Holocaust on Rosskar Chapter 2: Now with Knights!

The Urachen Mountain Chain, thirty minutes before. 327010.M31

"How does it feel?" Magos Lexor asked as the two Priests strolled over the catwalk. Itchy was the first word brought to Jaun's mind. "Liberating," He chose to say instead. Only a day had passed since the last of the augmentations had been implanted into his imperfect flesh. Where the skin and metal met however, irritation flared. His mentor had told him this would eventually pass, thank the Omnissiah.

"I knew you would say that," Lexor chimed back in his rhythmic, almost song-like voice. He was a hulking giant compared to the smaller Tech-Priest at his side. "You were always a bright pupil. Even when you were just learning the glories of the Cult, you showed promise." Something was off with what Lexor was saying. He didn't even know Jaun existed until yesterday's ceremony. "That is why I would like to-"

A powerful boom from high above deafened them both. The walls of rock and steel around them shook violently, causing Jaun to lose his balance. He didn't want to fall. The embarrassment would forever haunt his memory, slamming his new mouth grill on the walkway in the presence of the Magos. As his thoughts focused on the desire to stand, the new appendage attached to his back sprang into action. The manipulator mechadendrite planted into the metal, keeping him steady.

This simple act made him realize just how meshed his mind had become to the wonders of the machine. He didn't even bother looking to see if Lexor had fallen. The Magos did not walk but crawled, half a dozen tiny segmented legs moving his holy body along like a metal insect. "Marvellous, isn't it?" He chirped, observing Jaun as one would a prize winning animal. "You are blessed, to have mastered such control of them so quickly."

"It was an accident," Jaun spurted out. His new voice was still so odd for him to hear. It was electronic now, vocalized directly from his vocal cords.

"If you say so," Lexor conceded as the speed of his rolling feet hastened, "But let us make haste. The attacks are growing in frequency."

An Initiate is a virgin mind, ignorant and clouded with false information. Upon graduating from this position of unknowing, the Initiate becomes a Novice. Assigned to a Tech-Priest, a Novice must discover what interests them, what drives them, and if they truly belong in the Mechanicus. Once a passion is discovered, the Novice gains the moniker Senior. The Senior Novice strives to learn all they can and memorize their specialization. This is the last step into the Cult, where one can decide to leave or be removed if they do not have what it takes to devote themselves to the Omnissiah.

Jaun had crossed that line. His body now had the rudimentary augmentations, along with a single manipulator mechandendrite. While inglorious, the role of Enginseer had been his goal to reach. To maintain machinery, to keep it alive, to please the machine spirit, well what more could any Tech Adept want? He mused on his luck, achieving such a position where all of his other former acquaintances had failed.

A thick haze of smoke appeared before them, the sudden hissing of hydraulics and pounding of blessed metal filling Jaun's ears. The passageway opened up abruptly becoming from a crowded walkway into a huge assembly hall, the muster point of the Taghmata Rosskar. The entire mountain had been hollowed out to allow this. Everywhere Jaun looked the walls were lined with plas-steel and supports, keeping the structure from collapsing in on itself. But his attention wasn't at the wondrous engineering, it was on the single most holy constructs he'd been gifted to bear witness to.

"Magos. I am not worthy," The Tech-Priest said, walking up to the edge of the lifted platform they stood on. From it both were able to oversee the whole assembly of the Forge's might, the Taghmata Rosskar, the warhost of the Mechanicum upon the homeworld of the Legion. Towering high, almost filling the hall with their bulk were the Legio Nivalis, most decorated and honored of the Machine God's weapons of war, their white and pale blue livery stark against the rock and metal of the hall. Thousands of Skitarii stood at the foot of the mighty Titans. Each wore dark green robes, showing off bulging muscle interlaced in places with subdermal armor and bionics. Jaun did not know what to think of them, as they had come from Mars, their only loyalty was to the Fabricator-General, and to make matters worse they didn't even worship the Omnissiah like him. They only knew their own specialized cults, unique to their formation and it could only be guessed the misinformation retained within their mystic beliefs. He scanned over to the rest of the assembly area, where an army of servitors saw to the needs of the mustering troops called in defense of Urachen.

The colors of the Knights of House Kazak stood bestridden before ranked battle-automata of the Legio Cybernetica and tight formations of Thallax and Usarax Cohorts. Glorious were those formations, regal and truly, unbelievably, blessed. A curiosity was brought to Jaun's mind as he considered those attending to the Knight suits. "Magos," He asked in a staticy burst, "Who are those men down there? Why do they not have any clothes on their torsos?"

