It had been a rich and populous centre, Massilea - built of marble, gold and glass — before it had been bombarded into ruin. Broken colonnades and fragments of statues lined broad streets that had become battlegrounds, littered with rubble, burned out shells of vehicles and the innumerable dead. A few triumphal arches remained, flying frayed and burned pennants, towering over parade grounds and squares turned to graveyards. Trees and green spaces had been integrated into the city's design, though they were now blackened tracts of scorched earth. Two bridges crossing the river wending through the city remained intact, the water below choked with corpses.
Thunderhawks and Stormbirds bearing the new Legion colours screamed overhead, churning the smoke and ash hanging over the city.
From his vantage, Sor Talgron could see the armoured elements of his assigned battalions moving through the secured sectors of the city. Rhinos, Land Raiders and Vindicators traversed the rubble strewn streets, leading the way out of the city before the heavier assets grinding along in their wake - the Fellblades and Typhons that had been so instrumental in the earlier action.
The crackle of gunfire and the deeper thuds of shells and mortars still echoed out sporadically. Several of the eastern quadrants of the city were still not completely pacified. The fighting was brutal and taxing, as each building needed to be cleared floor by floor.
Booms like thunder rolling in from the west could be heard when the sound of localised artillery and gunfire abated. A battle was still under way out there on the plains beyond the valley, fifty kilometres away. He had already directed half his force to head there, to outflank the enemy assault. That battle would see the last real strength of the Ultramarines on this world shattered. That battle would be the last of it. Once it was done, the process of extraction would begin. All resistance within the system would be spent, and the final cull of the defiant human populations would be enacted. If any XIII Legion support ever arrived, they would find the entire system reduced to a graveyard.
The crackling reports of his officers came through on Dal Ahk's nuncio-vox. All was proceeding as expected.
There was a flash on the periphery of Sor Talgron's vision. He reacted instantly, shouting a warning and dropping into cover. Too slow.
Hot blood spurted across his faceplate. Chunks of it dripped down his visor. Ahraneth was down, his brains blown out through a gaping fist-sized hole in the left side of his helmet. The company banner was on the ground.
Sor Talgron seethed as he crouched with his back planted squarely against the marble balustrade. He stared at his dead standard bearer, at the blood soaking the banner. Dal Ahk was in cover beside him, relaying orders and coordinates of the sniper's location. There was anger in his voice.
The area had been declared clear. Sor Talgron said nothing, letting his officers deal with it. He heard the clipped orders as legionaries closed in on the sniper's location. He heard the squad sergeant take responsibility for the mistake. There would be repercussions.
They sat there, listening to the vox reports of various elements of the Chapter spread across the city, waiting for confirmation that the sniper had been neutralised The pool of blood from Ahraneth's head was getting ever closer.
He found himself thinking of his old mentor, Volkhar Wreth. The thought was not a comforting one.
'He was a good warrior,' said Dal Ahk.
'What?' said Sor Talgron.
'Ahraneth,' said the master of signal, nodding towards the corpse sprawled before them. 'He was a good warrior. I saw him rip a greenskin's head clear off once, and he claimed a kill tally of seventeen eldar at Hallanax. He will be missed. His soul is one with the empyrean now.'
Sor Talgron grunted. 'You sound like a priest.'
'The teachings of-' Dal Ahk began, before he was interrupted by the tell-tale click of incoming vox-traffic.
'What is it?' Sor Talgron demanded.
'Third echelon,' reported Dal Ahk. 'They have identified the location of... wait... repeat. Is that confirmed?'
In the distance behind them they heard the sharp crack of grenade detonations, followed by the bark of bolter fire in several controlled bursts. Two hundred and thirty metres off, Sor Talgron estimated from the sound. The sniper was gone.
'Captain, third echelon have sighted Ultramarines docking at a concealed location, suspected communications outpost,' said Dal Ahk.
'Where?'
'Three hundred kilometres to the west. Shall I have the location targeted from orbit?'
'No,' said Sor Talgron. 'Send for my drop-ship.'
'Captain?'
