The Laurel of Defiance - Guy Haley

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Report hard landing of enemy war engine transport.’

  ‘Acknowledged, Sergeant Phillipus,’ said Corvo. ‘I’m looking right at it.’

  The coffin ship’s scorched umber bulk reared up over the buildings of Eurythmia, battered but still whole. Lighter enemy landers were following. Streaks of fire crisscrossed the smoking sky, more coming down now than going up. Corvo’s interdiction emplacements were being picked off. He tracked the assault crafts’ vectors, calculating where they would land.

  ‘Tertiary group, divert to Mnemsyne district, south side. Looks like a major landing. If engaged, hold and await further orders. Do not advance, or they will be coming down on top of you.’

  Acknowledgements snapped back at him. The vox was still crisp, but that wouldn’t last.

  ‘Squads four, seven and nine with me. Crassus, bring up the Shadowswords. Let’s see what we’ve got here. If there’s anything in that coffin ship still alive, let us ensure it does not remain so.’

  ‘Theoretical, captain,’ Lieutenant Apelles voxed to him from inside the command tank. ‘You are in overall command, you should remain here, with me.’

  ‘Practical,’ Corvo responded. ‘I want to kill some of these bastards myself.’

  No one argued with that.

  ‘Redeploy Apelles, take the remainder of the men with you. Await my order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was movement in the rubble and shattered buildings. Half of Corvo’s total company strength was there. The thumping growl of multi-fuel engines roared up behind. Corvo’s Land Raider pulled back, turned and headed away. Several squads of Space Marines followed it. Three super-heavy tanks in cobalt-blue moved forward when it was clear, their tracks grinding rubble to dust and tearing up the road surface.

  Corvo’s group set out.

  The Space Marines scouted ahead, moving fast. Quiet fell for a few minutes, the space between the last weapon-strike and the first real ground assault. It didn’t last. More and more craft streaked through the air. Plumes of dust rose where they landed.

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ said Sergeant Crassus from atop the lead Shadowsword. ‘They are not establishing proper beachheads. They’re coming down all over the place. Where is their discipline?’

  ‘Same place as their honour,’ cracked Brother Ligustinus, squad nine’s resident wit.

  Corvo was also astounded at the sloppiness of the assault. He followed pict-feeds from the first dropzones – World Eaters rushed from drop pods as soon as they touched down, not waiting for their fellows, while the ragged Army units supporting the traitor legionaries seemed little better than a mob, pouring out of their transports right into loyalist gunfire. For now, this worked to Corvo’s advantage. His lieutenants directed XIII Legion response teams and local Army to where the enemy was most numerous.

  He had to leave them to it. He had the situation on the ground and in orbit to monitor. And now this possibility of war engines…

  Vox traffic increased exponentially, until it chattered incessantly at him: casualty reports, the constant repositioning of his mobile command centres, the status of refugees in their shelters. He dearly wished to mute most of it, sticking to the close-range squad bands, but he had to see it all. His visor was so crowded with tactical information that he was left with only a small, clear space to look ahead. His bodyguards Glabrio and Aratus recognised his distraction, and walked close by him in support as his eyes and ears.

  A tangle of wrecked vehicles, burning trees and collapsed city blocks forced Crassus to take the Shadowswords a longer route. After a moment’s consideration, Corvo had his men clamber through the ruins, heading right for the Titan lander.

  ‘Sergeant Crassus, find a good firing solution for the Shadowswords. Squad nine, stick with them.’

  Voxed assent. Fifteen of his men peeled away, falling back to join the tanks. The Titan-killers rumbled around on the spot and lurched off down a clearer street.

  Corvo came onto the Via Longia, Astragar City’s main avenue. The Mechanicum ship had landed perpendicular to the line of the city grid, its kilometre-long bulk scoring a fresh street through at least five blocks. The prow sat on the pavement of the Longia, atop a fan of shattered stone. Its high, humped back was crooked. Landing on such a surface without control had broken its spine.

  The battle was becoming more fierce. A number of feeds went dead.

  A moment later, Lieutenant Apelles’s voice crackled on the vox. ‘I’ve lost contact with Verulus. Fighting’s fierce in the northern deme. He’s probably dead.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ said Corvo. ‘Assess situation there. Take command of his forces.’

