Editing Trip Into Hell (Warhammer High) (section)

===To the Walls===
The plains outside the city were on fire. Not a physical fire, but a fire of Aetheric energy, and to Ahriman standing on the walls it felt like he was standing in the doorway of a furnace, feeling its raw elemental heat blasting against his body. Outside the walls, beyond the reach of the Imperial Artillery, even beyond the range of the Caorst Bombards, the heaviest siege guns on the Planet, the Ork host was assembling. All night he’d felt the mass of Greenskins grouping together, their leaders mustering them. As they came together, the fire grew, fed and fanned by the proximity of so many Greenskins to one another, until it became an uncontrollable firestorm, whipping the Orks into a furious frenzy. They knew where their enemy was, their enemy couldn’t escape, and they would stomp them flat. The sound of machinery had kept half the city awake as the Orks assembled Siege machines for breaking the outer walls down and the acridic stink of the exhaust fumes from their engines could be clearly smelt from the walls. The reality of what was happening to then was now fully sinking in, and he’d heard reports of small scale riots from the inner city, and even a suicide or two, which didn’t make Ahriman’s mood any better.

Ahriman was among the Seadelant PDF on the western wall sector, raising morale by his mere presence. He had detached himself from the psychic matrix which had allowed them to destroy so much of the initial landings, but some twenty million Orks and many thousands of tanks and war engines were now planetside, and those defences would no longer be of any use in stopping them. No, he would set an inspiration and lead them from the walls, examine the strings of fate and reshape them at the source, alter the battle as it raged around him.

Though he’d requested his name not be broadcast or mentioned, news had spread by word of mouth. A Space Marine leading them was something which could not be hushed up, and they had heard so many stories of the Great Crusade, and how they had been liberated from the Xenos which had enslaved Seadelant during Old Night. Wherever he went, he was greeted with cheers, and a forest of salutes. As he strode along the walls, the troops stood in solid ranks, each trying to outdo his or her peers and look good before the Marine.

“Sir?” Ahriman turned to face the man who addressed him. It was a trooper of the Planetary Defence Force. “Speak, trooper,” Ahriman replied.

“Sir. If we survive this, my lord, what will become of us?”

‘What will become of us?’ Ahriman considered the man’s question for a second. He could see the fear clouding him, clouding all of them despite seeing him before them, and knew that he had to banish that cloud, give the man some hope. “That I do not know. Time is fluid, and no future is set in stone. There is no inevitability that the Orks will win here, and by your very being here you change the future course of this battle. Do you hear that?” he amplified his voice so the other troopers could also hear him. “Even the smallest pebble can change the course of a rushing river, and by the same measure any one of you can change the entire course of this war. Never doubt your importance to the final victory here, one man or woman, one bullet or lasbeam can make all the difference. With men and women like yourselves at my side, how can we ever lose?” the man smiled, the fear dissipating from his aura and some of his fellow cheered. That feeling carried with Ahriman as he left the walls and headed for the old city and the command centre. He was not one for inspirational speeches, he didn’t have the talent for it like the Word Bearers, Sons of Horus or Imperial Fists did. He would stand with them, and by his actions be an inspiration. 

He would have ample warning when the Orks decided to make their move, he would feel it aetherically long before any reports reached him, and he needed to check with Graf Trakeria and Governor Shroe about the evacuation plans and any replies to the distress signals sent, if they had burned through the Aetheric ECM the Ork Hulk was broadcasting. Quite how the Greenskins were able to perform such a feat he had no idea, even after many years of research how their collective Psychic field actually worked was something which still stumped the Imperium’s top Psychomancers. Lord Magnus could work it out, if he wasn’t always busy elsewhere.

The city was a ghost town, the streets deserted. A few days earlier, this city was full of life, and its Warp Signature was bright and vibrant, glorious to behold. Not anymore. The ghostly echoes of how it used to be still lingered, a faint hint of life in an otherwise dead city.

The Command Centre within the inner city was an inversion of the rest of the city, bustling with hectic activity. Several Hydra Flak tanks in the Gunship Green colour of the Caorst Charxers were parked outside to provide air cover, while runners dashed out the doors every few minutes, sending classified messages from place to place, to command bunkers within the outer city and the Spaceport. Ahriman knew every order even before it was sent, he had drafted most of them himself and every one was telepathically sent to him for approval.
Every head turned when he entered the room, a giant in crimson armour. Removing his helmet, he addressed Graf Trakeria. “Morale is satisfactory down on the walls. A fair amount of apprehension, but that will evaporate when the fighting begins. Is everything in order back here?”

