Storm of iron, p.13
Storm of Iron, page 13
Gunfire reached out to them, instantly cutting a swathe of Guardsmen down and scattering the rest.
‘Spread out! Spread out!’ yelled Leonid.
They fired their lasguns and grenade launchers, but the range was too great.
Despite the tiny impact Leonid’s command squad had on the traitor line, the effect on the Imperial troops was electric. The embers of a fierce, wounded pride and a towering sense of outrage were stoked amongst his soldiers. The men of the Jouran Dragoons rose and followed their courageous commanding officer.
Leonid and Ellard charged forwards together, their boots throwing up great clouds of ash behind them. The squad followed at their heels, incoherent yells of anger and fear carrying them through the fire.
Hot adrenaline dumped into Leonid’s system. As he fired his rifle, he was engulfed by a wash of emotions. Mad exuberance gripped him, a wild sense of danger and excitement. His fear was swept away and he laughed with the sheer vitality he possessed. The sky above had never seemed quite so red, nor his eyes so preternaturally sharp. He could make out the faces of the enemy before him in graphic detail.
He felt like he was charging in slow motion, bullets and lasfire flashing past him like bright streamers, and he turned to yell encouragement at the men behind him. Explosions burst around him, but he ran on, invincible.
New strength filled his limbs and he surged ahead of the others.
Firing from the hip, the noise was incredible. He heard wild howling. His own?
Something jerked his sleeve. Sharp red pain blossomed up his arm, but he didn’t care.
He was riding a wave of courage and insanity.
A terrible roaring, ripping sound dopplered in and out and he saw the dirt kicked up in spurts before him. The line of fire kinked right and tore amongst the squad beside him. Four men were pitched backwards, bright blood spraying from their shattered chests.
That couldn’t be right. This was a charge to glory! Their faith in the Emperor and the justice of their cause was their shield against harm. They were supposed to be invincible.
His step faltered and his vision suddenly expanded to encompass the carnage around him. Bodies littered the ground. Hundreds? Thousands? There were so many, who could tell?
Brave and glorious though their charge had been, the rational part of Leonid’s brain suddenly realised its folly. Frantic charges against fortified positions without fire support were the stuff of legend until you actually had to do it yourself. Though he didn’t appreciate it on a conscious level, Leonid had reached the point that all infantrymen must at some point face.
The point where the initial surge of adrenaline had worn off and the body’s innate sense of self preservation kicked in. This was when true courage was required to carry a soldier the last few metres towards the enemy.
Leonid screamed and continued forwards, side by side with his soldiers, his blood pounding and his heart racing.
They were going to make it!
The traitor line was barely ten metres away.
Then it vanished in a series of bright flashes, smoke and thunderous noise.
A giant fist smashed him in the chest.
He fell, fighting for breath, his vision cartwheeling.
The ground rushed up to meet him and slammed into his face, hot and solid.
Someone screamed his name.
Pain, bright red, razor stabs of pain in his chest.
He rolled onto his back as noise swelled around him; screams and gunfire. He lifted his head and moaned as he saw scarlet blood on his breastplate. Was it his?
He dropped his head and closed his eyes as an immense weariness settled over him.
Then screamed as he was hauled violently up and thrown over someone’s shoulder, his chest spasming in pain. He saw broken, blood stained earth bouncing below him and a bloodstained Jouran uniform jacket.
He was being carried away from the trenches, he realised, bouncing around on his rescuer’s shoulder, the world spinning around him. Nothing made sense. He tried to find his voice, but all that he managed was a hoarse croak.
The man carrying him suddenly stopped and shucked Leonid from his shoulder, propping him up against the side of a wrecked tank.
Leonid’s eyes swam into focus.
Sergeant Ellard knelt beside him, checking the wound in his chest.
‘What happened?’ Leonid asked thickly.
‘You got yourself shot, sir,’ answered Ellard.
Leonid looked at his chest. ‘Did I?’
