Chapter 518 Istvan III (3)
“The Titans are coming, sir. They will appear from the southwest of Rose River Gate towards the shed area, and the attack is expected to be carried out in the direction of the Weak Sound Palace in the outer city.”< br>
War Blacksmith Brown listened to the reports of several company commanders under him, raised his head from the round table, and made eye contact with his colleagues.
The senior commanders responsible for defense have responded to the latest intelligence in their own customary ways. Some people are using classical speech or text, while others are following their genetic fathers and gradually replacing unnecessary physical vocalizations with bundled links of neural communication.
Brown chose to connect his temple to the dataslate with a tube. Although he was an excellent stone carver outside of war, he, like any Olympian, was not averse to newer ways of life.
And in the first seat of the hall, their silent commander-in-chief's performance in the war is still so pleasing to the eye. His fingers tap on different steel screens one after another like clouds and flowing water, and the digital stream rolls horizontally on different levels like the wind. Everything is like an orderly forging, and Perturabo seems to be born for this.
“How many Titan troops are there?” Brown turned back and asked his adjutant to answer on the internal channel.
"After the bombing, the enemy forces were reorganized, and there are currently two teams. In addition, there are two corresponding knight units, three air cover support units, and an air transport unit. Thousand Sons The soldiers are deciphering the enemy's gathering instructions."
"Contact the war blacksmiths in the underground hive and ask them to bring the cannon to the ground."
Brown tapped the side of his helmet, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Data and thoughts merged in an empty realm, allowing them to penetrate deeply into the detector system outside the war fortress that was open to him.
He heard the mortal soldiers and servitors in the fortress busy loading and firing cannonballs, rushing, never stopping, and plodding along between the long passages, the hot hangars, and the roaring energy room walkways. own war mission. Each person only had time to be responsible for a single action, and had no time to pay attention to how many bunkers and flesh and blood bodies were shattered by the successive gunfire...
Bundles of topaz and red pomegranates bloomed on the shaking void shield. Stone-like bright spots, hot chain saws replaced the arms of those giant machines, clusters of gun barrels were spinning, and flashes of blue flames exploded from the oval ventilation holes on the sides of the gun barrels, accompanied by overload. The reactor roared furiously. The concrete on the ground was cracked and broken under their giant feet, and white light filled the vaporization steam everywhere...
The whole battlefield was so rushed, and every part in the war was just a worker bee in the hive. Perhaps the hive city is destined to be filled with some kind of hive life, whether it is the native residents of Istvaan III or the bodies of the current warring parties, living or dead.
This long picture seems to be in constant motion, and seems to have been frozen forever, just like the stone sculpture he once carved with a knife, intercepting a momentary section of time...
The top of their heads Burning high in the sky. Flames were falling one after another from high altitude, and dozens of tiny reflective points were flying like meteors against the rain of fire. The wings of the fighter plane sprinted, almost hovered, spun and dodged under vector acceleration, drawing extremely bold and sharp arcs. Together with the bright beams of light that pierced the black smoke, and the missiles that outlined the arcs of fire, they weaved this gray patch. The misty sky...
The thunder of artillery bombardment...
A scream-like sound breaking through the air...
A burst of noise.
The noise of silence suddenly cut a huge blank in the various audios - or, in other words, a particularly dark gap.
The war blacksmith suddenly opened his eyes, and his colleagues also felt something.
There was a quietly moving force that suddenly overshadowed the information transmission in their link equipment, tearing apart a completely different silence amidst the torrent of shouting, shouting, and gunfire.
"Debrief, Techmarine," Brown whispered, "What is this?"
His team of Techmarines didn't answer. Before they had time to answer, in the silent hum, a voice seemed to be born from the void, like a chant in the torrent:
"...Embracing the sacred revelation...Beyond the flames of war, is the God Emperor The mercy of God is calling you. Your loyalty has been wronged, and your guilt has not yet been settled... Your hands no longer need to be stained with blood, but will be lifted up and led to the peaceful shore that leads to the throne of light... to the true glory. There is only the holy name of the Emperor... Think about it, why do you take action against your compatriots and neighbors; alas, brothers, when will you make up for this sin and shame..."
War Blacksmith Brown's brows were furrowed as deep as a knife, and his fists were clenched. The other War Blacksmiths were either serious or annoyed. Some temporarily turned off their headsets, because the chants of the Word Bearers were being spread everywhere. Not angry.
A surge of anger boiled in Brown's steel chest. "Have the Word Bearers gone mad? Come to shake our loyalty?" he said.
"Loyalty to whom?"
