Chapter 26 – The Siege of Dimmimar
Julas hadn't seen such a target-rich environment since he faced a splinter fleet of the Tyranid swarm. Fallen brothers were streaming forth, with armor support and foul daemon engines in their midst. They were getting dangerously close to overrunning the fallen building that blocked the street off. That had to change.
Sisters, what is the status of the Whirlwinds? He asked on the Sister's vox channel. Even in his armored hands, the multi-melta was hot from frequent use. He was taking shots at any traitor he could; their armor was too far out of range, but he could harass any troop he wanted.
They are being deployed, a harried Sister replied. The Ebon Chalice are mounting a counter-attack by your position. Hold the traitors at the tower.
Missiles hammered home, stalling a traitor's Rhino. Across the massive street, lascannons punched holes in the flesh/hulls of the hideous daemon engines. The daemons shrieked in pain, but continued to push on, the unholy fusion of metal and skin twisting, pulling itself closed. The damn things took much to kill.
There was a rumble in the air, and a loud, piercing whistle grew in intensity until it was a howling roar. From the skies, armored Sisters wearing jump packs descended with the wrath of furious angels. They landed in front of a column of traitors and daemon engines, crushing one heretic underfoot, and stood between the Despoiler's forces and the fallen building-turned-barricade.
"For the Emperor!" They cried. Bolt pistols chattered, chainswords howled, and the air snapped as power swords were activated. "Stand with me, Sisters! Unleash your fury on them!"
What were they thinking? They were but two squads of assault units against an entire armored column. Julas' helm identified their vox channel and he joined their talk.
Sisters, you must withdraw.
Canoness Lynia has requested one full day to finish her defenses; we're giving you that day. The Sister Superior parried a strike and countered, her power sword cleaving through his armor. More of our Sisters will be joining us.
I understand, Julas said. We shall give you as much cover as we can.
We appreciate it.
"Focus fire on the daemon engines, our Sisters are bringing our righteous fury to the infantry."
Missiles, lascannons and grav cannons hit the daemon engines. They were at the cusp of the range of his multi-melta, but Julas was able to land a glancing blow none the less. Under the withering fire, the damned thing finally fell over, succumbing to its wounds.
The Sisters cheered, pushing themselves to greater feats of heroism. But even then, it was not enough.
Sergeant, if you could space some firepower, we could use some, the Sister Superior said.
The heretics are too close to you, we may hit—
Does it look like we give a damn?!
Understood. Brothers, our Sisters want heavy fire; danger close. Missile launchers, target any approaching group of traitors. Lascannons, grav cannons, keep targeting daemon engines.
Traitors disappeared as the missiles unleashed their fury. One Sister was killed in the blasts, but the rest continued to fight.
From the rear of the battle came roaring engines. Rhinos engraved with the mark of the Ebon Chalice were driving flat out, either weaving through the twisted side streets, or blazing through the columns of heretics at the edge of the main avenue, running over as many as they could.
Many heretics and surviving daemon engines opened fire at them; a few Rhinos were destroyed, but many made the mad dash to the fallen building. The ramps dropped, and Sisters poured out, forming a human blockade against the Black Legion.
"Stand tall," the Sisters cried. "We must hold them here."
"Keep firing, we must support them," Julas said.
No, brother, we shall make our stand here, the Sister Superior said. Keep those damn daemon engines off us, and we shall stall their advances. Once those monstrosities are dead, fall back further; your heavy weapons will be needed.
Walk with the Emperor, Sister.
Until the End Times, Brother.
"You heard the Sister, the daemon engines need to be killed. Keep firing."
Damn the Sisters. Their tenacity was legendary.
They were few, but each fought with the zeal of nearly a dozen. Onairam had never seen them this riled up when his armor was painted blue. They had fought non-stop for an entire day, and seemed as if they could fight many more.
Not that their zeal was unmatched. Just seeing the puppets of the Emperor was enough to boil the blood of the entire Black Legion, and they responded in kind. Yes, the Sisters might fight like caged animals, but sooner or later, they would run out of ground to yield. But why couldn't that time come sooner rather than later?
"Keep firing," Onairam yelled. "You want the Whores of the Emperor to show you a thing or two? The loyalists gave us this building, we should use it."
It was just as he suspected; the entire street had become a massive firefight. With the broad, paved stone streets offering the perfect avenue for the massive daemon engines, it seemed the entire fighting on the planet was taking place here. Squads were joining the fight, and they needed to be controlled; he needed to show that he was the one blessed, that they need to listen to him.
"You, there, what do you think you are doing?" He barked. "The loyalists will be there, no, over there, in minutes. Get in this position, and you will have a clear line of sight to them. Wait for them to come to you. Protect those engines! They need to break down that building."
Maulerfiends rushed forward, their many Claws and lashes seeking the flesh of the loyalists. From somewhere above, the unmistakable, brilliant light of lascannons cut through them, piercing their metal flesh and tearing them asunder. They died screaming, but were to be replaced. But just how many engines did the Despoiler have?
Damn, those Devestators were well-placed, and well-entrenched. They needed to be destroyed. He traced the lascannon shots back to the shooters. There needed to be a way to get to them.
He blinked. Was that a deep, royal blue armor that he saw? Was that the last blind brother from his old squad?!
"Are you the aspiring champion leading this squad?"
Onairam spun, hissing his anger.
He stopped almost immediately. Standing behind him was a Chaos Champion of the finest, most ancient armor. It was painted the brilliant purple of the Emperor's Children, with the adornments that he would expect of one of the Chosen of Abaddon. It looked like he had stepped straight from the Heresy.
Onairam himself should be as blessed at that. The Gods promised him the galaxy.
"Ah, you are the leader of this group," Devram Korda, Lord Ravenger of the Black Legion, said. "Most interesting. What is your name?"
"Onairam."
"Ah, yes, you are the one that I have been hearing about," the Lord Ravenger grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. "One of the first to stake a claim in this battlefield, one to recognize how important this is. Yes, you have some promise."
"Thank you."
"What, no bowing?" The Lord Ravenger asked, laughing. "Most bow or kneel now."
Hatred and bile rose in Onairam's throat. Kneel? He had knelt before, back when his armor was blue. He had killed, and was patted on the head. He had seen brothers die by the score, and was given silence. He had buried sacrificed lives, and was still asked to kneel. He had dedicated his life to a cause, and his very name was never even remembered.
Let the Imperium keep his dead, forgotten name. He gave himself a new one, and his sacrifices were never in vain.
