'A necessary precaution and one all staff are aware of when stationed in these facilities. Now, if we may continue? The facility
commander should have a bronze key around his neck? Take it.'
Forcing down his repugnance, Hawke checked the bodies, finding the key on the third body. He vowed that if he got out of this
alive, he was going to find Beauvais and punch his face in. He stepped over the bodies and made his way down the corridor,
tucking the key into his pocket. The air felt stagnant and he soon found himself wheezing.
'I can hardly breathe in here,' he complained.
'Do you have a respirator to use until the outside air filters in?'
'Yeah, I got one,' snapped Hawke. He fumbled in the pack for the clumsy breathing apparatus and dragged it over his head,
flicking on the illuminator above the faceplate.
A featureless corridor stretched off into the darkness, and he started his descent. Following Beauvais's instructions, he passed
several iron doors sealed with keypads which were unmarked save for the cog symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. His breathing
sounded loud in his ears and the click of his worn-down boot heels and the tinny voice of Beauvais echoed from the walls, the
torch-lit darkness seeming to magnify the sounds. Despite himself, Hawke felt his trepidation growing the further he descended
into the mountain.
At last, Beauvais's directions led him to an unremarkable door, stencilled with wording he couldn't read, but a symbol that was
clearly a warning. He raised the handset to his mouth.
'Right, I'm here, now what?'
'Use the key you took from the facility commander to unlock the door.'
Hawke dug the key from his pocket and did as instructed, standing back as the door clicked open and a gust of oil and incensescented
air rushed to meet him. Inside was darkness and he stepped through the door, panning the light from his respirator around
him.
The room appeared to be circular, its blank walls running around a gigantic white pillar at its centre that took up most of the space.
A metal-ranged ladder set into the rockcrete wall ascended into the darkness beside him, and he stared in puzzlement at the
massive object before him.
Hawke put his hand out and touched it. It was warm to the touch and felt as though there was a quiver of movement within, but
perhaps that was just his imagination. The base of the column sat in a sunken pit and as he leaned over to get a better look, he saw
what appeared to be vast nozzles, like the ones he'd seen on the end of one of the heavy weapon team's missiles, but bigger.
Bigger…
Realisation sank in as Hawke craned his neck in an attempt to see how high this chamber was.
'Is this what I think it is?' he asked Beauvais.
'That depends on what you think it is, but I can tell you that it is a Glaive class, ground-launched orbital torpedo.'
'And what in the name of the High Lord's balls do you expect me to do with it?' spluttered Hawke.
'We want you to fire it, Guardsman Hawke,' explained Magos Beauvais.
FIVE
FOLLOWED BY NEARLY two thousand men, Castellan Prestre Vauban clambered over the lip of the citadel's ditch and sprinted
towards the Iron Warriors' raised earthworks. There was no battle cry, no shout of rage, only the silence of soldiers who knew
their only chance of survival was stealth.
The men's faces were smeared with soot and their sky blue uniform had been left in the barracks in favour of plain black flak
jackets.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Leonid's storming parties spread out from the ditch, clustered around the demolition teams and Vauban knew that this attack was a
desperate gamble indeed. But as his second-in-command had pointed out, they had no choice but to attempt to destroy the enemy
guns. To not try would be to allow the Iron Warriors to pound them into dust.
A thrill of fear and exultation coursed through his veins at the prospect of battle, it had been too long since he had led men into
combat.
He clutched his bolt pistol close to his chest, running crouched over, the breath heaving in his lungs. The traitor line was still a
few hundred metres away. His breathing sounded hellishly loud and the thump of boots on the dusty earth was like the thunder of
a Titan's tread, but so far the alarm had not been raised. Perhaps there was a chance this reckless attack might just succeed.
Even in the dim light, Vauban could see a head raised above the level of the ramparts of the enemy earthworks and counted down
the seconds until the attack hit home.
All they needed was a little more time.
URAJA KLANE PULLED himself up to the ramparts of the earthworks and peered into the darkness, resting his rifle on the rough,
earthen parapet. There was something happening in front of the works, but he couldn't quite see what. Lord Kroeger had charged
them with the protection of these guns and he knew better than to disappoint his master. But the flickering lights and noise from
the sprawling campsite made it difficult to make out anything.
