Honour Imperialis - Aaron Dembski-Bowden

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Seth. I’m going to count to three.’ Thade rested his bolt pistol against the sanctioned psyker’s cheek. ‘One.’

  ‘So old,’ Seth whispered. ‘So old. So diseased. How do they live?’

  ‘Seth, focus. Two.’

  ‘So old…’

  Thade backhanded him with the weighty pistol, not hard enough to injure but not a light slap, either. ‘Seth, focus! Cadian blood, ice in your veins. You have a job to do. We’re counting on you. What. Is. Ahead?’

  Seth closed his bleeding eyes. The trembling ceased, and every man present felt the invisible tremor of the psyker reaching out with his powers. Zailen stepped back, as if the unseen forces at work could destabilise his temperamental, humming plasma rifle.

  ‘I’m still hearing the voice. It’s trapped, barely reaching the surface…’

  ‘Seth, focus now or I shoot you where you stand. Ignore the damn voice.’ Thade asked again, ‘What do you see?’

  The psyker smiled. A Cadian smile, a morbid twist of the lips, grim and humourless.

  ‘Traitors.’

  Enginseer Osiron’s warning flashed through the vox network, squad by squad. No one was surprised. Hopes had hardly been high of the mission being a success, and many of the 88th had questioned the initial orders to reinforce the Janus 6th in such a tactically unviable location. The green unit had pushed too far, too fast, and it was down to the Cadians to get in there and do their best to keep the fresh meat alive.

  In theory.

  Of course, there was only so much you could do when the regiment you were supposed to reinforce was already annihilated by the time you arrived.

  Taan Darrick crouched behind a row of stone pews, clutching his battered lasrifle. Chunks of his cover broke away in flying pieces or were disintegrated outright by the bite of heavy bolter rounds. His glance kept flicking up to the stained glass dome thirty metres above his hiding place. Kathur Reclamation protocol was adamant about avoiding collateral damage, but any second now, Kathur Reclamation protocol was about to go to hell.

  Deft fingers ejected his rifle’s spent power pack. The sickle-shaped magazine fell into his free hand, and he stored it in his webbing.

  ‘Machine-spirit, forgive my actions. Soon you shall be whole again.’ The Litany of Unloading. Taan’s voice was cool and unshaking. Cadian blood, ice in the veins. There was no way he’d let himself die here.

  He slammed the fresh power cell in and pulled the recharge slide, now speaking the Litany of Loading.

  ‘Machine-spirit, accept my gift. Swallow the light, and spit out death.’ Simple words. Even silly, in other circumstances. A grunt’s attempt at something poetic. Yet Darrick had been saying the same words since he’d loaded his first lasgun at age four. They made him grin now. Funny how certain things gain such significance.

  The last time he’d raised his head above the row of seats, he’d counted close to seventy of the Remnant scattered in a loose line, their numbers punctuated by hastily erected heavy weapons emplacements. Seventy soldiers. There had been over a hundred a few minutes ago.

  Seventy left.

  Taan looked left and right, counting his own remaining men as they crouched in the makeshift trench, sheltered from the onslaught by the rapidly-eroding stone pews.

  He counted twelve. Wonderful. That’s just wonderful.

  ‘Darrick to His Holy Blade. In the name of the Emperor, where are you?’

  ‘On approach, Alliance. Cruor requests pict detail of deployment.’

  ‘Do I sound like I have time to start a career as a taker of rare and beautiful picts? We’re pinned. You hear that gunfire? That’s not us shooting, you son of–’

  Taan was Cadian, born in a barracks and bred under the violet sky. Even as he ranted, he focused the lens of the picter attached to the side of his helmet, and took a peek – no longer than a heartbeat – long enough to take a single pict of the wall of Remnant forces across the circular chorus chamber. All the while, he swore. Darrick ducked again just as a lasbolt burned the stone black an inch from his eye.

  ‘…raised by dogs, you ungrateful…’ he trailed off, clicking ‘Send’ on the helmet picter. ‘Can you see that?’

  ‘Quite a party in there. Patching it through to Cruor now.’

  ‘No rush.’ The pew shook as a massive chunk of its front detonated under the full force of a direct heavy bolter round only three metres away. ‘Take as long as you need. I’m starting to get comfortable.’