The chiming of Lexor could hardly be heard over the rapturous sounds of repair and maintenance, "Sacristans of Nyeper, sworn to House Kazak. And they forgo clothing in honor of the near naked hulls of the Knight suits they attend to. Every splash of oil, spark from a welder, chip of plating, shall me marked on their skin as it is on the glorious engines they maintain. An inspiring display of piety, no?"

A little less foolishness towards the goal would help, Jaun thought. But it was admirable how zealously they pursued their duties. The Knights themselves strode out on the plaza, wearing an odd hairstyle which married their human origins to their duties as pilots of the sacred warmachines. On their otherwise shaven heads sprouted a single lock of hair at the front of their heads. A closer look told why, as each had taken the wise choice to accept cranial augmentation.

"Magos," Jaun could feel the tension flourish between his bionics and skin, but he had to speak, "If I am be so crass as to demand an answer from you, but may I ask a question?"
The lenses that made up the many eyes of the overseer shifted and flicked, but after a minute's pause he spoke with, "Proceed."
"Why am I here? Why have you chosen to bring me here where I am not worthy?"

A low humming started to drown out the farther away noises, pulling Jaun's attention firmly on Lexor. "I have chosen you as Sub-Lachrimallus: the one to lead the Adsecularis which will march in front of the Skitarii before the sacred Titans. Your mind is bright to give them maximum efficiency, I believe." There would be no apology from his mechanical bulk, but it was a death sentence. The Adsecularis were Tech-Thralls, those Menials who had become too disruptive or Adepts who had committed major heresy. Criminals all of them, given the crudest augmentations imaginable becoming a form of expendable battle servitors. To lead them meant to be rated alongside them in importance - next to nothing.

Jaun had been told in a simple manner, that he had been selected to be sacrificed in the crucible of battle. "I accept this responsibility," He replied giving his superior a bow. It had been decided, and he had to recognize it. Such as it was in the Priesthood.

"I confirm your compliance," The old Tech-Priest stated, "You are to lead the First Adsecularis Cohort into battle for the Skitarii attached to Legio Nivalis. You are under Tribune Gaius, and will follow his orders to the letter. You are to calibrate the firing efficiency of your forces, and compensate when needed as the battle changes." Lexor gave a burst of static in an old cant of Techna-Lingua, "Be safe//capable. Be strong//resourceful. Stronger than iron//metal. You are a Disciple of Mars, a Mind//Soul of the Machine//Omnissiah."

Jaun could only understand a few words, deciphering the rest from guessing but after that the lumbering, tread-bound Priest departed. His orders were clear, his duty set, his fate made. He marched down the nearest flight of stairs to meet with the force he'd be commanding. It would serve him well to become acquainted with their weaponry. As his boot and metal heels thudded down he couldn't help but continue to stare and marvel as the God-Machines of Nivalis, the Ice Giants.

Closest to him were the twin Reavers, Driaono Maximus and Driaoni Maximus. The Maximus siblings, born of the great Olympica Fossae assembly yards long ago on sacred Mars. Behind them but no less exalted were three Warhounds of the Ice Giants, pack hunters famed for their stealthy hit and run actions. The rest of the Demi-Legio stationed here had to be elsewhere in the chain, perhaps already brought in waking. The might of Nivalis was not without warrant on the world of Rosskar, despite not being a Forgeworld itself. The Primarch had desired industry to fuel his Legion’s expansion, so he had made profitable arrangements with the Mechanicum, granting them a permanent residence on his world. While not numerous or mighty, the Forges in the Urachen were able to make plenty of power armor suits and bolters for the ever growing Legion.

Hundreds of Tech-Priests administered to bring the many ancient and holy machines to life. Singing the awakening rites as they had been doing so for hours. His own mentor was among them most likely. What he would do to switch places with any of their number; to give his voice to the choir rather than be sent into certain death. He didn't want to die. Who did now, even for the Omnissiah?

Fear coiled around him, collecting on his body like freezing sweat. A fleshy, primal thing. Born of ignorance, for he knew nothing of what lay beyond. No one did. "From the weakness of the mind," He chanted in Low Gothic, as he had learned the ancient saying, "Omnissiah save us." He barely didn't notice the person who appeared in his path, watching at him expectedly. He had been focused on himself and the great view afforded to him to see the Legio's Titans.

"Praying for deliverance?" It was the Senior Novice Gorgi, a friend to Jaun. Once, or perhaps still? He was unsure.
"I have been put to lead the Tech-Thralls, Gorgi."