A low voice fell on their heads from top to bottom, and the Iron Lord Perturabo emerged from his throne wrapped in chain-like pipes. He stood up, his eyes far away, as if he was still immersed in the war command he was concentrating on.
When his eyes made direct contact with Brown, Brown suddenly felt a chill that he was being locked by all the weapons systems of a city, even if this feeling was fleeting.
"Your loyalty, my lord," Brown said, his nerves fraying.
Perturabo was noncommittal, "What do you think of this battlefield?"
This question made Brown's spirit continue to tighten, and his mind started to work rapidly. He needs to give a general and comprehensive layout, just like carving a stone statue, starting from the largest outline, then changing tools to chisel out the details bit by bit, and finally polishing the silicon carbide stylus and adjusting the sandpaper... …
"We have to maintain the battle line in this area. This is the top priority of Anthem City." Brown stood up, called up the hologram, and used a data pen to draw a long red line on the map. "In this area, The enemy needs at least eight to nine companies, As well as all corresponding mortal auxiliaries, engineers, medics, air support teams and rear firepower; and their attack radius should be in this area," he added two dotted lines, "We must guard the fourth trunk line of the land train, To add troops to the front and ensure stable control of the air landing port, I apply to mobilize two additional rocket regiments to the area."
"Do you think this is enough?"
Brown was silent for a moment. "First, we need to restore the normal operation of the communication channel."
"So, what if it is difficult to complete?"
"No, my lord, we can-"
"We have to assume this. The power of the Thousand Sons is too weak." Petula Bo said.
Brown understood the Iron Lord's hint. What the Word Bearers use is not purely technological. Of course, in the prayers they sang in unison, they disguised the witchcraft of the subspace as the magic given by the God-Emperor, and regarded the flow of their own corrupt blood as a manifestation of loyalty.
"Our loyalty will not be shaken by the Word Bearers' sweet talk, my lord."
"Loyalty to whom?" a recurring question.
"Loyal to the empire." Brown blurted out, what a familiar answer, but this time, his voice gradually lost its previous determination.
Perturabo's eyes cut like sharp knives. "A collapsed empire?"
Bron lowered his head and was silent for a moment. The Iron Warrior's armor seemed to turn into an iron chain, locking his chest tightly.
He had to rethink the original body's question.
Normally, this would not have been a question - loyalty to the Imperium, loyalty to the Emperor, loyalty to the ideals, loyalty to the Primarch... he could give any answer, and the entire Iron Warriors would agree with him with pride.
What now?
"Loyal to our ideals." Brown replied nervously. As soon as he said these words, he seemed to feel something strange, as if these words were incompatible with his beliefs.
“An ideal to conquer humanity?”
“Yes, my lord.”
"In this way, can we pursue a golden and peaceful future?"
...Istvan III evaporated into ashes all over the sky in their hands, becoming the fodder of war itself.
"Yes, my lord." Brown said, his lips pursed tightly.
Perturabo laughed coldly, and his light-colored eyes fell on Brown's face. The reflected light was like the sharp edge on the surface of a scalpel, gently and accurately slicing open Brown's mind.
“Then you should listen to Aurelion and choose the side of the Throne World.” Perturabo said, “Because we are actively launching a war against humanity, which will definitely turn half of the empire into dust. ”
Brown was silent. His face burned.
"What we should abide by is our loyalty to you, my lord." He said this answer again, even if this was not what Perturabo wanted, it was the only thing he could think of at the moment.
"Sit down," said Perturabo.
Brown adjusted the armrest of the seat and sat at the round table again.
"Yes, sir." He said reluctantly.
"The last man to whom we were personally loyal was the Master of Mankind," Perturabo said softly.
The warsmiths were silent, staring unblinkingly at their primarch.
"The Lord of Mankind. The future. The ideal. The Imperium. It's all gone. We're bleeding. Steaming into smoke under Titan fire. It's all no longer about loyalty and our old oaths, because we They have all been transgressed, and therefore there is no more glory," said Perturabo forcefully.
“Loyal to pain. Loyal to death. Loyal to the fire of war. Loyal to the talent with which you were forged. Loyal to the steel outside of you, and the steel within you. All we have to offer is war. .More wars. I don’t care what your loyalties are. Who, my warriors, I just want the flames of war to burn under the throne?"
Bron felt his bones tremble slightly in the armor, half of it was the fear caused by the moral code he had learned, and half of it was fear. It is the turbulent excitement in blood and genes.
He seemed to hear a stone drill buzzing on the front edge of his skull, driving an iron nail that would never rust, and penetrated his mind...
