The eight members of the Ninth Squad were spread out in a wide formation, to cover as much ground as possible as they swept through the jungle. Creeping vines and hanging mosses draped from the branches overhead like ragged curtains, and gnarled roots snatched at the boots of their power armour as they trudged along. Out in the darkness, countless pairs of eyes reflected back what little light there was, like pairs of miniature stars in the blackness, but still they'd had no sign of xenos activity, tyranid or otherwise.
'Barabbas?' Avitus called over the vox. 'Anything?'
'Negative, sergeant,' the battle-brother voxed back. 'Just more muck and mire.'
Avitus was about to continue on through the rolls when a voice over the vox-comms interrupted him.
'Sergeant Avitus?'
The rune for Brother Philetus blinked on Avitus's visor display. 'Go ahead,' Avitus answered gruffly.
'I've found something you might want to take a look at.'
'Tyranid spoor?' Avitus hefted his heavy bolter, ready for action.
'No, sir. It's…' Philetus paused before finishing. 'I'm not sure what it is.'
Avitus voxed to the others. 'Converge on Philetus's position, squad.'
A few moments later Avitus and the rest of the squad joined Philetus, who stood before some sort of crudely constructed wooden structure in the midst of a jungle clearing a few metres across. Roughly pyramidal in shape, it recalled the outline of the stepped pyramids all but obscured by the millennia of greenery creeping over them, but this was skeletal, an outer frame supporting a platform within.
'Is it cultist?' Barabbas said, playing a light over the structure and the objects within.
On the platform within the frame were arranged vessels of wine, plates of food - much of it already despoiled - stacks of knives and axes, woven blankets and other craftworks.
'I don't believe so,' Philetus answered. He pointed to the markings carved in the wood of the frame. 'Those aren't Chaos symbols. I don't know what they are, but it doesn't hurt my eyes to look on them, like every other Chaos symbol I've ever seen.'
Avitus agreed. 'This isn't like the work of any heretic I've ever come across.'
'But it's clearly an offering of some kind,' Barabbas answered.
'Undoubtedly,' Philetus agreed. 'But to whom?'
'Or to what?' Barabbas said.
'It hardly matters,' Avitus said dismissively. 'We're here to find tyranids, not to waste time in speculating on local lapses in Imperial faith.'
The other members of the squad exchanged glances, but it hardly mattered if they agreed with the sergeant's assessment or not. The squad was his to command as he willed, and theirs was to follow orders.
'Move out,' Avitus said, shouldering past the frame and heading out of the clearing on the far side. 'Burn it down if you like, but don't waste any more time worrying about it.'
THE HEADMAN REGARDED Sergeant Aramus nervously, clearly only now realizing that he had said more than he should. Having assumed early on that the Blood Ravens had come to chastise the village for whatever lapse the unknown spacefarers had witnessed, he had been less than circumspect in referring to those same lapses even after discovering the true reason for the Blood Ravens' visit - or, at least, the purported reason for their visit.
'You see,' the headman finally responded, 'dozens of generations ago, when the missionaries came from the sky and brought with them the good news of the Sky-Father and his star-spanning empire, we were forbidden from holding the beliefs of our forefathers. We were told only to revere the Sky-Father, and to have no other gods before him. For generation upon generation, we did as we had been instructed, not wanting to bring the reprisals of the Sky-Father down on our heads. But even so, there were always those among us who insisted that the jungle spirits worshipped by our forefathers still dwelt in the green, and that one day they would return to wreak their vengeance on those of us who had abandoned the faith of our forefathers.'
The headman paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on the flickering light of a nearby torch, as though lost in memory.
'In recent months,' he continued at length, 'the promised vengeance was finally visited upon us.'
Aramus leaned forward. 'In what way?'
The headman took a deep breath, and let out a ragged sigh, his shoulders slumped. 'There are spirits that walk abroad in the dark jungles around us,' he said, 'that much is true. And while it had been many generations since they have been seen, they now return to us. No longer the helpmates of our forefathers' stories, though, they are now vicious, vengeful creatures. And any who are foolhardy enough to venture too far from the borders of our village are seized, never to be seen again.'
