by Nick Kyme
Iulus shrugged, pretending to run a final check over his wargear. ‘A statement of fact. As part of the main push to relieve Kellenport, I won’t be there to watch your back.’
‘I can think of no better to perform such a task, either,’ Scipio replied with genuine bonhomie. ‘Or perhaps it’s you that’s in need of protection.’
Iulus grunted something when the pair were interrupted by a third figure.
‘Brother-sergeants.’ Praxor’s greeting was friendly enough, but a chill entered the air at his arrival nonetheless.
The three clasped vambraces in the manner of the old way once favoured by Macraggian battle-kings.
‘A glorious campaign is in prospect,’ said Praxor Manorian. ‘Our Lord Sicarius will bring many laurels to the Second this day.’
‘Cast off your politician’s mantle, Praxor,’ growled Iulus, finding the other sergeant’s vainglory distasteful. ‘It is war, plain and simple.’
‘There is more than mere soldiery at play here. We need to be seen to be supporting our captain.’
Scipio snorted. He hadn’t seen Praxor in many weeks – he originally believed he’d been secluded in the practice cages, but later discovered he was involved in senate dealings concerning Calgar’s eventual successor. ‘Support for what? Sicarius’s elevation?’
Praxor looked nonplussed, his thin face taut like wire. Together with his silver hair, the sergeant had the haughty cast of a statue. He was certainly inflexible enough when it came to Ultramar politics. ‘Yes, what else?’
Iulus shook his head, ‘We three have debated this point at length, and I still maintain it is unfitting talk for warriors. Agemman is First, therefore he sits at Lord Calgar’s right hand. I vaunt Sicarius as much and as readily as any in the Chapter, as any in the Second, but the law of ascendancy is what it is.’ The grizzled veteran folded his arms as if that were an end to it.
‘Just because you have a uniquely simple view of matters does not mean everyone else has, Iulus,’ chided Praxor. ‘Every victory, laurel and laudation we garner for the Second brings us closer to our rightful place, at the head of Calgar’s table.’
Bored of the debate, one that had been waxing and waning for over a century, Scipio began inspecting the seals on his power armour. ‘There is no struggle, save that devised by your imaginings, Praxor,’ he said dismissively. ‘You’ve been spending too much time in temples with the legates, senators and magistrates instead of on the battlefield. I liked you better when you were a slave to the battle-cages. At least that improved your blade-craft.’
Iulus laughed, a rare concession to humour for him, but Praxor returned a serious expression. ‘It is no trivial matter, Scipio. Our Chapter’s future and who shapes it is of the utmost importance to all of us.’ He relaxed a little, realising he was being goaded. ‘And besides, the struggle is plain to see.’
Scipio frowned, bidding Praxor to clarify.
‘Or did you not see Helios in the mission briefing? Him and four others of the First – Agemman’s watchmen.’
‘You see conspiracy and spies where I see only fellow battle-brothers–’
‘They are not alone,’ interrupted Iulus, pointing further down the deck where three mighty Chapter wardens stomped into view.
The drop pods meant to convey the Dreadnoughts were slightly larger than the rest and designed out to accommodate their bulk. Ultracius, Agnathio and venerable Agrippen – veterans all, formerly battle-brothers but now warriors-eternal entombed within sarcophagi of ceramite. Their mechanised shells were festooned with honour gilding and reliquaries, purity seals and oaths of moment. Each bore the sigil of the Ultramarines proudly and was armed with a brutal array of weapons.
‘Agrippen is First, is he not?’ said Iulus, rubbing at the rough texture of his chin as he considered what it must be like to fight for the Chapter as a Dreadnought.
‘Aye,’ uttered Praxor darkly. ‘He is.’
‘You’ll turn us all into company separatists with this talk, brother,’ Scipio warned. ‘It’s not fitting.’
Praxor turned on him, flint in his eyes and ice in his voice. ‘Eventually you’ll need to find your loyalties, Scipio. The Second fight and die as one.’
Scipio smacked away his brother’s coaxing hand before it touched his shoulder. ‘No, we the Chapter are as one. Politics be damned.’
