The terrific crash rocked the Conqueror from side to side. Metal groaned and grated, machinery tumbled and smashed. Wires snapped, hoses broke, and a noxious hissing filled the interior of the tank. Marsh Silas crouched in the cupola, his hands holding the hatch in place. He was nearly deafened by the hulk as it bashed against the hull. Finally, there was a deep, thunderclap-like boom on the tank’s right side. What was left of the tank in front had settled.
Marsh took off his dusty goggles and blinked. Triage and his crew scrambled all over the tank, singing prayers to Knock-Knock’s Machine Spirit. Smoke filled the interior, reducing them to shadows as they slid about. Sparks briefly illuminated them; the tankers were covered in grease and soot. Shouting over the intercom filled his ears. Rather than desperate cries, their voices were exact and stoic. Slovenly as they appeared, they moved with surprising deftness.
Outside, the sounds of battle grew louder. Rockets bracketed the tank, jolting it. Shrapnel and bullets rattled the armor plating. The sounds of cannon fire grew more intense as heavy vehicles engaged each other at close range. Marsh stood to look out the hatch’s view-ports. Clots of dirt and steel fragments bounced off the turret. Debris covered the top of Knock-Knock, the pintle-mounted heavy stubber was ripped away, and the searchlight was bent at a ninety degree angle. Every visible plate was dented and the paint was scuffed.
Macharius and Leman Russ tanks pushed past Knock-Knock and other damaged, disabled, and destroyed tanks. Ork vehicles continued to mass along their trenches, their ramshackle frames supporting arrays of massive guns. Strafing runs from Avengers and VTOL gunships, braving the flak, broke up fortifications. Everywhere, there were craters, ditches, and ruts in the torn earth. Greenskin hordes swarmed out of their trenches towards the Imperial attackers, but were driven back by walls of lasers and bolts. Equally sized mobs swarmed Ebba’s curtain wall. Multiple, massive siege towers built from scrap were mounted on pairs of tank chassis. Thousands of orks ascended the towers and stormed onto the walls where planetary defense forces fought back with lasrifles.
Gladius Pacificus rolled backwards as all its weapons fired at once. Grog-Rod, waving his bosspole, laughed delightedly over his slipshod laud-hailer. “Datz it, boyz!” he laughed. “Now, shootz da big one!” He pointed his pole at Lux Cadia, still close to Triage’s squadron of Conquerors. The great Stormlord’s bolters were eradicating entire lines of orks, preventing them from piercing the line of Imperial armor.
“Lux Cadia won’t survive more than a few hits from that Hellhammer!” shouted Marsh, dropping back into the tank’s interior. “Are we still in that fight!? Is that gun still up!?”
“The gun’s operable but we have orders against engaging Gladius Pacificus!” yelled Triage.
“We can’t sit here and do nothing while that behemoth wipes out the first wave!”
“Defy Lord General von Bracken and the entire Adeptus Mechanicus in one day!? No thank you, orks are bad enough, y’know!”
“Can we distract it, draw its fire!?”
“Yes, we’ll make a wonderful distraction by letting that monster blow holes through us!”
“We cannot sit idly by! If we lose the Stormlord, we won’t just lose that crew. Thousands of Guardsmen marching in the second wave will lose their lives without its support.”
“Damned if you’re not negative. We can drop some in front of that fucker and if the smoke launchers are still up, we can lay a screen in from of Lux Cadia! I’ll go up and check those launchers.”
“I’ll do it!” yelled Marsh.
Tools passed between hands, lights flickered back on, and the hissing stopped. Chugging and sputtering, the engine steadily regained its momentum. Faltering treads clanked, then rumbled across the ground. Marsh Silas stood back up to unlock the hatch. Clang! Something was aboard and grabbed the handle! He reloaded his ripper pistol and pointed it up just as the hatch lifted. Staring down at him was Little Mac!
“You’re alive!” cried Marsh.
“So are you, much to my surprise,” replied the enginseer. He reached down, grabbed Marsh by his webbing, and pulled him out. The crescendo of exchanging volleys stunned the platoon leader momentarily. Smoke and dust swirled around the pair. Knock-Knock had only reached the parapet of the first ork trench and sat on the earth piled up in front of it. It was along this line the other tanks of Task Force Axeblade were lined up.
