“We’ve slowed them, but we’ve not stopped them,” said Praxor.
“They are marching on Herapolis,” said Iulius. “That’s clear enough to see.”
“That much is obvious,” said Sicarius. “Look closer, look with the eyes of the enemy.”
As distasteful as that was, Scipio put the thought that this was a world of Ultramar from his mind and imagined that Espandor was a world to be conquered. As though the red arrows and timing markers were his own forces, he plotted what had been done and what he would do next. The shape of the invasion became fluid in his mind, his intuitive grasp of infiltration stratagems allowing him to look upon the map with eyes that saw beyond the most advantageous battlefields or ambush sites. He saw the mind behind the army, comparing the timing of each assault with plotted rates of movement of each division.
“She moves between her forces,” he said. “That’s why we’ve never found her. She issues her orders then moves to the army with the most difficult task. She’s a glory-seeker.”
“Scipio has the truth of it,” said Sicarius, clapping a hand on his gold-edged shoulder guard. “She’s a cunning one, this Kaarja Salombar. Oh yes, she’s a cunning one, but she’s used to dealing with plodding amateurs. Cato Sicarius has her measure, but I need to know where she is if I’m to put a blade to her neck.”
“And that’s where we come in,” said Praxor.
“Indeed, Sergeant Manorian,” said Sicarius. “I cannot kill what I cannot find, and as Gaius here is always teaching me, I should not launch a blow until I am sure it will land where I intend it to land.”
“What would you have us do, my lord?” asked Scipio.
“Take your squads out into the wilds and be my silent hunters in the darkness. Find me the Corsair Queen and send word of her whereabouts. I will bring the wrath of the 2nd down upon her and we will have her head on a spike before that day is out.”
Scipio hammered his fist against his breastplate, pleased to have a mission in which he knew his warriors would excel. “We will find her for you, my lord,” he promised, and his brother sergeants echoed his forceful declaration.
“Find her soon,” said Sicarius as the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness fell.
ELEVEN
WITH ONE CLAW wedged in the rock, Ardaric Vaanes swung out from his perch, a corbel in the shape of an eagle’s head nearly eighteen hundred metres above the ground. The blades of his right fist hammered into the rock and he released his other hand’s grip, swinging around and latching onto the wall with his feet. He held himself rigid as he felt the augur sweep of the nearby gunport pass over him, moulding his body to the inner face of the gateway and cutting all but the most essential power emissions of his armour.
Around him, the loxatl of Xaneant’s kinband went perfectly still, following his lead and altering their body chemistry to perfectly blend with the mountain stone and reduce their body heat to almost nothing. The reptilian aliens were lethal killers, and with their chameleonic hides, made superlative stealth operatives. The weakest link in this approach was the Newborn, but it had proved itself capable on the Indomitable, so he had allowed it to come on the mission.
Twenty metres above him and ten to the right, the Ultramarines gunport above the vast bronze gate thundered as it unleashed another salvo of shells on the Iron Warriors encampment below. The muzzle flash of the guns was blinding and the noise deafening. The recoil dissipated through the mountain and Vaanes clenched his fist and braced himself as the juddering vibrations tried to shuck him off. The sound of these guns from the camp below was incredible, but this close it was next to unbearable.
The shells hammered down on the elaborate earthwork built at the end of the shattered causeway, sending up plumes of fire and pulverised stone, but doing little damage to the edifice. It was wasted effort; once Honsou’s men were dug in, it would take more than artillery to shift them. Vaanes was sure that Ultramarines doctrine allowed for sallies only under specific conditions, and this wouldn’t match any such conditions.
Using the booming echoes of the guns to cover his movement, Vaanes fed power back into the fibre-bundle muscles of his armour and clawed his way over the gnarled cliffs. With fluid motion, he eased himself towards the battery’s embrasure as the long barrels withdrew and its blast shield came down. His movements were sure and swift, an indistinct black shape moving over the rock face like a shadow at twilight.
