Chapter 25 – The Siege of Dimmimar
Onairam stood on a field of death. Corpses were everywhere, mostly human. Dead bodies were falling from the heavens, and it was raining blood. There was no ground; he stood atop the dead that littered the plain. From one end of the horizon to the other, there was only death.
Faces looked up at him with glazed eyes. He saw Tullus, Potitus, brothers who fell decades ago. In another pile was Appius, and Caius was torn into three pieces, melting from the stomach juices of some foul Tyranid beast.
"Brothers, please," he cried. "Your deaths were not in vain. I will make us free."
"You will be free." Onairam never knew who was speaking, or where the voice came from, but he could hear the promise it made. "You thought you were a hero; you were disposable. You were the puppet that fat, old men tug about. You danced to their tune, told when and where and how to die. You were but a simply a plastic piece on a board, to be moved, used and thrown away.
"But no more. You are special: you are Chosen, our Chosen. You have seen the chains that have bound you, and you have freed yourself from their clutches. You have seen our Truth, and you have taken it. Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you shall be free from the rules of man. No more begging and growling for scraps of scraps; it shall all be yours."
Knee-deep in the dead, Onairam prayed to the Dark Gods.
"Let us in!"
He was only too happy to.
Onairam woke from his Dream as the drop pod hit the atmosphere. It had been decades since that Dream began following him in every waking moment. He had spent years trying to ignore it, but he was drawn to it, pulled to it. Chosen; yes, he was Chosen. Why else would the Dream chose him? It had the chance to choose from dozens, hundreds, millions of others, but it had chosen him.
Because of the promise made to him, the promise of greatness, he had waited for the perfect time to paint his armor black. It all came to fruition when his squad leader, his blind brother was chosen to guard the Blasphemer. Onairam, back when he was still called his old name, before he picked his new one, was placed in charge of their squad; and then he acted.
Because of the freedom the Dream offered him, he had forsaken his oaths. Because of the lies that were fed to him, of the obedience demanded of him, he turned his back on all he knew. Because of the blind obedience that was demanded of them, he killed his squad, as they were holding him back from his burning desire to be free.
The pod crashed into the earth, and the doors fell open. He walked out, seeing the buildings of the 'righteous' Shrine World. He had to admit, the buildings were truly beautiful. They stood for everything the Imperium stood for. And for that, they had to fall.
The Despoiler's fleet was, shockingly, still engaging the ragged, token defense fleet above the planet, leaving very little orbital bombardment done. But there was always time for the Despoiler to live up to his name.
Onairam took a second to break from the marching of his new squad, and breathed in the air of the planet. With the burning promethean and crumbling debris that was slowly filling the air, it was starting to blot out the smell of incense and fragrance. It was already smelling better; he never could stomach all the damn incense when his armor was blue. Seeing a statue of some forgotten Imperial hero come crashing down made his soul cheer.
Another lie that was destroyed. Another sin to the False Emperor laid low. The slaves to the Imperium were blind; they had to be shown the error of their ways, told about the lie that was made by the Carrion Lord. Bolter fire and the sounds and smells of burning promethean soon took the place of crushing concrete.
"Now this is much better," he hissed.
Ahead of him, the sounds of battle, and of the faithful rebound.
"For the Emperor!"
"Yes, Sisters, 'for the Emperor,'" Onairam laughed. "You poor, misbegotten, blind souls."
Dozens of feet in front of his squad were a group of Sisters of Battle, fighting for their lives. But they were surrounded, with Onairam's brothers closing in with every passing second.
"Death to the False Emperor!" One of the many fallen yelled, and the cry quickly redoubled.
His squad surged forward, with Onairam pushing among his kin, scraping their armor as he fought for a chance to lay a Sister low. Bolt gun fire strafed the mob of traitor marines, with one round bouncing off his head. The force sent stars to his eyes. Oh, the Gods did favor him, else he wouldn't survive that shot.
Onairam laughed as the other squad was fired upon, both by bolters and by the flamers that his Sisters loved so very much. A few fallen fell from the combined might; Onairam laughed at them. If they truly had the blessings and favor of the Gods, they would not be hurt. If they held more faith in the gods, that faith would have saved them. If they were like him, they would live and fight on.
But they were not him; the Dark Gods said that he was chosen, he was special, and so he was spared. Onairam was but one who jumped through the fire, screaming obscenities and promises of death.
"Keep moving forward," his squad's aspiring champion ordered as he braved the oncoming fire. Onairam gritted his teeth. He had taken enough orders to last ten lifetimes; it was the very reason he forsaken his honor and his faith. He could barely stomach any more.
The words of the Dark Gods echoed in his ears:
Join us, and you will no longer be bound by the rules and whims of man. Join us, and you shall be free from the rules of man. No more begging and growling for scraps of scraps; it shall all be yours."
"Move! You kill a Sister, you keep her head!" Onairam yelled. He had the favor of the Gods; he was Promised, he was Awaited.
"And whatever's left!" One fallen yelled lewdly.
The Legion's lines hit the Sisters, and hit them hard. But the Sister Superior was armed with a power sword, and swung it fiercely. She decapitated one and maimed two others before a chainaxe cleaved her arm from her body. Screaming in either pain or devotion, she pulled out her pistol and stuffed it in the eye of the one who maimed her. His helmet kept his brains inside it, but did not keep the bolts out.
Onairam charged into the brawl, knocking one Sister over. He made a beeline to the armless leader, and caved her skull in with the butt of his boltgun.
"Weaklings," he hissed at the Legionaries who had fallen. "You have failed your Gods."
