Scipio thrust his sword at a charging berserker. The blade lanced into the warrior’s throat and a fan of arterial blood sprayed out. He hurled the dead traitor back, tripping another enemy who was promptly shot by Helicas. The narrow stairs were hampering the enemy’s attempts to reach them, but such was the weight of numbers pushing up from below that there was a desperate inevitability to their battle. Another plasma blast tore through the attackers, and the reek of burning meat caught in Scipio’s throat.
A pall of black smoke hung over Corinth’s central plaza, the flames from their assault still spreading and taking more of the Bloodborn encampment with it. Though they numbered only ten warriors, they had cut a devastating swathe through the enemy.
Nivian fired the pistol Scipio had given him, using it as a club when the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. With only one arm, it was impossible for him to reload. The four Ultramarines fought with all the strength bred into them by the Chapter’s gene-smiths and the courage that came naturally to every warrior of Ultramar. They fought harder than any of them had fought before, digging deep into their inner reserves of strength to hold the foe at bay.
Time and time again the traitor Astartes came at them, and time and time again they hurled them back. Bloodborn soldiers with grapnels and ladders attempted an escalade, but Nivian, even with one arm, had the strength to cast them down. Scipio lost track of how long they had fought, but the sun was setting as the last berserker fell to a combined pummelling of bolter shells. Behind the dead warrior, Scipio saw the orange and black Claws of Lorek falling back down the tower stairs.
“For courage!” shouted Scipio.
“For honour!” cried Helicas.
“For Ultramar!” bellowed Nivian and Coltanis.
Scipio had never been prouder to be their sergeant. Fresh waves of gunfire drove them into the cover of the parapet, but Scipio knew they would have to weather that fire in moments when the traitor Astartes tried to force their way onto the tower once again. He glanced at the chronometer in his visor, amazed to find that nearly thirty minutes had passed since they had taken the gatehouse.
“Helicas, get that missile launcher ready to fire again,” he ordered. “Nivian, give me that pistol so I can put a fresh magazine in for you, they’ll be back at us soon.”
“Let them come,” said Nivian, handing over the weapon.
“Damn, you’ve made a mess of my gun,” said Scipio. “The armourers will have my hide for this.”
“Sorry, sergeant, those berserkers have got hard heads. Took a bit of cracking open.”
Scipio smiled and reloaded the pistol, as a deafening roaring cut through the protective autosenses of their armour to eclipse the constant snap and rattle of gunfire. Like stuttering blasts of lightning on a clear day, the top of the tower was suddenly illuminated by blazing tongues of fire from the anti-aircraft guns.
A thousand shells a minute roared from each gun’s quad-mounted barrels, ripping great gouges in the enemy clustered around the tower. Hundreds died as Laenus and Bradua rotated the turret of their gun, whole sections of the camp disintegrating under the furious storm of fire. Explosions erupted in parallel lines throughout the Bloodborn encampment as the fire of weapons designed to bring down armoured flyers was turned on soft, fleshy bodies.
Natalis and Isatus worked the fire of the second gun over the Bloodborn, cutting two skiffs in half in a whickering storm of shells. The heavier skiff of the Corsair Queen slewed away from the collimated lines of fire, turning its prow and aft guns on the tower. Whickering shells ripped through the stone of the parapet and tore through the anti-aircraft gun’s mantlet. Natalis died instantly, his body obliterated in a blaze of fire and blood. Isatus was blown from his perch on the gunner’s seat and flew through the air to land in the midst of the Bloodborn.
Scipio cried out, but there was nothing to be done for his two warriors.
Laenus turned his fire to intercept the Corsair Queen’s skiff, but she had anticipated such a response and swept towards the tower, into the dead zone below the gun’s angle of declination. Denied his original target, Laenus turned his fire on the ammunition stores at the edge of the plaza. Blooms of bright fire erupted from the smashed structures and the explosions consumed a score of fire teams nearby. Scipio’s heart lurched as he saw dozens of other fire teams readying large-calibre mortars. Behind them, half a dozen mobile artillery tanks were moving into position on the edge of the plaza.
