~Siege of San Leor~
~804. M30~
~Segmentum Ultima~
~San Leor~
~Roboute, High King of Albion, Crown Prince of Mankind~
The first mistake a new commander makes is typically assuming a greater degree of control than he actually has over the battlefield. That he has the ability to take in information as it occurs, command his soldiers accordingly, and direct the battlefield as he wishes. A commander does have these abilities, but they are limited, slow, and imprecise.
Staring at the Tact-Map display, sitting on a large and heavily reinforced bench brought up for this purpose (he was too tall to press the buttons without sitting or crouching), and surrounded by his various communications officers and sub-commanders. The ridge that he was upon overlooked the pass and the battle going on below, and was further protected by a group of knight-dominus patterns, each one extending their ion shields to protect the royal command point from stray fire.
There were many limitations to how much control any single commander could have over a given battlefield. At the squad level, a sergeant could easily command his squad and direct them as communications allow, assuming that all parties involved were both competent and loyal. A canny observer will take notice of the many qualifiers that statement was forced to include.
Communications, Competency, Loyalty. The three primary factors that influence just how much a commander was capable of commanding.
He mentally commanded his helmet to attune to a specific vox-frequency, and spoke out and order in clear, precise language. "Flank Lance 3, Three Orkish walkers are about to crest the ridge northwest of your position." Knowing what to do thanks to his previous and rigorous training regime, that lance of knight-armors pulled back from engaging with smaller armor elements and readied their ion shields.
Just in time, the Stompas exposed their heads over the crest to their right. Focusing their fire (also in accordance with his rigorous curriculum) appropriately, the first stompa died within seconds of exposing itself, top half turning into slag under the weight of the massed laserfire. The second and third stompas, firing with wild abandon, had most of their shells bounce off the rotating ion shields and sloped armor of the knight-armors. Many of the deflected shots went wide and cut down both ork and unlucky soldiers of Albion alike. Fortunately, at least those with the sense to stay directly behind the knight-armors were mostly unscathed.
The second and third stompas went down shortly afterwards, the focused firing quickly reducing the threats before them and resulting in a far more manageable enemy by total volume of fire. The end result, three destroyed stompas, a few dozen orks slain, and a squad or two worth of Albion soldiers slain.
In the time it took him to relay that order, a thousand more smaller conflicts raged and concluded across the battlefield.
The great limitation on communication was that the commander could only speak so fast. Machine-interface commands helped to alleviate this to a degree, and even now his black carapace trailed an auxiliary wire to a cogitator that did little but relay updated positioning orders to the most critical elements of the battlefield he could see. He could not relay tactical information this way, but simple positioning orders were possible.
This information, in turn, went to the local level commanders, who then had to relay it to their squad. That took precious seconds to relay, then precious more seconds to be understood, then precious more seconds to be acted upon, then an unknown amount of time for the soldiers to move into their updated positional coordinates. All of this, itself, was already delayed by the time it took for their position on the Tact-Map to be observed, updated, and relayed to his display.
All orders relayed in this manner had to be done well in advance, simply to account for the time required for those orders to be acted out. Those orders then had to be interpreted in accordance to how competent his officers were, then acted out in accordance to how loyal his officers were.
Loyal wasn't the best word, eager perhaps? Willingness? Enthusiasm?
Regardless. "Annihilator-Platoons 36 through 40, there is an ork warbeast approaching your eastern flank." He commanded on another vox frequency, alerting a sizable group of his armor-elements to the most-problematic element currently approaching them, a great quadruped carnivore big enough to trample a knight-walker under its hooves and with tusks longer than he was tall. Its back carried a few dozen orks and great guns, all of which fired in an almost random manner.
There was both technology and psykery that could make up for this fundamental issue of communication, Roboute was choosing to shy away from using such for the simple issue of what the future had shown him of systems that rely on more advanced technologies or critical assets with the required training in short supply.
No, the more points of failure introduced into the system at large, the more likely something was to fail when he needed it most. He could not rely on advanced machine-commandments like the techpriests utilized for their techguard, or psyker-commanders like the eldar used in a broader sense. He had to rely on what he could guarantee access to at all times for all worlds.
Training.
