A massive, bizarre airdrop capsule, encrusted in layers of crimson rust and profane filth, slammed heavily into the Cadian soil.
Ersos, the champion of "Abaddon's Hounds," did not wait for the hydraulic seals to release. He kicked the door open with a force that sounded like the collision of two armored support vehicles. Using his bulk to shatter the remaining hinges, he stepped out as a piercing vox-scream—one that seemed to tear through the very cogitators of nearby units—erupted from the cabin's interior.
Ersos, his form only half-ascended through dark sorcery, was consumed by a black fury. He desperately required fresh blood and a worthy skull to finalize the incomplete enchantment ritual he had begun aboard the orbital defense station.
His predatory gaze fell upon the ravaged monastery ahead. There, a wounded Battle Sister lay amidst the rubble, firing her bolter incessantly at him.
"Keep pulling the trigger, little whelp!" Ersos roared as he surged forward. Under the blessing of Khorne, the explosive bolts detonated against his plate to no effect. "Give me another taste of your defiance!"
"Golden God of Humanity," the Battle Sister murmured, her voice a rasping prayer as she lay broken upon the stones. "Protect my sisters... guard Your temple. Grant me one final moment of strength so that I may strike..."
Ersos approached with heavy, thunderous steps. "Golden God? Temple? I care for none of it! I want only your blood for the altar and your head for the throne!"
He hoisted her shattered form by the collar of her tattered power armor. With her remaining strength, the Sister drew a combat blade from her waist, stabbing repeatedly at the monstrosity before her. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, Ersos shattered her arm, completely incapacitating his prey.
"Boring." Just as he prepared to rend her asunder, the Sister's eyes widened with a sudden, radiant shock. She screamed through her mangled throat, her voice reaching a crescendo of fanatical hope: "Saint! The Saint! The Saint is here!"
Ersos paid no heed. With a brutal exertion of strength, he tore the Sister's body in two. He strode toward the temple sanctum, intent on beginning a massacre that would start with the woman who died invoking the name of a dead god's Saint.
The Void Shield encompassing the Martyrs' Fortress—the critical slope south of Kasr Kraf—was struck once again, buckling inward with a sickening groan of static.
The first wave of enemies had arrived, but they were mere cannon fodder designed to bleed the Imperial ammunition reserves dry. Mordred the equerry knew this as he watched the cultist ranks. They were composed of men, women, and children, their bodies tattooed with blasphemous sigils, naked and unarmed, charging toward the guns while chanting the names of the Ruinous Powers in a fanatical frenzy.
They were systematically torn apart by heavy bolter fire. Marshal Amalrich stood beside Mordred, gazing into the smog-choked distance. He gave no thought to the "unclean" ants being pulverized. "Station the Crossbow squad on the right flank of the curtain wall. Deploy the Ragnar brothers with their heavy bolters. They are not to yield a single inch."
"At once, Marshal," an Astartes replied, stepping back to vox the command.
"They are massing outside," Amalrich noted, pointing toward a sector obscured by thick chemical smoke. "That is where the masters of these wretches hide. I can feel their malice..."
Suddenly, a high-explosive shell bypassed the flickering void shield and detonated directly overhead. The Marshal paused as the kinetic shock pounded against his helm; scalding shrapnel rattled off his power armor like iron rain.
"...Do you see that standard?" Marshal Amalrich asked, his voice low.
"I see it, my Lord. Those are... the scions of Lorgar," Mordred said gravely. "We should heed Lord Creed's standing orders to withdraw. I fear our Void Shields will not hold against the Word Bearers' next salvo..."
Another lance of thermal energy pierced the fortress's shield, striking the flagstones beside them and showering the defenders in stone splinters.
"No! Mordred, no! I have sworn a blood-oath that the Black Templars shall never abandon this ground!" Amalrich roared.
Moments later, a tide of Heretic Astartes erupted from the smoke. They formed disciplined assault squads, supported by a phalanx of heavy armor, and surged toward the ramparts of the Martyrs' Fortress.
"Slay them! Tear the heretics apart!" Amalrich commanded the Cadian regulars and Black Templars around him. But as the enemy chanted blasphemous incantations in their warped tongues, Imperial warriors began to fall, their minds burned by the touch of the Warp. The defensive line was on the verge of total collapse.
Suddenly, two colossal vessels appeared in the sky above the fortress, their lance arrays sweeping the ground in a searing grid of fire. A swarm of dropships poured from their bays, weaving through the enemy's anti-aircraft fire.
As the transports neared the ground, hundreds of figures plummeted directly into the melee. Amalrich recognized the silhouettes of power armor—Astartes! The Emperor's Angels had arrived.
He squinted at the heraldry. "The Emperor's Scythes..." he murmured, recalling their legends from the Damocles Crusade.
Before he could fathom how they had reached Cadia in such force, several enormous shadows descended from the heavens. Their sheer mass crushed the cultists at the landing site into a red paste. These were massive war machines, comparable in scale to Knight-Suits, with one standing even taller than the rest.
The mechs advanced through the Word Bearers' bombardment. At a calculated distance, the massive cannons mounted on their carapaces shifted and deployed. Before the astonished eyes of the Cadian garrison, a wall of artillery fire saturated the enemy positions.
As the dust settled, the Emperor's Scythes raised a collective roar and charged. They fought for the Throne, and they intended to leave no traitor alive.
Over the plains northwest of Kasr Kraf, the main body of the reinforcements' fleet gathered, save for the ships dispatched to the southern front.
"What is our estimated window?" In the flagship's bridge, Alexei asked, watching the Black Fleet close in for an orbital intercept.
"At most, an hour, sir. At worst, thirty minutes before the enemy blockades this corridor," Brand replied.
"Order all vessels to prepare their short-range jump drives for an emergency overload. We initiate a forced translation in fifteen minutes," Alexei said solemnly. He had underestimated the speed with which the Despoiler's fleet would regroup.
"That will prevent us from providing Yamato fire support for the ground forces, and the risk of drive failure is critical," Brand warned.
Alexei looked out the view-port at the surface, where tracers and flak filled the air. He did not blink. "Have every atmospheric wing provide close-air support for the ground units. Cover the transports and pods. Get our boots inside the Kasr Kraf Void Shield perimeter immediately!"
He turned toward the hangar, intent on boarding a medical transport for the surface. Every ground unit had to reach the safety of the pylon-reinforced shields, or they would be vaporized by the Black Fleet's inevitable orbital retaliation.
The sky was choked with transports delivering armored vehicles. The main force landed northwest of the fortress, positioned behind a massive host of Vostroyan traitors and mutants.
With a deafening mechanical roar, the heavy armor began its advance. The vanguard—composed of Hellfire walkers, tanks, and Hurricane-pattern vehicles—plowed into the enemy's rear. They were followed by the heavy walkers: Thor-class mechs, Goliaths, and Warwolves, who held the breach open for the infantry to flood through.
In the air, swarms of fighters provided cover for the ground guards and armored columns. Every unit had a singular, desperate objective: shatter the Vostroyan line and enter the safety of the Western Canyon of Kraf.