The features still unfortunately made of meat contorted into the expression of shock. The brotherly, human gesture of putting the palm on one's shoulder was expressed. It neither helped nor annoyed Jaun, it just was. Neither said much as they both continued down the rest of the way to meet the assembly. Finally the mind began to fight off despair, as Jaun realized something. He stopped walking, standing stock still while supporting himself on his staff. "What are you doing here," He asked in electric Low Gothic, "Novice Gorgi?"

"I came to speak with you, but, perhaps I shouldn't. If you are going to lead the Tech-Thralls that is. We can meet again though if you manage to live through it."

Manage. Manage? Jaun knew for a fact, in every fiber of his added parts and born flesh, that this assignment was going to end him.

Gorgi left him there, letting him boil in the pits of his blasted organic mind. It didn't get any better when faced with the troops he'd be leading. Few had anything beyond a simple las-lock, one or two holding onto an extra thick axe or mitralock. They were the lowest form of combat Servitor. All were stuck in a state between life and death, able to process changes in movement but little else. All had been bonded to Jaun, recognizing him and his voice. Mentally with his augments, it was made possible to send them the simplest of commands over short-bound waves of communication after a few Rites of Utterance.

To put it in the gracious of terms, these were the absolute worst constructs he could be stuck in war. Only able to take on the exact simplest of instructions, even the most basic of Servitors worked more reliably than they did. The Tech-Guard would out think, react quicker, and were better armed than them. Each could barely last more than a few seconds in close combat. All hope was lost when concerning the Legionnaires, who would rend his meagre levies apart as if nothing was there at all!

A shaking of the ground awoken him from his woe, the approaching entity pulling his thoughts. Unconsciously, the desire forced all the Adsecularis to put their guns in the direction of his sight. A towering Knight strode out before him, weapons aiming into the stone sky. A booming, cracked vox-bound voice spoke out, "Wait! I surrender! Ahaha!" Two other Knight suits moved beside their brother, looking out over the gathering of Tech-Thralls.

Jaun knew what they were saying inside their mounts. 'One Priest for all these Constructs?' 'How will his mind handle it?' 'He'll probably fail us in moments'. He stared broodingly at the bright red painted helms of their beautiful machines, until the one who attempted humor shifted closer. "We have been requested to help the Skitarii in their endeavour to protect the Titans, learned one. But we men of House Kazak prefer to strike at the front. My brothers and I will assist you."

The suits before him were Paladins, which were a rarity for the House, as to Jaun's knowledge most of Kazak preferred to use Errant or Lancer Suits, mounts which allowed them maximum close combat proficiency. Mounting great battle cannons and Knight-sized chainswords able to rend terrible havoc upon the enemy both in close and long ranged combat, the Paladin was the perfect balance of martial might. As they stood beside him he saw their helmets shift focus, looking to each other.

"Would you like to lead us in our march out from the front of us, learned one?"

The Titan's war horns deafened all those in the enclosed hanger. They had been brought to life, their Princeps joined and wakened, the doors leading out into the snowy mists opening up with a terrifying screech of rusted alloys rubbed together. House Kazak stormed out first among the forces, followed by the Legio Cybernetica and the serried ranks of awesomely deadly Thallaxii and Usaraxii. A mental note of code was sent from Gaius to Jaun, urging him to lead the Adsecularis out.

With a tinge of reluctance, he gripped his staff. "Forwards, for the Omnissiah."
And that is how the one who only wanted to learn was sent off into war.

---
Southernmost edge of the Central Plain, front line. Forty minutes later, 327010.M31

"Fire fire fire fire!" Hasi screamed, voice soaring so high it cracked as if he was a teen. His fist pounded on the metal overhead half a dozen times to emphasize the point he was desperately making.

A rampaging formation of Astartes armor had thoroughly purged the first half of the Strelky's entire force. Charging Sparatoi Tanks, Rhinos, and Crematoria Predators proceeded onwards, only now being opposed by the slow Malcador tanks with Baneblades at their hearts. The assembled might of the Rosskan Strelky had barely lasted over half an hour against the might bearing down on them. A few lascannons were able to stall the armored assault here and there, before their crews were violently incinerated by the charging, maddened Sons of Infernox.

"Hold your balls Hazz!" Ninel barked back, only firing once she was sure it was going to hit true. The cannon discharged, shaking everyone to their bones. Peaking out over his hatch the Basilisk's commander was able to see the round had in fact burrowed straight into the turret of the Predator. It had detonated inside, blowing up the tank from within. Before they could properly celebrate the victory however, a barrage struck their hull.

