The warboss raised Puriel’s power fist above its head, holding it aloft as a trophy. The assembled throng cheered, calling for more of the Chaplain’s blood.
Though gravely wounded, Puriel was not finished yet, using his one remaining arm to crawl across the pile of greenskin bodies and retrieve his crozius. He had just got a single finger on the hilt of the weapon when the ork general brought the power fist crashing down, shattering Puriel’s other arm at the wrist.
It did not end there.
The warboss brought the fist down hard again, a mighty blow smashing open the Dark Angel’s backpack and tearing it away from his armour. Then again, and again, and again, until the ceramite beneath cracked open, exposing Puriel’s vulnerable back. Slamming the power fist down one last time, the ork broke the Chaplain’s spine with a sickening crunch, before tossing the weapon aside to be fought over by its exuberant troops.
+We have to do something,+ Turmiel sent. The young Lexicanium was not prone to displays of emotion, but Ezekiel could feel the rage in the psychic communiqué.
He’s already dead, brother, Rephial replied. He was dead the moment he allowed the ork to goad him on.
+But we can’t just leave him here for the orks to defile,+ Turmiel pleaded.
As if in response, the warboss knelt down before Puriel’s still twitching corpse and tore the Chaplain’s cracked skull mask from his helmet before attaching it to its belt alongside a host of other trophies looted from vanquished foes. With its undamaged arm, the warboss lifted the Dark Angel from the ground and tossed him like a piece of scrap meat into the baying mob. The greenskins’ uncommon restraint finally found its limit as they surged forwards in the hope of claiming their own spoils of war.
Ezekiel! Rephial thought urgently.
Already alert to the danger, Ezekiel hastily threw a psychic dome over the four surviving Dark Angels, Turmiel lending his aetheric strength to the effort once he realised what the senior Librarian was doing. The shield crackled with the raw stuff of the warp as the onrushing orks collided violently against it.
In their rage and frustration, the xenos tried to break it down with knives and axes, only to have them flung from their grasp as corporeal metal met incorporeal energy. When that didn’t work, many of them took to opening fire on the shimmering wall, the shots deflecting back with interest, killing either the firer or those standing nearby. Undeterred, the horde continued to unleash salvo after futile salvo until a primal bellow cowed them into submission.
Falling silent, the greenskins parted, clearing a path to where the two Librarians strained to maintain the shield and Rephial fought desperately to keep Zadakiel alive. The warboss strode brazenly through the gap until it was only a few centimetres away from the Dark Angels, the shimmering field of psychic energy the only thing preventing it from tearing them apart, as it had Puriel.
Twenty metres from the end of his suicidal plummet, Serpicus dropped the pair of grenades he had primed towards the hole blasted in the wall by the looted Land Raider. As they spun away to the floor below he reached out with his servo-arm, extending it to its full length and clasping the edge of the spiral stairway with the powerful gripper attached to its end. Manipulating the artificial limb with synaptic impulses as easily as he would a real arm, Serpicus used it to reverse his motion, flipping himself upwards and over towards the stairs. Landing among the surprised mob, he arrived just in time to use the xenos as a meat shield against the ensuing grenade blasts.
The entire tower rocked as the simultaneous detonations threw heat, energy and noise up through the enclosed space. Those greenskins unfortunate enough to be at the outer edge of the corkscrew staircase fell to their deaths as they lost their footing or were shoved aside by their panicking kin. Thick smoke, heavy with the stench of burning ork, rose upwards, blinding those closest to the base and causing yet more to disappear over the brink.
In the ensuing chaos, Serpicus slew dozens of the stunned xenos, tossing them down below to further augment the dam of bodies he had created with his audacious gambit. Adjusting the filters on his augmetic eyes, he peered through the smoke to assess how effective his efforts had been. He grimaced as he witnessed a trickle of greenskins clambering over corpses to enter the tower through the gap that remained at the very top of the breached wall. That grimace soon became a wry smile as he noticed that as an unexpected bonus, his grenades had destroyed the ten metre section of the stairway at the bottom of the tower, making ascent from the base nigh on impossible.
