The cavern tunnel grew colder. Moments earlier, Maerys had been able to see the light at the end and it had brought her some reprieve. Yet, such light made the darkness of the cave all the more oppressive. It was not a long, twisting path, but nonetheless, her heart beat faster. She reached out and touched the walls, although this did not bring her comfort. These were not the soothing of a shrine or the embrace of a quiet forest. Rock was lifeless, cold to the touch, and the edges were rough.
Eventually, the light blossomed again and she entered the main chamber within Hoec’s Perch. Her eyes adjusted on the small fire in the center of the circular room. Its flames danced upon the walls, gleaming golden in its aura. On the opposite side, Irlikae sat cross-legged before it, her runes spinning slowly around her.
Maerys did not wish to rouse the Void Dreamer from her communion. She decided to sit by the fire, but before she did, she noticed paintings on the wall. Not the fledgling attempts of primitives to record their sights, nor mere art, these were stories. Maerys walked a circuit around the cave, her fingers brushing against the images. She felt something familiar from them, a kind of vestigial resonance of psychic energy. Visions did not pass through her mind, yet such sensations were still strong. It was a taste upon her tongue, something to be smelled on the dusty stone. Sweet woodsmoke, warm embers, acrid charcoal, damp rags, cooked meat. Aeldari had been here and although it was all so vague, she sensed where they had sat in that very cavern.
The paintings depicted figures following dragon herds, toiling over crops, and making homes within the trunks of great trees. Then, there were illustrations of fire falling from the sky followed by hands grasping and groping for the herdsmen. Dragon knights fought back but they themselves were seized with the others. Then these hands deposited them in a new world, and she recognized the valleys and the Serpent River of Sú-il Bhán. Monsters hunted them in the dark, corralling and herding them just as they had with the dragons. One by one, the party of survivors grew smaller, smaller, until one remained next to a few words.
“I am the last who bears no chains. This place is inescapable,” Maerys read softly. “All my dreams bring me home.”
“Machthorn’s words,” said Irlikae, suddenly. Maerys might have jumped if she did not feel the comforting touch of the seer’s mind within her own. “Exodites are hardy. Unlike the humans, who were captured for mundane work, the Exodites were brought here for sport. Hunted like animals to satiate the boredom of the warboss we battle against. Alas, the sport did not last.”
“One may dismiss the strange technology of Orks,” said Maerys. “One may tire of their crude tongue and primal ways. But one must never dismiss that these creatures embody cruelty and it is an evil they wish to spread across the galaxy.”
“Everywhere, there is conflict,” said Irlikae. “We might accuse humanity of the same. And do we not prosecute our wars? Few Craftworlds would refuse to scour an Imperial planet to recover a relic or remove a colony from a Maiden World. I imagine they would speak of us as we speak of Orks. We all find monsters in one another.”
“I wonder if those we recovered from the cages still see us as such,” said Maerys as she sat on the other side of the fire.
“Does it matter to you if they do or do not?”
“Whatever may be their judgment, I do not care for it.”
“If that is true, then the aeldari press onward, blind and deaf to the rest of the galaxy,” whispered Irlikae. It was not a commendation nor accusatory in its tone, but Maerys felt indignant nonetheless. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes and lowering her head so as to make her glare all the heavier. Irlikae maintained a charming smile, gently swaying back and forth while clutching her crossed ankles in an almost childlike way.
“Do not dare scry me. If you have words, speak them; if questions, ask them,” said Maerys, darkly. Irlikae remained silent, her smile soft and kind. The Pathfinder found it chiding all the same. The longer the seer stared, the more uncomfortable she felt. Maerys’ gaze dropped and she shook her head. “Asuryani’s lifetimes are shaped by the paths. But they do not see the galaxy as the Ranger does. You cannot imagine what we have seen with our eyes. Only by leaving the paths to wander upon solar winds do Asuryan’s descendents understand how small they are in the universe. When one truly embraces such reality, pettiness, arrogance, temper, all the hate, may all fall away.”
She laid down upon the cold, stone floor. Clasping her hands over her chest, Maerys stared up at the blank ceiling. “It is so easy to say it here. How did we say it to the Asuryani, so steeped in tradition, animosity, fear, they cannot see outside of it? I do not know how we convinced them. To even say, ‘we,’ surprises me, for I did not think the entire Band would stand with me. But I’m still afraid to hope.” Slowly, the rock above her became a mirth and faded away. A darkness replaced it, dotted by countless, glittering, distant lights. It was a mirage of the void. As vast as it appeared, she felt at peace. It were as if she could drift into and walk between stars and planets just as Hoec had.