“Emperor’s blood,” he swore, now understanding why the traitor Astartes had pulled back from the roof entrance. The mortars boomed with metallic coughs and Scipio heard the whining screech of their shells.
“Incoming!” shouted Scipio.
He rolled onto his front and pressed himself tight against the inner face of the parapet as a wave of mortar shells screamed down. Most of the first volley was too long, coming down on the inner face of the palace walls. Thunderous impacts threw up bodies and cobbled stone and the tower shook with the force of the detonations.
Two shells scored direct hits on the tower, and Scipio was thrown into the air by the percussive blasts. His vision crazed as his helmet cracked against the rampart, and shards of armoured glass embedded in his face. Shrapnel whickered through the air and he grunted as a palm-sized fragment of red-hot metal lodged in his arm above the elbow. He wrenched it out as another shell exploded, sending a fan of metal ball bearings slashing downward.
Laenus screamed as his armour was perforated, and he fell from his perch on the gun. He crawled to the edge of the parapet, leaving a trail of bright blood behind him. Nivian and Coltanis cried out as their armour was battered by a blizzard of shrapnel.
Scipio’s armour registered multiple breaches and he felt his skin burn from sizzling fragments. He tore off his shattered helmet and hurled it aside. Acrid smoke wreathed the gatehouse and the air reeked of burnt propellant. Blood stained the dressed stone of the ramparts, and Scipio coughed a mouthful of red-frothed spit.
Another shell slammed into the roof, punching into the guts of the tower and a blazing plume of fire and smoke geysered skyward from the detonation. Stone fell from the gatehouse and the structure groaned alarmingly as another shell slammed down on the second tower. Shell after shell arced down onto the tower, most blasting through to explode inside, but some detonating above it and tearing it apart. Incendiaries exploded over the roof, and Scipio dived beneath a tilted slab of cracked stone as the fireball swept over him.
Scipio lost sight of his men, knowing they were either buried in the rubble or vaporised in the firestorm of explosions. He rolled out from cover, drawing his sword as a thunderous roar sounded above him.
“If I am to die, it will be on my feet,” he snarled, clambering onto the tilted slab and raising his sword high. Choking clouds of smoke obscured the sunset, but a hot wind was punching a hole between the ground and sky. And in that hole, Scipio saw a sight that could have come straight from Chapter legends.
Four Thunderhawk gunships in the livery of the 2nd Company Gladius, Spatha, Pilum and Xiphos.
They swooped in like avenging angels in Ultramarines blue, and Scipio Vorolanus had never seen so sweet a sight.
Sicarius.
DESPITE THE FACT that this was a shrine dedicated to a hero of the Ultramarines, Honsou was impressed by the monolithic character of Ventanus’ tomb. From the outside it was impressive, but its designer—no doubt the Ultramarines would claim it to be their primarch—had known that the true measure of a building was in its interior functionality.
Though a portion of its supporting facade had collapsed, the great gem of a dome remained intact, its roof unbowed. The interior floor plan of the tomb was circular, laid out like a grand amphitheatre or council hall. Though instead of steps or seats, the tiers around the central open space were for the dead.
Hundreds of stone sarcophagi were laid out in concentric circles around the central floor of the tomb, each one a member of some lost Chapter of the Ultramarines back when they were or
ganised as a Legion. In the centre of the tomb, directly beneath the dome’s cupola was a gleaming sarcophagus of black marble, machine-finished and miraculously free of dust after centuries of isolation.
Bare of ornamentation apart from a silver plaque bearing the name of the warrior entombed within, this was what M’kar had sent them to destroy. This was the final resting place of Captain Ventanus of the Ultramarines. M’kar hadn’t elaborated much when it had told Honsou that this shrine was to be cast to ruin, only that he was to ensure that the body of Ventanus and all his wargear were consumed utterly.
“It seems a shame to destroy this place,” said the Newborn, following Honsou’s gaze towards the Iron Warriors spread throughout the structure. Demolition teams wired massive amounts of explosives together in chains that would bring the structure crashing down in an avalanche of fire and debris.
Honsou shrugged. “What do you care?”
“I don’t, not really. I just appreciate the architectural splendour of this place.”
“You are a judge of architecture?”
