Adamantium Beasts

It was cruel irony that a decade before, Lyonel had fought beside the men entrenched a kilometre away, who within three hours he would lead his men against. There was no doubt in his mind who would win, nor any arrogance for that matter, just simple acknowledgement of the facts at hand. While good soldiers one and all, the Houndskulls did not have the organic armor or anti-tank to resist his Ironsides, the pride of Albia and one of the Old Hundred. Caf cup in hand he turned to the other man occupying the observation post, “Ye ken stanley, ah think this micht be mah lest battle.”

At first the colour sergeant said nothing, occupied as he was with eating a rehydrated fruit but when the last of it had gone a reply came, “Whit mak's ye say that sur?”

“I’m nae sure, juist a feeling in thae auld bones o' mines,” despite looking no older than forty thanks to rejuvenat treatments and his active lifestyle Lyonel felt every bit his actual age, nigh on a century and a half.

“You’ll bide, wey ah see it ainlie jobby luck wull see otherwise happen. There’s hauf a million o' us Imperials 'n' a quarter million o' thaim Traitors.”

While he didn’t agree with Stanley’s optimism, Lyonel simply nodded his assent and drained the rest of his recaf. Then, turning on his heel, he descended from the raised platform with the cheery statement of, “Well there’s no point waiting any more than we have to, time to wake up the enemy.”

As if to punctuate his statement the preparatory bombardment carried out by the 1176th Aschehunde, who were supposed to follow up the Ironsides to occupy any ground taken, began then. The din of idling engines, men embarking their transports or tanks, and NCOs barking orders was drowned out by the all encompassing thunder of artillery fire that Lyonel had grown desensitized to in his time with the men of the Reich. Those few Ironsides that noticed their colonel amidst the chaos of the leadup to the attack saluted him curtly before returning to their duties which Lyonel appreciated, he would rather his men fulfil their tasks than waste time with formality.

Stanley had caught up with him by the time he arrived at his personal Baneblade, modified for command with additional vox sets and tactical displays. The rest of the crew had already entered when Lyonel began clambering up into his hatch. All greeted him with a resounding “Mornin' sur” that he smiled graciously at. In such cramped conditions someone else might’ve bemoaned the bulky armor each man wore but should the vehicle be disabled and the crew forced to dismount none would feel ungrateful. When Lyonel took his own seat at the front right just ahead of Reilly he turned on his tactical display and donned his headset, bringing the mouthpiece to his lips and saying over the intra-squad vox channel, “Ye ken th' drill lads, treat this as ony ither battle 'n' we’ll be swallyin in Varograd by th' nicht.”

“I’ll haud ye tae that sur, as lang as ye buy th' foremaist pint,” King retorted.

“Wha said anythin' aboot buying? We’ll be conquering heroes. A'm sure th' locals wull line up fur us tae huv a go thair wares ,” the colonel replied sharply as a grin emerged onto his face. “Noo onto business,” he said as he switched to the regimental channel to speak with his chief subordinates, “Major McMorton, whit's yer status ?”

''“A' tanks fully armed, fuelled, crewed, 'n' in position awaiting yer command sur. ”''

“Guid, Major Mckay, howfur aboot yer infantry?”

“Likewise Colonel, juist gie th' order .”

“Major Cairns?”

“Duin 'n' raring tae gang.”

“Major McFarlane?”

“Duin as we’ll ever be.”

“Nicholson?”

“Aye sur.”

“Guid, I’ll keep this brief then: it haes bin a buzz tae serve alongside a' o' ye, you’re guid 'n' true men wi'oot equal. Therefore a'm feelin' obligated tae speak th' truth that some o' us wull nae draw breath whin this day is dane, tae they amongst that honored group ah salute ye 'n' tae they that aren’t ah say mak' thair sacrifice count. Ave Imperator.”

A chorus of replies came from the battalion commanders as well as the other Ironsides who had been listening in, “Ave Imperator.”