"Yes, my lord." Brown murmured, almost instinctively. He responded as if he had never doubted it. "We are ready."
Perturabo turned and stepped across the heavily carved golden floor, his footsteps easily breaking the rhythm of the Word Bearers' preaching.
"Steel inside and out," Brown heard his partner tremble. He whispered as he continued, and the anger and fear accumulated in his heart strangely calmed down.
Calm as steel. So cold.
"Andraz, go find Angron. Ask him to come over." Perturabo said suddenly. "And Bronn, I want you to remember everything you saw."
"For what purpose, my lord?"
Petura Bolt paused for a moment, sitting on his Iron Throne He sat down again, and the metal horizontal panels began to slide, covering him layer by layer.
“Because you are a stonemason,” answered Perturabo. "There comes a time when we need to remember everything that is happening. At that time, you are no longer carving for yourself, but for someone in the future. Anyone." Brown's heavy heart slightly raised an edge. Horn, which meant only one thing to him, and that was Perturabo's personal promise to them that there would be a future.
——
“All he wants is a war.” Gavir Loken heard the voice of the Wolf Shepherd in his mind again. Horus's eyes were extremely cold, but also contained some indescribable complexity.
He turned sideways, swung his sword, the blade pierced a piece of blue and white armor, blocked the counterattack, and raised his right hand. One kill.
The World Eaters rushed towards them, a steady stream of them, their feet trampling on the accumulated bones. They had no time to bury the body, and no intention to do so.
The raindrops hit his faceplate and instantly evaporated into white steam. It's raining in Anthem City, and the Iron Warriors' artillery fire is the thunder in the rain. The rain curtain blurred the vision in the distance. Those divine machines were like burly giants, tearing at the gunmetal-colored battlements... Those sharp giant power claws and rotating blades cut a piece of light.
A smaller knight, like a small bird beast, flew into the battle formation with fluttering flag feathers, and was then hit in the face by a cluster of blazing rays. A handful of white mist erupted in the fire, and the knight downwards After falling, the thin, deformed metal legs broke on the ground, and the driver's soft, wet body rolled out of the open cabin.
The corpses... piled up in the rain. In the countless days when the war was extinguished, the corpses were the brand new mountains on the surface of Istvan III. The layers of history will be the layers of rock layers of the mountains. itself.
“Are we going to give it to them?” Loken recalled his answer, with a complicated twist. "Give them war?"
He remembered the look Horus gave him at the end, the thoughtful look in his eyes when he mentioned Perturabo, and - sadness. A kind of delicate spiritual turmoil made the Wolf Shepherd God's expression dark.
He aimed sideways and forward, his crosshairs wandering around several locations in the misty rain, trying to determine where the snipers hidden in the buildings in the hive city were hiding. A shock wave exploded around him, and the air wave pushed him back. He immediately pulled the trigger, and the bomb passed over the air wave and hit a high target. Several pieces of broken metal cut through the raindrops and disappeared from sight in the blink of an eye. outside.
More explosions occurred around him, and the whole street was thrown into endless turmoil, as if he himself was standing in a tumbling kaleidoscope. He gasped and evaded, the strong smell of oil and blood was filtered by the mask, leaving only a faint trace, and the tip of his tongue itself was filled with the smell of hot metal.
The stone slab under his feet shook during the jump. Loken's body instinctively leaned forward, holding the long sword tightly, facing a fierce counterattack. The World Eater rushed out of the heavy rain. The huge war hammer swung down and the air was torn. He had no time to think. His intuition and training made him sideways to avoid it. His long sword passed through the air and missed the opponent's war hammer. The violent impact caused him to almost lose his balance, but his steps were still as steady as a rock. He quickly counterattacked and opened the metal chains wrapped around the enemy's arm armor with one knife.
"Wolves were born for this." Horus's answer was brief, without any wavering in his tone. A few days later, he left the ground and returned to the distant starry sky of the Istvan system, commanding the never-ending void fleet battle and letting the fire burn at extremely high altitudes.
The heavy rain increased. Perhaps their actions on this continent intentionally or unintentionally promoted the gathering of rain clouds. Once again, the rain and blood mixed together. Loken did not dare to look back and could only continue to move forward. The knights in front were bulldozing the winding and slippery streets in this hive city. A building completely sank from top to bottom under the thin floor. People on both sides fell from the edge of the breach.
Loken turned on the sound array, tightened his neck muscles, and the throat microphone began to capture the sound signal. He quickly issued some instructions to improve the detection of mines, trenches, and engineering obstacles, and to strengthen the support of the forward defense line. On this chaotic battlefield, any second of hesitation may lead to irreversible consequences.
