n. pl. in·cu·nab·u·la (-l)1. A book printed before 1501; an incunable.
2. An artifact of an early period.
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‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for his throne! Let nothing li…’ A clawed alien hand decapitated the crimson-armoured warrior with a single blow, sending his head bouncing and spinning across the roiling terrain and out of sight amongst the heavingarmoured bodies of his charging comrades. The dead warrior’s
battle-brethren roared in anger and surged forward as one to crash against
the advancing aliens like a tidal surge, their bloodlust and hatred
consuming them so utterly as to make them heedless to the encroaching
danger of the alien horde. Chainblades sang and bolt pistols thundered
as the blood-slicked, power armoured horde met the advance of the alien
mass without fear or hesitation. The night skies above the vast desolate plains of the Anubis Gulf were angry now, blackened with the countless falling seeds of the swarming alien invasion force. The cloudless sky boiled and flashed as if in protest to the living rainfall, the countless seeding spores of the attacking aliens saturating the horizon as far as the eye could see. Set against the backdrop of Contu Prime, largest of the planet’s moons, the vast hiveships hung like giant living dirigibles, each one the size of a small city, visible even from the ground. Far above the surface of
the planet Daedalus huge, leather-winged monstrosities blocked out the
stars as they slid ponderously through the night skies, wave after wave
of smaller creatures detaching themselves from thearmoured bellies of
the huge beasts to descend like a rain of death amid a deafening cacophony
of screeching hatred. The air above Phrennec Mantris
flashed and burned with a pale emerald iridescence as the pylons plucked
the spores from the skies, their ethereal energies whickering and snaking
across the falling mass relentlessly. Soon the mindless alien scum would
realize that their efforts were futile. Soon they would abandon their
attempts to take the city and instead concentrate their forces on the
World Eaters. None of this mattered, for he knew of lord Karkattamorg’s
plans for this blighted planet. The suit lights of the giant World Eater terminators probed the closing darkness malevolently as they advanced through the twisted wreckage, the ancient storm bolters in their hands flaring as they belched death. All around them the multitudinous, many-limbed monstrosities of the attacking hormagaunt wave swarmed like insects, their swift, chitinous march resounding like hailstones on glass, countless legs skittering across the dusty rocks underfoot. The creatures moved like a shoal of fish, twisting and turning as one, altering their course in a heartbeat as they spied the advancing warriors. Within seconds the vanguard was upon them, leaping high in the air amid screams of intended malice. The first wave disappeared in a hail of ichor, atomized by the wall of auto-reactive shells that slammed into them, the momentum of their attack coating the ancient armour of the traitor marines with a film of foul alien matter. High-pitched shrieks and screams rose from inhuman throats as the chattering advance was halted time and time again, as wave after wave of living weaponry was blown apart leaving nothing behind except a scattering of barbed limbs and a pungent mist of drifting blood-substance. Horgotha turned as the huge
armoured warriors lumbered through the twisted wreckage, battering aside
crooked girders and crumbling walls with gore-splattered power fists
as they found their lord. Stood atop the blackened, smoking wreckage
of an upturned rhino APC Horgotha roared at the angry skies, his powerful
arms outstretched. ‘My brothers!’ he roared, a twisted smile splitting his bloodstained lips. ‘Let us flood this wretched planet with the blood of the alien! Let us douse the fires of this battlefield as we open the veins of every damned tyranid on the surface of this world! We will take their skulls, every last one of them, in tribute to Khorne! Nothing else but death! Nothing else but blood! For the Blood God!’ ‘For the Blood God!’
the warriors echoed as one, thrusting their powerful arms into the air.
‘Thecolour of blood
matters not, brethren!’ He thundered, his voice a terrifying and
rending thing, almost god-like in its hoarse yet enhanced amplification.
A hissing, slithering shape burst forth from the darkness, nothing more than a flash of movement passing across the eyes of the champion. Within seconds it was upon him, snapping and hissing malevolently, all slashing claws and snapping teeth. Horgotha felt the hardarmoured shell of the rhino slam into his back as he toppled, the weight of his attacker throwing him back. He threw his head forward instinctively and smashed his head into the face of the creature, the blow spraying chitin and fluid as it connected. Dazed, the creature withdrew only for a moment, more than enough time for the champion to bring his chainaxes up and into the beast. The ravener came apart amid a welter of blood, its lithe, armoured body trisected by the screaming blades. The parted alien tumbled away and Horgotha hauled himself to his feet, the thick hull of the rhino buckling under his immense weight. He pushed himself free of the wreckage and glanced around, his glowing eyes scouring the whispering darkness. He turned his gaze towards the distant city and smiled as he saw the powerful, impassible pylons begin to sputter and die. The Manflayer had made good his promise to Karkattamorg. The tyranids had all but aborted their attack on the city. By the time they realized that the pylons had fallen silent it would be too late, Karkattamorg and the others would have taken the city and the defences would be reactivated. Even now he could see the tiny, distant pinpricks of light descending towards the distant walls. The city was as good as taken. Despite this, he knew that within moments the defences would be reactivated in order to ensure that the attacking tyranids would not be able to follow. He and his brethren would have to leave this place soon if they were to follow their lord to glory within the walls of the doomed city. As soon as the aliens realized that the city’s defences had fallen silent they would renew the attack. He would have to move fast. ‘To the thunderhawk!’
he bellowed, gesturing for the crimson armoured behemoths to follow
him. A swift glance at the skies warned of a change in the pattern of
the descending swarm. The great harridans had begun to turn their massive
bulks away from the city and were headed his way, sensing the presence
of the remaining World Eater forces. Horgotha and the remainder
of the World Eater invaders would suffer the wrath of the tyranids.
He thrust one huge axe up at the night skies and his retinue lifted their gaze, watching in silence as the thousands upon thousands of descending spores enveloped the stars themselves directly above them. ‘We will not survive this fight!’ Horgotha announced, not a single hint of fear or sorrow in his sonorous voice. The terminators heard this and turned their attention back to their champion. ‘It matters not if we fall this day! Lord Karkattamorg has shown us the way forward! His glorious vision shall be realised here on Daedalus! Our lord will ascend to greater glory and bring the wretched Imperium to its knees! He will become an unstoppable force of destruction against which no power in this galaxy will be able to stand! He will stride unopposed through the Eternity Gate on Terra and tear the desiccated corpse of the Emperor from its resting place! The Golden Throne shall be his, and all the skulls of the servants of Man shall be heaped at his feet! Glory to Karkattamorg! Glory to Khorne!’ The World Eater terminators thrust their arms into the air and howled, elated by the prospect of the coming conflict. Dread Horgotha threw back his head and roared an inaudible challenge at the approaching abomination. A heartbeat later the mighty champion turned and thundered off into the night, uttering blasphemous curses as the shadows enveloped him. Horgotha’s terminator retinue watched as their lord flung himself into oblivion, his sonorous voice echoing through the darkness long after he disappeared from sight. Within seconds the sound of his chainaxes could be heard, screaming in the darkness as they met with the ominous, unseen threat. Something nameless and terrifying roared in response, its inhuman cry shaking the loose rubble underfoot. As one they surged forward to meet the threat, the crackling power weapons they carried raised and ready to deal death. The death-bellow of their aspiring champion howled across the archaic vox-link of their headsets, the noise serving only to incite their bloodlust further. The ground beneath them now began to shake more violently as the thunder of approaching hooves echoed through the dead space beyond. The sound grew louder and louder, the tremors increasing as each moment passed. Something was approaching. Something big. The terminators began to lock and load the storm bolters in their right hands, ready for whatever approached them. Fierce, guttural growls of blasphemous challenge echoed through the air as each huge warrior readied himself to meet the unseen threat and a burning fire of exhilaration coursed through the squad, lighting every nerve. As one they began to chant, their broken, inhuman voices loud and powerful as they carried across the battlefield in perfect unison. ‘Blessed be Khorne, the lord of death. Let all before Him be split asunder, let none survive. Death in the name of Khorne! Death in the name of Lord Karkattamorg, Chosen of the Blood God! All shall become trophies at the feet of the Blood God’s throne!’ The roaring chant continued,
audible even over the crescendo of white noise surrounding them. The
broken terrain before them exploded and shook, random detonations and
pinpricks of incandescence illuminating the huge, bounding shape fast
approaching them, moving with a swiftness that far belied its hulking
size. At this point any lesser being would have turned tail and fled
in sheer terror or through survival instinct, but not the terminators
of the World Eaters. The insatiable bloodlust within them could be contained
no longer. Driving the heels of the mighty armour they wore into the
ashen soil, they counter-charged. Suddenly the gigantic living battering ram was struck from behind by a blow powerful enough to stagger a squiggoth. The creature bellowed in pain and staggered forward, lashing out in instinctive retaliation as it did so. The blind sweep parted the attacking World Eater below the shoulders and sent his body flailing across the loose sand underfoot, the storm bolter in his hand still firing wildly out into the darkness as his arms and head hit the floor. The remains of the terminator lurched backwards, hissing and crackling as the ancient suit’s protective field overloaded in a shower of sparks, unable to cope with the extreme force of the blow. The death of the warrior had bought the others time enough to recover and they attacked, surrounding the monstrosity The carnifex lowered its huge head and roared, the hot steam of its breath pouring from its cavernous mouth like a geyser. The terminator before it strode forward and punched it full in the face, shattering teeth and crushing the armoured layers of chitin like eggshell. The furious nightmare responded
by clamping its huge mouth around the head of the World Eater and shaking
him violently before flinging him through the air and into a nearby
wall, his body disappearing under an avalanche of rubble. The others
closed in on the beast and began to punch and pummel its vast body,
the potent weapon-fists of their armoured suits flashing and crackling
with each blow. The carnifex threw itself around and drove a talon through
the chest of another of the armoured berserkers, impaling him without
effort. ‘Karkattamorg.’ one of the terminators uttered reverently, taking a step back. As the monstrous carnifex swung its huge head around to gaze into the numbing darkness its marine opponents fell to their knees as one, their heads bowed in respect. For them, no greater honour could be bestowed than an audience with the dread lord himself. An acrid stench of charnel and death drifted through the hot, tangy air, an odour that seemed to emanate from nowhere and yet surround and envelop them. This sudden scent seemed to excite the carnifex and the massive monstrosity flexed its talon limbs, its blood-thirst roused once again. The vast alien killing machine opened its maw and roared at the shifting darkness, rolling its oversized head from side to side as if in challenge. From somewhere in the black distance and closing fast, the challenge was answered. The huge dark shape snorted and bellowed as it bounded through the murky gloom like a charging bull, each heavy footfall shaking the ground as it landed. The sound of squealing metal and splintering glass rang through the cold night air as the approaching monstrosity relentlessly crushed everything in its path as it advanced. Men, aliens and tanks alike were batted aside or crushed underfoot as the raging beast thundered across the battle-scarred terrain, its quarry located. Emitting a roar of pure hatred the massive figure took to the air, the mighty leap carrying it across the remaining expanse in seconds. Karkattamorg, daemon prince, lord of the World Eaters landed heavily before the carnifex, his crimson armoured bulk smashing into the ground like a falling meteorite. The alien monster took a step back, momentarily bewildered by the new arrival’s bold challenge. The monstrous abominationslowly
rose to his feet, the eerie light of his glowing red eyes shining through
the long strands of blood-encrusted hair covering his face. His entire
frame seemed to creak like the flexing hull of a ship as he rose up,
the vast plates of ancient armour strapped to his body grinding together.
His breathing was deep and heavy, like that of some huge primeval beast,
hot steam pouring from his nose and mouth. ‘At last.’ He
uttered, his inhuman voice heavy and ageless as it rumbled across the
scene like a peal of thunder. The carnifex roared in challenge
and lunged forward. Karkattamorg saw this and thrust his arms out by
his sides, revealing the two ancient and terrible weapons he wielded.
In a blur of motion and colour the two titans met, the thick, scythed
talons of the alien battering ram cleaving the air as they descended.
The daemon prince swung his immense bulk around and swept his mighty
chainaxe through the air, batting the blades aside and sending whickering
chunks of shattered chitin spinning away. The two combatants began
to circle one another; the terminators surrounding them moving back
even further. The carnifex began to visibly sag, its thick, sinuous
legs shaking as they struggled to support its vast weight. The sword
of the daemon prince had caused it more damage than was immediately
visible. Nevertheless, its unshakeable thirst for destruction kept it
on its feet, its primal instincts driving it on. Karkattamorg roared with delight and with a flick of the wrist turned the shimmering sword in his hand and drove it deep into the cracked rockcrete at his feet. The living blade quivered and screamed as it pierced the ground, the thick road surrounding it shattering and splitting like the web of a spider under the potent power of the daemonic essence bound within. The mighty daemon prince
turned and lunged at the smouldering remains of the crushed rhino, driving
the fingers of his free hand deep into the thick armoured hull. The
kneeling terminators looked on in reverent silence as the daemon prince
lifted the squealing, groaning wreck high above his head and hurled
it at the emerging juggernaut. The daemonic World Eater’s gigantic chainaxe flashed through the air before him, driving down with the force of a crash-landing drop pod into the armoured shell of the thrashing alien. Shards of chitin and organic juices sprayed upwards into the air as the screaming blade drove itself deep into armoured flesh, then again and again as the immensely powerful thrust was repeated three, four, five times. The carnifex bellowed more through anger than pain and kicked its hooves in desperation, throwing the daemon prince momentarily off-balance. Karkattamorg stumbled back, reeling from the blow. His alien opponent roared defiantly and hauled itself up onto it feet, bloodied steam escaping from the huge gaping rends torn across its thick armoured hide. Though grievously injured it drove its heels into the ground and bounded towards the daemon prince, far from defeated. Karkattamorg raised his right hand and swept the terrible captured daemon sword Na’Gzetchh before him, the writhing blade screaming with rage and bloodlust. The air itself glittered and shimmered in its wake and the sword bit home, cutting a deep groove through the charging behemoth’s chest and all the way through to its back armour in one single pass. No matter how thick its armoured hide was, no protection in the galaxy could withstand a blow from a weapon designed to ignore the laws of the material universe. More through shock than pain the screaming beast slammed into the floor beside the daemon prince, kicking and writhing as its huge frame became enveloped in a swirling miasma of blue and pink chaos power, the sword’s warping powers beginning to attack the monster at a cellular level almost immediately. The downed carnifex began to warp and shudder, its vast frame cracking and shattering as it transformed into something twisted and indistinct, its body stolen by some nameless horror of the warp. Only when the victorious daemon prince brought his huge war axe down across the beast’s neck did the alien juggernaut fall silent, its torment ended. A roar of triumph rose from
the great immortal beast as he thrust his head back and bellowed into
the dark night, victorious in the name of Khorne, the huge head of the
carnifex impaled upon the chattering blade of his sword. This was the promise of the World Eaters. Karkattamorg, immortal champion of the Blood God, the Great Chieftain of the Crimson Tide turned and surveyed his surroundings. He watched in silence for a moment as the endless tyranid rain continued to fall about him, saturating the vast plains of the Anubis Gulf with its vile, pervasive stain. His glowing eyes burned with an ageless balefire as he watched the advance of the swarm, his altered eyes able to pierce the roiling darkness with ease. He smiled a terrible predatory
smile, exposing a mouth full of yellowed canine fangs. The tyranids
were as nothing to him, less than a swarm of scrabbling ants at his
feet. Invigorated by the glorious, chaotic carnage spread out before him, he ran his dark, glistening tongue across yellowed teeth, savouring the heady scent of death as it drifted in from the devastated industrial regions of the Anubis Gulf. The whole district burned, ravaged by the attentions of both the World Eaters and their tyranid pursuers alike. He smiled, his ancient eyes surveying the distant scene. The Devourer of Worlds had come, just as he had predicted, drawn like moths to a flame by the call of the dying mother. The intrusive, knowledge-seeking fools of the mechanicus didn’t have a clue as to what they held here in secret, deep beneath the surface of the city. They were little more than naïve children, trying in vain to understand and contain a force more powerful and vast than any member of the Imperium would ever be able to do so. Now they were dead and gone,
their labours unfinished, their quest for knowledge incomplete. So illicit
were their activities here beneath the city that they were unable to
rely on the rest of their so-called Imperial ‘allies’ above
to defend them when he had descended like an avatar of retribution to
claim their efforts as his own. He and his Nephilim had taken the facility with all the ease of a member of the vaunted astartes stealing from the smallest child, and he had ensured that they had been made to suffer greatly for their mistake. He knew of the secret that lay in wait far beneath this damned city. He knew of the true potential of what had lain dormant beneath his feet for an age. It had taken nigh on seven years of ceaseless toil but now the final stages of the plan were starting to take shape. The host was almost ready. Karkattamorg and his World Eaters had come, lured by the promise of that which the daemon prince had sought for centuries. He would surpass himself this time and Daedalus would fall, no matter the cost. Damn the blunt Khornate mastodon and his blundering stampede across the worlds of the Imperium. Theirs was not a meeting of equals, a combining of resources in order to reach a mutually beneficial goal. Karkattamorg was just another
senseless, narrow-minded tool to be pointed in the right direction,
to be used as he alone saw fit. The galaxy would burn and in its death
throes it would scream his unholy name. A tide of death would come to
sweep the countless worlds of both man and xenos alike clean of the
filth that infested them, a scouring, cleansing cataclysm like the hand
of some mighty god. His Imperium.
+++++ To: Ordo Malleus Inquisitor
Lord Vorkohnen Its countless factories have produced munitions, fuel and armour for the Imperial war machine for centuries. Daedalus is the lynchpin that holds the Borteth subsystem and indeed the entire Profundo Cluster together, its importance and strategic value within this sector of space paramount to the Imperium. All lines of communication
with the planet have been suddenly and inexplicably lost. Way stations
across the subsystem have fallen silent, one after another, without
warning or explanation. All outgoing traffic from the manufactorum world
has abruptly ceased. We can only assume some terrible, unknown disaster
has befallen the planet. Something dark and evil transpires within the Borteth system, inquisitor, something so terrible it must be brought to your expert attention. The ancient and insidious forces of foul chaos are behind this, of that much we can be sure. The first indications we had of this was when the Astropathic council of Terra detected a strong and incredibly powerful psychic presence emanating from somewhere at the system’s centre, most likely originating from the capital world, Daedalus. One solar month ago, two weeks after the detection of the psychic presence a defence outpost stationed on Contu Prime informed high command that what seemed to be a large invasion force of vile traitor marines had emerged from the warp and had taken up orbit around Daedalus. Communications were soon lost but not before they had managed to confirm that the commander of the warband had insolently identified himself as an individual named ‘Karkattamorg’. Sources provided by your
esteemed colleagues within the ordo malleus indicate that Karkattamorg
is one of our most ancient of enemies and has been hunted with utmost
vigour since the days of foul Horus’s treachery. Five naval reconnaissance
vessels and three escort carriers under Admiral Quasdathe were sent
out to investigate. No one has heard from them since. During that time
it came to our attention that all Astropathic communication with the
Borteth system had been rendered impossible and that the Astronomicon
was unable to penetrate the sector. This is an occurrence that the adepts
know as the Shadow in the Warp. This is grave news indeed. How or why the hive fleets seem to have specifically sought out this isolated world we cannot say, though it would seem that their actions are driven by something more than a simple desire to consume the planet’s bio-mass. The High Council have authorised military action in the Borteth system with immediate effect and command has been given to me. As we speak I am mobilising a large and powerful invasion force with which to take back the stricken planet and as such am in the process of enlisting the best forces and individuals I can muster. Even now I am receiving word of yet more insidious presences upon the system’s capital world and as such have been taking steps to ensure that they meet with the ultimate resistance when we arrive. I have sent numerous spies ahead of us to assess the situation as best they can and it was while waiting for their response that your name was passed on to me. It was brought to my attention
that you are among the most fervent and zealous of the ordo malleus
daemonhunters and that for years you have made it your life’s
holy work to seek out and destroy the foulest of the Imperium’s
heretic foes. Word of your exploits in pursuing the Arch-heretic Xaxxarfon
the Perverse soon reached me and I can think of no better individual
to deal with the foul Karkattamorg. Today, inquisitor, I give you that chance. I humbly ask that you join us in liberating Daedalus and putting an end to whatever foul and insidious plans the ruinous powers have for the planet. The Emperor Himself has called for this war, inquisitor, and it is our duty to answer. I look forward to your response. Lord General Jophius Garant Bombola, Supreme Commander of the Borteth Crusade. +++++ To: Warmaster General Bombola Lord General, I thank you for choosing to seek my help in despatching this most foulest and terrible of the Immortal Emperor’s ancient foes. Karkattamorg is as good as dead. Lord Inquisitor Devan Vorkohnen.
