The Chapters Due

by Graham McNeill

  He skidded around its remains, falling to one knee and pulling himself upright with a grunt of pain. The Iron Warriors’ wall was less than thirty metres away, but the ogre-creatures now turned from their drumming and formed a solid wall of muscle and iron between him and escape. The drumming stopped, but that was the only good news. Speed and space were his weapons in this raven’s flight, and he was rapidly running out of both.

  Fortunately he had another weapon he could use.

  Shaan stopped moving and walked calmly towards the brutish creatures, his hands raised in surrender.

  “You really are extremely ugly things,” said Shaan. “Quite repulsive in fact.”

  One of the creatures said something in its debased tongue, but to Shaan it was little more than a guttural drawl of meaningless syllables. He glanced over his shoulder. Thirty Bloodborn soldiers advanced towards him. They weren’t shooting, which was stupid of them. They wanted a prisoner, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  “The thing about finding enemies in your midst is that you can never really be sure how long they’ve been amongst you,” said Shaan. “You just don’t know what they might have sabotaged before you caught them.”

  As the last word left his lips, he sent the detonation pulse to the explosives planted throughout the magazine of the Black Basilica.

  DESPAIR SWAMPED MAGOS Locard. His info-emetics were working, they were doing what they were designed to do, but they were a guttering candle holding back a blizzard. Within minutes, the aegis barriers of the Praetorians would fall and they would turn their guns upon their erstwhile allies. The four valleys of the gorge would fill with blood and the way into Calth would be wide open.

  He uncoiled a mechadendrite from his torso and plugged into the vox-net, ready to warn all Imperial forces that the Praetorians should be considered as enemy combatants, when the darkness of the cavern was banished in an instant of vapour-white brightness. Blinding light washed every colour from existence and a thundering vibration passed through the rock.

  The seismic reader went off the scale for a second. “What new warpcraft are you to plague us with now?” he demanded, frustration and desperation breaking his last veneer of control.

  He looked at the holo-sphere, but quickly realised he didn’t need remote picters to see what had happened. A searing column of fire rose from behind the Bloodborn wall, sucking up debris, enemy soldiers and loose rock into a billowing mushroom cloud of superheated vapours and fire.

  “The Black Basilica,” hissed Locard. “The Raven Guard!”

  Behind the wall was an inferno of cataclysmic proportions, the fireball sweeping out over the walls like a raging ocean impacting a wholly inadequate sea barrier. The battle raging throughout the cavern ceased as the force of the blast threw down men and machines, and the Shockwave pummelled the earth. Chunks of rock dropped from the roof and billowing clouds of dust gusted outwards from the explosion.

  Turning from Shaan’s handiwork, Locard saw the power of the scrap-code die away, like a burning refinery pipe with the supply of promethium shut off. In contrast, his info-emetics surged to life, burning away the corrupt code infesting the operating systems of the Praetorians.

  Locard brought up the noospheric layer of the holo-sphere and closed his eyes as he saw how close the aegis barriers had come to failing. Less than three per cent of their integrity remained, which equated to little more than fifteen seconds of resistance to the infected lines of code. Then, like a chrono-gladiator whose death-clock had just been extended by a last-minute kill, the aegis barriers began to rebuild as Locard’s emetics began systematically purging the infernal code of the dark magos.

  When the barriers had rebuilt to fifteen per cent, Locard sent a manual reactivation code to the Praetorians. In moments, every one of those battle servitors would, once again, be killing the enemy with relentless, mechanical efficiency.

  “Emperor bless you, Captain Shaan!” said Magos Locard.

  EIGHTEEN

  NIGHT WAS FALLING, and the traitor’s screams had ceased. That meant he’d either passed out from the pain or was dead. Scipio Vorolanus didn’t much care which, but it was getting tiresome hearing their bastard tongue crying out to their fallen gods to save them. He looked up into the darkening sky seeing the starlight through the clouds and wondering how his battle-brothers fared.

