It was the break of dawn; the fresh light of the sun slowly pooled through the mountain range, squeezing past ancient formations of rock and casting the gentle red glow of dawn through a weave of titanic shadows. From the deep forests of the valley below birds began to sing, announcing the dawn as surely as the buglers in the raptor’s nest, the camp itself shadowed by the immense mountain it lay before. The soldiers, most wrapped only in a towel as they wandered to the shower blocks, were suddenly bathed in a sickly red light. The second peak, one that lay beyond the valley some distance westwards of the camp, was now host to a pillar of fire, that stretched into the heavens before becoming indistinct through distance. The pillar was completely silent, many only noticed it once the warmth of its light reached them. The Raptors Nest and the valley below, which mere moments ago had been shrouded in darkness, were now illuminated with an intensity that rivalled the rising sun.

The pillar shifted, and began carving its way across the mountainside. It burned through bunkers and flak-towers, designed to hold off an army, with contemptuous ease; the souls within instantly vaporised in the blast. Inside the mountain, in a network of tunnels host to the peak’s garrison, men were boiled alive as the intense heat vaporised the liquid within their bodies. In small pillboxes near the base of the mountain, soldiers trained to improvise, adapt and overcome any challenge could only look in mute horror as a tsunami of molten rock burst out of the trenches burned by the beam, burying them alive even as they melted. The flow of lava, indifferent to any barrier man could build, poured into the verdant forest below, beginning a catastrophic fire.

The birds of the forest fled the canopy simultaneously, thousands of animals taking to the skies. Those without wings fled on four legs to the mountain paths, ineffectually climbing against the rock. Eventually, the lance burned its way through to the mountain’s munition storage, slicing through lascannon batteries and massed shells. The soldiers in the Raptor’s Nest clutched their ears to their head as the mountain’s peak was rent asunder in the blast, debris pouting into the burning valley to join the magma. A pillar of flame shot a kilometre into the sky before being replaced by rising smoke and ash. Only the most stalwart of the camp’s defenders were left in any state to notice the flock of aircraft approaching along the now unguarded flight path.

One hundred and thirty kilometres above the smouldering remains, Lieutenant Sallust of the Silent Observer shut down the Lance, the red rune dimming before returning to the same green colour as fifteen others on his console. The bridge took no notice, occupied in the countless other duties involved in coordinating the Inquisition’s deployments. Sallust typed up an after-action report, his part in the conflict done, and sent it on to the Captain, to be read at his leisure. No longer outlined by the Lance’s red glow, the Black Ship faded back into the emptiness of the void.

Amelia stood behind the pilots of the vector thrust transport, enraptured by the thick pillar of acrid black smoke that lay where a mountain had once been. The two aircrew wore tinted visors, but Amelia had witnessed the Lance fire with her naked eye, and she blinked away the spots from that unwise decision. She thought the sight before her was strangely beautiful, almost divine; something that had stood for millions of years laid barren by human strength, the ultimate proof of man’s dominion over the galaxy. The sounds of hundreds of rotors drew her attention back to the fleet of aircraft arrayed before her. Amelia’s plane was at the centre of four formations of helicopters, two clusters of aircraft arrayed ahead of her, arranged into multiple squadrons of nine aircraft, most of which were armed with rockets or heavy stubbers. Behind her were the bulk-lift helicopters, they were arrayed in two long lines to reinforce the positions seized by the first group. She watched as a squadron of nine propeller planes roared overhead; ground attack aircraft moving to keep the enemy’s head down for the first landing. Her own plane was easily able to outpace them, but its engines were tilted upwards, the pilots burning through fuel to match pace with the rotary aircraft.

The first two groups veered left and right to avoid the pillar of smoke, their engines unable to cope in the ash, whilst Amelia’s advanced aircraft carried on forwards, until the windows were filled with a grey mass. The transport was buffeted by rising currents of hot air, yawing violently as it was caught in the swirling currents of ash and smoke. The pilots struggled with the controls, fighting an intense battle against the air itself and flying by instruments as all they could see was an endless void. After what felt like an eternity, the cockpit was again filled with the light of the rising sun, and Amelia saw a hell of a different kind.