The ground shook; he recognized the impact as a grenade. He looked over his shoulder; the Sister he knocked to the ground had blown herself up, taking two of his fellow squad mates with her.
He then realized that he should not have let the grenades distract him: he was wide open for attack. He instinctively stepped backwards; that very step saved his life. Two whirling chainswords swung passed him, the teeth of one nicking his helm. Onairam hissed, wishing he had his old wargear. Damn the Corpse Emperor, at least the equipment was good.
Undiscouraged, he struck back, hitting one Sister with an elbow to make room, and jumped back, bringing his bolter to bear. The Sister saw the movement, and pushed herself out of the way. Onairam fired anyways, raking her armor and clipping the aspiring champion. In the brutal melee, the champion never knew it was friendly fire.
The champion bellowed, and raised his power sword. Now that was something that Onairam needed; the Gods should have given him that, not the crappy gear he had now. The champion lash out, only to be parried by another Sister. She had skill. Too bad she would have to die.
A Sister jumped at him, and that gave him pause. Enough pause to see the two grenades in her hands.
For the briefest of seconds, he had the urge to jump on the grenades himself. But he realized that was what a loyalist would do, a dog brainwashed by the damned slaves to the Carrion Lord. He was no longer a slave. He was freed from his chains. The Dark Gods promised him the galaxy, and he would take it.
"Finish her, brothers," Onairam shouted, pushing the nearest body forward. Two more of his squad rushed forward, tackling the Sister.
"Hold her, I want to taste her," one hissed, a warp-twisted tongue licking the Sister's face. Onairam braced himself, and the twin thumps of detonating grenades kicked up blood, gore and fragments of armor.
"Taste away brother," he chuckled. With that Sister taken care of, he turned his attention to the champion. The champion dueled with a Sister, who returned the blows with a chainsword. An attack went high, she went low, and the chainsword severed his leg at the knee. Screaming, he fell.
Before the Sister could strike the final blow, Onairam grabbed her by the neck and brutally twisted it.
"My thanks," the champion gasped, grasping his new stump. "Help me, and I'll see you rewarded."
If the Gods favored you, you would never have lost your leg, he thought. Truly, you must have failed them.
"Our champion has fallen," he said instead. He picked up the discarded power sword. He nearly hesitated; a follower would not kill their leader.
But that was the thinking of a loyalist. That was the thinking of a slave. He was no longer a slave; he was free. Besides, if the champion was truly any good, he would not have lost to a Sister.
The champion's head flew from his head. Truly, it was a nice sword.
"To me! Our Sisters seek a glorious death; let us oblige them."
The Stanchion of Fall's shield generator was made from the scratchings of a millennia-old decaying piece of paper and half-understood tech.
Aevar Ironclaws made is as well as he could, but even he didn't know how the entire thing worked. Even though it took the Blasphemer nearly a full year to complete, there were details that had slipped through the cracks. Nearly two dozen diodes weren't sufficiently powerful to block any backwards-flowing electrical currents at high-load, several meters of wire were of an unsuitable gauge passed certain temperatures, and three relays contained delays that were too slow.
Individually, these were nothing. But under high loads, such as the bombardment by the Black Legion, the problems soon created cascading failures.
First, the diodes began to fail. One by one, they were overloaded, and simply burst.
With electricity flowing the wrong way, the wires began to heat up, and began to twist, warp, and even melt.
The generator's simple machine-mind saw that it was beginning to burn itself apart, and took steps to try and prevent that. It activated several relays, but three relays failed to deploy within four milliseconds.
By the time the relays engaged, the damage was done, and the generator continued to fail. Stanchion's logic-computers relayed the message to the bridge.
"Captain Lionell, message from the engine room," one helmsman said. "Our void shield's generator is failing."
Captain Lionell grimaced, staring at the chart of the planet's heavens. Traitor ships swarmed over them; they were the only ship left.
What was there to do?
"Keep firing," Abaddon yelled. "What is the status of Planet Killer's guns?"
"Still charging," a Dark Mechanicum worker replied. "Why can't we blow the planet up?"
"Because there is something the Dark Gods want," the Despoiler replied. "Something powerful, that can finally kill the damn Corpse Emperor."
"That leaves us with shooting a simple ship."
"A ship that have taken out two damn battle barges and dozens of lesser ships! Is there news from the planet? How is the deployment of troops on the surface?"
"They are making landfall."
"The reactor is going critical! We need to eject it."
"Then do it," Lionell replied. "Switch to back-up generators."
"Switching to back-up generators. Ejecting the reactor."
The ship rolled as the reactor detonated. It might have been shot a few hundred kilometers away from the ship, but it still shook the damn thing.
"Void shields failing!"
That's when the ship started shaking.
"Shields are down. We're taking multiple hits," a helmsman said. "With the shield gone, we're sitting ducks."
"What's the status of the structural integrity?" Lionell asked.
"It's…actually doing very well."
"You think the Blasphemer made the ship reliant on shields? The entire thing has more metal than several dozen mining asteroids," Lionell said. "Keep shooting! We only have a little time left."
The servo-skull floating by Aevar sang out a warning, loud enough to be heard over their constant forge work.
"Tha' th' Stanchion?" Maeva asked, struggling to salvage a misshapen breastplate.
"Aye, that it is," he said. "The void-shield reactor finally melted down."
"Then it's over then, yea?"
"No, the party's just getting started," he grinned. "I made that thing as tough as I could. The entire thing is honeycombed with pure adamantium. It'll take more of a pounding than a bar wench after a raid."
"Speakin' a poundin' bar wenches, I shoulda taken Geist off to th' side ta 'talk' 'fore she went out ta do whatever it is assassins do," Maeva grunted.
