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We fight the heretic

The veterans sprinted left and right, trying to avoid the descending valkyrie and the charging dreadnought both. Imperial Guard tanks fired another volley, trying to hit the walkers. One round impacted on already broken rockcrete in front of the first armored giant, but the other managed to pass by both targets, and exploded right in front of the victor squad. Roihenne, diving behind a broken pillar, saw several of his rednecks flying up among dust and earth and pieces of masonry, and dropping down like wet ragdolls.

The closest dreadnought, its assault cannon still hanging broken from its shoulder joint, loomed through the dust, getting uncomfortably close. Although deafened by the huge boom of the battle cannon hit, Roihenne still heard the remaining motor of the valkyrie screaming like a wounded beast. He glanced upwards. To his amazement, the carrier was not falling, but instead made what must under the circumstances be considered a controlled and almost graceful landing, right between most of the victor squad’s effectives and the charging, damaged dreadnought. The cabin popped open, and both flyboys clambered out, bewildered but apparently unhurt.

The purple dreadnought charged. Roihenne shot his plasma pistol, managing to miss the huge form completely. “Fall back! Regroup!” he urged his men, but most needed no ordering, guardsmen running past him and around the downed valkyrie. Roihenne was about to turn and run too, when he saw that the CAS crew still hunkered down next to their plane. Swearing, he run, grapped the WO’s arm, yelling “Run! Its hitting us”. He pushed WO, slapped the pilot’s back hard, shoved him too to run, turned... Oh Throne! The dreadnought’s close combat weapon hit down, Roihenne was sure he would die, but the giant swing turned down, smashing the valkyrie’s nose cone just meters from Roihenne’s legs. Then the purple warmachine suddenly pivoted, and stomped down with its left foot. Roihenne, frozen in place, heard a human scream. That jolted him moving again, running, back under the valk’s surviving tailboom, pushing the aircrew moving again, shouting “Meltas! To me!”.

Roihenne missed the curious sight of a damaged dreadnought twisting its torso, and moving its left foot ever so slightly, not crusing the trooper caught under it. Dull red vision slit of the ancient dreadnought brighteted, its close combat weapon opened and closed in a way a man might snap his fingers, concidering.

Behind the valkyerie’s smashed fuselage, Hoijonne was just lining up a melta shot, and Roihenne was waving his plasma pistol, pushing the squad’s remains in a skirmish line while shepherding the flyboys, when a grating metallic voice boomed from the dreadnought.

“We are Idola Tribus. We fight the heretic. You are not the heretic. Desist and retreat!”

A moment’s silence ensued. Hoijonne straightened, whispering “Sarge... what I said...” “Hush!”, Roihenne said, raising his hand. The dreadnought moved, lifting its left leg slowly. Valkyrie’s remains blocked the vision, but they heard someone moaning softly. “Tikkinne, Chootine, go!”, Roihenne said softly. The troopers moved forward warily, and returned soon, dragging a wounded, passed out guardsman between. The dreadnought had not moved at all, everything was silent around the valkyrie, only electric shortcuts sizzling inside the broken aircraft.

Roihenne gave the order in firm but quiet voice: “Victor squad, retreat”.
---

Alive and avenged

Guardsmen of the first platoon, at least those still standing, seemed a little lost. Their lasguns discarded, many nursing non-fatal injuries like broken ribs and slashed arms, they started moving downhill, carrying their badly wounded comrades. A marine in purple armor had indicated the route they should take, a curt order issuing from his helmet’s vox grille : “Move towards the honored brother”, he had said, pointing towards the intact dreadnought slowly moving on the termac road between the ruins, “and don’t stop or your life will be forfeit”.

A trooper on a makeshift strecher moaned. Oikan glanced over his shoulder and said: “Easy, private, you will be all right, we are still alive”, and kept on walking. On a second strecher, made from his own black greatcoat, lay comissar Wejkovich, his breathing laboured, bubbles of blood rising on his reddened lips. He is not going to make it. But that Astartes he hacked down didn’t look so pristine either, thought Oikan, and a ghostly smile graced his own lips.

