The Siege of Castellax Page 25

  Rhodaan glanced at the steaming ruin of the ork chief, then glared into Merihem’s pallid face. ‘How long have you been standing out there watching?’

  The Obliterator chuckled, a throaty sound like the gurgle of fuel in a sputtering engine. ‘Long enough,’ he answered. ‘The Legion does not tolerate weakness. It is corruption and corruption must be cut away… or buried somewhere it can be forgotten. Is not that the axiom of the Iron Warriors?’

  If his pistol had a full charge, Rhodaan believed he would have melted the smirk from Merihem’s face. It was as well the weapon was compromised. The Obliterator might still prove useful to him.

  ‘You were left behind,’ Rhodaan said. ‘Over-Captain Vallax thought you were weak.’

  Merihem chuckled again, raising an immense talon of metal and meat. ‘And he left you behind, Captain Rhodaan.’

  Rhodaan shook his head. ‘I disagreed with him. I stayed to wait for you, to lead you back.’

  The Obliterator’s steel smile grew. ‘He left you behind,’ the monster repeated. ‘You were meant to die out here with the abomination.’ Merihem’s chest bubbled and flowed, pulling back until it exposed the corroded remains of a cybernetic skull. A pseudopod of meat and plasteel extruded from the Obliterator, extending the skull towards Rhodaan.

  ‘One of Oriax’s Steel Blood,’ Merihem explained. ‘The Fabricator builds such amusing things. He calls these “Steel Blood” because there is a little of himself in each one. I found slaughtering orks tedious, so when I chanced upon this little spy, I distracted a segment of my consciousness by dissecting it. You won’t believe the things it has seen.’

  To prove his words, the Obliterator reached his talon over and activated the Steel Blood. The crystal eyes in its sockets glowed back into life, its jaws clacking together. From one of the eyes, a beam of light shone, projecting a holographic image onto the ground. Rhodaan watched in fascination as the skull’s recording played out, displaying Vallax and the other Raptors creeping down the pipe.

  At the first junction, the Iron Warriors stopped. Vallax began issuing instructions to the others. Brother Baelfegor started to protest, but some sharp reprimand brought him back in line. As Rhodaan watched the Space Marines start planting melta-charges against the walls of the pipe, he could well imagine the argument Vallax had used. There was a chance the orks could use the pipe to infiltrate Vorago and bypass the defences. Therefore, the way had to be shut. The men of Squad Kyrith had no choice but to obey.

  The Steel Blood withdrew before the final, fiery detonation collapsed the pipe and brought the street above crashing down. It didn’t matter at that point. Rhodaan had seen enough.

  ‘You see, captain,’ Merihem laughed. ‘We are both orphans, cast aside to die in disgrace and shame. How does that make you feel? Does it make you feel like your existence is a lie? Does it make you feel like an outcast? An abomination?’

  Rhodaan clenched his fist. ‘Vallax will pay,’ he vowed.

  Merihem’s oily chuckle bubbled from the speakers in his armour. ‘Revenge? What a delicious thought, captain. It can sustain a man when all else has crumbled into ash...’

  ‘Let me be, monster,’ Rhodaan snarled at the Obliterator. He hefted his chainsword, but before he could strike an undulating coil of metal whipped out from Merihem’s wrist and wound itself around his arm.

  ‘I had considered killing you, captain,’ Merihem said, tightening the coil until Rhodaan could feel ceramite plates begin to crack. ‘But you have persuaded me to let you live. Revenge is too rare a delicacy to let go to waste. It is something we share in common.’ The coil of metal retracted back into Merihem’s body, releasing the Raptor.

  ‘Shall we go?’ the Obliterator asked, extending his talon.

  ‘Where?’ Rhodaan demanded, rubbing at his arm, trying to feel if any of the armour plates had indeed cracked.

  ‘Back to Vorago,’ Merihem said. His chest bubbled and boiled, withdrawing the crushed Steel Blood back into his body. ‘There’s another way in. As I told you, you wouldn’t believe the things Oriax’s spy has seen.’

  Rhodaan’s eyes narrowed behind the lenses of his helmet. ‘You also said we share a need for revenge,’ he said, his tone full of challenge. ‘Who do you want revenge against?’

