"Watch out, they're coming again!" an officer called. Mk'Greyger looked at the men of the 4th Rifles. They were scattered amongst the rubble, dug in as best they could. As light infantry they should have been skirmishing and moving, harassing the enemy flanks whilst the main battle lines drew closer and utilised their heavy weapons. Now they were dug in and acting like regular infantry. Whilst all good shots, well trained and steadfast, it was not a role to which they were ideally suited, their lack of heavy weapons and armoured support starting to tax them.
"Stand firm Riflemen! You don't want those bloody Heavies to get one over on us, do you?" the lieutenant-colonel called. He was rewarded with only a lack-lustre response. The men were sick of fighting like this.
But they fought on regardless, a fusillade of lasfire erupting from the foxholes and craters they occupied. Cultists fell everywhere, tattered robes catching fire as las shots scorched them, men and women, filthy and half-naked, dying in droves before they could get anywhere near his men.
So far they had been very lucky, and had yet to encounter any of the traitor Guardsmen who had by all accounts been swarming over Imperial positions elsewhere in the city.
There was a sudden yelp, as a Rifleman had his marksman counterpart's head explode blood and brain all over his face, an enemy bolt round having ruptured it like a ripe ploin.
The cultists, through sheer numbers were getting closer, old autoguns, captured lasguns and an assortment of pistols replying poorly to the accurate fire of his riflemen. They weren't using the terrain effectively.
Mk'Greyger sighted down his laspistol and let lose a small salvo, knocking several cultists from their feet. None stood again.
Solid shots and las rounds flickered past the Riflemen as they fired and reloaded, but casualties were low despite the volume of fire. The Garrowan Riflemen were bedded in low, using their fieldcraft to gain natural protection from their surroundings. It was the one part of their training they were able to utilise, even in this type of battlefield. Even the Heavies would be taking numerous casualties to such fire. But Mk'Greyger's boys knew their stuff well.
More cultists were moving forwards. It was still a large pack, many of the filthy creatures writhing against each other in between bouts of firing, their dark God's pleasure seemingly as important as killing the enemy.
They were getting closer now, within maybe 50 yards, but they advanced no further. They stood in the open, blasting away. Some threw bricks, others simply stood screaming and chanting.
"That's it boys, give them some punishment!" the Colonel bellowed. Riflemen emptied clip after clip, three thousand men against maybe twice that number. It was almost glorious, the way they were holding them back. If only it wasn't so one-sided.
"Sir, we'll need to send back for more ammunition again!" one of his subalterns called out. "Rifles running low."
"Thank you, lieutenant. Organise a team, then vox ahead so it's ready for them arriving," Mk'Greyger replied.
"Yes sir."
Still the cultists didn't advance, but just stood dying in droves, accurate Garrowan firepower scything them like chaff. Barely twenty of them had been killed in return, and maybe three times that suffering injuries. They were by far having the better of this uneven fight. It was butchery now. Mk'Greyger couldn't even begin to guess how many bodies were in front of him, but there were now more dead cultists than living.
A grenade launcher 'whumffed' twice, and the explosions rippled amongst the chaos worshippers.
"A coy down to their last mags"
"C coy running on empty." The vox calls began coming in.
Something wasn't right. The cultists were being mauled, their numbers rapidly dwindling as the Garrowans placed all their concentration on them. But the las fire was lessening, as squad leaders were having to control their men's firing.
"D coy empty, only special weapons have anything left."
"All squads, ceasefire and lay low. I say again, cease fire and lay low!" Mk'Greygor voxed to the company commanders, who then relayed it to their men. "Save your rounds!"
The colonel was thinking rapidly. The cultists were still standing off. And still there was no sign of any of the Legion of Narci…
That was it!
"Watch out all squads! Reload if you've got them and fix bayonets!" Mk'Greger called hurriedly. The order was followed without hesitation and all along the line, the sound of metal-against-metal was heard as bayonets were fitted onto rifle-lugs.
He drew his sword from its scabbard on his back. It wasn't a power blade, but a two-handed, doubled-edged broadsword, a weapon he had kept from his time in the mountains of Garrowa. It had become almost like a member of the regiment in its own right. It was now a trademark item that all the Rifles could associate with him. It gave them heart in a fight to see the weapon kill the enemies of the Emperor.