Thousands of tracer rounds whirled between the opposing forces. Atlas-recovery vehicles towed away damaged tanks, allowing others to take their place. Carcasses of enemy tanks stood before them, with more vehicles bursting into flames around them. Orks used the wreckage for cover before launching massed assaults with rocket launchers and stick bombs. Chimeraxes and other armored personnel carriers of the 111th responded, pushing up with the tanks and driving the orks back with concentrated fusillades. Multi-lasers firing hundreds of lasbolts a second and autocannon shells ripped through the frenzied hordes. Every gun hollered to compensate for Lux Cadia, now rolling backwards while Gladius Pacificus’s guns trained on it.
Knock-Knock shuddered as Triage fired the main gun. Smoke rounds exploded in front of Gladius Pacificus. The other tanks in his regiment did the same and created a blanket of thick white clouds in front of the Hellhammer and many of its support vehicles. Marsh crawled along the top of the tank with Little Mac, inspecting the smoke launchers along the turret. “The wiring is exposed and damaged here, they must be spliced,” said the enginseer, calmly. “And these tubes are damaged by shrapnel. I can repair these, can you work those wires?”
“I can try!” Kasrkin trained not just in tactics but in a variety of other fields. Field maintenance was key and having been trained to utilize numerous vehicles, many men in Bloody Platoon were capable mechanics and operators. Marsh hadn’t skipped training with his comrades and, pulling his toolkit from his satchel, set to work. As he located the breaks and brought wires together, hot tracer rounds flew by his face. Rounds struck and grazed his carapace. None penetrated, but the impact rattled his bones.
He held on as Knock-Knock and the other tanks rolled horizontally along the unoccupied ground Lux Cadia had left. They continued to fire smoke shells around the Hellhammer and other heavy vehicles protecting it. An aggravated cry rose from Grog-Rod’s laud-hailer. Shells flew wildly, smashing into the ground or slicing through the air. Marsh laid on his side as shrapnel bounced all around him. Small fragments dug into the carapace but did not penetrate. “The Emperor protects, the Emperor protects…” he repeated. Something hard and metal hit his helmet and he craned his neck to see a stick bomb on the deck near his face. Marsh grabbed the handle and whipped it back at the orks. “…Little Mac, I’m almost finished…got it!”
“Praise the Omnissiah.”
Bullets struck the turret and his armor. He reeled, but drew his shotgun, reloaded, and sat back up. Orks jumped over the trench and raced right for Knock-Knock, spraying the tank with their shooters. Little Mac slid beside him, laspistol drawn, and together they cut them down. Triage activated the smoke launchers and the canisters deployed. Voluminous gray smoke billowed from Knock-Knock and the other tanks, creating a wall between Lux Cadia and the orks.
“Reload drill!” Triage shouted from the cupola, holding more smoke grenades. Marsh grabbed a handful, gave them to Mac, then took the rest.
“After this, we’re rejoining our platoon! May the God-Emperor be with you!”
“And with you! We’re right behind you, Marsh Silas!”
Marsh and Little Mac loaded the shells into the launchers, waited until they were fired again, and then dismounted. Guardsmen of the 111th ran down the ramps of their Chimeras and formed firing lines along the embankment. Thundering hellguns of Bloody Platoon and the rest of 1st Company joined the orchestra of ordnance. Following the sound of the guns, he found the Taurox Primes in a wedge formation behind Yates and Imperial Express.
“Captain!” shouted Walmsley Major, waving his hand. Marsh shouldered his shotgun as his platoon sergeant hefted a hellgun to him. Marsh caught it and attached it to his power-backpack. “We’ve taken casualties, just some light wounds. No KIAs!”
“God-Emperor be praised, rally them up here!” As Walmsley Major gathered the platoon, Marsh crouched beside Hyram. The executive officer knelt beside the command Taurox, his head low as he spoke into Rowley’s handset. “Brother, orks on the walls, flak and artillery on our flanks, and a super-heavy tank in front of us!”
“I’ve tried calling for fighter-bombers to immobilize that monster but von Bracken overruled both me and Rosenfeld! He wants us to attempt a seizure!” Hyram stood up and looked past the Taurox, mindful of the bullets screaming past them. “We can’t keep letting the greenskins get in the city, but our tanks get to the gatehouse with the Hellhammer in the way.”
“We’ve got a lot of smoke for concealment,” said Marsh. “Maybe…maybe we get Osgood’s weapons up here for covering fire and hitting those towers. Get Gabler and 3rd Platoon on our left, get some of the 111th fellows on our right, and we press forward. We use the smoke for cover, hit Gladius Pacificus’ tracks, immobilize it, and take it back.”
“The Vitrians and Maccabians are about to hit the lines. It just might work!”
“We’ll find out, Seathan. Bloody Platoon, on me!”
