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***
"Stop! STOP!! Hold your fire!" Melchoir shouted, waving his arms over his head, shouting into the darkness.
Several meltaguns were pointed at his transport. A melta cannon was leveled at his head protruding from a tall hedge.
"Hold your fire!" he pleaded from his position in the chimera hatch. It was nearly pitch black. His own guardsmen scrambled to aim their weapons towards the bushes in return.
The two sides faced off against each other, a trigger pull away from a firefight. The guardsmen looked anxiously at Melchoir as he shouted. The leaves rustled with movement, bristling with guns pointed at them.
The night sky flashed as the two sides stared at each other silently. The raging sounds of battle echoed over them, adding a percussive intensity to the standoff.
Melchoir grit his teeth.
"Hold!" came a voice from the darkness.
"Yes, hold!" the officer returned.
The two sides continued to point melta weapons and lasguns at each other.
A shape appeared in the darkness. "Who is it?" the shadow asked.
"Marshal Melchoir Theleos," Melchoir replied, "Foleran forces."
A brown and white clad sergeant emerged from the foliage and up onto the road. He stared up at Melchoir, a bit wide-eyed.
"THE Marshal Melchoir?" he asked in a mix of awe and incredulity.
"I don't know of any other," the officer replied.
The guardsman studied his superior in the flickering light.
"All right, boys, lower your weapons. It's friendlies," he finally said after a pause. A moment later, a dozen guardsmen and a few fire tanks emerged into plain view from their hiding spot. Melchoir waved at his own soldiers to stand down.
"What's going on here, sergeant?" Melchoir asked as the guardsman approached the wheel well of his chimera.
"I was going to ask you the same thing, sir."
"I'm trying to fall back to somewhere were I can figure out what's going on. Do you have communication with anybody?" Melchoir asked unhopefully.
"No sir. It seems we're as lost as you are. With all due respect, sir, what the hell IS going on?"
Melchoir suppressed an eye-roll. He didn't have time or patience for this. He physically hurt all over, especially his shoulders, and he needed to get to some place where he could regain control of the situation.
"What's going on is that you and your men are following me now," he snapped, "We've got an extra chimera that you can use. Have the fire tanks form up in front."
The sergeant gave a quick salute before jogging off to relay the order.
Melchoir frowned as he watched things began to coalesce. He had virtually no idea where he was. Druxus had decided it would be safest for the integrity of his plans if he kept them secret from his command staff, only issuing them very specific orders without knowing what everyone else was doing. It cut down on the chance of needless creativity spoiling everything. The plan had gone clearly awry from the beginning, though, and now Druxus was neither seen, nor to be found via the vox. Amns was also mysteriously absent as well.
The inquisitor's belief in the supremacy of his ability to command and the die-hard nature of his leadership principle was threatening a total defeat. Thankfully, the officer now felt he was at liberty to use his own initiative now.
The scavenged tanks of his small war band formed up, and prepared to go. The flashing lights of battle raging all around him provided what little light he was able to see with. He dared not risk using his last few firefly grenades without knowing where the enemy was in the inky black of night. With only a rough idea of where he was, he was nearly at the point of guessing. He would just have to pick the best direction, and hope for the best.
Melchoir frowned again at the thought.
After a few seconds of watching the flashes and hearing the booming echoes of heavy weapons fire, he made his decision. "This is Melchoir," he said into his micro-bead, "Let's pull off this road and move off to the left. Cut between those towers up ahead."
The outline of a crumbled strong point loomed above them. The engines of the vehicles engaged, and the tanks started rolling towards them.
It was only then that Melchoir began to realise that he'd almost had his head blown off by friendly fire. The thought should have shocked him if he didn't feel so numb. If he wasn't already in pain. He blinked his eyes a few times to try and scatter the thought of the dimly-lit melta cannon barrel.
It didn't work. He'd need something else to distract him. Something else to focus on. His mind raced against the many unknowns, powerless to clear away his feeling of anxious, anticipatory fear.
The sounds of fighting came from every direction as various pockets of the two small armies fought each other in scattered pools, sloshing back and forth through the ruined city.
From off to his right, a new series of sparkling lights caught his eye. Antiaircraft fire was sweeping with intensifying thickness across the dark sky. The spray of gunfire began to lean in his direction.
