[Warhammer 40K] - Legends of the Space Marines

by Christian Dunn - (ebook by Undead)

  “Do you sense something, Brother-Librarian?”

  Pyriel eyed the darkness in the middle distance, the no-man’s land between the bastion and the shimmering edge of the far off void shield. It was as if he was trying to catch a glimpse of something just beyond his reach, at the edge of natural sight.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Dak’ir nodded slowly and mustered out. But he’d detected the lie in the Librarian’s words and wondered what it meant.

  False thunder wracked the sky from the report of heavy cannons at the rear of the Imperial battle line. Smoke hung over the muddied field like a shroud, occluding the bodies of the Phalanx troopers moving through it, but was quickly weighed down by the incessant rain.

  They marched in platoons, captains and sergeants hollering orders over the defensive fire of rebel guns and the dense thuds of explosions. Heavy weapons teams, two men dragging unlimbered cannon, whilst standard infantry ran alongside, forged towards emplacements dug five hundred metres from the shield wall.

  Incandescent flashes rippled across the void shield with the dense shell impacts of the distant Earthshaker cannons and from lascannon and missile salvoes, unleashed when their crews had closed to the assault line.

  In the midst of it all were the Salamanders, crouched down in cover, at the edges of the line in five-man combat squads.

  Librarian Pyriel had joined Dak’ir’s unit, making it six. With the flare of explosions and the red sky overhead, his blue armour was turned a lurid purple. It denoted his rank as Librarian, as did the arcane paraphernalia about his person.

  “Our objective is close, brothers. There…” Pyriel indicated the bulk of a generatorium structure some thousand metres distant. Only Space Marines, with their occulobe implants, had the enhanced visual faculty to see and identify it. Rebel forces, hunkered down in pillboxes, behind trenches and fortified emplacements, guarded it. In the darkness and the rain, even with the superhuman senses of the Astartes, they were just shadows and muzzle flashes.

  “We should take an oblique route, around the east and west hemispheres of the shield,” Dak’ir began. “Resistance will be weakest there. We’ll be better able to exploit it.”

  After Tsu’gan had secured the route, the Salamanders had arrived at the five hundred metre assault line, having stealthed their way to it undetected before the full Imperial bombardment had begun. But they were positioned at the extreme edges of the line—two groups east, two groups west—in the hope of launching a shock assault into the heart of the rebel defenders and destroying the generatoria powering the void shield before serious opposition could be raised.

  “Brother Pyriel?” Dak’ir pressed when a response wasn’t forthcoming.

  The Librarian was staring at the distant void shield, energy blossoms appearing on its surface only to dissipate seconds later.

  “Something about the shield… An anomaly in its energy signature…” he breathed. His eyes were glowing cerulean blue.

  For once, Dak’ir felt nothing, just the urge to act.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know…” The psychic fire dimmed in the Librarian’s eyes behind his battle-helm. “Oblique assault; one primary, one secondary. East and west,” he asserted.

  Dak’ir nodded, but had a nagging feeling that Pyriel wasn’t telling them everything. He opened a comm-channel to the other combat squads.

  “We move in, brothers. Assault plan serpentine. Brother Apion, you are support. We will take primary. Brother Tsu’gan—”

  “We are ready, Ignean,” came the harsh reply before Dak’ir had finished. “Assault vector locked, I am the primary at the western hemisphere. Tsu’gan out.”

  The link was cut abruptly. Dak’ir cursed under his breath.

  Taking out his plasma pistol and unsheathing his chainsword, running a gauntleted finger down the flat of the blade and muttering a litany to Vulkan, Dak’ir rose to his feet.

  “Fire-born, advance on my lead.”

  Emek’s raised fist brought them to a halt before they could move out. He had his finger pressed to the side of his battle-helm.

  “I’m getting some frantic chatter from the Phalanx units.” He paused, listening intently. “Contact has been lost with several secondary command units.” Then he looked up. During the pregnant pause, Dak’ir could sense what was coming next.

  “They say they’re under attack… from spectres,” said Emek.

  “Patch it to all comms, brother. Every combat squad.”

