WARHAMMER DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. MASS EFFECT DOES NOT BELONG TO ME. MY CHAINSWORD IS REALLY CLOGGED, AND NOW I KNOW THE PAIN OF CLEANING THE DAMN THING.
Let's see, where were we? Oh, right.
Star-Bound
Chapter 27
Conquest
Nemedon scowled as he strode through the wreckage of another Drukhari vehicle. He had personally destroyed seven such craft since the invasion began, and he would likely claim many more kills before the campaign was over. He paused when his enhanced senses caught movement in the debris; even through his helm, he could smell the alien blood.
"Your arrogance is astounding," he said as he stepped on the Drukhari's leg, but almost didn't recognize his own. Where once his boots had been the blue of a Librarian, alien blood coated them up to the knees, turning them purple. "You spent millennia hunting humanity, and saw us as nothing but cattle. How does it feel, knowing that the herd you fed on is now burning your world to ash?"
The Drukhari spat something at him, but Nemedon didn't understand its language, nor did he care to learn. Rather than sully his force sword, he merely shattered the alien's skull with a swift kick, and continued on his way.
He ignored the muted cheering from other nearby Lamenters. Even now, part of him resented being assigned to a successor to his beloved Blood Angels. He had fought in the Indomitus Crusade as a Greyshield, had killed countless foes across dozens of worlds, all the while certain that he would one day fight alongside the Firstborn of the Great Angel.
Instead, he had been reassigned to the Lamenters, when the fleet he was part of happened to run into one of the successor's ships. He had been among the first Primaris to join the troubled Chapter, and he had spent much time brooding on what felt more like a punishment. He was a decorated warrior, yet was now forced to fight alongside Astartes who had rebelled against the Emperor!
That wound was long-healed, though. He had gotten to know his new brothers, and while betrayal could never be completely forgiven, it could be understood. He had since turned his ire towards the destruction of his Chapter's enemies, something had become renowned for among his brothers.
"Brother!" A Tactical sergeant, holding himself proudly despite the gash in his side, pointed down the chokepoint they'd been holding. "More transports approach!"
Behind his helm, Nemedon scowled. "The xenos have yet to learn. You know what to do."
The sergeant nodded; for almost three hours, the Drukhari had been trying to break the stranglehold the Lamenters had on the supply route in this sector, and for three hours, they had been driven back. Nemedon's psychic powers were instrumental in destroying the vehicles, while the demi-company under his command dealt with the rest.
Nemedon stepped into the open; his force sword was held loosely in one hand, while his other was drawn back. Crimson energy arced from his eyes and crackled around the lenses of his helm, then traveled down his raised arm and gathered in his hand. Red lightning became boiling liquid as Nemedon formed an enormous javelin of psychically-manifested blood.
"For the Angel!" he roared, and hurled the javelin with all his considerable might.
The lead transport saw the danger, but hadn't started its turn in time; the javelin caught it on the side, punching through alien metal and striking something vital. The Raider exploded in a shower of metal and fire, and burning bodies—both living and dead—tumbled out of the inferno.
Nemedon took a small amount of satisfaction from the destruction he'd wrought. That technique had become something of a specialty of his, perfected over decades of training and practice. It took a great deal of power, but he had become adept at managing his energies, and maximizing his recovery between uses.
Almost as if the universe heard his pride and decided to punish him for it, Nemedon felt a deep pain in his hearts, as if pumping blood was too much effort. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees; it became almost impossible to breathe, and he ripped off his helm. Only minutes ago, he had had the noble features common to the Blood Angels; now, his skin was almost translucent and stretched, as if he were in the process of mummification.
"Brother Nemedon!" Strong hands gripped his pauldrons to keep him upright, but Nemedon's vision was filled with red, and he couldn't tell who it was.
Too far. He had pushed himself too far, and consumed with his suppressed anger, he had not noticed until it was too late.
I must get them away. I have become a danger to my brothers.
Pain wracked his body as his blood boiled and evaporated through his pores. His end would be painful, but at least it would be swift, and he took some solace in that. It was only for his brothers that he truly worried.
Ironically, it was as he was dying that he truly understood the Lamenters. They did not fear death, nor did they grieve for their own; that was reserved for those they could not save. Without his powers as the lynchpin of their defense, it was likely that the Lamenters in his sector would be overwhelmed.
Almost as quickly as it started, the pain vanished. The corruption his own powers had inflicted withdrew, almost as if it had never happened. Nemedon's hearts beat strongly again, and his blood cooled. He wiped away his eyes, and the red in his vision was filled with gold.
For a moment, he was confused, until he saw Saint Shepard step into view. Golden light poured from her hands and washed over him, purging the taint his overdrawn powers had caused.
"Just in time," Shepard said; her helm was hooked to her belt, and Nemedon could see her kind smile. "Are you okay?"
"I… I believe I will be." Nemedon slowly got to his feet, and accepted his own helm back from a Lamenter. "My thanks, Saint Shepard."
The golden light faded, and Shepard took a deep breath before smiling again. "No problem. I can't have my boys get killed by their own powers, that's just sad." She paused. "Well, I guess sadness is part of your name, but you know what I mean."
Like the rest of the Primaris of his Chapter, Nemedon had never suffered to the same extent as his Firstborn brothers. True, he had had the occasional jammed weapon, or his cover had inexplicably collapsed, but it hadn't happened as often. He also hadn't suffered nearly as long as the older Astartes, so when Shepard had lifted their curse, he hadn't truly grasped her miracles at the time. He respected her, and was thankful that her patronage had increased the Lamenters' esteem, but he had never held the same level of reverence for her that his older brothers had.
