The hundred or so orks were caught so unawares by the five Dark Angels materialising in front of them that not a single one had time to react. Each of them lay dead or dying in the blood-drenched snow in a matter of seconds.
Those further away from the point of teleportation had time enough to at least muster a defence, but lived only marginally longer. Heavenfall blade, chainsword and power fist separated heads from shoulders and showered limbs to the cold ground, while the psychic might of the two Librarians fried the brains and froze the blood of any greenskin that evaded the Dark Angels’ weapons. The aetheric onslaught’s effects were twofold, not only killing the xenos but striking fear into their surviving kin. Wary of the Space Marine witch-mind, many of the orks hung back, some fleeing altogether rather than succumb to such strange magicks.
‘It seems your reputation among the greenskins is well earned, Brother Librarian,’ said Puriel. ‘Perhaps it was you causing them to linger in orbit all along, rather than some grand plan.’
If Rephial heard the Chaplain’s barb he ignored it, running his chainsword through ork torsos with the same precision he displayed in the medicae. Often drawn away from the field of battle to tend to his wounded brothers, the Apothecary relished every opportunity to prove his martial prowess.
The supply of greenskins to murder was unending, but the Dark Angels’ application to the business of killing them was unstinting. Taking advantage of his status among the enemy, Ezekiel had drawn his force sword, his weapon now used to slay orks while his mind conjured forth images of great horrors to keep the weak-minded aliens at bay. Each sweep of the Space Marines’ blades brought them closer to their quarry, but the ork general, cutting down retreating cowards with its double-headed axe, was determined to meet its foe more than halfway.
Barrelling through a mass of its own troops, transfixed into inaction by an apparition of one of their gods, the massive ork charged Rephial, seeking to split the Apothecary in two with a single blow from its fearsome axe. Spinning away from the sweep of the ork’s weapon, Rephial clicked the ignition stud of his chainsword and swung the whirring blade towards the warboss’ flank. With speed belying its bulk, the warboss threw out an arm, the teeth of the Space Marine’s weapon biting into the thick band of metal around its wrist, sparks flying as they fought vainly to carve through to flesh and bone. Struggling to free the axe from where it had become embedded deep in the top of a trench wall, the ork kicked out at Rephial, connecting so hard with his midriff that the blow shattered power armour and sent the Apothecary sprawling atop the pile of greenskin corpses that covered the battlefield. With a supreme effort, it tugged the axe free and swung it over its head in the same movement, the prone Dark Angel helpless to move out of its deadly arc.
The killing blow never landed.
Bursting from the warboss’ blindside, Puriel’s power fist struck the beast on the side of the temple. It was a strike hard enough to take the head from a lesser ork, and it forced the warboss off balance, the xenos’ weapon embedding itself in the corpses of slain greenskins rather than the body of the Dark Angels Apothecary. Enraged, the warboss raised the axe again, intent on ending the life of its new target, but at the apex of its swing, Zadakiel emerged as if from nowhere to drive his Heavenfall blade into the ork’s side. The sword bit but scored only a glancing hit, its blade wetted but not drenched with xenos blood.
An impromptu arena had sprung up around the ork general and the Dark Angels, the greenskin army forming a circle around the duel, either out of fear of the Librarians or fear of reprisal from their leader should they interfere in the combat. Rather than become embroiled in the already one-sided fight, Ezekiel and Turmiel ran crowd control, holding back the horde with terrifying visions or driving psychic daggers into the minds of any tempted to involve themselves.
Blood seeping from its flank, the warboss swung its axe at Zadakiel, but the company master anticipated the attack, bringing his sword up to counter the blow. It connected just beneath the axehead, sparks spraying over both combatants, and the two weapons locked, ork and Space Marine alike forcing every ounce of their strength into keeping their opponent’s weapon neutralised.
It was a test that Zadakiel could never win.
Finding it difficult to gain purchase on the corpses underfoot, Zadakiel was driven backwards, the ork’s muscle power too much even for his genetically enhanced might. But just when it looked as if the warboss would drive him to the floor, the Dark Angel turned the situation to his advantage, quickly withdrawing his blade from the stalemate and sidestepping, causing the warboss to stumble forwards. In the same motion, Zadakiel brought the sword back around, its red-tinged edge seeking out the ork’s exposed back.
Alert to the danger, the huge greenskin lashed out, Zadakiel’s blade connecting with the same metal band that had countered Rephial’s chainsword. Sensing what was about to happen next, the company master tried vainly to reverse the momentum of his weapon, to bring it back around to block the ork’s counter-attack, but he was fractionally too slow, the massive axe passing under the Heavenfall blade and carving through ceramite. Zadakiel gritted his teeth as the sharp edge bit deep into his flesh, delivering a wound that mirrored the one he had administered to the warboss.
