by Nick Kyme
Acting on instinct and too close to fire, Brother Vortigan swung at it with his bolter’s bayonet. The monomolecular blade should have carved into it, but slipped through the creature as if parting vapour. Like a whip, the tail lashed around and speared Vortigan in the neck. The talons found weak points in his armour between plastron and greave. The Ultramarine spewed a film of blood into his helmet that speckled the lenses before he fell.
Praxor cried out Vortigan’s name and swung at the same time. His power sword crackled, as if reacting to the creature’s nature, and he clove off a limb. Then he drove the point of the blade through the wraith’s gear-like intestine and it shuddered and phased out.
The other three were in amongst the Shieldbearers, whose charge had now faltered to a stop. Krixous was down, his forearm severed, but still lived. A melta blast from Tartaron maimed another wraith, sending it back to whatever abyss spawned it. The other two weaved in and around the slow-moving Space Marines, who swung and fired with little effect. Praxor was reminded of the gorgons of old Calth, cave-dwelling harridans that could turn men to stone with a glance. Such was the necrons’ speed, it appeared as if the Shieldbearers were indeed petrified.
Praxor rallied them quickly, ordering them to corral the creatures and bring them to Tartaron’s meltagun. Another died with its living metal turned to mercury, the fourth the sergeant dispatched himself with a determined thrust of his power sword.
Agony lanced Praxor’s shoulder and he realised there was a fifth wraith he had not accounted for. Its barbed tail sent Tartaron sprawling before he could fire, whilst the creature jerked and twisted around the clumsy bolter shells railing at it. The troopers were of no consequence. It wanted Praxor. Only the sergeant’s blood would do. He’d dropped his bolt pistol. He heard it skitter across the ice before he lost it in the mist. With a grunt Praxor shrugged off the talons and managed to half turn before the tail barb cut his legs from under him. He fell hard onto his back, a flicker in his retinal display indicating the power to his armour had been briefly compromised. It returned with a whir of servos, and the piston-grinding swipe of his power sword was too slow for Praxor. A flick of the wraith’s talons sheared his vambrace and forced his fingers to part. Like the bolt pistol before it, Praxor’s blade spun away from his grasp and he was suddenly weaponless.
‘Shoot it!’ he growled, determined to show the mechanoid his unswerving hate before he died.
Bolter shells crashed around it, but were like exploding flares for all the damage they caused. The wraith phased through the bursts, advancing on the Ultramarines sergeant who was crawling away on his back.
‘You’ll have to work it for it, scum.’
The necron seemed willing to oblige, darting forwards on its tail with talons primed.
A shock of lightning bent its skull-head at an awkward angle. It tried to turn when the bolt hit again. Only it wasn’t lightning, Praxor realised. It was a power mace. A crozius arcanum.
Trajan bludgeoned the wraith until its restorative programming kicked in and it phased out. Where the necron’s face was skull-toothed metal, the Chaplain’s was gimlet-eyed bone studded with platinum service bolts.
‘Arise, brother,’ he said with a deep, silken voice utterly unlike his predecessor’s, ‘for the Chapter finds you wanting.’
Praxor ignored the Chaplain’s proffered hand. His power armour’s systems were fully operational again. ‘I can stand unaided.’
‘A pity your pride didn’t keep you on your feet,’ Trajan snarled. He regarded the Shieldbearers. ‘These creatures are fleshless abominations. They are an affront to the machine-spirit and cannot be allowed to live. Purge them all and let faith guide your holy bolters!’
Then he was gone, lost to the snow-fog as quickly as he’d arrived.
‘I can see why Sicarius wanted him,’ said Tartaron, his tone wry. It swiftly changed to contrition. ‘I’m sorry, sergeant. My aim should have been better.’
Praxor clapped his pauldron. ‘We live, don’t we? Your aim was sound. Get Brother Krixous and follow on my lead. Captain Sicarius is not far ahead.’
‘Are you still with us, Brother-Sergeant Manorian?’ It was Daceus through the comm-feed. The veteran-sergeant was only metres in front of them with the Lions, and waving the others on.