Over the vox crackled a, "We got a trio of Sicarians moving on the right flank, pounding us hard!" It was Yurrik, their battery's CO. His voice was raving over the vox every minute, directing the guns might on the foremost elements of the marauding Astartes vehicles. It was damage control, trying to put out fires which had burned up anything worth saving a while ago. But they carried on, doing what they could.

Jorti received a kick to his shoulder, making him turn in the direction of the Siacrians were supposed to be. A few auto-shells were narrowly avoided thanks to his quick timing, shifting their heavy bulk in a blink. The loud thunk of the next Earthshaker round sliding into place thanks to the heaving and shoving of its duo loaders. Ninel didn't wait too long this time, firing at the lead Sicarian. It was a frontal hit, but the Basilisk's cannon didn't even need to hit the soft armor to utterly destroy it.

"Hell yeah!" The girl yelled, but Hasi only brought deeper into hopelessness. They were scrambling to keep the enemy vehicles from overwhelming the last few lines of defense, but why? A host of seven Titans was stepping over the crackled, broken stumps of the mighty Rosskan evergreens which sprouted up like weeds. Hasi was only able to catch a peek of their bulk shifting over the second set of trenches.

"We're gonna die here," Jorti remarked, his only reply being a boot to his cranium.

"Shut it!" Hasi cracked out, pausing a moment to clear his throat, "We are not gonna die, not if you don't panic. Now keep us moving, I feel exposed here." The positioning of the forward elements of the artillery put them up on an elevated plane, able to look out over the battle line. They would ride up, fire, fall back down, and repeat the process ad infinitum. It was proving remarkably successful! It wasn't stemming the tide of rampaging Astartes or swarming Army in the least bit though.

It was becoming impossible to ignore, how that tide of blackened red would grow ever closer when they rose up to fire. How their men would shrink back, being pushed in click by click. Pillboxes smashed up, emplacements ripped in pieces, and the flames. The damned flames. It was a wall of destruction, growing closer to them without end. It would pass them over, eventually. Even if they could fight that off, the Titans which were smashing their Malcadors would finish the job.

The next bout arrived, making them launch upwards, the treads digging into the earth spending a slush of mud and snow behind it as the gun wobbled with the rattling speed. It lowered immediately as much as it could until it leveled out. Ninel had to be screamed at again. The time to aim was a luxury they could hardly afford. Her shot went home, incapacitating a Sparatoi by slicing into the treads.

"Yes! Score two for-" A Warhound was shifting over the flames left directly behind their struck target. A entire column of armor had been crushed between it and its brothers. A whole trio of Scout Titans had broken off from the main formation, signified by their paint and sigils as the Legio Infernus. From the Vulcan gun held aloft in its left arm came a resounding pelting of shells. The whole Basilisk felt the impacts, a hundred different pings and dents being made.

"Jorti!" Hasi begged, feeling sparks nearly singe his eyes.

"On it!" The driver whined, pulling back only a few feet before the tank came to a shuddering stop. "Oh fuck, oh no. No! No no no!" His foot stomped down on the pedal, the engine stuttering in pain.

"Stop it!" Hasi yelled over the noise, "We've lost a tread! You're just hurting the Machine Spirit. Let's get the ramp down, we'll fix this and get off this blasted hill. Alright, yeah. It is going to be okay."

In a few seconds the endless pounding ceased, and Hasi rose up to see why. From his tiny slit of vision, he saw a twin group of Baneblades stride out to meet the Warhounds. A column of Malcadors were behind them, moving slowly but surely into death. The Rosskan commander's shivering finger pressed on the utterance rune of his vox, "This is Hasi! We've lost a tread, could we get some cover here?"

"Everyone stick to you orders. Sorry Hazz, you're on your own," Telling emotion or tone over the box was always a pain, but Hasi could swear there was an utter lack of care in Yurrick's.

"Bastard. Right, Moroz!" The burly, silent man got up from his cramped position, shifting closer. Moroz had been with Hasi since the beginning, since both were loaders. He went from driver, to gunner, to commander. Moroz stayed loader, it fit him better than all that responsibility. "You and me. We're heading out there. Mielovich, keep loading and Ninel keep firing. Go for the ones only interested in us, we need to keep some heat off of our backs. Especially when we're out on the sides." As he finished, his hand went to the console to lower the ramp. A loud shriek of ice and steel rubbing against one another filled the air. And nothing else happened.

This couldn't be happening. This could not, now of all times, be happening. He pressed it twice praying it would magically be functional, that all the slurry from their times rising back up and down wouldn't have frozen the hydraulics shut. Hasi felt the presence of a large, meaty hand on his shoulder. Moroz shook him once, twice, three times until reality set into his panicked friend.

