As Russ' warriors loped through the burning wreckage of the coastal districts, heavy landers crushed seafront structures and disgorged thundering tanks in the grey livery of the s.p.a.ce Wolves. Enormous Predators, Land Raiders and Vindicators rumbled through the lower town, levelling buildings with their enormous cannons and mowing down anyone foolish enough to expose themselves.

Squadrons of Whirlwind rocket tanks rumbled from their transports and hunkered down in the ruins, turning their boxy missile pods towards the Acropolis Magna. The pods vanished in fire and smoke, as rocket after rocket streaked skywards in rapid succession. A dozen or more impacted on the tip of the rock, obliterating the statue of Magnus in a storm of molten detonations. This symbolic act complete, the missile pods swivelled and yet more salvoes arced upwards to land with devastating results in the centre of Tizca. Raging thermals spread the fire from building to building, and the City of Light burned.

As the troop carriers and heavy landers touched down, sleek speeders screamed overhead, unleashing endless torrents of missiles into the city. Their fire was indiscriminate, the gunners instructed to fire at will. Hundreds of civilians died in the opening minutes of the aerial a.s.sault, and scores more were gunned down as hunting speeders strafed the streets with cannon fire.

The Skyguard Air Command launched every squadron of their two-man skimmers from their hangars to the south. These disc-like aircraft were armed with heat lances and missile pods, and the sky above the city became a frantic mess of gunfire, streaking missiles, explosions and dogfights as the two forces duelled for supremacy.

As the s.p.a.ce Wolves drew first blood, Prospero's military responded.

The citizen militias of Tizca rose in defence of their city, gathering what arms they could and taking up firing positions on rooftops and at windows. No one was fool enough to think they would be anything more than irritants to the s.p.a.ce Wolves, but to let the invaders simply walk into Tizca without a fight was as abhorrent as it was unthinkable.

The Spireguard, already on high alert after the commencement of the bombardment, moved out en ma.s.se under the guidance of the Corvidae. Magnus had blinded his Legion to the approach of the s.p.a.ce Wolves, but the immediate paths of the future were clear to those with eyes to see them.

Elements of the 15th Prosperine a.s.sault Infantry, under Captain Sokhem Vithara, occupied the upper slopes of Old Tizca, anchoring their defence between the fire-wreathed pyramid of the Pyrae cult, the Skelmis Tholus a kilometre west and the Corvidae pyramid. Vithara set up his command post in the vestibule of the Kretis gallery, the oldest repository of artwork and sculpture on Prospero.

In the south-west of the city, the Prospero a.s.sault Pioneers rallied what little was left of their soldiers after avalanches caused by the orbital sh.e.l.ling swallowed three of their barracks. The northern Palatine Guard deployed on the edges of the burning port, occupying the high parapets of overlooking libraries and galleries of the Nephrate district. Their commander, Katon Aphea, was the heir apparent to one of Prospero's oldest families, a young and gifted officer with great potential. He anch.o.r.ed his defence on the Caphiera Tholus and positioned his troops with a tactical ac.u.men that would have been lauded at any Imperial Army scholam.

Leman Russ and his Wolves overran Aphea's position in less than two minutes.

Tizca burned as dawn's light crept over the horizon, but for all that the s.p.a.ce Wolves had struck an overwhelmingly b.l.o.o.d.y blow, they had yet to face the city's true defenders.

The Thousand Sons deployed, and suddenly the fight took on a very different character.

AHRIMAN RAN THROUGH the streets on the edge of Old Tizca, his armour's autosenses easily penetrating the thick clouds of smoke pouring from the blazing buildings. The Scarab Occult marched with him, their hearts hungry for vengeance. Ahead, the Aquarion Fountain House burned, its graceful, columned structure and artfully carved fountains crumbling in the awful heat.