CHAPTER 2: DAEDALUS. Sergeant Moneth Hastor looked on in stark, horrified silence, the thick shielded glass of the viewing port frosting under his hot breath. The huge battleship Incursus
shook once more and began to list slightly, the rumbling vibrations
dimming the lights above his head as they passed through the massive
leviathan. He swallowed hard and his
heart raced as he looked upon the hive ship for the first time, an air
of utter disbelief hovering over him. He had felt bile rise in
his throat as men had described the passing of the swarm, of how entire
worlds were stripped to the very bedrock of everything. Animals, plant
life, even water and atmosphere, nothing was left behind in their wake.
These were creatures more truly alien than any other he had encountered
in all the years of his service, insidious and terrifying predators
from beyond the boundaries of known space, the tyranids were a foe unlike
any other. ‘Heads up everyone! We are under attack! Tyranid assault craft inbound!’ someone hollered, the owner of the voice lost amongst the packed bodies of the massive main hold. Hastor leapt to his feet as yet another huge blow shook the Incursus to its very core, the jolt so powerful that it shook bolts loose from the bulkhead above. The shockwave vibrations sent him flying backwards and it was only by the grace of his practised reflexes that he managed to turn and grab the handhold behind him, his face stopping a hair’s breadth short of the thick glass of the viewing port. ‘By the Golden Throne…’ He breathed, his gaze falling upon the space beyond the window. Three huge organic shapes swept past, tracer fire hot on their heels. Huge, ugly scythe-nosed creatures screamed past, twisting and turning skilfully as they evaded the multitude defence guns of the giant battlecruiser. Sweat began to moisten his
brow and he backed away from the port, almost as if he were afraid that
the creatures would spot him and view him as a potential target. Surprised by the voice Hastor turned, his gaze falling upon a familiar face. The man’s trademark, half-moon scar ran the length of his features from the left of his temple down to his top lip. His hair was shaved into a single, neat line, further augmenting his already fearsome appearance. The officer stared back at him, his cold gaze hiding a familiar warmth that few who knew him recognised. Hastor, however, knew this man better than most and he smiled weakly, moving his arm in the beginnings of a salute. ‘At ease, sergeant.’ The officer whispered with a lopsided grin, waving him aside so as to get a better look at the circling creature-ships. ‘Colonel Vorpax, sir. All hell seems to be breaking loose out there. I-I didn’t even know the Tyranids had such monstrosities at their disposal.’ ‘The first and foremost
rule of warfare, sergeant. Know your enemy.’ The colonel barked
gruffly, smoothing down his padded Elysian drop troop battle-dress as
he pushed himself away from the viewing port. ‘Shouldn’t be
long now, sergeant.’ He announced, turning away from the turbulent
skirmish beyond. ‘What then, sir?’ Hastor asked, unsure of what to expect once the mighty ships of the invasion force finally broke through the living blockade. Vorpax turned to leave,
an expression of stone setting his features rigid. Hastor settled back uneasily against the hard backrest of the seat as he watched the colonel leave, trying as best he could to drown out the blaring sirens that still resounded throughout the massive ship. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the massive bulk of the huge vessel shift as it began to pick up speed, sliding forward through the cold vastness of space. He muttered a silent prayer to the sleeping Emperor, praying for his benevolence. Trying as best he could to block all thoughts of the monstrous foe from his mind, he began to recount the mission briefing he and the other officers had received before they had dropped into realspace little more than half a solar day ago. The plan seemed simple by all accounts. The Elysian 3rd, 6th and 11th were part of a massed invasion force on their way to liberate the fifth planet of the Borteth system from a two-pronged attack by the foul forces of chaos and a large tyranid invasion fleet. They were to form part of a huge ground counter-offensive, their primary mission to provide the first stages of the main Imperial assault with a base of fast-moving, hard-hitting shock troops in their efforts to liberate the planet’s main population centre, the city of Phrennec Mantris. Together with the Juntan 15th and 16th War Hawks, the 51st Vortan Paras and the fearsome zealots of the Centotrine Penitors, the Elysian regiments would provide the drop ships of the main Imperial assault with a solid core of swift, hard-hitting ground-based infantry in order to facilitate as safer landfall as could be provided for the larger, more vulnerable carriers. It was Bombola’s plan
to saturate the main landing site with light assault infantry prior
to the arrival of the main attack force. A desperate plan by all accounts, and one that in his personal opinion would no doubt result in heavy casualties throughout the advance force. Still, he was as faithful a servant of the Emperor as any, and as such would carry out his mission to the letter, no matter the cost. ‘Your thoughts, sergeant?’ He opened his eyes to see
a friendly face before him, another storm trooper sergeant whom he immediately
recognised to be his one of his oldest friends, Deucius Bellanor. ‘Praying to the Emperor already, Moneth? By the light of the Throne, that’s not like you. Mind, you always were one of the more superstitious among us.’ He laughed, landing a heavy slap on the sergeant’s knee. Hastor smiled. Bellanor referred to the time they spent together in the Schola Progenium back on St. Pinita’s World, the orphanage where the two friends had been raised. It was rare these days to see his old comrade. Indeed, it was a rarity for more than one squad to be sent to any war zone at one time. ‘It is good to see
you alive after all these years, brother.’ He smiled, extending
his hand. Bellanor took it and the two men exchanged a warrior’s
handshake, hands clasped around each other’s arm. Hastor smiled and released
his grip, flexing the fingers of his fleshless hand proudly. Bellanor shook his head,
a wide grin spread across his face. Bellanor’s expression
changed as he listened to Hastor and he fell quiet. Hastor could see
almost immediately that his old comrade shared his opinion. Hastor wiped the sweat from his face, realising perhaps for the first time just how stifling the packed hold of the Incursus was. In this chamber alone, upwards of eleven hundred men sat in wait, each one in silent, nervous anticipation of the horror to come. Whether storm trooper or guardsman, every single member of the Elysian 3rd was a hardened and seasoned veteran, the survivor of countless battles with the multitudinous enemies of the Imperium. Each and every one of them had already seen more death and conflict than most other guardsmen see in a lifetime. They had been to hell and back and they had survived. Despite this, the cavernous chamber was filled with the quiet murmur of prayer as eleven hundred souls waited uneasily for the slaughter to begin. ‘I was speaking to
Finnis earlier.’ Bellanor continued, referring to the Elysian
tactical officer’s adjutant, another of their close friends and
one whom they grew up with on St. Pinita’s World. Hastor shook his head gently;
biting his bottom lip as yet another blast rocked the huge cruiser.
Bellanor rose to his feet,
the Imperial winged skull crest of his dull grey carapace chest armour
glinting under the pale light of the chamber, his face a mask of proud
determination. Both his fists were curled tightly, not in anger but
pride. Hastor sat up as he heard this, his morale slowly returning. ‘That’s right,
Moneth, and I haven’t even begun to list the heavy support. The
Cadian 28th, 29th and 30th Armoured Fist, the Phyressian 2nd, the Macraleusian
Bombardiers, the hellhounds of the Fire Drakes…’ ‘There’s more.’ Bellanor whispered, taking a seat beside Hastor, his eyes burning with vigour. ‘Astartes, Moneth, space marines. Here, fighting alongside us. It seems high command consider the combined threat we face too great for the guard to face alone. The warriors of at least three companies follow us in, my friend. White Scars, Crimson Fists and Thunder Dragons, all lending their might to the mass assault. Yet still the intrigue runs deeper.’ Bellanor moved closer still,
his weathered features creasing as he looked deep into his old comrade’s
eyes. Hastor inhaled sharply through bared teeth, the very mention of such a being freezing his heart. He had heard tell of these unfeeling monsters, the Imperium’s ultimate killer. Fearsome unstoppable killing machines fuelled by burning hatred, the legend of the eversor was a popular story amongst the guard. To think that one of these bio-enhanced fiends would be stalking the killing fields with them sent a shudder down his spine and he mouthed a silent oath to the Emperor. That an agent of the Imperium could evoke such fear and revulsion throughout those it fought alongside was testament indeed to the terrifying reputation of the eversor temple. ‘They seek out Chaos
then.’ Hastor concluded, trying as best he could to push all thoughts
of the assassin aside. The lights of the immense chamber suddenly shifted in spectrum from pale white to red, cutting the conversation between the two sergeants short. Both men stood sharply, the carapace armour they wore grating together under the sudden movement. ‘Orders are orders, Moneth, and we have ours. We are to support the main Elysian deployment as ordered. Our primary task is to locate and destroy the enemy’s bio-artillery. We cannot allow the armour and infantry of the main assault force to fall victim to the enemy’s spore mines before they have a chance to disperse. Stay focused on the task at hand, old friend, we will win this planet back soon enough, and we will do so in the name of the blessed Emperor. May He watch over you on the field of battle.’ Bellanor extended a padded
gauntlet that Hastor gripped eagerly in his own and the two soldiers
exchanged a nod, both their faces set in a grimace of determination. He watched his old friend depart, thinking back to the days when the two of them served in the same squad. That both of them had come so far had been as much a blessing as a curse. Men who fought together shared a bond unlike any other, a bond that surpassed that of even siblings. Bellanor was more than a friend, he was a brother, linked not by their own blood but rather the blood that they had shed together in the service of the Imperium. Promotion had done what all the enemies of the Emperor could not, it had seen them separated, taken away from the familiar, enduring faces of their own squad in order to command another. Such was life within the
armies of the guard; a life filled with none of the simple comforts
afforded the other citizens of the Imperium. ‘Sir!’ Hastor looked up to see a number of familiar figures approaching him, arms laden with weaponry and equipment, pushing their way through the packed bodies of the Elysian 3rd. Nesker, Tessok, Brandbaar, Regan, Autis, Fordar, Corpo, Zith and Moranith, the men under his command. ‘Sarge, we have to go. The valkyries are prepped and ready for launch.’ Nesker announced, the old, grizzled veteran shoving his way roughly through the two-tone blue Elysian armour. Hastor snatched his equipment
from the floor of the hold and broke into a jog as he heard this, heading
out towards the rest of his men, the pace of his heart beginning to
quicken.
Hastor gripped the belt-mounted adjuster-rune of his grav-chute tightly, ready to slow his descent the moment he gave the order. His other hand braced his hellgun tight to his chest, the weapon primed and ready for the conflict ahead. Behind him the shrinking armoured hull of the Valkyrie span away, still bleeding bodies from its gaping back end. The rest of specialist squad Validus followed their commander out into the vast upper atmosphere of Daedalus, adding to the thick precipitation of bodies already plummeting towards the barren, distant ground. Staring past the screen of tactical displays and status readings that flashed across the visor of his helmet he could see nothing but thick, moisture-darkened cloud, broad and endless, obese and grey with moisture evaporated by the scorching sun. That such a barren planet as Daedalus would even have such contradictory weather conditions seemed strange to him, though in truth he didn’t give this a second thought. Bombola had chosen this site personally; recognizing the advantages the usually sparse rains of the northern hemisphere would provide his advance force with. Better that the enemy remain unaware of the presence of the attackers until they were right on top of them. A sound plan, by all accounts. Water droplets began to form in rivulets before him, streaking across the thick glass of the protective rebreather. His suit’s communicatons
array came alive at once with streaming vox-link chatter, so profuse
and fast he could scarcely make out a single audible word amongst the
auditory tumult. He began to cycle through the frequencies until he
found the familiar channel used by his own squad. He listened and for a moment
there was nothing but silence, that and the constant vibrating rumble
of the passing air. Seconds later a steady stream of voices began to
bark back in answer. Regan. Autis. Fordar. Corpo. Brandbaar. Moranith.
Zith. Nesker. Tessok. One by one they answered the sergeant’s
request, the sound of each recognisable voice bringing with it some
small flourish of relief. Thank the Emperor, his entire squad had deployed
successfully. A sudden flash of movement by his side caught his attention as something larger than a man cast its shadow across him, blotting out the glaring sun. He turned his head slowly to the left so as to prevent injury to his neck and his eyes found the source of the dark shadow. He found himself reflected in the wide, mirrored full-face pilot goggles of an Elysian, the trademark blue-grey of his fatigues instantly recognisable. The man shook and rocked as he descended, the air resisting his fall much more than Hastor’s own, encased as he was in the thick, squat armour plating of his modified bipedal Sentinel walker, surrounded and ensconced by the thick roll bars of the vehicle’s cockpit. He nodded his head and shook a fist of greeting at the sergeant as he slowly slid away out of sight, the heavy scout walker dragging him towards the planet far faster than any single soldier would find himself falling. Hastor watched as the sentinel and its human heart plummeted away out of range of his sight, the pop-burst of its specially fitted descent stabilisers sending out micro-plumes of turbo thrust all across its armoured hide as they constantly worked to keep the vehicle in its upright position. The fat grey cloud stretched as far as he was able to see now, a telltale indication of its proximity. He pushed his head forward so as to look upon the vast, moisture-laden strata below him and managed to catch a glimpse at the swirling puncture hole vortices of those who fell below him, their hurtling bodies already obscured by the thick strata. Hastor braced himself as
he prepared to do the same; not through fear of injuring himself in
connecting with the thick mists below but rather in preparation for
what would meet him beyond. Then the hell would begin. An immeasurable hail of bodies descended below him, countless squads falling through the vast lower atmosphere of Daedalus, filling the horizon as far as the eye could see. No matter how many times he had witnessed this spectacle, it never failed to take his breath away. The regal blue and grey
shock armour of the massed Elysian regiments dotted the skyline in every
direction as far as the eye could see. The vaunted, rapid-response troops
of Elysia fell in ten man squads, their practiced descent perfect and
immaculate. The contrasting reds and
oranges of the feared Centotrine Penitors, the vicious headhunting zealots
of Centotri Primus, added flashes of bright colour to the packed blue-grey
mass. He shifted his gaze and
met the descent of the Juntan Warhawks. Thousands of bodies filled the
horizon to his left with a white and violet haze as they fell, their
para-gliders catching the updrafts as they broke the thick cloud cover,
their numbers looking for all the world like some huge avian migration.
A glance to his right confirmed the presence of the feared Paras of
the Vortan 51st, yet another of the regiments involved in the landing,
the contingent responsible for the famous storming of the Dexar Moon
Palace. The air below shimmered with the collective spin of a thousand
heli-packs, their communal drone low and subsonic below him.
He cursed as a blue and grey body hurtled past, almost smashing him to a pulp as it seemed to rocket skywards. Such was the utter shock of the sudden occurrence that he found himself struggling to maintain his practiced fall and instead fought to stop himself tumbling hopelessly out of control. Much to his utter dismay others began to follow, their descent buffers whining as, one by one, the Elysian 3rd began to slow their descent. Within seconds the skies above Daedalus became an obstacle course of human bullets threatening to break him to pieces as they tore past. The Elysians were already beginning to slow their approach and in doing so, they were making a terrible mistake. Hastor cursed his guard
brethren. It was too soon! The enemy was as thick as ants down there
and by now surely knew that the assault had begun. Though the tyranids
seemed nothing more than mindless drones he knew that they shared some
deep, unfathomable intelligence, a single hive mind coordinating them
flawlessly in every move they made. Plumes of orange-red fire
blossomed far below as the preliminary bombardment of the orbiting Imperial
ships impacted with the surface of Daedalus, the vanguard of the drop
troop assault. Columns of bright explosions spread out before his eyes,
erupting across the surface of the planet beneath him, still so distant
that the thunderous cacophony of their combustion was lost to the distance.
The bombardment wouldn’t last much longer; he knew this from experience. The shelling would have to subside in order to allow the troops to land, and Hastor knew he didn’t have long. He knew that as soon as the shelling seized the attacking Imperial forces would answer to a violent retaliatory response. ‘Hastor to Validus!
Do not be swayed by the Elysian deceleration!’ he yelled desperately,
unwilling to allow those under his command to make the same inaccuracy
of judgement. Somewhere below him the sky exploded, a dull whistling detonation sending shockwaves washing over his falling form, a sound that managed to penetrate even the thick layers of protection around his ears. He rocketed past a screaming Elysian; the man’s arms flailing wildly as he came apart mid-descent. A fine mist of red particles spattered his carapace armour and something bounced wildly off his shoulder, a ragged, spinning arm that threatened to throw him into a violent spin. He cursed under his breath, his pulse quickening. It was already happening. Another explosion below him seared the arid air of the lower atmosphere, sending fragments of chitin and Elysian body armour alike into his path. The debris pinged and bounced off his carapace armour, hissing as it scorched away the paint on contact. The retaliation of the enemy had begun in earnest. He knew now that the wave of attacking guardsman didn’t have long to make landfall. The Hive Mind had sensed their approach and the living artillery had already begun to send their accursed spore mines high into the air. Though the aim of the massed creatures below was clumsy and rushed, he knew that it was only a matter of time until they began to saturate the skies with their vile living shells and exact heavy casualties amongst the lightly-armoured attackers. ‘Validus, remain calm!
Keep your heads and do not slow your descent!’ he screamed, the
sound of his own elevated voice causing his head to shudder. The return fire intensified,
shaking the breath from the startled sergeant mid-sentence. All around
him the air was burning, innumerable explosions throwing out blistering
heat and tumultuous noise as they ripped apart the Imperial descent.
He braced himself and thrust
one arm out before his eyes as one of the enemy’s spore mines
found a small Elysian mortar squad. The hurtling orb slammed into the
cylindrical drum at their centre and detonated, bathing the surrounding
soldiers in a wash of scorching heat. He opened his eyes again
and glanced around him and his gaze found the cloud of drifting explosive
orbs of the enemy artillery for the first time. Intelligence had reported
that the Tyranid spore mines were unlike any other form of bombardment
ordinance ever encountered. Instead of exploding through impact or timing
sequence the mines were proximity activated. As they drifted into the
Imperial descent they probed the surrounding air with long, tentacle-like
protrusions, detonating only when in close proximity to the enemy. The
others didn’t seem to realise that by slowing their descent, they
were increasing the chances of activating the drifting mines. The skies above Daedaulus became a living hell. They exploded and burned, filled with the screams of the dying. Hastor’s entire body shook violently as he plummeted towards the heaving ground below; his eyes squeezed tight shut. Suddenly, almost instantaneously,
the roaring explosions around him seemed to quiet and subside. He opened
his eyes again; unsure of whether or not his hearing had been affected
by the raucous din. Sure enough, scarcely able to believe his own eyes,
he saw nonetheless that the explosions about him had ceased. A shadow crept across the
skies above him, blocking out the light of the harsh Borteth sun. He
turned his head back to see a huge flapping shape gliding underneath
the bombardment above, its armoured bulk the size of a drop-shuttle.
It was a trap. The alien bastards were picking off the survivors of the spore mine attack as they fell beneath the bombardment zone. He has passed by the trap only through chance, due to his accelerated fall. The Imperial numbers beneath him were now almost nonexistent, a fact that set the alarm bells ringing inside his skull. Sooner or later he would find himself the centre of an unwelcome attention. He purged his mind of all
thoughts of the danger surrounding him and began to count, calculating
the speed of his descent and the distance between him and the surface.
He slammed his fist into
the rune on his belt and, tipping his head harshly so that the shock
pistons of his suit’s neck absorbers activated, twisted it harshly,
activating the chute’s descent buffer. Almost immediately his
entire body was slammed backwards as the grav-chute slowed his fall,
its elongated arms screeching and quivering as they fought the incredible
forces of the sudden manoeuvre. He screamed the order for his squad
to do the same, his eyelids snapping open in the same instant. Even
as his keen eyes fell across the first target he brought the hellgun’s
sight up to his face with immense effort, training the digital crosshairs
upon the rapidly growing lump of xenos mass below him. As the writhing form of the thickset creature slumped lifelessly into the soft sandy ground sergeant Hastor rose to his full height and ripped the grav-chute’s release mechanism from its housing. The heavy chute thudded to the ground behind him, no longer of any use. The emplacement’s remaining creature roared a terrible, guttural roar and began to lurch towards him, its huge paws driving into the soft earth as it advanced. He watched as the cannon on its back began to shudder, the spore within its thick trunk squirming and writhing as it matured. He clutched at the line of grenades hanging from his belt, plucked one free and primed it, ripping the safety pin out with his teeth. As his squad began to land all around him he hurled the krak grenade at the surprised beast and turned, shielding himself from the resultant explosion. ‘Fan out and find cover,
double-time!’ he roared, another nest of the foul aliens already
in his sights. The rest of his squad began to search the surrounding terrain for cover, quickly taking advantage of any they could find. Within seconds of landing on the surface of Daedalus, the men of squad Validus began to hunt. Behind him trooper Brogann
Autis broke into a hunched run the moment his feet landed, the prize
Ryzan plasma gun in his hand spitting round after round of searing death
into the nearest emplacement. He dropped a trio of the monsters in quick
succession as each hissing round thumped free of the glowing muzzle.
