Ravenwing, Page 2

  Sammael paused, waiting for the chronometer displayed above the assault ramp of the gunship to reach the appointed hour. As the red numerals ticked over and turned green, he laid a hand upon the aquila symbol embossed upon the gorget of his armour.

  ‘Warriors of the Dark Angels, attack!’

  Thunderhawk Insertion

  Sitting on the inner bench of the Thunderhawk’s transport chamber, his armour joints locked into position, Brother Telemenus barely felt the swaying and buffeting of the drop-ship as it crashed down through the planet’s atmosphere. Beyond the armoured window opposite he saw the sky on fire, a sheet of orange and yellow carpeting the heavens as the Penitent Warrior powered out of the upper atmosphere on plumes of plasma.

  As the dark of near-space resolved into the cyan hue of thicker gases, Telemenus caught glimpses of drop pods, hurtling past as dark blurs, and the shape of other Thunderhawks plunging towards planetfall. Dragging his eyes from the stirring view, Telemenus attended to the bolter held across his lap. Around him the other members of the three squads embarked upon the gunship made their final checks too. Though he had thrice run through the rituals before boarding the Thunderhawk, Telemenus once more cleared the magazine and inspected the breach for obstructions. He disengaged the locking pins and used the magnification of his autosenses to look for small pieces of dirt that may have been picked up from the exhaust smoke of the Ravenwing’s vehicles. Satisfied that his weapon was clean, he locked the magazine back into place.

  ‘Let us hope that the Ravenwing leave some foes for us,’ he said, turning his head to the right to look at Sergeant Amanael.

  ‘The Second Company are not famed for their generosity,’ replied Amanael. ‘We can but wish that the enemy see sense and flee from their attack into our deadly welcome.’

  ‘I am convinced that it shall be as you hope,’ said Brother Cadael, sitting on Telemenus’s left. ‘These rebels are cowards at heart. They will attempt to fall back at the first sign of retribution. Such faithless men lack true conviction of purpose.’

  ‘And we shall not be swayed from ours,’ said Telemenus. ‘I am but seventeen kills from achieving the honour of First Marksman. I would see that accomplished before the mission is complete.’

  ‘An honour that would bring credit to the whole squad,’ said Amanael. There was good humour in his voice. ‘Yet do not think that we will leave our targets to your attention to see it bestowed.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to leave some foes for you to practise your art upon whilst completing my tally, do not fear,’ Telemenus replied with a laugh. ‘My glory will be tempered by the knowledge that if I miss my mark you have opportunity to improve lacking aim and might one day equal my standard.’

  ‘Take not credit for yourself that belongs to the artifice of your helm,’ argued Brother Daellon, who had long contested that Telemenus’ remarkable accuracy was the result of superior optics in his battlegear rather than the result of long hours’ dedication to firing drill coupled with a calm head.

  ‘And do not be so eager for painted honours that you are sparing in your attention to wider battle,’ said Amanael, his voice carrying soft warning.

  ‘Put aside such fears, brother-sergeant,’ said Telemenus. He raised his right arm, showing on the vambraces a winged sword picked out in silver, a red star upon the blade. ‘I would not add laurel to this at expense of duty. Nor would I see such honour engraved upon my tomb slab in place of decoration for my armour.’

  A data-screen flickered into life at the head of the compartment, silencing the talk. The display resolved into a schematic of Hadria Praetoris, the rebel-held city that would be the target of the Dark Angels’ attack. The view zoomed in and panned across to the eastern flank of the city, where the insurrectionists had made their stand in a series of fortified villas on the city outskirts. In the absence of the company commander, Grand Master Zadakiel, mission leadership of the Fifth Company had been conferred to Sergeant Seraphiel, the most senior warrior present. It was his voice that sounded over the comm-net, repeating the briefing given aboard the Penitent Warrior.

