‘Whose authority is carried by this communiqué?’ Bohemond asked.
‘The message bears the telesignature of Teegas Urelia, astrotelepath to Lord High Admiral Lansung himself.’
‘They’re playing for time,’ Clermont said. ‘They don’t know what to do for the best: disobey an order or offend the Adeptus Astartes.’
Marshal Bohemond suddenly took to his feet, prompting even the blind Izericor to step back.
‘Send a telepathic communiqué to the chief astropath aboard the Magnificat,’ Bohemond said, his voice low and furious. ‘Tell him that I want an explanation from his master presently or I am coming over to the flagship myself.’
‘Marshal…’ the castellan started.
‘Do it!’ Bohemond bellowed, causing the astropath to jump.
‘As you command,’ Izericor replied.
‘The enemy lines,’ Techmarine Kant announced. ‘Brace for impact.’
While the bondsmen and servitors reached out for handles and restraints, the Black Templars rode out the tremor, the magnetic soles of their boots keeping them in place. The forward void shields flashed and flared with a storm of impacts. First came a short range wave of torpedoes, kamikaze bombcraft and macrocannon blasts. This onslaught was followed by beak-prowed gunships and ramming hulks that would have delivered their brute cargoes of boarding orks if they hadn’t detonated against the intensity of the battle-barge’s void shields. As the Abhorrence ploughed on through the crude belligerence of greenskin engineering and weaponry, the aggression and monstrous bulk of the opposing vessels increased, with cruisers and gun-hulks manoeuvring into the battle-barge’s irresistible path.
‘Marshal,’ Clermont called as an obscenity masquerading as a battlecruiser drifted a rusted broadside before the Black Templars battle-barge. Bohemond nodded.
‘Explain it to these savages,’ the Marshal sneered.
Clermont jabbed his gauntlet at several bridge bondsmen. ‘Ready bombardment cannon.’
‘Weapon standing by, castellan.’
‘Fire!’
The battle-barge bucked as its dorsal cannon fired, sending a magma-bomb warhead streaking ahead of the prow. As it struck the ork battlecruiser, a searing explosion rippled through the reinforced scrap of the derelict’s side. The mountain of salvage broke away in two sections, between which the Abhorrence charged on.
‘Is it done?’ Bohemond demanded.
‘It is, my lord,’ the battle-barge’s astropath answered.
Moments passed. Wreckage drifted clear of the lancet screens. Explosions flashed and rumbled before the void shields. Greenskin gunships drew in with their puncture-prows and grapnels, like predators of the deep.
‘Vox-transmission from the Magnificat, marshal,’ a bondsmen broke the silence on the bridge. ‘Flag Lieutenant Esterre.’
Clermont saw the flutter of cold fury pass across his marshal’s grizzled features.
‘Put the flag lieutenant on the loudhailer,’ Bohemond commanded.
After a brief burst of static, a patrician voice cut across the command deck.
‘Am I addressing Marshal Bohemond?’
‘The question, flag lieutenant,’ Bohemond rumbled, ‘is why on Terra aren’t I addressing your commodore?’
‘Commodore DePrasse is currently indisposed, marshal,’ the flag lieutenant explained with silky authority. ‘Please accept his humble apologies.’
‘I am waging war against the xenos as we speak,’ Bohemond told him, ‘yet I am still in contact with force contingents — as protocols dictate.’
‘Again, marshaclass="underline" please accept my apologies.’
‘Damnation take your apologies,’ Bohemond boomed. ‘You think it prudent to lie to an Adeptus Astartes?’
The vox-stream went silent. There was no protocol for this. ‘This is the heat of battle, lieutenant. We do not have time for anything other than the truth: cold and swift. Think before you answer. I hold all of the Emperor’s subjects accountable for their actions — and inaction. Have no doubt, for the Black Templars, the latter is the graver offence.’
Lieutenant Esterre seemed to take a moment. Perhaps he was considering his future in the Imperial Navy. Perhaps he was simply considering his future. Perhaps he was conferring with a peer or superior.
‘We have received a recall, Marshall,’ Esterre told him, the truth uneasy on his lips. ‘The Lord High Admiral himself requires the commodore and his flotilla at a rendezvous above Lepidus Prime. We have no choice: it’s a vermillion-level order.’
‘And I’m not suggesting you don’t follow it, lieutenant,’ Bohemond said. ‘Attend your rendezvous, haul off to Lepidus Prime — just after the completion of this action. When victory is in our grasp and the enemy threat eradicated.’
Static. Silence.
‘Lieutenant, this is Castellan Clermont. We need Magnificat’s heavy guns. We need the Preservatorio and Falchiax. We need the Thunderfall’s lances. We cannot crack the xenos attack moon without them. We can’t do it.’
‘My lords,’ Flag Lieutenant Esterre came back, ‘I suspect there is little that the Adeptus Astartes cannot do.’
‘Then you know how much it pains a son of Dorn to admit as much,’ Clermont retorted. ‘Your vermillion-level order no doubt concerns manoeuvres reacting to this new enemy threat.’
‘The threat is here, Esterre,’ Bohemond said. ‘Why pull corewards when we can end these mongrelbreeds here on the segmentum rim?’
‘I’m sorry, marshal,’ Esterre said finally. ‘I really am. We all have our orders. Commodore DePrasse intends to follow his. Magnificat out.’
‘Esterre…’ Marshall Bohemond roared. His anger echoed about the cavernous command deck.
‘He’s gone,’ a bondsman informed him. ‘Vox-link broken from their end. The Magnificat is hauling off.’
‘Open channel,’ Clermont ordered. ‘All frequencies. Captains and commanders: this is the battle-barge Abhorrence requesting fire support, coordinates three, fifty-six, fifty-two. We are under attack. We are invoking section four-two-seven of the Vortangelo-Heidrich Proclamation signed by Marshal Grigchter and Grand Admiral Hadrian Okes-Martin during the Auriga Wars. This is Abhorrence, requesting fire support.’
Clermont waited. About the battle-barge, turrets cut through boarding rocks and breaching capsules. Broadsides crashed through terror ships and gun-hulks. A sea of wreckage and void mines tested the battle-barge’s forward shields, with the Abhorrence’s prow forced to crash through the crowded chaos.
‘Preservatorio, hauling off, sir,’ a bondsman announced. ‘Thunderfall, hauling off. Falchiax, hauling off…’
Clermont looked to his marshal. Bohemond had slammed his armoured form back into his pulpit-throne.
‘Marshal,’ the castellan said. ‘Without the Magnificat or the commodore’s cruisers, we cannot hope to damage the xenos abomination.’
‘Oligarch Constantius, hauling off,’ the bondsman droned. ‘Ministering Angel, hauling off. Morning Star, hauling off. Tiberius Rex, hauling off.’
‘Marshal…’
‘Who’s still with us?’ Bohemond murmured.
‘Marshal…’
‘With which vessels do we still keep attendance, castellan?’ the marshal insisted.
After conferring with the bridge bondsman, Clermont said: ‘The Aquillon — Dictator-class cruiser, Captain Grenfell. The Firebrand — Lancet-class corvette, Commander Ulanti. Neither vessel fields lance decks.’
Bohemond clasped the arms of his throne with both gauntlets. The alloy of the pulpit-seat creaked beneath the pressure. His good eye was set in an unswerving gaze on the enemy attack moon. The marshal’s face was bathed in red as emergency lamps and alarms erupted across the command deck.