The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Tiberius was the first to recover his wits and said, ‘Forgive us, Brother Chaplain. But it is surprising for us to hear one whose lineage can be traced back to the blessed primarch speaking in such a manner of the Codex Astartes.’

  Astador bowed in respect to Tiberius.

  ‘I apologise if my words caused offence, lord admiral. We venerate the primarch, just as you do. He is our Chapter’s father and all our oaths of allegiance are sworn to him and the Emperor.’

  ‘Yet you scorn his greatest work?’ snapped Learchus, clenching his fists.

  ‘No, my brother, far from it,’ said Astador, moving to stand before Learchus. ‘We look upon its words as the foundation of our way of life, but to follow its teachings without consideration for what we have learned and that we see around us is not wisdom, it is merely repetition. Repetition leads to stagnation. And stagnation dooms us.’

  Uriel placed a hand on Astador’s shoulder and said, ‘Brother Astador, perhaps we should continue? We have come to speak with your Chapter Master and do not have time for theological debate. The world of Tarsis Ultra is under threat from the most deadly enemy and we would petition your master for his aid in the coming conflict.’

  Astador nodded without turning, then spun on his heel and marched off into the darkness once more. Uriel released the breath he had been holding and unclenched his jaw.

  ‘Damn it, Learchus,’ he whispered. ‘We are here for their help, not to antagonise them.’

  ‘But you heard what he said about the codex!’ protested Learchus.

  ‘Uriel is correct, Learchus,’ said Tiberius. ‘We are all warriors of the Emperor and that is the most important factor. You know there are other Chapters that do not follow the words of the primarch as closely as we do. The sons of Russ follow their own path, and we count them as allies do we not?’

  Learchus nodded, though Uriel could see he was not convinced.

  Uriel’s gaze followed Astador as he continued onwards through the darkness of his fortress monastery. The skulls of fallen Mortifactors stared back at him from the walls. Uriel sighed. Certainly time and distance could change a Chapter a great deal, no matter how similar their ancestry was.

  Astador turned and beckoned them onwards.

  ‘Come, Lord Magyar awaits.’

  THE GALLERY OF Bone was aptly named, thought Uriel as he stood awaiting the audience with Lord Magyar, Chapter Master of the Mortifactors. A carven cloister of bone surrounded a stone flagged floor paved with hundreds of tombstones. Niches set within the columns of the cloister contained skeletal warriors clutching swords and the entire, domed ceiling was formed from interlocked skulls, their eyeless sockets glaring down at those who stood within their domain. The four Ultramarines stood in the centre of the wide space enclosed by the cloister, Uriel and Tiberius to the fore, Learchus and Pasanius standing at parade rest behind them.

  Mortuary statues of angels flanked a vast throne composed of the bones of long-dead Space Marines. Uriel could pick out individual femurs, spines and many other bones as well as grinning skulls leering from the armrests and above the tapered top of the throne.

  A bone-legged table stood beside the throne with a flattened bowl of dark enamel atop it. Everywhere Uriel looked, death was venerated and exalted above all things.

  Astador stood close to the throne, the hood of his black robe cowling his face once more.

  A deep gong sounded, and hidden doors behind the throne swung silently open. The first of a long procession entered the Gallery of Bone. Dozens of hooded figures shuffled into the chamber, some swinging smoking censers, others chanting a sombre lament, but all with their heads cast down. One by one they took up positions around the chamber until each skeleton-filled niche had a living twin standing before it. Two Terminators in dark armour decorated with bone trim marched into the chamber, each carrying a long, wide-bladed scythe. Their helmets were carved to resemble screaming skulls and Uriel could well imagine the terror that these warriors must evoke in their enemies. The Terminators took up position either side of the throne as a winged skeleton, no larger than a child, flapped into the gallery on fragile-looking wings with thin, membranous remnants of tattered vestments fluttering between each of its wing bones. It settled upon the top of the throne and squatted there, silently regarding the shocked Ultramarines. Brass wire glittered at its joints and Uriel could see a tiny suspensor generator attached to the spine between its wings.