It was a flurry of orders and transmissions. Kasrkin and Guardsmen raced to new positions. Osgood and the weapons platoon raced forward. Tripods dug into the dirt and heavy bolters, saber turrets, lascannons, mortars, and missile launchers bellowed together. Gabler arrived with her platoon, joined by Tanzer and several squads of Imperial Navy breachers. Yates and Triage intensified their fire and created firing lanes between their vehicles.
Marsh Silas led his platoon into an adjacent platoon to Osgood’s. Gladius Pacificus was just ahead, off to their left. Beyond it, the gate. If we can seize it, it will be our battering ram into Ebba, thought Marsh. He looked over his shoulder; each squad staggered behind him, forming wedges for the assault. Fremantle approached and locked Carstensen’s banner into the slats on Marsh’s pack.
He checked his slate-monitron. Heartbeats throughout the platoon were high. Such was the battle of adrenaline, fear and courage, dread and joy, doubt and faith, amalgamated, separated, and fought with one another. “The Emperor is with us!” yelled Marsh. “He is our hearts, our souls!”
“We shall pull down the machines of the orks and set them afire with His holy flame!” shouted Cornelius. He spurred the chainsword of his vindictor-flamer and held it above him. “The Emperor wills it!”
“He Who Sits the Golden Throne On Terra wills it!” cried Lada, Ruo, Merriweather, and Aralyn together.
Marsh checked the time. On schedule, the first ranks of the Vitrian Dragoons hit the ork trenches. Their organized formations splintered as they entered the trenches. Orks stormed out, cleaving through their armor with terrible, malformed swords and grisly axes. Vitrians answered with high-charge lasbolts, blasting the greenskins apart. They picked and prodded at the gargantuan beasts with their bayonets. Soon, their companies disappeared into the smoke. On the right flank were the Maccabians. Chanting hymns, they formed firing lines three ranks deep; the first went prone, the next crouched, and the final row stood. Punishing red, golden, and blue laser-fusillades shocked the orks as they attempted to counterattack.
Marsh Silas grabbed a handful of the banner, kissed it, then waved his arm. “Follow me!” he screamed. The Kasrkin roared and charged forward underneath the barrels of tank guns, autocannons, and multi-lasers. Orks emerged from the smoke, shooting, lobbing grenades, brandishing blades. Bloody Platoon cut their way through to the second trench with plasma bolts, hellguns, tactical axes, and chainswords. Men threw grenades into dugouts, blasting the enemy from their positions. Heavy flamers burnt them out, turning green muscle into slag that slid off bones.
Firing from the hip, Marsh waited for the immensity that was Gladius Pacificus to appear through the smoke. The white smog curled and swirled, rose and fell, opened and closed. Orks and comrades appeared and disappeared. It was as if they were being transported into some other reality, if just for a moment, before returning to the battlefield.
Marsh ducked as an ork ax swung from the mist. He raised his hellgun at the same moment and fired. Hyram marched forward, shooting at dark, looming shapes with Carstensen’s Justice. The fabled bolt pistol mangled orks as they approached, splitting their crude flak and studded armor.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two brothers advanced with Bloody Platoon. They burst through the smoke—Gladius Pacificus was gone! Before him was fifty meters of ground littered with dead orks and destroyed rams, ladder systems, grappling cannons, and crumbling siege towers. Bodies started to fall from the walls above—human bodies. Orks took Ebba’s curtain wall and began massacring the defenders trapped on the ramparts. Legs and arms were torn off, heads knocked off with the flat of an ax, and teeth sank into flesh. But many of the PDF soldiers were simply thrown over the side, screaming and flailing. Falling fifteen meters, their bodies smashed into the ground, bursting like rotten fruit tossed onto rockcrete. The sickening cracks and thuds made Marsh’s blood run cold.
Engines flared and roared. Marsh looked left to see Gladius Pacificus reversing to the gatehouse. His eyes widened as the massive gates opened. Orks had seized it! In their teeming thousands, greenskins flooded into Ebba. Tanks, gun wagons, and war trucks followed, firing back at the Imperial line. When Leman Russ tanks and Chimeras attempted to pursue, volleys of rockets and heavy-caliber guns erupted from the curtain wall. Capture saber turrets, bolts, and defense cannons were turned on the reliving force. Hundreds of Guardsmen fell, filling the trenches they had just seized. Vitrians, Cadians, and Maccabians spread out and sought cover behind burning vehicles and trained their lasrifles upwards.
“Dis’ city iz mine now!” brayed Grog-Rod from his perch. “Youz too late, we’re gonna krump every git in da place” Incense, Marsh activated his laud-hailer again and stood upright.
“I will have you!” he cried. “Your stain shall be wiped clean from the Emperor’s chariot!”