The laser beam flew past his calf, and he felt the blood splashing out from the wound. Beside him, the Luna Wolf was dying in a new round of concealed volleys, being torn and injured, accumulating in This wet rainy season street is littered with corpses. The red armor of the Word Bearer when he fell filled the bright cinnabar blood color...
If no one cleans up the battlefield, perhaps a plague will eventually break out among the fragile mortals, endangering both sides. This is An invisible bomb capable of hurting others and ourselves—but it’s not hard to imagine its tragic possibilities.
After all, even though Loken's orders have been issued, even though he tried his best to make every detail arranged accurately, they are still just wasting their efforts on the periphery of the city, piling up their own resources day after day. corpse.
The ground guarded by the Iron Warriors, the skies defended by the Imperial Fists, and the World Eaters and the Emperor's Children... they could not defeat their enemies. And no matter how many times they charge or bomb, the battlefield seems to be just an endless loop, repeating the same bloodshed and destruction. The Cantor's Palace still stands proudly in the upper nest, with the gold and red diamonds at its tips reflecting the misty white light in the rain.
This war has lasted for nearly two months.
"All he wants is a war." Loken whispered to himself. Those words were like a hook, hooking deeply into his heart, making him doubt his every move and the value of this battle. Meaning - if it means anything at all. In a brief moment, this suspicion almost overshadowed all the anger and sadness that had accumulated in his heart.
As the negative emotions rising in his heart dissipated, the air on the battlefield suddenly changed, as if it was distorted by some invisible force.
A strange sound came from the sound-transmitting rosary that kept capturing the rumbling war flames and urgent instructions. It started out as a weak, high-pitched buzzing tone, barely noticeable amid the thunderous gunfire. But as time went by, the voice gradually became clearer and became impossible to ignore.
It is a kind of choral singing.
It does not come from the throat of any single human being, but some kind of mechanized chorus, ethereal, grotesque and sacred, as if hidden in some indescribable power - making Loken almost wonder whether this is a pregnancy. The Star Speakers' most truly masterpiece.
The melody is light and distant, but it is also extremely corrosive to the mind, like a poisonous snake lurking in the bottom of the heart, slowly climbing up the nerves and tearing apart the barriers of reason.
“...All glory to our God-Emperor, your bravery and crimes will be counted on the day of reckoning... We long for His mercy for you, and ask Him to turn to your true heart... ”
The song slowly rose and echoed in this semi-ruined city, carrying some indescribable sacred atmosphere, as if this bloody and moist battlefield itself had been given a noble meaning. It's like a compulsive disorder that tightly grips everyone's heart. Even though the artillery fire still thundered, even though the smell of blood and rot filled the air...
How did the Word Bearers do it? Loken thought silently in his mind as a series of new data scrolled on the inside of his visor - the identification code of the Word Bearers side.
However, what methods did these madmen use to fully occupy the information channels? Couldn't it be that they really relied on their devotion to the God-Emperor as they said?
"We firmly believe that in this world, we will definitely see a country that embraces all believers. You must have the courage to find true loyalty..."
All the comrades wearing bloody red armor beside him stopped. Following the movements in their hands, it was like some irresistible call that found sustenance in their souls. It is not difficult to imagine how the faces under those masks trembled slightly, and how their expressions became as if they were intoxicated - and among these devout beliefs A dark invisible film flashed across the people's bodies, and some of the firelight disappeared without a trace before licking the surface of their armor.
Even at the next moment, the Iron Warriors' attack hit the entity again, and those who were lucky enough to escape for one second were given life again in the next second as if they fulfilled a silent promise.
No matter what, this short-lived miracle further contributed to the ecstasy of the Word Bearers, and their war cries could be heard through their helmets.
... Within the sound array, the singing became clearer and clearer, like a horn coming from the sky, causing a certain kind of sacred fanaticism to spread among the team. To a certain extent, Loken deeply doubted this. Has it affected the Luna Wolves?
Is the Emperor watching us? Loken thought in panic.
If this was a feeling born from his heart, I'm afraid he wouldn't be so uneasy, but - it was the Word Bearers who attracted this sacred source. This added a lingering shadow to all the glory... In the final analysis, he could not eliminate his prejudice against the Word Bearers. Perhaps it stemmed from the assassination that year, or perhaps it was some natural hostility.