  The battle plan was simple but had proven effective in countless joint-company actions in the Chapter’s past. The Dark Angels of the Fifth Company were being deployed under cover of darkness, in a line to the north and west of the target buildings, where they would create prepared positions. The Ravenwing would assemble to the south and east and attack in a dawn spearhead, driving the enemy towards Telemenus and his fellow Space Marines. The shock and speed of the Ravenwing assault would swiftly break the enemy’s fighting spirit and the resultant rout would take any survivors directly into the guns of the waiting Dark Angels. If the Ravenwing were to meet stubborn resistance and their attack stalled – an unlikely circumstance in Telemenus’s experience – the Fifth Company warriors would push in from their positions and catch the enemy between the two forces.

  As each sergeant sounded off the deployment schedules and dispositions of their individual squads, runes denoting each group of warriors flashed into existence on the schematic. Telemenus noted that he and the rest of Third Squad would be at the western end of the line, flanked only by Sergeant Athrael’s devastators. Theirs was a lynchpin position securing the flank of the force, and it was proof of Sergeant Seraphiel’s estimation of their resolve that they were assigned such an honourable duty, but Telemenus considered his chances of achieving his First Marksman’s honour diminished; the fiercest fighting would be at the centre.

  Outside, the sky darkened again as the Thunderhawk formation passed across the terminator into night. An alert in Telemenus’s helm display warned him that they were fifteen minutes from planetfall. All intelligence had suggested that the rebels lacked long-range monitoring equipment and the passage of the gunships would go undetected, but there was always the risk that some observant lookout might see the streak of engines in the upper air and not mistake them for shooting stars. The dropsite would be considered hostile until secured, and the strike force would be on constant alert from the moment they touched down, anticipating enemy attack.

  ‘Let the Ravenwing race and roar about as is their wont,’ concluded Seraphiel. ‘We gladly bestow to them the mantle of hammer to our anvil, for the hammer is worthless without a foundation against which it will strike. Stay true to your oaths and to your brothers and we will return to Grand Master Zadakiel with a new honour to place upon the battle standard of the Fifth.’

  ‘Praise the Lion!’ Telemenus added his voice to the time-honoured chorus that concluded the briefing. ‘For the Emperor!’

  First Drop

  Situated atop three hills, the compounds of the rebels were grey, walled forts ringed with towers connected by covered trenchworks. Gun emplacements broke the line of the walls and armoured gatehouses barred the road bridges between them.

  As the first glow of dawn touched upon the walls of the easternmost fort, the fury of the Dark Angels fell upon the keeps of Hadria Praetoris like a storm of vengeance. In the skies above the compounds, attack craft plunged down, appearing as a storm of shadowy blades against the gold-tinged clouds. Black-hulled Thunderhawks swooped after the fighters, plasma jets bright in the dawn. Around them plummeted drop pods and entry-shielded Land Speeders.

  As the arrestor thrusters of the drop-craft fired, dark blurs streaked past them, slamming into the curtain walls of the compounds: high-velocity munitions from the strike cruisers’ bombardment cannons. The impact of the shells hurled rock and ferrocrete into the air and sent a cloud of pulverised masonry blooming over the citadels.

  The blast wave from the bombardment uprooted trees lining the roads that wound up the hills and slashed through gun pits and bunker slits, shredding those inside with shrapnel and debris. Those who survived suffered blasted ear drums and internal compression, doomed to a slow death of internal bleeding and organ failure.

  Grit and boulders fell like rain across the hillsides and the thunde
rous detonation rolled across Hadria Prae-toris setting flocks of birds to flight above the city.

  Missile and battle cannon fire raked the entrenchments as the aircraft of the Ravenwing strafed through the boiling cloud engulfing the compounds. Shells and las-fire flickered into the heart of the nearest fort as gunners picked out their targets on thermal scanners and high-acuity sensor arrays.

  In the skies above the devastation, the remains of ablative drop-shields peeled away from plunging Land Speeders. Descending on their anti-grav engines, the anti-grav craft spiralled around the diving Thunder-

  hawks, spewing fire from assault cannons and heavy bolters. Vengeance-class speeders spewed a torrent of plasma fire at the smoke-shrouded walls while rockets slammed into the ferrocrete barrier from the Tornadoes.