Barril Fordar had dropped almost right on top of an emplacement, surprising the nest of alien artillery as he landed. The intense heat of his melta-gun cooked the air as it melted and fused the unfortunate creatures together. Alien flesh ran like water as Fordar swept his meltagun across the nest again and again until nothing remained of the enemy but blackened, liquefied ash. By the time his spent grav-chute had touched the ground, another emplacement had been cleared. The grizzled veteran Fen Nesker landed amid a flurry of frag grenades, hollering and roaring as he pumped out a stream of explosive cylinders into the nearest beasts, his eyes wide with zeal. He only stopped firing when the grenade launcher in his hands ceased in its bucking convulsions, empty. Tark Regan threw himself behind a collapsed section of wall, skidding across the loose ash as he ground to a halt behind the flaking rock-crete. He glanced over the waist-high section for no more than a second; quickly ducking his head back down as he spied enemy movement. ‘We have an emplacement
here!’ he hollered, the fingers of one hand pressed against the
vox-activator fastened to the opposite wrist. He slid the flamer strapped
to his shoulder round in order to reach his belt and plucking a brace
of krak-grenades from their holding straps like fruit from the branches
of a tree. He tossed the primed grenades up and over the wall, shoving himself flat against the ground in preparation. Seconds later the crumbling partition shook as the grenades exploded, silencing another bio-artillery emplacement. For good measure the storm trooper leapt from his hiding place and scoured the smoking nest with gouts of blue-orange flame, incinerating any survivors. No enemy creature was to be allowed to live. Hastor looked about him for a moment, assessing his surroundings as methodically and logically as any storm trooper sergeant worth his salt would. They had hit paydirt. They had fallen into the enemy’s artillery line, far away from the main tyranid force. If they could hit these bastards hard and fast enough they should be able to punch a crippling hole in the enemy’s ranged attack, allowing the other elements of the invasion force to establish a strong ground deployment. All around him the other drop troops were beginning to touch down, slowly carving a gouge into the biovore line. Despite the initial heavy losses, the attack was going to plan. ‘Validus, this is Hastor.’ He voxed. ‘Let’s keep it neat and tight. We’re the first through the door and the others are right behind us, so let’s try and remember our manners. I want everyone to finish up and converge on my position, a.s.a.p. Hastor out.’ The rest of his team began
to emerge from the surrounding rubble as the first few Elysian survivors
began to touch down, their bodies low and hunched. The alien biovores
were thick on the ground here and, though they had cleared a good space
around them, there were still plenty of enemy units to throw themselves
upon. He turned his eyes skyward and watched as the shrieking mines
continued to hurtle upwards in untold numbers, vile inhuman tentacles
trailing behind like multitudinous vermin tails. Nesker stood beside him,
his chest heaving with effort. Foul gore and smouldering grenade fragments
peppered his uniform. He reached up to his face and tore his rebreather
free, casting it aside as if it were more of a hindrance than a piece
of vital equipment. Hastor was about to answer
when another of his men fell into line beside him, his rebreather already
gone. Hastor turned as he heard
this, his eyes widening. Hastor nodded in agreement.
Zith knew their foe better than other member of the squad. Before his
recruitment by the Elysian officials Zith had been a veteran trooper
serving with the Entian 15th. The rest of the squad had
begun to join them, one by one, and it was clear that each member of
Validus had seen action in the few minutes that had passed since they
had landed on the planet’s surface. Hastor had heard enough. ‘Okay, let’s
do this! Corpo, you heard the man! Get the damn navy down here to support
us!’ He barked, slinging his hellgun over his shoulder. The others began to lock and load whilst their sergeant reached down to the holster at his hip and unclipped his sidearm. He drew the plasma pistol hanging there and activated it with a flick of the thumb. His other hand reached up
and over his shoulder and, with a shrill ring, he produced a short,
thick sword, the length of a man’s arm. The blade thrummed and
vibrated slightly as it was brought to life, a hazy blue field of energy
enveloping it from hilt to tip. The large oblong canister rang as it landed, the dull resonance echoing through the packed warehouses surrounding it, its mounted grav-chute deactivating. The survivors of the Elysian squad touched down around it to the collective sound of their own discarded grav-chutes clattering to the floor as one around them. Without a word one of the
soldiers sprang at the canister and tore the access hatch away, exposing
the contents within. One by one the Elysians began to snatch the contents
up until, within seconds, the canister was empty and the four guardsmen
were ready for war. None of them did. The resultant shockwave
threw him off his feet and he landed heavily on his back amongst the
others of his squad, temporarily blinded by the blast. His vision began to clear and, ignoring the question he waved the slowly forming shapes away, pulling himself back up onto his feet. Sifting through the gathered
bodies, Hastor grabbed one of them roughly by the arm, pulling him to
the front of the group. ‘Okay, listen up. We’ve been lucky so far. We’ve all made it down in one piece. The rest of the boys are still up there and they’re getting blown to hell, so it’s up to us to try and get them down here safely. You all know what to do. Stay together and stay focused. One by one, we help the rest of the squads land safely and then leave them to their own devices, they’ll do what they do best. Follow me.’ The squad began to deploy under the direction of Hastor as the distant skies above continued to blossom in a crescendo of light and noise. Heads low, Validus began to pick their way forward, out into the melee beyond. He maneuvered the men towards a burnt out hab unit, the loose rubble underfoot crunching as they ran, their bodies stooped. As they neared the broken shell he held up a hand and they slowed. He unclipped a small, hand held device from his belt, activating it with a flick of his thumb. The auspex hummed to life,
bleeping and whining as its systems came on-line. The others waited
in silence as the sergeant began to sweep the ruins before them, making
sure that there were no hostiles hidden among the twisted rubble and
shattered window frames. The young marksman nodded and dropped to one knee, slipping the black leather case off his shoulder. He placed the case on the floor and unclipped the end, watched by the rest of the squad. He slid the powerful rifle free, whispering a prayer under his breath. Each member of the squad eyed the ancient, revered exitus rifle in silence as the sniper slipped his fingers around the grip and rose to his feet, as silent as a wraith. He nodded to the sergeant and crept over to the shattered sill of a magnificent arched window, the ornate stained glass that had once sat resplendent within it long since shattered and fallen. his prized rifle shouldered and ready. Three short, dull whispers later and the alien creatures were dead, finished off without effort or mercy. Tessok turned and nodded again and the squad continued. The team moved into the broken building, their every sense alert despite the auspex’s reassurances. After a quick sweep they joined the sergeant who was crouched behind a pulverized section of wall. They all took up positions behind him, moving as if they had received some mental command. Hastor looked up, his gaze
shifting left and right as he looked at each man in turn. A wave of confirmation erupted
across the group, each man clear on what to do. Hastor tipped his head
in response, satisfied. As one, the squad exploded from the ruins like a tidal surge, pouring over the low section and into the shuffling herd-mass, a salvo of whistling frag grenades preceding them. Hastor was first into the enemy, his plasma pistol glowing as it hammered huge, smouldering craters into alien flesh. His power sword hummed as he swept it from left to right, carving a viscous swathe before him. Thick limbs and gaping-jawed heads flew in all directions, separated by the irresistible blade. ‘Into them, lads! For the Emperor!’ he roared, pressing forward, unstoppable and unopposed. Nesker, Autis and Regan broke away to the left and began to cut a huge bloody chunk out of the massed biovores, their collective weaponry blasting bodies apart as they advanced. Nesker’s grenade launcher bucked and shuddered as he pumped a stream of frag grenades into the packed enemy, their heavy numbers proving deadly under such an onslaught. Bright waves of searing fire washed over the creatures as each grenade exploded in their midst, killing three and four at a time. Autis and his plasma gun added to the slaughter, smashing apart body after body as if they were made of the softest clay, each hissing shot punching through one body and into the next with the power of a miniature sun and continuing on until the vast energies at its centre were exhausted. The Ryzan plasma gun he wielded was deadly enough to punch a hole through armoured steel. The chitinous bodies of the biovores didn’t stand a chance. Regan braced himself and unleashed a huge gout of roaring flame into the mass. Aliens screamed as they burned, enveloped by the withering flames. He swept the flamer before him and the flailing fire washed over the enemy like an angered snake, igniting all it touched. Those unfortunate enough to find themselves in the path of the fire howled and thundered out into the rest of the massed broods, their flaming bodies setting fore to others as they lumbered on. ‘Brandbaar, with me!
Zith! Moranith! Corpo! Follow us, hellguns at the ready! I want a continuous
wall of suppressing fire as we advance! Let the others saturate the
area with wide-effect ordnance! Tessok, keep those eyes open!’
Hastor hollered, charging forward. Hastor and Brandbaar continued
to carve their way through the bewildered beasts, the hissing red stiletto
las blasts of the others stabbing through the air about them. Hastor jumped back as one
of the monsters swung its fist into the ground where he had stood a
heartbeat before, the huge driving into the soft earth with the force
of a thunder hammer. He raised his pistol and blew the creature’s
brains out of the back of its head for its troubles. Hearing Corpo’s voice he turned, gazing out across the sea of alien filth before him. Sure enough he spied a squad of Elysians touching down, their lasguns blazing as they fought to clear a landing zone around them. ‘Move it! Brandbaar, on point with me! Tessok, cover us!’ he snapped, his boot crunching into the face of the nearest animal. As one the squad began to pummel their way through the enemy to where the stricken Elysians had begun to land, surrounded by the baying biovores. He jumped as an Elysian
sentinel came down hard, its double-jointed legs buckling under the
impact. The squat walker squealed and groaned as it stumbled forward,
its cockpit dangerously low to the ground, the damaged grav-chute ports
on its back hissing and fizzing. ‘Imperials! Hold your
fire!’ Hastor hollered, carving his way through the shifting mass.
With one almighty lunge he drove forward and broke through the flailing
biovores, his advance bringing him face to face with the Elysian squad’s
sergeant. Foul-smelling alien ichors
coated him from head to foot, his uniform glistening with the stinking
fluids. He rose to his feet and thrust his pistol out before him, releasing
a bright, burning blast that passed over the Elysian sergeant’s
shoulder so close that it singed his guard plate. The lunging biovore
behind screeched and dropped to the floor, its chest shattered and burning.
‘Listen to me if you want to live through this. You’re down to eight men. Two on point, equipped for close quarter fighting, pistols and blades. Three at the rear, two marksmen, one guard. The marksmen will keep their eyes open for spores; the other will watch their backs. That will leave three of you to add firepower to the advance of the point men. Move, and may the Emperor watch over you.’ The shocked Elysian simply
nodded, stunned by the arrival of the storm troopers. It took him several
seconds before he was able to gather his wits and begin to organize
the men under him. Hastor wheeled round as
he heard this, reacting faster than thought. Tessok was standing at
the rear of the group, the barrel of his rifle flashing as it recoiled.
A wash of concussive heat from behind rocked him, causing him to stagger
forward. The squad began to head towards cover, leaving the Elysians to their own devices. Hastor and Brandbaar hacked and slashed their way through the opposition whilst the others continued to blow huge chunks in the lumbering horde. ‘Sarge! Straight ahead!’
‘Damn it!’ Hastor cursed, breaking into a sprint. The rest of the squad clenched their teeth and followed without a word. Hellguns flashed as they spat glowing stiletto death at the swarming creatures, punching through tough, alien hide as if it were nothing. Brandbaar rolled across
his vision, his blackened blade slicing through the neck of raging biovore.
A cold, consummate killer, that was how he saw his ominous scout. Of
all his men, Brandbaar was perhaps the furthest removed of the group.
The scout leapt high into the air as a huge talon-paw swept by under him, too quick for the bellowing creature. As he landed he put a bolt round through the biovore’s face, its brains scattering out across the loose sand behind it. Hastor lunged forward and joined the fray, thrusting with the power sword. Another wretched creature fell to the floor, convulsing and flailing as its innards cooked. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of thanks to the Him On The Throne. Of all the myriad monstrosities
that made up the tyranid swarm, he knew that these living artillery
pieces were by far the slowest, the most cumbersome of all the base
organisms. A shudder went through him as he imagined the horror and
death that would have met them had any of the other broods been stalking
these warehouses at the time of their arrival. He leapt over a smashed section of wall and landed before the struggling soldiers, the bright, hissing las-blasts of the others fizzing through the air around him, taking the head off an advancing beast as he did so. The Elysians before him turned and began to haul their lasguns around to face the threat, cursing under their breath as they forced themselves to stop before opening fire. ‘Damn it! Where are
your spotters?’ He snapped, striding forward. The men nearest
to him backed away slightly, startled by the storm trooper’s terse
words. He dropped his weapons to
the floor and, accompanied by Brandbaar, braced himself against the
bulk of the canister, the rest of his squad spreading out around and
behind him, their weapons barking. The rest of the Elysian squad saw
this and joined the two men, renewing their efforts to overturn the
protesting metal box. Within moments the large canister groaned and
overturned, crashing to the floor with a muffled thud. Regan’s ash-blackened
face appeared over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes slowly widening.
One by one, the three two-man heavy weapons teams hauled their heavy bolters out onto the soil of Daedalus, the stunted support legs at the head of each huge weapon unfurling automatically with a whine as they slammed onto the floor. Boxes of belt-fed shells were hauled into place, thrown open and emptied within seconds, the auto-feed of each powerful gun clunking as it gripped the ammo belt tightly in its teeth. ‘Emperor be praised.’ Hastor whispered, watching with silent satisfaction as each gun roared to life, shuddering and bucking as it exploded with auto-reactive death. The biovores around them exploded in a mist of gore as the screaming rounds found them, almost as if blown apart from the inside out. Bodies and limbs were shredded
into mist, vaporised by the horrific power of the assault. Some of the
beasts tried in vain to flee, throwing themselves around in an attempt
to escape, their efforts ultimately futile. Within less than a minute,
the area around the emplacement was devoid of alien life. Just then a noise startled the gathered soldiers. A high-pitched hydraulic whine cut through the air, accompanied by the crump-hiss of something much larger than a man approaching. They turned to find the source of the noise as a large shadow fell over the group. The thick, sloping canopy
face of a sentinel loomed over the broken wall behind them, its side-mounted
multimelta humming with nascent power. The reflective facemask of the
pilot appeared, barely able to see past the guard and roll bars of the
vehicle. Hastor followed the retreating
vehicle as far as the wall. A steadily growing sea of familiar bodies filled the horizon before him, shifting and churning as each man struggled to find his feet. Elysian heavy weapons teams threw themselves to the floor, fingers tight around the triggers of their weapons. Sniper teams hunted in twos, peppering the terrain before them with powerful needle rifle fire as their spotters found each new target. Sentinels stalked amongst the ruins, pulverizing the shadows with their awesome mounted weaponry. Lasfire criss-crossed the air in every direction, filling the atmosphere with the stink of ozone. The attacking forces were starting to gain the upper hand. A squad of Vortan Paras screamed by overhead like a swarm of huge insects, the blades of their heli-packs droning loudly, the bright blasts of their twin, shoulder-mounted lasguns stabbing through the air. To his left he watched as a huge group of crazed Penitors had congregated and then leapt and danced amongst the outnumbered aliens, their ritual shock flails humming and glowing like flashlights caught in a hurricane as they twirled and spun through the charged air about them. ‘This will do fine.’
He announced, stepping down from the elevated position, satisfied that
the landing was successfully underway. As Corpo began to fiddle
with the comm-link Hastor gestured to the others, pointing out over
the sill at the terrain beyond. The others peered over the
ruined sill and out across the devastated expanse before them. Further into the horizon
they could just make out the massive hab-spikes of Phrennec Mantris,
the capital city of Daedalus. It was here that the last remaining inhabitants
of the planet still put up a brave defence, holding off the attacking
swarms by the skin of their teeth. Despite their bravery, they had little
time left. Indeed, for all the Imperial forces knew, they were already
dead. Hastor couldn’t understand
why, yet he always followed his orders without hesitation. Besides which,
he had his suspicions. Whatever plan Bombola had, he was sure that the warmaster knew what he was doing. Finath finished the task he had been concentrating on and bowed his head, muttering the liturgy of completion. He smiled as the console before him began to purr, satisfied that the machine spirits had been sufficiently appraised. Somewhere behind him his
heard a rush of compressed air and became aware of a flash of pale light,
albeit temporarily. He turned, just in time to see the door of the chamber
slide closed once more and his eyes met a lone figure, obscured by the
darkness of the room. The figure stepped forward
into the chamber and became partially visible under the blanket of runes
about him, his stern face illuminated by the multicoloured strobes of
light. Finath stepped to one side in order to allow the campaign’s commander to step up to the illuminated crypt in the centre of the chamber. Bombola stopped short of the oblong crypt, his face level with the screen-sized viewing port set into its thick adamantine shell. His eyes met those of the being within and he shuddered briefly, quickly disguising this involuntary act by muttering something about the temperature of the room. ‘The last of the Procedures of Preparation are underway as we speak, my lord. He is ready for programming. I am about to initiate the primary neural link. Are you satisfied with the orders as they stand? No last minute changes?’ Bombola shook his head;
his eyes still fixed firmly on the sleeping assassin entombed before
him. ‘Eversor 317. His last mission was ten years ago, on the ice planet Curtsch Nubulus. He was sent to kill on Ork Warlord, his name escapes me. He decimated the entire war council of the enemy force in little under a day, as I remember. He is a proven warrior who has undergone many missions dating back hundreds of years, and for sixty of those years I have attended him. He is a fearsome creation and I am confident he will do the Emperor proud.’ Bombola nodded and turned his attention back towards the cryogenically frozen being. Though in deep stasis the assassin’s eyes were wide open, two piercing orbs of seething hatred staring lifelessly out into the chamber. Bombola dared not think about the inhuman anger that boiled and twisted behind them. ‘Does he have a name?’ Bombola turned to the Adept
and half-smiled, a look of satisfaction creeping across his powerful
features. The spies he had sent forward had managed to confirm the presence
of another of the Imperium’s ancient and powerful enemies, one
that had escaped the clutches of both the Inquisition and the military
for centuries. The Eversor would see to that. ‘I prey you are right, Adept Finath.’ Bombola whispered, turning to face the frail Adept. ‘If what we know is true, he may yet be the salvation of us all.’
A whooping cheer rose up as the huge beast fell from the skies and slammed into the rubble-strewn ground nose first, decimating the remnants of a walled transport stockade in its death-skid. Already dead, it carved a deep gouge in the rock-crete as it ploughed along the ground before its vast body finally ground to a halt, its monstrous wings broken and trailing behind it, smouldering leather membranes peppered with blast holes. The jubilant guardsmen scattered around it waved, saluted and threw a rain of helmets up into the air as the victorious brace of marauders thundered past, screaming out across the ruins of the complex and into the distant skies beyond. Another foul harridan knocked from the skies, another victory in the name of the exalted Emperor. Hastor watched in brooding silence as the surrounding guardsmen cheered and applauded, yet he could allow himself no such celebration. He turned away, lowering his heavy eyes. The campaign to liberate
the stricken planet was still in its primary stages. The straggling
biovore hordes had been wiped out. The flying terrors of the harridan
genus had more or less been taken care of, thanks to the navy’s
swift response. The multitude drop ships
and troop carriers still continued to descend, looking for all the world
like a vast swarm of fat, hulking wingless flies lining the skies as
far as the eye could see, humming and droning as they came in to land.
Cavernous edifices spewed forth lines of rumbling armour out onto the surface, vast convoys of tanks and personnel craft that churned the ground beneath their tracks to choking dust as they emerged. At least now the brave advance forces of the initial attack drop were at last beginning to be bolstered by the heavier elements of the Imperial war machine. Behind the huge leviathan craft of the tank legions came the smaller, more compact valkyrie assault ships, thundering earthwards on plumes of bright fire. He observed their descent for a while, pondering their presence. These small, compact drop ships were a regular sight to him. Purpose-built, specialist strike craft, the ubiquitous valkyrie was a common sight amongst the Guard legions, and storm troopers in particular the length and breadth of the Imperium. That they were being brought down to the planet’s surface now that the primary assault had already taken place was a mystery. Their holds were empty, for the massed manpower of the crusade was to be found packed into the bulbous bellies of the many troop carriers that accompanied their descent, filled to bursting with the faceless men and women of the Guard. Given the presence and numbers of the assault craft descending before him, he could only assume that the warmaster had other plans for the vast numbers of storm troopers here on Daedalus. He turned away from the
landing fields and his eyes fell upon the rumbling, clanking tanks of
the Phyressian 2nd, a line of armoured battle engines rolling forth
from the hold of one of the massive carriers. Aquilus’ command tank, the Swift Retribution was a special leman russ variant armed with twin-linked lascannons. It was a popular rumour that the Great Wolf Kurn Drunas of the Space Wolves had given it to him after the battle of Fortan’s Moon where the Phyressian 2nd had saved the 3rd Company from certain death at the hands of the tau. Led by Aquilus, the vast
company poured out of the hold of the huge ship in one massive column,
the green-grey and contrasting Imperial purple of their armoured hides
filling the landing zone before him as far as he could see. He watched
for a moment as the massed armour began to disperse, spreading out across
the scorched rockcrete expanses that pockmarked the dusty sector in
perfect formation. Even he could not fail to be impressed by such an
uplifting sight. The imposing urban-grey
war machines of the Bombardiers lined the right hand side of the landing
zone, filling the ruined commercia upon which they had deployed as far
as the naked eye could see. Awesome baneblade and shadowsword superheavy
tanks gunned their engines as their crews checked systems and primed
weaponry. Hastor stifled a gasp as he looked upon the hulking war machines,
at first mistaking them for habitation buildings, such was their legendary
size. Surrounding the imposing
war engines was an enormous corral of siege engines the likes of which
were rarely seen in such numbers on any one battlefield, Phylene’s
personal collection of siege artillery. Down one side of the strip
waited a huge line of basilisk mobile ordinance engines and griffon
siege mortars, the more commonly found siege weaponry of the Imperium.
