The wyrd-creature had saved a little of itself for the encounter, however, and had called upon its sorcery to bathe Bohemond in a blazing stream so powerful and intense that it all but scorched the ceramite plate from his body. Dropping his sword and holding an outstretched gauntlet before his disintegrating helm, Bohemond had managed to save an eye and part of his face. With much of his roasted armour falling from his burnt flesh in a cloud of cinders and his hair still alight, the Black Templar had stomped through his agony and on towards the despised alien. Grabbing the spent monster, he had beaten the greenskin to death with his sizzling fists.
As he beheld the attack moon with his one good eye, Bohemond felt the soul-scalding hatred he had felt for the green plague of Draakoria resurface. He knew he was in the presence of something alien, unnatural and abominable. Something well-deserving of its end. Deserving of Dorn’s cold wrath and the instruments of his zealous fury: the Black Templars.
As the Abhorrence resumed its course and the planetary decimation of the Aspiria mining world began to clear, the derelict madness of the greenskin fleet came into focus. Between the battle-barge and the ork attack moon lay a blizzard of vagabond vessels. Jury-rigged derelicts. Drifting cannon-platforms. Rocketing voidscrap. Ungainly experiments in sub-light engineering and death. Bohemond’s teeth gleamed from within his widening snarl. The marshal would only be at peace standing in his battleplate beneath the surface of the moon, slaughtering its denizens. Between him and that purity of purpose lay a small armada of inconvenience.
‘Castellan,’ the Marshal called. ‘Order the Umbra to pull back.’ Bohemond had noticed that the strike cruiser had drawn ahead of the Abhorrence.
‘Commander Godwin wants to be let off the leash,’ Clermont observed.
‘I sympathise,’ Bohemond growled. ‘You can tell him that Rogal Dorn himself blesses this action.’ Bohemond turned in his pulpit throne and looked up for confirmation at Chaplain Aldemar. The Chaplain didn’t return his marshal’s gaze. With his cenobyte slaves clutching Chapter relics about him and his face hidden behind the featureless faceplate of his Crusader helmet, Aldemar merely nodded slowly. ‘Abhorrence, however, has the honour of leading the charge,’ Bohemond continued. ‘Order Sodalitas and Sword of Sigismund to take station on our flanks. The Ebon and Bona Fide are to support the Umbra in protecting our ships on the approach. All vessels to fall behind the battle-barge and benefit from the protection of our forward shields. The enemy are many and will hit us hard, but we will endure. Like a bolt-round through their miserable scraps of armour, we will punch through their assemblage of hulks and junkers.’
As bridge serfs fell to relaying Bohemond’s orders, Castellan Clermont asked, ‘And what orders for Commodore DePrasse, marshal?’
‘Tell the commodore to have his captains form a line of battle behind us,’ Bohemond commanded. ‘His ships may fire as they bear. We shall take them through the greenskin armada, where we will need the big guns of his capital ships to support the Abhorrence in cracking that abominate moon open. Meanwhile, the Black Templars shall bring havoc to the xenos wretches hiding within.’
‘Relaying now, marshal,’ Clermont said.
‘Frater Astrotechnicus,’ Bohemond called. Techmarine Kant was standing amongst a nest of bondsmen and bridge servitors, monitoring the enginarium rune banks.
‘Yes, marshal,’ Kant replied without moving his stapled lips. His voice boomed from vox-hailers set in the sides of his muscular neck.
‘Forward void shields powered to full,’ Bohemond growled. ‘Nothing gets through, Brother Kant.’
‘Affirmative, Marshal.’
Bohemond jabbed a vox-stub in the arm of his pulpit-throne with a ceramite digit. ‘Captain Ulbricht, this is the marshal. You are authorised to board Thunderhawks and assault ships in preparation for void insertion. I will join you on the final approach.’
‘I would expect nothing less, marshal,’ Ulbricht voxed back from the launch bays. ‘As the xenos will recieve nothing less than annihilation, ardent and absolute.’
‘Very good, captain,’ Bohemond said. ‘Stand by for the order to launch. Accelerate to ramming speed,’ the marshal added to his bridge crew as the Abhorrence plunged towards the enemy ship swarm. Both Space Marine and bondsman felt the sudden change in velocity shudder through the decking as the battle-barge’s mighty drives pushed them onwards into the oncoming greenskin barrage.
‘Crusader cruisers and frigates accelerating in line with new speed and heading,’ a bridge bondsman announced.
‘Marshal,’ Clermont called. ‘We appear to have a problem.’
‘Report.’
‘We’ve lost vox-contact with the commodore’s flagship.’
‘Lost contact?’ Bohemond rumbled. ‘Is the Magnificat under attack?’
‘The battleship is yet to engage,’ Clermont said.
‘Kant?’
‘Nothing on augurstream or binary frequencies,’ the Techmarine reported with metallic reverb. ‘The Navy vessels are slowing, marshal.’
‘The Preservatorio? The Falchiax? The Thunderfall?’
‘Static, my lord,’ the castellan said.
‘Try the destroyers and the heavy escorts,’ the marshal barked. ‘What the hell is he doing?’
‘Only the cruiser Aquillon is keeping pace with our approach, marshal,’ Clermont reported after failing to contact the smaller commands. ‘Captain Grenfell, my lord.’
‘Kant — could this be the xenos? Their technology overwhelming our communications?’
‘Arrays and transmitters are returning both trace waves and background radiation,’ the Techmarine returned. ‘Vox-transmissions between the battle-barge and crusader vessels are unaffected.’
‘My lord.’ The barbican bondsman who had been stationed by the bridge doors presented himself, pulling back his hood.
‘What is it?’
‘I realise that it’s irregular, marshal,’ the bondsman said, ‘but the battle-barge astropath craves a moment of your time. He asks for permission to enter the command deck.’
‘Does he not know we are about to enter into battle?’ Bohemond seethed. The Black Templar was furious enough with Commodore DePrasse. A detested audience with one of the only psykerbreeds allowed on board the ship would probably drive the marshal over the edge.
‘I would ordinarily forbid it, my lord,’ the bondsman said, not wishing to attract the Marshal’s ire. ‘But he insisted it was important. Something about the communications issue.’
Bohemond looked from the bondsman to Clermont, then from the castellan to Chaplain Aldemar. The Chaplain nodded slowly and solemnly.
‘Admit him,’ the marshal said.
‘Master Izericor,’ the barbican bondsman announced.
Izericor shuffled onto the bridge, his staff tapping before him across the unfamiliar command deck. He bowed and drew back his hood. Blinders, like those found on livestock, partially hid the ragged holes where the astropath’s eyes used to be.
‘You have intelligence for me?’ Bohemond snarled.
‘I have just intercepted a message, my lord,’ Izericor said with deferent enthusiasm. ‘A communiqué of such import that I risk your displeasure, marshal.’
‘Speak,’ Bohemond said with difficulty. ‘What know you of our communication difficulties?’
‘Commodore DePrasse has just received new orders from Terra, my lord,’ the psyker said. ‘Commandments that supersede your own.’
‘What new orders?’ Castellan Clermont demanded.
‘The commodore is ordered to take his flotilla to a Navy rendezvous point in the Glaucasian Gulf, as soon as possible.’