"I have done more than enough bowing in the service of the Corpse Emperor," Onairam spat. "I shall never kneel again."
"I always hated that damn kneeling," Devram grumbled. "Even before Horus raised arms against the False Emperor, it was always kneeling, bowing and cowing. But I see hope in you. I like the initiative you have, and the ability to find your head from your ass. I have my eye on you, Onairam. Impress me."
"What?" Another Legionnaire demanded. "He is a turn-coat, one who was lashed to the False Emperor! He cannot be worthy of leading, he never worshipped the correct gods!"
Devram was a blur of motion as he drew his blade and decapitated the questioning marine.
"Do not ever begin with the 'worship to the gods' bullshit," he hissed. "We spend enough damn time fighting ourselves over that very same shit, and we do not need to begin the fighting on it again, especially here!"
He turned his gaze to the squads of marines who were fighting.
"You do what you are told," he demanded, pointing at the offending marines. "We need to kill these damned Sisters, and we need to do it now. Onairam, come here."
Onairam took care to kick the head of the marine as he approached the Lord Ravenger.
"You know how valuable this route is," Devram said, "and we need it now. There are plenty of massive parade streets going into the city, but this is the one we are able to make any headway with, and our damned 'Sisters' have gone and blocked it off with a fallen building.
"I need to bring the Despoiler good news, not news that the Whores are being stubborn. I plan to bring more troops to the front, but I need to make sure that no one ever brings up one of the many things that divides us. Keep your squad fighting, I shall be interested. Keep every squad of the marines in these ruins in order, I shall be impressed. Do you want to impress me?"
"I do not wish to impress you, I wish to impress the Gods of Chaos."
"I believe there is some brown on your nose," Devram laughed.
"I want what had been promised me."
Freedom from the rule of man, he though. I want the galaxy, I want it all.
"Don't we all. Go, and impress me. I expect great things from you."
Onairam watched as he left, screaming commands at other groups of fallen brethren. Onairam watched as other fellow traitors glared at the Lord Ravenger, safely out of his sight. It was the look of disgust, of hatred, but above all, it was a look of jealousy.
They wanted the power he wielded, the weapons he fought with, they wanted to be him, to take his position. Onairam knew this, because he felt the same greed and envy boiling over in him when he looked at the Lord Ravenger.
But he was Chosen; he was faithful. Surely the Gods would protect him, wouldn't they…?
Agostina gripped the armrests of her chair in a death grip. No one had followed them into the warp; the Jonathan was simply too fast. Nothing could go wrong, and she knew well enough that everything could go wrong in a moment's notice.
Preparing to drop out of the warp, Niklas said on the vox.
"How are we doing?" She asked.
Too well, Niklas replied. The warp is by far too smooth. I haven't seen it this calm, or compliant, in years. Decades, maybe.
"Just like it was when we were carrying Lord Ironclaws back to Fenris," Saradas said.
"We'll worry about that later," Agostina said. "We might be only jumping one system away, but the Traitors could be here as well. Stay on guard; all power to the Geller Field. Niklas, bring us back to realspace, but be ready to jump back in case we are outmaneuvered."
The warp was torn; the view shields were pulled back, and suddenly they were back to floating in the pitch-black void.
"Too damn easy," Agostina muttered. "Thank the Emperor. Where is the remains of the fleet?"
"Scanning. There, in orbit of the fourth planet."
The Johnathan's pic-screen flashed to life, showing the position of the 'fleet.' The Sisters of Battle had split their Dimmimar fleet in two, and sent this half away. Several cruisers floated in space, along with barely a dozen escort ships. It was a fleet in name only; but it would have to do against the forces of the Despoiler.
"We're being hailed," Saradas said from his console.
The pic-screen flashed, showing a young Sister of Battle.
"Identify yourself," she snapped.
"This is Captain Agostina of the rogue trader Johnathan."
"'Star'," the Sister challenged.
"Throne,'" Agostina said, answering the key word.
"It is good to see you, captain," the Sister said, visibly relaxing. "My apologies for the course welcome; this has been a trying week."
"That it has," she said. "Sadly, we bring the news that you were expecting."
"The forces of Dimmimar have fallen, and the Despoiler's fleet controls the skies," the Sister said. "It's time for the second phase of the battle. Thank you, captain. We must now do our duty to the Imperium, and do our best to avenge our fallen Sisters. You remember your next phase?"
"Run like Hel to the nearest Imperium controlled word, and spread the news of the Despoiler's real position. Don't worry, we have Canoness Lynia's message; we'll play it endlessly and scream and yell for anyone to help, and we won't stop until a retaliatory fleet has arrived."
"Thank you. And if you have the chance, tell the Imperium of the sacrifices of the Valorous Heart."
"And we'll tell them of the Ebon Chalice," Saradas said. "The battle was unfolding when your Sisters from the Ebon Chalice arrived. They answered the first cry for help."
"And they…?"
"They're fighting to the end."
"May the Emperor remember their sacrifices for all of Eternity." The Sister paused as she recited a silent prayer. "Go, bring word of the Chaos incursion to others. We have traitors to kill."
"Get a kill in for us," Saradas said.
"We'll get you two. Good luck, Johnathan. Ave Imperator."
The vox-channel closed. On the pic-screen, the remains of the Sister's fleet moved off to jump back to Dimmimar.
"What's the status of the engines?"
"Hot, ready, and begging for more."
"Good. Niklas, plot a course to the nearest Imperium world. We need to get there; every second we waste is another chance for Dimmimar to be wiped out."
Abaddon simmered in hate as he watched his fleet take position around the world below him.
"Status," he demanded.
"We are almost ready, lord."
Four massive support ships were moving into place. If they were still loyalist ships, they would be the ones that would launch an exterminates. But unlike their loyalist counterparts, they were war machines fueled by the blackest arts of the Dark Mechanicus. They were more daemons than ships, and they held the power to lay waste to an entire world, to reduce it to a floating ball of rock that even the most basic life would be unable to live upon.
Fortunately for the inhabitants of Dimmimar, their planet would not be destroyed…yet. He still needed to claim the Abomination on the surface for himself. Only then would the world truly be destroyed; until then, it would simply be bombed, and bombed heavily. Such a bombardment would retard the Loyalist's movements, if not completely shut them down.
And stagnant targets were easy kills.
"Move the bombers faster, I need every monastery on the planet wiped out, bombed until not even a single atom remains."
"Despoiler!" It was that damned sorcerer, Azubhor.
"Silence," he snapped. "Another word, and I shall have your head."
