AN/: I once used a glass-jar full of twizzlers to beat a rat to death.
...
Remnant was dying.
And she was helpless to stop it.
It had only ever been a sinister, malignant thought up until now, but with the collapse of the CCT and Beacon in the hands of Salem, the realization of what should have only been the worst nightmare imaginable was slowly clawing its way from the realm of dreams, into the waking world beyond. The Nightmare in question had started with the Death of Vale. Though, calling it a 'Death' was a bit dramatic, it was none the less the case. It just took a cynical eye to see it. Glynda gasps and slams the flask back down, coughing as the hard mixture seared her throat. She growl and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.
She could drink with the best of them, but she had her limits like everyone else.
The blonde headmistress looks in disdain at the flask, she hesitates, half tempted to drain the rest of it- and then with a curse she flings it across the room where it thuds against the wall, leaving a dent, the contents therein leaking out onto the floor. Glynda swears violently, a string of epithets falling from her lips as she cradles her head. Just her luck.
This was her life now. She was Headmistress. Ozpin was gone, and she was left to clean up the mess. It was bullshit but she didn't have much of a choice, unless she was willing to just hand the rest of Vale over to Salem. She had to endure, but was afraid that she didn't have what it took. She was always at her strongest when she had a clear direction to follow, a person to fall into step behind and execute the will of without question. Now, now she was the one who gave the orders, the person in charge of all the academy aligned hunters in Vale.
Like that mattered at all.
She couldn't get into long range contact with any teams that were outside of the main cities. There were dozens of teams patrolling the outskirts of Vale, protecting small settlements from Grimm attacks and White Fang terrorists. What did this leave her in the Main City of Vale? Not enough. Nowhere near enough. All she had were a few mewling teams of doe-eyed rookies who thought that they could make mommy and daddy proud.
In effect- she had Nothing.
It was enough to make her want to Scream.
Glynda sighed. Maybe she should retire. Foist the problem onto someone else and just relax in the countryside alone with a fine wine and pretty sunset. Maybe a candlelit bath with her favorite music playing. She could watch it all burn from a comfortable distance, and then disappear. It would be so much easier that way, then what she had to put up with now. Glynda Goodwitch, the now Headmistress of Beacon Academy, at last took a withering gaze down at the heinous stack of documents currently occupying a large portion of her desk and felt another headache coming on.
She cradled her head in her hands, wishing that she hadn't tossed that flask away, so that she could just idly slip away from the pain and fall back into some more convenient and pleasant alcohol-induced memories. Each time she did so, however, she would always eventually come back to the present. The impossibility of her situation seemed to dwarf any short bursts of determination that she might muster up, and any attempts at escapism would just hold the problems piling up around her at bay for a little while. Honestly, retiring, and taking her leave seemed like the only sensible option left to her.
To further her misfortune, Glynda readily knew that the sensible option wasn't always the right choice. There was no one else even remotely capable of handling this, she was the only one. If she were to back out, that would mean leaving whatever was left of Beacon Academy to the Council, who was more than willing to turn belly-up and hand it over to Atlas.
Glynda would rather die than see that happen.
So, like countless times before, the Headmistress took a moment to compose herself. She fixed her hair, adjusted her glasses and put on that mask of stoic disapproval that she had so long ago mastered. She knew that it wouldn't last long. Things were falling apart. No, things had already fallen apart. She was just trying to hold together whatever was left.
Beacon was still in the hands of Salem, attacks by the beasts against the perimeter of Vale City had become a daily occurrence. Civilians were pulled back from the border, forced to abandon their homes in order to make way for the Vale City Militia and the regular army.
The Police were largely tasked with handling the citizens, and so far it seemed to be working, but Glynda knew that it was only a matter of time before tempers would begin to flare. The number of civilians that the Police and local shelters had to handle right now was minimal, most were being pressed into the militia- but no forced conscription yet. But the number of refugees was rising by the day. The outlying cities of the kingdom were suffering from Grimm raids, and many were fleeing into the inner cities for salvation, and with each city that fell, the number of refugees increased exponentially.
The demand for hunters was ever-present. The Military and the Militia wanted Hunters for operations against the Grimm or for use as convoy escorts. The Police wanted Hunters for countering illegal activity within the cities. The Council wanted hunters for clandestine operations against the Grimm that still occupied Beacon. The demand for Hunters within Vale was at an all time high.
And where there is a demand, did appear a supplier.
The Contractors.
Glynda felt the headache she had been trying to suppress surge into reality. She groaned.
The Contractors…
Her near constant headache would always worsen at the thought of them. Soulless corporations that hired and outfitted hunter groups. The Academies were supposed to be the only authority when it came to Hunters operating within the Kingdoms, managing and controlling every team, holding them accountable for their actions. These outside companies were nothing like that. Mercenaries more than anything, they took contracts that any self-respecting Academy-Taught Hunter would balk at. These ranged from smuggling missions, to espionage, to far more illicit affairs.
Mistral was known to be the most common outfitters for these groups, and more often than not, outfitters from the corporations could be found poaching graduates of Mistral and Vacuo academies. Paramore Inc, Keystone Operations, Blackout Industries, Fire Glaive, and Frostbite Applied Security Tactics- 'F.A.S.T' were the big five, three of them were based in Mistral itself, the latter two paying homage to Atlas, having the dubious reputation of being the Atlasian militaries 'Wetwork' contractors. Charged and subcontracted out to do the jobs that the military hegemony of Atlas would rather keep their hands clean from.
Vale had always struggled with combating the influences of these sorts of groups. Ozpin had made a name off of doing so. Mercenary Hunters had no accountability when backed by a large corporate entity. The rules and strictures mandated by the council and the academies didn't apply to them. Ozpin had argued that it was better for the kingdoms to rely on the Academies rather than the services of shadowy faceless organizations that were willing to hire any number of disgraced or reprehensible Hunters with questionable morals and sordid pasts.
The problem, is that while Ozpin had talked a good game, he had lacked in following it up. The Outfitters offered lucrative contracts for any Hunters willing to sign on with them. They provided benefits, a bi-weekly paycheck, they covered travel expense and technical support, they even provided advanced training and simulation courses. Corporate hunter groups far outstripped academy based Hunter teams in terms of tech and training.
There was also the fact that Academy students often went into the field blind, the corporations on the other hand would often devote platoon-sized field teams to supporting their Hunters with medical and mechanical aid, even fire-support.
The only thing that the Privet sector Hunters couldn't do was participate in the yearly festivals, but even then, those were declining in popularity. Their were groups in the Private sector that were starting to develop their own reality-vid series to be broadcast in Atlas and Mistral if the rumors were anything to go by. Supposedly they were going to be shows about 'The Dark Kingdoms', in reference to Vale and Vacuo both being cut off from the CCT network.
Glynda looked at the first of the massive pile of documents on her desk. It was a notice of terminated deployment by the southern Vale City garrison in regards to one of the two rookie Hunter teams that Glynda had allowed to be placed under the command of the garrison commander. The reason for them being sent back to her, was that the council had signed off on a deal with Keystone Operations and bought the services of what was commonly known in the Privet sector, as a 'Special Operators Group.' It wasn't yet a full package deal, that much Glynda could sigh in relief about. But, in a way, Glynda maybe would have preferred a SOG Team, since the deal that had gone through was a deal with Keystone. This meant that they were gonna be sending in one of their Teams. "Commandos." A group of Hunters with limited support, but packing everywhere else it mattered.
It left Glynda seething as she read the report. This wasn't the first instance of the Council caving into pressure from the Privet Sector. They were offering discounts and deals on their services, but it was all a ploy to open up the doors for them to operate legally within Vale Kingdom without needing Council permits and authorization. Once they got the go ahead, the long-standing precedent of Vale being the only Kingdom to not fully endorse privet sector security forces would be over.
