Fall of Damnos

by Nick Kyme

  The Ultramarines took up the call, even those who were injured, even Venkelius who could barely speak at all.

  ‘Ultramar!’

  It was an end worthy of note. Iulus found the admission of that strange. He had never considered death before or what it meant. He had always only thought in terms of function and need.

  I am a warrior and my function is to kill in the Emperor’s name.

  He had not believed his legacy was important, save to pass on to the next Ultramarine who succeeded him; that his deeds and actions really mattered. Faced with the imminence of mortality, he found his opinion changed. Dying well mattered and this was a manner of death that Iulus could be proud of.

  ‘Stand with me, Kolpeck,’ he said, using his body to protect the rig-hand, ‘and let us die well together.’

  ‘While I have breath, I will,’ Kolpeck replied. ‘For her, for Jynn.’

  Iulus didn’t know who this person was but he understood the sentiment. Men were more than just materiel that could wield a gun, throw a grenade or drive a tank. They were flesh and blood, with hearts and minds. And it hadn’t been an honoured warrior, a stern-faced veteran consigned to the lectorum or even a Chaplain that had taught the sergeant this. It had merely been a man, a miner at that. The Ultramarine felt humbled and wished it could end differently for Falka Kolpeck.

  Abruptly, at no outward or fathomable sign, the necrons stopped. A radiant emerald flash filled the Courtyard of Xiphos again but not from some doomsday weapon, it was translocation. Iulus detected the scent of phasal shift and as he opened his eyes saw that the raiders were gone. All of the necron cohorts had simply vanished.

  A reprieve. He felt slightly robbed. The practical side of his character exerted its will over his emotions quickly, though – they were alive. Most of the humans, too, had survived. For Agnathio, they mourned. The Dreadnought was a steaming husk of blast-scarred armour. His life had left him.

  ‘Where did they go?’ Aristaeus asked the question as dumbstruck Guardsmen gazed around the walls or the square. They lived, but they didn’t know how or why. Even the tunnellers had fled, leaving nothing but rubble in their wake.

  Iulus looked around too, trying to reason what had just happened.

  Snow was forming, laying a fresh patina across the courtyard. Ice already crusted the wall as the bitter cold reasserted itself after the fire storm. Soon the scene would be virginal again, a chilling graveyard where the dead do not sleep.

  Why does a force retreat? Either they are on the brink of defeat or they’ve found a better fight elsewhere.

  Clearly it was the latter.

  He uttered one word. ‘Sicarius.’

  Adanar wasn’t dead and the revelation weighed upon him like an anvil around his neck. He should be dead. This was supposed to be his moment; this was when he was to be reunited with them. But the Emperor – damn his capricious will – wasn’t done with Adanar Sonne, it seemed.

  Relief, not despair, washed off the other men on the wall. He could feel it almost palpably, see it in their surprised faces. They hugged each other; some even cheered, though the gesture was only half indulged. Fatigue seized them now that the adrenaline of trying to stay breathing faded. Life for another few minutes at least. Adanar half-expected the necron artillery to release such a blistering barrage from some other uber-weapon that it obliterated the entire city and everything in it, but they didn’t. The necrons had retreated.

  He was about to ask Humis to contact the army’s officers for a report when he remembered the corporal was dead. A screeching sound arrested his attention. His despair and confusion turned to anger as he was confronted by Rancourt.

  ‘Blessed Emperor, we are saved!’ He was ebullient, but on the point of hysteria. ‘Our saviours are victorious.’ Rancourt looked at Adanar nonplussed. ‘Why aren’t you cheering, commander? We have won. Damnos is saved.’

  Adanar slapped him hard across the face with the back of his gloved hand. The blow drew blood from the acting governor’s lip.

  ‘Shut up, you idiot. They are not defeated. There is no victory to be had here.’

  A group of officers and troopers had gathered around the altercation, drawn by the raised voices.

  Now it was Rancourt’s turn to be incensed. He touched his chin, but it wasn’t just his skin that had been stung by the commander’s reprimand. ‘How dare you strike a member of the Administratum?’ He looked around for an ally in the throng, and pointed at a trooper. ‘You,’ he said. ‘Shoot him, shoot Commander Sonne at once.’

