Chapter 460: Two Knights Ride Out
The Gretchin mobilized fast, scavenging steel pipe from one direction, sheet metal from another, capacitors from a third, screws from a fourth.
Thousands of wrench-wielding Gretchin crowded around a steel skeleton out in the scrap heaps, and within just a few days, they'd assembled a massive iron frame.
Small Gretchin, great wisdom. Since the Gorkamorka Walker stood roughly fifteen meters tall, Grot-Kong had to be bigger. They went straight for sixteen meters.
And just as the Gorkamorka Walker was modeled on Gork and Mork, Grot-Kong's steel form was modeled on Grot Marjack himself.
A sly, cunning face, both hands crammed full of weaponry, and a pair of distinctive oversized plastic wings jutting from its back.
Every single Gretchin had thrown themselves into the effort. If the Gorkamorka Walker could send Ork morale soaring, then Grot-Kong could do exactly the same for the Gretchin.
Meanwhile, the number of Gretchin devoted to Great Gretchin-ism kept climbing, and by now it had spread across nearly the entire planet.
Every mushroom field on the world had fallen under the movement's control, and nearly every Ork Boy sprouting from them was being quietly executed.
As a result, the population of Gretchin and Snotlings across the forge world had exploded, while the number of Ork Boyz had steadily begun to drop.
But it hadn't been long enough yet, and the existing stockpile of Ork Boyz was still large, so nobody had noticed a thing.
If the Orks and humans fought one or two more major engagements, with heavy losses and no replacements coming in, they'd eventually discover their own numbers had thinned out badly.
And a battle exactly like that was about to arrive.
While the Gretchin busied themselves building Grot-Kong, Kian was pulling together his own team to drop some nukes.
The forge world's nuclear weapon production lines could churn out warheads on an assembly line, everything from small tactical nukes to massive strategic warheads capable of leveling dozens of kilometers.
Human nuclear ordnance was highly advanced, especially the widely used nuclear artillery shells, which detonated cleanly and left minimal residual radiation.
Authorization to use nuclear artillery shells had already been delegated down to regimental commanders. But strategic-yield warheads were a different matter entirely, and misuse risked blanketing the whole planet in radioactive dust, so authorization for those remained locked with the Planetary Governor and Magos Ferrocore jointly.
For Kian to get clearance to use a strategic-yield warhead, he'd need sign-off from both the Governor and Ferrocore together.
Amusingly enough, Ferrocore's own launch authorization had basically been sitting permanently open, since fallout and nuclear winter meant nothing to him.
He was, after all, just a walking pile of mechanical Lego bricks. Radiation didn't affect his survival in the slightest.
The Governor's side, though, held their authorization far tighter. To date, they'd fired remarkably few strategic warheads.
Overuse would blanket the entire planet in radioactive dust, making human survival even harder than it already was.
Barring a total collapse of the front line, the Governor wasn't going to authorize a strategic strike. That kind of weapon was reserved for mutually assured destruction, not routine use.
Kian went first to see Captain Doron, and the two of them spent a long time in conversation.
Captain Doron's brow furrowed. "You're certain this plan will deal the Orks a critical blow?"
Kian nodded. "Guaranteed."
Doron thought it over and decided to back Kian, agreeing to accompany him before the Planetary Governor to lend his own weight to the pitch.
With an Astartes standing behind him, Kian had no trouble at all securing an audience with the Governor.
At the top of the largest human hive city on the planet, Kian met with the Governor and a gathering of his Marshals.
This was, in fact, Kian's very first time meeting the Governor since arriving on this world.
Both the Governor and his Marshals were remarkably young, mostly because every previous generation of Planetary Governors had either died in battle or taken their own lives.
There was no reward for holding the office well, and a single misstep could quickly turn you into the main course at a very unpleasant barbecue.
Often enough, the situation on the ground hadn't even fully collapsed yet, but a Governor, foreseeing that post-war production could never recover in time to meet the next tithe demand, would simply give up outright and take his own life. This had happened more times than anyone could count.