Maerys’ eyelids grew heavy. She turned her head, black locks sliding across her face. Irlikae drew nearer and sat beside her. The Pathfinder reached out and took the seer’s hand. “Khaine’s howl within me, but I no longer possess the hate and anger I once did. You do not either.”
“To peer into the imminent is to sleep. Each future is a dream; terrifying, mystifying, charming. Whenever I look, I glimpse aeldari, humanity, the other beings of this galaxy, and more horrifying creatures from beyond the veil. All our fates are bound together, but much of our kind and humanity too would reject and loathe it. Why should we despise the inevitable? I do not.” Then, still clutching Maerys’ hand, Irlikae laid down beside her. “But I need not indulge in the pursuit of what will and can be to know my feelings. Our kingdom fell long ago and now humanity’s realm totters towards destruction. We, who have been humbled by our own faults, should possess some empathy for them.”
“To expect aeldari to tender sympathy for humanity is to ask them to grovel before hounds,” muttered Maerys. “Oh, the ease to blind oneself in their own assured superiority. What cold comfort it brings to compensate for our downfall. It might as well be a masquerade performed by Harlequins. Yet, have I not weakened myself by breaching this veil? I already faced suspicion for what I endured on Cadia and now I suffer greater doubts for rescuing those humans. This coalition of Craftworlds and Outcasts survives by our mutual voices and I risked it all by this act.”
The Pathfinder withdrew her hand from Irlikae’s grasp and ran her fingers over her spirit stone, bound in her belt. “I suppose I am not immune to arrogance as well. Who am I to think that I hold such sway in these matters?”
Irlikae swept her hands upwards. Distant stars followed her movements. With the deftness of a painter, she used the lights to recreate the icons of Craftworlds Biel-Tan, Saim-Hann, and Ulthwé. Next was the hourglass emblem of Dryane. These shimmered over them, wavering as if the creases and folds of each banner were caught by wind.
“You are not the first to dream of restoration,” said Irlikae. Another wave of her hand, another swirl of colorful lights. They formed a shrine, shaped by two angled lines and two horizontal ones across their tops. In the center was a flame, bright but small. “Iyanden, the keepers of Asuryan’s fire. For millennia they have wandered, just as you have. In their wake, they have left souls upon reclaimed worlds. But time is a force of its own. It moves, it changes, it punishes. Iyanden suffers and ghosts patrol its domes. They cannot sustain the enterprise alone.”
Iyanden’s world rune faded as the previous banners took prominence once more. Biel-Tan’s heart glowed with newfound essence. “Biel-Tan’s proud warriors destroy any who threaten the Exodites or occupy our Maiden Worlds. But what is their guardianship if nothing behind their shields grows or prospers? Do they devote colonists to planetary surfaces? Do they build cities anew? No, they conquer, as all empires do, and fool themselves into believing they have rebuilt.”
Next was Ulthwé, its emblem of Isha’s eye widening and blinking. “Ulthwé, trapped within the Eye, on the precipice of the eternal realm, trapped. She cannot build, not yet at least, but merely survive.” Then, the serpent Dromlach writhed in the banner of crimson lights. “Saim-Hann, which marches along to their own cant; they are too proud and wild to settle.”
Lastly, the hourglass drew forward. Its shifting lights caused it to turn, turn, turn, its contents of smaller lights sliding, spilling, pooling, piling over and over again. “Compared to some corsairs, Dryane and the Scattered Sands of Heaven may seem enlightened. They are still rovers and reavers, as all corsairs are. Some might be inspired, such as Oragroth, and others will resist, such as Livae. We cannot trust our people’s rebirth to one or two fleets, especially when some would reject it.”
The images faded, the stars returning to the void overhead. Irlikae rolled onto her side and curled into a ball. It was almost childlike despite her elegant, flowing, emerald robes. “Some do not consider the past at all; others do, but they do little to realize the old empire. Nonetheless, you do. But how to carry it out, you know not.”
“I can only believe this coalition might be the start of something new.”
“That’s just it. You believe in something new. The old is what destroyed us. A second empire—a better empire, is your belief. Which is what draws me to you, it’s what draws Oragroth, Kalvynn, Amonthanil, and myself.” Then, she smiled facetiously. “Especially since this life of pirating has long since lost its charms.” This made Maerys giggle. “I desire a task to set myself to. Many other Aeldari do as well. If you uphold these beliefs, it will attract more to you and like the Band, they will take them up also. You just have to prove it. Yours is not a rekindling of the flames that billowed before, but a brand new spark for a fire to burn and spread.”