But it also signaled that a close-quarter brawl was coming. The men nearest all looked at him, worry in their eyes.
"Look to your front, damn you!" he shouted, seriously worried now. He had barely gotten the words out, when pouring from the buildings behind the cultists swarmed the Legion of Narcissus, a shout in their throats and numbers on their side. They had used the cultists as a distraction, nothing more, and thousands had died to drain the Riflemen's weapons.
"Fire!" Mk'Greyger screamed. The volley killed hundreds in mere moments, but had not the rounds to hold the Legion and seconds later the enemy was all over them.
"How many did we lose?" Kopar asked his head acolyte, one of the Interrogators who showed enough promise to someday become an Inquisitor in his own right.
"Three storm troopers and one of the savants. Interrogator Bairk took a stray blast from one of the psykers. Could have been a lot worse." The man replied.
"Bairk was incompetent if he was unable to avoid that blast. Ah well, no great loss. Very good, Celir. Thank you."
"Slythis took almost half of them herself, the storm troopers held off any she missed." Celir continued. "Thirty-three Legionaries."
"'Legionnaires' is their proper plural," Kopar corrected the acolyte distractedly. "Send the scions further out so we can be aware of any attacks in proper time. It stretched my powers to combat their psykers myself. We may need help now."
"Yes, my lord. Shall I see about requesting some Guard units?" Celir asked.
"Not yet. I would prefer some of Faulin's Kasrkin, but I shall see what he can provide. That way I can choose units who will be more…receptive…to my commands."
"The fighting is getting severe my lord. We may have to act soon, or they may be in no position to aid us."
"That is very true, Interrogator. Now go about your duties and let me think more on this."
Celir bowed low, saying no more, and went to find the Storm Trooper commander.
Celir wasn't wrong. In the north, the Cadians were taking horrendous casualties and whilst standing to the last man, bravely holding their lines. But the incompetence of their commander was costing them dear.
In one Cadian Brigade, backed up by Ramillien PDF, a 'green' Cadian unit (if green were ever the right term for such toughened soldiers) was overrun and the survivors retreated, hollering combat ineffective down the vox as they withdrew. The space created allowed units of drug-crazed ogryns, berserk on triple-dosed obscura, to smash into the Ramilliens and despite their bravery, they were ill-equipped for the vicious abhumans and fell back in disarray. Commissars shot many trying to stem the tide, but found themselves facing the ogryns and being torn limb from limb for their troubles.
Demerche was ordered to send in some of his Drop Companies to stem the tide. The Elysians came in on their Valkyries, straight to the trouble zone, to find the Cadians overrun and the Ramilliens gone, surrounded and outnumbered without support by the Legion. They landed at the locations given to them by Command in the main spine, surrounded and outgunned, slaughtered within their own LZs.
Cartel's Dramarians were being flanked and annihilated on several fronts, not used to fighting without trenches from which to launch their Chimera-borne counter attacks. The cavalry couldn't use their mobility in the streets and, having been on the receiving already the Legion had changed tack to counter it. Crude caltrops and trip wires were carried and whenever cavalry detected, put to scarily effective use.
Even the Garrowans were being driven back in numerous places. Fighting hard, they couldn't hold back the countless hordes of cultists and Legionnaires.
No one was asking where the enemy numbers had come from, how so many had arrived on this world, or why they were battling so hard for it. They were simply following orders.
Thousands were dying for Faulin's foolishness.
And all the while he sat and plotted and planned and thought how to get out of this mess whilst still doing what the Inquisitor demanded.
"Pull our men back!" Demerche yelled.
"I cannot. We need to continue our push" Faulin shouted back.
"No, you can and you will! We have suffered enormous casualties. Over eighty thousand dead and almost as many injured! If it were not for our men's stubborn dedication to the God-Emperor, most of our forces would be annihilated!" Cartel joined in. He was having none of Faulin's nonsense, as his men were suffering badly. "You realise I have lost almost two full regiments in the South, never mind the casualties suffered by the other battalions!"