Paramour and Frostbite were already given the go ahead to run operations in support of the Military and the Militia. Paramour was more than anything interested in further increasing its self-image in the eyes of the public at large. Their Hunter teams were more Idols and Performers than they were actual Hunters. So far, it had only been small scale deals, nothing too serious. Just a few squads of Privet Sector Hunters patrolling the streets, keeping the peace by just being there. But with rumors of F.A.S.T being in talks with the council about deploying a sizable SOG team to the southern border, that made a world of difference. If it was at all true, then the tables were beginning to turn against Glynda. And once again, then there were these 'Commandos'.
The worst Hunters of the Privet sector had to be Keystone's. They were notorious crooks. The disgraced and outcasted. Academy dropouts and expulsions, Keystone scooped them up like candies. Heartless thugs, willing to do whatever it was in search of a paycheck, they would take the dirties deals, and do the most scummy missions. Keystone wasn't like Frostbite or F.A.S.T, they didn't often deploy large numbers of support personnel, what they did instead was send their 'Commandos' out with a tricked out Hammerhead that acted as a mobile base of operations for the four-man team. What they did, and how the accomplished their missions was up to them and their shadowy underworld contacts. The Corporation was willing to cut its losses and sever ties with any Commando teams that botched their mission to such a degree that it would be better for the company to cancel their contracts on the spot and withdraw support, leaving the Hunters stranded. On more than one occasion, this lead to some serious incidents where a blacklisted Keystone Commando team decided to cause all sorts of mayhem in the kingdom that had the misfortune of buying their services.
On the other hand, few other Companies got the results that Keystone did, and for such low prices…
Glynda reached for her flask, only to remember that it was on the other side of her office. Her head slumped and banged against the surface of her desk. She let herself lie like that for a few minutes. And after those minutes, she gave herself a couple more, and then more, and then even more. When she woke up, it would already be the morrow, and the reports of the storm, of the meteors, and of the faces in the clouds that eclipsed the shattered moon of remnant would be waiting for her, straight from the council.
…
Hastis opens his eyes, only to shut them again and groan aloud. The uncomfortable metal bench he's laying on slams back against his head as he tries to block out the light.
"So, you're breathing." An amused voice speaks to him. "That's an improvement."
It took several seconds to organize his thoughts. His head was clouded with a thick cloying fog. He tried to raise his head only for someone to shove him back down.
"No, stop that."
Hastis tried to bark out an insult, he tried to say anything, but with his tongue feeling like chewing-gum the best he could manage was to drool all over himself and gurgle like an idiot child.
"Throne, look at you," A soft cloth dabbed at his chin, mopping up his drivel. "Can hardly believe that you'd be an inquisitorial agent the way you are now. But, I suppose you have the merits to prove it." He clung to the words spoken to him as a lifeline pulling him back into reality, dragging him out of the swirling fog occluding his conscious. Grunting in reply, he tried opening his eyes again. The light was far less harsh now, and blurry shapes began to swim into focus.
He was on his back, lying on a cot in a medical APC, a Samaritan, a casualty-carriage or meat-wagon as some guardsmen would say. The APC rumbled to a halt, his body jerking numbly with every bump in the terrain, and there was a sister hospitaler of all things glowering down at him. Throne- this brought back memories…
The left half of her face a mess of augmetic lenses, her remaining half still flesh but significantly scarred. She was dressed in the armor of her order, power armor of a lighter mark, made for stability and dexterity, rather than raw protection and power.
"Are you of your senses, now?" The Sister asked, her voice was dry and clipped. She sounded like a noblewoman. "Blink for how many." She ordered, holding up two fingers, then five, before going down to three while moving her hand about his field of vision. He blinked in accordance, tracking her hand, "Good enough." She said, taking a second to pry open one of his eyes and leer closely. "You should be relatively safe to move around. Not at all comfortable, but," She grins, no humor in her expression at all, just regret and despondence. "I'm sure you can handle a bit of pain, now, can you?"
Hastis smacked his lips trying to sound a word or two out through his numbed gums. In the end he could only splutter a reply that sounded like nonsense before he stumbled his way out of the back of the machine.
He was in the middle of an Imperial guard assault, against the main bastion of defense- the shielded city. It was only just this morning when he had seen it from the mountain passes that are now choked with the dead. He looked about- the surroundings coated in mud and blood. Defensive positions that were formerly the enemies own, earthenwork trenches and sunken artillery positions, the ground was shaking from repeated reports of artillery fire.
In the distance, but far closer now, the void shield rippled with repeated impacts of artillery fire en-masse. His head was still foggy, and his body still ached, but Hastis took his time in searching the area around him. He was in a medical triage camp, set up by the advancing forces of the Imperial guard who had bought this current former obstacle with the lives of Legionaries.
Over a dead field he can just make out the Cathedral in the distance. Built onto the side of a mountain, the great city of Valtavyn was a work of centuries for its people in times past. Constantly being added onto and slowly expanding outwards in every direction. From where Hastis stood, looking up at the city, he could see the grand spires of stone and metal spiraling upwards against the backdrop of the ash-stained sky. He could make out the thin blue haze of the cities void-shield, every other second a ripple of energy would cascade around the impact of an artillery bombardment.
The conquest ahead was going to be a grueling task…
It took Hastis a few seconds to place himself. He was surrounded by prefab pillboxes and entrenched positions. They weren't any pristine things, they were smashed and broken. Ferrocrete shells blasted open to expose the innards. Currently, he was in some sort of triage station, a forward battlefield hospital. The Samaritan was there, along with several others, parked behind the ruins of several pillboxes for cover with several slanted inch-thick plasteel roof set up to act as makeshift shelters against light mortar fire and airburst munitions.
There were several guardsmen- actual guardsmen, not penal legionaries- currently being treated in the remains of bunkers by either medicae servitors and corpsmen. It took him a minute to realize that while he was out, the shock regiment had advanced up and taken the second defensive line. Judging by the damage to the bunkers and the amount of craters, it would be more accurate to say that it wasn't taken, so much as it was smashed in half. Several eyes were on him.
Wounded guardsmen were being treated, Hastis counted around several dozen, laid out in rows according to which ones will make it and which ones cant be helped. Off to the side, there was a pile of bloody black bags for the ones who were already dead. Hastis caught one of the medicae's by the arm.
"Hey, where can I find the inquisitor?" He said, wiping his mouth, he hoped he wasn't drooling- that would be the last thing he needed right now. The trooper looked Hastis up and down, deciding that despite his disheveled appearance , his dirty armor and patched up features, that it would be best to play it safe when dealing with possible inquisitorial adjutant.
"He's in the command bunker, m'lord. Meetin' with the colonel."
Hastis nodded and grunted, "Okay, and where's that then?"
The trooper gestured behind him, deeper into the trenches. "Right at the center, M'lord, jus follow the signs."
"Right then, my thanks. Carry on." Hastis says, trudging into the trenches, leaving the trooper.
The trenches were deep here, high-walls wide enough for three or four men to stand abreast each other. They were in markedly better condition than the ones that he, Hyork, and Lagorn had stormed with the penals, and although there were clear signs of combat, the network was surprisingly in still operable condition. It smelled of Astartes work and he spat at the though of it.
Guardsmen in heavy flakk armor colored tan, brown and dusky dust-yellow were everywhere. Running back and forth through the trenches, they were carrying heavy ordinance supplies or carting static weapons emplacements to what he could only guess to be the front lines. What the front lines looked like right now, he didn't know, but it must've been some form of positive- because he wasn't hearing any return shots from enemy artillery, only the raucous report of imperial earthsakers.
He was tempted to pull one of the soldiers aside again, and ask them what the situation was at this moment but he held back from doing so, he'd find out soon enough from Hyork himself, and likely the man who Hyork was speaking too would be more than willing to elucidate him.
The mud sucked at his boots, more blood than anything wholesome. Already several guardsmen were running through the trench complex, readjusting ruined fortifications and laying down duckboard. Several spared him a few quick glances before moving on, there was no time for laxity. This was still an active warzone. It took him several minutes of walking, trudging through muck, mud, and guts to reach it, but found it before too long.
