Ad Finem

Fourteen days. Under constant attack, light artillery bombardment, and suicide charges.

**This* is where I truly belong*.

His earlier intuition was indeed correct. It had taken nine rigorous days to locate and placate (more likely disarm) all of the numerous hidden traps and safe-guards within the shrine. Much to his chagrin, one of his more clumsier servitors had nearly dropped one of the still active vortex bombs he had just removed from under the STC's dias on day eight. And with the entrance now open, sand was constantly swept in by the desert wind, making the proper rites not only more tedious to perform, but even much more time and resource consuming as well. Of course, Clockwyrkke was not the only pony who was upset with the delays.

"Report, colonel."

"What is there to report? I'm losing ponies almost everyday. If not by the works of those verrückt cultists then instead by that damnable drug you've been giving them!" He then stomped his hoof in anger, throwing the Tech-Priest a venomous glare.

"Colonel Crimson, I can assure you that drug is merely a pain suppressant. Not a combat stimulant which you assume it to be. I've spoken to some of your soldiers and even inspected a few of the more critically wounded myself. The least I can do is to make this whole skirmish a little more... physically tolerable for them." Crimson was a little stunned at this sudden show of empathy coming from the figure standing opposite him. He took off his peaked cap, wiped his brow, and whistled.

"Jeez, since when did you go soft and start caring about us?"

"My apologies for the insult I rendered upon yourself during our second meeting. It was highly... unnecessary. Life should not be dismissed and discarded so easily."

"Ah... whatever. If you're sincerely helping my ponies, that's all I need to know."

"Fair enough. Dismissed."

It was on the fourteenth day when he had finally managed to remove the STC from the shrine. The bindings between the engine and the shrine had been strong, but age had made it an easier feat to separate them then what it would have been a few centuries ago. That was when the attacks began in earnest.

A massive wave of bodies assaulted the site that afternoon. Earth ponies, pegasi, gryphons, and even minotaurs - all bearing the eight-pointed star of Chaos charged the gleaming plasteel line. The day prior, Clockwyrkke had instructed Crimson to reposition his remaining forces to the north-eastern perimetre. He had accurately predicted that the fighting there would be the least intense and could not help himself from grinning under his helmet. Whatever favours he could do for them, he would.

Once he was completely sure the STC was secure and ready for transport, he then made his way to the front lines. A section of the perimetre had buckled under the torrent of crazed beings. The surviving Skitarii were trampled under the rush and unable to counter-attack effectively. Clockwyrkke without needing much thought, charged headlong into the fray. Quite soon, he was entirely splattered with gore. His glowing Omnissian blade made short work of the feeble attackers that had so wrongly chosen this time to assault. Even the heavy yet crude metal armour worn did nothing to protect their wearers against his wrath. With the servo-assisted motors in his armour, he was able to stand on his hind legs, gaining a height advantage similar to that of the minotaurs.

Some smarter-than average cultists tried flanking him while he seemed too preoccupied in slaughtering their compatriots. However, they were unaware of his mechandrites possessing the ability to attack. Those who attacked him from the sides or rear had their heads or chests smashed by the two bulky machines in mere seconds of them entering the respective reaches. Clockwyrkke was eventually standing atop a mound of hewn body parts, a sadistic smile plastered under his helmet. It had been so long since he had taken part in such bloodshed. And the dead of his enemies far outnumbered the living.

Those who turned to flee were callously gunned down by the autocannon mounted on his back. The heavy, solid ammunition blasted apart bodies and left small clumps of flesh and red mist in their wake. Those of the still functioning Skitarii joined their master in melee, mercilessly hacking and stabbing with opponents with their bayonets and chainswords.

Clearly their numbers are far more superior in comparison to my own.

Just as he beheaded another foolish cultist, a keening howl split the air and Clockwyrkke found himself sprawled in the sand with a new gash in the side of his armour. Blood spilled from the wound and his armour's auto-response system immediately began injecting pain suppressants and into his body. Looking skywards, he saw a lone gryphon, if it could still be considered as a member of that species even. The creature above him had a similar body, but it's head was nothing more than a mound of agonised faces. It's claws were shrouded in an inky-black aura and it had leathery wings instead of feathered ones.

"DAEMON!"

