a gun himself. I know the feeling.’
‘You are both more valuable where you are.’ Calder switched over to another channel without waiting for Tyre’s reply. ‘Torag – ETA?’
‘Commencing attack in three… two… – I’d take cover – one… attack run commenced.’
The air cracked with a shrill shriek. The thunder of turbines shook the nearby buildings to their foundations. The wind lashed, and shadows sprang down the thoroughfare. A trio of Stormtalon gunships swept overhead, assault cannons roaring. Impact craters opened in the street and surrounding buildings as the gunships hurtled over the packed masses of the enemy. Splinters of stone struck Calder’s armour as he hunkered against the bulwark. The craft split up at the end of the thoroughfare, one continuing on, the others banking northwards and southwards, respectively.
Calder heard the rumble of missile impacts from nearby side streets as the Stormtalons continued to strafe the enemy positions. He caught the top of the bulwark and leapt over. ‘Come. While they’re preoccupied.’ Kenric and the rest of the Intercessors followed. Thei
r heavy tread echoed in the silence of the gunships’ passing as they stalked towards the stunned survivors of the assault.
Smoke and dust hung thick on the air as Calder led his warriors along the savaged street, killing the wounded where they found them. Despite the wind and dust, his helm’s auto-senses pinpointed the survivors, limning them in blue.
‘They’re pulling back,’ Kenric said.
‘Then we press them,’ Calder said. ‘Keep moving.’ Vox-clicks of assent were the only replies. He grunted in satisfaction. The Intercessors spread out in a battle-line. Groups of three leapfrogged one another, two Space Marines to the front, a third moving in support. Calder waved two groups off and they moved into support positions along the edges of the thoroughfare, among the fallen pillars and shattered shopfronts.
Behind him, he knew Canoness Lorr would be tightening the line, readying the defences for another assault. The Battle Sisters were still singing, their voices roughened by strain and dust. The defenders had survived mostly intact. A few casualties, but within optimum limits.
So long as they held the Processional Way, the enemy could be contained. If the enemy could be contained, they could be isolated and dealt with. His strategy was proving correct. But something felt wrong.
A wounded cultist lurched to his feet, blade in hand. He wept as he hacked at Calder. The Primaris caught the blow on his forearm and drove the stock of his bolt rifle into the mortal’s bloody head. The man sank down, still weeping. Calder kicked him onto his back and stepped on his neck, silencing him.
He paused, looking out over the street. Something felt wrong. Was there were something he’d missed? Something he’d overlooked? He ran through his strategy, wondering if he’d somehow underestimated the enemy.
An explosion drew his eyes skyward. A second followed. Artillery. The spires of the cathedral-palace shook, and the street shuddered with them. ‘Pilgrim’s Gate – status?’ he said. As he spoke, he knew there would be no answer. There was smoke to the north. The Pilgrim’s Gate had fallen.
‘Primaris… there are gunships inbound.’
Calder stiffened. ‘Clarify.’
‘Gunships,’ Torag repeated. The White Scar sounded chagrined. ‘They blew past us.’
‘Which landing zones?’
‘Are you deaf? I said that they are inbound. They are not going to your landing zones, Imperial Fist… They are coming to you.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
95:50:00
Almace, Primaris-grade cardinal world
Klaxons filled the interior of the gunship. Amatnim grinned and looked at Apis, sitting across from him in his own restraint throne. ‘Remind you of anything, brother?’
Apis’ laugh was a harsh growl. ‘The drop on Vertis City. A good day.’
The gunship shook as it hurtled through the ferrocrete canyons of the upper city. A web of automated flak batteries filled the air with death and noise. Through his display, he could see gunships fall burning from the sky, ploughing into the streets below. Some exploded on impact; others made it down intact. The voices of the survivors filled Amatnim’s vox-link. He didn’t bother to make contact. They knew what to do.
‘Granted, we had air support at Vertis City,’ Apis said, as the gunship convulsed. Smoke filled the compartment.
‘And this time, we’re the air support,’ Amatnim said.
‘That’s what worries me.’
The tenor of the klaxons changed then, becoming shrill. The gunship shook, every plate and rivet clattering. Its engine snarled in protest, and Amatnim felt the reverberation of its assault cannons. He blink-clicked a rune on his helm display and opened a channel to the gunship’s pilot. ‘Status?’
‘It’s getting hot out here, my lord. They’ve got interceptors in the air. We outgun them, but they’re fast. I think they’ve realised what our intentions are.’
‘Are they fast enough to stop us?’
‘Only if the gods will it.’
‘Maintain course.’ Amatnim cut the link. He looked at Apis. ‘We’ll be there soon.’
‘And then, my lord?’
‘And then we end this.’ He looked at the others who occupied the hold. A full cohort – twenty brothers of the Legion. The other gunships held the same. Every brother not required elsewhere was here, at the spearpoint. How many of them would survive?
Amatnim found that he didn’t care, so long as the quest was successful. So long as he found what – and who – he’d come for. No sacrifice was too great. The gods were at his shoulder, and he tasted the honey-sweet tang of victory on his lips.