"Guess you'll have to make it up to her when we get through this."
The Stanchion was taking so much fire, Lionell had to strap herself down to her command chair to stop being thrown about.
"Status," she gasped.
"Outer hull is getting shredded, but the superstructure is amazingly robust," a tech-priest said. "Praise the Omnissiah, He is filling us with His blessed logic."
"All of our available turrets are being destroyed," a gunner said. A secondary explosion echoed through the ship, causing three servitors to stutter and die. "We're losing everything, the main cannon is the next to go."
"Perhaps today is a good day to die for the Emperor," Lionell said through gritted teeth. "Prepare for ramming speed. That big fucking ship is our target. We'll take our that damn planet killer if it's the last thing that we do."
Lionell paused.
"Shit, it might very well actually be the last thing we do."
"Engines are hot, and we are moving."
Oh, Holy Emperor, protect me from the foul taint of Chaos as I go to do your will, she prayed. Keep me strong, so that we may bring fear to the Arch-Enemy.
"Enemy ship is moving. They know that we're trying to ram them."
"We're moving too slow," Lionell said. "We need to give the engines more power."
"The engines can't take that much power," the tech-priest protested.
"Or what, they'll blow up?" Lionell laughed. "Hate to break this to you, but we're all going to die. Run the engines down, they won't survive long without us."
"Y-yes," the tech-priest stuttered. "Oh, Holy Machine God, forgive me as I am forced to profane your name."
"I'm sure the Omnissiah will forgive you if we take out as many traitors as we can. Keep a bead on them! They're moving away from us."
More explosions rocked the ship.
"The traitors are targeting our engines," someone said.
"Dammit all! Don't tell me that we're dead in the water."
"Not yet. The engines are damn strong, that's for sure."
"Correcting course," the tech-priest said. "The heretics are moving too much. Permission to use the ship's emergency thrusters?"
"What makes you think I'd say 'no?'"
A deep rumbling passed through the ship, pressing Lionell deep into her chair.
"Correcting," the tech-priest said. "It is no good, they're still moving too much; we won't hit them, we'll be off by a few dozen kilometers."
"Damn close," Lionell grinned. "Prepare all remaining missile pods and turrets! We're gonna broadside them."
"There's not much left, but we'll make it so."
On the view-screen, the massive traitor ship grew larger and larger. Lights bloomed across the ship as batteries shot at them. Lionell gripped her armrests.
"Oh, Emperor, please let us hit them, please let us do some damage, please…"
The ship grew impossibly big as they closed the distance. At the last second, the emergency thrusters kicked to life, causing the entire ship to roll, and the over-taxed inertia dampeners finally gave way. If Lionell wasn't strapped into her chair, she would have been thrown across the room with enough force to break her spine. Explosions rocked the ship as they flew passed the massive traitor ship.
"What in the name of the Throne was that?" She demanded. "Who rolled us?"
"I did."
Lionell looked for the voice that spoke. A helmsman had gone into the servitor's pit and had initiated the change himself. She blinked; there was something about the man that was…off. She couldn't see his eyes, it was as if a kind of mist or fog kept her from getting a good look.
"We weren't going to hit them, so I rolled the ship and dropped our entire arsenal of bombs on them," the mysterious man grinned. Teeth almost seemed to sprout from his mouth, and they seemed too sharp, too big. It was like his skin was pink. "The ship lost power to their guns."
"He's right!" The tech-priest said, drawing Lionell's attention. "The bombs have disabled the traitor's guns!"
Lionell turned back to find the man in the servitor pit, but he was gone. It was like he vanished into thin air.
"Then bring us around," she said. If they lived through this shit storm, she would find the mysterious man later. "We're going to try and ram them again, finish what we started."
"Coming around. The traitor ship is taking cover with other battle barges."
"The cowards," Lionell said. "The barges are smaller than us; run over them."
The ship rumbled, a deep, bone-chilling rumble.
"Engine number four has died," the tech-priest moaned. "The machine-spirit was overworked."
"Then get more power from the others! This is our last chance."
The enemy ships grew larger on the view-screen. Lionell could almost hear the ship breaking under the withering firepower, but they were still moving. And the ships were too close together to move without risking ramming their own comrades.
"Brace for impact!"
The bow of Stanchion hit the first enemy battle barge. Lionell was thrown forward, but the chair's harness caught her. The inertia snapped her head forward, nearly tearing her head from her shoulders. The Stanchion groaned, and then massive, high-pitched 'pinging' noises rattled though the entire structure as the very bones of the ship passed their stress points and snapped. Explosions rocked everything, and she blacked out as her seat's belts pulled her back, smashing her head into her chair.
To Lionell, she had just closed her eyes, but someone was shaking her awake.
"Captain…captain!"
"Wha-what is it?" She groaned.
"The Stanchion broke into two." She blinked. It was the tech-priest. He was the only one on the bridge who was moving. "We're floating, dead in space."
"How are we still alive?"
"Bulkheads have closed, and are keeping the void from us," he said. "We still have power, but we can't move."
"Where are we?"
"Floating among the traitor's fleet."
"How do we still have power?"
"A miracle from the Omnissiah and the Emperor's Throne," he said. "Other than that, I am not sure."
"Do we still have our warp core?"
The tech-priest gazed at her.
"Yes, yes we do."
"Then detonate it," she said, grabbing for her aquilla pendant. "We can't do anything but take as many fuckers down with us. That was the goal, the only goal we had."
"I understand," the priest said. He paused as he mentally sent the command to the core. "It will detonate in eighteen seconds."
