[Ultramarines 6] Chapters Due - Graham McNeill

by Graham McNeill

  There was no need to issue orders; the assault had been planned out according to the dictates of the Codex Astartes, and every Ultramarines warrior knew his place. Devastator squads found cover, as Assault squads moved alongside the Tactical warriors, ready to follow up any gunfire with a furious charge of chainswords and pistols.

  Flaming debris fell from the tower, tumbling down in an avalanche of sparks and obscuring smoke.

  And Uriel’s desire to lay the wrath of the Ultramarines upon his enemies was realised.

  Warriors in ancient battle plate stained with the blood of ten thousand victims staggered from the wreckage, axes raised and vile war shouts shrieking from helmet vox. Many were horrifically injured, missing arms or bearing wounds that should have crippled even the toughest Space Marine, but Uriel saw that these were no ordinary traitors.

  These were berserkers, mindless killers who fought without heed of pain or fear of death. In any fight, a skilled warrior would seek to kill his opponent without suffering any wounds in return, but the berserker cared nothing for his own survival. Killing was all that mattered to such ferocious warriors, and their survival was irrelevant.

  They came in a rushing mass of screaming faces, horned helmets and scarred horror, their weapons a hideous mix of swords, axes, monstrously toothed cleavers and barbed meat hooks. Uriel counted around a hundred before the first shots rang out.

  A warrior with a face covered in old blood pitched sideways as a sniper round punched through his temple and evacuated his skull. Another fell with his throat shot out, as the Ultramarines Scouts picked off enemy warriors through the gaps in their armour.

  Uriel squeezed off a short burst of bolter fire, dropping a red-armoured warrior with a leering skull branded into his plastron. Streaking lines of bolter fire hammered the charging berserkers, dropping scores, but barely slowing the rest. Pasanius sprayed a streaming burst of promethium into the berserkers, but none of the enemy fell, and flaming warriors hurled themselves towards the Ultramarines with even greater ferocity. Warriors charged with arms blown off or hanging by meaty sinews of ruptured flesh. One berserker ran ten metres with half his head missing, only collapsing when the rage-fuelled vitality finally bled out of his system.

  Uriel fired a last burst of shots, then slung his bolter. He drew the golden-hilted sword of Idaeus and his pistol. The blade flashed to life, its edge fizzing with killing light.

  “Into them!” he yelled as the lines of blue and crimson met in a brutal clatter of armour.

  Screaming ferocity met clinical precision as the Ultramarines’ parade-perfect formation smashed into the charge of the berserkers. Axes rose and fell, pistols boomed and chainswords tore through armour in flaring bursts of sparks like angle-grinders in an armourer’s workshop.

  Uriel shut off his tactical overlay, the icons of friendly and enemy forces too hopelessly intermixed for it to be of any use. No sooner had the icons faded from view than a sweeping axe blade flashed towards him. He ducked and thrust his blade into his attacker’s exposed midriff, a warrior with skull-stamped plates and a daemonic helm. Uriel felt his blade slice cleanly through armour, flesh and bone, and dragged it to the side, almost cutting his foe in half.

  Another came at him with a huge iron hook swinging for his neck. Uriel turned the blow aside, but the warrior slammed into him, driving the hook under his shoulder guard. They spun around, locked together like dancers as the warrior repeatedly slammed a spiked cestus gauntlet against Uriel’s side. Driven with such force and hate, the blows cracked the plate and Uriel felt stabbing pain in his ribs.

  He locked his elbow around the traitor’s arm and spun around, using the berserker’s momentum to hurl him to the ground. Quick as a feral beast, the warrior found his feet, but before he could pounce, a black shape flashed past and a warrior armed with twin lightning claws cut the maniacal killer apart with a flurry of slashing blows.

  Aethon Shaan and his squad of Raven Guard swept through the desperate melee with smooth and seemingly casual motion, as though the berserkers were moving in slow motion. They swayed aside from killing blows, lopped heads and limbs with elegant sweeps of claws and swords, turning their enemies fury into clumsy, blind rages.