'Seized?' Aramus repeated. 'What becomes of them?'
The headman shrugged again. 'Who can say? All that is known is that they are never seen again.' He glanced around at the gathered villagers still caught up in their ecstatic worship of the distant God-Emperor. 'We tried to appease the jungle spirits by offering libations, victuals, and other such valuables, but it was no use. The anger of the spirits would not be abated by such trifles.'
SERGEANT TARKUS'S TEAM had found evidence of xenos activity - or at least of spacefaring activity - but so far none of it had been tyranid.
Tarkus and First Squad had been tasked with searching the swampy lowlands that stretched south of the headman's village, out where the trees became sparser and more widely spaced, and the ground underfoot squelched with every step. The lowlands were virtually bogs, the ground as much liquid as solid, and even in the dead of night swarms of stinging insects drifted like endless, buzzing clouds.
Where the ground was most level, and least wet, they had found evidence of landing sites. At least one of them, based on the burn patterns of the retro rockets that had eased the craft to ground and the main rockets that had thrown it back to the heavens, was of Imperial manufacture, but the footprint at another site was highly suggestive of eldar activity.
What the eldar would be doing on a backwater world like Typhon Primaris - of no interest or strategic importance even to the galactic power whose flag had been figuratively planted there - none could say, but there was no denying the clear suggestion that some xenos craft, at least, had visited the world.
Both landing sites, Imperial and xenos, suggested recent visits, no less than a few weeks and no more than a few months in the past. None of these visitors was in evidence now, however, so beyond making note of each site and the state in which it had been found, there was little else for Tarkus's team to do there.
They pressed on, into the darkness.
THE HEADMAN PAUSED, and glanced over at Sergeant Aramus.
'It was believed that the visitors to our world had seen the offering sites to the jungle spirits, and had returned to the Sky-Father with word that we had failed him, and lapsed back to the faith of our forefathers. It was for this heresy that we had assumed you came to chasten us.'
Aramus drew his lips into a tight line. It was true that there was a considerable degree of variation in religious practices from culture to culture, and from planet to planet, but it was also true that the agents of the Inquisition and the Ministorium were always on the watch for heresy, as any deviation from the prescribed practices of the Imperial faith might, if allowed to continue too far, be corrupted to the worship of the Ruinous Powers.
'But the offerings were of no use, anyway,' the headman continued. 'And now even the village offers little hope of sanctuary. Already there are several other settlements within a day's travel of here who have gone silent in recent weeks, seemingly swallowed by the jungle itself.'
The headman turned his eyes to the dark shadows beyond the little circle of firelight, the blackness of the jungle that stretched endlessly beyond the boundaries of the village.
'The jungle spirits have returned to seek vengeance, and I fear there is nothing else but vengeance that will satisfy them.'
SERGEANT THADDEUS WAS bored. Only by checking the chronometer runes in his visor displ
ay was he able to keep track of the time passing. One stretch of jungle appeared nearly the same as any other by daylight, but in the grey illumination of his enhanced vision by night, it was all virtually indistinguishable.
He was beginning to think they had come on a fool's errand. Perhaps Aramus and Thule had misread the shipping information on the crate that had held the hatched tyranid egg, or the shipping information had been a lie to begin with, and there had never been any tyranids on the jungle planet. There was certainly no sign of any here now. If so, there was nothing that could be done for Thule, nothing to stop the toxins from wrecking his body and destroying him entirely. It was regrettable, as the Fifth Company had rarely had a better captain than Thule.
Thaddeus had already begun to mourn Captain Thule, he realized. He had already begun thinking of him in the past tense.
All Space Marines died, Thaddeus knew. And almost all of them died in combat, or at least as the result of wounds received in combat. He had never heard of a Blood Raven who died of old age. But it seemed that Blood Ravens of the Fifth Company, and their captains in particular, were more prone to fatal injuries on the field of battle than most. It was not that the Fifth was any less covered in glory than the other companies of the Chapter, and the Fifth had just as many victories to its credit as any other. But it seemed that, more often than with the other companies, the victories of the Fifth often came at a heavy price.
