"Dawn of War" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goto C. S.)

CHAPTER THREE

Terror gripped at his soul, releasing the one thought that the struggling man should have suppressed for all time. He couldn’t hang on to his consciousness as it swam and curdled, as though stirred by the piercing force of a primeval spear. Voices were seducing him from all sides, licking at the inside of his head like exquisite flames, weakening his resolve and drawing him into hell. He could see the sorcerer towering over him, and could sense the muttering voices of his perverted priesthood ringed around him, but there was nothing he could do to fight them. Finally, without a word or even a breath, he cried out with his mind in desperate longing, Choose me!

Chaos Sorcerer Sindri looked down at the ruined husk that was once a Marine of the accursed Alpha Legion, but there was no pity in his stare. His fist was clasped around his Bedlam Staff, clenching and unclenching in impatient anticipation, and, buried deep in the visor sockets of his bladed helmet, Sindri’s eyes glowered a thirsty red.

“He is ready, my lord,” hissed the sorcerer, clearly pained by the requirement of deference. Nonetheless, his tone was soft and sibilant.

“Then proceed, sorcerer, but proceed carefully. If you fail me, this will not be the only sacrifice tonight,” said Chaos Lord Bale bluntly, leaning his impressive weight against the great Manreaper scythe, which seemed to writhe hungrily in his grasp.

The sorcerer did not reply. Instead he pointed with his staff and, without a word, the chosen Chaos Marine slouched towards the edge of the crater, as though held in a trance.

At the bottom of the freshly excavated pit lay an altar. It was little more than a slab of rough hewn stone, but it pulsed with ancient promises. Its sides had been carved with snaking designs and icons depicting sacrifice and slaughter, and dark prayers had been etched into the rock with teeth and bones. Each inscription had drawn the blood of its artisan, and had been made in a frenzy of agony and love. The surface of the altar, stained with the life blood of countless sacrifices, ran with deep grooves and runnels.

The Chaos Marine climbed carefully down the sides of the crater towards the altar, more and more horrified with each step, not able to understand what he was doing. But the voices whispered into his soul, drawing him onwards and dissolving his resistance. He required no escort-despite himself he knew what he had to do. Stealing a glance back up to the rim of the pit, he could see a ring of his battle-brothers from the Alpha Legion, each shimmering in the dark black and green of their ancient armour. They stared down at him in silence, filling the humid night with their heavy malignancy.

As he approached the altar, he realised that Sindri and Lord Bale were there already with retinues of armed Marines fanned out behind them. Just in case. Even in the night and in the heavy shadow of the crater, he could see the steady evil throbbing in their eyes. Lord Bale himself was a monster of a man-hugely tall and draped with corpse-like flesh that paled into a sickly white in the thin moonlight. Only his bladed teeth seemed to reflect any light at all, and that was vicious beyond the imaginings of men. A terrible stench wafted through the night air, and the Chaos Marine noticed for the last time how Bale’s burnished green armour was coated in a thick, ichorous film of ruined flesh. It was the last residue of the countless men who had fallen beneath the Chaos Lord’s war-scythe in his millennia of bloody rampage across worlds and galaxies.

Without any prompting, the nameless Marine climbed up onto the altar and lay down, throwing his arms up over his head and pushing his feet across into the corners of the stone. He closed his eyes and felt the tablet’s almost imperceptible vibrations beneath him. So, this is where it would all begin.

Sindri’s voice was hissing and muttering at the head of the altar, drawing more and more movement from the rock itself, which began to emanate heat. Bale could see the runes and the prayers start to glow around the sides of the tablet, and blood started to ooze out of the eyes of the daemons etched into the stone. In the sky, dark clouds started to congeal and swirl, condensing a sleet of rain and filling the night with sheets of lightning.

The prostrate Marine could feel the rain falling onto his face and splashing off the altar. Droplets began to seep into his mouth, and his tongue licked at them automatically. The familiar irony taste rippled through his body, sending a thrill into his soul as he realised that it was a rain of blood, and that it was all for him.

Suddenly Sindri stopped his chant and silence filled the pit, broken only by the persistent spatter of heavy rain. Then the Marine screamed. A great gash had opened up across his chest, spilling blood and organs out across the altar. Another tore into his stomach, and then smaller cuts started to criss-cross his legs and arms. After a couple of seconds, his face was ripped to shreds by the invisible force and a torrent of blood was cascading down the sides of the altar, spewing out of every inch of the screaming Marine.

Lord Bale ran his tongue along his razor-sharp teeth, watching the Chaotic powers rack the body of the victim, dreaming that such power would one day be his. But his reverie was broken as Sindri raised his staff into the sky and drew down a sizzling bolt of purple lightning, wailing a prayer as the energy coursed through his body and bounced back into the dual-pronged blade at the crest of his Bedlam Staff. With a dramatic flourish, Sindri spun the blade and brought it down in a sudden, single sweep, cleaving the Marine’s head from his shoulders.

“And so it begins,” hissed the sorcerer, as a raucous cheer arose from the Chaos Marines around the rim of the crater.

The first hints of daylight dusted the ornate stonework of the cathedral, but dawn brought with it the promise of war on the horizon. The city of Magna Bonum was still resting, its streets filled with the half-baked shelters of refugees who had flooded in through the great gates, thinking that the high city wall would bring them some measure of protection. It had never been breached before, but never before had it faced such a colossal onslaught of ork power. Despite the glorious sunrise, the horizon was heavy with a dark ocean of greenskin warriors, rumbling their way towards the city.