Hastis cracked open the door to the bunker- the acrid stench of soot, promethium, and smoke wafted out to meet him instead. His nose curled but he stepped inside and walked down. The place was soot stained and scorch marks covered the walls, floor, and ceiling, evidence of prodigious flamer usage, or some sort of purification rite.
Hastis found Lagorn with Hyork; they were standing outside of a command bunker once used by the Heretic echelons previously in control of this trench network.
Ecclesiarchal servitors were scraping away at the walls of the permacrete structure buried in the ground, numbly muttering eulogies and hymns, sanctifying the place before it was made use of. Hastis could smell the saccharine smell of flamer exhaust wafting up from within the complex, its walls doubtlessly purified by fire before being scraped clean.
"Ah, Hastis." Hyork said, noticing him now. "Good to see you moving. Damage must've looked worse than it actually was, I see."
Hastis grunted, looking at the third man among them. "This is…" He asked.
"Colonel Diego Vestalt, commander of the Calibrian 76th Linebreakers." The man introduced himself. His features were long and stoic, his greying hair combed back over his scalp. He had the unusual complexion of dark yet pale skin that marked him out as a tanker from a desert world. Born under a punishing star but destined to die within a steel coffin. "A pleasure to be of service to the most holy Ordos."
"The pleasure is all mine, Colonel." Hyrok nodded. "To fill you in, Hastis, we're seconding ourselves to this regiment for the remainder of the campaign."
"Sir?" Hastis raised an eyebrow at the obvious complications that brought up. Lagorn caught his eye and subtly shook his head. Hastis closed his mouth, despite the protests in his mind. "As you say, sir."
"Damn shame about the Preceptor though, a fine warrior, may she rest in His light." Lagorn made the sign of the Aquilla over his chest.
"Sorry if this is all a bit sudden for you, Colonel. But with there only being me and my two adjutants, I'm afraid I don't have the capability to really operate in the usual manner expected of those of my station. And I wouldn't dare take from the Astartes at the moment, they are needed on the battlefield to do as they will."
"It is of no concern, Inquisitor, my command staff has already been notified. We shall do as you order."
"Of those orders, you also need not worry so much. I'm here on the grounds of rooting out any potential spiritual corruption that my try to worm its way through your ranks. While I have full confidence in your commissars I have found that a more personal and, 'nuanced' approach yields better results."
Hastis decided to let them talk, he waved Lagorn over, the vox operator complying reticently. "What is it?" He asked.
"What's going on?" He said. "Why's Hyork doing this?" He snapped quietly under his breath. "Nothing good will come of this later. Don't think that I won't testify."
"You think testifying will do you any good?"
"A painless death at the very least. I know better than to hope we get through this alive."
"I know, but he's got a solid reasoning to do this."
"And what might that be?"
"He reckons if we put in some good work before they catch up to us, we may have actual chance at a second tribunal."
"You serious?"
"It's better than doing nothing, sir."
Hastis found himself back with Hyork and Lagorn, forced together uncomfortably close inside a command bunker, a table had been set up in the center of the permacrete fortification alight with the screen glow of cogitators and the muttering of Servitors. A map was displayed on the table, tiny markers and flags depicting the flow of the battle. Aside from Hyork, Lagorn, and Hastis, there was also the Colonel and his counterparts: the commanders of the first, second, third, fourth and fifth companies of the 76th. Of those five, only three would be directly participating in the assault.
The colonel began the proceedings. "There will be nothing fancy about the assault. I won't sugar it. It's going to be a rough one. The moment we begin the bastards will be hammering us. They've already cottoned onto our push and have been launching cluster mines along the way. The stormshards have taken care of most of them but there's nothing we can do about their guns until we're under that shield."
"Any chance on bringing it down through bombardment?"
"Negative. It's a damn fine piece of archeotech, that shield. Coggers say it can hold up against orbital bombardment. Last time anyone tried to take one of these down with artillery, it took them months to even get a flicker. And it only lasted for five minutes. Next flicker took just as long before they started making any real progress. We don't have that kind of time."
"So, we'll have to dismantle it from the inside?"
"The Coggers will be up in arms if we hurt their shield. Besides, it originates from the Cathedral, that's where the emitter is. Afraid we'll be without artillery support most of the way. The Astartes will be breaching before us in order to locate and suppress as many gun batteries as possible. Once we get our pieces in under the shield we can begin close-in counter battery operations. Until that point, we'll be relying on the marines."
"Here's hoping they actually do their damned job this time…"
"Ah, I heard about what happened to the Penal Legionaries. They assured me that it will not happen again."
"Feh."
"First and command company will lead the charge. Iron Judicator will take center, Ironclad and Challenger will form the spear-tip, Reaper and Stormlance will wedge behind them, Tycarion and Voltair will advance behind Judicator. Forming the shaft will be second company in combat spread. First and Second platoon will break left, third and fourth will break right, the Fifth platoon with be charged with forming a fighting line, third company will advance to reinforce their positions alongside the fourth and fifth in short order. Once this is complete, we'll begin the advance into the city. Tycarion will advance along the east, and the west will go to Voltair. Iron Judicator will advance behind the Second-Company towards the cathedral alongside our armored units. We'll be the main thrust."
"What are we expecting in terms of enemy opposition?"
"Expect to be constantly under fire. They've had plenty of time to fortify this city. Traps, mines, deadfalls, and kill-boxes. A bunker around every corner."
"Sounds dangerous for our armored units."
"It's why the Second is charged with leading the main push."
"Wouldn't the First be better off with that?"
"The First has to secure the flanks, they'll be split up to do it."
"Don't advance behind the armor, we can't afford to have an assault caught up because one of our babies got slagged and is holding up the advance."
"Enemy armor?"
"Unknown, assume yes."
"Is there any further support we can expect?"
"Once we begin counter battery operations they will regroup with the Tycarion and Voltair in order to assist with their pushes."
The second company commander spoke up, looking at Hyork "What support can we expect from the Holy Ordos?"
The inquisitor shook his head. "There is not much I can do. I may be an inquisitor but the needs of the greater campaign come first."
Deov cut in. "It is of no concern. With the support of the Astartes personnel who will accompany us we will be victorious. We merely need faith. Trust in the Machine, and trust in the Emperor."
"Regardless of that, it still remains that it will be the Second and Grenadiers that will be taking the brunt of the assault."
The third company commander spoke this time. "Is that wise?" He asked. "We'll be sure to draw a good deal of fire. Are you certain that the tanks should hold back? They can take a great deal more punishment than the infantry can."
"It's too much of a risk. The streets are narrow. If a lead tank gets holed, it'll hold up every tank behind it. Only after the infantry clear the way of any possible Anti-Tank units will our armor be able to move up and secure the line."
"If our tanks aren't moving, then their sitting ducks for the enemies big-guns…" He muttered. "Did you take that issue up with the Astartes?"
"I told them as much. They told me to 'Handle It.'"
Hastis growled, "Upstart bastards. Bet it's easy for them to say that when you're wearing a bloody meter of armor on your ass." Hyork gave him a withering glare that told him to be silent; Hastis ignored it as he always did.
"Point of order, sir, but what can we expect in terms of air assets?"
"Absolutely nothing. The Imperial Aeronautica has wiped their hands of this, as have the Navy. It's up to us on the ground."
"The enemy has Triple-A that damned effective?"
"No, we simply lack the availability of any strike-craft. They have been requisitioned to other crusading elements." Deov said.
"What about the enemy?"
"The enemy has only shown the propensity to field primitive wooden flying machines using oil-based prop-engines. These machines fly low and slowly with ineffectual maneuverability. A simple laspistol is more than enough to swat them out of the sky. Hydras wont even deign to waste ammunition on these things."
"Enemy armor?"