‘Aye, sir. You were ahead of everyone else and took a round to the chest. Good thing you had your flak jacket on underneath your breastplate, eh? Still, you’re going to have a hell of a bruise, sir.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ said Leonid, relief flowing through him. ‘The last thing I remember, we were just about to jump those bastards.’
‘Well, I guess our charge wasn’t meant to hit home. Anyway we’ve got to keep our heads down, because Corde tells me that our vaunted Titans are inbound any minute and we sure as hell don’t want to be anywhere near those trenches when they open fire.’
Leonid tried to stand, but pain flooded through him and he slumped back. ‘Imperator, this hurts!’
‘Yes, I think you caught it in the solar plexus, so just lay still for a while, sir. You’re going to be alright.’
‘Sure.’ said Leonid. ‘By the way, thank you, sergeant. For carrying me out.’
‘Not to worry, sir, but if you don’t mind me asking, what the hell were you doing? With all due respect, sir, you took off like a bloody madman.’
‘I don’t know, sergeant. I couldn’t think straight,’ said Leonid, shaking his head. ‘All I could see was the line of trenches and how I had to get there. It was insane, I know, but, by the Emperor, it felt amazing! It was as though I could hear and see everything so clearly and there was nothing I couldn’t do… And then I got shot,’ he finished lamely.
More bodies began to join them as the distant thunder of Titan footsteps carried through the afternoon air. Leonid had never heard a more welcome sound in his entire life.
He pushed himself painfully to his feet and shouted to everyone in earshot, his parade-ground voice cutting through the bark of sporadic gunfire and the thump of explosions.
‘Right, listen up, everybody! We have Titans coming in, so everyone on your feet! As soon as they hit I want everyone back to the citadel in double time or better. Make sure we don’t leave anybody behind and we’ll get out of this in one piece, okay?’
A few muted affirmations greeted Leonid’s words, but the survivors of the attack were too weary and shell-shocked to respond with much enthusiasm.
Leonid turned his gaze to the north-west, seeing the lumbering shapes of Titans approaching through the smoke. Despite the pain in his chest, he grinned to himself.
The god-machines would surely turn the traitor line into a maelstrom of death and shredded bodies.
Kroeger watched the slaughter before the trenches with fierce longing, his fist thumping against the side of his Rhino in time with the crack of explosions. The carnage was pleasing to him, though he was disappointed the Imperials had not had the courage to even reach their lines. His sword was unsheathed and was yet to draw blood. Its spirit would be angered if it was to be scabbarded unwetted. It took all Kroeger’s willpower not to climb aboard the Rhino and order a full advance, but he could not do so unless decreed by the Warsmith.
Kroeger stood resplendent in his freshly polished armour, the burnished iron gleaming like new. The female prisoner he had spared from the initial massacre had restored his armour’s lustre, and though he still couldn’t say why he had not killed her, it was pleasing to him to have a lackey of the Emperor serve him. There was more to it than that, but he did not know what, and the feeling that the decision had not been his would not leave him. Kroeger dismissed the woman from his thoughts; he would probably kill her within a day or two.
The din of battle echoed from the valley sides and the discordant clash of steel on steel was music to Kroeger’s ears. For thousands of years, Kroeger had lived with this sound and he wished he could make out the huge shapes battling through the smoke to the west, where the Legio Mortis grappled with the enemy Titans. There was a battle indeed! To fight in the shadow of such creations was to fight in the realm of true death, where a warrior’s life hung by the threads of chance as well as skill.
Kroeger impatiently stalked to the edge of the trench’s firing step, watching the wall of smoke and flames with hunger. He cast his gaze over the troops that waited either side of him, pitiful humans who thought that by their service to the Iron Warriors they would be honoured in the sight of Chaos. He despised them.
Further west, Kroeger could see Honsou and his company of mongrels. Honsou also looked impatient to enter the fray, and in this at least, Kroeger knew they shared a common bond.
He heard the rumbling of powerful engines behind him and turned to see three massive Land Raiders moving into position at the main gateway. The frontal ramp of the mighty vehicle in the lead dropped with a heavy clang and a powerful figure, clad in ornate Terminator armour stepped out into the red, afternoon sun.
