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The Assault The bombardment had begun before dawn, several months before, in fact. Bolts of fire from high above rained down on the polar continent, shrouded in seasonal night. There had been no icecap for thousands of years, all there was waiting for the descending inferno was dry, barren tundra. The perpetual twilight was lit up raggedly by the explosions as the projectiles and lances hit their mark, though nobody was left alive on the surface to see them. Debris was hurled miles into the sky or vaporised instantly in the blinding nuclear apocalypse. More ordinance pounded down, scouring the earth, blasting craters out of craters, gouging a gaping hole that rapidly became visible t,o the auspex scanners, and even from the viewing gantries of the orbiting ships. The bombardment ended after several earth grinding hours. It had left behind a landscape broken. Vast canyons gaped where the force of the ordinance had cracked the very crust of the planet, valleys so wide and deep, entire mountain ranges existed within their ragged rims. Areas of land burned to glass by the ferocious heat, elsewhere rocks flash-melted ran in dull red, smoking rivulets, the very air around so super-heated that the lava barely cooled on contact with it. All this was hidden behind a dust cloud so vast it had already begun forming its own violent weather pattern. At its edges, where it met the already dust filled and battle beaten air from what had once been the temperate mid-latitudes, lightening storms were already building, their discharges visible above the clouds as they earthed around the planet’s unusually strong magnetosphere. The scanners of the Ultramarines Strike Cruiser Ardent Justice had also detected that, but paid it little more attention than to relay the information to the gunners so they might calibrate their weapons to compensate. Even now, as their dropships prepared to take off and descend into the tempest below they were far too occupied by the faint signatures now readable that the kilometres of rock above them had been so efficiently removed. It was certainly a cluster of buildings, hidden impossibly far down below the surface, practically floating on the liquid outer core of the planet. The head rising from it was clearly not entirely the result of the prolonged bombardment. Vents had been riven in underground chambers and gasses burned as they escaped. In the mechanical eyes of the scanning displays, it looked like the very heart of hell. Never the less the lives of the scout force had dearly bought the report that the lair of the monster they sought was there. That creature was why the world had been laid waste, why the once proud and mighty forge world now burned beneath a desolate sky. Because at its heart there had been a daemon. How long it and its traitorous followers had hidden there, been sheltered there by the gullible techpriests and forgemasters Emperor only knew, but at least now justice had been done. Or was about to be done. It was several more hours before the area read as habitable, even for the enhanced bodies of the Astartes and their power armour. As soon as the signal was given though, the drop pods and ships swarmed from the flanks of the strike cruiser and its sister ship, the Swift Mercy. Between them they launched two companies of Ultramarines in a rush into the crucible below. The turbulence was intense, maintaining formation was impossible, navigation was done on auspex alone. Never the less there were relatively few mishaps as the landing zones were secured and the armoured warriors saw, dim and still half buried in semi-molten rock, the edifice they had unearthed. It was clearly merely the uppermost levels of a vast complex of truly ancient providence. The fact that it had survived in such depths was proof enough of that, the bombardment that had finally revealed it to the air had hardly marked the smooth black surface was almost insignificant by comparison with the titanic forces of this tartarian delving. As the Marines filed out, taking up firing positions or launching signal beacons to guide the larger craft into landing, the heat was intense, taxing their armour and endurance. None among them dared remove their helmets, their internal readouts telling them that even with their enhanced bodies, it was only the filters in their helmets that kept them from slowly choking on the dust and radioactive debris in the air. Around them lava flowed, showing no sign of cooling and the squads were forced to march single file between rivers of bright, smoking red. The soot stained their blue armour and the heat made the cooling vents on their power packs whine in protest, but still they pressed on, clearing a way for the dreadnoughts and tanks that rumbled or stamped after them on the uneven, vaguely plastic rock. Within that structure, which was indeed older than the Imperium the foolish Space Marines now reaching its outer skin, Foronax was waiting. He had easily guessed what the response would be when