[Warhammer 40K] - Victories of the Space marines

by Christian Dunn - (ebook by Undead)

  He opened his eyes. Lokjr had been cast aside, his face half-dissolved by the Heart. Even as he watched, Svelok was thrown backwards, a two-metre tall giant in full power armour hurled like a doll across the chamber, shattering machines as he skidded along the floor. Then Charis came for him.

  “Russ guide me,” whispered Ravenblade, seizing his bolt pistol from its holster, swinging it upwards and firing at the hatch.

  The metal exploded instantly, blowing shards across the chamber, unleashing the torrent. Acid sheeted down. The cogitators fizzed and exploded, sending blooms of sparks skittering across the floor. Ravenblade went into spasms of fresh agony as the searing liquid ran across his open wounds. His back arched as he cried out, doused in gouts of boiling liquid pain.

  Too slow, Charis’ naked hand was snatched back into its gauntlet. The acid tore through the exposed flesh, eating through skin, bone and metal. The logis shrieked in his turn, his fear unfiltered by the vox-distorter. He tried to clutch the box, but his fingers were gone, washed into the slew of ankle-deep acid bubbling at his feet. It tumbled from his grip, dropping into the seething, corroding mass.

  As it hit the liquid, it flipped into a dizzying array of shapes. For a moment it span desperately, its walls folding impossibly fast. Then, feeling even its infinite malignance threatened, the spinning stopped. There was a shudder, and the air around it burned away in a sudden blaze of ozone. The acid bath surged into a boiling sphere, furious and infused with black fire. The box emitted a deafening scream, as if a million tortured voices had been sucked back into the mortal plane for an instant.

  Then the acid ball exploded in a blinding, whirling inferno. At its core, the box folded itself out of existence and the psychic backwash from its departure tore out from the epicentre.

  Ravenblade cried aloud as the warp echo scored his exposed soul. Eyes bleeding, lungs burning, he hauled himself to his knees, trying to shelter his open chest cavity from the tumbling rain. Every move was a symphony of agony, physical and psychic.

  “You… killed it!”

  Charis stumbled towards him, his remaining gauntlet clutching impotently. Freed from the protection of the box, his armour was corroding fast. Mechadendrites extended, blades whirring. The Rune Priest, chest ripped open, psychic senses seared away, had no defences left. He snatched the bolt pistol into position, but it slipped through his broken fingers.

  “For Russ!”

  His voice ringing with rage, Svelok burst from the acid like a leviathan rising from the ocean, armour streaming with fluid. He staggered into range and smashed his fist straight through Charis’ visor. The glass shattered, cracking the logis back against the altar and snapping his spine. For a moment, Ravenblade caught a glimpse of a hideously ruined face within, riddled with augmetics. Then it was gone, consumed by the foaming deluge.

  Ravenblade’s vision wavered. He was close to passing out. The acid burned against his chest, eating its way into his core. The liquid was now knee-deep around him.

  “We have to go, priest,” Svelok rasped, his battle-plate pitted and steaming. The combat-fury was gone from his voice, replaced by grim resolve. He dragged Ravenblade to his feet, sending fresh needles of pain shooting through his body.

  “The staff,” gasped the Rune Priest.

  “No time.”

  Svelok hauled Ravenblade to the footholds, shouldering the Rune Priest’s massive armoured weight. Fluid showered down from the portal, sluicing over Ravenblade’s breastplate, snaking under the ruined carapace, worming into his wounds. His organs were failing.

  He gritted his teeth. Not yet.

  Svelok went first up the ladder, pulling Ravenblade after him. His strength was incredible. It was all Ravenblade could do to hang on, keep his feet on the holds, stay conscious.

  The ascent up the rock was a nightmare. Falling acid burned through the armour plate with horrifying speed. Every agonising step saw their protection thinned a little more. Ravenblade watched the runes on his vambrace blaze red as the liquid sank into the impressions. The runes he’d carved himself, now smoking into oblivion.