"This is where things become complicated. The primary point of impasse over the battle for this planet is exactly that. The opposition has shown a remarkable propensity towards armored production. Though primitive and inferior to our own, the enemy has the capability to field tracked weapons platforms in large numbers, and more importantly…" The Colonel looks to Hyork for this, pointedly eyeing him, as if asking for permission to speak of something ill and forbidden.
Hyork clears his throat and steps forwards. "This is where my field of expertise comes in. You see, the forces of the Arch-enemy make up for their lack of resources and manpower through the use of Psykers. The machines they build, their 'Tanks,' are in fact pseudo-living constructs, much like a servitor in fact. They use the foul powers of their heretic Psykers to imbue malicious will's into their vehicles. This talk of 'Daemons' and 'Monsters' is all hear-say, and a proper application of staunch faith in the Emperor and sufficient firepower is more than enough to banish these 'ghosts'." The bunker is quiet for a moment. Hyork looked around the room with a steady gaze. "That, is of course, what you will be having your commissars tell the men under your command. What I am about to say to you, is the actual truth."
"They are called Daemon-Engines. They are malicious machines of metal and muscle. They are powered directly through the invocation of the warp to possess inert machines and transform them into abominations. Through despicable power, these possessed machines are capable of far-outstripping imperial armor in terms of resilience, maneuverability, and firepower. As for how to banish them, faith is indeed a shield against their otherwise corruptive influences." "Can they be killed?"
"They can. Enough heavy firepower can disable them, hit them enough times to crack them open and then douse them in promethium. I would have your chief Enginseer and Ministorum priest bless all your soldiers and vehicles before you begin this assault. Faith and conviction, as well as a strong and focussed mind, is all the shield you will have against being corrupted by these monstrosities."
"Sacred Throne."
"Indeed, commander." Hyrok nodded. "The best you can do is to turn your fear into hate and disgust. Channel your emotions as you would aim a rifle or draw a sword. Control the sway of your heart, and they will have no power over you."
"Your warnings are appreciated inquisitor, this will aid us greatly."
"Furthermore, let it be known that this knowledge is strictly forbidden. If you are found to be dispersing the more sensitive information that you now know, I assure you, retribution will be exacted, and punishment will be harsh. Ignorance is among our chief weapons against the Warp."
"We understand completely, inquisitor. Our lips are sealed."
It was later, outside the repurposed command bunker that Hastis confronted Hyork about what had been said in the meeting previous. The talk of the Warp, and of malign engines of dark powers had unnerved him. He turned to the old inquisitor, and said his grievances.
"So, what is it that you know? What is it that you didn't tell them?"
Hyork sighed. "The four dark powers of the warp are at work here, The Changer, and the Skull Lord primarily, but we have seen elements of cults favored by the Hermaphrodite Queen and the Plaguefather." Hyork shakes his head. "The only time the dread four have cooperated before was during times of great crises. The Horus Heresy, the Black Crusades, and The Shattering, but why here? This is by all accounts a minor skirmish in comparison to the larger crusade at hand."
"You think this is a trap?"
"It has to be, it could not be anything but that. Yet, we have seen no true Daemons, we've merely seen those half-hearted attempts at Daemon-Engines, minor possessions, lesser chaos spawn, and one or two Daemonhosts who showed no attributes of The Four."
"I'll admit, it's strange." Hastis snorts. "Doesn't change anything, though. Still have to grind them to dust, one way or the other."
"Agreed, but it bodes poorly for the Calibrians. Whatever the foe has planned, they will take the brunt of it."
"They're Guardsmen. It always comes down to them getting shafted by the higher ups. It's how it is, it's how it'll always be."
"Quite the Cynic, you are."
"Thanks to you, sir."
"Come off it, already."
…
He had walked the warp long before this world had come to know the virtues of Chaos. He had seen the Shattering, and before even that he had seen the battlefields of the Great Heresy. He was old, ancient- and with age came power. Clad in armor so dark and blue that it could be mistaken for black, he stood in a place of worship- but he was far from sanctified. His very presence seemed to cast a new light upon the marble faces of saints and angels that stared down from their carved stone perches- from dutiful repose into trembling silence.
He had many names, but none of them were true, he stood alone- for the moment. A Chaos sorcerer, a survivor, a consummate practitioner of warp-born magicks. His legion was dead and scattered, and any brothers he had once kept were dust and ash. Yet, he fought on. The great chapel of this world- a lynchpin of the battlefield and Ley-line in the warp. Staring up at it now from the base of its steps made him feel small when he would oft feel indomitable.
This is where it would happen. Had to be, now way it could not.
He sensed the others before they approached. He payed them no heed, and instead waited for them to speak.
"It is the Guard, my lord. They have overrun the outer defenses." The voice was grating and rough, disguising clear malice.
The sorcerer nodded. "How long 'till they assault the shield."
"Just under an hour at the most, my lord."
"Are the chattel prepared?"
"They man the defenses, my lord. As for their usefulness…"
"Your faith in them is that poor?"
"The enemy is a heavily armored regiment, with apparent superheavy capabilities. It is doubtful that our defenses will hold long under a sustained assault."
He nodded again, thinking. "They mean to crack the wall and hold the breach with their tanks. Then they will move their infantry through and only then will they bring their armor up thereafter. They would be fools to send their tanks directly into an urban confrontation without infantry to screen their advance."
"Your orders, my lord?"
The sorcerer sighed. "They will be 'neath the shield when the time comes. We must therefore
improvise. Reinforce the second and tertiary interior defenses. Let them take the walls."
The voice snorted. The clank of metal on metal, a blade being drawn from a sheath. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"Yes," He nods again. "Inform the Dead-Oath." He turns now, staring at the sky- blackening with the coming night, the smoke obscures the moons and the stars. Only the blue glow of the void shield to provide any ambient light once the sun falls behind the mountains. "They have loyalists to hunt."
Hastis' hand clamped hard on the railing, head bent he said his prayers as the world outside was split asunder by the bombardment of hundreds of heavy guns all shouting at once. He grits his teeth, sweat drips from his head. The interior of the Crassus is cramped with flak-vested bodies all crammed together standing upright. The dim red light paints everything in as a maroon charnel-pit in the making. Every-other second the titanic troop transport is rocked by a deafening impact or series of thuds that denote the blistering anti-tank fire that is bracketing their transport. The engine growls, the tracks grind on, the unseen hellstorm outside is projected into the vehicle interior through the thick plasteel and ceramite hull.
The Crassus bucks, lurching upwards and throwing itself up some sort of incline. Hastis sucks in a lungful of recycled air and shuts his eyes as not a moment later the concussion of an explosion washes over the massive troop transport and shakes the men huddled inside. Impacts start perforating the Crassus left and right in escalating waves of weapons fire, a hailstorm of high-explosive shells ripple over the reinforced armored hold. Hastis ducks his head down, tucking his chin against his flak-vest he fervently prays, trying to take his mind off the impacts.
He wasn't used to this- not at all. His old regiment rarely used massed infantry carriers, instead relying on fast moving, small hit and run vehicles, the Salamander and Tauros respectively. Being stuck inside the slow moving Crassus was hell for Hastis, the knowledge that it would only take a single lucky shot to rip through a break in the hull to kill them all was fraying his nerves. Sweat was stinging his eyes, he looked to Lagorn, the Vox specialist was pale, clutching he seat with white knuckled intensity.
The Crassus rocked, this time being hit hard enough by something to knock it off course, the massive land-crawler swerved hard to the left, the engine growled heartily, as if accepting the challenge. Through it all, the Guardsmen in the transport bay were fidgeting, not out of nerves, no, but instead impatience. With that, Hastis could not help but notice a repeating sound echoing from within the troop-hold.
There was a continuous thumping, sounding inside the hull, louder and louder, Hastis looked up, trying to spy the cause in the ruddy red light of the troop compartment, he thought it might be a breach in the interior, some loose panel or bent plate. He couldn't find anything- a buzzing a low pitched groan started up. He looked to see what the guardsmen were making of the racket- if they even cared at all- the jaded Grenadiers of the regiment.
