[Warhammer 40K] - Victories of the Space marines

by Christian Dunn - (ebook by Undead)

  “The priest knew of this?” hissed Kale.

  Indus chuckled. “Xeren saw it happen. He fled! He sent you to find us, praying you would destroy us so his cadre could take this hive for itself.”

  Nord nodded to himself. “Aboard a ship filled with killing machines, a deed only an Astartes could do.”

  “You’ve seen the power of these creatures,” said the adept. “This is only a tiny measure of what the swarm is capable of.” He extended a skeletal cybernetic arm towards the psyker. “There is such majesty here, red in tooth and claw, Blood Angel. Come see it. Join me.” New, fang-mouthed tentacles issued forth from the tyrant’s stunted arms, questing towards the Codicier. “Our union is vast and giving, for those with the gift…”

  His eyes narrowed, and with one sweeping blow, Brother Nord sliced down with his axe, severing the probing limbs in a welter of acidic blood. The tyrant screamed and rocked backwards.

  “A grave mistake,” snarled Indus. “You have no idea what you have denied yourself.”

  “I know full well,” came the reply. “My blood stays pure, by the Emperor’s grace and the might of Sanguinis! You have willingly defiled yourself, debased your humanity… For that there can be no forgiveness.”

  “We are not monsters!” shouted Indus, amid his howling chorus. “You are the destroyers, the disunited, the infection! You are the hate! The rage and the thirst!”

  Too late, Nord’s mind sensed the build of warp energy once more, resonating between the tyrant and the Mechanicum psyker. Too late, the cold understanding reached him. “No…” he breathed, staggering backwards. “No!”

  “Nord?” The question on Brother Kale’s lips was suddenly ripped away by a new, thunderous shock-wave of dark power.

  Perhaps it was the hive tyrant, with its hate for all things alien to it, perhaps it was Indus in his crazed fury. Whatever the origin, the burning blade of madness swept across the Blood Angels and ripped open their minds.

  Nord held on to the ragged edge of the abyss, as once more the red and black clouds enveloped him. The dream! The vision in his roaring heart was upon him! His moment of foresight damning and terrifyingly real.

  The strength of the psychic blast tore away any self-control, burning down to the basest, most monstrous instincts a man could conceal; and for an Adeptus Astartes of the Blood Angels Chapter, the fall to such madness was damning.

  The gene-curse. The flaw. The Red Thirst’s wild and insatiable desire for blood, the Black Rage’s uncontrollable berserker insanity. These were the twin banes Nord fought to endure. Fought and held against. Fought… And finally… resisted.

  But Brother-Sergeant Brenin Kale had none of the Codicier’s psychic bulwarks. His naked mind absorbed the power of the tyrant’s fury… and fell.

  The man that Nord’s comrade had been was gone; in his place was a beast clothed in his flesh.

  Kale threw himself at the Codicier, his chainsword discarded and forgotten, hands in claws, his mouth wide to release a bellow of pure anger. The Blood Angel’s fangs glittered in the light, and darkness filled his vision.

  Nord collided with Kale with a concussion that sounded across the chamber, scattering dithering hormagaunts, crushing others with the impact. Kale’s mailed fists rained blow after blow upon Nord’s battle armour, the crimson tint of fury in the sergeant’s aura stifling him.

  He cried out the other man’s name, desperately trying to reach through the fog of madness, but to no avail. Nord fought to block the impacts as they struggled against one another, locked in close combat; he could not bring himself to hit back.

  His skull rang with each strike, his vision blurring. There was no doubt that Kale could kill him. He was no match for the old veteran’s strength and prowess, even in such a state. Kale’s frightening speed and instinctive combat skills would overwhelm him. He had little choice. If he could not end this madness quickly, Kale would tear open his throat and drink deep.

  He glimpsed a rent in Kale’s armour, a deep gouge that had penetrated the ceramite sheath. “Brother,” he whispered, “Forgive me.”

  Nord’s hand closed around the hilt of his combat blade, turning the fractal-edged knife about. Without pause, he buried it deep in his old friend’s chest, down to the hilt. The blade penetrated plasteel, flesh and muscle; it punctured Kale’s primary heart and the veteran’s back arched in a spasm of agony.