The Blood Ravens had returned from their hunt only a few hours before dawn, and Gabriel had appropriated the cathedral as the most suitable location for their base in the city. They had swept past the spaceport with barely a nod to the cheering troopers of the Tartarans. Sergeant Matiel had paused for a moment, and presented one of the Guardsmen with the severed head of an ork, as a memento and as inspiration for them in the battle to come.

The young trooper had stared at the huge, heavy skull in disbelief, and for a moment Matiel had thought that the man would drop it in horror.

But as the Blood Ravens pressed on past the spaceport they could see the head lifted onto the barricades, skewered on the point of a lance. They would leave the defence of the spaceport to Brom and his men-it would fall anyway, and Gabriel was not about to lose any of his Space Marines in a futile fight.

The cathedral itself was a towering testimony to the Emperor-fearing architects of Tartarus. Its main spire thrust proudly into the sky like a giant sword, laced with threads of gargoyles and inscribed with hymns of duty over every stone. The immense adamantium doors shimmered with etchings of saints and their litanies of repentance, inspiring the people who passed through them into passions of vengeance against the vile forces that would challenge the glory of the Imperium.

Inside, the massive, vaulted ceilings defined a cavernous space of soaring columns and deepest contemplation. Around the walls were frescos showing the heroism of the Tartarans in the face of heretics, cultists and aliens. The stained-glass windows depicted the Golden Throne itself, surrounded by the silver choir of the Astronomican, and the morning sun streamed through them, flooding the cathedral with the grace of the Emperor himself.

In the small chapel behind the altar, Gabriel knelt in silent prayer. After a few moments, the glorious rapture of the Astronomican washed into his mind once again. It began with a single voice, silver and pure. It was a solitary note, unwavering, struck and held beyond all sense and perception, playing directly into the soul. One voice became two, and then two shattered into a miracle of harmonies, filling every last vestige of his soul with an aria of purity and light.

Hidden in the depths of his conscious mind, part of Gabriel resisted the magnificent vision, as the last healthy cells in a body might fight an enveloping cancer. Part of him knew that this was not a vision for an untrained mind. Gabriel was no astropath, and he had not spent decades of psychic torment in the secret halls of the librarium sanatorium, learning to control and shape the deceptive energies of the immaterium, like Isador. His soul simply knew not what to do with this rapturous vision.

It was no secret that the Blood Ravens boasted an unusual number of psykers, particularly in the upper echelons of their structure. There were even rumours of an elite cadre of Librarians who formed a combat squad on their own, for especially sensitive or secretive missions. But even Gabriel had heard only rumours about this, and he had never found the right moment to ask Isador; too much curiosity about the constitution of the librarium sanatorium from non-psykers was not encouraged, and he was not sure how his old friend would react.

Gabriel also knew that many of the most powerful psykers in the Chapter had been recruited from Cyrene, Isador included. Indeed, the Blood Ravens had recruited heavily from that planet before… before it had been cleansed. Even the great Father Librarian, Azariah Vidya, may the Emperor preserve his soul, was originally from Cyrene. In the years of the Blood Ravens’ infancy, Azariah had been the first to hold the dual mantle of Chapter Master and Master of the Librarium, but with him had started the long tradition that marked out the Blood Ravens from other, more puritanical, Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes.

Nonetheless, the Blood Ravens had never adopted Cyrene as their homeworld, preferring to base their fortress monastery in the mighty battle barge, Omnis Arcanum. The Chapter returned to the planet periodically and conducted the Blood Trials, at which aspirant warriors would compete for the chance to become a Blood Ravens acolyte. Gabriel himself had once fought in those trials, besting hundreds of his fellow Cyreneans before being whisked into orbit for further, agonising tests in a Blood Ravens’ cruiser.

And then, one day, Gabriel had returned to Cyrene. By then he was an honoured captain of the Blood Ravens, returning to his homeworld with Brother Chaplain Prathios to conduct the Blood Trials himself and to sweep for new recruits. What he found on Cyrene on that trip was to change his life forever.

There had always been an uncommonly large incidence of mutant births on the planet, and relatively large numbers of nascent psykers amongst the populace. In fact, although such abominations were swiftly cleansed and burned by the local authorities, it had been suggested more than once that this demographic quirk could be linked to the unusual potency and number of Blood Ravens psykers.

Within only a few days of making planetfall, Gabriel had cut short the trials and returned to his strike cruiser, Ravenous Spirit, from which he had transmitted an encrypted astropathic communique. Shortly afterwards, a flotilla of Naval and Inquisition vessels had joined the Ravenous Spirit in orbit and had proceeded to launch an unrelenting barrage of lance strikes, mass drivers and cyclone torpedoes, reducing the once green world to a primeval, molten state.

It had been his duty, and a Space Marine is nothing without his sense of duty. It had been his decision, which made it his responsibility. Billions of people. More people than were struggling for their survival here on Tartarus, and Gabriel could still hear their screams in his soul-they blamed him, and they were right. He was one of them.

Again, the crystal clear tones of the Astronomican started to slip and scrape, like claws dragging desperately for purchase as they fell from an elevated promontory. Gabriel could see his own fall in the screams of the desperate, melting faces that seemed to reach out for him, dragging him down into hell. But he did not try to hide from the accusations of the dead-they knew what he had done as well as he did. In some ways, their hideous taunts were more apposite and honest than the soaring magnificence of the Astronomican itself.