Across the ten-thousand smaller fights and micro-battles playing out in this larger conflict, the local situations were handled by officers that he had ensured were relentlessly trained, drilled, and had access to a comprehensive codex pertaining to leadership and warfare. Both the training regimen and said codicies the product of the last few years of his labor, then mass-replicated across every world he brought into the fold of Albion.
Assuming the worst, every world he touched would have access to all the tools needed to build themselves up independently of wider Albion. Assuming the worst, each world in his domain was a potential 'Albion Secundus'. If they had access to voidships, that was. Voidships were maintained as a crown monopoly, and thus the iron hand that he could use to ensure rebellion would not occur from terrestrial worlds.
He could not control everything, but he could control the stars.
The next question was one of fleet-rebellions. How could he make sure that his fleet did not go rogue? That was addressed from three angles.
"Forward Lance 6, support Forward Lance 5 against the ork warbeasts."
The genetic loyalty of the Astartes was a somewhat well known phenomena, encoded into their genes to ensure that they would hear and obey their associated Primarch. The reasoning was clear enough, even if it went awry in the future that was. The first step taken to ensure his fleets would not go rogue was to ensure the high level command staff was composed predominantly of Astartes of his geneline.
Predisposed for loyalty, physically capable of putting down mutiny, and with all the access codes for the overall command of the ship.
The second angle was by splitting his fleet into the COGs themselves. Should any single or even several COGs end up going rogue, he would be able to call upon other COGs in order to put the rebellion down, with known tactical disposition and force size for his enemies granting him great advantage. His relative force projection compared to any single COG would be well known to each and every one of them.
They simply didn't have the ability to accumulate enough strength to rebel. Not before he would become aware of such disloyalty brewing.
The third angle was simple. Propaganda and living standards.
Rebellions were rare when the troops were well-equipped, well-fed, well-supported, and knew that their leaders were responsible for making sure it stayed that way. These three angles combined wouldn't prevent the occasional rogue group or rebellious planet, but it would ensure it was rare and simple enough to handle each and every time. Humans tended to behave illogically at times, all he could do was mitigate the damage done and prepare for the eventuality.
To that end, how he commanded must be similar. Each battlefield was a microcosm of the wider war. His duty, as highest-level commander, was to put his units in the proper starting positions, relay the intended future position, and address the most critical concerns personally.
He stood, machine-interface sending a command with coordinates to the webway operators. A few moments later a gate in realspace crashed into existence. The timing was a bit closer than he would prefer, but he could adjust easily enough.
Moving forwards, Roboute stomped onto the battlefield more than a kilometer away, and threw his shield-arm forwards in a heavy bash.
The great orkish drake staggered back as his shield smashed into its snapping jaws and forced it away from his ambushed infantry group. The rider on the drake buckled on the back of the jet-sized winged snapping turtle, and roared in frustration. The black-clad ork was one of the few active psykers it seemed, as it had teleported it and its drake directly over this group a few moments prior.
It was situations like these that he was here for. He couldn't be everywhere at once, but he could be where he was needed most.
"Backline! Focus fire on the rider!" He roared out through vox, broadcasting his direct commandments to every soldier within hearing range. Backline only, as the frontline was currently busy with waves of orks approaching their fortified positions.
The ork ignored most of the lasgun bolts smashing into him, covered in plates of heavy armor and half-invisible to the naked eye.
The ork roared and his hand cackled with bolts of green lightning. "FRAZZLE YA!" Throwing his hand forwards, the lightning began to leap from its hand towards Roboute. Roboute had learned quite a bit about psykery from the Exodites. The most important perhaps being that the warp did not particularly care what material laws said was supposed to happen.
Sword blazing like a miniature sun, Roboute swung and called forth a wave of furious gold flame. Normally, fire and lightning had no particular reason to interact. A lightning bolt would pass through a bonfire without much care.
Warp-fire and warp-lightning, on the other hand, clashed in the air with a spectacular explosion of light, heat, and sound.
He stomped forwards again, moving through the aftershock of this clash dauntlessly. His thick plates of armor and golden shield kept him safe as he approached the enemy.
Jaws rushed through the explosion, clearly having the same idea as him.
He didn't need to fear them, however. He was a primarch.