  They reached the top of the shaft. Shouldering his bulk against the torrent, Svelok pulled himself back onto the valley floor. With an almighty heave, he dragged Ravenblade up behind him.

  The fury of the heavens had been unleashed. Lightning streaked across the angry sky. Rain fell in swathes. Acid swilled across the full width of the valley floor, bubbling and foaming. To the south, there were white-topped waves. Riapax was heading back into the void, and the ocean was reclaiming its own. They were out of time.

  Ravenblade’s helm lenses flickered and went dark. Acid must have got into the mechanism.

  “Nearly as… bad as… Fenris,” he gasped, feeling the tightness in his throat grow.

  Svelok dragged Ravenblade to his feet, pulling the Rune Priest’s arm over his shoulder. Despite his wounds, he was still a furnace of energy and determination. For the first time, Ravenblade began to see his true value to the pack. He was everything a Son of Russ should be.

  “Nearly as,” Svelok agreed grimly, dragging them both to higher ground. They reached a flat-topped outcrop, jutting from the rising acid around them. It wouldn’t last long. Even now the liquid at its foot was knee-deep. It would soon be waist-deep.

  The two of them clambered onto the rock shelf. Ravenblade collapsed against the stone, his breath ragged. Far above them, thunder rolled across the valley. The torrent surged by, washing against the edges of their little island.

  Svelok bent over Ravenblade, trying to shield the stricken Rune Priest from the downpour.

  “Hold on, prophet,” he said, then corrected himself. “Brother. We’re not dead yet.”

  The Wolf Guard hid his emotions poorly. Ravenblade could sense the full range of frustration and regret. They were far from the pick-up location. Better to prepare for the end, to meet the Allfather with honour. Battle-rage had its place, but not now.

  As for himself, he could no longer feel anything in his limbs. His torso was lost in a dull ache, the nerve-endings burned away. A task had been achieved on Gath Rimmon, even if it wasn’t the one he’d expected.

  “They were blank,” coughed Ravenblade, tasting the blood in his mouth.

  “What were?” Svelok’s voice was no longer coloured with suspicion. Two battle-brothers had gone. Two pack-members. The bond between them was severed. Now a third strand would be cut.

  The roar above them got louder. It wasn’t just thunder. There were lights in the clouds, and the whine of engines.

  “The runes,” said Ravenblade. He saw the huge shadow of a Thunderhawk descend from above, searchlights whirling. That was good. Svelok would live to tell the saga.

  “Don’t speak, brother.”

  The pain went. The Allfather had granted him that, at least.

  “I will speak,” Ravenblade croaked, letting the last of the air in his lungs bleed away. “You must learn from this, Wolf Guard. We were part of a greater pattern here. There is always a pattern.”

  His vision faded to black.

  “Your fury gives you strength, but it is fate that guides you. Remember it.”

  The dark wolf gave him a final, mournful look, then loped into the shadows. Ravenblade was truly alone then, just as he had been before taking the Canis Helix.

  “Even across so much time and space,” he rasped, feeling Morkai steal upon him. “The runes never lie.”

  THE REWARDS

  OF TOLERANCE

  Gav Thorpe

  Encased in a flickering Geller field, the Vengeful slid through the psychic tides of the warp. The field flared intermittently as it crossed the path of itinerant warp denizens, becoming a shell of writhing, fanged faces and swirling colours. In the turmoil of its wake, dark shapes gathered in a flitting shoal; occasionally a creature would speed forwards and hurl itself at the strike cruiser, seeking the life force of those within. Each time the unreal predators were hurled back by a flash of psychic force.

  Sit
ting in the Navigator’s cockpit Zacherys, former Librarian of the Avenging Sons, gazed out into the warp through eyes ablaze with blue energy. Sparks crackled from the pinpricks of his pupils and thick beads of sweat rolled down his cheeks. With a trembling hand, he reached out to the comm-unit and switched to the command frequency.

  “I can hear them whispering,” he growled.

  There was a hiss of static before the reply came through the speakers.

