by Nick Kyme
Not fully understanding why, Narek went back to the crate and exchanged armour with the corpse. It fitted him, strangely well.
‘Seal,’ he said and the crate locked itself with his discarded armour and the dead body still inside. Confident no one aboard this vessel would be able to open it, at least not easily and without strong cutting tools, he made for the exit.
Much was missing, great gaps torn from his memory. He didn’t know why, but deep down, rooted in his subconscious Narek did know he had been given a mission. He just didn’t know its purpose.
Not yet.
Twenty
Across the shadows
Ultramar fringes
The Shadow Crusade had left a blight across Ultramar. The Five Hundred Worlds would never be the same again. At the farthest reaches, beyond the aegis of Macragge and the empire’s primus worlds, the desolation was at its worst.
Out here in the lawless depths of space, planets still burned.
At first scavengers and less scrupulous rogue traders had flocked to the wake of the war. Every floating wreck had the potential in it for profit. But not every vessel was empty. Some harboured the legionaries left behind once Lorgar had finished his symphony.
Bandits of a kind were drawn to the aftermath, renegades against the Throne who had banded together for survival. Petty warlords arose, the remnants and cast-offs of the larger and more powerful Legions. Most had never even heard of the Shadow Crusade, but flocked like carrion crows to the detritus of it anyway.
Some of these lingering traitors still possessed ships, the very vessels the Red-marked were striving so hard to destroy. The scavenging ceased and an eerie quietude descended upon Ultramar’s periphery, pregnant with the potential for violence.
Destruction heaped atop destruction with nothing to explain its cause.
Husks of dead ships drifted anchorless and unmourned through the void, their bellies ripped out. Immense capital ships lay torn in half, rotting in silence and darkness. Debris fields that encompassed entire systems had created a vast and near-impenetrable labyrinth for the Charybdis to navigate. It was slow going.
‘Keep us steady, plasma drives at three-quarters strength,’ Adyssian calmly ordered the helm. ‘Come about, twenty degrees starboard.’
They breached the first major debris boundary, a heavy veil of drifting scrap metal amongst a dense asteroid belt.
‘Aye, sir,’ Lyssa Esenzi replied.
Kolo Adyssian had the dark pallor of a Hesiod noble, born into the Navy and an honourable charge as shipmaster. No more than thirty-three years Terran standard, he was young and had survived his predecessor, Tibult Oghuru, who had died during the flight from Isstvan V. A scar ran from Adyssian’s left cheek almost to his nose, by way of reminder.
Losing the old man had cut deeply. Tibult had been like a father to him, but it was far from the worst tragedy Adyssian had ever endured. It had hurt, but it had not left a void in his soul. Another loss, one he tried not to think about, had caused that.
Under his right eye, he bore the Nocturnean sigil for courage, the sign of the anvil. His eyes were bright, not red like the legionaries of his death world, but pale green like his mother’s. With short dark hair, barring a salting of white in his close-cropped beard, he was exceptionally composed and a natural warship captain.
Esenzi had survived her previous incumbent also, but she had killed the last helmsman when he had lost his mind prior to the evacuation order and attempted to leave his post for the saviour pods. She never spoke of it, nor harboured any guilt over the act. It had left her profoundly stern, a burden of duty rather than conscience, ever wary of a similar fate. She was beautiful, a fact Adyssian recognised, with lightly tanned skin and long crimson hair she wore in a vibrant mohawk, typical of Aethonion.
Through the sensorium array, Adyssian was maintaining a close watch on a large graveyard of ships currently fifty-six kilometres away and closing.
Their primary heading towards Nocturne had taken them beyond Macragge’s boundaries. The Charybdis was entering less well charted waters. It made Adyssian wary.
‘How large is that battlefield, Esenzi?’
‘Vast.’ She showed him a data-slate.
Adyssian frowned. He wanted to fly around the graveyard, but a detour of the magnitude required to do that would bring them egregiously off course. According to navigational charts, a Mandeville point existed just beyond the cluster of dead ships. From there they could drop into warp space and hope that the Ruinstorm didn’t tear the ship apart.