  As the Land Speeders circled the compound, Darkshrouds followed the descent. Modified from the standard Land Speeder chassis, each anti-grav vehicle carried a pitted, ancient statue from the Chapter’s fortress-monastery. The solemn hooded figures glowed with power, coils of cable sending nascent warp energy through arcane generators that threw out an all-concealing blanket of darkness. As they joined the attack, the shadow of the Darkshrouds enveloped the dropsite, obscuring the Thunderhawks as they touched down on plumes of plasma.

  Protected from attack by the fire of their brethren and the screen of the dark-generating Land Speeders, the bike squads of the Second Company disembarked, racing from their gunships. Joining the squadrons were two-man attack bikes, their heavy weapons directed at the rebel fortress. Above them a flight of three Dark Talons took up station, pouring a torrent of fire from their hurricane bolters into the rebels trying to muster on the broken ramparts of the wall. A flight of Nephilim fighters swept over the compound, their Avenger weapons systems raking the open space between the wall and inner citadel with explosive bolts while Blacksword missiles streamed from their wings, turning the courtyard into a killing ground.

  The assault ramp of the Thunderhawk carrying Annael’s squad slammed down even while the gunship was still shuddering from landing. He saw a pink and scarlet sky silhouetting the hills, across which billowed a swathe of smoke that was swiftly blotting out the dawn light. The nearest citadel was two hundred metres away, a massive breach in its curtain wall like a broken-toothed smile.

  ‘Full speed,’ ordered Cassiel.

  Within seconds they had plunged down the ramp. The sergeant was the first to disembark, the smoke of his exhausts filling the gunship as Annael and Zarall followed, Sabrael and Araton taking up the rear. Reaching the ground, the squadron spread into a V-formation to avoid the dirt and rocks thrown up in the wake of the others’ bikes, engines roaring as they charged towards the opening made by the bombardment. Moments after they had left, the Thunderhawk’s engines fired again, lifting it skywards on columns of flame, its weapons ready to provide supporting fire.

  As he charged up the slope of the hill with the others, Annael’s vision was filled with a superimposed view of the landscape ahead. The dust and smoke obscured normal sight, as did the cloaking field of the Darkshrouds, but those were no barrier to the surveyor array built into Black Shadow. With soft movements he guided the bike around jutting boulders and piles of shattered ferrocrete, seeking the telltale blur of red and orange that signified a heat source. He saw the smudge of colour amongst the ruin of the breach, but nothing that moved; the warmth leaking from the bodies of the dead quickly turned from yellow to orange.

  His armour easily compensating for the jolt of his bike as it crashed over fallen slabs and blocks, Annael looked left and right, searching along the top of the remaining wall for threats. A squadron of Land Speeders curved around ahead of him, lifting up to the height of the rampart, their weapons unleashing a blaze of fire at unseen foes.

  ‘Lance.’

  The command from Cassiel was calmly spoken as the closest shadow-wreathed Speeder pulled back to cover the second wave of the attack. Annael slid into place behind Zarall as the squadron narrowed its formation to take the breach. He glanced back to see a squadron of Black Knights following fifty metres behind. The elite of the company, Sammael’s chosen warriors, carried hammers with beaked heads and the gleam from the muzzles of their bikes’ plasma weapons shone from beneath black cowlings. He glimpsed their Hunt-

  master raising his corvus hammer to point to the left, the squadron curving away as they were swallowed by the black cloud of the Darkshroud.

  Just twenty metres ahead, the bikes of Sergeant Hephrael’s squadron raced across the tumbled masonry, disappearing into the smoke and fire. Muzzle flashes flared in the gloom and Annael heard the echo of the squadrons’ bolters ringing back from the broken wall.

  In front, Cassiel and then Zarall dropped from view. A second later Annael hit the rim of a crater and for a moment he felt weightless as Black Shadow became airborne, plunging down into the smoking dip. With an impact that tested the reinforced suspension of his steed, Annael hit the sloping side of the crater, the tyres skidding him sideways for an instant as they regained traction. Hauling hard on the handlebars he righted his course, just three metres behind Zarall.