  “Hold them as long as you can,” said Gessart, the ship’s captain. Once master of an Avenging Sons company, he now led a small renegade band only two dozen strong. “We’ll reach safe exit distance in less than an hour.”

  The comm buzzed for a few seconds more and fell silent. Left alone in the quiet, Zacherys could not help but listen to the voices pawing at the edge of his hearing. Most were gibberish, some snarled threats, others begged Zacherys to let down his guard. A mellifluous voice cut through, silencing them with its authority.

  I can take you to safety, it said. Listen to me, Zacherys. I can protect you. All I ask is a small favour. Just let me help you. Open your thoughts to me. Let me see your mind and I will grant your desires.

  The sensation of claws prising at the sides of Zacherys’ thoughts suddenly disappeared, like a great pressure released by an opening airlock. The chittering stopped and the Geller field stabilised, becoming a placid oily-sheened bubble once more.

  Zacherys relaxed his fingers, loosening his fist on the arm of the Navigator’s chair, indentations left in the metal from his fierce grip. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they had returned to normal, the burst of psychic energy drawn back into his mind.

  Thank you, he thought.

  You are welcome, replied the voice.

  What do I call you? Zacherys asked.

  Call me Messenger, it said.

  What are you? A daemon?

  I am Messenger. I am the one that will open your mind to your true power. I will show you the full scope of your abilities. Together we will grow stronger. We will both be pupil and teacher.

  We need to break out of warp space, thought Zacherys. I cannot resist another attack.

  Allow me, said Messenger. Call to me when you return. I will be waiting.

  The streaming rivers of psychic energy surrounding the Vengeful bucked and spiralled, turning upon themselves until they split into an immaterial whirlpool. Through the widening hole, Zacherys could see the blue glow of a star.

  Fingers moving gently across the steering panel, he guided the Vengeful towards the opening. The strike cruiser burst out of the immaterium with a flash of multi-coloured light. The rift behind fluttered for a moment and disappeared. Silence followed; the emptiness of space. Zacherys looked around and saw a dense swathe of stars: the northern arm of the galactic spiral spread out before him. He smiled with relief and prodded the automatic telemetry systems into action. It was time to find out where they were.

  The renegade Space Marines gathered in the briefing hall. The twenty-four warriors barely filled a quarter of the large chamber, which was designed to house a whole Space Marine company. Gessart looked down from the briefing podium and marvelled at how quickly his followers had asserted their individuality. After decades of loyal service to their Chapter—centuries in the case of some—the Space Marines were rediscovering their true selves, throwing off millennia of tradition and dogma.

  All of them wore armour blackened with thick paint, their old livery and symbols obliterated. Some had gone further, taking their gear down to the armoury to chisel off Imperial insignia and weld plates over aquilas and other icons of the Imperium. A few had painted new mottos across the black to replace the devotional texts that had been removed. In a neat script, Willusch had written “The Peace of Death” along the rim of his left shoulder pad. Lehenhart, with his customary humour, had daubed a white skull across the face of his helm, a ragged bullet hole painted in the centre of its forehead. Nicz, Gessart’s self-appointed second-in-command, sat with a chainsword across his lap, a thin brush in his left hand, putting the finishing touches to his own design: “The Truth Hurts”, written in red paint to resemble smeared blood.

  Zacherys was the last to attend. The psyker nodded to Gessart as he sat down, confirming the location estimate he had passed on earlier. Gessart smiled.

  “It seems that though the Emperor looks over us no more, we have not yet been abandoned by the galaxy,” he announced. “Helmabad is more than a dozen light years behind us. That’s the only good news. We are dangerously low on supplies, despite what we salvaged from Helmabad. We are six thousand light years away from safety; a considerable distance. If we are to complete our journey to sanctuary in the Eye of Terror, we will need more weapons and equipment, as well as food.”

  Gessart rasped a hand across the thick stubble on his chin. The Space Marines all looked at him attentively, faces impassive as they received this news. Some habits were harder to break than others and they waited in silence for their leader to continue.