At the centre of the Macralieusian
forces General Phylene himself could just be made out, standing aloft
on the turret of his stormhammer command tank, the Defender of the Throne,
conducting the efforts of his men passionately and with fierce pride. The Volunteers of the 15th Yamin patrolled the borders of the landing site ensconced within their infamous sentinel walkers, the bipedal machines lurching and striding as they stalked through the ruined buildings of the perimeter, weaving through the many automated tarantula sentry guns guarding the line. Rattling skulls and captured totems swung and clanged against the roll bars of their vehicles, gruesome talismans taken from their fallen enemies in battle. It was said that the feudal warriors of the 15th Yamin were so skilled in the use of these machines that when they fought in battle they were as agile and deadly as any seasoned foot soldier. Indeed, one of the most celebrated modifications of the Yamin sentinels was the ceremonial power claw fitted to the underside of the vehicle’s nose, a weapon that the Volunteers used to great effect in combat. Whereas the other regiments favoured the sentinel as a scout vehicle, the Yamin did not. They were a proud and martial people, preferring to face the enemy up close rather than attack from a distance. Hastor watched the long-legged bipedal walkers as they scouted the perimeter, proud and unafraid. Each sentry gun they passed spun harshly on its axis to face them, the automatic vigilance of the machines’ logic engines investigating each potential threat. It would only take a second for the sentry’s systems to recognise the Imperial ident-code of the passing machines and the tarantula in question would turn its attentions back towards the enemy lines, satisfied that the walkers were no threat to them. ‘Colonel Vorpax.’ Hastor and his men saluted
stiffly as the colonel approached, those that had been sat rising to
their feet sharply as if physically provoked.. Vorpax looked like hell. His carapace armour was dented and buckled in a dozen places, charred and blackened in a dozen more. It looked for all the world as if he had been hit with a sledgehammer across his left shoulder. His grey and blue fatigues were ripped in a number of places and he was covered from head to toe in ichor and ash dust. The thin stripe of hair down the centre of his head was almost solid, matted with blood both alien and human. Vorpax seemed to notice Hastor’s concerned stare and his scarred mouth twisted into a smile. ‘We hit the ground hard, harder than we should have. If we’d have continued to slow at the rate we did then we would all be dead. We were damn lucky. It seems you storm trooper boys are a little more…flexible …when it comes to attack methodology.’ The colonel’s voice
began to change, rising in tone as the smile began to fade. The hard edge soon left his eyes, sinking back into him like a retreating shadow. His fading smile began to slowly return, almost as if apprehensive of its owner’s simmering mood. Hastor could see that the colonel was cut up about the losses sustained here today, losses he would no doubt take personally. ‘Those filthy biovores may be slow but by the Holy Crusade they’re tough to take down close-quarters. They’re slow as hell but as thick-skinned as a grox. The lasguns did okay but it’s hard to target eyes and knee joints with an M36 assault shotgun, that much we found out to our cost. Still, by the Emperor’s grace, most of us made it in one piece. It would seem, sergeant, that the counter-invasion is officially underway.’ Hastor nodded respectfully,
sure that the Elysian colonel had approached him for reasons other than
the mere engagement of idle chat. Sure enough, Vorpax soon confirmed
the sergeant’s suspicions. Vorpax turned and dismissed
his bodyguard with a wave of his hand. The glowering group tipped their
heads as one and turned to leave without uttering a word. Hastor turned
to his men and nodded, flashing them a wink of reassurance as he did
so. Loyal servants or no, this did not sound good. ‘Problems, sir?’ ‘Don’t look so worried, sergeant. You and your boys did good out there today. You did your Emperor proud, as always. First on the ground, so I hear.’ Hastor simply nodded. He had always been uncomfortable receiving praise. Vorpax saw this and smiled,
turning away to look out at the vast landing fields surrounding them.
He shifted uncomfortably
as he heard this. Reputations were best left to the characters of the
Imperial war machine. ‘Relax, sergeant. The lord general does not seek an audience.’ Vorpax assured him, shaking his head. ‘No, Bombola will be staying on board the Iratus Manus for the duration of this war. I merely mention that he knows of Validus and you’re your achievements. Indeed, the lord general’s favour does have its advantages. Nowhere else within the armies of the Emperor is any other squad allowed to express such doctrinal freedom. I know of no other storm trooper squad that has access to such an abundance of firepower. You and your men have earned that right, Hastor. No, there are other matters that require your attention.’ He frowned as he heard this,
the ominous feeling within his gut growing. He paused for a moment, almost as if unwilling to continue. ‘Go on. This discussion
is between the two of us, no one else.’ Vorpax whispered, sincere
in his assurances. Hastor turned to face him and held out a hand, gesturing
slowly about him. Vorpax nodded slowly as
Hastor voiced his concerns, his demeanour never once altering. His expression
was unreadable, a complete blank. This only served to elevate the sergeant’s
concern. Hastor could tell that the colonel seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. He was an Imperial officer, one of the figureheads of the campaign. It would not bode well for him were he seen to be openly questioning the warmaster’s judgement. ‘I sense you also have your reservations. Daedalus is by no means an important planet. True, it does form the lynchpin of this subsystem, though in truth I fail to see why this particular backwater subsystem is so important in itself. The entire Profundo Cluster is scarcely more than a stellar desert, a barren expanse of space in an otherwise fertile Imperium. Why…’ His voice trailed off into
silence, leaving the sentence unfinished. Despite their long association,
it was as though the colonel had suddenly remembered that Hastor was
merely a sergeant, and that such discussions were unseemly. Hastor stepped in through the low doorway after Vorpax. He removed his helmet and stared into the gloomy tent, allowing his vision a moment to adjust in the murky dimness of the stifling interior. Outside the sounds of heavy shelling could still be heard, a grim reminder that the tyranids of this sector were still engaged in conflict with the landing forces. As his vision began to adjust he became aware of a number of shadowed figures standing at the far end of the tent, still partially obscured by the shadows. He tensed, concern beginning to grow within his mind. Hesitant at first, he began to move further into the temporary command post and as he did so the shapes began to form, illuminated by the soft lighting at its centre. He could see a number of familiar shapes seated around the centre of the tent, storm trooper sergeants from a number of squads, around fifteen in total. Whatever the warmaster had in store for them was big.
Hastor glanced around the gloomy command tent in silence. Many recognisable faces stared back, some he knew as old friends, others as those of the campaign’s commanders. Aside from Vorpax and a number of other sergeants seated there, he recognised two of the men immediately. Jontor Merith Aquilus, commander
of the Phyressian 2nd armoured company saluted back. A tall, imposing man swathed
in billowing black robes stepped forward, his presence causing the quiet
conversation that floated through the space to die down. His hands were
lost inside the sleeves of the long cowl and his face was barely visible.
‘I am Inquisitor Devan
Vorkohnen.’ The towering man purred, his voice deep and echoing,
almost as if it originated from somewhere outside his own body. ‘Emperor preserve me…’
He whispered, shivering despite the nauseating warmth of the wraith-like
caress. The robed figure smile soon faded and he seemed to shudder for a fleeting moment, gritting his teeth as if beset by some deep ache. He glanced around the room at the other commanders, a look of concern upon his imposing face. ‘It grows stronger. By His holy light, the abomination calls to them. We are running out of time. The Imperial invasion must press on. Gentlemen, let us get down to business.’ Hastor turned and glanced at the men around him. They were clearly shaken by the Inquisitor’s foreboding words. Witchcraft of any kind was never easily accepted within the Imperium and the Inquisitor reeked of it. He shook these thoughts
from his head and turned his attention back towards the gathered storm
troopers around him. He smiled as he recognised the third face to his
left and his old friend Bellanor smiled back, clearly pleased to see
that he had made it safely to the surface of the planet. Along with Bellanor, Hastor
and Hoolias had served in the same squad years before, under an old,
fiery sergeant named Rayner. Serving with these men had been the making of him, the making of them all. Hoolias and Bellanor had saved his life more times than he could ever remember, and he had reciprocated this many, many times. No matter what lay in store for them here on Daedalus, Hastor was glad of their presence. Colonel Vorpax moved into
the centre of the room and activated a small device set into the table
before him. Numerous runes began to pulse and flicker upon the surface
of the device and a flickering map of blue light appeared in the air,
illuminating and displacing the floating dust particles that hovered
lazily above the table. Hastor was immediately impressed
by the sheer size of the fortress-city, although he more than understood
why Phrennec Mantris had been designed the way it had. The inhabitants of the planet had designed the city to be one vast fortress-complex, an oasis of safety in this otherwise dangerous system. Phrennec Mantris was designed to be completely self-sufficient and held within its walls all manner of farms and food processing refineries as well as vast silo complexes housing emergency food, medical and munitions supplies. Most famous of all were
the city’s defences, their unique design legendary among the Imperial
inhabitants of the sector. Phrennec Mantris boasted an array of powerful
and advanced weapons systems, all designed and configured to deal with
the almost constant threat of invading forces. The pylons themselves were rumoured to be psychically sensitive conduits, constructs that were rumoured to leech psychic energy from the very warp itself. They emitted a frightening and immensely powerful burst of energy whenever a supposed enemy strayed too close to the city walls, whether by air or by land. As he contemplated these ancient and potent pieces of arcane Mechanicus technology, he found himself beginning to grow uneasy. Colonel Vorpax appeared by the side of the holo-display, brandishing a small pointing stick. He began to gesture towards the bottom of the pulsing photonic light map at a multitude of flashing icons and the subsequent ream of information that continued to roll down the left hand side of the zone. ‘The main astartes attack force is already deployed and approaching their positions, Inquisitor.’ Vorpax announced, his scarred face lit by the glowing display as he pored through the information before him. ‘Distracted by the
main Imperial invasion force, the enemy weren’t expecting the
arrival of the astartes. The space marines were able to deploy safely
south of Phrennec Mantris, the last known location of the World Eaters.
The audience surrounding
the colonel remained silent, yet there was clearly an air of unease
about the command tent. ‘I had already feared
as much, colonel.’ Vorkohnen seethed, his low, rumbling voice
nevertheless loud and potent even at such a level. Vorkohnen paused for a moment, closing his eyes. The air around him seemed to shimmer and whisper, snaking tendrils of hazy light wreathing his grey skull. More witchcraft, Hastor thought. ‘The tyranids sense
it too.’ He whispered, his eyes still closed. ‘Something
attracts them like a moth to a flame. Suddenly Vorkohnen seemed to shudder, a brief and involuntary movement. Behind him a number of the shrouded, obscured astropaths that were part of the mission command also paused, some emitting quiet gasps while others let out more audible moans. Almost in the same instant one of the many systems operators that lined the workstations of the command post rose from his seat, a look of jubilation upon his pallid face. ‘Inquisitor, we have just received word from Imperial Navy Command. The splinter fleet’s norn queen has been disabled. The tyranid invasion force is now no longer self-sustainable.’ Vorkohnen glanced up as
he heard the words, his eyes running across the gathered figures before
him. The astropaths behind him began to chatter and murmur, their slight, wispy voices all but inaudible to the others. Vorkohnen listened for a moment before nodding and turning to face the assembly before him. ‘As I suspected, the
death of the queen has also provided us with another advantage. Without
the powerful psychic presence of the queen to amplify the signal, the
unknown presence is no longer able to project its call beyond the dampening
effects of the pylons. ‘Thank you Inquisitor.’ ‘There are forces at
work here on Daedalus that threaten the very fabric of the Imperium.
This is no ordinary military engagement. ‘Tuvius. Remphine.
DesCharris. Limm. Sintaar. Helphonne. Greiss. Hastor. Jubiaz. Montessorax.
Bellanor. Hoolias. Zeph, Rangillies. Noorwater.’ ‘Fifteen men, fifteen
of the finest veteran sergeants this campaign has. Each one of you command
ten highly-trained men, fighting machines that have seen more action
in battle than anyone I know. Proud, brave warriors of the Imperium,
the Emperor’s finest. Hastor listened intently as Vorpax began to underline the plan. Though stopped short by the nigh-impenetrable Praesidium pylons the space marines had nonetheless been successful in attracting the attention of the occupying World Eaters, meaning that the impending guard assault would be virtually unexpected. There were two main gates
into the city. The astartes had converged upon the South Gate and in
doing so had drawn the traitor forces to them, leaving the much larger
North Gate all-but unguarded. ‘Colonel, sir?’ Vorpax turned as he heard
the voice, finding Hastor’s inquisitive face amongst the gathering.
Surprisingly, Vorpax seemed
pleased with this question. He moved over to the hovering holo-display
behind him and picked up the device’s remote handset. He pressed a number of the runes littered across its surface and the image warped, transforming before their eyes into a grainy pict-recording. The image itself was blurred and unfocused at first, surrounded and flanked by all manner of statistical data and information. As the men watched the image slowly sharpened to reveal a scene of horrific, heart-stopping carnage and destruction. ‘This recording was
taken yesterday by a long-range sat-drone.’ He informed them,
gesturing towards the busy, teeming melee beside him. A blurred tide of bone and green swirled and surged before the gates, the noise they emitted almost deafening. Before them stood the huge gates of the entrance, only the bottom third of the mighty armoured gates visible. Lurid blue flashes of lightning forked and coruscated from somewhere high above them, slamming into the massed creatures like the grasping, probing fingers of some huge, nameless god. Whatever the lightning touched turned to a haze of wet mist almost instantaneously, combusting and bursting apart within seconds of coming into contact with the ethereal whips and arcs. All fell before the warp-generated storm, from the lowliest of the countless soldier organisms to the mightiest of the tank-sized xenobeasts. Nothing was able to penetrate the awesome defences of the city and the mighty Tyranid army fell about in disarray, unable to do nothing except die. Vorpax turned to the watching veterans and gestured towards the screen with the stick, pointing out key elements as such as Carnifexes and Hive Tyrants as they died, vaporised as quickly and easily as their smaller siblings. ‘As you can see, the
pylons are still operational and as such the tyranids were unable to
penetrate the city. Indeed, it is known that Phrennec Mantris has already
survived one tyranid attack in the past, around three hundred years
ago. Vorpax flicked another rune and the screen changed again, back to an aerial map of the city and its surrounding hab zones and factory complexes. Hastor watched as Vorpax lifted the pointing stick and began to gesture towards a number of small amber runes across the length of the gate, some fifteen lights in total. Even as the realisation of what the lights meant hit him, Vorpax had already begun to explain the plan. ‘Here is where you
come in. As soon as the pylons are deactivated, General Phylene and
his war engines will begin bombardment of the gate. Our best tacticians
and lexmechanics assure us that to do so prior to the pylon grid’s
deactivation would be futile, as they are able to repel all but the
most powerful of siege ordinance. ‘You will be the vanguard
of the invasion, gentlemen. Your work will allow the rest of the massed
Imperial forces to enter the city unmolested, close the trap and suffocate
the b*****d Karkattamorg and his vile followers. ‘This display shows
the current movements of the tyranid force. The indicators range in
size to give us some idea of the genus of the different broods and where
they currently are. ‘Soldiers of the Emperor, I know I can trust you all. Bombola knows he can trust you. Colonel Vorpax here tells me he would trust each and every one of you with his life and I sense he tells the truth. You are the best this campaign has. I know you will do the Emperor proud.’ Hastor remained stiff and silent, unflinching save for the slow rotation of his head as he worked out a crick in his tired neck. Vorkohnen bowed his head and stepped away from the centre of the room, deactivating the holo-display as he did so. Vorpax took his place and approached the men with sharp, confident strides. ‘That is all for now. Go and brief your men and then we will contact you with more details. You are all dismissed.’ Each of the fifteen officers rose to their feet and saluted before turning to exit the tent single-file. +++ ‘I don’t like
it.’ ‘I don’t like
it.’ He repeated, wiping the thick barrel of the weapon with an
oiled rag. ‘This mission doesn’t sit right. It doesn’t
add up. We don’t even know what it is we’re being sent to
find, all we know is that we have to wade through hell to find it.’ ‘Doesn’t mean
anything to us, Zith. They’re all just bugs to us.’ Tessok
answered, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Oh, you’d better pray we never have to face one of those things. Imagine the biggest, nastiest Dreadnought you’ve ever met. He doesn’t even come close. All claws and teeth, that’s a carnifex. I’ve seen one of those boys rip apart a leman russ as if it was made of paper, and that was without even breaking his stride. If you ever meet a Carnifex face to face, you’d better run.’ ‘Hey Zith, you’re
wandering again. What about Old One Eye?’ Brandbaar asked, leaning
closer to Zith, eager to learn more. ‘So, are you saying that this ‘Old One Eye’, whatever it is, is here on Daedalus? Is that what we’re meant to find? Some giant monstrosity?’ Tessok asked, his voice tinged with apprehension. Zith smiled and shook his
head; his concentration still fixed upon the small book in his hands. The men looked up as Hastor
joined them, saluting the sergeant as they became aware of his presence.
The men returned to their duties, stripping and checking their equipment and weaponry. Hastor stepped into the circle of bodies and pulled up an empty ammunition crate to sit on. ‘Listen, about this mission.’ He began, sitting himself down. ‘You all know how dangerous this is going to be. You all also know how vital this mission is, not only to this planet but also to the entire Imperium. We have to do this. We are the best this campaign has.’ He shifted his weight, struggling to make himself comfortable on the hard wooden crate. ‘The astartes have
already begun their assault on the city. They have converged upon the
South Gate, drawing the enemy forces to them. The fact that the chaos
force consists of World Eaters may work to our advantage. Those boys
don’t like being cooped up behind thick, safe walls. ‘Thing I can’t
figure out is why?’ Nesker piped up, his gruff voice rumbling
through the air. ‘I know, Nesker, and I agree with you. None of this makes sense, and that is why we must do what we can to find out what is going on here. We live to serve the Emperor, boys, and that’s what we’re here to do.’
‘Emplacement 25-Gamma fully operational. No hostile activity reported.’ The Cadian trooper replaced
the handset of the portable comm-link, taking time to glance across
the silent terrain before him for a moment. He sighed and reached into his top jacket pocket, producing a small white stick. He put the object in his mouth and lit it, exhaling a wisp of swirling smoke out into the cool air. ‘Want one?’ he asked, turning to face the silent, heavily-augmented servitor unit standing behind him. The servitor remained still and ignorant, its normal human responses long burned away to be replaced by a machine’s cold, hard logic. ‘Good.’ Vesk declared, wafting the smoking stick before him nonchalantly. ‘I didn’t feel like sharing anyway.’ Vesk had been a guardsman
all his adult life. At thirty-four he found himself amazed that he had
lasted this long, still alive and largely unscathed despite the tremendous
amount of conflict he had been thrown into over the years. He peered at his own body, turning his hands and arms over in the air before him as he contemplated his luck. One hundred percent Vesk, he mused, everything where it should be. Suddenly the tarantula emplacement beside him jerked, almost causing the soldier to jump out of his skin. He gasped and threw the smoking stick to the floor, driving it into the soft ash with his boot while at the same time grabbing the lasgun that hung from his shoulder. He bounded sideways, throwing himself behind the nearby cover of a heap of sandbags and slamming the lasgun down hard on the pile, its muzzle pointing out into the empty surroundings. The automatic gun beside him whirred and beeped as it swept from left to right, hunting for some unseen target, the twin heavy bolters it wielded rattling and clicking as the machine spirit cycled and armed them. ‘Please be a malfunction…Please be a malfunction…’ the Cadian repeated, mimicking the sentry gun’s movements with his own, his eyes wide with terror. Behind him the servitor coolly moved its head in time with the machine it had been programmed to guard, scouring the wreckage littered area before it with bionic, red-lens eyes. Suddenly and without warning
the tarantula stopped. He listened in amazement as the machine’s
internal servos powered down, their decreasing whine fading into silence.