Melchoir squinted, he could just make out the flickering forms of friendly aircraft. They must have been returning from a mission, and they were heading right towards them. As they closed in at low altitude, they began to bank to prevent colliding with the towers, sweeping over the ruined fortifications.
Suddenly, the ruins in front of him exploded with light and noise. Melchoir jerked his head over. A blinding spray of anti-aircraft fire shot up into the air from right in front of him.
Caught completely unawares, the vendettas were easy prey for the ground fire. Shot after shot intercepted the fliers, smashing apart their engines and ripping apart their wings. In a moment, they were turned into nothing more than cascading fireballs brightly lighting up the night sky.
"Enemy!" Melchoir shouted into his micro-bead, "Dead ahead!"
He may have nearly blundered into a trap, or a fixed position, or something else entirely. He only knew that he needed to get out before things spiraled out of control.
The air in front of the armored column exploded with heavy weapons fire. A deadly steam of light anti-tank projectiles slammed into the fire tanks at the front, and into one of the chimeras behind them.
It was already too late.
Enemy gunfire poured out from within the fortifications. Heavy anti-tank guns slammed into one of the fire tanks causing it to veer off sharply to try and hide behind a wall. More weapons fire slammed into the nearest chimera, causing it to burst into flame as the veterans inside piled out for their very lives.
"Left!" Melchoir shouted, "Wheel left! Get out of here!"
Those that could began to try to follow the order, swinging around the left side of the towers in front of them. Those that were under fire could only form up and try to back out as the enemy attack began to press on them.
Enemy infantry began to charge forwards, power weapons glowing faintly in the darkness. They bore down on the disembarked veterans.
Melchoir watched as a melta tank found its target, blasting apart an enemy vehicle, but not before it was taken out in turn by melta fire from somewhere. The officer craned his neck to see. From behind, an enemy transport charged forwards, the troops inside firing meltaguns at deadly short range. From behind the tower, sounds of guardsmen getting butchered broke out over the gunfire.
They were nearly completely trapped.
More gunfire continued to pour into the tanks, the volume of fire managing to find its mark. His forces were quickly getting overrun.
Melchoir's mind raced. "Go, come on!" he shouted to no one in particular.
His command transport raced forwards, followed by whoever could follow as they tried to make their way clear of the fortifications.
The loud pinging of ricochets accosted him as they moved out of the cover of the towers, stray weapons fire finding its way onto the side armor of the transports.
Then, from up ahead, more enemy came at him. A transport bristling with weapons of its own dove from cover behind a ruin and moved to block off Melchoir's escape. Melta fire slammed into the front of his chimera, and peeled up over the turret. Melchoir ducked his head as the enemy broadside ripped apart the wheel well in front of him, spraying hunks of liquid metal at the officer. Melchoir jumped down into the cab of his transport.
He was met by the vacant stare of a psyker. The officer recoiled, forgetting himself for a moment.
He had wanted to leave the witch to die, but was cajoled by the rest to sparing his life. A task which now seemed as difficult as it was pointless. With a screeching drone, the chimera ground to a halt and quickly set ablaze, pouring smoke into the cab.
"Everybody move!" he shouted, still not being able to take his gaze from the psyker. Their eyes were locked into each other. His head uncontrollably turned to keep looking as his body instinctively made for the back hatch of the vehicle.
Just as Melchoir and a few of his command staff managed to bail out, the front half of the chimera exploded violently, seething a pair of roiling fireballs up into the air between rent plates of steel armor.
"Come on, we've got to move!" he shouted again.
Faced with the enemy transport in front of him, and the enemy attacking all along the side, the officer strained to think his way out of the situation.
But it was far worse than he had imagined.
An enemy scouting force had been stalking them, waiting for the moment to strike. They chose just that moment to reveal themselves, attacking in from the rear.
Melchoir now WAS completely trapped.
The officer glanced on as the enemy swarmed the rest of his vehicles. Heavily damaged though they were, they fought back desperately. The flaming near-wreck of a hellhound charged into the new attackers. As they scrambled to get clear of the vehicle, they bunched together, just as another tank bore down on them with its heavy flamer.
