The Angels Illuminant Omnibus - Original Warhammer 40k Fiction

[Maquise]

Light In Darkness​

Sometime in M.42​

Prologue​

Dawn was nearly an hour away yet when Aric Calidyn awoke, the deep darkness of the wastes of Valatros only broken by what scant starlight shone through the layers of atmospheric smog that hung perpetually over the planet, even this far out from the mighty hives. The world outside his family's waste wagon was still, the only obvious sound the shifting of the winds, and the occasional chirp of whatever insect species had proven hardy enough to endure the biosphere's prolonged ruination.

Aric was quick but careful in his movements, secrecy being vital. He had prepared the night before, and all of his gear was in place, but he nonetheless checked through it once more. Outer garments of weathered canvas that had been oiled and coated to shed the acid rain and resist the cling of toxin-ridden dust. His rebreather face plate, seals intact and filters fresh. Over top of it all he belted on his holster, with the stub gun his father had given him as well as fully charged power packs for his lasgun, an older model he'd tuned himself with components sourced from multiple relic sites.

Carefully, he opened the door to his room and began to head out, hoping he could cycle the wagon's airlock slowly enough that no one would notice. He'd padded his boots for quiet movement while on salvaging operations, and they made barely a sound as he padded across the dingy tile of the wagon.

"Where are you going?" The voice came from behind him just as he reached the airlock, and he halted, letting out an annoyed sigh. Somehow, his mother had still caught him. He turned, tugging off his hood and rebreather, bracing himself for the recrimination.

"Sova found a fresh relic site," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Fifty kilometers away; a Kraedr-Sung air train went down." He raised his hands defensively. "Sova said he watched the wreck for four hours; nothing moved and nobody came for it. If the Commerce Guild Houses were going to reclaim it they would have by now; it's up for grabs."

His mother shook her head. "The Guild Houses won't see it that way if they catch you and you know it. Their security forces do not discriminate when it comes to protecting their property, between Raider and Salvager." She shook her head. "Do you know what your father would say if he heard about this?"

"Pater's always going on about how when he was my age he'd be getting into all sorts of trouble," Aric muttered to himself. His mother laughed.

"He never told you, though, what your grandmother did to him afterward, did he?" She shook her head in resignation. "Sova's taking the lot of you out, then? Raul, Gavin, Denys? You aren't complete novices, but be careful. Figure out the best bits, rip them, then toss them onto your trucks and don't be stingy with the promethium."

"Yes, mater."

"Keep an eye at your back and on the horizon. The first sign of Raiders, or Emperor help us, House security, you drop everything and run, understand me?" She began to check over his equipment. "Power cells fully charged. Your gun's clean. Properly layered for long distance travel. You checked your seals and have replacement cartridges?"

"Exactly as you showed me, mater."

She stepped back, glancing down for a moment. "Eat something before you leave, then. You won't get far just on Sova's stringy grox jerky."

After finishing off his breakfast, Aric left their nomad wagon, the mobile home that he had lived all fifteen of his years in trekking across the wastelands of Valatros. Around them were the other ground-autos of the clan; nomad wagons, tankers and high-speed combat technicals. They roamed in search of long-forgotten tech relics from the ever-cyclical wars of the Commerce Guild Houses, smuggling goods said Houses wished to keep under their own control, and at times even harvesting rare living plant and animal life from the few oases that managed to survive out here. Aric had heard it called a bleak, blasted existence, but while it wasn't easy he thought it better than life in the hives. Out here he had his family and friends, and anything he needed he could craft himself.

Approaching one of the smaller wheeled trucks, he joins his friends in the dawn hours. Sova finished the final preparations on his personal vehicle, handmade from components he'd either found or bartered for over the years. It was fast, and capable of hauling a surprising amount of components. A moment of silent regard as Aric approached and mounted the truck next to his friends, and they drove from the gathered nomad encampment into the heavy-metal laden dust of the ashland wastes.

As the group sped off into the craggy wastes, the heavy tires bouncing sending jolts through the truck's limited suspension to the youths' backsides. "Heard your father was away from the convoy," Sova said to Aric. "Know anything about what's going on?"

Aric's father was one of the clan convoy's leaders, and their chief negotiator with the outside world. "He's arranged an appointment with an Imperial mediator. Some Planetary Adminstratum person or other. They're trying to work out more help for the Nomad Clans. More complete recognition from the Board, is what Pata said."

Sova nodded. "That is likely to come with more attention, too. Hope that doesn't cause a problem. What we really need is to convince the Administratum to have Valatros redesignated as a Hive World. Then we could get the food and other supplies we need."

"The Commerce Guild Houses will never permit that," Denys said. "It would increase the planetary tithe and cut into their profits. That's all they care about." The adolescent girl spoke with the authority of a child who, overhearing her elders speaking, thought she knew what she was talking about.

Aric was an adolescent boy listening to a female whom he was attracted to and was directing her attention to him. "Yeah, exactly," he said, nodding to her parroting words he'd heard from wiser people as though hearing it for the first time.

It was still several kilometers from their destination when thunder was heard. Distant and powerful; a single great staccato boom echoing across half the wasteland it seemed. The juves immediately began looking around but there was no obvious source. It was followed a moment later by another, and another, in a rhythm that was obviously not a natural occurrence. Stopping, the group dismounted for a better look.

"What the hell was that?" Denys asked, the girl climbing up on top of the truck's bed for a better view as Sova pulled out his binocs. Sweeping the landscape, Aric saw flashes of light, concentrated in clusters along the horizon.

"There," he said, pointing, as the flashes rippled across the flat expanse of the eastern sky. "From the wastes. And in the south too. Do you know what's out there?"

"Those are planetary defense installations," Raul said, nodding. "They must... that must be fire from the anti-orbital gun batteries." At this, the group turned their attention west, to the great craggy mountain range that formed a spine across the badlands. They were just in time to witness columns of flame and smoke rise in ordered cascades as torpedoes were launched from the orbital defense silos dug into the mountaintops.

"What are they-" The gloom of the day's red smog sky was split by a great conflagration that hurled from the heavens towards the ground. It appeared, for all practical intents and purposes, to be a great asteroid on collision course with the planet, which to get this close would normally classify as a colossal and utter failure from the orbital guard. The fact that the rock was wreathed by explosions suggested there was more at work.

"I heard the planetary guard talking about something like this," Raul said. "They said that the greenskins ride rocks to the surface of worlds they attack..."

"We need to get back to the convoy. Now," Aris said.

---

So, here's the start of what may or may not be a bunch of stories I'm trying to write about a my own Space Marine chapter, a Dark Angels successor chapter called the Angels Illuminant. I plan for this to become a series. I suppose we'll see how this turns out. Until then, please let me know what you think.

All feedback is useful so please offer questions, comments and critique freely. Respectfully of course.

 

[Maquise]

I​

One fortnight later.

The sky was a fiery red that bathed the cragged, dusty landscape beneath in a lambent haze. The roar of engines and the tang of burning promethium, filtered through the sensor feeds of a sealed helmet, filled the warrior's ears and nostrils as he sped across the ashland wastes propelled by great plasma turbine engines.

Lieutenant Therion, knight brother of the Angels Illuminant Third Company, urged his war bike forward, its machine spirit growls expressed through its engines as it sped over rock and dust. A great column of grey-brown dust whirled behind him, rising to the sky like a pennant, signaling his presence to his battle brothers. Lifting his power sword he thumbed the activator switch, bolts of amber lightning arcing up the blade from the circuitry elegantly woven into the hilt. As the energy field shone brightly it reflected from the vermilion and ivory winged torch emblem on his pauldron. Its electric buzz resonated with the singing of the metal wings mounted to his bike as he cleaved the air with it, signaling his battle brothers.

At both flanks, two full wings of Knight Lancers formed up, the mounted Astartes in a great arrowhead formation. Trailing behind and above was the Storm Speeder Flame of Gwynn. This was a rapid strike detachment, under Therion's command, useful for covering a great deal of ground in hunt of the enemy.

Their course ran parallel to one of the great maglev train tracks that cut straight lines across this world's surface, heedless of the terrain, as the most direct path between one stop and the other possible. The steel leyline of the world's industry led them across long-dry riverbeds and around the petrified stumps of ancient trees and plantlife. All spoke of a time long past, when this world harbored flourishing life. All this was gone now, withered by unchecked industry, leaving only the depleted and polluted husk that the Angels Illuminant found it now.

An alert sigil flashed upon the dashboard display of his bike. The vehicle's auspex was registering multiple contacts ahead. Lifting his eyes to the horizon, Therion beheld great black columns of smoke, pillars rising into the red sky. Therion eased back on his throttle, but only just.

The smoke's source resolved itself as the knights came upon the remains of battle. Recent, it seemed. Several of the wrecks still burned openly. The destroyed vehicles were simple motorized ground-craft of the sort used to move cargo and people across the desert. Therion was aware that this world's wastes were home to nomadic clans that made their living by trading, or smuggling, goods across the wastelands too small, or liable to raise too many questions, for the great mag-trains of the Commerce Guild Houses.

A second look revealed these land-craft to be modified technicals, with armor plates and weaponry bolted on with careful skill. Although such battle wagons were not uncommon among the nomad clans, their abundance here and the bright markings that festooned the metal flanks of the wrecks suggested to Therion that these had been one of the marauding bands of raiders that plagued the wastes, preying upon weaker nomad clans and any agents of the Houses foolish enough to venture out with insufficient escort.

Amid the wrecked vehicles the senses of Therion's helm detected and enhanced the sight of dead bodies of slain mortals, baring the details to him while logging them for future reference. The human dead were poorly equipped, especially to handle the hazardous environs of the desert. Beneath patchwork vests and jackets of aramid fibers and plates of metal and carboplast, their pale tattooed flesh was pockmarked by red sores and scabs, indications of prolonged exposure to this contaminated landscape. Their bodies were broken by concussive forces, torn apart by high-caliber slug fire, or ripped into with brutal cleaving weapons.

Twisting his bike between the fallen vehicles and fallen men, Therion continued to scan for the signs of his quarry. Most of the wrecks were the raiders, but there was one wagon, even larger and more brutal than the rest, broken and burning as a twisted husk. From a top of it rose a jagged metal spar, upon which was impaled a great green mass. The form was twisted from violence, its bulging musculature curling upon itself in rictus from the heat below, but it was clearly the savage corpus of one of the ork breed.

Gunning his engines, Therion opened a vox-link to his detachment. "Make ready yourselves and steel your hearts, brothers. We are gaining on our quarry."

Ahead, Therion could see a churning cloud over the horizon. Pale dust mingled with oily smoke, pointing the way for the Angels Illuminant. They closed, their mighty plasma turbine engines thrumming in anticipation, but the orks took no notice at first. The rearguard notably were not particularly observant, either in the mistaken belief that everything behind them was dead, or their simple, animalistic single-minded impatience to get to their next target as quickly as possible.

The Astartes pulled in behind the unsuspecting xenos, and Therion closed in on the warbike furthest back. The ork rider was leaning forward over its handlebars, as though trying to will its bike faster. Locking on to his target through his helm's lens, the knight thumbed the trigger stud on his own handlebars. The twin barrels of his assault bike's plasma talons flared to life, mounted low on the bike's sloped forward cowling. The coils running down the length of the barrels flared to life, crackling with electric blue energy before they sang out twin stars, bursting with a great aura of plasma.

The twin orbs of plasma fire converged on the back of the ork bike, erupting and blasting it apart in a fountain of sparks, burning metal and boiling flesh. The front half of the war bike, propelled by momentum alone, continued to roll for several dozen meters. The upper half of the ork continued to cling to the handlebars, its entrails spilling out and unrolling behind it in the dust. To Therion's flanks, his battle brothers unleashed the wrath of their bolters upon the foe, taking advantage of the brief few seconds the orks remained oblivious and confused to inflict as much damage as possible.

The orks whooped and hollered, their gutteral throats bellowing warcries and jubilations at the violence. Warbikes and wartraks began to slow, decelerating and turning sharply to bring them to bear against the knights upon their assault bikes. The ork shootas belched shot and shell in the general direction of the Space Marines. The Astartes, for their part, evaded and delivered sustained, accurate counterfire until the measure was closed. Then chainsword and hammer met cleaver and flail in a clash of violence.

The greenskins launched heavy blows as they stomped on their brakes, the crude mechanisms shrieking and spitting sparks. The knights swerved and drew chainswords to parry and riposte. Therion met an ork charging at him head on with a crude axe. He brought his power sword up and slashed through the beast's wrist, then sharply snapped the blade back down in a vertical slash through the alien's thick brow, splitting it open. As the pair drove past each other, the ork warbike wobbled and rolled over, tumbling down a gravelly dune.

The larger ork vehicles were before them now, great ugly conglomerations of steel and oil, topped by whooping beasts brandishing shootas and chain-choppas. As Therion approached a war truck, the orks on top fired down at him, their rounds throwing sparks as they pinged off the burnished silver ceramite of his armor and the great, winged cowl of his assault bike. In addition to their junk-firearms, the orks wielded long, spear-like weapons that consisted of an impact-triggered explosive charge attached to wooden, polymer, or metal poles. The beasts threw these as javelins or thrust with them at any foe that drew too close.