  Nord let him fall, and the other man dropped to the bony deck, pain wracking him, robbing him of his rage.

  A different kind of fury burned in the psyker. One pure and controlled, as bright as the core of a star. Blue sparks gathering around the crystal matrix of his psychic hood, Nord turned and found his force axe, sweeping it up to aim at Indus.

  “You will pay in kind for this, adept,” he snarled. “Know that. In the name of Holy Terra, you will pay.”

  Nord closed his eyes and let the power flow into him. Blazing actinic flares of warp energy sputtered and flew around the Blood Angel’s head as the hormagaunts shook off their pause and came at him.

  Channelling the might of heroes though his bones, through his very soul itself, he unleashed his telepathic might through the force axe.

  The blast turned the air into smoke and battered away the xenos beasts, sending them shrieking into the dark. Indus bellowed in pain as his flesh was wracked with agony, and the tyrant hooted in synchrony with him.

  It took unbearable minutes for the psychic blast to dissipate, for the adept’s crooked mind to shake off the aftershock.

  Finally, through the myriad senses of the howling, confused tyranids, he saw only the scorched bone deck of the hibernacula.

  The Adeptus Astartes were gone.

  With Kale’s body across his shoulder, Brother Nord ran as swiftly as the bulk of his battle armour would allow, always onwards, never looking back. His storm bolter ran hot in his hand as the Codicier placed shots into any tyranid that crossed his path. He did not stop to engage them, did not pause in his headlong flight.

  Nord could feel Indus reaching out, probing the hive ship for him, drawing more and more of the sleeping xenos from their hibernation with each passing moment. He crossed the high bone bridge above the pits and saw the carnifex stirring, moaning as it rose towards wakefulness.

  The psyker understood a measure of what had transpired here; Indus or the hive tyrant—or whatever unholy fusion of the two now existed—must have sensed him for the very first time as the Emuthia made its approach. Hungry for another thrall, the hive mind allowed Nord and Kale to approach the core of the ship, while dispatching Dane and the other battle-brothers. He suppressed a shudder; it wanted him. It wanted to engulf him, subsume him into that same horrific unity.

  Nord spat in loathing. Perhaps a weakling mind, a man like the bio-adept, perhaps he might have fallen to such a thing… But Nord was a Blood Angel, an Adeptus Astartes—the finest warrior humanity had ever created. Whatever dark fate awaited him, his duty came before them all.

  His duty…

  “Brother…” He heard the voice as they came to the chamber where the boarding torpedo had made its breach.

  Nord lowered his comrade to the ground and he saw the light of recognition in the sergeant’s eyes. The mental force Indus had turned on Kale was, at least for the moment, dispelled. “What… did I do?” Kale’s voice was a gasp, thick with blood and recrimination. “The xenos…”

  “They are close,” he replied. “We have little time.”

  Kale saw Nord’s dagger deep in his chest and gave a ragged chuckle. “Should… I thank you for this?”

  The psyker dragged the injured warrior into the boarding capsule, ignoring the question. “You will heal, sir. Your body’s implants are already destroying infection, repairing your wounds.” He stood up and punched a series of commands into a control panel.

  Kale’s pale face darkened. “Wait. What… are you doing?”

  Nord didn’t meet his gaze. “Indus will find us again soon enough. He must be dealt with.” The psyker s
cowled at the vox-link and gave a low curse; the channel was laced with static, likely jammed by some freakish tyranid organism bred just for that task.

  Kale tried to lift himself off the deck, ignoring the pain of his fresh, bloody scars, but the acid burn of tyranid venom in his flesh left him gasping, shaking with pain. “You can’t… go back. Not alone…”

  The other warrior reached into a weapons locker, searching for something. “I beg to differ, sir. I am the only one who can go back. This enemy has already claimed the lives of three Blood Angels. There must be payment for that cost.” He glanced at the veteran. “And Xeren’s perfidy cannot stand unchallenged.”

  Through his blurred vision, the sergeant saw the Codicier gather a gear pack to him, saw him slam a fresh clip of bolt shells into his weapon. “Nord,” he growled. “You will stand down!”