“Youz ain’t takin’ nuffin’ from me, humie! Dis is jus’ da start of me WAAAGH! It’ll be da best one ever, bigga den all da othas! But ya won’t live ter see it! Nalk, take care o’ dem!”
As the Hellhammer disappeared, fast attack gun wagons from the northern part of the siege lines sped towards Marsh Silas. They created a screen in front of a bright red gunfortress. Instead of front wheels it possessed a giant steam roller covered with metal spikes. Flattened, bleeding, bodies of Guardsmen were fastened to it. They were rolled over again and again until they became red smears. The rear was supported by growling, grinding treads, churning through the soil. A metallic pillbox formed the front of the long tank and it was guarded by a gun turret on either side. Twin-linked cannons protruded from the top, center-mounted turret. Clad in heavy armor and possessing a jagged, red iron gob over his meaty jaw, was Nalk.
“Give’em ell’ boyz!” he yelled. “Youz can ave’ da gunz, but I’ll be havin’ dere’ armor!”
Bloody Platoon sought cover and fired into the wave of incoming vehicles. Tanzer’s breachers lobbed grenades and fired with plasma guns, meltarifles, and las-volleys. Missiles and lascannon blasts from the support squads obliterated gun wagons. Orks answered with bombs and heavy shooters. Bullets bombarded Bloody Platoon, cracking against their armor, knocking them down, forcing them to seek cover. Some Kasrkin fell wounded and were dragged away by comrades.
Marsh went prone, rolled, and fired a long burst at the gunfortress. Hyram crouched and peppered the vehicle with his bolt pistol. Nalk turned the pintle-mounted heavy stubber on them and unleashed a tremendous salvo. Hyram’s head snapped to the side and he collapsed on his left side. Marsh clawed to his friend as Nalk drove by, still firing at the Imperial Guardsmen. Orks jumped from the passing vehicles and charged at the stalled Kasrkin.
Still moving, Hyram shakily reloaded the bolt pistol and continued to shoot even as Marsh turned him over. A large bullet hole had passed through his right cheek. Blood leaked from the entrance wound and his mouth. Hyram coughed and spit out several teeth.
“Medic!” cried Marsh. “Ruo! Ruo!” He took out a pressure dressing and pressed it to Hyram’s cheek. “Hold it there, just hold it!” Reloading Carstensen’s Justice, he slid it back into Hyram’s hand then grabbed his webbing. They were too exposed, too close to the enemy, and the fire from above was too thick. “Fall back! Fall back!”
Tanks, APCs, and infantry peeled away steadily. Guardsmen used vehicles for cover and ran in groups from trench to trench. The Astartes of the Knights Revenant held firm and providing covering fire for the Kasrkin. Bloody Platoon advanced backwards slowly, maintaining a wall of gunfire to keep the orks from piercing into the formation’s center. Orks still waiting at the bottom of siege towers joined the mechanized force in their counterattack. Mobs of greenskins charged into the Imperial guns, undeterred by the ferocity.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Marsh and Hyram fired together at the orks who drew near to them. Just as helping hands from behind him grabbed Hyram, an ork Nob emerged from the crowd. He fired a heavy slugger right for Marsh. Something heavy slammed into Marsh’s face, just above the edge of his armored facial mask. He staggered backwards as a wetness flowed behind his mask. Something was wrong with his vision, he could not see properly. It was as if the left eye were out of focus. Slowly, he reached up to the socket, which felt partially empty. His fingers moved down to feel his eyeball, just hanging from his skull
Gasping as the pain spread through his entire head, he looked back up. That grinning Nob with his panoply of jagged metal armor and human skulls staked to his shoulder plates drew nearer. Bellowing his all, Marsh set his hellgun to max charge and squeezed the trigger. An angry barrage of lasbolts swiped across the Nob, nearly severing him at the waist. Marsh set his sights on another large ork, caving its face in with a burst, and a third who was dismembered at the shoulder.
But the shock overtook him and he fell to one knee. Panting heavily, he still raised his weapon and fired at the enemy. Arms laced around his own and pulled him backwards. Marsh was dragged to the first trench and nearly dropped inside. “Are they still coming?” he groaned.
“Hold still,” ordered Ruo, her face close to his. Walmsley Major slid in behind the Hospitaller and looked over her shoulder.
“We’ve got to pull back, sir, the greenskins—by the Throne his face is fucked up!” he gasped. Holzmann pushed the platoon sergeant out of the way and squeezed in beside Ruo.
“Check him,” moaned Marsh, pointing vaguely to where he thought Hyram was behind him. It was difficult to form words; the wound made it feel as though his entire face were sagging.