“Farseer. It appears that the humans may deal with the greenskins for us,” said the ranger, stooped into submission before the unmoving figure of the farseer. “I have seen them fight, and they are strong, if clumsy.”

“Yes, Flaetriu, the new humans will be able to see off the orks, but they are not entirely our allies,” said Macha, her gaze focussed in some unseen place elsewhere. “We should not forget that they are treacherous creatures.”

The shade of the trees played in eddying patterns across the green and white armour of the Biel-Tan eldar. Their temporary camp was buried deep in the forest, at the end of pathways that seemed to lead nowhere. The camp itself hardly broke the rhythm of the trees, as the eldar structures flaunted a perfect match in colour and structure with the local foliage. A number of orks had already passed through the camp, utterly oblivious to its existence, until a rain of fire from shuriken catapults shredded them into mush.

The rangers had been roaming the woods for days now, monitoring the movements of the vile greenskins and plotting ways for the small Biel-Tan force to eradicate the space-vermin. Flaetriu could not even bear the smell of the creatures-their very existence seemed to offend his sense of reality. He and his fellow rangers had already dispatched large numbers of the disgusting creatures, and part of him was loathe to let the stupid humans enjoy the rest. Then again, pest control was not really a profession appropriate for an eldar-such mundane matters could be left to the more mundane races.

“Their arrival was well timed, farseer,” said Flaetriu.

“They were bound to come,” replied Macha, still gazing into the invisible distance. “Their fates are inextricably bound to this place, although they have forgotten this already. The humans have such pathetically short memories. It is this, rather than the darkness in their souls, that makes them so dangerous.”

“When does the Swordwind arrive?” asked Flaetriu, looking into the sky, as though searching for signs of the rest of the Biel-Tan’s army.

“They will be here in time, now that the orks are no longer our concern. For now, Flaetriu, go and see whether the humans require any assistance with the greenskin vermin.”

“Yes, farseer,” said the ranger, bowing his head with something like eagerness. Then, with a couple of long, bounding strides, he had vanished into the trees, keen to add some more kills to his day’s tally.

The first shell exploded against the walls of the city with a screeching boom, sending a rain of rubble tumbling to the ground. The sound brought everyone in Magna Bonum to a standstill, as they realised that the dawn of war had finally come.

The first shell was followed by a second, this time clearing the great walls and smashing into the smattering of hab-units that sheltered in their shadow. The explosion sent groups of civilians running from their homes and sparked fires across three blocks.

But these were just ranging shots, and the real barrage was yet to come. A spasm of artillery fire erupted from the wilds in front of the city walls, raining shells down into the buildings and the crowded streets of Magna Bonum. Pandemonium was loosed on the city, as civilians recovered from their shock and started to run in all directions at once, seeking the flimsy shelter of buildings and make-shift bunkers. Guardsmen ran through the crowds, trying to calm the people as they dashed towards the gun emplacements built into the walls.

Outside the cathedral a great mass of people had gathered, hoping that the immense building would provide them with shelter. But a squad of Blood Ravens stood across the towering doors and blocked their path, their red armour glinting gloriously in the morning sun. Guardsmen and Space Marines darted in and out of the cathedral, slipping between the huge sentries with nods and salutes. Two Whirlwind tanks had rolled into the plaza in front of the cathedral, emblazoned with the insignia of the Blood Ravens. Open-topped transports carrying clutches of Marines accompanied them. The missile batteries of the tanks rotated slowly to face out over the city to the south, ready for the orks to come into range as they approached the city walls.

A Rhino transport roared into the plaza, sending civilians scattering out of its path as it skidded to a halt at the bottom of the steps to the cathedral. As it stopped, a hatch folded out of its stern and a squad of Blood Ravens came pounding down the cathedral steps to leap inside. Just as the last Marine cleared the hatch, the doors slammed shut and the vehicle’s tracks spun into life once again, thrusting the Rhino back out across the plaza and off towards the squad’s defensive assignment.

Inside the cathedral was a throng of activity. Gabriel was receiving a short line of sergeants, dispatching them with well-rehearsed protocols and precise orders. Pushing his way to the front of the crowd, with a small knot of Guardsmen around him, came Colonel Brom.

“Captain Angelos. Librarian Akios,” said Brom, nodding his greetings to Gabriel and Isador. “I have taken the liberty of stationing Tartaran squads around key facilities in the city, especially the power plant. We are also standing guard over the spaceport.” Brom was standing crisply to attention and trying to communicate an efficient air of confidence.

“Ah, Colonel Brom, good of you to join us,” said Gabriel, deflating Brom immediately. “Your initiative is admirable, colonel, but I need you to pull your men out of the spaceport and to man the defences of the city walls.”

“But, captain, if we abandon the spaceport-” started Brom, visibly exasperated.

“-the spaceport cannot be held by the Tartarans, colonel, and the Blood Ravens cannot spare any Marines for the defence of suboptimal positions at this time. Our priority has to be to maximise our defences in one location to assure victory. You should not mistake the orks’ simple manner for stupidity, Colonel Brom. They are more cunning than they might seem, and splitting our defences would play straight into their hands.”

“I’m sure that you know best,” said Brom, biting down on his lower lip.

“Thank you, colonel. Now go. I have much to attend to,” replied Gabriel, turning sharply to address one of the waiting Space Marines. “Brother Matiel, take your assault squad to cover the set of buildings opposite the market sector. And Brother Tanthius, take the Terminators down to the east gate.” Gabriel looked around. “Corallis? Send word to the Litany that we may need aerial support before the day is over.”

