Tergum Cultro Chapter 6

Black-clad figures burst out of hiding places, throwing off camo cloaks to reveal long knives and autopistols in their hands. From under tarpaulins and the ruins of shacks they came, pouring out of every nook and cranny in their dozens. They fell upon IXth squad in a wave of stabbing frenzy, letting off random shots to chip and score at ceramite armour. The ambush was excellently concealed, well timed and positioned: it was also utterly futile.

Mortal men would have been frozen by disbelief and hesitation but the Space Marines reacted with superhuman swiftness and peerless co-ordination. As the rebels surged forwards IXth squad did not wait for their charge: they charged back. The first rebel to reach them didn't even have time to land a single blow before a roaring chainsword cut across his path. It tore through his chest in a shower of gore leaving him to slump to the ground with an expression of bewilderment on his face. Toran left the corpse at his feet as he swung for another Heretic, cleaving him neck to groin before moving onto the next and the next. He moved through the rebels like a grox charging through long grass, smashing aside bodies with his sheer bulk and brushing off attacks from his impervious armour plates. He lashed out left and right with his Chainsword, carving apart attackers with every blow, leaving ruined bodies bleeding out onto the cold stone floor.

As he turned to find more foes he saw Brother Jediah slashing out with his combat blade to open veins and arteries. To a normal man he was lighting quick blur but Toran was accustomed to the superior reflexes of Astartes and could tell Jediah was taking his time. He chose each blow carefully and with contempt, not one Heretic proving strong enough to earn his respect. On the other side of the concourse Novak danced through knots of enemies, his thin rapier slicing and eviscerating with graceful élan and poise. Ophelion however was the complete contrast in styles, breaking necks and caving in chests with crude blows from his fists. He always took the most direct and straightforward means to destroy each threat in turn then moved on. Brother Daite fought with a short combat knife as if he were on the training ground, blocking deflecting and counter striking over and over like a machine. His style was unimaginative but effective and left a trail of dead foes behind him. At his side Persion advanced using the broad edge of his blade like a cleaver, hacking off limbs with great sweeps of his arm. Finally Halis Paur fought a trio of attackers, his knife swift and precise, leaving all three of them falling over with blood fountaining from sliced jugulars and arteries.

Then Furion stepped forth and roared in anger as he unleashed his Heavy Flamer. Twin streams of Promethium spurted out of the nozzles out to mix in mid-air and the hypergolic chemical's reaction meant they could do nothing but ignite; creating a searing river of fire that engulfed half dozen attackers at once. Furion panned his weapon about and the flames leapt onward to cover more black-clad bodies in an inferno of vengeance, turning them into flailing candles that screamed hideously as they fell over and died. With one sweep of his weapon Furion tore the heart out of the ambush and only the rebels at the edge of the chamber evaded instant death. Their courage broke before these indomitable giants and they ran as fast as their legs could carry them towards the nearest exit. They did not get far however for bolters raised towards their fleeing backs and the Space Marines vented their fury in a hail of bolt-rounds. Every shell found a target, blowing rebels apart as the rounds detonated in their backs and not one lived to escape.

Toran lowered his pistol as the squad swept the chamber and to ensure no enemy was left alive. He turned back to the Mechanicus and found the Skitarii standing in a ring around their Magos. Their Hellguns were held high but so swift and deadly had the Storm Heralds been that not a single one of them had seen a chance to open fire, not a single one. Their implanted facemasks made it impossible to betray expressions but their body language was a testament to an all too human sense of shock and amazement. Toran drew himself up and shook blood from his blade then declared to all, "The Heretics will surely be alerted to our presence. We must complete our objectives swiftly, form up and move out."

With practised ease the squads fell in and raced down the tunnels in a broad front with Halis taking point. The time for stealth was over; speed would have to suffice now. As they raced Magos Castabore drew forward smoothly, a faint humming betraying her anti-grav motors pushing to the edge of their tolerances. Calmly, as if she were discussing matters of Cyber-Theology in a seminarian, she said, "That was a most informative demonstration, your combat proficiency exceeded my strategos-simulacra. I had not calculated so fleshy beings as you could be so efficient."

It took a moment for Toran to realise that she was saying she was impressed and replied, "We are the Adeptus Astartes, forged by the hand of the Emperor himself to create the ultimate union of flesh and steel. The best of both the weaknesses of neither."

Castabore's voice was incongruously soft and thoughtful for someone who resembled a floating box as she replied, "There are those in the Martian synod who claim the complete removal of the flesh is not optimal. I had always discounted their work on electro-priests and servitor improvements as misguided, but this new data is intriguing. I shall have to perform experiments to test this hypothesis."

