Warhammer
Silver adamantine hoofs pound sharp and staccato off the ceramite road. Braying horns and howling bagpipes echo off the surrounding walls. Leather boots hammer a bass drumbeat as their owners pile forward behind the Knights. Ahead, the shambling masses of red-skinned cultists hesitated as the tide of silver and green swept down the avenue. A wall of the crazed, totem wielding heretics emerged from the mass, rallying the hesitant with screams of rage and invocations of their dark master. Bright beams of coherent light leapt ahead of the Imperial forces as the two sides closed, claiming first blood of this cultist assualt. Runes inscribed on the bronzed armour of the Knights blazed brilliant white, dazzling the enemy as the yards disappeared. The cough and scream of the mortars provided one final, swelling cresendo, gouging brutal holes in the mass of deamon worshippers just before the kinetic lances of the Knights sent more cultists hurtling back with deadly force. As the bleeding, blinded, horde saw the grim, determined faces of the loyalist forces storming forward, heard the shriek of yet more mortars and the electric hum of the knights' sonic blades panic overcame them. They clawed and scrambled at each other to escape, packed like matchsticks in the street, the mortars marching backward over their fleeing troops. Over seven thousand heretics had entered the Boulevade of Martyrs. Less than ten percent made it back out.
The metal horsemen returned to a quiet salute from the weary soldiers as the perimeter force field was reestablished by Techpriest Gioronu. Captains dispersed their platoons back to their assigned posts in the fortified buildings, and servitors went over to the cultist dead, spreading naptha to cremate the corpses before any daemons got any smart ideas about possessing them.
One of the knights, his helmet trimmed in gold filigree and flecked with sapphire inlays, rode towards a long, low building a few hundred metres in length. The twitching noses heavy bolters poked out from improvised bunkers along its roof, and before the black adamantine doors stood a small conclave of weary souls.
Two servitors jerked forward to take hold of his adamantine steed as he reached the other leaders. He dismounted and his stallion lead away to be tended.
A steel haired man, clad in a tunic the closest to white anyone in a warzone could manage, looked up briefly as the knight reached the group.
"Twenty-nine dead, one hundred and fifty three wounded." He resumed scrolling through his holotablet as he spoke.
"Tend them the best you can. Hoarding medical supplies is the least of our concerns." The knights' voice initially sounded through a rebreather, but as he spoke the helmet parted in the centre, the fearsome stylised steel visage sliding back to reveal a sweat-stained, dark haired young man with a pronounced nose and the sunken eyes of one in dire need of rest.
The doctor nodded and headed towards the Cathedral of Saint Hyrieno, now the makeshift hospital after the actual hospital was destroyed by a Chaos Reaver titan's stray volcano blast.
"Prince-Regent Nomék." Techpriest Orielle Pergida, senior remaining representative of the Mechanicum looked at him, the only member of the group matching his six foot four. "We have managed to fix Kilenous and Adramax, but the turbo-refractors of Trimous are still broken." Behind her, two men and a woman in pale blue uniforms stood at attention. All three had a similar blonde and blue eyed look - unsurprising, as they were triplets and the only remaining nobles of House Lumino. The rest had fallen either in the initial traitor uprising or during the hard-fought retreat into the mountains.
"Understood. Hopefully we've bought ourselves some respite today. Remember to rest occasionally." Orielle fixed him with a withering green gaze at the obvious irony of his advice. His Grace the Duke of Highridge, Protector of the Ironhelm Mountains, Warden of the Eastern Continent and now Prince-Regent of Asbarran Torvas Nomék stuck out his tongue at her. Her red cowl shook in suppressed laughter as she huffed, one of her additional servo arms swinging dangerously close to his face.
A firm clearing of the throat snapped his attention back to the remaining group members. Generál-Polkóvnik Horvarth and his moustache bristled with a combination of amusement and irritation at his CO's propensity for childish entertainment.
"Oh, sorry Brigadier, didn't see you there." Torvas grinned, saluting. As per usual, the Generál- Polkóvnik was resplendent in his immaculate red and gold Vostroyan uniform as he returned the salute.
