Master of sanctity, p.29
Master of Sanctity, page 29
‘But such tip might be blunted in the effort,’ Astelan replied. The Fallen tapped gauntleted fingers on the surface of the projection plate as he spoke. ‘It does not make sense to you, but you are not a renegade. I am, and I have dealt with these types of warriors. They do not fight out of grand ideal or loyalty to the Emperor. They are selfish and bound together only by mutual need. The Death Guard follow Typhon because they choose to for their own benefit. There is not one amongst them that would set foot in the breach first for the safety of the others, whereas you would happily die if it brought victory. They are not battle-brothers as you understand it.’
What Astelan claimed made sense, from the perspective of the warped mind of a traitor. Over and over on the torment rack Asmodai had laid bare the self-serving and shallow nature of the Fallen and the same lack of duty and character was likely to apply to other renegades.
‘Your deductions are logical, but to what end?’ said the Chaplain. ‘Anovel is still placed well for capture, no matter the motivations and objectives of our foes. How does that alter the final goal?’
‘It means that Typhon will not join the assault until he is convinced victory is possible. If you can defeat Anovel and blunt his attack Typhon is likely not to prosecute further invasion. Anovel knows this and expends every effort, and warrior, in the attempt to secure the aid of the Death Guard.’
Asmodai had only a few seconds to consider this before his train of thought was interrupted by a panicked shout from one of the sensor array officers.
‘We have two cruisers in low orbit locking weapons onto our location!’ the attendant warned.
‘Anovel does not need to storm the palace,’ Astelan said hurriedly. ‘Damn! He only needs to remove us as a threat. He advances quickly to storm the ruins, not to take control! We cannot stay here.’
‘You do not leave this chamber,’ snapped Asmodai, pulling free his pistol. ‘Do not treat with me as a fool.’
A thunderous crack reverberated across the chamber, blanking out the hololith and filling downs of screens with static. Asmodai felt a tremor run through the walls and floor of the command hall.
‘Direct lance strike!’ reported the sensor officer.
‘Two power fields knocked out,’ added one of the men at the damage control station. ‘Four banks remaining.’
‘Where is our counter-orbital fire?’ Astelan demanded, striding towards the communications platform.
‘Remain at your positions!’ Asmodai roared as he noticed several of the officers backing away from their commands, eyes turned towards the door. He raised his pistol. ‘I will kill any man that attempts to leave his post.’
Another blast of energy from the second cruiser slammed into the energy shields shimmering above the palace. Deep within the citadel generators overloaded, blacking out more of the tactical displays. The main lights flickered off, to be replaced by the orange glow from the emergency plasma reactor buried deep beneath the fortification. Brighter light bathed the defence officers as screens glimmered back into life.
‘Answer me!’ Astelan stormed up and down behind the planetary defence officers. ‘Why are we not firing back?’
‘Targeting solutions have been calculated and communicated,’ one officer reported. ‘Silos four, six and seven are responding. We will return fire before the enemy can recharge their lances.’
‘Too late,’ said Astelan. Asmodai saw what the Fallen had seen. Atmospheric sweeps picked up a storm of projectiles descending on the city.
‘Torpedoes,’ growled the Chaplain. Normally the huge missiles were only good for ship-to-ship combat, but Anovel – or Typhon – had modified his ships’ ordnance to make them suitable for ground attack.
‘Sound bombardment warning,’ Astelan commanded.
The next few minutes unfolded slowly. The defence lasers positioned around the capital opened fire, driving away the two cruisers. However, as Astelan had observed, this was too little and too late. The entire reason for defence silos and orbital gun platforms was to prevent such an attack. Asmodai had no idea how a gap so large had been allowed to develop and any recriminations were pointless for the moment. It seemed likely that it was the work of traitors within the Tharsian establishment – maybe even old sympathisers of Astelan – but there was no proof of a connection.
The incoming torpedoes separated into hundreds of cluster-warheads two kilometres up from the palace, concentrated on a few square kilometres.
