Dark Apostle

Missiles screamed from beneath the wings of fighters, detonating explosively into the side of the daemon tower, and keening, high-pitched, maddening screams echoed across the skies. The attacks caused great rents to appear in the side of the tower and dark blood seeped from the wounds, thick and glutinous. Bombardment from the advancing Imperial line joined with the attack and battle cannons and siege ordnance were directed towards the giant tower as they too came into range, and bleeding pockmarks appeared across the sheer walls of the tower.

The tower's pain resonated within the soul of every warrior on the battlefield. The traitorous enemy seemed to become enraged by the power of the cries and they attacked with renewed fury. Laron staggered beneath the twisting power of Chaos that burst in waves from the tower, his head spinning and nausea making bile rise in his throat, and he knew that every Elysian on the field of battle suffered. Even the tech-guard warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus seemed affected, pausing mid-battle in confusion at the unwholesome stimuli washing over them.

The Ordinatus continued its relentless, unstoppable advance and it levelled great sections of the Chaos defences with every titanic blast from its sonic weapon. Laron swore as enemy warriors and Elysians alike were caught in the blasts, their internal organs exploding and their bones shattering as the resonating blast ripped through them. The foes' ancient ceramite power armour shattered into millions of tiny shards beneath the potent Mechanicus weapon.

Clearly recognising the threat that the Ordinatus posed, the Chaos Marines hammered thousands of rounds of fire into its void shields, overriding them completely several times. Little damage was sustained by the behemoth before dutiful Tech-Priests and the army of servitors that swarmed over the machine restored the shields and it continued its relentless advance. Soon it would be within range of the cursed daemon tower. Laron prayed to the Emperor that the war machine would fell it.

The enemy was pushed back to the third tier and then back to the fourth. Here it seemed that they had determined to make their stand. They would hold the fourth tier or they would be slaughtered to a man. That suited Laron just fine. It was brutal, gritty fighting, but he took heart in the fact that they were grinding the enemy down, though it was a slow process. The enemy were being beaten, individual by individual, even though Imperial losses were horrific.

Communications remained completely inoperative and Brigadier-General Havorn's corpse had been found behind the tech-guard cohorts. Colonel Laron had donned a black armband in mourning for the old general, but he had taken over as the overall commander of the Elysian 72nd and 133rd with some reluctance. He set up crude communications using runners, flags, loudhailers and searchlights to organise attacks and retreats across the peninsula. Commissar Kheler proved an admirable and forthright advisor. Kheler tempered Laron's more foolhardy attitudes and the acting colonel developed an appreciation of Kheler's uncompromising expectations of the captains of the regiments. He allowed no talk of retreat and shot any man who showed the slightest sign of doubt or reluctance to perform his duties.

It will all be over soon, thought Laron. The enemy could not hold out for longer than hours at most. They would be victorious and they would return to the Crusade bearing Havorn's body with full honours.

This was the final push. They just needed to break the enemy from the fourth tier of defence and that would allow the Ordinatus to begin its barrage upon the cursed tower. It was unholy, the massive thing that rose up and pierced the skies over head. It must have been over a kilometre in diameter, and the aura of wrongness that it exuded made him feel physically sick. It must be destroyed.

If there was a portal to hell, it was surely this damned tower. With a nod to his subordinates, he indicated the commencement of the final push against the enemy. Flags were raised and powerful spotlights flashed the signal along the Imperial line.

The final chapter of the war would be played out in the next hours of engagement, for better or for worse.

Varnus paced back and forth behind the picketed slaves, a lasgun in his hands and his mind seething.

Blood filled his thoughts, anger and bitterness infusing him.

A hundred thousand workers, the last remaining Imperial subjects enslaved by the Word Bearers, had been herded together and picketed along the top of the third tier. Their chains were bolted into the plascrete battlements atop the earthen bulwark. There they stood, forming a living shield of bodies.