The air tasted strange on Ragnar's tongue. He looked around and saw men sprawled upon the deck. Two of the tech-priests were in convulsions, sparks flying from their augmented eyes and foam speckling their lips. Even Torin and Haegr were on their hands and knees, shaking their heads drunkenly from the shock of the brief transit. Inquisitor Volt was climbing slowly to his feet, his mouth working in a silent prayer.
Red light flooded through the viewports, thick as congealed blood. Ragnar brought his head around and forced his eyes to focus on the realm beyond the stricken ship. He saw the dark curve of a world, like a sphere of ebon glass. Skeins of purple lightning ravelled across its surface, silhouetting vast, arrowhead shapes drifting like leviathans high above the shadow world.
The sky was full of Chaos ships.
TWELVE
No Matter the Cost
The last salvo of the rebel barrage landed right on target, bursting along the entire length of the Imperial barricades blocking the Angelus Causeway. Huge siege mortar rounds and Earthshaker cannon shells blew gouts of pulverised ferrocrete and structural steel dozens of metres into the air and turned human bodies into clouds of blood and vaporised flesh. Ten metres to Mikal Sternmark's right, a bunker made of salvaged masonry and quick-setting ceramite compound took a direct hit and vanished in a cloud of grey smoke and razor-edged shrapnel. Guardsmen manning firing positions to either side of the bunker were tossed into the air like broken dolls, their armour melted and their clothes alight.
Nearly three weeks of constant shelling had turned the once-prosperous commercial district that lined the causeway into a nightmare landscape of gutted buildings and smoking, debris-lined craters. The causeway itself passed through the centre of the Imperial lines. Fed by four major transit lines, the broad, six-lane road was made to ferry the produce of Charys's sprawling agri-complexes into the arms of the mercantile syndicates at the nearby starport. Columns of local granite had been raised along the entire length of the causeway, topped by severe-looking angels bearing the scales of commerce or the upraised sword of war. Nearly all of the angels had been destroyed during the long weeks of combat: all save one, who seemed to tower defiantly over the right end of the Imperials' defensive line, his sword raised to strike down the Emperor's foes.
The defenders had built their barricade from the carcasses of the bombed-out buildings that lined the causeway. Heavy slabs of ferrocrete had been dragged into place by cargo walkers brought up from the star-port, and engineering teams had gone to work constructing firing steps and gun pits out of masonry and layers of flakboard. The line of fortifications stretched for a full kilometre, from one side of the causeway to the other. An entire regiment, the Hyrkoon Grenadiers, one of Athelstane's veteran units, had been ordered to hold the causeway at all costs. A full platoon of Leman Russ battle tanks had been assigned to support the defenders, their squat, blocky turrets rising threateningly from ferrocrete revetments built just behind the barricade. From their firing steps, the defenders could see for almost two kilometres down the wide, flat causeway. It was an ideal killing ground, one that any sane commander would dread having to cross, but it also stretched from the city like an out-thrust spear, reaching right for the heart of the Imperial forces on Charys. If the enemy forced open the causeway they could reach the star-port in little over an hour.
Sternmark had no doubt that the causeway would be the traitors' main objective. He and his Wolf Guard had joined the surviving members of Einar's pack just as the first enemy shells had begun to fall. Now, amid the deafening thunder of the rebel bombardment, his enhanced senses detected a different timbre to the impacts landing on the far side of the barricade. Sternmark placed a boot on the firing step and raised his head above the lip of the stone embrasure. A thick wall of grey vapour was swelling silently across the concertina wire and tank traps laid before the barricade, fuelled by the bursts of dozens of rebel smoke rounds. At the same time, the roll of artillery blasts dwindled, and beyond the wall of smoke Sternmark heard the distant growl of petrochem engines and the war-shouts of the rebel host.
A grim smile touched the corners of the Wolf Guard's soot stained face. He keyed his vox-unit. 'Here they come!' he called out, both for the benefit of his battle-brothers and for the platoons of Guardsmen huddled against the fortifications to Sternmark's left and right. 'Stand ready!'
