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CHAPTER 1
The tac-logis map showed nothing but bad news and Lord Marshall Lee Hartman knew it would only get worse before it got any better. The forces of the Arch-enemy were pushing on the banks of the Vilus and the Linx where the Departmento Engineer Corps had thrown up a massive series of earthworks and batteries for the guns of the Siege Axillae Corps. The 108th Ghurkhas were holding well on the south-eastern front, earning their reputation as brutal close-combat specialists, but without heavy armour support they were taking dreadful punishment from the enemy artillery. Forty companies of Hell-Marines, supported by seven full regiments of Marines and the 212th Heavy Platoon held the northern and eastern fronts.
On paper, it was an impressive force, but as in so many arenas, reality was somewhat different. Millions of the Arch-enemy’s armies, the Amoralites, were marching against the defences, choking the dark waters with their blood and bodies, chants to their dark leader on their lips as they died. Artillery hurled tank sized shells at the earthworks and the Amoralite’s vehicles and tanks were forcing the lines back, spewing burning ichor through the breaches created by the enemy cannon fire.
Maddening drums beat and billowing flags stitched with the icons of the Arch-enemy were held high, striking fear into the hearts of every soldier in the defence line. Regimental commissars were stretched to the limits to keep discipline and even in the control room, nearly a hundred kilometres away, you could hear the war being fought, as continuos sounds of guns marked the cities being assaulted. Men in the control room wore defeat like a shroud, as tensions had been high since the failed attack on Gehr Marken, where nearly three thousand Marines had been taken prisoner, than ritually disembowelled before the defensive lines. Officers with haggard faces worried with each fresh report that came in, relaying their grim tidings with the same mournful expressions as the flagellating doomsayers that filled the refugee campsites on the shores of the Carden Sea. One such officer, a dark-skinned colonel of the 34th Marine Corp named Hatcher, brought Hartman a data slate with the latest butcher’s bill for his regiment.
“It’s bad, sir.” Hatcher said. “There’s nearly two thousand dead and perhaps twice that wounded. Combat effectiveness has been degraded below optimal viability. I request the 34th be rotated to the rear and reserves fed in.
Hartman shook his head. “No, colonel, your men will stand. We won’t have time to organise a rotation until the enemy lets up their assault. And I don’t see that happening any time soon, do you?
“Well, no, but...”
“I said no, colonel and that is my final answer.” Hartman stated flatly.
“With respect, Lord Marshall, my men cannot continue in this way. They have no more to give.”
“Then you must find some, colonel.” snapped Hartman. “What choice do you think we have?” Hartman turned to face the officers in the control room, raising his voice so every last person could hear.
“Let me make one thing clear, officers. We are in a fight for our lives. The Arch-enemy is threatening our homes once again, with greater force and fury than ever before. All that stands between him and victory is us. It is we who have to stand and force him back. Why? Because we’re here and there’s no one else to do it for us. So if any man or woman here believes they cannot do their duty, you should present yourself to the commissar and stop wasting my time.”
Hartman planted his hands on his hips and glared at his officers. “Does everyone understand that?” A chorus of affirmation washed over the burly Marshall.
High explosive shells landed with a string of concussive impacts, shaking the ground like an earthquake. A wall of noise and dirt swathed the advancing men of the 34th Marine Corp, smashing apart their battle lines. Hundreds of platoons were advancing through the smoke and fire wracked nightmare of a battleground, firing as they advanced in the shadow of 033 Fighter Jets and the rolling thunder of massed tank companies.
The craggy plains of the Vilus had once been a great beauty, with sweeping grassland, glittering tributaries and a primal essence that awed even the most jaded hearts. But that beauty had been destroyed forever, the majestic plains shelled to a crater pocked ruin, the rivers choked with the dead and dying. Toxic yellow fog hugged the ground, the metallic smells of war inescapable and it was impossible to distinguish the individual explosions or shots amid the constant rumble of fire.