  Emek did as asked, and Dak’ir’s battle-helm, together with his brothers’, was filled with the broken reports from the Phalanx command units.

  “…ergeant is dead. Falling hack to secondary positions…”

  “…all around us! Throne of Earth, I can’t see a target, I can’t se—”

  “…ead, everyone. They’re out here among us! Oh hell, oh Emperor sa—”

  Scattered gunfire and hollow screams punctuated these reports. Some units were attempting to restore order. The barking commands of sergeants and corporals sounded desperate as they tried to re-organise in the face of sudden attack.

  Commissar Loth’s voice broke in sporadically, his replies curt and scathing. They must hold and then advance. The Imperium would brook no cowardice in the face of the enemy. Staggered bursts from his bolt pistol concluded each order, suggesting further executions.

  Above and omnipresent, the sound of tolling bells filled the air.

  “I saw no chapel or basilica in the Phalanx bastion,” said Ba’ken. He swept his gaze around slowly, panning with his heavy flamer as he did so.

  “The rebels?” offered Brother Romulus.

  “How do you explain it being everywhere?” asked Pyriel, his eyes aglow once more. He regarded the blood-red clouds that hinted at the churning warp storm above. “This is an unnatural phenomenon. We are dealing with more than secessionists.”

  Dak’ir swore under his breath; he’d made his decision.

  “Spectres or not, we can’t leave the Phalanx to be butchered.” He switched the comm-feed in his battle-helm to transmit.

  “All squads regroup, and converge on Phalanx command positions.”

  Brother Apion responded with a rapid affirmative, as did a second combat squad led by Brother Lazarus. Tsu’gan took a little longer to capitulate, evidently unimpressed, but seeing the need to rescue the Guardsmen from whatever was attacking them. Without the support fire offered by their heavy guns, the Salamanders were horribly exposed to the secessionist artillery and with the shield intact they had no feasible mission to prosecute.

  “Understood.” Tsu’gan then cut the link.

  Silhouettes moved through the downpour. Lasgun snap-shot fizzed out from Imperial positions, revealing Phalanx troopers that were shooting at unseen foes.

  Most were running. Even the Basilisks were starting to withdraw. Commissar Loth, despite all of his fervour and promised retribution, couldn’t prevent it.

  The Phalanx were fleeing. “Enemy contacts?”

  Dak’ir was tracking through the mire, pistol held low, chainsword still but ready. He was the fulcrum of a dispersed battle-formation, Pyriel to his immediate left and two battle-brothers either side of them.

  Ahead, he saw another combat squad led by Apion, the secondary insertion group. He too had dispersed his warriors, and they were plying every metre of the field for enemies.

  “Negative,” was the curt response from Lazarus, approaching from the west.

  Artillery bombardment from the entrenched rebel positions was falling with the intense rain. A great plume of sodden earth and broken bodies surged into the air a few metres away from where Dak’ir’s squad advanced.

  “Pyriel, anything?”

  The Librarian shook his head, intent on his otherworldly instincts but finding no sense in what he felt or saw.

  The broken chatter in Dak’ir’s ear continued, the tolling of the bells providing an ominous chorus to gunfire and screaming. The Phalanx were close to a rout, having
been pushed too far by a commissar who didn’t understand or care about the nature of the enemy they were facing. Loth’s only answer was threat of death to galvanise the men under his command. The bark of the Imperial officer’s bolt pistol was close. Dak’ir could make out the telltale muzzle flash of the weapon in his peripheral vision.

  Loth was firing at shadows and hitting his own men in the process; those fleeing and those who were standing their ground.

  “I’ll deal with him,” promised Pyriel, snapping out of his psychic trance without warning and peeling off to intercept the commissar.

  Another artillery blast detonated nearby, showering the Salamanders with debris. Without the Earthshaker bombardment, the rebels were using their shell-hunting cannons to punish the Imperials. Tracer fire from high-calibre gunnery positions added to the carnage. That and whatever was stalking them through the mud and rain.

  “It’s infiltrators.” Tsu’gan’s harsh voice was made harder still as it came through the comm-feed. “Maybe fifty men, strung out in small groups, operating under camouflage. The humans are easily spooked. We will find them, Fire-born, and eliminate the threat.”

