Domus Discordia Chapter 38

All along the barricade the Primarch's Own waited, gripping their bolters and heavy weapons tightly. Missiles were loaded, lascanons charged, Melta's primed and Plasma flasks stoked with incandescent fury. They were waiting for the parlay to conclude and the battle to begin, a moment they did not have to wait long for. From the length of the Grand Processional Captain Toran and his party hurried, they almost ran back to the line and dove behind the barricade. Standing patiently on the line Persion tutted and inquired, "Didn't go well then?"

Toran snorted, "Of course not."

Novak gripping his power sword in one hand and his combat shield in the other as he asked, "Did they buy it?"

Furion replied, "They took the bait, they think us weak and broken. They can't resist the prospect of an easy victory."

Toran looked up and down the line, taking in the carefully arranged barricades and widely dispersed Marines and scout-novices. It was all a carefully crafted illusion, one designed to make them appear fractured and feeble. Yet those defences were only half the tale, not too far away the rest of the Primarch's Own lurked, meticulously hidden and waiting for the foe to engage, before they closed the trap upon them. Toran knew it had been a risky move, if the True Believers had detected the trap then all could have been lost. Yet the foe numbered no scouts among them and was overconfident, they had not had so much as a whiff of the trap.

Toran took his place on the line saying, "Make ready, they will come right up the middle and try to smash us in one hammer blow."

"That's what happens when you let an Apothecary make your battle plans," Persion muttered, "Offence very much intended."

Slightly further along the line Apothecary Memnos said nothing, hiding his face behind his blank helm. Memnos still appeared to be wallowing in his shame, which Toran thought he thoroughly deserved. The disgrace of the Apothecary order was beyond words, an infamy that would never be expunged. They would have to deal with it later though, for now battle loomed.

Captain Hakulo had taken up a position with his Eighth Company assault Marines and called over, "Is the flanking force ready?"

Toran answered him, "Ready, willing and able, Sergeant Cyvo will lead the counter-attack. We will catch the True Believers in a vice and grind them to paste."

Hakulo didn't sound reassured as he commented, "Maybe I should have taken them in hand."

Toran demurred, "No, the enemy expects to see you, they would have grown suspicious were you absent. Besides I've seen Cyvo at work, he's extremely competent."

Hakulo still growled, "You're still putting a lot of trust in someone rather junior."

"Which means he has everything to prove," Toran replied, "Trust in Cyvo, he will not fail us."

The line settled back and waited while Toran looked over his Marines. They were ready and eager, thirsting to meet the foe and end this war. Behind them the great doors of the Forges loomed, a vast edifice marked with the skull and cog icon of the Omnissiah, the representation of the Emperor as patron of knowledge and technology. Toran did not embrace Emperor-worship, that was the foe's banner, but he dared to wonder if the Emperor would look upon their deeds here and be pleased. Could the Primarch's Own undo the disgrace of the True Believers? Could they ever restore the honour of the Storm Heralds, or would they be forever marked by this scandal?

Toran's musings were interrupted as he heard the True Believers stirring, amassing for one mighty charge. Toran saw the distant figures of Erathor, Tygra and Wrethan, their reasons and motivations were irrelevant now, they had fallen and would be shown no mercy. Yet at the fore were the figures of Lessall and Samect, the well-spring of this travesty and the most deserving of punishment. Toran would gladly cut them down without a qualm.

Samect was pacing up and down and from afar Toran's enhanced hearing heard him cry, "We are the Emperor's Storm!"

As one the True Believers cried, "We are His wrath!" then leapt into motion.

As they closed Toran gritted his teeth, the enemy had even stolen the Chapter's war-cry. It felt so wrong to be on the other side of that cry, to hear it spill from the lips of the foe. Toran instantly knew his Marines needed a similar epithet, something to remind them what they were fighting for and he raised his voice to shout, "For Terra and the memory of Roboute Guilliman!"

His squads cheered at that but then Hauklo shouted, "You call that a war-cry? Pah, listen to how it's done."

Hakulo slammed the butt of his power spear on the ground three times and shouted, "War calls and we answer! Victory or death!"

As one Eighth rapped the hilts of their chainswords on their breastplates three times and roared, "Victory or death! Victory or death! Victory or death!"

The cheers were much louder this time and Toran heard Novak mutter, "Yours was good, his was better."

Toran was glad his helm meant no one could see him roll his organic eye but then he steadied himself and took up his bolter. He could see the True Believers closing now, a wall of blue ceramite barrelling forward. They were moments away from heavy weapon range, closing fast with weapons in hand. Toran would greet them with a barrage of firepower, heavy weapons first and bolters next, then the melee would commence and the trap would be sprung. Toran gripped his bolter firmly and stared at the oncoming foe, he put aside all notions of Brotherhood and kinship. They were the enemy, they were foul sinners, he would show them no mercy. The heat of battle would test both sides and he was sure the righteous would triumph once again. Toran lined up his bolter on a random Tactical Marine and waited for the foe to set foot within lascannon range. Toran opened his mouth and prepared to give the order to fire but at that very moment something unexpected occurred.