"The Ramilliens have had just as heavy casualties. They are not suggesting we move out," Tollin pointed out.
"They have not been given the option," a gruff voice spoke from the door of the office. Mk'Fedan had returned, and was eyeing up the silent Ramillien officers skeptically.
"We must find a way to keep up our momentum!" Faulin replied.
"What momentum?! Our troops are moving backwards! We have so many wounded being evacuated the roads are blocked, meaning our troops cannot safely pull back without being forced to grind out a withdrawal, and cannot advance due to overwhelming enemy numbers that you didn't know about!" the Elysian general bellowed again.
"Granted, we did not anticipate this, but…" General Tollin tried to intervene.
"But what? You didn't anticipate the numbers of the enemy? Didn't anticipate the enemy would be well trained and equipped? Or anticipate how many casualties the divisions would take in the midst of the fighting? We have already lost the use of the Lynstas Light and the 9th Heavies. And the entire 4th Rifles are gone," Mk'Fedan's voice was quiet and restrained as he spoke. This gave it even more of a deadly tone. Only the fact it could earn him the sharp end of a firing squad stopped him from being more to-the-point and aggressive in his words.
"We can't feasibly bring them back at the moment. As D'merche had said, the roads are blocked. We can't consider an airlift whilst the enemy fire is so intense. They have some Hydra flak tanks or quad autocannons and are making life a tad hairy for our pilots,"
"But nor can we leave our valiant troops unsupported at the front. Some effort must be made to reinforce them to aid in the evacuation of the wounded." General Mareven, absent from so many officer briefings of late, spoke up. The tough Cadian had, using sheer dint of personality and loyalty of his men, managed to get out to the Main Spine to command his forces in person, to the respect of many. "We need to force a route through with armour, and make the most of air cover whilst we have it."
Thorans, Thracians, Dramarians and Garrowans all around the room cried out in protest. A few small arguments broke out between the assembled officers, all members of the general staff as most combat officers were away with their regiments. These were the men who had been working tirelessly, getting orders to and from the units in the field, often going out in person to ensure their safe arrival.
"That is enough! You are all officers and will act appropriately!" Mk'Fedan bellowed. Having allowed his own temper to break before in front of the Cadians, he would not allow anyone else to make his mistake and possibly pay the price.
"General Mareven has a good point. If we attempted to pull back now, our forces would face annihilation whilst they waited in convoy. We have a duty to allow the wounded time to escape. If armour can force a way that the infantry cannot, they should push forward without delay," he finished. Some officers agreed verbally, mostly his own Garrowans, with a mix of others.
"There will be no armour. The tanks must protect the factorums. Especially now," Faulin stated bluntly, trying to sound forceful and brooking no argument.
He had some anyway.
"Surely there must be some spare?" a PDF Colonel asked aghast.
"Not one single tank will leave its current position. You have armour at the front, we cannot spare more. Make the most of the advantages you have," Faulin tried in vain.
"The armour is the only advantage we have! We need the bulk of them at the front!" Cartel snarled. The vast majority of his Dramarian armour, possibly the most skilled armour crews present on world, were sitting idly by.
"You heard the Lord General!" the lone remaining PDF general snapped. General Githane was a cautious man when it came to actual combat, but in tactical briefs never quite knew when to back down or when to speak up.
"Who made you his lackey?" Cartel snapped.
"Go and screw yourself, trench-boy. We can fight without your dirty-brown jokers."
Again the meeting erupted, Faulin either unwilling or unable to stop them.
"That is it! My men will pull back as soon as they are able. We hold the enemy off until then, and then we fall back." Demerche spoke for the Elysian contingent. His entire command cadre stood as the general lifted himself to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Mareven asked gently, violet eyes worried now.
A commissar at the back of the room moved his hand to his pistol, but even Faulin knew better and quickly shook his head. The hand went back behind the long storm coat.
"I'm joining my men at the front. They need their senior officers more than ever. And every extra lasgun is one to hold off the enemy. If you need me, you can find me there," the Drop-troop commander spoke bitterly.
"You know my orders about senior staff serving at th…" Faulin began but Demerche had simply walked out.