Perhaps it was something to do with the name by which the Fifth was known - the Fated - and the circumstances surrounding how the company came to earn the name. Like all Blood Ravens of the Fifth Company, Thaddeus and the rest of his squad wore on their power armour badges of penitence and shame, symbolizing that they fought to redeem their company. With blood - that of their enemies, but even more so their own - the Fated would wash away the sins of the past. It was always hoped that at some point in the future the Fated would be completely redeemed, and that the events of M.38 that had so darkened the company's history might be forever forgotten, and only a bright and glorious future remain. But that day had not yet arrived, and Thaddeus often wondered whether he would ever live to see it.
Had the Blood Ravens Chapter itself begun in just such a way? Were the secret beginnings of the Chapter which were now lost to history something like the dark days that had befallen the Fated in M.38, and had the Chapter as a whole striven to redeem itself, until finally those blighted pages in the historical records were finally expunged and the shame forever forgotten?
It was a strangely comforting thought. And it suggested to Thaddeus that, if so, then the heavy costs paid by the Fifth for so many of its victories might well have been worth it. If the Fifth Company in some future age was no longer ''The Fated'', and no longer went to battle wearing signs of penitence and shame, then it would be a future well worth dying for.
Thaddeus mused as he and the rest of his squad moved through the darkened forest. Occupied with his thoughts as he was, though, there was still a portion of his awareness fully focused on his surroundings, on every sound, every smell, every glint or rustle in the shadows around him.
Even so, like the rest of his squad he was caught completely by surprise when the clutch of lictors leapt out from the concealing foliage around them, bearing down upon them with scything talons and rending claws.
The tyranids were here, and they were attacking!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SERGEANT ARAMUS WAS about to question the village headman further when a vox-comm interrupted him.
'Enemy contact!' the voice buzzed in Aramus's ear.
Without sparing a moment in apologising to the headman, Aramus slammed his helmet down over his head, and saw the rune for Sergeant Thaddeus flaring brightly on his visor display.
'Thaddeus, report,' Aramus replied.
Over the vox, Aramus could hear the sound of bolters firing, and the whirr of chainswords.
'Lictors, Aramus,' Thaddeus replied, the strain of battle sounding in his voice. 'Five, six… No, a clutch of seven of the bastards. They just came out of nowhere.'
'Losses?'
'None yet,' Thaddeus answered. 'We're holding our own. But Aramus?'
'Yes?' Aramus drew his bolter, checking the action and chambering a round.
'This lictor strain appears to lack toxin sym-biotes.'
So the search wasn't over yet.
'Acknowledged, Thaddeus.' He toggled his vox-comms for a general call. 'Blood Ravens, Seventh Squad has made enemy contact. Repeat, enemy contact made. Tyranids are on planet. But we still need to locate toxin-bearing specimens.'
Flashing runes on his visor signalled the squads' acknowledgement, none wasting time or effort in vocal response.
'Gather your people,' Aramus said aloud, turning to the headman. 'These are no jungle spirits that bedevil you, but something far, far worse.'
BATTLE-BROTHER VOIRE AND the rest of the Third Squad received Sergeant Aramus's instructions. They were only a few kilometres from the village, and in hours of searching had found nothing of interest. Voire's auspex had mapped the terrain, and their current position was less than half an hour's travel from the point at which Thaddeus had encountered the tyranids.
'Lictors are outriders,' Voire said to Brother Cirrac, who had come to stand beside him as they considered their next action. 'They move ahead of tyranid ground swarms, searching out lifeforms to be absorbed.'
'And any enemies to attack,' Cirrac replied, darkly.
Voire indicated the map of the area displayed on his auspex. 'If Thaddeus and his squad encountered lictors here' - he pointed at the spot on the map - 'likely moving in this direction' - he drew his gauntleted finger across the map from southwest to north-east, opposite the trajectory along which the Seventh Squad had been moving - 'then it stands to reason that the main body of any tyranid swarm in the region might be in this direction.' He pointed to the lower left quadrant of the map display, to the south-west of the village.
