Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 136
The report was dire, "The western district is on the verge of falling, and the east won't hold another hour. The Terrans are about to cut off our avenue of retreat and leave the centre trapped in a meat grinder. Our only hope is to pull everyone back to the northern sector and entrench before they overrun us."
"Unacceptable," Disquisitor Von Tor growled, "This city must be held at all costs."
"If I don't order a retreat the men's courage will break anyway!"
"Cowards will earn no redemption," Von Tor hissed.
"The Terrans are bringing tank regiments into the city, backed by ten thousand Guardsmen. Their artillery pounds our rear lines and their air force has total superiority. What do we have that compares?!"
"A sacred duty to resist!" Von Tor snapped.
General Hekteus' face told a story of what he thought about that, but he dared not speak so in front of a Disquisitor. A painfully thin man, harried by concerns most onerous. His tiredness was revealed in every wrinkle, the bags under his eyes and the unshaven stubble on his chin. Hekteus was in an impossible position, charged with defending Etriburgh, a modest city on the open plains. No mountains or deserts lay nearby, only vast acres of farmland, making this conurbation the only obstacle to the Terran invader's advance.
Von Tor's eyes fell to the glowing Hololith, taking in the city streets and districts. A few days before this town had been a beautiful vista of soaring food warehouses and avenues packed with bakeries. Eriburgh's contribution to refined Novan culture was cuisine, the finest chiefs and confectionares for thousands of lightyears gathered together. Not only for elite palates was the city famed, it was also a major hub of basic ration production, its output feeding citizens across Nova Terra. Now it was a warzone. Tanks smashed through bakeries and Frater Templars set fire to grain silos and packing factorums. Trains stacked with sacks of flour were set alight and the bodies of artists were left to rot among the tools they had plied in life. Such a tragedy, such a waste, the blinkered, uncaring drive of the Terrans cared nothing for that which they destroyed, only that they advanced their territory a little further and they were succeeding.
From the south came endless lines of troops, pouring across the plains. The Titans had moved off, a small blessing, but the zealots had more than enough men and munitions to level the city anyway. Against that the Novans had mustered a pathetic defence. A few regiments of Wardsmen with light artillery and only a handful of tanks pulled out of reserve. Not enough to hold, not nearly enough, and yet Von Tor needed this city to stand.
Hekteus drew in a long breath then said, "Perhaps if the Ur-Council were to send us reinforcements we could rebuff the advance."
Von Tor could offer no such hope, "The Ur-Council has many pressing fronts to deal with. There are no more men to be had."
"Some Schismatic Titans," Hekteus proposed, "An airstrike... something!"
"There's nothing coming," Von Tor refuted.
Hekteus glanced sideways at his aides and officiants manning the command hub and then whispered, "Does the Ur-Council understand what's happening here?"
Did they, it was a valid question. Von Tor had been avoiding direct contact since he murdered Leyra, but through back channels he heard the Novan government was dithering. Political rivalries and old arguments had them deadlocked, and their orders kept changing hourly. Titan Maniples had been pulled back with heavy losses, while Capitol Imperalis were sent here, there and everywhere. Wardsmen spent days trucking to defence positions, only to find the lines had been redrawn before they got there. The harsh truth was the Ur-Council had proved itself singularly unsuited to fighting a war, and too proud to stand back and let competent soldiers do their jobs. Their schemes had failed, but then Von Tor's had hardly proved any better.
"The Adjudication fortress," Hekteus said at last, "It's well-built and has excellent fields of fire, if we can reinforce that position then the line can be stabilised to either side. From there we can rain artillery on anyone who dares approach."
"Then do so," Von Tor agreed.
"One problem, well two. First, we lost vox-contact half an hour ago, second, I doubt the Adjudication will allow my men inside their walls. They're prickly bastards at the best of times."
"You get your men moving, I'll handle the Adjudication," Von Tor instructed.
"You?"
"No one says no to a Disquisitor."
Von Tor turned and strode from the command room, heading out into the bunker complex. Buried deep under a series of grain silos the network of tunnels was proof against shell and bomb and gas. Packed with officers working to manage the resistance it represented the brain of the defence, but nothing could stop it entirely. Kazial fell in, a pot helm upon his head, strap hanging unsecured. His pistols were loose in the holsters, and he looked worried.