Heavy fighting engulfed the streets beyond the nearby Skelmis Tholus, with the 15th Prosperine a.s.sault Infantry in contact with the invaders. The narrow streets formed natural choke points, and the Spireguard commander was using the terrain to his advantage.

Flames billowed further downslope, devouring structures set alight by the s.p.a.ce Wolves and threatening to spread further uphill. Warriors of the Pyrae were containing the blazes, hurling the fires back down the hill to block entire avenues and streets with seething walls of flame. The sky overhead was smeared with missile contrails and explosions, and a building behind Ahriman collapsed as an aircraft slammed into its roof, sending up plumes of smoke and fire. Blazing rafters and roof tiles spilled onto the street.

The air was hot and acrid, the smell of a city in its death throes.

Explosions and the constant bark of gunfire echoed from walls that had known only laughter and song. Drifting clouds of ash and burning parchment fluttered past, and Ahriman plucked a sc.r.a.p of paper from the air.

"What is it?" asked Sobek.

"Evidence of the Unseen," said Ahriman, reading the words on the smouldering parchment. "The sea rises and the light falters. The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. On that day, the sun will go down for the last time."

Ahriman dropped the paper, watching it float off in the billowing thermals. The words were too apt to be coincidence, and he feared for what they represented. He watched the confetti of ashen books, scrolls and treatises dance like burning snowflakes above him.

"So much will be lost, but I will restore it," he vowed. "All of it, no matter how long it takes."

Ahriman took a deep breath, the scale of such an undertaking not lost on him. His senses were stretched to the limits of perception, his mind alive with the flickering light of possible futures. He drew deeply on Aaetpio's well of power to enhance his awareness. His skin felt as though his Tutelary's fire was burning him. He had felt something like this once before, but forced that memory from his mind as he sensed the presence of inimical souls nearby.

"Scarab Occult!" shouted Ahriman, aiming his heqa staff towards one of the narrow streets leading down into the Old Town. "Stand to."

Flames and smoke belched from the street as a host of shadowy warriors smashed through the burning rubble and into the wider thoroughfare. Dust coated their armour and black, carbonised streaks marred the gleaming plate, but there was no mistaking the winter's grey of the s.p.a.ce Wolves.

The enemy Astartes had seen them, unsheathing bolters and viciously-toothed swords hung with wolf-tails.

The moment stretched for Ahriman. His perceptions raced down the length of his bolter, following the path his shot would take. In his fleeting vision he saw it smash through the visor of one of the s.p.a.ce Wolves, blowing out the back of his helm in an explosion of blood and brain matter. The precognitive flash froze him for the briefest second with the enormity of what it represented.

Astartes were at war with one another, and the sheer horror of that fact cost Ahriman a fraction of a second.

It was all the s.p.a.ce Wolves needed.

Though the Thousand Sons had been forewarned, still the s.p.a.ce Wolves fired first.

A hail of bolter fire slammed into Ahriman and the Scarab Occult. One warrior went down, his chest-plate broken open and his vital organs pulped by a ma.s.s-reactive sh.e.l.l. Two others dropped, but returned fire. The spell on Ahriman was broken, and his choler came to the fore as his bolter bucked in his hand and a s.p.a.ce Wolf was pitched backwards, his helmet a smoking ruin.

Another was lifted from his feet by Sobek, his Practicus using his kine powers to pound the wolf-cloaked warrior to destruction against the marble walls of the Fountain House. Three other s.p.a.ce Wolves jerked and spasmed as the Pavoni amongst his warriors vaporised the super-oxygenated blood in their veins. Flames licked from their eye-lenses, and they fell to the ground as their armour fused around them. The Tutelaries of the Scarab Occult spun around the s.p.a.ce Wolves, amplifying their masters' powers with gleeful spite.

The last three s.p.a.ce Wolves were blazing columns of fire, the plates of their armour black and molten, like onyx statues frozen in a moment of unimaginable agony.