Colonel Brom paused for a moment and pulled his cape more securely over his shoulders. Then he straightened his tunic and turned with affected dignity, making his way out of the cathedral with his subordinates in tow.

“I am not sure that I agree with this course of action, Gabriel,” said Isador, watching Brom disappear into the crowd. “Why should we sit here within the city walls and wait for the orks to attack? Why not carry the fight to them?”

“Brother Isador, would you have us go out and meet the orks on open ground as they roll forward in full strength? That would be madness. You and I both know better than to try and engage the orks on their terms. Far better to let their charge break against the walls of Magna Bonum, and then to meet them on our terms. The Codex calls for a defensive action in these circumstances, Isador, and a defensive action is what we shall launch, no matter what the preferences of Colonel Brom.”

“Perhaps you are too harsh on him, Gabriel. This is his homeworld, after all, and he will fight for it harder than anyone,” said Isador, feeling the frustration in the captain’s voice.

“I am well aware of the importance of one’s homeworld, Isador,” retorted Gabriel, slightly stung. “But I am a servant of the Emperor and an agent of the Codex Astartes. I will do my duty here, and I trust that the rest of you will do the same.”

“Of course… you are right, captain,” answered Isador smoothly, as though placating him. “Perhaps patience is the better virtue here.”

The Tartaran gun emplacements in the wall blazed with energy, lighting their positions like torches against the rockcrete. Lascannons, autocannons and heavy bolters lashed viciously into the charging mass of green muscle that thundered across the plains to the south of Magna Bonum. The orks had already overrun the spaceport, and its smoldering remains could be seen under clouds of black smoke to the south-west. But the defence of the spaceport had been half-hearted at best, despite all the effort expended on the construction of barricades. At the last minute, Colonel Brom had rushed round the site and ordered his men to rig the place for a special welcome for the orks, and then to get out.

The greenskins had crashed into the makeshift defences and overrun them almost instantly, hardly even noticing that the defensive guns were firing automatically and that there were no troopers to hack and dice. By the time that it dawned on the mob, it was too late. Brom flicked the switch with a satisfaction that he hadn’t felt in years, and watched the spaceport evaporate in a furnace of flames and orks.

The bulk of the greenskin horde pounded on towards the city, hardly even flinching when hundreds of their number were incinerated by the crude trick. Most of them could already see the Imperial forces that lay in wait for them, resplendent in the morning sun, and the prospect of imminent combat drew them on even faster. The salivating and panting mob rolled onwards in huge numbers, filling the air with smoke, stench and the sound of thunder.

From their emplacements on the city wall, the Guardsmen of the Tartarans stared in awe at the scale of the army that was descending upon them. The plains of Bonum were thick with greenskins and their crude vehicles of war. Countless buggies swept along in the vanguard, flanked by huge ork warbikes. Behind them came a storm of infantry: shoota boyz and slugga boyz in incredible numbers. And in the heart of the mass were some bristling wartrukks, with enormous orks standing proudly on their roofs, howling into the air as though driving their forces onwards.

As the first of the speeding buggies bounced into range, the city’s walls became a blaze of gunfire, shedding hails of las-fire and bolter shells in a constant barrage. Some of the buggies flipped and burst into flames, others crashed straight into the back of them, but most of them ploughed on towards the armoured forces waiting at the base of the wall.

Leaning hard against his autocannon, trooper Ckrius was jolted around by the powerful recoil, but he could see a stream of Blood Ravens’ assault bikes heading out from the city, seeking to intercept the ork warbikes before they could draw in from the flanks. Huge, red Predator tanks rolled out away from the walls, their gun-turrets blazing with lascannon fire as they laid into the advancing tide of ork buggies, splintering the advancing mass before rolling over the top of anything that got in their way.

The Tartarans in the wall’s launcher-emplacements were lobbing mortars and grenades, plotting the parabolas so that the explosions would clear the Imperial forces. But shells were also coming back from the greenskins, smashing into the wall and sending avalanches of rockcrete crashing to the ground. Guardsman Katrn ducked back away from the team of the heavy bolter, covering his head with his hands and muttering something inaudible amongst the din. The gunner crew turned and yelled at him to get back into position, but he just ignored them, shaking his head violently and crying out. The crew could see tears in the Guardsman’s eyes, and they shook their heads in disgust, turning back to the weapon as dust and debris rained down on their position.

In his mind, from somewhere beyond the noise of battle, Katrn could hear the gun-crew taunting him. Coward… coward… you are a disgrace to your family… the Emperor will spit on your soul… In a moment of resolution, Katrn drew his laspistol and levelled it towards the gun-crew. Yes, that’s it… the false Emperor doesn’t understand you… He clenched the trigger in a frenzy of violence, riddling the backs of his crewmen with bullet holes until they slumped forward, falling out of the emplacement and tumbling down to the ground outside the wall. With a flash of a smile, Katrn vaulted over the fallen masonry to man the heavy bolter.

A small gaggle of greenskins had stopped in the middle of the field, just out of range of the city’s ordnance, and Ckrius was watching them carefully from his position in the wall. They were running in circles and punching each other, but grabbing at tools and machine parts from inside one the wartrukks that had clunked to a halt beside them. There were pieces of piping and huge rivet-guns being thrown around, and seemingly random metal plates were being bolted together, but gradually a recognisable structure began to take shape. Guardsman Ckrius realised what was going on just in time, and he dived for cover at the back of the gunning alcove just as the immense bombardment shell smashed into the wall only a few metres above his emplacement. A rain of rockcrete tumbled down from the ceiling, burying the autocannon beneath a heavy pile of debris.