  Uriel’s lip curled in distaste at the sight of the winged familiar as a tall figure, clad in armour of bone entered the gallery. His movements were slow and unhurried, every step considered and solemn. His breastplate was formed from long ribs, bent and fashioned into shape, the Imperial eagle at its centre as skeletal as the winged familiar that watched the proceedings below. Every piece of this warrior’s armour, from the greaves to the vambrace, cuissart and gorget was formed from bone. He carried a gigantic scythe, its blade silvered and sharp, the haft gleaming ebony.

  Lord Magyar, for it could surely be none other, stood before his throne and bowed to the Ultramarines. His long, silver hair was tied in numerous crystal-wrapped braids reaching to the small of his back and his coal-dark skin resembled a lunar landscape, cratered and ridged with numberless wrinkles. A long, forked white beard fell to his waist, waxed into sharp points.

  His eyes were dark pinholes and though it was impossible to guess the age of the Chapter Master, Uriel was certain he must have been at least seven hundred years old.

  Lord Magyar sat upon his throne and said, ‘You are welcome, brothers of the blood.’

  Uriel was shocked at the strength and powerful authority in the ancient warrior’s voice, but hid his surprise as he stepped forward and bowed.

  ‘Lord Magyar, we thank you for your welcome and bring greetings from your brothers of Ultramar. Lord Calgar himself bade me convey his regards to you.’

  Lord Magyar nodded slowly, accepting Uriel’s greeting.

  ‘You come with dark tidings, Captain Ventris. Our Chaplains have seen grave portents and they have seen you.’

  ‘Seen me?’ asked Uriel.

  ‘Seen you drenched in blood. Seen you triumphant. Seen you dead,’ proclaimed Magyar.

  ‘I do not understand, my lord.’

  ‘Long have we known of your coming to us, Uriel Ventris,’ nodded Magyar, ‘but not why. Tell me why you have come to my monastery, brother of the blood?’

  Pleased to be on a topic he could understand, Uriel bowed again to Lord Magyar.

  ‘We come before you in hopes that you will honour the Warrior’s Debt and join us in battle against a terrible enemy.’

  ‘You speak of the oath Guilliman swore on Tarsis Ultra during the Great Crusade.’

  ‘I do, Lord Magyar.’

  ‘Such an oath binds your Chapter still?’ asked Magyar.

  ‘Yes, my lord. As has been our way since the blessed primarch swore his oath of brotherhood with the soldier who saved his life, we are sworn to defend the people of Tarsis Ultra should their world ever be threatened,’ said Uriel.

  ‘Is it so threatened?’ asked Magyar formally.

  ‘It is, my lord.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. A tendril of the Great Devourer is moving towards it and will attack soon. My warriors and I recently boarded and destroyed a hulk codified as the Death of Virtue that was bound for Tarsis Ultra. The accursed vessel was filled with genestealers and we fought them with courage. Upon returning to our ship, our astropaths detected the psychic disturbance known as the Shadow in the Warp moving towards us. The tyranids are coming, my lord. Of this I am sure.’

  ‘And what do you wish of me?’

  ‘My Chapter is honour bound to defend these realms and I call upon the blood that flows between us for your aid. The tyranids are a monstrous foe and we will be sorely pressed to defeat them. With your valiant warriors by our side, we would stand a much greater chance of victory.’

  Lord Magyar grinned, exposing brilliant white t
eeth. ‘Do not think to appeal to my warrior’s vanity, Captain Ventris. I know of this debt and the bond that exists between us full well.’

  ‘Then your warriors will fight beside us?’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Magyar, beckoning to Astador.

  Astador stood beside his lord and master, awaiting his command.

  ‘You will perform a vision-quest, Brother Chaplain Astador?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. As you command,’ said Astador opening his robe and allowing it to fall to the tombstone floor. His armour was the colour of spilt blood, dark and threatening, the trims formed in gold. Obsidian skulls adorned each shoulder guard. He carried a golden-winged crozius arcanum, his weapon and a Chaplain’s symbol of authority.

  He leaned down and removed one of Lord Magyar’s gauntlets, placing it next to the bowl on the table. Next, he raised the razor edge of his crozius and slashed it across his master’s palm, allowing the blood to spatter into the bowl. Lord Magyar clenched and unclenched his fist repeatedly to prevent the blood from clotting until the bowl was full.

  Astador lifted the bowl and offered it to Lord Magyar who accepted it with a respectful nod. The Chapter Master supped his blood and handed the bowl back to Astador.