That changed that day.
"Take a break, boys," Shepard continued. Nemedon felt the ground rumble, and turned to see a column of armored vehicles of the Order of the Iron Tears grind its way to front. There were Rhinos, Immolators, Exorcists, and the more traditional tank design of the Castigators. "We'll take over until Phoros gets you reinforcements. He's dealing with another counterattack to the west, so I told him I'd cover for you."
Sororitas piled out of their transports, or dropped from the sky on wings of fire. Some of the Sisters were friends with a few of the Lamenters present, and shared brief conversations before taking their positions.
"Saint Shepard, how goes the rest of the war?" Nemedon asked. "I have been unable to find out anything beyond our sector."
"Well, the arenas are ours now, and we're using them as staging grounds and supply depots." Some of the Lamenters cheered upon learning that the Crusade's primary objective had been achieved. "The Mechanicus and Militarum are pushing into the neighboring areas, but there have been enough Space Marine casualties that I told the Reapers and Hawks to take a break and reorganize. Your Chapter is in the best shape right now, so you guys are pulling triple-duty for a while. I'm sorry."
Nemedon was a proud warrior, and wanted to protest being rotated out of the fighting, but he knew it was the right decision, especially for him. Though Shepard had saved him from death from his own powers, he was still exhausted and nearly exsanguinated. Many of his brothers were wounded and low on ammunition, though a Sanguinary Priest was helping with the former, and Shepard had brought large containers of the latter.
"We will rest and rearm, but we will rejoin the fight as soon as possible," he said.
Shepard patted him on the arm. "Good man. What's your name?"
"Nemedon, Saint Shepard. I hold the rank of Codicier in the Librarius."
"Okay, Nemedon, I'll see you around." Shepard's wings manifested, and she and her five surviving Alexian Guard took to the air. "I have to go, there are other sectors that need reinforcements. Oh, and Nemedon?"
"Yes, Saint Shepard?"
"I saw that blood-spear thing you did." Shepard grinned. "Not gonna lie, that was pretty awesome."
Nemedon had no memories of his time as a mortal child, but at that moment, he imagined that this was how he would have felt if his mother had said something encouraging to him in front of other people.
Is this what embarrassment feels like?
Still, he sat down near the other Lamenters and rested his force sword across his knees. The Drukhari would return again, and even with reinforcements, he would need to be ready.
…
Colonel Losvor wondered if he had ever been as green as the squad in front of him; he wasn't even forty years old, but the fresh-faced youths he was lecturing made him feel twice that.
"You're lucky that only three of you were killed," he said. "That ambush was obvious."
A guardswoman stepped forward. "Sir, we were—"
"I don't care," Losvor snapped. "You were told to hold your position and cover the advance of the rest of your platoon. You disobeyed orders, and almost got your fellow Rangers killed. The only reason you're not facing a firing squad is because only you morons got killed, and why you're being chewed out by me. Believe me, if we weren't being rotated out, I would have had a Commissar explaining this to you before you died; as it stands, I still have better things to do."
"We were fighting in the name of the God-Emperor and Saint Shepard!" the same guardswoman blurted out.
Losvor glared at her. "The Emperor doesn't tolerate idiots in His Imperium, Saint Shepard doesn't tolerate them in her Crusade, and I don't tolerate them in my regiment. The next time you open your mouth, I will fill it with the barrel of my gun, and I won't have to worry about splattering my uniform with your brains, because you don't have any." He pointed behind him. "You'll be delivering supplies for the rest of the campaign, and you will never rise beyond the rank of guardsmen. Prove to me that you're at least worth the lasgun in your hands and the Duranian name. Now get out."
Once the soldiers were gone, Losvor took a deep breath. That squad had been among some reinforcements they'd received from Vigilus shortly before Guilliman had summoned them, so they hadn't seen any action before the invasion of Commorragh. Like all Duranian Rangers, they were excellent shots, but they were so enthusiastic about joining the Shepard Crusade that they had abandoned the common sense that Shepard so highly prized.
At least he had reacted accordingly, he told himself. If his predecessor had still been alive, he would have praised those idiots for valor, and maybe even punished the rest of their platoon for not supporting them. He'd rather yell at a bunch of rookies than deal with the late Colonel Borran's insanity.
Despite his earlier words, his duties were almost done, and his junior officers were handling the rotation well. He needed another way to distract himself, and fortunately, one of his peers among the First-Blooded was free.
"Duchess-Colonel, do you have a moment?"
The vox crackled briefly, and then Riona's smooth voice cut through the static. "Losvor, are you already done withdrawing? I would have thought your men would be too distracted shooting at random targets to listen to your orders."
"And I would have thought your men were too deaf to hear yours." Despite the barbs, both officers spoke with a smile; the commanders of the First-Blooded had had years to develop a strong bond of friendship and camaraderie.
That had been difficult for Losvor at first; he was new to regimental command, while everyone else had years of experience. Riona in particular had made him feel inadequate; her noble upbringing was beyond anything the son of a farmer-turned-soldier could understand, much less attain. Still, Riona's gentle teasing had broken the ice, and their respective regiments worked especially well together; the Duranians were excellent spotters, and the Hecheron gave them the heavy punch the Rangers lacked. It didn't hurt that Shepard was delighted whenever she saw her friends get along without her present as a peacekeeper.