Confident that he would not have to concern himself with an attack from behind, Serpicus set about assaulting the orks’ rear, his bolter accounting for dozens more before they had regained their wits enough to muster a counter-attack. He ploughed through them, those he didn’t toss from the stairway shot in the head at point-blank range or smashed in the face with the butt of his bolter.
Higher up, the first of the greenskins had engaged the skitarii in melee combat and were forcing the Mechanicus troops onto the back foot. Though the orks had the advantage over the rangers in close quarters, the battle had never been about winning: all that mattered was holding off the invaders long enough for the turret to be deactivated. The skitarii were not fighting to secure victory, or even preserve their own existence, merely to prolong the fighting in the tower to give their master every opportunity to complete his task.
For every two metres Serpicus gained, the skitarii lost one, those not driven back up the steps torn apart or thrown off the edge. The ork numbers were dwindling, but the chron read-out on Serpicus’ retinal display revealed the stark truth of the matter: at the rate the skitarii were dying, they weren’t going to buy Diezen enough time.
Serpicus renewed his efforts, practically sprinting up the steps as he tore through the mob, but his exertions came to naught. With at least fifty orks still left alive the last of the rangers fell, leaving only the servitors to protect the arch magos. Heavy bolters blazed away but even their combined rate of fire was nowhere near enough, the orks slamming into them like a battering ram and crushing them underfoot.
With no other options open to him, Serpicus enacted the final part of his plan. Offering up a brief prayer to the Omnissiah and seeking the blessing of the Lion, he reassumed direct control of one of the dying servitors and activated its self-destruct mechanism.
The warboss paced around the perimeter of the coruscating shield, its yellow eyes locked on Ezekiel, as if sizing up its next opponent. Blood poured from where Puriel had snapped the beast’s arm and oozed from its artificial jaw, but it paid its wounds no heed.
I’m losing him, Rephial sent, frantically trying to staunch Zadakiel’s bleeding. We cannot tarry here any longer.
Ezekiel turned away from the ork general, glancing down at the rapidly fading company master to see the extent of the wounds for himself. The warboss’ two massive fists pounding at the shield pulled his attention back.
The ork smashed against the psychic dome again, irritated that the Librarian had dared to turn away from it, this time with such force that Ezekiel could feel the shield buckle slightly. This ork was unlike any he had encountered before, not only displaying cunning and tactical acumen far in excess of the norm for its species, but also physical strength, to the extreme that it threatened to break through an aetheric wall with its bare hands.
Ezekiel reached out with his mind. None of the Dark Angels could hope to match the warboss in singe combat, but if he could lash out at it psychically, destroy it from the inside like he had so many of the orks lying dead around him, the war could be over before it began in earnest, as both Puriel and Zadakiel had posited.
The psychic mine detonation that followed rocked Ezekiel physically. His knees buckled, threatening to drop him to the ground, and blood seeped from his nostrils and eyes. The shield wavered as his mind recoiled from the blast, but he composed himself just in time to reinforce the dome as the ork’s balled-up fists smashed against it once more. But the biggest surprise was yet to come. The warboss spoke to Ezekiel, in broken, basic Low Gothic.
‘Weirdboyz fix Groblonik good,’ he said with a bass chuckle.
The ork horde cheered, whether out of understanding of the actual words or in admiration of their leader speaking the Space Marine’s tongue, Ezekiel was unsure.
‘Groblonik fix you good, witch-mind. Now, Groblonik kill you.’
This further incited the mob. Many of them bayed and howled, smashing their weapons together to generate an almost rhythmic sound.
In his weakened state, Ezekiel knew that if the orks swarmed the dome then it would surely collapse. He only had moments to act.
+Turmiel, I’m going to drop the shield. When I do, I need you to unleash Hellfire and buy enough time for me to get us out of here,+ Ezekiel sent.
+Understood,+ replied the Codicier.
The first of the orks were already encroaching, their bloodlust kindled by their leader. Before terminating the psychic barrier, Ezekiel broadened its circumference, shocking the front ranks of greenskins into inactivity as the wave of aetheric energy broke over them.