  The Chaplain, lifted it to his lips and poured the blood over his face in a red rain. He drank deeply of his master’s blood and Uriel grimaced in distaste. What manner of barbaric ritual was this that required the blood of fellow Space Marines to enact? Had the Mortifactors become so debased that they had fallen into rituals more commonly associated with the Ruinous Powers? He glanced over at Tiberius.

  The lord admiral’s face was unreadable, but Uriel could see the muscles bunched at his jaw and took his cue from him. Astador groaned and reached out a hand to steady himself. The bony familiar perched atop Magyar’s throne took to the air and flapped noisily towards the swaying Chaplain, catching the bowl as it fell from his slack fingers.

  Uriel could contain himself no longer and shouted, ‘What is he doing? This reeks of impure sorceries!’

  ‘Be silent!’ roared Magyar. ‘He seeks guidance from our revered ancestors. Their wisdom comes from beyond the veil of death, unfettered by the concerns of the living. He seeks their counsel on whether we should join you in this fight.’

  Uriel was about to answer when he felt an iron grip on his arm. Lord Admiral Tiberius shook his head slowly.

  ‘The Devourer comes from beyond the galaxy, and even by naming it, men betray their ignorance,’ groaned Astador. ‘The immortal hive mind controls its every thought. So many beings… A billion times a billion monsters form the over-mind and there is none here who can comprehend its scale. It comes this way and seeks only to feed. It cannot be negotiated with, it cannot be reasoned with, it can only be fought. It must be fought.’

  Astador dropped to his knees and vomited a gout of glistening blood, but the winged familiar was there and caught the vital fluid in the bowl. It flapped towards Magyar and handed him the blood-filled bowl before resuming its perch above the Chapter Master.

  Lord Magyar locked eyes with Uriel and smiled, before drinking a measure of his returned blood.

  Uriel heard Learchus retch behind him, but forced himself to conceal his revulsion.

  The Chapter Master of the Mortifactors wiped a rivulet of blood from his beard and said, ‘The omens are not good, Uriel Ventris of the Ultramarines.’

  Uriel’s heart sank, but Lord Magyar was not yet done. He rose from his throne and crossed the floor of the dead to stand before Uriel. The Chapter Master of the Mortifactors leaned over Uriel and offered him the bowl. Saliva-frothed blood swirled in its bottom.

  ‘Will you seal the pact of our brotherhood, Captain Ventris?’

  Uriel stared into the bowl. The blood was bright scarlet.

  He felt his gorge rise, but took the proffered bowl from Lord Magyar.

  He raised it to his lips. Blood-stink filled his nostrils.

  Amusement glittered in Lord Magyar’s eyes and Uriel felt anger flare.

  He tipped the bowl, feeling the hot blood fill his mouth, and swallowed.

  It slipped down his throat, and Uriel could taste a measure of Lord Magyar’s vitality and strength fill him. The blood carried the weight of ages in its hot, metallic flavour and Uriel gagged as a powerful vision of slaughter suddenly filled his senses, redolent with an eternity of death. He saw a pair of alien, yellow eyes and once again he felt the touch of the Nightbringer stab into his mind.

  Lord Magyar took the bowl from Uriel’s nerveless fingers and turned to face Astador, who nodded.

  ‘We will honour the Warrior’s Debt, Captain Ventris. I shall give you a company of my warriors and Chaplain Astador to lead them. You shall fight beside one another as equals. The blood has spoken and you have renewed our bond of brotherhood.’

  Uriel barely heard him, but nodded anyway, sick to the pit of his stomach.

  But whether it was the blood or the memory of the Nightbringer, he could not say.

  TWO

  THE VAST CITY of Erebus shone like a bright jewel in the flanks of the Cullin Mountains. It was built in a great wound in the rock, as though a giant had taken a shovel and cut a gigantic oval scoop into the south-western flank of the tallest peak. Set within a steep sided, rocky valley, fully nine kilometres wide at its opening, the city cut deep into the mountains for nearly forty kilometres. Bisected by the River Nevas, and home to some ten million people, Erebus was a crawling anthill and the most populous city of Tarsis Ultra.