  “How can you be—”

  Dak’ir stopped when he caught a glimpse of something, away to his right.

  “Did you see that?” he asked Ba’ken.

  The hulking trooper followed him, swinging his heavy flamer around.

  “No target,” Ba’ken replied. “What was it, brother?”

  “Not sure…” It had looked like just a flicker of… white robes, fluttering lightly but against the wind. The air suddenly became redolent with dank and age.

  “Ignean!” Tsu’gan demanded.

  “It’s not infiltrators,” Dak’ir replied flatly. Static flared in the feed before the other sergeant’s voice returned. “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “I know it, brother.” This time, Dak’ir cut the link. It had eluded him at first, but now he felt it, a… presence, out in the darkness of the killing field. It was angry.

  “Eyes open,” he warned his squad, the half-seen image at the forefront of his mind and the stench all too real as the bells rang on.

  Ahead, Dak’ir made out the form of a Phalanx officer, a captain according to his rank pins and attire. The Salamanders headed towards him, hoping to link up their forces and stage some kind of counterattack. That was assuming there were enough troopers left to make any difference.

  Commissar Loth was consumed by frenzy.

  “Hold your ground!” he screeched. “The Emperor demands your courage!” The bolt pistol rang out and another trooper fell, his torso gaping and red.

  “Forward, damn you! Advance for His greater glory and the glory of the Imperium!”

  Another Phalanx died, this time a sergeant who’d been rallying his men.

  Pyriel was hurrying to get close, his force sword drawn, whilst his other hand was free. In the darkness and the driving rain he saw… spectres. They were white-grey and indistinct. Their movements were jagged, as if partially out of synch with reality, the non-corporeal breaching the fabric of the corporeal realm.

  Loth saw them too, and the fear of it, whatever this phenomenon was, was etched over his pugilist’s face.

  “Ave Imperator. By the light of the Emperor, I shall fear no evil,” he intoned, falling back on the catechisms of warding and preservation he had learned in the schola progenium. “Ave Imperator. My soul is free of taint. Chaos will never claim it whilst He is my shield.”

  The spectres were closing, flitting in and out of reality like a bad pict recording. Turning left and right, Loth loosed off shots at his aggressors, the brass rounds passing through them or missing completely, driving on to hit fleeing Phalanx infantryman instead.

  With each manifestation, the spectres got nearer.

  Pyriel was only a few metres away when one appeared ahead of him. Loth’s shot struck the Salamander in the pauldron as it went through and through, and a damage rune flared into life on the Librarian’s tactical display inside his battle-helm.

  “Ave Imp—” Too late. The spectre was upon Commissar Loth. He barely rasped the words—

  “Oh God-Emperor…”

  —when a blazing wall of psychic fire spilled from Pyriel’s outstretched palm, smothering the apparition and banishing it from sight.

  Loth was raising his pistol to his lips, jamming the still hot barrel into his mouth as his mind was unmanned by what he had seen.

  Pyriel reached him just in time, smacking the pistol away before the commissar could summarily execute himself. The irony of it wasn’t lost on the Librarian as the bolt round flew harmlessly into the air. Still trailing tendrils of fire, Pyriel placed two fingers from his outstretched hand onto Loth’s brow, who promptly crumpled to the ground and was still.

  “He’ll be out for several hours. Get him out of here, back to the bastion,” he ordered one of the commissar’s attendants.

  The attendant nodded, still shaken, calling for help, and together the storm troopers dragged Loth away.

  “And he’ll remember nothing of this or Vaporis,” Pyriel added beneath his breath.

  Sensing his power, the spectres Pyriel had seen had retreated. Something else prickled at his senses now, something far off into the wilderness, away from the main battle site. There was neither time nor opportunity to investigate. Pyriel knew the nature of the foe they were facing now. He also knew there was no defence against it his brothers could muster. Space Marines were the ultimate warriors, but they needed enemies of flesh and blood. They couldn’t fight mist and shadow.

  Huge chunks of the Phalanx army were fleeing. But there was nothing Pyriel could do about that. Nor could he save those claimed by the earth, though this was the malice of the spectres at work again.