‘It is for the good of the Chapter that I speak!’ Praxor was clearly becoming exasperated. As if remembering where he was, he lowered his voice. ‘And by supporting our captain, we are achieving that aim. There will come a time when political schism is inevitable. You won’t be able to hide behind your indifference then, Scipio. Your hand will be counted as will every other sergeant and captain’s.’
‘Then I hope that day is long in the coming, brother. For it holds no interest for me.’ It came out harder than Scipio had intended.
Praxor’s expression went from animated to one of resignation. ‘As you wish.’ He saluted, somewhat crisply, and stalked away to find his squad. By now the assembly deck was thronged with battle-brothers from the Second. There were elements from other companies too: specialist forces the Ultramarines would need to face the necrons. Praxor only had issue with those warriors from the First, perceived as a threat by the paranoid brother-sergeant.
‘He craves the captain’s validation still, even after all this time,’ said Iulus. ‘Space Marines have long memories and pride the same as any man.’
‘I would see Praxor’s pride lanced swiftly before it overtakes his reason.’
Iulus only nodded.
Scipio scowled at Praxor’s back as he departed. ‘He’s a fool.’
‘Perhaps.’
A raised eyebrow gave away Scipio’s surprise. ‘You agree with him?’
‘I am a soldier, brother. I care not for the politics of advancement. Calgar will appoint the right successor, I trust in that. But I’m not blind, either. Agemman is looking over his shoulder, and Sicarius has his gaze fixed on what’s ahead of the First Captain. Power struggles are inevitable in any organised structure – they don’t need to be a bad thing, either.’
‘You sound more like a Salamander, all tedious pragmatism and fatalistic acceptance.’
‘Better to accept what you cannot change and learn to adapt than rail against the immutable and end up wasting time and effort.’
Scipio gave the facial equivalent of a shrug, indicating his interest in the matter was at an end. ‘Battle calls, brother,’ he said. Squad Vorolanus was gathering around their drop pod, awaiting their sergeant. ‘May Guilliman guide your hand and the Emperor shield you.’ His gauntlet slapping Iulus’s pauldron made a dull ring before he turned away.
The hard-faced brother-sergeant seized Scipio’s forearm, stopping him.
‘Those heavy guns,’ he said, releasing his grip. ‘They won’t be easy to knock out, even with Lord Tigurius at your side.’
‘It is I who’ll be at his side, Iulus.’
Scipio hadn’t seen the Master of Librarians throughout the muster but somehow felt his presence. Varro Tigurius was formidable in the psychic arts – to take to the field with him was a great honour, but also a source of trepidation for the sergeant. What misgivings might he uncover in Scipio’s turbulent mind?
Iulus brought him back. ‘Even still, you’ll be far from the rest of us.’
Confusion creased Scipio’s brow. Did Iulus doubt him for some reason?
‘The necron pylons will be destroyed, brother.’ His eye-line strayed to the distant figure of Antaro Chronus as he inspected the Ultramarines armour. ‘Rest assured of that.’
The master tank commander would not be deployed with the first wave, but Thunderhawk transporters stood ready on the launch bay for when the enemy beam weapons were silenced and passage opened for the Predators, Whirlwinds and Devastators in Chronus’s arsenal.
‘I don’t do
ubt it. Antaro’s cannons will be a welcome friend in a sea of foes when you do.’
‘What is it then? All this evasion.’ Scipio’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not like you.’
‘I give you counsel, that is all,’ Iulus said plainly. He paused, as if deciding how and if to proceed. Good advice given at a bad time by a friend was always harder to hear; it was even harder to give. ‘You are becoming like him.’
Scipio’s face stiffened. It had lost much of its youthful exuberance over the last century, only the close-cropped hair remained the same. ‘More allusion. Are you sure that’s not Praxor Manorian under all that grim and sturm?’
Iulus didn’t return Scipio’s smile.
‘I am my own man, Iulus.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ The sergeant had his hands up in a plaintive gesture. ‘But these creatures are not ork, nor are they eldar or even Traitors…’
‘I know what they are, brother.’