They had moved about a hundered meters, when the Leman Russes boomed again in unison. The granite hillock they had vacated erupted in deadly rock shard showers, with whole boulders blasted to the skies. All the troopers instinctively dropped prone, only Oikan having the presence of mind not to drop the strecher’s end, so the wounded he was carrying was only jolted at legs when the other bearer dived.

Oikan saw several of the marines were down, lying stricken on top of the hillock. So we are avenged, but to what end? Emperor’s guiding light did not answer. It rarely did, and never for the poor guardsmen dying for the Imperium of man.

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Climb and burn

Leftenant Woikas was moving at the point. His command squad was now down to three effectives after specialist Toimpas and corporal Fincaid had been hit by the hostile bolter fire. Woikas had left them, Toimpas shot through the head and dead as a stone, and Fincaid bleeding but with a survivable leg and thigh hits, in the lee of the standing outer wall of the ruined tower they we supposed to be scaling up.

Woikas was sure the first platoon was totally finished, at least the incoming fire that hit his men had come from their erstwhile positions. His own platoon was even now moving out in extended skirmish line, covering the other side of his large target building. But the left side, which was supposedly covered by first platoon, was not covered at all. Mayby, just maybe we find some usable stairs under that corner... we have to move carefully, Woikas considered, keeping low among the rubble piles on the collapsed side of the building.

“Leftenant, what... what is that noise?” asked his voxman, nodding forward. The leftenant stopped, listening. “That sounds like a large walker... so it is one of the dreadnoughts.”, he replied. “Sounds close by...”, contined the worried trooper. “We move on”, Woikas said dryly, and strode forward in the dimmed interior of the ruined building.

In a few minutes it became clear that the internal staircase at the corner was totally collapsed between bottom floor and first floor. Only apparent way up would be to scale the rubble mound on the outside, reach first floor windows, wiggle in, and then hope the staircase, broken open for the sunlinght, would hold their weight for the next two floors to the top. But the noise of a walker was there to be heard, just outside the walls apparently.

“Hostiles will be distracted. We will try to move out, and keep in the cover of the rubble”, Woikas decided. The three guardsmen carefully moved towards nearest breach in the outer wall. Woikas took a peek outside. “The dreadnought is moving but its not that close now.” He surveyd the ruin field a moment longer. “There might be some infantry going by...hmm. Trebok, take my commbead. Hermtenne, tune your vox set to the bead. Trebok, move back inside and get as close to the outer corner as you can, and keep watch. Warn us if any hostiles move closer to the building.” “Yes sir, warning you if hostiles spotted.”, nodding curtly specialist Trebok moved back inside, stoically lugging his grenade launcher and its extra ammo drum.

Sweating, more from the combat stress than physical exercise, Woikas half climbed, half sneaked on the biggest rubble mound’s side. It was piled up right at the corner of the building, apparently consisting mostly of roof tiles, inscribed gargoyles and pieces of masonry from the upper storeys, more likely brought down by the huge storm fronts frequently raging in Ashkelon III’s brutalized climate, than any direct hostile action.

On his belly, he drew even with the mound’s top, taking a look over it. Vox set on the back of specialist Hermtenne behind him beeped. Woikas was about to say something for the man, when he saw a marine appear at the corner of the building, and looking straight at him, red helmet lenses glinting.

Both amazed combatant brought up their boltguns, the gene bred warrior faster but the guard officer not far behind. Bolts hit the mound, spashing Woikas with dirt and tile chips. His own shots went wide also, but the marine, agile as a gymnasiast, swung back behind the corner. And a bigger form was moving behind the Astartes.

“Back! Back!”, Woikas yelled, the need for secrecy lost. Stumbling past the voxman, Woikas heard him grunt: “Eeh. Trebok said... there was a dreadnough waiting...”. Rest of the operator’s sentence was lost in the swooshing of a heavy flamer’s burning promethium billowing over the rubble mound, instantly fusing the sanctified electronics of the vox set, scorching their uniform backs, and burning the exposed skin off their necks.

A bolter chattered inside the ruin, followed by a heavier report of a grenade launcher. Woikas, with his hands and face blistering already, dragged Hermtenne inside the ruin, dumping the voxman’s useless comm set in the process. Trebok appeared from the gloom of the building. “The tower was n... not secured. L... left f... flank is broken”, gasped Woikas, the pain intensifying. Trebok nodded, then swiftly took his combat drug syringe from his belt webbing first aid kit, and hit the leftenent on the shoulder blade with it. Hissing, the small blessed medicaid emptied. “T... Thank you.”, Woikas whispered, almost at once feeling more able to control the pain. “We must get back to the captain”.