  How went the war on Calth? Had the Chapter Master destroyed the daemon lord? Were five companies of Ultramarines even now racing towards Espandor to end this threat once and for all? Scipio idly traced patterns in the dust, battle formations and defence layouts as prescribed by the Codex when facing an enemy of superior numbers and inferior quality. He drew the diagrams without thinking, so ingrained in his consciousness that they were second nature.

  The bombed-out fabrik in which the Thunderbolts sheltered was located in an unfrequented quarter of the city, one that had suffered badly during the invasion. Most of the structures had no roofs or basic amenities left to them, and were thus unsuitable billets for the Bloodborn. The captured Rhino sat beneath a flapping sheet of tarpaulin, with Laenus trying to coax some life into the tortured engine. His warriors sat cleaning their weapons or eking out the last of their rations. One way or another, they were going to have to end this soon, for Scipio would not have his warriors eating food from the cesspool Corinth had become.

  Each warrior was stripped of his armour and wore only their khaki undersuits, over which they draped ragged clothing taken from the dead or those they had been forced to kill. It had been a week since they had come to this conquered city though it felt like a lifetime. In that time, they had killed twenty-seven Bloodborn soldiers in their attempt to determine whether or not the Corsair Queen was based in Corinth.

  The Bloodborn warriors they had captured all seemed to believe she was here, gathering her forces before launching her attack on Herapolis, but none of them had seen her. Even if one had claimed such knowledge, Scipio wasn’t sure he could trust their word. Only after seeing Kaarja Salombar with his own eyes would he risk contact with Captain Sicarius.

  To that end, he and Brother Nivian, who had lost his arm in the fight to capture the enemy Rhino, had ventured out into the city. Posing as renegade Astartes, they had walked the thoroughfares of the captive city, appalled at the degradation, needless vandalism and disrespect. Silver-skinned temples were now latrines, and civic buildings of law, justice and commerce were hung with corpses tortured for the fleeting amusement it would bring.

  Yet it was the wanton lack of discipline among the Bloodborn offended Scipio the most. He knew this aspect of the enemy should have cheered him, but it was galling to see that the armed force holding Ultramar in its grip was so slovenly. Drunkenness was epidemic, and infighting was rife. Brawls broke out every hour and the streets were littered with dead bodies, their throats cut or faces shot out.

  “How can anyone wish to live like this?” Nivian had asked, as they watched a group of masked Bloodborn set upon two of their own number for no apparent reason. Scipio had no answer, and they had turned a corner as the drunken Bloodborn stamped their former friends to death.

  The city had fallen to wrack and ruin, its streets littered with debris and the detritus of an army that cares nothing for its billet. The stench rising from the river was appalling, and it took every ounce of Scipio’s willpower to keep himself from drawing his sword and killing every Bloodborn he saw.

  How could such a force be so great a threat to the Imperium? It was beyond Scipio’s understanding. Where was the infrastructure, the organisation and the routine that would allow an army to function? On worlds taken by the Ruinous Powers, how could any society function without rules? Surely the worlds of the Archenemy must have some form of order imposed from higher echelons of command. How else would their armies be fed, equipped and mobilised for war? All the drunken debauchery Scipio saw only convinced him that there was an organising level of command of which he was not yet aware.

  Nivian’s injury allowed them to more
convincingly portray themselves as part of the host, and wherever they went they were accorded the respect of the Bloodborn. Shouted oaths and cursed blessings were heaped upon them, and each one made Scipio feel unclean and tainted. Every time they saw another Astartes, they hid, ducking into the tumbled remains of a ruin or along a filth-choked alleyway.

  Yet their efforts had, thus far, been in vain. They had seen signs of higher command structures, but no sign of any overall commander. Nivian, Laenus and Helicas had urged him to move on, but there was something to the energy of the Bloodborn that convinced Scipio that Salombar was here. He had nothing to base that on save suspicion, for why else would so many enemy units be gathered here?

  Yet a suspicion wasn’t enough to send word to Captain Sicarius.

