by Gav Thorpe
It passed between broken tank hulls and shattered fortifications, wending a zigzag route through the devastation left in the wake of successive attacks. Even now magazines and arsenals still burned, pouring thick black smoke into air choked with fumes and toxins.
A cordon of large troop carriers in the bastardised colours of the World Eaters marked the boundary of their zone of operation, but there was no challenge or hail levelled at the incoming vehicle. Its passage went wholly unremarked.
Within the crude encampment Legion slaves hauled at great tarpaulins piled with bodies, forging between sagging marquees and makeshift flakboard bunkers. A great pile of corpses was being assembled within sight of the main wall, where a hundred weary axe-wielders laboured to behead those that had fallen to Angron’s sons. Their blades rose and fell with the monotony of a factory line, turning the dead into righteous sacrifices, though without the least pomp or ritual. Half-human ghouls – creatures suckled on mutant blood and Khorne’s power – stripped flesh from bone and polished the skulls, in turn passing them to box-laden beasts of burden driven by more slaves to the immense mountain being erected in the Blood God’s honour.
These dreary tasks were left to menials, for there was none among the World Eaters that desired ought but to face the enemy and add to the body count of the war. It was industrialised sacrifice, at odds with the highly personal battle-lust of Khorne’s chosen, who favoured only the slaying in their god’s name.
And at this bloody task a greater part of the Legion still laboured. There was little semblance of Chapter and company command remaining, and even individual squads had started to break apart as champions rose from the ranks to create fiefdoms of authority within the fragmenting Legion.
Angron cared nothing for this fracturing, for in his presence all were cowed to his will, and cohesion, of a sort, could be maintained. He was, for the present, absent the battleline, seeking his bloodthirsty pleasures elsewhere around the overrun defences, butchering whatever he came upon.
There were a handful of others that could command similar obedience, but they were not of any single mind, no more than the greatest of the warlords that were starting to hold sway where once all was dictated by the Principia Bellicosa. Of these the most admired was Khârn, whose lists of titles seemed to grow daily as his feats of death-dealing continued – the Axe of Khorne, the Death-gifted, the Walking Ruin and more.
He watched the approach of the Rhino from close to a pyre of blackened bones, which he had lit as a beacon for the transport to find him at the appointed hour. Of all the warriors of the XII he retained a modicum of strategic interest in the war and had agreed to the parley on behalf of his primarch. Now that his battle-brothers were intent upon the last survivors outside the wall it was safe for an outsider to enter, though he knew there was a substantial risk that his own self-control might slip, potentially bringing the World Eaters and Iron Warriors into conflict with each other.
The Rhino stopped a short distance away and a solitary figure disembarked. His armour was reinforced Terminator plate, with heavily riveted, banded strips like the oldest marks, a brutal throwback to the earliest days of the Legions. His oversized left fist gleamed with a power generator, a similarly blunt weapon, and Khârn felt himself drawn to the other warrior’s simplicity.
‘I expected to meet with your primarch, Angron of the Red Blade,’ the Iron Warrior declared as he stopped a few metres away.
‘I… Hnnh.’ Khârn snorted hard, clearing the blood-fugue from his thoughts to focus on the burly Iron Warriors commander. He wanted to bury Gorechild into the mask of the warsmith’s helm, just to see the spray of blood. He plucked the man’s name from the whirl of gore-choked daydreams that swelled up from the implants in his brain.
Kroeger. Commander of the IV’s attack on the space port.
‘The primarch fights where he chooses. I am not… Hnnh. I am not his master. He bends to the will only of the Blood God.’
‘So it doesn’t matter that I am here for Perturabo?’
‘No, Kroeger, it does not.’ Khârn pointed his blood-flecked axe towards the companies of the World Eaters storming the last of the outer defences between him and the eastern stretch of the Eternity Wall. ‘Angron demands that we breach the Palace.’
The warsmith stood silent for a few seconds, shoulders hunched.
‘Fulgrim has already agreed to bring his Legion to the attack,’ Kroeger said, his attempt at guile obvious. ‘Would Angron be outdone by his brother?’
‘You are fortunate… Hnnh. Fortunate that my lord is not here to respond to such taunts.’
Khârn gritted his teeth, biting back the urge to cleave the Iron Warrior’s head from the torso as payment for his petty remark.
‘I don’t need Angron,’ snarled the warsmith, fists rising. ‘I need your legionaries. You’ll all die before you set foot on the Eternity Wall, but I have a plan that will get you into the Lion’s Gate space port.’
‘You’ll need… Hnnh. You’ll need more inducement than that.’
‘Dorn’s sons.’ The man’s savage grin was audible in his tone. ‘Never mind mopping up the scum of the Imperial Army, don’t you want to cut down the brothers that betrayed us?’
‘Hah! I understand where the betrayal lies.’ Khârn stalked back and forth, wanting to end the conversation to join the assault. The crack of bolters and battle cries of his companions called to him, the urging of his implant like a hot barb dragging him to the wall.
‘The World Eaters I knew would never seek the easy battle. Perhaps I don’t need you, after all.’