Toran noted that the Magos was no more bothered about the slaughter of the Heretics than he was, he had seen mortals reduced to gibbering wrecks by the horror of battle but Castabore seemed as inured to combat trauma as an Astartes. He glanced at her and commented, "The Storm Heralds would be pleased to participate in such an endeavour. We have a talent for destruction."

Castabore muttered sullenly, "That is exactly why I am here, to make sure you do not bring down the whole city. Sacred Mechanicus relics are at risk and you Astartes have a reputation for unwarranted destruction."

"Destruction yes," stated Toran frankly, "Unwarranted, never."

Their conversation was suddenly cut off as Halis held up a clenched fist and the party froze. Toran instantly recognised that the rough brickwork of the sewer was giving way to polished stone cladding and painted frescos. They must be nearing the foundations of the Inner Wall and whatever defences the Heretics had established to protect the weak point. Remembering his orders to protect Castabore Toran addressed the Magos, "Stay here, we shall scout ahead."

"No need," replied Castabore briskly, "I have remote probes that will be far less conspicuous than you."

Castabore's robes bulged with unseen movement then a hand-wrought entirely from metal emerged, bearing a strange device. It superficially resembled a servo skull but it was much smaller than normal and was not fashioned from a human cranium. Instead it appeared to be built around the head of an avian creature with trailing mechandrites that snapped out to form wing shapes and spindly legs. It hopped to and fro on the Magos' hand, almost like a bird pecking for seeds then Castabore emitted a chirping noise and it leapt into the air. Toran stared at the strange artefact and was surprised to realise that unlike most Mechanicus creations it was aesthetically beautiful as well as functionally practical, a rare treasure indeed. For a long second it hung in the air, mechandrites thrashing like a hummingbird's wings and then the probe sped off down the tunnel and disappeared into the darkness

Toran waited a full minute then asked, "What can you see?"

"It will be more efficient to just show you," said Castabore as she reached up with a metal hand to shine a series of rapidly blinking lights at Toran's faceplate. For a second his autosenses went blurry and static jumped before his eyes but then it snapped back into sharp focus and Castabore snatched her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove.

Toran asked, "Problem Magos?"

Castabore actually sounded offended as she shook her hand and said, "I merely tried to establish a noosphere connection to upload the probes' data, your armour not only rejected my authority but tried to send a modulated feedback pulse up the link."

Toran thought she looked like someone who had naively reached out to pet a Mastiff only to be he shocked as it tried to bite her hand off. He was slightly amused and rather proud of his armour's belligerent spirit as he said, "Our battleplate is warded against unknown Machine Spirits, perhaps a data slate would be less confrontational."

Castabore spat a burst of Binaric code, that Toran was almost certain was the equivalent of a swear word, nevertheless her metal hand dipped into a pocket and pulled out a blunt square of metal upon which flickering images appeared. Toran took it from her hand and gazed at the images displayed then gritted his teeth at what he saw. It seemed the Heretic had expected trouble and were more than prepared. The sewer tunnel ended at least a hundred paces before the foundations and between them was just open space with no cover whatsoever. The foundations were a towering edifice stretching up to a cavernous roof; with rusty pipes protruding from far higher than a man could reach. Filthy effluent ran down the wall, through channels carved by centuries of wear, before pouring into shallow drains that fed into various sewers. The wall was blank and featureless save for a heavily reinforced gate that was sealed against intrusion around which gangs of rebels were dug in, hunkered down behind sandbags so only the tops of their helms and lasguns could be seen. But worst of all was that some absolute Grox-fondler had installed a ferrocrete bunker before the gate, with the muzzle of a Heavy Bolter glinting in the firing slit.

Toran took in the information and processed it seeking the best tactical scenarios; sadly the results were less than ideal. The only viable option was a full-frontal charge across the open ground into the face of an embedded enemy with excellent crossfires. It was reckless and foolhardy, the council of a desperate fool or the bravest of heroes. Exactly the kind of fight Space Marines were designed for. Toran turned to his squad and saw they were each ready to fight and die if necessary, yet he knew even Space Marines sometimes needed reminding of the nature of their duty. He was no Chaplain but drew himself up and said, "Ready yourselves Brothers for a charge into the teeth of enemy fire. Today we march through fire and death but we shall not be laid low. The Heretics think they have steeled themselves for war, they think they are ready to die, but there is one thing they cannot have anticipated. For today they face the wrath of the Space Marines!"