Twisting the head as he pulled it free, the ork brought the axe up again, intent on finishing his stricken foe. Thick red blood spilled from the gouge in Zadakiel’s armour, but he still had the presence of mind to raise his sword, blocking what would have been a killing strike. The two weapons interlocked once again. Rather than pushing the Dark Angel back this time, the warboss kicked out, the force of the impact cracking armour and driving Zadakiel onto one knee. Weakened and losing blood at a prodigious rate, the Dark Angel could do nothing to prevent the ork from ripping the sword from his grasp with a forceful flick of the axe.
Its mouth opening wide in a sadistic grin, the warboss raised its axe again to separate the company master’s head from his shoulders.
For the second time in the battle, Puriel came to the aid of one of his battle-brothers at the very last moment, a blow from his crozius arcanum to the ork’s midriff swiftly followed by a power fist to the xenos’ metal jaw.
Angered at being denied a second kill by the skull-faced Space Marine, the warboss threw its head upwards and bellowed in rage, every vein and sinew in its enormous body bulging as it vented its frustrations skywards. Spitting out one of its tusks, which Puriel had knocked loose with his devastating punch, the ork pointed at the Chaplain with the double-headed axe, using its other hand to goad him into attacking again.
Puriel obliged.
The screams of the dying and the triumphant chants of the greenskin invaders echoed up from the base of the weapons tower. Some of the Astra Militarum troops froze in fear at the top of the wide staircase, impeding the passage of those behind them. In his singular style, Serpicus urged them on.
‘Come on, otherwise I’ll throw you down those steps and send you into battle the quick way!’
The end of the Techmarine’s sentence was drowned out by the noise of the turret firing another volley at the marauding orks working their way through the trenches. It had the desired effect, though, the flow of Vostroyans and Mordians heading downwards picking up pace again.
‘How much longer, Diezen?’ Serpicus called out to the tech-priest. Diezen was hunched over a console, its metal cover ripped away to allow him to tinker with the mechanisms inside.
‘Seven hundred and forty-seven point three seconds,’ Diezen said instantly. ‘Provided the control systems are not encrypted, of course.’
The vox in Serpicus’ helmet was alive with chatter. Imperial commanders on the battlements reporting into Shadrach, who was leading the operation atop the battlements; their counterparts down below calling out casualty reports. And something else, something that would be gibberish to any of his non-Techmarine brethren but which was faintly discernible at the very bottom of the frequency spectrum. He went to the top of the stairway and looked down. The orks were almost halfway up the tower and the Guardsmen were barely arresting their progress. Serpicus ran the calculations in his head.
‘Diezen, order your skitarii in,’ he yelled.
As before the arch magos didn’t look up from his task. ‘What difference will twenty skitarii make? Send in more Guardsmen or get those brothers of yours to go down there.’
‘The Guard can’t keep them in check. If you don’t send your skitarii in there – all of them, the hundreds you’re holding in reserve within the fortress walls – then the turret will fall before you can deactivate it, and its secrets will be lost forever.’
‘The Mechanicus’ elite are not to be thrown away so casually. If it’s a suicide mission then let the armies of the Imperium throw down their lives,’ Diezen spat.
‘If you don’t order them in, then in six hundred and fifty-seven point three seconds the only part they’ll play in this fight is avenging your death.’
The arch magos hesitated for the briefest of moments. ‘Omnissiah take your circuits!’ he said, followed by a string of binaric cant, echoed on the low vox-frequency. The twenty skitarii that formed Diezen’s personal bodyguard marched in lockstep to where Serpicus was assessing the situation in the tower. ‘I’ve transferred command to you, Dark Angel. Try not to destroy them all.’
Serpicus issued his own set of orders in binary and the skitarii began to descend the tower, barging past the human soldiery as they went.
‘All Vostroyan and Mordian forces, pull back to the battlements. Your guns are more use up there,’ Serpicus broadcast over all channels before following the Mechanicus forces down, his servitors in tow.
Puriel swung his crozius down in a deadly arc, its coruscating energy field leaving a bright afterglow in its wake. The warboss threw its head out of the mace’s path, bringing its shoulder guard up to meet the blow instead, the metal denting and blackening under the impact.
Reacting quickest, the Chaplain lashed out with his other arm, his balled-up power fist connecting squarely with the ork’s metal jaw. The beast staggered backwards but was not felled. Puriel pressed the assault, but the next swipe of the crozius was met by the haft of the warboss’ axe.
