A slightly smaller Mess

The men of the PDF are more than used to artillery by this point, with dugouts deep and expansive enough to shelter the mainstay of the defence, while the brave men in the above ground bunkers keep a vigilant watch.

Laurence sits, comfortably on his heels, upon a low rising hill behind the line, watching the shells fall.

This bombardment is different to the others it seems however. Much greater in scale, much more concentrated. Before long, the defenders see a massive amount of what appear to be trucks, coming at their defences en-masse, loaded to the brim with enemy soldiers

As the trucks approach the first line, their drivers see the sea of mangled wire, hedgehog traps, and minefields, laid out ahead of the squat shapes of pillboxes. At the same moment, the mighty guns begin to speak in response to their heretical counterparts.

many a truck is destroyed by mines. The pillboxes however, prove ineffective against their bulletproof armour, unless they are packing anti vehicle armaments. The barbed wire too, proves ineffective against their wedged rams, slicing or ploughing through them. Still, many trucks are lost. There are however, always more...

Cresting the low hill behind the first line, the trucks come into sight of the main line defences. To left and right, thick steel beams have been driven deep, leaning in towards them at an angle, and covered in a mess of concertina wire. This construction forms a pair of walls, angled inwards, funnelling a few mile stretch, down into a heavily fortified section of line, over the space of a mile.

Laurence smiles to himself as he watches the trucks crest the hill, and the guns of the line begin to fire. Malcador tanks have their problems, it's true, the lack of a turret especially. But dug in down to their sponsons in defensive positions, the tanks come into their own. Battle cannon roar, and lascannon flash. Demolisher shells either hurl up great fountains of dirt, or destroy trucks in their entirety.

the trucks soon begin to die in larger numbers, but still more come. And more. And hours, and hours, and hours pass, and there's no sign of them stopping. Men pile out of destroyed trucks and begin to charge towards the defensive line, mowed down as they are by the defenders. Still they keep coming, and soon the wreckages become a great hinderance to the defenders guns as they begin to more and more block line of sight.

The burning wreckage of so many trucks, also begins to impede their own advance, into, as it is, such a small choke. But coming, still as they are, the attackers grind forwards, foot by foot. Until, that is, they reach the last twenty or so metres to the line.

From a hole in the defences, innocuous in itself, a conflagration of horrible proportions gouts forth. The flame covers everything in its range, sticking to its targets, burning so hot that steel melts, ammunition cooks off, and those caught in the centre of the raging inferno are simply vaporised. The flame rolls forth like the judgement of an unforgiving god, and consumes all before it.

Suddenly, Laurence senses...something. Something... wrong. He can't pinpoint what, but something within the immaterium itself.

To the eerie horror of the defenders, no screams of pain or anguish rise from the inferno. As the gout dies down, figures emerge from the flames. They are engulfed in fire, their flesh melting, their bones blackened, yet they keep going until the very muscles in their legs have been eaten away by the flames and they fall, beginning instead to crawl until even that is impossible. Elsewhere along the line, men march heedlessly towards the defenders' fire, still marching through all but instantly fatal wounds as they press the attack

After the flames die down, the battlefield takes on an entirely different character. The earth is scorched black, what hardy vegetation there is, is blackened and burning. The acrid stench of burned hair and flesh hang heavy in the air.

The officers and commissars marshal the spirits of the men under their command, chanting to maintain orderly fire. "SIGHT, AIM, FIRE... SIGHT, AIM, FIRE... SIGHT, AIM, FIRE." On the command sight, a soldier picks his target, on aim, he levels his weapon at them, and on fire, he fires. By this rhythm, every few seconds, a bright fusillade of fire erupts from the trenches, and lays low ranks of the enemy.

Laurence's initial suspicion is the cabal in orbit, and as such, he casts his mind up, searching for their presence.

the attackers keep coming, shrugging off entire missing limbs as they charge, now returning fire in inaccurate wild sprays of their autoguns en masse

As he does so he senses something else. Something far, far darker. And he begins to hear an avian cackle in the back of is very mind, getting louder the more he searches.

The great gout of fire is loosed again, once more the flames engulf all before them, giving a brief respite to reload, snatch a few gulps of water, and prepare for them to come again. Men from the reserve trenches are coming up to relieve those currently on the line.

Laurence jumps down from his place on the hill, and sets off at a steady run towards the line, while casting his mind out towards the enemy lines. He presses his finger to his ear, opening a vox channel, and says two words. +Daemon. Tzeentch.+ On the receiving end of this transmission is the entire inquisitorial cell, Lyanna included.

the attackers do not even flinch in the face of the fire as they keep going, headlong into the fire heedless of their own pain.