But it was little use. They were being rushed at from every side. Enemy meltagunners charged forwards while the enemy assault specialists moved in with their power weapons and heavy shields.
As the last of the vehicles began to succumb to the overwhelming enemy attack, a few desperate guardsmen were all that was left.
The officer frantically bellowed orders as they were closed in on every side at once. The enemy appearing everywhere out of the flickering darkness. Rushing straight at them.
Against feeble gunfire, they made it in for the slaughter.
"Go!" Melchoir shouted. He could feel the jaws closing in around him. He had only one, desperate chance to make it out alive. He needed to attack. He needed to punch through, any possible way he could.
The remnants of the command squad rushed forward. Melchoir ordered the meltagunners to shoot apart the transport in front of them. Melta beams hissed through the air, leaving long, molten scars scratched across the side of the tank. Those inside attempted to fire back at them, but soon their ride was a total wreck. The enemy squad fired into the command squad as they piled out, gunning down the meltagunners and leaving Melchoir completely alone against their wall of storm bolters and bayonets.
But not completely alone. Melchoir could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He glanced over his wounded shoulder towards the psyker. The sorcerer seemed filled with an inhuman power as he focused his mental energies. Seemingly oblivious to the officer, he began to charge forwards.
Storm bolter fire showered down on him, the explosive ammunition crashing into his body.
Miraculously, the psyker didn't even seem to notice, much less be effected by the lethal rounds. Without delay, Melchoir charged in after, catching up as they assaulted into the enemy.
It was almost impossible to see in the shadow of the wrecked vehicle. Moving shapes danced in front of him. He wildly swung his powerfist forward. It entered into a mass of flesh, causing gore to splash all over him and fling out into the air.
The sorcerer, imbued with mystical powers, ran his body into the combat knives of the enemy, embedding them in his flesh, and twisting to wrench the blades form his enemies hands. Raising his own power weapon he crashed it down into the nearest enemy soldier with the strength to smash a battle tank in half.
Melchoir reached out and grabbed something, maybe an arm, maybe a head. Whatever it was was painfully crushed by his powered gauntlet as the screams of the enemy filled the black air around him. The psyker next to him hit an enemy soldier with so much force that the flying splinters of his spine and rib cage blew through his comrades like shrapnel. The enemy, falling like wheat to the sickle in the indiscriminate swinging of their deadly weapons, broke in abject fear.
Melchoir and the psyker chased after them.
As they ran behind a ruined building, the shapes of the fleeing enemy danced between shadows and the flickering light. They were completely scattered.
The way out was clear.
***
"You are bleeding," the psyker said with a voice the could wilt a whole field of daffodils.
Melchoir looked down. He was.
Somewhere, at some time, he had been further wounded. That wasn't exactly at the top of his list of concerns. What was was that he was stuck, in the darkness, in the middle of a battle, with no troops, and no idea where he was. And he was hiding in a ruins with a witch.
And now he was bleeding.
At least the enemy hadn't found him yet. They must have assumed that they had killed off everything, or perhaps they had other orders to follow. They might not even be anywhere in the area anymore. Melchoir had little way of knowing.
"I have the power of healing," the psyker said.
"No," Melchoir blurted, the strength of his refusal catching even himself a little off guard. He took a moment to look at the sorcerer. Despite what the officer knew to be terrible wounds, he did actually seem more or less fine.
"I'll not have my flesh touched by witchcraft," he said, in a slightly more conciliatory tone.
"It already has been," the psyker spoke.
The thought made him churn slightly inside.
"And who is to say that this is even your flesh?" the witch finished.
For the briefest of moments, he almost wished it wasn't. He was in pain from everywhere all at once. He was actually a little surprised that he was still conscious. That he hadn't just collapsed in a heap.
He refocused his mind. He didn't have the time or energy to banter with a mutant. If only he had a way of making contact with someone.
Melchoir looked at the psyker again.
No, he couldn't.
"You are wondering what to do now, marshal?" came the reply, as if reading his thoughts, "I can not communicate with my mind, only to craft a physical form. If you wish, I can make you invincible, and we could walk to where we needed to go unharmed."
The officer winced in pain.
All around him, the sounds of battle echoed in the darkness.
***
