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***
"Marshal Theleos?"
Melchoir's heart leapt in his chest.
"Amines?" he replied, daring to speak only above a whisper.
The officer peered through the growing dawn light from his position of safety. He was alone now - his psyker had been killed by stray gunfire during the night, passing between ruins. Melchoir thought he was going in the right direction, but in the darkness, and without any appropriate equipment, he could only guess.
He could hear the sound of feet walking over gravel and rubble. Melchoir turned towards the source of the sound.
Then, from up ahead, a figure presented itself. Armored in purple and brushed ceramite, the tall form of Quistl Amns walked out into the street. Never before had Melchoir been so glad to see a person whose name he was so incapable of pronouncing.
Painfully, the officer propped himself up onto his feet and moved out to greet the inquisitor in the pale light.
"Marshal Theleos," Amns stated with an exhausted attempt at a smile as he walked up to him. Melchoir replied silently with a salute. "I'm glad I found you," Amns continued.
Melchoir nodded.
"How are you faring?" Amns asked, noting Melchoir's teetering stance.
"Umm... I still have my wits, you know."
The two stared silently at each other for a moment.
"How are things yourself?" Melchoir finally asked, remembering his manners.
"Well. The enemy is pinned down everywhere," Amns replied, "We have greater numbers, and they are unable to maneuver."
"Are we ...winning?"
"I believe so. It is difficult to judge the enemy strength, and without Druxus, it is difficult to know for certain."
"What happened to Druxus?" Melchoir asked, hopeful.
"Missing, presumed slaughtered."
Melchoir couldn't help but feel a pang of vindication.
"Come with me, Marshal Theleos," Amns said, reaching out his arm to steady the officer, "I will need you to help manage things."
***
"Where are they?" Melchoir growled into the vox, a mixture of fatigue and frustration and pain making him short of temper.
"I am still calibrating," came the crackling voice of Inquisitor Amns over the vox.
Melchoir waited impatiently amid a hastily-assembled group of elite soldiers.
The trapped enemy, at least, according to Amns, was going to eventually collapse if they didn't make a breakout. They had broken out.
Somewhere.
In the complete chaos of an overplanned attack that had gotten hopelessly confounded and with the planner and leader nowhere to be found, both communication and intelligence were terrible. Amns had no idea what was going on anywhere. That had quickly become apparent to the officer. Unlike Druxus, Amns had the humility to delegate if not possibly the ability to understand when someone who is better than him at something, and eager to do it, should be trusted to do the right thing.
Unfortunately for Melchoir, he had never made sense out of such a complete breakdown of command before, in such a short time. Given a day, he'd have it in order. If the rumors were true, they had perhaps 20 minutes to stop a complete disaster.
To make up for this deficit, Amns was using some of his scratch-built scanning equipment - a hundred times more powerful than an auspex, or so he claimed. He'd have an instant snapshot of what was going on within a few dozen miles of him... once he got it working.
For now, Melchoir could only wait.
He had to check himself against getting too upset at Amns, though. He had proven a friend and ally, and was certainly competent enough in his areas of expertise. The fact that his scanners weren't working was a mark against an otherwise exemplary record with regards to home-spun engineering.
Melchoir looked over to one of the support vehicles the inquisitor had brought along. It was a Foleran Leman Russ tank. So it was said, the tank's vanquisher cannon had been completely ruined beyond salvage. Amns had been spending several days before the main fight tinkering with it. Only a few moments ago had he seen the fruit of the inquisitor's labor.
As best as the officer could tell, Amns had simply taken three plasma cannons, welded them together, figured out something for the cooling system (he hoped), and had ramshackle bolted it to the turret of the Russ.
He watched it quietly idling. Wondering just what kind of a show it was capable of putting on.
"Koueiusta-
el," Melchoir said into the vox, horribly butchering the inquisitor's first name.
"Hold, Theleos," came the scratchy reply, "I almost... have it..."
Melchoir propped himself up against the side of the top hatch. As he leaned heavily on the sheet of metal armor, he listened to the sounds of battle still raging nearby.
"Almost..."
Melchoir looked disinterestedly at the ruins around him. Oddly enough, for the first time on this planet, he started to be able to see the endless ruins of this city as an actual place. Where people actually lived once, and did common, everyday kinds of things.
His ears pricked up. There was a new kind of sound coming into earshot.
"Almost... have it..."
Melchoir frowned as he listened to the noise, trying to make out what it was.
"There," came the satisfied voice of the inquisitor in the back of Melchoir's attention, "Now to sweep... and... Melchoir!"
The officer snapped his focus to the vox.
"They're here!" came the voise of Amns.
"What?" Melchoir asked.
"The breakout, it's right in front of us!"
"What!?"
And then he realised it. It was the sound of small engines. Coming straight towards him.
Melchoir leaned heavily out of his top hatch, craning to see around the ruins. His gaze was met by a fleet of bikes, right in front of him.
He slammed his finger into the vox, setting the channel to his motor pool. "Enemy ahead. Everybody, take cover in the ruin and prepare for action!"