Shouted orders echoed thinly along the barricade as sergeants broke the spell of the enemy barrage with a shower of fiery curses and got the men onto their feet. The long, grey line seemed to swarm with darkly coloured beetles as the grenadiers scrambled onto the parapet and readied their weapons. The cries of wounded men rang shrilly through the air, mingled with angry shouts and the piping notes of officers' whistles. Not far from Sternmark one of the Leman Russ battle tanks started its engine with a throaty roar, its turret tracking slowly from left to right as its gunner sought targets beyond the curtain of smoke.
Frantic activity swirled about Sternmark's towering figure. A priest staggered from a makeshift shelter no bigger than a penitent's cell, furiously chanting the Litanies of Extermination. A young grenadier, barely old enough to serve, clambered over the debris behind the barricade and picked through the body parts of his dead comrades in search of spare power packs for his squad mates. A trio of soldiers grappled with a tripod-mounted autocannon, struggling to lift it back into position after it had been dislodged by a shell impact. More grenadiers raced past the towering Space Wolf from shelters further to the rear, and climbed awkwardly onto the firing step. Rifles were checked. Some men laid grenades on the chipped stone parapet where they would be close to hand. Bayonets were pulled from their sheaths and locked in place. A tall, cadaverous-looking sergeant strode quickly along the line, eyeing the grenadiers' preparations with a practised eye.
Volleys of crackling red las-bolts began lashing their way through the smoke, detonating against the stone barricades or buzzing angrily overhead. Bursts of shells kicked up puffs of dust or ricocheted crazily off the edges of the parapet. The roar of the engines was closer now, as well as the demented howls of the rebel infantry.
Sternmark closed his hand around Redclaw's hilt and drew the great blade from its scabbard. Sunlight played along the mirror finish of its edge and the runes carved along its length. He held the sword up and rested his forehead against the flat of the blade. Then he closed his eyes and offered up prayers to Russ and the Allfather. When he was done he thumbed the sword's activation rune and felt the familiar hum of its power field sweep reassuringly up his arm. A sense of calm settled like a mantle onto the Wolf Guard's shoulders. For the first time in almost a month, the anger and frustration that had gripped him at the command bunker receded from his mind. On the verge of battle, he felt whole once more.
Looking left and right, he could just see Haakon and Snurri. His battle-brothers were a hundred metres to either side, and the Wolf Guard and Einar's pack was stretched thin along the entire length of the barricade, ready to lend their strength to any breach in the line. Sternmark considered keying his vox and shouting words of encouragement to his brothers, but nothing came to mind. He had never been much good with words, and besides, what was there left to say? While he'd been driving himself mad with route maps and logistical tables they had been out on the front lines, doing the work of warriors. They knew what was at stake far better than he did.
Ahead, the smoke was thinning. Sternmark could see the dark shapes of Chimera APCs heading down the causeway towards him, their multilasers and heavy bolters spitting fire. Platoons of infantrymen ran along in their wake, snapping off wild shots with their lasguns as they advanced.
Bolts of energy tore through the air around Sternmark, and the Imperial defenders opened fire, unleashing a storm of energy bolts and deadly shells into the ranks of the oncoming enemy. A Chimera was struck by a lascannon beam and lurched to a stop, smoke pouring from its burst hatches. Men staggered and fell as lasgun beams or heavy stubber shells found their marks. The foe pressed on, drawing closer to the barricades with each passing moment.
Sternmark raised his sword heavenward and began the battle chant of his ancestors. Looking up at the iron-grey sky he thought of Ragnar, and wondered if the young Space Wolf and his companions were still alive.
The fleet of Chaos ships turned upon the Fist of Russ, trailing glittering arcs of grave-light from their thrusters as they broke orbit, and closed on the Imperial battle cruiser like a swarm of hungry sea drakes. Bolts of pulsing light stabbed from the weapon batteries studding the hulls of the Chaos ships, but their aim was wide and the first salvoes streaked harmlessly into the battle cruiser's wake.