Therion weaved between great eruptions of flame in the gravel and dust as he closed on his target, a great wheeled ground-craft in its last life may have been some form of ore hauler. From its roof, which had rickety battlements of scaffold and sheet metal erected over it, orks fired and threw down blast-spears. Therion pulled in alongside and slashed at the great knobbed tire with his power-sword, the crackling energy ripping apart the thick metal-reinforced vulcanized rubber.

From above, the largest of the orks hurled insults down at Therion in its ridiculously primitive Gothic dialect. Unable to bring any of his weapons to bear as close as he was, the beast grabbed one of the diminutive slave-creatures the orks kept and cast it down at the lieutenant.

Therion watched as the grot tumbled through the air at him, knives in both hands, eyes bulging in either excitement or, more likely, mortal terror. Therion brought his sword up, point at the alien, and impaled it upon the cold edge. Even as the foe began to slide down the blade, a downward moulinet from the wrist dislodged it to become a red stain in the dust.

The truck began to turn, rolling towards Therion in an effort to crush him beneath one of its remaining three tires. Gunning his engine, the knight-lieutenant pulled away. With the added distance, the great ork hoisted a blast-spear to try to throw it at him.

In the blink of an eye, Therion drew his bolt pistol and fired. The round shrieked through the air with a banshee wail and slammed into the beast's midsection. The ork doubled over, folded in half by the bolt-round blast. Its blast-spear struck the side of the vehicle as it fell, laying open the war truck's flank. Therion angled in, and his plasma talons struck repeatedly into the heart of the mechanical beast, unleashing a torrent of incandescent plasma-fire.

Alongside him, his brethren continued their work with bolter and chainsword. Vehicles too sturdy to be immediately destroyed were hobbled. Behind them, the Storm Speeder Flame of Gwynn lurked above, pouncing to deliver the coup de grace with its Onslaught gatling cannon. Many ork wagons were blown apart in great conflagrations.

In the center of the convoy was a great war rig, a rolling battle fortress that had once been some sort of native industrial mining tractor. Covered in scrap ceramite plating, it bristled with weapons, but nonetheless, with a mechanical wheezing roar of its engines it spewed oily flame and surged ahead. The Astartes assault bikes strained to keep their pace with it. From the rig's broadsides, the beasts poured out heavy slugs, twisting rockets and the seething, fizzing erratic fire of junk energy weapons. The knights evaded and returned fire, bolt shells pockmarking the thick plates but inflicting little more than flesh wounds on the chugging road-bunker.

One of the knights managed to gain the speed and position, to try and cut through one of the rig's great tires with his chainsword. From beneath the skirt of the rig's armor a great hydraulic arm with a spinning buzzsaw no less than two meters in diameter rose up, screeching in anger. It swung and struck the knight, casting him and his bike aside in a shower of sparks and red splatter. "Brother Goethius is down!" Sergeant Valeros called out over the vox.

"Wrath from the sky, brothers!" Therion commanded, and from above the Flames of Gwynn began a steep, swooping dive. Atop the battle wagon, a rickety autocannon rotated up and around, spewing out air burst shells. The Storm Speeder rolled in evasion, its autocannon firing but failing to inflict meaningful damage. The Flame of Gwynn was unable to set up for a proper strafing run due to the flak intensity.

"Pull back," Therion ordered his attack squadron, and flipped a switch on his bike. Beneath him the mighty machine gave a deep, bass roar as the accelerator turbine engaged, and the machine kept forward, blue flames jetting from its great exhaust manifolds. The bike's standing wings wailed like banshees as he carefully steered, angling to ramp off of a rock formation. As his assault bike arched through the air, he thumbed the accumulator stuff on his bike's weapons controls. The coils of his plasma talons spun up, seething with barely contained star fire.

As the ground began to rise up to meet him, Therion brought up the targeting reticle on his helm's HUD. Willing the bike to move with muscle and mind, he placed the reticle upon the roof of the ork battle wagon and depressed the firing stud. Twin bolts of plasma thundered forth from the front of his bike, searing the paint off the vehicle's cowling and leaving the talon barrels venting excess superheated gas. They converged upon their impact point, arcing down and in to erupt upon the upper scaffold-battlements, turning them to molten metal and vaporizing the orks that manned them.

"The foe is vulnerable, Flame of Gwynn!" Therion voxxed as the sparks fountained up into the sky.

"We see, brother! For the Lion!" The Storm Speeder descended like a hawk to its prey, its Fragstorm Launchers unloading their fury. The barrage detonated within the bare holds of the ork vehicle, the shrapnel ricocheting between the armor plates and turning the aliens into a semi-liquid slurry of black ichor, spongy tissue and bone splinters.

Skidding his craft to a halt, Lieutenant Therion turned his gaze to look behind him. The ork convoy had been successfully dispatched. All enemy scrap-wagons were now either burning wrecks or disabled and abandoned. A few of the wiser greenskins had taken cover next to an overturned truck. More attempted to make it there, abandoning burning or ditched rides, only to be run down by Angel Illuminant lancers with chainsword and boltgun. It was competent slaughter, carried out without flourish and with minimal passion; the extermination of vermin by professionals. In short, the grim but rewarding work of the Lion's Sons.

A half dozen knights had dismounted, and were encircling the cowering orks at their makeshift fortification. The beasts jeered at them, vowing their destruction even as they looked in dismay at how the battle was unfolding. Sergeant Valeros fired his heavy bolt pistol twice, at the largest and most vocal of the aliens. The first round dug into the meat of its shoulder, while the second split its skull apart. Valeros then drew up his knights into a line, weathering the limited fire from the orks. The knights retaliated in turn, forcing the orks' heads down with their heavy bolt pistols.

Therion was about to order the sergeant and his knights back, when Valeros gave a helm-amplified roar and brandished his chainsword over his head, revving it in the air. The orks, seeing this challenge, lept from their cover and charged out to meet the knights in hand-to-hand combat. Valeros turned to look at Therion and nodded his head.

"Flame of Gwynn, a strafing run." Swooping at a steep angle to prevent hitting their own, the speeder dove, its Gatling cannon spinning. Its cannon and heavy stubbers sent up great eruptions of gray dust and black blood as they chewed up and tore apart the orks. As the Flames of Gwynn pulled away, Valeros stepped forward and contemptuously decapitated a wounded xeno with a flick of his wrist.

"A good plan," Therion said to his sergeant as he approached, nodding to the dead orks. "Bold, bordering on reckless but a calculated risk, considering the enemy's nature. How is Brother Goethius?"

"Still alive, but mission-slain. He is in sus-an; I've locked his armor to his bike and slaved it to my own. He will endure until an apothecary can see to his wounds."

Therion nodded and activated his command-level vox to the chapter's battle-network. "This is Detachment Therion. Seek and destroy objective Primus complete. Casualties minimal. Continuing to Objective Secundus. We will sweep the wastes, drive them to the anvil, and hunt down any stragglers. Light in Shadow."

With a hand gesture he formed up his attack squadron, assuming a wider formation to increase their field of view. "Let's hunt some ork."

 

[Maquise]

II​

Atop the upper parapets of the forward chapter stronghold Emberwatch stood Galidorn, Master of the Angels Illuminant Third Company, watching the sun descend over the hive city Fortune's Forge. The red sky dimmed to an umbral violet that spread over the gray-green ocean that roiled across the distant horizon. In front of it, great geodesic domes reached for the heavens, shimmering from within as megastructures, manufactorums and habitat spires glittered with a riot of prismatic colors. Surrounding each dome were radial trenches, cut deep into the bedrock in spoke-and-wheel patterns that interlocked with each other's like the cogs of some great gearbox.

It felt wrong, to have his back to the enemy; the orks were advancing from the northeast, more than a hundred kilometers away yet. Nevertheless, Galidorn took this moment to look upon the hive of Fortune's Forge, to bear witness to what he was defending, why he had come.

There was a distant roar of promethium engines, as a Valkyrie air transport and a turbine flyer of pattern the captain was unfamiliar with, approached from the hive, trailing fighter escorts. He could see the stark white paint on the Valkyrie, with the turbine flyer a sleek design bedight in polished black with gold trim. This marked the craft as belonging to the Valatros Planetary Defense Forces, and the Valatros Commerce Guild Directorate Board, respectively.

Galidorn's vox clicked with an incoming link request. His equerry was requesting contact. "Yes, Theophilus, I can see them. Are we tracking the other contact? Good. The mortals can wait. Attend to them with all due respect and courtesy, but inform them that I will be with them as soon as practical."

Taking a moment, the Astartes master turned to the west, where a great range of mountains erupted from the stone, bare rock that retained its raw jagged edges in the face of eroding winds. The Spine, as it was dubbed by the locals, dividing Fortune's Forge and its coastal plain from the ashland wastes to the east. This would be his battlefield, prepared in advance of the oncoming onslaught. He would meet the green tide at Kharon Pass.

The ceramite gates to the stronghold parted before him a moment later, as he proceeded to survey the preparations of his company on the eve of battle. Chapter serfs and servitors unloaded ordinance and munitions, while under the supervision of robed enginseers armored vehicles and aircraft were fueled. Techmarines performed the rites of arming and final systems checks.

Great gantries had been rapidly erected by practiced hands, housing the towering forms of the Knights of House Valkÿr. The mighty war engines stood in restful repose, somber in their black of mourning. Upon their great carapaces was embossed the sigil of their house; a crest depicting a weeping angel clutching a broken sword, with flames above it and enveloped by silver pinions. The knight paused, solemnly paying homage to the ancient and great machines. He would not permit himself to take them for granted; not their firepower nor the magnitude of their house's pledge of fealty to his chapter. Three machines walked on his behalf on this battlefield: Domina Mors, Fulminatrix, and the great Victoria Lux.

Thunder shattered the sky and Galidorn inclined his head upwards. The second group of contacts the fortress's auspex had registered was here. A massive aircraft was descending from the sky, its fall arrested by the raw force of powerful plasma turbines. He beheld the Overlord dropship for the first time; the new creations of Mars were a rare sight indeed.

Emberwatch's aerial defenses tracked the incoming vessel as it vectored towards the keep, where traffic control serfs relayed approach instructions. The Master of the Third strode down the path to the prepared rockcrete landing platform, near where the earlier Valkyrie transport had landed. The vortex of fire thundered down, physically staggering the nearby mortals with the sheer momentum of the flying bunker slamming down into the surface; its wing-mounted thrusters hissing and landing struts groaning from the exertion. The mighty craft bore the emblem of its chapter, one Galidorn had not personally seen before: an iron fist clutching a skull-pommeled blade painted in lambent yellow upon bare ceramite. The arrival of forces from another Astartes chapter was a surprise, but by no means unwelcome.

Galidorn removed his great winged helm and mag-locked it to his side as the twin forward debarkation ramps descended, yawning into the dim red light within as two lines of Astartes marched out, forming twin parallel lines as they disembarked. The Knight-Captain inspected them silently as they moved with mechanical precision, his eyes sharp for every detail. Their armor was slate gray with yellow pin striping and remarkable for their austerity. They bore no visible devotional icons or personal heraldry, no purity seals or badges of honor; rank and identification were displayed purely as painted yellow symbols on their helmets and pauldrons. At best, he glimpsed the occasional aquila on a chestplate, most of which were festooned with ammo pouches and grenade loops. Many were augmented with auxiliary power cabling and vents such as the older, early Crusade era armor patterns.

The singular affectation that this chapter seemed to favor was the chainblade bayonet. Galidorn noted that nearly every bolter - and indeed every weapon capable of mounting one, had the archaic weapon equipped - producing a wall of angry teeth as the space marines turned to present themselves.

Galidorn's eyes remained impassive as he gathered in all of these details and considered their implications, and if he was to be honest with himself he did not approve. Austerity was a virtue to be sure, one that his gene-father had instilled within the many chapters of the Sons of the Lion. They did not pursue glory and renown as some of their more vainglorious fellows did, nor did they collect treasures and trinkets to display their many accomplishments. Icons were symbols of devotion and reminders of duty when worn, not trophies to boast the prowess of those who displayed them.

Even so, Galidorn understood the value of symbolism. The Astartes were the Emperor's Angels of Death, holy instruments of his righteous retribution. Their visage ought to serve as much as an inspiration and source of courage for the mortals on whose behalf they fought, as it served to inspire terror and lamentation in the wicked and unworthy. To see a chapter of Astartes in such... naked purpose, felt wrong. These marines were closer in appearance to Astra Militarum Guardsmen, or even less than that, faceless living weapons and naught more. It was... debasing, from the knight's perspective. However, he checked these thoughts. These were not his brothers, kin though they were, and they did not require his approval. The Adeptus Astartes included many chapters, sons of many Primarchs, all of whom embodied distinctive elements of warfare.

Heavy footfalls echoed from the dim cavern of the Overlord's hold, and the visiting marines saluted as one, the clang of fist to ceramite chests echoing like the thunder of guns. The figure which strode forth was clad in Tacticus armor, bearing a combi-melta strapped to his back and Power Fist on his left side. A cape, black white and gold, hung from one pauldron and the Imperialis was emblazoned across his chest in burnished bronze. Upon his brow, in a mechanical dot-and-dash pattern, was marked a rank equivalent to Lieutenant.

Galidorn's eyes flitted upwards; it was the only hint of reaction he gave as the Astartes reached up and removed his helmet. "Hail, captain. I am Sub-Commander Kel Storme of the Enforcers Seventh Company. I am here on behalf of Supreme Commander Malkyn Rathe with a battle force to aid you in your crusade against the xenos threat."