Private Hagar ‘Silky’ James felt the blast wave buffet him, but held his ground, even though hot fear attempted to paralyse his limbs. His entire world had shrunk to putting one step in front of the other, leading his men in desperate terror. The shouted exhortations of Commissar Jenkor were inaudible, but his fiery words were backed up by a drawn sword and pistol and, as terrifying as the enemy was, the thought of the hatchet faced commissar was even worse.
Colonel Matthew ‘Darkmane’ Renmark was somewhere up ahead, leading from the front like he always did. His voice bellowed through the mist.
“Enemies ahead! Stand strong!”
Silky saw shadowed forms through the smoke and shouted.
“Enemy ahead!” He yelled, before dropping to one knee and loosing a burst of bullets from his rifle. One of the shapes dropped and a flurry of weapons’ fire from the rest of the platoon cut down the rest. Before they could enjoy the rewards of their success, an answering volley of fire slashed through the fog and felled three of his men. Silky dropped flat, feeling the crack of rounds snapping past him. He fumbled for a fresh ammo cartridge as the roaring shells sawed the air above him. The enemy had some heavy machine gun covering their position. He fired blindly, trying to pinpoint the gun from the muzzle flashes. The ground shook and he cursed, wishing for one moment he could aim and the ground would stop shaking.
“We can’t see anything!” One of the company snipers, a young man named Watson called. “Too much damned fog!”
“Just shoot where you think they might be!” Silky bellowed back, before more gunfire ripped through the fog and Darkmane realised the fire was coming from their flank. He rolled into a crater filled with brackish water and shouted.
“Endon, Johnson, get that machine gun over here! We’ve taking enfilade fire.
The two gunners nodded and swung their tripod mounted gun over to cover the flanks, letting rip with the thudding fire of heavy calibre shells. The fog was illuminated by streaks of light and phosphorous explosions. A tank rolled past nearby, but Silky couldn’t tell which side it belonged to as a massive detonation blasted huge chunks of earth behind him and the tank was flung into the crater he was hiding in. The world flashed for a second and then Silky blacked out…
Captain Dominic Renmark felt the Wrath of the Dark lurch to the port as another torpedo impacted with the rear quarter of his Diamond class frigate.
“Come on, old girl, hold together.” He whispered to his ship, but knowing there was little chance they could outrun the three Aluminates that harried them like hunting hounds running their prey to the ground. Her sister ships, Argument and Hell’s Fury were already dead, wrecked and gutted by lance missiles and torpedoes. And, unless the great God above intervened himself, they were most likely going to join their shipmates in the icy grave of space.
“Are we able to get a transmission through?” he asked his Flag Lieutenant, Sebastian Leeuwin.
“I’m afraid not, captain. The enemy is creating some kind of sonic field, stopping all transmissions. Blasted Aluminates!”
“Damn!” The Captain snarled. “Keep trying. We have to get the message in.”
A FleetWorld! Here! The blasted Aluminates had designed, some years ago, a way in which to carry whole worlds from one place to the other. The people would survive on the FleetWorld and the planet would be destroyed. In all sense, a big metal planet. That could move. If the purpose of this one was war, which it almost certainly was, than the thing could carry over two billion more reinforcements for the attackers on the planet below. That would be more than enough to break through the defences. Easily.
The Wrath and her sisters had discovered it lurking on the edge of the ruined Naerj systems, where the attackers had first broken through the battle line. With all haste, the three ships had retreated, to return the news. Unfortunately, a small flotilla of attack crafts was trying to stop them from achieving this.
Another impact struck the rear of the Wrath and the deck officers were thrown around the room as the Master of Surveyors called out.
“Captain! Fresh contacts!”
“What?! Where the hell did they come from!?” Renmark yelled, clambering over to the Survey Deck. “And who are they?!”
“They’re just off port bow.” They appeared out of no-where, sir. I swear they weren’t there a second ago. Attack logistics are running an identification survey now.”
Renmark hurried to the Assault Deck, watching in horror as four shapes ghosted across the slate. From their size, he could see they must be at least battleships and with their arrival, he knew their fate was sealed. Proximity alarms flashed as a vast spread of torpedoes fired from the new impacts.
“All hands, brace for impact!” shouted Renmark above the klaxon.