  Taan couldn’t resist. He looked up, taking a pict of the stained glass dome. It was the only point of entry unless the Valkyrie was going to drop Cruor through the hole blown in the wall. That was unlikely. Darrick clicked ‘Send’ a second time, transmitting the pict of the pristine dome.

  ‘See that second pict? I’m not seeing much deployment here.’

  The pre-dawn light filtering through the dome darkened under an avian shadow. The Valkyrie hovered, its thrusters screaming as they burned. Several of the Remnant cried out as coloured melted glass rained on them in sticky, agonising drips.

  ‘Now!’ Taan called to his surviving men. They used the momentary distraction to break cover, twelve rifles firing. Twenty-two Remnant soldiers went down, hit in the first or second volley. Two shots went wide. Taan laughed as he ducked back into cover.

  ‘I saw that, Kallo! Are you sure your mother had violet eyes?’ He knew Kallo had been hit in the shoulder and it was ruining his aim, but still… ‘Two misses! The captain will hear about this!’

  Kallo offered no excuse. Taan called out the Litany of Forgiveness with a wicked grin. ‘Sweet God-Emperor, forgive Your servant Kallo his sins. Remember he is just a man!’

  Several of the soldiers sniggered in their cover.

  The gunfire renewed, but in less force. Some of it was angled up towards the Valkyrie, but the greatest difference was the fact that a third of the force was no longer firing.

  ‘Strike Team Cruor confirm receipt of tactical situation. Deploying.’

  ‘Oh? Nice of them to finally drop by.’

  ‘I heard that,’ came a deeper voice that Taan recognised instantly. ‘See you in a second, joker.’

  Taan grinned as Strike Team Cruor made their entrance.

  Ten men in night-black carapace armour fell through the melted ruin of the glass dome. Boots first, they dropped like knives, firing as they plummeted. The Valkyrie above stayed locked in hover while the squad rappelled down.

  On maximum power, standard issue lasguns constructed on the Cadian armoury world of Kantrael fired a finger-thin red beam of superheated laser energy. The blasts roaring from the ten rifles in the falling men’s gloved hands were headache-purple with a blinding white core. Several of the Remnant hit by the las-fire burst into flames as their clothes caught light. They dropped to the ground, already dead, their clothes aflame.

  ‘Stormtroopers!’ one of the Remnant cried, and the devastated remains of the enemy force turned to flee. One of the black-clad soldiers cut down two enemy either side of the shouting Remnant warrior, and disconnected his rappelling cable. He caught the running Remnant in three strides and bore him to the ground, punching down with a double-edged combat knife.

  ‘Stay awhile,’ the soldier said, burying his blade in the traitor’s neck.

  The rest of Taan’s men joined Cruor, leaping the cover of the pews and cutting down the foe. For a handful of seconds, the chamber was illuminated in an insane display of strobing laser light: red from the lasguns, purple-white from Cruor’s hellguns.

  Except for the ringing in the Cadians’ ears, the chamber was silent less than a minute after Cruor deployed. The last surviving Remnant soldier was put down with a las-round to the forehead while he pleaded for his life, on his knees, insisting he had no choice.

  ‘Ain’t that a shame.’ His executioner, faceless in his dark rebreather and full visored helm, turned from
the falling corpse, scanning the room. Master Sergeant Ban Jevrian sighted Taan through the green glare of his visor. He popped his helmet seals in a hiss of air pressure as he strode over to the lieutenant, removing it to reveal a shaved head and the suggestion of brown stubble around his thin mouth. Jevrian wasn’t so much in athletic Cadian shape as he was a layer of slab-like muscle over thick bone, encased in black carapace armour. His hellpistol, connected to a humming backpack via thick cable feeds, purred as he lowered the setting and holstered it.

  ‘Sir.’ He offered Taan a salute, his deep voice resonating across the chamber as he made the sign of the aquila over his chestplate. ‘Kasrkin squad Eight-Zero-Eight reports successful deployment.’

  ‘Took your time,’ Taan saluted back.

