Rogal Dorn: The Emperor's Crusader Page 2

  ‘A sensible proposition, except that Seventh Legion battalions have already cleared orbit over the northern strike area and we are ready to begin mass deployment, not just an insertion attack. My forty thousand legionaries hitting the ground will break their resolve within minutes, forestalling any need for wider commitment and risk.’

  Eidolon opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the third participant in the holo-council. His fair-coloured beard and long hair reflecting ruddy action lighting from the Invincible Reason, Lion El’Jonson, primarch of the First, strode forward, his hand slashing the air like a blade.

  ‘Unacceptable!’ Green eyes flashed with anger, but the moment passed, and the Lion’s demeanour settled into one of earnest entreaty. ‘We have not bloodied ourselves in the void to relent at the edge of orbit. My ships are breaking through towards the equatorial defence stations, which will eliminate the threat to both your attack and that of the Phoenician’s Legion. My knights will be first on the surface, but I assure you that we will share the battle honours.’

  Gidoreas suppressed a grimace and saw his counterpart from the Emperor’s Children silencing a retort. It was not for a captain, even a Legion equerry, to argue with a primarch. Here, in the massive grand strategium of the Phalanx, they were surrounded by decks and sub-decks of legionaries and attendants monitoring the massive craft and its accompanying flotillas, but sophisticated dampeners ensured that the command dais was cocooned in near silence. Around and below them the deck officers bustled like ghosts, preparing for the final surface assault. Gidoreas could see that all three fleets were already in motion on their respective attack vectors, but command had to fall to someone to stop them from working at cross purposes.

  The tri-D projector stuttered as another feed came online. The new arrival was lean of features, the vid-capture managing to snare the essence of eyes in animation as they flicked from one projected primarch to the other and back. His face profiled against a golden wing that swept up from his pauldron, Fulgrim of the Emperor’s Children greeted them with a brief smile.

  ‘Apologies for the delay in my participation, I believe my equerry has been fighting a valiant vanguard action on my behalf,’ said the Phoenician with a slight bow of the head. Eidolon’s image flickered and vanished. ‘We are at an impasse, but as the most experienced Legion commander here I feel that–’

  ‘I have waged war as long as any of my primarch brothers,’ interrupted the Lion. ‘If you see fault in my strategy, say thus, do not hide behind a veil of seniority. What reason the First should not abide by their name?’

  Fulgrim’s manner did not change, his features set in polite attention through the Lion’s outburst. When it was done, the Phoenician pointedly turned his gaze to Rogal Dorn.

  ‘I feel that the Imperial Fists should lead the attack,’ Fulgrim concluded. ‘The Phalanx is by far the largest vessel here, even bigger than our Gloriana-class, brother Lion. As a display of Imperial authority, its arrival and the descent of forty thousand legionaries sends a message that cannot be ignored. Rogal is entirely correct in his assessment.’

  ‘To split our attack is to risk a harder drop for my Legion and yours,’ growled the Lion. ‘The loss of momentum could be disastrous to a swift victory if the inhabitants are not so impressed as you say.’

  Fulgrim turned the intensity of his attention to the Lion, slender fingers steepling to his chin in a pose of respectful thought.

  ‘My brother, there is a very important difference between conquest and compliance,’ Fulgrim said softly. ‘We are all warlords here, but more than that we are the Emperor’s primarchs. When He despatched us on this venture it was with the explicit task of bringing worlds to compliance, however that is achieved. Societies broken by war need fixing, requiring resources that are stretched as the Great Crusade continues to expand into the furthest reaches.’

  ‘That was my thought,’ said Dorn. ‘We must give the enemy opportunity and encouragement to capitulate. Our reports show that their fleet was their greatest strength. Without it their resistance will be short-lived. I have not fought as many campaigns as Fulgrim, and few have been bloodless, but as the newest member of our brotherhood perhaps your perspective has not yet widened from the wars of your home world.’