Maerys felt that very flame within her. Yet, just as it seemed the fire would grow higher, it diminished instead. Before her, she saw bodies of countless of Black Guardians, Aspect Warriors, and Rangers. Tattered by bayonets, smashed by Orks, ripped into by the Blood Legion, and reduced to dust by the awakened Necrons. Human and aeldari dead were draped over each other on gray streets, over snowbanks, and in the shadow of the titan. Cadians fought side by side with Ulthwé, shoulder-to-shoulder, ranks closed against common enemies. Still they fell upon one another.
She rolled over, her back now to Irlikae. “I thought on Lorn V, we would make something there. An alliance with humans, although undesirable, might have borne fruit. I supported it, believing some good might come of it. But never will I know; for it was Farseer Taldeer who twice-betrayed the Imperium. No word given to vermin needs to be upheld, she said to me as hundreds and thousands clawed at one another. Lorn V was indeed a Tomb World, not just for the metal monstrosities that dragged themselves out of their rest, but for countless lives and hope.”
“You are not Taldeer. Her acts are not yours. Her beliefs are not yours.”
“I am but a wandering Ranger.”
Behind her, Irlikae stood. Maerys did not bother to look. But suddenly, she felt some force moving within her. Had her spirit shifted? No, this was someone else’s hand. It seemed to reach inside her and sculpt something within the warmth of a flame—that flame before. The void around her disappeared, leaving only her alone with the fire. The mold within grew and grew, yet remained indistinguishable behind the scorching curtain.
The flames altered between orange and blue, orange and blue, dancing, fluttering, spinning. Then, the fire paused in its movement; one side grew entirely blue and the orange became a kind of gold. Like curtains, they fell, although the lights lingered, and Maerys gasped as she stared at herself.
The mirror-image wore immaculate robes of orange and white. Blue gems studded her armor and shoulder plates, and a new, equally azure spirit stone glistened on her chestplate. Two earrings of pure gold with sapphire gems, a winged icon of Yme-Loc’s flames, hung from her earlobes.
“You show me as an Autarch!”
“I show you what is within. There be fates, but there are our own paths, all woven together,” said Irlikae, her joyful tone suddenly deeper than before. “You are no mere wanderer but a Pathfinder, Maerys Desrigale, a command of its own. This coalition decides together, but you have set its course. You can become a mover and leader of people. This is where it begins.”
Maerys clutched her spirit stone as her visage faded and the lights winked out. Again the cavern appeared and the fire in the center, brighter than before, crackled.
“Then let us linger no longer,” said Maerys, taking Irlikae’s hands. “Whatever the future holds, I am eager to meet it. Our plans are sound, our goals clear—naught can change them now.”
“Where the fuck is my artillery support, Rowley!?”
“The bastards say fire missions are unavailable at this time, sir!”
Marsh Silas slid down the berm as heavy stubber rounds hammered the crest. Shrapnel whizzed over his head and thudded into the half-finished bastions and bunkers behind the embankment. Mortars slammed around the interior trenches, scattering those within. Crawling over the legs and boots of Bloody Platoon, lined up along the berm and clustered behind the Aegis Defense Line which yet to entirely cross its span, he snatched the handset from his frustrated voxman.
“Volcano, this is Primus One-Six Actual, adjust fire, over!”
“One-Six, Volcano, negative artillery at this time, over.”
“Interrogative, Volcano!” growled Marsh, clawing his way back to the top of the berm with Rowley beside him. He peeked over the edge, ducking repeatedly as bullets cracked by him. “What the fuck do you mean negative!? I have two hundred plus greenskins and twenty armored vehicles right in front of me!”
In line of battle were a series of war trucks, half-tracks, and gun wagons. Each one was a small, mobile, scrap bunker crammed with countless weapons. Some were so heavily armed with pintle-mounted slug-throwers and auxiliary turrets, they matched a line’s platoon firepower. Unlike the passages of the Tactica Imperium, the Orks were not as brainless as they were portrayed. The majority of infantry formed up behind their vehicles, using them as cover, a tactic utilized by nearly all military institutions of the Imperium. Eager attackers rode on the footplates, firing haphazardly. Naturally, the more aggressive ones broke away from the line in squad-sized elements, waving their slugger pistols and giant axes. Some had the sense to scoot between the ruined hulks of previously destroyed vehicles, while others came right at them.
One group braved the heavy fire pouring from Bloody Platoon’s support teams, embedded along the Aegis line’s low, crenelated walls. They might have overrun it if Cornelius, Tatum, and Hudnail hadn’t mounted their heavy flamers on the barricades and sprayed the Orks with clouds of fire. Jacinto ran to join them, leveling his force staff and channeled gouts of flame through its end. Aaralyn and Merriweather joined their voices in a psychic song, uplifting the men to fight harder.