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Run again

Leftenant Chaasine was running. He had seen men of his platoon shot by bolters, wreathed in flames and then sucked up in a melee with the Astartes, but had not been there to help. Captain Huurika had curtly instructed him to pull back with his own flamer specialists, only to counter attack if the first platoon broke and hostiles would keep on advancing. That direct order might not have stopped Chaasine short of the melee, but the added information of Leman Russ section taking aim for the hillock’s crest had convinced him to halt his command squad.

After the melee quieted, frighteningly fast if one thought more about it, the russes had fired a salvo, just as some purple Astartes helmets had poked up among the granite boulders. Chaasine was convinced that at least some of the helmets, and likely the heads inside, had come detached in the bombardment.

When the debris fell and dust cleared a bit, his attention had been drawn beyond the hillock. Occupants of the second rhino, shot through and broken by the previous salvo of the russes, climbing down from their transport. Advancing, firing with unhuman precision. First one of his command squad troopers had been hit, dropping dead but the puctured promethium tanks somehow failing to explode. That had sent the squad moving back towards the safety of the emporium ruins. Then a second specialist had been hit, and the marines seemed intent on continuing their chase.

Supporting the wounded together with his voxman, Chaasine run forward as best they could. They were almost at the russes. A few bolter rounds whistled past, exploding against the behemoth steel monsters. He saw the closest turret turning, the business end of the battlecannon looming ahead like a maw of a sea monster. A man appeared from a hatch on top of the tank. “Down!”, he yelled, gesturing wildly.

The command squad dropped down among the depris. A huge boom of the battlecannon followed instantly, heat wave washing over the prone troopers. No more bolter rounds arrived.
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Loud and clear

Captain Huurika ducked behind a broken column. Some Astartes were moving over the now blackened and equipment littered battleground of the hillock first platoon had occupied when the battle started. It was better to play safe than to catch a bolter round.

Huurika had received an oddly mystic message from the victor squad. The veterans had apparently lost their CAS ride, battled a dreadnought at close quarters, and then retreated in good order with their wounded. And sergeant Roihenne had ended the short call saying “Victor squad has complied with your standing disengagment orders” and cut the link without waiting for the questions he had to know the captain would have wanted to ask.

When Huurika had set his voxman to raise Roihenne again, the vox waves had been silent. Silent for the first time during the entire four week long deployment on the Ashkelon III. And especially silent when compared to the thrumming, etheric whistling and distorted, manically uttered threats which had polluted the vox before this unfortunate battle had been joined.

Then, a strong voice had called on the imperial wave lenghts: “This is Idola Tribus. Imperial Guard, desist and disengage. We only purge the heretic. This is Idola....” the loud and clear message had repeated on multiple bands. And the marines had ceased their aggressive advance.

Huurika had at once instructed the eager ensign Roipas of the Leman Russ section to concentrate on only blocking and suppressive fire, which he had then gleefully sent on some building he claimed occupied by a missile launcher team.

There had been no contact with leftenant Woikas, but some battle noices were briefly heard by the delta squad of the second platoon, which still occupied the emporium ruin. Huurika had stopped the advance of the other squads of the second on the right flank, but instructed them to resist if attacked. In any case, they had already assumed the covering perimeter positions assigned earlier.

“We have to try to contact Woikas. I will move forward with my command squad. Leftenant Chaasine, you will hold the emporium and resist if attacked.”, the captain voxed, using only his commbead, which was again working as intended, after the interference had miracuosly disappeared.

“Yes sir.”, responded the leftenant wearily, sounding anything but happy with his assignment.

“No visual on the hostiles, sir!” reported one of the command squad troopers. Huurika rose up, urging his men: “Move out, that ruined corner, now!”. His autocannon team hitched its heavy weapon up expertly. Corporal Viitinne had the company’s regimental colours still wrapped up. Might as well leave it that way. This is not our glory moment, thought the captain.