"But it is the warp," Azubhor said. "Something is coming."
"He's right," a mortal slave said. "There is a rift in the warp just behind us. Enemy ships are coming through!"
The quasi-alive screen switched from the view of his fleet and their position at Dimmimar to the space behind them. Nearly two dozen ships were leaving the rift. They were small ships, but enemy ships none the less. They bore the markings of the Sisters of Battle, and they were charging at the stagnant siege ships.
"Bring the fleet around," he snapped. "Kill those damn loyalists! Now! More power to the engines! I want Planet Killer to wipe them from the face of existence!"
The ship spun, pushing the inertia dampeners to their limit. But Planet Killer was still a big ship, and took much to move. On the screen, he watched the arriving token fleet launch missiles and gun volleys and lance batteries at the floating bombers. He screamed as he watched their void shields flicker, absorbing the blasts, and then fail.
"Kill them!"
The fleet was finally responding, but by then, one of the bombers was gutted with a torpedo, and two more had void shields that were failing. Abaddon hammered at the hand railing as the Loyalist ships continued to advance unhindered, raining fury and fire on the bombers.
"Open fire! Blow them from the sky!"
All of Planet Killer's guns, except the damaged main cannon, roared to life. Lines of fire traced through the void, blowing several escort ships to oblivion. The rest of the fleet had begun firing, hammering the loyalists. But the Sisters continued on, ignoring all of the incoming fire, and continued to blast the bombers. The last bomber took the full brunt of their combined fire, and snapped in two, its engines detonating in silent space, and began falling down towards the planet.
"Ready another volley, the loyalists are still breathing," he spat.
With the bombers destroyed, the loyalist fleet turned to face the rest of his tattered fleet. They were outnumbered, outgunned and outrun, but they charged head-long into their waiting guns, utterly fearless.
The doomed ships launched volley after volley, with each ship diving into the ships, ramming them as their last act of defiance. The ships in his fleet rolled, doing their best to avoid the incoming vessels, but many were still hit by the Sisters. Whatever was left of the loyalist fleet was blasted from the sky.
"Scan the area around the planet," Abaddon demanded. "Are there any more warp breaches?"
"None, lord."
"Scan it again!"
"Y-yes, lord."
Abaddon's mind raced as he tried to formulate a plan, but the damage was done.
The Sisters had split their navy, kept half in reserve. That reserve group was waiting, waiting until they were set up to launch artillery at the planet. With the bombers destroyed, his forces on the planet would have to advance by themselves, with no aid from orbit.
Each monastery would have to be destroyed and desecrated, each stone examined and turned over to find what the Loyalists had created. And even if Planet Killer's guns were undamaged, they were too large to use. Using them might destroy the entire planet, along with the creation of the loyalists, the continued favor of the Dark Gods, and any hope of using the Abomination against the Gods to secure his rule.
"That was their mission all along," Abaddon muttered, realization dawning on him. "They knew they could not win, so they force a stalemate. Deny us our advantages, any advantage, and force a long, grueling ground battle, give them time for reinforcements."
And he knew far too well that reinforcements were coming.
Canoness Lynia watched the pic-screen as the last of her fleet was destroyed.
"Walk with the Emperor, Sisters," she prayed.
"What do we do now?" A non-Militant Sister asked.
"We fight, that is what. Every kilometer, every meter, every centimeter will be paid in blood," she said. "How is the tunnel excavation going?"
"The tech-priests are working as hard as they can," the Sister replied. "How deep do the tunnels have to be?"
"As deep as they can make them," Lynia replied. "It will only be a matter of time until the Arch-Enemy is beating at our door, despite our defenses. Tell them to dig, and to wire everything to blow. If they breach the doors to the monastery, they shall have nothing but ashes and scorched earth."
Laura tried not to scream.
Heretics had surrounded them.
Half a dozen defiled Land Raiders were surrounding them, vomiting dozens of fallen Marines. Each brought blade and bolt, each screamed for their death.
Wight was decapitated as he stood over a fallen Claw. Each Claw was dragged down, pinned with sacrificial daggers, offered up as sacrifices as they screamed and writhed.
Uncle Helfist stood despite dozens of bleeding bolt wounds; flesh and sinew were leaking from his ravaged armor. The blessing of Fenris was holding him together, and scant else. He stood over her, doing his best to shield her with his body.
"Laura, I'm so sorry," he cried. "Please, they'll do horrible things to you. This is for your own good."
The last thing she saw was his bolt pistol.
Gasping for breath, Laura snapped the fabric of fate, cutting her view of the would-be off. She had to find another path for them, one that didn't result in their death. Remembering everything her Grey Knight tutors taught her, she eased aside reality, and peered into the many possible futures.
Gibbering, multi-limbed Spawns leapt at them. They were two packs strong, and each a perversion to nature, each psudo-pod limb ending in bladed arms. They sliced through the Claws, and overwhelmed Uncle Helfist before he could call upon Fenris for strength.
"Laura, run," Uncle Kemuel yelled as he charged headlong into the sea of limbs. His brother Custodes fought as best they could, but against the numbers and the fury of the Spawns, they could do little. One Custode was sliced apart in the blink of an eye.
"Run!"
Laura had to bite her tongue to keep herself from yelling. Her hands shook as she was brought back to reality, the here and now.
"What have you found?" Uncle Kemuel asked.
"S-Still looking," she stammered. Despite the fear-nausea in her stomach and the blood in her mouth, she was getting hungry again, and her damned ration bar was nearly gone. Fighting against the stomach-turning sights the future gave her, she reached into her pack and pulled out the gnawed-on bar and stuffed the rest in her mouth.
"Damn, Laura, save some for later," Uncle Helfist said. "We've barely been out here a week."
Now that she had something in her belly, she could really focus. The lines of fate became easier to see, easier to focus on. She found their place in the tapestry of fate, and traced the lines further up, seeing the many possible futures that laid in wait for them.
Uncle Helfist was right; this was no way to fight, to lose her mind in the what-ifs and almost-would-be. She needed to fight the way Russ intended; with bolt and blade. Hopefully this would be the last time she ever had to peer into the future.
"There," she said, bringing her full mind and concentration back to the present. "There's a squad that's gonna be here soon. Get the Claws over there. Uncle Kemuel, can you and the Custodes get down the alleyway over there? We need you to cut off their escape."
Laura peered out from behind the ruined wall. The alleyway was cramped, the perfect place for an ambush. The alley would lead them around Uncle-Sergeant Julas; if they flanked him and his Devestators, they could very well help collapse this front.