the fragmentary reports had been received by the so very predictable Ultramarines. They had scanned and scoured, their thunderhawks and stormbirds flying the same old search patterns over the polar continent. He knew what they would conclude, he knew that the structure could easily withstand the bombardment. He was less certain about the outcome of this assault. He had hoped that the short-sighted loyalists would burn the cities and hives on the surface, declare their mission accomplished and move on to their next self-righteous action. But no, his lair had been discovered and now they were coming for him, coming for his creations. Those creations were now arrayed to defend the structure, the fortress, waiting in ambush for their enemies to enter it, to become embroiled in a bitter struggle over corridors, rooms and stairwells. Waiting for them to over extend themselves, waiting for an opportunity to emerge from vents and ducts, from hidden panels and false floorboards. Foronax meticulously planned all of this before the first shots fell from orbit. Now everything was in place, all they needed now was for the Ultramarines to walk into it. And yet, for all his confidence in his creations and in his planning, Foronax was not certain of victory. He was out gunned and out numbered, and worse still he had nowhere to run. He had built too much in this structure he had found and re-purposed long before the Mechanicum had come to colonise the planet above. He would stand or die here, on the strength of his many creations. This was his Iron Cage. --- Many squads fanned out in all directions from the scant half-dozen of weak points identified and exploited in the thickly armoured and shielded shell. Scouts and battle-line squads advanced in tandem, covering one another as they passed junctions and stairways, new squads coming up from behind to take the newly found forks. Behind them hulking terminators formed the main edge of the force, ready to move up to support their brothers when they accounted the enemy. Behind them came Devastator squads, their plasma, las and melta-cannons still hot and steaming after being employed to blast open a door by united and combined fire with the company’s dreadnoughts and tanks, those of whom that could fit, followed last, squeezing through the breaches and sticking to the primary corridors and main stairwells. It was all too quiet, and uneasy reports passed between the sergeant and their captains. Ambush became more and more certain in the snaking, interconnected corridors, but still they assault must be made, now or later. So they pressed their soldiers on, warning them to stay alert, to watch every shadow, report any movement. When that movement came, it was from a direction nobody had expected. The few units now left outside the structure, mostly the larger tanks and some squads to hold the breach, suddenly reported movement; from above. From the smoke and dust filled sky above, skittering and sliding down the curved and bastioned surface came a wave of horrific flesh-machines. Things once human landed on the backs of deadnaughts, their mechanical feed ending in piercing pincers that bit through the heavy armour and held them fast. Their hands and moutsh were iron jaws belching orange fire and they pointed all three downwards, melting through the carapace and cremating the living body entombed within in a hiss of vaporising amniotic fluids. Larger beasts landed on the tanks, many spidery limbs ending in vicious hooks and sizzling arc lamps. With the hooks they pried open rivets and tore off tracks, with the arc lamps they burned out weapon systems and communications arrays. Some hulking things, horribly muscled, simply battered down on the roofs of thanks with fists made of solid, spiked metal until the plates below caved in. Other things fell among the squads; lithe leaping things with whirring chainswords for arms and mouths that fired grappling hooks were suddenly all around the marines, butchering and battering indiscriminately. Eyes replaced with arcane runes or auspex arrays searched madly for new foes, mouths replaced with weapons or lout hailers spat bullets or bestial growls at the Ultramarines as they rallied around those few tanks from which the attacking things had been blasted by concentrated fire. Frantic calls for aid from their brothers within went unanswered, their signals jammed by some new force their enemy had not revealed before. For all their ferocity, or all their horrible weapons, the creatures were not well armoured, save for the largest ones, and they fell rapidly under the fire now responding to their sudden offensive. Likewise, in the whirling melee the advantage of surprise had begun to pass, and the exposed flesh and mechanisms of the creatures made easy targets for chainsword and combat knife, for all the terrible toll their integrated weapons exacted before they finally succumbed to their wounds. Of far more worry were those fiendish pouncing things with metlaguns for mouths and hands that scorched their way through