Marsh crawled down the embankment, then slid the handset underneath his helmet and his hand under the other. “You have got to give us something or by the Throne, you’ll have Orks on you soon enough, over!”
“One-Six, Volcano: I have orders from the commanding general to refuse non-critical fire missions at this time, as we are to save our ninety-day supply for the coming offensives, over.”
“What do you mean non-critical!?” screamed Marsh Silas. “I’m sitting in an unfinished base with greenskins on my arse! This is critical! Fuck!” He whipped the handset back to Rowley. “Contact the fleet officer, see if we can get one of the cruisers in orbit to help us.”
Isenhour ran up beside him, propped up the bipod of his hellshot anti-material rifle, and lined up a shot. He squeezed the trigger—boom! The shot sprayed dust, dirt, and grass left and right, and nearly overpowered the ear protection in Marsh’s helmet. The armor-piercing shell slammed into the engine block of a half-track, causing it to lurch to a stop. Another shot killed the main gunner. A brief window in the gunfire allowed Olhouser to lock-on with his missile launcher. His weapon belched, the missile soared skywards, then plummeted back down on top of the half-track, blasting it.
“Do you really think we’ll be overrun?” asked Isenhour. He gripped the trigger guard with his right hand, slid his left arm under the hellshot to steady it by its bipod, and fired again.
“It’s not us I’m worried about!” Marsh pointed with the flat of his hand to their left flank. The lightly-armored Phantine drop-troopers courageously returned fire but their lascarbines struggled with the range. Many fell wounded, hit by a high-caliber round that easily penetrated their flak armor. Only the autocannons from the bastion towers of the half-built base and their own heavy weapons teams kept the encroaching Orks at bay. It was as if the greenskins knew the left was lighter in comparison to the Kasrkin company in the center and the 17th Cadian drop troops on the right.
Marsh ducked again as a grenade went off on the other side of the embankment. He ran to Isenhour’s left side and watched the bodies of the Phantine pile up. Reinforcements rose from the entrenchments behind them, but it was a costly fight. Guardsmen screamed, called for field chirurgeons, and clutched wounds. Grass turned red beneath the bodies, heaped over one another. “If that left flank goes, they'll be among us. Hold fast, 12th!” he cried, activating his laud-hailer. “We’ll take the slack off! Bloody Platoon, keep up the fire, take the pressure off them! No retreat!”
Hyram came into view on the left, shouting encouragement to the Phantine Skyborne troops. He then ran through the center, doing the same to his old friends in Bloody Platoon. As he ran towards Marsh, a round crashed into his carapace. Marsh’s first instinct was to run and help his friend despite the incoming fire. But Hyram was as tough as adamantium. The officer regained his feet, angrily drew his bolt pistol, and walked to the top of the berm.
“It’ll take more than that, you green fucks!” he screamed, emptying the magazine. He slid back down, ejected the empty mag, slammed a full one into his weapon, and marched up to Marsh Silas. “Bloody monsters, they’re a nuisance today.”
“I’m trying to call up the arty but they won’t give me any. We’ve called for fleet support.”
“You won’t get it.”
“Incoming!” Everyone ducked as a mortar from an enemy gun-wagon landed in front of the berm. Clots of earth rained over the Kasrkin, who angrily returned fire. Marsh let his hellgun thunder, the incandescent lasbolts shearing through a team of howling Orks. A tap on his shoulder made him turn. An exasperated Rowley shook her head.
“Fuckin’ hell! They won’t give me anything!” she yelled. “They cited von Bracken’s order not to cause unnecessary damage to the pasture land!”
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Marsh stared at her blankly, then looked over top of the berm. The ground ahead of him had been churned by treads, burned by fire and lasbolts, and cratered by mortars, rockets and grenades.
“Wha…what the fuck!?” seethed Marsh Silas, sliding back down. “Did you tell him this AO is practically a desert world!?”
“Aye! I even threatened him with violence and yet he does not budge!”
“Told you,” said Hyram, tapping Marsh on the cheek. “If it softens the blow, it’s too close for orbital bombardments. I’ll see if I can get the 309th’s tanks back or something else. Crack on a bit longer, will you?” Marsh Silas just growled and waved his friend off. Hyram ran down the line, continuing to cheer the Kasrkin in the other platoons.