Crawling back to the edge of the wall and peering out over the battlefield, Ckrius could see a formation of Blood Ravens’ Tornados changing direction to launch an assault against the huge bombardment cannon. The land speeders sped over the pounding infantry of greenskins, spraying bolter fire and plumes of chemical flame from their heavy flamers as they went. The Tartarans’ very own Sentinels were stalking through the orks in the wake of the Tornados, scorching out spurts of las-fire to support their speeding allies.

A rattle of fire caught one of the Tornados in the rear, and Ckrius watched in horror as its engines started to smoke and splutter. Suddenly, they ignited and the Tornado was transformed into a cannoning ball of flame, skidding down into the sea of orks beneath it and scything to a stop. Ckrius could vaguely see a Blood Raven tumble from the wreckage and struggle to his feet as dozens of greenskins launched themselves at him. At least ten orks were thrown screaming into the air before the Space Marine was finally swamped.

A sudden realisation struck Ckrius: that burst of fire had not come from the battlefield, it had come from one of the emplacements in the wall. Leaning out of the gun alcove, the trooper craned his neck to the side, looking over the face of the wall. He was shocked to see that it was already badly pitted with shell marks, especially around the gates on the south and east. However, the gunners seemed to be holding their positions, and their positions were defined by bright bursts of fire as the cannons flared with life.

As he surveyed the scene, Ckrius could hear the whine of incoming ordnance and he actually saw the tumbling, gyrating shell punch clumsily into the south gate. The explosion was immense, rocking the wall and almost throwing Ckrius out towards the raging battlefield below. When he looked again, the gate was a ragged mess of ripped and shredded adamantium, and hundreds of orks were pouring towards the breach in the city’s defences.

Another mighty blast made Ckrius spin, casting his eyes to the left where the east gate used to be. Now there was just a pile of rubble, some scraps of twisted metal, and a rampage of greenskins clambering over the ruins into the market sector of the city.

“The tornadoes have taken out the bombardment cannon, captain, but the orks are already through the city walls,” reported Corallis sharply. “We are making good progress against the orks’ heavy weaponry, but there is only so much that the Predators outside the city can do to stem the tide of foot soldiers that are overrunning the breaches in the wall. Our assault bikes have their work cut out with the ork warbikes and can offer little support to the wall’s anti-personnel guns.”

“Pull the bikes back into the city, sergeant. They will be more useful in the streets than running around in wild ork chases in the open country,” said Gabriel, trying to keep the defences focussed around the city itself. “And get some Devastator Marines down to those breaches to support the Vindicator tanks.”

“There is something else, captain,” said Corallis uneasily.

“Yes? Time is precious, sergeant,” replied Gabriel, coaxing and impatient.

“There are reports from the wall, captain… Reports suggesting that some of the Tartarans have turned their guns against us.”

There was a pause while the significance of this intelligence sank in.

“I see,” said Gabriel, as though unsurprised. “Tell Brom to get his men back in line before we deal with them ourselves. And where is Brother-Librarian Isador?”

Sergeant Corallis was not entirely comfortable with his new role as the command squad sergeant, acting as the ears and eyes of his captain. He would have preferred to be out there in the fray, bringing the Emperor’s righteous justice to the foul aliens, but his injury had not healed properly and his body had rejected the bionics of his replacement arm. “He’s already on his way to the south gate, captain.”

“Excellent.” With that, Gabriel strode down the cathedral steps and vaulted onto the saddle of his assault bike, leaving Corallis to coordinate the battle from the cathedral. “I’ll be at the east gate,” he said as he kicked the bike into life, spinning its rear wheel in a crescent across the flagstones until it was pointing towards the east. “For the Great Father and the Emperor!” he cried, as he released the front brakes and the bike lurched forward, sending him roaring out of the plaza.

Sergeant Corallis stood on the top of the cathedral steps and watched his captain plough through the crowds of civilians and weave between the hulking masses of Blood Ravens’ tanks and gun emplacements, raising cheers from the Marines that saw him pass. His men loved him, and Corallis felt a sudden rush of pride that Captain Angelos had entrusted him with custody of the command post. One arm or two, Corallis would not let him down.

Gruntz kicked one of his kommandos square in the jaw as the hapless creature scrabbled desperately to keep its grip on the roof top. Far below, the pathetic humans had bunched into a crowd in the plaza to watch. A group of the big, red-armoured soldiers had noticed all the fuss and were already training their guns on the orks. Bolter shells started to punch into the masonry around the dangling kommando, and Gruntz kicked him again.

“You’ze da prob, Ugrin!” he yelled, kicking Ugrin repeatedly in the face and stamping down on his hands. “Dem’ze shootin at you!”

A final heavy stomp crunched into Ugrin’s face, and he could hold on no longer. His fingers slipped from their hold on the roof, and he fell shrieking down the side of the building, all the way staring back up at Gruntz and trying to spit at him. Gruntz watched his kommando fall and then leant over the ledge and spat a huge globule of phlegm down after him, hoping that it would reach him before he splattered into the flagstones and died. A rattle of bolter fire pushed him back away from the ledge, and he stamped in frustration as he realised that he would never know.