Contrary to his initial beliefs, the point of the spearhead had been slowed to a man. Beyond the first wall, the battlefield was thronged with the necron vanguard. Praxor made out the black ceramite of Trajan nearby. The Chaplain was everywhere it seemed, singing litanies of hate against the alien and the abomination, as he swung his crozius. Squad Solinus, ‘The Indomitable’, formed an honour guard around him.
‘He prefers his warriors to carry the Victorex Maxima,’ said Tartaron with disdain.
Praxor’s eyes hardened. ‘They are the heroes of Telrendar, brother. Would that the Shieldbearers be so vaunted.’
‘Apologies, brother-sergeant,’ Tartaron replied, head bowed.
‘Come on. We are missing the battle.’ Praxor ordered them forward, but within he was burning with envy at the honours garnered by Solinus. At Damnos then, that was where they would earn their laurels and perhaps even Elianu Trajan would find the Shieldbearers worthy of his company.
In the wastes, little more than rubble and accumulated ice, Agrippen had continued his irresistible advance. Spider-like constructs the size of attack bikes had impeded him, but the great warrior had battered them aside with his power fist, swathing the remains in glowing-hot promethium from the flamer attached to his wrist. A vast ball of plasma tainted the ice-storm cerulean blue as the last of the spiders was engulfed and destroyed. After it was done he came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sicarius, the old juxtaposed against the new.
‘To the captain, for the glory of Ultramar!’ The Dreadnought’s augmented voice was lucid and powerful. Rare amongst the Chapter, he was one of few veterans of old that still remembered who he was and what time period he was fighting in. With Agrippen not being one of the Second, Praxor had been surprised to learn the warrior-eternal was part of the force led by Sicarius. Perhaps the captain desired to show solidarity towards the First or maybe he wanted Agemman to hear of his prowess from one of his most loyal and forthright warriors. None could doubt the word of Agrippen – it was spoken with thunder and the weight of ages.
The breaks in combat were brief, but a patch of open ground had formed at the site of the spearhead’s last victory. Sicarius occupied a half-ruined promontory overlooking the wastes. A shell of some manufactorum or perhaps a lectory – it didn’t matter. The structure’s blasted plateau, the burnt-out remains of a second floor, was stable and expansive enough to allow the captain and all his officers the benefit of its vantage. It also offered a moment to take stock and reanalyse as the Ultramarines squads regathered for a fresh offensive.
‘We should hold here, my lord,’ advised Agrippen from the ground floor below. Broad and strong it might be, but even if the Dreadnought could have reached the second floor his mass would have crushed it. ‘Our forces in the Kellenport plaza can reinforce us.’
Sicarius surveyed the distant battle lines, the drifting smoke and emerald flash of the necron guns. To his right, the capitolis administratum still stood. It was isolated but now ringed by a defensive cordon of Deathwind drop pods.
‘How long will their payload last?’
‘Another few minutes, captain,’ Daceus replied. ‘Guard forces are en route to liberate the acting governor and his staff.’
‘Largely irrelevant, brother-sergeant,’ said Sicarius. ‘The leaders of Damnos are spent, just like their armies, but without those missiles cleansing our flank we’ll become exposed and forced back.’ He shook his head, looking down on Agrippen, ‘Advice noted, brother, but we advance. Let the rearguard hold our lines.’
‘My lord.’
‘Yes,’ Sicarius had removed his battle-helm to wipe the swea
t from his brow. His eyes were as hard as sapphire and belatedly Praxor realised it was he that had spoken and that the captain’s gaze was fixed on him.
‘The mechanoids have cut off our way back.’ He pointed east, to where the vanguard had flowed behind them like the living metal from which the necrons were infernally constructed. ‘Our forces are split in two.’
‘Then it is fortunate we do not turn back, isn’t it, sergeant?’