The sound was coming from them.
The guardsmen stomped their boots in time, humming low in pitch and tone. Hastis listened, as the lieutenant at the front stood, gripping a ceiling handrail.
"Calibrians," He shouted over the sound of hundreds of guns and countless rockets ripping into the armored hull of the mighty Crassus, twice he was nearly knocked off his feet by a particularly vicious explosion. "Grenadiers!" He shouted again, the humming picked up, the grenadiers stomped harder.
"Can you feel that?"
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"Can you feel His eyes on you?!"
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"Grenadiers!"
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
"Seventy five times, guardsmen."
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Seventy five times before has He watched our glory."
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Tell me now, Grenadiers. What glory are we?"
The guardsmen, shoulder to shoulder the take up their weapons, they stomp their boots thrice more and now they shout, chanting in unison:
"Seventy Six. Seventy Six."
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"He calls for us! He calls for warriors!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Born unto duty! Born unto War! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Shout it you bastards! Tell me your pain!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Boots in the mud! Blood on our lips! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"What is our purpose! What is our cause?!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"We are His hammer! We shatter their skulls! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Of the poor sqeks who face us!? What of their walls and their guns?!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"No foe too many! All fortresses fall! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Our time is now! Tell me your oath! Shout it!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Drive home the spear! The Throneworld calls! Seventy Six! Seventy Six!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"What blood burns in our veins?" The Lieutenant roars.
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Calibrian! Calibrian!"
"By who's blood will this planet be cleansed?"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Calibrian! Calibrian!"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Who's glory will be writ this day?"
Stomp, Stomp, Stomp,
"Calibrian! Calibrian!"
The Crassus surge forwards, one last push up and over a trench or embankment before its nose comes crashing back down and the tracks whine and groan as the engine pushes them to dig into the mud and haul the massive troop carrier forwards. He could feel it, this was it, Hastis grabs Hyork by the arm and yanks him out of his seat, Lagorn rising too.
"Soldiers of Calibra!" The guardsmen are chuffing at the bit, punching each other on the shoulder, cracking helmets together, the low chanting having now become a continuous roar of 'Calibrian!' The lieutenant draws his saber the electric blue glow of the crackling energy field harsh in contrast to the red light of the cabin.
The lieutenant shouts, "Grenadiers! Make ready! Mark~! Mark~!"
Hastis Hisses to Hyork. "This is it, this is it-" He snarls. "Lagorn," He snaps to the Vox specialist. "Don't lose sight of me,"
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir." The guardsman nods, he pulls his helmet tighter, a patchwork job on his helmets strap keeping it on his head but not centered.
The Crassus lurches once again, pivoting part way before grinding to a halt, the guardsmen rock back and hold tight to the rails overhead. The lieutenant shouts one last time; "Remember your spacing! Get ready!"
The ramp drops, dirty light floods into the cabin, a wave of sound see's fit to crush Hastis back against the hull. The Grenadiers roar, boots stampede- smashing down the ramp, the hazy red glow replaced by hellfire and ash that sweeps into the troop hold. High-pitched shrieks and concussive, deafening thuds, the scream of lasguns and massed autogun fire with the rat-tat-tat-tat chatter of heavy stubbers.
"Hold tight to the Crassus, keep low!" Hastis shouts over the noise, he forces himself towards that portal of light and the promise of a grungy, trench filled hell. Jumping down the ramp into a mud slick battleground, Hyork is behind him, Lagorn sticking close. The outside world is awash in smoke and soot, Hastis lands in mud almost up past his ankles, he struggles for footing.
He's standing at an angle, the terrain sloping up to the curtain walls of the city. Trenches and bunkers are carved into the slope like handholds on a mountain, in each trench and bunker are hundreds of turncoat Valtavyn militia and cultists using antiquated or stolen weapons- and each one of them is hungry for Imperial blood.
It takes a second for Hastis to orient himself, he calls back to the briefing, the plan was an armored hammer-blow backed up by mechanized infantry. A singular crushing assault, blunt and to the point. The tanks would push up with the grenadiers, and smash the defenses while the astartes take out any artillery camps within the city. The push centered on the main entrance, and despite its heavy defenses, the age and relatively primitive construction of the city was in favor of the imperials. The curtain walls of the city were crumbling- coming apart piece by piece.
The 76th's Demolisher siege tanks were relentless in their advance, pausing only to fire their cannons and bombard the ancient curtain walls and blast apart reinforced gatehouses. Even so, the wallguns do not cease their retribution; primitive gunpowder variant blast cannons launching large, explosive ordinances down at the attacking 76th. In the trenches, crudely dug things- cowled and hooded cultist fling grenades and fire heavy weapons at the approaching grenadiers. Lasbeams burn the air, bolter rounds leave smoking contrails in their wake, vicious storms of lead and burning gouts of promethium are the order of the day.
Punching through this confluence, the wide armored tracks of the Crassus that played host to Hastis grind into motion as the assault transport lurches forward, the autocannon and heavy stubber mounts are blistering away- the barrels glowing cherry red as smoke-launchers eject canisters that burst mid-air to provide concealment for the guardsmen elites.
An eviscerating Lascannon beam scours just over Hastis, scarring the hull of the mighty Crassus, digging deep but failing to break through the first few layers of heat-dispersive Ceramite armor. In rapid reaction one of the stubber mounts turns and returns fire with a stream of tracer rounds- in concert one of the forward leman russes reengages- an exterminator variant- it's twin-autocannon turret traverses around to engage and suppresses the weapons team.
The spearhead attack storms towards the gate, riding on inertia and momentum to carry the assault before heavy ordinance can dial in the sector and smash the attacking force with overwhelming artillery fire before imperial counter-battery fire can be brought up under the shield to lay the hurt back on the Valtavyian traitor guns. The lack of howling shells raining down from above are not proof enough for Hastis to believe that the Astartes strike teams sent ahead had succeeded. He would only trust the honest guns of the imperial guard, not some stimm-addled bolter-monkey.
The Calibrian infantry was pressing hard, true to their title as 'Linebreakers' they threw themselves at the Valtavyn defensive networks with gusto. The Grenadiers, in keeping with their namesake occupation, chucked smoke canisters as the weapons specialists hefted their bulky grenade launchers and fired from the hip in a low crouch, the 'Thud, Thud, Thud' of explosive munitions set the stage for their squad-mates to charge.
Vaulting over pieces of broken masonry they shouldered their rifles and held down the trigger, storming uphill at the conflagration of the enemies trenches, suppressing the blazing fire-slits of hostile bunkers. Hastis kept his head down, not ready to just throw himself into such a hailstorm of laser and shot, and for good reason. A light stubber stitched a line across the advancing formation of guardsmen, he watched as the heavy double layered carapace plates that the Calibrian Grenadiers wore across their front caught the rounds and the impact threw several to the ground, one was not so lucky, the bullet rebounding off the plate, deflecting up and through his jaw- the top of his helmet erupted like a volcano with wet red chunks of brain and skull.
One of the grenadiers made it to the foot of a fortified ferrocrete bunker, ripping a red-taped canister from his belt he pulled the pin and waited several seconds before tossing it through a break in the firing slit that repeated impacts of krak grenades had made. Flames rippled out of the stubber ports a moment later as the incendiary let loose inside the close confines of the bunker with an eruption of volatile compressed promethium, and the grenadier cackled as he watched. With the bunker silenced the rest of the infantry advanced against the withering fire of trenches, the strongpoint silenced by the forward shock and awe tactics of the grenadiers.
This was like nothing Hastis or Lagorn, and Hyrok especially, were used to. Gritting his teeth, Hastis rips free his revolver and urges himself forwards, slogging through the mud, upwards towards the trenches.