  Gidoreas kept his expression passive but felt the primarch’s words, while true, were not the softest. The look of dismay that Fulgrim swiftly hid suggested he felt the same. All eyes, those of primarch and legionary alike, were drawn to the Lion, whose lip curled and brows knotted. For a few seconds he said nothing, one hand moving to the pommel of a greatsword at the waist of his ebon-black war plate. The touch of it appeared to reassure the primarch of the First and he straightened a little, the tension flowing from him just as his lion’s-mane cloak hung from his shoulders.

  ‘Forgive my impetuous words, my brothers,’ said the Lion. His tone was a little stiff but sounded sincere. ‘I meant no offence, and if my eagerness to prosecute the Emperor’s will has caused such then I apologise. You are correct, I lead a Legion of the Emperor as I would a company of knights, but it is a far greater power I now wield. On Caliban an opponent would not be undone by the mere unsheathing of a blade, but the galaxy at large is not Caliban.’

  ‘We are here to unite humankind, not enslave it,’ said Fulgrim. ‘Some may only come under the threat of the blade, but others will join freely.’

  ‘Gidoreas,’ said Dorn. The captain stepped forward, ready for orders. ‘Transmit to the fleet, all craft to proceed with the surface attack.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Dorn,’ the equerry replied with a hand raised to the fist sigil emblazoned on his breastplate. ‘The fleet will be underway within five minutes.’

  As he turned and headed to the steps that led to the main communications deck, he heard his primarch’s parting words to his brothers.

  ‘Let us hope that the enemy know when they are outmatched and wish to preserve not only their honour but also their lives.’

  The enemy were hopelessly outmatched, but Sigismund had to acknowledge that they were not going to surrender without some resistance. A venal salve for their ego or true warrior honour? It was impossible to know.

  He advanced down the strange street, one of a knot of warriors with black marking their armour amid a tide of golden yellow. Other squads belonged to the companies of the 29th, 32nd and 45th Assault Cadres for the most part, but he had left behind their ranks while the Lord Dorn was attending the Solar Conclave with the Emperor and his brother primarchs.

  Now he was a Templar.

  It was not just the wargear that felt different – bolt pistol and chainsword rather than boltgun – but everything else. The Templars were the sword of the force, slashing like a blade-edge into the foe or thrusting forward like the tip. The weight of the other Imperial Fists was the arm and body that followed, turning each cut into a grievous wound. Where the enemy resisted, the Templars pierced their defences. They acted in concert with breacher squads drawn down from their void fight to bring their unique skills and equipment to the urban battles. As a shield against enemy fire, the breachers went in first, turning the axis of attack, deflecting counterstrikes until the moment was right, when the Templars launched their assault.

  It felt good to be the blade and not the body or shield.

  The city was a maze. Its builders had been obsessed with triangles: the streets met each other in triangular layouts, the structures in between entered by triangular doors, their walls lined with tall three-sided windows, pyramidal roofs high above. Perhaps the aesthetic was a result of the three moons in orbit, or some mythology of lost origin whose consequences remained thousands of years later.

  The greater number of their foes fought in bulky red-and-­orange combat suits, heads protected with visored golden helms. The impacts of the enemy’s bullets and the legionaries’ bolt detonations rang along tiled corridors and chambers, echoing from high overhead, while the crash o
f boots reverberated from the tall windows as the Templars pushed into the lower storey of a building that had been turned into a strongpoint. Zigzagging ramps with balustrades led to the upper levels instead of stairs. Dozens of the natives crouched in the cover afforded by the stone parapets, unleashing their fire on the Imperial Fists from above.

  ‘Lance!’ bellowed Aeolus, the Master of Templars, the greatsword in his hand shining with fiery reflections.

  The Templars moved as one, a fighter changing stance, narrowing formation while three breacher squads moved forward to take the enemy fire. Sigismund continued to shoot his bolt pistol as he drifted towards the back of the formation, picking off enemies on the upper levels of the ramps who were firing down over the heads of the breachers and their shields. Masonry chips flew like shrapnel, and gold-visored soldiers fell back, dead, injured or suppressed; it didn’t matter for what would come next.