They moved forward, keeping as much in cover of the broken wall sections and debris piles as possible. Sounds of battle had died down, almost. When they got within twenty meters of the corner of the high central ruin the company should have evaluated for a vox link station, a thudding sound of metallic steps froze them in place. A dreadnought! Before the AC team could set their piece up, its whirring assault cannon started firing, shots so close together they melted to a loud ripping noise.

Huurika expected the air to be filled with blood and body parts, as at that range the walker could not possibly miss. Instead, the ground geysired up, the rounds stitching a nice straight line two meters in front of the specialist Glistensse moving at the point.

The squad froze, not even diving for cover. Again the metal giant fired, poking a second series of miniature crates, excatly along the same line. “We are Idola Tribus. The guard will retreat.”, a colourless but somehow old voice told them.

Huurika stood a moment, his jaws clenched, then said in an even voice: “We will retreat and cease fire”. The dreadnought’s assault cannon lowered, no longer pointing to the fragile guardsmen opposite the Astartes warmachine.

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Epilogue

Troopers of the 138th Gerundian Reserve were clearing up the wreckage left by the Haruukians. Their regiment had been detailed to set up prefab dormitories and technical work spaces for the vox link relay and augmentation outpost number 15-A. 138th was a rear echolon reserve regiment for more dashing Gerundian formations serving with the imperial contingent of Ashkelon III, so it got stuck with various not so glorious assignments.

Smell of burnt equipment was still lingering strongly on a small hillock, where Didley and Sprogger, both service class C menials, had escaped their dull duty. Hidden among the blackened granite slabs, they were trying to light their lho-sticks despite the biting wind which whistled over ther rocks.

After a few choice curses, which could have earned them a beating or worse if overheard by a pious ecclestiarch or even their not so first rate comissar, their lungs filled with the non-sanctioned but lovingly dulling smoke.

Didley, restless as ever, would not stay in place and enjoy. He just had to fidget, or walk, or kick something. Sprogger reckoned Didley would at some point get himself killed with his habit. Even now Didley’s not so muscled frame disappeared behind a large boulder. Sprogger heard the other serviceman slip and slide a bit, then a thump and a string a curses could be faintly heard. “Hey stupid, comoon an’ help meth up from here. Ith am stuck!”.

Sprogger inhaled the soothing smoke, held it a moment, then slowly exhaled, savoring the taste. “Hey Sprogger! Comoon!”, his mate yelled again. After another long, tasty breath, Sprogger moved slowly and carefully, minding his joint and taking his time rounding the boulder. Behind it, a blackened crevice about a meter wide suddenly opened and run some five or six meters downill. Didley was scraping on its near side, getting a meter up from the bottom and then sliding back, his hands not quite reaching the edge.

Sprogger kneeled, stuck his joint back in his mouth, and extended his hands “Here, mate, grab it”, he said, as Didley renewed his haphazard climb upwards. Didley got hold of Sporgger’s hands, Sprogger started to heave upwards, and then yelping, let go. Didley windmilled backwards, dropping heavily on his back with a grunt of pain. “Owww. Why did you drop meth? Stupid!”, ranted Didley.

Sprogger’s joint had dropped from his mouth, which hang open in his suddenly snow white face. His legs trembled and he looked ready to bolt. “Y...Y...You.... you... you”, he stuttered, “a....a... are not alone down there!”.

Didley scrambled on all fours and turned around faster than his squad sergeant could have ever believed possible on the drill ground. In the far end of the crevice, concealed by armor’s black paint scheme, was a huge space marine, enclosed in terminator suit. Or, roughly a half of a huge marine. Its left hand was stuck inside the solid rock of the hill face, and it had no visible legs. Vision lenses of the drooping helmet were dull, no inner light burned in the husk.

Didley sprang up, took a step or two towards the armor suite, and when nothing happened, said chuckling, “Its deaad, very deeeead”. With confident strides he moved up to the husk, and kicked the helmet. The rocky spike, which reached out from the crevisse’s side and had impaled the hapless Chaplain’s cranium, did not yield, any more than the adamantium-ceramite terminator helm. With an audible crack three toes on Didley’s foot broke.

Over his mate’s agonized screams as he lay down on crevice’s floor, Sprogger said slowly “Ith told you, your fiddling will get you killed, mate”.

---end of AAR number two---