The trooper sighed and hauled
himself to his feet, shaking his head. Cursing silently, Vesk made his way over to the smouldering remains of his smoking stick, letting out a long sigh of displeasure as he looked down upon the crushed remains. ‘Useless piles of junk.’ He repeated, driving his boot through the loose ash beneath him. ‘That was my last one.’ The disgruntled Cadian threw the servitor and the tarantula a curt hand gesture as he left them and headed out across the abandoned yard towards the next emplacement, his curses fading as he dropped out of sight. Behind him, hidden deep in the shadows of the gutted storage outhouse the dusty air shifted and rippled, moving slowly as if alive. It had found them. +++ ‘Hey sarge, what’s
the deal here?’ Brandaar began, hefting a heavy ammunition crate
up through one of the side doors of the armoured vehicle. ‘ He made his way over to a pile of crates beside the flyer and placed one on top of the other. He pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it, placing it on top of the elevated crate. It was a map, showing the
schematics and layout of the city walls. As the others began to gather
round, he began to outline the plan. The others smiled and nodded
in agreement, their light-hearted banter masking their relief. Old rivalries
aside, it was good to know that at least they wouldn’t be going
it alone. He folded the map back up
and placed it in his pocket. The others groaned and shook
their heads, a reaction Hastor had more than expected from them. It was one of his prime principles, something he always told the new additions to his squad. Belief in victory over the enemies of the Emperor was paramount, a fact he could not deny. This aside, he never allowed his men to grow complacent, even if the mission before them seemed a simple one. Complacency when facing enemies of the Imperium led to nothing save for defeat. ‘So what about this ‘thing’ we have to find. Any idea what it is yet?’ The others echoed Fordar’s
question, causing Hastor to shake his head slowly. Zith nodded, confident in
his abilities. Hastor was about to continue
when he noticed Nesker staring over his shoulder, a look of disdain
set into the old veteran’s features. Hastor turned as he heard this, his eyes meeting with a cold, calculating stare. ‘Moneth Hastor, as I live and breathe.’ The thin, snapping voice drove through Hastor like a spike, sending a shudder down his spine. He recognised the new arrival, even before his eyes had begun to relay their optical information to his brain. Tremlocke. The commissar was short and stocky, reaching no higher than the sergeant’s shoulders. He stood before Hastor, resplendent in his black, medal-encrusted uniform, one leather-gloved hand resting upon the hilt of the power sword that hung from his belt. A huge black leather greatcoat was draped across his shoulders like a cloak, adding to the air of haughtiness about the man. His scar-twisted mouth was fixed in a half-smile, though the expression radiated little warmth. ‘Commissar Titus Tremlocke,
reporting for duty. It’s been a long time, Moneth. A long, long
time.’ He oozed, stroking the small, diamond-shaped tuft of yellow
hair that sprouted from his chin. Hastor grimaced as the commissar
droned on, his lip trembling with each unabashedly sarcastic undertone.
‘Titus. I’m afraid
we’ll have to catch up some other time.’ Hastor finally
whispered, his tone low and far from friendly. Hastor turned and gestured
for the others to follow, muttering some unheard curse under his breath. The words stopped him dead in his tracks, the tone of the man’s voice hinting that his presence held some dark, unseen agenda. Hastor closed his eyes, his head bowing a little as he awaited the commissar’s next remarks. The snake-like officer removed his gloves and clutched them in his fist as he moved into the centre of the gathering, tut-tutting as he noticed the dusty grime that had begun to form upon his immaculately polished boots. ‘I’m afraid that I am not here to catch up on old times, sergeant. I am here on official business. Lord General Bombola chose me for the mission personally.’ The sergeant slowly turned, his glaring eyes burning into Tremlocke with an equal mix of fiery rage and icy hatred, though the commissar was clearly unmoved by this. ‘What ‘mission’? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t have time to play games, Tremlocke. This entire system is in danger I am about to play my part in trying to save it. Say your piece and get the hell out of here.’ Tremlocke stepped back in mock surprise, a look of bemusement spreading across his scarred face. He began to shake his head slowly and sarcastically, rebuking the sergeant’s anger. ‘Please sergeant; in front of your men you will address me as commissar. Let us lead by example, shall we? And there is really no need for such hostility. After all, we are all here to do a job, are we not?’ All eyes turned to Hastor. None of the others dared even open their mouths to speak at this point. They all knew only too well that it didn’t pay to cross Moneth Hastor. ‘I received the order
from the lord general himself, a little over five hours ago, standard
Terra. ‘ The commissar continued, breaking the icy tension. ‘My men are loyal,
devoted servants of the Imperium, Commissar! How dare you suggest that
they cannot be trusted to carry out this mission to the best of their
abilities?’ Hastor raged, though his anger only seemed to amuse
the Commissar more. ‘Sergeant Hastor, chaos
is at large on this world, and chaos should never be underestimated.’
Tremlocke continued, almost ignoring the sergeant’s last announcement.
Hastor looked on, bewildered by the commissar’s apparent lack of hearing. As he moved into the centre of the gathering he held up a hand in order to sway the others, not wanting them to get involved. ‘You don’t seem to be listening, commissar, so I will say it once again; we are an advance force. It is not our place to go in search of the psychic presence. Your presence here is wasted. What part of that do you not understand?’ Tremlocke smiled as he noticed Hastor’s mounting anger, as if tormenting the sergeant brought him immense pleasure. He straightened his jacket collar and moved slowly to stand before the man, his face a twisted mask of smug, satisfied pleasure. ‘Sergeant, I am not
a stupid man. I am fully aware of your current mission orders. With that, Tremlocke turned, nodding to the others as he prepared to leave the gathering. ‘Bombola trusts you,
Sergeant. I trust you. That fact aside, I will be accompanying you on
this mission. I will report back to you shortly, but for now I have
some business to attend to. The others watched Tremlocke
leave, their eyes burning into the departing Commissar, each man emulating
their sergeant’s disdain for the objectionable man. Hastor turned away from
the others, his head bowed. Regan looked at the others and his bemused gaze was met with a line of silent, shaking heads. They were right. Hastor was a complex man, and it didn’t do any good to push him. Along with Tessok, Regan was the youngest and most recent addition to the squad. As such there were still times when the others had to offer him gentle guidance. This was one of those times. ‘Whatever you say sir. It looks like I’d better make room for another then.’ CHAPTER 8: PREY The sentinel lurched forward, its powerful hydraulic limbs carrying it over the scattered rubble. The stalking metal walker ground to a halt beside the ruins of an old librarium, its sound-dampened systems hissing and whining quietly as it slowed. The various trophies and totems fastened to the frame of the vehicle clanked and rattled as they swung, thrown around by the walker’s sudden pause. The Yamin pilot leaned forward in order to survey the surrounding buildings of the edge of the Imperial zone, watching for any sign of the enemy, his keen eyes barely visible beneath his wide, fur-trimmed helmet. ‘This is Huryishino, 15th Yamin scout patrol. Everything good here. Am proceeding to emplacement 27-Gamma. Huryishino out.’ The sentinel pilot moved his hand away from the vox-bead fasted to the side of his head and took up the vehicle’s controls once more, affording himself one final assessment of the sector as he prepared to move on to the next checkpoint. The soldier was about to move the vehicle out across the empty street when he suddenly spied something amongst the rubble of the storage yard to his right. A two-tone grey shape could be seen, lying broken and ragged amongst the scattered stones and debris of the site. The sentinel moved quickly, its gyro-stabilisers whining in complaint as they compensated for every uneven piece of ground beneath its pad-like feet. With the flick of a switch the specialised power claw hanging beneath it hummed to life, rising and snapping twice as the vehicle’s machine spirit ran its standard hardware-activation check. ‘Who is out there? Are you injured?’ The Yamin’s call was short and sharp, a trait characteristic of the Volunteers’ feudal nature. He stared out across the scene at the mysterious object, his thin eyelids closing even further as he struggled to make out the shape. As he closed upon the ruined building he recognised the grey bicolour of the Cadian urban battle-dress and his heart rate began to increase. ‘Cadian! Can you hear me? Are you injured? Cadian, answer me!’ A long, clicking croak echoed throughout the broken skeleton of the outhouse complex as if in answer, the noise bouncing and reverberating across the cold stones like the call of some gigantic night insect. The Yamin looked up and gasped in horror, watching as something large and hideous burst from the shadows in a flurry of frenzied movement, leaping and bounding as it headed his way. The entity, though large and imposing was also indistinct and hazy, its broken form shimmering and shifting like a massed collection of stone grey leaves blowing in the breeze. ‘Sweet Emperor’s light!’ He gasped, throwing himself back in his seat. As the phenomenon closed in on him the pilot wrenched back on the controls of the walker and the humming power claw thrust itself forward, raking the air before it. The thing launched itself up and over the flailing sentinel, its speed and agility greatly belying its size. ‘Control, this is Huryishino,
I am under attack! I repeat, I am under attack! Enemy hostiles reported
in section 26-Gamma!’ The Volunteer roared, spinning the cab of
the sentinel around in a desperate attempt to engage the frenzied predator.
‘We have a Spook here! I need back up! I need…’ The lictor appeared as if
from nowhere, launching itself at the sentinel on legs of powerful sinew.
The pilot felt the air burst from his lungs as a pair of huge, scythe-like blades slammed into the walker’s chassis, the blow almost toppling it. ‘A curse on you, devil-thing!’
the Yamin roared, bringing the crackling claw to bear. ‘Ha! The strength of my ancestors flows through me, monster! Emperor, guide my hand! Steel my soul against this horror from beyond the Rim!’ His prayer was cut short
as the sentinel rocked again. Though injured the creature was back,
stronger and madder than ever. A pair of huge, powerful hand-like claws exploded from its sides, tearing and ripping the armour plating of the cockpit to shreds in an instant. All the while the pilot wrestled with the controls, pushing the Sentinel to its limits as the struggle continued. Though fast and agile, the light vehicle was no match for the monstrous alien and the guardsman began to feel the vibrations that shook the floor of the sparking cockpit. The sentinel’s legs were beginning to give way under the assault. ‘No! I will not die like this! You will not have me…’ He began to frantically
search the cab, trying his best to ignore the squeal of bending metal
as the claws of the Lictor closed around the vehicle’s roll-cage.
Barbed extremities lashed out at him, whipping through the air before
his face as the alien hunter tried again and again to reach him. ‘Emperor guide my hand. Give me the strength of will to face this foe…’ the Yamin whispered, at last feeling his fingers finally close around the grip of his laspistol. He turned, grunting with
effort, struggling to raise the pistol in his hands in the confined
space of the cockpit. The pained screech of shearing metal rang in his
ears. A hail of barb and sinew as the Lictor’s flesh hooks were unfurled once more was the last thing he ever saw. +++ The Cadian major backed away, his forehead glistening with perspiration. Vorkohnen slammed his fist down onto the table before him, the blow almost smashing it in half. ‘Inquisitor, please! I-I gave the order, I swear I did! Whoever didn’t follow my instructions to the letter will be punished, I promise you that.’ The adepts surrounding the angry inquisitor eyed him warily, shifting their position as discreetly as they could. Even the soulless servitors that manned the control consoles shuddered briefly, the last vestiges of their organic components feeling the palpable psychic wake of Vorkohnen’s anger. All around him was chaos.
Alarms reverberated around the command tent and warning runes flashed
in every sector, indicating that the enemy Spooks had surrounded and
infiltrated the camp. ‘Major, this is all
your fault. Because of the failure of your men, the camp’s integrity
has been compromised. Because the lictors were allowed to enter our
position unchallenged, the enemy knows where we are. The major shook his head,
removing the grey mottled cap he wore in order to wipe the sweat from
his brow. The officer’s head disappeared in an explosion of gore, torn apart by the bolt shell that thundered across the room. Vorkohnen took a step back, startled by the Cadian’s violent demise. ‘May the Emperor forgive you indeed, major. I will pray for your soul.’ The startled inquisitor
looked out across the scene and his eyes fell upon the commissar, his
smouldering bolt pistol thrust out before him. The commissar moved forward,
holstering the gun as he stepped over the still-warm corpse. Vorkohnen ran his eyes across the short, cold-hearted man, shivering as he looked into the Commissar’s joyless eyes. ‘Executing major Horphus
will change nothing at this stage. It may not have been his fault. He activated the holo-panel before him and a large, shimmering display sprang up, stretching and shifting into three dimensions as it took form. ‘Here. We have the entire tyranid ground forces converging upon our position as we speak. The operation is to begin immediately, for we are out of time. We move to engage the enemy as soon as possible.’ Tremlocke nodded, clicking
his heels together sharply. Vorkohnen watched the Commissar leave, his eyes flashing pure white as he psychically probed the man’s soul. Tremlocke’s conviction and faith could not be questioned, but that didn’t mean that he liked the man. As the cold-hearted commissar
left the command tent he passed by a hooded figure swathed in black
and beige robes without acknowledgement. The mysterious man seemed to
be in a hurry, anxious to locate something or someone. ‘Lord inquisitor, a
suitable transport has been sanctified and is ready for use.’
The figure uttered, bowing his head as he joined the wistful daemonhunter.
‘Thank you, Soth. It
seems our plans have been brought forward somewhat, though this should
not prove to be too much of an inconvenience to us. Prepare my belongings
and inform the others that we will be leaving soon.’ The shrouded exorcist turned as he heard the Inquisitor’s voice, his grim face partially revealed in the soft, gently swaying lamplight of the room. ‘My lord?’ ‘My lord, I exist but
to serve the blessed Emperor. The nature of our daemonic foe means little
to me. He was revealed to us by the Emperor’s Tarot to be the
one who brings about the ruination and destruction of the Imperium.
Vorkohnen nodded and the Exorcist left, sweeping the long shroud away from his feet as he turned and left the tent. ‘Lord Inquisitor?’ He turned to be met with the apprehensive face of one of the tent’s many menials, a young officer. ‘My lord, we have just
received word from the fleet. The message came from the Arm of the Emperor
itself, from the lord general. He understands that the movements of
the swarm have caused the entire campaign to be brought forward.
‘To the South Gate, brothers! Let us destroy the misguided fools of the Husk-Emperor!’ The lone berserker looked
up as he heard this, dropping the still-warm corpse of his victim onto
the cold entrance porch as he heard the call. Then came the word. The
lookouts posted at the South Gate had spied armoured figures, hundreds
of them, converging upon their position. Power-armoured warriors were
moving to assault the gate, daring to challenge the fearsome might of
the Worldeaters of Karkattamorg. They would pay, with their last, bloodied,
gasping breath they would pay. Among them lurched the huge and fearsome daemonic war machines of the Khornate marauders, striding among the teeming throng like ships carried on a living tide, as eager as their human counterparts to engage the misguided fools of the loyalist legions. ‘For Khorne! For Khorne!’ the berserker raged, thrusting his blood-coated chainaxe into the air as he watched his dark, twisted brethren pass by. He felt a rush of jubilation surging through him, igniting the fire within his soul. At last, real combat was to be had. The baying bronze and red stampede soon passed, leaving nothing in their wake except for a few fluttering pieces of debris and the streets once more fell silent, the only audible noises being those of the distant South Gate assault. The berserker turned to
look upon the sad, pathetic body beneath him, broken and twisted by
his unquenchable fury. The man had been old and frail, hardly a fitting
tribute to his patron-god. The World Eater leapt down from the porch and onto the road, its surface cracking under his massive weight. He turned and prepared to charge headlong after his brethren when he became aware of something, a noise emanating from somewhere behind him. Alien sounds began to drift through the shadows of the surrounding buildings, multiplying and growing with each passing moment. He glanced about him, his
glowing eyes scouring the empty streets. He thumbed the activation
rune set into the hilt of his weapon. The teeth of the chainaxe began
to scream and whirr, splattering his armour with the cooling blood of
his last victim. The berserker slunk into
the shadows, drawing his bolt pistol eagerly as he disappeared into
the inky darkness. His guttural voice ceased
abruptly as the sounds of claws tearing into ancient ceramite echoed
through the darkened alley. Despite this the hunched, man-sized creatures spread out across the street, sniffing and tasting the air, searching for any sign of life. Without the guidance of the Hive Mind they were running on instinct, little more than basic animals. They had watched from the shadows as the main World Eater army had thundered past, awaiting the chance to pick off any stragglers or wayward members of the ‘herd’. Now, even with the kill made, their endless hunger was far from satiated. A distant thunderclap echoed through the skies, causing the brood to stop and look upwards, sniffing the air as they did so. The sky burned briefly far above them, little more than a flash of orange, barely visible even to their keen eyes. A small, black shape became visible, a pinprick of movement hurtling towards them at great speed, growing larger by the second. Something was coming. The alien creatures peered
from the dark recesses, eyeing the smouldering pod warily as they tasted
the air. They continued to watch for the next few moments, unsure of
what to make of the strange object. A previously hidden hatch appeared, revealed as the shutters hiding it were peeled away. The hatch slid open and an ethereal mist poured out into the surrounding streets, swirling and hissing as the pod’s internal pressure shifted to match that of its surroundings. The ‘gaunts gingerly left the protection of the shadows and stepped out to investigate the pod, creeping closer in short, hopping steps. A shot rang out and one of the aliens fell, its carapace-fringed head smashed open. The others responded immediately, driving their six limbs into the floor beneath them in order to pick up as much speed as they could. Another shot reverberated through the rock-crete canyons, dropping another of the beasts. The remaining creatures continued to bound towards the pod, driven mad with rage by the aggressive attack. Two more were blown apart, each one falling to a single bullet. The surviving beast drove
its heels into the ground and launched itself at the open doorway, screaming
in rage as it flew through the air. A flash of black moved across the
pod’s open hatch and an arc of blue light swept through the air,
decapitating the lunging creature as it reached its destination. The eversor stepped out
onto the street, his burning eyes surveying his surroundings. He deactivated
the power sword and slid it back into its scabbard, at the same time
activating the sentinel array strapped to his back. In the name of the Emperor, he would be stopped.
The tyranids were here. Alarms began to sound across the length of the base, piercing the air with their shrill cry. Gun emplacements chattered and thrummed, soldiers screamed and shouted. War machines revved their engines as they prepared to hold back the oncoming living tide. Commander Aquilus leapt
up onto the hull of the Swift Retribution and flung the turret cupola
open, his eyes fixed upon the shifting alien mass in the distance. The Phyressian tanks gunned their engines and began to spread out across the wide, open space of the machine yard, manoeuvring as one so as to protect the weaker siege machines of the Bombadiers while at the same time engaging the oncoming tyranid forces. Though the combined infantry of the various regiments formed an impressive if not panicked defence against the surging alien tide, Aquilus knew that there was no substitute for Imperial armour. Under his command the rumbling battle tanks spread out, forming a corral of awesome firepower around the rest of the packed vehicles. If they were to stand any chance of success, he knew that he would have to ensure the survival of the weaker siege artillery. Phylene saw this and ordered his super-heavies to join the defence ring, eager to lend their might to the Phyressians. His threatened siege engines were still hammering away at the main enemy assault, leaving only the hydras silent. A silence that did not last. From high above the drifting smoke came the sound of a thousand beating wings, their combined leathery flapping the hanging fog to swirl and shift as the huge gargoyle swarm descended upon the exposed infantry. Men began to scream and
die as the flying monstrosities entered the fray, screeching and swooping
as they spat a hail of ravenous, burrowing organisms at the foot soldiers.
Soldiers fell in their dozens, clutching at their bodies as the living
black projectiles ate their insides, condemning them to a lingering,
agonising death. Good men were dying out there. Their deaths would be avenged. ‘This is Phylene! Hydras engage! I repeat, hydras engage! We have enemy flyers bearing south, southeast, approximately thirty feet A.G.L! If it’s airborne an’ it ain’t sportin’ the aquila, bring it down!’ The long line of air-support vehicles responded almost instantaneously, training their huge, quad-barrelled autocannon upon the cloud-like swarm of alien flyers. A phenomenal hail of tracer-fire
zipped through the air and into the circling gargoyles, so thick and
vast that it seemed the air itself had solidified. Chitinous bodies
began to burst and pop like balloons, unable to escape the concentrated
fire of the hydras. ‘Ha! All-consuming?
Chew on autocannon shell, you bug-eyed sons-of-bitches!’ Phylene
spat, slamming his fists into the metal turret beneath him. ‘Just got the word
from command, sarge. The pylons are down. The marines have already begun
their attack on the South Gate. The guard assault on Phrennec Mantris
is to begin immediately.’ He watched as the squad’s
vox man turned his attention back towards the comm-link he carried,
listening intently to the transmissions being relayed between the various
factions of the Imperial assault. He knew that it would not be long
before he and the others would be called upon to begin their mission.