“No, but I can still know a harmonious space when I see it.”
Honsou laughed. “Listen to yourself. You’re a creature of the warp and a killer, yet here you are lamenting the destruction of an enemy structure because it looks pretty?”
“I suppose I am. Is that strange?”
Honsou didn’t answer, returning his attention to the demolition teams. Rigging the building for destruction was taking longer than he would have liked. The architect, Guilliman or not, had known his trade. This was a damnably stable structure.
But there were no better artists of demolition than the Iron Warriors, and one thing Honsou knew was that any building would come down if you packed it with enough explosives.
“Aren’t you concerned that Uriel Ventris is outside?” asked the Newborn.
“Should I be?” asked Honsou. “I think the Blade dancers and Grendel can handle his motley band of brave heroes.”
“What if they cannot?”
“Then I have you to protect me,” said Honsou.
The Newborn cocked its head to one side and looked at him quizzically. “I think you want Grendel and the Blade dancers to fail.”
“Maybe I do,” admitted Honsou. “It does seem a shame to come all this way and not kill Ventris myself. Anyway, why the concern? I though you wanted to face your maker again?”
“I do,” said the Newborn.
“Then let’s hope we both get what we want.”
VAANES HAD CALLED them Blade dancers, and the name was an apt one. Uriel watched the enemy flow from the tomb like a troupe of acrobats. His eye designated seventeen individual threats. Slender of limb and clad only in loose plates of silver and lacquered leather, it seemed an absurd force to send against twenty-seven Astartes and an inquisitor of the holy ordos. A mix of sexes, each blade dancer carried a glittering sword, while their leader, an androgynous figure in silver armour, bore swords of dark and light.
A warrior in the burnished iron and scratched yellow of the Iron Warriors came too, moving slowly compared to the sword troupe. There was a familiarity to his movements, but Uriel saw immediately that it wasn’t Honsou. He didn’t know the warrior, but intended to kill him just the same.
“Swords of Calth, fire right!” ordered Uriel. “Firebrands left.”
Bolters were raised in unison as the Ultramarines advanced. Shaan split his Raven Guard, leading one squad over the blocks to the right. Revys Kyre led a second group behind and further out from his captain’s squad.
“Fire!” shouted Uriel, and the bolters of his warriors thundered.
Not one of the troupe was felled.
Their shots had missed, and Uriel was astounded. The dancers moved like quicksilver, flowing out of the path of the shells as though they moved in slow motion. Another volley was similarly ineffective, but the third put down two of their lithe foes. Their shots echoed from the walls of the cave, but then the dancers were among them.
Swords flickered like steel tongues of striking snakes, lashing out with the speed of whips and slicing into armour with terrible ease. Two of the Firebrands fell, their heads sliding neatly from severed necks, and Uriel saw Livius Hadrianus drop his melta gun as a whipping blade cut into the meat of his shoulder. Brutus Cyprian roared and put his fist through the face of Hadrianus’ attacker, spinning on his heel and ramming his elbow into the chest of another dancer, pulverising her ribcage and hurling her back through the air. Uriel deflected a blow meant to open his jugular and desperately fended off a blistering series of ripostes and counter-strikes that left him in no doubt that he was monstrously outclassed. Ancient Peleus planted the banner beside him, firing precise shots into the swirling melee. Only a superlative marksman would dare to take such shots, and each one dropped a sword dancer.
Inquisitor Suzaku danced through the battle, as elegant as any of her foes. She fought with an ivory staff lined with green threads, and its tip crackled with arcs of psychic energy. With the exception of her warrior bodyguard, the remainder of her retinue stood clear of the battle. The acolytes with Vaanes secured by the mancatchers kept a wary distance, unwilling to let a traitor anywhere near this desperate struggle for survival.
Selenus ducked and wove a path through the fighting to reach the fallen warriors, killing a sword dancer with a spray of automatic bolter fire as he dropped to his knees beside the Ultramarines wounded. Two of Pasanius’ squad stood over him as he ensured the gene-seed of the dead warriors was retrieved.