“Yes Lord Ahriman. You know my lord; I may have had my doubts at first, but the show you put on for us when the Greenskin scum were landing has convinced me. We destroyed nearly a third of the initial landings, and suffered comparatively few losses ourselves. With you leading us, I am almost supremely confident we will be able to hold out until relief arrives!”
“Never be confident of anything. The tides of the Great Ocean can shift and change at any moment, and we must be ready for that. Speaking of that, has there been any word on the relief? The Astropaths sent distress calls for nearly half a day before the Orks shut them down.”

“We caught a snippet of something shortly before the curtain came down. Very fragmentary, mentioned ‘delay’, ‘available troops’ and ‘Salamanders’, which did not install much confidence in us save mention of the XVII Legion. We hoped you would shed light on it my Lord.”

Ahriman took those words into his mind, reached into the Great Ocean and began to unravel them. Though much was lost, he pieced together a very rough picture, and it wasn’t a pretty one.

“It seems there are not many active troops available near us, and they’re scrambling to assemble a relief force. That means we may have to hold out for longer than I anticipated.”
He heard a few curses around the room, and almost all of the auras flamed red with frustration.

“Don’t worry, my plan is sound and with it we should be able to hold out for several months to a year, ample time for relief to arrive. Any delay is inconvenient, but this is war and we have to make do.”

The flares subsided, but there was still an air of discontent in the building. Nothing Ahriman could do about that though, he could change many things but not these circumstances. He spent the next few minutes checking the reports on the food stockpile, the power grid, the integrity of the Voids, and other minute but important details so often overlooked by supreme commanders. He began to feel more at peace with the world, until as he was discussing De-Salinisation of sea water in the event of a long siege, a report rang out across the room.

“Movement! The Orks are on the move!”

Ahriman cursed. He hadn’t felt the Orks leave their encampments. He extended his mind out beyond the walls, and was hit by another revelation. They were only a few kilometres out, half the distance he had expected to detect them at. The inferno of the Ork Psy Field suddenly hit him full force, sending his body of light straight back to his flesh. Everyone noticed him shudder, and at the same time the scanner operators detected the oncoming horde, and their reaction mirrored his own.

“Shit! How did they get so close without us noticing it?”

“Where is the damn artillery?”

“Attention, attention, we have incoming all across the line, respond over!”

“Enemy artillery hitting the Voids!”

There was no need to use his precognition abilities to tell what the Orks were doing. They would only move in one direction, straight towards the walls. In behaviour, Greenskins were nothing if not predictable.

“My Ladies, Gentlemen, I leave overall command in your capable hands. Follow my plan, and all should go well. The troops on the wall need inspiration, and I just about qualify.”
He paused long enough to jam his helmet back on his head, and then he was gone.



“Here they come!”

The call was echoed across the walls, as the storm broke before them. Troopers rushed into positions, screaming commands or encouragement at each other. The ‘click’ and ‘chink’ sound of weapons being readied and the rattle of ammunition being loaded rose in intensity.
Julius sat in the rear of the C-80, knowing that any time soon they would be sent on their first supply run. This really was it; he was in the middle of a war. Andrew would be so jealous. Let him be, when he gets his first taste of real war we’ll see how jealous he feels when there’s things out to kill him, he’s scared stiff as a board and feels like he’s about to vomit.

As the chaos raged around him, he tried to detach his mind from the troubles at hand and focus on something which had been bugging him immensely. His surprise interview with the SBC had left him feeling cold, after he had seen it broadcast the next day. Had he been a tad too harsh? He didn’t quite realize what he had been saying until it was too late, all that rage and frustration spilling out like a breached dam. He would have a lot of explaining to do if he got out of this alive, to Lord Mortarion first. He could explain it was meant to raise morale at the local level, and was in no way indicative of his true feelings, even when deep down it may have been a bit too close to those for comfort. What had happened to Morticia affected them all, himself included, and though most of the others were now over it he wasn’t, all thanks to the Petitioner’s City. Because of his stupid idea, he’d damn near got Isis killed, and he couldn’t get over that. He’d hoped leaving Terra and going to Calth would sort things out, but instead he had got caught up in this.