"Of course not sir." His honour stopped him questioning his superior officer, a quirk Torvas took shameless advantage of. "Perhaps we should step inside to discuss our situation." He gestured toward the now open adamantine doors. The Prince-Regent nodded and entered.
The building had been the ceremonial headquarters of the Order of the Aurea Caelo. The golden iconography of the Ironhelm Sphinx had faded from its pre heresy brilliance to a dull yellow, and much of the interior had been repurposed to contain offices, aides and auspexes. The hive of activity never slept, for the Imperial defenders still numbered over 5000 souls, despite the near two months of grinding siege. Only two reasons had allowed the survivors to hold out so far - the position of the city atop a granite pinnacle, accessible only by a single wide causeway, and the mighty Dark Age Void Aegis, the golden shimmering shield that had given the Aurea Caelo its name, that protected the defenders from the heretic artillery and aircraft.
That field was powered from deep inside the caverns of the pinnacle, and the sole responsibility of the Magos Zokic Lox. He had never left the generator chamber since entering it over three centuries earlier, obsessed with understanding the archeotech that protected the mountain fastness. It was only his intimate knowledge of the ancient technology that had stopped the scrapcode that caused the planet's loyalist defense stations and fortress-bastions self-destructing, or even worse turning on their own garrisons.
The heretics still tried the Aegis' defences relentlessly, with everything from stolen Basilisks up to the mighty guns of a traitorous Nemesis Warbringer Titan. Thankfully, the Titan had long since been taken off world by the more senior heretics, who after securing the rest of the planet and establishing that even space-based weapons could not penetrate the Aegis, appeared to fan out into the surrounding systems, leaving just the few million traitor guard and surviving cultist to wear down the last stronghold of the Emperor's faithful on Asbarran.
Even as the group walked towards the great hall, now the improvised command centre for the loyalists, they heard the resumption of the bombardment. The Prince-Regent thought it was more habit than actual belief it would do anything that drove the heretics to bombard the city. The defenders no longer paid any heed to the sounds of a city under siege, and the bustle of an army command centre continued unabated.
They reached the grand hall and made their way to the central holographic display, combining the real-time imagery of the hundreds of servoskulls and remote optic feeds that were distributed through and surrounded the city into a single interactive image. The fleeing cultists had once more withdrawn to their fortified positions at the bottom of the causeway, and the positions of each of his detachments was clearly indicated on the perimeter of the city. Highridge had never been a city of towering habblocks, but those few that it had possessed had long since been reduced to just a few stories high, the broken and twisted adamantine girders that had once supported the higher floors protruding like shattered bones.
Instead, the city's low-slung buildings had been converted into bunkers, reinforced with whatever was on hand to use. Firing lines had been cleared and kill zones created with the liberal use of explosives, something the once-prosperous city's adamantine mines had had in excess when the uprising had begun. The one company of Catachan soldiers that had retreated to the city successfully had jumped with glee on finding the stores, and their improvised traps had claimed hundreds of cultists. There were very few civilians left in the city now - primarily the algae-vat tenders and the hydrology teams keeping the rest of the survivors fed and watered. The rest of the city's population had been drafted into the PDF forces, now calling themselves the Highridge Militia. They had seen enough fighting in the previous months to be as battle ready as any of the professional Guardsmen, and even the Vostroyans no longer looked down on the ex-miners with their untidy uniform and lack of parade-ground manners. Their commander, Brigadier Hans Oberflautz, was the last to arrive to the debriefing, his black and silver beret eternally askance, because he'd been distracted chatting with one of the female staffers in the building.
"Now we're all finally arrived," Horvarth started, looked pointedly at the unrepentant Brigadier as he took his seat on the right of the Prince, "this debriefing can begin."