‘Circe,’ Adyssian opened a vox-link to their Navigator. ‘I need you prepared as soon as we breach the other side of the debris field. Are you ready?’
Circe’s voice came back with the strain of concentration.
‘I am, shipmaster. All is well. Are you planning an early translation into the warp?’
It was as if she could read his mind. If they did get into trouble picking their way through the graveyard, if ambushers were lurking and they couldn’t fight their way out, it might be the only option.
‘Let’s hope not,’ he answered honestly, then cut the feed. ‘Helm,’ he said, ‘take us in. Reduce input to the plasma drives, void shields at twenty per cent.’
Such a low power output to the Charybdis’s shields would not unduly strain the ship’s reserves, but would act as a useful buffer against any smaller debris they would inevitably come into contact with.
Lyssa Esenzi complied and Adyssian watched with satisfaction as the hololith image changed to reflect their defensive status.
He eased back into his throne but looked far from relaxed.
‘What do we have on sensors?’
‘Precious little, I’m afraid,’ said Esenzi, turning to face the shipmaster. ‘Radiation is saturating this entire region. We’ve lost our eyes and ears for the moment.’
‘Then we shall have to rely on your touch then, helm.’ He smiled. It was meant to be reassuring. Esenzi nodded mutely, returning to her instruments.
Adyssian gave a small shrug. It would take more than a warm smile to thaw the protective ice around her.
‘Nice and slow, Esenzi.’
‘Aye, sir.’
In close, details of the ship graveyard at first lost on account of how far away it was began to materialise.
Broken sections of sundered ships drifted together with hunks of rock and swathes of glittering particulate. Eventually this minor flotsam gave way to entire vessels, listing serenely, their smashed-open portals staring darkly like the dead eyes of corpses.
In many ways, they were.
Others had been cored out completely, their deaths the result of catastrophic chain reactions, evidenced by what was left of the vessels. Through narrow apertures in the ragged hulls, pockets of crewmen could still be seen drifting. Attached to guide-ropes, they had failed to disengage their harnesses before the end and so would forever dangle like forgotten puppets on loose strings.
A vast behemoth of a ship loomed on the starboard side, so large that even several kilometres away it obscured the view farther into the debris field. Huge rents had been torn in its flanks and its internal superstructure hung open like an abused skeleton.
As large as the Charybdis was, it could fly through the gutted remains of this gargantuan hulk like a minnow through the carcass of a gnorl-whale, if carefully navigated.
Adyssian ordered Esenzi to take them through. Based on the last sensorium returns, she had already plotted a viable course that fell within acceptable risk parameters. They went in dark, their internal lumens kept low and their power signature to a minimum.
Too huge to go around, the massive ship effectively impeded their path. They had to forge through it but, given what could be lurking in the shadows, it was prudent to be cautious.
Within its ruptured innards, the hulk was no less impressive. Huge internal amphitheatr
es opened up beyond the ship’s ruined outer skin. Overhead, split gantries and walkways jutted from the interior like bones.
Whatever had befallen this behemoth, little more than a shell remained.
Through one hall, entire battle companies of legionaries were locked in combat, flash-frozen during a final engagement. Bodies clad in cobalt-blue and crimson, each rimed in hoarfrost, began to drift in the wake of the Charybdis’s passage. Some impacted against the shields, shattering into fragments. Others maintained their eternal struggle, hands wrapped around throats, blades impaled in icy bodies, bolters extended for a killing salvo.
Adyssian knew all Space Marines were genetically engineered to resist the degrading effects of the void, but even legionaries could not do so indefinitely. Something terrible must have transpired here, a conflict so bitter it had driven those in it to keep fighting until they froze solid.
There was a grim serenity to it all.
‘Such is the fate of all warriors,’ said a deep voice from behind the shipmaster’s throne that made every man of the crew jerk suddenly. ‘Or so we would wish it.’