“He’s stable, sir,” said the medic. Everyone ducked as grenades exploded just above the trench. Kasrkin stood back up and drove the attackers back. Triage’s tanks rolled in front of their position, creating a defense block around the platoon. Yates’ platoon of mechanized Guardsmen retreated in good order and paused adjacent to the Conquerors.
“Will…will I lose it?” asked Marsh.
“The optic nerve is intact, there’s no damage to your eye. The bullet that struck your face forced it out. We need to get you back to—Throne, don’t!”
Marsh dropped his hellgun and picked up his loose eyeball. Using the fingers of his free hand, he pulled open his eye socket. Carefully, he inserted it back inside. His jaw set and his breath hissed between clenched teeth. Ruo’s horror was replaced by concentration. Nearly nose to nose with him, she issued directions for the placement. Slowly, he pressed it back inside. Grunting, he blinked several times. “Follow,” said Ruo. She held up her forefinger, swung it to the left, right, then up, and finally down. Marsh glanced after it, blinking again. “You can see?”
“Well enough,” he said and started to stand. Ruo grabbed his arms, holding him.
“Sir, there is a hole in your face. We need to stitch you back up. Master Sergeant, help me.” Marsh Silas let them take his arms. As they helped him walk back to the close cordon at their Taurox Primes, he watched the entire Imperial line steadily roll back. Sheets of gunfire from above struck them, slicing hundreds of able Guardsmen down. He craned his neck back to the gatehouse. The great armored doors slammed shut with an ominous, deep clang. Orks set fire to their own siege towers, collapsing them in spectacular explosions of wooden panels and billowing sparks.
“Have the men start digging,” he said to Walmsley. “We’re going to be here for a while.”
The waterfall flowed loudly in the evening light. More stars burned overheard than ever before, a stark departure from the many gray and black nights that had characterized the moon. It was so bright that it seemed as though a blue veil had fallen over the land. Even the firebugs’ color changed; instead of their usual orange and golden flares, they glowed a crystalline blue. They shone like sapphires as they danced and weaved among the gallery trees. Their reflections bloomed in the water of the Serpent River and highlighted trunks scarred by ork gunfire. Bluish beams filtered through the leaves and shattered trunks.
It was quiet, save for the babbling of the current. The wind was absent, although it was cold enough with it. Yet, if one looked closely, and remained ever so still, they might have glimpsed a branch tremble and a few leaves fall. Perhaps, a ripple in the soft river’s flow would catch their eye or a rustle in a patch of grass would make them turn. Yet, all were gone in the matter of a moment. So sudden, so swift these little peculiarities were, one would wonder if they truly occurred at all. No matter how hard one strained their ears or peered into that hilly forest, they would see naught but the stillness.
Those orks who patrolled the forest, their red eyes warily rising to the treetops, their backs to one another, saw only that immovable quietude. Even they seemed to understand its strange immensity, for they remained motionless. Their chestplates, leather garb, squig-skin pouches and bags, and heavy weapons would have clanked loudly even with the smallest step. Such sounds traveled far, far into those woods. Even they knew that.
Yet, despite their alertness, none survived the fusillade of thin, blue-white lasbolts that struck from every angle. From the trees, from behind rocks, from the river water, from the high grass right before them. One by one, they crumpled over without ever having drawn a bead with their firearms. When the last one fell with a wheezing groan, the cameleoline cloaks of Maerys and her Rangers dissipated. Wordlessly, and staying low, they all gathered along the cliff by the waterfall.
It was strangely fulfilling to be back there. The shock and hesitance of before was replaced by determination. Maerys knew what waited down below in that horrid place. She had seen it in the fragmented images of her dreams. With the power of mind and spirit, she tapped into old energies and grafted them back together. She did not need to be a seer to venture down the paths between those huts and gaze through the bars of the slave pits. Her dreams had shown her everything.
A great column of filthy, dark smoke rose from the great gash at the western end of the massive sinkhole. Machinery deep within its core rumbled and croaked. Fires at the bottom created a peculiar smear of orange that ran along the exposed, earthen walls, as if slowly oozing. Cranes creaked as they brought up palettes of human equipment. Runtherds waited along the miner’s paths leading into the deep gash in Sú-il Bhán’s skin. Whips cracked as thin shadows appeared on those blazing, rock walls.
Maerys gazed down the scope of her long rifle as the first faces of human and aeldari slaves marched out of the mine. Enhanced by Hoec’s Glimpse, she saw countless, countless red denotations throughout the camp. They were vague, shimmering clouds, appearing in windows, standing in guard towers, strutting across interior walls. Congregations in the huts and barracks on the left side of the sinkhole glowed as if they were hot. Orks gathered to drink their swill or feast on meat gathered from the drops beneath their steads.