Which was exactly why the ruling class of this forge world all looked so young, junior officers thrust into command during a crisis, over and over again.
In one of the command hall's chambers, the Governor and dozens of Marshals sat waiting in quiet silence.
Before long, the chamber doors opened, and Kian and Captain Doron walked in. Every person present rose to their feet at once.
"Lord Angel!"
They saluted Doron, who waved a hand to settle them.
"My friend, Count Voss, and I have come to discuss a tactical proposal with you."
The Governor nodded and turned to Kian. "Please, Count Voss, speak freely."
Kian pulled up a chair, sat down without ceremony, and got straight to the point:
"I've received intelligence through a private channel. This planet's Ork Warboss, Blackiron, along with his technical advisor, Three-Arm, are currently constructing two very special war-machines.
These two Ork walkers are living totems of the Ork gods themselves. Once completed, every greenskin on this planet will be gripped by a wave of religious fervor.
At which point, the Orks will launch a full assault across every front, and that day will mark your total destruction."
The gathered Marshals exchanged uneasy glances, and one asked, "What do you propose, Count Voss?"
Kian answered:
"The Orks are building their walkers somewhere inside a destroyed hive city ruin. I need you to launch a strategic warhead strike against that location and flush them out."
The Marshals murmured among themselves for a moment, and another spoke up:
"Count Voss, if what you say is true, and the Orks really are building something this critical, then they will absolutely have it under heavy guard.
Those damned xenos have void shield technology of their own. They will almost certainly have a void shield covering the mech-forge, to defend against our orbital bombardment and nuclear strikes."
Kian nodded. He'd already accounted for that. He'd witnessed firsthand at the Deathmine that the Orks had access to void shielding.
"I know. That's exactly why I'm not counting on orbital bombardment alone to take out this walker program.
We need to deploy our own ground force, to finish the walkers off on-site."
The Governor's brow furrowed. He was starting to see where this was headed.
"Count Voss, are you suggesting we fire nuclear warheads to determine which hive ruin lights up a void shield in response, thereby revealing where their war-machines are being built?
And then we launch a full offensive, sending a force straight into Ork-held territory, to destroy both walkers directly?"
Kian nodded firmly. "Exactly. That's the plan."
A wave of low murmuring swept the room. They knew the Orks' strength all too well. Twenty-plus years of war, and they'd done nothing but lose ground the entire time, never once managing to reclaim so much as an inch.
The Orks didn't fear death, and their reserves seemed endless. The harder humanity pushed, the more excited the Orks got, and the stronger they fought.
By now, humanity's entire strategy consisted of digging trenches and building bunkers inside their controlled territory, grinding it out defensively, just barely holding the line.
The idea of going on the offensive was almost unthinkable to them.
The Governor shook his head.
"Count Voss, setting aside whether your intelligence is even accurate, we simply cannot afford the consequences if this operation fails.
Nearly all of our forces are currently committed to holding the defensive line, relying on fortified positions just to keep the Orks at bay.
If we send our soldiers out beyond those fortifications and mount an offensive against the Orks directly, we will suffer catastrophic losses. The entire planet could fall as a result. I cannot take that risk."
Kian let him finish, then rapped his knuckles on the table.
"Everyone, open your eyes and look at what's actually happening here. This planet is dying by degrees.
An Ork force's numbers scale directly with the territory they control. The Orks currently hold 60% of this planet, and they are using every square kilometer of it to produce more soldiers and more weapons.
This war will only get harder from here. More and more Orks will hit your line, and someday, your carefully engineered fortifications will finally break. Your soldiers will be wiped out.
Face it. You are dying. Just not all at once. You're dying by inches.
In the short term, sure, the Orks probably can't break through your line. But what about five years from now? Ten years from now? Can you hold out that long?"
That struck a nerve. Every Marshal in the room exchanged a heavy glance, brows furrowed deep.
As the planet's ruling body, they had direct access to firsthand analysis of front-line troop conditions.