tank after tank as soon as they had them in range. The demands for support were repeated and at last a response got through. But the answer was dire; no help would come. Hidden explosives had collapsed specific tunnels, cutting all but two of the attackers lines of retreat. Worse still the explosions had also signalled the counter attack. The entire force had suddenly found itself engaged. At the forefront, the scouts were set upon by semi-formed machines; servo-skulls with limbs still attached swung from the shadows to claw and bite. Other flesh-monsters also bounded out of the darkness, falling with abandon on the marines supporting from them. Many legged, insectoid things eased their way out of hidden compartments and unleashed flamers and spearing pincers on the backs of the beleaguered marines. Only the Terminators fared well; setting upon the ambushes in their path with cold fury, blasting or pulverising the creatures that tried to skewer and rend their nearly impenetrable armour. Only when the melta-mouths came among them too did things become more evenly matched, though at best each abomination could only take one of the mighty attackers with them before they died. Foronax did not think it would be enough. And sure enough before long the first wave had been beaten, not beaten back, the things knew no fear, just beaten. Advancing again over their broken bodies, and lamenting those of their many fallen brothers, the Ultramarines were on the move again. They were led now by the Terminators, and at their heart their Commander Polos Sebastan, resplendent in golden armour much decorated by honours and purity seals. The way behind them was now taken and held room by room by the rest of the infantry; every room was cleared, every surface scanned for hidden surprises. None were found. They really were so very predictable. Outside the battle had also subsided, those few units able to exit the structure had arrived and though they had taken a terrible toll on the tanks and dreadnoughts, all the abominations were at last dead. Communications were still patchy, but fearing renewed assault on their only fall-back position, the units did not venture back inside after their brothers who now advanced further into the unknown and ancient structure that was Foronax lair. --- When the second wave made its presence known the terminators were ready. Their storm of bolter fire withered the first ranks of charging creatures before a single blow landed. This time the advance was without pause, for all the ferocity the things still showed. They were simple creatures, once the mind had gotten over just how vile they were, and they died easy to bolt and sword. Commander Sebastan and his lieutenants shouted encouragement as the Terminators continued on, marching through corridor after corridor, down stairwell after stairwell. Their had been elevators, but nobody thought climbing in would be a wise move, so they were ignored. After the last stragglers of the second wave had been blasted out of the way by the Terminators there was again silence aside from pounding feet. More of their number had fallen, and Sebastan himself had taken several glancing hits, his armour visibly scuffed by battle now. They had descended many levels when the noise began. It was ahead, and below, and it seemed still far off. It seemed like a dull roar, or possibly many hundred dull roars all merging to one rumbing chorus that rattled the roots of this blasted planet. Another level down and the roaring was clearly audible, even without the enhancements of their suits. Another level down, and the roaring was accompanied by rhythmic clanking, the pounding of industry? Or the pounding of metal feet? When the first beast came into view the Ultramarines had advanced down through no less than fifteen subterranean levels within the structure, and now at last they seemed to be nearing the heart of it. The heat had increased yet further, and the lightly armoured scout squads had been forced to hold position, unable to venture further though it stung their Space Marine pride. Those brothers to led the force, the Commander and his veteran terminators had descended yet another staircase down yet another spiralling shaft and emerged onto a corridor many time wider and higher than those above. The commander fancied they had entered in the bowels of the structure and were only now coming to the parts intended for habitation. There was no furniture, no decoration of any kind, just bare metal walls and floor that resounded with their pounding feet and echoed with the sounds of the roars and metal feet, getting ever closer. The first thing was four legged, built like the wolves the commander had seen used by the sons of Fenris, but while they were as awe inspiring, these were far more hideous to look at. Metal jaws dripped thick oil, iron backs were layered with plates of ceramite armour, powerful legs were moved by hydraulic pistons that protruded from their joints. Red eyes burned visibly, and when it opened its mouth to roar, more fire poured