His ghost-self had only recently returned to his body and his spirit still rebelled at its incarceration in the prison of flesh. Briefly Astador considered telling Learchus what the spirits of his ancestors had shown him, but shook his head and returned his gaze to the advancing tyranids.
What would be the point in telling him?
He would not be thankful for the knowledge that his captain was going to die.
A punishing two-hour barrage of spores hammered the District Quintus wall, wreathing the ramparts in drifting clouds of toxic vapours. High winds channelled down the length of the valley dispersed much of the poisonous filth, but interspersed with the gaseous spores were those that sprayed acidic viruses upon detonation. Huge portions of the parapet dissolved into puddles of molten rock, sliding down the face of the wall like thick rivulets of wax.
A section of the southern rampart slid from the liquefying ground, sending a trio of Mortifactors tumbling to the base of the wall. They smashed through the thin ice of the moat, plunging beneath the icy waters only to rise minutes later as they swam to the surface.
Learchus watched the black-armoured Space Marines take up firing stances as the hordes of aliens surged forwards in one homogenous mass. Immediately, he could see this was no normal attack, but a concerted hammer-blow designed to smash through their defences. The smaller, leaping organisms streamed forwards, a chittering black tide that covered the ground. Gunfire hammered their numbers, but such casualties were insignificant next to the size of the overall attack.
The weight of so many creatures broke the ice of the moat with an almighty crack and thousands of organisms plunged into its subzero waters. They kept coming, the vast numbers of frozen bodies in the moat providing a means of crossing for those behind.
Giant clawed beasts with entire broods of hissing aliens encased in their armour plates charged, throwing up great chunks of ice as they powered forward. Scorpion beasts that Learchus had not seen before scuttled forward, streaming weapons formed from bony outgrowths in their midsections firing at the wall.
Lightning-sheathed beasts with vast, slashing claws slithered, snake-like, towards them, arcs of energy lashing the wall and blasting free tank-sized chunks of rockcrete.
Learchus opened a channel to Major Satria of the Erebus Defence Legion.
'Lead your men forwards now, Major. Pattern alpha one.'
'Are you sure you're ready for this, sir?' asked Major Satria as he jogged towards the wall.
'I'm sure, major. Now stop fussing,' chided Sebastien Montante as he breathlessly tried to keep up with the major and the five thousand Defence Legion troopers. His webbing was loose and he was sweating profusely in his overwhites.
His lasgun felt like it weighed as much as a lascannon, but he was glad of its reassuring feel. He felt powerful just carrying it and only hoped he remembered how to fire it when the time came to fight.
Deep in the many caves that riddled the high peaks of the eastern valley a keening screech built to a deafening howl that echoed around the upper echelons of the city. Many of the gargoyles that had penetrated the aerial cover of Erebus thanks to Simon van Gelder's treachery had been hunted down and killed, but a great many had not. The majority of these had been simple warrior organisms bred to fly, but nine had been much more.
Secreted in the deepest caves, the gargoyle brood-mothers had obeyed the overmind's command to nest and produce more of its kin. Driven into a frenzy of reproduction, the brood mothers had since expired, but not before giving birth to thousands upon thousands of offspring.
As the assault began on the wall, an implacable imperative seized the nesting gargoyles who took to the air in their thousands, and a black tide of monsters screeched from their hiding places to attack.
'You got them, lieutenant?' asked Captain Morten, tensing his fingers on the Fury's control column.
'Yes,' snarled Keill Pelaur. The attack logister can't keep up with all the signals it's getting. 'The bio-ships are altering formation to face us, but they're slow. We'll be on them before they're properly aligned.'
Morten grinned beneath his oxygen mask.
The target information on Pelaur's slate was being echoed on his own display and the sheer numbers they were about to face were beyond anything in the squadron's history.
Fitting then, that this should be its last battle.
A rune on Morten's armaments panel flashed, indicating that he was within his missiles' optimum kill range.
He opened a channel to the aircraft he led.
'All craft open fire!'
He pulled the trigger on the control column twice in quick succession, shouting, 'For the Vincennes'
Scores of missiles leapt from beneath the wings of hundreds of aircraft, streaking upwards towards the tyranid fleet. They had to punch a hole through the screen for the Thunderhawk. All other concerns were secondary.
The gap was rapidly closing between the two forces and Morten knew it would get real ugly, real quick. Even as he watched, the enemy creatures smoothly moved into blocking positions, scores of smaller, faster creatures moving to intercept them.
'Stay sharp,' called Morten, 'the enemy is turning into us.'
The initial volley had cut a swathe through the outer screen of tyranid spores, but hundreds more remained, all closing on his aerial armada. A lesser man might have been cowed, but Owen Morten was a born and bred Fury pilot who lived for combat.
He pulled into a shallow climb and armed his last missiles.
Almost as soon as he'd done so, he and his squadron were tangled up in a madly spinning dogfight with dozens of fleshy, spore creatures that spun and wove almost as fast as the Furies. Morten rolled hard left, catching sight of a speeding organism and followed it down.
'I'm too close for a missile shot!' he yelled, switching to guns as the creature tried to shake him.
Every move the creature made, the Fury was with it, spinning around like insects in a bizarre mating ritual. The beast flashed across his gunsight and he pulled the trigger.
'Got you, you bastard!' he roared as bright lasbolts ripped the tyranid beast in two.
'Captain! Break right!' screamed Pelaur as a spuming bolt of light speared past the Fury's canopy.
He pulled around and breathed deeply, amazed at how close their near miss had been. He eased back on the throttle and switched back to missiles.
A warbling tone in his ear told him the missile's war-spirit had found a target and he pulled the trigger again.
'Captain!' called Erin Harlen. 'You've got one right behind you!'
Morten hauled right and checked his rear, twisting his Fury in an attempt to shake the pursuing organism.
'I can't get rid of it!' swore Morten as the beast matched his wild manoeuvrings.
'It's firing!' shouted Pelaur.
'Breaking left!' answered Morten, rolling hard and kicking in the afterburner. He felt his flight suit expand and his heartbeat race.
A bolt of crackling energy spat below him and he spun the plane round in a screaming, tight turn, chopping the throttle and almost stalling the engine.
The creature tried to match his turn, but was too slow.
Morten rolled inverted and pulled in behind the pulsing organism, lining it up in his sights and firing.
Bolts from the lascannon shredded the creature and it exploded in a bloody spray.
Listening to the vox-chatter, he heard screams and imprecations from the rest of the aircraft. The tyranids were slaughtering them, but he couldn't think about that just now. Not while there was a battle still to be fought. But as he scanned the space before him, he could see they'd blown a gap. The Thunderhawk was streaking through it, the blue glare of its plasma engines bright against the darkness of the massive hive ship's stony carapace.