"I'm going as well. The Bravers have a reputation to keep, and I will be there when they do," Misade added, standing.
"As am I"
"And I" Mk'Fedan and Cartel added their voices to the fray once again. The Thracians went too. Even various Cadian commanders looked to their side arms and chronometers, and brought themselves to their feet. They were some of the toughest soldiers in the galaxy and sitting doing nothing because their general ordered it didn't sit very well with them. The men all filed out.
"I believe our own will want to see their commanders, my Lord," Mareven said respectfully.
"Sit down, Mareven. Learn nothing from those officers other than how not to behave," Tollin said imperiously.
"Do not lecture me, you snivelling slime ball. I don't care whose arse your head is up, just make sure I don't have to hear you speak whilst it's up there."
"Mareven, you will remain here and you will apologise to General Tollin. It is unseemly to speak to another officer like that," Faulin blurted in shock.
"I don't think so." The grizzled veteran of Kasr Tyrok marched smartly out the door, where Mk'Fedan was standing waiting in the hall. Cartel was beaming.
"That was damned finely said, General."
"I have had enough of his nonsense. We Cadians are nothing like that, and when we get back I will speak to my good friend the Lord Creed. I will see Faulin ruined."
"Now that is something I would love to see."
"The General is on his way. We are to hold for as long as possible, sir. No armour support incoming!" Mk'Hellin took the earpiece from the vox-caster away from his ear and shouted over to Macara.
"Fantastic. Absolutely wonderful. Great!" Macara snarled, ejecting yet another spent clip from his laspistol. His bolter was out, and he had had no opportunity to get more ammunition, so had fallen back to his secondary weapon. "Captain Mk'Shae?" the colonel called down his short-range micro-bead.
"Sir?"
"Take the Grenadier Company and move to the centre of our line. I'll get Mc'Veigh to fill in the space you've left. We are going to take those building across the main street. If we clear that enfilade they've got, we'll have some breathing room." Macara gave his orders even as he sought cover from the fusillade cutting across the ruined highway.
"At once, sir. We'll pull out as he covers us," Mk'Shae's gruff voice, ever bitter sounding, came back.
"On our way colonel," Mc'Veigh's own voice rang back, his tone always lighter and the more sing-song voice of the valley folk. Macara redirected his orders.
"I want 3, 5 and 7 Company behind them, leave 6 and Light in reserve. They've earned it."
"At once, sir," Nevin, 5 Coy's commander, replied enthusiastically.
"Right away, sir," Captain Masen of 7 Coy responded with equal vigour.
Dyort barely acknowledged the order.
Macara turned to watch his men as they began filing past. They were bone weary and covered in dirt and gore. They had been fighting almost without pause for ninety-two hours. Almost four days without rotation. That wasn't good for anyone's moral.
And yet here and there, men grinned as they heard crude jokes, bantered and cajoled with each other.
"Major Cairns, take command of the holding Companies. Give us covering fire. Make sure Lieutenant Mk'Bratney's heavy weapons are evenly distributed to offer adequate crew-served support." There was a brief pause of static before the vox crackled, Cairn's voice on the other end.
"I would remind you sir, that you should stay with the other six companies and allow your subordinate to go forwards. But I reckon you'd ignore me."
Macara smiled grimly. "You'd be correct, major. Now, covering fire when I ask?"
"Yes, sir, of course," Cairns gave the affirmative. "What is it you are planning?"
"Wait and see. Out," Macara said. The Colonel looked around himself, trying to find his adjutant. It only took a second or two to identify the bulky frame of the Corporal. "Kallum, we seem to be on a large drumlin here, aren't we?" Macara asked.
"I doubt it's a drumlin, sir. This world hasn't had an ice age. Ever. But there is a reverse side of a slope about two hundred yards that way," the Corporal pointed. Macara just glowered at him.
"You know what I meant."
"Well then, yes, sir there is. About two hundred yards that way," Kallum grinned widely, the grime on his face cracking into crazy shapes with the motion.
"And how the hell did you learn so much about their geology?" Macara snapped. The corporal kept smiling
"Just seemed wise to learn up about the place we were visiting, sir! That, and I found an old travel guide under the cot in your quarters." The grin widened, white teeth showing against dirty skin again. This prompted Macara to speak again.