She got to her feet and went to join the Blood Claws. She itched, but not a skin itch, more like a deep bone itch, like she was a young teen again, growing into the woman she was now.
Just as she saw in her vision, a group of traitors was coming their way. They were wearing desecrated Terminator armor, nearly ten in all, with horns growing out of the helms and massive weapons bolted to and growing from their arms.
"Get ready, this is gonna be a big fight," Uncle Helfist said.
"Oh, I know," she replied. Laura eased open the gates of infinity and pulled power from the other side, enough to activate the runes of her sword. Power that almost looked like flames coursed along the blade's length. "Hold…now!"
She ran from the ruined building and took aim with her Volkite blaster. The lead heretic had flesh growing from his left arm, mating with the multi-melta he carried. Her shot hit the vulnerable flesh, boiling the flesh in an instant, igniting it so fast it burst into flames.
The heretic screamed as his entire arm was seared. He involuntary thrashed in a vain attempt to extinguish it, hitting two of his squad mates. With the Terminator armor augmenting his strength, he ended up crushing the helm of the one directly behind him. It might not be a kill, but it would keep them off balance.
Bolt guns chattered, and the Claws were charging.
"Fenrys hjolda!"
"Fenrys hjolda!" Laura added her voice to the scream, for whatever it was worth. She absentmindedly wondered that, if they survived, she would ever be able to see her mother's home.
The Claws hit the traitors, but everyone seemed slow to react. Laura lashed out with her sword, aiming at the joints between the thick slabs of black armor. The edge of her sword bit into it, and the psykic energy arced through the traitor's body, frying his brain and hearts. He was dead before the Claws hit them.
The traitors fought back, but that was when Uncle Kemuel and his Custode brothers stepped from the ruins. They brought their spears to bear, and sliced the heretics apart, but it was like they were moving under water.
Laura blinked. When Uncle Kemuel and the Custodes first started fighting, their movements were a blur to her; but now it was like Uncle Kemuel was also slowing down. She knew the Custodes were skilled, more so than the Vlka, but were they just not used to fighting? Had they grown soft from their endless guard duty?
"Nice kill," Uncle Helfist grinned. "Kemuel, you sure you haven't been in any wars lately? That was top fucking form."
Top form? Laura was sure they were moving too slow.
"Laura! Can't zone out in a battlefield," Uncle Helfist said. "Were you able to scry anything in the future? Enemy positions, movements, reinforcements or the like?"
"Oh, uh, no, not really."
"Get ready to move out. Who's hurt? Still got some balm left before we run out. And scavenge any ammo you can; bolts don't care who their user worships, as long as they get a brain to be shot into. Come on, plenty of work to do."
Was she getting sick again? No, that wasn't right. What kind of sickness made things slow down, speed her up? She needed her meds. But for some reason, she felt fine. Better than fine; she didn't feel the slightest bit sick. Hopefully it would stay that way.
"Hold the line, Sisters!"
Lethora didn't need to hear the order. It was repeated endlessly, second to 'die well.' She gripped her bolter tighter and kept firing. It felt like they were fighting for days or weeks instead of a day. The black armor of the traitors was a wall that advanced closer and closer with every passing minute, pushing them further and further against the wreckage of the fallen building that was behind them. Lethora and her sisters would gun down one, and two would step to take his place.
At first, it made her giddy with joy. She had fantasized about fighting an endless army of heretics; more than enough to vent her fury upon. But now that she was living her fantasy, it was just too draining.
"I'm running out of ammo," she cried hoarsely. She had long ago shouted away her voice. "Where is there extra?"
"Somewhere at the end of the heretics," one of her sisters yelled back.
Behind the wall of black armored death strode more daemon engines. A volley of lascannon shots punched through the armor of one. Something inside it blew up, tearing the creature apart. The other daemon engines saw this, and decided that maybe cover was a good thing to have.
"Incoming," Lethora's Superior yelled. From the skies, another squad of Saraphim descended. They landed among the foremost lines of the heretics like a wrathful blow from a hammer. Just the force of their landing was able to kill a few of them. Lethora jumped as a handful of magazines were pushed into her hand, as well as a melta bomb.
"Our sisters are buying us time," the Superior said. "Get ready, and use this as your last weapon. Die well."
"May the Emperor smile upon us," she mumbled, taking the bomb. Die well? She could do that. As long as she could take some damned heretic with her to the grave. She mag-locked the melta bomb to her back.
The Saraphim fought wildly, driving the heretics back, giving them more room to breathe. Lethora slammed a fresh clip into her bolter. Looking up, she saw with amazement that the Saraphim were able to wipe the squad of heretics from the face of existence. They charged wildly towards the next group of traitors, screaming for fury and blood.
From a few of the side alleys Immolators arrived. They were scarred from enemy fire, with many leaking fuel or oil, while others were actually on fire. Considering that they were holding dozens of gallons of promethium fuel for their many flamers and melta-guns, they were rolling death traps.
She shouldered her bolter again and opened fire, just as the last Saraphim was cut down. How many had she killed? Did it really matter? The ground shook as one Immolator was blown up. In its death blast, it took several traitors with it. Lethora wished she could have such a death.
A massive blow hit her in the chest, sending her flying. Somehow, her armor deflated it. She hit the ground in near blackness. Every gasp was the worst pain she had ever felt, like her lungs were tearing themselves apart, and she could feel blood pouring over her eyes. It didn't matter how much blood she wiped off, she just couldn't see more than a foot in front of her.
Emperor, please grant me the strength to continue, she prayed while trying to get to her feet. She fell, but a fellow sister caught her.
"Easy," she said. "Take my hand, we shall fight together."
"Y-yes," Lethora gasped. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. "Can you hold me steady? I don't think I can see."
"Your eyes, sister. There's…shrapnel in them."
Lethora brought her hand to her face, but the slightest bit of pressure sent her screaming.
"We shall make them pay. Take my melta, I shall help you."
Lethora blinked, doing her best to ignore the scratching at her eyelid. Through the blood and haze, she was able to see that her fellow sister was missing an arm.
"A bad hit," her sister said.
"We'll make them pay," Lethora said. "You still have your eyes, yes?"
Her sister pulled her up, and pressed the heavy multi-melta into her hands.
"There, eleven o'clock."
Lethora steadied herself against her sister's body, aimed as best she could and let lose a blast.
"Winged one," her sister said. "You repaid my lost arm."
"What's your name?"
"Dissata."
"I'm Lethora. Let's make the enemy pay."