He wondered if they knew where he was, what was happening to him. Venus at least knew where he was, and her group might have an inkling what was happening to him, but would Isis and her cousins back on Terra know what was happening to him? He had grown up with them; they all considered him family, even cold Petra and spoilt Victoria had a soft spot for Pius, though by now that spot was buried deep. He had been the lone boy among them, until Imperator High when they discovered the wonders of boyfriends, and more and more often he’d found himself acting as chaperone to the other ‘royal consorts’, teaching them about etiquette and so on. He tried to stay on good terms with the consorts, but other than Jake and Andrew, he didn’t count any of them as close friends.

There was a deep rolling chain of booms behind him, and then a whistling sound overhead as the Basilisks opened up, spitting death at the oncoming horde. The shrieking roar of Storm Eagle rockets from the Manticores and the throaty whine of massive Bombard shells added to the din. Other Munitions groups would be supplying them with shells; he didn’t have to worry about that. Keeping the troops on the wall, as well as the wall mounted Hydras and Battlecannons supplied, that would be his problem.

The others came up to him. “Soon be in the shite offworlder, ready for it?” Flynn asked. Julius nodded half-heartedly. His stomach felt queasy, his breakfast disagreed with him.

“Scared, offworlder?”

“Of course. Giant green fungus monsters are about to attack this city. Aren’t you scared?”

“Hell no! What’s there to fear?”

“I’m scared.” Dyllion murmured abruptly. All the others looked at him in shock. Dyllion seemed the most fearless of all of them, to have him admit that he was scared, then again all of them must be scared, Julius thought. He remembered something his father once told when, when recounting a story about Ullanor. Taking his father’s words as his own, he said.
“I doubt there’s anyone here who’s not scared, even you Flynn must be scared somewhere within, even if you don’t want to admit it. I know I am, scared out of my wits. It’s a natural reaction, we’re all only human. Now come on, we have a job to do, and every little thing counts.”

Ahriman raced through the old city at transhuman speed, past batteries of Basilisks throwing shells downrange and Manticores sending missiles shrieking over the walls, past the single battery of Bombards parked in Liberators Square, past the Caorst Charxers lone Baneblade platoon, firing their massive cannons indirectly, past squadrons of Leman Russ and Malcadors waiting for orders and Chimeras with Caorst troopers lounging around them, until he finally reached the walls. The main gate and the surrounding wall area was guarded by troops from the Tanith Fifth ‘Larisels’, who despite being light infantry with few heavy weapons, and a junior regiment to the Belladon, Perdix and Caorst regiments, had been chosen for that position because they could be counted on to hold at all costs, and if by some disaster the falls fell they were well proven cityfighters.

Ahriman strode up the wall stairs four at a time, thoughts racing through his mind. He hadn’t felt the Ork horde move, somehow it had closed with the walls without him realising it. After his success during the initial landings he had dared hope he was free of the fog which had blinded him to the manipulations of the Primordial Annihilator, but it seems he was back at square one all over again. Was this to be his curse, no longer in complete control of his abilities? The most powerful Astartes psyker in the Galaxy, humbled?

Unlike the heavily fortified walls of cities bordering places such as the Eye of Terror, the Maelestrom or the various static Ork Empires, where the walls mounted massive artillery pieces for destroying Titans and the like, the heaviest guns on Seadelant’s walls were Battle Cannons, which while deadly were not heavy enough to face heavy war engines like Gargants. Fortunately he couldn’t detect any Gargants among the Ork forces, or anything heavier than a few scattered Battlefortresses and Stompas near the back of the horde. 
Black clad Tanith troopers were clustered tightly against the walls, checking and re-checking lasguns, watching the enemy approach through field glasses and quietly chatting with colleagues. They seemed remarkably calm and composed, but Ahriman could see the fear clouding their auras.

“Who’s in command here?” Ahriman called out to the nearest trooper, ever so subtly manipulating his aura to make himself appear more imposing, a tried and tested tactic to ensure orders are obeyed.

“That would be me.” A figure detached itself from a nearby knot of troops and headed towards Ahriman. It was a Commissar, the political officers which sometimes were attached to untested regiments.
To his credit, the Commissar did not flinch from the eyeless gaze of Ahriman’s helm, throwing a snappy salute at the towering Astartes warrior.

