‘Sergeant Paeblen? Does Squad Lementas control the third target?’ said Sor Talgron.
‘Engaging the enemy, captain,’ came Paeblen’s voice. The sound of roaring chainswords, Astartes shouting and weapons discharging echoed in the background. There was a loud explosion, and the line abruptly descended into static white noise. A moment later, a new voice crackled across the vox.
‘Brother Aecton here, captain,’ said the voice.
‘Go ahead, brother,’ said Sor Talgron.
‘Sergeant Paeblen is down, captain,’ said Brother Aecton. ‘I am taking temporary command of the third wave.’
Aecton was an experienced member of Squad Lementas, a battle-scarred veteran that Sor Talgron knew could be relied upon to keep his wits in the most nightmarish situations. As the longest-serving member of Lementas, it fell to him to take command if anything happened to his sergeant. A moment later the vox crackled, and Aecton’s voice came through once more.
‘Target secured, captain. Melta charges are in place.’
‘Good work, Brother Aecton,’ said Sor Talgron.
‘All squads: blow your charges on my mark,’ said Sor Talgron. Turning to Sergeant Arshaq, he nodded solemnly.
‘Moment of truth,’ remarked the sergeant.
Sor Talgron smiled grimly.
‘Do it,’ he said.
The melta bomb clusters placed around the base of the three silver spires detonated simultaneously. For a moment, Sor Talgron saw no real effect, and he felt certain that the ploy had failed. Then he saw one of the three targeted spires begin to shudder. As the melta charges turned its base to a superheated morass of bubbling liquid and hissing gas, the spire began to sag. With a metallic groan, accompanied by wildly discharging electricity, the kilometre-high spire collapsed and fell inwards, straight towards the shield-dome.
Even as that one spire began to fall slowly towards the lightning-dome, so too did the other two shudder and collapse, falling slowly at first and then with increasing velocity.
If the fall of the spires had any effect at all, created any breach in the shield whatsoever, then Sor Talgron felt certain that it would only be a momentary gap.
‘Now!’ roared Sor Talgron, leaping into the air, the flames of his jump pack carrying him straight towards the dome. He accelerated fast, the engines of his jump pack straining against the forces of gravity.
He could feel the power of the shield-dome intensify as he drew nearer, making his skin tingle and his eardrums reverberate painfully.
He was no more than fifty metres from the veil when the first spire struck. An explosion of light and electricity erupted, far more intense than any he had yet seen.
A moment later, the other two spires hit, creating a blinding discharge of electricity. Bolts of power leapt madly between the three silver spires, and a rent was momentarily ripped open between them, a hole sheared in the fabric of the dome.
Without pause, Sor Talgron angled towards the temporary gap, pushing the engines of his jump pack to their limits, burning rapidly through the last reserves of fuel.
Jagged arcs of lightning criss-crossed back and forth across the tear in the shield-dome as the veil began to reform its impenetrable mesh. With a shout, Sor Talgron pushed on, knowing that he was committed now; there was no turning back.
He roared through the ever-diminishing hole, and his entire body was jolted as a barbed fork of lightning passed through him, using his flesh as a conduit.
His jump pack shorted out completely, sparking and smoking, though the force of his momentum carried him through the rapidly diminishing rent in the veil. His vision was fading in and out, and he dropped like a stone, a smoking, charred body, landing heavily on a palatial balcony within the flickering dome.
Sor Talgron twitched involuntarily for a moment as the last vestiges of electricity left him, dissipating across the smooth glassy floor. Pushing himself up to one knee, smoke rising from the burnt, stinking flesh of his face, he unclipped the release clamps upon his breastplate, and his now useless, smoking jump pack dropped to the ground with heavy clunk.
‘That was… unpleasant,’ said Arshaq, pushing himself to his feet nearby. The veteran sergeant’s cream-coloured tabard was hanging off him in fire-blackened strips. Some parts of the robe were still on fire, and Arshaq casually ripped the remnants of the fabric away from him.
Only the warriors of Squad Helikon had made it through the gap. The other three of the surviving Assault squads were stuck outside the shield-dome. Sor Talgron swore.
It had taken all of the squads’ melta bombs to create even that momentary crack in the enemy’s defence – it would not be a move that his Assault squads would be able to replicate, nor was he able to contact his brother Space Marines beyond to advise them of a new course of action – evidently, the shield-dome blocked vox traffic as easily as incoming lance strikes. The all-encompassing lightning-dome they were now ensconced within obscured everything beyond.
Sor Talgron’s scorched face was stinging, but he ignored the pain, his eyes fixed in the distance.
The city within the dome had been untouched by war, and it was an awe-inspiring sight. Pristine crystal domes, glass spires and interconnected walkways that gleamed like spider-webs dipped in quicksilver sprawled before them.
But Sor Talgron paid none of these structures any mind; he was completely focused upon the looming glass structure in the distance – and upon the giant statue that towered above it.
His eyes narrowed as he glared up at the titanic statue. It stood more than a kilometre tall, a titanic silver and glass colossus in the form of a man, standing with arms raised. Lightning from the shield-dome struck the statue’s outstretched hands every few seconds, bathing it in flashes of flickering energy that coiled around its arms and torso.
Sor Talgron felt loathing rise up within him.
This was no was statue of a heroic founder or local legend; this was an effigy of the god of the people of Forty-seven Sixteen.
‘So it is true, then,’ said Arshaq, disgust in his voice. ‘These people are heathen idolators.’
‘Lorgar, give me strength,’ Sor Talgron murmured.
‘Captain,’ said Sergeant Arshaq, consulting his auspex. ‘We have multiple contacts, moving on our position. What are your orders?’
‘We go there,’ said Sor Talgron, pointing towards the statue. ‘And we kill everything we find. Those are our orders.’
Strangely, they had encountered little resistance since passing through the dome.
After the brutal battle towards the centre of the enemy superstructure, the utter absence of the enemy here was eerie.
They traversed over expansive arched walkways of delicate glass, moving warily towards the immense central spire, covering all the angles and scanning for movement.
The battle outside the sphere of lightning had been bloody in the extreme – the artificial war constructs were deadly foes, utilising weaponry unlike anything that any of the crusade fleets had encountered, as far as he understood. Yet here, within the sheltered, impenetrable dome of energy, it was peaceful – almost serene.
Through vaulted hallways and soaring cathedral-like passages they moved, footsteps echoing loudly upon the smooth glass.
‘It’s like a tomb,’ remarked Arshaq.
Sor Talgron was forced to agree. He almost wished for an enemy to appear, just to break the tension. Almost.
The Word Bearers moved warily along a wide bridge spanning two glittering crystal spires, closing steadily on the central temple structure that rose up before them like an exotic crystal flower, atop which stood the colossal statue of the enemy’s false god. Sor Talgron could not look upon the vile storm-god statue without feeling his gorge rise.