"C'mon, we're moving!" Hastis shouted. Pulling at Hyork, the three moved forwards in a low crouch- bullets still snapped overhead, and mortar shells fell in infrequent volleys. Hastis kept his breathing steady, ignoring the continuous raking fire of heavy stubbers overhead, ignoring the constant sparking of solid shot and laser off the hull of the Crassus just to his right, how ricocheting bullets pepper his side with their fragmenting jackets. Part of him wants to lie flat in the mud and wait for it to be over, but his iron will keeps him from doing just that.
"This is insanity!" Hyork shouted, cracks in his confidence breaking. It's enough to get a grin out of Hastis, "We'll be blown to pieces before we can even reach the city!"
"This is war, Inquisitor!" Hastis shouted back, the ruddy red mud sucking at his boots as they advanced up the embankment towards the curtain walls of the city. "You wont find any pretty papers and dinner parties here!"
The grenadiers slam into the first line of trenches under a withering white blanket of smoke. They impact upon the prepared defensive positions like a tank rolling over a speed-bump. They poured into the closed in confines of the trench-network, where the close quarters combat was swift, brutal, and one sided. The strong layered carapace armor the elite Calibrian Grenadiers was crude, bulky, and heavy, but the small arms fire of the Valtavyn traitor militia sparked and spanged off of it like rocks would against a fortress.
In return the Grenadiers let loose with long scything bursts of full auto lasfire, the traitors came apart, their clothes burning away and their bodies exploding as the intense heat of concentrated lasfire boiled the water in their cells and turned it to steam. As the men swarmed into the trenches, the behemoth Crassus followed close behind, collapsing the defensive network on either side of it with consecutive blasts from its heavy autocannons and sweltering bursts of fiery promethium whenever a hardpoint on its flank that the Grenadiers could not crack revealed itself.
Hastis kept just behind the massive armored transport as the Grenadiers made savage work. Despite the cover it provided it was a lucrative target for the wall mounted cannons, the damned things were mostly antiquated, primitive gunpowder designs but several mounted lascannons in the mix kept things interesting. It was the work of the demolishers to break those emplaced weapons teams, their turrets elevated fully, the siege tanks lobbed demolisher rounds capable of flattening a reinforced bunker at the top levels of the cities curtain walls.
Then, there was the Iron Judicator, the command tank of the Colonel. In fairness, to call it a tank was a disservice. The regimental commander rode to battle upon a Baneblade Superheavy. In its possession were no less than eleven-barrels of hell, twelve, if you counted the turret mounted pintle-stubber. The Baneblade was an unmistakeable icon of imperial might, a metal monstrosity coated in high-grade plasteel, armored ceramite, and reinforced with molecularly bonded adamantium plating over vital-points.
Nothing short of an enemy Titan, superheavy, or a determined heavy anti-tank unit was capable of matching such a steel behemoth. Most anti armor weapons would only spall its armor and anything less was nothing more than a summer rain against its unyielding hide. The main weapon- the fearsome Baneblade Battle Cannon- launched 250mml rocket-assisted shells that no armor was match against, its secondary cannon was a demolisher, what was normally mounted on specialized Leman Russ tanks was nothing more than a secondary weapon for such a monstrous vehicle, and its tertiary defensive weapons could cut platoons to ribbons.
It was said that such machines were being phased out of service in favor of the more reliable and agile Macharius-class of tanks, second generation Baneblades they were being called. It was said that Baneblades were too large a target, that they were too slow. That fielding such a vehicle was just asking to be hemmed in and pounded into dust by enemy artillery or air support. It was said that on a modern battlefield, speed and maneuverability were more important than heavy-armor.
Hastis still remembered very clearly one such commander. After the commander had voiced such an opinion, the regimental commissar had the man whipped. His reason being that, 'the man was clearly a tau sympathizer.'
Hastis was a guardsman before anything, and any guardsman hated commissars. But even Hastis could not find any flaw in the commissars statement, if anything, there was a grudging admiration.
Iron Judicator was even now just beginning its ascent up the embankment towards the main gates of the city, its growling engine echoed over the battlefield as a low hungry purr. It was slow, ponderous, and utterly menacing. Armor-piercing fire ripples over the upper glacis of Iron Judicator, finding home along the other ancient wounds that such a beast carried over its storied life of service. These were nothing more than mild irritations to the massive metal beast. The superheavy tank was not unsupported.
Only an idiot would send such a massive machine up the frontline without further reinforcement. Guardsmen from the second and third companies advanced in their droves, sticking close to the command tank, unleashing a near constant swath of red at the enemy. Leman Russ main battle tanks let loose with their cannons, and even Hydra Flak tanks came up behind the Baneblade, and, at either side of the massive war-machine, a pair of Hellhound flame tanks let loose, coating entire swaths of the battle-line in scouring fire.
For a moment, Hastis ignores the war around him to watch the main gun of Iron Judicator turn, and elevate. Its barrel rises, and the pintle autocannon looses a quick burst of rounds, as if testing the waters, and then-
It fires.
The unmistakable sound of a Baneblade Super Battlecannon firing dominates the war for a single moment before the massive high-velocity rocket propelled shell slams home into the archway above the main gates of the city beyond, and the entire battlefield silenced by a singular overwhelming eruption as the once ornate iron gates over thirty feet in height are blown to pieces.
A massive, gaping hole stands where the ancient defenses of the city once stood. A mad grin splits across Hastis' face.
It was nowhere near done yet. Demolisher siege tanks hammered the walls around the broken entrance, widening the gap, keeping it suppressed from any possible reinforcements. Exterminator patterns elevated their guns and raked the weapon emplacements atop the wall in rapid fire bursts of explosive death, suppressing the crews, keeping them locked down as Infantry rallied around them, forming ad-hoc defensive emplacements and palisades against enemy fire with prefab fortifications. Already actions were being undertaken to close the breach against enemy counter-attack and possible artillery bombardment.
A commander shouted. "We're pushing the breach! We're advancing now!" Waving his saber above his head like a beacon or a flag, he signaled for the platoons to keep moving, to push hard and push fast, to gain as much ground before resistance elements could reconvene and repulse them.
"Grenadiers, take to the front!"
The guardsmen Grenadiers let loose with their chants, their war cry's. The walls of the city were now suppressed, and the enemy was in a rout, falling back into the houses and streets behind the walls. With the Baneblade pushing up into the breach unopposed the Calibrians had succeeded in their assault. Only desultory weapons fire from the few remaining pockets of resistance remained outside the walls, the real resistance was past the breach and in the city beyond.
"Look at that, why don't you?" Hastis breathed, the armored bulk of Iron Judicator was pulling itself up and over the ruined remains of the gate. Its armored tracks crushing the masonry and metal beneath its weight. What it could not crush, it simply bulldozed out of the way. "Only ever saw those monsters at work from a distance."
"Used their cannons as ad-hoc artillery more than once back on Askada. Remember that?" Lagorn said.
"Yeah, never stopped raining on that shit-hole."
Hyork was quiet for a moment, eyeing the city beyond the walls- through the breached gate. He said nothing to Hastis or Lagorn, instead turning his attention to the flickering void-field that protected the city from orbital bombardment. For a singular second he was entranced by its shimmering blue glow and then the moment passed. He felt something like an Omen was cloying his mind.
He pushed the thoughts aside. Now was not the time for doubt. Not when they were so close. "That'll be enough," He said to Hastis and Lagorn, cutting their reminiscing short. The Grenadiers were already pouring into the now countless breaches that peppered the city walls. "We'd do well to join them."
…
The city inside the crumbling walls was a mix of feudal, primitive medieval buildings and more modern gothic imperial architecture. The further into the city one moved the newer the buildings became, while the outskirts played host to much of the older style stonework homes and taverns.