The first of the assault groups was just reaching the drop zone, rockets and stub rounds streaming out of the lead aircraft and bursting in and amongst the prefabricated buildings of the camp. From this high up they look more like ants than men, Amelia remarked to herself as she watched the defenders scatter for cover. The more stalwart of the defenders simply ignored the barrage, determined to hold their post at any cost, and Amleia could only watch in mute horror as a battery of lascannons flashed, scything through two of her helicopters. One was hit in the rotors but flew on, even as globules of molten steel flew from the damaged blades. Another beam sliced through the cockpit of the second helicopter and carved upwards to the engine block. Consumed by fire, the aircraft spun out of control and burning men leapt from the sides in a suicidal effort to escape the flames. Suddenly, the battery was silenced by a strike from above as the propeller planes launched a missile in and amongst the gun crews, the frag from the blast scything them apart.

The first helicopter landed, its human cargo leaping from the sides before its wheels had touched the ground. Some men, reluctant to leave, were shoved out by the aircrew, the helicopter leaving the second its cargo was clear. The first man out, a Second Lieutenant who had volunteered to lead the Forlorn Hope, drew his sword and charged the enemy positions, trusting that his platoon would follow. The men on the ground were cut off from all avenues of retreat, and the enemy, though shocked by the sudden attack, were true professionals and had set up behind the Nest’s sandbag walls. To hunker down and outshoot such a position was suicidal from such an exposed landing zone, and so the Cazadores charged forwards, bayonets bared, determined to take the walls or die in the attempt. The Lieutenant was cut down almost immediately, his sword marking him as an obvious target, but his men did not falter. After all, there was nowhere else for them to go. Though the Forlorn Hope lost over two thirds of their men in that first assault, enough made it to the walls to ensure that the defenders were unable to stop another platoon landing as the next helicopters cycled through.

Shock can only work for so long, however, and the defenders soon rallied, grabbing every weapon that could hit an aircraft. The helicopters were at their most vulnerable when landing and taking off; the near stationary targets made easy prey for the renegade gunnery crews, and close to a dozen aircraft were destroyed, whilst only a rare few made it away unscathed. Inevitably, a round from a heavy bolter caught an approaching aircraft just below the rotor. The bolt detonated inside the control column and the rotors broke free, whirling off into the jungle below. Worse still, the chassis collided with the landing zone before spilling out bodies and chunks of twisted metal. Where three helicopters had been able to land there was now only room for two, and the increased time in the air placed the crews at greater risk.

On the ground, the sandbagged walls now held Imperial infantry, the remains of the first few platoons holding the walls whilst junior officers led fresh platoons over the walls to try and gain ground. The men were well drilled and the stress of combat brought their training to the fore; they advanced in fire teams, one team firing whilst the other advances, The Lieutenants directed the positioning of their platoons, one section advancing, the second providing enfilade fire whilst the third held back, ready to take over the advance once the first had exhausted itself. The writers of the Tactica Imperialis doctrine for infantry fire and manoeuvre would have been proud, but the men had never before seen combat and it showed. Where the enemy were flexible, darting from cover to cover and landing hits with every shot they fired, the Imperials were rigid, years of blank fire drills having failed to teach them the true value of cover, or the need to maintain accurate fire. The only advantage the Imperials had was numbers, and this advantage was growing smaller and smaller as the bottleneck at the landing zone got worse.

Amelia tore herself away from the chaos unfolding before her; it was time she committed herself to the fight. The cockpit was raised above the hold by a metal staircase, and as Amelia stepped down, she felt the passenger’s eyes on her. An entire company of Cazadores was crammed into the aircraft, each man a messy collection of fears; fear of the enemy, fear of the unknown and fear that they would prove unworthy in some way. Amelia’s heart sunk as she felt the way they looked at her, how hope flared in their minds as they beheld this agent of the throne, this powerful witch who would use her fell sorcery to see them through. Their simple optimism terrified Amelia more than anything she had seen through the cockpit, and she felt more out of place than ever before. She made her way to the tail of the aircraft, squeezing past the assembled ranks, before coming to her own guards; her two stormtroopers lead a squad of Arbites, who looked at her with a reverence that pained her. Like the PDF, these men were fearful, more used to quelling riots or raiding crime lords than open warfare, but they were much better trained to hide it. It helped that their eyes were hidden behind visors, the occasional clenched jaw the only physical sign of their fear. The stormtroopers were naturally approaching events with a steely detached attitude, they had been through this many times before. Amelia envied them their carapace armour, with its full helmet, she constantly fought to keep her crippling dread from showing on her face. She wasn’t a follower any more, seeking comfort in a leader’s stern expression, now there were others looking to her as the example to follow,