The command centre was located on the southern side of the citadel, behind metres of plasteel and ferrocrete, but such armour was only good against land-based weaponry. The destructive might of a plasma torpedo would find these defences little obstacle.
Asmodai had a hasty vox-conversation with Belial. Fortunately the Deathwing units had already moved outside the palace, deployed to encircle the attacking force rather than meet it head-on. Belial had ordered the Imperial commander conducted to the secure bunkers beneath the palace but for other personnel there was little shelter.
Anovel’s forces were only three kilometres away. The timing of the orbital attack was near-perfect, and would leave the palace defenders with no opportunity to recover before the ground forces were moving to overrun their positions.
‘It is time to formulate a new strategy,’ said Astelan. ‘The citadel is compromised. If Anovel is capable of seizing the centre of the city we can be sure that Typhon and his Death Guard will join the assault. You have to stop the enemy from advancing and counter-attack now.’
‘That would suit your ends perfectly,’ said Asmodai. He pointed his pistol at Astelan, rage building at the thought that the Fallen could think him so stupid. ‘The chaos and confusion of battle would give you ample opportunity to slip away and there is no bond I can place upon you that I can trust. I have postponed this moment long enough.’
The defence force officers were streaming away from their positions, taking advantage of the confrontation between the Space Marines to seek better shelter or perhaps escape. Asmodai did not let his aim waver for a moment, knowing his foe would need only the tiniest opportunity to act.
‘I should have expected no honour from the likes of you,’ Astelan snapped. ‘I have delivered Anovel to you on a platter, but you are so twisted up in your paranoia and lies that you cannot believe for a moment that I might act in good faith.’
TRAITOR!
A moment of weakness spawns a lifetime of heresy, so the adage claimed. It burned Asmodai’s soul to think of the compromises he had already made; his skin crawled at the thought of further bargaining with Astelan.
‘No, I cannot. You are treacherous to the core, Merir Astelan. You have been given many years to see the error of your past and to confess your transgressions yet have shown no repentance for your acts against your primarch and your Emperor. I have no choice but–‘
The first of the torpedo warheads hit the remaining power fields, detonating with a bright star of plasma that shook the palace to its foundations.
In the seconds that followed, more and more missiles slammed into the citadel and its outlying towers, turning masonry to slurry, releasing shockwaves that toppled the towers of the Cathedral of the Emperor Restored and flattened the other buildings around the city centre. A rippling tide of superheated air washed over the main plaza turning cobbles to liquid, incinerating anyone and anything in the open. Thousands of Tharsians, defence force and civilians alike, were immolated over the course of the next thirty seconds, not even ashes remaining to mark their demise.
The metal vaulting holding up the roof of the command hall screeched and buckled under torrential impacts, finally giving way amidst an avalanche of shattered ferrocrete and semi-molten plasteel. As Asmodai looked up a block the size of a battle tank dropped towards the Chaplain.
Astelan slammed into the Master of Repentance, fist connecting with the side of Asmodai’s skull helm. A moment later the block hit the ground next to the Space Marines, shattering into hundreds of wicked shards. Asmodai was knocked back by the impact, separated from Astelan as dust billowed like smoke. A piece of ripped girder followed, careening off the Chaplain’s left shoulder. As he toppled to one knee he saw more boulders falling on his attacker, until Astelan disappeared from sight.
The deluge of rubble continued for almost a minute, during which time all Asmodai could do was dodge as best he could, shielding himself from the heaviest blocks as broken masonry fell like rain. Shredded power cables arced lightning across the hall and command consoles exploded, sending a refuge of red and blue sparks into the darkness.
Every fibre of Asmodai’s being knew that Astelan was not dead.
He surged out of the rubble pile, switching to thermal view in the darkness. The air gleamed with the afterglow of the plasma detonations, laying an ochre sheen across everything. Jagged edges of broken buttresses and pillars glowed radioactively in the Chaplain’s infrasight while jets of energy looked like coronal ejections from a star.