  The Obliterator turned towards him, all joviality draining from his tiny face. Merihem’s eyes were pits of blackness as he stared down at Rhodaan and answered the Iron Warrior’s question.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Warsmith Andraaz leaned against the back of his crystalline throne, his armoured fingers drumming against the arms in a steady tattoo of brooding malignance. His gaze lingered over the projected image of Vorago and the alien army laying siege to the city, studying the tallies and figures scrolling alongside the image. Casualties among the Flesh were becoming critical, draining manpower from the remaining production lines nuzzled close to the Iron Bastion in the heart of the city. Ammunition stores were being depleted at an unacceptable rate. Food stores were in such a decline that quarter rations would soon be imposed on all non-specialised personnel. Water, however, was even scarcer. Reclamation procedures had been intensified, but there was only so much that could be done to recycle the existing supply.

  Most troubling to Andraaz, however, had been the losses to the Iron Warriors. The sacrifice of a million Flesh was nothing to him, but the loss of a single legionary represented a slight against his own prestige and that of the Third Grand Company. So far, two Space Marines had been lost fighting on the walls, Captain Gamgin had executed a suicide attack and Admiral Nostraz had fallen victim to an accident in one of the flak towers while inspecting the missile batteries embedded in the roof. Each was a loss the lords of Castellax could ill afford.

  Now, to the list of casualties, Andraaz was forced to add Captain Rhodaan and Brother Merihem. Lost in the fruitless attack against the ork battlefortress, an assault that was supposed to buy the Iron Warriors the time they needed to recover from the rapid ork advance and marshal the resources necessary to go back on the offensive.

  ‘At the current rate of attrition, what are the best estimates for resistance?’ Andraaz growled, his eyes never leaving the holographic projection.

  Sergeant Ipos didn’t need the Warsmith to look at him to know the question belonged to him. ‘If losses are maintained at present levels, the Flesh will endure for another three months,’ Ipos stated. ‘However, Dread Lord, we must anticipate increased casualties from fatigue and distress when we reduce rations.’

  ‘What do you anticipate?’ Skintaker Algol asked. The slavemaster’s cloak had grown frayed and tattered in the fighting, his cringing retinue scurrying about him trying to mend the gruesome raiment.

  ‘Between a ten and twenty-five per cent increase,’ Ipos declared. ‘Those are losses strictly from debility and illness. There is no ready formula for determining how many will be lost to enemy fire from reduced alertness and stamina.’

  Vallax’s hair darkened into an almost black hue, his face curling in contempt. ‘If we depend on the Flesh, then we deserve to be defeated,’ he said. ‘Victory will not come from them. It will come from us. We have to strike at the enemy!’

  ‘We have heard this argument before,’ Morax protested, pointing a thick finger at the Over-Captain. ‘Your last raid cost us Captain Rhodaan and Merihem, not to mention four assault boats and over a dozen of my fighters. And to what effect? The orks are still on our doorstep, as belligerent as ever!’ The Skylord snapped his fingers and a pasty-faced officer from the Air Cohort stepped out from the shadow of a support column. The human bowed deeply before his master, presenting him with a gilded folio.

  ‘This is the latest aerial reconnaissance from Dirgas,’ Morax announced. ‘Gathered at extreme risk to my remaining observation ships.’ He opened the folio, spreading the parchment illuminations for the other Iron Warriors to examine. His thumb pressed down against one section of illuminated text in particular. ‘This is what is most important to us,’ he dec
lared. ‘The xenos are building another battlefortress, bigger than anything we have yet seen. Everyone in this room has fought orks before. No warlord would trust a subordinate with a weapon bigger than his own.’ Morax sneered at Vallax. ‘Biglug was never here,’ he said. ‘The bastard was down in Dirgas the whole time building this monstrosity!’

  Vallax glared back at the Skylord. He wondered how long Morax had known about this, how long he had known the raid against the battlefortress was a fool’s errand. Already, he could guess the plan Morax would propose to the Warsmith. The orks would undoubtedly try to bring the new battlefortress to Vorago. Every kilometre of the journey, the machine would be vulnerable to the Castellax Air Cohort and the planes Morax had been so conservative about deploying earlier in the campaign. The glory of driving back the orks would belong to the Skylord.

  The ghoulish servitor acting as Fabricator Oriax’s proxy approached the table, the lenses of its eyes focusing on Morax’s data-scrolls. The machine-man’s speaker crackled as its distant master reacted to the illuminated transcripts. ‘This explains intelligence gathered by the few operational Steel Blood yet within Dirgas,’ the mechanised voice declared. ‘Biglug must indeed be there and he must intend to use this new battlefortress to deliver the final blow against Vorago.’