'The enemy have conducted the defence of this world with considerable acumen and tenacity. I will not have the last of them obliterated from orbit. They will die as they lived - with honour.'
'Would they afford us the same respect if our situations were reversed, captain?' said Del Ahk. 'Why does it matter how they die?'
He thought of his old mentor again, and the fate that had befallen him.
'It matters to me,' he said.
The giant leaned on the table with massive bronze-encased fists.
He was immense. All of the primarchs were, but Sor Talgron had only ever stood in close proximity to one — Lorgar Aurelian, the gene-father of the Word Bearers.
Rogal Dorn was much bigger.
Had it not been a secular age, the primarch of the Imperial Fists would surely have been worshipped as a demigod. No mortal could stand in his presence and not be cowed.
His face was as unforgiving as stone. His hair was snow-white and cropped short. His eyes were as hard and cold as diamonds and exuded a fierce, cold intelligence.
And anger. A deep, unforgiving abyss of anger that was palpable in his every movement and expression.
The table before him was huge, carved from the dark wood of a tree long extinct on Terra. It was covered with plans, communiques, orbital scans and data-slates. The wealth of information was overwhelming, yet there was order to it — nothing was out of place or unnecessary.
The chamber itself was cavernous, austere and sparsely furnished. There were no seats. One side of its length was dominated by floor to ceiling arched windows. From the view it was clear that the room was positioned high upon the Himalazian flanks, above the cloud line, and while the sky outside was black and pinpricked with stars, harsh industrial light from below flooded through those thick reinforced panes.
A meeting had been under way when Tiber Acanthus announced him. Bureaucrats, politicians, guilders, Administratum — Dorn dismissed them with a word. Few of them deigned even to look upon Sor Talgron as they filed out. These were the architects of the new Imperium. These were those with true power, and Sor Talgron loathed them. They had no concept of the blood, death and horrors that those that had carved out the Imperium had known. None of them had ever likely stepped off-world at all. One, elongated and thin and clutching construction plans and dataslates, had looked down at him, his pinched face disdainful. Sor Talgron had stared at him as he left, hating him and all his weak-blooded kind. These were the ones that they had been fighting for? It made him sick.
Tiber Acanthus had departed, pulling the huge wooden doors closed behind him. Two individuals remained with Dorn. Neither were introduced.
One he knew from the time he had spent on Terra — Archamus, master of Dorn's huscarl retinue. A stern, proud individual, his gene-heritage was clear; his features were strongly reminiscent of his primarch's.
The other was no Imperial Fist. His armour was plainly coloured and trimmed with a worn olive green. An officer of the Death Guard.
He was completely bald, this captain, and a stylised eagle taking flight bedecked his cuirass and gorget. His eyes were stern and unflinching. He looked solid, in Sor Talgron's estimation. Dependable. Stoic. Who he was, Sor Talgron did not know, but he instinctively liked him. This was a soldier he could respect.
The mystery of this warrior's identity had been forgotten as soon as Dorn began to speak. Now that he was done, the silence was heavy.
>
For a long moment, Sor Talgron stared at the Death Guard captain, his brow furrowed. Then his gaze returned to Dorn.
'It is...' he said, at last. 'It is difficult to comprehend.'
'Believe it,' said Rogal Dorn, his voice like roiling thunder.
'Isstvan Three will be forever damned in the annals of history,' added Archamus. Sor Talgron narrowed his eyes at him — there was too much pride in the huscarl's bearing.
'Four Legions turning against their own. Turning against the Emperor,' said Sor Talgron. shaking his head 'It is madness.'
'Madness, aye,' said Dorn. 'Madness of the worst kind.'
The primarch pushed off the table, fists clenched. It looked like he wanted to hit something. If he put the full force of his fury behind it, Sor Talgron doubted any living being would have survived such a blow.
The giant moved across the chamber, his advance implacable, each step echoing heavily and accompanied by the mechanical hum and grind of his armour. He halted before the windows, staring down the range's flank. A multitude of floodlights bathed the mountainside, throwing the vast construction work below into stark relief. The harsh white glow underlit his features, emphasising the deep fines and contours of his face. He could have been carved from granite, so hard and immobile was he.
