[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Read online

“Unto the anvil of war!” they cried back and stormed towards the shattered gate house. Beyond it was the Capitol, a key defensive structure in Ironlandings, one of Geviox’s factorum-bastions. With it, the Salamanders would hold a strongpoint to launch further sorties into the city and eventually cleanse it of the xenos taint. The mission and how to accomplish it was clear—it always had been. What didn’t make sense was why the dark eldar had not cut and run already. They were raiders; this method of take and hold did not suit them at all.

  Ba’ken felt a cluster of razor shards scythe his arm greave but kept on coming undeterred. A desultory burst from his bolt pistol took the head off a dark eldar warrior emerging from the earthworks to meet them.

  The Space Marines ate up the metres between them and their enemy in a few short minutes. It was a brutal sight. The earth shook as several thousand kilograms of ceramite pounded over it. Emerging like green-armoured leviathans from a ruddy mist, the Salamanders laid into the remnants of the xenos vanguard with close-ranged fury.

  Here is where we sons of Vulkan excel! Ba’ken revelled, crumpling a dark eldar torso with a blow from his piston-hammer as he leapt down into a shallow trench. The bespoke weapon, crafted by his own hand, rambled eagerly in his grasp, smashing bone and pulping flesh.

  Eye-to-eye is the Promethean way!

  Tongues of fire lapped either side of the sergeant as the flamers went to work scouring the earthworks utterly. The dark eldar had crumbled against the determined Astartes assault, the few warriors that remained to defend the trenches throwing themselves at the Salamanders with suicidal abandon. Efficient and methodical, the Fire-born eliminated the rest of their opposition swiftly.

  Stepping over the bodies of the dead, crushing their ashen remains underfoot, the Salamanders rolled on through the shattered gatehouse and into the Capitol itself.

  A wide plaza opened out before them, strewn with human bodies.

  “Name of Vulkan…” swore Sergeant Ul’shan, last through the gate as part of the force’s rearguard.

  “Stand fast,” ordered Chaplain Elysius, having brought the Salamanders attack to an abrupt halt. Smoke stacks, silos, processing towers and gravel-grey dorm-habs loomed over them silently. Corpses hung from ragged spires, attached by chains and swinging in an iron-tinged breeze. The charnal pit that had exploded across the bloody plaza rippled with bodies bloated by putrefaction.

  But Elysius saw it for what it was. Tiny incendiaries were lodged in the mouths or sewn crudely into the stomachs of the dead.

  It was a minefield.

  Adopting defensive positions, the Salamanders waited and fought down their anger at such degradation. The dark eldar, or dusk-wraiths as they’d once been known on Nocturne, had ever plagued their home world. The sons of Vulkan despised all enemies of mankind, but reserved a particular hatred for the ravening dark eldar. It was an old enmity, one that went back millennia.

  Several avenues, made tight by the structures clustered around them, led up to the Capitol and the strongpoint the Salamanders sought. It was a bastionlike building with high, flat sides and crenulated walls.

  Here, Ironlandings’ overseers would calculate and log production rates, feeding the data to their Imperial tithe-masters. On this day, with the inhabitants of the city either dead or incarcerated, the yield was low. Still, the industrial complexes ground on, obeying automated doctrina protocols that kept the great machine going.

  Refineries filled the air with a low hum, a mind-numbing pseudo-silence that only racked up the tension further.

  Chaplain Elysius showed no discomfort. “Clovius and Ul’shan, keep our egress secure,” he said.

  “Four points of attack, my lord?” suggested Sergeant Ek’bar in his usual clipped manner. It made tactical sense: one squad per route of assault, terminating in the final breach of the Capitol itself. It would be what Agatone would do, but Elysius was not the brother-captain.

  “No. We are the hammer.” The Chaplain indicated the largest thoroughfare leading directly to the Capitol building’s main entrance. It was essentially a roadway, littered with upturned ore-trucks and half-tracks. The vehicles had been left that way by their occupants when they’d fled the raiders. Judging by the gruesome display littering the plaza, it had availed them little.

  “Lay down a curtain of flame,” ordered Ba’ken, now the plan was set.