"Actually, it's quiet right now," Riona said, her normal confidence darkened with concern. "The xenos have pulled back to deal with those Ynnari fellows. They seem to be everywhere now."
That had been a matter of confusion for many of the Imperials. Reports had come in that many dead Drukhari had risen again, only to turn their weapons on those they'd been fighting alongside. Shepard had not explained the how or why, but had quickly given the order not to attack any Drukhari unless attacked first, to avoid friendly fire; the idea of any aliens being 'friendly' was incomprehensible to most of the humans, but if the xenos were going to kill each other instead of them, they were happy to sit back and reorganize.
"If it means we can keep our foothold, I won't complain," he said. "Do you want me to send some of my troopers to assist with transporting more ammunition for you?"
"Why, Colonel, how gallant!" Losvor could picture Riona playfully holding one hand over her heart as she said that. "I'm sure my gun crews would appreciate the help."
Losvor laughed. "It's not like you bluebloods would deign to pick up your own ordnance."
"Of course not, that's why I keep you around."
"And here I thought it was because of my looks."
"That is a bonus, yes." Before Losvor could wonder if Riona had just flirted with him, her tone abruptly shifted. "Hold those soldiers for now, Losvor; Rand just called for fire support. It seems that the xenos are gathering for a major assault after all."
"Understood. Good luck, Riona." Losvor immediately switched the frequencies on his vox to his own regiment's. "All units, cancel withdrawal orders; resume defensive positions and prepare for an imminent attack."
…
Colonel Klinner rubbed the scar on her throat with one hand, while the other rested on her bolt pistol. She had narrowly escaped an assassin's blade on Vigilus, but the shadows of the Dark City brought those memories to the forefront of her mind, and she was on edge.
"Ma'am, forward units are reporting movement," her vox-operator said. "They're dug in deep, and they're impossible to draw a bead on."
"Can we contact the Fiftieth, have the big guns drive them out?"
"Negative, they're assisting the Ten-Twenty-Second drive off a counterattack."
"Damn." A thought occurred to her. "What about the Forty-Eighth? Are those Hellhound squadrons still nearby?"
"I'll check." The officer spoke into his vox for a few moments, then turned and smiled. "We're in luck, Colonel; those tanks were just about to head back, but they can swing around and burn those xenos out for us."
Klinner's grin was predatory. "Then tell the men to mount up. Let's see how these bastards like it when they're the ones getting chased by transports."
The 11th had become excellent urban fighters on Vigilus, but with the patronage of Shepard and the connections of their Mechanicus friends, the regiment had gained an edge by receiving a huge number of Chimera and Taurox transports. Shepard had even changed their designation from an infantry regiment to a mechanized one. The extra armor and speed had turned a lumbering, if disciplined, mass into an avalanche of steel and flesh.
Klinner and her command squad strapped into the seats of their command Chimera. The transport was relatively new, only a few months older than the Shepard Crusade, but it had seen Klinner through a hundred battles, more than earning its name of Steadfast.
Still, even with the thick hide of the Chimera, she could still smell the fumes of the Hellhounds as they rumbled alongside them. It was often joked that the Fire-Skunks' unique promethium blend could be smelled from anywhere on the same continent, but Klinner sometimes thought that it was more fact than fiction.
"Contact!" the Chimera's driver shouted. "Heavy infantry presence!"
Klinner held out her hand, and the vox-operator handed over the device, already set for the entire regiment. "All company commanders, punch through the enemy lines. Do not let them link up and form a cohesive defense. We will not be stopped! Saint Shepard is with us, and through her, the God-Emperor!"
The Commissar attached to her command squad, a rake-thin man whose left side was almost completely mechanical, nodded. "An excellent combination of tactical command and oratory skill, Colonel. I'd say the troops are properly motivated, and without my help—will wonders never cease."
"I find that they fight better with a Saint they love at their back and an enemy they hate at their front." Klinner understood the need for the Commissariat, but if her soldiers had to die, she preferred they do so fighting the enemy, not because they were executed for cowardice.
Further conversation was drowned out by the roar of the Chimera's two heavy bolters. The acrid smell of propellant mixed with the stink of the Redcowls' flamers to create a scent that almost made Klinner retch.
"We've got them pinned down!" the driver yelled. "There's a defensive emplacement to our right, Colonel, but it's too steep for us to drive up; you'll have to take the xenos out the hard way!"
"You heard the man!" Klinner pointed to the ramp with her power fist. "Open the door and kill these bastards!"
Commissar Yuin led the charge down the ramp, power sword held high. His attack was so ferocious that he took the first Kabalite Warrior by surprise. He would have been overwhelmed by the others, but the rest of the command squad was right behind him. A woman with a plasma gun vaporized one Drukhari from the waist down, while another man put a las-bolt through the throat of a second alien. Klinner faced off against another warrior, who swung his bladed rifle at her like an axe; he was far faster than she could ever hope to be, and certainly more skilled, so it was all she could do to block his attacks with her power fist. After a few seconds of frantic combat, she took a gamble and charged, tackling the Drukhari to the ground. His bladed armor scored several cuts across her body, but none of them were serious, and his struggling ended when her power fist turned his head into paste.
The command squad wasn't the only unit attacking that location; an entire platoon charged up the lip of the embankment the Drukhari had built and gunned them down with waves of las-fire. Several Guardsmen were killed by return fire, but the humans had the numbers, momentum, and discipline to take most of the defensive positions.
