He raised it to his mouth so fast the damn thing clicked off his teeth.
‘Marshal, we are ready for your word.’
‘General, the bombardment will commence in fifteen seconds. Emperor be with us.’
A call from inside the Baneblade. ‘Sir!’ It was Dyson. ‘Sir, you should see this.’
Dietrich lumbered back into the rear of the vehicle, and the armoured doors whined and hissed shut behind him.
‘What is it, Lars?’
His adjutant pointed at the augur-linked tactical readout. Dietrich peered at it, blinking. There was Granite One – the armoured spearhead led by Ismail – a long line of blue arrows. Behind it was his own formation, more tightly clenched, the infantry sigils smaller, somehow more vulnerable-looking even on a computer screen.
And in front–
Until a few minutes ago there had been nothing between Ismail and the foot of the citadel except a few scattered red arrows. The main enemy positions had been overrun in the first hours of the attack. But now more and more scarlet sigils were lighting up the screen, popping up out of nowhere in a carmine belt in front of Ismail’s tanks and thickening even as they watched.
‘The bastards must have been underground,’ Dietrich said wonderingly. ‘Veigh was right – they’ve been digging bunkers.’
‘It’s a massive counterattack,’ Dyson said. ‘Division strength, at least. They’re moving south.’
Dietrich stared. He rubbed his cracked mouth with one gauntleted fist, and all of a sudden a smile broke out across his face.
‘Emperor bless you, marshal, you dried-up old bastard. You called it right after all. But how in the world did you get Riedling to change his mind?’
‘Artillery is going in now, sir,’ one of the signallers in the compartment said, his hand to the receiver in one ear.
They did not need to be told. They could feel it. The impact of the shells came through the floor of the massive Baneblade, its hundred tons trembling as though it were made of plastek. A few seconds later, and they heard the dull massive roar of the strike, a rumbling, titanic thunder like the anger of gods.
‘It sounds like Earthshaker shells,’ Dyson said, listening. ‘But bigger calibre than our Basilisks could ever throw.’
‘Those are siege guns firing,’ Dietrich told him. ‘The heaviest known to man. Each round is bigger than a Chimera.’ He grinned fiercely. ‘And Marshal Veigh has timed it beautifully. He’s caught them in the open, just as they were making their counterattack.’
‘Emperor be thanked,’ one of the signallers murmured, his words barely heard over the monstrous roaring which was going on endlessly outside.
They listened, rapt, like men hearing the sweetest music of their lives. Dietrich bent over the monitors again and watched the destruction as it manifested itself in lights and sigils. The displays crackled and buzzed with static lines, then steadied in the gaps between explosions.
That broad belt of enemy red was thinning out, minute by minute, the scarlet signs of the opposing formations winking into darkness, one by one.
What hellish slaughter was going on up ahead on the front line, even Dietrich could not fully envisage, but he pounded his fist on the comms bench in savage satisfaction as he watched it happen in bloodless electronic sequence, and the music of the bombardment shook the world around him.
The vox came to life again, ticking with static, but workable.
‘General, this is Marshal Veigh. I have heavy rounds sufficient for four more minutes. After that we will walk the bombardment north and bring the lighter guns to bear. My observers report that several major enemy formations have been smashed. We estimate sixty per cent casualties.’
‘Well done, marshal. I could not have set it up better myself. My compliments to you and to Governor Riedling. You have saved a lot of lives today.’
There was a pause. ‘Governor Riedling is dead. It is I who am in command at the citadel now. I will support the advance of your troops to the last round if I have to. I suggest you advance as soon as the bombardment shifts, to keep the enemy off balance.’
Dietrich hesitated. Something in Veigh’s voice was not right. And how could Riedling be dead? How could that have happened? The governor was not a man to put himself in a place of danger.
That was for another day. Dietrich keyed the vox. ‘Roger that, marshal.’ He glanced at the chrono on the back of his gauntlet. ‘The advance will recommence in four minutes. Can you give us anti-air cover?’
‘That is affirmative. We have already cleared the skies above you. The enemy air-units have been driven off for now. But they will be back. General, you must drive for the citadel walls at best speed. Once you are within half a kilometre, we intend to sally out with several regiments of infantry to meet you. My men will fire green flares to indicate their positions.’
‘Green flares. Roger that. I will communicate it to all my subunits.’
‘I look forward to meeting you again at last, general.’ There was no emotion in Veigh’s voice. He sounded like a dead man talking.
‘As do I, marshal. Dietrich out.’
The vox went dead. Dietrich stared at the mike for a moment, lost in thought, speculation ringing in his brain. Then he shook his head. The task in hand was work enough for now. Whatever had happened in the citadel, whatever fate Riedling had met with, was of no matter. There was killing to be done.
‘Get me Commissar Von Arnim,’ he said to the signaller. ‘And patch me in to all company commanders at the same time.’
Now, he thought. Now, we have a fighting chance at last.
ELEVEN
Habebat Funiculum
The infantry debussed from the Chimeras right on top of the enemy trenches, shooting down into the white, snarling faces of the cultists. The squat vehicles powered over the positions, and from the top turrets the flamers sent out spewing rivers of yellow promethium to incinerate the reserves as they came charging in to counterattack.
A wall of flame, through which the enemy charged heedless of pain and fear. Their champions, tall behemoths in power armour, drove them on like twisted shepherds. The Hanemite troopers engaged in close-quarter combat with burning, shrieking shapes that swept through the line of Chimeras like living torches.
Von Arnim strode along with his personal squad keeping pace to either side. His chainsword hummed as the monomolecular blades spun too fast to see.
‘That one is mine,’ he said, pointing with the sword at a Chaos champion who had lifted a wriggling trooper into the air, impaled on the wicked blade which was affixed to his bolter. He tossed the screaming man aside as though flicking an insect from his arm, and roared with maniacal laughter, his teeth clashing, scoring his own flesh. He paid no mind to the flames which licked round his armour.
The assault had ridden over the enemy trench line, cutting it into knots and gobbets of struggling men and things which had once been men. In the light of the flamer-blasts, shadows capered in milling mayhem, bolts of las-fire searing flesh which was already charred.
A team were kneeling to one side, the gunner’s mate crouched with a heavy weapon perched on his shoulder while the gunner emptied the magazine drum in long, deafening bursts of fire, blowing waves of cultists apart, and then zeroing in on one of the towering Chaos champions, chewing up his armour, blowing chunks of flesh and metal from his bones, finally reducing him to some unrecognisable charnel-frame of meat and metal.
Von Arnim confronted the champion he had picked out of the enemy ranks.
‘Ho! Abomination! Come meet death!’ he cried, and there was on his face a wide grin of mingled rage and joy as he raised the chainsword.
The tall Chaos champion tossed aside another broken corpse. He had bitten through the trooper’s throat and blood was black and shining on his face from the nose down. It slimed his pestilential-looking armour and added a new gleam to the ceramite plates.