In this radio song, all pain and blood are sanctified, and all violence and slaughter are given meaning. The singing became louder and louder, like simmering spices. The dark flashes rushed towards every inch of his skin, soaked into every drop of his blood, and dyed the notes with fanaticism. And this fanaticism was like a rain curtain, for all the death and death in this place. Pain is covered with a glowing veil.
For a moment, he felt that he was isolated from the world by the heavy rain and was incompatible with this war.
Even as his bolter muzzle sprayed brilliant fire. And his power sword was going deep into the enemy's ribs. He suddenly drew the sword and turned around to block.
"Wolves were born for this..." Horus's voice sounded in his ears again, calm and deep.
Then came Sol Tavitz’s heavy answer, and his show of mercy. There is no doubt about it.
Loken took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He let the bolter roar in his palms, determined to view this battle as another insurmountable challenge, another insurmountable mountain. That's all.
Until he receives new news. He had been waiting for a long time, and now he still felt a little joyful when he heard it.
The assistance legion summoned by Lorgar Aurelion has broken away from the subspace route of Istvan III and arrived in real space.
——
Irrelevantly, he remembered a world that he had executed with his own hands.
At that time, he stood on the bridge and pointed the sickle forward, so the atmosphere on the surface of the planet was torn outward by the explosion of the shattered core. This piece of gas, which was originally dyed slightly purulent green by the poisonous mist, was like a broken moon, spreading into the surrounding darkness, gradually becoming thinner and spreading out in all directions.
Soil, rock formations and a little ore disperse into fine dust, floating to every corner of the universe. Some parts were crushed by invisible hands, sinking forever into the deep darkness; while the other part was sucked into the companion stars by the ruthless gravity, deducing the second catastrophe, sweeping in without warning and destroying gained more lives.
He witnessed the death of life on the bridge, with neither joy nor sadness in his heart. Even for him, his sentiments were still more toward the former.
For he is the Emperor's scythe, and the scythe is made for harvest. Whether it is a crop or something else, the one being harvested can only be life.
However, even during that time, the planet he executed still left pieces of debris as abandoned debris in the universe, waiting to be turned into nourishment one day. One day, from the dead yeast, the sweet wine of new life will be brewed, dedicated to all those who should continue to live...
Prospero has a different fate.
The same goes for Magnus...
Their disappearance was complete, leaving no room for anything, and was wiped out in ashes.
When he tried to pursue it, questioning Prospero's ending with a heart that was unbelievable and betrayed, all he got was a handful of dust.
Mortarion strode through the long, plainly decorated halls of the Endurance like a cold, gray ghost—but tall enough that the fragile paleness itself became an overflowing terror. . His anger was steaming faintly in his chest, almost rising from his gray-yellow robe, turning into another handful of dust, pale dust condensed from anger and pain.
Finally, outside the domed mathematical divination hall, Mortarion stopped and lowered his head in response to the sound of footsteps following him.
As for Karas Typhon, he was willing to accept the questions that the other party was about to raise.
Typhon's armor is engraved with many geometric patterns and simple formulas, as well as numerology runes studied by Mortarion himself, and formation seals added by Magnus. On Typhon's body, these lines are just decorations carved with a knife and have no real power. This is a physical record of his learning process, and now it has almost become one of the carriers of memory.
"My lord," Typhon looked a little confused, "do you really believe the words of the Word Bearer?"
"The words of a group of flattering and unaware jesters? A man who was forced to The words of a coward who kneels in public?" Mortarion said, swinging his scythe open the door to the Divination Hall, his robes rising and falling with every word.
Typhon nodded. Ever since Lorgar Aurelion publicly expressed his opposition "with those mysterious nonsense" at the Nikaea Conference jointly held by Mortarion and Magnus, Mo Mo Talion never had a single positive opinion of the Word Bearers again.
He knew this very well. He had been very close to Mortarion and could smell the pungent irritation and hesitation on his body. These emotional hormones seemed to be floating out together with the smoke from the small incense burner hanging on his body, shrouding the Lord of Death.
He squinted his eyes, thinking deeply, assessing the current situation. When Mortarion entered the Divination Hall, he boldly followed. Sure enough, his original body allowed the door to close naturally after he entered.
"But we are here, my lord. We have come a long way to get to Isstvaan III."
"Because this is the Emperor's will." Mortarion said, stepping across the ground The crystal mirror circle on display came to the center of the hall. The broken crystals formed circular circles nested inside each other, using inorganic objects to embody a certain quality of endless life, surrounding the Lord of Death.
"At least, it is the Emperor's will conveyed by the Custodes himself." The Primarch added, his face shrouded in the shadow of a gray-yellow hood.
(End of this chapter)