Mekboys toiled in the scrap yards next to the slave bits. The cranes dropped the recovered equipment in their midst and gretchin swarmed over the crates for their masters. Battlefortresses, gun wagons, and tanks steadily rose amid steam and sparks. All was activity there and the belching engines coughed great clouds of smoke into the air.
Footsteps behind the Rangers made Maerys turn. Drifting out of the light beams came Dochariel and the other Swooping Hawks. They were majestic in the nighttime blue. Had they dappled and darkened their armor for the attack, they might have glittered within those woods.
Dochariel took off his helmet, knelt beside Maerys, and placed a hand on her back. The Pathfinder pointed to the ork bastion below.
“There are more of their ilk here than before,” she said. “This battle may be harder. Are you ready?” Dochariel tilted his head from side to side, pondering and smiling.
“I said I was fit enough before. It may have been a paltry exaggeration of the truth. But I have strength yet, enough to fight plenty of orks down there. Perhaps fifty, maybe sixty. The rest are up to you.”
“How very generous of you. Isha, each one is an extra target and a greater chance of alerting the enemy before we are prepared.”
“You are as invisible as the wind, Maerys,” said Dochariel, reassuringly.
“We may remain unseen, but our aim must be true when we let fly with our long rifles and detonate the charges. Our feet must be swift, our hands deft. My concern is not for my life; no Ranger thinks of themselves tonight. Not one of those slaves must be lost, nor any spirit stone dropped. All must be brought out alive.”
“How you set yourself to the task, Maerys. One thinks the Ranger is a lonesome soul wilfully ignorant of the worlds and peoples around them. Yet, here you are, ready to save them all.”
“I must commit myself. Who would I be to ask my followers to pursue a mission I did not entirely believe in? What leader would I be, then?” This she said quietly, her voice a mere breath that could have been stolen by the wind. She glanced at her Rangers, all preoccupied with their equipment or maintaining the perimeter. “Not all of them are here because they believe in this, but that they did not wish to leave comrades new and old in their decisions.”
“One does not have to peer into their minds to know the Autarchs are not fully committed either. This is an exception, not a great change of their beliefs. You know this, do you not?”
“To believe I could sway my betters with but one protest would be an indulgence in arrogance,” said Maerys, bitterly. “I make no demands. That will do us no good. I will merely do what I can to show them I am in earnest to affect change. But your support truly beguiles me.”
Dochariel’s typical smile faded. His eyes left Maerys’ and settled on the Fields of Arches to their south. Even with the back of his head to her, she sensed something somber. A diminutive, singular frame deep within him that was as blue as the buzzing firebugs.
“Biel-Tan is my home. I have fought in her wars for centuries. Even before I donned this armor and my soul joined those who inhabited it before me, my purpose has been to fight. But one cannot merely lash out at the numerous foes who fill this galaxy without purpose. To protect an Exodite world, to cleanse a Maiden world, drive back pirates, retrieve some obscure relic. Each has been an isolated singularity, detached from one another, never amounting to anything tangible. It has always felt as though I were postponing an inevitably.” He looked back at her and smiled pleasantly. “But then I find you striving to create a new future. You did not gain purpose from a path nor sought in a vision by farseers. You’ve taken fate’s hand in your own and molded your own purpose. What warrior could resist such a calling?”
Maerys smiled, reached over to him, and grasped his shoulder plate. She would have preferred to feel its shape rather than the cold plates of his Exarch armor. Yet, the psycho-sensitive weave possessed an energy of its own and melded with that of Dochariel’s essence. She felt the sadness fade away to some small, distant place within him. In its stead was left the warmth that colored his skin and the glitter in his eyes.
“It is but a fledgling dream now, but I believe—I must believe, that with victory and righteous action, we can fulfill it. If more of us come together and overcome the barriers between us, we can build anything. It starts with us.” Her hand slid up his shoulder plate and she grazed the line of his jaw with her forefinger. In that moment, she saw the isolated flame within him again. Cold, subdued, melancholy. “There is more,” she whispered. Dochariel laughed, took her hand, and drew it away from his jaw.
“Alas, it must wait for another time, my friend.” He donned his helmet once more and the blue eye lenses flared. “All we have now is the mission.”
Maerys’ brow furrowed and she nodded. With a parting bow, she passed through the growing ranks of Swooping Hawks. The Band of Kurnous gathered on the northern side of the cliff, where the steep drop tapered off into a slope. Below was the rolling, craggy hills below the plateau.