He felt the weight of the assault craft shift as its turned to the right, bouncing and rocking as it negotiated the wreckage-strewn ground, slowly picking up speed. The two door gunners rocked and swayed as they tried their best to remain upright, hanging on to the fixed weapons for dear life. The vehicle had been specially
modified for the mission and had seen the addition of extra armour,
added in order to increase its survivability. Unfortunately this modification
meant that the vehicle lost some of its manoeuvrability and speed. Still,
if it meant that the men reached their destination safely, none of them
had a problem with that. The convoy began to pick up speed as they hit a wide section of highway unscathed by the war. Behind them the war machines of the Phyressian 2nd joined the line, blasting away at the enemy as they charged forward onto the smooth surface, headed in the direction of Phrennec Mantris. ‘Corpo, keep your ears glued to that comm-link. I’m going to assess our situation.’ Hastor rose from his seat and moved over to where Fordar sat, sweeping the heavy bolter before him as he hunted out the nameless creatures of the enemy. He pushed past the silent storm trooper with a nod and braced himself against the rush of the passing air as he thrust his head out of the open door. The stench was almost overpowering. A strong, sickening odour saturated the breeze and he found he had to steel himself against the foetid smell of the swarm. His eyes ran across the endless mass of rumbling, clanking vehicles behind them, war machines of all shapes and sizes, their weapons blazing a trail of burning death through the roaring, chattering enemy. He pulled himself around so that he was facing in the opposite direction, pausing for a second to duck as something man-sized and organic hurtled past, sent reeling through the air by the thundering vehicles below. ‘Merciful Emperor…’ For a moment it looked as if the Imperial convoy was rushing headlong into the ocean, a living, green sea of writhing, snarling teeth and claws. The enemy stretched before them as far as the eye could see. Creatures of every shape and size imaginable surrounded the advance force. Never before had he faced an enemy so numerous. The others glanced behind
them as Hastor slumped down onto the valkyrie’s seating bench;
his eyes wide and filled with disbelief. The others paused, unused
to Hastor’s tone. They had never seen him this way before. The others diverted their
attention away from the sergeant and towards Zith, the unofficial xenos
expert of the team. Hastor seemed to change
as he heard this. The expression on his face faded slowly to be replaced
by one of newfound determination and resolve. He rose from the seat and
moved out into the centre of the hold, his fingers finding one of the
support handles that lined the carrier’s hold. He glanced around
the hold at each of the men in turn. His men, his squad. He continued to watch them
for a moment, feeling the assault craft pick up speed around them. For ten years he had tended to the squad’s injured, saving each man’s life more times than he cared to remember. He had been there for Hastor when the sergeant had lost his arm on Jeraphon. He had saved Hastor’s life that day and many times since, a fact that Hastor knew he would never forget. As with Moranith, the sergeant
felt an affinity with each and every man under his command, and he would
ensure that each of them would survive this ordeal unscathed. Hastor turned to see Corpo
staring back at him, the headset of the vox-caster pressed against the
hearing slit of his helmet. He held up a thumb and turned
back towards the others, seconds before the heavy bolter manned by Regan
began to bark to his left. Hastor turned and peered
out of the open side door in time to see a dark cloud of flapping shapes
advancing upon their position. ‘Great moons of Caulderax,
look at that.’ Nesker breathed, his scarred mouth dropping open
as he craned his neck to peer out of the open door. Hastor shook his head and picked his way hand over hand to the sealed crew cockpit. He reached the cabin door and slammed his fist violently into the thick metal, his entire body swaying as he struggled to remain upright. ‘Commissar, get that multi-laser opened up, damn it! We’re in danger of being surrounded here!’ The shuddering, high-pitched staccato whine of the Valkyrie’s heavy weapon finally coming into play soon answered his angered request. ‘Sir, I think I can see where these damn bugs are coming from!’ Fordar’s voice piped up. ‘Take a look at this!’ The sergeant took a deep
breath and began to pick his way back towards the side door of the carrier
where Fordar was busy hammering out a steady stream of bolter fire.
‘Horus be damned! Look at that!’ Though the creature was still some way off he could see it as clear as if it was inches from his face. A leather-winged and monstrously huge flying beast, its ponderous form filling the horizon before him as it disgorged brood after brood of flapping alien obscenities from its ribbed, armoured underside. ‘Harridan. It has to be.’ Zith uttered, watching the sergeant’s face from his seat along the hold. He turned to Autis by his side who stared back at him anxiously, already worried by the unseen creature’s presence. ‘Eleven tonnes of flying
xenos muscle, twenty-eight metres from snout to tail. It could knock
this bird from the sky with one pass without effort.’ He explained
nonchalantly, much to Autis’ disdain. Zith shook his head, his
expression unchanging. Autis’ eyes widened
and he looked up at Hastor, finding the sergeant’s shocked face
staring back at him. Hastor had heard every word that Zith had said, and though he knew nothing of the creature they faced he trusted the man’s word implicitly. His mind reeled as he considered his options, though he could think of nothing. Zith was right; the armoury of the Valkyrie was wholly inadequate to take on the alien fiend and win. They best they could hope for would be a miracle, a lucky shot. A lucky shot. He turned to Tessok, placing one hand on the man’s shoulder. Tessok paused and turned,
feeling Hastor’s hand. The sergeant peered behind him and nodded
in the direction of the leather carry case. Hastor watched the monstrous
flying beast as it began to turn slowly in the air, its incredible bulk
as such that it gave the alien the appearance of a ship turning in the
ocean. Tessok quickly unsheathed
the rifle, throwing the carry case back down into the Valkyrie’s
hold. ‘What’s the target, sir? The bigger it is, the easier it should be to accurately hit.’ He hollered, raising his voice over the howling wind. Hastor thrust his finger out before him and Tessok let out a quiet gasp. ‘Is that big enough for you, soldier?’ The squad marksman began to check lock and load the exitus rifle, trying to block out the melee around him. The heat from the scorched hull and the rattling heavy bolter at his side began to warm his face and he tried his best to ignore it, slipping the special exitus magazine into place. Ever since his father had given him the weapon, the powers-that-be had tried their damnedest to take it away from him. It had taken all Hastor’s powers of reasoning and bargaining to get them to let him keep it. He had had to convince them that with the rifle, Tessok’s contributions could mean the difference between failure and victory. Here and now, Tessok would once again justify the rifle’s possession. He peered through the scope, allowing himself a moment as his vision blurred then magnified. A flurry of green chitin darted across his sight and he struggled to single out a viable target amid the leering alien faces and membranous wings. Suddenly the huge monstrosity hove into view, all teeth and claws and terrible alien rage. He watched for a moment as it reared up, its huge body turning slowly in the skies. He shifted his aim a millimetre or so to the left and the beast’s massive, crested head slid across his scope, its tiny, baleful eyes no more than pinpricks lost amid the endless chitin of its armoured face. ‘Hellfire shell.’ He whispered, barely noticing the sounds of the battle as they faded into silence. The electronic cross hairs of the scope slid across the harridan’s glowing eye and he held it there for a moment, shifting his aim so slightly that Hastor could not even tell if the gun was moving or not. Whispering a silent prayer to both his dead father and the immortal Emperor, he pressed the trigger. The gun shifted so slightly in his hands that he hardly noticed it, the inbuilt recoil dampers and micro-suspensors of the exotic rifle making light of the incredibly powerful shot. Seconds later the creature’s eye burst in a spray of ichor, its evil glow put out by the bite of Tessok’s bullet. The huge creature began to sag and flap its huge wings in distress as the special shell began to burn through its brain stem, incinerating the Harridan from within. It began to lose its motor functions and begin to plummet towards the ground, black smoke pouring through its eye socket. ‘Yes! Excellent shot!’ Hastor jubilantly exclaimed, punching the air as he watched the dying creature begin to spiral downwards in a death spin, its gargantuan wings wrapping themselves around its plummeting form. The others let out a cheer, even those of the squad who had been unable to see the drama as it unfolded. Tessok smiled and picked his way back towards his seat, quickly refastening the harness. As the others began to shower him with praise and light-hearted gibing he just shook his head and smiled, feeling the weapon smooth and heavy in his hands. His father would have been proud. Tremlocke glanced behind
him as the cockpit door opened, craning his neck so as to look upon
the sergeant’s face. The valkyrie’s pilot
glanced over her shoulder, perspiration running in rivulets down her
pale face. The woman paused for a moment to check the instrumentation set out before her, her eyes running across the multitude runes and dials of her flight controls. ‘We’re losing
lightnings out there by the score. Luckily for us they are soaking up
much of the enemy firepower. The Phyressian 2nd is steadily moving up
the line to give the attack wing fire support but it’s taking
time. They’ve already begun to sustain casualties.’ Hastor shook his head and exhaled deeply, the current situation leaving him anxious and worried. He glanced out over Tremlocke’s high-peaked cap at the swarming mass of green and bone beyond, his eyes running over the sheer expanse of living weaponry before them. The swarm had suffered severe bombardment from all sides and yet the enemy was still without number, a tide of malicious hatred unfazed by the relentless Imperial assault. He prayed to the Emperor that they would be allowed to make the city safely. +++ The severed, blood-red torso clattered and rang as it bounced down the metal stairs, its single arm and helmet-encased head twisting and flopping in all manner of unnatural positions as it fell, finally coming to rest upon the dusty floor of the deserted city. The rest of the berserker’s body soon followed it, its lifeless legs flailing and crooked. The two World Eaters ignored
their companion’s demise, concentrating instead on the black-clad
abomination before them, its shimmering power sword hissing as it cooked
its last victim’s blood. One of the berserkers raised his chainaxe
and charged, though had only advanced no more than a few paces when
he convulsed. As the traitor fell with a crash onto the metal grille of the walkway the final remaining Khornate marine turned and broke into a run, dropping his chain axe as he did so. His huge armoured form shook the scaffolding underfoot as he thundered heavily towards a small console set into the wall at the far end of the battlements. He reached out for the red button set into the console, leaping the last few feet as if desperate to activate the device. Suddenly his hand exploded in a burst of ceramite, bone and gore, preventing him from depressing the alarm rune. The warrior fell to the floor, cursing and shouting vile and unholy phrases, seconds before his brain exploded out through his forehead and he slumped lifelessly to the ground, a river of blood pouring through the open grilles of the walkway. The eversor stood over the
dead warrior in silence, its cold eyes glowing with righteous hatred.
It had been lucky, spying the three lookouts moments before they had
raised the alarm. There, barely visible even
to the trained eye, a column of smoke rose up from the centre of the
massed tyranid horde. The sentinel array upon his back told him quickly that there were no more lookouts across this stretch of the wall, which meant that the Chaos forces would not be aware of the Imperial approach until it was too late. With that the assassin somersaulted over the handrail and was gone, sinking into the depths of the dark city in silence, his mission far from over, his quarry still at large. The Corrupter would fall to his blade soon enough.
The marauder commander flipped the return switch and listened for the response, ignoring the shaking jolts as his plane came under attack again. He knew that they were relatively safe for now, but to remain in the air for much longer would be little short of suicide. ‘This is Eagle Three!
Wkxzzkxz…nder attack! Enemy fliers converging upon our pos…’ Commander Jayniz cursed
as he saw a bright wash of flame sear the skies to his left. ‘This is Eagle One calling Talon escort! We have enemy fliers bearing south, southwest! We need support! I say again, we need support, Talon!’ He listened as the vox came alive with a steady procession of garbled responses, both from the attack craft of the fighter escort and the other marauder bombers of the attack run. A brace of gunmetal-grey
lightnings screamed past him, splitting down the middle and parting
before the large flyer like surf before an ocean liner. Bright lascannon
blasts and thudding autocannon tracer-fire zipped through the air about
his craft, seeking their unseen targets menacingly. ‘Command, this is Eagle One! Again, I am requesting confirmation of the immediate return of Eagle Flight, over!’ The flyer shuddered again
and yet more warning runes began to flash, informing him of another
downed system somewhere along the length of the fighter-bomber. Up ahead
he watched as a large brood of gargoyles were blown apart in a flurry
of glowing autocannon shells, their armoured bodies and frail wings
atomised by the hail of fire. The long-range vox crackled
and hissed, finally emitting a string of audible feedback. The marauder commander nodded
over to his co-pilot who reached up and flipped a number of switches
above his head, activating the squadron recall beacon. They passed over the scores of thundering armour below, kicking up clouds of dust and grime as they hurtled past. Tanks and war machines of every possible shape and size passed by under them, weapons blazing as they cut a swathe through the enemy. He looked up as he heard the collision warning alert sound off and had to lift the bird slightly as he spied the wedge formation of valkyrie assault carriers heading towards him, their armoured bellies pregnant with the elite of the Imperial force. Soon he had passed over the rear of the armoured convoy and within moments found himself hurtling over a living carpet of bodies, a mighty sea of Imperial infantry the likes of which had never been seen before in this system. Guardsmen from a score of regiments passed by below like a vast herd of stampeding beasts, charging as fast as their legs could carry them across the shattered wastes of the outer hab-zones. ‘Its all up to you
now, boys.’ Jayniz whispered, lifting his gaze as the last few
bodies disappeared out of sight. +++ The massed Imperial advance
drove deep into the stampeding tyranid horde, the collective weaponry
of the packed armour at its spearhead driving a wedge deep into the
sea of alien bodies. ‘This is Aquilus to all Phyressian armour! Advance! Advance! Push up the line and take the lead! Try to ignore the enemy and push forward! We have to try and take the spearhead!’ The gathered battletanks of the 2nd gunned their engines and raced up the sides of the long highway, tearing across the parched, scrub-filled strata, plumes of thick black smoke and choking dust rising up as they advanced. Battle cannons shuddered and belched as they thundered out shot after shot into the surrounding enemy, the need for accuracy long gone. Aquilus himself led the charge, taking point in his command tank the Swift Retribution. He held on to the turret for dear life as the fast tank gunned its powerful engines, tearing up sand and kerb in equal measure as it passed by the lead Armoured Fist chimeras and rapidly-dwindling hellhound flame tanks amid a hail of inhuman projectiles, snapping teeth and flailing talons. ‘Push onwards! Sear your names into the hides of these accursed creatures! Let them know what it is to face the Emperor’s finest! Carve a path to the city through these vile monsters in the Emperor’s name!’ He hollered through the dust cloud, one hand clasped tight around the peak of his tank commander’s cap. The Swift Retribution literally bounced back up onto the road amid a cloud of sand and swerved in front of the lead chimera, passing through the gouts of flame its hull-mounted heavy flamer belched out into the massed enemy before them. The twin lascannons of the Swift Retribution pulsed and bucked as they seared huge holes through the packed broods before them. Its sponson plasma cannons flashed and pulsed with hissing energy discharge, punching burning holes in the enemy numbers with each blast. ‘Target acquired, bearing
three-one-zero! Alpha threat!’ Aquilus shouted into his headset
and the turret of the tank shifted sharply to the left. The double lascannons
kicked back as they lit up, sending a brace of parallel white light
out into the swarming mass. ‘The Phyressian 2nd
sends their regards!’ He hollered, his hands finding the grip
of the storm bolter before him. A steady stream of battle tanks began to appear either side of him, adding the might of their varied weaponry to that of the Swift Retribution. The path ahead exploded as the full might of the vaunted Phyressian 2nd charged headlong into the living automatons of the Great Devourer, seemingly unstoppable in their advance. +++ Hastor watched as the huge, imposing walls of Phrennec Mantris loomed ever closer, the wind whipping across his face. The huge pylons of the defence grid, proud and magnificent yet mysterious in their ancient, arcane design stood towering before him like titans of old. His eyes ran across the
distant, circling gargoyle broods above them, wheeling through the skies
high above the constructs. They seemed almost hesitant to approach,
almost as if afraid of the towering artefacts. It was likely that these
creatures had witnessed their alien kin die by the thousands as they
had attempted to gain access to the city. The valkyrie fleet had sensibly
decreased its speed and fallen back to allow the tanks of the Phyressian
2nd to clear the way, fearing the bite of the tyranid swarm’s
more powerful bio-weaponry. It still amazed him to witness
the full and complete diversity of the swarm, given the fact that they
were no more than a collective of overgrown insectoid creatures, driven
as they were by an alien code of conduct and warfare more akin to instinct
than actual intellect. He withdrew his head and
stepped back inside the hold of the carrier, turning to face the others
of his squad. +++ ‘We are through! This is Aquilus to all Phyressian armour, we are through to the North Gate!’ The Swift Retribution slowed
and began to come about as the huge walls of Phrennec Mantris loomed
into view, revealing themselves as the last of the scattering green
tide parted. ‘Keep pushing out into
the surrounding enemy! We must clear a space for the armoured companies
to deploy and it must be wide enough so that the Bombardiers can converge
upon the gate!’ The company’s three
vanquishers, the Longshot, the Tigrus Lost and the Bane of the Heretic
moved out to the right in perfect formation, their seasoned crews well
used to executing such manoeuvres. Aquilus watched this and
was pleased. Hails of las-fire punctured the air as the new arrivals took up hurried defensive positions along the armoured half-moon, the only real cover between the gate and the enemy swarm. Heavy weapons teams began to set up between the hulking tanks, disgorging a firebase of heavy bolters, autocannons, lascannons and mortars out onto the defence line. A fine mist of gore began
to drift across the wide walls; such was the level of firepower poured
into the pursuing tyranids. More and more troop carriers
skidded to a halt inside the corral, bringing yet more troops into the
fray. +++ ‘They’ve done
it!’ Corpo hollered, holding the headset of his vox-caster up
in jubilation. A murmur of acknowledgement
drifted across the others. They were pleased that the Imperial forces
had penetrated the swarm and yet were still understandably apprehensive.
+++ ‘Move it! Come on,
move your worthless rears! We have a perimeter to set up!’ Vorpax
hollered, waving the troops down the ramp of the chimera with his combat
shotgun. The war cry of a over a thousand men shook the stinking air as the Elysian 3rd spilled out to face the tyranids alongside the other factions of the Imperial force. They began to set up fire points and makeshift emplacement across the line, lending their own firepower to the others, the ratlings and the ogryn, the Cadian shock troops and the other varied regiments that the defence line consisted of. Vorpax waited until his
own command chimera was empty of its human cargo before taking flight
and breaking into a sprint across the soft ground, his keen eyes scouring
the defence line for any signs of weakness. ‘You there! Get that heavy bolter set up!’ He raged, rushing over to a small group of Belusians and their servitor crew. The soldiers glanced round nervously as they heard the colonel’s snapping voice, their efforts immediately doubling. It didn’t matter that he was Elysian. Now was not the time for argument or dispute. Now was the time for war. Vorpax was upon them like a bolt of lightning, charging into the middle of the group like a madman, his shotgun raised and ready for use. He barrelled past the soldiers and blasted a looming hormagaunt brood to pieces with a series of thunderous shotgun rounds, scattering the creatures like leaves before him. He fired off another brace
of shots into the routed brood for good measure, felling yet more of
the screeching beasts. Sure that the position was
now secure he turned to the heavy weapon crew, breathless and red in
the face. The team’s response
was short and sharp but exactly what the colonel needed to hear. ‘What’s that?’ A trooper asked as he sidled up to the colonel, his face fraught with apprehension. The others craned their necks to see what it was that headed their way. Vorpax began to scour the
enemy line before him, growing concerned. Ah, sir? I think we’d better move back.’ He uttered, hooking the headset to his belt as he began to step backwards towards the safety of the line of idling chimeras. Vorpax turned as he heard this, intrigued. Even as he broke into a hurried jog to quiz the vox officer the others were already moving back, their comrade’s warning enough to spur their retreat. ‘What is it, soldier?’ The tyranid front line parted under a hail of shattering bolter-fire. Alien bodies shook and burst apart as a maelstrom of shells mowed them down. A huge, hulking metal monstrosity lumbered into view, its progress steady but unstoppable. General Arkas Phylene appeared
atop his beloved stormhammer super-heavy tank, the Defender of the Throne.
Behind the Defender of the
Throne came the rest of Phylene’s vaunted war machines. Like the Pride of Ryza the
Siege-Breaker was a variant of the shadowsword, its huge volcano cannon
replaced by a powerful siege gun. The two baneblades were the most common
of the Imperial supertanks, their weaponry affording them a more general
role on the battlefields of the Imperium. Whatever the truth, the sight of the seven Macraleusian war machines lifted a great many hearts as they thundered on through the alien horde and out into the centre of the corral, the infamous General Phylene at their head. Behind them came the base
machines of the Bombardiers, an armoured convoy of some fifteen basilisks,
griffons, thunderers, medusas and hydras, their progress largely unhindered
by the teeming alien menace. +++ Hastor and the others nearest the open side doors watched as Phylene manoeuvred the Bombardiers into position, utilising years of skill and practice. ‘I’ve got to
admit, no matter how many times I could witness them in action, the
Macraleusians are awe-inspiring.’ Regan whispered, shaking his
head. They watched in silence
as the powerful cannons of the Macraleusian Bombardiers began to open
up on the towering North Gate, shaking it to its very foundations mere
seconds into the bombardment. +++ ‘My lord, the Imperial forces have successfully converged upon the North Gate. I am pleased to report that they are as yet unopposed by the Khornate factions. More so, it seems the tyranid war machine is in the process of being routed.’ Bombola sat in quiet contemplation, one hand resting thoughtfully upon his chin. Before him, projected into the air by the holo-map the activity on the planet far below flashed and pulsed, filling the otherwise darkened command bridge with a cacophony of light and sound. ‘The tyranids will
not fall back. They have nowhere to go. We have disabled all their hive
ships.’ He uttered after a moment, shifting his weight slightly.