from between its jagged teeth. It charged. It charged into the sudden welter of bolter fire. It died, screaming and roaring, the metal of its body twisting and buckling under the impacts. But more were already rounding the corner, predatory eyes falling on the intruders. More came, and more. Tens, then dozens of them, some larger, some much larger, advanced down the wide corridor to meet the advancing marines. Though many in the first waves fell never knowing the taste of flesh, so many more did, and fell upon the attackers as ferociously as had their humanoid kin on the levels above. In pairs the wolf-things bore down terminators, ripping arms and legs out of position. Large ponderous things with fists bigger than a space marine battered and pounded whole squads of battle-brothers even as they ran to support the embattled terminators. It was not until a fresh wave of heavy, sustained fire spat from the rear, shredding two of the hulking monstrosities and raking the advancing ranks of other creatures that the battle began to turn again. Three dreadnoughts, their autocannons chattering came up to support, and behind them squads of devastators hurried forwards also added their retorts. The brilliant muzzle flashes of their guns sent death screaming into the creatures slaying them by the score. More came to replace them, more came from other directions. More came from every direction. Scuttling things dropped from the roof, melta-mouthed things ran forwards from darkened corners, more hulking armoured beasts appeared behind their smaller kindred, twisted mockeries of Astartes dreadnoughts, flesh and metal combined to form a deranged killing machine almost without parallel. The Ultramarines dreadnoughts charged them, flattening or scattering the things between them. The armoured machined duelled together as all around anarchy reigned. In the centre of it all Sebastan fought. His storm bolter forgotten and discarded, we wielded a thunder hammer in each hand, whirling and spinning with his momentum, each swing pulverising several of the creatures or cracking the legs, backs or skulls of the larger creatures. He weaved and dodged, battering down all that came at him, until he saw something, something new. Behind the last wave of metal beasts pouring into the ferocious close-quarters battle new enemies had at last shown themselves. Heretic astartes fitted with mechanical servo-harneses stalked into view, their bolters sighting and firing on exposed flanks and unwary backs. Sebastan swore an oath of revenge on them for their many blasphemies, not least of which being merely existing, and charged, shattering the spine of a wolf-creature with one of his hammers as he strode past. The heretics before him did not rush to meet him, they continued to survey the carnage before them like detached researchers. Instead they silently parted to allow a thing that had been hidden in the smoke filled shadows behind them to make itself known. Sebastan’s charge dwindled to a halt when the Daemon came into view. Foronax had at last committed all of his forces to the defence, around him his Warpsmiths directed the fire of their havocs as more and more of his beautiful creations were massacred. And here before him was the man, the fool, the dog, responsible. Foronax roared, his vast bulk dwarfing even the largest of his many beasts, and bounded forward to meet Sebastan’s renewed charge. Hammer met axe in a ringing clash. Metal tendrils swarmed Sebastan’s other hammer, trying to wrench it from his grasp, he let them, taking his remaining weapon with both hands he powered it forwards matching the daemonic strength of his enemy with righteous zeal. A tendril lashed out at him, he caught it with a gauntleted hand and twisted. The barbed blade in broke off in his servo-assisted grip and he tossed it aside as more of them advanced on him. He stepped back, bringing his hammer to bare, its discharge scattered the swooping things, some of them seemingly damaged by the energy of its passing, fell limply to the ground. But Foronax was on him again, axe swining around to scythe through his arm. Sebastan managed to block it, but the force of the blow was so fierce that he took an involuntary step back under the barrage. Before him he could see the grinning maw of the daemon, slick with oils, and the fire rose up in him. Shifting his hold on his weapon he deflected the force still being piled on him by the daemon, and, stepping forwards again he brought the energized head down onto the creatures over extended leg. He heard armour buckle and whatever passed for bone inside that cursed body crack. Foronax roared louder, his mangled leg unable to support his massive weight. Tendrils speared into the metal floor, digging in with their barbs and holding him up, but the blow had staggered him and Sebastan was already capitalising on the opening. Repeated blows of the hammer slipped by the guard of the axe and landed on the bespoke plates of Foronax’s armour. He sank to one knee as a blow split one of his enormous shoulder