With shield and sword, he held the jaws apart as they attempted to close down on him. With a small grunt of exertion, his arms pushed the mouth wide.
Then wider.
The drake thrashed as he tore its cheeks and jaws too wide, splitting flesh and separating bone in a single massive rip. Not having the weight to contest its throwing him around, Roboute allowed himself to be thrown wide.
He soared through the air for a moment, flipping about and evaluating the scene as he did, preparing himself for landing. The drake was rising into the air, attempting to leave the battlefield. The rider was preparing another arc of lightning.
Hands touching ground first, he pushed off suddenly, making sure to go over the heads of a squad he was about to crush with his impact. Their helmets attempted to follow him as his path continued, slowly bleeding off speed.
His bent legs touched against a Chimera, a troop-transport, and he immediately pushed off of it as hard as he could. The troop-transport shook as he rocketed off it like an autocannon shell and up into the air. He drew his sword back as he soared.
The ork-rider roared again as the bolt of green lightning screamed down, shocking a dozen troopers and causing them to fall stiffly to the ground. The drake roared through a torn jaw as its heavy wingbeats forced his troopers to the ground.
His golden sword impaled the drake as he crashed into it several meters off the ground.
The drake was forced to tip in the air, roaring in pain and panic as its balance was thrown off. The rider roared as it attempted to see what had just hit its mount.
A broad lance of golden flame erupting from the sword engulfed both the innards of the drake and the rider behind it in furious psychic energies. A great conflagration that crested and arced over the battlefield, a horizontal pillar of golden flame appearing for an instant and turning the dim battlefield into well-illuminated skirmishes for an instant.
He touched down on the earth several meters away, a cloud of dust following his heavy landing. Raising to his full height, he let his long stride bring him quickly back to the troopers downed by psychic lightning. He mentally commanded another webway gate to open as he barked over the vox to yet another frequency. "Medicae, prepare to extract three squads through webway."
A few moments later, the portal opened, and white clad medical troopers in powermail rushed forwards to physically heft soldiers on their shoulders and quickly bring them back through the portal. He stood watch as this occurred, waiting for the soldiers to be drawn back again before giving more commands and coordinates through vox and machine-interface. "Reserves, prepare to deploy three squads through webway."
The portal behind him opened again, and the temporary gap in his line here was filled in by fresh troops.
Soon enough, another portal was opened, and he had returned to the command point, looking down and updating his awareness on the Tact-Map. Soon enough, he was needed elsewhere.
Ten thousand or more tiny battles occurring every moment.
The situation was decidedly more simple to manage than the dark future had been.
—
Victory was inevitable after a certain point.
The point coincided with his eldar-advisory officers staggering and clutching their eyes.
The point coincided with the orkish front suffering a rippling wave of temporary disruption, quickly followed by a rallying 'WAAAGH!' from the Warboss somewhere deep within the mass of orkish warmachines and warbeasts.
The point coincided with the sword in his hand blazing to life without conscious will on his part.
The point coincided with alerts from his ships that a fleet had entered into the system from warp-space. Visual information sent to him had told him exactly who it was, and he quickly relayed the order to not fire unless fired upon.
The battle had raged for several hours, it would take the fastest a few more hours to arrive.
It should've, at least.
A crack of gold-white lightning split the sky open, and banished the layer of smog for miles around.
And from this immense crack of artificial lightning, missile-like things fell from the heavens like rain. Roboute had recognized them immediately.
Imperial drop-pods, second-generation patterns, thousands of them falling deep within the orkish armies. He could recognize three distinct sizes, which meant Custodes, Astartes, and Auxillia.
And in the center of all these, a single burning point of gold descended like a falling star. Arik and Kytan snapped into an instinctive salute behind him. The Thunder Warriors behind them on the command point following the moment after.
"All Albion units, begin a fighting advance, watch fire, there will be friendlies in your lines." Roboute ordered on the all-frequencies vox, now hailing a dozen more signatures than before. "Star Slayers, with me."
His command to the webway operators was obeyed, and he stepped through directly on the frontlines himself, followed by the Star Slayers.
Lascannons fired as if they were lasguns, and the orkish front before him melted as he and his personal force advanced. The soldiers of Albion quickly followed, a great welling of morale following in the wake of any primarch's massive steps.