Over twenty-plus years of war, they had already burned through billions of lives.
The average survival time for a front-line soldier had shrunk from six months at the start of the war, to a matter of months, and by now, down to a matter of days, even hours.
The factories in the rear were running out of adult male workers, and huge numbers had converted to all-female workforces instead.
And it wasn't just the factories. The front-line Astra Militarum infantry regiments had started standing up all-female regiments too.
Women's regiments needed longer training cycles, delivered weaker combat performance, and had lower resistance to combat stress.
But there was no other choice. The pool of recruitable men kept shrinking. Their men were nearly wiped out entirely.
Standard Astra Militarum training ran a three-month cycle. The most recent wave of troops to reach the front had numbered five million, 30% of them women.
That ratio was set to climb to 50% in the next wave.
Soon enough, this planet would run out of men entirely, and it would be women left to fight the xenos alone.
Kian's five-to-ten-year estimate had actually been a generous one. In the Marshals' own private assessment, if they could hold out even three more years, that would already be a miracle from the Emperor himself.
Seeing the room fall silent, Kian pressed on:
"I have a proposal here that could change the entire course of this war. Whether you choose to act on it is up to you.
Step one: launch strategic warheads, identify which hive ruin lights up a void shield in response, and pinpoint the location of Blackiron and Three-Arm.
Step two: launch a full counteroffensive across every Astra Militarum defensive line, to draw the Orks' attention away.
Step three: deploy a strike force straight into the location where Blackiron and Three-Arm are building their walkers, and destroy both machines on-site."
With that, Kian sat back and waited for the room's reaction.
The Governor sat in silence for a long moment, then looked up at Captain Doron.
"Lord Angel, what is your opinion of this plan?"
Doron drew a deep breath and said:
"This war has gone on too long. Far too long.
The Ork infestation has become a plague. Without support on the scale of my own Chapter, a full company of a thousand Astartes, retaking this planet will be next to impossible.
Unfortunately, my Chapter has more pressing matters demanding its attention, and there are no other Astartes Chapters remaining anywhere in this sector.
Without significant reinforcement, there is only one path left: a desperate gamble.
Either strike the enemy hard enough in one blow to break them outright, or bleed out slowly, cut by cut, until nothing remains."
In truth, Doron was genuinely in favor of Kian's plan. Precision strikes against enemy leadership were exactly the kind of operation the Astartes excelled at and preferred above all else.
Last time, when Sergeant Nor'n's squad had been pinned down at the Deathmine, Doron himself had gone in specifically intending to kill Blackiron during the rescue, only to end up pinned down himself.
Now Kian was proposing another strike against enemy leadership, and Doron found himself fully in favor of it.
He added one more thing:
"Count Voss is a friend of my Chapter. I trust him. My battle-brothers and I owe him our lives.
That greenskin monster, Blackiron, my brothers and I found ourselves utterly unable to deal with him.
But Count Voss took him apart. Reduced him to a stump."
That settled his position clearly enough: he backed Kian's plan. Kian nodded to him in acknowledgment.
Seeing an Astartes throw his full support behind the plan, the Governor still hesitated.
It came down to the difference between dying now and dying later. Go all in, and if it failed, death would come immediately, a total collapse of the line.
Don't go all in, and death would still come, just slowly, buying maybe three, five more years.
The Governor sat in thought, and no one dared interrupt him. After a long while, he looked at Kian and asked:
"Count Voss, you are not from this planet. You serve an Inquisitor. His flagship sits in orbit above us right now. If this planet falls, you could simply board his ship and leave.
So why does this matter to you so much? Why are you so invested in the survival of our world?"
Kian knew that answering this question poorly could easily raise suspicion about his motives, so he opted for the plain truth:
"For my own benefit, obviously."
He then told them about the heavy tithe burden crushing his home world, the agri-world he was originally from, and how he was currently working to pay down that debt across multiple fronts.
"For this operation, I'm willing to serve as the main strike force!