The adept turned back towards
the screen in front of him for a moment, lost in the endless reams of
data rolling past his eyes. Bombola nodded slowly, satisfied
with this fact. The adept seemed to pause as he heard this, almost as if he feared the lord general’s reaction to his answer. ‘Well?’ Bombola frowned as he heard
this. There was something about the adept’s tone that displeased
him, made him feel uneasy. Bombola shifted uneasily as he heard this. He reached over to the tray held by the waiting servitor and took the delicate glass of turquoise spirit that had been brought for him. He tipped his head back and poured the liquid into his mouth and down his throat in a single gulp, his face contorting briefly as the harsh drink burned his taste buds. ‘What about this ‘psychic
disturbance’ that we have been sent to investigate. Could this
not be the contributing factor, the cause of the brewing storm?’ Bombola nodded, his calm
exterior belying the mounting fear within him. ‘Let us first win back
the city before we worry about anything else. Adept, inform the storm-troops
that they are clear to proceed.
‘Here! In here!’ The Elysian trooper pointed to the ramshackle storage shed, guiding his two flamer-wielding comrades to the site. He watched as the small red dot flashed and pulsated on the screen, giving away the hidden enemy’s position. The two guardsmen followed his lead, keeping low and hunched as they crept towards the entrance of the leaning construct. They reached the open doorway and, giving each other the nod they sprang forth, filling the small shed with a twin burst of searing flame. The hidden lictor roared as it smashed its way free, a huge living fireball bounding out into the open courtyard. The stricken creature fell almost instantly, punctured by a concentrated flurry of las-blasts from the remainder of the Elysian spook-hunter squad, its redundant camouflage scales useless and hidden by the fire that engulfed it. ‘Control, this is Unid, Elysian Hunter Patrol 6. We have successfully subdued another spook, the sector is clear.’ Unid watched as the men exhaled heavily, removing his helmet to rub his drenched forehead. Somewhere in the distance, out in the enemy-held zone he could hear the dull staccato ‘thump-thump’ of the marauder squadrons’ explosive payloads, their attack run ahead of time by several hours. The enemy was heading their way now, of that much he was sure. A brace of Yamin sentinels lurched past, their occupants scouring the horizon. Nothing could be seen beyond the industrial sector though, the buildings too thick and concentrated to provide a good view of the distant swarms. Behind him several Cadian heavy weapons teams were hastily constructing makeshift emplacements, hefting the selection of heavy bolters, autocannons and lascannons they carried into position across the front line. A chorus of rattling belt-feeds and humming power packs filled the air, providing a little comfort to the anxious hunter patrol. At least the rest of the swarm wouldn’t catch them napping like the Lictors had. Trooper Unid nodded at the line of guardsmen, his silent gesture assuring them of the sector’s spook-free status. ‘Okay men, we’re done here. Let’s wrap this up and prep for the attack. It’s going to be a rough ride to Phrennec Mantris.’ The team began to move out
across the street to their next location, weary but ready to do their
duty for the Emperor. Before they left, Unid turned and glanced across
the dead zone at the distant buildings, watching as the skies beyond
them burned. +++ He watched in silence as the heaving, multitude creatures of the great devourer filled the horizon before him, a vast, writhing swarm consisting of millions of living, roaring monstrosities, relentless in their advance. Bio-engines of every size and shape flapped, bounded, slithered or ran across the blood red sand dunes, their collective mass as such that a huge cloud was thrown up in their wake, a dust storm so large it could be seen from space. Even from this distance the drumming of thundering hooves and claws was almost deafening. He could afford no distractions now and so he adjusted the audio-filters of his mask, shutting out the terrible noise. The heat and smell of the massive swarm began to drift on the gentle winds towards his position and so these too were shut out, the technology of his field equipment protecting him from the surely intended psychological distraction. He could feel the rifle in his hands, smooth, comforting and familiar. The ground beneath him was beginning to shake now, only slightly but still noticeable. The fine red dust beneath him danced and vibrated as if imbued with a life of its own. There was nothing he could possibly do about this, though at this stage it did not matter, he would compensate. He shifted his gaze slightly so as to look upon the lines upon lines of guardsmen beneath him, their numbers almost as thick as the swarm itself. He watched with almost voyeuristic eyes as men twitched and shuddered, visibly shaken by the incalculable horror that headed their way. Though he could hear nothing he watched as the waiting line of earthshakers and griffon mortars opened fire upon the advancing horde, shuddering and reeling as they unleashed salvo after salvo of burning death into the teeming blue and orange horizon, obliterating entire broods with each round. Still the swarm pressed on, heedless of the danger, compelled to succeed regardless of the losses by the mysterious Hive Mind. Losing troops meant nothing to the swarm; all matter would be consumed and re-absorbed once the planet had fallen. He diverted his attention away from the Imperial lines and out across the endless dunes until his enhanced vision came across the swarm. He held his gaze for a moment, watching as a never-ending ream of life thundered past his vision, flowing across his eyes like a raging torrent of floodwater, a tide of snapping jaws and slashing talons. Now was his time, and so he began to search. The visor of his mask whirred
and vibrated as it continued to magnify the distant horde, caught up
in a never-ending loop of continual adjustment and refocusing. A huge, looming monstrosity lurched into view, its image sharpening and forming as he focused on its imposing bulk. It was a tyrant, one of the main synapse creatures of the alien assault. The creature roared and snapped at the lesser beings beneath it, urging them onward with its psychic presence. This was his prey, the most
dangerous of the swarm’s bio-engines. The innumerable foot soldiers
were to be ignored, for to engage them would be futile, a waste of his
talents. He peered down the telescopic sight of the powerful rifle, shifting his aim with a quick series of microscopic movements until the red electronic crosshairs were centred upon the creature’s impressive head crest. The tyrant roared in fury at the skies for one final time before the exitus round tore through its head and into its hive node, sending it screaming into the red sand dunes beneath it. Even as the swarming hormagaunts around it began to falter and reel in the psychic wake of the tyrant’s death the Vindicare assassin adjusted had his aim, searching the swarm for another target. Within seconds he had found another hulking tyrant, the huge alien cannon it wielded trained upon the distant lines of Imperial armour and ready to fire. He put a single hellfire round through the monster’s eye and the shot burst its head like a balloon. It began to writhe and slash at its surroundings as it died, its death spasms causing the evisceration of a number of lesser tyranid warriors before it slammed into the earth, kicking up a cloud of red dust. His aim shifted again, this time finding a line of floating, bulbous-headed creatures, their feeble, shrivelled bodies compelled onwards by their powerful psychic presence. The beasts shimmered and pulsed with warp energy, a living line of bio-artillery that had begun to assail the Imperial defences with withering salvos of psyker energy. The Vindicare took careful aim; exhaling slowly as the first of the bulbous-domed zoanthrope beasts hovered into the centre of his crosshairs. The rifle dug into his shoulder as it flashed, splitting the curious creature open like a ripe fruit. Its chitinous head burst apart and the zoanthrope’s atrophied frame slumped into the loose sand, lifeless and done. The wave of tyranid psykers began to rupture and explode as if caught up in some huge chain reaction, each of the creatures slain by a single exitus round to the head, the entire line dead within moments. Far below the plateau the
Imperial defence lines thundered volley after volley into the advancing
horde, unaware even of Vindicare’s protective presence. ‘Tessok! Tessok!’ Storm trooper Gredion Tessok felt a pair of rough hands shaking him and he slowly opened his eyes. The real world began to seep into his senses, slowly replacing the scene being played out in his head. ‘The ‘Nids are here! They’ve found us!’ He looked up to see Brandbaar’s dark face staring down at him, anxiety written across his features. The squad’s scout hauled him to his feet, pointing out across the distant buildings at the blossoming fire beyond. ‘The time for daydreaming is over. Corpo just received word of the attack. We move out now.’ Tessok glanced around him
at the chaotic scene. Men and vehicles thundered past, urged onwards
by the shouts and cries of their commanding officers. Marauders and
lightnings screamed overhead, moving to meet the oncoming tyranid advance.
The Imperial counter-offensive was already well underway. ‘Come on, the others are waiting by the valkyrie. I thought I’d never find you.’ Brandbaar exclaimed, taking some of Tessok’s equipment from him as he noticed the storm trooper struggling. ‘I dreamt about my
father again.’ Tessok whispered, slinging the heavy carry case
over his shoulder. ‘I saw it, just as he described to me when
I was a child.’ Brandbaar smiled, familiar with Tessok’s proud Imperial heritage. Like the others he had heard many, many stories of Tessok’s father, an Imperial Vindicare assassin. Herfus Tessok had been one of the greatest Vindicare assassins of his day. Though all the assassin temples were seen as sinister, mysterious organisations, Tessok’s exploits were nevertheless well documented. The details of his missions and the techniques he used were commonplace in the Imperial education literature used by the Imperium’s many Schola Progenum schools and training camps. ‘Your father was quite a man, Gredion. You must be proud.’ Tessok smiled, feeling the
familiar weight of the carry case and its contents pressed against his
shoulder. Brandbaar glanced at the long leather case, featureless except for the small silver skull pin set into the top of the strap and the patch of white, embroidered letters stitched underneath it. Exitus Acta Probat. ‘Get those damn emplacements ready! We don’t have much time left! Two men per gun, one operator, one ammo feeder. Come on, you all know the drill!’ He glanced out across the buildings, noticing that the bombardment had ceased, a fact that filled him with dread. This could only mean one thing. The swarm was close. ‘Molner, vox command! I want to know why Phylene’s damn basilisks are still silent! After that I want you to get hold of the navy and get us some orbital support! Everyone else, I want you ready and on-hand with all available ammunition. When the bugs get here these guns are going to be hammering constantly, so we can’t allow any of them to run dry.’ ‘Wesporth, take a team of three men and gather as many servitors as you can find. We need bodies up there on the front line, feeding the tarantulas. It’s going to be hell when they get here and I won’t ask any soldier of mine to face that. Go!’ Bodies were running in all
directions. Teams of men rushed past him, grunting and heaving as they
hauled crates and boxes of shells to and fro. The major hurried out across the busy yard towards a small sandbag lookout emplacement flanked by a pair of heavy bolter tarantulas. The two men behind the makeshift wall looked up as he approached, saluting quickly. ‘No sign yet, sir. We’ve extended target range to maximum and set up the long-range auspex, but we haven’t spotted anything yet.’ He pushed past them and
slammed his foot down hard upon the top row of sandbags, removing a
thick cigar stub from his top pocket as he did so. He lit the stub and
began to twist the glowing object in his mouth, his eyes fixed on the
horizon beyond. He turned to face the two
men, exhaling a thick blue cloud of smoke as he towered over them. The two Cadian lookouts
shifted uneasily as they heard the question, glancing at one another
in silent fear. The major unleashed a single, joyless laugh and turned back around to face the distant maze of buildings, the mock humour written on his face quickly dissipating, leaving behind a stern frown. ‘Crap, they don’t
want to eat you! They want to kill you, to rip you to pieces, tear you
limb from limb. He left the two shaken men
and headed back towards the line of heavy weaponry, throwing the spent
cigar to the floor with one grubby hand. He opened his mouth to speak
but the words that followed this gesture were lost, swallowed by the
thunderous boom of an unseen earthshaker cannon, the first of many to
open up in the seconds that followed. ‘This is it, men! Get ready to defend us in the name of the Holy Emperor! Anyone who dies here today better do so in a blaze of glory! No one is to fall back until I say so!’ He barked, wheeling round to face the approaching horror. The horizon was ablaze now,
a wall of searing fire that stretched the entire length of the distant
complex. A pall of smoke and dust drifted towards the defence line,
impeding the soldiers’ visibility even further. The ground began to shake, only slightly at first. Bricks and plaster fell from the surrounding ruins, followed by clouds of dust and glass. Soldiers swallowed and whispered silent prayers, steeling themselves in the face of mounting terror. Fingers tightened around triggers, ready to squeeze. Suddenly the line of sentry guns began to rock and shake, unleashing a hail of las and bolter fire into the encroaching dust cloud. In the lookout emplacement the two scouts rose quickly, blinking under the hail of bolter shells that were expended in their midst. They began to wave and shout, though their voices were lost amidst the cacophonic din of battle noise. One of the soldiers held aloft the long-range auspex and was waving the device frantically. ‘Where the hell are
those damn servitors? We’re running out of time here!’ the
major barked. Their hesitation saw them instantaneously torn apart by the explosion of ripping, flailing tentacles that burst free from the rapidly maturing strangler pod. The two soldiers died without a sound, their bodies scattered and shredded by the whipping alien extremities. The major took a step back, visibly shaken by the horrific deaths of his men, his eyes wide and fearful. He opened his mouth to give the order to commence firing but no sound came out. He was lucky, the heavy weapon’s teams did not need to be told. Tessok leapt up onto the closing rear hatch, ducking as he hurtled into the belly of the flyer. For a second the others were bathed in darkness and then the vehicle’s interior lighting blinked into being, illuminating it’s cramped interior. ‘We thought you’d never get here. Where were you?’ He opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by Hastor’s open hand. ‘Forget it. Throw your gear under the seating grill and hold on tight. Fordar, Autis, get those damn heavy bolters racked and loaded!’ The men did as they were ordered and the carrier was once more bathed in natural light as its side doors were thrown open, leaving the remaining men gathered around the sergeant. ‘Corpo, I want you up front next to the cockpit. We need to stay in contact with the others and with high command at all times. Everyone else, find a seat and strap yourself in. It’s going to be a bumpy ride. Commissar?’ Tremlocke turned, raising his eyebrows as he awaited Hastor’s imminent instructions. ‘Due to the surprise
of the enemy’s attack we are short one crewmember. How are you
with vehicle-mounted weaponry?’ The others watched him go in silence, turning their eyes away only as the hatch slammed shut behind him. ‘Now, everyone listen to me.’ Hastor began, pausing slightly to ensure all eyes were upon him. ‘He is an Imperial officer and each and every one of you will treat him with the respect his rank deserves. The fact that there is history between us means nothing to you. I will not see any of you before a firing squad because of it. Am I understood?’ The others nodded grudgingly,
knowing at once that he was right. Hastor was a good servant of the
Emperor and he conducted himself properly at all times. If he could
live with the situation, so could they. He reached over to the bulkhead that separated the driver’s compartment and slammed his fist against the thick metal three times, answered almost immediately by the shuddering ignition of the valkyrie’s engines. +++ ‘Maintain fire! Maintain
fire! I don’t care it the damn weapons start to melt, don’t
let up! We can’t allow a breach!’ Some of the attacking creatures managed to leap clear of the mounting pile of cadavers, only to be blasted apart as they bounded towards the Imperial troops. The major watched almost as if detached from the rest of them, awakening from his trance-like state only occasionally in order to fire off a volley of laspistol shots into the surging tide. He rocked slightly as a trio of sharp and incredibly fast projectiles passed by him, missing him by a hair’s breadth as they screamed past, crackling with energy. The whistling metallic crystals slammed into the heavy bolter emplacement behind him and shattered against the barrel of the hammering gun. Shards of poisonous crystal whickered out and into the two soldiers behind the gun, lacerating, electrocuting and poisoning them in the same instant. ‘Emplacement down! Someone man that gun now!’ the major screamed, sweeping his hand before him in the direction of the silent heavy bolter. Two of the ammunition troopers quickly dropped their lasguns and rushed over to the waiting bolter, throwing themselves onto the floor behind it. He spat out the glowing stub and threw his spent laspistol aside, his face a mask of frantic effort. His fingers reached down to his belt and he freed the combat shotgun hanging there, sliding the barrel-mounted rack back with a satisfying click. The screams of the dying were echoing across the defence line now, loud yet barely audible over the tumult of bright explosions and packed Imperial firepower. He watched as another tarantula emplacement fell, bowled over by the seething mass of alien bodies that surged forth from the battle-smog. Though upended the large twin guns kept on firing, bright columns of white energy scything through the chittering hordes that passed over it, their bodies bursting like ripe fruit. He shook himself and began to stumble forward, fazed by the terrible confusion all around him. He levelled the shotgun in his hands at an oncoming brood of Hormagaunts and fired, peppering the charging xenos beasts with hissing shot. Bodies screamed and fell, writhing on the floor, punctured by the scattering blasts. ‘For the Emperor! For Cadia!’ he roared, filling the air before him with a hail of shredding pellet-shot. If he was to die today then he would die well. All that mattered was that the enemy be stalled until the Imperial counter-attack was ready to deploy. Even as these thoughts entered his head a huge, looming shape hurtled through the mist and slammed heavily into the ground before him, its massive wings folding behind its back as it landed. The bone-white tyrant rose up to its full height and looked down upon the terrified man, its eyes glowing with mind-numbing and utterly alien malice. The major closed his eyes tight and whispered for the Emperor to forgive his sins.
Phylene’s Defender of the Throne ground to a halt behind the line of rumbling siege engines, taking centre place amongst his prized super-heavy tanks. As the huge tank’s engines shuddered to a halt Phylene emerged from inside the huge turret, almost lost amidst the mass of plasteel and ceramite around him. He turned to face the waiting
gates, placing a headset over his dark shining pate as he did so. The general order to advance had been given to the waiting storm trooper squads. This meant that it was time for he and his forces to begin to work upon the final barrier between the city and the massed Imperial army behind him. Upon his spoken command
each mighty gun was trained upon the gates amid a cacophony of whirring
and squealing as a host of targeters and range finders acquired their
firing solutions. +++ As Hastor and the others watched this from above, time seemed to slow. The noises of the ongoing battle around them faded away to silence and they watched, frozen in anticipation, as the last of the large guns settled into position. At the centre of the siege
line Phylene held up one hand, the other pressed against his ear. He
held the pose for what seemed to be a lifetime, his hand held outstretched
before him as if challenging the city gates themselves. The air itself split in
two as the cannons of the Bombardiers unleashed their might in a single
instant. The titanic North Gate shuddered and buckled under the weight
of the barrage. Huge chunks of adamantium and plasteel tore away and
thudded into the ground beneath it, some as large as the super-heavy
tanks themselves. Rockcrete came away from the gate hinges in huge sections,
shaken loose by the inconceivable might of the onslaught. Huge cracks
began to appear along the wall at either side, some as wide as the gates
themselves. Hastor and the others punched
the air in jubilation, their spirits lifted by the show of Imperial
might. The others cheered and whooped, shielding their faces from the combined super-heated backwash of the volcano cannons and plasma blastgun as the valkyrie’s accelerator thrusters fired up, shifting the craft from its hanging position above the rest of the Imperial forces. ‘Damn! There’s nothing quite like a super-heavy tank suntan!’ Regan shouted, his comments causing him to receive a round of good-natured shoves and punches from the others. ‘Look at that! Now that’s what I call a plasma gun!’ Autis exclaimed proudly, watching as the carrier passed by the mighty stormblade, the huge tank busily blasting huge holes through the gates with its terrible weapon. ‘Ha! You Ryza-boys are all the same! Plasma’s the best thing since sliced grox-meat until it blows up in your hand!’ Nesker teased, pushing his comrade’s head away playfully, much to the amusement of the others. ‘Whatever, old man. I’m telling you, the footsloggers’ll be sad they missed this! By the time they get here the siege will be over.’ Hastor pushed past the others
and slammed his fist into the small rune set into the doorframe before
him. The door slid open to reveal the cabin of the carrier and he caught
a glimpse of the city walls looming before them. ‘E.T.A five minutes sir.’ The pilot announced, acknowledging his presence with a short, swift glance. ‘No sign of enemy hostiles so far.’ ‘It is truly glorious
to witness the Emperor’s best at work below us, is it not, sergeant?’
Tremlocke marvelled, his eyes still fixed firmly on their destination
ahead. Hastor ignored him and turned to face the pilot’s onboard instrumentation, his eyes scouring the many flashing runes and readout displays before him in an attempt to gleam any information possible of the whereabouts of the other carriers. ‘What is the status of the others?’ he soon asked, giving up on the endless displays before him. The pilot turned her attention away from the terrain before her and ran her eyes across the multitude displays, soon pointing out a series of violet dots scattered about one of the many small and inconspicuous screens laid out before her. ‘All valkyrie craft
are airborne and on course, sir. The advance wing’s progress is
steady and each of the carriers has met with little airborne resistance.
