by Nick Kyme
It was a fact that extended to the Legion too.
The Salamanders had suffered, more than most, though perhaps not as much as some. Certainly, were Zonn to perform a statistical analysis based on extrapolated facts he had gleaned from surviving the massacre and the subsequent aftermath, he would determine that the XVIII were much reduced in military efficacy. Scattered as they currently were, it amounted to close to zero effectiveness in the context of the broader war.
Zonn knew they were a Legion on the brink of dissolution. They needed their primarch to restore them, and if Vulkan could not then another must come forward to unify the scattered tribes. As it was in the days before, so it must be again. Hope was all they had left to them.
None of this would mean anything if that hope died along with the Charybdis.
Behind the barricade, the workers still toiled. Zonn’s thin grey line of automated guns and pallid-skinned servitors were their only defence against what was cutting through the Charybdis’s armour.
Farther down the wide corridor across which Zonn had set up his cordon, a small spot of metal in the ship’s inner hull flared red. It grew larger in seconds, expanding into a circle of throbbing heat and thermally tortured metal. As the twin hull booms of the docking ram burst through into the enginarium, the defensive line opened fire.
Solid shot and las-beams hammered the assault boat as its ramps opened up and armour-clad legionaries poured out. Dirty white accented with green, the Death Guard had come to the Charybdis.
Several of the legionaries fell as they disembarked, quickly lost under the fusillade streaming off the defensive cordon, while the rest managed to advance and secure cover in the alcoves and protruding inner bulwarks of the ship.
Two more docking rams penetrated the hull moments later and the concentrated fire from the defenders was abruptly divided.
Zonn climbed to the highest rampart of the barricade to discharge his culverin. Volkite beams streaked through darkness lit up by the passage of tracer fire and energy flare.
Dug in, the Death Guard replied with a coordinated storm of bolter fire. Across the line, servitors were torn to pieces as the mass-reactive shells shredded their flesh and machine bodies.
His aiming reticule a mass of potential targets, Zonn locked on to a legionary hefting a belt chain of explosives. Four more legionaries with breacher shields advanced in front, taking the bulk of the punitive fire levelled against them.
Two sentry guns, alerted by the presence of the incendiaries, switched targets. A graviton burst took out one, crushing the autocannon and causing a spectacular misfire that rained shrapnel on the hapless defenders. Six menials died and two combat servitors were ripped to pieces. Injuries went on uncounted.
The second sentry released a short salvo before a lascutter cleaved it in half at close range.
Heedless of all this, Zonn speared the demolitions-carrier through his respirator housing and the breacher shields split apart, blown out from the resulting explosion behind them.
Heavy plasma and lascannon fire cut them down before they could redress ranks.
It was a minor victory amidst a sea of defeat.
Dense smoke clouds roamed ahead of the Death Guard as they released foetid chemical reagents into the atmosphere that swept across the barricades.
Flesh bubbled and sloughed to degraded matter as servitors fell apart still firing. Unprotected menials died horribly, their screams echoing in the vast enginarium space. Zonn’s battleplate was hermetically sealed but it still registered the toxicity of the cloud, which sent its hazard gauge red-lining.
His forces were at less than sixty-two per cent. Since the opening seconds of the assault, the casualty rate amongst the Death Guard had been dramatically reduced. Several legionaries were advancing steadily now, shields locked and weathering the slowly diminishing fusillade from the Techmarine’s defensive line.
Zonn gave the order to fall back. It was no longer possible to hold the barricade effectively. The defenders had retreated as far as the next bulwark when the barricade they had been manning ruptured in three places, violently split apart by heavy charges.
More virulent smoke issued through the gaps, followed by more legionaries with breacher shields. Bolters locked into the crooks of their shields roared, their muzzles flaring.
Taking a glancing hit to the shoulder, Zonn sent servitors forwards armed with flamer units and the corridor turned into an inferno. They lasted seconds, as the Death Guard rushed the servitor rearguard and scythed them down.