  The psyker hesitated at the airlock, looking back into the gloom of the hive ship beyond. “I regret I cannot obey you, brother. Forgive me.”

  Without another word, Nord stepped through, letting the brass leaves of the hatch close behind him. Then the razor-cogs began to turn, the boarding torpedo drawing back into the void amid gushes of outgassing air.

  Fuming, Kale dragged himself to the viewport, a trail of dark blood across the steel deck behind him, in time to see the hive ship’s hull falling away.

  The capsule turned away to find the Emathia hanging in the blackness, and with a pulse of thrusters, it set upon a return course towards the frigate.

  Nord threw himself into the melee, storm bolter crashing, his force axe a spinning cascade of psychic fury. “Indus!” He cried, “I am here! Face me if you dare!”

  In the confines of the corridors, he fought with termagants and warriors, stamped ripper swarms into paste beneath his boots, killed and tore and blazed a path of destruction back through the hive. Nord became a whirlwind of blade and shell, deep in the mad glory of combat.

  His body sang with pain from lacerations, toxins and impacts, but still he fought on, bolstering himself with the power of his own psionic quickening. The shadows of the Rage and the Thirst were there at his back, reaching for him, ready to take him, and he raced to stay one step ahead. He could not be consumed: not yet. His heavy burden rattled against his chest plate.

  Soon, he told himself, sensing the red and the black. Very soon.

  Crossing the bone bridge once more, he shouted his defiance—and the tyranids replied in kind.

  Winged fiends and fluttering, gas-filled spores fell around him, the gargoyle broods tearing through the air, daring him to attack. He unloaded the storm bolter, tracer shells cutting magnesium-bright flashes in the dark; but for each he killed there were five more, ten more, twenty. The spores detonated in foetid coughs of combustion and without warning the bridge was severed.

  Nord fell, his weapons lost, down into the pit where the carnifex lurked. Impact came hard and suffocating, as the Blood Angel sank into a drift of soft, doughy matter collecting around the hive’s egg sacs. Tearing the sticky strings of albumen from his armour, he tore free—

  And faced his foe.

  “You should have fled while you had the chance.” Indus’ voice had taken on a fly-swarm buzz. “We will take you now.”

  Flanked by mammoth thorn-backed beasts, the hive tyrant bowed, as if mocking him, allowing Indus to dangle before Nord upon his tendrils. More tentacles snaked forwards, questing and probing.

  The aliens waited to taste the stink of his fear, savouring the moment; Nord gave them nothing, instead bending to recover his axe where it had fallen.

  “This will be your end, adept,” he said. “If only you could see what you have become.”

  “We are the superior!” came the roar in return. “We will devour all! You are the prey! You are the beasts!”

  Nord took a breath and let the dark clouds come. “Yes,” he admitted, “perhaps we are.”

  The Black Rage and the Red Thirst, the curses that he had fought against for so long, the twin madness at the core of his being… The psyker let his defences fall before them. He gave himself fully to the heart of the rage, let it fill him.

  Power, burning nova-bright, swept away every doubt, every question in his mind. Suddenly it was so very clear to him; there was only the weapon and the target. The killer and the killed.

  The aliens charged, and Nord ripped open the gear pack at his belt, drawing the weapon within, running to meet them, racing towards the hive tyrant.

  Indus saw the lethal burden in the Blood Angel’s hand and felt a cold blade of fear lance through him; the tyrant shook in sympathetic panic. “No—” he whispered.

  “In the name of Sanguinius and the God-Emperor,” the Codicier snarled, baring his fangs. “I will end you all!”

  Captain Gorolev jerked up from the console, his expression set in fear. “The cogitators register an energy increase aboard the hive ship!”

  Xeren’s head turned to face him atop his snake-like neck. “I am aware.”

  Gorolev took a step towards the Mechanicus magi. “That ship is a threat!” he snapped. “We have completed recovery of the boarding torpedo, and your scouts are lost! We should destroy the xenos! There is no reason to let them live a moment longer!”

