Noctem Oritur Chapter 43

The name grand processional conjured certain images, a proud concourse, glorious frescos and triumphal choirs upon high galleries. The route to the Forges would certainly fit those preconceptions, but as it was dedicated to the Omnissiah there were certain differences also. The concourse was wide enough for six Land Raiders to pass and tall enough for a warhound Titan to stride along. The frescos covering the thick pillars lining the route were of binary formulas, the choirs were made up of servo skulls and cyber cherubs, while the high galleries were plain metal walkways. Normally the space was filled with the noises of industry and manufacturing but today the clamour was solely formed by the destruction of battle.

Before the great Adamantium doors to the Forge long lines of sandbags and plasteel barricades had been set up and behind them men and marines were dug in, fighting for all they were worth. Heavy weapon emplacements were everywhere, streaming tracers and tongues of fire incessantly while Astartes fired precise bursts over the tops of the barricades. The thunder and noise was deafening, indeed many serfs were bleeding from their ears but they dared not relent, not even for a moment. Racing towards the lines of defenders were masses of ragged cultists, bearing brands of the Skull Throne and blood stained knives in mutated digits. They ran into the teeth of oncoming fire, heedless of pain or losses as they screamed their bloodlust, the madness of the Warp was in them and nothing save death itself could deter their advance.

Standing among the defenders Captain Toran was panning his Master-crafted bolter back and forth, he fired a precise burst that took down a mutant with a bull's head and scanned for another target worthy of his attention. The noise of battle filled the whole world but his Lyman's ear let him distinguish between the barking of serf autoguns from the deeper booms of his squad's bolters. He could discern the crump of mortars firing from the roar of heavy bolters and the hiss of lascannon power cells discharging. The combined weight of firepower was holding the heretics at bay but only just, the smallest slip could doom them all.

Even as Toran thought it there was the screeching noise of a heavy bolter jamming as its desperate crew fired too long and overheated it and he snarled at the loss of even a single gun's fury. The Captain didn't take his eyes off the foe but ordered, "Furion, get the serfs back into order."

Standing next to him the giant Space Marine turned and before panic could spread among the mortals he bellowed, "Hold Fast men of the Imperium! Pick your targets, short controlled bursts only and someone get that damned gun cooled. I don't care if you have to piss on the barrel but you better fix it before I come over there and strip the skin from your backs!"

The serfs hurried to obey but it was too late, for the cultists had surged forwards. Charging in a mass of heaving screaming flesh, their eyes were red and their knives were sharp. Toran and his squads met them with a torrent of bolter fire but the enemy kept coming regardless. He waited until the last moment then the captain cried, "Flamers!"

From across the line erupted plumes of promethium, the weapon specialists of Priyar's and Mylos' squads letting loose with Flamers and Heavy Flamers. Gouts of burning flame engulfed the oncoming cultists and set them alight. They flailed and screamed in agony as they fell down, tripping those behind. The charge faltered and stalled leaving the rest of the foe milling around, just waiting to be cut down, yet the danger was not over. From the milling throng emerged a trio of armoured giants branded with the marks of Khorne. They were clad in gore-streaked brass armour and carried vicious chain axes that dropped blood. Toran saw the Khorne berserkers closing and yelled, "Zeax, take them down!"

From both flanks came the unique whine of Grav Canons discharging to catch the Berserkers in a crossfire. The spatial distortions were invisible but their effects were not. Two of the Berserkers instantly twisted in the tangled knot of graviton particles, limbs snapping and armour plate imploding like a used ration tin in a fist. They fell as mangled wrecks of flesh and gore but one other survived and raced forwards screaming, "Blood for the Blood God!"

Toran's hand fell to his sword but before he could draw it a shining ball of plasma shot out from further down the line and caught the Berserker right in the chest. The baroque plate failed under the intensity of the blast and the Chaos Marine toppled to the ground, silent at last as his corpse steamed boiling blood and viscera. Toran glanced to his right and saw Sergeant Mylos hefting a combi-plasma gun around to finish off the last of the cultists with precise bursts of bolt rounds. The last opponents fell and Toran breathed deeply as he realised they had held one more wave, he felt weary to the bone but they had held the line for a few more minutes.

This has been the pattern for hours now, the Chaos Warlord sending waves of cultists straight up the Grand Processional right into the teeth of the defender's guns. The floor was a carpet of stinking corpses as far as the eye could see, yet that had not deterred the idolaters of Chaos in the slightest. Toran took the few seconds of respite before they came again to review his own forces. To his left and his right ran lines of defences, comprised of gun servitors, tarantula sentry guns and armed serfs. They had autoguns, lasguns and a variety of heavy weapons, which even now were being reloaded with supplies being brought out of a postern gate in the Forge's doors.

