Chapter 31: Choking the Throat
Across the battlefield, the veteran Astartes led the neophytes, flanked by the mortal auxilia, the "Spear of Hector." Behind them marched the grim, methodical ranks of the Dark Mechanicum's Tech-Guard.
They advanced over the white ash of the burned forest, their boots crunching, tightening the noose around the trapped cultists.
Auxilia troopers with grenade launchers lobbed stumm-gas rounds into the rear ranks of the enemy. At the front, lasguns and autoguns spat fire, cutting down any cultist brave or foolish enough to charge.
The cultist "champions" roared and threw their spears, loosing arrows that fell short or bounced harmlessly off armor. Their charge was futile. Behind them, their kin were collapsing, overcome by the gas. Before them, the enemy's ranged weapons tore them apart. Their numbers meant nothing. They could only fall back, routed and broken.
Every mortal trooper wore a rebreather mask. The Astartes, neophytes, and Tech-Guard ignored the swirling green gas. They were a net, slowly closing, driving the cultists toward the central pyramid.
Amidst the formations of the lightly-equipped Spear of Hector, one unit stood out: a squadron of cavalry, mounted on cloven-hoof steeds. They wore rebreathers like the infantry, but carried stumm-grenades, laspistols, and long hunting spears tipped with shaped charges.
The beasts, which the natives called "Cloven-hooves," resembled Ancient Terran horses but had bovine-like split hooves. The Biologis-Magi of Daedalos had determined they were a genetically-engineered breed from the Dark Age of Technology, similar to many found across the Imperium. Millennia of local domestication had emphasized docility, reducing their size and courage. The Magi planned to rectify this with combat drugs and gene-therapy, forging them into true war-mounts.
As the army advanced, the cultists fell in droves, felled by gas, las-fire, or solid slugs. The front ranks marched over the fallen, leaving the sorting to the units behind, who methodically shackled the strong and dragged them back toward the processing lines.
The Dark Mechanicum Tech-Priests overseeing the harvest remained impassive, but their internal cogitators registered satisfaction. Lacking cloning vats in this system, these primitives would provide excellent raw material for servitors, needed for the mining operations on Lemnos III, IV, and V. Priority was given to Lemnos IV—their planet. As for the development of Lemnos III... they still had over 40 years. As long as they met the 50-year deadline, the contract was fulfilled.
Fledri, astride his Assault Bike, led his two neophyte wingmen on a sweep across his sector of the front. They roared over hundreds of fallen cultists, their heavy tires leaving red tracks in the ash. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Khornate or Tzeentchian, it made no difference; they were either captured or killed. If they weren't taking prisoners, this slaughter would be over in hours.
After several years, the "Spear of Hector" auxilia were... adequate. Unfortunately, they still lacked heavy artillery or armored support, and their air cover was minimal.
But things were improving. With Daedalos's support, the homeworld could now produce basic civilian trucks, low-grade flak armor, and cheap lasguns. Autoguns were plentiful. The Lord of the Forged would lead them to greater strength.
Fledri had once been just another line-trooper in the Legion, following orders alongside Captain Petros. His 100-year service had been an endless cycle: boarding action, drop assault, combat, attrition, reinforcement. Repeat.
He had never once piloted an Astartes attack craft or driven a battle tank. He felt keenly that the Legion veterans had never seen his intake as true brothers, just... durable Ogryns, to be expended without thought. He couldn't blame his own Captain; the entire Legion operated that way, from the top down.
But now... Fledri felt a prickle of unease. He scanned his sector again. Plenty of Khornate berserkers, plenty of Tzeentchian warriors... but not a single psyker. Not one shaman. That was wrong.
He knew Lord Petros was considering him for promotion. With Antonius now serving as Warband Champion and bodyguard, the Warband was expanding. New squad leaders would be needed, drawn from the veteran ranks. Fledri didn't want to fail his Lord. He wasn't confident in his command abilities, which made him even more cautious.
He brought his bike, its chassis half-stained crimson, to a halt amidst a pile of corpses. He keyed his command-vox.
"All units, halt advance. Consolidate the line. Wait for rear echelon to resupply munitions and evacuate harvested material."
This wasn't a war of speed. The goal was extermination and capture, leaving a clean slate. Slow, steady pressure was the key. The bottleneck wasn't ammunition; it was the Dark Mechanicum's processing capacity. Their landers and servitor-conversion facilities were running at maximum. They had to pause, waiting for the transports to return, waiting for more surgical slabs to become available.
During the lull, the mortal auxilia troopers split into shifts, half maintaining guard while the others sat amongst the dead, chewing ration bars and sipping from their canteens. The Tech-Guard, of course, simply stood motionless, their internal nutrient-pastes replenished automatically.
Fledri checked the tactical map overlay in his helmet display. Four great pincers—led by Lord Petros, Sergeant Vornab, Brother Ivan, and himself—were closing like mailed fists around the enemy's throat. One squeeze, and it would be over.
He looked back at the two neophytes idling on their bikes. "Why did we stop?" he asked suddenly.
The neophytes were startled. "Uh... to let the mortals rest, Sergeant?" one stammered.
The other paused, thinking. "The mortals aren't that tired yet. Sergeant... are you letting the enemy regroup? If we just charged in and scattered them, they'd run like rats, and we'd spend weeks hunting them down."
Fledri nodded, impressed. "Valerius Rex. You might have potential after all." He pointed to the first neophyte. "You. Go back to the supply trucks. Bring back promethium. Refuel all three bikes."
The neophyte sighed, resigned. "Yes, Sergeant."