Instantly, the chimeras around him roared into life. Infantry began to scurry forward. The wash of engine noise echoed from every direction.
The transports at the front of the column began to lurch forward into the onrushing enemy.
"Set up defensive positions!" Melchoir shouted into the vox again, "Everybody get ready!"
Well, he thought to himself wryly, at least now he knew where the breakout was happening. He just hoped he had the time to be able to set up. Given that there were bikes in front of him, he knew how unlikely that was going to be.
The first of the bikes began to speed out into view on an attack path towards his still mostly stationary motor pool.
Melchoir winced in anticipation. Suddenly, he heard two noises slamming into his ears.
The first was incredibly peculiar. It was sort of a fizzling thud followed by thunderclaps of sizzling explosions, one after another in fast succession. The ruins glowed green off to the left as more gunfire began to start up from heavy weapons. It took a moment for him to realise what was going on - it was the new plasma cannon tank. Apparently it hadn't just exploded on itself.
The second was terrifyingly familiar. It was the hollow ringing that could only mean one thing.
The officer didn't even have a chance to turn around before the explosion of retro-rockets slammed into the earth behind him.
While from the front, the bikes revved their engines and charged in.
Melchoir was completely surrounded.
The enemy slammed into him from everywhere simultaneously like a tornado hitting an outhouse. Hardly had they disembarked before the marines were steadily marching forward, rending the air ablaze with meltagun fire. The closest chimera exploded in a cataclysmic fireball, hurling debris and guardsmen high up into the air. Others of them implacably leveled their weapons into the rear armor of Melchoir's hellhound. The fire tank exploded in a truly apocalyptic blast, that put the previous carnage to shame. A massive sheet of fire exploded up and out in a wide arc, fanning out and crashing down like a tidal wave of liquid fire.
Melchoir watched as the bikes careened into melta range of their own. The chimera right in front of him was ripped apart by a scything melta beam, the shouts of panic from the men inside as they scrambled to escape the wreckage broke out over the sounds of engines, gunfire, and burning hulks. A few managed to escape the fiery wreckage of their transport, some of whom were gunned down by bike-mounted bolters as they picked their way through the twisted metal.
More melta fire slammed into the transport to his right, and more into the transports to his left. One hissed and seethed against the anti-tank firepower, the other began to collapse like soggy cardboard, the heavy steel plates sloughing off of the chassis as the men inside desperately began to escape.
In the blink of an eye, Melchoir's forces were nearly completely ruined.
"Armor!" Melchoir shouted into the vox, "Counterattack on your four, NOW!"
He looked down at the soldiers trying to escape their ruined chimeras.
"Fight back! Everybody open fire!"
He turned around and could see the disorganized rabble of confused guardsmen standing before the disciplined might of the space marines.
"Form Ranks!" Melchoir shouted.
Some of the guardsmen turned to look up at the officer. Others started to try to follow orders.
"Don't look at me, you idiots! Point your guns at the enemy and shoot them! Fight! Fight them now!"
The air suddenly exploded in flashing green lightning. Massive balls of sheathed plasma began to fly rapidly around in a broad cone. Melchoir instinctively leaned back as the cascade of star fuel smashed around him in an endless cluster of explosions.
The plasma scattered everywhere, spraying globs of explosive death onto the drop pod and onto the nearby grass and ruins. Melchoir lifted his arm up to shield his eyes from the blinding light of the concussive blasts of orbed lightning. The air thundered under the incredible, if poorly-aimed power of the Leman Russ.
Behind him, a desperate melta fight broke out as the survivors of the chimeras began to fire back into the bikes. The heavy wheeled vehicles were no match for the same firepower that had just worked so well on their enemies. Bikers were thrown from their bikes in the searing spray of melta fire, but where one was wrecked, two more took its place. Before the officer could even turn back to face his men, they were already engaged in a bitter melee as the bikes crashed down into them with merciless violence.
To his left, the front of the column had managed to make it into the relative safety of the ruins.
But in another brilliant display of ballistic transportation, the skies opened up again. A second drop pod came careening out of the sky, it's retro-rockets exploding as the missile slammed into the ground. The explosive bolts popped angrily, and more space marines with more meltaguns charged out.
From behind them, more bikes charged through the ruin, spraying hunks of flying debris before them as they crashed through towards the guardsmen.
The thunderous barrage of even more meltaguns slammed into the chimera. The face panel of the vehicle bubbled and popped before blasting away, incinerating the crew inside. The bikes charged up from behind to ram into the nearby infantry in the chaos.
The enemy was everywhere at once. The guardsmen were at the point of complete collapse.
The situation was more than serious.
Melchoir would have to handle things himself.
"Driver, let us out and... go kill something," he growled into his micro-bead as he hopped down into the darkness of his ride.
"Come on," he sternly ordered his command squad, "We've got work to do."
The officer opened the door to the transport and activated his power fist. This nonsense was going to stop, and stop now.
He erupted out into the hellish scene of brutal carnage. Bullets whizzed overhead and bounced off his transport while thick smoke hung in the air from the many burning wrecks around him.