The remnants of the ork kommandos were busying themselves on the roof. Two of them were supporting the weight of a rokkit launcha and one was scurrying around them with a rivet gun, anchoring the machine into the rockcrete of the ledge. Orkamungus had been very clear about their function, and Gruntz was not about to return to the warboss with anything other than good news. None of these runts could screw it up now, even after that clumsy oath Ugrin had slipped off the ledge and alerted all the humans.

Peering back over the edge of the roof, Gruntz could see the two great, red tanks positioned in the heart of the city, in front of the cathedral. Somehow, Orkamungus had known where they would be, even yesterday. Their missile turrets were twitching slightly, as they tracked distant targets outside the city. Then in a great roar of energy, a flurry of missiles burst out of their chambers, searing into the sky and vanishing from view. A couple of seconds later, Gruntz could hear the distant explosions as the warheads punched down into the ork positions.

“Waaaaagh!” he cried, with defiance and rage spluttering from his mouth. He turned to face his gunners and stamped his feet, pointing back over his shoulder into the open square below. Stamping and screeching, he slapped one of the orks hard across the face, and the stunned kommando yelled back, pulling the mechanical trigger-lever on the side of the rokkit launcha. The machine lurched and bucked, ripping itself free of its fixings in the roof, but the huge rokkit shell burst out of it and roared up into the sky, spewing a trail of thick smoke in a tight spiral.

As the rest of the kommandos struggled to keep hold of the launcha, Gruntz watched the rokkit vanish into the clouds. It was gone. Gruntz turned round to face his kommandos with his gun drawn. The crew struggled and jostled, trying to stand behind each other, but Gruntz just sprayed a barrage of slugs into the nearest of the inept bunch as they all stood, wide-eyed, waiting for punishment. A moment later and a spluttering whine made Gruntz look up.

The rokkit coughed and rolled as it fell back out of the cloud line, its fuel clearly exhausted as it plummeted back down to earth. The red soldiers in the plaza had also noticed it, and salvoes of fire streaked up from their gunners to try and take out the warhead before it fell. But the rokkit plunged straight down, flipping end over end and spluttering with smoke.

As the red soldiers finally scattered out of the way, the falling rokkit smashed straight into the roof of one of their tanks, exploding with tremendous force. The shell pierced the armoured plating of the tank and the flames detonated the reserves of missiles inside. An instant later and missiles were jetting around the plaza, most of them flying off into the distance but some smashing into the surrounding buildings and reducing them to rubble.

Gruntz leapt into the air, punching his fist into the sky with a victorious cry. Turning to congratulate his kommandos, he was riddled with a silent spray of tiny projectiles, which killed him instantly.

Flaetriu, the eldar ranger, tugged his elegant blade out of the throats of two of the vile greenskins, and re-holstered his shuriken catapult as another collapsed to the ground. The final ork had panicked and fallen off the rooftop as it had fumbled with its cleaver.

“That counts as four more,” muttered the ranger to himself as he nodded a swift signal to the other members of his squad on a rooftop across the plaza.

Gabriel slid his bike around the next corner and powered on towards the gate. He could hear the cacophony of battle rumbling and blasting ahead of him, beckoning him with its chorus of glory.

As he dropped his knee and banked the bike into a tight bend, he saw the crude shredders strewn across the road. But it was too late, and the bike’s front tyres ran into the spikes on the apex of the curve. The tyre exploded in a burst of decompression and the bike scraped into a vicious skid along the road, shedding sparks and parts before smashing into a building at the side of the street. Gabriel was dragged along with his machine, his leg trapped under its weight when he crashed out of the turn.

The bike crunched to a standstill, and Gabriel struggled to lift the weight of the machine off his leg. Spasmodic slugga fire zipped across the street from the other side, speckling the bike’s armour with darts of ricocheting bullets. Glancing back over his shoulder, Gabriel could see a ragtag mob of orks scrambling out of the buildings, stomping their feet in anticipation of a kill and firing their guns erratically in his direction. He kicked at the bike and twisted his own weight, but he was stuck under the machine. Grabbing his bolt pistol from its holster along his other leg, Grabriel wrenched his body into an awkward firing position and opened up at the gaggle of orks.

The first shots punched straight into the face of the mob’s leader, the biggest of the bunch, dropping him to his knees in a bloody cascade of his own brain tissue. His henchmen wailed in anger and brought their weapons into sharper focus, as a hail of slugs crunched into the bike on all sides of Gabriel and bit into his armour.

Gabriel gritted his teeth as the onslaught started to penetrate his armour and the ork slugs began to dig into his flesh. He struggled against the weight of the mangled bike, trying to shift his body to minimise the orks’ firing line and to maximise his own freedom of movement. He had managed to yank his chainsword free of the wreck in preparation for the close combat, and his bolt pistol was spitting with venom. Voices in his mind spiralled into focus. Not like this.

A sudden roar filled the air and a powerful volley of fire pulsed across the street from above his head. Blasting up from behind the buildings into which Gabriel had crashed, a squad of Space Marines roared into the sky with their jump packs a blaze of afterburners. As the squad sprayed the street with bolter shells and gouts of flame, two Marines dropped to the road next to Gabriel and prised the bike off their captain.

With just a nod to the Sergeant Matiel, Gabriel was on his feet at once, and pounding across the street to engage the orks. The squad of Space Marines was descending into the melee with their chainswords whirring as Gabriel charged into the fray with two Blood Ravens storming in behind him.

Without breaking the rhythm of his fire into the mob that was pouring through the south gate, Tanthius slammed his power fist down onto the head of an ork that was charging towards the Terminators from the side, brandishing its huge cleaver threateningly. The blow crushed the greenskin’s spine and cracked its thick skull instantly, and the creature slumped into a motionless heap.