  The nagging fear that he had failed in this mission tore at him. Scipio Vorolanus had never failed at anything in his life. From the recruitment tests on Tarentus to the fires of Black Reach, he had excelled in every task. His status as a veteran sergeant was unquestioned, and many had tipped him to rise further in the ranks of the 2nd Company. All that could be jeopardised by this mission’s failure, though Scipio hated the ambition he now recognised in himself.

  Anger touched him, and he rose from the packing crate he sat upon and made his way over to where Helicas held the captive. The man was slumped on his side, blood pooling around his head with a speed that told Scipio he wouldn’t be getting up again. His body was dressed in a patchwork uniform of many colours, looking more like a court harlequin than a soldier. A bright blue sash was tied around his waist, an affectation Scipio had learned denoted an officer, or as the corsairs called it, a Haexen.

  “Any word from the other sergeants?” asked Helicas.

  Scipio shook his head, irritated that he had been asked this question yet again. He took a deep breath and said, “No. It’s too dangerous to make contact now we’re in the city. Too easy for the enemy to triangulate our position.”

  “Of course, it’s just that we’re not getting anywhere with these prisoners. And your foot recon doesn’t seem to be getting us any closer to the Corsair Queen.”

  Scipio ignored the unsaid wish for action. “He didn’t tell you anything before you killed him?” asked Scipio, though he already knew the answer. If Helicas had learned anything, he would have told him.

  “Useless bastard,” hissed Helicas, as though offended at the dead man’s obstinacy. He turned away from the body and wiped his bloodied fists on a dirty rag soaked in counterseptic. “Just like all the others, sergeant. Kept telling me that the Corsair Queen’s here, but that he didn’t know where. Never seen her and wished me a thousand deaths in the same hell as my mother, where she’s apparently burning for mating with dogs.”

  “Lovely,” said Scipio, keeling beside the dead man. In death, his features had softened, the lines of hatred fading from his face to leave it almost serene. But for the hateful icons burned into his cheeks, now obscured by caked blood and bruises, he could have been one of any number of Imperial citizens.

  “Take off the uniform and he could be a citizen of Ultramar,” said Scipio.

  “Empathising with the enemy, sergeant?” chuckled Helicas. “Never a good sign.”

  “I’m not empathising, I’m lamenting,” said Scipio. “He could have been one of us, but he took a different road and now he’s dead.”

  “Then he made poor life choices.”

  “That he did,” agreed Scipio. “But I wonder was he corrupt from birth or did he grow to become a traitor? Where was that one moment when he decided that he was no longer a servant of the Emperor and pledged his life to the Ruinous Powers?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I think it does, Helicas. To recognise that moment would allow us to prevent it. The Bloodborn are damned beyond redemption, that much is certain, but how many others, right now, are teetering on the brink of loyalty and treachery? How many of these men were born evil, and how many were made evil by the worlds around them?”

  “I’m just a line warrior, sergeant,” said Helicas. “It’s the job of captains and Chapter Masters to think like that.”

  “It’s everyone’s job to think like that,” snapped Scipio. “Or at least it should be.”

  He shook his head, seeing that Helicas didn’t understand. As a gunner and soldier Helicas was efficient and thorough but, by his own admission, he was no thinker.

  “Sorry, sergeant,” said Helicas.

  Scipio felt ire and sadness blend in the forefront of his mind, and said, “An Astartes should be a thinker, for our bodies and minds have been crafted to be superior to mortals. It is a waste for any of us not to try and achieve our full potential as individuals. Isn’t that what Ultramar offers its inhabitants, a chance to better themselves and thrive in an environment that fosters productive people?”

  The Thunderbolts turned their attention upon him, and Scipio warmed to his theme. “I have fought on hundreds of different worlds and seen a thousand different cultures. On the worst worlds, I was struck by the impossibility of change, of the wasted potential I saw in the abject poverty and desperation of the populace. The Imperium has billions of lives to spend in its betterment, but most people simply rot away in the forgotten reaches of ash-blown, oil-stained worlds of wretched despair. What chance do those people have? How many people are driven into the arms of the Archenemy by the grinding horror of their daily lives?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” answered Helicas, missing the rhetorical nature of the question, and Scipio saw the man’s discomfort at being spoken to like this.