guards. Sebastan raised the hammer high, ready to crush the daemonic head and end this at last, but stopped at the last moment. Stopped because a ringing silence had descended on the scene, stopped because he saw that all around his brothers were dead and the Warpsmiths of Foronax were surrounding him. He looked back at his foe, still broken, still inches away from death, and faced the priming muzzle of a meltagun, mounted along with the tentacles to Foronax’s back. The last thing the Commander heard before the weapon discharged and melted a burning hole through his helmet and out the back of his armour, was the crackling vox-link. A panic-stricken fleet officer was telling him enemy reinforcements were emerging from the warp; black heretic Astartes ships that were rapidly reducing the Ultramarines fleet to orbiting scrap. Glorious victory had become ignoble defeat.

The Survivor Conciousness rose up slowly though a sea of pain. There was movement, and with each wrenching twist, conciousness jolted up slightly higher. When it broke the surface and the waking world returned with grim completeness to Soren, third Brother of Squad Arcturus, Fifth Company, Ultramarines Chapter, it was propelled by the scraping peel of his helmet being dragged from his head, ripping away the skin and tissues seared to its inner surface. His breath came in a long agonised gurgle, bringing up mouthfuls of dark blood which leaked from his twitching lips. Soren opened his eyes. Above him, leaning over him like a carrion crow picking through a carcass for the choicest morsels, he saw dimly the outline of an armoured figure. Its hulking form was silhouetted by the deep orange light from somewhere behind and below. From the horned shape of its head their pierced forth a cluster of bright red eye-lenses. Soren tried to struggle, but his armour was a dead weight that pressed down on his wounded body, making him feel hatefully helpless. Each flexing of his superhuman muscles sent fresh paroxysms of pain lancing through his body as mechanical systems designed to numb him and flood him with stimulants sat inert and powerless. Through the intense agonies Soren willed his body to respond, willed his armour to move as it ought to. His spasming movement at last attracted the attention of the thing leaning over him. Its many eyes shifted from the charred helmet still leaking blood held aloft in its gauntleted hand down to the face of the dying Space Marine. “It lives.” it cried with equal derision and glee, it’s voice a dull electrical growl, “Your armour is old. Uninteresting.” it tossed his helmet away. Soren heard the clatter of it with a shudder. “It amazes me you and your foolish bretheren got this far. I assume it was luck.” Memories wormed their way into Soren’s consciousness; images of his squad advancing through these hell-spawned tunnels of grinding gears and hissing pistons; of he and his brothers fighting the flesh-machines set upon them by the imperious commands of the heretic astartes; of the whirling melee of lashing blades and barbed talons the things had unleashed when at last they broke through the wall of bolter fire, clambering like animals over their fallen fellows; of seeing sergeant Rodgar borne down by five of the scuttling monstrosities, his armour rent open in a dozen places; of the thing that leaped on his back and with a roar from its gaping maw doused his head in burning red warpfire; of the blaring warning symbols of his armour; and of the pain that had eventually buried his concious mind and granted merciful oblivion. “You fought with predictable tactics. However, our observations of your actions will be collated and incorporated into the design of the next generation of our creations. Thank you, Brother.” The word, the insult, the twist of the knife in the wound which had festered for ten thousand years, awoke the fire in Soren. The memory of his brothers dying around him seared itself into his soul and quickened his broken body. Coughing and in defiance of the renewed pain Soren flailed at the creature above him. It retreated easily though, and his arm caught only empty air and as Soren struggled to overcome the weight of his armour and drag his limbs into action, the creature just laughed. The laughter ended suddenly however. And then a heavy boot ended Soren’s continued struggles. The creature straightened up, ramming a metal clad foot into Soren’s gut as the creature spoke in a clear and reverent voice. “My lord Foranax, welcome. The loyalist assault was turned back with ease. The creations performed as expected. We observed only a ten-percent disobedience rate, falling to zero when the enemy was sighted. Overall combat effectiveness was low; forty-seven percent, rising to fifty when multiple forms were employed simultaneously. We expect to raise that considerably with the data we collected from these fools.” Another blow from the creatures boot reinforced the point, sending fresh clots of blood up into Soren’s throat. He coughed reflexively, then another voice spoke. Deep, rumbling