“Attack logistics confirmed sir. The new contacts are the Federated Worlds: Shadow class cruisers, sir.” Renmark chewed his lip as he watched the torpedoes on the Assault Slate close with his vessel…
…then went limp with relief as they slid past the Wrath to close on their pursuers. Another volley launched from the Fed Ships and the Aluminates, too late, began to retreat. The Fed missiles slammed into the hull of the Aluminates ships, exploding deep inside them. Renmark sagged against his captain’s chair, drenched in sweat and incredulous that they were still alive. He turned to his First Mate, Lieutenant Ashley Sparks. Sparks grinned back.
“Captain, there’s a communication from the Feds.”
“Let’s hear it.” Renmark ordered. A wash of white noise drifted from the brass rimmed speaker horns. Then the Fed spoke.
“Imperial vessel, this is Craftmaster Phredik of the Federated Worlds. It appears you require our assistance.
Hartman licked his lips, trying not to communicate his unease to his subordinates who clustered around him with a frantic Brownian movement. Only the disciplined Hell-Marines who surrounded Hartman were immobile, faces obscured by their lowered visors and their guns held at the ready.
The wind whipped off the plains before Hartman and cut through him, but he’d be damned if he’d allowed a Fed inside the compound. He wore the dress uniform of the Lord Marshall, his long cloak fixed in place with badges and medals of honour. His pistol was loaded and the safety was off. He was taking no chances. Anton Marks, Hartman’s friend and bodyguard, stood behind him, the colour sergeant’s face grim.
“I don’t like this. Dealing with Fed scum.” Marks growled.
“Nor do I.” Agreed Hartman, “but we have little choice Anton. Troops all along the river are falling back, as we speak and those along the second cannot hold for long. The enemy will be in sight of the compound within the day.”
Even as he spoke, a light craft touched down and three slight figures disembarked. They carried porcelain white guns and as they spread out, Hartman was impressed to see the inside of the ship. Suddenly, a fourth figure blocked his view, a man dressed in flowing black robes. He held a staff in one hand and a rune etched sword in the other.
“Stand to, Hell Guard.” Hartman ordered and the soldiers raised their weapons slightly. “You are the ambassador for Reith Juthar’ner?” Hartman asked the Fed, who shook his head.
“No, Marshall Hartman. I am Reith Juthar’ner.” The Fed smiled and Hartman shuddered.
“Your message spoke of us allying against the Aluminate?”
Juthar’ner nodded. “It did, though we fight for our own reasons.
“Good. I don’t care about reasons, as long as you kill some Aluminate scum.”
“Quite so.” Juthar’ner nodded, sticking his staff in the ground. “I am sure your brave Captain told you that a Talismans of Vaul, or a FleetWorld, as you call it, is approaching this planet as we speak. Without our aid, it will consume your worlds in fire and flame.” Hartman nodded.
“But you need our help to stop it.” Marks sneered.
“True.” Juthar’ner stated, offering his hand.
“I don’t think we have much choice.” Hartman murmured, extending his hand to shake Jutar’ner’s.
“None of us have any choice anymore.” Juthar’ner replied, shaking Hartman’s.
On the Bridge of the Shadow of Doom, the Arch-enemy’s Lieutenant sat on his black throne. He watched the enemy ships move into position before his own vessels. He knew that even without the black FleetWorld his armies and fleets could easily crush the fleet arrayed before the planet of Hath. A figure folded into the crevasse of its robes approached its armoured master, before genuflecting.
“Massster…” it said, its voice like a serpent.
Hellgrind raised on armoured fist, the lightning streams glowing across it illuminating the hooded figure momentarily with each burst. The figure whimpered.
“Speak.” The dark lieutenant ordered.
“The sorcerers said there are Federated ssships ahead of usss…”
“Feds.” Hellgrind snarled, experiencing a moments de’ja’vu. He pushed such doubts aside and pointed at the enemy fleet on the viewing dome.
“Issue the order to attack. All ships.”
General Skarn Hellgrind smiled to himself, a lipless shark’s smile.
