plot the demise of the Imperator Titan. Strategies and ploys were already swimming through his
mind. He knew the place where he would face it, having already noted, on his flyover, the
narrowing of the valley some five kilometres back.
He raised his bitter gaze to the heavens that were being ripped apart by lightning and falling
shells, and repeated the oath he had sworn to the First Acolyte.
“I will see that god-machine fall by my hand,” he swore, “or may my soul be damned to torment
for all eternity.”
Thunder boomed overhead, as if in response to his oath.
He would break the machine-spirit of the beast, and once victory had been achieved, he would
stand before Jarulek, the Dark Apostle, and accept whatever punishment he deemed suitable for his
failures this day.
The battle was long over, and the intense storm overhead had abated. The waters had receded,
flowing further down the mountains, leaving a mire of destruction across the valley. Bodies were
83
strewn all across the battlefield, and burned out vehicles and wrecks scattered the field. Few enemy
casualties remained, most having been hauled from the fire-fight, though Elysians wielding flamers
torched those that were left behind. All avoided the blackened hulls of the enemy vehicles and
cursed engines, for to destroy them utterly would be too labour intensive. Teams of Elysians bearing
heavy arrays of detection sensors inched forward, removing thousands of landmines from the
ground. They were far slower than the bizarre minesweeper vehicles of the Adeptus Mechanicus
that fanned the ground with great sweeps of mechanical analysis arms. But the orders of the Elysian
command were clear: the army would advance as quickly as possible, and every man equipped to
detect the mines, whether Elysian or mindless servitor, would be employed.
Under the shadow of the stationary Imperator class Titan Exemplis, the adepts of the
Mechanicus swarmed over wrecked Imperial vehicles, salvaging precious machineries and
supplicating the dead or dying spirits of the vehicles. To Brigadier-General Havorn, they looked like
nothing more than clusters of carnivorous ants tearing apart the carcasses of dying prey. The adepts
swiftly stripped weapon systems from tanks and Ordinatus Minoris crawlers with focused energy,
and loaded them alongside working engines, track-works and control systems onto the backs of
hulking hauler vehicles for reuse.
Industrious servitors worked tirelessly, hefting heavy pieces of equipment with servo-arms and
harnesses under the watchful eyes of the adepts, and the fallen Skitarii were likewise gathered up
and taken to rolling factories that followed in the wake of the main army. There they were dropped
onto mass conveyer belts and taken inside for recycling. Havorn was unsure what that entailed. He
imagined that the weapons of the tech-guard warriors were torn from the dead flesh of their hosts,
but he did not know the fate of the dead flesh. Only when the Techno-Magos Darioq had made a
cold entreaty to him had he learnt what happened to those desecrated bodies.
“A request, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn,” said the techno-magos in his monotone voice.
“It is my understanding that the flesh bodies of your inactive soldiers are being gathered. Are they to
be taken to the reprocessing factorum units of your regiment? I was not aware of the presence of
such facilities within your expedition force.”
“Tokens of Elysia will be placed upon the eyes of my fallen soldiers and their flesh will be
consumed with cleansing flame. The priests will guide their souls on their way to the Emperor’s
side,” replied Havorn, unsure of what the techno-magos spoke. “It is the way of the Elysians. Each
man carries with him his twin tokens of Elysia,” he explained, reaching beneath his robe and
jangling a pair of round metal coins that hung around his neck, a fine chain running through the
holes in their centres. “This has long been the custom of my people. We specialise in drop attacks,
and it is seldom possible to extract our dead, but it matters not where the body lies, merely that the
spirit is guided on its way.”
“The dead flesh husks are burned? That is illogical. It is a waste of resources, both of
promethium and of the flesh husks. And what of your flesh units that have been rendered
inoperative but not yet fully nonfunctional?”
“My wounded, you mean?” asked Havorn, his voice icy.
“If you wish.”
“My wounded soldiers are removed from their platoons and taken to the medicae facilities
within my mass transport-landers. Those with fatal wounds are comforted as much as possible
before their spirits are guided on their way.”
“I would make a request of you, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn.”