Warning sirens were sounding, signalling the imminent drop pod assault.
Further counsel from Iulus Fennion would have to wait.
Sicarius, ever the last to walk the assembly deck, ever the first out onto the battlefield, had just arrived with his Lions. The captain and his command squad strode with an imperious air about them. As they closed on their drop pod, the slab sides of the inverted arrowhead grinding open to allow them access, Sicarius spoke. ‘Glory to the Second,’ he roared, a broad grin splitting his patrician jawline. He lifted the Tempest Blade and its edge glittered in the half-light. ‘Let’s give them a taste of Guilliman’s wrath.’
The necron cannonade had begun outside the thick walls of the Valin’s Revenge. The rapid manoeuvres by Helmsman Lodis and the close proximity of the blasts resonated through the hull and shook the assembly deck.
Sicarius laughed it off, even as he was enjoying the bellowed affirmations of his men.
‘I am my own man,’ Scipio repeated, watching Sicarius and the Lions of Macragge climb aboard their drop pod. It was something he and Iulus should also be doing.
‘Just watch yourself, brother. Promise me that at least.’
Scipio nodded, not liking the hint of anxiety in Iulus’s eyes. They clapped pauldrons, their brief disagreement forgotten, and made for the drop pods.
It would be a long time before they saw each other again.
When the Lions were in their positions and the access hatch was closing, Sicarius’s expression changed. Swathed in shadows, with only the internal lumes of the pod interior to light it, his face took on a much darker cast.
‘These revenants are not like the greenskins,’ he warned. ‘The warriors outside this covenant are Second Company – there are none better – but they require steel and fire, not cold hard facts. Let the tactica briefings give them the knowledge they require to do their duty. You, my Lions, are chosen. You, as I do, will know what we face on the Damnos soil.’ Sicarius looked to his second-in-command.
Veteran-Sergeant Daceus narrowed his eyes. He swept his gaze across the other eight Space Marines in the drop pod. A countdown timer had begun. Intermittent vox-chimes signalled the imminence of launch; the shuddering impacts felt against the hull conveyed its urgency.
‘There have been few reported sightings, let alone engagements with these creatures. We, the Second, have yet to lock blades with them but they are a foe unlike any other. Your tactica briefings are inloaded to your retinal displays – I suggest we all analyse that data during launch. Their technology, resilience and ability to self-repair are all in there.’
The vox-chimes were getting closer together as the countdown started to reach its final cycle.
‘There is no drill, no amount of training or physical honing that can prepare you for this foe,’ he went on. ‘Preparing for the unknown, adapting to face the unforeseen scenario, it is what we Space Marines excel at. We are not the Guard, mere men, who would balk and pale in the face of this enemy. We are Ultramarines, but our mettle will be tested here – yours, the valiant Lions, most of all. To be chosen means something. It is more than honour, it is responsibility. Inspire your battle-brothers, for we will need inspiration and visible courage this day.’
Each of the warriors present met Daceus’s hard eyes. Vandius, their Company Banner Bearer, wore a determined expression – his duty was to keep the standard of the Second aloft. Gaius Prabian, as Champion, was charged with keeping Sicarius alive and allowing him to lead the line – Daceus didn’t envy him, but there was steel in his eyes and aggression. Of the others, all showing grim resolve and ready violence, only Venatio remained carefully neutral. The Apothecary knew his task would be hardest of all and it carried the most weight – in his hands was the future of the Chapter, the harvesting and safeguard of the gene-seed.
‘Trust in the Codex, and in your captain,’ Daceus concluded. ‘Through that we will triumph.’
‘You all know my mind,’ said Sicarius. ‘Know this, also: I do not want this fight. I desire to gild our banner with victory, to elevate our station, to glorify our Lord Calgar and the Chapter. But our chances of victory here, on Damnos, are almost none. We will do what is needed, because it is asked of us and as Adeptus Astartes it is our solemn calling, but we are stepping onto a dead world.’
He thrust out a clenched fist.
The move was immediately mirrored by every warrior in the drop pod, until ten spokes of ceramite formed a wheel of brotherhood around the interior.