Galidorn reached forward and clasped his right forearm. "Emperor's blessings, Sub-Commander. If I'd have had more foreknowledge of your arrival I would have prepared a suitable welcome to honor you and your brothers. What is the composition of your force?"

Kel Storme looked back over his shoulder at his detachment, which were filing out as servitors began to unload supplies from the cargo hold of the mammoth transport. "I command three full battle squadrons, and two Repulsor tanks, of the chapter reserves. Our mission to this world, I confess, was not initially intended."

His expression soured. "Our chapter was drawn from the Unnumbered Sons of the Primarchs to serve as a garrison force on the Segmentum frontier. We are dispatched to unruly and destabilized systems to bring Order." He spoke the word with conviction, as though it were a sacred invocation. "We are spread thin, battling the wretched and disloyal alike. Our munitions are depleted. We requisitioned supplies from this world in accordance with our mandate, but..." He looked to the hive with disgust. "The Commerce Guild Houses claim that the orks have degraded their ability to honor our requirements. Instead of demanding they fulfill their duties or suffer castigation, Supreme Commander Rathe agreed to dispatch my battle force to aid them." His sour expression darkened further, twisting in disgusted contempt. "I had to negotiate with them just for them to supply the munitions for this mission!" He spat the word.

"Well, I would be glad to have you here, even if all you were armed with were rock and stone," Galidorn replied. "What armaments do you have?"

"Bolt weapons, meltas and pyreblasters, as well as Desolation missile launchers. We have a number of Tarantula and Firestrike servo turrets. As much as could be spared from the Reserve companies. We specialize in urban pacification and the close quarter battle."

The Master of the Third's eyes shone with a spark of cunning as he laid a hand on Storme's pauldron, and gestured to Emberwatch's gate. "Come, and I will lay out my plan in the Strategium. Your battle brothers are most welcome reinforcements."

The Strategium was dark, lit by candle and gas lumen-rod. The narrow windows filtered minimal light from the city through their stained glass depictions of the Lion and other heroes of ages past. During battle great rockcrete shields would close, turning it into a bunker. Serfs and tech-priests busied themselves in the cogitator pits, processing sensor feeds, augur returns and the vox-nets, collating the mass of raw data into a coherent picture of the battlefield.

In the center, elevated above it all, was a raised circular platform with a morpholithic command altar in the middle where battles were planned. Waiting there was Theophilus, Galidorn's personal equerry and as such, one of the highest ranking mortals in the company if not chapter. He wore the gray and red robes of the chapter, a medallion about his mantle and a winged sword belted to his side. Next to him was a mortal woman with long red hair, in an armor-plated bodysuit laced with circuitry, reminding Galdiorn of the Black Carapace subdermal implant. The sigil inscribed on her breastplate matched that of the great Knight-Walkers currently preparing for battle outside.

Galidorn handed his helm to Theophilus and motioned for Sub-Commander Storme to join him. "Send in the locals," he instructed the serf, who bowed and stepped to the back, motioning to the door with a sharp gesture. The heavy door slid open with a guttural groan and metallic hiss, and in stepped a group of local officers, flanked by Valatros Defense troopers. These mortal soldiers, in contrast to the serf-guards escorting them on the chapter's behalf, wore uniforms of brilliant, pure white aramid fabric, with breastplates of segmented white laminated carboplast. If the intent was to impress the Master of the Third, it failed utterly. These uniforms had quite obviously never been worn beyond the sealed hab-domes of Fortune's Forge hive, if that. He wondered if the soldiers inside were as unblooded as their armor was unstained.

The first of the officers to enter was an unimpressive looking man in a uniform that managed to seem underwhelming on him, despite the trappings of authority. A middle aged man, he carried himself stiff and proud, though he was only of middling height. He had thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a heavy line of sagging jowls, and his stomach paunch protruded his uniform unflatteringly. He was consistently removing a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, to dab the sweat from his ruddy, rotund face. His stark white uniform was arrayed with a modest display of ribbons upon one breast, and his shoulders bore epaulettes signifying him with the rank of general. "Presenting," intoned the servo-skull that hovered above the retinue of mortals, "General Sol Balthus of the Valatros Planetary Defense force." Behind him were a number of junior officers and adjutants, whose names Galidorn simply logged into his eidetic memory with no further regard. Then the skull reached the last of them, and the captain frowned, his eyes narrowing.

"Presenting Lady Harkona Thal, anointed Commissioner of the High Board of the Commerce Guild Houses of Valatros." The woman the skull had announced stood in stark contrast to the others, her garb clearly intended to invoke the appearance of a military uniform, but to Galidorn's trained eye appeared more designed for aesthetics than practicality. The black and gold outfit was tailored to flatter her generous form, and was accentuated by her raven black shoulder length hair that framed an almost perfect face. Too perfect, neither blemish nor wrinkle on her skin; she had clearly undergone many beauty and rejuvenate treatments to cultivate her appearance . She had a haughty look to her countenance, though she did have the sense of etiquette to give a sharp, well-practiced bow to the Astartes as her name and title was announced.

The skull, having completed its task, ascended back to the vaulted ceiling of the Strategium, disappearing into the dimly lit spaces arching above. Theophilus ascended the steps of the command altar plinth to herald his master. After introducing Master Galidorn and Sub-Commander Storme, he turned to the red-haired woman. "And presenting her ladyship, Baroness Morrigan Valkÿr of the Knightly House of Valkÿr." Lady Morrigan notably seemed to be locked in some sort of contest of will with Commissioner Thal.

After acknowledging the officers as etiquette required, Galidorn turned to the commissioner. "What is your purpose here?" He asked her, carefully keeping the suspicion out of his voice.

Commissioner Thal bowed her head once more, hands at her side. "My lord, I have been dispatched by the Board of Directors, an advisory and legislative body composed of representatives of the most established Commerce Guild Houses, to serve as a liaison between the Houses, the Planetary Defense Forces, and offworld units. As such, I am to communicate the wishes of the Director-General and the Board to you and your forces, and offer any assistance you require."

The Astartes fixed his silver gaze upon her, letting her squirm a moment. "In that case, you can begin by telling me where the Commerce Guild Houses' private militaries are. I was under the impression that the House maintain substantial mercenary forces under their command."

Thal stared gormlessly at him for the span of a heartbeat, then cleared her throat. "Ahem, my lord, you are correct that the Commerce Guild Houses do sustain private security forces. These forces are not idle; they have been deployed to secure the Houses' assets in the wastelands, the biochemical fields and pumps, as well as the maglev lines that lie perilously close to ork territories; that is the territories they have seized."

"And this is their priority, with the city at risk?" Kel Storme asked, speaking up suddenly. "The Board puts their own profits over all else."

"The Board is well aware of the situation. We recognize the dangers the greenskins pose to the city, but our scope is wider." She sighed. "We must preserve the synth-promethium fields and maglev systems. We must keep the Tithes flowing offworld. The House troops are securing them there."

The general angrily pointed a stubby finger at her. "You lie by omission, Thal. The Houses outnumber my allotment of forces, by nearly an order of magnitude!"

The commissioner crossed her arms and leaned back haughtily. "We do now, perhaps, but it is not our fault you squandered your forces with that ill-conceived assault." Turning back to Galidorn she continued speaking. "The Houses have, as members, a number of freelance guilds and private military contractor forces. We subcontract them to neighboring systems, and noble houses, when their own forces are insufficient. Unfortunately," she shot a sidelong judgemental glance at General Baltus, "the Planetary Defense force does not currently hold a contract with them, and their Administratum-sealed charters prevent them from fighting without one."

"Is this assessment accurate, then," he asked contemplatively, "that the only reason the mercenary armies of the Commerce Guild Houses are not fighting, is because of a lack of a signed contract?"

Thal swallowed and seemed to consider her words. "That is... an abridged explanation, my lord, but accurate."

Galidorn nodded. "Then you shall see to it that such a contract is written and sealed, in a timely manner."

The woman paled, stepping back. "S-sir? Pardon, my lord? There is no precedent for the freelance units serving an Astartes chapter-"

"They will not be serving the Angels Illuminant Chapter. You shall seal the compact in the name of the Director-General, ensuring that he bears the responsibility for it to the mercenary companies. Remind the Director-General, if you must, that he has been charged by the Immortal Emperor himself to defend this world with all his might, and I will not permit him to forsake this duty, especially not for a trifle matter of treasure."

"My lord, this falls beyond the purview of my mandate." She was beginning to stammer, her previously impeccable complexion now pallid in mortal fear.

"You are tasked to assist me as required, and to liaise between the Houses and the levies. This is your mandate, and you will fulfill it. I am Galidorn, Master of the Third, Emperor's Anointed Son of the Lion." He pointed a silver-clad finger at Thal. "You will procure me those troops."

Turning from her in clear dismissal, He addressed General Baltus. "The commissioner spoke of an earlier assault that failed?"

"When they first arrived," the general said, dabbing his face. "Forty-eight hours after the greenskins made planetfall, I ordered an attack upon the enemy beachhead. We believed if we struck while they were still recovering from the impact of landing we could deal a crippling blow."

"Then you waited too long. Forty-eight hours was sufficient time for the enemy to fortify its beach-head."

The general bowed. "Forgive me, my lord, but few on Valatros possess experience dealing with such threats." He continued. "We attacked with strike fighters and airborne assault troops. My best men. But the enemy had already set up flak and surface-to-air missile batteries, far quicker than we had anticipated." His head sunk in shame. "Our failure to mobilize in time cost us the best chance to destroy the enemy, and the lives of the finest of the levies' troops."

"It did," Master Galidorn said, with neither pity nor judgment, "and you rightly bear the shame for this. However, what's done is done. There can be no correcting this error now; we must move forward and prepare for the battle ahead of us. I have been surveying this planet since we entered orbit, and have devised a battle plan that will enable us to destroy the hated xenos infestation."

He stepped up to the command altar and with a wave of his hand engaged the morpholithic surface. The altar's surface was a flat mirror of polished silver, and at his command ripples went through its surface like liquid metal. At its activation, the liquid silver rose and lowered, recreating the topography of Valatros's third continent in full detail. "The enemy made planetfall here, in the wastelands at the western heart of Valatros Tertius. They have remained largely mobile since, stripping their landing vehicle for parts and abandoning it in favor of roaming the badlands, pillaging and plundering all they can get their claws into."

"I have deployed my company's fast attack units in a detachment under the command of my lieutenant, as I established Emberwatch here. Forty-eight hours ago they arrived by drop pod, and have since reconnoitered and harried the enemy, providing targeting data for orbital strikes from our strike cruiser Perpetual Vigil in orbit. Unfortunately the planet's atmosphere, with its heavy metal contamination, limits the Perpetual Vigil's support capacity in the coming battle to incidental. Still, we have weakened them."

With a gesture, the map zoomed into the local region. "To the north, south, and east the enemy sees only dust and ash. They will come West, to the Fortune's Forge hive. To do so, they will have to pass through the Spine mountain range." The captain gave a rare predatory grin. "The Emperor has blessed us with the ideal terrain. There is but one path large enough to bring an army through the Spine: Kharon Pass. Even as we speak my Space Marines are preparing it for their arrival."

The morpholithic command altar presented a view of the serpentine mountain pass, defaced by human industry into a maze of quarry pits, excavation trenches, and mining tunnels. "The pass will be our fortress, and their gauntlet. There are four gated security checkpoints they must breach, where wie will concentrate our forces. They will breach, but as they do we will fall back, bleeding them as we do, and regroup at the next. Their strength shall be finished by the time they throw themselves in futility at our final bastion."

Baroness Morrigan leaned hungrily over the morpholithic projection. "The pass's terrain makes it an ideal hunting ground for House Valkÿr's Knights. We will stalk the xenos amid the stony chasms and cliffs, the drill platforms and refineries. Kharon Pass will run black with the blood of the alien."

One of the general's officers, wearing the uniform of a major, spoke up. "That pass is filled with tunnels and industrial accesses. If the orks get in they will be able to flank our positions."

"Yes," Galidorn said. "They will do so. We should prepare for such eventualities. However, they will not do so easily." He gestured to his fellow Astartes officer. "The Enforcers, sons of Iron, under Sub-Commander Kel Storme, shall hunt the aliens in the off-shoot tunnels. Their chapter specializes in confined battlefields and engaging hordes of lesser foes in the close-quarter fight."

Storme slammed his curled right fist into the open palm of his deactivated power fist with a resounding clang that made all mortals present flinch. "We will hunt the xenos in the darkness, in the canyons and in the pits. We will cast their broken and burnt carcasses from these bleak stone peaks. You need fear no ork at your flank."

"The terrain will mitigate the effectiveness of air power over the pass," the Astartes captain continued, evidently considering the previous matter concluded. "Both forces will have anti-air artillery in close proximity to each other, and the tall peaks and steep slopes will limit the ability of aircraft to maneuver. We will therefore limit our use of air power to the start of the battle, then hold it in reserve."

One of the Valatros levy officers had a thoughtful look on his face as he examined the map. "You are certain, my lord, that the enemy will commit totally to this path through the mountains? They may attempt to find an alternate route, either to flank us or bypass us entirely."

Even as the other mortal officers looked on in mortification, Galidorn had to admire this officer's willingness to face censure to deliver what he felt was an important assessment of the situation. "They may attempt to forge a path through the mountains. They would be severely limited in the size of force they could move, and the speed they could move at. They would be at a disadvantage, yes, but we should not concede the mountains to them entirely. The Planetary Defense force fields recon and light assault ornithopters? This would be ideal hunting grounds for them. The orks will be unable to bring any anti-air artillery up to those heights. You must simply be sure your pilots remain clear of the main battle."