Just as the True Believers came into range there was a titanic roll of thunder, a mechanical noise made as immense machinery sprung into life. The ground rumbled and a fierce vibration arose from the ground, ringing up the boots and greaves of everybody present. Overhead the cyber-cherubs and servo-skulls ceased their droning chants and gave voice to a shriek of terror, a warning of danger and looming threat for all to hear.

The True Believers ground to a halt, stopped in their tracks by the unexpected clamour. They froze solid, weapons raised in every direction as they scanned for a threat, wary of a hidden trap. This however was not what Toran had expected for it was not of his doing. Yet at the base of his skull a sudden suspicion sprang into being, could this possibly be what he thought it was?

All along the Grand Processional the lumen orbs began to flash yellow, creating a blinding strobe effect as the siren calls wailed. Great blasts of steam began to spill out of overhead vents, filling the air with a cloying mist that clung to armour and condensed on weapon barrels. Then from behind the Primarch's Own weighty thuds rang forth, the noise of locks the size of Rhino transports being undone one by one.

"Move to the side!" Toran roared as realisation arose within him, "Get away from the Forge doors!"

Hastily his Marines ran to the side, leaving a clear path before the doors. Meanwhile the True Believers milled in uncertainty, wary of whatever was to occur next.

A terrible screech arose, a caterwauling loud enough to wake the dead as a seam appeared in the middle of the Forge doors, a crack that grew and grew ever wider. As everybody watched the great doors to the Forge slowly ground open, parting right down the middle of the skull and cog icon. The noise of them drowned out all else as their immense weight rumbled over the ferrocrete ground, as if the foundations of the world itself were shifting. Through that gap spilled out a thick, icy fog, illuminated from behind by actinic lights. Toran squinted as his autosenses tried to filter out what was emerging and at the back of his mind he dared to wonder if this could possibly be the fulfilment of his secret plan, the plan only he and handful of others had known about.

Then the fog parted to reveal a single Marine, one Space Marine made tiny by the towering height of the Forge doors. He was all alone, clad in Scout armour and his thick sideburns attested to his identity: it was Nimodes. Toran's hearts leapt at the sight and he was about to call out but then he heard a heavy tread as the mist parted again to reveal something else emerging from within the Forge… something huge.

Nimodes hurried out of the way as from the cloying mists stepped a huge mechanical war machine, walking on two legs. It had a broad flat fronting, slab-sided and heavily armoured, with a reinforced sarcophagus that was festooned by purity seals. On one side was mounted a long double-barrelled Lascanon and on the other were the multiple points of a missile launcher, packed with ordnance. It was twice the height of an Astartes and yet somehow looked squat and immensely heavy in its stride, resembling a walking tomb on legs more than anything else. Toran was stunned by the sight, one he could not help but recognise and he gasped in shock, "Venerable Temeraire."

Toran didn't understand what he was seeing, this was not what he had expected, but before he could react the mist parted again and a second shape emerged. This one was similar in shape and form but the weapons this time were the dread pendulums of a pair of mechanical claws. The Sarcophagous was marked with anvil and flame icons and its name was emblazoned upon it in beaten gold leaf. Toran read aloud in stupefied amazement, "Bellerophon, the Slayer of Despots."

Together the twin machines were a sight to make anyone step back in awe, but the spectacle had barely begun. In two lines more and more war machines emerged from the mists, their tread shaking the entire processional and their shadows eclipsing all. Before Toran's disbelieving eyes a parade of ancient warriors emerged. Each was a name etched into the histories of the Storm Heralds, every last one a living legend in their own time. In two lines they came, to the left was Varngard the Bold, Bretannia Orkbane, Haniball the Conqueror, Warmonger Yellico, and Sparticas the Doom-bringer. To the right marched Indomitable Neptun followed by Jupitre the Retaliator, Lionhearted Agincord, Tonnant Flamesword and Hibernia the Watchman.

Every Astartes present, Primarch's Own and True Believer, was rendered absolutely speechless by the sight. This was not only unprecedented, it was unthinkable. Twelve Dreadnoughts, twelve of them, all marching together. Not once in the Storm Herald's entire history had twelve of their thirteen Dreadnoughts marched at the same time. It was beyond any grasp of sanity and both the Primarch's Own and the True Believers shrank back, their looming battle banished by the incredible occurrence.

The Dreadnoughts marched in lockstep between the two sides, forcing a separation between them. They created a wall of armour and machinery, a bastion that neither side was willing to challenge. But it was not just their mass and weapons that gave pause, these warriors were the greatest and most ancient of heroes. They were the living history of the Storm Heralds, the most revered of Brothers and esteemed champions the Chapter had ever known. To oppose them was absurd; to point a weapon at one was unthinkable.

Silence fell as the Dreadnoughts separated out the two sides and Toran had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. Then one more set of footfalls rang forth and the mists parted as one last Dreadnought emerged. This one taller and more elegantly formed, smoothly curved and gracefully limbed, where the others were squat and broad. This was the Storm Herald's thirteenth Dreadnought, the oldest and most revered of all. Nobody dared to breathe as Honourable Ajax stormed out of the Forge, sweeping his gaze imperiously over the scene.

Absolute silence fell as the ancient warrior surveyed the assembled armies, everybody freezing like vermin confronted by a great predator. Then in a voice of thunder Ajax spoke, filling the Grand Processional with his raging ire as he roared, "BRING ME LESSALL!"