+Now!+ Ezekiel sent.
He lowered the shield, the bright blue dome dissipating with a crackle, like the sound of pyrotechnics launching in the distance. Simultaneously, a perfect ring of green psychic flame sprang up around the Dark Angels, but Ezekiel had no time to admire Turmiel’s aetheric artistry, nor the control he showed as parts of the Hellfire barrier broke away and engulfed the most fanatical orks. Chanting incantations and daubing arcane sigils into thin air, Ezekiel conjured up a wind born of the warp, which whipped around them, fanning the Hellfire flames.
The more words of power Ezekiel uttered, the bigger and more violent the funnel became, spinning so furiously that Turmiel’s Hellfire raged like an inferno, the screams of the dying orks caught within it harmonising with the unnatural sound of the psychic storm. The sky above turned the colour of rotted flesh as purple lightning played over the tops of swiftly moving clouds.
Anticipating that he would soon be robbed of his quarry, Groblonik urged his troops onwards, through the flames that burned both body and mind, and towards the eye of the storm, but his order came too late. Shouting the final incantation, Ezekiel made the sign of a star with his finger, each of the eight points glowing with raw psychic energy.
Then the Dark Angels were gone, leaving behind only howls of frustration and pain.
Arch Magos Diezen barely registered the explosion from the entrance to the stairway behind him, save to acknowledge the – to his mind at least – needless waste of yet another of the Omnissiah’s creations. So intent was he on sifting through the near-infinite amount of data flowing through his slave cogitators, ancillary computation organs and celekone-enhanced flesh-brain that he did not immediately notice the lone ork survivor, crawling over the ruined bodies of its ilk and smouldering servitor chassis to reach its prey.
Augmented hands and mechadendrites alike moved with astonishing swiftness, tapping out commands on keypads or rerouting thick bundles of cable that formed the control system’s innards. His chron read-out counted down the final few seconds; each time the digits changed, the ork got closer. With less than three seconds left until he gained control over the turret and shut down its massive guns, Diezen caught the reflection of the encroaching xenos in one of the smooth metal covers he had removed from the control system. It would have been a mere formality to lash out with one of the prehensile metal arms grafted to his back, to pierce the ork’s skull or throat, but the arch magos knew that he could not risk such an action. If he broke away from his work at such a critical juncture then everything he had achieved thus far would be undone, and he would have to start again from scratch, without the protection granted by the skitarii. Besides, even if he did terminate the beast’s brain functions, its central nervous system was so unevolved that it would still likely have time to kill him before it realised it was dead.
The chron counted down to less than two seconds. The ork raised a huge cleaver, preparing to bring it down on the back of Diezen’s neck. The tech-priest flooded his system with electrical impulses, his Omnissiah-granted gifts overriding the fear and doubt the body he was born with was trying to force upon him. In spite of himself, he shut down his optics, diverting all of his focus to the last few adjustments and calculations while also preventing himself from having to deal with the sight of his killer administering the final blow.
With his sight offline, his other four senses heightened. The report of the bolter, already deafening in the combined space, was impossibly loud, to the point that it nearly distracted him from his ministrations. The smell of the weapon’s discharge stung his nostrils; the taste of scorched ork flesh hung heavy in his throat; the warmth of the alien’s blood felt uncomfortable on the back of his neck. The chron counted down to zero and, uttering the correct blessing to the Machine-God, Diezen took command of the turret emplacement and shut it down. As the noise of its huge, ancient mechanisms abated, Diezen turned to Serpicus, the Dark Angel extricating himself from the ruined mess of ork and skitarii corpses he had forced his way through to make the shot.
‘Was it really necessary to throw away the lives of all of my skitarii, Dark Angel?’ Diezen said without even the slightest hint of gratitude.
Serpicus pulled himself free of the bodies and examined the damage to his armour caused by the explosion, then surveyed the wreckage at his feet. ‘You have the technology. You can rebuild them.’
Diezen snorted. ‘I hope it was worth it.’