  “There is every reason!” Xeren’s manner of cold, silky dismissal suddenly broke. He rounded on the frigate’s commander, his mechadendrites and cyber-limbs rising up behind him in a fan, angry serpents hissing and snapping at the air. All trace of his false politeness faded. “You test me and test me, ship-master, and I will hear no more! You will do as I say, or your life will be forfeit!”

  “You have no right—” Gorolev was cut off as Xeren reached out a hand, showing brass micro-lasers where fingers should have been.

  “I have the authority to do anything,” he grated. “That hive is worth more than your life, captain. More than the lives of your worthless crew, more than the lives of Kale and his Space Marines! I will sacrifice every single one of you, if that is what it will cost!”

  A silence fell across the bridge; Gorolev’s eyes widened, but not in fear of Xeren. He and his officers stared beyond the tech-priest, to the open hatchway behind him.

  There, filling the doorway, was a figure clad in blood-red. Xeren spun, his limbs, flesh and steel, coming up before him in a gesture of self-protection.

  Brother-Sergeant Kale entered, carrying himself with a limp, his pale face stained with spilled vitae and smoke. His eyes were black with an anger as cold and vast as space.

  Armour scarred from tyranid venom and claw, blemished with bitter fluids, he took heavy, purposeful steps towards the tech-priest. “My brothers lie dead,” he intoned. “The blame is yours.”

  “I… I was not…” Xeren’s cool reserve crumbled.

  “Do not cheapen their sacrifice with lies, priest,” growled Kale, his ire building ever higher as he came closer. “You sent us to our deaths, and you smiled as you did it.”

  Xeren stiffened, drawing himself up. “I only did what was needed! I did what was expected of me!”

  “Yes,” Kale gave a slow nod, and reached up to his chest, where the hilt of a combat knife protruded from a scabbed wound. “Now I do the same.”

  With a shout of rage and pain, Kale tore the knife free and swept it around in a fluid arc. The blade’s mirror-bright edge found the tech-priest’s throat and cut deep, severing veins and wires, bone and metal. The Blood Angel leaned into the attack and took Xeren’s head from his neck. The cyborg’s body danced and fell, crashing to the deck in a puddle of oil.

  “Energy surge at criticality…” Gorolev reported, as alert chimes sounded from the cogitator console.

  Kale said nothing, only nodded. He stepped up to the viewport, over Xeren’s headless corpse, and watched the hive ship. His hands drew up to his chest in salute, taking on the shape of the Imperial aquila.

  “In His name, brother,” he whispered.

  He was falling.

  Somewhere, far beyond his thoughts in the world of meat a
nd bone, he was dying. Claws tearing at him, serpentine tendrils cutting into him, cilia probing to find grey matter and absorb it.

  Nord fell into the cascade of sensation. The blood roaring through him. The flawless, diamond-hard perfection of his anger driving him on, into the arms of the enemy.

  He had never feared death; he had only feared that when the moment came, he would be found wanting.

  That time was here, and he was more certain of his Tightness than ever before.

  The clouds of billowing crimson, the swelling mist of deep, deep night; they came and took him, and he embraced it.

  Somewhere, far beyond his thoughts, a bloody, near-crippled hand curled about the grip of a weapon, tight upon a trigger. And with a breath, a slow and steady breath, that hand released. Let go. Gave freedom to the tiny star building and churning inside.

  The fusion detonator Nord had recovered from the weapons locker, the secret burden he had carried back into the heart of the hive ship. Now revealed, now empowered and unleashed.

  The new sun grew, flesh and bone crisping, becoming pale sketches and then vapour; and in that moment, as the light became all, in its heart Brother Nord saw an angel, golden and magnificent. Reaching for him. Offering his hand.

  Beckoning him towards honour, and a death most worthy.

  BUT DUST IN THE WIND

  Jonathan Green

  The Thunderhawk gunship dropped through the planet’s exosphere like a star falling from heaven, its scorched and scarred hull-plating glowing hot as molten gold. Beneath it lay a vast shroud of cloud cover and beneath that the frozen world of Ixya.

  Clouds boiled and evaporated at the caress of the burning craft, and as the vessel continued its descent, those on board were afforded their first view of the snowball world at last.