  Other Imperial Fists entered the broad hall through shattered windows and broken doors, their bolters and heavier weapons taking up the fusillade while the breachers pushed into the teeth of the enemy shooting.

  The breachers moved to the ramp, some raising their shields to heighten the mobile wall. The Templars were drawn forward in their wake, filling the gap between tactical and heavy weapons squads, readying themselves to attack as a warrior positions the sword-arm.

  ‘Lunge!’ came the shout from Aeolus even as the order to split sounded across the hall from Lieutenant Pollux of the breacher company.

  The shield squads moved with split-second precision, as did the Templars. The breachers parted and the blade struck through, Aeolus at the head of a wedge of gold and black, Sigismund four ranks back on the outer left. Any foe that managed to survive those in front fell to the lacerating teeth of his chainsword or the explosive bolts of his pistol, their bloodied bodies trampled in the advance, reduced from sentient life forms to inconvenient footing in seconds.

  ‘Redoubt!’ roared Aeolus above the crash of combat.

  In their attack, the Templars had piled up bodies to the front. Two of the brethren had fallen and they were brought into the interior of the formation while breachers pounded up the ramp to either side.

  ‘Apothecaries!’ Sigismund shouted, holstering his pistol to help as the broken-armoured forms of Lassitur and Erudae were passed out the back of the Templar company like pauldron fixative extruded from a Techmarine’s servo-arm. A pair of white-armoured figures arrived with an escort of tactical legionaries and the two Templars were carried away, the screech of armour cutters diminishing with distance as the Apothecaries began their work.

  The next thrust gained the first switchback, forcing the Templars to fight for several seconds under direct fire from above, until the shield squads interpenetrated through them and were able to take the brunt again. It felt slightly unnatural for Sigismund to let others fight in his stead, but while the Templars still trained for individual excellence, the VII Legion worked on the principle of the fist – the power of the blow that comes from all the elements working as one.

  Sigismund had to remind himself that despite his acceptance to the Templars, he was not a lone warrior. In the ashen circle he wielded the great blade, but in battle it was pistol and chainsword. Templar, yes, but a legionary still. A champion sometimes, but always part of an unstoppable war machine. As he knew how the chainblade in his hand would perform, so Rogal Dorn depended on his Templars to be just as reliable.

  The chainsword did not ask of its wielder who it cut down. Sigismund shared its disinterest in that regard. By Dorn’s will he killed or stayed his hand, nothing more, and such would be his life until he fell.

  ‘There will be no bombardment,’ commanded Rogal Dorn. ‘Not yet. Repeat signals calling for their surrender.’

  Gidoreas regarded the metres-wide hololith showing the unfolding situation. Golden sigils represented the thirty thousand Imperial Fists already deployed. The three main drops had yet to link up. While this was not disastrous, the occupation was already an hour and more behind Dorn’s meticulous schedule. Smaller displays showed more detailed schematics, while out across the broad expanse of the Phalanx’s strategium, the Master of the Huscarls could cast his gaze to vid-screens and active links that showed static-ridden, live action from the surface.

  On the main display other runes signified subsequent deployments of the allied Legions, both of which were making headway but also at a slower pace than anticipated. The inhabitants of Scathia had proved to be far more stubborn than reckoned, although they were clearly losing on every front. Ships of all three Legions held orbit and atmospheric craft dominated the skies. Whether in six hours or sixty, the planet would comply.

  Gidoreas wondered what the enemy thought of the situation. If it was that stern resistance might see some relent in the Imperial attack, then they chased a false hope. Scathia had been chosen as the ‘gateway’ world for the nascent Night Crusade. It was ideally positioned both spatially and within the erratic flows of the warp, a key system to funnel troops and resources from worlds already brought to compliance out to the expeditionary fleets that would be venturing into the area known as the Occluda Noctis. As such, the bulk of three Legiones Astartes had been deployed to ensure its swift capitulation.