The rest of Zonn’s defenders were almost fifty metres back. A symbol flashed up on his retinal display. Proximity sensor. Zonn armed it with a subvocal command. A vaulted archway separated the section of the enginarium where the Death Guard were massed and that where the thin line of servitors and menials had hunkered down for a last stand.
As the legionary vanguard was about to advance to glory, one of them noticed the red diodes pulsing around the archway supports. A bellowed half-warning in his native Barbaran presaged the detonation of fifteen proximity mines Zonn had rigged around the arch.
The explosion was deafening. The vanguard disappeared amidst fire and smoke as gantries, pipework and much of the upper deck collapsed down on top of them.
Zonn stood furthest forward of the defenders and allowed the surging dust and debris plume to envelop him. Some of the closer menials covered their heads, cowering against the explosion. It was all over in less than a minute, and by that time the corridor was sealed off by an immense wall of wreckage.
Zonn had no way of knowing how many Death Guard had died in the blast. He had waited until they were almost through to throw the charge, so he estimated the number would be significant. It meant their efforts at cutting through the debris would be dramatically reduced, thus garnering enough time to effect repairs to the Charybdis’s systems.
‘Enginarium is secure, brother-sergeant,’ he voxed. ‘Proceeding to restore power to the ship.’
Thirty
Reparation
Battle-barge Charybdis, cargo decks
Numeon felt the vibration through the deck beneath his feet.
An explosion.
During his vigil with the primarch, he had turned off his vox. Now he re-engaged it again and picked up the urgent chatter from across the ship.
A breach.
Death Guard were aboard the Charybdis.
He was about to reach out to Zytos when he heard the echo of booted feet coming from the corridor section ahead. He was still in the cargo decks, not far from the sanctum. A labyrinth, it was easy enough to get lost in the myriad tunnels if you didn’t have your bearings.
Crouching down into cover, Numeon listened and heard voices. The accent was thick and grating. He didn’t recognise the words, but he knew the cadence.
Barbaran.
Numeon waited until he could see them.
Five legionaries, lightly armed and armoured. Snub-nosed shotguns and bolters. Short, thick stabbing blades sheathed at their hips. Reconnaissance squad.
They moved slowly and warily, but out of a practised drill mentality and not because they were expecting trouble. This was a quiet infiltration, a dagger thrust whilst the hammer blow fell elsewhere.
The Death Guard were not here to destroy the ship. The other attacks aboard the Charybdis were a feint. They had come for Vulkan.
Numeon drew Draukoros from its scabbard as quietly as he could. In the other hand, he had the sigil. Watching them from the shadows, he saw the last member of the reconnaissance squad pass by a junction before they disappeared down another corridor.
Definitely searching.
Slipping from cover, his blade low and close to his side, Numeon stalked after them. He was nearing the junction where he had lost sight of the squad when he heard a guttural retort in Barbaran.
One of the legionaries was coming back; Numeon was almos
t on top of him.
Too late to turn back, he took the only course of action he had left.
As the legionary came around the corner, Numeon rammed the sigil, hammerhead first, into his neck. His trachea instantly crushed, the Death Guard choked before gargling up his own blood as Draukoros punched into his chest and out through his back.
As Numeon glared into the pallid face of the legionary, he saw slow realisation in the dark eyes and gaunt expression. There was something sickly about these wretches. He had seen it on Rampart, behind the dirty faceplates of the Destroyers, and now he saw it again in these warriors.
‘Surprise,’ he whispered, leaving the legionary impaled so he could draw his bolt pistol.
It took a few seconds for the rest of the squad to realise what had happened. By then, both sides were firing. Numeon unleashed a burst with Basilysk and saw another Death Guard go down clutching a shattered knee. The other three shot up their comrade, who was being used as a meat shield.
Dropping the body, Numeon was forced back around the corner by the sheer weight of fire. Hard shotgun booms shook the corridor, punctuated by the staccato three-round bursts of a boltgun.