Marsh Silas checked left and right. Bloody Platoon was distributed along the berm and maintained a steady base of fire. There was no need for him to give an order, the squad leaders orchestrated the Kasrkin in perfect order. Heavy plasma guns sizzled and meltarifles zapped. The platoon’s Taurox Primes, tall enough for their turrets and pintle weapons to engage the enemy. Battle cannons, gatling guns, and autocannons ripped into the advancing Orks. Missile pod launchers saturated the ground, blasting back the Orks.
Despite the difficulty of holding his hellgun with his left hand bearing the Fist of Lilias, he hefted it over the crest and suppressed the enemy. Immediately, he felt the rounds fly around him. Orks hollered, pointed, gestured with their axes and swords. Such brutes could still tell an officer apart from the men. They saw the power fist on his hand and wanted it for themselves. Through the carnage, he saw flecks of saliva fly from the maws and their red eyes glow. Lasbolts lanced through their studded armor and flak chestplates, but on they came.
Something sharp and hot grazed his right cheek. He touched it and his gloved fingers were smeared with blood—a bullet had grazed him. Snorting angrily, he fired two bursts, and then felt a similar yet more intense pain on his left cheek. He slid down the embankment. The gouge was deeper and stung worse. Idiot, he thought, you should have worn your facemask. But he could not afford to stop shooting. The Ork attack grew more intense as their battle line drew closer. Movement to his right caught his eye. Walmsley Major practically sat on the top of the berm and hefted his volley gun towards the enemy. The weapon screamed as rapid-fire lasbolts hurdled down range, slicing through entire squads of green skins. It even melted through the engine of a lightly armored half-track, bringing it to a halt. The satisfied platoon sergeant whooped madly!
A squad of Orks emerged from a burnt-out tank close to the line and rushed towards them. Marsh fired one burst, two, then squeezed the trigger for a third—fizz. The hellgun barrel sparked pathetically as his backpack’s power unit ran out of power. Patting himself down, he found he had no grenades. All he could do was grab Barlocke’s old shotgun and rack it.
Streams of blood-red lasbolts flew over his head, smashing the Ork Nob in his face, caving it in. Before the body plummeted, another burst killed the leader’s second. Major Bristol sprinted up to the crest, crouched low, and snapped his Ryza-pattern hot-shot between targets. Each rapid movement was robotic, as if he were guided by a program and pistons instead of mind and tendons.
With the enemy squad dead on the field, Bristol slid down beside Marsh Silas. He wrapped his knuckles against Marsh’s chestplate. “Admit it, Cadian,” said the Major. “You’re much happier now that you have somebody shooting at you.” Even with his black armor and skull-painted omnishield helm veiling him, Marsh recognized a chiding smile in that tone.
“I’m livid, that’s what I am!” he shouted back. “I’ve got Orks to my front, cold Earthshakers to my rear, and I can’t seem to get any ammunition! What in the fuck are we still doing here!? What happened to the armored spearhead on Ebba!? Why are we sitting around in this base that wasn’t a part of the plan in the first place!?”
“Von Bracken decided that he wanted to shore up the landing zone,” replied Bristol, coolly. “He wants to protect that ninety-day supply.”
“We’ve already been here for fifteen!”
“Aye, and they’ll keep hitting us with these counterattacks to test our guns and waste our ammunition. At this rate, you might want to find a few rocks you can throw before jump-off.” Bristol stood, fired again, and then ran towards the 17th. Walmsley crouched beside Marsh, grinning.
“He’s got a point. Life’s a lot more fun when we’ve got somethin’ worth shootin’.”
Marsh Silas could not deny the thrill. Finally, it was over: the waiting, all the tension, countless stuffy briefings, studying maps and reports, endless politics. His enemy was before him and Bloody Platoon to either side. This he knew. This he understood. This was his life.
“Malfunction!” yelled Spellmeyer on the right as his air-mobile heavy bolter went silent. He racked it, squeezed the trigger—click. “Piece of shit!” Little Mac appeared beside him, taking the gunner’s position. Servo-tendril drills whizzed and clamps snapped all over the weapon, partially disassembling it. Then, he reassembled it and fired a burst. Stepping aside, he motioned to the weapon as if he were waiting a table for a noble guest, and Spellmeyer resumed firing.
Marsh Silas felt a tug on his leg and looked back. Tolly held up a few charge cylinders for his backpack. The other Ratlings crawled over and around the men, passing out more ammunition. As Marsh replaced his packs, he tapped Tolly on the shoulder before she moved away.
“Where are the grenades?” he asked over the gunfire.
“Can’t get any!” she complained. “None o’ tah ordinates will parcel out anythin’! I had to pay just to get these!”
“Bloody hell! Alright, keep moving—keep your head down low, go!”
“I’m already quite low me-self!” laughed Tolly as she set off.