General Balthus nodded at all of this, but a pensive expression remained on his face nonetheless. "This... this is a good plan, if you'll pardon me, my lord. I agree with it, in principle. There is however, one thing that troubles me." He gestured to the map, the bottom of the pass. "The pass leads, well, here. To the very outskirts of Fortune's Forge Hive. If we fail there will be nothing left to hold them at bay."

Master Galidorn reverently thumped the ferrocrete walls surrounding them. "That is why I have positioned Emberwatch here. This is our final fallback point, and the last line of defence. The greenskins would have to prevail utterly for them to get past here."

Stepping back, he deactivated the morpholithic command altar with a wave of his hand. "The enemy moves and our time is limited. My brothers have already begun establishing our defenses at Security Point Primus, but we will not be able to fortify it alone. Not with the enemy's current rate of advancement."

"The Enforcers will deploy to Checkpoint Primus at once!" Kel Storme declared. "At your leave, Master, I shall go forth with my battle brothers."

"My equerry will provide you with the vox-codes to our company battle-net." Galidorn made the sign of the Aquila upon his breastplate. "Light in Darkness, Sub-Commander."

"His Will Be Done," Kel Storme replied, returning the sacred salute, and turned on his heel to go forth.

General Balthus commanded his subordinate officers to their tasks, then turned back to address the knight-captain. "Master Galidorn, I know our time is critical but if you would but lend me your ear a moment. It concerns our fortunes in this battle, specifically your call for reinforcement."

The Master of the Third turned and regarded the mortal officer. For the first time, Galidorn concentrated on the man, taking him in with all his senses as he dabbed his sweat-soaked face once more. Upon closer inspection, his eyes and nose noting the subtle signs in the human's flesh, Galidorn could tell that the general's perceived physical shortcomings were the consequence of significant and prolonged psychological stress. "Speak, General Balthus."

Sighing, the general found a nearby handrail that would support his weight to lean upon. "Master Galidorn, I require your help. For years I have fought with the Board to keep the Planetary Defense Forces independent of them, serving the Emperor and the people of Valatros, and not the Commerce Guild Houses. It has not been easy; my list of allies runs thin. The Director-General, God-Emperor pardon me for saying, has been in service to the Board ever since they appointed Ibbius to the office." He shook his head. "They deny my requests for improved wargear, and poach my best men for their private armies. Those who don't get scooped up by the Astra Militarum, that is. And now that bitch Thal is here, eager to sink her talons into my throat."

The space marine loomed over the general, whose face was reflected by the Space Marine's burnished silver armor. "General, I appreciate that you face many difficulties in your duties. These are trying times for us all. But it is unsightly for a man of your station to shift blame for his failures on others."

"I shift no blame, my lord, respectfully. But I could not have mobilized in time; I did not have the means. The Guild Houses, with the Director-General's blessing, have cannibalized the Levies' logistical support systems. The Director-General demanded an attack, despite this fact. And even now, they further seek to undermine me, you will see. They'll use their puppet Thal to do it."

"I came her to fight xenos, General, not sully myself in your politics," the Astartes captain's patience, as cultivated as it was, now showed signs of wearing thin. "I expect you to do the same. Fight the enemy." He lowered his voice. "However, I will hold Thal, and her masters, to these same standard. I do not trust easily, and my eyes are sharp. I will keep the commissioner in my sights."

In resignation, General Sol Balthus nodded, then bowed to the transhuman instrument of divine will. "I thank you, Master, on behalf of Valatros and its people." At the Astartes' wordless gesture of dismissal he hurried back to his transport.

Galidorn returned to the Strategium's command altar, where Baroness Morrigan remained, awaiting command. "Tend to your Knight-Walker, and your lance," he said with a nod. As she departed with a sharp salute and clack of her heel, he addressed the cogitator monitor at the head of the command altar.

Green text scrolled across the screen; his squad leaders were all active on the battlenet, report the various levels of preparations. Most were deploying to reinforce the first checkpoint, to give the levies time to prepare the subsequent tiers of defense. Therion's detachment had concluded its harrying assignment, and were pulling back to the pass, in a fighting retreat to buy them as much time as possible.

The monsters had landed in the wastes, and had looted it of anything of value. Now they came for the city. If it fell they would have a great fortress with sea access, from where they could wage war against the rest of the world. Turning to one of the narrow windows, the Master of the Third looked once more upon Fortune's Forge, its great hive-domes and deep trenches cutting into the bedrock, teeming with human life. "Theophilus," he commanded his equerry, "Inform the tech-marines to prepare the Dawnfall Chariot for immediate departure."

---

Any and all questions, comments and helpful critiques would be most welcome, thank you.

 

[Maquise]

III​

It was one thing to view the site of the upcoming battle from orbital pict-captures, and the liquid metal cast of his command altar's morpholithic map. Now, however, Master Galidorn looked out upon Kharon Pass with his own uncovered eyes, his helm mag-locked to his side. The eastern sky was a fluorescent violet as the sun rose, soon to fade to ember red as the layer of pollution permanently present in the atmosphere scattered the light. For now, the dawn marked the last few hours of tranquility before the foul xenos shattered it with their accursed presence.

Galidorn stood looking out of the command hatch of the Repulsor Excelsior Dawnfall Chariot. The Chariot was a highly mobile command vehicle equipped with an advanced array of vox uplinks and control systems allowing him to lead from the frontline, while still having access to the resources of Emberwatch's Strategium and a direct uplink to the Perpetual Vigil in orbit. Knowledge was a commander's primary weapon as the Lion had spoke, and the fog of war was as deadly to Astartes as any other combatant. The Chariot was Galidorn's shield against ignorance and deception, and the Repulsor and its Techmarine crew were as vital a piece of wargear to the knight-commander as Dismantler at his side.

Behind the lenses of his helm, pict-cast uplinks and cogitator displays fed his gaze a cascade of unit reports; his sergeants moving into their final positions and zeroing in their killzones, Sub-Commander Kel Storme coordinating with Lieutenant Idylzar to incorporate his Marines in an optimal deployment. The guard-levies of the Planetary Defense Forces were held back now; there would be insufficient time to deploy them at the front line where the orks would hit the hardest. They would form the defense in depth, building lines of progressively fortified defenses that the orks would have to breach to get through Fortune's Forge.

With a mental impulse, Galidorn silenced the feed and closed his eyes, reciting the Litany of Focus in his mind. This was the overture, the deep breath before the plunge. One final moment of serenity upon which to meditate before the storehouses of Wrath were opened and the chalices poured out. The monastic warrior drew upon the perfect memories of countless other battles in which he had fought, and led his brothers to both victories and defeat. Lessons of the past provided illumination for the fight to come, and this knowledge was the rock upon which he grounded himself. As an Astartes, exalted by the blessed blood of the Lion, he was not subject to the fears and anxieties of mortals, but the grim specter of failure could still prove... distracting, if he ceded his mind to it.

Disengaging the seals on his helm, he lifted it off and inhaled deeply, feeling the tainted air sting at his nostrils and singe his lungs. The discomfort was minor, and he let it pass. Holding the air there, he emptied his mind for a moment, and exhaled. He was ready.

Great, thunderous footsteps made the rocky ground tremble, and the knight-captain turned to gaze upon the mighty form of Victoria Lux. The great black Castellan-class Knight-Walker strode up the jagged cliff face, its mighty plasma decimator and volcano lance emitting a bass thrum that even the Astartes captain could feel in his teeth. The ancient war machine bristled with weapons, an arsenal of adamantine and steel striding across the battlefield.

Galidorn's vox bead clicked. "My sisters have deployed to the canyons to hunt the xenos once they breach the first gate," Baroness Morrigan's voice announced, the walker inclining its armored head to the the great ferrocrete slab, designed to lower into the ground via mechanized recess below. "I will remain up at the peaks, and use the high ground to rain fire down upon them from above."

The knight-captain nodded. "Sensible. I have recalled Therion's detachment back through the pass before we seal it. When the hammer blow falls, we will be at our strongest."

"So it would seem," Baroness Morrigan said, then waited for a pregnant moment before asking the question. "What do you suppose the unforeseen complication of this battle will be?"

"They are greenskins. It could be anything," Galidorn said, enjoying the familiarity the baroness provided. She had led the forces of House Valkÿr at his side for several decades now; though mortal, he had come to appreciate her as a noble warrior and shrewd tactician. "It is said they recognize two philosophies of war; brutal cunning and cunning brutality. They will attack here, and in force. This is our strong place, and they will come here to answer our challenge." He crossed his arms over his chest. "It is likely, however, that they will have their share of surprises in store for us. Attempting to foresee their madness is in my experience futile. One can only be vigilant and quick to adapt to the changing battlefield."

Baroness Morrigan gave a chuckle. "There is one good thing I will say about fighting the orks; they provide a target-rich environment." She paused for a moment. "Auspex reading approaching from the east. Stand by… returning friendly IFF signals."

Not for the first time Galidorn recited the thanks for the Machine God's blessing in his mind; the advanced sensoria on House Valkÿr's knights dramatically improved his awareness of the battlefield on many occasions, especially in situations like this when orbital support was handicapped. On the Dawnfall Chariot's command cupola cogitator display he reviewed the incoming units; they were the majority of Lieutenant Therion's task force returning from their recon and harrying mission.

The vox clicked; he identified it as an incoming message from his subordinate, the Lieutenant Therion. "Master Galidorn, we have put an end to the greenskin raiding and brought Perpetual Vigil's fury down upon their vanguard, blunting their spearpoint. I am returning the detachment's battle-brothers to your command."

"You've done well," the knight-captain said, but noted that the transmission's source was not amongst those Astartes currently passing through Primus Gate. "Why are you not accompanying your brothers? The battle will soon be upon us."

"We have detected an installation of unknown purpose on the periphery of the ork horde's path. It is transmitting Slayn-Thal ident-codes on request, but is otherwise dark. I am investigating the facility to determine if it is an asset or liability."

"Confirmed, Lieutenant. Be warned that relief will be unavailable during the battle; I will need every one of our brothers here. Local forces are also unreliable. Secure the facility, determine its purpose and value, and take action accordingly."

"Affirmed," Therion's voice began to waver with the telltale crackle of vox distortion; the alien's unshielded power sources proved disruptive in large numbers, to say nothing of the great broil of fume and heavy metal-laden, mildly radioactive dust the great horde threw upwards as they thundered through the waste. "Light in darkness, brother." The vox clicked twice in finality.

With the last of the company's forces in place, the board was set and the impetus was now in the hands of the enemy. Lifting his head up, he donned his helm and sealed it for the last time. He would not remove it again until victory was declared. Turning to the horizon, his helm's oculus systems engaged, advanced imagers behind the electric blue lenses whirring to bring him the horizon.

There they were, silhouetted against the bruise-purple sky of the Valatros dawn. Beneath the rising sun the wastes were covered in a great sea of smoking, wheezing, clanking metal. The greenskins had, predictably, transformed the landing ships of their fleet into great machines of war, augmented then by plundering the world they'd infested. Excavators became great siege engines, their digging claws and drills turned from ripping at dirt and stone to ripping fortifications.Ore conveyors now conveyed great unclean masses of slathering mad beasts. Slab-sided boxes moved inexorably forward on treads of ceramite, crushing all that stood in their path. The alien totems that bedecked the brutalist mammoths revealed nothing in regards to their content, but insinuated many disquieting suggestions. Escorting them were enemy junk-walkers, the idolatrous xeno war machines standing in horrid contrast to the virtuous mecha-warriors of House Valkÿr by their utter void of any redeeming qualities.

In-between all of these was a sea of smaller troop carriers, battle wagons, buggies, and gun-carriages. Tanks, tanks and more tanks, in endless variation. The very concept of standardization seemed anathema, if not utterly blasphemous to the xenos. Trundling pocket-tanks crewed by gretchen slaves. Looted Leman Russ and Dorn battle tanks, their hulls defiled by alien totems and sigils. Flaming incinerator tanks, spiked rollers mounted on their fronts to impale and crush anything hapless enough to fall in their path. Great fortresses of guns on tracks shuttered forward on wheezing engines that always seemed on the verge of catastrophic failure, but Master Galidorn knew from painful experience that greenskin engineering was paradoxically reliable.

The mechanized army ground to a halt as though some great hand was tugging its leash, holding station just outside the range of the Imperial artillery. This had less to do with an absence of Imperial artillery, and more to do with General Balthus's reluctance to position his limited artillery to the front lines, holding them in the back. This gave them firing parameters within the pass itself, but due to the steep and narrow terrain limited firing arcs out into the wastelands. Manticore missile launchers did not have that limitation, but their limited munitions prevented saturation bombardments. Galidorn instructed them to withhold their wrath until given specific targets.
The knight-captain's eyes narrowed as he watched the orks hold position, and he lifted his head, glaring up into the sky. Ork aircraft, screaming jets and whirring rotorcraft, swarmed overhead, leaving trails of black oily smoke in their wake as they approached. He spotted heavier fliers as well; propeller driven bombers and aerial transports intended to rain death in various forms down on the Imperial positions. "Flak low," he ordered over the vox, "keep it away from our own air units. Galion Wing, intercept. You are supported by planetary air assets."

