Chapter 8: The Lacedaemonians
Five months later.
Outside the high walls of the City-State of Lacedaemon, Sachs stared at the fortifications, his brow furrowed. He was wearing a suit of Enforcer-issue carapace armor that didn't fit, the pauldrons chafing his shoulders. But he was more worried about the battle.
If they didn't take this city soon, he and all his men were dead.
Five months ago, when he had first arrived at the primitive barracks where his "supplies" were stored, he had met his new command staff. After one conversation, Sachs realized they were even less reliable than he was.
He was, at least, a proper battalion commander from the Astra Militarum. His new "officers" were a mix of backwater PDF company captains, a hive-city Enforcer patrolman, an academy-dropout, and... a PDF cook.
Faced with this collection of tactical geniuses, Sachs could only grit his teeth and convene a strategy meeting.
Like a scribe teaching recruits their letters, Sachs tried to drill the plan into their heads. He propped one boot on a crate of frag grenades, using an antenna ripped from the comms-station as a pointer.
"The Lord of the Forged wants this continent subdued in six months. What is the key problem?"
He tapped the wall. "The key problem is that we have no armor. The one Aquila Lander we have belongs to The Ironclad. The Astartes ordered them to provide air support, but you all know what that means. The Navy? To hell with them! They'll just fly around, send us useless topographical maps, and maybe fire their autocannons once or twice as a token gesture."
"We have thirty-thousand troops, but we didn't train them. If we take heavy casualties, they could mutiny... so... we will move fast... punch through... conserve ammunition... seize their armories..."
After a grueling ten-hour meeting, they had a basic plan.
They would crash-train the citizen-militia for half a month. Then, he and his "officers" would split into five battlegroups, striking at the major city-states. Once the big cities fell, the smaller vassals would know which way the wind was blowing.
The plan had been to use their overwhelming firepower—guns—to shock the first few cities into submission, spreading the word that they were the "Steel Angels' " own army. They had even hoped some cities would surrender without a fight. Along the way, they would conscript local troops. Finally, the five armies would converge on the eastern coastal plain to take the final objective: Lacedaemon.
Now, Sachs knew he'd made a fatal error: he'd saved the hardest target for last.
The locals had told him the Lacedaemonians were a "warrior people," "messengers of the war-god Ares." He had scoffed. Savages with wooden spears. They didn't even know what a gun was. A single volley would break them.
By the time his five armies finally reached Lacedaemon, their weapons and ammunition were almost completely spent. The good news was, his army had swelled to nearly 200,000 men. They had the last city completely surrounded.
So what do you do when you run out of bullets? You fall back on the old ways. And what are the old ways? You build wooden siege towers and catapults, you hand the men ladders, and you tell them to charge.
And the seven or eight thousand citizen-warriors and twenty thousand slave-soldiers inside the walls had, somehow, beaten his 200,000-man army back.
During the siege, Sachs had even lured one of their kings to the wall for "negotiations," then had his sniper take the king's head off with a long-las.
After the assassination, the city's resistance had become fiercer. They had sallied out, met his army in the open field, and broken his siege lines. The locals said it was because of their "dual-king" system. Losing one king didn't matter.
Staring at the map, Sachs had no idea how his war, which had started with lasguns, had degenerated into throwing rocks and javelins. The worst part was that he was losing to a bunch of spearmen.
But the most important problem was time. The Lord of the Forged's deadline was almost up. If he didn't take this city, in five days, the Astartes would personally rip his head from his shoulders and kick it across the field. He'd heard the Iron Warriors would decimate their own troops for failure. If he failed... Emperor preserve him.
His adjutant cursed beside him. "Damn it all, why are they making us fight this war?"
Sachs was still wondering the same thing. Why had the Lord of the Forged made them conquer this world, when there was an easier way? One or two Astartes, leading the few hundred armsmen from the ship, could have scoured this entire continent clean in a week.
Meanwhile, high above in the planet's stratosphere, a Storm Eagle gunship hung in the void. Inside, Petros, Antonius, and Vornab stared at the pict-feed from the ground.
Vornab spoke first. "That's the last city-state. We can confirm they have no Dark Age technology."
Petros stared at the screen, a flicker of appreciation in his voice. "Good. Even at a total disadvantage, these... Lacedaemonians... they still show bravery. They've even won local engagements."
Antonius snorted in contempt. "Captain, they are primitives. A single brother, bare-fisted, could slaughter their entire army. Since they have no tech-artifacts, I recommend we make an example of this last city. A full purge. Show the others the price of resistance."
Petros shook his head slightly. "Antonius, look at their spears. Their greatshields. They form a shield wall—primitive, yes, but their discipline is excellent. Their Helot slaves are breaking, but not one of their citizen-warriors in heavy armor has fled. No... I think we will keep them."
Vornab picked up the thread. "My Lord, I have studied the local data. They do not worship the False Emperor. They follow their own. An old, local pantheon."
"Any sign of Chaos?" Petros asked.
"None detected, my Lord. But they are not... popular... with the other city-states. 'Lacedaemon' in the local tongue means 'the fertile plain.' They hold the best land, and their pagan faith makes them outcasts."
Petros nodded, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. "No Chaos, then they can be preserved. Bravery earns... privileges. Their warrior culture will make them an excellent source of recruits."
He glanced at his old friend, Antonius. The man was too stubborn, too full of contempt for everything. He was barely adequate as a squad sergeant; promoting him further would be a disaster. Petros made a mental note. In the future, Antonius would be phased out of command. He would serve better as the Warband's Champion. As his bodyguard.
Just then, Petros's private comm-link chimed. He listened to the incoming message, his expression unreadable. He replied with a single, "Understood."
He cut the link and turned to his other sergeant. "Vornab. We have guests. I am returning to The Ironclad to receive them. You will take two brothers, go planetside, and break this city. Try not to kill too many of them."
"Yes, my Lord."
Antonius looked curious. "Captain? What guests?"
For the first time that day, Petros almost smiled.
"The Dark Mechanicum."