The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  They had not had much of a life here, but it had at least been life.

  ‘You killed them all, you bastard,’ hissed Vaanes, his hatred for the Ultramarines captain burning like a slow fire in his heart as he traced spirals in the dust with his lightning claw.

  Svoljard, tall and wild in his grey Wolf Brothers armour and Jeffar San, the proud and haughty White Consul, were all that was left of his warrior band, and Ardaric Vaanes knew that they would be lucky to live through the next few days.

  After leaving Ventris and his ragtag band of monsters and misfits, the three of them had made their way through the mountains to the sanctuary, watching the great battles around the fortress from afar.

  The spectacle had been magnificent, and during the incredible attack up the great ramp, Vaanes had unaccountably found himself hoping against hope that Honsou would see off his enemies.

  When the ramp had collapsed and the army of Berossus had been all but destroyed, he had wanted to cheer.

  But as spectacularly destructive as that had been it was as nothing compared to the chaos and slaughter that followed it.

  The streaming pillars of blue fire that had surrounded the fortress for days now hammered it mercilessly, tearing the mountain apart piece by piece. Storms of magickal energy bludgeoned the rock with unimaginable force, smashing impregnable towers and bastions to dust in the blink of an eye. Vaanes had never seen anything like it and though the destruction was awe-inspiring to watch, he felt a flicker of regret that Honsou had not managed to pull off one last trick to defeat Toramino.

  Then the Heart of Blood came, and everything changed.

  It had come from the depths of the mountain like a red whirlwind of death, killing and destroying everything before it in an orgy of destruction that was staggering in its violence. Nothing could stand before this avatar of destruction – not men, not Iron Warriors, not tanks, not even Toramino’s daemon engines.

  Everything that came near the colossal daemon died, butchered by its screaming axe or crushed beneath its monstrous bulk. The slaughter had gone on for days, but in the end, Toramino’s army had broken before the Blood God’s favoured avatar, the shattered remnants quitting the field of battle while they still could and abandoning the smouldering wreck of Khalan-Ghol to the half-breed.

  Honsou was still the master of Khalan-Ghol and though Vaanes had been pleased that the arrogant Toramino had been brought low, he felt an icy shiver of apprehension.

  He knew that the half-breed would surely wreak a terrible vengeance on those who had attacked him. Vaanes knew that that was exactly what he would do and, from what little he knew of Honsou, he suspected that they were not so different in that respect.

  That had been a week ago, and with nothing left to them, he, Svoljard and Jeffar San had remained at the sanctuary as they tried to come to terms with their new circumstances.

  What were they to do? Where should they go?

  Find some way to leave Medrengard and ply their trade as mercenaries once more?

  Perhaps, but Vaanes had lost his taste for desperate causes and did not relish the thought of wandering the galaxy and fighting for petty tyrants once more.

  He was shaken from his bitter reverie by the sound of footfalls behind him. He scuffed out the spiral he had been tracing in the dust and turned, seeing Svoljard at the door, a grim look of inevitability etched on his lupine features.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Vaanes.

  ‘Trouble,’ said the Wolf Brother.

  JEFFAR SAN STOOD at the entrance to the blockhouse, his bolter carried loosely over his shoulder and his long, dirty blond hair pulled in a tight scalp-lock. The white of his armour was all but obscured by the dirt and filth of their adventure into Khalan-Ghol, but he still carried himself with an arrogant air of faded grandeur.

  ‘What’s going on?’ snapped Vaanes as he and Svoljard emerged into the bright, perpetual daylight.

  ‘Over there,’ said Jeffar San, pointing to where a single vehicle sat at the end of the shadowed valley. Vaanes recognised it as a monstrously powerful Land Raider battle tank, its hard, iron sides chevroned with yellow and black stripes and its upper armour plates fringed with spikes. A disembowelled body was bound, spread-eagled, upon the tank’s upper glacis, its limbs bloody and loops of its entrails wound around the tank’s spikes.

  Massive guns housed in armoured sponsons were aimed at the blockhouse. The power of those weapons was enormous, knew Vaanes, easily capable of demolishing the blockhouse with one shot.

  So why didn’t they fire? Honsou – for no other would seek them out in this place – would have no reason to come here other than to kill them.

  ‘Why doesn’t it shoot?’ hissed Svoljard, thinking the same thing.

  ‘I think we’re about to find out,’ said Vaanes, nodding towards the massive tank as its frontal assault ramp lowered with a great clang on the rocks.

  Three warriors emerged, all liveried in the armour of the Iron Warriors and carrying their weapons before them.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Vaanes as the Iron Warriors marched from the security and strength of their vehicle and came towards them, crossing the ruined trenches and skirting the jagged remains of tank traps.

  As the Iron Warriors neared, Vaanes whispered, ‘Be ready to fight when I give the word.’

  The other two nodded, but he could see that they had no taste for this last stand.

  The lead warrior removed his helmet and Vaanes was not surprised to see the battered features of the half-breed. One side of his face was a ruined mess, a knot of augmetics covering half his skull and a glowing blue gem replacing his missing eye. The second warrior had the face of a killer, his eyes hard and cold, with a jagged mohawk running over the centre of his skull. Vaanes couldn’t see the third figure: his powerfully armoured form was obscured by Honsou’s body.

  ‘You’ve come a long way to just to kill us, Honsou,’ said Vaanes.

  The half-breed laughed. ‘If I’d come here to kill you, you’d already be dead.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘I’ll get to that soon enough,’ promised Honsou. ‘You fought alongside Ventris, yes?’

  ‘Aye,’ spat Vaanes. ‘For all the good it did me.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You carry great bitterness within you, warrior, but you are a fighter, a survivor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I need men like you now. Most of my own grand company are dead, and those of Berossus’s that swore loyalty to me are few in number. I offered Ventris the chance to join me, but he spat it back at me. I now offer you the same chance, but I do not think you will do the same.’

  ‘You want us to fight for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Honsou.

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘For conquest, for war and blood. And to take revenge on our enemies.’

  ‘Ventris…’ hissed Ardaric Vaanes.

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Honsou, waving forward the Iron Warrior who had been standing behind him, and who now reached up to release the clamps holding his helmet in place.

  ‘My champion is dead,’ said Honsou, ‘and I need someone like you to train his newborn replacement in the art of death.’

  The warrior removed his helmet and Vaanes gasped in shock as he saw the face that was revealed.

  The newborn’s skin was ashen and ill-fitting, raw suture wounds ringing his neck and jaw line, but there was no mistaking the patrician cast of his features nor the stormcloud grey of his eyes.

  It was Uriel Ventris.

 

 

 
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