From the air fields at Emberwatch, silver-winged jet-fighters took to the skies, low to the peaks of the Spine. Using the mountains to conceal their approach, they waited until the flew out from between the rocky teeth and climbed sharply at the last moment. They were joined by three squadrons of Sparrowhawk fighter-bombers of the Planetary Defense Aeronauts, remaining at stand-off distance to cede first blood to the Astartes before joining in the fray.

The Nephilim Jetfighters, provided from the arsenal of the Rock to all Unforgiven chapters, launched a salvo of Blacksword missiles, leaving inky contrails overhead. These found their marks amid the heavy air assets of the greenskins; the first wave of bombers and air-drop transports. As these fat, lumbering aircraft began to fall burning from the skies, knight and beast began their lethal dance. Lasbolt, shell and missiles cut lines and arcs in the venous-blood of the morning glow, a spectacle of blood and fire.

The deep whir of heavy servos thrummed as Victoria Lux turned to face the greenskin horde face on. "You commanded me to withhold my wrath until you gave the command," Baroness Morrigan practically growled, and Master Galidorn could hear the pain in her voice, manifesting as aggression. Her Machine Spirit, noble as it was, was fighting her, demanding to unleash its wrath. "I hold, but Victoria Lux demands the blood of the xeno!"

"Steady," he commanded, not removing his eyes from the battle line. "Restrain the Knight-walker's fury until the ideal moment. When the enemy comes we shall blunt their charge with a hammer blow. All strikes shall be coordinated to land as one. It is not good for the foe to know where our blows will come from."

The baroness's laughter held the bark of pain. "They cannot miss me! Do not grant the foe creatures the honor of first blood; not when it serves no purpose! Allow me the honor! Allow Victoria Lux the honor!"

Galidorn tempered his annoyance at her insubordinate insistence and considered her words. Ceding the enemy the initiative, allowing their warchief to attack at the time of its choosing, was a necessary evil to keep the location of his artillery secret. This did not hold true in the case of the Castellan Knight-Walker, as Lady Morrigan so accurately stated, and it was worth placating the mighty engine's machine spirit to claim first blood.

"Very well. Unleash the wrath of the Machine-God; you may fire at will." The Space Marine could feel the electro-static tingle through his armor as great banks of capacitors charged, drawing power from the might of the twin plasma core generators. Victoria Lux raised its Volcano Lance, and in a single smooth motion brought it to bear. Without warning, a beam of lambent red appeared, starting at the tip of the knight-walker's lance and ending at the turret of the foremost tank of the Ork vanguard: a Rogal Dorn battle tank with a spiked roller jury-rigged to the front. The air held silent for less than the space of a heartbeat, then the sky split with a clap of thunder. The Dorn's armor erupted in a geyser of outpouring molten metal, before its munitions detonated, launching its turret high into the air, green crewmembers screaming as they flew through the sky burning.

This act of violence broke whatever force of will that was holding the green tide at bay. War bikes, buggies and combat rovers all surged ahead, great tails of flames trailing behind them as their drivers pushed their engines and frames to the absolute limit in their species' collective deranged thirst for speed. The knight-captain looked on, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction; he wasn't sure what his foe was planning or what signal was intended to precipitate the attack, but drawing first blood had led to the greenskins breaking rank to charge headlong as well as sating the machine spirit's bloodlust.

Roiling clouds of coruscating plasma erupted in the midst of the enemy lighter vehicles, bursting them with great fountains of molten slag and broiling flesh. The beam of the Volcano lance swept to and fro, its baleful gaze slicing tanks apart, their crude mechanical innards spilling forth in burning puddles of engine oil or igniting, blasting them asunder at the seams. Cannon shells sailed through the skies in great arcs not far behind, throwing up great showers of rock and shrapnel.

With a word of command, Galidorn ordered the Manticore missile batteries to add their fury to the knight-walker's firepower. The missiles took to the skies from the ridges and peaks of the Spine, ascending then arcing back down. They burst above to rain bomblet sub-munitions down upon the ork craft. Landing in the flat dust they cratered it in great explosions, sending up rock and dust and disfiguring the terrain in front of the charging mass. They veered around craters, colliding with each other as they jockeyed for positions, or simply plowed headlong over them in an attempt to jump the gaps, as often as not failing the attempt with a great clamor.

The teachings of the chapter, both the Codex Astartes and the compiled wisdom of the Primarch, made clear the importance of knowing the enemy. Galidorn had fought the orks across many battlefields and had an understanding of how they waged war. Now in the battle's opening salvos he noted with care how the enemy reacted. What he saw did little to reassure him. The enemy was sending fast-movers to the wall, but these were probing attacks. They did not fall upon the defenders like a riotous rabble as one would expect. The Third Company was facing an ork chief who was cunning, and could enforce discipline amongst its ranks, at least to a degree.

As the greenskins converged upon Checkpoint Primus's main gate, plasma fire, heavy bolter rounds and krak missiles rained down upon them from the bunkers and pillboxes flanking the massive rockcrete gate. As the ork tanks and self-propelled guns returned fire several shots made their way upwards to splash off of Victoria Lux's ion shields.

Galidorn had enough; his observations were complete and it was time to get into the fray. Rapping on the roof of the Dawnfall Chariot he ducked back inside, closing the cupola hatch above him.The Repulsor tank reversed away from the cliffside as inaccurate but increasing volumes of enemy artillery fire began to pockmark the rocky mountainside, and entered a trapezoidal industrial tunnel. The heavy rockcrete door slammed shut with a ringing finality. At its seams flashed bright white as a line of self-sealing stem bolts engaged, securing the door and ensuring the orks could not use it to infiltrate the tunnel network.

Inside the hold of the Dawnfall Chariot, Galidorn's command squad awaited; the knights whom he trusted most of all to fight at his side. Foremost was Ancient Donathar, standard-bearer of the Third and the knight-captain's longstanding friend, advisor and brother. Blademaster Peliton, by contrast, was a new addition to not only Squad Galidorn but the company and chapter. A Primaris, he had arrived with the reinforcements dispatched by Guilliman, reinforcements sorely needed at the time. The Cicatrix Maledictum had taken its toll on the Angels Illuminant, left them divided and depleted. Now, the chapter was once more at full strength, with new and powerful wargear and many new brothers. Peliton was one of the most skilled swordsman that Galidorn had ever seen, though he still had to find his place within the chapter.

Apothecary Nytheris attended to his narthecium, examining the sacred device of his office once more despite already knowing all was in place. The healer of the Third had always had a mind that was aloof and detached, but not without compassion for those in his care. Bladeguard Knights Aranoth and Voryn were stoic warriors and stalwart defenders, bringing bolter and blade to bear without question. Galidorn had come to trust them as much as any of his brothers, knowing they would neither falter nor fail in the moments of greatest testing.

Across from knight-captain was Deuterion, the Third Company's Interrogator-Chaplain. A grim figure, the chaplain had served the Third for forty years, during which time Galidorn had never developed the familiarity with him that he strove for with all his battle-brothers. Deuterion held his station sacrosanct, and though he provided guidance and a vigilant hand over the company's soul he did so from a distance. Still, Galidorn respected the warpriest, and took comfort in knowing that he would be here to lead and inspire. Such would be needed with the forces of the ill-trained levies at their backs.

The Repulsor tank came to a stop at a junction of the great industrial tunnels that cut through the mountains, uniformly trapezoidal and reinforced by skeletal pillars of steel and ferrocrete. These served the somewhat limited network of fortifications that covered the Primus gateway, designed to protect the pass from opportunistic mutant raiders endemic to the wastelands. The crews of these gun emplacements had been reinforced by the Space Marines, including Galidorn's Company Veterans.

As the Master descended the ramp, the robed form of Brother Sergeant Caliphax approached. His burnished silver armor bore a black pauldron inscribed with litanies of destruction against the Xenos, marking him as having served on the Deathwatch. Beneath his tattered cloak the color of venous blood, his armor was scorched black, the coils of his combi-plasma bolter glowing in anger. "The levies are firing lascannons and heavy bolters on the approaching greenskins. I have ordered Tarantulas deployed from orbit," the sergeant said in his clipped succinct tone. "We have added plasma and rocket fire to theirs, but we will not last long. The volume of fire from the orks will destroy these bunkers."

As though to emphasize the point, the tunnel trembled from a nearby shell hit, bringing a soft but foreboding rain of dust from the ceiling. The quaking did not relent as more and more ork shells struck the stony peaks above them, sending seismic shockwaves down through construction never intended to encounter this volume of fire. Galidorn knew that soon they would have to pull back just to keep from being buried alive. "To the upper level," he commanded. "All Astartes there. PDF levies to hold the lower levels as long as possible."

They ascended a heavy industrial stairwell, access granted through a sliding metal bulkhead into a square cross-sectioned shaft reinforced by more ferrocrete pillars, bundles of power and command-control cables running up and down the rock walls like blood vessels. Lumen tubes of bright yellow sodium flickered as the iron storm of the orks continued, building with each moment as more and more guns entered range to cast their fury upon the defenders.

Ducking through a bulkhead door that was just too small, Galidorn entered a borderline claustrophobic rockcrete bunker, minding his head from the web of power cables that hung from the ceiling, bare lumen bulbs dangling below like cilia. There was a twin-linked lascannon battery protruding from the cliff wall in a rockcrete pillbox, the narrow firing slit offering a view from one horizon to the other while minimizing the risk from incoming fire. A crew of white-armored mortal Planetary force personnel served the weapon, one of whom managed a salute while his companions maintained fire. Flanking the gun on either side were the red-robed and silver armored knights of the Angels Illuminant, unleashing heavy plasma weapons down through the firing slits at the oncoming horde.

The growing thunder of ork artillery was undercut by the deep bass thrum of great machinery, and Galidorn moved beside the lascannon, brushing aside the gun's spotter to stand in her place. Looking out, he beheld a great excavation machine turned greenskin siege engine approach. A great platform built on four mighty treads, it hoisted a massive arm tipped in a rotary saw blade large enough to split a Thunderhawk in half. "Victoria Lux, bring it down. Stop it in front of the gate if possible, so that its corpse impedes their progress further."

"By your command, Master, but I am uncertain for how long this position will be tenable," the baroness replied. "The enemy tanks and light walkers have begun to ascend the lower slopes of the mountains in an effort to flank the fortifications, and have begun to target me directly."

As he heard this, he beheld more land-crawlers moving up beside the first, though keeping their distance. Originally ore-haulers, they'd had flat-top surfaces built over their empty beds, in which electromagnetic launchers had been cobbled together, leading to ski-jump ramps overhanging the front cabs. At first he thought it was some sort of primitive artillery, despite the orks already having a profusion of proper guns, but then he watched as orks equipped with jump packs climbed up on top from below, whooping and hollering. They began to launch themselves through the air towards the upper fortifications, the accelerator ramps massively boosting the range of their arcing flight paths. A white-hulled Sparrowhawk jetfighter attempted to strafe it with rocket pods, but a surface-fired missile sheared its wing off and it went down amid the sea of green.

"They will attempt to storm these bunkers," Galidorn said as he drew Dismantler, the blade's watered edge catching the red and amber lights of the underground bunker. "Knights, prepare."

There was a great clash and the knights watched the first of the orks dive down, its arcing flight ending down-slope of their bunker's firing slit. The rock face was stiff and unyielding, and many of the monsters failed to get their footing, careening back to the dead earth below or simply splattering against the sharp rock. Enough were able to cling to the rock to begin the climbing advance towards them.

The knights fired down with their plasma weapons, bright blue energy blasts flash boiling flesh in great eruptions of gore and bursting metal in violent fountains of sparking slag. Galidorn lifted his left arm, the bolter mounted to his Boltstorm Gauntlet whirring its actuators and began firing down at the ascending monsters. "Hold!" He commanded the mortals as they tried to depress their mighty but unwieldy lascannon battery. "Maintain your fire on the main horde, upon the gatebreaker. We will hold these dregs at bay."

"My lord, the lower levels are in danger of being overrun!" a comm officer reported desperately from his console near the bulkhead hatch.

Galidorn turned to Chaplain Deuterion. "Hold the lower levels for as long as possible, but do not let yourself become cut off from tunnel collapse. When the time comes, keep the retreat in good order. These levies have no proper commissars, so we must take up the role."

"It shall be done, Master Galidorn. Light in darkness!" His Crozius Arcanum, a golden maul fashioned in the form of a haloed flaming skull that he bore as a symbol of office, flared as he departed, accompanied by Aranoth and Voryn at the knight-captain's command.

The earth shook with the thunder of a great explosion, more dust ominously showering the knight's helms, but outside the mighty gatebreaker burst into flames. The orks began to attach huge chains and cables to it, hauling it back with the combined efforts of dozens of tanks and battle wagons. "I pray that gives you the time you need," Lady Morrigan said over vox, "We are falling back to counter these damned junk-walkers trying to flank over the slopes."

"Acknowledged," the space marine replied as more orks tried to climb the slopes, raining down from above or clammering up from below. He removed one's head with a bolt from his gauntlet. The headless monster stumbled about, seemingly confused about its current state of decapitation, before another larger beast shoved it aside to take its place, laughing as it fired its gun. The enemy troops were equipped with chain weapons and particularly large handguns that roared and barked with deafening cacophany. Upon closer inspection, Galidorn realized these were boltguns. These enemy shock-troopers were notably well equipped.