Hundreds of orks were stamping and pushing their way through the breach in the city walls, and even the squad of Terminator Marines could not hold back the tide. Tanthius and his battle-brothers were standing against the pressure of an ocean of green muscles and a continuous barrage of fire. Their storm bolters were smoking with discharge as explosive shells filled the breach with shrapnel and shattered fragments of death. The orks fell in wave after wave, ripped to pieces by the tirade launched from the Blood Ravens who were defending the breach, but still they came, spilling out into the outskirts of the city and running off into the interior.

Isador was in the breach itself, standing on top of a pile of fallen masonry and lashing out with his force staff in a blur of unspeakable energies. Pulses of lightning jousted out from his fingertips, frying orks as they dived for him or incinerating them as they struggled to make clear shots in the densely packed muddle of greenskins. His staff flashed and spun, cracking across skulls and slicing through abdomens as rivers of blue power flooded from the raven-wings at its tip. He was a burst of blue rock against which the green ocean was breaking.

A strafe of explosions ripped through the masonry on the ground, sending chunks of rockcrete flying into the air, defining a line straight for the blazing Librarian. The shells exploded as they hit Isador’s coruscating power field, throwing him backwards into the city. He rolled back over his shoulder and up onto his feet, levelling his staff as he came up and letting out a terrible javelin of blue flame that roasted the knot of orks who tumbled after him. But deep, resounding footsteps told him that something bigger than an ork was headed for the breach.

Tanthius saw it first and turned all of his guns onto the monstrosity as it lumbered into the southern gateway. “Dreadnought!” he yelled into the vox-unit in his helmet. The hulking, stomping machine almost filled the breach all by itself, with its clumsy mechanical arms thrashing into the masonry to help it keep its balance. Two weapons turrets protruded from the side of its stomach on either side of an armoured porthole, through which Tanthius could see the ugly face of its ork pilot.

The rest of the Terminators turned their guns in unison, abandoning the flood of smaller targets that burst over the banks of their own dead and gushed into the city. Lashes of explosive shells blasted against the huge, hulking ork machine as it stomped clumsily through the ruins of the wall, knocking great chunks of masonry flying with its flailing arms as it fought for balance.

The impacts from the Blood Ravens’ shells rattled the loping machine, but it eventually planted its feet and turned its own guns on the Terminators, sending out blasts of flames and a fleet of rokkits that smashed into the Blood Ravens formation. Tanthius felt the flames douse his armour as the skorcha bathed the Terminators in fire, but it would take more than a few flames to arrest the might of a Blood Ravens Terminator. He took a couple of steps forward into the flames, stomping down on the slowly roasting greenskins by his feet, splattering them into the rough masonry, and spraying insistent hails of shells against the armoured can.

Three rokkits slid out of the flames in front of him and shot past his head. Even without turning, Tanthius knew that the huge explosion behind him was Brother Hurios, and he punched his humming power fist into the chest of another ork in rage. Lifting the struggling creature by its leg, Tanthius swung the beast around his head and used it to batter a gaggle of its greenskin brethren as he pounded forward towards the dreadnought.

Pulses of crackling energy sizzled against the sides of the ork dreadnought, destabilising it just enough to throw its aim, and Isador hacked at the machine’s legs with his staff as sheets of lightning lashed out of his fingers. Just as Tanthius erupted out of the inferno inside the city, charging towards the breach, Isador jammed his staff into the crude, exposed knee joint of the dreadnought. The huge machine stumbled as its weapons tracked across to trace the motion of the charging Terminator and, as its weight shifted, Isador threw a javelin of power up into its undercarriage. As the machine lifted fractionally into the air, Tanthius took a flying leap and rammed into the side of it, plunging his power fist straight through the crudely riveted armour into the head of the ork inside. The dreadnought swayed under the assault and then its legs buckled from beneath it, sending it crashing to the ground, leaving Tanthius standing proudly on its fallen shell, ork blood and ichor dripping from his power fist.

The victory was short lived as a row of explosions signalled the arrival of another dreadnought. Turning with determination, Isador and Tanthius saw a pair of ork dreadnoughts step into the breach, flanked on both sides by knots of smaller killer kans, each bristling with power claws and heavy weapons.

“We must hold this gate!” cried Isador into the vox-unit.

Another voice crackled onto the hissing channel. It was Corallis, from the command post. “Brother Librarian. Pull the Terminators back away from the wall and into the city. We will make our stand around the cathedral. Captain Angelos has called for orbital support, and the bombardment is imminent.”

Tanthius shared a glance with Isador before signalling the orderly retreat to the remaining Terminators. Isador ducked an axe blade that cut into the side of a building next to his head, and then reached out with his hand and unleashed a fountain of pain directly into the flesh of the salivating ork that had struck at him. The Librarian’s thoughts were riddled with doubts. Another bombardment, Gabriel? This is not the captain that I have come to admire.

The concussion of a huge explosion rippled up the street, knocking the remaining orks from their feet as the Space Marines continued to cut them down. A line of Blood Ravens appeared at the end of the road, marching backwards in an orderly fashion and firing continuously into the crowd of orks that were threatening to overrun them.

“The Devastators from the east gate, captain,” said Sergeant Matiel, nodding in the direction of the retreating Marines, as the last of the ork gang was dispatched at the blade of Gabriel’s chainsword.