  At first the Ark Guard trooper looked shocked and distinctly uncomfortable that he’d been singled out. He held up his hands, wanting no part of it.

  Frustrated, Rancourt’s attention went to someone else. ‘You then,’ he bawled. ‘Shoot them both. I command you to execute them in the name of the Emperor and the Imperium.’

  ‘No.’

  Rancourt was looking around rapidly, his gaze flitting from one soldier to the next. ‘You’re all in on it.’ He spat at Adanar’s feet. ‘Your personal guard, no doubt.’ Pointing a finger that he swept around the onlookers, he added, ‘You’ll all be shot for this. Disobedience, dissension–’

  Adanar hit him again and this time put the administrator on the floor. Seizing him by the scruff of the neck, he lifted Rancourt up so he could glare into his eyes. He saw fear in them.

  ‘You are a loathsome worm, Zeph Rancourt,’ he declared, ‘and your cowardice nearly killed us all. I suspect it may have killed Sergeant Kador, a good man and a good soldier.’

  ‘Kador was a traitor,’ spat Rancourt. ‘He tried to leave my side.’

  Adanar’s eyes widened when he saw the butt of a pistol sticking out of the administrator’s robes. ‘What did you do?’ he rasped.

  ‘I didn’t kill him if that’s what you mean. It was a warning shot. I only winged him.’ Rancourt saw the change come over Adanar’s face and quailed. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Did you hit him in the leg, slow him down and lower his guard? Eh? Is that when the beam hit him?’ Adanar tightened his grip around the other man’s collar.

  Rancourt’s feet were almost dangling off the ground. ‘Let me go, let me go,’ he pleaded.

  Adanar brought him closer, eye-to-eye. ‘Oh, I’ll let you go,’ he whispered. With a grunt of effort, he lifted the administrator above his head.

  ‘Unhand me!’ Rancourt shrieked.

  Adanar had him poised at the edge of the battlements. ‘As you wish,’ he said, and threw him off.

  There was a wet crunch as the ex-governor hit the ground. Blood pooled in the snow, turning it crimson. Not one of the men on the wall emitted so much as a gasp, let alone tried to arrest their commander for murdering an Imperial official. But they all turned as the massive shadow drew over them.

  One of the cobalt giants was walking up the steps and had reached the battlements.

  Adanar nodded. ‘Sergeant Fennion.’

  Iulus nodded back as the man went down on one knee.

  ‘Execute me if you must. I would have gladly done it again.’

  The Ultramarine growled. ‘Get up. I’ve not come for your life nor do I care about what you’ve done. We are at war. There is no time for bureaucracy.’

  Adanar got to his feet, frowning. ‘Then what is it you need?’

  ‘Your men,’ replied the cobalt giant. ‘Enough to make a difference.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Three groups tracked through the mountains. Scipio was up front just behind Captain Evvers. He could see now why the Ultramarines had struggled to find a route through. She took them on a winding route, through almost invisible canyons, secret passes and sunken valleys. It was treacherous but no one fell to their deaths, the humans more sure-footed than their armoured protectors.

  Scipio activated the comm-feed. ‘Brothers. Vox-silence from this point.’


  They’d reached an outer marker of five hundred metres. Both Vandar and Octavian, who were in the other two assault groups, replied with affirmation runes that lit up Scipio’s retinal display.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he called ahead.

  Evvers, with three of her kinsmen arrayed around her, held up a hand. They were making certain of the route. Snow-shawled crags surrounded them, barely visible against the high mountain drifts. A wicked wind was howling in from the north and the humans had to keep low to avoid being blown off the peaks. Scipio approved of their caution; one false step could be terminal in this white-out.

  Tigurius joined him, the inner glow of his eyes only just fading.

  ‘The truth is still veiled to me,’ said the Librarian.

  ‘What of our endeavours here? Can your prescience divine a path, my lord?’

  He shook his head. ‘I cannot breach the veil. Something is blocking my sight.’ Tigurius looked down into the impenetrable fog and gloom. ‘Below,’ he added.