  Two of his battle-brothers stepped forwards and bathed the putrefied bodies with promethium. The hidden grenades and incendiaries detonated instantly and for a few seconds the plaza was consumed by violent explosions. When the conflagration had died down there were just ashen body parts and scorched earth barely visible under a veil of thick, dark smoke.

  “Well, at least that will have got their attention,” remarked Lok after the last of the deep concussions. One of his eyes was bionic. It whirred and clicked, seeking out any lingering traces of explosives but finding none. Even without the lifeless orb in his socket, the veteran sergeant glared coldly across the devastated scene. A grim feeling was creeping over them all.

  Ba’ken was eyeing the tall drill towers, looking for signs of snipers. He would have manned those towers, put a couple of those lance cannons in them. In the open ground, smoke or no, the Salamanders would be shredded. His sergeant’s rank insignia did not sit easily on his armour but Ba’ken was as tactically shrewd and experienced as any in the 3rd.

  Elysius had no such concerns about enemy snipers. He would defy bullets and razor-shot with willpower alone.

  “That way, in force,” he barked, thrusting out his crozius again, “Stoic and implacable, brothers.”

  “In Vulkan’s name,” the sergeants returned in unison and started out along the still burning roadway.

  At a slow ran, it took approximately fourteen seconds to clear the roadway and enter the labyrinthine cluster of dorm-habs and stacks delineating the Capitol of Ironlandings.

  The Salamanders adopted a diamond approach pattern down the main thoroughfare. On Ba’ken’s tactical display, overlaying the right retinal lens of his battle-helm, a cluster of force icons showed his brothers keeping to tight squad coherency discipline and arrayed in a two-rank oblique line formation. Elysius had the lead, the diamond’s tip. A bolt pistol, and not his crozius, was gripped in the Chaplain’s armoured fist now. He was attached to Ek’bar’s squad, one of its angled sides. Ba’ken was to his immediate right, the other front side of the diamond. Four metres of permacrete roadway separated the two squads as they hugged the abandoned vehicles either side.

  Behind them making up the rearguard and the last two sides were Squad Lok and, of course, Iagon.

  At least the viper at my back will keep me sharp, Ba’ken thought ruefully.

  “Where are the rest of the populace?” asked Ionnes just over a minute into their advance. They’d slowed now, dropping down to a cautious walking pace, Ionnes’ tone suggested the barren streets and conduits unsettled him.

  “They hang from the rafters and the spires, brother,” Koto replied, his flamer nozzle burning quietly.

  “That can’t be all of them,” said Ionnes. “Look at the size of this place.”

  “Like dactylids with their wings spread for flight…” remarked L’sen dispassionately. With his bolter he gestured to the upper storeys where several of the dark eldar’s victims were pinned into the rockcrete, their flayed flesh suspended under their arms in crude diaphanous membranes.

  “Enough, brothers,” muttered Ba’ken. “Maintain vigilance.”

  ++They have a point, Sol…++ Lok’s voice came through Ba’ken’s comm-feed on a closed channel. ++Does this remind you of anything?++

  Cirrion, loft-city. Ba’ken didn’t say it aloud. They’d lost their former captain that day. Everything had changed after that. Here, in the densely packed streets of Ironlandings, he was reminded again of war-torn Cirrion. It was a bad omen and Ba’ken drew the hammer of Vulkan across his breast to ward against it.

  The ranks of bodies strung above them in the upper storeys seem
ed to thicken all of a sudden. A vague shifting of the light came from up ahead.

  Ba’ken was only a second behind Elysius.

  “Fire-born! Bolters and blades!” roared the Chaplain, strafing an explosive line of bolter shells through the hanging meat sacks above. Several of the wretched creatures survived the attack, launching themselves at the Salamanders despite sundered limbs and gaping torsos.

  Ba’ken rammed his pistol into the gaping maw of a beast that had dropped beside him and blew what was left of its intelligence out the back of its skull. A thunking blow from his piston-hammer mashed the torso of another.

  The things that descended on fleshy wings to attack the Salamanders had once been human. The evidence of it was still just discernible on their tortured bodies. Each time Ba’ken killed, the monsters dropping down around him with heavy thwacks of meat hitting stone, he saw the shredded semblance of a man. There were mine workers, labour-serfs, overseers, indentured citizens.