  The Ultramarines way of war was professional, disciplined and utterly without mercy, but the Raven Guard fought with a sinuous grace that was unlike anything Uriel had seen before. Captain Shaan moved as though guided by preternatural senses, striking enemies down without effort, and anticipating attacks before they were unleashed.

  A howling, axe-wielding warrior hurled himself at Uriel, and he lost sight of the Raven Guard captain. Uriel rolled beneath the attack, slicing his sword in an overhead arc, opening the berserker from groin to sternum. He rose to his feet, taking in the nature of the fight in a snapshot appraisal of the battle.

  Though they were horribly outnumbered, the forces of the Archenemy were fighting with the killing fury of warriors who lusted only after death, be it theirs or their enemies. Learchus and Pasanius fought with controlled aggression, drawing the berserkers into isolated pockets of resistance that could be destroyed piecemeal. The berserkers could not win, but that was of no consequence. That blood was spilled was all that mattered to such bestial killers, and Uriel could not conceive of how so noble a warrior as a Space Marine could fall to such degraded depths.

  Uriel killed another berserker and kicked the body from his sword as he felt a powerful sense of danger. He spun on his heel, sword raised to strike. No berserkers were close, yet the sense of impending doom would not leave him. He scanned left and right for threats, but could see nothing to explain such a feeling of dread.

  He saw twin points of gleaming light reflected on the blade of his sword and looked up to see two glowing embers in the sky, like a pair of malevolent eyes staring down at him.

  Fast-moving and brighter than the pre-dawn stars, the image reminded Uriel of the shared memory he’d lived before arriving at the Temple of Correction. Without quite knowing how, he knew that these were harbingers of destruction.

  Uriel called up his tactical plot and opened a channel to every warrior under his command.

  “All Imperial forces, emergency withdrawal!” he said, shocked to be issuing such an order when victory was moments away. “Command prefix omicron!”

  It was an easy order to issue, but a harder one to obey. Withdrawing from a close quarters battle was a horrendously dangerous manoeuvre, but against a foe such as this it was nearly impossible. The Ultramarines pulled back in disciplined groups, one combat squad breaking off the fight and running for cover as their fraternal unit kept the enemy in the fight.

  Accurate sniper fire from Issam’s Scouts provided openings for retreat, and as Assault squads fell back, Devastators raked the enemy warriors with heavy calibre shells or sent booming missiles into their midst. Uriel jogged back with his warriors in a textbook manoeuvre of withdrawal that might have been executed on the parade ground, such was its efficiency.

  Pasanius ran over to him, the nozzle of his flamer copper brown from the many gouts of promethium he had unleashed.

  “What’s going on? Why are we pulling back? We have them!”

  “We need to get away,” said Uriel. “Something is desperately wrong here.”

  Pasanius started to ask more, but Uriel held up his hand as he heard a desperate voice calling for his attention in his earpiece. A blast of static resolved into the voice of Lazlo Tiberius. The Lord Admiral was aboard the strike cruiser Vae Victus, the grand old dam of the Ultramarines fleet that had carried the 4th Company into battle for decades.

  “Captain Ventris receiving,” he said, finding some space. “Repeat last transmission.”

  “Uriel, thank the Emperor!” said Tiberius. “Get out of there. Now. Fall back to the gunships and get as far from Axum as you can.”

  “I have already issued the order,” he said. “We will be airborne momentarily.”

  “How did you know?” said Tiberius. “We only just picked them up.”<
br />
  “Picked what up?”

  “An orbital torpedo battery launched two warheads at the surface. Space is lousy with electromagnetic radiation, and we didn’t see them through the clutter of the debris up here.”

  “Trajectory?” asked Uriel, though he already knew the answer.

  “On Axum,” said Tiberius. “You’ve got a minute at best.”

  “Understood. Ventris out.”

  The Thunderhawks were already spooling up their engines and Uriel glanced up to see the two specks of light in the sky drawing closer with every passing second.

  Disciplined volleys of bolter fire punished the last of the berserkers as the Ultramarines fell back by squads to their gunships. Learchus’ aircraft lifted off as soon as the last warrior was aboard and Pasanius’ was hot on its heels. Both gunships were overloaded with personnel. Issam’s Scout squads had deployed via Land Speeder Storms, but there was no way they could reach them in time.