The serfs were only mortals but without their fire support the battle would already have been lost. To bolster their courage he had spread his tactical squads thinly along the line, Priyar's and Mylos' Marines standing as a shining example right where the Serfs could see them. Zeax's Devastators however held the far ends of the line, their heavy weapons proving vital in securing the flanks. Standing to the rear, right in front of the great doors brother Hevostan was reverently tending to a Thunderfire canon. Getting the Forgemaster to release even one had been a challenge, especially after the sacrifice the Land Raiders, still he had reluctantly agreed once they had pointed out the Forge itself was at risk. Meanwhile Nimodes had positioned his scouts high above on the gantries, where their reach would be limitless. Their sniper rifles and stalker bolters had proved essential already and the novices should be proud of their accomplishments so far. Finally there was Lorath's assault squad, who had exchanged their jump packs for boarding shields while they held the centre. Toran's own command squad was with them, Bylan holding the banner high for all to see and the rest eager for battle.

Toran looked upon the grim but determined stances of every Storm Herald present and was amazed by his Brother's courage and fortitude. Few in number yet unmatched in valour. By their shining example had the serfs been kept from breaking, holding longer and more defiantly than Toran had expected. He counted every one of his Brothers a hero and he felt humbled to be leading such noble Marines, once more he swore to prove worthy of their trust.

Their position could hardly be better, a long straight approach with no cover and no way to be outflanked, the defender's dream. Yet Toran mused that the Chaos invader's numbers and fanaticism practically made such advantages null and void. Still morale was high and the Captain could hear Novak boasting, "We gave them a drubbing and no mistake!"

Persion however was not so jubilant and said, "Don't get cocky; the real battle hasn't begun yet."

Novak scoffed, "Have you not been paying attention, the horde has been coming straight at us for hours. Right up the centre like dumb practice servitors, typically brutal and stupid."

Persion countered, "Don't mistake brutality for stupidity, the enemy merely sends us his most expendable cultists: he's counting our guns with the lives of his men."

Bylan protested naively, "+But we've slain Chaos Marines+"

"Not enough," muttered Jediah, "Not nearly enough"

"He's right," said Furion, "Those were sloppy and disorganised, the filth that lost discipline and charged mindlessly forward. Soon they will come in numbers and the real fight will begin."

Toran interrupted to say, "Not soon... Now" as he saw another heaving mass of flesh racing towards them. A tidal wave of rags, skin and hate that filled the processional from one side to another, stretching back as far as the eye could see.

There must have been thousands of cultists racing up the route, a long column of mutated heretics fired by the insanity of Chaos. Yet the true danger walked amongst them, for towering over the horde was the unmistakeable bulk of scores of Khorne Berserkers. In the very heart of the horde ran a colossal monster in brass armour whom carried a massive double headed axe that dripped blood. His armour was covered in runes to the Blood God and all around him the cultists chanted, "Thessus, Thessus, Thessus!"

Before Toran could even order a response the Thunderfire canon was firing, sending shells sailing over the line to detonate among the horde. Razor sharp fragments of metal cut down scores of mutants with each blast but even that barely made a dent in the multitudes barrelling towards them. Toran realised the cultist's insane courage was being fired by a number of demagogues and apostates, urging them forward with vile imprecations to the Ruinous Powers. The captain opened his vox and cried, "Nimodes take out the preachers!"

Instantly a hail of silenced rounds fell upon the horde and the demagogues were punched off their feet by deadly accurate fire. Yet it seemed Thessus had indeed been studying the defenders, for at the rear of the horde arose a most unpleasant surprise. On plumes of fire rose a dozen Chaos Raptors, jetted upwards to seek perches among the gantries, attacking the scouts directly. Talon like daggers plunged into soft flesh and as young bodies fell screaming from on high as Toran yelled, "Raise your aim brothers!"

A hail of shots rose from the ground to intercept the Raptors and a trio of armoured corpses fell to the volley. Unfortunately there was no time for a second strike for the horde was inexorably closing; the scouts would have to face the Raptors alone. Toran saw the Khorne Berserkers coming towards him and realised they could not be stopped by mere firepower, once the they hit the line the supporting fire would slacken and the defenders would be overrun. Toran calculated his options in a flash and realised the only chance was for his small group to meet the Chaos Marines first, delay the coming charge long enough for the rest of the defenders to mow them down. The odds were against success, the probability of the members of the counter attack surviving practically nil, but still he drew his sword and cried, "Zeax, Priyar, Mylos, keep shooting, don't stop for anything. Furion, Lorath both squads follow me, let them see your fury and let your name be the last thing the Traitors hear!"

As one the two squads drew close combat weapons and leapt over the barricades, Bylan gripped the banner in both hands to fly it proudly and he was the first to cry "+The Primarch's Own!+"

The cry was taken up by every Storm Herald on the field and as Toran met the first Berserker with the edge of his sword all he could hear was his Marines shouting, "The Primarch's Own! Primarch's Own!"