It had taken his team of killers four hours to climb this far, but Vaanes would not be rushed. This was his area of expertise, and though he now questioned why he even fought with Honsou’s army, the chance to put his lethal talents into action was too good an opportunity to pass up. Besides, it was the only way they were getting through this gate, and Honsou knew it.
He had chosen his approach with great care, climbing through the areas of the gateway where the sensor shadows of the giant statues provided the most cover from augurs and anti-personnel guns placed to stop an enemy from doing what he was attempting.
Vaanes smiled to himself. Against any opponent save one schooled at the Ravenspire, it might actually have provided security. As it was, this was little more than an exercise for one such as he. It had been many years since he had trained with his brethren, but he had lost none of his expertise. He hugged the rock face below the gunport as the loxatl spread out to encircle it. The Newborn clung to the rocks behind him, its body trembling with the effort of holding itself still.
He nodded to the Newborn and jerked his head towards the blast shield and held up three fingers. He counted down with his digits, and as the last one curled back into his fist, the blast shield began rising with a pneumatic whine of gears and pistons.
Vaanes waited until the blast shield had risen enough to allow entry and swung himself up and over the lower lip of the gunport. He rolled onto his side, skidding along and over the greased rails of the recoil compensators. Four gun barrels, each a metre and a half across, were sliding down the rails into the firing position. He had to move fast. If the guns fired before he was fully inside, the pressure wave would rupture every organ in his body and shatter his bones to powder.
The Newborn crawled alongside him, and he heard the chittering motion of the loxatl as they followed them in. The rumble of heavy motors and chains grew louder as Vaanes reached the exhaust ports that would vent the enormous amount of propellant gasses. The bulky form of the breech was just ahead, a flickering series of warning lights winking through the clouds of hissing steam.
Vaanes rose to his knees and vaulted straight up, hauling himself onto the top of the nearest gun barrel and scooting forward until he reached the louvered shutters that separated the guns’ fire control from the weapon itself and prevented the vast amounts of vented propellant fumes from blowing back onto the gunners.
“Follow my lead,” he said. “Kill anyone you see, and do it fast. No survivors and no alarms. Understood?”
The Newborn nodded and the loxatl sent a rippling pattern of violet and gold through their scaled bodies. Vaanes had come to recognise that as assent, and extended the claws of his gauntlet. The sound of a muted siren came from beyond the louvers, and the guns reached their firing position with a heavy boom of locking clamps.
Two rapid slashes of his claws and the louvers were reduced to torn strips of metal. Vaanes launched himself through the hole and dropped into the fire control of the mighty guns. The loxatl swarmed after him, spreading over the walls and ceiling like insects from a kicked burrow.
Two dozen or so operatives filled the fire control centre, servitors and Defence Auxilia mainly, but a single Ultramarines warrior with a partially augmented torso was plugged into the command console to authorise each firing. Surprised faces turned towards him, and Vaanes relished the moment those mortals realised their terrible danger.
He launched himself towards the Ultramarine, his claws extended before him. The warrior swung his bolter up, but Vaanes slashed it in two with a casual flick of his left wrist. His right claw punche
d through the warrior’s neck. Blood squirted around the blades of his gauntlet and he twisted his arm to tear the wound open wider. Gunshots burst around him, and Vaanes kicked himself free of the corpse and spun away from the las-fire.
Streams of flechettes shredded the enemy soldiers before they could fire again, and yet more whickering darts ricocheted around the control room as the alien killers rooted out those enemies who had gone to ground. The Newborn smashed a soldier from his feet with a thunderous kick and backhanded another with its fist. A volley of solid rounds hammered its armour, but it seemed oblivious.
Vaanes ran towards the source of the shots, diving forward as a spray of bullets raked overhead. He rolled to his knees, punching out to either side and skewering the shooters on his claws. The bodies slumped to the ground and it was over, the gun battery was theirs.
Vaanes stood and turned to the Newborn.
“You can do what you need to from here?”