He remained there, staring out into the distance for a time. The silence was oppressive. Both Archamus and the unidentified Death Guard captain stared at Sor Talgron, unblinking.
'How did you learn of this atrocity?' said Sor Talgron finally, breaking the silence. 'My augurs and astropaths have heard nothing from beyond the borders of the segmentum for months, blinded by warp storms.'
The primarch fumed and stalked back towards the heavy dark wood table, his expression grim. It took considerable force of will for Sor Talgron not to back away a step at his approach. It would be a terrifying vision to see in battle, this giant encased in gold coming at you with the intent to kill. No mortal being would last more than a heartbeat.
'The astropathic choir has been silent,' growled Dorn. 'We have heard nothing from the Isstvan System since the start of this.'
Sor Talgron frowned, but said nothing.
'Rather, I heard it from one who was there,' said Dorn, answering his unspoken question.
Dorn inclined his head, and Sor Talgron's gaze was drawn to the Death Guard captain standing silently to attention.
'This is Battle-Captain Nathaniel Garro, formerly of the Fourteenth Legion,' said the primarch.
Garro saluted, striking his chest with his fist in the old Terran tradition. Sor Talgron returned the gesture.
'It surprises me to see one of the Death Guard standing here, having just heard the tale of your Legion's betrayal,' he said.
'It is no tale,' snapped Archamus. 'It is the truth.'
Sor Talgron glanced at him. 'A figure of speech,' he said, before returning his attention to Garro.
'It surprises and saddens me to stand here and speak of such events,' said the Death Guard captain. 'My ties to my Legion died along with my true brothers, who were butchered on Isstvan Three for the crime of their loyalty.'
'You are a legionary without a Legion, then.'
'So it would seem.'
'Garro was witness to the Warmaster's betrayal. He saw my... brother,' said Dorn, almost spitting the word, 'turn against the Imperium. Horus attacked Isstvan Three with virus bombs, killing untold thousands of legionaries loyal to the Emperor, and millions of citizens. In the face of this atrocity, Garro took his ship — the Eisenstein — and fought his way clear to bring word to Terra.'
'It seems that the Imperium owes you a debt of gratitude,' said Sor Talgron, bowing his head towards Garro.
'I merely did what I felt was my duty,' said Garro, a little stiffly.
'Had the Eisenstein not broken through the blockade and brought word of the betrayal, we would not have known of this atrocity until it was too late,' said Archamus.
'Throne,' said Sor Talgron. 'The Warmaster might have taken Terra virtually unchallenged.'
'He could have,' said Dorn. 'But his ploy failed.'
'The Legions killing their own, civil war, a plot to dethrone the Emperor?' said Sor Talgron with a shake of the head. 'How did it come to this?'
'Through the actions of one man — Horus Lupercal,' said Dorn. 'Horus was the best of us. If he could fall, anyone could fall. Which brings me to you and your battle-brothers, captain.'
FOUR
Sor Talgron hated the zealotry. He hated the metaphysical need that seemed gene-coded into his battle-brothers — there was a new and desperate hunger in the Legion to believe in something more than the struggle and pain and torment that was mortal existence. But that was what life was, one bloody task after another until death finally came to claim you. Why did there need to be anything more to it than that?
Why this insatiable need for meaning? For faith?
It was a weakness, he believed. A failing. Something the Legion had inherited from Lorgar Aurelian, and Sor Talgron almost hated his primarch for that. He was awed by him, and would not hesitate to sacrifice his life for him, of course, but he almost hated him nonetheless. He did not know why he did not have the same ingrained compulsion as his brothers. Perhaps the failing was his?
If he had spoken of this to anyone, even his subordinates, they would not understand. They would have despised him. No doubt an athame would have come for him soon after. Just another purge.
He had felt something like a kinship with the Custodian sentinel Tiber Acanthus, more perhaps than he had with his closest battle-brothers, and that relationship had been built upon lies. What did that make him?