After a few more seconds the barrage ceased, and Numeon was left with the ringing echo of weapon discharge. Smoke and the reek of cordite filled the oxygen-starved atmosphere.
One of the Death Guard spat a curse in Barbaran. Then he reverted to Gothic.
‘Outgunned, drake,’ he said, his voice deep and rasping. ‘Give up, and I murder you quick.’
Numeon detected another sound beneath the threats. He rolled back and threw himself away from the junction as the grenade went off. But it wasn’t an explosive, not the killing kind anyway.
Dense, flickering smoke spilled out from the grenade’s impact point in a rapidly expanding cloud. His helmet lenses instantly crazed with static. All auto-senses immediately failed.
Just able to hear the booted feet rushing down on him, Numeon wrenched off his helmet and ducked into cover as a storm of solid shot and bolter shells filled the corridor.
The vox was dead. Even without his helmet he could still have reached Zytos or one of the Pyre, but the shroud bomb had occluded all comms.
Packing crates made for a solid enough barrier but they were taking hits. The Death Guard fired and then advanced, moving slowly and methodically as they closed on their prey.
Numeon waited. He let the suppressing bursts diminish. He kept waiting, leaving it until he knew his enemy might have started to think they had clipped him and he was incapacitated or even dead… Then he fired, one arm slung around the side of the crate, Basilysk on full auto. It was a blind fire to keep the target small, and a calculated risk. It practically drained the clip dry but spewed out muzzle flare and explosive shells in a torrent. He heard a grunt, followed by a chestplate blowing out. It clattered loudly as it hit the deck. In his peripheral vision, he caught the splash of blood hosing the wall. A heavy thud followed. A body.
‘Two left,’ he muttered, and slipped back farther into the cargo deck.
They were coming. Echoing curses followed him as he moved quickly down a long, crowded corridor.
Hard bangs from a bolter chased him, and he turned mid-flight to fire off a couple of dissuading shots. Basilysk clicked empty. His last rounds.
No blade, no pistol. Numeon had the sigil and that was it. Ostensibly a relic, it was still a hammer. On a pragmatic level, he could kill with it.
He made it around the next corner; the gunfire at his back had reduced from burst to single-shot. Conserving ammunition or not intended to kill?
A cold thought slipped into Numeon’s gut as he realised he was being herded.
The last two legionaries had split up. They had mapped the cargo hold and were moving to outflank him. Numeon heard the second one getting close, coming up on his blindside and trying to move quietly.
Numeon sprang from his hiding place and hurtled across the next junction, knowing he would present a target to the second legionary but hoping he was fast and sudden enough to spoil the Death Guard’s aim.
A shotgun blast rang through his eardrums and he felt the bite of shell fragments in his left shoulder. It hit hard, and he staggered, but reached the next corridor section without serious injury.
All thoughts of stealth abandoned, Numeon ran. He bolted past an expansive chamber, a small storage bay in the hold, and headed for the sanctum. Vulkan had been interred with his weapons. Forged for the hand of the primarch, his sidearm could be wielded by a legionary two-handed. It was better than nothing.
Numeon raised the vox, but found the return to be patchy.
‘This is Numeon,’ he said anyway. ‘The attack is a feint. They have come for the primarch. They’re here for Vulkan.’
He cut the feed, needing to concentrate, trying to hear his enemies.
Then he slowed, wondering how a five-man reconnaissance squad was planning on executing a primarch. They had no knowledge of Vulkan’s condition one way or another, or even if he was guarded.
The sanctum was ahead, but the two chasing legionaries had stopped. Numeon could no longer hear them coming after him. He waited, crouched down in the shadows. Nothing. No muffled voices, no more curses. Either it was a trap or they had simply stopped moving for some reason.
Inaction was as likely to get him killed as action. The door to the sanctum remained inviolate. He decided to risk it.