I'll commit two Knights and four squire-suits, to guarantee we destroy both of the Orks' totem walkers.
Of course, I'm not risking my neck for nothing. In exchange, once this is over, I'd like your help covering my home world's tithe debt for the next twenty years.
Twenty years of an agri-world's tithe is barely a drop in the bucket for a forge world like yours.
And I'd also like your help setting up a lasrifle production line on my home world, so it can start producing weapons of its own to pay down its debt going forward."
Kian laid out his motive plainly, and the room's tension visibly eased.
In this universe, nobody trusted anyone who offered help for free. Kian's overzealous eagerness earlier had actually started to raise suspicion.
But now that he'd revealed the real reason, settling his own debt, it all made perfect sense.
The Governor then had Kian step out to wait while he conferred privately with his Marshals, deciding between the all-in gamble or slow, grinding death.
Captain Doron urged them to reach a decision quickly. If they approved Kian's plan, he intended to gather all fifty Astartes currently active on the planet into a single strike force, to guarantee this mission's success.
Kian returned to his own preparations in the meantime. His two chief maintenance techs had already finished building the Knight fortresses.
The fortresses were, essentially, small medieval keeps, but rather than being welded together as single units, they were riveted, built from armour plates that could each be disassembled for transport.
At their core, the fortresses were just a shell of armour plate, life-support systems, and fixed weapon emplacements.
All of it was broken down and loaded onto Devourer shuttles, ferried up to Inquisitor Trasolh's flagship, then reassembled and mounted to the ship's underside, hanging like a pair of small lanterns.
When deployed, both "lanterns" would simply be dropped straight down toward the surface in freefall.
Just before impact, retro-rockets would ignite to counter gravity, allowing the Knight fortress to touch down safely on the battlefield.
From there, the drawbridge gate would open, and the Knight, squire-suits, and full complement of troops inside would surge out and secure the battlefield.
Right as his preparations wrapped up, word came through: the Governor had approved the plan. They were going all in.
After twenty-plus years of war, this generation of leadership simply had no fight left in them for a slow, grinding death.
If this operation failed, they would fire every remaining nuclear weapon on the planet, scouring the surface clean, blanketing the entire world in radioactive dust thick enough to block out the sun, denying the greenskins photosynthesis and killing off the surface and the Orks together.
As for the remaining human population, they'd all be relocated underground into the hive cities, permanently, becoming cave dwellers for good.
The news reached Kian courtesy of Lieutenant Colonel Noa. Yes, Major Noa had received a promotion, now Lieutenant Colonel Noa, assigned as Kian's dedicated liaison officer.
His job now was to remain constantly at Kian's side, relaying updates directly from the Governor.
Aboard Inquisitor Trasolh's flagship, on the command bridge, Lieutenant Colonel Noa gestured at the holographic display, briefing the room.
The hologram showed a map of the forge world, five points marked across it.
"My lords, please observe. These five points mark hive cities on our planet already destroyed by the Orks. They sit 50, 100, 150, 800, and 1,200 kilometers from our front line, respectively.
In three minutes, the Governor will launch nuclear warheads targeting all five ruins simultaneously, to determine which one lights up a void shield in response."
Inquisitor Trasolh sat in an iron chair, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest.
"So, logically, the closer the Orks' walker-building site is to our line, the less our strike force will have to pay to reach it.
By the Emperor's grace, I do hope this xenos, this 'Three-Arm,' has his wretched workshop sitting in the ruin fifty kilometers from our line."
As Trasolh spoke, the three minutes ticked away, and the nuclear missiles launched.
Deep within the Governor's core hive, five massive launch silos opened, and five enormous nuclear missiles roared skyward.
Each missile stretched over thirty meters long, carrying a single strategic warhead, yielding the equivalent of fifty megatons of TNT, roughly Tsar Bomba scale.
Kian made his way to a viewport, looking down at the planet below.
It was a world dominated by yellow and rust-red, entirely desertified, not a single ocean visible anywhere.