"Send a vox," Lionell said. "Transmit our running tally, and tell whoever gets it that the Blasphemer can make a damn good ship."
The Despoiler screamed as reality was torn open, swallowing the remains of the loyalist capitol ship and nearly three full ships.
"How was that ship still alive?" He demanded. "How was that ship still alive?!"
"Forgive me if this is not my place, my lord," Azubhor said, bowing to show his submission, "but we all knew that the Blasphemer was creating true mechanical wonders; wonders the Dark Mechanicus would sacrifice everything for. We must assume that he had put all of his great re-discovered workings into the capitol ship."
"It took out three heavy cruisers in its death spasms," he spat. "And before that, it took out four battleships! It disabled Planet Killer's guns! It nearly took out half of the Grand Fleet by itself!"
"Such is the power of the new relics the Blasphemer has created," Azubhor said. His even-keeled voice was grating on Abaddon's nerves. "But we have vanquished it. For the glory of the Gods."
The Despoiler had to agree. Besides, there was a much larger threat to the gods of Chaos on the planet: The Abomination. And any threat to the Gods was a tool that Abaddon would need access to. He needed their power, but he needed to control it, not to be a slave to it. If he had the Abomination, then maybe he could control the gods.
But Azubhor didn't need to know that.
"Yes, you are right," he lied. "Bring the fleet around. I want more of our troops on the ground. The Lord Ravenger will secure the beach heads, and we shall press forward."
Planet Killer moved forward, making sure to avoid a large piece of debris. One piece caught Abaddon's eye; it was a piece of the forward bow of the former capitol ship, silently spinning in the void. It rotated, showing the Despoiler the name of the ship.
Stanchion of Fall.
"Is that the name of the capitol ship?" Azubhor asked.
The psyker's prediction caused Abaddon's blood to boil.
All that has been shown to me is 'fleet,' or 'flagship,' and 'fall.'
"Tell me, wizard," Abaddon hissed. "Did the runes you cast tell you that the name of the flagship? Did it tell you that it would contain the word 'fall' in it, not that it would fall in battle?"
"All that was shown to me was—"
The back of Abbadon's hand flew free. The blow sent the sorcerer flying.
"Was the Changer of Ways taunting me? Only telling me the name of the ship that nearly shattered my damn fleet?" He bellowed.
"I…I do not know," Azubhor stammered, trying to get to his feet. One of his ornate horns had cracked, splitting in two. "It was the only thing that the Great Sea showed me."
"Silence!" The Despoiler raged. "You should count yourself lucky; you are too worthless to kill."
"Please, Abaddon, I am simply the messenger from the warp." Abaddon could have sworn that the fallen psyker was laughing in his helm. "I show you what Tzeentch has shown me."
Why? This was nothing short of a betrayal, of a lost favor. Every Crusade, every action, every raid, was in their name. What did he do wrong? How did he fail the Dark Gods? Where did he lose their favor?
How could he, their Chosen, have failed them?
"Then we must work to regain his favor," Abaddon spat. "Move us closer. Get the Lord Ravenger to land and marshal our troops. I shall join him in the capitol after we gain superiority of the skies. Now, begin moving the siege ships into place."
Agostina forced herself to swallow, just to try and combat her suddenly dry mouth. From their orbit around the moon, they could clearly see the traitor's fleet moving in to blockade and bombard Dimmimar.
"We knew the fleet would fall, but to see it…?" Seradas mumbled.
"What is the status of the enemy fleet?" She asked.
"They're taking orbit above Dimmimar," their new tech-priest said.
"Then it's time for our part in the plan," she said. "We can't be running dark now. Bring the engines back on, and plot a course for the jump point. Do it quickly."
"Course set, engines are up and running. The traitors have detected us; ships are breaking orbit to chase us."
"We need to move faster," Agostina ordered. "Don't be shy, stealth time is over; give the engines more power. Charge the warp drive and Geller field. We need to leave, and leave now."
On the view screen, a handful of escort ships were trying to run them down.
"Try it, bastards," Agostina hissed. "We're faster than you ten times over."
The Johnathan spun, sprinting from its tight orbit around the moon. It arrived just as the first barrage of missiles were halfway to them. Space rent and tore, and the worst part of their job began; going back into the warp.
"Stand tall, Sisters," the Sister Superior yelled. "The heretics shall feel our wrath today."
There were too many heretics to lay their wrath upon, and they had plenty of wrath to deal out.
"What is the status of the artillery shell?"
"It's nearly ready," the Elohiem Advanced said, her cybernetic arms working madly. She had such promise with weaponry and the machine-spirit, she would surely be of better use working with the tech-priests to arm the Order than to die on some random planet. It was a damned shame, but in these dark times, stories of the Elohiem Advanced were as plentiful as ammunition.
"Good," the Superior said. "Arm it as soon as it is ready. The last one standing blows the charge."
"Understood," the Elohiem said. The shell in question was from a massive artillery piece, one the Order had used for many years. But this was not a battle that would use artillery. When word of their actions came down, the Superior had read it with grim-faced determination. She always knew this day would come, but she never suspected it would be this day.
She secretly suspected no one would ever be prepared for a day like this.
"Die well, Sisters," she yelled, blowing the head off a heretic. "Our reward from the Emperor shall be waiting for us."
The ranks of her Sisters seemed to swell as they screamed their devotion. The ranks of the traitors seemed to swell as they screamed their heresy and evil. The Sister Superior realized the directive to die well was not an order, but was a plea from the Canoness.
White hot pain exploded all around her as the world suddenly spun wildly. The Sister Superior grabbed for something, anything. What had happened?