"We getting out anytime soon?" Kazial asked.
"We're not running this time," Von Tor stated, "We need to reach the Adjudication fortress."
"Errr..." Kazial gulped, "You're talking about three city blocks, in a contested warzone."
"That is where we must go."
"Don't suppose I can requisition a platoon?"
"We can't shoot our way through, better to trust to stealth. Two can pass unseen where a score cannot."
"This is what we get for trusting Vorshaan," Kazial sighed.
Von Tor shook his head, "The Dusk Prince always has a plan, we've seen that often enough. Chaos is a storm on the horizon, dangerous yes, but it can be managed. Warbands sack and pillage, but worlds can be rebuilt and populations reseeded. Even Abaddon has tried and failed to break Cadia four times. Four Black Crusades rebuffed, and Cadia is rebuilt stronger each time. The perils of Chaos can be dire, but if one knows what one's doing then they can be used to your advantage. Vorshaan wants what I have, he'll enact his plan in his own time. We just have to hold until then."
His confidence was not without justification. The Horus Heresy had torn the Imperium down, but it had been rebuilt time and time again. The Traitor Legions were mostly confined to the Eye of Terror and Daemonic incursions, while horrifying for those caught up in them, were infrequent. Other dangers had eclipsed that nightmare, the War of the Beast, the travesties of the Halo Zone, the riven Imperium. Humanity had more than troubles enough today to waste time worrying about old Heresies.
Von Tor had reached a heavy door, well-concealed in the emptiness of a silo. Wardsmen allowed the pair out, then hastily sealed the hatch behind them. The Disquisitor was instantly struck by the smoke and ash in the air, coating the rooftops with the Ferrocrete flakes. Smells of oil, blood and powder were in that mix, with the alluring scent of yeast cooking. It made one want to breathe deep, but Von Tor was aware of the danger of breathing pulverised stone. He hastily shut his mouth and tried to breathe shallowly and then drew his weapons as he edged towards daylight.
Through the open door he saw the ruins of Etriburgh. Collapsed buildings still burned and the bodies of Wardsmen lay face down in the debris. Smoke filled the air but he noted the damage was explosive in nature, distant shells and dropped bombs, not lasguns or bolt rounds. The Terrans were pounding this district, but hadn't yet moved infantry up to sweep for survivors. They had a narrow window to reach their goal. He could see it, the Adjudication fortress, glimpsed between billowing clouds of smoke. It sat high over the city, reminding all Novans that the Lex was above them. Its walls stood defiant, its guns fired at unseen foes and the void shields flared as stray shells detonated off them. Ironic, that a fortress built to inspire dread in the citizens of Etriburgh should represent its last hope.
Von Tor put his head down and scurried across the street to the far side. Loose gravel crunched under his boot and he skipped over a fallen corpse as he did so. The pair of them ducked into the lee of a collapsed bakery, then shuffled sideways along the row of destroyed buildings. Von Tor imagined he was a fleet shadow in the gloom, silent and deadly, not a stumbling old man trying not to trip on a loose brick.
Every step of the way he strained his senses for the enemy, knowing Terrans would be moving up to secure this location. He had his Displacer ring, but the technology was ancient and poorly understood. It had saved his life on many an occasion but had failed at other times, leaving him vulnerable. He remained painfully aware he was just a man, not a mighty Space Marine, a stray shot could end him, Disquisitor or not.
The pair reached the end of the row of shops and hurriedly dashed across a junction. Von Tor counted on the drifting smoke to cover him, but his hopes were thwarted. A cry behind and then a las-shot sailed over his shoulder, barely missing. Up the street came a platoon of Terrans, Frater Templars covered in muck and grime, save their golden lasguns which gleamed.
"Frak!" Kazial spat as he fired off a pair of shots. Precious Banestrike rounds were wasted on such low-quality troops, but the following detonations blew two men apart and made the rest stumble as they were coated in gore. Von Tor put a purple ray straight through a third man, boring a perfect circle through flesh, but even that was not enough to dissuade the enraged zealots.