  Two command tanks left. Was it good theoretical to abandon the command bunker in favour of mobile targets, he wondered? This tactical situation was unexpected. No pre-existing theoretical told of how to slay one’s own legionary kin. He was forced to innovate.

  They moved up to the coffin ship cautiously. ‘Be advised, Crassus, Apelles, approaching Mechanicum lander. No sign of enemy activity.’

  They crept down the Via Longia, right up to the steaming flank of the vessel. After a moment’s consideration, Corvo chanced crossing the front with a squad of his men.

  The ship leaned ten degrees out of true, its hull battered by atmospheric re-entry and weapons fire. Flames flickered in the buildings and rubble around it. It was quiet there, the crump of explosions and howl of landing jets muted by the high buildings around them.

  ‘Perhaps the war-engines are destroyed,’ said Glabrio.

  ‘I doubt it. I saw the same thing happen in the Coralan compliance,’ said Aratus to the younger warrior. Glabrio had not been with the Legion as long as he had. ‘Ships all smashed to wreckage, and the Titans came out anyway.’

  ‘I don’t see any sign that the doors are–’

  Corvo held his hand up. His men froze, dropping into cover. ‘Hear that?’ he said.

  A banging sounded from inside.

  ‘Theoretical – the doors are jammed,’ said Aratus. ‘No Mechanicum support. The only practical for the engines is to batter their way out.’

  ‘Crassus, get ready,’ voxed Corvo. ‘Are you in position?’

  ‘Via Macraggia is blocked, sir. We’re having to push directly through the buildings fronting Platea Lata.’

  ‘You are heading for the Agora?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Should get a good line right down the Longia once there.’

  ‘Be quick,’ said Corvo. ‘Do not leave yourself exposed. There is not much cover there.’

  ‘Sir…’ said Aratus.

  The coffin ship’s doors vibrated as something pounded at them from within.

  ‘Fall back,’ the captain ordered.

  They dropped back squad by squad, retreating down the Via Longia. Away from the crash site the city was dusty, the glass from broken casements slippery underfoot but otherwise oddly untouched. A roar, like that of a trapped animal, rumbled in the guts of the downed transport.

  ‘That’s not normal, is it?’ asked Glabrio.

  ‘Tricks. Psychological warfare,’ said Aratus. ‘Some of the Titan Legions do it on compliance actions. Growls rather than war-horns. Scares the hell out of the natives.’

  ‘Get back,’ said Corvo. ‘Crassus, are you getting a good line here? Can you hear it? Something about this is not right.’

  The clanging from within grew to manic levels. With a grinding of torn metal, a giant chainfist emerged from the doors. A spray of sparks and red liquid came with it.

  Glabrio gasped. ‘Is that…?’

  The doors were wrenched apart. A torrent of blood poured from the interior of the ship, slopping up the buildings on the opposite side of the street. A wall of red seven metres high bore down the Via Longia in both directions, staining the walls almost to the second storey. Fierce, animalistic howling rent the air.

  The Ultramarines ran. Corvo was bowled over by the sheer weight of the flood, his men scattered.

  The red wave subsided
as quickly as had come. Space Marines were sprawled across the road, all of them coated from head to foot in slippery blood. Corvo wiped at his helmet lenses, his armoured fingers clattering off the conductive crystal. Red smeared his vision.

  ‘Squads! Report!’

  ‘By the Throne!’ said Glabrio.

  The shattered frame of a Reaver engine tumbled out of the door, its cockpit smashed, limbs lifeless.

  And then its killer came.

  Whatever the monster was, it was no longer a Titan. Terrible modifications had been inflicted upon it. The cockpit had become a brazen skull. Long horns swept back from its brows over the lower edge of the carapace. It moved with a sinuous grace alien to its machine body. A long, articulated tongue of metal probed the air between sword-long teeth, a tail of similar material curling around its legs. The Warlord, if that was what it still was, crushed its mangled sibling beneath heavy feet as it struggled out onto the street. It wrenched itself free of the broken doors and staggered into the buildings opposite, bringing them down in a cascade of rubble and dust.

  ‘Crassus!’ cried Corvo.

  ‘I’m still not in position, sir!’