She joined Irilikae who knelt with Oragroth and the Pathfinders. She pointed first up at the sky, then southwards, and made a sweeping circle before her. This she performed several times, indicating that all elements of the attack force were prepared. Thousands of warriors and hundreds of Vaul’s creations now waited upon Maerys and her band.
She gestured down the slope with her hand. Oragroth nodded and led Kalvynn and Amonthanil’s squads forward. They slid down the grass tracks of the decline, nimbly weaving between jagged stones that jutted upwards. As they descended, their cameleoline cloaks activated and they disappeared from sight. The blue aura of the quiet night again grew. After a few moments, Maerys heard a chime within the link. Oragroth and his teams were in position.
Tirol and the Biel-Tan Rangers lined up at the edge. The taller, larger Pathfinder gazed heavily at Maerys. “I beseech you to remember I do this in the name of the Exodite slaves, not out of any sense of equilibrium you wish to establish with your captors nor this faraway dream of yours. What pity I harbor for the humans is only that they share in the same plight as our people.”
“That is all I can ask of you, and I dare not ask for more. It is enough.”
The Pathfinder nodded gruffly, looked away, then held out his hand. Maerys took it and squeezed. It was not a tender gesture, but a warrior one. Tirol waved his hand and he followed their comrades down the slope. Alimia, a cheerful grin on her face, soon followed. She was about to careen down the slope when Maerys caught her arm. “I apologize your Shroud Runners must fight afoot again. When this is all over, we will go for long rides, won’t we?”
“It will do the soul well to feel the wind upon our faces,” said Meslith, approaching with her black-armored Ulthwé Rangers. “Or through our hair,” she added, cheekily and Alimia beamed.
“Why make it a ride when we could make it a race?” she asked with a wink. “Come along, let us fell a few orks.” She tapped Maerys on her shoulder and slipped downwards with her cohort. Meslith knelt beside Maerys and allowed her Rangers to pass by. They moved so swiftly they caused their Pathfinder’s coat to flutter.
“The Saim-Hann are such wild creatures. But I do envy them. I wish for a modicum of her confidence.” Meslith leaned forward and the pair pressed their foreheads together. “I will see you there. Perhaps we can leave the snow behind us, this time.”
As her friend departed, Maerys rose to meet Livae. She and her Fate Dealers strutted up to the cliff and halted beside the Pathfinder. Long Livae looked her up and down, then shouldered her long rifle. She spared no words and Maerys, unwilling to withstand the silence, bowed her head.
“I know you made your choice for the solidarity of the Band of Kurnous. It was not an easy one to make, for you would rather be anywhere but here.”
“I only wish to hurry this affair along. Maybe then I will be rid of you. Life was far simpler before you came back.” Livae tied her hair back, exposing the lightning bolts tattooed on her face. “You are in command, but you are not mine, Desrigale. Nor ours.” She raised her arms and gestured to her fellow corsairs.
“This I accept, but know, I act in the hopes that one day I will earn your fellowship.”
Livae sneered, although her eyes flickered curiously. She left with her band, leaving only Irlikae, Lotien, limping alongside Fyrdra. Despite his injury, still mending, he refused to stay behind. He was small and quiet, yet he was utterly vigorous and determined to go. Fyrdra whispered into his ear, no doubt imploring him to stay. But the Bonesinger continually shook his head. Exasperated, she looked to Maerys.
“There will be battle soon. He cannot fight.”
“You will protect me,” he said wryly.
“You should break his other leg, otherwise, you will be his defender,” said Maerys.
Fyrdra knelt beside him, retrieved her rune stones, and sang softly to them. Slowly, they rose from her palm and spun around Lotien’s leg. Golden ruins spiraled off them, then combined to create strips of lights that weaved around his leg. The psychic cast bolstered Lotien and he walked with greater ease. Holding hands, they trundled down the hill. Maerys watched them disappear, then turned to the corsair seer.
“Whether you have foreseen victory or defeat, are you prepared?” she asked her.
“Like those on the Path of the Dreamer, gaze too long into each future and you will become lost in the present. The time for visions is over,” said Irlikae, confidently. Maerys nodded in agreement, put on her helmet, drew her hood over it, and together they leaped down the slope.
As she slid down the decline, one gauntleted hand guiding her between rocks and beside ditches, she watched her being start to disappear. Before she reached the bottom, she pushed herself off in a running leap, then rolled into a landing, and her helmet became translucent. Although the hunters were hidden, she felt their presence around her. “With me,” she whispered through the link.