He watched, quietly, and waited, until a mushroom cloud finally bloomed up from the surface.
The fireball alone from a warhead of that yield spanned over ten kilometers across, and the resulting mushroom cloud's ash plume stretched past fifty kilometers wide, its column climbing over eighty kilometers into the sky.
The shockwave from the blast tore straight through the planet's already-thin atmosphere, shredding it further.
Kian couldn't hear anything, of course, out here in the vacuum of space, but watching that surreal mushroom cloud bloom below, it felt like the entire planet had just taken a devastating gut punch, the whole world seeming to shudder from the impact.
Moments later, a second fireball rose, then a third, then a fourth, all four remaining missiles striking their targets and detonating with equally devastating force.
Kian tried to spot where the last, fifth missile had landed, but he couldn't find it.
Behind him, a bridge officer manning the sensor array let out a sudden gasp of alarm:
"Void shield signature detected! It absorbed over half the blast energy from the strike!
It's the ruin fifty kilometers out! It's right on our doorstep!!"
The room erupted with delight. None of them had expected the target to be this close. Fifty kilometers was practically within range of some of their own heavy artillery.
For a strike force, closing that distance would take barely more than a hard press of the throttle.
Trasolh's face broke into a smile.
"It seems my prayer was answered. Praise the Emperor, only fifty kilometers. Our forces can reach it with ease."
Kian found himself genuinely curious too, why had Three-Arm set up his war-forge so close to the human front line? Wasn't he worried about getting overrun?
But thinking it over for a moment, it made perfect sense. Building a Gorkamorka Walker required an enormous quantity of high-quality parts.
And the Orks' only real sources for good parts were scavenging and, more significantly, capturing supplies straight from the humans.
Set the war-forge too far from the front, and that supply pipeline would slow to a crawl. Which was exactly why Three-Arm had planted his workshop in the closest possible ruin to the human line.
"My lord, I've just received word from the Governor. The full counteroffensive has begun!
The Governor has assembled six thousand aircraft and twenty-five thousand tanks and armoured vehicles, the largest strike force this planet has ever fielded, and they are advancing on the ruin where Three-Arm's workshop sits!
This is our forge world's most powerful offensive, and it may well be our last!
Victory, or death, with no middle ground!!"
The female officer's expression was one of pure, unwavering resolve. Forge World Primo-496a was her home. For it, she was ready to die.
Kian clapped her on the shoulder and said:
"Lieutenant Colonel Noa. Take up your weapon, put on your armour, and ride with me!"
Kian made his way to the cargo bay where the flagship's heavy equipment was kept, home to the two towering Knights.
Tech-priests in red robes knelt on either side of the Knights, holding sacred candles and incense burners, murmuring litanies without pause, the occasional chime of a small brass bell ringing out.
Kian walked toward the Preceptor, surrounded by a cluster of red-robed attendants.
As he walked, his current clothing was stripped away and replaced with standard-issue power armour.
The armour was covered top to bottom with purity seals, and several tech-priests splashed holy oil across it and swung incense burners around him as he passed.
As Kian reached the entry hatch of the cockpit, the chief maintenance tech stepped forward, holding out his power sword in both hands.
"My lord. By the Omnissiah's grace, may fortune favor your battle."
Kian took the greatsword, nodded to him, and leapt into the cockpit.
On the other side of the bay, at the Lancer, the chief maintenance tech carefully carried the flute, mounting it into a small shrine-like device built for exactly this purpose.
That device was ringed with candles and thick incense, its interior burning with genuine sanctified oil drawn straight from the Emperor's Shrine, oil capable of nourishing a soul.
The tech-priests then carried the entire shrine to the Lancer's cockpit, lowered it inside, and connected it to the mechanical throne through a neural interface.
Once the cockpit hatch sealed shut, a clockwork-like mechanism inside the shrine began to turn, feeding a stream of air through brass tubing and into the flute.
As the melody played, the Lancer's dim mechanical eyes flared back to red.
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