Just as Klinner was rallying the nearest platoons for an assault on the last holdouts, seven Valkyries screamed overhead. Their missile pods rained death upon the Kabalites, and pinned them down long enough for squads from the Deltic Scorpions to rappel down and finish them with close-range fire.
The wound to Klinner's throat had damaged her ability to laugh; instead, what came out was a coarse chuckle, and it was distinct enough for the Scorpions' commanding officer to notice as she got closer.
"Excellent work, Colonel," Vils said, and held out his hand for her to shake. "I was worried that I'd have to drive out the enemy here myself."
Klinner rolled her eyes. "And let you take all the glory? I'd sooner eat my boots."
Regular Militarum regiments had a long-standing—and one-sided—rivalry with the Tempestus. The former would often accuse the latter of grandstanding, not to mention being the favorite 'toys' of commanding officers. The Scions got the glory, while regular grunts just got more work to do.
The Seventh Deltic Scorpions, however, had a much more cordial relationship with the Militarum regiments of the Shepard Crusade, and could even count the First-Blooded as friends. There was still some rivalry, but the Militarum mostly used it as incentive to become even better soldiers.
Vils slid a fresh power cell into his plasma pistol. "You should get those wounds checked, Colonel. The sooner you're fit for duty, the sooner your regiment will be redeployed."
Klinner frowned. "I thought our orders were to hold this sector."
"The orders have changed; or, rather, they will change in a few hours. The Lord-Marshal discovered a crack in the Drukhari lines, and he proposed a plan for a breakthrough. Saint Shepard gave her approval; if we succeed, the xenos will rout."
"Unless I'm mistaken, the fleet has blockaded the whole city. Where will they go if they do rout?"
Vils chuckled. "Oh, the Lord-Marshal has a plan for that."
…
Shepard stared at the tactical display for a long moment. "Stevron, I could kiss you."
Helmin laughed. "I assume this is because of my plan, and not for my dashing good looks?"
"No offense, but my husband was better-looking, so you're out of luck."
Over the years of the Crusade, Shepard's closest friends and advisors had learned that she had been married. However, the few times anyone had asked for details had caused her to lock up, so any information she ever gave, even in jest, was taken as a sign of great trust.
Helmin shared a brief smile with Blaise and Rex, and then returned his attention to the display. "The only problem is that the Drukhari are slippery. We will have to close the net fast, or they'll get past us and slip into the shadows of the city."
"Yeah, I'd rather not spend the rest of this battle wondering if we've got stragglers nipping our heels." Shepard nodded to herself. "I just read the reports; the Hawks and Reapers are resupplied and are rejoining the Lamenters, so we can start taking the initiative again. The counterattacks have been driven off, so if we're going to make this push, now is a good time. Hadrian, how's the morale of the troops?"
Rex scowled. "The horrors of these aliens has driven the ice of fear into their hearts, just as much as it has ignited the fire of rage. Our veterans are handling it well enough, but our newest soldiers require more inspiration. I have already assigned more priests to rally them."
"And their officers have also been advised to point out that this battle ensures that such horrors will be lessened across the galaxy," Helmin added.
"Good work, both of you." Shepard gave the two men a smile. "Stevron, if you could coordinate with Xem for the assault? Hadrian, I'd like you with the First-Blooded; they're going to be part of the main thrust, and I'd appreciate it if you helped prepare them."
Helmin saluted and Rex made the sign of the Aquila before leaving. Blaise, however, stayed behind.
"I noticed that you have not given me any orders," she commented.
"I just wanted to ask a few questions before we head out." Shepard put a hand on Blaise's shoulder. "How are our girls? A lot of them were pretty upset after we took the arena."
Blaise sighed. "We have trained for years for the heaviest battles, and we know that death in service to the God-Emperor is an honorable end. However, the cruelty inflicted upon sisters and friends, even in the whirlwind of combat, has enraged and saddened many of us. Nearly five hundred of the Order has fallen today, and I expect more before the campaign is over."
Shepard winced; in a Crusade with orders to survive as much as possible, losing five hundred women who were almost as devoted to her as they were to the Emperor hurt. And that wasn't counting the Militarum, Mechanicus or Astartes casualties; she didn't know the final tally yet, but when she did, she would have to work hard to keep it together until she could mourn in private.
"Any…" Shepard coughed and tried to maintain her composure. "Any word from Constance?"
"Not directly, but Sister Rychelle reported that they have succeeded in their mission, but suffered heavy casualties." Blaise scowled. "The Inquisitor is safe as well."
"I hope whatever he was after is worth it." Shepard's hands balled into fists. "If he tells me it's classified, I'm going to punch him in the throat, Inquisition or not."
"And I will hold him still for you." Blaise looked at her pointedly. "Perhaps you should take a moment to calm down? I appreciate righteous fury, but you are leading our forces into battle."
"I'm leading the charge; Stevron will have overall command." Shepard shrugged. "Besides, getting into my angry place just makes me more powerful."
Blaise blinked. "Your 'angry place'?"
"Yeah. Some people have a happy place to get through things, I have an angry place that helps me kill people I don't like." Shepard elbowed her playfully. "What, you don't have an angry place?"
"I… never thought of it like that."
"It's a good way to keep your anger contained until you need it." Shepard gestured to the door of the strategium. "Come on, let's get to work."
…
Jonson waited patiently as reinforcements literally rained down around him. Hammerfall Bunkers and their drop pod variants smashed onto rooftops, or clean through more fragile buildings to land on the streets below. The latter disgorged squads of Primaris Marines who gunned down scores of Drukhari, while the considerable firepower of the bunkers supported them. Shortly after the first wave, more traditional drop pods delivered those Dark Angels—and their Successors—who had yet to cross the Rubicon Primaris.
