Moments later, aboard the Conqueror, slaves of the Forsworn warband prepared the dreaded talon-shaped drop pods, forcing mortal soldiers loyal to the warband to complete their gear checks and file into the waiting pods.
Sarloc, the Master of Decapitation, advanced through the corridors flanked by fifty berserkers from his warband. Nearby mortal slaves scattered at the heavy thud of their footsteps, while the unlucky or the slow were seized, their throats slashed across weapon edges, bloodied to sharpen their bladed fury.
With each bloodletting, the Butcher's Nails abated their agony slightly, allowing Sarloc to press onward toward the section housing the drop pods.
"Sarloc." A familiar voice echoed in his earpiece. He exhaled, irritated, yet he quelled his rage, recognizing the voice of Sorax, leader of the Forsworn.
"Distribute your forces evenly across the pods," Sorax commanded through the communicator. "Do not cluster—your landing points will vary. Remember, your mission is to execute the decapitation tactic; do not waste your fury on vermin."
A guttural, rumbling breath was all that came in reply, loud enough that Sorax heard it clearly. But he knew Sarloc would obey, no matter how impatiently he bristled. As the battle loomed, the Butcher's Nails tormented him, goading him to slaughter and lessen the searing pain.
"I orchestrated this entire campaign, and Huron's odd demands were a small price—not just to seize the Forge World, but to unite the warbands of the old World Eaters Legion."
Sarloc listened on as Sorax laid out his grander plans. Ever the advisor, he found it curious that the Nails seemed to have less sway over Sorax, who remained calculated even amidst this bloodthirsty company. Outsiders speculated that Sorax was a strategist among madmen, a calm predator amid frenzied beasts.
"Press forward, brother," Sorax finished, ending the transmission.
Sarloc entered the nearest drop pod, as did the other Chaos Space Marines into their pods. The doors sealed with a steely finality.
He breathed deeply, his heavy breaths echoing as a guttural hum within the chamber. After a tense pause, a strange voice rang out from within the pod, eerie and unsettling.
"This is a joint assault. Shall we not coordinate with the other warbands to synchronize the drop?"
The drop pod's machine-spirit was singularly peculiar, especially the one Sarloc often rode.
"No! We descend first—now, launch!" he roared.
With that, the pod launched forth, plunging toward the Forge World's southern reaches. The drop pods streaked toward the surface, their varied colors forming a fiery descent in unison, diverging only as they neared their target.
…
On the ground.
Beta Fortress.
Vik had returned to his comrade's side within the fortress, standing atop a high tower bristling with anti-air weaponry. He refrained from commanding the bustling soldiers of the Adeptus Ministorum below, instead watching the heavens intently.
It was night, with bolts of lancefire periodically streaking earthward. Vik saw that the vast fortress, a prime target, was being bombarded by orbiting warships, but its void shields deflected the energy attacks into the Warp, rendering the bombardment ineffective—for now.
As the soldiers below felt reassured by their void shield protection, a wave of dread swept over them. Meteors descended en masse, painting the night sky a menacing red.
Witnessing this, Vik knew these were drop pods. Driven by the Mechanicus's meticulous curiosity, he calculated their types based on known drop pod specifications.
Sewin, however, wasn't so idle. He swiftly issued orders to troops stationed at key factories and energy sites, directing the senior Guard commanders to prepare for an imminent landing.
Drop pods are a loathsome threat for those who lack orbital dominance. Swarming with elite warriors, they can bypass conventional defenses and fortifications, descending swiftly onto the planet's surface. No matter how fortified or concealed a high-ranking official might be, a drop pod will land nearby, unleashing chaos upon arrival.
"01011010," Sewin muttered, eyes turned skyward. His cranial implants calculated the pods' approach, and he relayed the firing commands to the anti-air batteries.
The guns roared, weaving a dense web of anti-air firepower. Even Sewin's reserve Onager Dunecrawlers joined the assault, firing skyward.
In Vik's estimation, the dense firepower seemed impenetrable; yet he understood probability well. Since losing orbital control, he had known that an enemy drop assault was more than probable—it was inevitable.
"What of the Imperial Navy, the Agripinaa Fleet? How did the enemy fleet breach our system's defenses?" Sewin joined him, his voice a cold, mechanized complaint, even as his modified circuitry transmitted further orders.
"You're a Magos. Who are you asking?" Vik responded.
"I'm waiting…" Sewin's words trailed off before shifting. "A transmission just came through—the Agripinaa fleet is engaged in a neighboring system, stalled by pirates."
Receiving this grim update, Vik fell silent, casting his gaze to the courtyard below.
Evidently, Sewin had calculated the pods' projected landing sites, for Ministorum soldiers swarmed from the fortress. Skitarii Rangers and Vanguard took cover behind fortifications, readying an array of weapons, while Kastelan Robots, Sicarian Infiltrators, and Techpriests braced for battle.
The fortress wall's heavy artillery rotated toward the empty patch of ground, a no-man's-land roughly 200 meters in radius, prepared to engage as soon as the pods landed.
In the seamless efficiency of the Ministorum, these preparations went forth in silence. Every order issued by Magos Sewin was executed with clockwork precision.