Mechanicum

'My employer wishes this city captured intact,' said Remiare, inloading to the noospheric map floating before Zeth. 'So you need to stop what you are doing.'

'I'm not going to do that,' stated Zeth.

'I wasn't asking,' said Remiare, and shot Zeth twice in the chest.

Lord Commander Verticorda felt the pain of a dozen wounds through the Manifold of Ares Lictor. His shields were gone and his carapace was cracked in multiple locations. He could barely feel his left arm and the knee joint that had been healed two centuries ago by the touch of the Emperor ached with psycho-stigmatic pain.

All around him he could see the red-lit legions of his enemy surrounding him. Weapons fire spanked from his disintegrating carapace and his fear was not that he was going to die, but that a machine touched by the hand of the Omnissiah would fall into the hands of his enemies.

To his left he saw a group of dark-robed skitarii on one of the causeway's overhanging platforms aim a battery of quad-barrelled guns. He turned his right cannon on them, letting Ares Lictor target them. He felt the thrill of acquisition course down his arm and opened fire, the hurricane of shells obliterating the platform and turning the guns and their operators into an expanding cloud of shredded meat and metal.

Alongside him, Caturix crushed and sliced into the enemy host with his cannon and laser lance, his fury carrying him forward where Verticorda lived by his preternatural skill. The other Knights that still lived were the best of the order, the most sublime warriors he had fought alongside: Yelsic, Agamon and Old Stator.

Ahead, Verticorda saw the black pavilion where the architect of this confrontation watched the honourable Knights of Taranis dying for his amusement. The standard of Melgator, a golden chain upon a crimson field, flew above the pavilion and though a host of warriors and black machines stood between them, Verticorda vowed he would not be brought low while such an ignoble individual still lived.

More gunfire hammered the Knights, and Agamon was undone, the final strength of his shields torn away by the heedless sacrifice of scores of suicidal warriors rushing close and detonating explosive petards against his armour.

Old Stator died next, the preceptor clearing a path for the masters of his order with a gloriously heroic dash towards the black pavilion, his twin blades extended to either side of him as he charged. Running low, the Knight took a direct hit to the cockpit and crashed to the ground.

The last three Knights blazed through the path won by Stator's death, and Verticorda killed and killed as he drew upon the spirits of all the lord commanders who had ridden into battle within Ares Lictor.

On one side, Caturix rode tall, though his mount was on the verge of destruction, while on the other, Yelsic, his companion from the day the Emperor first set foot on Olympus Mons, still carried the Taranis banner high.

'The bastard's running!' shouted Verticorda, seeing Melgator's golden chain banner moving.

'What did you expect?' retorted Caturix. 'He's no warrior. He's nothing but a coward.'

'He won't escape us,' vowed Yelsic.

'No, he damn well won't,' agreed Caturix.

Fresh impacts slammed into Ares Lictor, and Verticorda cried out, feeling the pain of his wounds surging bright and hot within his aged frame. Even as fresh wounds appeared on his body, he felt a sustaining power flow from the Manifold to hold him together, a gestalt legacy of heroism and honour that stretched back to his mount's birth.

The presence of Ares Lictor's former masters poured into Verticorda, eager to accompany him in its last moments.

All he could see through the canopy window were enemies, their twisted visages daemonic in the searing glow of the magma. This truly was a ride into hell, and these were its warped denizens.

'There he is!' bellowed Caturix, and Verticorda saw the shield-palanquin of Melgator surrounded by a cohort of brutal, ogre-like skitarii armed with fearsome beam weapons and flame lances.

The three Knights smashed through the cordon of enemy warriors between them and Melgator's retinue, their armour torn, trailing fire and spraying vital fluids. None would ever ride again, but with their final breath of life they would slay this last foe.

Verticorda shot down a dozen skitarii, and then felt the agony of sweeping beams of cutting light sawing through the armour of his right arm as though it was as insubstantial as smoke. He screamed in pain, his entire body spasming as the weapon arm was shorn from its mount.

Blood filled his throat and his vision greyed, but once again he felt the ghostly presences of his predecessors. Their ancient fury and fire was undimmed by the passage of years, and their will gave him the strength to carry on. Yet even with the sustaining power of the Manifold, Verticorda could feel his life slipping away from him.