‘I–’ Praxor was wrong-footed. Sicarius already knew, and didn’t care. Vortigan was dead, Krixous at least was being tended by Brother Venatio – his stump in place of a hand was swathed in pinkish gauze and bandage. His Larraman cells had clotted the blood quickly but there was still some residual fluid. The casualties amongst the Second were rising, though. How many more would fall in this insane gauntlet they were running?
‘Do you know what a gladius is, brother?’
‘Of course, my lord, it’s–’
Sicarius nodded. ‘Yes, and I trust that you know. I trust that you can wield bolter and blade, that you can lead your men and inspire them to greatness.’ He put his hands on Praxor’s shoulders like a father to a son. He sheathed the Tempest Blade to do so. The weapon was still humming eagerly despite the ferocious tally it and its wielder had reaped. ‘So too must you trust me.’
Praxor bowed his head, ‘I meant no offence, Lord Sicarius.’
‘Chapter Master Calgar is your lord, I am your captain. That is all the loyalty and deference you need afford me. Remember the gladius?’ He nodded as Praxor did, their eyes meeting. Sicarius let the sergeant go and mimicked a thrust with his hand. ‘We are that gladius, driving at the heart of our enemy.’
‘But the mechanoids have no heart, brother-captain,’ chimed Daceus, to facilitate his leader’s point.
‘And so they must be fought another way. The necrons respond to one thing, and one thing alone,’ Sicarius said. ‘Punishment. If we hurt them enough, they will yield. To do that we must bring their masters out into the open. They are the heart. Spear that and the machine will fail. I want these creatures to notice me. I want them to recognise my wrath as a threat to their existence. Achieve that and Damnos has a chance.’
So moved, Praxor fell to one knee, his power sword held across his body. ‘I am honoured to serve by your side, Grand Duke of Talassar.’
‘Then you had better stand, for we shall press on, find the command node and bring glory to our Chapter.’
The Lions roared with their captain. So did Praxor, but as he was getting to his feet he noticed that Agrippen stayed silent. The time for reflection was over. A large necron war cell was resolving out of the mist and heading for them.
Sicarius grinned ferally. ‘In Guilliman’s name, and for Talassar. War calls us, brothers…’
As one they replied, ‘We shall answer!’
Falka was second through the western gate after Sergeant Muhrne, running on pure adrenaline. Most of the Ark Guard behind him didn’t want to die, nor did they want to fight. If anything, it was fear and mad fatalism that drove them into the wasteland. A part of Falka hoped it was the cobalt-blue angels that had suddenly arrived in their midst compelling the men, a smaller vestige of him dared to believe that some spark of bravery and pride still burned within Damnos.
‘We shall not surrender!’ he heard Sergeant Muhrne bellow. ‘On, on, on!’ he roared.
As they closed on the battlefront, Falka was glad he would meet his death head-on and not trapped behind a gate waiting to be crushed by fallen masonry or vaporised by a faceless necron artillery barrage. At least this way he could be proud when reunited with his ancestors, he could look Jynn in the eye and say, ‘I died with honour, defending our world.’ He hoped he would see her again soon, but was determined not to waste his life. It would be worth something to these mechanised bastards.
The Ark Guard were four hundred strong when they left the Courtyard of Thor, just under two battalions. Ominously, the western gate was closed behind them. The resonant din of it being sealed broke some of the men who turned and ran back, pounding against the metal impotently with their fists. The commissars on the battlements put them out of their misery with precise pistol shots and the wailing ceased. Not that the rest of the Ark Guard could have heard it. The shattered plaza drowned out the noise with the cacophony of war. Not just any conflict though – this was Space Marine warfare, and it was brutal.
Falka marvelled and balked at the Angels of Death. They were as resolute and indefatigable as the necrons. When he and the rest of the Guardsmen had managed to get two hundred metres from the gate unscathed, he dared to hope that with the Space Marines’ help they might yet save Damnos. Necron warriors, turning their baleful gaze upon the humans at some proximity warning within their machine brains, crushed that assumption quickly.
Muhrne was the first one Falka noticed. The pugnacious sergeant couldn’t even scream as the gauss-beam flayed him. Metal and cloth became particles, skin and flesh turned to dust, organs liquefied until there was nothing left of Muhrne but a charred skeleton. Even that cracked apart when it hit the ground.
