by Various
Inviglio stiffens. ‘Calth was a jewel of the–’
‘Calth is an irradiated hellhole of underground caverns and bitter darkness. It’s only fit for ghosts.’
‘I never thought you a glory hunter, Aeonid,’ Inviglio murmurs. He shakes his head, disappointed.
‘I’m not, Vitus, but I do want to make some kind of difference beyond propaganda. I have no stomach for politics. I am a soldier.’
Venator interrupts before Inviglio can reply. ‘Apologies, brother-sergeant, but you are both going to want to see this.’
He takes them to a blood-spattered console.
‘This one still functions.’
He indicates the cracked data-screen – it’s flawed by static, but an image flickers there still. Thiel steps up to the screen.
‘Data-screed. Some kind of manifest?’
‘There are audio logs, reports and chatter compiled from the other listening stations linked to Tritus.’
Thiel glances at him. ‘You think they missed it?’
‘Our errant renegades? Yes, I do.’
Two further listening stations are depicted on the screen as Thiel brings up a trinary system map – Oran is marked clearly to the galactic south-east, shielded by the remote stations at Quorus, Protus and Tritus. The three together comprise a half-sickle arc that serves a small region of the coreward aspect of Imperium Secundus.
They are distant outriders, early warning posts. Sentries. Some still refer to them as ‘the Old Watchmen of Ultramar’, as they had stood untouched for many decades before the coming of the Legion.
‘Their next targets,’ says Inviglio, grimly.
Thiel’s eyes don’t leave the screen. ‘Vox Thaddeus. We’re moving. Now.’
They smell the pyres before they see the heaped bodies.
At least, this time, the traitors burned the dead after they mutilated them. Inviglio sees only further insult, to these poor souls and his injured pride. His fist is wrapped so tight around his bolter that it almost cracks the stock.
‘Too late again.’
Bracheus stands at Inviglio’s shoulder. ‘Easy, brother.’
The wind changes direction and washes the wretched flesh-smoke over the Ultramarines. Inviglio shakes his head.
‘We have to end this slaughter. End them.’
‘We will,’ Thiel reassures him. The sergeant is standing on a low ridge, surveying the destruction from the wreckage of a broken pylon. Quorus is no more. Only a burning, empty shell remains. Its outer wall has been reduced to rubble, avenues lie cratered by shelling and smoke thickens the air, obscuring the worst of the carnage.
But the bodies are there. Hundreds of them. Skeletal, charred remains, bone being slowly reduced to ash.
No ceremony, no ritual, no last stand of glory. Just death. This is… was a small installation with its own artificially created atmosphere. The generators still turn, but none now live who need to breathe the air.
Venator crouches in the blood-soaked earth as he eyes the blackening horizon.
‘They had armour – heavy vehicles, I think. Like using a chainsword to tear parchment.’
Thiel climbs down to rejoin the others. ‘They are gathering materiel. Weapons, explosives… even tanks.’
‘And the rest,’ says Bracheus. ‘An arsenal, brother-sergeant.’
Thiel nods, and turns to Venator. ‘Well, brother?’
Venator tastes the ash from one of the pyres. It takes a few seconds and there’s an instant when he connects, a moment of memory not his own, that registers as a nerve tremor below his left eye. ‘Not long ago. I taste fresh agony.’
Thiel turns away from the horror, removing his helmet as he heads for the Thunderhawk idling on a scrap of landing apron behind them.
‘Back to the gunship.’
‘And if they are arming up?’ says Inviglio, halting Thiel mid-stride. ‘Are we prepared for that?’
Bracheus steps in. ‘We should alert Captain Likane. Have him send reinforcements.’
‘I already sent the request,’ says Thiel, ‘but there’s no way of knowing how long it will take to reach him, or if our brothers are incoming. They might even reach Protus ahead of us, Throne willing.’
Drenius shrugs. ‘And if they don’t?’
Thiel sags, his armoured back still to the rest of his men. ‘What do you say, Petronius? If we meet the chainsword that tore through this station, what will we do?’