and heavy with menace. It was a voice from another world, a dark and terrible world were metal nightmares grind deafeningly for all eternity. “Do not underestimate them.” The voice wrapped itself around these familiar and mortal syllables like a snake around some helpless mammal. It tripped sinister and eldritch power and Soren found even his laboured breathing stilled by its force. “Not for nothing is it said of our former brothers that they know no fear. Even now this broken body before you would rise up and gut you, if you were only to give it the slightest chance. While they breath, while they live, in even the smallest degree, they are a worthy foe.” Something stabbed into Soren’s leg, driving through a weakened joint at the back of his knee. He felt the solid sharpness, with its barbed edges being forced inch by inch deeper into his flesh. When it pulled those barbs caught on flesh, sinue and bone so that with blinding pain and another dull, blood clotted cry from Soren he was lifted bodily from the greasy, blood spattered ground. Hanging upside down, the mechanical tendril in his leg slicing through more tissue to gain better purchase as it deftly hefted both his own body and the massive suit of armour. Through the haze of pain Soren saw the speaker. It dwarfed the traitor marine which had taunted him. It dwarfed everything in the corridor. Its armour was dull silver, slick with oil and grease, and Soren could not have told, even in ideal circumstances where those burnished plates of warp forged metal ended and the pallid flesh of the daemon began. Worse by far was the swarm of mechanical tentacles protruding from its back. They seemed to move with their own minds, exploring blindly the piles of detritus piled haphazardly around the floor. All except the one which now held Soren at the thing’s eye level. A face blackened by smoke and flames leered back at the helpless space marine. It’s eyes burned with internal flames and two curved horns framed a mouth full of pointed, soot crusted teeth. When it spoke again a lashing tongue was visible between the multiple rows flicking back and forward in echo of the tentacles of living metal which continued their probing of the piles of wreckage and broken bodies. “Welcome, Space Marine, to my Forge.” Foranax, Daemonsmith, Master of Incaria and arch-prophet of the Fleshmetal Cult said with a wicked, mirthless grin, “Your bold attack, though laudable, has barely scratched the surface. I commend you for finding it at all, but that will not turn back the tide I have yet to unleash on you. The pitiful creatures you fought on the surface, even the creations that defeated you are nothing compared to what awaits. Your brothers, who are even now waiting for you to report, to tell them what lies here, under the polar ice, will be slaughtered soon enough. What you have seen, and what you are about to see, will not change that.” As the creature spoke he had walked. Striding on bestial legs on down the corridor, away from the bodies of Soren’s brothers, to whom the Warpsmiths had already returned, and onward towards the deep dull orange light that was the only illumination, besides Foranax’ burning eyes. Now as he stopped and with the tendril which held Soren aloft, he let out another guttural laugh. From where he hung, Soren could dimly see through the gathering internal darkness, the gantry on which the daemon stood, see how it was set high in the bare stone wall of a huge, cavernous hall. It stretched off into the dim smoke-filled darkness beyond sight. The stink of exhaust fumes was overpowering, as was the heat, and the blood which poured freely from Soren’s slowly numbing body and dripped from his upturned form, boiled and spattered when it landed on the gantry’s steaming metal platform. The orange glow was bright now, bright like the heart of a thousand forges. Which was exactly what bayed, barked, snarled and roared in assembled horde below Soren’s dangling body. Scores of metal monstrosities stamped around on hydraulic legs, jaws of warpforged iron snapped hungrily, eyes of searing fire eyed the morsel high above. Daemon engines, in myriad forms and shapes arrayed like war-hounds ready to be unleashed, or pets lovingly watched over by a proud master. “Your god may live in your heart, brother, but our gods walk among us, and their hunger is great.” The creature laughed a final time, raised his mechanical tentacle high out over the gantry’s edge, and almost lazily, tossed the limp, lifeless body of Soren, third Brother of Squad Arcturus, Fifth Company, Ultramarines Chapter, out and down. It fell in a slow arch, but well before it reached the crowded floor one of the monstrous engines had sprung on its powerful hind legs and snatched the armoured figure from the air. Foranax, Daemonsmith, Master of Incaria and arch-prophet of the Fleshmetal Cult grinned to hear the sound of metal on metal as iron teeth ground the plates and rivets of the Space Marine’s armour and another deluded soul was ripped apart and consumed by flaming mouths.