  Flesh-bonded, mutated, sewn, cut and then re-sewn into horrific parodies of biology, they were now abominations. Vat-grown bone and chitinous layers of carapace had been grafted to drug-enhanced musculature. Some had distended maws filled with several rows of needle-like fangs. Dead-eyed with stimm-fuelled strength, they fought like chrono-gladiators or suicide-servitors whose lives were measured in minutes and seconds, whose only purpose was to kill and then be killed in turn. And there were hundreds.

  But as Ba’ken hurled one of the wretched grotesques into the side of a broken down ore-truck, he knew their incoherent wailing pleaded for a single, irrefutable desire.

  Mercy…

  Time slowed, and the battle din became a dull, half-heard clamouring at the base of his skull. Around him, he knew his brothers had slipped into a similar state. Ba’ken’s secondary heart surged into life, filling him with vigour, providing his limbs and organs with the relentless energy they needed.

  One of the piteous human-grotesques reared up in his peripheral vision…

  Turn thirty degrees—kill stroke to jugular administered by piston-hammer. Eliminated.

  A split-second later, another lashed out from the opposite side…

  Back a half-step, two shots point-blank into midriff. Torso destroyed. Eliminated.

  A third, then fourth charged him from the front…

  Lead with right shoulder. Disable foremost threat by shattering ribs and collarbone. Headshot with bolt pistol to second target. Cranium destroyed. Eliminated. Return to disabled primary threat. Downward hammer strike to shatter spine. Fully incapacitated.

  Blood pounded in his ears as he killed, Ba’ken playing his part in his brothers’ choreography of war.

  In the initial rush the Salamanders were pushed into a tight cordon, their natural instinct to form a circle and defend outwards. Ba’ken felt the generator of his power armour slam against one of his brother’s. It was like a rock, allowing Ba’ken to focus on his forward-facing enemies. Litanies to Vulkan, Prometheus and the enduring spirit of the Fire-born chorused in air rent by hellish, plaintive screaming. The creatures surged against them but the green bulwark of ceramite held.

  Malformed by dark eldar torture-science, the beasts were formidable. Against any other opponent, deadly. But Astartes, especially those led by the burning rhetoric of their Chaplain, were superhuman and not so easily undone.

  “Advance, for the glory of Prometheus!” bellowed Elysius, driving the Fire-born through the bulk of the grotesques with sheer willpower and aggression. Above the Salamanders, the railings and rafters were almost devoid of corpses. The avenue was slowly clogging with the bloodied and the slain.

  The circle broke apart again and Ba’ken turned to acknowledge the battle-brother who’d held his rearguard unshakeably.

  He was surprised to see Iagon return his nod with a curt glance through the lenses of his battle-helm before dropping back with his squad to support Lok.

  Ba’ken let it go. Ek’bar had fallen in behind their Chaplain, who was tearing his way through the mob with bolt pistol and power fist. Elysius heaved one grotesque—it looked vaguely like a woman but with a long serpentine tongue and rib-line spines jutting from her bulbous back—up in the air with his power fist. A flex of the weapon and the creature’s screeching head popped, showering his armour with gore. The Chaplain cast the fleshy wreck aside and forged on, spitting diatribes against the mutant and the alien as he went.

  Through his retinal display, Ba’ken judged the Capitol gate to be under a hundred metres away. A rapid structural analysis suggested they’d need breaching charges or a multi-melta to penetrate it.

  ++Lok, how far away from our position are you?++ Ba’ken lagged a few metres behind Ek’bar’s squad, forcing a cordon through the abominations.

  After a few seconds, the comm-feed crackled.

  ++Enemy presence is intense back here. Press ahead and we’ll link up as soon as it’s clear++ A short burst of static broke the feed before he added, ++Wait. Something else is coming ++

  Just as a low drone filled the air behind him, Ba’ken saw another force hastily move into position ahead of them. Two lance cannons held the end of the roadway. In seconds, they were blistering the air with deadly fire.

  A dark beam struck Ek’bar and put him on one knee. The brother-sergeant grunted but got to his feet again immediately, roaring at his warriors to advance with Elysius. Rippling shield returns blossomed around the Chaplain as his rosarius field protected him from the heavy weapons.

  ++Keep it tight. Single file behind Elysius!++ Ba’ken urged.