  Instead, he raised a channel to Dak’ir through his battle-helm. All the while, the bells tolled on.

  “The entire force is broken,” the captain explained. He was a little hoarse from shouting commands, but had rallied what platoons were around him into some sort of order. “Captain…”

  “Mannheim,” the officer supplied.

  “Captain Mannheim, what happened here? What is preying on your men?” asked Dak’ir. The rain was pounding heavily now, and tinked rapidly off his battle-plate. Explosions boomed all around them.

  “I never saw it, my lord,” Mannheim admitted, wincing as a flare of incendiary came close, “only Phalanx troopers disappearing from sight. At first, I thought enemy commandoes, but our bio-scanners were blank. The only heat signatures came from our own men.”

  Malfunctioning equipment was a possibility, but it still cast doubt on Tsu’gan’s infiltrators theory.

  Dak’ir turned to Emek, who carried the squad’s auspex. The Salamander shook his head. Nothing had come from the rebel positions behind the shield, either.

  “Could they have already been out here? Masked their heat traces?” asked Ba’ken on a closed channel.

  Mannheim was distracted by his vox-officer. Making a rapid apology, he turned his back and pressed the receiver cup to his ear, straining to hear against the rain and thunder.

  “Not possible,” replied Dak’ir. “We would have seen them.”

  “Then what?”

  Dak’ir shook his head, as the rain came on in swathes.

  “My lord…” It was Mannheim again. “I’ve lost contact with Lieutenant Bahnhoff. We were coordinating a tactical consolidation of troops to launch a fresh assault. Strength in numbers.”

  It was a rarefied concept on Nocturne, where self-reliance and isolationism were the main tenets.

  “Where?” asked Dak’ir.

  Mannheim pointed ahead. “The lieutenant was part of our vanguard, occupying a more advanced position. His men had already reached the assault line when we were attacked.”

  Explosions rippled in the distance where the captain gestured with a quavering finger. These were brave men, but their resolve was nearing its limit. Loth, and his blood-minded draconianism, had almo
st pushed them over the edge.

  It was hard to imagine much surviving in that barrage, and with whatever was abroad in the killing field to contend with too…

  “If Lieutenant Bahnhoff lives, we will extract him and his men,” Dak’ir promised. He abandoned thoughts of a counter-attack almost immediately. The Phalanx were in disarray. Retreat was the only sensible option that preserved a later opportunity to attack. Though it went against his Promethean code, the very ideals of endurance and tenacity the Salamanders prided themselves on, Dak’ir had no choice but to admit it.

  “Fall back with your men, captain. Get as many as you can to the bastion. Inform any other officers you can raise that the Imperial forces are in full retreat.”

  Captain Mannheim motioned to protest.

  “Full retreat, captain,” Dak’ir asserted. “No victory was ever won with foolish sacrifice,” he added, quoting one of Zen’de’s Tenets of Pragmatism.

  The Phalanx officer saluted, and started pulling his men back. Orders were already being barked down the vox to any other coherent platoons in the army.

  “We don’t know what is out there, Dak’ir,” Ba’ken warned as they started running in Bahnhoff’s direction. Though distant, silhouettes of the lieutenant’s forces were visible. Worryingly, their las-fire spat in frantic bursts.

  “Then we prepare for anything,” the sergeant replied grimly and forged on into the churned earth.

  Bahnhoff’s men had formed a defensive perimeter, their backs facing one another with the lieutenant himself at the centre, shouting orders. He positively sagged with relief upon sighting the Emperor’s Angels coming to their aid.

  The Salamanders were only a few metres away when something flickered into being nearby the circle of lasguns and one of the men simply vanished. One moment he was there, and the next… gone.

  Panic flared and the order Bahnhoff had gallantly established threatened to break down. Troopers had their eyes on flight and not battle against apparitions they could barely see, let alone shoot or kill.

  A second trooper followed the first, another white flicker signalling his death. This time Dak’ir saw the human’s fate. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him whole. Except the trooper hadn’t fallen or been sucked into a bog, he’d been dragged. Pearlescent hands, with thin fingers like talons, had seized the poor bastard by the ankles and pulled him under.