“I am Günter Wilhelm Victor Eberhardt Von Eisenstein, Lord Commissar, Tanith Fifth. The troopers call me Günter; it’s a lot easier that way.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Ahriman said, noting the way his men deferred to him. This was no ordinary Commissar, who ruled through fear and didn’t care for the lives of his men. The Tanith seemed to have a miraculous ability to get assigned only the most reasonable Commissars, as well as near supernatural luck in battle. Another reason why they were the rising stars of the Imperial Army.

“Commissar… Günter. My precognition tells me the Orks will concentrate their push here, that this is the vital sector on the line. The Greenskins will throw everything they’ve got at your troops, and I need to know if they can hold. Are your troops up to facing this?” Ahriman gestured at the tide coming in towards them.
“They may look scruffy and unkempt, but there are few finer troops in the entire Imperium. The Tanith first have won more Battle Honours in the Sabbat worlds than most regiments did during the entire Crusade. Their Commissar, to be correct their Colonel-Commissar looks set to be the next Ollanius Pius. My Lord, if anyone can hold off the Green Tide, it will be these men and women.”

Ahriman turned to face out at the approaching Orks, reciting the enumerations as he did so he could distance himself from emotions and achieve perfect clarity. The Ork host was advancing, a solid wall of green stretching from one horizon to the next, an ocean of bodies advancing on the walls. Trukks, Battlewagons and Battle Fortresses rode above the horde like metal icebergs in the sea of green, partially concealed by the smog from engines and clouds of spore fog floating before them.

Among the host, towering over them were eight massive engines. Each was slightly higher than the curtain wall, and Ahriman recognised the basic design almost at once, an Orky rendition of an ancient siege weapon used on Terra, and later on places like Olympia, homeworld of the Iron Warriors. Belfries, or Siege Towers as they were more commonly termed, a way of scaling walls too high for ladders or grappling hooks. Some rolled along on wheels or track systems, thick black exhaust clouds billowing behind them. Others had thousands of chains attached, and were being pulled and pushed along by the Orks around them. Harsh bellows came from behind one, and Ahriman started when he saw it was being pushed by a pair of immature Squiggoths. Were there more of those foul tempered flesh mountains out there?

Flashes of fire erupted among the horde as the Basilisks, Manticores and Bombards of the Caorst Charxers shelled them. However the weight of fire seemed to be doing very little to slow down the foe, the Ork horde rolling on despite the weight of fire sent against them. Were the troops here in the open, they would stand no chance once the horde reached close combat. But here they had high walls to shelter behind, and as long as the Orks didn’t get a foothold on the walls, they would be safe. Those towers would give them that foothold, if they reached the walls.

“Have the wall Battle Cannons target those towers. Knock them down, and the horde will be stranded beneath our walls in the very teeth of our guns. The Artillery and Charxers can keep thinning the hordes ranks. Now!"

The Battle Cannon nearest to him zeroed in on the closest Siege Tower, and fired, swiftly followed by the others all along the walls.
The shells screamed towards the towers, but as the leading shell neared its victim, an arc of energy leapt off the tower, detonating the Battle cannon shell before it could strike the tower. More energy arcs leapt from the towers, detonating the shells in wave after wave.

“Those damn Towers have Power Fields!”

Detached from the chaos and emotion around him, Ahriman coolly remembered how power Fields worked. “Power fields don’t regenerate like Titan Voids. Keep firing, and sooner or later they will fail. Don’t let up, or we die.”

Shell after shell sped at the towers, and time and time again the Power Fields arced out to stop the shells before they could reach them. Every so often, a flare from one of the towers signified a Power field had failed.

Suddenly there was a bright flash from one of the towers as its final power field failed, and a few seconds later the top of it disintegrated under a volley of shells, scattering wreckage and bodies all around it. It continued to move forward for a few seconds, before grinding to a halt. Ragged cheers rose up from the troops on the walls. One down, seven to go. Slowly and inexorably the towers ground their way towards the walls, one metre at a time, shells still fired at them, power fields still absorbing shot after shot. A few minutes after the first, another tower’s fields blew and it was swiftly topped by a hail of shells.
There were still five towers and now they were too close to be engaged by the wall guns. Now the heavy weapons troopers began to fire their weapons. Missiles, called Tread Fethers by the Tanith blazed towards the towers, Lascannon beams stabbed straight through their armour, and Autocannons stitched lines of shells across their skin. Bodies of Orks fell out from the holes gouged by the weight of fire. Yet still they rolled on.