“Ask away,” said the Imperial commander, though he felt wary, not knowing where the magos
was leading.
“It is illogical and irrational to dispose of your nonfunctional flesh units as you do. I would ask
that upon the conclusion of your priestly rituals, that the flesh husks are collected for reprocessing
by my adepts.”
“Reprocessing into what?”
84
“Into a semi-liquid, protein based nutrient paste.”
Havorn blinked as if he could not possibly have heard correctly.
“You… you wish to turn the bodies of honoured Elysian soldiers who have fallen in battle
against the enemy into paste.”
“It is a logical use of limited resources. My Skitarii cohorts are well fuelled, but a replenishment
of feed levels would be advantageous.”
“There really is not an ounce of humanity left in you is there, you wretched, base machine?” said
Havorn, his voice trembling with emotion.
“Correction. There are exactly thirty-eight Imperial weight units of living flesh and tissue upon
my frame, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn. I am neither wretched nor base, although their usage
in such a context is a new piece of data memory to be stored. And I thank you for calling me
‘machine’, though I am not yet so fully esteemed within the priesthood of Mars as to become truly
one with the Omnissiah.”
“Your answer, magos,” said Havorn, “is that you can go and burn in hell before I hand over any
of my soldiers to you, dead or alive.”
Seeing no immediate response forthcoming from the magos, he added, “That means no, you
cold-hearted bastard.”
85
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“We have identified the location from which the enemy has chosen to face us, brigadier-general,”
said Colonel Laron.
“Show me,” said Havorn. The large table between the pair lit up at Havorn’s word, thousands of
twisting green lines of light springing up to show a detailed schematic map of the surrounding area.
At Havorn’s instruction, the crouching servitor built into the table’s base manipulated the rendered
image, scrolling it across the surface of the table and zooming in on valleys and ravines. At another
word, the densely packed lines began to rise above the table, giving a three dimensional view of the
mountains.
Taking a moment to study the detailed map, Laron pointed.
“We advance along this main valley bed here. Our scouts move along the ravines here, here and
here,” he said, indicating two thin valleys a few kilometres away from where the main force
advanced. “And our drop-troopers have landed at these points,” he said, picking out a dozen key,
strategic high points.
“As you have read in my reports, our attacks to take the high lands up to here,” he said,
indicating, “have been fierce, but a success.”
“The enemy has defended them half-heartedly,” said Havorn. “Your men took them too easily,
and I mean no slur upon them. When they choose their place to stand and fight, then they will face
far stiffer competition.”
“My sentiment exactly, brigadier-general, and I believe we have found that place. Early forays
to take these points here,” he said, indicating the ridges some ten kilometres into a particularly thin
stretch of the valley, “show high concentrations of the enemy. Our attacks have been rebuffed.”
“And with high casualties, I see,” growled Havorn.
“Indeed, the enemy will not budge. That is where they will make their stand.”
“It is a good place for it. The twisting valley is at its narrowest there. There is not a straight line
of fire longer than a kilometre, rendering our ordnance of limited use, but their warriors will excel. It
means that the Exemplis will have to get close to them to engage, rather than blasting them from five
clicks out. It is a cunning place to make their stand. But it could be a ruse. Have you scouted for
ambush points ahead of this position?”
“I have, brigadier-general. The valley thins some ten kilometres further up, here. It shrinks to a
width of less than a hundred metres at several points; that’s a tight fit for the Imperator. That would
be the place to launch an ambush, but there are more than forty places where the valley contracts in
such a way.”
The brigadier-general grunted.
“Any sign of enemy movement? If we walked into that valley and the enemy had control of
those ridges, we would suffer heavy casualties.”
“None, sir. I have sentinels scouring the region, but they have engaged nothing more than cultist
outrider vermin that were skulking parallel to the valley. They were all slain.”
“The enemy commander is no fool. If I were him, I would plan something here,” said Havorn,
pointing towards one of the narrower areas of the valley. “The minesweepers have found nothing as
yet?”
“No dedicated minefield, only mines scattered every hundred metres or so.”