“I can,” it said, pushing the dead Ultramarine from the console. “Send the signal.”
FROM THE SOARING height of the upper observation deck, Uriel watched the damnable progress of the Iron Warriors with a mixture of dread and anticipation. As horrific as it was to have the servants of the Ruinous Powers treading the soil of Calth, he longed for the confrontation that would end this war.
The images he’d seen while hooked up to Locard’s machines haunted him with their potency. As much as he wanted to hate the creature that bore his face, he found he could not, having lived through agonised moments of its life. Locard’s words had resonance, and Uriel wondered what the boy might have grown into had he been given the chance of a normal life.
A commissar? A general? Or perhaps he was destined for a life of soldiering in the ranks? It was impossible to tell, but the Iron Warriors had taken away all the boy had ever had and all he was ever going to have. It would have been better to have killed him.
“Has anything else returned to you?” asked Inquisitor Suzaku, approaching from the rear of the observation deck. Her acolyte followed her. Uriel remembered his name was Soburo, and he sensed the man was some way from becoming a full member of the ordos. Suzaku had spoken to Uriel at length following Locard’s procedure, and he had elaborated parts of the memory with his own recollections of the halls of the Savage Morticians. “No,” said Uriel without turning. “I have told you all that I know.” Suzaku joined him at the polarised glass wall, staring down at the siege-works below. From the outside, the observation deck would be invisible, and they stood in silence for a moment as they studied the enemy. Clouds of dust obscured the siegeworks as Honsou’s artillery began a fresh barrage, but the hateful form of the corrupt battle fortress behind it could clearly be seen. To look upon it for too long gave Uriel a sense of cold dread, and he averted his eyes from its unnatural shape.
Beyond the dread leviathan, the wilds of Calth spread out in undulant dunes and petrified forests of sheared rock. An army of conquest traversed that bleak landscape, travelling from the captured landing fields and assembly yards of Highside City to Guilliman’s Gate in their thousands. Somewhere out there, Learchus led an armoured spearhead of tanks and Defence Auxilia. Codex protocol was to detach a number of units to harry the enemy line of advance, to work in the shadows destroying supply convoys, ambushing reinforcements and disrupting communication. Such a task would normally have fallen to Issam and his Scouts, but the deadly light of Calth’s sun made it impossible for anyone not clad in Astartes battle plate or sealed within an armoured vehicle to survive.
Fresh from his disruptive activities behind the tau lines on Pavonis, Learchus had immediately requested to lead the many volunteers ready to embark upon this dangerous mission. As Learchus’ tank force peeled away from the main column en route to the gate, Uriel had impressed upon him the critical nature of the mission, knowing he might never see his comrade again.
Learchus’ voice had been proud as he said, “I will not fail you.”
“I know you will not,” said Uriel, before adding. “Come back safe. The 4th needs you.”
“Count on it,” said Learchus, and the vox-link shut off.
“Will the gate hold?” asked Suzaku, startling Uriel from his reverie. He was surprised to hear a note of unease in her voice. He studied the workings of the Iron Warriors and folded his arms across his chest.
“Yes. Even the Iron Warriors cannot breach this gate with a direct assault.”
“I am sure Rogal Dorn said the same thing at the walls of Terra,” said Suzaku. “Did you know his Legion were tasked with the fortification of the Emperor’s palace? As it exists today, the palace bears little resemblance to its former glory. It was a wonder, you know, a landmass of architecture and an object of awe from one side of the galaxy to the other.”
“It still is,” said Uriel.
“Have you seen it?” she asked, before adding, “No, of course you haven’t. I have. The orbis and lazulite carvings on Dhawalagiri elevation took Menzo of Travert thirty years to complete, and now they gather dust in the vaults. I saw two golden beasts, each a hundred metres tall, locked together in frozen dispute. I believe they once formed part of the Lion’s Gate, but it’s hard to be certain.”
“You are a student of history?”