“Hath will burn…”
By ISAAC MCINTYRE
The tac-logis map showed nothing but bad news and Lord Marshall Lee Hartman knew it would only get worse before it got any better. The forces of the Arch-enemy were pushing on the banks of the Vilus and the Linx where the Departmento Engineer Corps had thrown up a massive series of earthworks and batteries for the guns of the Siege Axillae Corps. The 108th Ghurkhas were holding well on the south-eastern front, earning their reputation as brutal close-combat specialists, but without heavy armour support they were taking dreadful punishment from the enemy artillery. Forty companies of Hell-Marines, supported by seven full regiments of Marines and the 212th Heavy Platoon held the northern and eastern fronts.
On paper, it was an impressive force, but as in so many arenas, reality was somewhat different. Millions of the Arch-enemy’s armies, the Amoralites, were marching against the defences, choking the dark waters with their blood and bodies, chants to their dark leader on their lips as they died. Artillery hurled tank sized shells at the earthworks and the Amoralite’s vehicles and tanks were forcing the lines back, spewing burning ichor through the breaches created by the enemy cannon fire.
Maddening drums beat and billowing flags stitched with the icons of the Arch-enemy were held high, striking fear into the hearts of every soldier in the defence line. Regimental commissars were stretched to the limits to keep discipline and even in the control room, nearly a hundred kilometres away, you could hear the war being fought, as continuos sounds of guns marked the cities being assaulted. Men in the control room wore defeat like a shroud, as tensions had been high since the failed attack on Gehr Marken, where nearly three thousand Marines had been taken prisoner, than ritually disembowelled before the defensive lines. Officers with haggard faces worried with each fresh report that came in, relaying their grim tidings with the same mournful expressions as the flagellating doomsayers that filled the refugee campsites on the shores of the Carden Sea. One such officer, a dark-skinned colonel of the 34th Marine Corp named Hatcher, brought Hartman a data slate with the latest butcher’s bill for his regiment.
“It’s bad, sir.” Hatcher said. “There’s nearly two thousand dead and perhaps twice that wounded. Combat effectiveness has been degraded below optimal viability. I request the 34th be rotated to the rear and reserves fed in.
Hartman shook his head. “No, colonel, your men will stand. We won’t have time to organise a rotation until the enemy lets up their assault. And I don’t see that happening any time soon, do you?
“Well, no, but...”
“I said no, colonel and that is my final answer.” Hartman stated flatly.
“With respect, Lord Marshall, my men cannot continue in this way. They have no more to give.”
“Then you must find some, colonel.” snapped Hartman. “What choice do you think we have?” Hartman turned to face the officers in the control room, raising his voice so every last person could hear.
“Let me make one thing clear, officers. We are in a fight for our lives. The Arch-enemy is threatening our homes once again, with greater force and fury than ever before. All that stands between him and victory is us. It is we who have to stand and force him back. Why? Because we’re here and there’s no one else to do it for us. So if any man or woman here believes they cannot do their duty, you should present yourself to the commissar and stop wasting my time.”
Hartman planted his hands on his hips and glared at his officers. “Does everyone understand that?” A chorus of affirmation washed over the burly Marshall.
High explosive shells landed with a string of concussive impacts, shaking the ground like an earthquake. A wall of noise and dirt swathed the advancing men of the 34th Marine Corp, smashing apart their battle lines. Hundreds of platoons were advancing through the smoke and fire wracked nightmare of a battleground, firing as they advanced in the shadow of 033 Fighter Jets and the rolling thunder of massed tank companies.
The craggy plains of the Vilus had once been a great beauty, with sweeping grassland, glittering tributaries and a primal essence that awed even the most jaded hearts. But that beauty had been destroyed forever, the majestic plains shelled to a crater pocked ruin, the rivers choked with the dead and dying. Toxic yellow fog hugged the ground, the metallic smells of war inescapable and it was impossible to distinguish the individual explosions or shots amid the constant rumble of fire.