  Ek’bar pulled his troops in at once, bolters flaring either side of the Chaplain’s aegis, tearing up the street ahead with snapshots.

  Ba’ken mirrored him, low and spear-like through the remnants of the mob now converging on the Salamander rearguard.

  The Capitol gate was approximately seventy metres away; the dark eldar lance cannons another fifty. Eyes ahead, Ba’ken saw one of the crude barricades sheltering the cannons torn up by bolter fire. The gunners spun and collapsed against the fusillade. Part of the adjacent wall, weakened by sustained fire, collapsed on top of the bodies.

  Fifty metres to the Capitol gate.

  ++Krak grenades ready at my command++ Ba’ken ordered, going to prime the explosives mag-locked to his belt when a shadow cut across them.

  Something fast swept in low and without warning. Too fast for his retinal display to track, especially with the energy interference from the heavy guns ahead, Ba’ken could only watch as Brother L’sen gurgled and was lifted off his feet.

  Reaching for his throat, where a red ooze was running down from his gorget, the Salamander dropped his bolter. He was hoisted a half metre before the almost invisible snare binding him was released and he collided into an upturned half-track.

  In his tactical display, L’sen’s rune blinked from green to amber.

  Disabled.

  The drone came again, this time from the front and then above them.

  ++Find cover and stay down++ Ba’ken fought to track the attackers but their speed combined with the distraction of the blistering cannon fire fouled his efforts.

  Ahead, Ek’bar was having similar problems. His squad was hugging the walls, split either side of the roadway. In the centre, Brother Drukaar lay prone, a lance wound in his chest.

  Another rune went from green to amber, but then to red.

  Permanently incapacitated.

  Ba’ken glanced behind him. Reinforcements were still far off. Lok and Iagon were mired in battle against the last of the human-grotesques.

  ++Can you see them, brother?++ Ek’bar barely kept his anger checked. Drukaar had served at his side for over a decade.

  Ba’ken heard the drone but their unseen enemy was still elusive.

  ++Above somewhere++ he said. ++Using the stacks and towers as cover. They are fast—++ A shadow passed across the roadway again. ++Wait…++ Ba’ken realised it presaged another attack. He turned to Ionnes, hunkered down behind him.

  “
Two frags,” said the sergeant, holding up two fingers.

  Ionnes handed over the grenades from his belt. Ba’ken took them as he turned to Koto.

  “Have you seen this?” said the flamer trooper.

  Ba’ken quickly followed his gaze.

  Elysius had broken cover and was charging the last fifty metres.

  “You mad, courageous bastard…” Ba’ken muttered, then added in a louder voice to his troops, “Our Chaplain is baiting them.” He showed Koto the two fragmentation grenades in his open palm. “Burn them on my order.”

  Koto nodded, looking to the sky as the drone intensified.

  Elysius was sixteen metres out, barrelling towards the last cannon. He’d dropped his bolt pistol somewhere during the melee and wielded his crozius instead. Bright energy bursts shuddered against his rosarius field.

  Ba’ken had his eyes on the ground where the shadows abruptly fled. Tilting his head up, he threw the frags high into the air above Elysius’ position.

  “Do it!”

  Koto triggered the flamer, shooting a gout of super-heated promethium into the grenades and cooking them explosively.

  An expanding cloud of fiery shrapnel filled the air just as four dark eldar mounted on anti-gravitic boards and trailing razor-snares flew into the blast zone. In the brief moments before they were smothered by flame and smoke, Ba’ken saw their wild hair, heard them shrieking like hellions. Engulfed by the explosion, two of the xenos simply disappeared. The other two, lagging a half-second behind, tried to pull away but were buffeted by the Shockwave.

  “Take them down!” Ba’ken roared.

  A fusillade of bolter fire answered and tore the last two hellions apart.

  The Salamanders were already moving again, hurrying up the roadway, when Elysius reached the cannon and demolished it and the crew.

  “Make me a hole, brother-sergeant,” he said as soon as Ba’ken had reached him. The pain in the Chaplain’s voice was obvious.

  Ba’ken battle-signed for his troops to advance, Brothers Ionnes and G’heb brandishing krak grenades and racing the final twenty metres to the gate.