Beside him, Brother Sergeant Caliphax and Blademaster Peliton fired their bolters, aiming through the firing slit. "What is their purpose?" Peliton asked, his voice betraying haughty incredulity. "They cannot hope to breach these battlements themselves."

"Do not dismiss them so quickly," Caliphax said, firing bolts in tight bursts that dismembered orks into bloody chunks that rolled back down the slope. The bunker rocked as heavy ork shells landed upon the rockcrete pillboxes. "They are suppressing us, allowing more and more of their guns to close into range."

"These fortifications were built to repel mutant raids of opportunity, not an ork invasion," the Master of the Third said, and just as he did so, there was a great groan, the sound of earth moving. The knights delivering the plasma fusillade backed away from the firing slit as the ground beneath the pillbox gave way, artillery triggering a rockslide that undermined the battlement. The mortals scrambled back in a panic as the outer bunker wall to the left of the lascannon collapsed, falling away from the pillbox and into the crater beneath it.

"WAAAAUUUGGH!" Even before the knight-captain could order this pillbox abandoned, a great beast arrived, riding the fiery pillar of its jump jets through the sky to land through the hole with an impact that made the floor shudder.

The beast was clad in red and yellow mechanical armor, its jump pack billowing smoke and radiating heat in shimmering waves. It wore a helmet with a T-shaped visor and carried a great hammer, its head like a meat tenderizer with four prongs and a rocket engine on the back to assist the swings. "Rragh!" This hammer's haft sweeped out and caught the spotter's ankles, sweeping them out from under her. As she fell with a shocked cry, the ork swung its hammer, the rocket igniting to propel the swing into one of the gunners, sending him into the far wall with such force he left a red splatter as he fell. "Ha! I told da gits!"

It advanced, stomping down on the spotter's abdomen even as she struggled to get out from under foot, blood splattering the visor of her helmet. More of its brethren joined, landing on the exposed ledge. "Da boyz unda Boss Ushkosh Boosh first onez up da wall!" It spoke in its guttural, befouled dialect.

"And the first ones to fall," Galidorn retorted, triggering the activation rune on Dismantler's hilt with a flick of his thumb. The relic power sword's watered edge ignited in a vortex of amber-gold energy, which danced over the damask metal like a candle flame. Doneathar and Peliton joined him by his side while Caliphax covered the other's retreat.

The beast whooped in jubilant delight. "Look 'ere boyz, I getta krump a big boss Space Marine!" He leapt forward, swinging the hammer down in a vertical rocket-powered slam. Galidorn stepped to the side with a grace contrary to his Gravis armor's bulk. "Get stuck in, boyz!" The brute commanded , sweeping horizontally with the haft of his hammer. "Dere's plenty ta go 'round!" The hooked butt-spike on the hammer's haft arced towards Galidorn's shoulder, a harmless blow that he made no effort to counter. It threw up sparks as it gouged a silver scratch in the ivory and vermilion inlay but achieved naught else.

Beside him, Peliton lifted his storm shield to block a jump-jet charge from one of the ork stormers, planting his heels and absorbing the impact as the monster plowed its face into the energized adamantine-clad barrier. The ork barely had time to stagger back before the blademaster laid open its abdomen with a horizontal slash. More chain-blade wielding xenos charged the shielded knight, who parried and riposted with precise, perfectly efficient blows, sending chainaxes and cleavers clattering and severing heads and limbs.

On the other side, Ancient Donathar clutched the furled standard in one hand, using it to parry any ork that drew too close before finishing it with his relic plasma pistol. The standard-bearer's sword laid in peace in its scabbard mag-locked to his belt, but the Ancient of the Third refused to dishonor either himself or his company by relinquishing his hold on the venerated banner.

The ork leader swung its hammer around again, its attacks wide and obvious but brutal, the force rocking the crumbling pillbox. Galidorn clenched his power fist and used it like a buckler, deflecting the blow with the massive gauntlet and thrusting with Dismantler.

"Ha!" The ork laughed, stepping backwards and pulling out a Bolt Revolver. This close, Galidorn could see the runic symbolism of the Votann Leagues inscribed on the barrel, still showing through despite having been defaced by orkish "craftsmanship." The weapon spoke once, and the knight-captain's body flared with a blindingly bright aurora as his Iron Halo activated, converting the bolt round to pure energy. The field flared again as the ork fired a second time, even as Galidorn strode forward, his sword pointed to thrust to the alien's face.

The ork pulled its hammer back, preparing to strike once more. As the hammer fell, the knight slapped it to the side with the flat of his blade, beating it down into the floor. As the weapon's brutish head embedded itself in the crumbling rockcrete beneath their feet, the Space Marine punched with his power fist, the weapon's energy field bursting to life as it caved in the T-visored helmet.

This should have been a death blow, but the ork's obscenely resilient physiology withstood and the monster lunged, swinging a metal-clad fist in a blind haymaker. Galidorn slipped back, the punch missing by inches, and laid open the side of the ork's machine armor. As the alien fell to its knees he cared not if the ichor that spilled forth was blood or machine fluid, save that the latter may be flammable. As the ork struggled he delivered a kick to its sternum that sent it tumbling back out the hole it had first entered the pillbox through. It did not fall far, landing atop a rubble pile only a few meters down, but the force of the impact caused its ramshackle jump pack to ignite. It corkscrewed through the air, wailing and flailing, until it erupted like a celebratory rocket burst.

This made Galidorn smile. His smile faded, though, as he saw the ork siege engine come online. "This is Master Galidorn. Gateway Primus breach is imminent. All forces rally to Alpha Redoubt." The pillbox continued to crumble and the Space Marines fell back, firing on the orks as they went. As his battle-brothers covered their retreat, Galidorn took a look at the lascannon battery the PDF soldiers had been manning. Its power cables had been cut by the collapse of the bunker, but it was still functional, and the orks could turn it against them. With his powerfist he delivered the machine the Emperor's Peace before turning away. Hauling himself through the crumbling ruins, the knight-captain pulled up a view feed of Chaplain Deuterion's helm-view to ensure he was leading the mortals in an ordered retreat through the tunnels before they caved in. Satisfied, he switched to his allied subordinate. "Storme, report."

"Enforcers are withdrawing, Master," The sub-commander replied angrily, as Galidorn could see through his helm's sub-view his firing at the orks as they climbed in through the collapsing tunnels. "This was a defeat, sir. My desolators could have inflicted three times the damage we did. These battlements were utter failures in design!"

"They were not meant for this purpose. Holding here was only to buy time and blood; this we have done. There is no shame, as long as your forces are intact. See you at Alpha Redoubt." Leaving the dead mortals where they fell, Galidorn and his company quickly descended the rickety stairwell as the upper levels began to shear off the cliffside.

 

[Maquise]

IV​

Brother Lieutenant Therion carefully throttled down as he approached the mysterious facility, isolated as it was in the wastelands off an ancillary road. His strike squadron followed behind; the rest of his detachment had already been diverted back to the main battle at Kharon Pass. It was against his instincts, to cede the wastelands in their entirety to the orks, but thus Master Galidorn commanded, and he trusted his captain.

Alongside the road were a number of abandoned vehicles in various states of disrepair, eliciting reproach from Therion as he passed them by. The inhabitants of this world and their masters ought to be ashamed of the waste inherent in their customs and practices regarding machines. Their world was blessed with greater technology and infrastructure than most planets Therion had seen, and thus familiarity had bred contempt. The Valatrians felt no reverence to the spirits of their machines, using them like chattel and discarding them like dirty rags when they no longer functions, leaving the wastelands riddled with rusting relics that on another world would have been treated as blessed gifts of the Machine God. Although Therion was not a member of the Cult Mechanicus, he respected their arts enough that this sacrilege offended him. What was worse, such irresponsibility left this world a veritable treasure trove for the pillaging and scavenging greenskins, who would see these abandoned hulks brought back to life with unholy purpose. Valatros would pay for its technological impiety at the hands of the ork.

The facility ahead of them appeared to be a small paramilitary installation of some sort. A rectangular compound surrounded by modular metal walls, with towers on either side of the single gate and at all four corners topped with searchlights, augurs and gun batteries. One command post rose up, vox antennas and auspex dishes protruding from its sides like abstract technological gargoyles. The facility was no great fortress but a semi-transient outpost, yet there was a strength here in the terrain, if the walls were to be manned.

Upon the front gate was the badge of one of the planet's ruling Commerce Guild Houses, called Slaiid-Thal by Therion's recollection of his briefing. The gate itself was manned by a pair of non-uniformed guards armed with local-pattern lasguns held together by bonding tape and wire. As Therion and his squad parked and dismounted his Outrider bike to approach, they first grabbed for their weapons, but did not bring them to bear as they looked upon the silver-armored giants approaching with fear and awe.

One of them touched the other's shoulder, sending him farther into the compound. Therion rested one hand upon the holster of his bolt pistol, but the remaining guard found his courage enough to approach and warily drop to one knee. "Umm..." He began with a stammer as he struggled to find his voice, "Welcome, my lords, to the outpost of Carleon's Crossing."

"Rise," Therion said, letting his hand fall from his holster but keeping it not far from reach of his weapon. "This outpost bears the mark of a Commerce Guild House yet you do not wear their livery. Who are you and what is your purpose here?"

The figure looked around nervously, then cleared his throat through his respirator. "We are refugees, my lord. Nomads from the wastes. The Guild Houses brought us here claiming to protect us, but they've abandoned us. Here," he gestured to a small group approaching. "Our clan leaders."

Therion turned to regard the approaching figures. They, along with the others here, wore all-encompassing outer garments of grox or synthetic leather, oilskin, or canvas. These were thick and coated in waxes and other sealing substances to serve as barriers from the contaminations of the polluted landscape.

The lead figure had a long brown coat, stained with several patches, and a wide-brimmed hat over his rebreather mask. Belted at his sides were two pistols; a las-pistol and a large-caliber stubgun. To his right was a woman in a form-fitting black leather bodysuit, reinforced with ribs of scuffed carboplast. She had a las-combi shotgun slung in a holster on a baldric across her back, of a pattern that Therion did not recognize. To the left was a great man, seemingly part Ogryn such was his build. He was clad from head to toe in armor composed seemingly of whatever was at hand, metal and carboplast brutally shaped into a rugged carapace.

The leader removed his wide-brimmed hat as he took to one knee, placing it over his chest. "My lord, I am Ferris Calidyn, of the Smoke Wyvern clan. This is my wife, Natasha, and my brother-in-law Scorpio Kerenski. Our people await your command."

Therion reached up, pulled down his hood and undid the magnetic clasp of his helmet, lifting it off. He could see the woman, Natasha, start to move to speak as though to warn him against it, but she held her tongue and looked down. He could smell the acrid tang of heavy metals in the air, the irritating particulates causing his sinuses to tingle as his enhanced physiology filtered the toxins. "Tell me," he said as he motioned for them to rise, "how did you come to this place? Your sentry said the troops of House Slaiid-Thal offered you refuge, yet abandoned you." He glanced to a shadowy corner of the complex, where a pair of Nomads dragged an armored body down an alley. "And I see none here alive."

"It is true enough, lord," Ferris said as he led the Astartes to the installation's command station. With a gesture, Therion commanded his battle-brothers to secure the perimeter. "When the greenskins first landed, they descended like a hammer-blow. The PDF attacked their landing site in force and were slaughtered. After that the orks ran roughshod over the wastes, attacking Commerce Guild House outposts, Raider forts, and Nomad camps. I know of at least two Clans which were utterly slaughtered in the first week. We were forced to flee west to the Spine." He paused. "At Kharon Pass we were refused passage by House Slaiin-Thal, who sent us here. They told us it was a safe haven, a fortified bastion where we would be safe."

The group passed into the command station, and Ferris took off his breathing mask, revealing red hair and beard with hints of silver framing a leathery face lined with care. The woman and her brother were both raven-haired with olive skin. Natasha had sharp fox-like features framed by short hair held back in a ponytail, whereas her brother Scorpio's long flowing hair framed his face, countenance set in a perpetual glare that seemed to Therion as though it would not be out of place on a son of Russ.

"Once we were inside the outpost, however, they began to disarm us. We tried to convince them that we could fight alongside them, but..." He gave a glance around and an angry look of disgust. "I don't think they ever truly planned on protecting us."

Therion gave a slow nod, considering what he had seen and what he knew. The briefing on the voyage had stated that the Commerce Guild Houses were displeased with having to tolerate the fiercely independent nomad clans, despite their symbiotic relationship. "Where are they now?"

"Dead, or gone," Scorpio growled. "When we got here we thought we had been invited to fight with the orks together. Instead they tried to trap us here. When word came out that the orks were closing in the Slaiid-Thal troops pulled out, leaving us here with only the weapons we managed to pry from their corpses."

"They stole some of our vehicles too, before we stopped them," Natasha said. "They must've decided to desert instead of stand and fight."

"They would not have gotten far," the knight-lieutenant said. "Even with our efforts the greenskins are between them and the city. At this point it is irrelevant." He looked around, analyzing the outpost. "This installation is no fortress, but it is defensible, more so than trying to face the Green Tide alone. Soon my brothers will destroy the hated foe, and you will be able to go your way in peace. Until then I advise holding here. My squad and I will assist you in preparations before we depart."

Ferris bowed his head in gratitude. "We shall be in your debt, Angel Illuminant. Our munitions are limited; the corpos took most of it with them when they left. We are more than willing to fight to defend ourselves, though."