Narrow cobblestone streets, made for animal drawn wagon carts and wheelbarrows now had to withstand the armored weight of tracked imperial guard tanks. Keeping close to the buildings the grenadiers of the first company first platoon grenadiers advanced, keeping disciplined spacing, they set a murderous pace, keen on catching the retreating enemy before they could recover in secondary internal defenses.
Hyork, Hastis, and Lagorn brought up the rear of the platoon, with them were the platoons medics and heavy weapons, several grenadiers in pairs, carrying heavy stubbers, missile launchers, and even two light mortars. Behind them, it's hull scraping against the buildings and tearing walls apart, was Tycarion, the first platoons Crassus. Its heavy atuocannons and twin heavy stubbers were considered more than a match for any primitive enemy armor. Hyork hoped that would be the case. Any sufficient enemy position that was encountered was to be besieged by Tycarion, the Crassus acting as a front-line strongpoint for attacking enemy positions.
The Crassus was a mighty war machine, perfectly suited for moving heavy infantry across hostile terrain and capable of withstanding murderous retaliatory fire. Even Anti-Tank weaponry would find the task of destroying, or even disabling, a Crassus to be difficult. By itself, the Crassus was capable of defending itself with its array of weapons, and with the guardsmen it carried, it became far, far more dangerous of a prospective target. Inside the close confines of the city streets, hemmed in by buildings and narrow roads, its usefulness was diminished it was slow going for the Crassus as it bulled its way through the streets, partially crushing houses and leaving flattened debris in its wake.
The grenadiers were struggling to protect their transport, as big of a target as it is. Hastis ducked, as the point was only reinforced further- that armored vehicles were not suited to urban warfare- as a rocket corkscrewed through the air overhead, and detonated against the hull of the Crassus
"Second story window!" The call came over the vox, "Suppress!"
Lasfire rippled up ahead, the entire face of a building burst into flames and molten rock as dozens of lasguns painted their beams across its second story. The building fell apart under the sustained volley, and then was destroyed outright as one grenadier stepped forwards and unloaded the underslung launcher of his lasrifle, a high-explosive grenade smacked against the building, the blast tore apart the wood and rock construction, flames gutted its interior, it fell apart, crumpling inwards, burying the weapons team under piles of burning rock. They've already encountered several such ambushes, and were paranoid for plenty more. The front of Tycarion was beginning to resemble a cratered moon's surface, but still, the mammoth war machine growled on.
"Any updates?" Hastis asked over the vox.
The Lieutenants voice came back, lasfire clear in the background both up ahead and over the vox. "Second Company is ready to press their advance, third company is settling in. Fourth and Fifth Company are packing up shop and crossing no-mans right now."
"How fares the Colonel?"
"Oh, he's having a right good time. A couple of hostile vic's is all, nothing to worry about."
"Glad to hear that, out." Hastis cut the connection, he nodded to Lagorn. "The second company is ready to advance, they're just waiting for us to test the waters. Get ready for some resistance."
"What will that look like?" Hyork asked.
"Not sure, could be anything. But, given the terrain, it'll be something that the big-bastard behind us will just roll over- literally- after the Grenadiers tenderize it."
"Didn't the Lieutenant say the Colonel is dealing with tanks?"
"Yeah."
"Remember what the reports said about the tanks these fiends use?" Hyrok darkly intoned. "The warp has influence here."
"And the Colonel has a Baneblade." Hastis snapped. "I've seen what the main gun on that thing can do to enemy superheavy's. And you've seen what it can do against soft targets." Hastis shakes his head. "There wasn't even bits left for us to burn."
Hyork looks at Hastis pointedly. "The enemy has more than a couple, Hastis."
"And a Baneblade has eleven guns."
"It isn't the Colonel and his precious tank that I am concerned for, it is us." Hyork snapped back.
"Hardpoint ahead! Plaza, multiple weapons teams! Advance elements are pinned down!" The Crassus revved its engine, forcing its way forward through broken streets. "Voltair movin' to assist! Keep the pressure on! Advance with her!" The Lieutenant called over the vox.
Hastis kept pace with the rear echelons of the platoon, the weapons specialist stormed up the street, the Plaza in question quickly became visible, its center piece being a grand fountain. Several grenadiers took cover inside it, laying below the lip of the fountain they held their lasguns up and fired blindly in the direction of the enemy. The enemy in question was concentrated on the opposite side of the plaza, the road was filled with makeshift barricades and iron tank-traps.
The entire street beyond was blocked off, buildings collapsed in such a manner to make passage impossible for all but the most dedicated of advancing forces. The buildings, houses, markets, and store-fronts, lining the circular plaza were filled with cultists, stubbers fired down from windows, accompanied by fusillades from autoguns, lasguns, and scatterguns.
It was a 180' degree encirclement, the plaza a perfect kill-box. A scything beam of red heat scorched through the air, Hastis felt as if his flesh was being cooked off of him as a lascannon speared overhead and cored into Voltair, the war machine's already pitted and abused front was further scarred by the blistering heat of the anti-tank weapon. The Crassus was designed to take such punishment, but not repeatedly, and certainly not from such a potent anti-tank weapon.
The transport was quick to react, lurching to a stop, the Crassus reversed, it's tracks digging into street, breaking apart the cobblestone and pulling the machine back into a semblance of cover before the lascannon could recharge and fire again. This was a dangerous game, and the Calibrians were clearly not going to risk their precious transport despite the protection it provided. The advance had met its hardpoint, it was time to call up the second wave.
The lieutenant barked out his orders, the grenadiers would hold, they wouldn't be pushed back so easily, by such a despicable foe. The guardsmen stormed into cover, hurtling through the windows of buildings, and shops, overturning market stands and popping hissing smoke grenades. They returned fire with vicious accuracy and blistering intensity, automatic lasbeams homed in on points of terminal resistance, suppressing and silencing heavy stubber nests and special attention was made to punish the lascannon team.
Shouts of pain, cut off screams, gouts of blood, from behind cover, Hastis watched as the precision fire and sheer volume of the Grenadiers counter volleys punished the enemy. Guardsman shouted, sergeants bellowing orders, directing squads onto individual targets. Behind him, back with Voltair, the Platoon's heavy weapons set up the Mortars, short ranged things made for just this sort of engagement, the Heavy stubbers moved up, the rocket teams dove for cover, fragmentation high explosive rockets were loaded, the Lieutenant ready to direct their targets.
"Smoke and pressure! Put a frag through that window!" A squad lead shouted, the plaza was being torn up, bullets and lasers doing their dark work to turn this place into another bloody battleground. Hastis took cover behind a ruined wall, Hyork and Lagorn close behind him. Lagorn leaned out of cover, shouldering his rifle, he added his weight to the battle, Hastis was content to keep his head down in such a maelstrom, Hyork did so as well.
"Mind your ears, sir's!" A grenadier rocketeer team was next to them, the grenadiers carrying with them a potent Missile Launcher of native pattern, The operator shouldered his weapon and flicked the sight down, his partner slapped his back and pulled the release on the warheads tail-end safety, priming the weapon. "Clear back-blast!"
"Firing!"
The specialist leaned out of cover, bullets tearing up the ground right next to him, smoke and fire flamed out the back of his launcher as he fired, the RPG shrieked through the air, crossing the plaza and obliterating an entire section of building in a fiery eruption, shrapnel and smoke billowed out from the impact, cutting through several cultists at once.
It wasn't anywhere near enough, it was clear that further cultists were streaming in from behind the enemies barricades, reinforcing the position, intent on holding the 76th back from any further advances.
A squad of Grenadiers tossed smoke, billowing up over the Plaza-it did nothing to lessen the weight of the enemies fire, but it gave the grenadiers caught int he center, using the fountain as cover a chance to pull back to a more defensible location.
Several vaulted over the rim- two took rounds in the back, staggering forwards but still moving, they made it only three steps before a shrieking contrail tore through the smoke and hit the ground at their feet- the rocket exploded, crudely made but still lethal, it ripped the guardsmen apart, gore spread out with the force of the blast, leaving a bloody red crater where they once were.