Ahriman took a moment to contemplate what they had done. Aaetpio flickered above his head and he felt its urge to flow into him. Crackling arcs of crimson lightning flickered at his fingers and he suppressed them with a burst of impatience.

"Restrain yourself!" he snapped, not liking his Tutelary's eagerness one bit.

Sobek approached him, wringing his hands, asking, "What did you say?"

"Nothing," said Ahriman. "It doesn't matter."

"They caught us unawares, but we'll hurl them back to Terra," said Sobek, and Ahriman saw the light of his Practicus' Tutelary echoed in the fiery gleam pulsing behind his visor.

"We have killed warriors of a brother Legion," said Ahriman, wanting Sobek to appreciate the gravity of the moment. "There is no going back from this."

"Why should there be? We did not start this war."

"That doesn't matter. We are at war and once you are at war, you fight until the bitter end. Either we defeat the s.p.a.ce Wolves or Prospero will be the Thousand Sons' tomb. Either way we lose."

"What do you mean?"

"If we survive this attack, what then? We cannot remain on Prospero. Others will come and finish what Russ has begun. If we lose, well, that speaks for itself."

Sobek hefted his heqa staff, its length rippling with fire.

"Then we had best not lose," he said.

KHALOPHIS RECLINED UPON the crystal throne at the heart of the Pyrae temple. His armour reflected the flames billowing at the edge of the chamber. To anyone other than a cultist of the Pyrae, the chamber would have been unbearable, the air too hot to breathe, the fire too hot to endure.

Fire sprites and elemental aspects of the aether spun and danced in the air, leaving incandescent wakes behind their insubstantial bodies. Sioda hung over him like a fiery guardian angel, the Tutelary's form having swollen to enormous proportions since the treacherous bombardment had begun.

Armoured Neophytes surrounded him, arranged in the sacred six-pointed hexalpha pattern representing the volatile union of fire and water. They carried soul-crystals hewn from the Reflecting Caves, and flickering embers of life force burned within them.

"Are you sure of this, my lord?" asked Pharis, his Zelator's voice betraying his unease.

Khalophis grinned and flexed his fingers upon the carved armrests of the throne. Darting fire swam in its depths, and he felt the enormous rage of the wounded consciousness beyond the temple walls awaiting the chance to strike back at his enemies.

"I have never been more sure of anything, Pharis," said Khalophis. "Begin."

Pharis backed away from his master, and nodded to the Neophytes. They bowed their heads and Khalophis gasped as their energies surged into him. The throne blazed with light, and he fought to direct the raging power that threatened to consume him.

"I am the Magister Templi of the Pyrae," he hissed between clenched teeth. "The Inferno is my servant, for I am the Lord of h.e.l.lfire and I will teach you to burn."

Sioda swept down and enveloped his body. Khalophis felt his consciousness torn from his flesh to fill another body, one of iron and steel, of crystal and rage. No longer were his muscles fashioned from meat and tendons, but from enormous pistons and fibre-bundle hydraulics newly lined with psychically resonant crystals. The bolter was no longer his weapon, but vast guns capable of obliterating entire armies and fists that could tear down buildings.

Khalophis surveyed the battlefield with the eyes of a G.o.d, a towering avatar of battle roused to fight once more. His limbs felt stiff and new, his senses taking a moment to adjust to their enormous dimensions and ponderous weight. He flexed his new body. The metallic grinding of long dormant gears and the shriek of rekindled pneumatics cut through the clamour of battle.

Sioda's fire flowed along the incredibly complex mechanisms of his body, filling them with new life. He took a thunderous step forward and let loose an atavistic roar, his voice that of a braying war horn.

Like a mighty dragon woken from centuries of slumber, Canis Vertex marched into battle one more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

The Line is Holding/They Will Turn On You Too/Understand the Foe THE JETBIKES WERE golden, with curved prows shaped in the form of eagles' beaks, their flanks carved to resemble swept-back wings. Phosis T'kar counted seven of them, swooping in low on an attack run towards his position at the end of the Raptora plaza. The warriors riding them were also golden, their red helmet plumes streaming behind them like pennants. Rapid-firing cannons blazed from underslung gun pods, ripping up the flagstone road leading from the Mylas agora.