Petronius’ jaw clenches. There’s a fervour in him that was lacking before, suggesting that his anger is turning into something useful.
‘Blunt its teeth.’
Sergeant Thaddeus eyes the warren of bunkers and munition silos warily. Protus is unlike the other listening stations they saw on Tritus and Quorus. It’s more of a weapons depot.
Petronius hefts the heavy launcher onto his shoulder guard, and lodges into the firing ridge. ‘This place is a labyrinth,’ he mutters.
Thaddeus ignores the belligerent legionary. ‘Up there. Higher ground.’
Amongst the hangars, the gantries, the piled crates and ammunition sheds is a wide ramp that leads to an even wider circular platform. More crates are stacked up here, together with fuel drums and supplies tied down on steel pallets.
The overcrowded landing pad will make the perfect vantage point for the heavies.
Leading the squad out, Thaddeus hails Thiel. As ever, his mood is curt and his tone borders on disrespect.
‘Moving to high ground. Will vox again when we have overwatch on the street.’
He cuts the link without waiting for a reply. They take the ramp two abreast with launchers slung low or braced to shoulders.
As he picks his way through the crates and drums, Thaddeus notices movement below. He’s about to sound the alarm when he realises the armoured figures are Ultramarines.
Not Thiel’s or Drenius’ though.
He’s only distracted for a second, but the confines on top of the landing pad are relatively tight – by the time Thaddeus sees the second group of legionaries having already taken the high ground ahead of him, he is almost on top of them.
Thaddeus relaxes when he sees blue armour again, and raises his gauntleted hand as his squad reach for their side-arms. ‘Stand down. Likane has sent reinforcements.’
It’s only when he gets up close that he realises his mistake, and the newcomers’ bolt rounds tear him to pieces.
As ordered, they take Protus’ command centre swathed in red. It is both war paint and baptism – the mark of their new brotherhood and the blood of their enemies.
Thiel crouches low as he peers through the incendiary smoke left behind by the breacher charge they used on the door. ‘What’s the count?’
He still rasps a little from the explosion back at the armoury, but that’s behind them now and the next target beckons: Protus, the third out-system watch station. The third also to go dark. At least now, the Ultramarines know why.
Inviglio stands two paces back, watching the corridor behind with Venator.
‘Twenty-eight,’ he calls out. ‘All dead.’
Most of the bodies strewn behind them wear the cobalt-blue of the Ultramarines, though all but two are not of the XIII Legion. Not just Word Bearers this time – some of the dead have the gang-tattoos of Nostramo, or carry Barbaran kukras.
This is not the Shadow Crusade made anew – it is something else. They are guerrilla fighters and insurgents, a canker in the midst of the new empire.
And now that he has uncovered it, Thiel means to cut it out.
‘Hostiles!’ shouts Petronius.
Bolter fire resounds from both ends of the command centre. A final few renegades are dug in behind a barricade, putting up a little more resistance before they die.
If they weren’t such loathsome traitors, Thiel might even respect that. Instead, he c
alls for Bracheus. ‘Burn it, legionary!’
Re-fitted and re-equipped, the squad is leaner and more flexible. Bracheus wields the flamer to deadly effect, stepping in from the side of the breach and bathing the entire room in superheated promethium.
Only one of the renegades falls, collapsing to his knees as he burns alive inside his power armour. But the fire’s not meant to kill. It’s only meant to distract.
As Bracheus steps back into cover, Thiel bellows again.
‘Move, move! Rapid fire. Take them down!’
Thiel joins in as Inviglio, Petronius, Finius and Venator open fire. Bolter shells scream hot as they pummel the room and tear the meagre barricade apart. A defender tries to rise, but is hit simultaneously in the neck, chest and head.
Venator reloads fluidly. He takes a second renegade with a precision shot through the eye.
Snap fire comes back in reply, striking wide and scoring only glancing hits. Two more enemies remain and they’ve hunkered down, lying in wait for Petronius as he barrels recklessly forwards. One of them leaps up, sword in hand, but Finius throws his knife and pierces the warrior’s throat.