"Gladly."
Dissata called out another target. Lethora adjusted her aim, and let lose a blast.
"Killed a heretic."
"Give me another!"
All she had to do was stay on her feet and shoot. Dissata kept her upright and supplied with targets. With her eyes nearly gone, she couldn't see the line of heretics. For some reason, it made her feel better, not seeing the enemy. There was only the shake of the melta, and Dissata's gleeful voice as she confirmed her kills.
"This is our glory, Sister," Lethora said.
"Ours alone," Dissata said. "There, nearly three o'clock. More to the right."
The sounds of battle droned on, but seemed to grow quieter. First the rumble of the Immolators ended, then the sounds of chainswords stopped. The echo of bolt guns lasted longer, but was slowly quieted. The bellowing report of the bolt's detonations ended, one by one, and the whoosing sound of flamers was slowly silenced. Dread built in Lethora's gut, but she kept her hands firm and the melta firing.
Eventually, the snap-boiling of the melta was all she could hear. That and the dreadful sound of approaching footsteps.
"They can't get away from us now, Sister," Dissata said, swallowing hard. "To the right! Two o'clock! Left, further. There!"
Lethora pulled the trigger, and felt something sharp cut her cheek. It was so sharp, it was as if a line of fire had burned her.
"Dissata, where do I aim?"
"Dissata? Oh, she is dead," a voice whispered.
Suddenly she was pulled into the air. An armored hand was at her throat, crushing her neck.
"Your pathetic attempt at a defense has failed," the deep voice of the fallen marine laughed. "You have fallen, your sisters have fallen, and this planet shall fall to the Despoiler. Everything—what are you laughing at, dear sister? What is so damned funny?"
Lethora could make out the details in the damned purple armor, every last bit of it.
"It's just that I can actually see you."
She disengaged the mag-lock to the melta-bomb on her back, and stuck it in the face of the traitor marine that held her. Before anyone could react, she thumbed the detonation switch.
Onairam rushed through the rubble on the streets, crushing the dead bodies of the Sisters of Battle under his foot wherever he could. The whores demanded worse, and they would surely be getting worse. But for the time being, he had to be with the Lord Ravenger as they destroyed the last of the Sister defensive.
The Lord Ravenger had spearheaded the attack, and had finally reached the fallen building that the loyalists brought down. He held one Sister in the air, ready to desecrate her body and sacrifice it to the Dark Gods. But for some damn reason, the Sister in Devram's hand was laughing.
"What are you laughing at, dear sister? What is so damned funny?"
Onairam was able to get a good look at the last surviving sister. Bits of metal shrapnel were sticking from her eyes, to say nothing of the torrents of blood that she was crying.
"It's just that I can actually see you," she said.
In one swift motion, the Sister slapped a melta-bomb on the face of the Lord Ravenger. A sun suddenly blossomed, and the next instant, there was nothing left, neither of the Sister nor the Lord Ravenger.
Suddenly, Onairam realized that the entire battlefield was too damn quiet. His stomachs started flipping.
"The Lord Ravenger is dead," someone said. He strode forward in beautiful armor, an etched power sword in his right hand, a plasma pistol in his left, and cruel jump packs almost growing from his back. It was a raptor, a predator of the shadows. "To me, brothers, and we shall—"
The raptor was crushed as he tried to speak. A massive, mutated marine in the remains of Terminator armor had approached him and crushed him with massive, mutated chain fist.
"To you? I would rather die than follow a weakling such as you," the mutilator spat. "No fighting in the shadows! We face down the loyalists and…!"
A blast enveloped the mutilator, burning his flesh.
"Follow a bat-shit crazed simpleton such as you?" A fallen marine laughed, tossing a grenade from hand to hand. "No, we need to follow the true path of strength! And I say that you are a weakling that lets daemons do the fighting for him."
The mutilator bellowed and charged the challenging marine. Those that belonged to the mutilator's coven joined him, as did the marine's squad. Onairam was suddenly very self-conscious of his back.
Guns began firing again, this time at members of the Black Legion. The daemon engines seemed confused by the action, but ultimately decided to join the melee. They tried to stride from the buildings they were using for cover, but missiles and lascannons pushed them back.
"What do we do?" Someone in Onairam's group asked.
"These damn idiots," he hissed. "I shall raise a vox to the Despoiler. The rest of you, get to cover, get ready to shoot whoever I say to shoot."
"The Despoiler would not like hearing of this."
"He would not like not hearing about it, either," Onairam snapped. "We need his authority, else the loyalists will win. Move, now."
"Damned heretics," Julas laughed. "This is why a clear chain of command is needed."
Julas switched to the vox channel. Helfist, do you hear me?
Hold on a sec, the Space Wolf grunted. The whirling noise of a chainaxe ground in the background. A heavy crunch was heard; no doubt Helfist was living up to his name. What is it?
The Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have finally fallen.
Allfather damn those heretics. What's happening?
It appears as though the last surviving sister killed a leader. They are fighting amongst themselves.
Damn, those Sisters are something, Helfist laughed. We're still behind enemy lines. You get your Devastator squads to move back; we'll be fine out here for the time. We'll keep hitting supply lines.
Good hunting, brother, Julas said. He switched vox channels. Canoness Lynia, do you read me?
Loud and clear, the Sister of Battle said. No doubt she was waiting for his report on the vox.
The Ebon Chalice has finally fallen.
They survived longer than anyone would have expected, the Canoness said. Instead of a day, they nearly gave us two. We must honor their memory. Move back, our Sisters are in position behind the barrier. Croan and the tech priests also have a few surprises in store for the traitors.
Falling back, Canoness. Go with the Emperor.
Walk in His light.
"Our Sisters have fallen," Uncle Helfist said.
Laura's heart jumped to her throat; her gut clenched. She didn't want this.
The very feeling made her blink. Why didn't she want what…? Where did that feeling come from?
"Those bolter bitches better show up in Valhalla," a Claw spat.
"We'll make sure they do," Uncle Helfist said. "In their last stand, they killed someone with a very big, important hat; the heretics are fighting like damned orks."
Wight laughed. Even Uncle Kemuel chuckled.
"If they're busy fighting each other, we need to press the attack," Laura said.
"Damned right you are!" Uncle Helfist said. "While they're watching their backs, they won't be watching their shit. Form up, get moving. We find some heretics, we steal their ammo and blow up what we can't carry. Any bolt we deny to the front stretches this fight out. Let's move."
The mutilator and the traitor marine had been fighting for nearly a full day, each of their followers refusing to yield an inch.