Forrix marched across the steel decking that bridged the trench and joined Kroeger on the firing step, an ancient and heavily ornamented combi-bolter clutched in his right hand, while the left was a monstrous, crackling power fist.
‘The Warsmith has decreed that we are to attack,’ said Forrix.
‘We?’ asked a bemused Kroeger. Forrix had not taken to the field of battle in nearly three millennia.
‘Yes, we. I am an Iron Warrior, am I not?’
‘You are that, Forrix,’ nodded Kroeger as Honsou strode across to join them.
‘Forrix?’ said Honsou. ‘You fight with us this day?’
‘Aye, half-breed, I do. You have something to say?’
‘No… brother. You do us honour with your presence.’
‘I do,’ nodded Forrix.
Kroeger and Honsou shared a glance, both equally puzzled and a little unsettled by this latest development. Kroeger laughed and slapped a gauntlet across Forrix’s shoulder guards.
‘Welcome back, Forrix. It has been too long since you shed the blood of the enemy. I’ll wager that power fist comes back with more blood on it than even the half-breed or I can shed today.’
Forrix nodded, clearly uncomfortable with Kroeger’s bonhomie. He shook off Kroeger’s hand and snapped, ‘Stay away from me, Kroeger. You are nothing to me.’
Kroeger removed his hand with exaggerated care and took a step back.
‘As you wish.’
Honsou stepped away from Forrix and returned to his position in the line just as Kroeger left the firing step to rejoin his company. He cast furtive glances back towards the giant figure of Forrix, silhouetted in the deep red of the sky. Something had happened to Forrix and Kroeger was instantly suspicious. There had been a fire in the ancient veteran’s voice that Kroeger had not heard for many centuries.
Something had rekindled Forrix’s spirit and Kroeger suspected that the old general was privy to some secret that both he and Honsou were ignorant of. What that might be or how he came by it, Kroeger could not guess, but he would make it his business to find out.
Further speculation was ended when a deafening roar sawed through the front ranks, blasting dozens of men on the firing step to shreds. Heavy calibre shells ripped apart the lip of the trench in a hail of fire, sending earth and bodies flying in all directions and a fierce grin broke on Kroeger’s face.
Through the billowing smoke he could make out the blurred outline of what looked like a Scout Titan. He jogged quickly to his Rhino, jumping onto the running boards and hammering his fist upon its roof.
The Rhino’s engine roared as it powered forwards, following Forrix’s Land Raiders through the gateway and into the smoke of battle.
Kroeger stood tall and raised his chainsword for all his warriors to see.
‘Death to the followers of the False Emperor!’
Three
Leonid watched the loping forms of the Warhounds as they circled his position, pouring fire from their Vulcan bolters onto the traitor lines. The men under his command cheered and punched the air at this show of defiance, though Leonid knew that was all it was. The Warhounds would buy them time to regroup, but nothing more.
‘All units, this is Colonel Leonid. Regroup and fall back to the rally point immediately. Do it quickly, we don’t have much time,’ ordered Leonid as the deep throated roar of vehicles swelled from the traitor lines.
Princeps Carlsen jinked his agile Warhound Titan from side to side, frantically evading enemy shots while attempting to manoeuvre into a favourable firing position for his weapons moderati. He and Princeps Jancer in the Jure Divinu took it in turns to dart forwards and hose the trenches with their Vulcan bolters and turbo lasers, shredding anything that dared show its face, before rapidly withdrawing to safety in the smoke. Their height made a mockery of the protection offered by the firing step, killing scores of men with each volley, but he knew that the casualties they were inflicting were largely irrelevant.
Without the heavier guns of Battle Group Sword, their efforts here were purely a delaying tactic. Carlsen had not believed his ears when he heard Princeps Fierach give the order to abandon the Jourans in favour of going head to head with an Emperor-class Titan, and had listened with growing horror to the vox traffic flashing between the Battle Titans as they fought for their lives.
He and his brother Warhound were too far east to go to the aid of their brethren, and had had to content themselves with following the Jouran armoured attack, though without the Reavers they had been forced to wait until the Imperial Guard either broke through or were repulsed.