Tracking back the way he had just come, Numeon reached the threshold to the storage bay. What he saw standing in the middle of it turned his fiery blood cold.
A teleportation homer.
The sudden flash of light was blinding, forcing Numeon to turn away. Actinic energies arced and spat across the chamber, crawling up the walls and scorching the deck beneath.
Wreathed in corposant and standing in the middle of the room as the teleportation flare faded was a hulking figure clad in Cataphractii Terminator armour. With dirty white-and-green armour plate swathed with chainmail skirting, a pitted and begrimed warrior stared murderously at Numeon through slatted eye lenses. His high gorget obscured the lower half of his helm and there were alchemical pipes jutting from his armoured back like spines.
Even on Isstvan V, fighting against the notorious Deathshroud, Numeon had never seen its like.
He was a monster.
And he had come aboard the Charybdis to make sure Vulkan was dead.
The Terminator lumbered into a sudden charge, his sheer strength and the power of his armour overcoming inertia. Twin lightning claws crackled ominously as he fed energy to the blades.
He uttered no words – just an awful guttural dirge, emitted from his helmet vocaliser. His footfalls were like a mortar barrage, clanging against the deck.
Numeon fell back. He had lost sight of the other two legionaries, but could not worry about that now. As he ran, back to the sanctum, holding out some insane hope that Vulkan might awaken when threatened, or that at least the primarch’s weapons would give him a fighting chance, Numeon cursed.
How arrogant they had been. How foolish to think they could leave the protection of Macragge and sail the Ruinstorm like it was nothing. Their enemies had known what they carried before they had even left Port Hera and now it would take something miraculous to hold on to it.
He reached the sanctum and was about to open it when he turned instead.
The Terminator was still coming. He had lost some ground, but the Death Guard’s momentum was impossible to stop. Light from the deck above streamed down in murky, grey shafts. It picked out kill-markings, scores and wounds, the legacy of war this immense slab of armoured plate had endured.
Numeon swung the sigil around into a two-handed grip. The haft was short, and his hands touched but he held it firmly. It was a symbol, a piece of the primarch’s old armour that had become a relic. How could he hope to stop this monster with a sig
il?
Numeon could not have known the poignancy of what he said next.
‘It’s also a hammer…’
The monstrous bellow through the Terminator’s vox-grille obliterated thought, as loud as a grenade blast and magnified by the close, inescapable confines of the hold.
Like some mythic hero of old Nocturne facing down a drake of the deep, Numeon did not falter. He raised his chin, took firm grip and readied to swing…
Numeon roared, for to do anything else would mean facing the inevitability of his own death without the slightest measure of defiance. And he wanted to be defiant in the face of this thing.
‘Vulkan!’
He swung, timing the blow precisely so it would reach the apex of its strength and be met by the momentum of the Terminator at the exact same moment.
What happened next did so in a blur of motion and reaction.
A shell burst struck the Death Guard in the side and tore off a chunk of ablative armour, making him stumble. He raised his head, looking towards the threat but preparing to grind his enemy into a pulped mass, when a second shot clipped a knee joint and took out a servo.
Suddenly unsure of his footing, the Terminator sagged to the left and his shoulder guard ripped a gouge into the wall as he careened off it.
The hammer struck the solar plexus, first denting the chestplate and then caving it in. Ceramite cracked and split, and adamantium sheared off like shed skin, thrown by the concussive impact of the hammer.
Mesh, skin, bone, organs all capitulated as the Cataphractii-armoured legionary stopped dead, a pulse of abruptly arrested momentum radiating from the point where Numeon had struck him. The glass in a nearby temperature gauge shattered, pipes groaned as they bent, the deck beneath crumpled and contracted as it was crushed.
Then it was over.
Numeon remained standing, the hammer outstretched, his mind still processing what had just happened.
A heavily armoured legionary lay dead in front of him, Cataphractii war-plate sundered, a grim cavity yawning dark red where the chest should have been.