Lyanna hears the words and goes a little pail

The lasfire is kept regular, men being rotated out on the hour, keeping them fresh. Water and fresh laspacks are supplied, with spent packs collected and taken to be recharged. They fight like a well oiled machine. Like guardsmen. Few men are executed for cowardice, this is the first combat they've had. After the weeks of build up, if anything, this is a release.

Laurence drops into a backline trench, and makes his way forward, all inquiries as to his doing are silenced with a look, and the badge on his chest. He continues to search for the daemon with his mind.

they keep coming, getting closer and closer, every wall of men that drops soaking up enough fire to let the whole horde close the distance that little bit more, with them still putting out so many autogun shots that due to sheer odds, more and more begin to find their mark

Before long laurence realises, there's only one place on the battlefield he senses the daemon's presence. The enemy soldiers. Within Every single one of them.

The fire from the entrenched malcadors increases its pitch as the enemy close in, near continuous barrages of fire from heavy bolters cutting down swathes of the enemy, high explosive shells from the battle cannons tearing clumps of them to shreds, and the demolisher cannon continuing to do, as demolisher cannons are wont to.

Laurence reaches the front line, and marches right up to the man in command, and speaks quickly to him, in hushed tones, then shrugs off his coat, dumping it on a shelf, and stepping to the firing step. The commander yells, simply "DO NOT SHOOT THE INQUISITOR, OR THE MAN HE WILL CAPTURE!"

laurence sees the tide of men before him, shrugging off what should be fatal wounds, marching heedlessly into certain death and pain

He jumps up, and out of the trench, and sprints towards the enemy, striking the first unharmed one he sees, driving his shoulder into his stomach, lifting his feet off the ground, and dumping him to the floor.

the man looks laurence right in the eye, his eyes glowing bright red. He laughs, loudly and insanely, as his very body turns entirely to ash in the inquisitor's grip.

"bastard!" laurence picks another target, and, this time, dives full force into the man's mind as he tackles him.

he finds the man's mind entirely empty, as again he disintegrates in his grip

"Fuck!" He runs back, and jumps over the parapet "Well that was not informative at all, I'll have to try other avenues, thankyou gentlemen."

the horde simply keeps coming, hours on end, not a single, even momentary lull anywhere along the line

Laurence calls Lyanna on the vox. +So, that was fun+

+What happened?+

Once very far out of earshot of the general soldiery, of course, he begins to explain. +The Daemon is controlling all of them. And i have no idea where he is. So that's fun.+

+Great...this is a new one to me+

+I'm gonna go and give this thing a run for its money on the mind control front, see if i can't take the weight off a bit.+

+...laurence you're a biomancer, not a telepath+

+Yeah, and whoever heard of a biomancer messing with people, crazy right.+

+bodies, not minds laurence+

+Yeah, so i'm thinking make all their legs stop working.+

+and if that doesn't work?+

The shrug is almost audible through the voxcaster +Thinking book at this point... probably something in there.+

+Remember laurence, this is just the probe. Them testing to find where the line is weak.+

+And they're using a greater daemon for it. I really want it to die...+

+...that is quite possibly the least professional sentence you've ever said to me.+

“In...quisitor? There’s an inquisitor here?! God emperor forgive me! And what pray tell, does the inquisitor say we should do?”
There’s a palpable level of distaste to his words, as if the man has a bad history of working with the inquisition. His command staff eye eachother nervously, obviously familiar with their commanders opinions.

+You see many Inquisitors leaving greater daemons alone? Thats because thats a really bad idea. Planets tend to go a biiiit mad.+

Viktor: "Sit tight, hold the fort. Pretty simple stuff."

+well good luck with that+

+If i can find it, i can kill it+

+Can't exactly help you there, i'm no daemonhunter+

+Where are the Malleus when you need them... Regardless... I think i can manage...+

+Well, good luck with that+

With that, laurence closes the channel, and voxes his apprentice. +Katarina... Do you suppose you could acquire some livestock for me.+

hours pass as the assault continues. Soon its almost been a full day with no sign of it abating. Back behind the lines, the friendly tank commander from before is stood on the parapet watching it, cigar in hand.

The young officer wakes in the cot, and immediately clutches his side, and sucks air in through his teeth. He looks around the small dugout without getting up.

he sees its empty, but can hear the distant roar of battle from the entryway

He swings his legs out, slowly getting to his feet, holding onto the bedframe for support. Smoothing back his hair, and retying it into a tight queue, he ventures towards the door.

as he exits, he sees the tank commander stood on the parapet, taking a puff from his cigar, his greatcoat billowing in the wind.

"It's begun in earnest, then?"

"Aye, it has. The poor fuckers like us, the non purebloods, they're gettin sent in en-masse. Figure out where the line's weakest by where they do best. Then they're gonna send the big boys in to those bits"