  Hab-units, factories, hydroponics domes, pleasure boulevards and other structures vied for space on the steep sides of the valley. Huge, teetering metal structures of glass and steel rose like metal flowers from the valley’s side, and almost every square metre of rock was built upon or bolted to. From the valley floor to the soaring majesty of the luxury habs and exotic spices of the flesh bars, every available sliver of rock was festooned with girders, beams, angles and unfeasibly slender columns, supporting an architecturally eclectic mix of styles that clashed jarringly with the simple, marble elegance of the ancient structures built by the Ultramarines ten millennia ago.

  When Erebus City, as it had been known then, was constructed, it was a model of the perfect city, but a lot had changed since those heady days. Where once the city had served as an example of all that was good about human society, ten thousand years of continued expansion had taken its toll on its Utopian ideal, bringing it closer to the grim reality of hives on worlds such as Armageddon or Necromunda.

  Zooming sculptures of steel rose steeply above the sides of the mountains, each wrapped in hab-units. As each structure climbed higher and higher, accidents became more and more common. Lattices of steel would give out under the horrendous loads imposed upon them, tearing free of the valley’s side, to slide majestically down the rock face, pulling walkways, bridges and people with it until they crashed spectacularly to the valley floor in a jagged jumble of twisted metal, rockcrete and bodies.

  Yet even here at the bottom, amidst this constant turmoil of debris, people thrived.

  The brooding underbelly of the city – the Stank – held twisting baroque corridors and chambers of anarchic splendour that gave sanctuary to the skum gangs – the outcasts and the lawless. The Adeptus Arbites, known locally as the Bronzes, had declared some of the wilder zones of the Stank as no-go areas and even the toughest members of the Arbites Execution squads took care to travel in groups, combat shotguns locked and loaded. Feral gangs roamed the depths of the Stank, scavenging what they could from the ruins of collapsed habs, production towers and each other.

  Violent skirmishes would often break out as rival gangs battled for control of newly collapsed structures, eager to plunder their resources.

  Or sometimes they fought simply for the hell of it.

  SNOWDOG VAULTED OVER the counter of the Flesh Bar. Bullets ripped towards him, blasting the wooden front to splinters as he rolled across it. He racked the slide of his shotgun and dropped behind the bar
as bottles shattered and the mirror behind him exploded into reflective daggers. The barman screamed and collapsed next to him, clutching a bloody wound on his shoulder. Glass had cut his face open and red lines streaked his features.

  Snowdog winked at the weeping man. ‘I guess this really isn’t your lucky day.’

  The pounding music almost drowned the roar of gunfire. Six Wylderns carrying some heavy-duty weaponry had just walked in and hosed the bar, killing its patrons indiscriminately with bursts from automatic weapons. Who’d have seen that coming? Snowdog took a deep breath and crawled to the end of the bar. He shouldered his combat shotgun. Its blue-steel surface glinted like new, and now more than ever was he glad he’d killed the Bronze who’d carried it.

  Screams and panicked yells filled the bar as people sought to make themselves scarce, desperate to avoid getting caught up in another of the gang wars that were becoming an all too common occurrence in Erebus hive.

  Heavy blasts of gunfire echoed through the bar and more screams sounded. The music died as the speakers blew out in an explosion of sparks. People dropped, craters blasted in chests and bodies torn in two by heavy calibre shells.

  Snowdog risked a glance around the side of the bar. Tigerlily was pinned down behind an overturned table, a throwing knife in each hand, and Silver had found shelter behind a thick steel column. He couldn’t see Jonny Stomp or Lex, but figured that one was too smart and the other too lucky to have been caught in the initial salvo of autogun fire.

  Damned Wylderns! Life for a fledgling gang leader was hard enough without these crazies making it even more precarious. It was bad enough that the Bronzes came down like an iron hammer on anyone who broke the law – which meant just about everyone in this part of the hive – from their grim and imposing fortress precinct on the edge of the Stank, the worst of the city’s badzones. Not even the Bronzes would come in here without some serious hardware. But the Wylderns…

  He couldn’t figure them out. He robbed and killed for money, and to be the top dog of the Stank, but these psychos just killed. There was no telling where or when they’d strike, bursting in with powerful weapons and blazing away until everyone was dead. Killing for profit he could understand, but he could see no reason for these massacres and that bugged the hell out of Snowdog.