  Although he could not see them, Scipio knew that a small army of the necrons awaited them there. The route through the mountains would allow them the element of surprise and they would need to make the most of it. Outnumbered and likely outgunned, the Ultramarines’ plan was predicated on causing as much damage to the artillery as possible before the defenders roused into action. There was a lord amongst the mechanoids, too, the one Tigurius called the ‘Voidbringer’. From their encounter with the ghoulish necron commander at camp, Scipio was well aware of their power. He wondered briefly what abilities this one would possess.

  Evvers was waving them on.

  Scipio would find out soon enough.

  Voidbringer was frustrated. By attaching him to the artillery in the Thanatos Hills, the Monarch had effectively leashed him. He wanted to cow these worms, eradicate them from the face of the earth and reclaim it for the necrontyr.

  ‘I am a conqueror,’ he decided, visions of conquest flashing across his memory engrams in a blur, ‘not a custodian.’

  It only convinced him further that the Undying had submitted to the Destroyer curse and his sanity was all but eroded. The long sleep had taken a heavy toll and as such he would not be able to lead the tomb. Cast out by the other lords he would be reduced to a king of madmen, those who would butcher their metal bodies to the cause of annihilation.

  Voidbringer wanted to annihilate but he also wanted to rule. He felt the pull of the infinite, time-eternal stretching before him like an endless conduit, but he did not fear it. He embraced it. His glory would be everlasting.

  The orb given unto him by Ankh hummed with power. He regarded it idly as the gauss-obliterators thundered all around him. He did not pretend to understand the arcane science of the crypteks; his own technologies were esoteric and well-guarded by just a few of the royal cohort. Energy whorls shimmered inside it, like trapped event horizons collapsing and coalescing in microcosm. If he stared long enough, Voidbringer fancied he could unravel the inner secrets of the universe, unlock the vagaries of chronomancy and the manipulation of living metal. Such things didn’t interest him. Let the crypteks be distracted by such petty diversions. Rulership required action not contemplation.

  Even still, the resurrection orb was fascinating. With it his ascendancy would be assured. A subliminal command, like a muscle reflex, opened a chamber in his metal breastbone. The chest cavity opened wide enough to accommodate the orb and Voidbringer placed it carefully within. It glowed briefly, connecting with the necron’s systems and enhanced physiology. The surge of power it radiated through him made Voidbringer shudder. His staff of light crackled in sympathetic symbiosis. The cryptek could be useful, he supposed, but he also didn’t trust him. Voidbringer also hated the fact he referred to him by his old name. That appellation was no longer fitting. None whose memory engrams still functioned remembered the royarch’s name, he was just the Undying. It gave him power, a resonance that elevated him above the other nobles.

  Voidbringer wanted that. He also wanted an advisor who was more pliable and less likely to betray him. The pact with Ankh was ended; Voidbringer resolved to destroy him once they had achieved victory on this world.

  If he could have smiled, he would have.

  ‘Soon,’ he whispered to himself, the thought caressing his ego, ‘I will rise above all.’

  Cocooned by images of his ambition, the Voidbringer failed to notice the figures creeping closer. Perhaps his awareness had been dulled by some outside agent, perhaps the dulcetly throbbing orb embedded in his chest played a part…

  Ankh saw all. His tiny burrowing machines kept close to the genebred humans, followed them through the pass and into the mountainous peaks. They kept out of sight; the Architect ensured they remained undetected. Tahek had activated the orb, or at least begun its cycle – Ankh felt this too.

  Multiple futures played out across his synapses, each one a subtle variation of the last. The attack of the artillery would cripple the necrontyr and cause a chain reaction throughout the royal court. Nobles would be destroyed, their memory engrams forever degraded. But then Ankh was not a noble, he was merely an elevated servant with certain skills. The rule of law in the tomb was about to change and he, in part, would bring about its apotheosis. His actions, or inactions, had helped to bring this about. The war on Damnos was about to take a debilitating turn.

  Ankh was a necron, his loyalties were unquestionable in that regard, but he was also a survivor.