Bolter fire raked Onairam's armor, and he pulled himself back behind the remains of an Immolator. Dammit, why were they fighting each other? Was this how things always were in the Black Legion? Doubt gnawed at his gut.
No, this was better than living on his knees, begging, groveling and pleading for scraps of scraps. Here, he was Chosen. It was only a matter of time before all the others saw it. Onairam just had to keep his faith, he had to keep serving the Dark Gods.
"Look," someone gasped.
Onairam peered out from behind the wrecked Immolator. Striding through the battle, a demigod among the super-human, was the Despoiler himself. And the look of rage on his face could give pause to a Bloodthirster of Khorne.
He stormed into the melee between the mutilator and the marine. He drew his sword, a massive daemon blade, and plunged it into the neck of the lead mutilator, the one who had thought he could easily step into the role of Lord Ravenger.
The daemon-infused traitor gasped and gurgled as the blade began ending his life. But he was still alive, and the Despoiler wasn't finished. He plunged his talons into the mutilator's neck, and then he began pulling.
Onairam heard a deep ripping sound, the sheering of metal, and suddenly the mutilator came apart, pulled in half by the monstrous Abaddon. Guts and viscera showered the ground. And then he turned to the offending chaos marine.
"No," the simple marine begged. "Please, forgive me. I yield!"
The talons were sunk into his gut. His armor might as well have been wet tissue paper for all the good it did.
The Despoiler picked him up, ignoring the great gouts of blood that poured from the wound. He threw him to the ground with enough force to crack bones, and he lifted his massive boot. It came down with the force of a wrecking ball, bursting the marine's head like it was a melon. Onairam was meters away, but pieces of brain still hit him.
"This is why the Slave of the Corpse Emperor mocks us!" Abaddon bellowed. "We cannot face their forces when we face ourselves! Our Sisters have beaten us, and you simply prove them right! Three days they cost us; three!
"You are slaves. Slaves! Shacked to my will and my will alone. If I tell you to die, you should ask me how. Obey me, or end like these two."
He didn't need to point; all eyes were on the remains of the mutilator and the marine.
"Where is the one who calls himself Onairam?" He demanded.
Oh, shit.
"Where is he?!"
"Here." Where Onairam found the courage to step forward, he knew not. The Despoiler stormed up to him.
"You are the one who brought this issue to me, are you not?" The Despoiler hissed, leaning close. Onairam was used to being of super-human height, but the Despoiler was still a head taller. It made him feel small, weak, and angry. "Why do you not kneel?"
What did the Despoiler know of his troubles? Of his sacrifices? What did the Despoiler know of the brothers he buried? They were in the ground, there very names forgotten, nothing but a brick in the wall of the uncaring Imperium. What did the Despoiler know of the lines he had to cross, the things he had to do and of the tribulations that plagued him?
"I have spent a lifetime of service to the False Emperor on my knees," Onairam spat. The Despoiler knew nothing of his plights. Damn him along with the Carrion Lord. "I have tasted enough subservience to last me until the stars go out. I will not kneel again."
The Despoiler's face twisted into a grin.
"Ah, a new addition, acting like the oldest of us," he said. "Of all the wrong answers, that was the least wrong."
Onairam held his breath, waiting for death.
"You are the new Lord Ravenger."
"I-I am?"
"You have pleased me. Where others would grovel and plead, or worse, lied, you told the truth," Abaddon said. "'The Lord Ravenger is dead, and the men fight for his place.' Yet you have kept several squads in cohesion." He gestured to the squads behind him. "That tells me you can control. And control is what we need."
"Thank you, Despoiler."
"Do not thank me, fear me, for I feel that you shall only live a short while in this role and there are plenty of others to choose from," Abaddon said. "Summon a warpsmith. Force him to forge you better gear. And get this damn pile of rubble out of the way. We need to crush our Sisters, and take this capitol. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Despoiler."
"I expect you to make head way by the end of the day. Fight well, for I will most likely kill you in the morning."
Daemon engines walked forward, and Abaddon walked backwards.
"Start digging," Onairam ordered. The massive daemon-forced weapons bowed their heads, and heeded his command. He couldn't stop grinning.
The Emperor demands obedience, but the Dark Ones promise the universe, he thought. Oh, how right they were. How right they were to choose me over all else!
A massive explosion rocked the rubble. A daemon engine moaned in pain before it fell to the ground, dying.
"Lord Ravenger, what just happened?" Abaddon asked. He might have asked sweetly, but Onairam now knew his temper.
"Our brothers and sisters have mined the building," he said. "There are melta bombs in the rubble."
"Then find who you feel is unworthy and have them trip the bombs."
"I was just thinking of who could 'volunteer.'"
"Fenrys hjolda!"
The Claws broke from the alley, running full-tilt at the ambushed traitors. The traitors hardly had time to react.
"Scan the streets," Uncle Kemuel said, bringing his spear around. They were hidden on a small causeway overlooking the street. "We cannot let anyone else join in the fray."
"I got nothing," Helfist said. "Laura?"
"I'm not seeing anything," she said.
The Claws howled as they tore into the traitors, killing the last one.
"Greybeard, help," Wight yelled.
"Damn it all," Helfist cursed. He jumped down, sprinting into the fray.
"Stay on guard, brothers," Uncle Kemuel said. "Go with him, Laura. We know how close you are to the wolves."
Laura vaulted over the railing of the causeway. Normally such a fall would be jarring, but she landed lightly on her feet, like the five-meter fall was nothing. She didn't have much time to think much of it; ahead of her, the Vlka were forming a circle around a fallen body.
"Wight, what happened?" Uncle Helfist asked as he ran over.
"Bad hit."
The Claw in question was lying on the ground, with Wight holding his head. Blood freely bubbled from his chest where the armor was caved in.
"It was a power maul," another Claw said. "He nearly got away from it, too."
"Red Sleep," Wight said.
"Damn," Uncle Helfist said. "We can't have a Claw who's in a damn healing coma. Shit, this makes things hard."
"We have to make camp," Laura said. "We make a makeshift camp and rig it to blow."
"Who blows it?" Wight asked.
"Hopefully him, if he wakes up," she said, pointing to the unconscious Claw.
"Sounds like a decent plan," Uncle Helfist said. "Lots of things gotta line up, but we'll worry about that later. Laura, you and Kemuel find us a good spot to hole up in. Wight, help me carry this fool. The rest of you grab all the ammo you can, especially those artillery shells. Blow up what you can't carry."