Marsh reconnected his Mk. 2 to the backpack and grinned as he heard the steady hum of his weapon. Laying on his stomach at the crest, he fired into the brazen Orks. They were barely two hundred meters away, then. As he picked off targets, he felt someone touching his left cheek. Holzmann was there, his eyes narrowed in concentration. He cleaned the blood from Marsh’s cheek, applied cleansers which burned just as bad as the initial wound, and applied a bandage. Sister Ruo appeared on his right, doing the same to the gash on his cheek. Despite the bullets kicking up the dirt around them, they worked steadily.
Sounds of intensifying gunfire and screaming on the left made Marsh Silas turn. Gun wagons and mortar carriages focused fire on the drop-troopers. There were piles of corpses along the berm. Guardsmen used the bodies of their comrades for cover. What a horrendous sight, to see the brave mauled so severely! How inspiring to see them carry on! A brave Phantine deployed his heavy bolter and drove the enemy back with a burst, but was decapitated by heavy stubber fire.
“They’ll cave without that gun! Somebody get it up!” hollered Marsh.
“I will go!” Lada, helping hand out ammunition, raised her hand. No helmet and clad in shield robes, she nonetheless wanted to run over to the decimated portion of the line to help? Something flickered within Marsh Silas: pride.
“Covering fire! Walmsley, have your brother go with her! Talk her through that system!”
“I need no instruction in the operation of the holy bolter!” she answered confidently. Lada raced along the berm, ducking under rockets, scrambling between heavy stubber bursts. She leaped through clouds of dust, shield her face from the flying dirt, and slid behind the heavy bolter. Removing the corpses, she held the belt with one hand and squeezed the trigger with the other. Orks poised to overrun the left flank were forced back by the torrent of bolts.
“Sir, I’ll take my squad to shore up the flank!” shouted Commissar Seegar. Wit and the other Ogryn snorted eagerly. Marsh only gave them a nod and together they charged down the line, snarling as they unleashed a wave of heavy fire. They planted their feet by Lada and maintained a punishing rate of fire with the ripper guns and autocannons.
Engines roared as Ork fast attack vehicles tore from behind the line of heavier attackers. Buggies, snazzwagons, and dragstas raced towards them, their engines coughing smoke and fire. Not even Kasrkin could train their missile launchers on them long enough to get a lock, they were too fast! The FAVs formed into a wedge, ready to pierce their lines. But multi-laser bursts from behind the Imperial line ripped the light vehicles apart. Tires, axles, fins, and limbs flew from each burst. Scout Sentinels from the 507th Cadian stomped up to the berm and provided covering fire. Chimeras of the 111th Cadian Mechanized rolled up by the Phantines. Ramps dropped and grizzled shock troopers, led by Hyram, reinforced the Skyborne.
“Sir! I’ve got a battery that’s ready to fire!” exclaimed Rowley happily.
“Outstanding! Give him the grid and tell him to bury’em with lead! Everybody, get small!”
After the spotting round fell, Marsh Silas slid back down the embankment, lay flat on his stomach, and pressed his face to the ground. He waited to hear the beautiful whistle of one-hundred thirty-two millimeter shells falling through the air. Instead, he heard the heavy clump, clump, clump of marching feet. Picking his face up, he saw hundreds upon hundreds of both booted and bare feet walking by him. Hundreds upon hundreds of Frateris Militia, those citizen warriors whipped up by the Ecclesiarchy, traversed the berm.
Clad in piecemeal armor and ordinary clothes, many had autoguns, laspistols, and crude swords, but most had no weapons at all. Walking alongside them was Deacon Fusco, waving his golden scepter in the air while menials carried his flowing, snow-white robe. Servo-skulls laden with scrolls of religious texts hovered over his head. One of his attendants held up a laud-hailer as he raised his arms in exaltation.
“Brothers and sisters! You need only faith to defeat the foul xenos! It is in you to stop them! Fear death not, for you are protected by the Emperor’s holy will! You are impervious! Go forth!”
“Hold them, hold them!” screamed Marsh over his own laud-hailer. Kasrkin tripped, hauled, and grabbed as best they could. But it was too late, the Militia sang hymns and blithely ran over the berm. Marsh Silas watched as droves were slaughtered by Ork guns. So many were shredded at once, a red mist appeared over the column of marchers. Brown soil became black with their blood, patches of grass became crimson weeds. Chunks of flesh and limbs littered the ground. So many bodies piled up they obstructed Bloody Platoon’s field of fire.