And there was no telltale glow from the power pack of a Space Marine’s war-plate.
Astelan was gone.
Stepping over the wreckage, Asmodai smiled to himself. The Fallen had finally revealed himself and there would be no more arguments, no more dissembling and schemes within schemes.
Astelan could run, but he could not hide. Asmodai activated his battleplate’s transponder recognition systems and a definitive return pinged back from three hundred metres away. Astelan was making good speed, already at one of the armoury garages, Asmodai surmised. Even amongst the destruction of the torpedo strike a groundcar or armoured transport would survive. Fate sometimes worked that way. It did not matter; the Dark Angels had swifter means.
He activated the command-vox.
‘This is Brother Asmodai, contact for Huntmaster Tybalain. New priority objective. Designate Target Beta. Locate prisoner on transponder encryption alpha-seven-four-gamma. Terminate immediately on contact. No overrule, this target must be eliminated.’
‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ came Tybalain’s reply. ‘Target Beta will be eliminated on contact.’
Vengeance was at hand.
The Price of Duty
Contrary to Nerean’s misgivings, the Black Knights did not find themselves sent into the heart of Streisgant. Instead the Black Knights drop pods deposited them within striking distance of the traitor landing fields outside the city.
Dozens of huge drop-ships were scattered across a swathe of agri-district, looking like squat keeps amongst cereal fields and flattened mega-orchards. Air defence turrets on the dropcraft streamed tracer fire into the cloudy sky, seeking out the flitting shapes of Tharsian attack planes and Ravenwing interceptors. Rocket pods belched their payloads into the city, levelling buildings to pave the way for the infantry advance while armoured transports rumbled from the bowels of the drop-ships, grinding thick-tyred wheels over burnt crops and splintered trees.
The first Ravenwing charge was heralded by the arrival of the Darkshrouds. Black shadow spread across the flat plain from the east, masking the approach of Sammael and the bulk of the company. Ground-attack batteries fired shells and laser into the encroaching bank of darkness, the random fire passing harmless over the swift bikes and Land Speeders closing under the cover of artificial night.
Tybalain and his squadron curved around on a flanking attack, leading the Black Knights towards columns of augmented soldiers surging into the city outskirts. Land Speeder Tornados supported the riders’ attack with heavy bolter and assault cannon fire while Typhoons blanketed the outlying streets with missile barrages.
The Black Knights pressed directly into the midst of the foe, using their enemies’ own numbers as a shield against incoming fire, bolters and plasma talons spitting death. Chem-boosted bodies and mechanical exoskeletons were no match for the fury and firepower of the Second Company as the Black Knights and skimmers carved a trail through the advancing infantry.
Stooping in to the attack from over low warehouses, jinking between huge grain silos, a trio of Land Speeders dived onto clanking troop carriers, slicing through armour with flares of multi-melta, ammunition and engine explosions turning the transports into crackling pyres for the men and women within.
Swerving through the banks of smoke, Black Shadow’s wheels juddering over rubble and corpses, Annael plunged into the thick of the foe with the rest of the squadron. He lashed out with his corvus hammer, cracking open crudely-welded exo-armour, pulverising flesh and bone. Leaving battered, scattered bodies in their wake the Black Knights burst out onto a side street, moving away before the enemy could muster any sort of counterattack.
Following the Huntmaster, they looped around, passing between close tenements to come at Anovel’s warriors again from another direction, once more carving a bloody path through the invaders before zooming away. Over the vox Annael followed the reports from the landing fields: the Ravenwing were taking a heavy toll on the rear of the traitor army, herding the survivors into the city where the militia were waiting in prepared positions.
‘Priority objective, brothers!’ Sabrael announced gleefully as they swept out onto a broad boulevard on their third attack run. He pointed with his hammer towards the centre of the city, where a lightly armoured half-track transport was ploughing its way towards the inner citadel. Vox-antenna and scanner dishes dotted the armoured cab, indicating some kind of command vehicle. Las-fire from pintle-weapons manned by warriors in its open compartment spewed into high-fronted assembly plants to either side, paving the way for several dozen armoured infantry advancing in its wake. The traitors used the wrecks of vehicles as cover as they moved further into the city.