He said to his comrade, "It isn't going to work, Hazz. We need to go."

"Up the hatch," Hasi remarked, opening it up fully to climb out in a flash.

With a nod Moroz repeated it, "Up the hatch." Both men rose out of the Gaudin chassis in record time, practicing these moves a hundred times over. Las-bolts ionized the air around them while stub bullets hit everywhere else. Hasi felt a thick shell thud into his back, thankfully only hitting the flak jacket. Moroz was unscathed by the time he got his boots in the snow, already moving to jimmy free the replacement tract. "This is bad," He said, pulling it down without help. Well, before Hasi could even help him. "It is has never been this bad before. Not this bad."

"We'll make it," Hasi said, assisting in dragging the part over to the wounded side. "We always do."

Spent casings covered the ground as they moved along, all of them the remains of explosive bolts. Bolt shells are normally anti-infantry weaponry, if you consider Power Armor light. From the Warhound's Vulcan though, they can be fired at a rate of several hundred a minute. The old Gaudin tanks could take the hits better than those new Chimeras, though. They would have been torn to pieces if they had one of those. The treads however were sliced apart like butter, the gears jammed up with the shredded metal.

"We're gonna need a damned Tech-Priest to fix all of this," Hasi stated working fast on repairs. His gloved hands just dug in, wading past the damage to pull free bits clogging the parts that needed to move. More fire was directed their way by the enemy's far off infantry, trying to score a lucky hit. Bullets zipped, bolts crackled, but the duo ignored it as they pulled free the last remnants of their blasted tract.

"This piece won't last us long," The hulking Rosskan said, pulling on their replacement tract, "But maybe we can get down this bloody hill huh?"

"Been through worse, now come on. Let's get this up." Hasi helped him along, grunting with exertion as they tried to work the massive piece into place. It was too big, even with Moroz's strength. "We. Need, Miel." The pressure was buckling his muscles, and Moroz was about to give in to the weight of it. What were they thinking, two men trying to replace a whole tract? The truth was, neither of them had thought this through. They just needed to act before something tore them in two.

Hasi felt a ton of extra force pull him down, the whole line of tract falling as he had to let go. It nearly crushed his toes. His face was numb from the cold, so he didn't feel the splatter. But he saw the crimson. The body. Moroz had been shot right in the heart. Killed in an instant, right next to him.

He stuck to the side, lowering down. His chest rose up and down, panting furiously. This wasn't going to work, they were going to die here. He stared out over his shoulder, staring into the depths of the battlefield. It was an inferno. Everywhere the Strelky were being butchered. He had no doubt if it wasn't for the unnatural compulsion to burn everything to a cinder, they would have overtaken their battery by now. As the Warhound pounded its foot down on the slagged husk of a Baneblade, beginning its advance towards the battery's position.

The faint noise of crackling could be heard now, as it closed. Ninel must of fired the gun at it, as the earth rumbled with the shock of the Basilisk discharging a round. More fired at it, which drew the Warmachine's attention. Those could escape, but his own Basilisk would be right there. It was time to act, instincts overriding his fear. In moments Hasi climbed up onto the Gaudin hull, his body sliding through the hatch in a flash.

Once he sat was back in his commander's position, everyone looked at him. Ninel was the first to ask him a question, "Can we get the fuck out of here now?"

Jorti chose to ask instead with a hollow voice, "Where is Moroz?"

Hasi answered neither. "It can't be repaired, not in time anyway. Ninel, Jorti, get out. A turret only needs a loader and a gunner. Me and Miel can take it, get out of here."

"I'm not leaving you two," Ninel said in a stunning show of loyalty, but did it have to be now of all times? Jorti didn't have any such compulsions, already getting out from his seat. The vox was muttering something, perhaps a retreat? It was ignored as Hasi flared up in rage.

"Get out of here you while you still can. Get to the CP! Just be anywhere but here you dumb, stupid bitch!"

"Fuck you, stop calling me a bitch you fucking prick!"

"If you don't get out that hatch right now I will shove you out mysel-"

The driver's visor had been shut, closed off by a metal slate to protect Jorti from incoming fire. He didn't need to see to move up and down. But that little sheet of steel began to buckle, before giving out. A fiery deluge engulfed the crew, shrapnel tearing Jorti's flesh. Hasi's body felt the heat that came from the blast, and Miel barely got out of the way in time. Ninel was unscathed, as she wasn't in its path. Hot blood seeped out into Hasi's coat, soaking it in crimson.