"In here!" Von Tor cried as he ducked through a doorway into a dark room. He hoped it would let him lose the pursuit through a backdoor, but it turned out to be a dead end. The next room had collapsed, leaving the only other door blocked, they were pinned, trapped in the dark hole like fish in a barrel.
"Oh great!" Kazial groaned as he spun to face the doorway.
"Get ready to fight!" Von Tor snapped.
"Oh, I'll fight alright, right up till they lob a grenade in here."
"Don't give them ideas!"
A figure eclipsed the light, charging in with bayonet attached to the end of a lasrifle Von Tor met the man with the point of a power sword, running him through. The blade was thin and wrapped in disruptive energies, it would have punched through Carapace armour, against the rags the Frater Templar wore it was unstoppable. The man came to a halt with a grunt of surprise, eyes locked on the blade penetrating his heart, then he slumped to the ground and moved no more.
Von Tor had no time to redress, for more Terrans piled through. Harsh cries were on their lips, prayers to the Golden Throne, blind dogma echoed without thought. Von Tor was a mortal man, but he was no stranger to combat. He planted his feet and swept the edge of his blade about, taking off a head, then a hand at the wrist. A lunging bayonet forced him to skip back, only to plunge his sword over the top to skewer an eyeball. Blood fizzled on his blade but more Fraters were coming, mindless in their frenzy, stoked to a righteous fury by their faith. The air sang with prayers of battle, the bitter scent of rage souring every drawn breath. All was madness and death, the condemnation of zealotry set against stubborn defiance. Two against scores, the stuff of legends. It was glorious, but it could only end one way.
Von Tor ripped a bleeding furrow across a bicep, only for a stabbing bayonet to spear into his left flank. No Displacer effect sprang into life, and he typically did not wear armour, the type of foes he usually faced made such protection meaningless anyway. Von Tor gritted his teeth as a barbed-wire knot of pain wrapped his ribs, but he dared not stop fighting. He lashed out with his sword, opening a throat, but his pained state left him overbalanced and he was exposed.
Frater Templars piled in, trying to end him. The banging of bolt rounds put paid to that, buzzing mass-reactives punching deep, followed by explosions that tore them apart. Kazial fired singularly, each shot a kill, but his ammo was limited and the Fraters seemed to have brought friends. Von Tor gripped his side and felt blood wet his fingers but he lifted his pistol in the other and managed to put a shot through someone's groin. He'd meant to go for the heart but in his weakened state he missed. It put the man down, but it was a mere drop in the bucket.
"Last stand boss!" Kazial yelled as he picked off Fraters in the confined space.
"We're not done yet!" Von Tor spat in defiance.
"My clips are running low, I gotta reload!"
"I'm not dying here," Von Tor snarled.
The Disquisitor shot another Frater bare inches from stabbing him in the gut. Von Tor brought his pistol up expecting to find another foe, only to see something strange. The Fraters were falling back, piling out the door. They hadn't broken, two men couldn't stay their fury, even ones as well armed as the Disquisitor and Acolyte. Something was going on outside, Von Tor heard voices raised in argument, but stern rebukes put paid to that.
Von Tor guessed an officer had come to sort them out and expected a clutch of grenades to come sailing through the gaping door, but to his surprise the voices began to fade, moving away. He wanted to peer out, but the wound to his side was bleeding freely, he needed medical attention and fast.
The Disquistor slumped to the ground and muttered, "Toss me a medpack, then see what's going on."
Kazial fished a dirty packet out of one of his many pockets as he inched to the door, "Looks like they're retreating."
Von Tor fumbled the catch but hastily opened the tin and grabbed a synth-skin patch, "We scare them off?"
"Nope, looks like a general retreat. Hekteus must have pulled off some miracle."
Von Tor pulled open his coat and lifted his shirt to apply the patch, "If it's a miracle then it's a warp-born one."
"Vorshaan?" Kazial probed.
Von Tor felt numbing pain balms seep from the patch and sank back in relief, "Whatever the Dusk Princes' plan was, it's working. The Terrans are giving ground, I'd presume not just here but on many fronts. I don't know how he did it, but he put the fear into them. Vorshaan's bought us some time, now we have to figure out what we're going to do with it."