  ‘That’s funny. You’re a real joker,’ Jevrian said, unsmiling. He didn’t smile much. Jokes that had most men in stitches might, if they were truly worthwhile, lift the corners of Ban Jevrian’s lips for the ghost of an instant. ‘Where’s Yaune?’

  ‘Dead,’ Darrick said. ‘Blown out of that hole in the wall.’

  The Kasrkin shrugged. ‘He owed me money.’

  ‘You’re all heart.’

  ‘Whatever. Orders?’

  Taan did a quick count of his remaining men, thinking of the names he’d be writing on death notices once they were clear of this hellhole.

  ‘Thade’s pulling us back. We’re running.’

  ‘We don’t run.’

  ‘We’re running. Captain’s orders. When you wear the same silver on your helmet that he does, I’ll start giving a damn about what you think, master sergeant.’

  ‘We never run,’ Jevrian almost growled. Talking to the Kasrkin sergeant was like talking to a bear in an insect’s black armour. But he was right. The Cadian Shock didn’t run. It was a point of pride, and had been for ten thousand years. The Lists of Remembrance were filled with hundreds of regiments that had been destroyed rather than flee before the Archenemy.

  ‘We never run,’ Jevrian said again. His hulking form promised pain. He bristled with firepower.

  ‘No? We ran two months ago,’ Taan said softly. ‘We ran on Cadia.’

  Jevrian had no response to that. He turned back to his strike team and raised a hand, closing it into a fist – the signal for forming up.

  ‘Cruor, weapons hot. Let’s do what the hero says.’

  ‘Immediate fallback to the Chimeras.’

  Thade’s words had spread through the squads with the speed and fervour Osiron’s warning had only fifteen minutes before. The 88th was breaking orders and running. It stuck uncomfortably in many throats, but none of the officers argued with the captain’s appraisal of the situation.

  ‘If we stay here, we die. If we die, we fail to meet our objectives anyway. The Janus Sixth is finished. Our orders were to reinforce them, or hold this monastery if the Janusians fell. Our numbers make that an impossibility now we’ve come face to face with the reality. Immediate fallback to the Chimeras.’

  Every squad but one obeyed this order. Thade’s own didn’t. The captain wasn’t leaving until he saw the truth of Seth’s proclamation. ‘Traitors’ was a word that covered a multitude of potential sinners. He wanted to know for sure.

  ‘Open those doors,’ Thade pointed at the set of double doors with his deactivated chainsword, but shook his head when Zailen raised his plasma gun. ‘No, Zailen. I want you ready to fire when the doors open. Seth, if you please.’

  The psyker clutched his dark grey leather jacket tighter around his wasted frame. A hand gloved in the same grey leather reached out, fingers splayed, towards the great doors. The temperature dropped a few degrees. The Cadians’ breath steamed from their lips.

  The doors shook once. Twice. Dust rained from the surrounding archway, as if the stone angels were shedding powdered skin. On the third shake, one of the angels – a winged representation of Saint Kathur himself – toppled to shatter on the red carpet.

  ‘Not a good omen,’ remarked Janden. Thade’s scowl silenced him.

  ‘I have a grip,’ Seth breathed through clenched teeth. His power over the doors was visible: an ice-blue sheen of psychic frost was forming where the psyker gripped the portal with his mind.

  Ten guns raised in readiness. ‘Do it,’ said Thade.

  Seth did it. The double doors roared from their hinges in a howl of psychic wind. The soldiers felt ice crystals tinkling on their armour as the gust blew back to them.

  Thade’s men were scattered, some behind pillars, others kneeling, two lying down on their fronts – but each one was ready to fire. Each one was watching what was through the door.

  A hundred and fifty dead. Two hundred. The plague-slain stood in a staggered horde – a mass of corpses that had no right to be on their feet. Heads bowed, they stood in silence, facing a towering figure. In that first instant, the scene poured into Thade’s mind, making him think of a blasphemous congregation, a church of the dead and the damned.

  The dead turned as the doors fell inward. Hundreds of rotting faces, the faces of the faithless, stared at the eleven soldiers. The imposing figure on the other side of the horde, some hundred metres from the Cadians, raised a scab-encrusted bolter.