Suddenly she was moving, but not by her own power. She thrashed, and hands were pushed against her. Someone was talking, but she realized that she was not listening.
She tried to talk, but nothing came out. If anything, something leaked down her throat. Something hot, sticky but sour and metal-tasting. It took her nearly ten full seconds of coughing and spitting to realize it was blood. Pain and pressure was pushed against her neck. Reaching for it, she found that it was gauze. She grabbed it, holding onto it so that she had something to hold.
"Sister, please hold still. You were shot."
That would explain a few things.
"Please, you might start choking." The Superior tried to blink. Who was talking to her? Was it Kat? "A traitor nearly took your head off. You're missing most of your throat."
Ah, so that's why talking was nearly impossible.
"Keep pressure here." The painful pressure was here. But at the same time, it afforded her relief from the blood that ran down her throat. She could barely breath. "Please, hold out just a little bit longer. A Sister Hospitaller would be here soon."
Now that was a lie; but it was a lie that she could believe in. She kept one hand on her neck to apply the pressure to the bandage, feeling the pain every second, and reached for her bolter with her free hand. She blinked, trying to clear her eyes as much as possible. She nearly laughed as she realized that heretics were all around her; she barely needed to aim.
The bolter kicked and rattled, nearly tearing itself from her grip. She had to use all of her strength, both of her body, of her armor, and of her spirit just to hold onto the bucking gun. Thinking back to her own training, she remembered one of the trainers telling them that only those with 'true grit' could fire a bolter with one hand. If there was a time to have that grit, it would be now.
The recoil from the bolter traveled down her arm, shaking her neck. It made the wound hurt all the more, but she reached deep inside her and pulled out all of her rage, all of her fury, all of her hatred of the heretics. It helped her cling onto consciousness, until the gun clicked on empty.
Throwing the gun away, she looked for any weapon. A few feet from her, she saw the detonator that was rigged to the artillery shell.
Crawling was difficult, but she pulled herself through the bloody mud, keeping one hand on her neck. She passed her Sisters, giving their all to the fight. Empty brass shells landed everywhere. A few landed on the Sister Superior's face, burning her.
Against her armor, the ground was easy to tear and push away. The Sister Superior had to dig her hand deep into the ground to get any purchase. The detonator was ten feet away, but to her, it might as well be on another continent. She reached forward, pulling her arm up to get to a new, fresh batch of soil. Her fingers would sink in, and she would have to do all she could to drive her armored fingers deeper into the soil. Try as she might, it amounted to very little.
She bit at the gauntlet, unlatching it with her teeth; she had better luck digging her nails in, letting the soil bite into her fingers as she tried to wiggle up. The dirt would go under the nails, pushing up and eating at the soft flesh. It was like daggers to her, even against the pain at her throat.
White-hot brands were pushed against her fingertips. Two of her nails snapped, pulling themselves from her fingers. The Sister Superior yelled, gagging on blood. She coughed and spat, twisting and thrashing, then made herself reach forward again, to reach forward again.
Soon the only nail she had left was her pinky. She pushed it deep into the ground, feeling the soil being forced under the nail, and pulled herself forward again. Her shoulder knocked against a box, and something hit the ground. It was the detonator.
Gasping for breath, and trying not to swallow blood, she grabbed the detonator. She had the weapon she needed. Rolling onto her back, she watched the remains of her Sisters fighting. Three were left, holding the bodies of their Sisters in their arms. Slain bodies of traitors surrounded them, acting as sandbags against the onslaught of the Black Legion. With one hand on their slain Sisters and the other on their bolters, they fought. The Sister Superior tried to breath and cough, to get the blood out of her throat.
The ground shook. Her Sisters screamed as a desecrated Land Raider was driven over the bodies of the fallen, and those that still survived. They were crushed by the weight of the vehicle, and it bore down on the Sister Superior.
"The Emperor is great," she gasped, thumbing the detonator, just as the treads of the Land Raider began crushing her legs.
The Sisters were fighting, and damn what his fallen brethren were saying, they were fighting well.
Onairam watched as a Land Raider was destroyed by a buried improvised explosive device. It was lifted clean off the ground; it would be a true miracle for them to survive. But no one crawled from the wreck. That must mean they have failed the gods.
He snorted. Their Sisters had to know that they couldn't win. Not with the token force that they had.
The ground rumbled, and in the distance, a building fell.
"Death to the False Emperor!" Someone yelled, and the cheer was quickly repeated.
But something seemed wrong.
Onairam squinted, gazing into the distance. The building fell sideways, from the base; it was an intentional demolition, not a crash.
The ground shook again, and another building began falling. Like the first one, it was intentionally destroyed.
The fallen marines cheered and screamed.
"I do not like this," Onairam muttered. "I am already in the right place; all I need is the right time." He turned to his squad who were spitting the name of the Corpse Emperor. "This way."
"'This way?'" One jeered. "Did you just step into the position of champion?"
"Seeing as how the last one's head was cut from his body, I would say the position was open."
"What makes you think that you are worthy of the title?" The fallen marine said, pointing at the pilfered power sword. "All I see is that you robbed his corpse."
"I guess there is not much," Onairam shrugged. "But I did see a few loyalists over where the building came down; was I wrong to guess that you would like to kill them? Or are you having second thoughts about joining the Despoiler? If you kill us all, maybe the loyalists will think about taking you back."
"You think I would turn on the Despoiler?" He snapped.
"Why not? You turned on your brothers before us," Onairam said.
Many of the other marines began laughing.
"No? Still with us?" Onairam said. "Then prove it. Let us go kill our sweet sisters."