Nodding, Laura ran back to the Custodes. The massive guards had moved down to the ground level, holding their spears tight.
"We have had an eye on a few locations in the area," Uncle Kemuel said. "We will lead the way, prepare the area. Come."
Laura was easily able to keep up with the Custodes, her hands tight on her blaster and sword. She jumped as an explosion tore through the city. Looking behind her, she saw a new set of ruins where the traitor's ammo-laden Rhinos were.
They ran down three blocks, each block getting seemingly more and more destroyed. Many houses were blasted open, with many missing their roofs and most of their walls.
"This city's getting filled with death," she said.
"It has not seen the full fury of the Black Legion, or of war," her uncle said. "Brace yourself, Laura; you have not seen the full extent of war."
She swallowed hard. She had grown up hearing of the tales of the Vlka, of the many bloody deeds of their endless, nameless heroes, and have heard of the evil of the Arch-Enemy, but seeing it was something different. She felt herself grow ill, but at the same time, it all seemed familiar; some kind of ancient, damned shame, but a damned shame that was unavoidable.
"We are here."
That jerked Laura back to reality. The house in question was a three-story building that was somehow not only standing, but seemed in decent order. It still had a roof, untouched by missiles or falling, blasted debris. The Custodes began making their way up the stairs.
"We're going to the top floor?" She asked.
"It will force the heretics to endure two floors of traps."
She turned. A block and a half back were the Vlka with the rest of the Custodes. She waved in battle-sign, pointing to the house.
"That is the wrong battle-sign," Uncle Kemuel said. "You signal 'shelter' like this."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Learn quickly; mistakes cost lives."
Coached by her uncle, Laura followed him inside.
"Careful," he snapped. "You cannot open a door like that, it exposes you. Stand next to the knob, on the other side, and thrust it open. Be ready to move back; walls are not bolt-proof."
The house became more crowded as the Claws entered.
"To the top floor," Uncle Kemuel said. "The area is clear."
The floors creaked under the weight of the Vlka and the Custodes, but it held.
"Laura, you like playing with things that go 'boom?'" Uncle Helfist asked.
"Hel yea."
"Good answer. We got some artillery shells from that Rhino; let's get this place wired up."
Everything hurt.
Aevar had been awake so long that his body was just aching from simply being awake. Space Marines were superhuman, built to withstand such punishment, but staying awake and working non-stop for nearly two full weeks was just too much for anyone, even the gene-enhanced physiology of the Sky Warriors.
He just needed a good night of sleep to make him as right as rain. Just a single night's rest, that was all.
"Fucking heretics," he grumbled, making his way through the empty hallway. The civilians were being moved to the basement of the monastery, as well as into the tunnels they were digging into the mountain. Here, there was little reason for anyone to darken the hallway. "Making me work this damn hard. Bastards."
He finally got to his chambers and pushed the doors open. Since Captain Agostina arrived bearing word of the Black Legion's arrival, his workshop had been emptied. Every tool was being used; every die, every bar, every scrap piece of material, it all went to the war effort. This left the large room awfully bare, which made it all the more surprising that Canoness Lynia was sitting at a desk, wearing her full armor.
"Hope I'm not interrupting," he said. Lynia jerked up, snapped out of what seemed to be a gentle nap that was leading to deep sleep.
"I'm sorry," she said, her scars twisting into a smile. "I, I hope I'm not intruding."
"Intruding on a damn good nap, that's all."
"So even the Emperor's Chosen need to rest. You truly are human."
"More so than you'd know," he said, walking over. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "And to what do I owe for the pleasure of this visit?"
"You can thank the invasion for this visit," the Canoness said. "Like you, I'm overworked, overstressed and under-fed. This is the only place where I can get any solitude. I've had to take to simple oatmeal for much of my meals."
"Aye, I know that all too well. I've been living on the scraps that the kitchen is turning out."
"Scraps? Why should you be feasting upon scraps?"
"Because all the real food is going to the fleeing civilians," he said. "And they need a square meal in their belly to help put them at ease."
"How selfless of you."
"Could say the same about your oatmeal gouging."
Lynia smiled. With her exhaustion, the wrinkles in her face were pronounced.
"I guess we truly are selfless to a fault," she said.
"I've heard that a few times myself," Ironclaws nodded. "How are things going out there?"
"The Sisters of the Ebon Chalice have fallen."
"I've heard that," he said. "We'll make the traitors pay."
Lynia nodded, but the weariness in her eyes didn't go away.
"Hey, I said we'll make them pay."
"Oh, I know. Their lives were not in vein," Lynia said. "But I can't stop thinking if it was the right thing to do."
"Can't go thinking that, especially now."
"I know, I know, but…"
"Let me guess: every time you close your eyes, you see them?"
Lynia nodded. "How can I know that was the right thing to do?"
"It was the only thing they could do," he said. "They were running into the guns of the heretics. Not much room for finessing things."
"I just hope they find peace with the Emperor," Lynia muttered. "How can you do that? Be so sure in yourself?"
"Because I have to be. Someone once told me that the second a leader starts questioning himself, it's over. For him, for the men under his command, and for everyone who's counting on him."
"He sounds like a wise man."
"A rat bastard he was," Aevar snorted. Lynia stared at him. "Oh yea, sure, he knew a thing or two. Was good in a fight, better at planning, but he was a fucking bastard and he knew it."
"Where is that man now?"
"Well, part of him is probably being used as skin by some damn Necron somewhere. The rest of him got burned up in a sun. His thread was cut a few centuries back; went down swinging, the only thing we can ever truly ask for. So, we gave him a funeral fit for a jarl, then shot what we could recover into the nearest sun.
"You think the Claws that have been coming out here were making a mess of things? You haven't seen shit until you've seen a Jarl be put to rest. Enough booze to strip the paint off your armor and enough food to choke an army. Everyone feasts and drinks until they're seeing doubles, and we all share stories of the man who passed."
"And how were the stories of this 'Jarl?'"
"He was a fucking bastard. Said it before, I'll say it again; he was just a rat fucking bastard. Had plenty of brothers from other companies come over to spit on his grave. But damn did they respect him. He could plan like it was no one's business, make it so that the enemy never saw the smile that killed 'em, and if they did see it, they'll spread their fear to those in the afterlife, to let them know that, someday, we'll be down there with them, and we'll be hunting them all over again."
"You Vlka are true pieces of work," Lynia laughed.
"We aim to please," Aevar smiled. "And 'Vlka?' No 'Space Wolf' or 'brainless barbarians?'"