  Thade’s men were firing in a relentless barrage before the doors even crashed to rest, but the towering figure’s voice was a wet burble rising horribly over the stuttering cracks of las-fire. A single bang from the creature’s bolter ended Etan’s life, as the round detonated within the trooper’s chest.

  The Cadians fell back, rifles streaming out death, the true death, for the plague-slain that shambled after them. Thade grinned despite everything, because he finally had it confirmed. Firing his bolt pistol with both hands, he yelled into his vox.

  ‘Captain Thade, Cadian 88th! Contact, contact, contact! Primary threat sighted!’

  The Traitor Astartes stalked through the shambling crowd, parting the dead before its massive bulk like a ship cutting the seas. Its bolter barked over and over, but its aim was thrown off by the Cadian lasbolts smacking into its ornate helm. The rounds glanced aside doing no real damage, but they interfered with the archaic targeting systems in the creature’s helmet displays.

  ‘Count the Seven…’ it burbled. Green ooze sizzled from its speaker grille. It seemed to be laughing and choking up acid, all at once.

  The Cadians fell back faster, lasguns flashing angry and hot. Thade listened for his enginseer’s acknowledgement, then spoke back.

  ‘The Death Guard, Osiron. The XIV Legion is here.’

  Chapter IV

  Revelations

  Reclamation Headquarters, outside Solthane

  It was five hours since the retreat, and Seth’s head still pounded as if his skull was shrinking around his brain.

  Seth’s camp was pitched several dozen metres from the neat and ordered rows of the 88th’s communal tents. His thoughts would not leave the memory of the monastery. He’d heard the voice, screaming in silence, even hours before entering the shrine itself – a distinct, yet distant presence within the cathedral district. Unknown, unseen, almost unheard.

  He coughed again, violently enough to bring the coppery tang of blood to his tongue. Trying to focus was an exercise in torment, listening to the sounds of the camp all around, shutting out the after-echo of the voice that still ghosted through his senses. Each time he quested after it with his thoughts, it dispersed into nothingness. Seth was no longer sure if he was hearing the voice now, or merely hearing it echo through his memory. Reaching out for it psychically was as impossible as catching mist in his closed hands.

  The thousand-strong Cadian regiment, of which Thade commanded a full third, was camped with the main bulk of Guard forces in the colossal plateau chosen for the initial landings. Making planetfall outside the capital city had been the only option. Most of Kathur was covered in the open ocean, and what little land mass existed was e
ncrusted with towering stone cathedral-cities. But here the Guard had found grasslands expansive enough to accommodate the Reclamation forces tasked with retaking the northern hemisphere.

  Tens of thousands of Guard soldiers had made the initial planetfall. Over half of them were still coming and going around the grounded troop landers that now served as Reclamation headquarters. A hundred thousand tents and hastily-erected communal buildings spread out from the clustered landers like a refugee city.

  And this was just the spearhead. The forward force, sent to establish an Imperial presence. The main bulk of the Reclamation forces were still in warp transit.

  The aerial view was breathtaking. Seth had seen it from a Valkyrie only a week before. The Janusians had been gone even by then, their animal hide tents dismantled as the regiment went deep into the city. The landers of the Vednikan 12th Rifles had made planetfall first, and they sat now in tidy formation, their massive hulls casting shadows on the grey tents below. Ash residue in the air had darkened the Vednikans’ pristine white tents within hours of touching down. The serpent symbol of Vednika, proudly embroidered on each tent in black, was barely visible now.

  To the east and west of the Vednikans were the 303rd Uriah and the 25th Kiridian Irregulars, respectively. The base camp of the former was a husk of the sprawl it had been on the days after planetfall, with only a handful of empty tents left while the regiment was engaged in retaking Solthane’s power station district to the far north. The latter, in typical Kiridian militia style, resembled exactly what it was: a rushed camp set up almost at random as squads spilled from their landers and pitched their tents wherever they chose. Seth had smiled slightly upon seeing it. He was a student of other Imperial cultures – a personal passion – and knew something of the Kiridian military mentality. Their tradition was that every tent had to have a squad banner outside, and that each banner must face the regimental commander’s pavilion. Other than that one rule, their camp was as chaotic as can be imagined, as comrades sought to pitch tents near one another with no regard for order.