  Morax folded his arms across his chest, revelling in the approbation of his chief detractor among the Third Grand Company’s hierarchy. The servitor’s next transmission, however, turned the Skylord’s blood cold.

  ‘Only the presence of Biglug could explain the stores of aviation fuel the xenos are storing in Dirgas,’ the servitor stated. ‘No other warboss would be powerful enough to restrain so many of the xenos squadrons. There is only one conclusion to be reached. The warlord is forcing a mass concentration of his air power to provide his land fortress with protection when it leaves Dirgas.’

  Vallax wasted no time pouncing on the opportunity Oriax’s statement presented. ‘It is vital then that we strike while Biglug is still in Dirgas. A lightning raid against the battlefortress. Kill the warlord before he leaves the city!’

  ‘We have already tried that…’ Morax started to object, but fell silent when Andraaz lifted his hand.

  The Warsmith scowled at his bickering commanders. It was useful to keep them at each other’s throats, but there were times when the consequent lack of cohesion was troublesome. ‘An attack against the battlefortress would be costly and with no guarantee of catching the warlord,’ he said. ‘The surest way of destroying the machine would be through aerial bombardment. Even if the warlord were absent, loss of the battlefortress would impose a delay in its attack plans.’

  ‘What about the ork planes?’ Ipos wondered.

  Andraaz stared at Vallax. ‘The orks won’t be able to fly without fuel,’ he said. ‘It will be the role of the Raptors to strike the fuel stores Oriax has located. Eliminate the fuel and we ground the xenos planes. If the orks wait to stockpile more, then we gain the time we need. If they rush ahead, then they leave their battlefortress exposed to Morax’s bombers.’

  The Warsmith raised one of his claws, shaking it at Vallax. ‘You have been granted a rare opportunity to redeem yourself, Over-Captain. Do not squander it.’

  Vallax bowed before his overlord. ‘I will honour my duty, Dread Lord.’

  ‘You will do more than that,’ Andraaz warned. ‘You will return to the Iron Bastion in triumph.’ The Warsmith’s voice dropped into a menacing growl. ‘Triumph, Vallax, or do not come back at all.’

  Brother Uhlan was uneasy as he prowled the halls of the Iron Bastion. The blood of one mameluke who strayed too close to the legionary still dripped from the Raptor’s gauntlet, each drop being sucked down in the proto-synthetics which covered the upper halls. Marching across the fur-like morass of plastic fibres was like gliding across the top of a pond, conveying a peculiar deception of weightlessness. A Space Marine, conditioned not merely to function but to fight in zero-gravity environments, didn’t find the sensation very discomfiting, but the Flesh, without the benefit of such training, with their fragile little bodies of meat and superstition, they would find the effect debilitating. The coverings were one of the more subtle safeguards in place within the Iron Bastion to defend against a slave revolt. No Flesh, however determined and insane, would be able to withstand the effects of the proto-synthetics.

  Flesh, however, was not Uhlan’s concern at the moment. Not even the ork hordes were foremost in his thoughts. His worries were focused firmly upon Iron. Namely upon Over-Captain Vallax.

  Intriguing against the Over-Captain had been reckless, Uhlan appreciated that now. Vallax had exploited his authority and position to dispose of Rhodaan. The hopes the half-breed had pinned upon Rhodaan had perished with the captain. They were buried with the ambitious officer out there in the wasteland, forgotten and forsaken on the battlefield.

  The hours since returning to Vorago had given Uhlan time to think about his position and his future. He had dared aspire to ambitions beyond the reach of a half-breed Raptor. Indeed, he had clung so fervently to those ambitions that he had even argued with Vallax against demolishing the escape route behind them. That had been a mistake. Uhlan had seen the suspicion in Vallax’s eyes.

  No, ambition was forgotten now. What was uppermost in Uhlan’s thoughts was survival. Rhodaan’s fate had given him a very clear example of how Vallax disposed of his enemies – at least once they were no longer useful. At the moment, Uhlan was trying very hard to find a way to be useful to his Over-Captain.