  The Titan’s head moved back and forth, for all the world like it was scenting the air. It hit upon something, let out an unearthly, blaring howl from its war-horns, and smashed its way through the ruins, heading west and away from the downed ship.

  Corvo, sprawled in the gritty gore of the Titan’s afterbirth, watched it go.

  ‘What have those fanatics done?’ asked Aratus in disbelief. ‘What are we fighting?’

  Corvo moved around the function – room to room, hall to hall – as if he were clearing a building in a firefight. Dancing was underway in the ballroom. In others, large tables were piled with food. More Ultramarines were to be found there than in the dance hall, as was to be expected. His brothers knew him by reputation if not in person, and greeted him briefly and respectfully. It was some time yet to the feast and the arrival of the primarchs. He engaged in polite conversation with the unaltered where it was unavoidable.

  ‘They say you killed a Titan,’ they would declare.

  ‘Not I. My men. It was my men. And it was no Titan.’

  Many of his interlocutors left disappointed. He would not be drawn further on the event. Let others tell their stories. He had no stomach for boasting.

  He caught sight of Captain Ventanus – the Saviour of Calth and Guilliman’s new favourite – attentively conversing with some functionary or other, a broad sash across the Space Marine’s chest thick with fresh honours. His adjutant, a sergeant by the look of him, was engaged with another group of humans close by. Adoration and laughter rose around him. Corvo wished that he shared their facility for small talk.

  He found a server and took both of the jugs of brandy that he was carrying. He consumed them as quickly as decorum allowed, enjoying the faint buzz of mild intoxication for the few minutes before his transhuman metabolism purged it from his body.

  ‘Brother-captain,’ said a Space Marine he did not know. The rank marks on his collar marked him out as a sergeant.

  ‘Brother,’ said Corvo.

  The other legionary held out his hand. ‘I am Sergeant Tullian Aquila, 168th Company.’

  ‘Lucretius Corvo, 90th Company.’ He grasped Aquila’s forearm in a warrior’s handshake.

  ‘I know who you are, sir. I just wanted to come and greet you. I was caught in an engine battle at Ithraca on Calth. What you did greatly impressed me. Your action on Astagar is the talk of my company, or what’s left of it. It would have been good to have you with us. If there were only more of you and Captain Ventanus’s kind…’

  Corvo held up his hand. ‘Please, you embarrass me. We all march for Macragge.’

  ‘We march for Macragge,’ Aquila replied automatically.

  ‘If you are here, then you too must have performed well.’

  ‘So they say,’ said Aquila.

  ‘You do not seem convinced.’

  Aquila looked pained. ‘I fought hard enough, but I doubted we would survive. I almost despaired. That is not what the primarch taught us.’

  ‘We all despaired, sergeant. What else could we have done?’

  Aquila shrugged. ‘But tomorrow, I will be honoured for my doubt as much as my achievement. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.’

  ‘If Lord Guilliman has chosen you for honour, then be assured – you are deserving,’ said Corvo.

  ‘Perhaps. But the doubt came first.’

  ‘Without doubt, how can we construct a foolproof theoretical? Without doubt there is only arrogance.’

  Aquila was mollified by this. ‘Tell me sir, did you ever doubt?’

  Corvo gave stared back, stony-faced. ‘In truth? No. Not for a second.’

  The mark was a little over six days. Facing stiff resistance from Corvo’s forces, the traitors had laid siege to the city. Why they had not ended it with a single, decisive orbital strike was a matter for conjecture, but still they did not. Instead, probing assaults searched for the Ultramarines’ weaknesses. They displayed none.

  Corvo’s subordinate officers gathered around the table of an empty bunker. Dust sifted down from the ceiling with each artillery hit above, covering everything in a grey shroud. Cogitators were choked with it, hololiths sparked and would not cast their images properly. The Space Marines were forced to rely on paper maps.

  ‘Theoreticals? Anyone?’ asked Corvo. ‘We have no engine support, and our heavy armour can’t catch it.’

  ‘It is wary of the Shadowswords,’ said Apelles.

  ‘And well it might be,’ snorted Aratus.