Apis laughed abruptly. Amatnim looked at him. ‘Something funny, brother?’
‘Lakmhu will be sorry he missed this.’
Amatnim frowned. ‘He will get over it.’
‘I doubt that.’ Apis leaned forward. ‘I spoke to the pilot of his gunship. The Dark Apostle will not leave the asteroid belt alive.’
Amatnim was silent for a moment. He had not given the order, but that mattered little, in the scheme of things. He nodded. ‘Then the gods have made their choice,’ he said slowly. He had not expected Apis to show such initiative, and it bothered him slightly. But there would be time to deal with such matters later.
‘Approaching target,’ came the pilot’s voice. ‘Taking heavy fire.’ Amatnim could hear it, rattling against the hull. Smoke billowed, filling the hold. He felt the gunship begin its descent at speed.
He smiled beneath his helm. ‘Gloria Aeterna, brothers.’
Then – impact.
Amatnim had been in crashes before. It had been distressingly common, in the latter days of the Great Crusade. Even so, one never got used to it. It was at once a sudden convulsion and cessation. Metal buckled and tore. Smoke rose in waves. Heat washed across his armour. He heard cries of pain and shock, and the tooth-rattling growl of a reinforced strut digging through ferrocrete. All of this, all at once. A single moment, stretched to a fine point.
A fire was raging through the downed gunship. He tore himself loose from his restraint throne, relying on his auto-senses to see him through the smoke and flames. There had been casualties, but less than he’d feared. He strode past them, leaving them to hang from their thrones, broken bodies lolling. Apis was already up, hammering a fist against the hull, trying to force the ramp to descend. ‘It’s wedged,’ he voxed.
‘Step aside,’ one of the others – Gernt, Amatnim realised – growled. Amatnim hauled Apis back as the other Word Bearer charged. Gernt hit the ramp with his full weight, and the bent pneumatics gave way with a shriek. The ramp fell to the broken street and Gernt rolled down. As he picked himself up, las-fire danced across his armour. He cursed and fired his boltgun one-handed.
Amatnim thundered down the ramp, already returning fire. The gunship had slammed into the bulwarks at the top of the street, crashing through them like a battering ram. Bodies lay in crumpled heaps, and flames danced along rivers of spilled fuel. The survivors were falling back in good order, and he felt a sort of grudging respect for them. He heard the roar of engines and turned. More gunships raced down, looking for safe landings on the street. All bore the signs of having raced through hell – hulls scorched and blackened, thrusters smoking. Barely a third of his force had reached the target, but it was more than enough.
‘They’re regrouping,’ Apis called out. He’d reached the intact bulwarks, and was putting them to use against their former owners. Amatnim hurried to join him. Targeting runes flashed everywhere he looked.
‘We have to push forward. Keep them under pressure. Grenades.’ Amatnim pulled a frag grenade from his belt and flicked the activator. As he hurled it towards the steps, Apis followed suit. Explosions rocked the street, followed by a deafening roar as the fires reached the gunship’s fuel reservoir. Thick, black smoke choked the air.
Amatnim stepped past the bulwarks, firing. His auto-senses pierce
d the smoke, showing him sketches of movement. He heard heartbeats and the hum of power packs. The whine of servos. Shouts. Prayers. He pivoted, boltgun roaring. Apis moved past him, firing. More explosions stirred the smoke.
Yellow forms loomed suddenly. Amatnim blinked. Larger than a legionary, but not unfamiliar. He’d seen them before, though only at a distance. A new weapon, for a new age. But old weapons were still just as deadly.
One of the newcomers fell immediately, head vaporised by a lucky meltagun blast. The remaining pair split up, using the bulwarks as cover. They moved smoothly into position to either side of the defensive line, and opened up on the advancing Word Bearers, catching them in a crossfire. The warrior carrying the meltagun was the first to fall. Gernt was next, his body jerking as shots hammered into him mercilessly and finally flung him to the ground. He twitched for some moments before finally going still. Apis cursed and sank down behind a bulwark beside Amatnim.
‘No way to get around them,’ he growled.
‘They’re buying time for the others to regroup.’ Amatnim could see the mortal defenders retreating up the great stairs that led to the Cardinal’s Gate. There would be a secondary defensive position there, he knew. It was the way the Imperial Fists thought – there was always a fallback point. Always another wall. He ducked back as bolt-rounds chewed the top of the bulwark, spattering his helm with splinters of stone.
‘If they manage to dig in, it’ll be the gods’ own luck to drag them out.’ Apis signalled to a nearby warrior whose armour was festooned with sheathed blades. ‘Saper – see if you can flush those two yellow curs out of their kennel.’
Saper nodded and motioned to two other Word Bearers. They slithered forward, crawling low across the ground, and were soon lost in the smoke. Amatnim watched them go. ‘Dusep is still advancing to the north. He should be in position soon.’ He scanned the vox frequencies. Those who’d survived the assault drop were converging on his position. Soon, he would have the reinforcements he needed to breach any defences that the Imperial Fists had managed to erect.
Apocalypse - Josh Reynolds Page 41