"Do you ever do anything except smile like a demented gretchin, corporal?"
"I can do the odd bit of fighting, in a scrap, sir."
"Well, makes up for the lack of intelligence," Macara said, turning his head to mask his own broad smile.
"Sir, I must protest. That's not very nice now, is it?"
"Corporal, surely you remember what the Uplifting Primer states about a soldier who complains about his treatment by officers?" the colonel asked as straight faced as he could.
"Something finishing with a beating from said officer, sir?" Kallum replied, only partly in jest.
"Get to the command section and get them ready to move out," Macara finished, turning serious again. He checked his own webbing as the corporal went loping off. He had fresh bolter clips in most of the pouches, those empty ones like that through a lack of supplies from the rear. Not a good situation.
Reaching down, the Garrowan colonel ripped some dirty fabric from a dead Legionnaire to try and wipe some of the burnt blood from his blade. He made his way to the command group as he went. Knots of men from the Grenadier Company moved around them, slipping through the ruins and getting into the best positions to advance from.
"Fix bayonets," Macara spoke into his microbead. Silver glinted around him as long bayonets were fitted to their lugs.
His squad reached the edge of the wide highway, little groups of men hidden all around. The odd lasbolt punctuated the great sentences of the distant artillery. As soon as they saw the colours their salvos increased, peppering the ruined habs with firepower. The Garrowan assault groups crouched deeper into the cover, as deep as they could manage. A man from the Grenadiers lost the majority of his arm from the elbow as a stray las shot found his spot. In pain and shock he staggered to his feet, and before his brain could recover long enough to activate his survival instinct, he was picked apart by lasgun fire, a fine mist of blood and pulped organs spraying around.
"Throne!" Sergeant Mulcahy spat as his face was covered by the red rain.
Macara clicked his microbead once again.
"Now."
From the habs behind him, heavy bolters and autocannons opened up with their large calibre rounds, stitching them across the facades of the opposite buildings. Pieces of rockcrete tumbled to the ground, and whilst the Legionnaires returned fire, it was desultory by comparison. The hellguns of the support companies joined in and made the opposite side of the road a very dangerous place to be.
"Up Garrowans!" Macara bellowed. "Take them! Charge!" Sabre held aloft, the colonel dashed from cover, his command squad going with him. Men leapt over rubble and broken walls, screaming as they went. They didn't stop to fire, their support seeing to the job of keeping their comrades alive. Almost a thousand men were bolting for the relative safety of the far side, the return fire falling ineffectually amongst them. Here and there a Garrowan went down, but there was no time to stop for them.
Macara was right at the front, as usual. Behind him poured the large, strong men of the Grenadier Company, his own Command group mixed amongst them as they charged. It was not a tactical manoeuvre nor the best thought out – it was simply a headlong rush to the other side. But in the present situation, there was nothing else for it.
The colonel flew through the broken door of the first hab. He fired his bolt pistol into the dark room until the clip was empty. Chunks of wall flew by, something wet hit the ground with aloud thump and the smell of blood filled his nostrils.
Macara swept his sword out to the right as a Legionnaire ran through a side door from another room, the archenemy soldier falling headless before he knew what had happened. As he stepped forward to clear the room he was already in, he felt his right boot slide through the blood of his opponent, even the heat of the blade not enough to cauterise the massive wound.
Behind him Miskelly, Misfinnin, Felton and Sergeant Major Mk'Askill crashed into the room with a tangle of Grenadiers. Kallum grabbed two of them and went to clear the said room. Macara's vox officer staggered in a moment later, his helmet lost somewhere in the mad dash. Macara pointed into the corridor where the staircase was, and Misfinnin stepped forwards.
"Fire in the hole!" the trooper called as he tossed a frag into the opening. There was a muffled crump that caused dust to fall from the walls, and then the Garrowans were crashing into the hallway and making for the stairs. The colonel led the rush, desperate to get to the next landing before any enemy troopers appeared.
A shot came down the staircase, just missing his heading and killing trooper Mk'Garder behind him. The Grenadier's body slumped, blocking the stairs for a moment and he heard Mk'Hellin swear as the Corproal tried to keep up.