Private Hagar ‘Silky’ James felt the blast wave buffet him, but held his ground, even though hot fear attempted to paralyse his limbs. His entire world had shrunk to putting one step in front of the other, leading his men in desperate terror. The shouted exhortations of Commissar Jenkor were inaudible, but his fiery words were backed up by a drawn sword and pistol and, as terrifying as the enemy was, the thought of the hatchet faced commissar was even worse.
Colonel Matthew ‘Darkmane’ Renmark was somewhere up ahead, leading from the front like he always did. His voice bellowed through the mist.
“Enemies ahead! Stand strong!”
Silky saw shadowed forms through the smoke and shouted.
“Enemy ahead!” He yelled, before dropping to one knee and loosing a burst of bullets from his rifle. One of the shapes dropped and a flurry of weapons’ fire from the rest of the platoon cut down the rest. Before they could enjoy the rewards of their success, an answering volley of fire slashed through the fog and felled three of his men. Silky dropped flat, feeling the crack of rounds snapping past him. He fumbled for a fresh ammo cartridge as the roaring shells sawed the air above him. The enemy had some heavy machine gun covering their position. He fired blindly, trying to pinpoint the gun from the muzzle flashes. The ground shook and he cursed, wishing for one moment he could aim and the ground would stop shaking.
“We can’t see anything!” One of the company snipers, a young man named Watson called. “Too much damned fog!”
“Just shoot where you think they might be!” Silky bellowed back, before more gunfire ripped through the fog and Darkmane realised the fire was coming from their flank. He rolled into a crater filled with brackish water and shouted.
“Endon, Johnson, get that machine gun over here! We’ve taking enfilade fire.
The two gunners nodded and swung their tripod mounted gun over to cover the flanks, letting rip with the thudding fire of heavy calibre shells. The fog was illuminated by streaks of light and phosphorous explosions. A tank rolled past nearby, but Silky couldn’t tell which side it belonged to as a massive detonation blasted huge chunks of earth behind him and the tank was flung into the crater he was hiding in. The world flashed for a second and then Silky blacked out…
Captain Dominic Renmark felt the Wrath of the Dark lurch to the port as another torpedo impacted with the rear quarter of his Diamond class frigate.
“Come on, old girl, hold together.” He whispered to his ship, but knowing there was little chance they could outrun the three Aluminates that harried them like hunting hounds running their prey to the ground. Her sister ships, Argument and Hell’s Fury were already dead, wrecked and gutted by lance missiles and torpedoes. And, unless the great God above intervened himself, they were most likely going to join their shipmates in the icy grave of space.
“Are we able to get a transmission through?” he asked his Flag Lieutenant, Sebastian Leeuwin.
“I’m afraid not, captain. The enemy is creating some kind of sonic field, stopping all transmissions. Blasted Aluminates!”
“Damn!” The Captain snarled. “Keep trying. We have to get the message in.”
A FleetWorld! Here! The blasted Aluminates had designed, some years ago, a way in which to carry whole worlds from one place to the other. The people would survive on the FleetWorld and the planet would be destroyed. In all sense, a big metal planet. That could move. If the purpose of this one was war, which it almost certainly was, than the thing could carry over two billion more reinforcements for the attackers on the planet below. That would be more than enough to break through the defences. Easily.
The Wrath and her sisters had discovered it lurking on the edge of the ruined Naerj systems, where the attackers had first broken through the battle line. With all haste, the three ships had retreated, to return the news. Unfortunately, a small flotilla of attack crafts was trying to stop them from achieving this.
Another impact struck the rear of the Wrath and the deck officers were thrown around the room as the Master of Surveyors called out.
“Captain! Fresh contacts!”
“What?! Where the hell did they come from!?” Renmark yelled, clambering over to the Survey Deck. “And who are they?!”
“They’re just off port bow.” They appeared out of no-where, sir. I swear they weren’t there a second ago. Attack logistics are running an identification survey now.”
Renmark hurried to the Assault Deck, watching in horror as four shapes ghosted across the slate. From their size, he could see they must be at least battleships and with their arrival, he knew their fate was sealed. Proximity alarms flashed as a vast spread of torpedoes fired from the new impacts.
“All hands, brace for impact!” shouted Renmark above the klaxon.