  The explosion had torn a hole almost two hundred metres wide, most of that inside the compound. As soon as the squadron were through the breach they were greeted by a storm of flickering projectiles from within the central fortification. Few of the poorly-aimed volleys hit, but now and then something pinged from Annael’s armour or the slanted fairing of Black Shadow. Something heavier – autocannon shells probably – threw up clods of earth just ahead of the onrushing squadron.

  A brighter flash of red pulsed from a firing point on the citadel’s roof and seared into Hephrael’s squadron. From its elevated position, the lascannon shot punched through the leg of one of the riders and exploded into the engine of his mount. Fuel ignited, sending the unfortunate Space Marine spinning through the air as his bike’s engine blew up.

  Retribution for the loss was near-instantaneous. A ripple of missiles from a Land Speeder converged on the firing port from which the lascannon bolt had come, turning the embrasure into rubble and smoke. Heavy bolter rounds from another skimmer sparked amongst the debris, turning shattered ferrocrete into lethal shrapnel.

  ‘Hard right.’

  Leaning his weight over, Annael followed Cassiel and Zarall as they steered down a ramp into the trenchworks. The sergeant’s bolters flared along the curving path, cutting down men hunkered against the wall ahead. Easing his bike towards the right-hand wall of the trench, Annael staggered their formation, allowing him to see past Cassiel. He saw a rebel in grey and green fatigues running for the cover of a shell slit. Pressing the trigger pad on the grip of the handlebars Annael opened fire, unleashing a short salvo of six bolts. The sparks of their propellant charge shrieked along the trench, ripping holes into the wood-reinforced wall and tearing three fist-sized chunks from the man’s back.

  In a moment Annael had raced past, but he knew that the shots had been fatal – no normal man would survive such injuries. The bike controls juddered in his grasp as he rode over the uneven footing planks and bumped over the bodies of those slain by Cassiel.

  Another squadron of Land Speeders zoomed overhead, weapons spewing death, the wash of their jets momentarily flaring across Black Shadow’s sensors. They recovered in time to show a blur of orange fifty metres ahead; a rebel soldier pulling up some kind of heavy weapon. The man fired as Annael activated the bolters, the missile from his launcher screaming down the trench towards the squadron even as Annael’s fusillade turned him into scattered body parts.

  The missile passed between Zarall and Annael, exploding on the wall to the Dark Angels’ left. The blast showered Annael with dirt while pieces of shrapnel clanged from his backpack and left shoulder guard.

  ‘You’ll be spending some time repainting that,’ came Sabrael’s voice from behind. ‘Consider it your first honour scar.’

  ‘Back up top,�
�� ordered Cassiel before Annael could throw back a reply.

  The squadron turned up a ramp used for bringing supplies down into the trenches, racing past the burning corpses of half a dozen rebels caught by a heavy flamer. Just a little further up the trenchworks a blossom of flames rose into the air as an ammunition depot detonated; secondary explosions continued to bark and snap as Cassiel led the squadron around the smouldering wreck of an armoured ground car pulverised by a Black-sword missile, curving back towards the main building.

  Hitting open ground, Annael could see the battle in its full fury. The compound, stretching three hundred metres from wall to wall, was carpeted in drifting smoke and ash. Whirling contrails cut through the gloom as bikes and Land Speeders converged on the central citadel. From above, gunships and strike craft continued to rain down fire, pinning the rebels inside the shell-pocked building while the rest of the company advanced.

  ‘Battle speed,’ commanded Cassiel, slowing at the head of the squadron. Annael eased down on the throttle and glanced at the surveyor sweep on the display. There was a mass of enemy contact returns several hundred metres ahead, flooding towards the bridge leading to the next compound; left intact to allow such a retreat.

  Cruising through the smog and fire, Annael was alert, blood pumping hard through his body. In four centuries of battle he had raced into the fight shooting from the hatch of a Rhino transport, and he had performed jump pack drops from a hovering Thunderhawk, but nothing matched the exhilaration of the mounted charge. The machine beneath him was an extension of his armour, responding to the slightest nudge and touch, bumping over the uneven ground and curving easily past shell craters and the tangled ruins of gun batteries.