Las-bolts and bolter fire flared against his void shields, but he ignored them as irrelevant. It was the enemy tanks that gave Carlsen cause for concern. Each time he’d gone forward, he had seen more and more of them lurking behind the trenches and knew it was only a matter of time until the enemy commander counterattacked.
Three Land Raiders burst from the smoke, followed by a wide line of Rhinos and transports that looked like some bizarre cross between a Chimera and a flatbed truck. The troops crammed into them screamed as they bounced along the ground towards the retreating Guard.
‘Princeps Jancer, with me!’ shouted Carlsen as he turned his Vulcan bolter on the lighter vehicles following the Land Raiders. Shells tore up the ground, stitching a path towards them and sawing three apart in a burst of flames and blood. All three exploded, the shells ringing from the side of a Land Raider. The heavier vehicle lurched sideways, smashing into one of the Chimera trucks and flattening it with a shriek of tortured metal.
The Jure Divinu appeared at his side, its guns bellowing with thunder and raking the enemy attack with deadly shells. Two Land Raiders skidded away from the Titans, attempting to evade their guns, but Carlsen was quicker, lashing out with his Titan’s foot and catching the closest vehicle square in the side panels, buckling its armoured hull with ease and hurling the wreck through the air.
The second slewed around, bringing its sponson-mounted lascannon to bear and Carlsen felt the painful sensation of his void shields collapsing as the Land Raider’s gunners found their mark.
‘Damn you!’ yelled Carlsen, hauling backwards as the tank’s guns fired again, the deadly beams flashing overhead.
‘Moderati Arkian, get those shields back up! Now!’
Carlsen walked his Titan backwards, spraying the traitor vehicles with fire, careful to try and avoid the running soldiers of the Imperial Guard. Sweat ran in runnels from his face as the strain of such precise piloting took its toll.
The Defensor Fidei stumbled as Carlsen brought one of its feet down upon the smashed hulk of a Leman Russ, the pilot’s compartment swaying dangerously close to the ground. The Jure Divinu stood sentinel over its brother Titan, firing and moving as the enemy advanced more cautiously now.
‘Arkian!’ bellowed Carlsen, ‘Where are my damn shields?’
‘Working on it, princeps!’
‘Work faster!’ demanded Carlsen as he saw the two surviving Land Raiders emerge from the smoke on a direct course for him.
The Imperator Bellum was dying, but Princeps Fierach was not about to give up just yet. Blood and sweat coated his features and he was sure Moderati Yousen was dead. The Emperor alone knew what was going on in the engineering decks; he had not been able to raise anyone down there. The Dies Irae was taking him apart piece by piece, but Fierach was not going down without a fight, and it was taking terrible damage. The tanks that had accompanied the other enemy Titans had swept past him, content to allow their war god to destroy him.
Fierach just hoped that the survivors of Battle Group Sword were able to protect the Jourans and allow them to escape.
Another hammer blow fell upon him and shooting bolts of fire lanced through his skull in sympathetic pain. What the Imperator Bellum felt, he felt.
He brought up his chainblade, the now dulled edge scoring across the barrel of the Dies Irae’s plasma annihilator. Gouts of searing plasma energy spurted from the enormous gun, hissing clouds of superheated vapour geysering downwards and vaporising a hundred men in its fury.
The Dies Irae stepped in and smashed its leg against Fierach’s, buckling the knee joint and destroying it in an explosion of sparks. Warning klaxons blared and thick ropes of blood ran from Fierach’s mouth as he bit down hard on his tongue, the pain almost unbearable. He vainly tried to step away from the enemy Titan, but the Imperator Bellum’s left leg was fused solid and he could not escape.
The Dies Irae advanced again and hammered one of its weapon arms against the Imperator Bellum’s torso. Fierach’s Titan was slammed sideways by the thunderous blow and yet more warning lights flared into life as systems failed all over his war machine. He fought for balance, but the external gyros were smashed and he was forced to rely on his own reeling senses rather than those of the Titan.