A curse over the vox, the lieutenant snapped out angrily, "Volley fire that barricade! Keep them pinned and sqek that rocket team!"
"Do we have that lascannon team stuffed?"
"We have them, no chance on them moving!"
"Then get Voltair up here now! I want this plaza clear before the second company gets here!"
Hastis winced at that, aggression was a good trait for any guardsmen, but over aggression was folly, it needed to be tempered by caution.
"Tracks locked up! Something in the gears!" The call came back, what looked to be simple bad luck jamming the Crassus where it was, and likely blocking the advance of the second company when they pushed.
If the turn of bad luck bothered the lieutenant it didn't show, the man was clearly experienced and quick on his feet, his priorities shifting to protecting the Crassus, and getting it repaired as quickly as possible. "Fakk it! We'll buy them some breathing space! Flamers! To the front! Burn them out! Keep them from getting any ideas and mind their stubbers! All squads, get ready to cover-
A sound over the gunfire- a maddening call, Hastis had heard it time and again and again, the most recent instance being but hours prior in a blood filled trench. "Shite-" He cursed.
"Bastards don't know when to quit," Lagorn hissed, checking his powerpack.
"Incoming!"
Madmen vaulted over the barricades, the first couple were cut down, so were the next dozen but their bodies absorbed the lasbolts and let the third push through, firing wildly with automatic pistols they closed the distance across the Plaza in seconds- fueled by all manner of narcotics and heinous madness- Hastis watched a lasbolt boil away half of a mans face and yet he still kept charging.
The lieutenant roared his orders, not hesitating for a second.
"Counter-charge! Counter-charge! Fakking pile-in! Cover the backline!"
A squad of grenadiers vaulted out of cover- bullets whipping by them, and more than several rounds sparked off their carapace chest pieces and helmets. The assault specialists unloaded, firing from the hip, scything through the enemies charge and meeting it with one of their own in turn. This was a do-or-die moment and the grenadiers responded with brutal alacrity.
It was a single squad of seven men that met the charge of dozens and more- Hastis watched, aiming down the barrel of his revolver he punched a superheated lasbolt through a madman's torso and the two men behind him. He was certain that the grenadiers would be overwhelmed in seconds, and they were, but for a few precious seconds, they managed to stem the tide.
Seconds were all that the backlines needed.
"Down! Down!"
A grenadier shouted, Hastis looked back to see, a pair of weapons teams sprinting from the rear into the forefront- into the plaza. Their was no time for them to set up, so instead they improvised. One man fell to his knees and bent over, the man behind him dropped the heavy stubber across their back, and screamed.
"Ready!"
At once, the embattled grenadiers, swarmed by the horde of cultists, threw themselves to the ground, falling backwards- more than several traitors and heretics falling upon each of them but in the process, clearing the line of fire.
The stubbers opened up.
.50 caliber jacketed rounds tore into weak, exposed flesh, ripping holes in bodies, severing limbs, tearing human meat apart. There was no need for proper aiming, the gunners simply worked their weapons left and right, making sure to keep the barrels pointed straight ahead, over the heads of the grenadiers. In several careful sweeps, the entire heretic charge was broken.
It was a massacre. It was over in seconds.
The initiative was in the hands of the imperials, as one, the Grenadiers charged, reversing the momentum lost by the slaves of the dark powers. Panicked fire ripped out from the positions held by the cultists that hadn't thrown themselves into an all-or-nothing gambit. Their positions now bracketed down by lasfire, the grenadiers charged in.
"Pressure! Pressure!" Storming out of their positions the grenadiers advanced, they crossed the plaza, several sliding to a stop next to the prone grenadiers who had been mad enough to break the horde of enemies that had poured into the plaza.
"Inside! Clear the buildings!" The lieutenant ordered, advancing with his troops. "Rip into them, lads!"
One of the grenadiers wasn't moving, the others of the seven got to their feet, worse for ware but adrenaline fueling them into action. "Corpsman!" Came the shout, always expected. The grenadier was dragged behind the fountain in the center of the plaza, even now suppressive fire ripped up the streets from holdout-cultists that were soon to be destroyed.
"Secure! Building clear!" Similar calls echoed from squad to squad, Hastis began to relax- not fully, never fully, but the situation was under control. He nodded to Lagorn, with a weary grin. Things looked troubling for a moment there.
"Voltair, status?" The Lt. voxed. Silence ruled the airwaves for a moment, "She's mobile again, Second company is pressing behind you. Take center stage in the plaza and clear the road for the second." He ordered. "Platoon, status? Plaza cleared?"
"Clear, sir."
"All clear."
"Secured,"
"More dead heretics, sir."
Hastis stood, surveying the wreckage, several grenadiers were wounded, and a few were dead. Fast, brutal, and close in. Urban warfare was all these things. It favored those who struck back at an enemies initiative with initiative of their own. The Lieutenant crackled to life over the Vox once more, having conferred with the Colonel clearly. "Then press the advance, all squads, spread our and search ahead for-
Sudden, and unexpected violence, another constant of urban warfare- asymmetrical tactics were key in a firefight, it was dangerous to get bogged down if no reinforcements were present or available. Outflanking maneuvers, constant readjustments against entrenched enemies. Sudden, skirmishing strikes must have clear fallback positions, and once victory was secured, it was key not to lose your guard.
Hastis watched as a trio of Grenadiers, exiting a ruined storefront evaporated- their upper halves simply disappearing as the concussive blast of a heavy bolter sounded throughout the plaza- dominating even the far off roar of artillery, and the screams of shrieking rockets. Hastis dove for cover. Honed instincts driving him to the ground alongside Lagorn and Hyork, who was one step ahead.
"Enemy fire! Ambush!" The cry rang out over the vox- thunderous bolter fire followed- the meaty wet smacks of more guardsmen being pulped by an unseen enemy followed.
"Cover! Heavy bolter- heavy bolter-"
"Corpsman! Multiple casualties!"
"No shot- I can't see them!"
"Fakk!"
Lagorn saw the first one before anybody else. Everyone was looking outwards, away from the Plaza, Lagorn, out of old habit, looked where nobody else did. Old instincts died hard. Erupting below the fountain, blasting through the concrete from the pipeline underneath, a massive, gauntleted hand scarred grey and silver, reached up and grabbed one of the grenadiers. With inexorable strength it pulled the guardsman through the concrete.
"Shite!" Lagorn swore heartedly. The other guardsmen turned to stare at the gaping Hole in the fountain- and something stared back.
They fired, point blank, fully automatic, impossible to miss.
It did nothing, the red beams of heat washed over the hulking armored frame of the Astartes as it pulled itself up into the Plaza. It didn't even deign to notice, or maybe it just didn't care about the blistering Lasfire that bled over it's frame. Languidly, slowly, almost with a sense of leisure, it aimed its bolter with one hand and fired twice- blasting two grenadiers apart as they dove behind thick, solid stone walls.
It was comical, the first response over the vox. Incredulous, uncertain, and wracked with nerves. "Is that a space marine-!?" It was understandable. The moment passed- the panic began.
"Fakking shite!"
"Traitor Astartes! Renegades!"
"But we killed them all?!"
"I told you!"
"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
"Get me command!"
The grenadiers of the first platoon responded admirably, quickly refocussing their attention inwards, lasfire streamed in from every direction, from multiple angles, the positions the heretics once held now used against the renegade marine. The arrival of such a horrific foe drew attention.
With that attention diverted, the other two renegade astartes began their attack.
They appeared from the side streets, in the back lines, from beneath rubble that they buried themselves in prior to the advance of the Calibrians, waiting for them to move past so that they could cut them off. Dust fell from their armored forms. They singled the start of their attack by blocking the street. Twin detonations collapsed several buildings, rubble strewn everywhere, and crumbled into the street. The guardsmen were cut off from Voltair.
The slaughter began.
...
AN/: I still own that glass jar.