A bright flash drew his eyes heavenward. Night brought no thinning of the dust clouds that hid the face of Dzelenic IV, but when the sun had gone the weapons discharge of the void battle raging overhead replaced its light.
‘Ship death,’ said Ralstan.
The vox hissed in his ear.
‘Castellan Ralstan, Marshal Magneric, respond. This is the Obsidian Sky.’
‘Castellan Ralstan responding, shipmaster.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Ericus sounded exulted, pleased. Ralstan heard victory in his voice. ‘The ork fleet is shattered. We are free and able to bring you back aboard. Is this your desire?’
Ralstan wanted to say no. Every warrior’s instinct told him to remain and slay until no ork breathed upon Dzelenic IV. With difficulty, he replied. ‘Begin extraction immediately. We are surrounded by orks. Extend air cover to the Iron Warriors gunships. Escort them down.’
‘My lord?’
‘An oath was taken,’ said Ralstan.
‘Thunderhawks are away,’ said Ericus. ‘Prepare for evacuation.’
Ralstan watched the sky. In twenty minutes gunships would come screaming from orbit, scouring the orks from the building. Then one short flight awaited.
After that, they could drop this pretence at alliance.
A change came over the orks. Their cries of frustration became barbarous cheers, starting in the east, running out until all the filthy masses of them cried and beat their chests. Ralstan hurried over to the east corner of the building. There, at the back of the ork force, shone a sickly light in the dark. A hush fell over the orks. At some signal invisible to Ralstan, the xenos drew back from the building, leaving a wide area free of everything but their dead.
A familiar pressure troubled his skull. Thunder cracked in the distance.
‘Witch!’ he spat in disgust.
The psyker came escorted by burly orks in heavy armour. A dozen more scrawny examples capered and danced behind him. The witch was peculiar in appearance, even for an ork, carrying no gun or heavy cutting blade, only a long copper staff chained to his wrist in a manner similar to the oath bonds of the Black Templars’ weapons. Upon his chest hung a breastplate of ribs strung together. Bone fetishes and shiny scraps of metal dangled from his tusks and ears. He wore a huge greatcoat, filched from an ogryn by the looks of it. He was wholly incongruous, a whimsical creature in marked contrast to the brutal practicality of the other orks, but that he was a being of great power was not in doubt. A nimbus of green energy haloed his head. Fizzing sparks spat from his mouth when he roared, sending his insane followers into paroxysms of laughter.
The orks parted to let him through, and he strode forward, twitching and cackling, his massive minders gimlet-eyed by his sides.
Magneric reset his ocular magnification to standard.
Through his vox-link, Magneric listened to his castellan confer with Kalkator. ‘Have your men take it down,’ said Ralstan.
‘I have already commanded them to do so.’
‘Lascannons will do no good,’ interrupted Magneric.
‘We shall see,’ said Kalkator. ‘Heavy support, open fire.’
The shot was a clear one, a straight line down an avenue of orks directly to the psyker. Three beams of ruby light leapt down this path, aimed precisely at the ork. They struck home with terrible power, enough to cut a Land Raider in two. A second light burst from the psyker in response, meeting with that of the cannons and obscuring the witch. When it dissipated the psyker strode on, laughing madly, its dancing followers somersaulting and leaping about in ecstasy.
‘Again!’ snapped Kalkator.
The ork raised his hand, waved it up and down sharply. A jet of energy flicked out from it, singeing the ground. Where it rolled over dead orks they jiggled and danced, momentarily animated by the psyker’s might. The jet grew broader and brighter the closer it came to the building. It made no sound as it bore down straight upon the weathered walls.
‘Down, down!’ yelled Ralstan. Power-armoured warriors scrambled to get out of the way as the blast hit the building. It connected silently, passing ethereally through the walls, then the ork clasped his hand and ripped it backward, and the rockcrete of the building sundered. The ruin shook with the force. Atomised rockcrete sprayed outward in a cloud. Where the energy touched Black Templar or Iron Warrior, they convulsed and fell dead. Armour collapsed, helmets rolled free, allowing the liquid remains to pour onto the ground. In a second, the dynamic of the battle changed. The walls were breached, the way was open to the orks.
They heard the indrawing of breath coming from the horde.
‘Waaagh!’ they bellowed. ‘WAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!’ The orks broke into a run, coming at the hole in the wall, heedless of the hundreds felled by booming boltguns.
‘We cannot hold this building,’ voxed Magneric. ‘We must attack. If their witch falls, they may withdraw. It is our only chance of survival.’
‘We will be slaughtered,’ said Kalkator. ‘We must only hold out for another handful of minutes.’
‘We will be dead. The gunships downed. The witch must die.’
‘Then we shall fight with you, Magneric. In honour of the times before,’ said Kalkator.
‘No,’ said Magneric, stepping over the low wall of his emplacement. The orks were only fifty metres away, and coming in fast from all sides. ‘There is one defence proof against this sorcery, and that is faith,’ said Magneric. ‘Black Templars, to me!’
The Black Templars abandoned their positions by the Iron Warriors, leaping from windows and rooftop, rushing to join their Marshal.
‘Cover us,’ said Ralstan to Kalkator, jumping outside, his armour absorbing the shock of the six-metre drop.
‘Iron Warriors!’ shouted Kalkator. ‘To the breach! Clear the way for the Black Templars, or we shall all perish.’
Twenty
Faith and iron
The Black Templars lined up on either side of their Marshal, already firing. Sword Brethren ran to form an escort around him.
The orks closed. Flamers sang their deadly song of fire, incinerating dozens. Several came through, skin blazing, still ready to fight. These were felled by shots from the building, or died upon the waiting swords of the Templars. When a space was cleared the Black Templars opened fire again with long-practised discipline, rapid bursts of mass-reactives that together made an impenetrable wall.
Magneric lifted up his vox-amplifiers to their maximum. ‘Let none survive! Destroy them all! He that feareth the witch has conceded defeat, even as his boltgun sings still in his hand! Attack, attack!’
The Dreadnought led from the front, his assault cannon blazing. At a run he slammed into the press of orks, smiting them with his power fist. His assault cannon glowed hot, blazing through the last few thousand rounds in a glorious sheet of searing death, felling orks in a wide swathe. Those closest to the rotating barrels of the cannon were blasted apart, a fine mist of flesh and blood bursting from them. As far as forty metres from the Dreadnought, orks were torn to pieces, limbs and heads scattering.
Sweeping back and forth, Magneric carved a bloody road to the ork psyker. The fire of his Black Templars and the Iron Warriors in the building behind him kept them from surging back in. Behind him his men advanced, firing relentlessly. Magneric made straight for the witch, bashing any greenskin that came between them off its feet, lofting them high over the heads of the others. His last rounds cut down the creature’s bodyguard, but no more. Bullets sent true at the witch were deflected as the lascannons had been, or exploded with bright, green flashes. The psyker gibbered and pranced, waving its copper staff above its head in challenge. Its lunatic entourage ran past him, fingers hooked to tear at the Dreadnought. From behind, a trio of crude walkers waddled up to intercept the Marshal.