Heralds of the Siege Read online

  ‘Show me, Severus.’

  The tribune keyed several runes, redirecting his display to a portion of the main screen of the Capitol Imperialis’ command deck. The schematic showed a line of hills running south-east, curving back to the north with a broad river running beside them. Tracker icons moved west across the ridge, seeming to multiply as Marcus watched.

  Three black runes blinked into existence among the red.

  ‘Titans,’ said Marcus, keeping his voice calm despite the sudden heavier thud of his heart. ‘Classification?’

  The tribune looked to his companion at the communications bank. ‘Recon units in the area?’

  The other junior officer spoke quickly into his mouthpiece and nodded. Glancing back at the display Marcus saw a platoon of the Therion Cohort’s leading pioneer company detach and race towards the enemy. Their six-wheeled transports made light work of the grassy plains, and they would quickly cover the distance.

  Several minutes passed as they waited for the scouts to sight the enemy Titans.

  ‘Incoming communiqué from the Iron General, Vice-Caesari,’ said the communications officer.

  ‘To my bead, Ruricius.’ As he waited, Marcus located the sigil for other Capitol Imperialis at the far end of the Therion line, three kilometres distant. It had stopped, along with the tank and infantry transports escorting the super-heavy mobile fortress.

  ‘Brother, are you seeing this?’

  ‘Yes, Antonius, I am. Why are you not advancing in formation?’

  ‘This is a full offensive, Marcus! We’re right in front of it, and you want to advance?’

  ‘If we continue forward, we will engage their lead elements as they cross the river. It presents the best opportunity to hurt them.’

  ‘Sir, we have the recon reports,’ Ruricius offered.

  Marcus nodded, speaking into the vox-bead. ‘Give me a moment, brother.’ He turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Three Battle Titans. Two Reaver-class, one Warlord.’

  Worried muttering and whispered curses broke out across the command deck.

  Marcus’ glare swept over his crew. ‘Silence in the ranks! We are soldiers of the Emperor, not gossiping commoners. Attend to your duties and await your orders.’

  He looked again at the screen and then moved to the tri-dimensional hololithic map.

  ‘What is the terrain like over the river? How many crossings within five kilometres?’

  ‘Rough hillside, some marshland,’ Severus replied. ‘Two major bridges big enough for Titans, three smaller that infantry and tanks can cross.’

  ‘Very well. Ruricius, signal the cohort to halt.’ Marcus tapped the comm-bead in his ear. ‘Antonius? We’ll hold here for a few minutes, until the pioneers complete their sweep.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we defend or counter-attack, whichever seems prudent.’

  ‘Prudence suggests retreat, brother.’

  Marcus bit back a retort. He had to consider the possibility that his desire to fight was not born purely out of strategic necessity.

  ‘Hold position,’ he said, grimly. ‘We shall see what we can divine of the Imperial Will. Await my orders, praefector.’

  ‘As you command.’

  ‘Severus, you have the deck.’

  Marcus made for the secondary magazine on the upper deck, which had been converted into a small chapel for the command staff. The heavily armoured walls had once held reserve shells for the main cannon, but now there was nothing but an altar made from an upturned lasgun powercell crate covered with a retired Therion banner.

  On the tattered embroidery sat a book even more worn, its pages mismatched, bound with wire through a thin cover fashioned out of a plain ration box. Marcus knelt before the altar and laid a reverential hand upon the aquila of the banner – the symbol of the Emperor.

  ‘Give me strength, oh Master of Mankind,’ he prayed, ‘and guide my thoughts even as I guide my prayers to you.’

  He reached for the book and read the inscription on the front, neatly copied by his own hand. Lectitio Divinitatus. Being the Revelation of the God-Emperor and the True Nature of His Universe.

  The creak of the hatchway alerted him to the presence of another, and he turned his head to see his tribune-servant Pelon softly closing the door.

  ‘I heard that you had left the command deck, Vice-Caesari. Can I be of assistance?’

  ‘Pray with me, Pelon.’

  The tribune knelt beside his master, and bowed his head to the cloth of the standard.

  He whispered from the corner of his mouth. ‘For what do we pray?’