The Stormbird rose from below and hovered before him, powerful down-thrusters screaming and blowing up dust. It rotated, its assault ramp lowering. He held the Legion standard now, and the heavy, blood-soaked cloth whipped like a sail in the assault craft's jets. He stepped up onto the terrace's marble balustrade and into the assault craft's interior, ignoring the forty-metre drop that would have claimed him had the pilots been unable to hold it steady. Dal Ahk and two squads of legionaries stepped over the gap behind him, boots mag-locking onto the assault ramp with barely conscious thought impulses.
Some legionaries hated those moments of being packed into a Stormbird, or a drop pod or Caestus ram, being hurtled into the thick of the fighting, relinquishing control over their fate to the pilots, the driver, or to pure luck. Sor Talgron was not one of them. If they were shot down or obliterated before they reached their target, then such was the way of it. That made him feel calm. If something were to happen, he had no control over it. Let what will happen, happen.
Today, however, he did not feel comfortable within the confines of the Stormbird. The walls seemed to close in upon him, like an oubliette.
He moved through the ship, past the banks of assault harnesses and weapons caches, moving into the cockpit. The two flight officers, sitting back to back, acknowledged his presence with restrained nods. The two pilot servitors seated to the front had drool hanging from their blue lips, like white gruel. Their pallid flesh twitched.
Beyond the cockpit, the city of Massilea was tinged grey-green by the lighting and tinted filters of the curved armourglass shell. Hologrammatic overlays projected before the lead pilot, delivering the flight officers a wealth of data, while detailed topographical maps rendered in three dimensions hovered before the co-pilot. The green lines of the overlays looked warped and strange from Sor Talgron's angle. A wealth of additional information would be there too, he knew, visible to the flight officers alone. He braced himself, holding on to overhead railings.
To aft, the assault ramp sealed and the Stormbird lifted, banking sharply towards the west, wing tips pointing towards the heavens and the ground as it turned. Sor Talgron remained rooted in place, mag-locks keeping his boots clamped to the deck. They swung over the librarius jutting up from the rock below, all flames, smoke and dirty white marble. Then they were hurtling over the city, the ruins whipping b
y below them.
They dropped altitude as they exited the city, pulling in low over the turquoise river, kicking up twin walls of spray in their wake. They ate up the kilometres, following the twisting cliffs lining the river.
They crossed deep azure waters as the river fed into a lake that could have been mistaken for a sea. From there they veered over the land, screaming over the detritus of a battlefield recently won. The Legion was gone, moving from their war front to the nearest of the drop zones. The time to leave this world was nearing and Sor Talgron had already given the word for unengaged elements of the 34th Company to head for the muster points, ready for extraction.
Burning pyres had been left in the Legion's wake, piled high with the dead, but what arrested Sor Talgron's attention were the immense armoured shells that lay scattered across the blackened earth. The field was a graveyard for loyalist Titans. Most had been taken down with little loss to XVII forces - once the battle in the void above had been won, the Titans were easy prey for the orbital weaponry. Unsupported Titans were little more than walking death traps, and repeated lance strikes had ripped through the void shields of these enticing targets before smashing them to the ground. Only the Warhounds had been swift enough to evade the devastating salvoes, and from the reports that had come in they had carved a bloody toll through the invading ground forces before they too had finally been brought low.
The downed forms of half a dozen colossal mechanical giants swarmed with Mechanicum adepts and servitors. These were sects of the Martian priesthood that had thrown their weight in with the Legion and Horus's cause, and they picked over the Reaver, Warhound and Nemesis-class engines like maggots feeding upon rotting carcasses.
They passed over a tract of strangely untouched wilderness, an island of green fir trees in an ocean of fire-blackened earth, and scattered a herd of multl-antlered quadrupeds below. Some life still flourished, it seemed, away from the main engagements.
They approached one of the Legion's muster zones. Bulk landers hung low and expectant overhead, readying to pick up the heavier ground elements. Already Word Bearers Rhinos and Land Raiders were snaking in through the rocky canyons for extraction. The Stormbird dipped its wings in salute to the warriors below, and Sor Talgron saw a lone tank commander, standing in the open cupola of a Proteus, raise a hand in return.
The Purge Page 3