86
The Imperial forces had been slowed to a crawl behind the sweeper units. Though no further
minefields had been discovered, the traitors had placed sporadic patches of mines down, just enough
to force the Imperials into scanning their entire advance.
A series of cracks riddles the cliff faces all along this stretch. “I have ordered flame units to
advance along the cliff walls and cleanse any cave systems. Scanner teams are accompanying the
flame units, sweeping the area for life-signs and power outputs.”
“Order demolition teams to cave in the larger crevices,” said Havorn.
“Yes, sir.”
“They will wish to wipe the history books clear of the shame they were dealt at the hands of the
Exemplis,” said Havorn. “They may well have chosen this place to make their stand against us. If
that is so, they will fight to the last.”
Keen auto-sensors alerted Kol Badar to the questing machine-spirit of an enemy auspex, and the last
systems of his Terminator armour were automatically shut down. He was barely breathing, and his
twin hearts beat but once per minute. He had long ago shut off his air-recycling units, and the
massive weight of his armour hung upon him as the last of the servos were deactivated.
Dully he heard the muffled thump of detonations, and dust and rock crumbled down upon him as
the ground beneath his feet rumbled. Heavier chunks of salt stone broke upon him, but still he stood
immobile in his state of semi-suspended animation. It was not the deep slumber that the Legion was
capable of, for that would require the attentions of the chirurgeons to reawaken him, and would not
allow him to remain at least partially alert for the signal that his prey was near. It was however a
deep enough state that any auspex sweep of the enemy should not detect his life signals, particularly
while he was shielded behind the thick, insulating plates of his sacred armour.
An indeterminable amount of time passed, and flames washed over him. His heartbeat increased
as he registered the brightness of the promethium-based conflagration lapping over him and the
sharp rise in temperature. The heat was almost unbearable, the inbuilt heat regulators of the suit
having been shut down along with all its other functions, so as not to give off any tell-tale signs of
radiation.
The flames lit up the narrow cavern brightly. He could see other members of the cult of the
Anointed, immobile as he was, flames licking at them. He saw the external ribbed piping of one
warrior-brother’s early mark Terminator suit flare brightly as it melted, and the warrior pitched
backwards to the cavern floor, his lungs undoubtedly on fire. Kol Badar was pleased to see that he
did not cry out as he perished.
As his breathing became more regular in conjunction with the quickening beat of his heart, he
began to use too much oxygen, and there was not a lot of that remaining in his suit. He settled his
breathing and his heart slowed until once again it almost stopped.
“What was that? You picking something up?” asked the weary Elysian trooper, looking back at his
companion. The half-sphere of the heavy auspex disc was a weight in his arms. Trust him to get
stuck doing the lifting rather than the easy job of keeping an eye on the data-screen on the attached
feedback unit.
“I thought there was something for a second, but its gone now. Must have been a glitch.”
“Time for us to swap, eh?” he said hopefully. His team member laughed out loud.
“Not a chance. You lost, fair and square. Come on, let’s move on. There’s nothing here.”
Kol Badar’s consciousness was roused as the cavern shook and crumbling salt dust dropped down
upon him. There was a pause of almost thirty seconds before there was another booming sound like
thunder, closer than the first, and more dust rained down. His yellow eyes flickered and he powered
up his suit’s basic functions. He reasoned that after the enemy had swept the area and declared it
87
clear there would be little in the way of further scans, so powering up his Terminator armour was
but a slight risk. Air began to circulate once more, stale and dry, and he breathed in deeply flooding
his oxygen starved body. His senses came instantly to their full capacity.
His prey was near.
He took in his surroundings, turning his head from side to side as he familiarised himself once
more with his situation as his suit’s diagnostics ran. The cavern was cramped and demolitions had
caused cave-ins in several places, where chunks of rock lay strewn across the uneven floor. Massive
blocks leant against several of the Anointed and parts of their blessed ceramite were chipped and
dented. Many of his brethren were half-buried beneath the collapse, but it mattered not.
The cavern branched off a deep chasm that split the cliff face of the main valley. He had seen the
narrowing of the valley and noted its suitability as a place to face the enemy, but he would never