"I've called you those things enough times in the past."
"Don't go getting soft on me now, you old bat."
Lynia smiled, resting her head on her hand.
"Be honest with me," she said. "What are our chances of surviving this? I know we can't beat the Black Legion off, but do you truly think that we can survive?"
"Best I can say is that we're in for one Hel of a fight," Aevar said. "We're doing what we planned on doing; neither of us truly owns the skies. And since the traitors don't control the skies, we can fight them on the ground; we can bleed them try. Give 'em nothing but scorched earth for their trouble."
He looked over. Lynia had fallen asleep, her head still propped in her hand. Only her armor was keeping her upright. Aevar got up, and gently carried the aged Canoness to his chambers, lying her on his cot. After a second's hesitation, he gave her a kiss on the forehead.
"Rest up, Lynia. You'll need everything you can get." He laughed. "Shit, we all do."
He grabbed a thin pillow and several books, making a little headrest on the ground. He finally was able to get some damn sleep.
"Move," Onairam snapped. "This road has to be clear!"
Using daemon engines was out of the question; they couldn't be wasted on clearing the bomb-filled rubble. He was briefed on how many of the precious engines they had left; the number was dwindling since the start of the battle, and was falling dangerously low.
Using men was out of the question, too. Not only had he already killed those who he despised and displeased him, but the Black Legion could not sustain the attrition rate. As the new Lord Ravenger, he was told how many men he could waste and still maintain full combat power. Suddenly Onairam had to keep track of the number of men, what they were doing, how much they could afford to lose to things such as traps left by the Loyalists, and that wasn't even taking into account their rate of ammo consumption.
It came down to using modified Rhinos to try and push the rubble aside. The good news was that the ships that were dead in the void were a good source of adamantium plating, which made good plows.
Onairam had subservient brothers bring pieces of ruined hull-armor down from orbit, where they were turned into plows and dozers blades. The hulking piece of metal were nearly a full foot of hull-grade adamantium; they were scuffed, dented, bruised and burned, but by and far they were still in one piece. It was starting to look like a strong breeze might knock the blades over, but they just needed to hold out a little bit more.
The Rhino's engine growled as gears caught and were engaged. Rhinos rolled back, and more rubble came tumbling down. There was a waiting melta-bomb, for as the debris and rubble fell, something detonated. The explosion rang out, throwing more rubble and dust into the air.
A second Rhino moved in from the side, brushing the pile of rubble to the side. They were slowly, but surely, making forward progress. The fallen building was being breached, and with it, the next step of the invasion.
"Lord Ravenger."
'Onairam' was a name he picked for himself. He liked hearing it, more than his dead name from when his armor was blue. But hearing others call him 'Lord Ravenger…' Onairam was taking a strong liking to that name. He loved to hear the fear and awe in the voice of the speaker. How the Gods were right: he was Chosen, and everyone was starting to see it.
"Word from around the city," an approaching marine said. "They expect to breach the barricades within three hours."
"Excellent. We have already wasted more than a week with this damned setback. Be sure to have the Land Raiders and Rhinos ready. We push forward, establish new beachheads, and continue moving forward."
He breathed in deeply as the subservient marine walked away. He could feel the power of the Dark Ones coursing through his veins. The warpsmith he summoned had worked wonders on him. The work was excruciating, nearly unbearably painful, but the results were worth it.
Onairam's flesh was one with his armor, a twisted fusion of tendons, muscle and the powered plasteel of his former armor. It was powerful, more resilient than it had ever been in the past. His muscles crackled with energy, waiting for the chance to commit more acts of murder.
His two hearts pumped, beating at a powerful but easy pace. They burned as they grew accustomed to the fluids they pushed through his body, for it was no longer blood, but a mixture of molten brass, virulent pus, searing ichor and psychedelic narcotics.
A handful of large pieces from the crumbling barricade nearly hit him. Onairam never knew it, but the large pieces of rubble were somehow, strangely, turned aside just before they struck him. The blessing of the Dark Gods was truly upon him.
With his body changed, the last thing that he had cast aside was the power sword of the former Aspiring Champion. He had given it to one of his men who had shown great promise by keeping order in his stead. In its place, he carried a power scourge. Three flails danged from a handle by steel chains. Each flail was cast in the eight-pointed star of Chaos, and cackled with energy.
He was finally getting what was rightfully his, what was promised to him so long ago.
You are special: you are our Chosen. You have seen the chains that have bound you, and you have freed yourself from their clutches.
Oh, how right they were.
The mountain of rubble shifted, at first audibly, but soon visibly. Chunks of rebar-enforced concrete collapsed, pouring down the street. The massive pile fell, losing any semblance of a barricade. Where it was once three stores tall, the ruined building began coming apart, at first down to two stores, then one, then to rubble that was barely four feet tall.
The barricade was down for barely a second before the air was filled with loyalist fire. The trap was sprung.
"Push forward!"
The Rhinos' engines ground as their gears caught, and pushed forward, moving more and more of the rubble aside. Their dozer blades buckled under the fire, eventually being punctured. They exploded from penetrating hits, but their purpose was served.
Behind them, Land Raiders roared into the fight. They pushed the burning bodies of the Rhinos forward, using them as shields. Then the ground exploded, throwing one Land Raider in the air.
The loyalists had the time to plant mines. And Onairam could not waste any more precious assault vehicles.
"Call in the helldrakes," Onairam ordered. "Sweep the streets, that should clear the mines. We need to push forward."
He strode forward, climbing the mound of rubble. It was truly a glorious day.
The street before him stretched on for what seemed like miles. Every building that could hold people was shooting at them. Trenches were dug into the ground, and from them, Sisters of Battle fired endlessly. It was a wall-to-wall shooting gallery.
"Perfect," Onairam grinned from behind his helmet.
A shriek split the heavens. A helldrake, a twisted and cruel daemon engine that had grown from a Valkarie ship flew in, its large, metal wings beating in slow, even pulses. Its mouth was the former cockpit, and Onairam could hear the wails of the former crew as the daemon gnawed on their souls.
It swooped low, losing a blast of fire from its mouth. The ground exploded as mines were tripped, and the chatter of anti-air guns intensified.
The helldrake reeled from the fire, trying to gain altitude, but a volley of lascannon fire punched through its chest. The thing fell, screaming and dying, another mounting loss they could not afford. But its work was done.
"Move forward," he ordered. By his word, the push began again. It was about time that everyone knew how blessed he was, how he and he alone had the favor of the Gods.