Marsh covered his face briefly as the last of the militiamen perished. They had not even gotten ten meters away from the berm. The sound of falling shells brought him no joy. Huge columns of earth rose around the Ork vehicles. Direct hits ripped half-tracks in two and flipped over gun wagons. Orks scattered for cover in craters or behind vehicles, while others ran out of the bombardment. The barrage was short but sharp, having wiped out the armored vehicles.
The mobs of Orks that survive rose from their cover and made one last charge. Raising an earsplitting cry of ‘WAAAAAAGH!’ the green horde rushed forward. All braced themselves. The ground vibrated with hundreds of heavy footfalls. Through the smoke, axes glinted in the sunlight.
Yet, there came another thunder. The grinding treads of tanks? No, it was too slow, this sound was rapid More Guardsmen? None came from behind them. Suddenly, cries of ‘cease fire!’ rang up and down the line as rough riders of the 50th Asgardian Rangers took the field from the right flank. The front ranks of the horsemen, clad in furs and flakweave, leveled their lances. Although a few fell, the formation crashed into the exposed flanks of the Orks. Greenskins fell, impaled by half a dozen lances at a time. Others were slashed by brutal, black sabers.
Asgardians clutched reins in their teeth and fired laspistols from both hands. Others jumped up and crouched in their saddles as they fired lascarbines at the stragglers. Like a wave, they washed away the remnants and the last gunfire ebbed. A few dismounted, preferring to finish off Orks with combat knives. Many walked away with trophies of severed hands.
Shouts of ‘all clear!’ bellowed down the line. The battlefield grew quiet as the other Ork attacks on the base were defeated. Marsh Silas and Bloody Platoon stood up, drawing breath. He waved, first to the closest Sentinel pilot in her rig above him, then to the Asgardians. One man in particular, with a stoic, square face and long light hair, rode up to Marsh and lifted his lance in salute.
“I am Blix. You did well not to run,” said the Asgardian in a thick, heavy accent.
“Marsh Silas, and the Kasrkin do not turn so easily,” replied Marsh Silas. “That was a brave damned thing you did, lieutenant. I would give you a medal.”
“This is the only reward for now.” He held up a severed Ork head tied to his bridle. “Gold has no place on a battlefield.”
Again, he saluted, Marsh returned it, and turned his horse away. As the riders departed, Marsh stood on the berm and gazed at the mounds of dead militiamen beneath him. Wide, pained eyes looked back; outstretched arms and open hands reached out.
“Metcalfe,” said Marsh, his face grim and melancholy. “Put a detail together, see if there are any still alive trapped under there.”
“They died observing the faith,” whispered Ruo beside him. “At least that can be said.”
“That can be said, but does it count? No, they died for naught but a few blades of grass,” said Marsh. “Our casualties?”
“Light. With permission, I would go assist the Phantines. They are hard-hit.”
“Go, take Holzmann—wait a moment.” The pair turned. “Thank you.”
Their understanding smiles cheered him, but only just. As the pair hurried away, Marsh Silas turned around. Deacon Fusco raised jubilant prayers in praise of the defenders. His back was turned to the frontline, as if he had already forgotten about the militiamen. Fremantle stormed towards the old man. He threw his cap on the ground and grabbed the deacon by his vestments. Guardsmen gasped and menials cowered as the Commissar shook him so furiously he ripped his robes.
“Who do you think you are coming to our line and sending troops into the open!? Am I blind and you are a Militarum officer, or are these priestly garments I tear!?!”
“Unhand me! You dare soil these marks of distinction!? Have you any idea of their cost!?”
“Cost!? Cost he says! You’ve no grasp of what cost means! Let us drag you up there and count the bodies together, then you’ll understand!” Marsh Silas marched over and snatched the priest by his collar. He was so forceful he dragged the fellow right out of Fremantle’s hands.
“I ought to let the Commissar turn you into dust with his plasma pistol,” he growled. “Those are not soldiers, those are civilians you stirred into action. You just got hundreds of them killed. How many more will you slaughter?”
“Let go! Is this any way to treat a priest!? Have you no respect!? Where is your reverence!?”
“Reverence is reserved for the God-Emperor, not for toads in pretty dresses who discard lives like bones from their silver plates! Depart!”
“Von Bracken will hear of this!” whined Fusco, waddling away with his staff.
“Then tell him if I see you here again, I will sing a short song over your corpse!”
The priest fled as Walmsley Major, Hyram, and Lieutenant Gabler from 3rd Platoon joined him and Fremantle.
“We’ve got to do something about supply,” said Gabler. “My platoon has no grenades—we’ll need those if we’re to clear the siege trenches outside Ebba.”