A Legionnaire stood at the head of the first landing, a weapon combining axe and scythe in his hands. Macara brought his sword to a good thrusting position, but knew he would never make it to the top in time to stop his head being caved in by the enemy's massive swing. He gritted his teeth even as he thrust the power blade forwards.
As he reached the top, his blood-slicked boot gave way and he tumbled forwards, ribs cracking painfully on the top step.
The Legionnaire roared in fury as his axe-scythe became stuck in the thin wall beside the location Macara's head would have been. He jerked back and forth on the handle of the weapon until it came free, taking three last shots from Mk'Hellin in the chest. He still didn't fall, although blood was starting to coat his khaki-cream tunic through the broken armour plates. The massive enemy threw the axe-scythe down the stair case and Trooper Felton from the colour party took the wicked curved blade in the chest. The impact drove the other men behind him crashing down the stairs, and only Mk'Hellin and one other remained unscathed.
In the second his attention was diverted, Macara brought the power blade up in a back-hand slash, cleaving the Legion soldier from groin to neck, stinking bowels and entrails spilling out across the floor a moment after Macara staggered to his feet. The colonel only just avoided the small waterfall of gore that covered the stairs.
Macara charged into the first dorm on this landing, a room that overlooked the highway.
He came to a sudden halt, as he faced at least seven enemy soldiers, in various stages of firing out the windows and turning to fight the new invaders.
Without thinking, the colonel thrust his bolt pistol forward and pulled the trigger until the weapon clacked on an empty magazine. Bloody limbs and exploded torsos filled the charnel house the room had just become as the exploding bolts reaped their fearsome tally, but Macara's weapon was now empty and the survivors opened fire.
Macara threw himself wildly back through the door, landing right on the ribs he'd already hurt, driving the air from his lungs.
Mk'Hellin and some Grenadiers, including Trooper Cobain and Sergeant Mc'Killian as far as he could tell, charged past. Their weapons gutted the room, the enemy survivors wilting under the fusillade.
Macara was yanked unceremoniously to his feet. Corporal Kallum shook his head in mock exasperation. Macara was confused, as the corporal hadn't come up the stairs but had come from…
Of course! The corporal had led a party through the other rooms, and must have found another staircase. Garrowans were filling the floor now, clearing dorm blocks one by one.
"Up, up!" Macara pointed at the staircase. "Clear the rest of the hab!" he coughed the order out. Troopers nodded and made for the steps once more. The sound of fighting could already be heard on the next floor.
"Those were some good reflexes at the head of the staircase, sir," trooper Misfinnin remarked, smiling slightly as he passed Macara's pistol back to him.
"Oh no, the colonel didn't duck that swipe, he slipped!" Kallum laughed. He saw the look on Macara's face. "No, really, I saw it as I came tearing along the corridor to help. 'Whoops' and down he wen…"
"Thank you corporal. Get on with it," Macara said, trying to hide his embarrassment. He watched his men fill the rooms, clearing them. The firing from above was lessening, and outside the sounds of fighting were dying down. The fire of the heavy weapons was totally gone, Mk'Bratney knowing his role well and not allowing the chance for any of his mates to die in friendly fire.
"Sergeant Mc'Carthy, have the upper floors been cleared yet?"
"Just finishing it now, sir," the Grenadier replied. He had a gloriously big moustache, and a distinct lack of a neck protruded from his powerful shoulder. His bayonet was caked with viscera.
"Good, take your squad and help out. Vox Captain Mk'Shae and let him know where we are.
"Yes, sir," the bluff sergeant replied. He rounded up his nearest men and started up the stairs. Macara sheathed his sword, and rammed a new clip home into his bolt pistol. He breathed heavily for a few moments, thinking on just how close he had come to losing his head. It had been too close on this occasion.
The tall figure of Kallum approached again. "This floor is all clear, sir. Looks like the same is happening in the adjacent habs too."
"Very good. How's the butcher's bill?" Macara asked wearily.
"In this building, nine dead and about double injured. Could be a lot worse for a storm," His adjutant stated. "No idea on figures from the surrounding area yet."