  Though it went against Codex doctrine to abandon such valuable equipment, they had no choice. Only Uriel’s gunship remained on Tarentus, but it was the most heavily loaded, for Issam’s squad and Aethon Shaan’s warriors had to squeeze on board also.

  Uriel fired single shots from the assault ramp of the Thunderhawk as Issam and Shaan ran back to the gunship, firing from the hip as they went. The berserkers were a howling mob of killers, driven mad with killing fury and heedless of their impending doom. The Thunderhawk’s guns added to the din as the berserkers surged forward in one last futile attempt to claim their blood victims.

  “Ramp up!” shouted Uriel, hammering the closing mechanism as the Raven Guard and the Scouts dashed on board. Only Issam remained on Tarentus, picking off berserkers with snap-fired shots of his bolt pistol.

  “Get in!” cried Uriel.

  The hammer on Issam’s gun slammed down on an empty chamber, and he vaulted onto the rising ramp of the gunship. An instant later, a howling killer with a serrated dagger leapt onto his back and plunged the blade into the Scout-sergeant’s shoulder. Issam cried out and was borne to the deck.

  The assault ramp closed and Uriel heard furious clanging on the outside as the berserkers tried to batter their way in.

  He hit the intercom to the pilot and shouted, “Go!”

  The gunship lurched and the enemy warrior was thrown from Issam’s back. He rolled upright, a maddened savage with a face so scarred with self-inflicted wounds that barely any trace of humanity remained. The berserker spat a mouthful of blood, his wetted blade raised to kill more of his enemies.

  Uriel swung his bolter round, but before he could take the shot, a black-clad warrior flashed before him and a spray of hot arterial blood arced over the fuselage like a ruptured hydraulic.

  The berserker dropped to his knees, and where his head had been there was simply a neatly severed stump that pumped blood energetically onto the ribbed flooring of the gunship.

  Aethon Shaan spun around, dropping into a predatory stance, but there was no need for further violence.

  “That was fast,” said Uriel, lowering his bolter.

  “Not fast enough,” said Shaan, helping Issam to his feet.

  The Scout-sergeant grimaced in pain, his shoulder a mass of bright blood and torn armour plates.

  “How’s the shoulder?” asked Uriel.

  “Painful, but I’ll live,” replied Issam. “Bastard was fast.”

  “Not fast enough,” echoed Uriel, watching as Shaan returned to his warriors.

  Seconds later, Uriel watched from the pilot’s compartment as the two warheads impacted in the centre of Axum. The cockpit canopy had been dimmed, and a blinding light flashed into existence just before a second detonation. By the time the canopy cleared, twin mushroom clouds clawed their way into the sky with dreadful finality.

  Axum was gone, a city that bore the hallmarks of all that was good and noble in Ultramar, reduced to ashes in a microsecond. All trace of the battle they had just fought was obliterated by warheads designed to cripple starships. A shuddering blast wave shook the Thunderhawk roughly, but as the pilot gunned the engines the vibrations in the fuselage lessened.

  But for a moment’s lucky premonition, Uriel and the 4th Company would be dead.

  “It was a trap,” said Aethon Shaan, appearing at his shoulder.

  “Yes,” said Uriel. “They knew we would come in force.”

  “They baited it with their own warriors,” said Shaan. “Ones who wouldn’t care about being left to die.”

  “It sounds like you admire that,” said Uriel.

  “No, but it tells of a singular lack of conscience in their leader. To know him is to know his weaknesses, but such a warrior will be a dangerous foe.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Truly this Honsou must hate you.”

  Uriel watched the flaming remains of Axum and clenched his fists.

  “Not as much as I hate him,” he promised.

  FIVE

  Warbreed’s superstructure groaned under the pressure of so sharp a turn, but Honsou knew the ship well enough to be confident she could handle it. An alarm sounded from one of the servitor-stations, but Adept Cycerin silenced it with a dismissive wave of an organic mechadendrite. Enmeshed within a pool of sluicing amniotic gel, the corrupt magos of the Mechanicus had evolved his internal mecha-organic workings to no longer require him to move from station to station.