“Yes, sergeant. So it seems. The explosion must have been the Vindicator,” answered Gabriel as he started to run towards the retreating line, keen to get back into the action and to rally his Marines.

The vox channel hissed with static. “Captain, the Litany of Fury reports that its bombardment arrays are now ready for firing.” It was Corallis, back at the cathedral. “Reports from the wall defences suggest that the orks have breached the city limits, captain. If we are going to use the bombardment cannons, we have to use them now.”

Gabriel shivered as he heard the words, and he tried to ignore them. He was still running when he burst through the line of Devastator Marines and plunged into the wave of orks that hounded them. His chainsword was already spluttering with ichor, but he was roaring with energy himself. “For the Great Father and the Emperor!” he yelled, and the Devastators stopped retreating. They planted their feet and braced against the onslaught of ork bodies, powerfists humming thirstily, multi-meltas whining with heat, and heavy bolters rattling off shells.

The Space Marines had kicked their jump packs into life and were hovering above the Devastators, adding their rain of bolter shells to the fury of heavy weapons blasting out from their battle-brothers on the ground.

“Captain,” crackled an inconstant signal into the vox in his amour. “There are too many of them. They are spilling around the edges of our position, flanking us on both sides and penetrating further into the city. We cannot hold them here,” reported Matiel from his vantage point above the skyline.

“Understood,” said Gabriel with frustration, as he dragged the teeth of his chainsword across the neck of one ork and jammed his bolt pistol into the mouth of another. “Sergeant Matiel, take your assault squad back into the cathedral precincts. And Brother Furio,” he said, nodding a greeting to the sergeant of the Devastator squad who was fighting at his shoulder. “We must pull back towards the cathedral-we can make our stand there. It is senseless to spend our lives so cheaply in these streets.”

Switching the vox-channel, Gabriel reluctantly made the call to Corallis. “Sergeant. Recall the Marines from the wall and tell that idiot Brom to get his men into the cathedral precinct. Tell the Litany of Fury to give us five minutes.”

Standing at the top of the steps in front of the cathedral, Gabriel and Isador watched the bombardment shells sear through the sky like falling stars. They thudded into the plain outside the city and exploded into sheets of white light. Mushrooms of dust and dirt billowed up from the impacts, and ripples of concussion throbbed across the skyline of the city.

A second flurry of meteoric strikes flashed down into the outskirts of Magna Bonum, just inside the ruins of the once defiant city wall. The immense explosions pounded the rockcrete and tore buildings apart, sending waves of fire rushing through the streets. Huge fountains of rubble and broken masonry were thrown high into the air, only to rain down again like cannonballs into those structures that had survived the initial blasts.

The edges of the city and the plains of Bonum beyond were submerged under a blanket of brilliant white as the superheated charges from the bombardment shells fried the air itself. The orks at the gates and those that had just broken through into the city were instantly incinerated, leaving nothing but faint thermal shadows scorched into the crumbling rockcrete.

“Did everyone make it back?” asked Isador, looking past Gabriel and addressing the question to Sergeant Corallis.

“Nearly everyone,” answered the sergeant without turning. He couldn’t take his eyes from the awesome scene before him. “All functional Marines are within the limits of the cathedral compound. Some squads of Tartarans were cut off in their wall emplacements.”

Gabriel was just staring at the ruined remains of the city. The bombardment had prevented the loss of Magna Bonum, but it had levelled most of the city in the process. He was speechless as he struggled to reconcile himself with the wisdom of his decision.

“It had to be done,” said Corallis, turning at last and bowing slightly to his captain. “The walls were breached and the orks were simply too numerous for us. The city was lost, captain.”

“And now it is won?” muttered Gabriel in self-recrimination.

Without saying a word, Isador walked slowly down the steps into the crowded plaza. The rattle of gunfire had started again, and the Librarian paused to look out into the streets nearby. Some of the orks had clearly penetrated more deeply into the city than the blast radius. He signalled to Colonel Brom, who was standing at the bottom of the steps with a group of subordinates, summoning him.

“Yes, Brother-Librarian Akios?” said Brom without ceremony as he walked over to Isador. “I think that the Tartarans could have let the orks destroy Magna Bonum themselves, without the help of the Blood Ravens,” he added, as though unable to keep his rage bottled up.

“Quite possibly,” replied Isador. “But the captain’s purpose was to eradicate the orks, not to preserve your precious city, colonel. He has done Tartarus a service, even if you are too short-sighted to notice it.”

Brom smarted at the personal slight. “Is this the same service he did for Cyrene?”

Isador’s hand slapped across the colonel’s face in a blur, knocking the man from his feet. “You will not speak that way, colonel. Captain Angelos is an honourable man and a fine strategist. He does not take his responsibilities lightly.” Isador paused for a moment, conscious that he should not react too much to this provocation. “Besides, colonel,” he continued, “it seems that the Tartarans did quite a fine job of destroying their own forces, even before the bombardment.”

Climbing back to his feet and wiping the blood away from his lip, Brom replied. “I am sure that the Blood Ravens know better than most not to listen to rumours, Librarian Akios.”

“Colonel Brom,” said Isador, ignoring the last slight, “I expect that the Tartarans will want the honour of cleansing the remaining streets.”

Brom brushed the dust from his tunic and turned back to his subordinates. “Sergeant Katrn, take your Armoured Fists squadron and sweep the ruins in the south of the city. Trooper Ckrius-you are now a squadron sergeant-form your own squad from whatever men you like and sweep the east.”

C.S. Goto (ebook by Undead)

01 – Dawn of War