  ‘They will soon be occupied elsewhere,’ said Lieutenant Sextus. He spoke to them via vox, since Corvo would not gather all of his command assets into one place. ‘There are signs of an imminent enemy armour attack. Since Verulus fell, they’ve been bringing their heavy landers in unopposed. They are mustering to end the siege and crush us.’

  ‘I do not understand why they did not wait to land this engine until then,’ said Apelles. ‘Why send it in first? It is vulnerable.’

  ‘Is it now?’ said Corvo softly. ‘It moves faster than any war-engine I’ve ever seen. And it seems… indiscriminate in its slaughter. The enemy, my brothers, are not playing by the rules.’

  Their muted laughter was cut short by a particularly loud detonation on the surface. Debris pattered on the table. Eyes flicked upwards to stuttering lumen strips.

  ‘If we can’t get the Shadowswords into range, how do we kill this damned Titan?’ asked Corvo.

  ‘It is hardly a Titan,’ Sergeant Domitian muttered. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Whatever they have done to it,’ said Glabrio, ‘it behaves more like a beast than a machine.’

  ‘He is right,’ said Aratus. ‘Perhaps we should divert our efforts to tackling the Seventeenth Legion. Let’s take our chances that the beast is too stupid to act in concert with them. Kill them first, bring it down later when it is alone and vulnerable.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Corvo.

  Aratus was taken aback. ‘I meant no…’

  ‘No, no, about hunting.’

  ‘He said it’s like a beast, sir,’ said Glabrio.

  Corvo nodded. He brushed grit from the map. ‘We need to fell this Titan. It is a focal point for their forces – not tactically, but emotionally. It is a kind of idol, I think, to those Seventeenth Legion fanatics. I am certain we can lure a portion of their forces into the city to save it, should it come under threat. Once they are inside we shall destroy them. As to the Titan’s destruction, we are plotting practicals from the wrong theoretical position. This is not a machine, Aratus has that right. Not like any we have faced before. But we have fought beasts. And if it is a beast, then so shall we trap it like one.’

  His finger creased the map at Konor’s Forum.

  ‘FELGHAAAAAAAASSSST!’

  The pretence of its war-horns had been cast aside. The Titan had a voice. Diabolic, but a voice nonet
heless – a deafening whisper, the rush of stale air from an opened tomb. The name it uttered was not the one on the Titan’s identification plaques.

  ‘Now,’ Corvo ordered.

  He watched his Rhino’s vid-screens as Astagaran troopers broke cover and fled before the beast. Each sprinted eighty metres or so before diving out of sight; troopers further ahead taking up the flight. The Titan’s head swung round, attracted by the movement.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ ordered Corvo. ‘It has the bait!’

  ‘FELGHAAAAAAAASSSST!’

  The corrupted Titan levelled its giant las-blasters at the fleeing troopers. Deafening thunderclaps rolled out as focused light cleaved the sky. Repeated shockwaves of superheated air blew out windows and flipped the wrecks of groundcars onto their sides. A handful of men were caught and incinerated. Others were thrown aside, organs pulverised by overpressure.

  ‘Come on! Come on!’ said Domitian, stationed in the forum some four kilometres down the road.

  ‘It will come,’ said Corvo. ‘Patience.’

  A half company of the XVII and a selection of mismatched armour followed the thing. The droning chants of the traitors set Corvo’s teeth on edge. The sound was pervasive, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

  But their fanaticism had made them predictable. Half of them broke off to engage the Shadowsword detachment. This time, Corvo had the tanks remain in place. The enemy would find themselves walking into an ambush.

  His plan was working. Eager on the hunt, Felghast broke into a run, outpacing its supporting armour and infantry.

  ‘Sir, it’s moving too fast for the men.’

  ‘All troopers, stand down!’ voxed Corvo. ‘Fall back to muster points! Stand by to engage supporting ground forces. Strikeforce Alpha, prepare to assault siege lines at quadrant three.’ He turned to his driver. ‘Ready, Crassus?’

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  Corvo watched as the Titan pounded down the street. A thousand metres, seven hundred…

  ‘Now!’ he roared.

  Crassus slammed the Rhino out of its hiding place in a demolished shop front, cracked columns bouncing off the tank’s glacis as it careened onto the street. Corvo went out through the gunner’s hatch and aimed the Rhino’s searchlight at the creature’s face.