  ‘Guidance,’ Marcus replied.

  ‘You hope for a vision, then?’

  ‘A little insight from the Emperor would not go amiss, but I see nothing. I am about to commit our forces to a major battle...’

  ‘Does your experience as a commander inform that decision, Vice-Caesari? What do you think we should do? Is that not also the wisdom of the Emperor?’

  Marcus considered the question. ‘My instinct is to attack. We should meet the enemy as they attempt the river crossing. We are outmatched in numbers and firepower, but the enemy cannot bring either to bear in one place until they have crossed the water. It is imperative that we act now. The Emperor has delivered us to this time and place for this reason – it cannot be coincidence that we came upon this beset world, daring the guns of orbit to land just days before this enemy incursion against the flank of the Imperial advance. There is method here, a sacred design.’

  ‘Quite so, Vice-Caesari.’

  Marcus directed an inquisitive glare at his companion.

  ‘Do I sense doubt, Pelon?’ he asked, gesturing to the Lectitio Divinitatus. ‘Perhaps you think this is all a lie, also? That my visions were not a gift from Him?’

  ‘Not at all, Vice-Caesari! On my life, I swear I am one of the faithful!’

  Marcus could see the conflict in the young tribune’s expression. ‘You have served me well for many years, Pelon. Speak your mind now, openly, as one of the faithful to another.’

  ‘We...’ Pelon began, weighing his words carefully. ‘We’ve been given a marvellous insight, Marcus, but we mustn’t abuse it. Your gift is a blessing, to be sure. But it isn’t a master-vox to turn on and off, demanding that the Emperor shine His light into your own darkness, on a whim.’ He picked up the holy book and placed it in Marcus’ hands. ‘This is the guidance He has given us. Find strength and wisdom in its pages. Do not demand answers.’

  Marcus looked at Pelon for some time, dumbfounded by this rare insight.

  ‘Thank you, Pelon. It is true that the Emperor speaks to us in many ways. Perhaps He even commanded your tongue to deliver His message to me.’

  ‘I... I have other duties, preparations...’ Pelon stammered. He did not seem particularly keen on the idea of the divine presence using him at its vessel. ‘With your permission, Vice-Caesari?’

  Marcus nodded and Pelon departed quickly, leaving him alone in the shrine.

  In truth, it had been a moment of weakness that had brought him here, seeking confirmation of what he already knew. Lord Corax of the Raven Guard had despatched the Therion Cohort here, to the vicinity of Beta-Garmon, for one reason alone: to die quickly in battle. That much was plain for Marcus to see.

  But this too was undoubtedly part of the Emperor’s plan, enacted through his primarch gene-son. Who was Marcus Valerius to seek any other path, out of petty fear or human ignorance? They would lay down their lives, and smite Horus with their sacrifice.

  Emboldened by this thought, Marcus rose, the holy book in his hand. It would be a glorious martyrdom, indeed.

  All eyes turned as he re-entered the command deck.

  ‘Ruricius, full broadcast to the whole cohort,’ Marcus commanded. He spoke into the vox-bead once more. ‘Brothers and sisters of Therion, sons and daughters of the Emperor. We come upon the field at a momentous time. We must take courage from the fact that we act in His name, perform His will and fight
His battles. The enemy to our front, coming upon us in great force, could turn the tide of this war against the Throneworld.’

  Alert sirens rang out. Severus spun at his station.

  ‘The enemy Titans have spotted us,’ the tribune called out. ‘Sensor locks detected!’

  Marcus Valerius did not falter. ‘There will be no retreat. We fight to the last breath and bullet and las-bolt. Our faith is our shield. We are holy warriors this day, imbued with the majesty of Terra’s saviour. We might ask why, why has the Emperor placed us here, to die today? It matters not – only that He has called upon us. We fight today because we are the only ones who can make this stand. We fight because we are the Imperial Army!’

  He found his place before the immense strategic display. He kissed the cover of the Lectitio Divinitatus.

  ‘The Emperor is with us. Attack!’

  The shriek of the proximity alarms and targeting sirens made it impossible to think, added to the thunder of guns and the constant flash of fire beyond the viewports.