"Kallum, get across to the dressing station and bring some stretcher bearers and a medic to this building. We'll make this a clearing station."
"Can't I just vox, sir?"
"I'm sending you because I want it done quickly, okay? And no, you don't ask permission from your commanding officer, you do as you're told or I'll hand you over to Klousour. Get me?" Macara snapped. Kallum, realising he had gotten a little too familiar in the heat of the moment, nodded crisply.
"Yes, sir. Sorry sir." He loped off down the stairs.
Macara was exhausted, and normally would have controlled that situation better. But adrenaline combined with tiredness was setting him completely on edge.
Lack of adequate armour support wasn't helping. Nor was Faulin's incompetent command.
"Sir, you really need to come and see this," Mc'Carthy's voice voxed through his ear.
"On my way. Where are you?"
"Top floor, sir," the sergeant replied.
"Mk'Hellin, with me," Macara called and the corporal doubled over to him. "Let's go."
"How much longer are we going to have to wait?" I thought you said you had made progress?" Kopar asked the lexmechanic.
"I have broken three of the nine security codes, my lord. It will take at least a day to crack the remaining codes."
"What? You have been here for four already!" the Inquisitor snarled.
"It took three alone to break the first combination. I have the pattern now, my lord, and they are falling one-by-one, in a much faster rate," the lexmechanic explained nervously.
"Twenty-four hours. Then you will be taken into custody by my acolytes, for every hour I need to wait after that, you will have one plug removed from your cranium." Kopar gestured at the data-ports surgically installed on the man's skull. The lexmechanic looked around in panic as several of Kopar's followers smiled cruelly.
"Now, get to work," Kopar said as he strode off. He made his way to where one of his chief Interrogators was sitting, adjusting the power unit of his double-edged blade. Beside him sat an archaic but intricate vox-pack, far beyond the crude ones used by the Guard.
"Githerin, contact that fool Faulin for me."
"At once, my lord," the robed man said. He turned to the vox and started twiddling with buttons and knobs. At intervals, he spoke a code name, before fiddling again. It took a moment, but eventually Faulin's pompous voice came through the speaker.
"Yes?"
"This is Inquisitor Kopar," the man said after taking the speaker from his acolyte.
"H..how can I help you?" Faulin sounded worried now, some bluster gone.
"The enemy is massing and pushing your troops back. The local PDF you tasked with securing this area have utterly failed to reach us, General. I need some men to protect the cathedral district until we have what we need," Kopar replied.
"How many men do you require?" Faulin asked, voice shaky.
"How about a crusade force, you dolt? As we don't have that, I'll make do with a couple of thousand."
"I cannot provide that, all our troops are on the line fighting!"
"Do it, General, or your commanders find out why they are really here. And why you have sacrificed almost a million men on a rumour."
"You commanded me to do so!" Faulin sounded as if someone had just grabbed his balls. Tightly.
"I don't remember any such occurrence. And I am sure you would not openly disagree with a member of the Inquisition. Now send me. The. Men." Kopar hissed the last part.
"The only unit anywhere nearby would be the Thoran 67th, and some of those Garrowan barbarians."
"They shall have to do. Send them to me," Kopar finished, turning off the vox before the Lord General could reply, before returning to the lexmechanic.
"You have an extra six hours. Now get it done."
The building was taller than Macara had first thought. He had gone for at least four stories and had no sign of the top. Mk'Hellin, lugging the heavy vox-pack, was panting like mad.
"You need to get fitter," Macara said, only part in jest.
"Yes, sir." The vox corporal wheezed.
It took another solid five minutes of bounding up the stair, and seven more floors, before they reached the top of the hab block.
They went in to the nearest dorm, to find Mc'Carthey and most of his squad, at a window overlooking the rest of the city, from the natural viewpoint of Kallum's not-quite-drumlin. The men all stood in mute horror, Mc'Carthey clutching some magnoculars to his chest.
"What is it, sergeant?"
"Take a look, colonel." Mc'Carthey replied, handing the magnoculars over. Macara walked to the window.
He hardly needed the spotters' glasses. The hill dropped away just in front of them as the steep streets plummeted into the next sector. It was a great view, or at least would have been before the war.