“Of sorts,” said Suzaku. “I study the ancient times to learn how to avoid the mistakes of the past.” She smiled wanly and raised a hand to her face. “It has had mixed results.”
Uriel studied Suzaku’s profile, taking in the elegant sweep of her jaw line and the sculpted cheekbones that spoke of augmetic surgery. A faint glimmer of metal at the corner of her eye was all that could be seen of the mechanisms behind her retina.
“I lost the eye on Medinaq,” she said. “Along with most of my face.”
“The reconstruction work is exceptional.”
“I am worth it,” she said without trace of arrogance.
“Are you that good at what you do?”
“Since Medinaq I am,” said Suzaku. “I was trained by Mazeon, and his death taught me a valuable lesson in the price of hesitation.”
As Suzaku spoke, she absently stroked her cheek, as though reliving the injuries that took her eye. Uriel didn’t think she was even aware of the gesture. He returned his gaze to the attacking army and the vast black temple that held court over the host of the damned.
“All this for me,” said Uriel softly. “It beggars belief that anyone could hate so deeply.”
“You think this is all about you?”
“Everything Honsou has done has been in service of his vengeance,” said Uriel. “The destruction of Tarsis Ultra was all about letting me know that he was coming. And that he is here on Calth, the world of my birth, speaks volumes. Why? What do you think he is here for?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Suzaku, turning to face him at last. “I have found that the Ruinous Powers rarely confine their designs to the fate of one mortal. There is always a darker purpose behind their actions.”
“With Honsou behind this army, I am not sure you are correct. He has followed me all the way from the Eye of Terror for the sake of vengeance.”
“In a galaxy where the fate of a single life is irrelevant, do you really think a warlord in command of such a host would care about one death?”
Uriel nodded, picturing the last time he had seen Honsou in the caverns beneath the blasted fortress of Khalan-Ghol. Such hatred would cross a dozen galaxies to be sated.
“I do. I brought down his fortress and walked away from his offer to join him. He hates me like no other. And you are wrong.”
“About what?”
“That the fate of a single life is irrelevant. Every life is vital, no matter how seemingly insignificant. If we forget that then we are no better than the scum out there.”
Suzaku smiled. “Spoken like a true hero,” she said.
Uriel tuned out the rest of her words as a sudden, lurching sense of vertigo seized him. His vision blurred, and for a moment it seemed as though he were
on the other side of the armoured glazing. He reached out to steady himself, seeing through another’s eyes as he stared at the ground, thousands of metres below.
As though he clung to a precarious perch on the inner face of the gateway.
“Something’s wrong,” he said as another thudding barrage fired upon the Iron Warriors encampment. From within the observation deck, the noise was muted, but Uriel’s enhanced hearing picked out a subtle difference in the sound.
“What?” said Suzaku, instantly alert.
“One of the gun batteries is not firing,” he said, understanding what his strange sensation of vertigo implied. “The enemy is within!”
THE NEWBORN'S HANDS danced over the command console, its fingers moving by rote rather than knowledge. With every passing second, Ardaric Vaanes grew more and more uneasy. He had enjoyed the killings, feeling the anticipation of the lingering presence that had been his constant companion since joining Honsou’s army. It revelled in his joy, but Vaanes forced its insidious whisperings down.
The killings were a measure of his skill. He had taken no pleasure in the deaths.
Keep telling yourself that the whispers seemed to say.
“How much longer is this going to take?” he demanded. “It won’t take the Ultramarines long to realise one of their guns has stopped firing.”
The Newborn shrugged, its face a mask of incomprehension. Its eyes were shut and a green glow seeped from beneath the lids, as though lambent emerald light shone from within. Vaanes had seen light that colour before, and he shuddered at the thought of the bloated monster Adept Cycerin had become.
“Genetic markers confirmed,” said a toneless voice from the command console.
“You’re in,” said Vaanes, coming around the console to see the slates come alive with targeting information and data on the gun they had captured. The scrolling numbers flickered and distorted as the Newborn’s fingers flashed over the input slate.
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