Natasha stepped forward, glancing at Ferris who had a pensive look but said nothing. "There is a cache of weapons our clan has hidden nearby. A reserve we kept to aid us in warding off the mutant raiders that infest our wastes. It is less than an hour from here."

"Sergeant Valeros, you will accompany her and those she needs to the cache. Take half the squad. Secure what can be brought back, and judge how secure the cache is." He paused, looking for a moment at the nomads before turning back to his battle brother. "If you deem it requisite, destroy what remains to keep it out of the aliens' hands. But only if requisite." He turned back to the nomad leaders. "Once we have secured this site my brothers and I will depart. We are needed on the field of battle."

"You serve all of Valatros, my lord," Ferris said, his practiced nonchalance wavering to reveal exhausted gratitude beneath. "May I have a moment with my wife? She will lead your sergeant to the cache."

"Of course," the knight nodded, turning from them. His understanding of human familial customs was imperfect, consisting of only his memories from his life before that grew ever dimmer with each passing year and campaign as well as what he had gleaned from interactions with mortals. It was not, however, without context; he understood brotherhood, and knew the desire to speak final words to a brother before a battle that they may not both survive. This was a luxury that was denied to him as often as not, but he saw no reason to deny them this here and now.

Ferris smiled roguishly as he reached out to clasp Natasha's hand, playing up that charm that he'd used to negotiate so many deals with both fellow Nomad clan and House agent. "Of all the men I thought I might see you running off with-" he started to tease, only for her to cut him off.

"Be respectful! These are Space Marines, not some oily Corpo mercenaries," she admonished. Shaking her head, she quickly doused her choler and adopted her usual stoic forthrightness. "Keep an eye on Aric, and make sure you keep Scorpio in check. He worries me."

"Worries me too, but I'll keep him in line," Ferris said reassuringly, though the prospect of trying to keep his brother-in-law in line seemed more harrowing at the moment than fighting in a brawl between Orks and Astartes. Probably ignorance and lack of imagination on his part. "Hurry back," he said, holding her close. For all these years he still could not believe she'd agreed to marry him, much less give him a daughter and son. The years and the children had done nothing to dim her beauty nor her fire; if anything, bearing his children had only given her an even more complete beauty.

Therion granted them their privacy as they engaged in their human ritual of physical intimacy. When Natasha was ready, she secured her baldric around her torso and affixed her helmet to her head, tightening the rebreather around her face. The two of them worked together to ensure her equipment was proper before she exited the command station and mounted an all-terrain motor bike. It appeared miniscule and fragile compared to the Astartes warbikes, but Therion could tell it was built for speed and to endure the hostile terrain of the wastes. As the mortal awoke its machine spirit, its engines trilled to life with a whine like a power blade, and it shot out of the installation's gate, a dagger to the broadswords of the Astartes lancers that followed her.

Ferris watched her depart through the station's window, then turned down the hall. "Aric!" An adolescent male hurried up to them, tall but lanky in build, his coat hanging loosely off his frame. His short hair, disheveled from his rebreather around his neck, was the man's coppery red, but his face had Natasha's sharp vulpine features, especially the eyes. "Get Sova and the rest of those trouble-makers of your's together and see to whatever the Astartes require," Ferris commanded.

The boy looked wide-eyed up at Therion, who towered over him to such an extend the young mortal barely reached the Imperialis on his chest, then nodded gormlessly. Clearing his throat he then managed to speak, "Do... Do you need anything, sir? Err, lord? Umm, promethium? Unguents?"

"Lord will do," Therion said, keeping his tone patient. "And while we have the moment's respite our warbikes could use fresh promethium, along with fresh oils and unguents. We will apply them, as the Machine Spirits are noble and require maintenance from ordained technicians." The majority of the Space Marines of the Angels Illuminant received training in the secrets of the Ravenwing's fighting style, as part of the chapter's emphasis on the rapid and overwhelming destruction of the foe as well as quick and timely deployment in aid of allied forces. As a result nearly every Battle Brother knew how to perform field maintenance on their warbikes.

"As you wish, lord," the boy said and hurried off as Ferris and Scorpio called forth the remaining nomads, addressing their clan to apprise them of the situation. Therion observed the nomads closely as he spoke with them, getting the measure of these mortals in the face of mortal danger. There was fear here to be certain, but courage as well. These people had never faced a foe such as this before, yet they were not unblooded either. They had battled the twisted mutants that infested these wastes for generations, making them a hardy and pious people used to fighting with the Emperor's support alone.

Leaving the congregation in front of the command center, Therion was led by Aric to the garages where his squad had moved their bikes, accompanied by the collection of youths that seemed assigned to them while their elders prepared for the coming storm. Therion kept his helmet off for now; the ability to interact with these mortals face to face, or face to rebreather as it were, was worth the minor discomfort.

The garage was nearly empty it seemed, with only a few of the robust automobiles of apparent clan ownership remaining in various states of sabotage. Therion registered carbon-scoring on some of the vehicles' flanks, pockmarking their livery painting, and additional las-scars and bullet holes on the walls behind. Blood was on the floor, in dried pools and streaks marking where corpses had been dragged. The signs pointed to a firefight here, no doubt from when the nomads had sought to reclaim their precious vehicles from the Slaiid-Thal troopers that had confiscated them.

Aric turned to look up at the Astartes knight. "Lord, what... how can I serve you?"

Therion considered the nomad youth. These people clearly possessed some knowledge of the Machine-Cult; seals of consecration could be seen on their vehicles and the maintenance machinery. This could prove useful, but they were not initiated into the rites of the chapter as serfs. The hidden knowledge of the wargear inherited from the First Legion had to be preserved.

The Space Marine knelt to one knee next to his warbike, establishing a connection between himself and the vehicle's machine spirit through his Black Carapace. Reading the diagnostics on his vambrace cogitator, he said, "I will need to replenish the machine's promethium fuel; grade 90 at least. I will also need to administer the blessed unguents D17 and DA-19."

"I will find them at once, lord," Aric said and hurried off. The other youths soon followed, fetching oils and fluids, holding lumens and fasteners for his battle brothers as they used the brief window of peace to perform maintenance on their wargear.

"You've..." the boy started, his words faltering after a moment. Therion waited for the child to find his courage but nothing was forthcoming.

"Speak, Aric," he said, keeping his tone low; gentle, perhaps, though he had little familiarity with such things. It seemed to work, however.

"Orks. Greenskins. They've never come to Valatros. You have fought them?"

"I have," Therion said. The goy was not seeking to fill the silence, at least not for its own sake. He sought knowledge pertinent to the battle to come. "Often. They are abundant, unfortunately. A scourge upon the galaxy. It is an ill turn of fortune that brought their predations to your world now. The promethium of Valatros fuels the defence of a half-dozen other planets." He continued to work on his war bike. "This world also suffers the plague of mutants, though. Have you faced them?"

"Sometimes," the boy said. "Usually, they're sick and weak but sometimes they grow into brutes." He paused, considering his next words. "The wastelands are filled with old ruins and technology. Remnants of the centuries of wars between the Commerce Guild Houses, and... older things. The Houses still fight over these, but there are dark things too in the deepest parts. Old weapons, damaged technology, spent fuel and waste from reactors. It can... do things, to the lost."

"You are knowledgeable, and have fought in battles against the unclean before. Perhaps not against the orks, but take courage in the knowledge that you have stood against evil before and prevailed. Let that be the pillar upon which you build your strength." He continued, turning to a large workbench and beginning to strip his bolt pistol for cleaning. "As for the orks themselves, they are terrible foes, but creatures bound to their nature. They are, with few notable exceptions, poor marksmen, favoring volume of fire over precision. Above all else they will seek to enter the melee." He paused, noting the boy's weapons. "Do not waste your shots on their torsos, You will not inflict any meaningful injury, save that you procure a heavier weapon. Aim for the head; their craniums are larger than humans. Keep your distance and focus your fire." He paused to consider his next words with care. "Pray to the Emperor for protection."

"You won't be staying here, will you?" Aric asked, looking disheartened.

"It is better to destroy the enemy out there than wait for them to come here," Therion said, and meant it. If the battle came here these people would not survive, by his experience. It was better that the orks be put to death before they made it this far. Still, to depart at once would be perceived by these mortals as abandoning them and they would lose heart. The Astartes would, therefore, fortify this installation as much as possible before sallying forth.

The boy considered his words and seemed to agree with them, encouraging him. "That makes sense."

"Once your mother returns we will ensure this place is as secure as possible. Then we will go forth and finish our hunt, destroying the enemy at Kharon Pass. Does this comfort you?"

"I think it does," Aric said with a nod. "My mother told me about you, how the Emperor made you in the image of his sons, the Primarchs."

"The Lion," Therion said, his silver eyes blazing with the inner flame of zeal. "Firstborn of the Emperor. Lord of the First. We are inheritors of the First, the Angels Illuminant, the Light in the Darkness. We shepherd humanity through the long night, holding the terrors at bay."

"Brother-Lieutenant Therion," came the voice of Sergeant Valeros over the vox. "We have located the weapons cache, and are beginning to load for transfer. My assessment is that the ordinance is of questionable sourcing, but should be sufficient for the task at hand." The sergeant paused, then added, "Brother, even with these weapons the mortals will only fare well against scattered stragglers. If the xenos come in force they will not hold."

"No," he subvocalized back over the vox, "they will not hold. But we will give them a chance to fight nonetheless, to meet the enemy with weapon in hand and fire in their hearts. And Emperor willing we will destroy the hateful xenos before they ever lay eyes on this place. Now, brother, bring us those weapons with haste."

 

[Maquise]

V​

Baroness Morrigan Valkÿr dan Attre floated within the amniotic fluid of her Throne Mechanicum, a collection of hoses, cables, and umbilicals coiling around her body and affixing to the ports in her flesh and armored bodysuit. The advanced Throne-Mechanicum pod, enabling a closer and more intimate bond between Knight and pilot similar to those Princeps used to command Titans, had been a gift from the Adeptus Mechanicus. In generations past, House Valkÿr had been a House Mechanicus, crusading from Gamhain, the moon of the Forge World Gobannus. Now, Gobannus was gone and Gamhain with it, and it could hardly be said that House Valkÿr existed at all. They were no more than a couple dozen Knights now, some less than fully functional, in service to their saviors, the Angels Illuminant.

She banished the melancholy from her mind as there was a battle to fight at hand. After the gate had fallen, she had withdrawn from the outer slopes to regroup with her allies at Redoubt Alpha, but not before bringing utter ruin down upon every xenos scrap-walker that had dared to challenge Victoria Lux. Her sisters, Lady Kamela and Lady Sumire, were there as well, commanding their Questori, Fulminatrix and Domina Mors. They were reflections of their pilots, or perhaps the other way around: a valiant Knight Paladin and sinister Knight Styrix. Fulminatrix stood in the vanguard of the human defenders, the tanks of the Valatros Planetary Defense Force. The stark-white painted war machines formed a line across the valley, guns aligned to the gate as the great rock-crete structure buckled. The last thing standing between the humans and the orks was now crumbling.

The tank column was commanded by a brash young colonel named Valentis, who seemed to be at odds with General Balthus's more conservative strategic approach and was excessively eager to please. The baroness found him a bit endearing, though that could just be simply because of how straightforward he was in comparison to how obstructionist and mercenary the rest of these Valatrians seemed to be.

Master Galidorn had, with his usual taciturn acceptance and critical thinking, and assigned him to the first line of defense. It seemed to Lady Morrigan a good place for him, provided he demonstrated competence. If not, the orks would probably kill him, in which case Lieutenant Idylzar would assume direct command. Either way, the defense would be seen to.

For now, the colonel stood in his command tank, a Charon pattern Leman Russ equipped with a Vanquisher cannon. The PDF seemed to use these as their main battle tank, utilizing more components that matched the Chimera APC than most purpose-built tanks. They formed platoon-sized blocks that stretched across the great rock-crete causeway that ran through the long, narrow valley. A great embankment rose on the north side, upon which was built a fort that served as security center, monitoring all traffic through the pass. The slopes behind it were lined with Basilisk mobile artillery. To the south the slopes were less steep but more rugged; PDF heavy weapons squads were deployed by Chimera and heavy Sentinel walkers patrolled amongst the hoodoos and slag heaps.

There was a terrific shriek as the rockcrete gate buckled, and Colonel Valentis lifted his power blade. Even as the barrier crumbled under the excavation saw, he gave a pump of his fist and barked the command over vox. "Cast hellfire down upon them!" he called and the white tanks opened fire. Shells arched through the breach into the green mass blustering on the other side, who fired back in return. Great clouds of dust obscured both sides as shells cast up the tainted earth. The roar of engines soon drowned out the thunder of guns, and the orks came charging through.

Scrap-tanks and battle wagons emerged from the dust, their crews whooping and hollering as they charged the tank line. The stark white painted PDF tanks gave out a fusillade, and two ork tanks burst into flames. A great Rogal Dorn tank pushed through them, flattening a gretchen pocket tank underneath it. Its prow was reinforced with a ferrocrete dozer blade that deflected battle cannon shells with seeming imperviousness. It barreled forward, all guns blazing and rolling directly towards Colonel Valentis's tank.