Geysers of rock burst from every impact, but Phosis T'kar wasn't worried. He braced his weight on his right leg and s.n.a.t.c.hed his hands through the air, as though sweeping a curtain open. Four of the jetbikes were plucked from the air as if they had reached the end of an unbreakable tether. Phosis T'kar slammed them against the high walls of the Timoran Library, shattering the statues of its first custodians.

The last three exploded as Hathor Maat sent a cataclysmic electrical surge through their engines. The burning wrecks smashed into the ground and tumbled end over end towards the Thousand Sons position, skidding to a halt less than a metre from Phosis T'kar.

"Custodes," he grunted. "They're not so tough."

The northern reaches of Tizca were aflame. The port was a ma.s.s of reeking pillars of smoke, the stink of promethium mingling with the acrid reek of burning tar, rubber and metal. Thick clouds hung low over the city and ash fell like black rain. Men and women in their hundreds streamed past his position, heading towards the Pyramid of Photep laden with books and arms full of scrolls. The streets were littered with fallen tomes and fragments of statuary. Carved heroes of the Raptora had once looked down on the plaza, but sh.e.l.ling from enemy artillery had toppled all save a handful. Expressionless faces and outstretched hands lay strewn across the flagstones.

Mixed among the civilians were bloodied remnants of the Palatine Guard, sh.e.l.l-shocked men drenched in blood who staggered from the port in shock. These terrified survivors were all that remained of the soldiers tasked with containing the initial enemy landings.

"I've had word from the Athanaeans," said Hathor Maat, jogging over from his position to Phosis T'kar's left.

"What is it?"

"The Wolf King is coming," said Hathor Maat gleefully. "They say he was first to land at the port and is fighting his way towards us."

"Fighting?" said Phosis T'kar. "I don't think there's much fighting going on. The Wolves are cutting through the Spireguard with ease."

"You didn't really expect them to hold, did you?" said Hathor Maat. "They're only mortals, and this is an Astartes fight."

"Not just Astartes," said Phosis T'kar, gesturing towards the wrecked jetbikes. "Custodes want our heads on spikes too."

"They all die just the same," said Hathor Maat.

"Any word other than the location of the Wolf King?"

"Ahriman's got the northern perimeter sealed. He's holding the upper slopes of Old Tizca from the Acropolis to the eastern flank of Corvidae pyramid."

"Leaving us with the western front from the Pavoni pyramid to the port."

"Looks that way," agreed Hathor Maat. "The Athanaeans are taking up position in Occullum Square, they're going to feed us intel on the enemy plans as they get it. What's left of the Spireguard is taking up position with the Legion, but we can't count on them."

"What about Khalophis?"

"No word yet."

Explosions burst nearby as streaking missiles corkscrewed out of the sky and detonated overhead. Razored shrapnel scythed downwards, tearing a dozen civilians to b.l.o.o.d.y rags.

"Here they come!" shouted Hathor Maat, running back to his position.

A trio of boxy shapes moved through the smoke, the roar of their engines like the cry of living beasts. Trailing clouds of plaster-dust and fire, three enormous Land Raiders in the livery of the s.p.a.ce Wolves burst into the plaza. Behind them came the warriors of Leman Russ, hundreds of armoured fighters advancing in a howling tide of blades and bolts.

Among the warriors of Fenris were warriors in gold and red. They carried long spears with ebony hafts and shimmering blades. Phosis T'kar grinned at the thought of matching his strength against such warriors.