  The emaciated servitor surged out from a niche cut into the ferrocrete wall, its chassis deeply engraved to match the murals etched across the walls. Its cadaverous face stared blankly from its brazen setting, scenes of battle stained across its features. One of its metal armatures extended across the corridor, blocking the way. It was a feeble obstacle, Uhlan could have snapped the arm in half without breaking a sweat. Doing so, however, would send alarms racing through the entire tower. The halls leading up to the Chamber of the Speaker were lined with such sentinels. Those higher up were better armed and even more cunningly concealed, designed not merely to challenge an errant Iron Warrior, but to eliminate him.

  Uhlan had no need to go further up the hall. The first servitor was the only one he needed to seek out. Staring into the lenses glowing from the servitor’s eye sockets, the Raptor intoned the cumbersome equations of a Lingua-Technis code. By way of response, the servitor shuddered, almost as if in the grip of a fit. When the episode passed, it leered ahead, lenses scanning the Iron Warrior’s face. Uhlan could not shake the impression that it was more than a mere machine, that a cruel intelligence now stared at him from behind the servitor’s face.

  ‘Brother Uhlan,’ the servitor’s vox-caster crackled. ‘You have something to report?’

  Uhlan nodded his head. ‘Yes, Fabricator Oriax,’ he said. ‘Over-Captain Vallax has been given a mandate from the Warsmith. He is to lead a raid against the enemy in Dirgas.’

  ‘This much is already known to me,’ Oriax’s voice stated.

  ‘Yes, of course, Fabricator,’ Uhlan said. ‘But what you do not know is that Over-Captain Vallax feels there is no hope of achieving our objective. Not without assistance.’ The Iron Warrior hesitated before continuing, wondering even before he spoke if he had assumed too much. ‘I have been of use to you before, Fabricator. You have said that while I function I have purpose. Vallax believes his mission to be a suicide run and is making his plans accordingly. With the proper support – your support, Fabricator – he might…’

  A crackle of static hissed through the servitor’s speaker. ‘Humility, Uhlan Half-breed? No contempt from the Space Marine who stands proud in battle against the Fabricator, buried in his sanctum with his machines? Your need must indeed be great.’

  Uhlan coughed, choking on the rage boiling up inside him. Yes, he was a half-breed, inferior to those crafted from pure gene-seed, but he was at least an Iron Warrior. Oriax was nothing but a metal maggot, a toad chewing at t
he roots of the Iron Bastion. It offended the very core of his being to grovel before such a creature. Yet he knew he must grovel if he was to avoid a useless death on the funeral pyre Vallax was preparing.

  ‘The Third Grand Company will be ill-served by the useless sacrifice of its Raptors,’ Uhlan said.

  ‘Did you know that Captain Rhodaan has returned?’ Oriax abruptly asked. ‘Climbed through an old service catacomb in the Epsilon sector. Can’t imagine how he found it.’

  The news sent Uhlan’s mind racing. If Rhodaan was alive then the entire situation might change. Warsmith Andraaz might favour him ahead of Vallax, put him in command of the raid. The realisation only brought more bitterness in Uhlan’s heart. Rhodaan was sure to use his new position to avenge himself on Vallax, and the best way to conceal that revenge was to send the rest of the Faceless to share the Over-Captain’s doom. Uhlan had dared to manipulate Rhodaan against Vallax in hopes of bringing down his hated commander. Now he would share in that destruction.

  The servitor retracted back into the niche. ‘Tell Vallax I will support him,’ Oriax said. ‘I will send something to guide him to my sanctum.’

  Uhlan stared in disbelief at the servitor. In all his centuries, he had never heard of anyone being invited into the Fabricator’s sanctum. Perhaps Warsmith Andraaz had seen it, but certainly no other Iron Warrior. At once, Uhlan appreciated the magnitude of the aid Oriax was offering.

  ‘I will tell him,’ Uhlan vowed, clamping his fist to his chest.

  The servitor’s lenses shifted in their sockets, fixing him in a mechanical stare. ‘Impress upon Vallax the urgency of his situation. The return of Rhodaan changes everything. If he accepts failure, then he abandons the glories of victory to others. You would do well to remind him of this.’

  The lenses seemed to sparkle, the voice from the vox-caster dropped to a whisper. ‘Your fate is joined with that of Squad Vidarna, Brother Uhlan. All of you are creatures of Vallax in Captain Rhodaan’s mind. Do not forget that.’