In her amniotic tank, Lady Morrigan raised her left hand, tightening it into a fist. Victoria Lux's Volcano Lance swung upwards, and a piercing red beam drew a line between the great war machine and the maniacally velocitous tank, blasting it apart in a great conflagration. Their plasma decimator was of limited use in such a close-quarters tank fight, so she reserved its wrath for a more opportune moment.

"Hold position! Break their charge; intensify forward firepower!" Colonel Valentis commanded over the vox. Turrets rotated and sponsons swiveled to track the incoming fast-movers. From the redoubt itself Tank Hunters and Astartes Firestrike servo-turrets fired down. The fort at Redoubt Alpha had been commandeered as a staging area, fortified with PDF infantry. As dismounted orks and those on smaller two- and three-wheeled attack bikes moved up from the burning front lines and tried to swarm the tanks, they were met with lasfire from the barred windows and fortified gantries that jutted from the embankment.

From the wrecked gate a mighty ork dreadnought forced its way through to the front lines, kicking aside smoldering ruins heedless of where they landed. It reached down with one massive power claw and scooped up one of the wrecked gretchen pocket-tanks, hurling it atop one of the white Leman Russes, flattening the Imperial tank.

"Fulminatrix, to the front!" Lady Morrigan ordered, but Lady Kamela was already willing her Knight Paladin forward. Her mighty battle cannon roared, speaking out a cadence of armor-piercing shells that tore into the heavily armored greenskin junk walker. As it stumbled back, her chainsword descended in a great arc of finality to deliver the killing blow. Red-hot rivets erupted and black oil poured forth from the wound as the ork machine was riven in twain, the two halves stumbling apart in a bizarre dance before falling into twin barely recognizable ruin piles.

Overhead, the deep thumping bass of rotorcraft added to the din of battle as xenos battle-copters began to add their weapons to the maelstrom, bringing death from above. As Master Galidorn predicted, these low-flyers had little room to maneuver amongst the jutting scaffolding and gantries, needle-like hoodoos, and plunging chasms of the pass. The Imperial multilaser and flak autocannon batteries made quick work of them, casting their burning fragments down tumbling from their doomed, Icarian flights to the blood-soaked stones below. Their brief forays were enough, however, to rain rockets down on the white tanks of the PDF, several bursting into flames as their turrets rocketed into the sky. Others managed to deliver their greenskin payloads to the upper shelf of the northern embankment, either by deliberate landing or by those who clambered from the twisted metal of crashed flyers.

Lines of planetary levies behind barriers and lining gantries unleashed crackling crimson rays into the slathering xenos brutes. They felled the monsters, quickly at first as the orks came scattered and leaderless to the fortified command post. The baroness was not sure how long they would hold, but every hour and every greenskin slain was one closer to victory. The orks might outnumber the humans but they were far from endless.

More and more ork tanks and attack vehicles pushed through the gate even as it further crumbled and was pushed open by great dozer blades. As this threatened the tank line, General Balthus' voice came over the vox. "Colonel Valentis, it is time to pull back. The weight of the orks is too much to hold your current position; regroup at Beta Redoubt."

The colonel's voice was colored by annoyance as he broadcast his orders. "All tanks, begin to pull back in reverse. Keep your frontal armor to the enemy. Sponson guns to suppress enemy infantry and fast-movers; main guns fire at will, but don't let up the fire volume! Beta Redoubt, have munition stores ready for resupply!" Baroness Morrigan rolled her eyes at his pompous bluster.

As the tanks fell back, the platoon of Heavy Sentinels bounded down the southern slope to flank the advancing ork tanks and cover their withdrawal. Armed with autocannons, lascannons, and missile launchers, they unleashed a barrage upon the broadsides of the enemy as they tried to push forward. In turn, the orks came forth with anti-tank weapons, using bikes and buggies to close the distance before dismounting to fight on foot.

The sentinels and orks engaged in a rapid, highly animated form of battle amongst the boulders and pillar-like hoodoos of the southern slope, hopping and ducking between cover to gain the advantage, claiming firing positions and taking cover. Ork hammers and rockets breaking hydraulically-actuated knees and ripping pilots from their cockpits. The sentinels responded by stomping and kicking orks and bisecting them with great chainblades. One ork leader was punted by a Sentinel so hard it flew into Fulminatrix, bursting in green-black ichor against the shimmering ion shield.

As the PDF tank column retreated further down the narrow valley, the ork numbers within the pass surged; resistance to their advance had lessened, allowing them to bring more of their numbers to bear, and a tipping point was reached. Even as Fulminatrix extended her ion shields to cover the retreating tanks, ork infantry and bikes began to breach the tank lines, attaching explosives to their flanks or simply jumping atop them to try and pry them open with great hammers.

"Hold the line!" Colonel Valentis bellowed the order into his vox bead even as he fired his laspistol at those greenskins closest to his command tank. "We must not let them flank the redoubt! Hold the line!"

"Fire and fury!" came the thunderous reverberating vox-growl of an Astartes voice over the battle net. "Light in darkness! Fear not Valatrians, the Emperor's Wrath descends upon your foe!" From the walls of the embankment, great ferrocrete bunker doors yawned with a deep bass thrum and a down-pitched whine. Plasma turbines roared as Angel Illuminant knights atop Outrider war bikes shot forth, veering through allied armor columns.

At the fore was Chaplain Deuterion, black armor with mantle the color of venous blood billowing around him. His Crozius axe raised high, golden embers of power field sparking from the wing-blades about the flaming skull of the weapon's head. He decapitated the first ork he came to with a brutally elegant swing, and ork and Astartes riders met with great clash of cleaver-blade and chainsword.

One of the ork battlewagons broke off towards the tunnel entrance, its rotary cannons swinging around to blaze with a torrent of slugs intent on shredding the Astartes bikers. One of the knights was caught in the barrage of shells, his armor splintered and his bike twisted into broken scrap metal as together they were sent tumbling into the dust and broken rocks.

Even as the green beast gunner pumped its fist into the air in celebration, a pair of bright blue energy beams sliced into the battlewagon, blasting it asunder. The platoon of Gladiator hover tanks emerged from the tunnel behind the bikes, guns blazing. One mowed down the xenos on foot as they dismounted or were flung from vehicles. Another blew enemy scrap wagons and looted tanks apart with twin-linked lascannons.

As the battle raged on, the orks began to bring up their slower, more heavily armored crawler-fortresses. These slab-sided monstrosities built upon the frames of mass ore haulers and excavators passed through the chokepoint of Gate Primus to add their fury to the maelstrom. Massive field emplacements, built on top and in the broadsides of these land battleships, began to pummel the fortified positions of Alpha Redoubt, slow firing and slow tracking. One great turret with three barrels tracked towards Victoria Lux, lobbing great shells that sent gravel and rock shards cascading across the knight's rippling ion shields.

Morrigan returned fire, spearing the great turret with her Volcano Lance, but her attention was soon drawn to a pair of great Ork scrap-walkers. One machine, a red-painted walker with gatling cannon and spinning red hot buzzsaw, was closing on Fulminatrix, who was forced to break from her guard over the PDF armor lines in order to duel to the foe. The other, equipped with a host of exotic-looking technology that sparked and sputtered unstably as it waddled on two great stomping piston-legs, began to trundle up the slopes toward Victoria Lux, intent on battling the great Castellan knight-walker. The mighty scrap-walker reached down with a crackling power-claw and scooped up a Leman Russ tank that was too slow to retreat with a damaged tread. Crushing its hull, the war machine ripped off the turret and stuck it upon an empty space on its shoulder; gretchen poured out of hatches and began bolting the gun to the mech, tossing the surviving crewmembers from the back of the war engine screaming.

Morrigan lifted her hand and the Volcano Lance swept about, zeroing in on the mechanical monstrosity. It gazed upon her, energy collecting with the lens of its great eye. Fire from her carapace-mounted Siegebreaker cannons splashed off the multi-layered forcefields that protected the clambering hulk. With a thought, Morrigan acquired a target lock and launched one of her Shield-breaker missiles at it. The warhead sped through the air, tracing an arching trajectory, but prior to impact a crackling bolt of emerald lightning jumped from one of the coils protruding from the target's back and the missile detonated prematurely.

As incidental fire deflected from her ion shields, Morrigan focused her attention on her adversary's eye. The timing would have to be perfect... In the split second before the ork walker fired, Victoria Lux unleashed her lance. The ruby beam struck the lens as it reached its maximal charge of emerald energy, and the eye ruptured in a great gout of green fire and half-molten metal sparks. It reeled back, stumbling, its porcine head disfigured but not yet slain.

Victoria Lux stalked towards the recoiling beast-machine, clawed feet stepping carefully upon uneven terrain. Alert icons flashed in the periphery of the baroness's vision, indicating that her cannon rounds were low and her auxiliary batteries needed to recharge soon. She would yet have enough to finish this adversary, though; she could sense it. Victoria Lux demanded the greenskin machine's blood and would deliver it.

Looking down, she analyzed the terrain slope in front of her. The ground was looser gravel here, less stable. She could use this. Despite the alerts from her auspex systems, she pushed Victoria Lux forward, one of its clawed feet planting down onto the loose gravel slope. The ground beneath the war machine shifted, beginning to slide downwards. With all of her focus and willpower Lady Morrigan concentrated on blending her mind with the machine spirit in order to keep the Castellan upright as it rode the rockslide downwards.

The ork scrap-walker began to stumble back in ungainly retreat, sensing the danger that was approaching. Victoria Lux's melta cannons pivoted, swinging out and hissing as they breathed jets of superheated fuel down into the knees of the ork mech, its shields disrupted by the avalanche. Hydraulic lines burst and joints buckled, and the great ork engine fell forward into the avalanche, its lower armor plates buckling as it struggled to move. Victoria Lux came to rest directly in front of it, bringing a clawed foot down on its disfigured piggish head, crushing it. "Engine Kill," the baroness announced over vox, her voice unsettlingly flat with a metallic flange.

Several meters away, Fulminatrix struggled with the downed abomination's counterpart. The Knight-Paladin danced around it, her battle cannon blasting holes in its carapace, but the metal monster's sheer mass was too much for the Questoris to handle. The ork's mighty buzzsaw blade lashed out, cascading off Fulminatrix's faltering ion shields and sending the knight reeling back, nearly stumbling over the retreating friendly tanks.

The porcine war-idol was upon her, bringing its multi-barreled battle cannon to bear in an effort to finish the job. Victoria Lux charged forward, the Castellan's mass much more the beast-engine's equal. She slammed into the monster's flank, sending it reeling. As it came about, she swung the barrel of her plasma decimator into its yawning maw. There was a brief high-pitched whine as the cannon built up its charge, then blinding light shone out of every seam and rivet-hole in the ork engine's plates. White-hot rivets burst forth and rained down upon both sides in a shower of deadly shrapnel. The ork mech groaned, slowly collapsing upon itself like a marionette with its strings cut in low gravity as smoke rises from its smoldering ruin. "Engine kill."

With the Astartes able to stabilize his lines and the Knight-Walkers to hold the encroaching enemy engines at bay, Colonel Valentis was able to pull his battalion back to Beta Redoubt. The ground around Alpha Redoubt was a hellish scene of corpses and wrecks, burning with flames and devoid of human life. Orks surged forward, either driving down the pass to the new battle, launching themselves at the redoubt's fortifications or even stopping to loot and pillage the fallen vehicles of both sides. With no more allies present it was time for the most ruinous of House Valkÿr's arsenal to come forth. "Domina Mors, bring death to them."

Lady Sumire's voice had an erratic undertone as she replied almost giddily, "Bathe, burn and broil!" From a dark, previously overlooked crevasse in the southern ridge stalked the Knight Styrix Domina Mors. It moved with an eerie, almost arachnid gait despite being bipedal, its aura that of a spider approaching a fly caught in its web. Ion shields flared as slug and shell struck fruitlessly into them, undiminished by previous conflict. The engine of murder lifted its claw, tines spreading to form a dish that flared the horrific blue of Cherenkov radiation.

A cone of air shimmered like a heat mirage in front of it, expanding and sweeping over the battlefield as the Knight waved its claw. The orks caught unprotected in its baleful gaze began to melt alive, their thick green hides boiling and sloughing off to form green-black simmering puddles of denatured gore that their bones slowly cracked and crumbled into. When orks took cover behind wrecked metal and shallow pits, the predatory Knight-Walker swung its Volkite Chieorovile around. Fiery beams ignited the air, sending greenskins stumbling and reeling about as their bodies burst into flames. Tanks and battlewagons were roasted until their munitions cooked off, sending their turrets blazing into the sky. Those who withstood the intense heat fell prey to the baleful glow of Domina Mors' graviton crusher, the emerald lance sending waves of gravitons about the battlegrounds leaving perfectly flat circular discs upon which all was crushed to nanometers-width of flatness. It was as though a great hydraulic piston had fallen from the sky to stamp the cursed earth.

Fulminatrix moved to stand with its sister and Victoria Lux added lance and plasma bolt. The enemy had a foothold here and was pressing their advantage, but House Valkÿr would bleed them for every meter they took. This only seemed to invigorate the blood-mad xenos horrors, who flung tanks and walkers at the trio. Victoria Lux's prophetic warning runes came to pass as the magazines of her Earthshaker cannons slammed empty. "Sisters," Morrigan commanded, noting her ion shields were critical, "cover me. This is Victoria Lux; we are withdrawing to rearm."

As the Knights began to ascend up the mountain slopes, the orks turned their attention to the security base at Alpha Redoubt.