The orks still held their position on the fringes of the duel, but their bloodlust was rising, whipped into a frenzy by their general’s personal battle. Rephial knelt between the two Librarians, wheezing through shattered ribs while he tended to the gravely wounded Zadakiel, who was already in the early stages of a sus-an coma. Ezekiel and Turmiel continued to hold the ork mob at bay but the perimeter of the makeshift arena got smaller with every act of aggression by the two combatants.
+Can he be moved?+ Ezekiel sent to Rephial.
That doesn’t matter. If he isn’t moved, we’ll lose him. The organ damage is catastrophic and he needs to get to the medicae now.
The Apothecary’s gauntlets were covered in red as he fought to curtail the company master’s bleeding.
Can you get us out of here, Ezekiel?
+Yes, but we all have to go. Turmiel does not yet have the power or control to teleport you, nor would he be able to hold the orks at bay alone.+
Then we go. Zadakiel is fading fast, Rephial thought back.
+Puriel, we have to go, the company master’s wounds are too severe to treat in the field,+ Ezekiel sent, opening up a psychic link with the Chaplain.
No! came the Chaplain’s response, so forcefully that Ezekiel was taken aback. Zadakiel’s orders were that we finish this now and that’s precisely what I intend to do.
Puriel unleashed another assault, his fury the match of the warboss’. Blow after blow rained down on the greenskin, crozius and power fist alike breaking bones and splitting flesh. Though the ork had the size advantage, Puriel was quicker and more nimble, avoiding the test of strength that had laid Zadakiel low, relying instead on speed and guile.
+Puriel. Now,+ Ezekiel sent.
The ork mob was becoming harder to keep back, the sight of their leader being taken apart so completely before their eyes driving them to action. Ezekiel and Turmiel’s illusions became more horrific and realistic as a result.
I have this, brother. Not long now.
The ork’s arm snapped as a result of a solid hit from the crozius, bone protruding at its elbow in a mess of muscle and gore. It cried out in rage and anguish, but the call died prematurely as the power fist connected with its throat. Instinctively, the warboss dropped its axe and raised a hand to its neck. Jumping on the opening, Puriel thrust his power fist into the ork’s stomach like a piledriver, dropping the beast to its knees. He wound up the crozius, ready to stove in the greenskin’s skull and end the war for Honoria before it had even properly begun.
Bursting upwards with the speed and agility of something a fraction of its size, the warboss launched its head like a guided missile towards the Chaplain’s skull helm. The spikes on top of its head penetrated Puriel’s visage, opening a crack through the centre of the mask through which blood seeped. He rocked backwards but kept his footing, weakly raising his crozius in defence. A massive green hand batted the mace away, forcing Puriel to swing wildly with his power fist. The warboss caught the Dark Angel’s arm at the wrist, locking it in place as it grinned manically from behind its blood-drenched and battered artificial jaw.
Then it ripped the Chaplain’s arm off.
The sound of a hundred pairs of metallic feet running down stone steps heralded the first fusillade from the skitarii rangers’ galvanic rifles. Marching in lockstep, the front rank of black-clad man-machines dropped to augmetic knees, took aim and fired in a single fluid motion. Every shot found its mark but barely half were fatal, hitting meaty ork shoulders or thighs instead, the electrical field emitted on impact merely slowing them down rather than killing the beasts. As the second wave of rangers took the place of the first in perfect unison, the noosphere was already alive with revised firing solutions and aiming corrections. By the time the third rank took to its knees, the data had been finessed to the point where every round felled its greenskin target.
At the top of the stairway, Serpicus coordinated the assault, his own weapon and those of his combat servitors raining down death from above. With each second that passed, scores of orks crashed lifeless to the cold stone of the steps, their fellow xenos climbing over the corpses without a second thought. The intervention of the Mechanicus elite had made a difference, but it was not enough. Based on the data being fed to him by the skitarii, and his own calculations, the tide of greenskins would engulf Arch Magos Diezen long before he could deactivate the turret. There were thousands of orks already crammed inside the tower and many more flowing in through the rent in its base. If he could somehow prevent the greenskins’ reinforcements from getting in, then the rangers might stand a chance of eliminating all those already within the walls of the tower.
Serpicus ran through all the likely scenarios, then ran them again. Drawing a blank both times, he ran all the unlikely scenarios too. One in particular had a quarter of a per cent greater chance of succeeding than any of the other possibilities, but even then the odds of pulling it off were less than two in a hundred. Not great, but better than any of the alternatives.
Relinquishing direct control of his servitors to allow them to operate autonomously, Serpicus leapt from the top of the stairs, out into a void that terminated eighty metres below.