‘It’s done,’ the young nobleman said. ‘We’d been planning this for some time, but for a different purpose. The diversion had been intended to draw the Harrowers away so that other groups could leave their shelters and forage for food.’ Andras’s expression turned grim. ‘Hopefully, if our plan works, there won’t be a need for such desperate measures.’
Bulveye nodded. ‘How long?’
Andras glanced at his chrono. ‘Another twenty minutes, give or take.’
The warriors settled down to wait, checking their weapons and observing the activity in the plaza. Bulveye settled down beside Andras. ‘You asked me a number of questions before,’ he said. ‘Now I’d like to ask one of you.’
Andras looked up from the partially disassembled pistol in his lap. ‘All right,’ he said evenly. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘When we first arrived over Antimon, no one answered our hails – except for you,’ the Wolf Lord said. ‘Why did you disobey the Senate and answer our call?’
Andras didn’t reply at first. His lips compressed into a tight line and his eyes grew haunted. ‘The Harrowers took my mother and my sister when I was only four,’ he said. ‘They broke into our shelter. My father had barely enough time to hide me, but the raiders found everyone else. They spared him because he was a member of the Senate, but they… they took the others away, and he didn’t even try to stop them. My sister was only two at the time.’ The young man reached up and pinched the corners of his eyes. ‘When I was ten I crept into the attic and started practising with my great-grandfather’s blades. I swore to myself that if I ever had the chance, I was going to make the Harrowers pay for what they’d done. When your ship arrived in orbit, I thought that chance had finally come.’
Bulveye laid a hand on Andras’s shoulder. ‘It has, Andras. You have my oath on it.’
Off in the distance came the faint but unmistakeable sound of an explosion, followed by the rattle and pop of gunfire. The sounds of fighting intensified within moments, until it sounded like a full-fledged battle was underway. Andras straightened. ‘That would be the diversion,’ he said. ‘Now we wait and see what the Harrowers will do.’
Out in the plaza, the aliens had sprung into action. Within minutes, three of the transports were lifting off and rushing over the hilltops in the direction of the fighting.
Andras smiled as the transports faded from sight. ‘They always leave one back in reserve,’ he said, nodding towards the grounded craft. ‘Now all we need to do is take care of the ten warriors that are left.’
Bulveye nodded. ‘Leave that to us.’
The building they were concealed in was down a side street just off the square, about a hundred yards from the transport and its complement of raiders. Bulveye summoned his eight warriors with a curt command, and the Astartes readied their weapons. ‘Be swift, brothers,’ he told the Astartes. ‘This is not the time for stealth. Kill the bastards as quick as you can, and let’s be away.’
Without waiting for a reply, the Wolf Lord led the way into the street and set off towards the Harrowers at a dead run.
He’d barely covered fifty metres when the aliens spotted him. His enhanced hearing picked up a stream of hissed orders from the enemy officer, and the warriors quickly took cover and opened fire. Splinters hissed through the air all around Bulveye or rang off the plates of his armour. In reply, he raised his plasma pistol and let off two shots: the first struck the xenos officer as he ran from one position of concealment to another, cutting the alien nearly in two. The second blast struck a raider just as he rose from cover to take shot with his rifle, vaporising the alien’s head and shoulders.
Bolter fire rang out all around the Wolf Lord, and howls of battle-fury split the night. Once again, Bulveye felt the beast inside him stir at the sound, but still he held it back. Not yet, he thought to himself. Not yet, but soon.
Firing on the move, the Space Wolves felled one alien after another, until the last three lost their nerve and fled down a side street on the opposite side of the plaza. Wasting no time, Bulveye reached the transport and leaped aboard, his axe held ready. He landed just in time to see the transport’s pilot dive over the opposite side of the craft and flee as well.
Within a few moments the rest of Bulveye’s warband and Andras’s warriors had climbed aboard the alien craft. Right away, the Wolves’ pilot, an Astartes named Ranulf, and two Antimonans whom Andras claimed were conversant with the alien’s strange language, clustered by the transport’s controls and began to puzzle them out. A minute later Ranulf keyed a number of controls, and the craft’s powerplant activated with a rising whine. Then the pilot took hold of what looked like a control yoke and slowly, carefully, the transport rose into the air. It swung its nose ponderously to the west and began gliding gracelessly forwards.
‘Faster!’ Bulveye urged. ‘The aliens will be on us at any moment! If we don’t get to the spire before they raise the alarm we’re all done for!’
‘Aye, lord,’ Ranulf answered. ‘Everyone hang on to something!’ he said, and pulled a lever. At once, the craft surged forwards, gathering speed until the city and the twilit countryside blurred away beneath them.
As the transport sped like an arrow towards the xenos spire, Andras worked his way forwards to stand beside Bulveye. ‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ he asked.
Bulveye considered his answer. ‘If we can reach the reactor chamber, then I’m sure we can bring down the spire,’ he said. ‘As to the rest…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s in the hands of the Fates now.’
‘But how can you be certain we’ll find their leader?’ the nobleman asked.
The Wolf Lord answered with a savage smile. ‘Once he realises what we intend to do, don’t worry. He’ll come to us.’
Ten minutes later they saw the alien spire. The massive structure was silhouetted against the night sky, limned in a faint blue glow cast by the citadel’s gravitic suspensors. Pale green lights flashed at intervals along the surface of the spire, and here and there a craft rose from a landing spot on the side of the structure and sped away into the night.
Suddenly, Ranulf called out from the control room. ‘My lord! The vox in here’s started hissing! I think we’re being challenged!’
Bulveye bent at the knees, placing as much of his body behind the armoured railing of the transport as he could. The rest of the Wolves followed suit. The Wolf Lord looked over at Andras. ‘I’d get down were I you,’ he said. ‘Here’s where things get interesting.’
All at once the night sky lit up with beams of energy and stitching streams of fire as the spire’s defensive batteries went into action. Energy blasts struck the prow of the transport, blasting holes through the armour plate and showering the passengers with molten shrapnel. Bulveye turned back to the control room. ‘Aim for the centre of the spire!’ he told Ranulf. ‘There have to be landing pads there for maintenance and supply!’
The transport plunged onwards through the hail of fire. Its high speed and the surprise of the spire’s gunners made it a difficult target, and it crossed the distance to the citadel in a matter of seconds. Ranulf caught sight of a suitable landing pad at the spire’s midpoint and raced towards it. Only at the last minute did he try to flare the engines back and come in for a landing.
They touched down with a bone-jarring crunch and a long, rending sound of tearing metal. Everyone was thrown forwards, piling up in the craft’s mutilated bow as the transport skidded wildly down the landing pad in a shower of sparks. Finally, friction asserted itself and the transport slowed, skidding to a stop less than a dozen metres from the far edge of the pad.