Like wraiths, the Rangers drifted quickly across the crags adjacent to the sinkhole. They bounded wide, wide around its rim. Steadily, squad by squad, the formation splintered and proceeded to the edge. Eventually, Maerys only ran with Meslith and Kalvynn’s groups. They journeyed to the far side of the sinkhole. The acrid stench of the burn pits within the cavity burned more than before. Even with her helmet on, Maerys tasted the metal in the air.
She and her comrades changed direction and approached the sinkhole’s perimeter. The squads fanned out into a line and peered down into the camp. They were behind the industrial yards, able to peer down at the mekboys as they fastened tires to axles and hammered armored plates into place. A high gun tower overlooked it; two orks, one facing south, one north, sat behind their guns.
Maerys felt Meslith move and she followed. They jumped down the rock pilings that covered the uneven slopes of broken ground. Together, they paused behind a junk pile of discarded pipes, busted wheels, sheets of scrap metal, oily rags, and old, broken engines. Drills whizzed, hammers slammed, torches roared. The industrial sheds were so loud the voices of the meks were lost.
The pair looked up and found the guards of the tower were still lax. Neither faced the ladder that led up to the wide, square top. Maerys went first, nimbly scaling the ladder. Instead of climbing over the top, she gripped the edge of the railing and climbed off to the left. Deftly, silently, she shimmed across the siding until she was underneath the gunner. Drawing her dagged, she tapped the flat edge against the metal. Clang, clang.
“Wotz dat?” The gunner loomed over the side, revealing a pierced nose and blood-red bionic eye. Maerys heaved herself up, slashed the ork across his throat, then drove her blade through the top of his head. As the body lurched backwards, she held on and let it pull her into the tower. The other ork whirled around only for Meslith, hanging from the opposite edge, leaped up and jammed her blade into the ork’s neck, opening it.
The ork dropped and Maerys signalled for the others to move in. She and Meslith crouched side by side and raised their long rifles. They now had a commanding view of the paths near the mine entrance. One led around the western edge of the slave pens and pits, leading all the way to the fortified town where the orks dwelled. Another forked to the northern gate of the pens and continued on into the shops.
Shambling and tottering, the dirty column of slaves Maerys saw earlier deposited their tools at some racks at a guard post just up the little road. Satisfied runtherds watched them, whipped a few stragglers, then pointed to the pens. Maerys shifted her scope to the slave pits. One by one, the vague red glimmers of enemies were snuffed out. Sentries in towers, walking along ramparts, and standing in reinforced guard posts on the road, disappeared from sight.
“Falchion, Saber, Cutlass, and Estoc are all in position around the slave pens,” growled Oragroth through the comm-link. “There is but a skeleton force among the cages. On your word, Desrigale, we will eliminate them and free the slaves.”
“Hold.” Maerys wished to wait until the work party was close to the gate of the pens. They would kill their guards, then in tandem with the other squads, escort the slaves to the open ground at the pond beneath the waterfall. Dochariel’s warriors would attack from above until Dryane’s dropships descended and discharged the teeming corsairs ready to bring ruin to the base.
“There is an ork in each of our sights,” whispered Meslith.
“With one blow we will free these souls,” said Kalvynn over the link. Maerys’ scope fell upon the largest runtherd who led the pack to the gates. Her finger slid into the trigger guard.
“Oi! Bring dem damn slaves back ‘ere!”
Maerys’ finger froze and her scope went back to the incline path leading to the mining road. It was Nod-Slash. He came sauntering down the path in his heavy plate armor laced with chains. His great spiked whip dragged at his side. Behind him marched an entire squad of meganobz, clad in great armor bedecked with combat saws and heavily modified firearms. “Da speedboss needs all da dakka he can git is’ hands on. Dere’ ain’t no breaks. Get dem back in da mine!”
“Deez’uns can ardly’ move,” said one of the guards.
“Dey can move, so get’em movin’. If youz can’t, I will.”
The head runtherd nodded at one of the Exodites, so worn he was on his knees. One of the other slavers cracked his whip against the slave’s back, making him cry out and stand up. The meganobz started clanking up the slope while Nod-Slash gathered the slaves. Steadily, the entourage began to hobble its way back to the cavity.
“Those armored ones will be difficult to take down with just our rifles,” whispered Meslith. “We might lose some of the slaves if they have a chance to fire.”
“A single blow,” murmured Maerys as her hand drifted to the explosives on her belt. She searched her surroundings, trying to find the right target. Her eyes traveled upwards to a crane overlooking the miner’s path. The blue lenses of her helmet flared, brilliant and determinedly.