The Prince leant back in his chair as the Generál-Polkóvnik on his left lead the rest of his command team through the debriefing. Brigadier Hans, despite his seemingly uninterested pose, was an excellent commander, who the Prince-Regent knew liked to wind up the Generál-Polkóvnik. Next around the circle was Techpriest Orielle, and opposite the Prince at the bottom of the table was Capitaine Beaumont, representing the few aircraft remaining. His forces had paid a hefty toll in the retreat from the Deschane Plains, losing over ninety five percent of their aircraft. A handful of Valkyries, a single wing of Lightnings and four Vendetta gunships was all that remained, but every remaining soul from the betrayal owed their lives to the desperate few pilots who had sacrificed themselves to delay the enemy. Torvas had no intention of committing his remaining aircraft unless it was absolutely necessary - their value both in terms of morale and actual damage was far too valuable to risk breakdown before they were needed.
Torvas' three least favourite people formed the left hand side up to Horvarth. Commissar Doria, his fingers entwined together on the table, his black and red uniform perfectly tailored and pristine, sat bolt upright, narrowed eyes darting around the room. Torvas would have bet that, whilst Doria would state he'd been at the very front of the fighting, finding an eyewitness who would agree without Doria present would have been impossible. Even his own Commissars were known to say, very quietly where ears could not report to Doria, that he lacked any sort of courage. The only reason Torvas had not been able to replace him sat to his left.
Arch-Deacon (self-appointed after the old Arch-Deacon lead the abortive attempt to turn the city to heresy) Juri Kima, her short hair tucked up in her towering pontifical hat, sat in apparent pristine serenity. Her seat at the table was only in existence due to her leading the resistance against the old Arch-Deacon. She, with help from Commissar Doria and the small Schola Progenium training facility buried in the mountain, had then conducted a brutal purge of any disloyal priests. She had become the sole arbiter of justice and law in the city before the Prince's army had managed to retreat back to the city - she had even appointed her own pet civilian governor, Baron MacPortlan, who now occupied the final seat at the table. She had been reluctant to allow the Prince to take overall command, and no one doubted that she had a hand in the constant rumours that the senior command of the army was corrupted. Given the sacrifices and the confidence of the army in those leaders, those rumours had as much traction as an rollerskater on butter.
The formal part of the debriefing finished quickly, and talk moved onto the ongoing plan for the city. Kima turned to the Prince.
"The Ecclesiarchy remains concerned by the lack of offensive action on the part of the army, especially in light of the indisputably numerous casualties the heretics must have sustained in their foolish attempts to take this citadel of faith."
Horvarth harumphed indignantly, walrus moustache bristling whilst the Prince held up a moderating hand.
"Whilst the casualties inflicted by the army have indeed been numerous, may I remind the Ecclesiarchy that our most hopeful estimates imply heretics have over a million traitor Guardsmen alone, alongside the hordes of cultists we can all see. I have, in total and stripping this city bare of soldiers, four thousand, three hundred and seventy eight fighting men and women. Should we leave the protection of the Aegis, and lose the funnel of the causeway, my forces would be wheat before the scythe."
"The Emperor would protect his own." Juri replied angrily.
"Then perhaps you would like to face them by yourself, if you are certain He would stop a fucking heretic shell!" Hans slammed his hand down on the table. One of the few things that could unite Hans and Horvarth was their mutual hatred of Juri.
"Then we should just cower behind our shield like frightened children?" She replied, lips curling in distaste. The Kima family were one of the oldest and grandest noble families, something Juri Kima never forgot, and Hans Oberflautz had been a simple miner prior to the war. She had backed another noble, Sir Groklin, for command of the militia. Fortunately, he had proved himself a coward in the first heretic assualt, unilaterally retreating before the battle had even started, and a nearby Commisar had put a laser through his skull, saving the Prince any kind of fight over Hans' appointment.
"We are doing nothing of the sort, Arch-Deacon, and the city knows it." The Prince stared her down. "Techpriest Orielle, how goes the project?"
The project was the only hope of informing the Imperium of the resistance. They had rebuilt a trans-obital mining barge to house the more powerful emitters they had in storage. Heretic interference stopped any signals exiting the atmosphere, but auspex scans had shown the heretic fleet had left. The idea was to get the mining barge into orbit and from there broadcast on as many frequencies and as loudly as they could. It was, in all likelihood, a forlorn hope, but it gave the city something to work towards more than simple daily survival.