‘Good eyes, Sabrael,’ said Tybalain. ‘We will circle around and come at the target from the right.’
Sabrael needed no more encouragement and surged a few metres ahead of the squadron, angling his steed down an alleyway barely wide enough for bike and rider. Tybalain led the others after him, brick walls rushing past Annael within the reach of an outstretched arm.
Braking hard, tyres squealing, they banked into a broad stretch of ferrocrete; some kind of marshalling yard overlooked by cranes and gantries.
‘Emperor’s mercy,’ whispered Calatus. ‘Look to the palace!’
Annael followed his battle-brother’s instruction in time to see a blur of projectiles hitting the crackling arc of the citadel’s power field. For an instant whiteness filled his vision before his auto-senses blocked out the flash of plasma. When they cleared a half a second later, his sight still dimmed almost to nothing, all Annael could see was a fireball rising high into the air above the city. The towers of the palace had become pinnacles of flame, raining down molten debris like volcanoes.
As one the squadron screeched to a halt to watch the unfolding spectacle. The upper parts of the palace – all that could be seen over the intervening buildings – had become pillars of ash shot through with rivulets of molten metal. Annael looked on in amazement as a pinnacle three hundred metres high crumpled like a burnt log, turning into a blossom of flame and cloud before disappearing from view.
‘We need to move to support,’ said Nerean.
‘Negative,’ snapped Tybalain. ‘We remain on-mission until new orders from the Grand Master. Continue the attack.’
‘The first vengeance will be our honour,’ Sabrael said as he accelerated away.
‘No mercy,’ Annael added, the shock of the orbital attack subsiding, replaced by an upwelling of hatred for the enemy that had unleashed such destruction. ‘We cleanse Tharsis of this filth.’
A blast from Tybalain’s plasma talon shattered the gate to the yard and they exited at speed, swerving around falling remnants of burning metal onto a curving street that joined the main thoroughfare just ahead of the command vehicle’s current position.
‘My steed lacks teeth to bring down such a beast,’ said Sabrael, referring to the bolters fitted to the standard Ravenwing bike that had replaced the mount he had lost on Ulthor. ‘I shall draw their ire while you strike.’
Without waiting for confirmation or permission from Tybalain, Sabrael sped away down another side road, heading directly for the traitor tank.
‘Target tracks and weapon systems first,’ the Huntmaster told his squadron as they continued around the bend of the street. The lead elements of the command vehicle’s escort – lightly armoured scouts on foot – could be seen moving through the buildings ahead.
Tybalain had signalled for the Black Knights to spread out into attack formation when the vox crackled with a priority command transmission.
‘This is Brother Asmodai, contact for Huntmaster Tybalain. New priority objective. Designate Target Beta. Locate prisoner on transponder encryption alpha-seven-four-gamma. Terminate immediately on contact. No overrule, this target must be eliminated.’
‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain. Target Beta will be eliminated on contact.’ Tybalain switched back to the squad-vox to address his warriors. ‘Abort attack and set augurs for designated transponder signal.’
The Huntmaster slowed hard and banked his steed to the left.
‘Brothers, it will take but a matter of moments to destroy this foe.’ Sabrael was breathless with exhilaration. ‘We are in perfect position to strike.’
‘Negative!’ snarled Tybalain. ‘We have our orders. I will signal for a Dark Talon to make a strike against the target.’
Annael carried on as the other three Black Knights with him turned around their steeds and started heading away.
‘Annael, my brother, give me support. A delay of moments.’
It seemed a waste of an opportunity to turn away when they could inflict a serious blow to the enemy advance. The transponder signal of the Target Beta was clear on the augur relay, almost halfway across the city. It would take some time to catch up with the new objective, a minute or two’s digression would make little difference.