‘Courage and honour.’
The words were returned to Sicarius, spoken with stern conviction.
The vox-chimes reached a long sustained whine. Launch engines were burning outside the drop pod. The bays opened in unison. There was a sense of weightlessness, then of gravity pulling them downwards through the atmosphere. Temperature gauges rose; so too did the sound of the necron guns.
The liberation of Damnos had begun.
Chapter Four
Iulus issued a series of orders using Ultramarines battle-sign and his squad tightened around him in a defensive cordon centred on the drop pod. Sicarius and his Lions had landed ahead of them. Somehow, impossibly, even their transport was more eager than everyone else’s to close with the enemy.
Necrons were thronging the plaza. Hot beams from their gauss-flayers turned the accumulated snow to slush that detonated wetly beneath Iulus’s armoured tread.
‘Dense separation, suppressing fire,’ he bellowed, voice grating through his vox-grille. Iulus seldom wore a battle-helm, preferring for his squad to see his face and the fury therein, but on this occasion he was glad of it. The snow-fog occluded the view. Retinal sensors built into his helmet lenses overcame that easily, the reddish blur of the unique necron heat signature readily discernible in his field of vision.
Staccato bolter fire, clipped and precise, rewarded the many training drills he’d put the ‘Immortals’ through during his tenure as their sergeant. Several of the automatons jerked and bucked against the bolt storm before collapsing into the snow-slush.
‘Advance and execute,’ he continued.
The Immortals moved on their sergeant’s lead, charging up to the stricken necrons. Three battle-brothers hung back as the others went ahead of the enemy casualties. The loud crack-bang of single headshots and the sonorous report of a phasal shift filled the air.
Iulus had read the Tactica briefings extensively. Nothing barring critical system damage would prevent a necron’s ability to self-repair. He was taking no chances.
‘Report,’ he barked into the comm-feed.
‘Eliminated, brother-sergeant.’ Three identical replies came back before Iulus’s squad were reunited. The dense chud-chud of a heavy bolter, unleashed by ‘Guilliman’s Hammer’, Tirian’s Devastators, sounded from the left. It was paired off with another weapon, the two cannons giving off intermittent barrages that overlapped at the beginning and end of their ammo cycles. The foom of missile tubes provi
ded a low chorus to the percussive refrain of the bolters. Explosions, hazy through the mist, bloomed. Snow and frag spat in diagonal bursts. It was brutal, but in the distance necrons were rising from the carnage.
‘Temple of Hera.’ Iulus had moved ahead of the Devastators, but caught the flare of muzzle flashes and the fading contrail of expelled smoke in his peripheral vision as they advanced. There was little to no cover on the plaza, the necrons had levelled it with their cannonade, but that was why Space Marines wore power armour – ceramite battle-plate was all the cover they needed.
From the right, Brother-Sergeant Atavian brought up a second squad of Devastators, the Titan Slayers. Their weapons brought swift death to the mechanoids. Even the necrons’ enhanced repair ability couldn’t save them from the searing beam of a lascannon or metal-sloughing effects of a multi-melta. Iulus stayed close to Atavian, advancing in an oblique line. Engage, take ground, engage – enacted as if on the training ground.
The first few raiders had been the exploratory elements of a vanguard. The reddish heat signature blurs on Iulus’s retinal display suddenly increased as the Ultramarines reached the shadow of the first of Kellenport’s defensive walls. It was overrun and the sound of desperate Guardsmen fated for death resolved on the breeze like a requiem.
Spreading out, the necrons had enveloped them. Bolters tracked and fired to compensate, relying on advanced targeting sensors – the mist was so bad that the enemy were literally appearing as if from nowhere, and in numbers.
‘Brother, my flank has been compromised.’ It was Atavian through the comm-feed in Iulus’s helmet.
‘Close up battle-formation, there are more necrons than we first believed.’
An affirmation rune flashed on Iulus’s retinal display. The tac-icons representing the Devastator squad started to move closer to the Immortals. Iulus noticed there were several red markers that remained static.
Squad Fennion and the two Devastators – they were the rearguard. Glory belonged to others.