The Lion had taken his landing zone in less than an hour; now that it was secure, the descendants of the First Legion would not abandon it until their mission was complete.
"The Wolves are fighting their way to us, Lord," Azrael reported. "If we delay our assault, they will link up with us in twenty minutes."
"That is too long," Jonson said. "I have read the reports on this Vect. He is slippery, and could have a thousand escape plans. No, we will attack his citadel now, and remove the last chance the Drukhari have of rallying."
Azrael nodded and turned smartly on his heel, curtly handing out orders as he moved. Jonson nodded in approval; Azrael was a consummate professional, and reminded the Primarch of some of his closest officers from the days of the Great Crusade. The Lion wasn't one for nostalgia, but as thousands of Astartes rained down from the sky and deployed for battle, he felt like he was reliving one of his many campaigns of that time. The Great Crusade had been a time of purity of purpose; the First Legion had been sent into the darkest places, to eradicate the greatest threats that the Imperium would never know of. The Dark Angels had fought monsters before the other Legions truly knew what monsters were, and they had continued on without a single accolade, as was their way. Few were the worlds that celebrated their arrival, and fewer still would ever know their true strength, but Jonson had always been satisfied with the knowledge that his tasks had been completed.
Now, though many of his sons wore different armor and colors, he felt at home.
"Begin the attack," he ordered. "Slay any who stand against us, and do not stop until every alien in that accursed citadel is dead."
…
The Drukhari called it the Shadeport; it was not the most important, tactically speaking, but according to the data acquired by Xem-Beta, it was where so many realspace raids mustered. In many ways, it was the source of much suffering throughout the galaxy, and thus it became Shepard's personal target. Her anger carried to the rest of her Crusade, and when the signal for the attack began, soldiers charged without fear, only hatred.
Shepard led the Alexian Guard, the very tip of the spear that crashed into the Drukhari defenses. She landed on top of a Raider, and the impact shattered its hull; the surprised crew and passengers were quickly butchered by the Saint and her bodyguards, while Sororitas and the First-Blooded forced one breach after another.
"Death to the alien!" Blaise roared as she crushed a Drukhari under Sinbreaker. "Wrath is the only answer to their perfidy! We are the instruments of the Emperor's vengeance, and we shall not be found wanting!"
The Order of the Iron Tears answered her battlefield sermon with a furious shout. The Drukhari had killed their sisters, and their friends, and they had seen the pain the xenos had caused their beloved Matriarch. This was the final push in their part of the campaign, and they put every ounce of their faith and fury into ensuring that it would end in victory.
While the Sororitas led the charge, they were not the first to strike. That honor, as usual, fell to the 50th Hecheron Artillery, and for this last push, they unleashed their greatest weapons. A battery of Storm Eagle artillery pieces launched their oversized rockets, and the screaming payloads obliterated the heaviest concentrations of the enemy. Basilisks and Wyverns fired in a grid-pattern, keeping the Drukhari from maneuvering to counter the grinding advance of the Guard.
With no way to escape back into Commorragh, and the Imperial blockade preventing any ships from leaving, the Drukhari fought like cornered animals. Hundreds of Guardsmen fell to volleys of splinter fire every few minutes, and the lance weaponry of their vehicles turned many human tanks into burning husks. Despite this, they could not break the humans' momentum.
Several Archons led the defense of the Shadeport, and Shepard encountered one almost by accident. She had seen a Raider with green armor, just like all the others, but this one had red slashes along its flanks, and she assumed it was to signify importance. She was right, and as she tore the transport open, a Drukhari in thick segmented armor lunged at her. His sword looked like it was carved from bone, and he moved with the speed of a striking cobra. Shepard had fought Lelith Hesperax, however, so the attack looked slow in comparison.
She dodged his first stab, knocked aside the second, and stepped inside his reach before he could try a third. Her forehead smashed into his nose, but unlike Shepard, the Archon wasn't wearing a helmet. Alien blood spurted out, and as he reeled, Shepard swung Liberator up, and its blade punched through armor and flesh. With a savage tug, Shepard tore his lungs out through his ribcage, and tossed the gory remains to the side.
Hiral and a platoon of Vigilant Guard who had seen her feat cheered, and Hiral raised the Shepard Banner high. The sight of what had become the Crusade's most cherished symbol galvanized the Imperial forces even further. Elements of the First-Blooded covered the Sororitas as they pushed deeper into the Shadeport, where they placed melta charges; when they ran out of explosives, Exorcists and Castigators fired at anything that looked vulnerable.
The whole assault lasted just over thirty minutes, but as the battle-haze lifted, the Imperials felt like only a few had passed. They watched the alien starport burn with grim satisfaction.
Shepard took several deep breaths to bring her rage back under control. Once she was sure she wouldn't snap at the next person who spoke to her, she walked over to one of the Tech-Priests attached to her part of the assault.
In order to maintain perfect timing, each part of the Crusade had several Tech-Priests, and connected through the noosphere, orders were delivered at precisely the same moment, without fear of interference from the Drukhari. This had actually been going on since the Crusade's inception, but it had still required years to fully master, especially when some of the regular humans had been wary of the Mechanicus. After almost a decade of fighting side by side, however, reservations had been put aside, and almost everyone in the Crusade saw the Stygies VIII Tech-Priests as true comrades.