‘The outcome was always binary, arch magos. Either we won and your precious archeotech remained intact, or we lost and the orks tore it apart and used it for spare parts. How we reached either of those states was utterly meaningless.’
Diezen contemplated that for a moment. Broken down into terms he could relate to, he was able to parse the logic of the Techmarine’s course of action. ‘It would seem we did a good job with you on Mars, Serpicus. Maybe too good a job.’
Serpicus nodded his assent before racing to join his brothers on the battlements.
Ezekiel blinked.
When he closed his eyes, he had been at ground level, the noise and the stink of the battlefield all around him. When he opened them, he was high above it all, the roar of the ork horde replaced by the discharge of lasrifles, the stench of alien blood and sweat giving way to the thin, cold air of the Honorian night.
‘Help me move him!’ Rephial yelled, his white suit of Apothecary armour stained almost the same colour as Serpicus’, the Techmarine emerging from the dormant turret as his brothers rematerialised. Shadrach broke off from coordinating the Astra Militarum’s defence to aid Rephial.
‘Puriel…?’ Serpicus asked as Shadrach and Turmiel hoisted the motionless form of Zadakiel between them. Rephial continued to treat the company master as the three Dark Angels hurried to where a Thunderhawk was coming in to evacuate their commander.
‘He underestimated the orks’ cunning,’ Ezekiel said, shaking his head. ‘We all did.’
Serpicus looked to the floor solemnly and gave the salute of the Lion.
‘I see your mission was a success,’ Ezekiel said, looking up at the motionless turret.
‘Aye,’ Serpicus said. ‘Perhaps more successful than we had hoped,’ he added, staring out over the battlefield.
Ezekiel could barely contain his look of surprise.
The orks were retreating.
Groblonik barked orders at his lieutenants, reinforcing them with violence if any dissented. The battle had already cost almost half a million ork lives, another half a dozen were nothing. They could easily be replaced by stronger, more obedient warriors. Even some of Groblonik’s foot-soldiers gave voice to their disapproval, earning a swift decapitating backhand if they spoke within earshot of their general.
The giant ork scowled in agony as a trio of Painboyz fussed about his ruined arm. Instinctively, Groblonik lashed out, sending one of them flying, dead before its body hit the ground. The other two cowered but, spotting something among the throng of withdrawing greenskins, the warboss forced them to follow.
In Groblonik’s way stood a huge specimen of an ork, barely half a head shorter than the warboss. The warboss gestured at the trophy the ork was carrying, and the message was clear: Groblonik wanted what the other greenskin had.
Posturing to make itself look bigger than it actually was, the other ork started to laugh mockingly, only to stop abruptly as the larger greenskin tore its throat out. As the ork stumbled forwards onto its knees, Groblonik yanked the prize free from his foe’s weakened grip and tossed it to the startled Painboyz. The warboss pulled a huge knife from his belt and, without a second thought, brought the blade down onto his own irreparably damaged arm, severing it at the elbow. The warboss pointed to the trophy, then to the stump of his arm. This message was also clear: Groblonik wanted them to attach the Space Marine’s power fist to his limb.
The Painboyz set to work, their warboss sat atop a mound of corpses surveying his retreating army. A seemingly endless parade of greenskins filed past, any who displayed their disapproval earning a snarl of rebuke.
The warboss understood their frustration; he had raised their bloodlust and promised them slaughter only to snatch it away from them when their desire for murder was at its zenith. Like most of their kind these orks were stupid, barely capable of understanding language let alone the nuances of mass warfare. Yes, Groblonik could have ordered them to assault the walls of the fortress, and yes, the carnage would have been great but, ultimately, they would have lost. The enemy’s position was too easily defended, even without the huge cannon to back them up.
Let them brood and rage, let their frustration build, the warboss mused. It would only make them fight harder the next time they were unleashed. The orks might not have won the day, but Groblonik had slain one of the Dark Angels generals and, more importantly, had learned much about the enemy and how they fought.
The battle might have been lost, but now Groblonik knew how to win the war.