  Marcus stormed over to Magos Diedriax at the systems interface panel.

  ‘Shut off that noise!’ he bellowed. ‘We’ve got a Titan, fifty tanks and three companies of legionaries bearing down on us. I think we know we’re in danger by now.’

  Diedriax nodded and attended to his station. The wailing swiftly ceased, the silence of its passing almost as disorienting as the shrill alarms had been. The growl of the engines and the thump of tank shells and rolling artillery detonations intruded once more.

  Something impacted on the void shields, scattering ruddy sparks across the viewports. Marcus gritted his teeth, staring at the flickering tactical overlays.

  ‘Third and Fourth Armoured Companies to link with the Iron General and concentrate on the surviving Reaver. I want infantry platoons digging in to create a flank buttress on the right, artillery division to move bombardment to creeping barrage ahead of our advance.’

  Twenty-three thousand men and women of Therion had left with the Vice-Caesari. Two transports had been lost in the warp transit, and more had fallen once they arrived in-system; lack of a warship escort had left them vulnerable to traitor frigates and destroyer squadrons.

  Orbital battle and the drop itself had reduced them to roughly fifteen thousand on the surface, along with nearly a thousand armoured vehicles and – Emperor be praised! – the two Capitol Imperialis.

  They had done well.

  Two of the Titans had been destroyed as they crossed the bridges, while the Contemptuous and its attendant columns of tanks had rained death upon the Space Marines trying to engage the Therion Cohort. Their intelligence no doubt a day old, the lead elements from the Sons of Horus had sacrificed speed for armour and firepower, and yet still they had been poorly equipped to deal with the shields and heavy cannons of the giant command vehicles. Faced with this unexpected resistance, they were forced back to the river to await the support of their larger war engines.

  Now they came again, behind Mastodons and Land Raiders, and from the shadow of the last Titan their Predator tanks peeled away to engage the Therion companies.

  ‘Keep up the pressure,’ Marcus ordered. ‘It is imperative that we do not allow the enemy to gain momentum.’

  He focused on Ruricius.

  ‘Any reply from our neighbours on the line? Is anyone else responding to the attack?’

  ‘Nothing from the Salamanders or the Demetrian regiments, Vice-Caesari.’

  A chime on the command vox drew his attention. He hailed his brother once more.

  ‘Antonius.’

  ‘Brother, we are being encircled! I need to withdraw and concentrate fire on the remaining Titan!’

  ‘No, you will hold until the end. You are the anchor for our whole position, Antonius – if you step back, we all must. The Titan is your priority, you must bring it down. No other considerations.’

  There was a moment of hesitation. Marcus could imagine the concerns running through his brother’s thoughts, and sought to stem any doubts before they manifested.

  ‘We spoke of this before, and said all that needed to be said. We could have disobeyed Corax’s command and disappeared into the cold void, but we chose not to. We wear the red, brother. Blood for the Emperor. Do not dishonour our ancestors today.’

  ‘Does the Emperor see us fight for Him? Tell me, Marcus, is He really a god?’

  ‘He is, Antonius. He is our lord and protector. Through our deaths shall His dominion be ensured.’

  The Contemptuous shook under the impact of more enemy ordnance, and a new warning alarm signalled the overload of their last void shield generator.

  ‘I must attend to the battle, Antonius. Die well and your soul will live forever.’

  ‘Die well, Vice-Caesari.’

  There was no more time to consider his family, Therion or his part in the wider war. Flurries of heavy shells fell upon the cohort, accompanied by massed Whirlwind missile salvoes and the blaze of autocannons. To the north, the Reaver Titan duelled with the Iron General, its turbo-laser excoriating the void shields of the Capitol Imperialis even as its own defences were pounded by cannons and weapon batteries.

  The speartip of the Sons of Horus slid into the Therion Cohort, a blade aimed for the heart – for Marcus Valerius himself, perhaps? The deck shuddered underfoot as the barrage continued, almost lost beneath the incessant ring of explosions and las-strikes against the exposed hull. Legionary transports were all around, disgorging hundreds of warriors into the path of the advancing mobile fortress.