'Helm, hard to port!' Shipmaster Wulfgar roared from the command pulpit. His voice was calm and assured, but the bondsman's knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the lectern. 'Ahead full! All batteries fire as you bear!' The master of the ship glanced at Ragnar, and then turned and fixed his engineering officer with a commanding glare. 'Run the reactors at one hundred and twenty per cent.'
The engineering officer paled, but nodded nevertheless. 'Reactor at one-twenty, aye,' he confirmed, 'but the containment wards won't hold for long.'
'Very well,' Wulfgar replied, as the battle cruiser started her turn. Deep, groaning sounds echoed aft from the engineering decks as the warship increased power, her tortured superstructure suffering under the strain. Thunder rang through the deckplates as the first of the enemy salvos struck home against the warship's weakened shields.
Ragnar's mind raced as he studied the nearby plot table and studied the flashing lines marking the courses and positions of the Chaos ships. The Fist of Russ was turning its armoured prow to the oncoming enemy ships, but within moments the battle cruiser would be surrounded and vulnerable. His worried glance fell on the still-sealed Navigator's vault. Then he addressed the ship's master. 'We can be at the hangar deck and launch our Thunderhawk in ten minutes,' he said. 'Alter your course and open the range, Shipmaster Wulfgar. We can slip past the Chaos ships in the confusion and make planetfall.'
Wulfgar glowered at the young Space Wolf. 'You wouldn't last ten seconds, lord,' he said with a snort. 'We've got to get you as close to the planet as we can before you launch, or they'll blow you apart.' Greenish light flickered through the high viewports as an enemy salvo flashed past the battle cruiser's bridge. Wulfgar turned back to the command lectern. 'Once we're through and you're on your way, we'll come hard about and jump again. With Loki's luck we'll still be in one piece when we come out on the other side.'
A series of deafening blasts battered the port bow of the stricken battle cruiser. Men were thrown to the deck by the impart. Only Ragnar's speed and strength kept him upright, although his grip creased the command deck's metal rail. A bloom of orange and red swelled in slow motion on the port side of the warship, just aft of the armoured prow. Ragnar saw molten hull plating streak like meteors down the length of the battle cruiser and tumble into the void.
'Shields have failed!' cried the ship's deck officer. 'Augurs report an enemy ship dead ahead, coming about on a collision course! We have to come about—'
'Steady as she goes!' Wulgar roared back as he pulled himself to his feet. The ship's master pressed a hand to a cut, smearing blood across his forehead. 'Dorsal lance battery, fire at will!'
Ragnar could see the Chaos ship now, a distant, arrowhead shape, glimmering with pale, unnatural light. It lay squarely in the battle cruiser's path, firing bolt after bolt at the Imperial ship's prow. The young Space Wolf shook his head. 'A single lance won't be enough, Shipmaster Wulfgar,' he said.
'So now you're a ship master, lord?' Wulfgar snapped, but he gave the young Space Wolf a fierce grin. 'They suspect what we're doing, and they're moving to stop us. If we alter our course even a single degree it will make the task of reaching orbit that much harder.' The bondsman shook his head. 'No. We'll plough right through that bastard if he doesn't bear away. You have my oath on it!'
A cyan flare from beyond the viewport showed that the battie cruiser's remaining lance battery had gone into action. The arcs of voltaic force leapt across hundreds of kilometres in the blink of an eye, and flared in a raging storm against the shields of the onrushing Chaos ship. The battery charged and fired again within seconds, and once more the powerful beam weapon battered against the still-glowing curve of the enemy cruiser's void shield, until it failed in a blaze of light.
More explosions battered the flanks of the Imperial ship. Sparks showered from a power conduit along the starboard bulkhead, and alarms began to wail across the command deck. Wulfgar quickly checked the readouts on the command lectern, and his expression turned grim. 'Engineering, increase reactor output to one hundred and thirty-five per cent. Helm, bring us to ramming speed.'
The Fist of Russ was almost completely surrounded and taking fire from all sides. Her surviving batteries answered, and the space around them was so dense with enormous ships that every shot found a target. Macro cannon shells smashed aside enemy shields and blasted deep craters in the flanks of the Chaos ships. One cruiser sheered abruptly to starboard, streaming molten debris from a blast that had smashed its command deck. Its sudden manoeuvre carried it directly into the path of another Chaos ship, and the two collided in a spectacular eruption of blazing plasma, and shorn hull plating. However, deprived of her shields, the damage to the ancient battle cruiser was mounting swiftly. Fiery explosions rippled along the length of her hull, and she bled ragged streamers of burning oxygen that tangled in her wake.