In the distance, through the heavy cannons and crude guns of the orks, he could hear a distant staccato booming. The sound of bolter-fire.
This early on in the Great Crusade? Roboute smiled softly to himself. The Emperor had listened to that part of his advice, at least.
The orkish army began to fall apart under the pincer-maneuver of legions of superhumans within their ranks and a well-equipped army in front of them. There was little they could do but fight in all directions. That wasn't enough.
The gleam of gold became more and more apparent as they pushed forwards, laserfire cutting through the progressively thinning ranks of green flesh and black metal. With every loss being one less enemy that needed focus to take down, and thus one less threat to his advancing bone-clad army.
His steps began to slow as he crested the next ridge, idly cutting a roaring ork straggler down as he took in what was before him. Behind him, the Star Slayers also slowed, their lascannons cutting down nearby orks but their boots progressively halting. The sounds of the battlefield slowly grew more and more distant as everything nearby was cut down, and a clearing was carved in corpses in the midst of the battle.
The vision of the God-Emperor, the holy corpse on that golden throne, had burnt away most anything else. He could not remember the face, or mood, or attitude of his creator as he used to be, only the resplendent effigy of suffering and indomitable will that he became.
A fellow giant stood on the other side of the corpse-clearing, an ork skull as large as either of their torsos raised in a lightning-wreathed and clawed gauntlet. Immense plates of thick gold covered the gigantic frame, and these plates were decorated with innumerable badges of honor and symbols of loyalty, decorations of eagles and lightning bolts, of curling vines and filigree, of ribbons and tassels and strips of parchment.
A long white pelt of an immense calibanite lion fluttered in the gentle wind, and a horned helmet stared at him. A crown of light rested on the brow of this helmet, regularly toothed like some arcane cog and gently spinning around the head.
The eyes of the helmet were red tinted visor-glass.
For the first time in a long time, Roboute locked eyes with his creator.
The tension of uncertainty filled the air. The ork-head was lowered, then dropped.
The gold-clad giant stepped forwards, weapons lowered.
The bone-clad giant stepped forwards, weapons lowered.
They met in the center, their troops forming a wide circle around the two. The sounds of orkish roars and weapons-fire grew distant as they evaluated each other with caution. Neither was quite certain if the other was about to attack or not. Communication had a way of growing more difficult with increasing might.
"Malum Caedo." The Emperor of Mankind rumbled in greeting.
"Lord Emperor." Roboute rumbled back.
They evaluated each other for a few moments longer, before the helm of the Emperor tilted down. Following the gaze, Roboute saw his helm angled towards the burning sword in his hand. The helm turned back towards him, a slow gauntlet raised to point down at it.
"Thy sword. May I?" The Emperor rumbled out.
Roboute hesitated for a moment. The vision of the corpse flashed before his eyes.
He narrowed his eyes, and banished the vision. He had no time for fear, for doubt. He had a galaxy to set straight. Bringing the sword up, hilt first, he offered it to the Emperor.
A golden gauntlet closed around the hilt. The flame wreathing the sword spread further, and wreathed the gauntlet holding the hand. Unbothered by this, the Emperor brought the sword up, taking measure of its wear and angles, and ran his other hand down the burning blade.
It froze halfway across. The crown of gold flickered pale for a moment. A long moment of quiet followed.
"I see."
The Emperor offered the sword back, and Roboute took it back to rest at his side.
Gauntlets clamped down on his shoulders. Roboute tensed and…
His body was pulled forwards.
Bone crashed into Gold. Arms wrapped around him firmly. A solemn voice rumbled with absolute conviction.
"You have done well, my Son. Let none dispute this."
Roboute was frozen with the alien sensation, one he was quite certain he had never felt before.
The Emperor was embracing him.
A weight left his shoulders, and his own arms came up.
A son returned his father's hold.
Pulling away after a time, he spoke again. "We have much to discuss, I'm certain."
"Much to speak about, little to discuss." The Emperor replied with cryptic rumbling, before extending an arm. "Before that. There are enemies before us. Let us drive them out. I welcome the chance to march with my once-Thunder Warriors again."
Roboute smiled under his helm and ordered through his vox. "All units, advancing fire upon all orkish targets."