  The raider sentries patrolled the perimeter with predictable regularity. Like automatons, they marched back and forth, gauss-flayers at rest, their fell eyes aglow. A blizzard was rolling down off the mountain, bringing with it a shrieking wind and veiling snow. It built up on their joints, settled on their vast shoulder plates. They betrayed no signs of discomfort. Essentially they were dead things, barely sentient and moving only through the borrowed will and animus of other more powerful beings.

  Three pairs performed sentry rotations on the small section of the perimeter that abutted the sheer-sided cliffs of the Thanatos mountain range. One of the necrons paused in its cycle, alerted to something in the icy mists. Its sockets flared with baleful energy as its twin also stopped, a few metres away. The inquisitive raider took two steps forwards – at this sector of the perimeter they were largely isolated until the other sentry pairs crossed them again – before its head jerked violently to the side. It raised a hand, releasing its grip on the barrel of the gauss-flayer, to touch the brass shell lodged in its cranium. Emitting a low-pitched whine the shell exploded, taking the necron’s head and most of its torso with it.

  Realising it was under attack the other raider switched to defensive protocols and was about to unleash its gauss-flayer in a spread firing pattern before a second shell punched through its eye socket to similar effect. Both mechanoids phased out instantly.

  Seconds later, Sergeant Octavian and his Swords of Judgement were tracking low across the rugged hill line. The heat from the capacitors on the artillery was turning the snow into a thick, obscuring mist. It was above waist height and utterly occluded the Ultramarines from view. Reaching the site of the sentries’ demise, Octavian opened the closed comm-feed by tapping the side of his helmet, red against the starkness of the ice-fog – with the first kills, vox-silence was no longer necessary.

  ‘Attack group “Iron Sights”: Hellfires away and mission achieved.’

  The affirmations from the other sergeants came swiftly through Scipio’s comm-feed. The sentries were down and all Ultramarines were in position. With the perimeter breached, the way to the necron artillery was open. It was a minute aperture for a small commando force to enter and Scipio meant to exploit it to the full.

  The necrons had used machineries, perhaps tunnellers and other large mechanoids to reshape and flatten a section of the Thanatos Hills. He’d taken vantage from the cliff top, just before they’d descended to the base. Thermal-imaging t
hrough the scopes revealed a roughly diamond-shaped area, with the artillery pieces arranged around it, one at each point and another weapon in the centre. Five targets for three assault groups – they’d miss Strabo and Ixion, but it couldn’t be helped. Evvers and her guerrillas would have to do their part.

  He regarded her through the uncompromising slits of his retinal lenses. She was watching the route ahead through a pair of infra-goggles, and seemed tense – her heart rate and breathing were elevated. Only Adeptus Astartes could undertake a mission of this magnitude and hope to survive. Some might consider it reckless for Scipio to throw the humans into it without consideration for their safety. He cast any lingering doubts aside as he felt an iron fist clench around his heart. Orad had paid the price for his lack of resolve. It would not happen again. They would do their part or they would die in the attempt.

  Tigurius emerged out of the fog next to him. He kept low, just like the rest. The Ultramarines were crouching, whereas the humans only had to stoop to become invisible. If the Librarian knew what Scipio was thinking, it didn’t show. He seemed preoccupied.

  ‘I must seek out the veil across my sight and cut it loose,’ he said, as if penetrating Scipio’s mind after all. ‘Lead them in, Sergeant Vorolanus, but wait for my signal. Courage and honour.’

  The Librarian moved off into the fog on his own private mission.

  Scipio watched him go until he was lost to the mist. He opened up the comm-feed again, ‘All Ultramarines: close on targets.’

  A tremor of unease rippled through the aeons-old consciousness of Voidbringer. It niggled insistently at the edge of his awareness but he allowed the reassuring drone of the orb to comfort him and eclipse it.

  Tigurius hunted through the mist. He stayed clear of the places where the necron forces were most concentrated, guided psychically. They were little more than unmoving shadows, statues in the ice-fog. Emerald fire in their eyes was the only evidence of unnatural animation in the necrons and even that was dampened by the mist. Not that he truly needed to see. The Librarian’s witch-sight might be temporarily blinded, the strands of fate shut to him, but he could still feel…