Then, like a wounded bear, the Fist of Russ surged forward, her surviving thrusters blazing. Caught unawares by the sudden change of speed, many of the enemy salvoes fell harmlessly behind her as she bore down on the lone enemy vessel in her path. The two ships closed the distance rapidly, still blasting away at one another with their remaining weapons. Lance fire had wrought terrible damage along the Chaos ship's bow, and the battle cruiser's armoured prow and superstructure had been repeatedly cratered by high-energy bolts.
The Chaos ship swelled in the battle cruiser's forward viewports. 'Sound collision!' Shipmaster Wulfgar cried. 'For Russ and the Allfather!'
Ragnar had just enough time to grip the command deck rail with both hands and check to make sure that Gabriella was still sealed in her vault, before the two ships collided.
Though the Fist of Russ was burned and broken, she was still a massive ship, weighing tens of millions of tonnes. The armoured prow of the battle cruiser struck the cruiser's bow and split it open like a rotten fruit. Crumpled hull-plates and shorn bracing beams burst outward from the impact, propelled by a cloud of superheated metal and escaping gas. The Imperial ship tore through the cruiser from stem to stern, plunging like an iron tipped spear thrust by a wrathful god.
The wounded battle cruiser suffered too. Ragnar was thrown hard against the deck rail and the air reverberated with the groan of tortured metal and the scream of tearing hull plates. Several of the bridge officers were thrown forward by the impact, hurled over the deck rail and onto the bridge crew below. Sparks exploded from a pair of overhead conduits, and then suddenly the lights went out. Ragnar heard screams of pain and terror, and the deck trembled with powerful explosions from deep below decks.
Then, with a flare of multicoloured light, the Chaos ship's reactor exploded, wreathing the forward end of the battle cruiser in fire. The Fist of Russ shuddered, and Ragnar felt an ominous tremor pass along the warship's battered keel. Then, all was silent, save for the faint cries of the wounded.
Red emergency lighting slowly illuminated the command deck. A faint haze of acrid smoke hung in the air. Ragnar surveyed the deck in the dim light and was amazed to find many of the crew still at their stations, working hard to keep the warship in the fight. Shipmaster Wulfgar still stood at the command pulpit, bent with pain, but quickly scanning the readouts on the lectern before him. 'Damage report,' he ordered in a raspy voice.
'We are on emergency reserve power,' the damage control officer replied. 'No one is responding on the engineering deck, but indications are that the reactors have failed. There are reports of multiple fires below decks, but most of our damage control stations are not responding.'
Wulfgar nodded. 'What about the hangar decks?'
The damage control officer checked his gauges. 'Both hangar decks report ready, though I don't know for how much longer.'
Ragnar listened to the exchange and felt a cold ball of dread settle in his stomach. 'What does this mean, Shipmaster Wulfgar?' he asked, even though he already suspected he knew the answer.
Wulfgar slowly straightened and addressed the young Space Wolf. His face was pale, and a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. 'It means we've gone as far as we're able,' the bondsman said. 'Take your lady and make for the hangar deck as fast as you can. There's not much time.'
Ragnar felt a surge of desperation. He glanced back at the Navigator's vault and saw that the armoured containment system was already starting to cycle open. 'But the jump—'
The master of the ship shook his head. 'We can't make the jump now that the reactors have failed.' Wulfgar replied. 'Now go, lord! Get to the surface and do what you came to do. We'll cover you for as long as we can.'
Ragnar bared his teeth in a silent snarl. 'I'll take your engineering officer and we'll try to reach the reactors. We can make repairs—'
'No,' Inquisitor Volt said. His voice was sombre, but there was cold steel in his tone. 'Shipmaster Wulfgar is right. We must reach the shadow world and confront Madox, or all of this is for nothing.'