An eyeball lolled out onto Hasi's lap, causing the hardened man to respond by throwing the corpse away. He stared murder at his gunner, but said nothing. He saw her scramble to speak, not bothering to move yet. The ringing in his ears silenced her words, thankfully. Mielovich gathered his wits and moved on over to Hasi, lifting him up through the hatch. At first the commander was confused, but he soon realized that he hadn't felt the pain in his leg from pure adrenaline.

A huge gash had torn into his leg, a jagged scrap of blown apart plas-steel stuck in it. He started to yell bloody murder, the noise sounding distant to his bleeding ears. He only stopped once he was thrown out, Miel going back for Ninel. It took seconds before she two landed next to him, face first. The loader ran to them both, stopping dead where he stood as the soil shook. The Warhound had risen up over the hill's rise.

It stood, gleaming in the twin suns with its flaming paint scheme and battle scars. At first it level the Inferno cannon it bore, but upon seeing the disembarked crew it instead lowered its Vulcan. It wanted blood. It would not stop till they were dead. All over were the battered remains of their company, with the command Chimera being ripped down the center by a scything discharge. The war cries of the Sons were echoing in the distance, just as hearing was returning to Hasi.

For some reason, not entirely clear to Hasi himself, he gripped onto both of his comrades. At least he figured it would be quick. He could afford to hold onto them both, for now.

The world stopped.
Somehow, a giant shadow had covered over them. In one moment they were in sunlight, the next, shade.

Once again they were all deafened as scalding amount of heat washed over them. The Warhound's void shields had been completely overloaded by the blast. The body had been shot directly into, a molten hull where the top of its torso used to be. It stumbled for a minute, until lifelessly crashing directly into the crew's Basilisk. More fire overhead occurred, as the Traitors had been utterly caught in the open.

Loyalist Warhounds roared by, cutting down row upon row of unseen infantry. The Ice Giants let off their signals of triumph, as the last elements of the Strelky rallied behind them. Column upon column of Mechanicum troops marched beside them, covering their flanks and keeping any one from sneaking past. Hasi eased his hold on the shoulders of the two next to him. His eyes had seen it all, while both of theirs were closed shut. All their feelings were summed up in one exchange between Miel and Hasi.

"We're alive."

"Yeah."
---
West from the front line, Urachen Eastern Forests. An hour later, 327010.M31

"Steady," Makyr said mentally to his battle starved mount. It lusted for the thrill of combat, but the iron will of its rider kept the metallic hulk from breaking out from their cover. It was a truly mighty construct, plates of handmade adamantium woven into its proud frame. It stood slightly above seven meters tall, covered in battle scars accumulated across two lifetimes. The only time it had been given a fresh coat of paint was when Makyr first inherited the mount.

Beside Makyr was a similar craft of battle-machine. Both held in their 'hands' weapons forged in the foundries of the Machine Cult, which meant they were handcrafted with the utmost care. Twin rows of metallic, razor sharp teeth were affixed together on one 'hand', with twin heavy bolters attached at the base. A dual set of flamers which could incinerate flesh in a mater of nanoseconds from close range finished their complement of weaponry, held sturdy to their sides in the other 'hand'. The tools matched them in size, being awesome to behold when properly seen by mortal eyes.

The twin set were Knights Acheron, made from the Cerastus pattern of exoskeleton. It moved with a speed unmatched by its slower brethren, rare and highly valued by all who knew the beauty of the Omnissiah's holy constructs. The proudest moment of Makyr's life was learning he would inherit this breathtaking machine. Well, second proudest moment of his life. The first would always be held by the birth of his son, Jokyr. Who was riding with him now into battle for the first time. Knight Apparent, that was the boy's title. Survived the ritual of Enthronement, but yet to prove himself out in the field.

Standing side by side, it was clear to tell which Knight was the veteran and which was the novice.

Makyr's trusted mount wore an eternity of scars, accumulated from nearly a hundred years of service. The paint was chipped, worn, faded, never once replaced after the first coat was applied. An assortment of feathers melded into place on his proud helm was all the gilding required. The feathers represented his skill as a hunter, as the bird they were collected from was an illusive predatory breed which rivaled his mount in size.

Less worn and striking was the Armour beside Makyr, ridden by Jokyr. The mount practically shimmered with freshness, its hull bereft any of the marks worn so superbly by the senior Knight. Makyr could sense the emotions and thoughts at the surface of his son's mind. Radiating off him like a stench, he could clearly make sense of the odd mix of emotions bubbling. His anxiousness, excitement, and fear, all completely normal feelings in the twilight before battle was met. The link shared between the two was stronger than most, as few Knights shared a bond like they did.