Recovering his composure, Adyssian turned to face a legionary in drake-scale green.
‘Sergeant Zytos,’ he said, bowing slightly even though this was his bridge, ‘I did not hear you enter.’
Zytos’s fiery gaze had alighted on the captured feed relayed on the pict screens in front of the helm.
‘Apologies, shipmaster. I noticed the Charybdis was on all silent, so I considered it best to adopt a similar approach.’
‘Prudent.’
‘I thought so.’ Zytos gestured to the visual feed. ‘What am I looking at, shipmaster?’
Suddenly alert, Adyssian rapidly brought up whatever data the Charybdis had in its internal cogitators.
‘Records indicate it’s a Seventeenth Legion vessel that exceeds Gloriana-class displacement. Beyond that, there’s nothing further known about it.’
‘She’s a beast,’ muttered Zytos.
‘Indeed, sire.’
‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘Judging by the intense radiation levels, I’d say a warp engine detonation.’
Zytos looked on grimly at the bodies that kept showing up on the visuals. Amongst the dead of the XIII and XVII, he saw iron and raven-black, even drake-green. Not all of the legionaries who had reached Ultramar got as far as Macragge.
Some miracles had no heroic finale, they merely ended in death.
Dreadnoughts and the shells of Legiones Astartes gunships thickened the grisly throng with bulk and mass.
‘What else is out here, beyond the dead?’ Zytos wondered out loud.
Adyssian had no answer. None amongst the crew did, so silence answered for them.
After several minutes during which those on the bridge were allowed to marvel at the sheer majesty of the ship they were literally travelling through, the Charybdis emerged from the gargantuan wreck. Far off in the distance a star died and the resultant solar flare cast the void around them in a dull, amber glow.
It also revealed a ship at low anchor, hiding in the umbral side of a small moon.
‘What, by Throne, is that?’ asked Adyssian just as the sensorium feed cleared and a beacon alert sounded.
Esenzi triangulated the signal. ‘It’s an Imperial distress code. Signal originates from an installation three hundred and eighty-one kilometres away and closing.’
‘Magnify.’
The visual feed zoomed in dramatically, displaying a small planetoid-based station comprised of geodesic domes and several large drilling rigs. Isolated as it was, it must have avoided the void war but with the cessation of the conflict had now come under scrutiny.
‘Its designation is “Rampart”. Civilian. Looks like a refuelling depot.’
‘And the ship attempting to mask its presence behind that moon?’ asked Adyssian, forgetting the legionary on his bridge whilst he went about his duty.
‘Light cruiser, Gladius-class. Recently disgorged landers.’
‘Headed to Rampart.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Adyssian quickly checked the cruiser’s designation.
Necrotor. The XIV Legion, then.
‘Death Guard,’ said Zytos, before Adyssian could read it off the hololith. ‘How many?’
Adyssian frowned. ‘Sergeant?’
Zytos’s face was set like granite as he turned to the shipmaster.
‘Landers. How many of them?’
Esenzi quickly provided the answer.
‘Three, my lord.’
‘I’m not your lord. Don’t call me that again. Refer to my rank.’
Esenzi flushed, chastened. She fought not to tremble before the legionary’s annoyance.
‘Duly noted, Sergeant Zytos.’
Zytos didn’t acknowledge her. He was already leaving the bridge.
‘Have a Thunderhawk ready in the launch bays,’ he said as he departed. ‘My brothers and I will be there presently. Xathen…’ he began, now using his suit’s internal vox.
‘Sergeant.’ Adyssian’s call made Zytos stop and turn just before the doors to the bridge.
‘You have something further to add, shipmaster?’ He had already unclasped his helmet and had it ready in his left hand.
‘Our mission, the nature of these ruins beyond the heart of Ultramar. There could be anything out here, and the longer we delay…’ Confronted by the sergeant’s hellish glare, Adyssian trailed off. ‘All I mean to ask is, is this wise?’
‘No, it isn’t, but I won’t ignore my duty for the sake of prudence.’