The second legionary reaches Petronius, though, and hacks his burring chainaxe into the Ultramarine’s bolter. It cuts through the stock in seconds, and is about to rip open Petronius’ torso when Thiel shoulder-barges the warrior to the floor.
The legionary tears off his helm to reveal the abject scarification of the XII Legion, World Eaters. ‘Come on then, Guilliman’s little curs!’ he roars.
Thiel raises his hand. No one fires.
Inviglio edges forwards, his bolter ready. ‘What are you doing? You are injured.’
‘No,’ says Thiel. ‘I’m angry.’ He eyes up his opponent as he returns his sidearm to its holster, and draws his sheathed longsword.
Petronius’ blunt concern is written upon his features. ‘He’ll kill you, fool.’
Thiel rolls his shoulder to loosen his sword arm, his eyes on the World Eater now.
‘We have to show them who rules Ultramar. Sometimes that means doing it bloody.’
Inviglio is unconvinced. ‘Who will know, other than us?’
But Thiel’s reply is too low to be heard by anyone but himself.
‘I will.’
He salutes, earning a savage nod in reply.
The World Eater is fast, and he moves aggressively. Thiel is immediately on the back foot, forced into a hasty defence. A heavy blow swings in, and sparks spit from Thiel’s sword and his opponent’s chainaxe. The burring blades smother the sound of Thiel’s hard breathing.
He pummels the blood-soaked butcher, as relentless as a metronome. Each axe blow is crafted differently to the last, in search of a weakness to exploit. Thiel gives him none, but he’s not winning – he’s hanging on.
He realises he is being played with. So does Petronius, who goes to intervene.
‘Stay back!’ Thiel orders. ‘Do it!’
Reluctantly, Petronius obeys, and so do the others.
Angry, perhaps. Disobedient even, but loyal.
The World Eater is slurring his words, succumbing to some blood-mad rage. ‘Little cur… I’ll… slake my blade… with you…’ His eyes glaze, the pupils shrinking to tiny black dots of hate. Thiel knows he must end this quickly.
‘You are the cur… war dog.’
He backs off, and lets the maddened warrior come at him, dodging as much as he’s trying to parry effectively. It frustrates the World Eater, goading him. Gripped in two hands, Thiel’s electromagnetic longsword holds its own better than any chainblade could. It is his only by dint of a father’s indulgence, but no less potent for it.
The butcher’s onslaught is ferocious, but each blow is telegraphed now and less reasoned. It’s pure rage, a desire to break his enemy through sheer aggression and persistence. Thiel smiles, despite the battering.
‘Now, I have y–’
Then he slips, down on one knee as blow after blow hammers down. His brothers move to intercede, but he roars at them again.
‘Stand fast!’
Bloodied, hurting, Thiel is struck hard and his arm swings out. So does his sword. The blow leaves him open.
The World Eater lifts his chainaxe like a blood-priest poised before the sacrifice, his hungry grin mimicked by the weapon’s ruddy teeth. Faster than he looks in that moment, Thiel thrusts his sword into the other warrior’s chest. It tears right through the armoured plastron, piercing both hearts.
Blood boils up the World Eater’s throat as he violently convulses, and comes out in a gruesome spray. He roars, teeth so bloody they’re crimson, but the axe still falls from his nerveless grip. Four Ultramarines gun him down in unison before the weapon hits the floor.
Thiel rises, taking Petronius’ help to get back to his feet. ‘Well that was reckless,’ says the legionary. ‘But impressive.’
‘I thought you’d approve,’ Thiel replies, wiping the blood from his blade.
Inviglio stops him as he approaches the body. ‘Were you proving something to him or yourself, sergeant?’ He doesn’t bother to mask his consternation.
Nor does Thiel.
‘Neither. Both. He died, I lived – that’s all that matters now.’ He looks at Inviglio squarely. ‘May I?’
Inviglio gives him room to crouch next to the body. There’s a rank tattoo on the dead warrior’s face, and some kind of cranial implant in the back of his skull.