"Saint Shepard." The Tech-Priest—whose voice suggested that it was female—bowed her head.
"How are we doing?" Shepard asked.
"Our objectives in battlezone designation: Shadeport are ninety-five percent complete," the Tech-Priest said. "Cleanup operations have commenced. Lord-Marshal Helmin has rerouted armored reserves to assist Necropolis Hawks forces."
"Are they in danger?"
"Negative, but the Necropolis Hawks' supply of blessed vehicles was depleted during the initial landing, and many of them are still undergoing repairs or salvage. Reconnaissance suggested that the Necropolis Hawks would face little armored opposition, but these reports were in error."
"Okay, what about the other starports?"
"The Reapers have taken their target, and Skitarii forces have secured the location. The Lamenters and Seventh Deltic Scorpions report heavy fighting, but have achieved sixty-three-point-seven percent of their primary objectives. Estimated time to full control of all battlezones is one hour, three minutes, Imperial standard chronology."
Shepard considered her options for a moment. "Temperance."
Blaise was at her side in seconds. "Your Holiness?"
"I want half our girls to come with me to help reinforce the Hawks. You're in command of everyone else here while I'm gone."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that Zandtus will require your aid."
"Probably not," Shepard admitted, "but you know me."
"Of course." Blaise smiled. "I expected nothing less."
Shepard laughed. "Don't worry, I'll still let the Hawks have some fun."
…
"We claim this domain for the Emperor!" Zandtus roared as he brought his sword down; the Incubi holding their ground were cut to pieces, while the wiser among them retreated.
All around him, the Necropolis Hawks vented their frustration and grim fury, either through their guns or with their blades. The entire campaign had wounded the Chapter, more so than any other before; nearly two hundred Astartes were dead, and nearly half again were so wounded that it would take weeks for them to fully recover. This was the last battle they would have to fight, if things went according to plan, and then the Chapter could focus on rebuilding.
Zandtus grimaced as a squadron of Leman Russ tanks were blown apart in quick succession by Drukhari lance weapons. The tank companies sent to reinforce them had helped force a breach in the alien defenses, but those breaches turned into kill-zones. Valkyries, Overlords and Stormfuries flew sorties overhead, but their effect was negligible, and every ground assault was beaten back, though the Hawks had inflicted heavy damage to the Drukhari before being forced to withdraw.
With the latest enemy counterattack defeated, Zandtus and his detachment of the First Company rejoined their brothers further back in the Imperial lines. While the other Primaris Marines left to resupply, Zandtus himself went to the field-strategium, where his First Captain was waiting.
Malrom Tharm was Zandtus' closest friend and advisor, and it was no secret that he was to be the next Chapter Master, should the worst happen to Zandtus. He was every inch the noble warrior—tall, lean outside his ornate armor, and with sharp features. He had few scars, and none on his face, making him almost handsome, by Astartes standards. His power sword hung at his hip; it was expertly crafted, but its only ornamentation was its hilt, shaped like a flying raven, with rubies set into the eyes. His relic shield was hooked onto his back; far more than a storm shield, it had been sanctified a hundred times by both the Master of the Forge and the Master of Sanctity. The latter had turned it into a holy relic by adorning the face with the bones of Brother Alamar, the first Necropolis Hawk to die in battle, and the true sibling of Tharm himself.
"You are reckless," Tharm said, his soft voice barely heard by Zandtus' keen ears. "You should be commanding here, and I should be leading from the front."
"No one will respect a Chapter Master who will not fight alongside them," Zandtus reminded him. "And I am not reckless; I am simply aware of my skills."
Tharm sighed. "As you say. Regardless, our situation has not changed. The Drukhari are still entrenched, and unless we receive substantial reinforcements, we will be unable to achieve our objectives in time. There will be a bulge in our line—"
"And all Drukhari survivors will stream here in an effort to escape, trapping us between them." Zandtus sighed. "Has there been any word on those reinforcements?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Tharm was less inclined to smile than other Necropolis Hawks, but when he did, he looked as close to joyful as an Astartes was capable. "Saint Shepard is on her way, with five thousand Sororitas, and a regiment of Militarum infantry from the reserves, the Eighty-Fifth Savlar Infantry."
Zandtus had heard of that regiment; while the First-Blooded held the most honors, the 85th 'Chem-Dogs' had made a name for themselves during this campaign. The combat-stimms they used made them just as ferocious as the aliens they fought, and had driven the Drukhari out of entire sector without support.
Those numbers were exactly what the Necropolis Hawks needed to get back to what Astartes were meant for—striking hard at the most vital areas of a battlefield, and leaving the enemy reeling for other Imperial forces to destroy.
"How long until they reach us?"
"Any second now, actually." Tharm paused as he picked up the sound of engines. "Here they are."
Shepard marched up to them swiftly, the surviving Alexian Guard right behind her. "Raquilon, I heard you've been having a bad day."
"Now that you are here, I suspect that things will be much better."
"Don't thank me, thank the boys and girls I brought with me." Outside the strategium, the Order of the Iron Tears was already forming up for an assault. "The Eighty-Fifth had to hoof it here, but they've got some cocktail of stimms to keep them in the fight long enough to get the job done."
Zandtus nodded. "We will be ready shortly."
"Awesome. Let's finish this battle and call it a day; I think we're gonna need a break after this." She smiled at him, and then nodded at Tharm. "I should go. See you in the field, Raquilon, Captain."
Tharm waited until she was gone before he spoke. "I am grateful for the assistance, of course, but I will admit that it hurts my pride that she did not even ask if we wanted aid."