Packs of slavering wolves bounded across the plaza, their bared fangs flecked with sc.r.a.ps of uniform and flesh. The Thousand Sons opened fire, and the plaza erupted in a storm of gunfire. The din of shooting was eclipsed by the howls of the wolves. Phosis T'kar snapped his fingers and broke the alpha male of the pack in two. Bolter fire smacked armour plates and spun s.p.a.ce Wolves around, but the warriors of Russ were masters of charging from cover to cover and few were falling.

Heavy lasbolts flickered overhead, fizzing spears of impossibly bright energy. Explosions burst all along the Thousand Sons' lines as thudding bangs of bolter fire pummelled their positions. Pounding concussions ripped across the plaza, but the kine shields of the Raptora were proof against such attacks.

He concentrated on the lead Land Raider, reaching out and closing his fist. He wrenched his hand back, and the left sponson tore free of the vehicle in a blazing plume of white light. The heavy tank skidded around and slammed into the vehicle next to it, crushing the warriors advancing between them.

Phosis T'kar grinned.

"You didn't realise what you were getting into here, did you?" he said.

Another angry retort died in his mouth as sudden, cramping pain knotted in his belly, like someone had taken a fistful of his intestines and wrenched them upwards. He tasted bile and felt a sickly lather of sweat p.r.i.c.kle on his skin.

Another vehicle exploded, its hull a writhing spider-web of coruscating lightning. The last vehicle erupted in flames as Auramagma's warriors hurled fireb.a.l.l.s at its frontal glacis. It kept coming, shooting as it crushed priceless tomes and beautiful sculpture to shards beneath its treads. Auramagma himself stood atop a fallen master of the Raptora and wove sheets of white fire like a conductor before his orchestra.

"Too arrogant, that one," said Phosis T'kar, recognising Auramagma's flaw while ignoring his own. A missile streaked out and slammed into the Land Raider's topside, skidding off its armour and exploding further behind it.

Phosis T'kar battered a handful of s.p.a.ce Wolves back with a flick of his wrist, hurling them beneath the tracks of the blazing Land Raider. Their armour broke open with satisfyingly wet cracks. No sooner had the vehicle crushed his victims than fire spewed from its insides. Its escape hatches slammed open as the blazing crew fought to escape the furnace of their vehicle. Auramagma let them burn.

Lightning danced through the s.p.a.ce Wolves, exploding their bodies within the armoured casing of their battle-plate. Hissing sheets of fire turned the ground molten, while the kine shields soaked up the weight of return fire. Phosis T'kar laughed to see his Legion unleashed, with no constraints to its full potential and no faint-hearts complaining because they could kill the enemies of the Imperium better than anyone else.

A sudden cold shiver made him start, the whisper of a ghostly touch at the back of his mind. He had felt it once before, but before he could recall where, a wolf leapt at him through the flames. Its fur was ablaze, and he reached up to flick it away with a gesture.

Nothing happened.

The wolf slammed into him and barrelled him to the ground. Its jaws snapped down, the fangs gouging deep furrows in his visor. Yellowed talons tore into his side, and he grunted as he felt them pierce his flesh. The wolf bit him in a frenzy, and Phosis T'kar fought to keep it from his throat.

His eyes met those of the beast, and he saw into its heart, the alien core of the being beneath the mask of the wolf. His eyes widened in recognition, but it was too late to do anything except fight.

The beast's jaw fastened on his neck, but before it could bite down Phosis T'kar slammed his fist into the wolf's belly. He pistoned his arm through its ribcage, crushing through ribs and vital organs to shatter its spine. The light went out of its eyes, and Phosis T'kar threw its body away in disgust. He climbed to his feet, looking at his hands in horror. He willed power to flow through them, but he felt nothing, no connection to the Great Ocean nor any hint of its fire.

A slender shape in form-fitting golden armour danced into view, a long-bladed sword lancing for his belly. He batted the blade away with his heqa staff and took stock of his attacker. It was a woman, but no ordinary woman. The lower portion of her face was obscured by a silver muzzle-mask and her dark eyes were tattooed with tears.