Hastor scowled as he heard
this, his hatred for the commissar growing further. With that the door of the
cabin slid shut, leaving Tremlocke in the gunner’s seat, a wide,
lipless smile creeping across his cold face. +++ Another building exploded
all at once, first swelling up like a heaving chest for what must have
been less than a fraction of a second before coming apart in a tumultuous
explosion of light, heat and wreckage. The cultists scattered in
all directions, their arms high above their heads. All communications had been lost between the main army and the lookouts a short while ago following the retreat of the tyranids and the unforeseen deactivation of the pylons. Each and every one of the World Eaters were caught up in the furious fight for the South Gate that had followed, lost in the frenzied bliss of facing their errant kin in battle. The cultists had moved in force to investigate, shunned by their vastly superior peers and having been deemed unworthy to take part in the fight. Now they were here, all five hundred-plus of them, caught in the open and trapped by the distant guns of some as-yet unidentified foe. ‘Onwards, you dogs! Advance or face the bite of my blade!’ The massive scarred frame
of the demagogue towered over the other scattering men, his face alight
with rage. Those around him paid no heed to his commands, their minds
broken by the terrible bombardment that rained down upon them. The demagogue roared and
swung the huge chainblade he wielded before him, slicing one hurtling
figure clean in two as he attempted to run past. No matter the dire
urgency of their situation, he would not be denied. The buildings all
around him broke apart and burned, smashed to pieces by the thunderous
barrage. ‘Weak filth! I will
not see my commands denied!’ He thundered, hacking and slashing
at those unfortunate enough to attempt to pass by him. A huge, armoured hand reached out and closed its fingers around the demagogue’s neck, plucking him from where he stood as if even his muscular bulk meant nothing. He cried out in pain and
surprise and began to sweep the air around him with the chainsword,
almost as much through instinct as any other reaction. The mighty sword
soon shattered and span away, smashed to pieces by his attackers free
hand.
‘M-my brother, please…’
the demagogue began, probing the air with his feet in a desperate attempt
to find solid ground. The armoured giant flicked his wrist and the man’s head came off in his hand, falling wetly to the floor beneath him. His decapitated form slumping haphazardly onto the floor and left to wallow in the pool of blood that began to creep around it. The monster turned and glanced
silently at the two marines behind it, giants of equal appearance and
stature. The warriors gazed up at the crumbling buildings surrounding
them then turned back towards the first, nodding their heads in silent
unison. Suddenly a huge explosion
ripped through the air far above them and they faltered, turning their
eyes to the skies above. An earthshaker shell had ripped through the
top of the building to their left and a huge chunk of the corner came
away, rumbling and whining as it slowly toppled downwards. ‘Imperial fire.’ One of the monsters growled, its voice deep and synthetic. The other nodded and reached for a communicator hooked to his belt. He activated the device and it came alive with a low-pitched thrum, red and green lights blinking on across its surface. ‘My lord, the North Gate is under siege, as you suspected.’ He growled monotonously, his shadowed eyes fixed to the distant gate that was no more than a dot on the horizon. As he awaited the reply
he ran his eyes across the rapidly increasing semicircle of crumbling
and flattened buildings that continued to spread forth from the gate
and down the vast artery that was the Grand Path of the Victorious,
the huge highway that ran the length of the city. The two ponderous giants turned their heads as the communicator began to hiss and whisper as if multitude of wispy, chattering voices struggled for dominance. ‘I understand.’
Came a thin, croaking voice, jagged and shredded by centuries of corruption.
‘As I suspected, the wretched Imperials move against me from all
sides. The two Nephilim looked at one another, their never-changing expressions fixed in a stony glare of silent nonchalance. ‘You may return. It
is time to show these Imperial whoresons what it is to face the might
of one who watched the very streets of Terra burn and crumble as the
children of the warp overran them. With that the two mysterious titans turned and walked calmly away, leaving over five hundred of their cultist brethren to die amid the crumbling buildings of the Grand Path of the Victorious. +++ ‘Validus is approaching penultimate waypoint. Am beginning descent procedure in two. Validus out.’ Tremlocke watched as the valkyrie thundered through a bank of thick, acrid smoke and emerged from the other side like a predator leaping from shadow. They had passed over the top of the wall unscathed, so far so good. ‘Validus has passed penultimate waypoint safely. Auspex detects no enemy presence city-side. Am initiating decent, standard S.T. manoeuvre, over.’ The pilot stated matter-of-factly, her progress monitored implicitly by the distant mission command. She flicked the vox-caster over to receive a whole host of garbled information. The vox came alive with intermittent bursts of information, all mixed and blended into a steady stream of almost incoherent audio data. ‘Fortis has reached
penultimate waypoint. Am beginning descent...’ Tremlocke smiled as he listened
to the intermittent bursts, proud to be taking part in such a noble
and holy crusade. He hung on for dear life as he watched the wall pass by under them, keeping himself as close to the gunner’s door as he could. He wanted to be the first out, to lead by example. The others would exit the carrier via the rear ramp and he wanted to make sure that he was there to wave them out. The valkyrie began to slow and descend, the entire hold shifting with a jolt as the descent dampers kicked in. The retroverters began to shake the metal beneath his feet as the craft’s shuddering descent intensified, the men around him becoming broken, vibrating shapes in his eyes, almost as if they were images taken by an unsteady pict-recorder. ‘H-has a-anyone s-seen m-m-my t-teeth?’ Regan exclaimed, a broad smile spreading across his face. The others laughed and joined in the joke. Nesker made some comment on the fact that the young trooper made the exact same joke each and every time they made a landing, though his light-hearted sarcasm was lost amongst the rattling, shuddering clamour of the landing. ‘Landfall in fifteen
seconds.’ The pilot informed them, her voice carried through the
hold by the carrier’s crackling intercom. Hastor turned and nodded
to each man in turn, a silent gesture that each of them responded to
in kind. Some began to whisper silent prayers, their eyes closed and
their heads pushed back against the bulkhead. +++ Magos Zorbathain’s screams were loud and piercing, echoing throughout the cold, dank chambers like roaming invisible wraiths, his wretched voice reverberating across each and every surface like a rolling tide of agonised pain. The monster at his side laughed, his broken, scraping voice rising in volume with each scream. The Magos should have been
dead. To look upon him for even a fraction of a second was enough to
see that. The various prosthetics
and augmentations his body had once housed were gone, torn away by his
sadistic torturer. ‘P-please…’
He begged, the newly implanted human voice box shuddering and vibrating
in his scarred and sutured throat. The figure by his side cackled
callously, running a gore-slicked leather glove over the terrified tech-priest’s
face. He was more alone that he
could ever remember, even in the days when he had been merely human.
He had never experienced agony like this before. He was slowly being taken apart and made organic once again, something that terrified him beyond all description. ‘The priesthood of
Mars. If ever there was an organisation so completely idiotic and worthless
in this galaxy then it is yours, magos. Zorbathain’s ears
burned as he listened to the cruel figure’s mocking and irreverent
words, his stomach and chest tightening. The machines that worked
upon his body were corrupt, twisted things, travesties that affronted
his very being with their presence. Long arachnid fingers of dark, pitted
metal snaked over him as if motivated by some brooding malicious force
separate to the beast, exploring his ravaged frame as they searched
out each and every alteration to his original form. ‘K-kill me. Just kill m-me, please.’ The magos moaned, the eyes that were so wrong rolling slackly in their wet, exposed sockets. ‘Then tell me.’
His torturer rasped, his ancient face shrouded in shadow. ‘Tell
me what I need to know and I will end your miserable life. Give me the
activation and targeting codes.
The valkyrie’s landing
feet touched the ground and Hastor was out, his pistol drawn, his keen
eyes scouring the surrounding area for any sign of danger. ‘Validus is down and
active. Repeat, Validus is down and active.’ Corpo declared, keeping
the message short and to the point. Brandbaar was the first
of them to break away and head towards the nearby buildings, his silenced
bolt pistol and black longknife drawn and ready. Tremlocke and the others
followed closely behind, the assault weapons forming the flank of the
disembarking squad. Hastor watched as his scout
halted, checked his surroundings and then disappeared into the nearest
structure, sinking into the shadows of the open doorway some hundred
and fifty metres away. As they reached the doorway
he turned, hearing the thrumming burners of the other assault craft
clearly now. ‘Sir? The pilot wishes
us good luck in our mission. She sends us the Emperor’s blessing.’
Corpo informed him, one hand pressed against his helmet. ‘Throne of Terra!’
He gasped, watching in sheer and utter disbelief as the entire craft
disappeared, atomised by the crackling finger of pulsing blue lightning
that slammed into it from somewhere high above. The others turned slowly and fearfully as if somehow aware of the nature of the blast even before they had begun to look upon the devastation behind them. ‘The pylons…’
Tremlocke exclaimed, watching as the rest of the descending craft began
to sway and disperse, their pilots thrown into disarray by the surprise
attack. Tremlocke span on his heel
as he heard this, his face a mixture of fear and anger in equal measure.
High above them the lurid skies flashed white, the intense burst followed a fraction of a second later by another huge explosion. Hastor and the commissar watched in horror as the snaking, groping energy finger of the nearest pylon instantaneously annihilated the valkyrie carrying squad Acutus. The craft’s pilot and ten of the Emperor’s finest were vaporised without ever knowing what had destroyed them. Hastor turned to the commissar
and bared his teeth in rage, his eyes half closed due to the backwash
of heat as the entire craft dissipated in the air above the city. Tremlocke faltered, barely
noticing as squad Columen’s and squad Ultio’s carriers were
torn apart in quick succession, their flaming remains cast to the four
winds high above the city walls. He felt a rough hand grab his collar and yank him violently around to face the rest of the stunned squad. Hastor thrust his face into the Commissar’s own, a glowering mask of hatred and revulsion. ‘Now what, Tremlocke? What the hell do we do? Come on, talk to me!’ The commissar couldn’t
answer. He glanced about in dumbfounded silence at the building carnage
and confusion, his mind temporarily lost amid the chaotic melee. ‘Total Invasion.’
Tremlocke whispered, almost as if afraid of uttering the words. ‘The
damned whoresons have initiated Total Invasion. We are not safe here.’ ‘The pylons…the
pylons are complex. Their machine spirits can be programmed to differentiate,
to eradicate only certain species or recognisable forces. Hastor had heard more than enough. He threw himself around to face the others to meet with a host of confused, frantic faces. ‘We are all in danger
out here! Stay together and move out into the surrounding buildings,
we need to get out of the open!’ Constantina had been the
last of the first wave to set down and now all that was left of them
and the carrier that had brought them was a ball of burning wreckage,
the flaming tomb of ten of their storm trooper brethren. ‘We can’t help them now, son. I’m sorry, they’re on their own.’ Hastor exclaimed, his voice heavy with regret. The panicked medic quailed
as another fearsome blast erupted above, sending a shockwave of heat
and flame out across the square. ‘We must to fall back!
That is a direct order!’ The squad began to move out as one towards the safety of the surrounding buildings, spurred on by the horrific fate of the other teams. Hastor turned and began to follow the others, the absolute horror of the situation only now beginning to seep into his mind. They were almost halfway across the square when Brandbaar appeared, his face sagging as he threw himself through the open doorway and out onto the square, attracted by the tumult outside. He stumbled forward a few paces before grinding to a halt and raising his eyes to the sky, watching as the nearest two pylons destroyed the carriers of squads Lex, Falx and Tutus, the latter caught as the pilot of their craft was in the middle of attempting a desperate escape bid. No…’ The startled
scout whispered, staring in stunned silence at the deaths of his unfortunate
storm trooper brethren. The two men broke into a
panicked run and headed towards the waiting alley, the rest of the squad
surrounding them. ‘Come on, move it!’ Autis hollered, waving his arms frantically as he watched Fortis sprint across the open square. The others picked themselves up of the floor and joined in, desperately urging the fleeing squads to join them. Hastor picked himself up quickly, throwing scraps of refuse away from him as he rose to his feet. He quickly checked that Brandbaar was okay before moving to join the others, soon adding his own shouts of encouragement to those of his squad, desperately unhappy that he could do no more. Yet another fearsome blast
grabbed his attention and he glanced up into the skies above the towering
city walls. Hastor watched as the rear of the descending valkyrie opened and a steady stream of bodies poured out into the burning skies, leaping the last few feet to the ground. The unfortunate members of Squad Unicus had soon realised the extreme danger they were in and were in the middle of one last, desperate attempt at escape. Somehow they knew that the pylon’s main targets would be the vehicles of the assault and had decided that they stood a better chance of survival should they take to the skies utilising their grav-chutes. No more than three or four
of the unfortunate men managed to leap clear of the carrier before it
was torn apart, the resultant blast atomising not only those still inside
but also a number of the soldiers still within the branching fireball’s
radius. Hastor whispered a silent
prayer as he watched three or four bodies burst apart like bloated balloons,
utterly decimated by the potent and unstoppable power of the pylons. Of the original fifteen craft, theirs were the only three to escape the horrifying touch of the pylon grid.
‘No…’ He began, his voice first leaving his lips as a whisper. He began to repeat the word again and again, each time growing louder and louder. He broke free of the group and began to run towards the others, waving his arms frantically. ‘Get clear! For the Emperor’s sake, get clear of the damned square!’ A pair of strong arms grabbed him and pulled him back. He heard Nesker’s voice form somewhere behind him requesting calm but he ignored it and continued to call out, his entire face vibrating with the effort. He watched as the grounded carriers of both surviving squads were incinerated one after the other, their demise lasting no more than half a second between them. ‘Move it or you’re dead! There’s no time left! Please…’ The lightning found Squad Firmamentum first. The metres-thick energy whip passed over the squad and ten hurtling bodies burst apart with a series of muffled, staccato thuds, leaving nothing save for a fine mist of cooked blood in its wake. Hoolias and the rest of Fortis barrelled past Hastor and into the alley where they fell into the arms of the others, totally and utterly exhausted. Hastor barely even acknowledged this, his eyes fixed firmly upon the sprinting members of Veritas as they desperately ran towards the safety of the alley. He ran his eyes along the hurtling bodies until he found the distressed face of his old friend and battle-brother, Deucius Bellanor. Bellanor, the man who had
saved his life on Grazior Primus when he had stared death in the face
at the hands of the eldar of Biel Tan. Hastor watched in horror
as Bellanor swelled to almost twice his original size before coming
apart like a ripe jeptafruit, his entire body split right down to the
atomic level by the immensely powerful and mysterious energies of the
ancient mechanicus weapon. Within a fraction of a second Bellanor and
his entire squad were dead and gone, turned to crimson mist by the merciless,
deadly energies. CHAPTER 16: SLAUGHTER General Arkas E. Phylene
watched in bewildered astonishment as the hazy blue fork of unnatural
lightning cracked across the skies far above him and into the distant
carrier, tearing it apart as if it were made of the flimsiest matchwood.
‘Good God-Emperor! Did anyone see that?’ He uttered, speaking into the microbead wrapped around his ear. His stubby fingers dug into the rim of the turret as he watched the descending progress of the flaming, creaking wreckage, its scattered trajectory sending it hurtling into the packed ground forces below the wall to disappear amid a sea of armour and flesh. Men began to shout and scream, scattering like startled vermin before the surprise bombardment, confused and startled by its sudden presence. ‘The pylons…’
He whispered, even as the microbead in his ear began to sing with the
garbled voices of an army waking up to the realisation that they were
in terrible danger. Another withering crack
resounded through the charged air and this time the energy whip snaked
downwards and into the massed armour around the North Gate. Unsatisfied and undaunted
it arced through the air and into its next target, a line of Phylene’s
basilisks. Armour squealed and buckled as the machines exploded, one
by one, torn apart by the irresistible energies. Soldiers screamed in
terror and fled before the onslaught, only to die horribly as the arcane
lightning found them. He hurriedly tapped the microbead twice and the distorted voice of the comms-operator crackled in his ear. ‘Orders sir?’ ‘This is Godhammer One! Godhammer One calling all Godhammer units! The pylons are hot! Repeat, the damn pylons are hot! Prep for re-alignment ASAP!’ He watched as the crackling
green towers began to pulse and vibrate with a renewed vigour, picking
off more ground targets with each passing second and cutting a swathe
through the gathered tanks and infantry around the gate with contemptuous
ease. ‘Godhammer One to all Godhammer units, ignore the gate! I repeat, ignore the gate! Godhammers Two through Four, power up! Power up now! As soon as your live I want you to lock onto my targeting array and match it!’ He tapped the tiny communications device once and the link transferred itself to the Defender’s gunner crew, the muffled vibrations of the mighty tank’s heart resounding over the inter-com channel. ‘Gunner command. This
is Hentrich, sir. Do we have a new target?’ The inter-com hissed out nothing but static for a moment, and Phylene could feel his patience waning, not that he had ever had any. Just as he was about to scream down the link Hentrich’s voice burst forth from the tiny earpiece and into his head, almost deafening him. ‘Great Saint Solar’s
swagger stick! Look at that! The defence grid is active! But…’ His harsh command was answered
almost immediately as the huge turret of the stormhammer began to squeal
and turn, its main battle cannon whirring and rising. ‘Godhammers Two through
Four follow my lead! Fire at will! Fire at will! Godhammers Five through
Seven, match our trajectory! +++ ‘Come about! Come about
now!’ Aquilus barked, his thin, hawk-like features tight, his
eyes wide and chary. The Swift Retribution slewed
to a halt, almost breaking into a three hundred and sixty degree spin
as its tracks churned the loose ashen sand. Aquilus and his crew all but ignored the speeding corral of oncoming vehicles and within seconds the driver had corrected their course and the rumbling leman russ annihilator struggled back onto the solid surface of the road, its engines screaming with effort, its tracks crushing the corpses of the fallen enemy as it thundered on. ‘What the hell is that?’ The Phyressian commander exclaimed, peering through the bouncing, rocking viewport in front of him in disbelief. To his complete amazement
and utter shock the pylons were active, lighting up the sky around the
looming walls with pale blue flashes of sterile light. Azure zigzags
of incredible energy were plunging into the Imperial lines, throwing
up huge fireballs and chunks of scorched hull wherever they passed over
the unfortunates beneath. ‘No!’ Aquilus roared, rising from the cramped seat of his command position. ‘We have to do something! We have to try and save them!’ He snatched the handset
from the startled comms-operator by his side and almost wrenched the
device from its holdings as he brought it up to his mouth. +++ ‘Fire! Fire! Fire at will, damn you all!’ Phylene thundered, throwing an arm in the direction of the nearest of the towering automatons. A deluge of withering, searing
artillery the likes of which most of those present had never seen before
roared through the charged air towards the nearest of the towers. The ancient pylon responded
immediately to this new threat, its whickering energy lash smashing
three of the mega-battle cannon shells to pieces mid-air. The whickering
energies snaked through the charged air and through the whistling shells,
pulverising them with little effort, though it response, however potent,
was ultimately in vain. The aim of the Giantslayer
and the Death From Afar proved true, the immensely powerful volcano
cannons of the shadowsword brace hammering their ultra-heavy laser blasts
home. Seconds behind it the artillery of the Pride of Ryza, the single Macraleusian stormblade thudded home, the huge ball of energy burning like a hazy miniature sun as it slammed into the pylon’s mid-section, engulfing the tower in a flash of light and heat. The pylon began to squeal
and buckle even as the speeder-sized ordinance shell of the Siege-Breaker’s
Stormsword siege cannon slammed into the pylon’s crackling peak,
utterly decimating the murderous construct in a wash of fire and shrapnel.
‘All Godhammer units turn west! Alter trajectories and locate the next target!’ he hollered into the microbead, vigorously accentuating his orders by waving his arms in the direction of the next pylon. ‘Coordinate your firepower and take it down! We have to clear a safe path through the gate! Get your damn arses in gear!’ Confused, witless bodies began to scatter and part as the Phyressian 2nd roared into the defence lines, a huge cloud of ash-dust rising behind them like a building sandstorm. At their head was the Swift Retribution, its twin lascannons raised and active as it pumped out shot after shot at the distant pylon, to little or no avail. Aqulius watched in dismay as the parallel white lances of energy were nullified time and again by the flailing particle forks, their incredible energy absorbed and refracted with unsettling ease. ‘Ronta s--t! We can’t get a shot past it!’ He cursed, shaking his head in despair. ‘Makis, keep trying! We’ll burn the bloody generators out if we have to! If we don’t drop that pylon we’re history!’ As the Phyressians continued onwards towards their target the first of the shaken basilisks opened up, its huge earthshaker cannon recoiling back into its casing with such force that it shook the entire vehicle. Around it the others of its company followed suit and within minutes the air was filled with a crescendo of whistling shells and thunderous cracks as the multitude siege engines of the Bombardiers concentrated their fire upon a single section of the wall. And so the exchange continued, the Imperial forces locked in a desperate struggle for survival so intense and tight that every second counted. CONTINUE TO CHAPTERS 17 TO 70 (TO FOLLOW)
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