"We have all fought alongside her long enough to know that she does that because she cares." Zandtus wore his helm, but Tharm had known him for over two centuries; the Chapter Master was smiling. "Remember, she wants as many of us as possible to survive to see this Crusade's completion."
Tharm sighed. "She could still stand to be a little more political in her dealings."
"I sincerely doubt that she cares about such things." Zandtus put his hand on Tharm's shoulder. "Come, Captain, let us end this battle."
The final push began less than an hour later. Zandtus would admit that it wasn't his Chapter's greatest achievement, but he also knew that it would still be a victory immortalized in the Necropolis Hawks' records.
It began with a coordinated armored assault with air support; the heavy guns of the tanks and ordnance of the flyers kept the Drukhari pinned down, and Shepard signaled the charge. Sororitas and Astartes moved in unison, either driving in transports, flying overhead on jump packs, or advancing behind their tanks. Behind them, the massed infantry of the Savlar Chem-Dogs charged, whooping and hollering as the various chemicals in their systems affected them.
The Drukhari knew that this was their last stand, and made the decision to make the humans pay for every step. Some emerged from their fortifications in an effort to get off one shot before getting blown away.
Shepard and Zandtus would forever debate which of them reached the defenses first, but they each punched their way through a different breach and held it for the few vital seconds the rest of the attackers needed. Sororitas and Astartes alike poured bolt and flame into alleyways and buildings, wreaking as much havoc as they could so that the Guard could advance unmolested.
When the Chem-Dogs did arrive, they attacked with unbridled ferocity. They fired lasguns at point-blank range, stabbed with bayonets, or even used their bare hands if they had to. The stimms in their blood numbed them to pain, so the usual tactic of agony-inducing poisons was out. The poison would still kill the humans, but for those vital few minutes, they could still fight.
Shepard had once asked why Savlar didn't distribute those kinds of chemicals to other regiments. She discovered that they reduced the expected lifespan of those who used them, and the people on that planet had had generations to adapt. Non-natives actually had a chance of dying from the concoction the Chem-Dogs regularly used, and the soldiers almost always volunteered for Guard training, since using the chemicals was still better than mining them.
Regardless of how Shepard felt about that, she couldn't deny that they were remarkably effective. The Chem-Dogs weren't as disciplined as most Militarum regiments she'd met, but in close-quarters battles like this, they were ideal.
Once the Imperials had broken through the outer defenses, the Drukhari had no real chance. Their strategies relied on maneuverability, but in the close confines of the spaceport, they had to stand and fight. One Drukhari was still the match for three or four Guardsmen, or a Sister of Battle, but they numbered less than three thousand, and facing them was over twenty thousand. The Chem-Dogs made up most of the numbers, but when they were the support for almost five thousand Sororitas and over seven hundred Primaris Marines, the battle became a rout, and then a slaughter.
"Attention, all commands," Shepard said into her vox and she stepped over the last of the Drukhari corpses. "The last spaceport is ours. The door is shut, and nobody's getting out without our say-so."
…
Jonson was not normally one for humor; generally, he could barely comprehend human emotions. However, experience had taught him what made his brothers laugh, even if it made no sense to him. As such, he waited in the Drukhari throne room, until Russ burst in with a small mob of Space Wolves.
Russ took one look at the Lion, covered in alien blood, and then the shredded remains of the corpse on the floor.
"No."
"Yes, brother." Jonson smirked. "It seems that I have beaten you to the prize once again. Shall we break the cycle of history, or will I have to knock you out again?"
Russ visibly twitched at the reminder, but instead of raging, he threw his head back and laughed. It was so infectious that the other Space Wolves, who had all been taught the story, joined in; eventually, even some of the Dark Angels present chuckled.
"Ah, Jonson, you arrogant bastard." Russ threw an arm around his brother's shoulders. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually missed you."
Jonson shrugged. "I'd like to say the same of you, though I could do without the smell."
Russ laughed again. "Did you tell Roboute that the xenos leader is dead, or should we surprise him?"
"I sent him a message, but I have yet to listen to his reply. I find myself dreading his lecture of how we could have been more efficient."
"You know, that would be funny if it wasn't true." Russ shook his brother. "Come, let's get out of here. Those Ynnari will probably claim this place as a command center, and some of my sons still have the battle-fever in them."
"Agreed. The Ynnari can handle the rest of this, and we can send reinforcements to Saint Shepard; she has captured the spaceports, but her grip is tenuous."
"Perhaps helping her now will work off part of our debt," Russ said as the Primarchs led their sons out of the conquered palace.
"We owe her a debt?"
"Of course!" Russ shoved him. "Without her, your sons and the Blood Angels would have destroyed each other before you could be brought back, and I'd still be wandering the Eye." He paused. "Corvus would also still be moping, and none of us want that."
"You make a fair point."
…
"Do you think the humans will ever thank us for this?"
Eldrad allowed himself a smile behind his helm. "I find that extremely unlikely. If anything, they would be annoyed that we 'interfered'."
Before Eldrad and his cadre of Warlocks and Farseers, the charges Vect had placed upon the Gate of Khaine were being taken away for disposal. It had been a challenging battle for the Ynnari, for the guardians of the Gate were among the most dangerous in all of Commorragh, made worse by the fact that while the guardians fought with no regard for their own safety, the attackers could not risk an accidental detonation. Even with Eldrad's careful planning and foresight, one explosive had still gone off, sending shockwaves through the Gate, and into the Webway itself.