The aircraft shook as the loadmaster opened up with its twin autocannons before it violently jerked as it hit the landing zone. The ramp at the rear of the aircraft dropped immediately, and she rushed out as the sounds of rounds pinging off steel filled the hold, drowned out as the roar of the engines rushed in through the hatch. She ran from the aircraft as it swiftly lifted upwards, vector thrust engines straining to bring it airborne as fast as possible. A bright red beam played across the base of the aircraft, but it was able to turn its colossal bulk and rocket off, its mission done. The air was filled with smoke and blood, and Amelia gagged as the scent of burned flesh hit her. Smouldering corpses dotted the drop zone, wounds cauterised by lasfire or burned up in the crash. Men with faces blackened by soot ran past her, bringing screaming casualties behind the relative safety of the sandbag wall.

Amelia spotted Colonel Forjaz standing beneath a section of sandbag wall. He stood over a radio operator, relaying information between units over a set he wore on his back. A small group of Officers and runners surrounded him, and they parted Amelia approached. Forjaz was wiping blood from a gash above his right eye whilst a medic tried to hold the Colonel’s attention long enough to apply a bandage. The Colonel near shoved the man away, directing him towards the other wounded before turning to greet Amelia. His eyes were wild with anticipation, and Amelia realised that he had become enraptured by the battle, as if it justified his life spent in service to the Planetary Defence Force.

‘Mamzel! Glad to see you made it down safely!’ Amelia liked being called mamzel, the word carried aristocratic airs that she preferred over the more common ‘madam’

‘Likewise, Colonel. How do we stand?’ Amelia had to fight to remain professional, to keep her voice below a terrified scream.

‘Heavy casualties. We expected that, though it pains me to say it. We’ve managed to gain a lot of ground, thanks to your show with the mountain, but the heretics have reorganised. We’re meeting stiff resistance along our entire front.’

He looked at her expectantly, as if he believed she had a plan in mind. Amelia had never faced battle of any kind, except the brief skirmish in the precinct, and decided to hand off the decision making to the professionals.

‘I trust you have a plan Colonel.’

Relief lit up the Colonel’s eyes and Amelia realised she had mischaracterised him. Forjaz was not a noble, and consequently had lived his life knowing that, no matter how much of an expert he may be, some rank amateur with a title could always come along and order him about. He had been terrified that a girl half his age was coming to steal the command he clearly relished.

‘Naturally, Mamzel.’ He gestured to a satellite photo of the camp the Silent Observer had sent them. ‘Our forces were able to advance further on the left side of camp before meeting resistance, I propose we focus our offensive on that left side, and turn the enemy lines. If we can advance far enough, we turn right and hit the enemy from the side. I need a group to act as a spearhead. I humbly request you and your men lead that group, mamzel.’

What he was suggesting would have Amelia run headlong into the enemy, but without her powers and her elite soldiers the battle would surely be lost. Amelia ignored the piteous, cowardly, voices within her that said to send others in her place. One thousand two hundred men were here facing their deaths on her order, men who would otherwise have lived out their lives in peace. In a way, she had denied them the life she had often dreamed of, one free of duty or pain, and dragged them down in service of her own ambitions, her own curiosity! She would rather face death in battle than face herself in the mirror if she let these men fight without her,

‘Alright Colonel, show me the way.’

The headquarters of the Raptor’s Nest was built from weighty ferrocrete ribbed with steel and was old enough to remember the colonists who first walked the mountains of Nova Iberia, fifteen thousand years ago. It was said that, if one was to tear away the plateau, the building would be revealed as merely the top of a mighty ziggurat, and that hidden passages ran below the more commonly used offices of the floors above ground. In these ancient rooms, two robed figures stood in animated conversation before a great altar laden with shamanistic fetishes.

‘The lesser peak has been destroyed, and the forces of the corpse emperor are at our gates.’

‘I understood the nobility were keeping them occupied?’

‘They are. It appears we face a regiment of Cazadores.’ The word was punctuated by a contemptuous snort, ‘Only one of their aircraft bore Malcador’s pillar.’

‘What of the flock?’

‘They initially succumbed to shock, but recovered and are now holding position. The battle is at a stalemate; they lack the skill to break our men but we lack the skill to push them back.’

‘We teeter on a knifes edge, the slightest shift in the balance of power enough to send the entire edifice crashing down. Go, lend your strength to the faithful. I will remain here and see to spiritual matters.

‘Yes, Brother-Sergeant.’