‘Erford, anything on the auspex?’
‘A few stragglers of our own, sir – beyond that, nothing. Shall I switch to augur for a longer-range scan?’
‘No, it might spook them. Just let me know when they’re at the limit of auspex.’
‘Acknowledged, commissar.’
Von Arnim stood up in the hatch again. It was a stupidly exposed position – the enemy had snipers who liked nothing more than to pick off careless officers – but he needed to be able to see what was going on.
You break your own rules when it suits you, he chided himself.
‘Sir, here they come!’ Erford yelled from within the Russ. ‘Fifty metres, dead ahead. I have eighty signatures.’
Something like relief swept over Von Arnim. He held the vox-caster to his mouth. ‘All callsigns, watch and shoot, watch and shoot.’
He reached for the hatch handle and with a grunt pulled the heavy slab of metal up to a right angle, peering over the top. Up and down the line, the tanks of Fifth Company had edged into gear, the big engines beginning to bellow. Rubble shifted and trickled as the main guns started to traverse in search of targets and the sponson-mounted heavy bolters nosed from under their tarps, like blind snakes seeking prey.
And here they came.
As always, his first reaction was disgust, quickly followed by rage. These creatures did not belong on this planet, in this system, or in this universe. To call them abominations was a vast understatement. They were simply wrong. They should not exist, and their presence defiled the very laws and norms of life. They were creatures of the warp, and must be eradicated utterly.
But they were nothing if not formidable. Some of these degenerates had once been Adeptus Astartes, the greatest warriors the galaxy had ever seen, and though their degradation had blunted their skills somewhat, these Chaos Space Marines were more than a match for his troopers.
Four score of them, or more, were now advancing in extended line towards him over the broken rubble of the city.
A company of the Damned. Let us see how they like to dance with heavy metal, Von Arnim thought. And he smiled. Except it was not a smile. It was the bare-toothed rictus of an animal.
‘All callsigns, open fire!’
The tank rocked under him, and he heard no noise as the main gun went off, only an immense… absence. He lowered himself into the turret and clanged shut the hatch after him, taking his seat in the commander’s cupola. This was ringed with armoured viewports, and through the green-tinged plexi-glass, Von Arnim watched as the opening salvo struck home.
The enemy disappeared in a series of eruptions. He saw several of the huge armoured warriors blown high in the air. Others were dismembered, body parts torn free and scattered. A boiling storm of dust rose up twenty, thirty metres into the air.
As their main armaments reloaded, the tanks opened up with heavy bolters, and the big rounds began to tear up the smoke and dust cloud ahead, reams of tracer disappearing into the murk. The company of Leman Russes chewed up the killing ground until it seemed nothing could survive out there.
But the fire was being returned already. The enemy recovered with superhuman swiftness. The tracers were arcing in both directions now, and he saw the bright fevered lance of a lascannon lick out towards his tanks.
Von Arnim yawned deliberately, and his hearing began to pop back. His eardrums were synthetic implants, replaced long ago, but even they could be stunned now and again.
He spoke into the caster, relishing the words.
‘Fifth Company, tanks, advance!’
The line of massive battle tanks lurched into motion, demolishing entire habs as they slammed forward. He was thrown from side to side in his seat as the Russ lurched and tilted on the uneven ground, grinding rockcrete to powder under the heavy tracks.
‘Infantry, follow up.’
The Hanemites would be on their feet, moving in the wake of the steel behemoths, protecting them from close-quarter attack.
Emperor’s blood, but it was good to be advancing again at last, after all the retreats of the last days, all the disasters.
‘Three Hundred and Seventy-Eighth,’ he bellowed over the net, ‘let us show them the way back to hell!’
He indulged himself with a moment of glaring out of the viewports in unbridled exultation. He saw a champion of the Great Enemy standing up in front of his own vehicle, firing a heavy bolter at point-blank range. Then the Russ rode him down.
Von Arnim closed his eyes and said a swift prayer of thanks. It was for moments like this that he had lived his life, had donned the cap of a commissar and wore the aquila of the Imperium.
‘Blessed be He who teaches my fingers to fight, and my hands to make war,’ he muttered. And then, louder: ‘Erford, get me Zero on the vox.’
‘Flipping channels now, sir.’
‘Zero, this is Granite One. Shift fire, over.’
Now the big guns would join the show.
The crump of artillery had become so commonplace that Dietrich no longer registered it. Only the high swooping whine of incoming airstrikes made him crouch now.
He clicked the magnification wheel on the scopes in minute increments, sweeping the tortured wasteland to the north. Pillars of smoke rose everywhere, and two of the tallest hive-scrapers in Askai were burning steadily, blackened towers that hid all behind them in an impenetrable shroud.
He cursed, not blinking, trying to penetrate the reek and fog of the shattered city. Lines of lasgun fire twinkled here and there, and now and again there was the momentary flash of plasma. From the south, the Basilisks sent showers of shells out into what had until recently been teeming city streets, the heavy ordnance booming overhead in high arcs to come down in rows of smoke and flame. The batteries fired day and night, carpeting the enemy lines with high explosive. The barrels of the guns had to be replaced every few days, their rifling worn smooth by the relentless fire.
But in many places it was all that was holding them back, now: that unceasing barrage.
‘Any word from Commissar Von Arnim?’ he asked.
‘Not since he gave the order at the start-line, sir,’ Captain Dyson said. Dietrich’s adjutant had aged ten years in the last twelve days, but at least he had managed to have that face-wound sewn up. The stitches crawled across his once-handsome features like a column of dead insects, skewing his nose to one side.
‘That was over an hour ago. The barrage will shift soon.’ Dietrich wiped dust off his wrist chrono, a stab of anxiety striking through him. Not Ismail, surely – he was indestructible.
‘Shall I tell the Basilisks to hold fire, sir?’
‘No – no, they’d be all over our forward positions in a heartbeat. Notify the heavy company. Tell them to be ready to move out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He had four Baneblades left out of the nine he had started with. The armoured monsters had spearheaded nearly every attack, and their crews were exhausted. They were supposed to be out of the line today.
Well, they could sleep when they were dead.
The little cluster of men crouched low as an enemy fighter soared past them, spattering the trench lines with bolter fire. Up from the ruined buildings a hail of las-bolts arced up to meet it, including the tearing sizzle of a multi-barrelled Hydra. The fighter seemed to bulge with flame; it burst out of the swept-wing craft in globes and spears. The machine tumbled awkwardly through the air, end over end, and came down with a massive explosion not four hundred metres away. Dietrich wiped airborne grit out of his eyes and from his lips.
‘Nicely done, lads,’ he whispered, his words cracked by thirst.
A crackle of electronic static made him go to one knee at once and reach out a hand. The vox-bearer behind him handed him the receiver.
‘This is Zero, say again, over.’
Again, the mush of static, but there were words in it; he could swear to it.