It wasn't enough to destroy the gate, but Eldrad still worried for what ramifications it held. Satisfied that his followers had the situation well in hand, he drew forth his runes and focused on the future. The nearest events, likely only a scant few days from the present, showed no signs of disaster, but as he peered further into the realm of probability, he saw more and more changes. Something unexpected had come from this, something he had not even considered a possibility.
"Lord?" One of the Warlocks, a recent convert to the Ynnari who still bore her Craftworld colors, sensed his unbalanced humors. "Is all well?"
"I… am unsure," Eldrad admitted. "Something was pushed free of the Webway, like a stone in a riverbed kicked loose by errant footsteps."
"Is it a threat?" The Warlock hesitated. "Do we warn the humans?"
Eldrad considered the runes floating around him. "Not at present. I believe that the humans will take care of it for us; indeed, our interference may make things worse. No, better to let the one called Shepard continue on her path. We will be far too busy rebuilding our new city."
…
Shepard was wandering through the last spaceport, shaking hands with cheering soldiers, or commiserating with those who had lost friends. She had been about to contact Helmin to begin tallying their losses, when a Tech-Priest and a squad of Skitarii Vanguard marched up to her.
"Saint Shepard, multiple contacts approaching our position," the Enginseer said. "Their ident-codes name them as Space Wolves and elements of the Order of the Iron Tears. Addendum: the latter includes the ident-code of an Inquisitor."
"Looks like Strakk finished his errand," Shepard mused. "Okay, let's see if it was worth the trouble."
An ad-hoc force followed Shepard as she greeted the new arrivals; she was pleasantly surprised when a familiar, boxy shape emerged from a Space Wolf Overlord.
"Bjorn!" Shepard jogged over and slapped the ancient Dreadnought on the leg. "I was hoping I'd see you again!"
"As was I, little Saint." Bjorn held out Trueclaw, and Shepard laughed as she perched on it like a child being scooped up by an adult. "I heard rumors that you defeated Lelith Hesperax in combat. No small feat."
"I had help," Shepard admitted. "How did you do out there?"
"I have claimed larger tallies, but this felt like a true victory."
"Yeah. I think we made a difference today." She grinned. "Hey, wanna come with me to say hi to the Inquisitor? If he pisses us off, you can squish him."
"Tempting."
The two laughed as Bjorn carried Shepard over to the approaching Sororitas column. The good humor faded when Shepard saw how diminished the Preceptory was, and how battered the survivors were.
"What happened?" she asked as she hopped off Bjorn and marched over to the nearest Sister—Rychelle.
"Your Holiness, we were ambushed on our way to the objective." Every word was spoken through a clenched jaw. "We fought them off while the Inquisitor and Canoness Mallis went on ahead."
Shepard narrowed her eyes at Strakk as he emerged from a Rhino. "And where is Constance now?"
Rychelle did not meet her eyes. "I… I regret to inform you that Canoness Mallis fell in battle, Your Holiness."
The elation she'd felt just a few minutes earlier vanished, and Shepard's face could have been carved from stone for all the emotion she showed.
"I see."
"We were able to retrieve most of our fallen," Rychelle went on, "but we failed to bring back the Canoness' body."
Shepard nodded, but said nothing; it was all she could do to stay composed after learning that her friend was dead. Instead, she stalked over to Strakk, one hand resting on her pistol.
"Tell me it was worth it," she spat. "Tell me my friend didn't die for nothing."
Strakk's face was hidden by his mask, but he nodded. "Canoness Mallis died securing one of the most vital treasures the Imperium will ever claim. We can discuss it once we return to Ultramar."
"Oh, we're going to have a long talk," Shepard growled. "But not right away. After we get back, we're going to say goodbye to everyone who died to make this victory possible."
Strakk nodded again. "Do not fear, Saint Shepard. I can be patient."
No matter how important a victory, the cost should always be considered. Shepard can handle losing the regular soldiers under her command—it sucks, but she knows that it's inevitable—but Mallis was her friend, possibly the closest friend she had outside of the war council, and maybe Hiral.
Still, Commorragh is conquered, and it's up to the Ynnari to pick up the pieces and make something of their new home.
I know I tossed in a couple of new characters in this chapter, but I figured that we should meet Zandtus' First Captain, and I haven't added any Lamenters OCs, so here's Nemedon. He'll show up again, because he was fun to write.
As always, please consider buying my book, Alpha Sanction, by Josh Gottlieb. You can find it on my website (link in my profile), or on Amazon as an eBook or physical copy. I'm trying to finish the sequel, but two jobs means that I'm too exhausted to write original stuff, while playing in someone else's sandbox is more relaxing.
If you want to be really awesome, you can also donate on P-atreon (link in my profile), to help me pay for my share of rent, because some friends and I are talking about splitting the cost of a place to live. This will mean that, combined with my twin paychecks, I might be able to afford things like internet. And food.
Speaking of those people who help keep me alive, I'd like to thank them here:
Serious Muffins: Nimrod009, Anders Lyngbye, Matthias Matanovic, John Collins, Red Bard, Aaron Meek, Shaolin Khalil, killroy225, Zann Nightroad, Lokthar
Incredible Muffins: RaptorusMaximus, michaelb958, Crazyman844, Ben Stueckle
Ultra Muffins: RangersRoll, Adam Costello
Next Chapter: Shepard grieves, and Strakk makes his move against the Emperor's own Saint…
In the grim darkness of the far future, there are only Muffins…