  The Titan they had destroyed on Majaax had furnished Cycerin with bio-conductive gels, and technology stripped from the Basilica Dominastus of the Indomitable had allowed him to fashion this disgusting means of more effectively linking with the mechanisms of the Warbreed. The smell was horrendous and the undulating shapes moving beneath the sludgy pink fluid filled the bridge of the battle-barge with the reek of sour milk.

  “Gods of the warp, that stuff is rank,” said Cadaras Grendel. Honsou thought his lieutenant was grimacing at the slopping pool in the centre of the bridge, but it was hard to tell what expression Grendel was making these days.

  “If it helps him carry out my orders then it could smell like a cultist of the Plaguefather for all I care,” said Honsou. “Now be quiet.”

  Grendel shrugged and returned his attention to the viewing bay.

  Honsou kept his gaze fixed on the swirling images on the plotting table, a cracked slate edged in battered steel with a projected field of red-washed static. Searing icons representing the dancers in this deadly ballet moved slowly through the hash of interference, with the largest being the glaring eye that was the Indomitable.

  While the makeweights of Honsou’s fleet battered themselves against Talassar’s screen of orbital torpedo silos and the relentless broadsides of hundreds of geostationary gun platforms, the ships of his warlords fought the real enemy—the Ultramarines fleet.

  It was a small fleet, three frigates and a destroyer attended by a host of rapid strike craft and a pair of aging system monitors, yet its strength was not to be underestimated.

  A distant explosion flared in the distance and Grendel laughed.

  “One for Kaarja Salombar,” he said. “That’s the Moonblade. It’s got to be.”

  Honsou glanced down at the images.

  The Corsair Queen’s ships ranged far ahead of the Iron Warriors vessels, recklessly dashing off to provoke the Ultramarines ships to battle. As expected, the enemy ships had taken the bait, working to their predictable Codex. The fighting had been fierce, with the Ultramarines vessels taking out three of Salombar’s ships without loss. Yet Salombar was no slouch when it came to void war, and her captains were fast and unpredictable.

  And that played havoc with the Ultramarines’ rote battle plans.

  Salombar’s flagship, the Moonblade, was a sleek dart of a ship, long and graceful, with a host of delicate solar sails descending from her underside. Multiple broadside batteries pummelled the Ultramarines ships, raking a Nova-class frigate from prow to stern.

  Then the Farsider had joined the fight.

  One of the vessels H
uron Blackheart had presented Honsou, the venerable Apocalypse-class battleship was ready for the scrapyard, with more than half its weapon systems non-functioning. The old beast still had teeth, however, and its nameless spawn-captain knew how to use them.

  The Farsider’s lance batteries were defunct, but its main gun could still fire and it unleashed a searing blast from its frontal cannon, a weapon whose barrel ran almost the length of its keel. Graviometric impellers hurled the deadly projectile towards the Ultramarines ships at close to light speed. The resulting implosion obliterated three rapid strike cruisers and sent a system monitor limping for the dark side of the planet.

  More and more ships moved to engage the Ultramarines, attacking from almost every axis to pin them in place.

  Except the Ultramarines weren’t cooperating and staying locked in battle; they were breaking through the Corsair Queen’s battle lines.

  “She’s lost them,” said Grendel, watching the dance of icons. “She went in too thin and left them a way out. Obvious really.”

  “Yes,” agreed Honsou. “But look where that way out leads.”

  Grendel followed the path the Ultramarines breakout would take and grunted with dark amusement. “You planned this?”

  “Of course,” said Honsou. “You didn’t think we’d fight this on their terms did you?”

  Honsou turned his attention back to the plotter, watching as the Ultramarines punched through the weakness in Salombar’s attack, destroying another corsair vessel as they surged through the gap their weapons had created.

  “Too bad their way out is towards the Indomitable,” said Honsou.

  “Can they hurt it?”

  “Unlikely, but one of the frigates is armed with lance batteries,” said Honsou. “And that could do some real damage if it gets through. Maybe even to the Basilica Dominastus.”