  Scipio rose to his full height, looking hard at his warriors. He saw their frustration and felt their desperate need for action. He recognised it because he felt it too. A plan began to form in his mind, and though it bore all the hallmarks of one hatched by Captain Sicarius, he relished the idea of fighting back. And he knew just how to do it.

  “We have been passive for too long,” he said, marching over to the Rhino and pulling the tarpaulin clear. “But that is over now.”

  Nivian took a step forward from the Thunderbolts, Scipio’s bolt pistol clutched in his one remaining hand. “What are you suggesting, sergeant?” he asked.

  “If we cannot find the Corsair Queen, then we will make her come to us.”

  THE WALLS OF Castra Tanagra were quiet. Death had a habit of making it so. Tigurius walked along the walls of the shrine fortress, weary beyond words and soul-sick from the ever-present daemons. They gathered like a fog on the edge of sight, bathed in the energising light from the hateful, ever-present bolt of lightning that crackled on the horizon. A capering miasma of hideous forms and reptilian hunger, the daemons stared hungrily at the defenders within the fortress.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “This is all wrong.”

  Men and women huddled in the lee of the ramparts, wrapped tightly in their cloaks and blankets. The mountains were cold and an icy wind was blowing down from the Capena Spire. Winter on Talassar was harsh, and the cold weather was coming earlier this year. Flecks of snow floated in the air, and puffs of breath could be seen before every face.

  Thirteen hundred souls filled Castra Tanagra, just over half that had begun this fight. Hundreds more were dead or too wounded to fight. Yet those who remained on the walls fought with defiance and courage. They were magnificent, but with every attack, the numbers defending the walls diminished and the spectre of defeat loomed ever larger.

  Tigurius glanced over towards the drum-tower keep, its many halls filled with wounded and dead. He felt the pain bleeding from its interior like a black fog, and tried to shut out the despair it carried as he continued onwards.

  Soldiers nodded to him as he passed, but none spoke to him, for he was Adeptus Astartes, and he was touched by the same powers that assailed them daily. Even the Ultramarines spoke to him only when they needed to, and loneliness touched Tigurius. He had long ago accepted that he would walk a solitary path in life, but to be facing his end in a forgotten citadel with few
men he could call friend touched a raw nerve in the Librarian, and a spike of resentment flared momentarily.

  He glanced down into the courtyard, seeing Marneus Calgar surrounded by the company sergeants of the 1st Company tasked with defending the eastern curve of the walls. The Chapter Master had been instrumental in the continued resistance of Castra Tanagra, fighting the daemons with such furious courage that any who saw him redoubled their efforts. Calgar looked up and waved, the Gauntlets of Ultramar cracked and dulled after so many blows. Tigurius returned the gesture and turned away, a bilious wave of nausea rising in his throat.

  It was cold here, and though his battle plate protected him from the environment, an icy chill reached deep into his heart. He turned away and made his way further along the wall towards Agemman. The First Captain shared easy banter with one of his veterans, but that ended the moment he saw Tigurius.

  “Librarian,” said Agemman, his face hardening to granite as Tigurius reached him. “What brings you to this section of the wall?”

  “The psychic wards require strengthening,” said Tigurius, tapping golden carving worked into the sloping edge of the parapet. Its lustre was now dulled and almost invisible. “Every time the daemons attack, they sap the power from the wards the fortress’ builders wrought into its bones.”

  Agemman looked at the golden sigil with a frown.

  “I had assumed it was simply decorative.”

  “Not so, First Captain,” said Tigurius. “They are vital to our continued survival.”

  Agemman shrugged and turned away.

  Anger touched Tigurius at Agemman’s boorish behaviour, and though he knew it was his exhaustion talking, he couldn’t help the barb that flew from his lips. “Without these psychic wards sapping the strength of the daemons, this would be a much harder fight.”

  “What are you saying?” demanded Agemman, turning back to him.