Chapter 30: Tightening the Noose
In the skies above, Aquila Landers, Arvus Lighters, and Valkyrie gunships circled low and slow.
On any other battlefield, they would have been swatted from the sky by anti-aircraft fire. On this one, the enemy didn't even have bows that could reach them.
The aircraft banked, their cargo bays open, pouring a steady stream of black liquid onto the forest canopy below. They flew in a great, tightening circle, painting a perimeter around the massive, primitive city.
After the liquid was dispersed, incendiary munitions rained down at the four cardinal points. With a series of dull thumps, the world exploded into flame.
The fire, as if alive, instantly found the black liquid. It roared down the pre-laid lines, a wall of fire racing through the forest. This was Petros's solution to the dense woods: an ocean of fire, fed by promethium.
They had no need for the plants or animals of this tainted land. Let it burn. Let it burn for ten days. Rain? A joke. The weather-grid ensured the skies would remain clear.
They would burn away the forest that impeded their advance, and they would march on the ashes.
Days later, the fire had burned itself out. The land was a scorched, black plain for a hundred miles in every direction. The only things left of the great forest were charcoal and white ash.
A steel behemoth—the Warband's sole Land Raider—crushed the carbonized remains of a tree under its armored treads. Behind it, a disciplined army of over ten thousand mortal auxiliaries advanced, their boots crunching on the ash. They were clad in flak armor, carrying lasguns, autoguns, and heavy stub-cannons. Behind them marched the serried ranks of the Dark Mechanicum's Tech-Guard.
Petros stood on the hull of the Land Raider, his mag-boots locking him in place. He held his boarding shield in one hand, a plasma pistol in the other. At his thigh, the power axe 'Blood of Crassus' was sheathed.
Antonius was in the pintle-mount, his hands gripping the heavy bolter, scanning for targets. Inside, Phelon was acting as the tank's commander, while two of the new neophytes served as driver and gunner.
From the other side of the 'city,' Vornab, in his Rhino, led a second force, completing the pincer.
Petros was confident. Of his nineteen active Battle-Brothers, fifteen were here, supported by all 34 neophytes.
He had the "Spear of Hector," his mortal auxilia, now almost 100,000 strong. After seven years of harsh training, they had reached the level of a competent Planetary Defense Force. They would be cannon fodder in a true galactic war, but against these primitives, their weapons and discipline were overwhelming.
He also had over 5,000 Dark Mechanicum Tech-Guard. While not under his direct command, Priestess Yamila was coordinating their movements. And that number didn't include the legions of combat-servitors, who were, of course, not counted in the personnel rosters.
It was an overwhelming force against 300,000 primitives. This wasn't a war; it was a culling. A training exercise.
And yet, as he stood on the tank, Petros felt a flicker of unease.
The numbers were wrong. The drought, the starvation, the migration... Priestess Yamila had calculated that, at most, 100,000 survivors would have reached this final bastion. Instead, his aerial reconnaissance counted three times that. How had so many made it here?
No matter. His advantage was still absolute. As long as nothing unexpected happened, this would be a simple hunt.
Inside the central stone pyramid, nearly a hundred Prophets of the Feathered Serpent were gathered, their voices raised in frantic debate. They were a menagerie of mutations: one had a sharp, avian beak, another was covered in blue-green feathers, and a third had two heads, each arguing with the other.
But the most revered was the Great Prophet. He was completely hairless, his skin a smooth, unnatural, deep blue. He wore an open robe, revealing a mark on his chest: a deep blue, stylized crescent moon, interrupted by a perfect circle.
Tami, the warrior from the plains, stood guard outside the chamber. She was not worthy to enter, but just seeing so many blessed Prophets gathered in one place filled her with hope. Surely, with their combined power, they could defeat the steel demons and bring life back to the world.
Inside, the Great Prophet was speaking. "There is no more time! The servants of the Blood God are at our gates, and the steel demons are right behind them! We must begin the ritual. We must summon the Great Serpent now!"
A Prophet with eight spider-like eyes on his face objected. "Must we summon the Great God himself? The risk is too high! A lesser servant, perhaps..."
The Great Prophet's eyes—black sclera with electric-blue pupils—snapped to the speaker. "And wait for the Khornates and their 'Blood-Handed Slaughterer' to wipe us out? No!"
He rose, gripping his staff. "The Blood God cultists are preparing their own ritual! We must strike first! Did the Great Serpent not guide you all here in your dreams? Did he not lead you to this temple?"
A feathered prophet nodded. "The dreams were true, Great Prophet. But this... this is too dangerous."
The two-headed Prophet spoke, one head after the other. "The power the Serpent grants is... immense. Many of us can barely... control our own gifts. To focus it all... the consequences..."
The Great Prophet played his final card. "I have received a new revelation!" he boomed. "He commands me to lead this! In my dream, his Emissary placed a mark upon my hand as proof!"
He raised his left hand. Glowing with a pale, blue light was the exact same mark that was upon his chest.
The assembled Prophets gasped. They could feel the raw, unholy power radiating from it. This was no lie. He was the Chosen.
After a moment of awed silence, the debate was over. They would begin.
"Trust in me," the Great Prophet hissed, a sound of triumph in his voice. "You will not regret this."