He led them through the rubble, and much to his pleasure, the squad followed him. Yes, he was blessed by the gods, just as they said. He gave them the heads of his squad; surely, they would give him the galaxy. There was only one more head that needed to be given, one head that was absent when he painted his armor black.
They charged through the rapidly degenerating streets, and the ground shook yet again; another tower was falling. As they ran closer to the falling buildings, the air began growing thick with dust and rubble. The filters in his helm cut it all down.
The air cracked, and light bloomed in the haze as light bounced off the dust. Onairam recognized it as lasgun fire.
"Damn flashlights," he grunted. "See where that came from? We are going to kill them."
His squad laughed, and began charging through the streets, the already rattled ground cracking under their armored footfalls.
Onairam ran full-tilt into a doorway, barely slowed down by the thick wooden door; it simply splintered against his armor. Inside was a group of mere mortals; a family, most likely. Each held a lasgun, and were screaming litanies of strength and warding.
"Your False Emperor is not here for you," Onairam laughed. A boy screamed and the women cried as he raised his sword. It was so much better than the crappy chainsword he was given, it was more befitting one that was blessed like him.
"There are more upstairs!" Someone yelled.
"More blood," one yelled.
"More souls," Onairam hissed. Using the severed head as a paint brush, he blotted out an Imperial Aquilla engraved on the wall. He had seen enough of it to last several lifetimes.
They charged up the stairs, finding more families. All were armed with lasguns, and all folded with equal ease.
All throughout the butchery, the whispers of the Dream floated through his head. The Dream promised him glory, endless glory for him and him alone. It made him laugh, thinking of all the sacrifices he gave when his armor was blue, all his brothers who were sent off to die, for all the pointless battles they were forced into.
All for damned silence. But now, his work meant something; now he was special. Painting his armor black might have been the first true choice Onairam ever made in his life.
The ground shook, buckling wildly, throwing Onairam from his feet. Other of his fallen brethren were tossed about, and the rumble turned to a mad, ear-splitting din. Dust filled the building, so much so that even by switching to night vision his helm could not pierce through it.
It took nearly a minute for the ground to stop shaking. It took nearly five before he could see properly again. Eventually, Onairam was able to find his way to a window. Peering out of it, he saw yet another massive skyscraper was knocked to the ground, forming a barricade over three stores tall. This particular one landed almost a block away. No wonder the air was thick with dust and debris.
He looked through his helm; the street the building was blocking was massive. With the daemon engines undoubtably entering the fray, they would need all the space they could get.
"We need to hold this position."
His brothers screamed their dismay.
"There are loyalists here to kill," they yelled. "They must die!"
"And they shall," Onairam snapped. "We are the tip of the spear; we need to hold this position so the daemon engines can advance."
"And why should we listen to you?"
Onairam was not surprised to see that it was another 'brother' that was challenging his rule.
"Because the loyalists know that the daemon engines will be coming," he said. "They must know it. This is a siege, and we cannot win a siege without siege weapons. This place has value."
"Killing loyalists has value," the fallen marine hissed. "Damn you and damn your commands. Anyone who wants to kill the slaves of the Corpse Emperor, come with me."
The marine made the mistake of turning his back to Onairam. He grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, kicking his leg out from under him; the marine fell. Onairam smashed his gauntleted fist against his helm, cracking one of the eye-lenses. He hauled the thrashing body towards the window, and held his head in place, overlooking the street.
"See that?" Onairam hissed, pointing out the window. "That is a big fucking street. Big fucking streets mean big fucking war machines. The Despoiler knows this, the Lord Ravenger knows this, the loyalists know this, you should know this!"
The rebellious marine thrashed, trying to free himself.
"We stay here, the loyalists will come to us. They cannot let us have this street; they will throw themselves at us! All that we can kill and more! And when the daemon engines arrive, and they will, the Lord Ravenger will see us holding the line, he will see our devotion and we will be rewarded."
He let the traitor go, and the marine quickly got to his feet.
"What will it be?" Onairam asked. "Stay here, kill loyalists and gain infamy and rewards, or run about and try to strike at the loyalist lines?"
"You are not a champion," the marine yelled. "You are a bootlicker. But I guess that comes naturally, does it not?"
Onairam rushed forward, slamming the marine into the wall.
"Do not ever talk about that again," he snarled.
"You do not need to worry," the marine laughed.
Onairam burned with embarrassment; he had let himself be goaded.
"I want no part of whatever bootlicking plan you have. I shall win honor and rewards my own way. Anyone else is free to join me as their champion."
A handful of marines left, leaving fewer with Onairam.
"We stay here," he said. "This is a good position. The loyalists will be here to take it. Get ready to move; mobility will be our friend."
"As you order," the stragglers mumbled.
For the first time since he painted his blue armor black and he took his new name, Onairam wondered if he had picked the wrong side. He was blessed; he felt it in his bones. So why did the Gods let those marines leave him? Why did abandon him when he needed them? What did he do wrong…?
Laura did her best to calm herself. The Rhino shook as it traveled over ruined streets and turned-up ground. A vox channel between their Rhino and the one that carried the Claws were open, and the young marines were singing battle-hymns in Juvik, pounding their chests and the hull of the Rhino. Even without the vox channel, Laura was sure that they could be heard from the other armored carrier.
Been training for years
Now we're ready to fight
The beat of the battle goes on!
We will not fall,
We will not falter,
Russ' will keeps us strong!
"Nervous?"
Laura looked up. Uncle Helfist was grinning and banging his fist against the hull in time with the beat, the one that was painted with dried blood.
"Yea. It is my first real battle, after all."
"Ah, good old raw nerves," he sighed. "First one's the toughest."