Cirrac nodded. 'Seems likely,' he allowed.
'In which case,' Voire said, glancing around at the jungle surrounding them, apparently - or deceptively? - empty, 'we should proceed to the south-west and see what we find.'
'Or what finds us,' Cirrac replied grimly.
'Either way,' Voire said, racking his bolter. 'It beats an endless slog through this mess.'
Cirrac grinned. 'Then lead on, battle-brother, lead on.'
THERE WERE EIGHT Space Marines in the Seventh Squad, all armed with bolters and chainswords. They had fought together through the masses of Gorgrim's hordes and the feral orks on Calderis, and through the bloody undertaking on Zalamis, and in all that time had lost only two battle-brothers, one on each world. It often seemed to Thaddeus that, working together, there was no threat they could not face and overcome. His faith in the Seventh, and in their collective strength, was all but boundless.
Now, faced with only a bare handful of tyranid lictors, he was finding that faith sorely tested.
'Stand fast, squad!' Thaddeus shouted, meeting the scything talon of the lead lictor with his own chainsword. 'No quarter given or asked!'
When he had been faced with the overwhelming numbers of feral orks outside Argus Township, Thaddeus had gone to battle with a grin on his lips. Even when he had first seen the serried ranks of Gorgrim's horde, even after seeing Brother Renzo fall, he had fought with a lightness in his heart. Just as sparring was an enjoyable contest of skill and strength, so too did Thaddeus view combat. Though he was dutiful in his service to. Emperor and Chapter, and ever mindful of the solemn responsibility he bore as a Space Marine and as a Blood Raven, still Thaddeus found something to enjoy in the clash of metal on metal, in pitting muscle against muscle, strength against strength.
But on Prosperon, when facing the inhuman, ravenous offspring of the Great Devourer, Thaddeus had for the first time caught a glimpse that combat might be anything but something to be enjoyed. On Prosperon, his squad sent on some minor mission and forced to run the gauntlet of tyranid forces on all sid
es, taking heavy casualties inbound and out, Thaddeus had felt the first inklings of what he thought might be fear.
Now, with a clutch of lictors crashing into them from all angles, leaping out of the darkness with their talons and claws hungry for human blood and carnage, Thaddeus felt that unfamiliar sensation return. There was no smile on his lips tonight.
Thaddeus fired another hellfire round from his bolter, and reversed the chainsword in his hands for another blow.
'SERGEANT CYRUS,' ARAMUS voxed, as he crossed the village centre to the place where Librarian Niven and Chaplain Palmarius were evaluating the village youths.
'Sir?' Sergeant Cyrus voxed back.
'What's your position?'
'Checking the pickets, sir,' Cyrus answered. As soon as the news of the Seventh Squad's encounter with enemy elements had come through, Blood Ravens protocols dictated that those Blood Ravens not in the battlefield should immediately go to a defensive posture, barring orders to the contrary. It had taken merely a quick glance exchanged between Sergeants Aramus and Cyrus across the village centre to set those plans in motion, and the Scout sergeant had moved off with his squad before Aramus had even taken a single step forward.
'Good,' Aramus voxed back. If it seemed somewhat strange for Aramus to be giving orders to one of the Space Marines who taught him how to be a Blood Raven in the first place, who was in large part responsible for making him the Space Marine he now was, Aramus didn't let it get in the way of his duty. 'I'm leaving you and your squad here in defence of the village. The headman will be pulling all of his people here to the centre of the village, which should be more easily defensible.'
'And you, sir?'
'I'll be joining my squad in the field,' Aramus answered.
'Acknowledged,' Cyrus replied. 'Good hunting, sir.'
'Obliged, Cyrus. Aramus out.'
He cut the vox-comms just as he reached the place where the Librarian and Chaplain were examining the most recent prospect, as though nothing whatsoever amiss was going on around them.
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