Behind him, several hundred soldiers slept on the firing step or drank distilled spirits from tin mugs in their muddy dug-outs.
He glanced down and kicked Yosha awake. He had a pair of battered field glasses that could see in the dark, didn't he?
'Hey, Yosha, wake up, you useless piece of…' hissed Klane.
Yosha mumbled something foul and unintelligible, then rolled over. Klane kicked him again.
'Yosha, wake up, damn you. Gimme your goggles!'
'What?' slurred Yosha. 'My goggles?'
'Yeah, I think there's something out there.'
Yosha grumbled, but dragged himself to his feet, rubbing his eyes with filthy hands and yawning hugely. He peered out into the
darkness.
'There's nothing out there,' he declared sleepily.
'Use your damn goggles, you idiot.'
Casting a scathing look at his comrade, Yosha pulled out a set of blackened and ancient field goggles. A bizarre protuberance
slotted over the eyepiece and Yosha pulled it over his shaven head. He rested his chin on his hands and trained his gaze over the
parapet.
'Well,' pressed Klane. 'You see anything?'
'Yeah,' whispered Yosha. 'There's something coming. Looks like—'
'Like what?'
'Like—'
Klane never got the chance to find out. A sharp, buzzing crack whipped by him and blasted the back of Yosha's head open in an
explosion of blood and brains. Yosha crumpled slowly and toppled from the rampart.
'Khorne's teeth!' swore Klane, jerking back and switching his gaze from the headless corpse to the ground before the earthworks.
The whipping noise slashed past him again and a puff of earth exploded next to him.
Sniper!
Klane ducked down behind the parapet and cocked his rifle, his head working left and right to see other sentries dropping, no
doubt picked off by Imperial snipers on the walls of the ravelin. He swore again. There must be an attack coming in!
He crawled along the firing step, clambering over sleeping bodies towards the alarm siren, and pulled himself up the timber spar
where the flared bullhorn was bolted. He grabbed the cranking handle.
Klane heard booted steps approaching the parapet and realised he didn't have much time. He turned the squealing handle, the
wailing cry from the bullhorn growing in volume as he spun it faster and faster. A shot blasted the timber beside him, showering
him with splinters and he flinched, releasing the handle and taking up his rifle.
Thudding footsteps hit the soil of the earthworks below. Damned Imperials! He snarled, pleased to have this chance to kill.
Scrabbling hands sounded on the far side of the parapet.
No bastard Guardsman was going to get past Uraja Klane!
He roared in hatred and rose to his feet, swinging his rifle around to find himself facing a giant warrior in yellow power armour
with a crackling sword and scarlet Imperial eagle on his breastplate.
'What the f—' was all he had time to say before the Imperial Fists Space Marine clove him in two with his power sword.
SIRENS SCREAMED, PIERCING the night with their cries and Vauban knew that with the element of surprise lost they had only a
limited time to achieve their objective before they would have to fall back. He climbed the steep exterior slope of the earthworks,
using the butt of his pistol for purchase. His soldiers scrambled over the parapet with a roar of released fury.
A grenade detonated nearby, showering him with earth and he slipped, feet scrabbling for grip.
A gauntleted hand reached down and closed on his wrist, lifting him easily across the parapet in a single motion. He was deposited
on the firing step beside a broken corpse, and swiftly drew his power sword. The Space Marine who had hauled him over the
parapet turned and began firing a bolt-gun into a mass of enemy soldiers in red overalls. His brethren were pushing further into the
entrenchments as the Imperial Guard scrambled over the parapet and into the battery.
'Thank you, Brother-Captain Eshara,' said Vauban breathlessly.
The Imperial Fists captain nodded, slammed a fresh magazine into his bolter and said, 'Thank me later. We have work to do,'
before turning and charging from the firing step.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Gunfire and explosions lit the trenches and dug-outs of the battery with strobing light, screaming soldiers and wounded men
providing a cacophonous backdrop to the attack. Hundreds of Jourans poured over the earthwork, killing anything in their path.