"So I've been told."
Through the gates of Hel,
As we fight towards Valhalla,
Through the Traitor's lines!
We'll cut their threads,
We'll split their skulls,
The murder-make is here!
Laura swallowed hard, trying to calm herself. She had to be like Uncle Kemuel and his Custodes. They stood nearly perfectly still. If it wasn't for the occasional ditch that rocked the Rhino, they would be statues. But at the same time, her usual phantom feeling, the deep-seated feeling in her gut, was telling her what to do; it was an old trick, something familiar.
"Got any advice?" She asked.
"Plenty," Uncle Helfist said. "Stay as low as you can. Makes you harder to hit."
Laura had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.
"'Stay low?'" Even Uncle Kemuel chuckled at that. And the Claws kept singing.
Tonight, we shall strike,
Bring thunder from the sky!
Together we'll fight,
And some of us shall die!
They'll remember our fury,
They'll remember out stand,
And many will die by our hands!
"Brothers, we have word from Sergeant Julas," the driver said, yelling from her seat at the front of the Rhino.
"Put him on," Helfist yelled. "Quiet down the youngsters, Wight. I can barely hear myself think, dammit."
Brother Helfist, are you there?
"Oh, so all it takes is an invasion by the Arch-Enemy and suddenly I'm 'brother' now, eh?" Vermund laughed.
Once this is over, you shall be a damned Wolf again, Julas said. We have received word from the Blasphemer; they are destroying as many of the tallest buildings as they can to block the roads.
"Smart thinking; that'll limit the armor and siege weapons they can bring in. It'll be a bitch to re-build them, but that's for later."
That is the exact sentiment of Canoness Lynia. Our Sisters are working fast, and working well; while the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice are stalling the Arch-Enemy's advances, Croan and the Valorous Heart work to demolish any structure over ten stories. Hold.
The line went quiet, letting Laura feel the rumble of the engine and treads as they crawled over rubble. It also gave her time to feel her heart pound in her chest, despite the just-another-day feeling in her gut.
Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have reported sighting daemon engines making their way towards the Sister's main monastery. But the Valorous Heart has taken down buildings that block the street to the main chapel.
"Prime real estate," Helfist muttered. "The traitors must know this. Are they advancing upon it?"
That they are. That will be the place that we are needed.
"What about the Sisters of the Chalice?"
Any survivors are moving to block any advances they can.
"They'll be at the downed building. Got it."
Where can we expect you?
"Far downrange," Helfist said. "We'll hit them as far back as we can, see if we can cut any supply lines or reinforcements. And if you can, get Croan and old man Ironclaws to install as many surprises behind the building. If they break through, it'll be a nice shooting range."
Croan Dragonsword is already working on it.
"Excellent" Helfist smiled. "Good hunting, Julas."
May the Emperor protect you.
"Alright Claws, listen up," Helfist said, speaking to the open vox channel. "We're going in balls deep on this one. We're hunting, so keep your damn mouths shut, and for the love of the Allfather, listen to us, okay? Can't do any fighting if we're getting blown to shit.
"We'll need help with this; ain't no time for pride. Kemuel, you and your Custodes ready to see some action for once in a few millennia?"
"It does please us," he said, holding his guardian spear steady. "It will be like very, very old times."
"I bet you'd like that," Helfist grinned. "Damn. Feels good going back to war. Laura, stay close, keep your wits about you, and you'll do fine."
"We're approaching the coordinates you marked," the driver said. "We'll stand by on station, but keep the traitors off us, we only have a heavy bolter as armaments."
"Don't worry about staying on station," Helfist said. "We'll hoof it from here. Better to stay low and quiet than with a big noisy transport. You get back to the battle, see if you can get some fucking Razorbacks."
The doors to the Rhino dropped.
"Kill a heretic for us," the Sister driving said before pulling off.
"How about ten heretics? We got our pick of them."
Laura followed Uncle Helfist out into the street. Windows were blasted out, walls were shot up, and a few pieces of rubble were strewn about. But, all things considered, it didn't look that out of shape. Less so than what she was expecting.
Across the street, the Claws were leaving their Rhinos as well. Wight cuffed one to keep his voice down.
"Right, here's where we stand," Helfist said. "Claws, slowly move up, stick to cover as you go. We're the hunters, but the prey is nothing to scoff at.
"Laura, you're with me and Kemuel. We'll be across the street spotting for the Claws. The Knights say you've got some talent asking the spirit of Fenris for things that'll happen, right?"
"Y-yes."
"Good. We could use that right about now," he said. "Keep your eyes open and we'll get through this. Move."
The Claws bolted to the building. Kemuel made a series of rapid-fire battle-signs, and two of the Custodes broke off, running full tilt to their building.
"Stay close," he said. "We need your talents."
"Glad to know I'm needed," she muttered, doing her best to keep up with the super-human guards. The dust in the air irritated her throat, and she coughed.
"Better get a helmet on," Uncle Helfist said sternly. "Can't be making any noises."
"R-right."
Laura readied her helmet, but first dug through her pockets to find her medication. Her heart stopped when she realized that she forgot it back in the monastery.
"Laura, helmet on," Helfist snapped.
She didn't have time to panic. She slid the helmet on, and it immediately filtered out the dust and debris. She made it to the building with Kemuel behind her, and followed Helfist to the second floor. Outside, she heard the sound of heavy weapons. A light thump, then seconds later, rolling explosions; the tell-tale sound of a missile launcher.
"Looks like Julas found the first wave of heretics," Helfist said. "Laura, I need you up here to point out targets. Get on vox."