  “Whether by luck, fate or some other power, our half-blind flight through the warp has brought us within a hundred light years of the Geddan system. The system is virtually lifeless, but it’s a chartist captains’ convoy meeting point; merchant ships from across the sector converge there to make the run down past the ork territories towards Rhodus. We’ll take what we need from the merchantmen.”

  “Those convoys have Imperial Navy escorts,” said Heynke.

  “Usually nothing more than a few frigates and destroyers,” said Nicz before Gessart could answer. “Not too much for a strike cruiser to overcome.”

  “If this were a fully-manned ship, I’d agree,” said Gessart. “But it isn’t. If there’s a light escort we’ll try to cut out a cargo ship or two and avoid confrontation. If there’s a more sizeable Imperial Navy presence we cannot risk an open battle. The task is to gather more supplies, not expend what little we have.”

  Nicz conceded the point with a shrug.

  “You’re in charge,” the Space Marine muttered.

  Gessart ignored the slight and turned his attention to Zacherys.

  “Can you guide us to Geddan in a single jump?”

  The psyker looked away for a moment, obviously unsure.

  “I think I can manage that,” he said eventually.

  “Can you, or can’t you?” snapped Gessart. “I don’t want to drop into the middle of something we aren’t expecting.”

  Zacherys nodded, uncertainly at first and then with greater conviction.

  “Yes, I have a way to do it,” the psyker said. “I can take us to Geddan.”

  “Good. There is another issue that needs to be resolved before we leave,” said Gessart. He looked directly at Nicz, who glanced to either side, surprised by his commander’s attention.

  “Something I’ve done?” said Nicz.

  “Not yet,” replied Gessart. “The menial crew are still loyal to us, but they do not know the full facts of what happened on Helmabad. If we have to fight at Geddan, there can be no hesitation. I want you to ensure that they will open fire on command, even against an Imperial vessel. I want every weapon system overseen by one of us, and dispose of any crew that may prove problematic.”

  “Dispose?” said Nicz. “You mean kill?”

  “Don’t get carried away, we cannot run the ship without them. But leave them with no doubt that we are still their masters and they will follow our instructions without question.”

  “I’ll see that it is done,” said Nicz, patting his chainsword.

  “Are there any questions?” Gessart asked the rest of the Space Marines. They exchanged glances and shook their heads until Lehenhart stood up.

  “What happens when we reach the Eye of Terror?” he asked.

  Gessart considered his reply carefully.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to go there and find out. At the moment, nobody knows what we have done. I’d rather keep it that way.”

  “What if Rykhel somehow
survived on Helmabad?” asked Heynke. “What if he contacts the rest of the Avenging Sons?”

  “Between the rebels and the daemons, Rykhel is dead,” said Nicz.

  “But what if he isn’t?” insisted Heynke.

  “Then our former battle-brothers will attempt to live up to their name,” said Gessart. “That’s why we’re going to the Eye of Terror. Nobody would dare follow us into that nightmare. Once we attack the convoy word will spread about what we have done. We have one chance to do this right. If we fail, the Emperor’s servants will be looking for us, and getting to the Cadian Gate will be all the harder for it.”

  “So let’s not mess it up,” said Lehenhart.

  Zacherys’ hand hesitated over the warp engine activation rune on the console beside his Navigator’s chair. He glanced at the panel above it, looking at the fluctuating lines of green fading into orange and then surging with power into green again. Although the warp engine was not fully active, the psyker could feel the boundaries of reality thinning around the Vengeful. Through the canopy around him, he saw the stars wavering, the darkness between them glowing occasionally with rainbows of psychic energy.

  He had promised Gessart that he would get the ship to Geddan, thinking he would use the daemon Messenger to do so. He was having second thoughts, but could not back down. Not only would Zacherys face the scorn of the others, the ship was stranded in wilderness space. At some point they would have to re-enter the warp or simply stay here and eventually die from starvation—a prospect even more harrowing for a Space Marine than a normal man. Doubtless they would kill each other before that fate overtook them.