Melchoir pointed forward to where the bikes were. "Let's go!" he shouted. The command squad charged into the smouldering wreckage around them, soon to be face to face with the enemy.
He saw what appeared to be the leader, blasting away with an assault cannon from a skimming vehicle.
"That one!" he shouted, pointing with his power fist, "Bring it down!"
His troops quickly responded, presenting a hedge of meltaguns against the floating skimmer.
"Fire!"
The melta guns burst out in unison, cascading their beams of anit-tank power straight into the front of the vehicle. The driver tried to swerve out of the way, but it was pointless at this range. The shots slammed into the front armor and the skimmer quickly began to disintegrate. At the last moment, it bucked up out of the way, flipping the driver from the craft, and sending the whole flaming mess hurtling to the ground.
Melchoir looked on with grim satisfaction, but this was merely one target. Meanwhile, everything around him had devolved into a brutal melee.
"Keep firing!" Melchoir shouted at the top of his lungs, "Keep up the pressure!"
He looked around as those who were able tried to fire lasguns and melta weapons at the bikes as they drove over guardsmen and into the remains of their transports. A black blur shot in front of them. The command squad turned to fire with meltaguns, sending their blasts arcing through the air.
Melchoir took careful aim with his plasma pistol against the speeding biker. He squeezed the trigger, firing a dart of sheathed power into the bike. The shot exploded in an angry green blast, ripping off the front wheel and handlebar. The confused biker jerked hard, flipping the bike into a roll that crashed into the side of the ruins.
The officer looked around at the chaos. His mind raced. He looked for the worst place, judging in an instant whose fights would be won, whose would be lost, and who might win, but only with his help. He saw what he was looking for to the left.
Melchoir was shocked to find another drop pod had landed on top of them. Whatever had survived the massacre was now engaged in close combat, and were quickly being beaten down. There were now only a handful of soldiers between victory, and a total sweep of his beleaguered forces from the left.
"Follow me," the officer said sternly to his command staff as they began to pick themselves out of the wreckage around them. Ahead, the guardsmen were breaking and running, leaving a few of Amns hand-picked soldiers against the enemy space marine menace.
Through the smoke and the gunfire and the raging of battle, Melchoirs boots stamped over twisted hunks of metal and the blasted rubble of buildings. He strode forcefully forward as the remaining guardsmen began to fight back. The inquisitor's henchmen were well-equipped with power weapons and shields. Soon, they had all but accomplished what his own guardsmen had failed to do.
With a few bounding leaps, Melchoir made it out and was on the remaining enemy space marine.
Suddenly surrounded, the space marine apothecary shoved hard to one side, knocking away the guardsmen, and trying to back out of the way. Melchoir set on him with his power fist, but his first attack went wide, followed by a second. The marine fired his bolt pistol at the officer, but the shout bounced angrily off of his refractor field in a thin jet of sparks and smoke.
Melchoir lunged in again, but again the space marine backed up. But it was a feint. As the officer's clumsy punch missed, the space marine's left arm came up and hit him in the chest. The whirring blade on his medical gauntlet suddenly burst into his flak armor. The space marine twisted his arm and a long needle projected out. Melchoir could only watch in horror as the needle stabbed him in the side, injecting him with fluid.
The officer tried to twist away, tripping over and falling to the ground.
The guardsmen behind him rushed in to press the attack as Melchoir lay gasping on the ground. His breath came in gulping heaves. He could feel a tingling sensation spread out from the syringe wound in his side. Desperately, he began to claw at his armor, frantically trying to pull it off to see the wound.
The drugs worked quickly. Soon his body became numb, and a cool sensation pulsed up his spine. He struggled vainly, thrashing on the ground.
"No," Melchoir managed to seethe. He clenched his face and his hands, desperate to fight off...
... the...
...
Melchoir opened his eyes.
He wasn't dead. Decidedly not so, in fact.
The officer relaxed his muscles as the sound of battle continued around him.
In fact, he felt rather fine. Better than fine, actually. He got to his feet surprisingly quickly, buoyed by a strange floating sensation. He watched for a moment as the guardsmen finally managed to club the apothecary to the ground. He looked down at his half-removed chestplate and down towards the needle wound.
"Huh."
***
The servitors next to inquisitor Amns continued to fire sporadically into the ruins. The rest of the gunfire had gone quiet. Only the snapping of the various vehicle fires and the many groans of dying soldiers filled the oily air.
"Marshal Theleos!" Amns shouted down to him.
"Inquisitor," Melchoir replied as he walked forwards, looking up at Amns as he took a moment from directing the weapons fire of his machine servants.
"What have we left?"
"Six," the officer said flatly, "And your specially modified Russ."
A pained expression covered the inquisitor's face. "And you?" he finally asked.
"I'm fine, actually. I think an enemy apothecary may have accidentally injected me with narthecum."
"Hah!" Amns all but shouted.
"That, or I'm going to be relaxed before I drop dead in a moment," Melchoir continued, in a mix of acridity and levity.
"I have called for more transpords," Amns called down, "These next few hours will be what determines it. I hope you're up for another fight."
***