From here he could make out the extent of the enemy. Artillery positions coughed from at least five miles away. Columns of armour filled the streets and main thorough-fares. Thousands of oil can fires showed where the enemy was waiting their chance to advance and join the fight. Smoke filled the air. He imagined, a rough estimate based on experience, the number of men round each fire, multiplied by the number of fires. It was a startling number.
Amongst the enemy armour, he could have sworn he saw something large, tank sized, scuttling about, but the smog obscured his view.
And worse still, closer to his position, he could see huge formations of cultists and Legion of Narcissus soldiers drawing close to the foot of the hill. The streets were thronged with them, braying for blood and ecstasy in equal amount. Amidst them, tanks moved in the direction of his command. Four, five at least. Mc'Carthey's men pointed as they saw more. Must be at least two companies, coming his way.
"Missile launcher teams to this line of habs, at the double!" he voxed. "Get the lascannons stationed back where they were, across the highway. That's the fall back position."
"What's wrong, sir?" Cairns replied, hearing the urgency in Macara's voice.
"Tanks, at least thirty."
"Shit."
"My sentiments exactly. Get the men dug in and ready, this could get bad. Send to the other formations in the brigade – we're about to be overrun."
"By the Throne!" Cairns whispered back.
"I'll get us out of this, Faolan, don't worry. Macara out."
"Out."
"Mk'Hellin, get me through to the General," Macara ordered. The corporal didn't need to ask which one.
Looking out again, Macara realised the Imperial task force would be doomed unless it concentrated back to the main spine. There wasn't much they could do if the enemy marched on them in full force, in their current positions.
"Got the General on the master vox, sir." He handed over the vox horn in what was becoming a muscle memory action.
"Sir, we can't go any further." The Salamander driver turned to Mk'Fedan. He, and the three tanks of the 1st Household Cavalry he had managed to purloin, had come to a halt. Guardsmen were pouring back along the main streets. Stretcher bearers carried the less injured men, Chimeras and halftracks lifting the more debilitated Guardsmen.
"Can you go round?"
"Sorry, sir. The buildings here are quite strong. We'd have to be rough to break them and we'd risk injuring the men nearby," the driver said, shoulders slumped.
"Okay. Take that side-street, there, to the left. According to the map, if we follow it along for a half mile, we'll come across another main road." Mk'Fedan suggested.
"That road will probably be blocked too, sir," one of the staff officers with him said.
"It'll be better than sitting here, stuck amongst the wounded."
"Fair point, sir," The major conceded.
"Sir, vox for you!" the command vehicles' radio man.
"Go ahead."
"Colonel Macara wants you to know he has the main enemy force in sight. Huge numbers of armoured vehicles and vast formations of infantry."
"Pass it here, son," The grizzled general said, taking the vox horn. "Go ahead, Daine, what's your appraisal."
"Good to hear you, sir. We need more armour, now. More infantry support would be good. Hell, even some navy chaps in those fighters of theirs! It's the only way we can make it through this with any sort of chance to make it back."
"What about your position, can you hold the line?" the general continued. There was a brief pause, and Mk'Fedan looked to the vox man to see if the link was still live. Then Macara spoke.
"No."
Mk'Fedan knew Macara, and the 5th, and knew that if Macara could have held, he would have said as much. He wasn't for exaggerating in order to drum up more troops.
"Can we begin our withdrawal, sir?" the colonel spoke again.
Mk'Fedan rubbed his face. He breathed deeply before replying.
"The roads are completely blocked – it's why I am not with you already. You'll have to hold for at least two hours until I can clear a space for your forces to retreat through. Someone will need to be a rearguard, because your own men will block these roads as it stands. I'll see if I can send you some air support," Mk'Fedan sounded frustrated, and hoped Macara could tell how genuine he was.
"We'll do what we have to, sir. See you soon. For Garrowa, for the Bl…" the colonel went silent.
"Son?" Mk'Fedan looks at the comms officer.
"Signals gone dead, sir."
Mk'Fedan nodded, picking up a troop location data slate and started making adjustments. "He'll be fine. He'll hold. I know Daine. He'll hold."