Zytos turned and was gone.
‘Three landers,’ Xathen considered. ‘Even if we took the entire cadre, we’d still probably be outnumbered.’
‘That’s why we won’t, Xathen. We reconnoitre and vox for reinforcements if needed.’
‘Those landers are gunships. Could be thirty suits of plate in each one.’
‘We can’t ignore it.’
‘And we can’t risk more legionaries.’
Zytos glanced at Xathen. ‘You see my problem, then.’
The veteran nodded.
He walked in lockstep with Zytos, priming and preparing a small arsenal.
After Xathen had racked the slide of his Phobos-pattern bolter to ensure the breech was clear, he then checked the load-out of his two sidearms, a hand flamer and a bolt pistol with sickle magazine. He carried three blades, two combat knives – one serrated, one single-edged – and a shortened kaskara, which he strapped horizontally across his back.
A flame gauntlet, the signature weapon of a Pyroclast, encased his right hand.
‘Are you sure you’re well enough equipped, brother?’ Zytos asked, but his mild sarcasm was lost on the veteran.
‘I had considered adding a volkite,’ Xathen replied, adjusting his weapons belt on the move, ‘and I can modify the Phobos-pattern so it’ll accommodate an underslung launcher. Should I go back?’
Zytos shook his head, relieved that his smile was hidden behind the snarl of his helmet’s faceplate.
Like all of the sixty-six, his armour had a draconic aspect. Even their greaves and breastplates were scalloped at the edges like scales. Drake mantles were pinned to gnarled-looking shoulder guards. Most of these cloaks were burned and torn up a little, much like their wearers.
It was a small force that descended on Rampart, but a battle-hardened one.
They lacked a single element.
‘Where’s Numeon? I can’t reach him on the vox,’ asked Zytos. They were nearer the vertical-conveyor that would take them down as far as the landing bay, and he had expected word from the Pyre’s leader before now.
‘Where do you think?’
‘I see.’ Zytos had seen precious little of Numeon since their departure from Macragge.
The captain preferred to spend his waking hours with the dead, rather than the living, it seemed.
‘Is he alone?’ Zytos asked.
‘Var’kir’s with him.’
‘Have our Chaplain tell the captain his presence is needed.’
‘We could let him be,’ suggested Xathen. ‘Don’t misunderstand, I would rather he be with us, but you and I can lead this sortie to Rampart.’
‘I know, brother, but dragging Numeon from that tomb is not for our benefit. It’s for his.’
‘How long have you been here?’ asked Numeon. His head was bowed and he crouched down on one knee. His outstretched hand touched the lid of the casket.
‘Not as long as you.’
Var’kir stepped from the shadows into the small storage chamber. It had been stripped of supplies and equipment. Only Vulkan’s casket was harboured in it now, secured in the deeps of the ship where it could remain largely undisturbed.
No memorial flame cast illumination onto the Chaplain’s ageing countenance as he came into the light, but rather a phosphor-lume hanging overhead and swaying in the gentle susurrations emitted by the atmospheric recyclers.
‘Keeps it cold,’ said Numeon, gesturing to the boxed turbines as he stood up to meet the Chaplain’s interrogating gaze. ‘Are you trying to interpret me as you might a flame, Var’kir?’
‘No need to. Everything you are feeling is right in front of me, Artellus.’
‘Is that so?’ He glanced down to look upon his father. Vulkan slumbered still, hands clenched around the warhammer Dawnbringer, and the fulgurite jutting from his chest like a poison lance.
‘You fear he will rise again.’
Numeon frowned, nonplussed. ‘Why would I fear that?’
‘You fear you will not be here to witness it.’
‘Do I need to bear witness? Is that what your insight tells you, Var’kir?’
Var’kir bowed his head at the sudden anger in Numeon’s tone. ‘I meant no offence, merely to offer an observation.’
‘I am told our father is dead, that he was slain by an assassin’s dagger, a blade that sits in him still.’
‘And you think by removing it, Vulkan will regenerate?’