Kroeger turned away and Khârn was about to let him go. Another force, the whisper voice that ran through his blood, sounded louder than the insistent bark of his Nails.
‘Hnnh. Wait, Kroeger.’
Khârn could sense the mettle of this soldier and heard the thunder of Khorne in the Iron Warrior’s hearts. This was one who could be kin to the World Eaters. The Blood God was willing to lay his hand upon Kroeger and that demanded special attention.
‘Angron might listen… Hnnh. A call to arms from one dedicated to the Skull Throne might catch the primarch’s ear.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kroeger stepped back, his fist rising. It took every effort of the XII Legion captain not to react to the implied threat. The hand clasping the haft of Gorechild almost moved of its own accord.
‘You have the qualities of a great warrior,’ said Khârn. ‘The sort of warrior Khorne would bless with his blood-gifts. He demands nothing but what you want to give already. Hnnh. The deaths of your foes.’
‘The Emperor has already made me stronger than any mortal man,’ said Kroeger. ‘What other gifts do I need?’
A wreck of a Rhino transport protruded from the blood-slicked earth a few metres away. Khârn turned to it, the teeth of Gorechild spinning faster until the weapon howled in his grip. The champion of Khorne took two long strides and launched himself into the air, leaping higher than any normal Space Marine was able, axe in both hands. He brought the weapon sweeping down as he landed next to the wreck, its shining teeth slashing through armoured hull and track housing with a single mighty blow. Shattered ceramite and scattered track links exploded around him. Khorne’s power flowed through him, energising, setting his mind aflame through his Butcher’s Nails so that the growl of his axe was a soothing purr.
Khârn balled a fist and drove it into the flank of the armoured transport. His gauntlet split under the impact but his bone did not, punching through the armoured plate to the elbow. He tore the panel away with a wordless shout, hurling it far out across the blasted wasteland.
‘Nothing stands before the chosen of the Blood God and lives!’ he roared, turning on Kroeger. ‘No blade will pierce my skin. No bolt can scar my flesh. Swear yourself to Khorne and you will become his bloodied killer. Every life you take shall be offered up to his glory, and every moment you will know th
e joy of slaying.’
‘All I need to do is kill in his name?’ Kroeger laughed, long and deep. ‘No oaths? No rituals? No sacrifices?’
‘Hnnh.’ Khârn staggered towards the Iron Warrior, letting Gorechild fall to his side, ignoring the smell of his own blood flowing from the ruin of his hand. ‘As long as the blood flows, Khorne cares not for words.’
Kroeger lifted his combi-bolter, shining in the flash of artillery and the continued flare of orbital lance strikes.
‘Then let Lord Angron know that a brother-in-blood calls on him to carry his holy slaughter to the Lion’s Gate space port and we shall please the Blood God together.’
Djibou transition station, Afrik,
one hundred and six days before assault
The scale of the train defied belief. Zenobi and others investigated their new surroundings while the rest of the regiment boarded; even the idea that a single vehicle could transport the ten thousand-strong 64th Defence Corps seemed insanity.
On trying to ascend the ladders, they were rebuffed by armed provosts and told that the upper deck was for the crew only. These menacing sentinels bore red sashes over their uniforms, marking them out as dynastic chosen, the direct servants of the factory-dynasty overlords of the hive. Zenobi didn’t know when they had arrived; they certainly hadn’t travelled with the worker platoons over which they now stood watch.
A few scouts that dared glances past these impassive-faced guards reported weapons storage and doorways that the gathered troopers deduced were for access to the gun turrets that lined the roof. There was speculation as to what else might be found, and within half an hour the upper level had attained a semi-mythical status as a realm of plenty and comfort.
Conversations with wanderers from the decks below confirmed that each level was identical and windowless, save for the bottom deck, which was home to huge cabling links that connected the immense carriages together. There were basic cooking facilities at one end of each carriage but no mess area – they would be expected to eat at their cots it seemed. At the opposite end were the ablution blocks, which seemed woefully inadequate for the number of people that would be using them. The prospect of extra latrine duties rapidly became one of the worst punishments the sergeants and officers could threaten.
Two hours after boarding, the train still hadn’t moved. Zenobi broke open a slender ration bar she had smuggled into her kitbag and sat down on Menber’s cot to share it with her cousin.
‘Everything else is all about “move, move, move”, what’s taking so long?’ Zenobi asked but received only a silent shrug in reply as Menber chewed his portion of the ration bar. ‘They must have everybody on board by now, what’s the delay?’
‘You’re eager,’ said Sweetana from where she lay with her hands behind her head, two bunks over. ‘This isn’t so bad. I think this bed is bigger than the one I had back at Addaba!’
It was odd to realise the truth of what she said. Zenobi had never realised how cramped life had been in the hive-factories but comparing it to the space on the train – a train! – it was clear that all things considered, there was more comfort in this mobile barracks than in the worker dorms of their home.
A sudden stir amongst those quartered near the foremost stairwell drew attention from across the barracks-deck. Zenobi stood on the cot to see what was happening. Just as she gained her elevated position, she caught a glimpse of swirling crimson and purple as a knot of officers gathered with equal suddenness in the vicinity of the new arrivals.