‘He was an officer. But I have no idea what–’
Then he stops cold. The World Eater isn’t dead. He clings on, kept alive by his anger. Not a threat, but enduring nonetheless.
He’s murmuring something, and Thiel cranes his neck. Inviglio edges forwards. ‘Sergeant…’
Thiel leans closer, grimacing at the dying legionary’s stench. He utters one word, over and over. It puts a chill in Thiel’s soul.
‘Night…fane…’
Only silence follows. The World Eater’s bitten tongue lolls in his ugly mouth, but he’s smiling in death. Venator has a haunted look in his eyes. ‘I have never seen them smile before,’ he murmurs.
‘Then you’ve never seen them killing in earnest,’ says Thiel, moving up to the command centre’s hub.
The data-screed is comprehensive. There is obscurity in its sheer overwhelming detail.
‘These aren’t raiders. This is organised.’
Finius, Venator and Petronius secure the room. Inviglio joins Thiel at the primary command console. ‘Nightfane again… But what is it?’
Thiel shakes his head.
‘I don’t know. A place, a leader perhaps? They’re getting orders from somewhere.’
‘I think I know where,’ calls Bracheus. He is standing by one of the other bodies. He waits for Thiel and Inviglio to join him. ‘Look at the armour. There’s a manufactorum stamp. A forge-temple.’
Thiel looks at the symbol. ‘That’s from Phraetius.’
He’s seen the name on the data-screed. He recalls that it used to be the main munitorum depot for Crusade operations in this region, now marked as decommissioned and deserted. It appeared that neither was true.
‘They’re forging a supply chain, and that’s their base of operation.’
‘What operation?’ asks Bracheus.
‘Nightfane.’
Fourteen legionaries sit silently in the hold of a gunship. Only the glow of retinal lenses alleviates the abject dark. The low hum of their power armour is barely audible above the muffled shriek of dead-drop turbulence.
Phraetius hurtles to meet them, or rather them to it. It is only a minor forge-temple, but it is both fortified and garrisoned. Stab lights lance the gloom as Spirit of Veridia plummets earthward, the pilot coaxing it like a glider with the turbines low and the engines cold.
A white glare lights Thiel’s face through a vision slit just before he
dons a replacement helm. His jaw is set, his voice iron hard.
‘We end it here, or die trying.’
No one argues. No one utters a word.
They strike deep. The gunship pierces banks of gritty smog, dropping like an arrow until a siren starts to wail. Running near cold, the gunship was rendered invisible to sensors, but the smog was the last veil of camouflage before the naked eye could spot them. With their discovery, rapid action is needed.
Sudden engine thrust hits the hold like a hammer, and would have thrown the Ultramarines except that they are mag-locked to the deck.
Now they are dropping in hard, right down the enemy’s throat. Flak fire is already chipping at the gunship’s outer armour, but the anti-air guns are slow to kick in as the defenders rush to man their stations.
As of this moment, surprise is Thiel’s greatest asset.
‘On your feet, legionaries!’
There are two five-man squads and Drenius’ four, with specialists and heavies in each. The shuddering hold makes Thiel’s voice tremulous, but his will is unshakable.
‘Now we fight. For primarch and Emperor. For the lost sons of Calth, and those yet to be born on Macragge. This is your hour, brothers. Banish shame. Banish doubt. Banish anger. Show these traitors what it is to be an Ultramarine!’
The side hatch slides back to admit the stench of hot las and incendiary. The sky is night black, but the stab lights converging on the gunship make it feel like day.
Ten feet from the ground, Thiel jumps from the hold with Petronius and nine others in tow.
A blitzkrieg of fire greets them, pranging off shoulder guards and plastrons. The ricochets are so heavy it practically rains sparks. The squads led by Thiel and Petronius hit a gantry after the drop, Petronius’ men heading down into a flagged square to deal with the troops coming out of the barrack houses.
Thiel presses on, his first target the interceptor autocannon that’s reloading after trying to destroy their gunship. Engine noise roars behind him as he rushes the gun nest, the Thunderhawk taking to the skies with Drenius’ squad on board.