The creature made a swooping dive next, and Clockwyrkke retaliated by slicing off a wing a section of its wing. It screeched in anger but instead of attacking him, it simply turned tail and ran in the direction of the STC.

It was not that far away yet by the time he had made it back to the command centre, he was already beaten. The daemon was nowhere to be found, but two other figures were nearby. One was a shrivelled unicorn with an elongated cranium. Its was completely without fur and the entire surface of its skin was covered in bleeding symbols that hurt the eyes when looked directly upon. The creature was blind, lacking its eyes and only dark pits remain where they should be. The other figure was clad in a similar yet larger armour to Clockwyrkke's own, only more baroque and twisted due to the corrupting influence of Chaos. Numerous mechatendrils snaked from its back and a cape of flayed hide was draped over the right shoulder.

"You should have died that day!" Standing beside the metal block was none other than the being Clockwyrkke had reviled ever since he discovered he was not the only survivor after The Accident. The former Fabricator-General of the Cult Mechanicus had someone survived the catastrophe and in return for power and eternal life, had sold himself body and soul to the Ruinous Powers.

"I had died that day. But was remade better than before." The traitor's voice was hollow and monotonous, something that was not entirely surprising to Clockwyrkke.

"I will kill you myself!" He shouted before dashing at his former leader. In retaliation, the unicorn crony shot a bolt of blue lightning at the enraged Tech-Priest mid-leapt, hitting him square in the chest. The force of the blast sent him flying several metres backwards.

His breastplate was a smoking piece of warped metal, the outer layer of ceramite a molten mess. But he was still alive, albeit injured thanks to the runes of warding inscribed on the inside of the armour. In one swift motion, he brought up his bolt pistol and fired a volley aimed at the unicorn-thing. The creature instinctively summoned an energy shield in front of itself. Most of the rocket-assisted projectiles slammed harmlessly against the field, but the rare few which penetrated were anointed with sanctified oil and etched with runes of power tore through the defence as if it was only simple paper.

The thing suffered three supposedly fatal chest wounds without flinching and only died when one bolt detonated within its skull, sending its now headless body into its death spasms. The spray of blood, skull fragments, and grey matter decorated one side of the STC. Before Clockwyrkke could savour his triumph, he had to roll aside as the taloned hoof of the Fabricator-General smashed into the sand he was lying in mere moments ago. With a quickness only matched by a machine, the Fabricator leapt towards the Tech-Priest once more.

Clockwyrkke stood resolutely against his foe, knowing that he was severely outmatched. But he would rather tear out the augmentics in his body himself than concede defeat. Gripping on the haft of his axe with stubborn resolve, he surged forward to meet the traitor in combat. They traded with one another, arcane technology against daemonic power. Despite the numerous blows he had landed, the Fabricator would not die. The wounds he had suffered closed in seconds, black ichor seeping from the rents closing the injuries. And it never seemed to tire. For all his augmentation, Clockwrkke was still mostly flesh and blood. And he was tiring.

A milisecond of doubt was all that was needed. Seizing the initiative, the Fabricator beat aside Clockwyrkke's defences and tore the weapon from his hooves with his daemon strength before impaling the Tech-Priest through the abdomen on its talons. It then brought the struggling pony up, so they were face-to-face.

"Your flesh is weak," it said before tossing the mortally wounded stallion aside like a used rag. Before consciousness faded from his being, Clockwyrkke used the last of what remained of his strength, struggling to fire a flare. A blue rocket sprang into the skies above, unnoticed by anypony except for a small convoy of stragglers making their way out of the desert.

"Colonel! The signal!" Again, the same yellow pegasus mare who had managed to survive fourteen days in that hell-hole with her platoon mates was on watch. The twenty two survivors were spread aboard three vehicles, personally given to them by Clockwyrkke himself to aid in their return to Canterlot. He had ordered them to flee when moment the STC was brought up, despite Crimson's protests.

"Gunner! Fire on these coordinates."

"Yes, sir!"

At a signal from Crimson, the Basilisk fired a six charge 132 mm shell at the command centre. The roof had been intentionally weakened in order to collapse on to the unsealed crate of an active thermo-plasmic bomb. The site was engulfed in explosion that rivalled the intensity of a small sun and the stragglers had to cover their eyes to avoid being blinded by the white glare. Taking off his hat, Crimson bowed his head and uttered a soft prayer to whatever gods were listening.