This was going to be Jokyr's first battle. He'd hunted down beasts before on Rosskar's snowy surface, honing his reflexes and responses to act in tune with the movements of his Armour. Would he be able to show such prowess in the madness of true combat had yet to be seen. Not all those who survive the Enthronement can survive the mayhem that comes from warfare, this much Makyr knew. It was tiring to suppress the thought from Jokyr, but it had to be done. Would that help him at all? Knowing his father was second guessing him even before combat?

"Will this work?" Jokyr asked, pushing his dread aside. The question was a silent whisper to Makyr, a faint hint ping at the edge of the old Knight's consciousness.

"I do not know," Makyr admitted freely using the moment to relax, "We must only focus on our part. The others will preform as they always have, we must only match them. The plan will work." And with perfect clarity allowed between them, Jokyr undestood. Between the pair there could be lie, not when they were inside their Armour. The link shared was too powerful, any attempt at deception would fail as the other would immediately feel it. Knowing this, Jokyr could only settle to rest his worries on the calmness of his elder. What the lad didn't realize was Makyr had long ago learned to hide his uneasiness beneath a veneer of false serenity and confidence.

In the Rosskan forests there were trees aplenty, with thick trunks that rose high enough to cover the bulk of an entire Knight. The canopy above them covered everything in a layer of shade, with only a few streams of light breaking out in between the thistle-like leaves. Makyr had chosen the battle ground carefully, arriving several minutes before their prey would reach the area. Within these depths, they could hide from view without nary a worry.

A distant voice called out over the snowy woods, pinging off of Makyr's mind loudly, resounding with the words, "Omnissiah's protection be about us. I am in position Seneschal." That was the ever pious Gerecis, standing by in his venerable Errant Armour.  Crafted to kill swathes of heavy armour with their potent thermal cannons. Makyr and his son were of the Kaledin bloodline, sworn to uphold the honor of the Cyrocil family. Gerecis hailed from the Krawtzoff lineage, famed in House Kazak for their ties to the Mechanicum and open worship of the Machine God.

"Pray the Omnissiah gives us enemies! I'm freezing here, haha!" Coming crashing into Makyr's mind akin to a mental avalanche was Ikolich, born of that fiery kindred from the line of Varvasti. Though the headache was unwelcome, Makyr had come to rely on his spirit and ability in the thick of combat. He would need it now, more than ever. War had come to Rosskar, a tendril reaching all the way back to Istvaan.

The Warmaster had turned his back on the Emperor. The Imperium was in civil war, half of the Mechanicum in open revolt. Rosskar was being invaded by Astartes Legionnaires. Titans, the Omnissiah's own, had turned from the light of Mars and were now thundering over the snows of this land. Makyr was still processing the information, fully aware his comrades including his own son hadn't even begun to imagine to ramifications of it all. Each could only think of their target, which was a good attitude to have during these times. Narrow down to the simplest task, the one that needs doing now. That is all you can do when being overwhelmed.

Frost fell down from the crown of the evergreens. All across his small force, Makyr felt the Knights tense up. Mount and rider. It was the signal of a coming warmachine, most holy of the Omnissiah's creations. Coveted not only for its wealth in armament and alloy, but also mechanical complexity. It made them appear meager, meek, and diminutive. It was the ultimate tool of destruction the Mechanicum was capable of wielding.

It was a Titan.

A Warhound Titan to be exact. The engagement between Legion Nivalis and the enemy's Titan Legions had left both sides in a complete route. Thousands of Strelky were retreating, pulling men and material with them. If a single Scout Titan was able to slip through it could spell disaster. Makyr cared little for this. The Traitors had been foolish enough to believe just because Legio Nivalis was occupied with Mastodontii tanks they could leave one of their own Titans out alone this far beyond their lines. He would make them see the error of their ways.

The sounds of battle grew closer, the echoing bangs followed shortly by the deafening 'schwoom' that came from the Warhound's Plasma Blastgun. One shot from that and Jokyr would be dead. And Makyr, too obviously. Any of the Knights would be reduced to dust, but the veteran's foremost concern was for his unbloodied son. The rumble of the Rarog's taxed engines grew as they sped closer, the resounding stomp of the Titan's feet sending a tremble through the tips of Makyr's fingers.

The Rarog tanks moved faster than anything Makyr had yet witnessed. A trio of them had lured the Warhound towards the killzone, but only one remained now. Built from the newly discovered Chimera chassis, these machines of the Omnissiah had simple changes made to them focused on allowing them the maximum amount of speed possible whilst sporting a single weapon, an autocannon. The shells continued to pound defiantly towards the towering giant, but with a crackling bang each detonated long before making contact with its indomitable frame.