Falka ducked instinctively, though it was really just luck that spared him during that first headlong charge. Charred skeletons were exploding all around him as the necrons exposed the weakness of the human form so horrifically. He was shouting, incoherent and wordlessly, but it kept the fear down. He also realised he had yet to fire his gun, so intent was he on running the length of the plaza. Falka checked the load and hauled the trigger. His first shots went wide and too fast. He was still running and needed to conserve his ammunition. Keep going at that rate and he’d be out in a few seconds. The barrel flash, though ineffective so far, brought attention. He dived behind a rubble pile, thanking his saints as the gauss-beam careened away without killing him. Falka took a second to realign himself and was moving again. He had about twenty others with him. Judging by their shoulder patches, they were from several different squads. The gauss barrage had scattered them; the Ark Guard’s discipline and coherency broken in seconds.
‘What do we do?’ one man asked.
It took Falka a few moments to realise he was talking to him. He wished Jynn was there, fighting by his side. She was a warrior; at least her natural instincts suggested it. She would have been an asset to the Ark Guard.
‘A hit, even glancing, from those flayers and we’re dead men,’ said Falka. He tried not to let the fact that so many were hanging on his words disturb him. He slapped the hard flank of the ruin they were hiding in. It wasn’t much, just the worn-down footprint of a defensive barrier. Each man was crouched low, keeping out of the gauss-beams streaking above them.
One man, Falka didn’t know his name – he was a professional soldier, not a conscript from the mines like himself – rose a fraction to wipe his brow. An emerald flash filled the ruins and the nameless man slumped down without his head, the ragged neck stump cauterised. Two of the others had to be restrained from fleeing before Falka could continue.
He looked down at the decapitated corpse grimly. That’s the fate that awaits us all.
‘Stick to the cover, what little there is. And make for the Angels. The Space Marines will protect us.’
‘We’ve been sent to our deaths,’ one lad sobbed. His helmet didn’t really fit him. Falka took off his and gave it to the boy. It wasn’t a much better fit but it seemed to galvanise the lad.
‘Aye, and we’ll meet it on our feet, defending our people like heroes of Damnos.’ He reached over and patted the boy on the shoulder. ‘All right, son?’
The lad nodded. The lasgun looked awkward in his hands. Falka turned away, unwilling to see his fear any longer.
Crawling to the edge of the barrier, he waited until the whine of gauss-beams diminished and then risked a look over the top. Through the mist and carnage, he saw a squad of Space Marines giving battle. They’d abandoned the sanctuary of their landing vessel –
it looked like an inverted spear-tip with its sides split open and laid flat on the ground. A black scar surrounded it, slowly obscured by falling snow.
Warriors from heaven, indeed.
Falka tried to turn that realisation into hope.
‘Come on,’ he shouted to the men. ‘With me!’
Chapter Five
It was cold in the ice cave, but it came from more than just the temperature. There was a chill that emanated from inside, a hollowing of spirit and resolve that would kill her far quicker than a drift or even being crushed beneath an avalanche of compacted snow. It pressed against her body. She felt its weight against her torso and her left shoulder. Her legs she could no longer feel. Her bored-out heart was simply numb.
I am dead, she realised. I am dead – my body simply doesn’t know it yet.
It was black inside, not white at all, underneath the snow. She knew it must be a cave that she’d broken through to, because of the quiet. No screaming, no weeping or mewling. The moaning had stopped too. It had started out as belligerent anger at their situation and a refusal to accept it. Then it became doleful. In the end it just was. She was ashamed to admit that she missed it.
I am dead and that’s why I am cold.
Then she saw a light, a tiny pinhole that turned her black world into powdery grey. Noise followed, a sort of shuffling then a scuffing. Finally, she realised it was digging. Something was digging her out.
She panicked, but she couldn’t move. Vaguely, she remembered snapping on the distress beacon and how stupid that decision had been, even born of desperation as it was, given what stalked the drifts.
