'I will see that god-machine fall by my hand,' he swore, 'or may my soul be damned to torment for all eternity.'
Thunder boomed overhead, as if in response to his oath.
He would break the machine-spirit of the beast, and once victory had been achieved, he would stand before Jarulek, the Dark Apostle, and accept whatever punishment he deemed suitable for his failures this day.
The battle was long over, and the intense storm overhead had abated. The waters had receded, flowing further down the mountains, leaving a mire of destruction across the valley. Bodies were strewn all across the battlefield, and burned out vehicles and wrecks scattered the field. Few enemy casualties remained, most having been hauled from the fire-fight, though Elysians wielding flamers torched those that were left behind. All avoided the blackened hulls of the enemy vehicles and cursed engines, for to destroy them utterly would be too labour intensive. Teams of Elysians bearing heavy arrays of detection sensors inched forward, removing thousands of landmines from the ground. They were far slower than the bizarre minesweeper vehicles of the Adeptus Mechanicus that fanned the ground with great sweeps of mechanical analysis arms. But the orders of the Elysian command were clear: the army would advance as quickly as possible, and every man equipped to detect the mines, whether Elysian or mindless servitor, would be employed.
Under the shadow of the stationary Imperator class Titan Exemplis, the adepts of the Mechanicus swarmed over wrecked Imperial vehicles, salvaging precious machineries and supplicating the dead or dying spirits of the vehicles. To Brigadier-General Havorn, they looked like nothing more than clusters of carnivorous ants tearing apart the carcasses of dying prey. The adepts swiftly stripped weapon systems from tanks and Ordinatus Minoris crawlers with focused energy, and loaded them alongside working engines, track-works and control systems onto the backs of hulking hauler vehicles for reuse.
Industrious servitors worked tirelessly, hefting heavy pieces of equipment with servo-arms and harnesses under the watchful eyes of the adepts, and the fallen Skitarii were likewise gathered up and taken to rolling factories that followed in the wake of the main army. There they were dropped onto mass conveyer belts and taken inside for recycling. Havorn was unsure what that entailed. He imagined that the weapons of the tech-guard warriors were torn from the dead flesh of their hosts, but he did not know the fate of the dead flesh. Only when the Techno-Magos Darioq had made a cold entreaty to him had he learnt what happened to those desecrated bodies.
'A request, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn,' said the techno-magos in his monotone voice. 'It is my understanding that the flesh bodies of your inactive soldiers are being gathered. Are they to be taken to the reprocessing factorum units of your regiment? I was not aware of the presence of such facilities within your expedition force.'
'Tokens of Elysia will be placed upon the eyes of my fallen soldiers and their flesh will be consumed with cleansing flame. The priests will guide their souls on their way to the Emperor's side,' replied Havorn, unsure of what the techno-magos spoke. 'It is the way of the Elysians. Each man carries with him his twin tokens of Elysia,' he explained, reaching beneath his robe and jangling a pair of round metal coins that hung around his neck, a fine chain running through the holes in their centres. 'This has long been the custom of my people. We specialise in drop attacks, and it is seldom possible to extract our dead, but it matters not where the body lies, merely that the spirit is guided on its way.'
'The dead flesh husks are burned? That is illogical. It is a waste of resources, both of promethium and of the flesh husks. And what of your flesh units that have been rendered inoperative but not yet fully nonfunctional?'
'My wounded, you mean?' asked Havorn, his voice icy.
'If you wish.'
'My wounded soldiers are removed from their platoons and taken to the medicae facilities within my mass transport-landers. Those with fatal wounds are comforted as much as possible before their spirits are guided on their way.'
'I would make a request of you, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn.'
'Ask away,' said the Imperial commander, though he felt wary, not knowing where the magos was leading.
'It is illogical and irrational to dispose of your nonfunctional flesh units as you do. I would ask that upon the conclusion of your priestly rituals, that the flesh husks are collected for reprocessing by my adepts.'
'Reprocessing into what?'
'Into a semi-liquid, protein based nutrient paste.'
Havorn blinked as if he could not possibly have heard correctly.
'You… you wish to turn the bodies of honoured Elysian soldiers who have fallen in battle against the enemy into paste.'
'It is a logical use of limited resources. My Skitarii cohorts are well fuelled, but a replenishment of feed levels would be advantageous.'
'There really is not an ounce of humanity left in you is there, you wretched, base machine?' said Havorn, his voice trembling with emotion.
'Correction. There are exactly thirty-eight Imperial weight units of living flesh and tissue upon my frame, Brigadier-General Ishmael Havorn. I am neither wretched nor base, although their usage in such a context is a new piece of data memory to be stored. And I thank you for calling me "machine", though I am not yet so fully esteemed within the priesthood of Mars as to become truly one with the Omnissiah.'
'Your answer, magos,' said Havorn, 'is that you can go and burn in hell before I hand over any of my soldiers to you, dead or alive.'
Seeing no immediate response forthcoming from the magos, he added, 'That means no, you cold-hearted bastard.'
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
'We have identified the location from which the enemy has chosen to face us, brigadier-general,' said Colonel Laron.
'Show me,' said Havorn. The large table between the pair lit up at Havorn's word, thousands of twisting green lines of light springing up to show a detailed schematic map of the surrounding area. At Havorn's instruction, the crouching servitor built into the table's base manipulated the rendered image, scrolling it across the surface of the table and zooming in on valleys and ravines. At another word, the densely packed lines began to rise above the table, giving a three dimensional view of the mountains.
Taking a moment to study the detailed map, Laron pointed.
"We advance along this main valley bed here. Our scouts move along the ravines here, here and here,' he said, indicating two thin valleys a few kilometres away from where the main force advanced. 'And our drop-troopers have landed at these points,' he said, picking out a dozen key, strategic high points.
'As you have read in my reports, our attacks to take the high lands up to here,' he said, indicating, 'have been fierce, but a success.'
'The enemy has defended them half-heartedly,' said Havorn. 'Your men took them too easily, and I mean no slur upon them. When they choose their place to stand and fight, then they will face far stiffer competition.'
'My sentiment exactly, brigadier-general, and I believe we have found that place. Early forays to take these points here,' he said, indicating the ridges some ten kilometres into a particularly thin stretch of the valley, 'show high concentrations of the enemy. Our attacks have been rebuffed.'
'And with high casualties, I see,' growled Havorn.
'Indeed, the enemy will not budge. That is where they will make their stand.'
'It is a good place for it. The twisting valley is at its narrowest there. There is not a straight line of fire longer than a kilometre, rendering our ordnance of limited use, but their warriors will excel. It means that the Exemplis will have to get close to them to engage, rather than blasting them from five clicks out. It is a cunning place to make their stand. But it could be a ruse. Have you scouted for ambush points ahead of this position?'