With an alarming amount of speed, the Warhound rose up its Vulcan Heavy Bolter. The weapon itself easily dwarfed any Knight in size. A flurry of bolts were released with a thousand deafening bangs. The storm of firepower covered the Rarog in metal and fire, taking out its light hull in moments. A shrill of disgust erupted from Jokyr, emanating out towards his father. All they could do is watch as the Rarog was obliterated, any movement from behind their cover risking to ruin the entire plan. The sacrifice was not made in vain. The Warhound was standing precisely where they needed it.

There could be no indecision, no second guessing. It was beside the charges, Makyr had to act. "Begin," He signaled out to the squadron. A resounding warcry was sent into the Rosskan forests that day, as Varvasti activated his vox-speakers. The Titan was deeply confused by the sharp howl, turning to see where it had originated from. Its confusion doubled as the meltabombs exploded around it, erupting from the nearby evergreens.

The Sacristans of House Kazak do not merely attend to the Armour of their Knights, but also act with their knowledge of explosives and machinery in battle. Long before the Warhound had arrived, the nearby bark had been littered with melta charges. Volcanic fury engulfed the giant, making it roar out through its warhorn in reply. It a terrifying sound louder than anything else on the battlefield. The Knights held strong knowing any momentary slip could spell disaster.

Before the Titan was able to reel back into control, Ikolich and Gerecis came screaming from behind their trees. Makyr and Jokyr followed shortly after, racing with wondrous alacrity at their foe. Beams of plasmic heat boiled the snow falling in the air, creating a hiss accompanying their furious barrage. The Void shields buckled from the pressure, which was taken as a sign for the father and son to act. The duo leveled their heavy bolters and fired away, sending a series of uncountable projectiles straight at their quarry's defenses.

The crackling noise that had followed the Titan like a blanket vanished. The jets licking out towards it from the thermal cannons began to heat up the plates covering over the Warhound's beautiful body. Now was their chance.

"Come on! Now! Strike while there is time!" Rider and mount acted with one will now, both concerned completely with the impending kill. The Armour demanded blood, and Makyr only wanted to destroy the Titan utterly before it could turn any of its awe-inspiring weapons to bear. Shining in a single stream of light were the teeth of their massive chainfists which began to rev loudly towards the Warhound.

The beast was torn between targets, overwhelmed by the attack and still processing the threats amassed against it. The Princeps had to pick out a foe to strike before the others, willing the Titan to shift the Inferno gun towards one of the lone Errants. The pressing concern of the melta weapon held in its hand was the most pressing threat to the panicked pilot. The Knights had surrounded and in seconds destroyed its Void Shields. The Vulcan meanwhile situated towards the two advancing Knights brandishing their chainfists into the air as they sallied forth.

As the weapons turned, Jakyr sped up faster. He was able to keep up with Makyr despite his inexperience, his mind melding with his mount utterly same as his father. The two closed the distance sooner than the Princeps had expected, the crew sent into disarray as they had to readjust the weapon once again to keep up with their boost of agility. The Acherons smashed into the Warhound's leg before that happened, using their iconic Reaper Chainfists to tear into the layers of plating protecting it. Sparks flew about as they ripped open chunks of metal, father and son striking as one together.

The great beast lurched backwards pulling away from the pair of Knights intending to blast them away with all of its weaponry. Before that happened, Ikolich light up the retreating limb with a lancing shot of heat. With its regular covering it might have absorbed the hit, but the blow Makyr and Jokyr had dealt left it bare to the blast. Without its leg, the Titan gave out a screech as it fell over. The twin Acherons wasted no time, descending upon it with fury and bloodlust. The unruly spirit of House Kazak was carried over in their vicious blows, digging deep into the hide of the mewling Warhound. Gerecis and Ikolich joined in, reducing its weaponry to slag with their cannons.

The Seneschal released out a deep breath, his real limbs relaxing while his mount also visibly reclined. His eyes scanned over to his ward, both of them standing atop the ruined carcass of God-Machine. His rich blue paint had been scratched in places, scraped off revealing the gunmetal grey of his hull. The torso rose up and down, arms shaking. The raw emotion came off Jokyr in waves, each one splashing into his relieved father's psyche.

"Are you alright?" Makyr asked him, trying to conceal the worry in his thoughts and this time failing.

"Never better," Jokyr answered him with exhilaration clear in the reply. And for some reason Makyr could not be sure of, he was certain that he was smiling right now.

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And Simone was the white death and every one was her prey thus dead. The End.