  That the Scathians had decided to fight against such overwhelming force did not speak well of their culture. Millions had already died for what Gidoreas had to assume was pride. It was also starting to be more costly than envisaged for the Imperial forces. He looked at his primarch, but Dorn’s expression was unreadable.

  The primarch turned his head, as though feeling Gidoreas’ gaze.

  ‘You have a question, captain?’

  Gidoreas was taken aback and it took a second until he realised that he did have a question, though it had not formed until that moment.

  ‘I understand the need to avoid widespread collateral damage with massed bombardment, my lord, but we have strike ships in position for pinpoint orbital support. Their intervention would greatly speed the advance of our troops.’

  ‘Whilst potentially stiffening the resolve of our foes,’ countered the primarch. He crossed the platform at the heart of the grand strategium, hundreds of lights dazzling across his golden armour, his massive form eclipsing the main hololith. ‘We cannot send missives asserting that we come as allies not conquerors if we pile up civilian dead. In all battles the purpose is foremost to defeat the enemy, and that does not always mean wiping them out.’

  The primarch stopped a few paces away, his head inclined slightly towards Gidoreas, eyes fixed on the captain.

  ‘If you see a legionary fall beside you, does it make your determination waver or harden?’

  ‘I understand, my lord,’ said Gidoreas. ‘I am also aware that many legionaries, ours and our allies’, are falling right now. There is a point at which our concern to preserve life must extend to our own.’

  ‘Every second, I weigh up the possible outcomes of a thousand variations of our current strategy and the countless alternative courses of action open to us.’

  Gidoreas nodded. He had been with the primarch for several years but was still surprised by his abilities, both mental and physical. Legion Master Mathias had been a logistical and strategic genius, but he would have needed the entirety of his support staff and a constant stream of reports to manage a campaign as complex as the drop and pacification they were undertaking. The lord primarch needed only to cast his gaze across the scores of displays and attendants, reading the people as well as their stations, to know how matters progressed.

  ‘Apologies, my lord.’ Gidoreas rubbed a ceramite-sheathed hand across the stubble on his chin. He had remembered that he had once tried to grow a beard as a youth, before being recruited, and had decided to return to the notion, but it had reached a stage where it itched fiercely. ‘I sometimes forget my role. I recall our purpose with more clarity now, as the Emperor bid us when we were first r
aised. “Victory is not enough. To conquer, one has not only to defeat one’s enemies, but also to hold the fruits of that victory.” Words I shall carve into my thoughts more deeply.’

  ‘Exactly that, Gidoreas, exactly that.’

  Dorn stepped away, eyes moving to the massive hololith display. His hand swept to various areas, and they highlighted in gleaming red. Gidoreas immediately saw they were the most embattled elements of the drop force.

  ‘Orbital strikes will smooth passage to their objectives, yes?’ Dorn did not turn round, the question rhetorical. ‘How many more of your gene-brothers survive? Ten more? A hundred more? What if, in supporting that attack with strikes into civilian areas, we kill the family of a politician or destroy a holy place? The people fight for longer, perhaps days, weeks more of bloody, grinding war because of a dozen lance strikes. How many legionaries fall during that extended conflict and yet bring us no closer to peace?’

  ‘My concern was ill-founded, Lord Dorn,’ Gidoreas assured the primarch. ‘I see military solutions, but your strategy encompasses far more.’

  ‘It is a balance,’ replied Dorn, again clasping one fist in his other hand. ‘Fail to achieve tactical victories and you make no progress towards strategic goals. We cannot get ahead of ourselves.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  A few seconds passed and then Dorn looked sharply to the left, beyond the hololith to one of the communications stations on the lower deck of the strategium.

  ‘Lion El’Jonson is going to launch his next assault,’ the primarch said quietly.

  Gidoreas followed his lord’s gaze and saw Lieutenant Efried striding away from the console servitor with an autoscribed message in his fist.