“Attack logistics confirmed sir. The new contacts are the Federated Worlds: Shadow class cruisers, sir.” Renmark chewed his lip as he watched the torpedoes on the Assault Slate close with his vessel…
…then went limp with relief as they slid past the Wrath to close on their pursuers. Another volley launched from the Fed Ships and the Aluminates, too late, began to retreat. The Fed missiles slammed into the hull of the Aluminates ships, exploding deep inside them. Renmark sagged against his captain’s chair, drenched in sweat and incredulous that they were still alive. He turned to his First Mate, Lieutenant Ashley Sparks. Sparks grinned back.
“Captain, there’s a communication from the Feds.”
“Let’s hear it.” Renmark ordered. A wash of white noise drifted from the brass rimmed speaker horns. Then the Fed spoke.
“Imperial vessel, this is Craftmaster Phredik of the Federated Worlds. It appears you require our assistance.
Hartman licked his lips, trying not to communicate his unease to his subordinates who clustered around him with a frantic Brownian movement. Only the disciplined Hell-Marines who surrounded Hartman were immobile, faces obscured by their lowered visors and their guns held at the ready.
The wind whipped off the plains before Hartman and cut through him, but he’d be damned if he’d allowed a Fed inside the compound. He wore the dress uniform of the Lord Marshall, his long cloak fixed in place with badges and medals of honour. His pistol was loaded and the safety was off. He was taking no chances. Anton Marks, Hartman’s friend and bodyguard, stood behind him, the colour sergeant’s face grim.
“I don’t like this. Dealing with Fed scum.” Marks growled.
“Nor do I.” Agreed Hartman, “but we have little choice Anton. Troops all along the river are falling back, as we speak and those along the second cannot hold for long. The enemy will be in sight of the compound within the day.”
Even as he spoke, a light craft touched down and three slight figures disembarked. They carried porcelain white guns and as they spread out, Hartman was impressed to see the inside of the ship. Suddenly, a fourth figure blocked his view, a man dressed in flowing black robes. He held a staff in one hand and a rune etched sword in the other.
“Stand to, Hell Guard.” Hartman ordered and the soldiers raised their weapons slightly. “You are the ambassador for Reith Juthar’ner?” Hartman asked the Fed, who shook his head.
“No, Marshall Hartman. I am Reith Juthar’ner.” The Fed smiled and Hartman shuddered.
“Your message spoke of us allying against the Aluminate?”
Juthar’ner nodded. “It did, though we fight for our own reasons.
“Good. I don’t care about reasons, as long as you kill some Aluminate scum.”
“Quite so.” Juthar’ner nodded, sticking his staff in the ground. “I am sure your brave Captain told you that a Talismans of Vaul, or a FleetWorld, as you call it, is approaching this planet as we speak. Without our aid, it will consume your worlds in fire and flame.” Hartman nodded.
“But you need our help to stop it.” Marks sneered.
“True.” Juthar’ner stated, offering his hand.
“I don’t think we have much choice.” Hartman murmured, extending his hand to shake Jutar’ner’s.
“None of us have any choice anymore.” Juthar’ner replied, shaking Hartman’s.
On the Bridge of the Shadow of Doom, the Arch-enemy’s Lieutenant sat on his black throne. He watched the enemy ships move into position before his own vessels. He knew that even without the black FleetWorld his armies and fleets could easily crush the fleet arrayed before the planet of Hath. A figure folded into the crevasse of its robes approached its armoured master, before genuflecting.
“Massster…” it said, its voice like a serpent.
Hellgrind raised on armoured fist, the lightning streams glowing across it illuminating the hooded figure momentarily with each burst. The figure whimpered.
“Speak.” The dark lieutenant ordered.
“The sorcerers said there are Federated ssships ahead of usss…”
“Feds.” Hellgrind snarled, experiencing a moments de’ja’vu. He pushed such doubts aside and pointed at the enemy fleet on the viewing dome.
“Issue the order to attack. All ships.”
General Skarn Hellgrind smiled to himself, a lipless shark’s smile.
“Hath will burn…”
By ISAAC MCINTYRE