Alone of the Swords of Calth, Petronius Nero could match the skill of their attackers. Hadrianus and Cyprian fought back to back to fend off the swordsmen, but Nero slid through their ranks, his sword as much of a blur as those of his opponents. Where he normally fought with an element of showmanship, there was none of that now, only the efficient kill strokes of a master bladesman. No sooner was one foe slain than Nero had moved onto the next.
Uriel was in awe of the warrior’s skill, fighting with every ounce of his ability just to stay alive. He ducked a decapitating sweep and slammed into the warrior, taking them both to the ground. It wasn’t finesse, it wasn’t a move taught by the sword masters of Macragge, but it did the job. He smashed his helmet into the face of the sword dancer, pulverising the features beneath the silver mask. He scrambled clear as another dancer landed lightly next to him and plunged a sword into his chest.
Uriel rolled before the tip could penetrate more than a handspan, slamming the flat of his palm against the blade and snapping it off at the hilt. He kicked out, shattering the swordsman’s kneecap and gripped his lacquered straps as he dropped. He dragged the warrior down and pounded his head on the rocks, hearing the wet crack of a skull shattering.
Quickly, Uriel got to his feet as the Iron Warrior reached the fight. At first Uriel thought he was wearing a monstrous fright mask, then realised the man’s face was hideously burned and blackened by fire. He carried a melta gun and fired it into the mass of fighting warriors with a gleeful bellow of hate. A thunderclap of superheated air boomed in the midst of the battle, and two of the Firebrands fell with half their bodies blasted to stinking vapour.
Pasanius roared in hatred and fought his way towards the Iron Warrior, clubbing sword dancers out of his way with his bare hands in his fury to reach this scarred killer. He hurled himself at the Iron Warrior, and Uriel lost sight of them as two sword dancers came at him. One was the silver-armoured leader, a woman of such repulsive beauty that Uriel could barely look at her. Twin swords wove a dazzling pattern of light in the air above her, and right away Uriel knew he couldn’t fight her and win.
No sooner had he formed the thought than the Raven Guard struck.
Though they had made no overt attempt to hide, Uriel had quite forgotten they were there, like shadows blending with the gathering darkness. Black lances thrust into the vitals of an unsuspecting foe; they struck from the flank and rear, clawing their way into the sword dancers with glittering gauntlet blades. Shaan moved like
a predatory hunter, all jerks and stabs and quick barbs. Warriors fell around him, mortally wounded and maimed.
Revys Kyre fought with more refinement, directing his blows with carefully measured precision, always aware of the space around him and where his next step would carry him. The sword dancers died in droves as the Raven Guard cut through their ranks and the Ultramarines capitalised on the suddenness of the flank attack. Within moments the momentum of their graceful attackers had been crushed, and they were fighting for their lives. There could be no surrender, and only annihilation would end this fight.
Uriel threw himself at the two sword dancers before him, hoping his sudden leap might surprise them. They merely sidestepped, their swords licking out to caress his breastplate and shoulder. Blood welled from the slashes, and Uriel felt the hot sting shoot into his limbs, as though the blades themselves were burning. He blocked a sword thrust to the groin and rolled his wrists over the blade, lancing its tip through the eyes of one attacker.
“You are the leader,” stated the remaining sword maiden, swirling her blades above her head in what Uriel supposed was a ritual of challenge. “Uriel Ventris?”
“I am,” he said, pulling his own blade high and stalling for time. “Who are you?”
“Xiomagra, Mistress of the Blade dancers,” she said. “The swords require your name before you die.”
THE GLADIUS TOUCHED down just over the blasted wreckage of the gatehouse, its jets screaming and its guns battering a bloody path through the Bloodborn. The assault ramp slammed down hard and there he was. Sicarius. Regent of Talassar and Knight Champion of Macragge. His scarlet cape swirled around him in the hot thermals of the Thunderhawk’s landing, and the gold of his armour glittered like morning sunlight. The Lions of Macragge followed him onto the ground, their guns firing into the mass of Bloodborn soldiers surrounding the landing zone.
Scipio leapt from the tilting perch of the slab and clambered over the rubble and debris from the artillery impacts. Helicas lay face down over his missile launcher, the tube crumpled and useless. Coltanis was next to him, and Nivian sprawled over the remains of the parapet.
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