“It is the same for us, ma’am. We’re low on missiles and recoilless rifle rounds, and Namngung says all his Taurox Primes need refueling and ammo. Everyone’s saying the Ordinates are hoarding and asking for pay,” added Walmsley Major. “Captain Hyram, can Rosenfeld do anything?”
“Negative. He’s been arguing for the advance to commence. Nothing can get done there, it’s a show of nobles, priests, and magos. It’s up to us.”
“Is that so?” asked Marsh. “Fremantle, hold it down here. Walmsley, Lada, Tolly, with me.”
Joined by Hyram, they marched into the base’s interior. What had once been an Ork camp had been dismantled and replaced by a growing Imperial base. It was a ridiculous sight to see so many empty rockcrete molds and incomplete walls. Flak towers lacked guns, prefabricated structures lacked walls and roofs. Labor crews did not have enough tools and many sat, confused and aimless. Tech-priests commanded servitors as they dragged slabs of ferrocrete to work sites, as there were not enough Centaurs to haul materials. Everything seemed disorderly.
They entered one of the long, wide roadways that divided the compounds. Armored vehicles caught in a traffic jam blew their horns as officers attempted to rectify the situation. “Look at this,” complained Marsh. “This is what happens when an army built to advance sits on its hands. What a mess. Tolly, take us to the man you paid. Lada, you possess the forms?”
“I keep several filled out and ready,” she said.
The group entered a supply yard filled with mountains of containers. Liternati leisurely patrolled the grounds while ordinates lounged at their stations. Tolly pointed to a short, skinny fellow with small, round glasses, who sealed coins in an envelope.
“You there, eyes up,” growled Marsh, slamming his hand on the table between them. “My men are short of everything. This is a general depot, we have the correct forms, now furnish us.”
“I am sorry, sir,” sneered the thin-haired ordinate. “We have strict orders and everything must be reviewed in lengthy detail.” He leaned forward, smiling sickly. “However, we understand that supplies are short. A small fee will expedite the process; a greater fee, access to our reserves.”
“You expect a bribe, you will receive none,” growled Marsh. “Give us what we need, return my supply sergeant’s funds to her, and I won’t have to break your neck.”
The Liternati guards brandished their weapons and Hyram quickly stopped Marsh and Walmsley from drawing their sidearms. Bloodshed would do no good, Marsh conceded. It was lightly guarded—it had been sometime since he stole from a depot. But how could he break his own orders? He looked around, seeking alternatives. Down the line, he spotted her: Lieutenant Tarlis.
Marsh led his entourage towards her table, ignoring the haughty wave of the ordinate. She feverishly filled out forms while her second, Dawes, sorted the contents of a crate, and the rest of her team unloaded a Cargo-8. “Lieutenant, I am in need of supplies.”
“Submit the proper forms for review. If all is in order, we’ll—” Tarlis looked up, frowned, then continued writing. “—oh, it’s you. Come to badger me again, Kasrkin?”
“We only wish for the arms to fight,” said Lada, placing the requisition slips before her.
“We also wish to report that some of the ordinates have been hiding supplies and demanding money in exchange,” explained Marsh. Scritch. Tarlis’s field quill paused. She looked up sharply.
“That’s a serious accusation. Have you eyewitnesses?” Tolly and Walmsley both raised their hands, and the former pointed at the ordinate they spoke to. Tarlis’s eyes narrowed and she stood up slowly. “That swine. That’s why there have been shortages from our stock. Dawes, deal with them.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Dawes. He stretched then picked up his 9-70. “Anything to break up the boredom.”
As he, Tolly, Walmsley, and other Cadian quartermasters marched towards the unsuspecting ordinate, Tarlis glanced at the forms spread upon her makeshift desk. Lada retrieved the triplicate forms, but Tarlis held out her hand.
“Unnecessary.” She leaned forward and pointed at the ordinates. “If you come across anybody else withholding materials, you tell me. I’ll take care of them, rest assured. Corporal Cartan, spin up the Cargo-8, load up whatever they want.” She looked at them gravely. “You will need it.”
“Have you gotten word of a movement?” asked Hyram.
“I need none. I’ve received orders to get tank shells and fuel up front. They might as well broadcast it over an open channel. It will come soon, and I fear it will be heavy.”
Marsh and Hyram exchanged a grave glance. Their gloomy violet gazes then burned brighter. An amalgamation of eager excitement and fading dread washed through the pair of old soldiers. Hyram grinned as he lit a lho-stick while a smiling Marsh waved at his platoon sergeant.
“Walmsley! Tell Bloody Platoon they’re getting an extra firewine ration: we’ve got ourselves a city to liberate!”