The Chaos soldiery had been caught largely unawares, and the Imperial troops offered no quarter to the unready foe. Storming
parties slaughtered the enemy soldiers, shooting them where they lay or stabbing them with bayonets as they scrambled for
weapons.
Fifteen gigantic war machines were situated here, enormous howitzers and long cannons with barrels so wide a man could stand
upright inside. Bronze plates embossed with skulls and unholy icons were fixed on each machine's flank, and thick chains looped
around giant rings were securely bolted to their track units. There was a terrible sense of menace surrounding the siege engines
and Vauban had a gnawing sense of wrongness in his gut. He knew without doubt that such blasphemous creations should never
have been allowed to come into existence.
The Imperial Fists swept efficiently through the battery, securing its perimeters and killing the war machines' gunners. They
established themselves in strong positions around the approach trenches and parallel, ready to hold off the inevitable
counterattack.
Vauban dropped from the firing step and shouted, 'Alpha demo team, with me! Bravo team with Colonel Leonid!'
Two dozen men followed him towards the machines and, even over the crack of small-arms fire, Vauban shivered as he felt the
pulse of monstrous, daemonic breath grating along his spine just below the threshold of hearing. He stepped across scores of
corpses, making his way quickly towards the daemon engines. As he and his men drew near, the sense of wrongness grew stronger
and stronger. As he set foot on the metal decking where the machines were chained, agonising pain ripped into him and he felt his
guts cramp and his knees buckle. Terror seized him as his mind was filled with the unshakable belief that to touch these unholy
monsters was to die.
He could see he was not alone in this hideous sensation. Soldiers were dropping to their knees, some vomiting blood as the
daemonic aura of the nightmare machines washed over them. Chains rattled and metal groaned beneath them as the war machines
supped on the red liquid, a bass thrumming building from the line of daemon engines.
The sounds of bolter fire intensified from the edges of the battery, and Vauban knew the Iron Warriors must be counterattacking,
fearful of losing their hellish artillery.
They couldn't fail! Not now they had come so close.
Vauban pushed himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the waves of sickness that wracked him and dragged the soldier
nearest to him to his feet.
'Come on, damn you!' he yelled. 'On your feet, soldier!'
The man grabbed his satchel charges and stumbled after Vauban, his face contorted in terror and agony. The two men lurched
towards the nearest machine, its chains jangling furiously and geysers of steam venting from corroded grilles. A furious static
descended upon his vision, like looking through a faulty holo. A bitter, metallic taste flooded Vauban's mouth as he bit the flesh of
his lip to keep from screaming.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pain and terror vanished like the light from a snuffed candle. Vauban felt a huge, pressing
weight lift from his mind. His lungs heaved and he spat blood, spinning as he heard a booming chant from behind him.
One of the Imperial Fists, his yellow armour decorated with numerous purity seals and one shoulder guard painted blue, strode
towards the daemon engines, his proud voice clear and true. He carried a carved staff of ebony, coils of blue light coruscating
along its length.
Vauban did not know the warrior's name, but knew by his words that their saviour was a psyker, one of the Chapter's Librarians.
Somehow, he was fighting against the corrupting power of the daemon engines and protecting them from its malign influence.
Ghostly streamers of insubstantial energy flared from the icons and markings on the armoured flanks of the war machines.
Vauban could see by the sweat pouring in runnels from the Librarian's face and the pulsing vein in his temple that the effort of
holding their daemonic essence at bay was stretching him to the limit.
The Librarian had bought them a chance, but they would need to be quick.
'Quickly!' he bellowed over the bark of gunfire and explosions. 'Demo teams, plant your charges and let's get the hell out of here!'
The men with demolition charges picked themselves up from the steel decking of the battery and, under the direction of Vauban's
best ordnance officers, began placing the explosive charges at vital points on each daemon engine. The vast machines strained at
their bindings, thrashing in fury at these mortals who dared to defile them.
As the men moved on to the next machine the vox-bead in Vauban's ear clicked and Captain Eshara's voice filled his skull.