  ‘Boarders!’ Ruricius cried. ‘Boarders reported at the access ramps!’

  But Marcus’ eyes were fixed on the Reaver as its reactor went critical. The bright flare engulfed the Iron General as well, the two combatants dying in each other’s embrace.

  Severus looked up at him from the controls, his face split by a wide grin. ‘Vice-Caesari! We have movement from the Salamanders. They are coming to contain the breakthrough!’

  Marcus nodded. The nearest forces from the XVIII Legion were still twenty kilometres away. Too far to stop the inevitable demise of the Therion Cohort.

  Even so, it was good to know that he had been right. The Emperor had placed them in harm’s way for good reason. The Salamanders and others would respond, hold the flank and keep the hope of the remaining loyalists alive.

  Ruricius pulled off his headset. ‘Multiple boarding parties, Vice-Caesari,’ he reported, with an air of finality. ‘A hundred or more hostiles, moving level by level.’

  Marcus turned. ‘Diedriax? All is ready?’

  The magos nodded.

  ‘Then do it. Overload the reactor.’

  As the countdown began, Marcus knelt in silent prayer upon the command deck, the Lectitio Divinitatus clasped to his chest. Others amongst the crew followed his lead.

  He heard muffled boltgun fire from the level below. Armoured fists hammering against the reinforced door. The rasp and clatter of a chainsword on the metal.

  He closed his eyes. His faith was his shield.

  The driver’s request for orders, followed by the squeal of track-brakes, drew Calsar Veonid’s attention to the visual feed from the front of his Executioner tank. The hillside road dropped away a few metres ahead. The Imperial Army colonel unbuckled himself, and moved up through the top hatch for a better view.

  He could see half a kilometre of devastation, an immense crater focused around the tangled remains of a Capitol Imperialis mobile fortress. The ground had been riven by an immense detonation, the banks of the depression littered with the still burning remains of traitor tanks. There were renegade militia among them, and armoured vehicles in the livery of the Sons of Horus.

  The carcasses of two Titans were slumped amidst the ruin of the traitor force beside the river. He saw nothing alive.

  ‘Move us in,’ he murmured. ‘Slowly.’

  The column followed after them, tracks skidding across the scorched ground, and a cloud of ash and dust joined the billow of exhaust fumes. The vo
x hissed for several seconds, and then crackled into the voice of Lieutenant Vaskk.

  ‘There must be more than a hundred wrecks out there. Did the Salamanders do this?’

  ‘No, the axis of their counter-attack was further north,’ Calsar replied, examining the blackened hull of a Land Raider as they passed. It was buckled from heavy shelling. ‘I think the Capitol Imperialis did this.’

  ‘On its own?’

  The colonel lifted his magnoculars and looked past the pile of broken armour plate, mangled track housings and twisted columns of the immense chassis. Lines of other wrecks and mounds of charred corpses were piled up the far slope, and beyond.

  ‘I don’t think so. Someone counter-attacked before the Salamanders.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘No idea. So many regiments thrown together, all over the Beta-Garmon warzone – I don’t think even high command could tell you who is where these days. But someone took it upon themselves to face the Sons of Horus’ attack, whatever the cost.’

  From the positioning of the traitor vehicles, the mobile fortress had clearly been the centre of the last assault.

  ‘These traitor scum would have had us, if they hadn’t been delayed here,’ Calsar muttered. ‘Shame there’s nobody left to thank.’

  The column moved into the shadow of the super-heavy, fitful flames from broken fluid links and gas exchangers still smouldering in the depths. Something caught his gaze – the tattered remnants of a red-and-gold banner. Nothing much could be seen of the design, no clue to the identity of the soldiers that had borne it into battle.

  ‘Contact!’ the cupola gunner called out, racking his heavy bolter as something moved amidst the wreckage.

  Calsar squinted, then raised his hand sharply. ‘Wait! Hold your fire!’

  A man staggered out into the open, almost naked but for a few scraps of his breeches. His skin was burned, cuts on his chest and arms where he had raised his hands against some close-by detonation.

  He looked up at the tanks, clasping a dangle of red rag in one hand.

  Calsar clambered out of the turret for a closer look. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  The stranger looked around.