‘Dynastic colours,’ Zenobi told those around her, her voice hushed with respect. ‘Maybe the ruby-born are coming with us.’
‘Don’t be such a fala, Obi,’ said Menber, pulling at her arm to dismount the bunk. She snatched herself away from his grip so she could carry on watching. ‘They’re staying at Addaba to oversee the defences and keep things running.’
The scattered discussions were silenced by barks from sergeants and platoon officers, and a few moments later the officers parted to reveal half a dozen newcomers, three men and three women, whose blue officer uniforms were additionally adorned with silken sashes of red and mauve, as Zenobi had seen. They were all shaven-headed and clean-cheeked and bore the lean, muscular build of uphiver enforcement. Red ink marked their eyelids and lips, giving them a stark, otherworldly look.
‘I guess that was who we were waiting for,’ said Menber.
Captain Egwu stepped forward, eyes scanning back and forth across the assembled company.
‘These are our company integrity officers, sent on behalf of the dynastic chiefs to ensure their reputation and intent is maintained by the defence corps assembled in their names.’
One of the integrity officers joined the captain, a woman with a sharp nose and cheeks, her forehead adorned with an additional red diamond tattoo.
‘I am Jawaahir Adunay Hadinet, integrity high officer for your company. Some of you may know me by the name my inmates gave me as punitive overseer of the East Main Spur correctional complex – the Iron Warden.’
The name meant nothing to Zenobi, but judging by the scattered muttering from across the company the announcement meant something to others. It was certainly a title that bode poorly for any transgressor.
‘We are not here to uphold Imperial Army regulations. We will not be judging the quality of your kit, nor monitoring your training drill. We will deal with disciplinary infractions that reduce the fighting effectiveness and discipline of this company. We will ensure that you adhere to a deeper truth of loyalty and dedication to the cause.’
This was met with silence. The assembled troopers were experienced enough in the work line to keep their lips sealed when a superior made such an announcement. Right from the outset the integrity officers would be watching for any with a loose tongue or showing signs of insubordination.
Zenobi suddenly felt quite exposed standing on the bed of her cousin but dared not climb down in case the movement drew further attention.
‘There will be one integrity officer for each platoon,’ said captain Egwu. ‘They will make themselves known–’
She stopped as the train trembled. The growl of reactors being brought to full power could be heard through the walls. The floor trembled as motors were engaged. There was barely any feeling of movement, just the slightest tug of inertia giving way to acceleration.
‘They will make themselves known to each of you in time,’ Egwu continued, raising her voice as the throb of the locomotive continued to grow. It was joined by the first metallic clatter of the wheels, muted by the thick hull of the carriage. She glanced at Jawaahir. ‘You will defer to the commands of the integrity officers at all times. Their word is law, their judgement absolute. I advise you now not to test their patience or resolve, but to comply with their wishes without hesitation or dispute.’
The integrity high officer cleared her throat and Egwu retreated a step, ceding even her authority to Jawaahir.
‘The entire corps will be subjected to introductory interview in the coming days, to get to know each of you better.’
‘Thank you–’ began Egwu but she was cut off by a glance from the high officer. The look was passive enough, no scowl or other visual admonishment in her expression, but it silenced the captain immediately.
‘I want you to bear no illusions, troopers of Addaba,’ Jawaahir told them, folding her arms. A movement in the crowd between Zenobi and the integrity officer briefly afforded her a full view. A long maul hung at one hip and a pistol was holstered at the other. ‘There are those that are looking to turn us from our purpose, seeking weakness in our hearts. The enemy will stop at nothing to strangle all liberty and resistance, and their agents are moving amongst you even now.’
Zenobi glanced around, expecting these spies to somehow reveal themselves immediately upon being accused. There were others darting suspicious glances at their companions and she started to ask herself just
how well she knew the people in the other platoons and companies. She caught a look of annoyance on the face of Menber and she threw him an enquiring gaze. He subtly shook his head, motioning with his eyes towards the integrity officers.
‘This is a war we will win with courage, determination and sacrifice,’ Jawaahir continued. ‘Your resolve will be tested. Your stamina will be pushed beyond anything you have ever endured. Your loyalty… Your loyalty to the cause will be called into question time and again. Against all of these threats, physical and mental, you must stand strong. We will be here to remind you of your duties and oaths.’
Her hand dropped to the pistol at her hip, whether unconsciously or not Zenobi could not tell, but the message was clear.
‘Company!’ snapped Egwu, bringing them all to attention. She paused for several long seconds, her gaze passing over every trooper under her command. ‘Lunch rations will be issued in thirty minutes. Your platoon officers will detail those on catering duty. The rest of you will attend to maintenance. The forces of Horus are not far away and soon the battle for Terra will begin. You will be ready when called upon.’
With a flick of her head, she dismissed them and turned to her officers, pointedly ignoring the integrity officers, who moved as a group towards the nearest ladder leading up to the roof level.
A collective sigh escaped the mustered troopers when the last of them had disappeared through the hatch, and Zenobi dropped down on the bunk, a nervous laugh escaping from her as she landed.
She heard her name being called by Okoye as he made his way across the carriage, along with others being summoned to the kitchen.