In a column twenty vehicles wide the Ironsides, all five thousand of them, drove out of their camp and into no man’s land. McMorton’s first battalion, the tankers, were the first over the escarpment and thus the first to take enemy fire. Solid shot fired by autocannons panged off the armour impotently, unable to penetrate at that distance. Lyonel put his face to his sight and scanned the ridgeline for the source of the fire. Before long he had located a ring of bunkers on the crest of the hill, sitting above a criss-crossing network of dugouts and firing platforms.

Almost subconsciously he fed the targeting data from his sight to Stanley’s. There was no verbal acknowledgement, only the whirr of the autoloader bringing up a high-explosive armour-piercing shell from the magazine at the first gunner’s request. Per standing orders as the lead vehicle Lyonel’s Baneblade targeted the far right target, a wide structure housing two armoured casemates. Lyonel smiled thinly as the other tanks of the first echelon laid their guns on the appropriate targets. A vox click heralded the double bark of ten Baneblades firing their main guns in sync, the first sound that of the shell leaving the barrel and the second that of the in-built rocket igniting. The casemates that had, moments before, been the focus of his attention, went up in flames as Stanley’s shot punched through the rockcrete  and detonated the ready racks of ammunition.

The distance between the fortified ridge and the lead elements of the Ironsides was closed over the next 30 seconds, Lyonel ordering Stanley to conserve ammunition for targets of opportunity as the sponsons lit up the wolflight of early morning with dazzling streams of blood red tracer fire. Houndskulls died by the dozen to the torrent of incoming fire, unable to offer anything resembling stiff resistance to the advance of the Ironsides. A few brave souls leapt from their trenches armed with meltaguns or satchel charges but they were cut down with almost contemptuous ease before they could pose a serious threat. With the acrid stench of gunsmoke heavy in the air Lyonel opened the vox and said, “A' tanks cease fire, 'n' wheel by company tae th' sides. Mckay, git yer wee jimmies in thare tae clear th' rest o' thaim oot.”

“Acknowledge sur.”

Second battalion, in their Stormlords, accelerated up to the first line of entrenchments before disgorging their passengers. Under cover of the Vulcan Mega-Bolters mounted on the roof of each vehicle men rushed into the enemy lines, bayonets fixed to their las-rifles. Return fire panged off their power armour, only managing to scorch the ceramite plates instead of slaying the soldier behind.

As Lyonel would later learn over the vox while at range the Houndskulls had no success, when they discarded their rifles for the heavy spiked hammers each carried in place of a combat knife they started to give closer to what they were getting. Bayonet thrust and hammer fell for the better part of an hour as Second Battalion scoured the entrenchments of enemy resistance.

Lyonel was sitting up in his cupola when McKay and a squad of Second Battalion Troopers escorted in the catch of the day: Colonel Ludomil Sobecki, commanding officer of the Houndskulls. The sight of him then was a stark reminder of the awfulness of the war they were fighting as not a decade before he had shared a bottle of scotch with Sobecki. Then the colonel had looked sharp as a power sword dressed in his ornamented plate but the gold had faded, pieces been destroyed, and the man wearing them broken. Even the helm which gave the regiment their name was absent, likely having been shattered by whatever blow had given Sobecki the great big welt he sported. Whether compelled by pity or military honour Lyonel dismounted from his tank to accept the surrender on equal footing.

Once only a handful of paces separated them Sobecki was finally able to identify his opposite number through his swollen eyes and laughed painfully, “War makes fools of us all doesn’t it? Three months I’ve been in this area and never before today had I seen anything bigger than a Salamander rolling towards me. Intelligence reported the nearest concentration of Imperial heavy armour to be a hundred kilometres to the North, shows what they know.”

Lyonel was surprised by the frankness of Sobecki’s speech but nodded ruefully, “That it does, ah trust ah don’t hae tae say th' wurds.”

“No, I said them often enough myself in a better age,” he replied wistfully, reaching for the ceremonial warhammer hanging from his belt. The Ironsides behind and to the side of him tightened the grips on their rifles at the action, a less than subtle threat should Sobecki intend to use the weapon. He didn’t, instead holding it out to Lyonel haft first.

Lyonel took the proffered hammer gingerly and walked back to his baneblade as Sobecki was led away. [[Category:A]]