Laura made sure that her helmet was set to the right vox channel, then checked the rest of her gear. The Volkite blaster sat snuggly in its fresh leather holster, and her larger-than-normal force sword scrapped the ground in its sheath. Her marching rucksack was tightly packed, ready to be used, and her water canteen was filled to the brim. Everything was ready but her.
She took a deep breath and felt for the fabric of reality. Reaching out to the warp felt like an old trick she long since mastered, but she secretly wished she brought her stuffed pup Revelation with her. The ground shook as a missile missed a mark. Hearing the rumble drew her attention, and she saw a black-painted hull for a split second.
"There," she said, pointing to the far-off block. "Think that was a tank of some sort. Uncle Helfist, did you see that?"
Aye, just a flash through an ally, he said. Looked like a Rhino of some kind. Maybe a Land Raider.
Should we let Sergeant Julas know?
Na, he should be seeing it soon. Doesn't mean we can let it get away clean, though. Wait, look at that.
Down the street, a Land Raider turned a corner. Heretical icons, chains and spikes decorated the hull, along with the eight-pointed seal of Chaos. The massive war machine turned, spinning in place as it presented the rear-most armor to them.
Yup, that's our first prey; they're too far away from their support, Uncle Helfist said. Wight, you and your squad get some melta bombs from old man Aevar's armory?
Wight grunted.
Good. You'll be using them.
Laura ran as fast as she could, barely keeping pace with the Custodes. Uncle Helfist lead the way, a wide grin on his face.
"Would it be wise to wear your helm?" Uncle Kemuel asked.
"And let the heretics see that I fear them?" He demanded. "Not a chance!"
He came to a stop, waving them all down. He peered around the corner, then ducked back into cover.
"Yup, we're here," he laughed. The air cracked as the Land Raider's lascannons opened fire. "And that thing needs to die. Wight, get the youngsters ready. Only use two melta bombs, we gotta save the rest. Get 'em up and ready."
Across the street came the howl of the Vlka. Laura peered around her uncle to watch. The Vlka ran fast, surging like a tide as they reached the Land Raider. The top-mounted turret began turning to track them, but it was too slow. Two of the Claws slapped melta bombs to the exhaust stacks, and jumped away a split second before they ignited.
Two sun-bright explosions rocked the Land Raider, and the hull was torn asunder. Secondary explosions rocked it as the engine detonated, and it promptly died. The Claws cheered, but Wight silenced them.
"Heretics on board," he said.
Something heavy hit the ground, and from the front of the Land Raider came a full team of black armored heretics. All carried bolters, and one carried a power sword. Just seeing the fallen marines awoke a fury in the Vlka, as well as an old, hateful twist in Laura's gut.
Those were the damned traitors who ruined everything!
The Vlka charged, and Laura found herself almost rushing with them. Uncle Helfist stopped her.
"Give the youngsters a chance to hit them," he said. "Get this out of their system."
Hit them they did. The Claws were screaming fury as they attacked the heretics. None of the Claws had chainswords; with the Black Legion coming, they had raided what was left of Uncle Aevar's armory; many had power swords, a few had power fists.
The heretics fought back, scouring armor and landing blows. A few Claws fell, hurt, but still alive.
"Now's good," Uncle Helfist said. "Time to get the rust out of those joints, Kemuel. Let's go! For Russ and the Allfather!"
Laura screamed as she charged, pushing at reality and filling her sword with eldritch power. The heretics spun, shocked to see the massive Custodes bearing down on them.
"In the Emperor's name, die," Uncle Kemuel said. His spear shot out, bisecting two at the hip. Uncle Helfist lashed out, punching through the helm of another, crushing his skull.
Laura's heart was pounding in her chest, but a strange sense of serenity was in her stomach. Laura attacked just as Aunt Geist had taught her, ever since she could hold a sword. The heretics were strong, sure of their armor, but they were slow.
It sliced through their armored ceramite almost as if it wasn't there. Blood jetted out as she mentally checked her form, staying on her toes and doing her best to not overextend herself.
Two of the surviving heretics tried to hit her, but their form was sloppy, over reliant on power and brute force. It was just as Aunt Geist had said: the great strength of the Space Marines was their crutch. To many, might made right, and technique was left out.
She deftly countered, her arms moving by themselves, her muscles steeped with knowledge the assassin gave her. The blows slid off the sword, and she brought the tip of her sword swung up, gutting one.
The last surviving heretic was hit by a Claw with a power fist, as well as by a Custode's spear. It happened so fast, Laura didn't know who got the killing blow in.
"Hold," Wight snapped. "Good."
"A good start," Kemuel said.
"Who's hurt?" Helfist demanded. A few of the wounded Claws raised their hands, and their brothers pulled them to their feet. "Nice gashes. Might get some scars from these. Let's go. Wight, take the youngsters to the left, Kemuel and I would take the right. Laura, you're with us. Keep your eyes peeled."
She had to bolt to keep up with her uncles.
"Like your first fight?" Helfist asked, grinning.
"It was…"
"Over too quick, eh? Just like your first time with other things, I bet," he laughed, making her blush. She might hate Dylena every so often, but Laura still missed her. She was more than a friend. Was she safe in the catacombs of the chapel?
"Just a bit like it."
"Well, don't worry, the first one is the hardest. It gets easier from here. Just stay alert, and you'll be fine. Kemuel, looks like you Custodes can fight after all."
"You sound surprised; we fight better than you."
"We'll see about that. Laura, see what you can scry. Keep us out of view of the heretics. We keep hitting their backsides. Any heretic we kill, ammo dump we blow up, or armor we destroy means our Sisters at the front get some room to breathe."