by Nick Kyme
A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
Nick Kyme
ASSAULT ON BLACK REACH
THE NOVEL
v1.2 (2011.11)
IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
YET EVEN IN his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse.
TO BE A man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
CONTENTS
PHASE ONE
PHASE TWO
PHASE THREE
PHASE FOUR
PHASE ONE
BOMBARDMENT
TERRIBLE BEAUTY.
That was how Master Varken Mathius had described it in the fortress-monastery on Macragge, home world of the Ultramarines.
‘You’ll remember your first drop pod assault,’ he’d said, stalking the length of the lectorium, the sound of bionics concealed beneath his mentor’s robes whirring as he moved. ‘Encased in a spear-tip of metal, you’ll descend into a world of noise. The beat of plasma engines will resonate inside your skull, the screech of metal will tear at your resolve and the dead certainty that all which stands between you and oblivion is a thin wall of ceramite will fill your stomach like lead. The drop pod assault is a weapon of utmost swiftness and terror,’ he’d told them. To look upon it is to behold a thing of terrible beauty.
‘But you will endure it,’ the master had continued. ‘You will endure it because you are Astartes, the sons of Guilliman himself – there is none better amongst all your brother Chapters. You are the galaxy’s finest warriors. The Ultramarines.’
Sergeant Scipio Vorolanus remembered these words well, standing in his grav-harness, the adamantium interior of his own gunmetal cocoon and nine of his battle-brothers surrounding him. Over a hundred and twenty long years had passed since that day, since he’d been a humble neophyte. He had been just a boy back then, accepting the expert tutelage of his betters, tremulous at the thought of distant battle amongst the stars. It was before the fear had been taken out of him and his rebirth through the gene-science of the Imperium into a warrior-god.
Clad in their full Astartes battle-plate, the stylised “U” symbol depicting the allegiance of their Chapter prevalent on their armour, the warriors around Scipio stood unmoving in a circle. Nine pairs of eyes stared back at the sergeant, cold and hard behind the emerald lenses of their battle helms; superhuman beings ready for war, who gripped bolters in their armoured gauntlets like holy icons.
Only Scipio went unhooded. Better that his brothers saw the vehemence in his eyes, his devotion and courage. His close-cropped head reflected the winking operation runes inside the drop pod. The glowing symbols cast light onto the hard metal edges of the vessel interior into which the Space Marines were packed. They also displayed that the drop pod’s inertial dampening system was in effect and that their rapid trajectory was being guided by its machine-spirit with unerring precision.
Thunder echoed dully from below. Scipio could hear it over the roar of the drop pod’s engines as they vented. The low crump of detonating plasma warheads exploding planet-side was a concussive throb to the raucously disgorging thrusters. They were right on the heels of the raining plasma storm, screaming from the sky in a world of deafening noise and flashing fire.
It was a bold plan, fashioned by their liege-lord, Captain Sicarius of 2nd Company and Master of the Watch. The ork horde must be broken, and the will of the greenskins amassing on the planet below was tied to a single warlord. The bombardment would draw the beast out, and Sicarius intended his Ultramarines to be there when it did.
Slay the beast; kill the horde.
That was Sicarius’s maxim, and who there would refute him save for Iulus. But then “reckless” wasn’t a word banded around lightly or obviously where the Captain of the Ultramarines 2nd Company was concerned.
The walls shuddered from the impact of re-entry, forcing Scipio’s thoughts back to the present as the anguished metal screeched for his attention. The rush and roar built to a powerful crescendo. External temperature readings spiked to incredible levels as warning runes pulsed insistently.
Scipio ignored them. Instead, he opened his mouth and gave full voice to the Litany of Vengeance, leading his squad in the rites of battle, his words warring with the din inside the drop pod. As one, his warriors took up the recital and the lone voice of Scipio became a bellow of brothers. They fell fast with all the power of a comet, the prow of their drop pod white-hot and trailing fire as it burst through Black Reach’s atmospheric barrier.
Scipio closed his eyes as he sang, imagining the drop pod’s descent in his mind as clear as if he were actually witnessing it: the hard metal spear as it ripped through the heavens, its approach angle arrow sharp; contrails of smoke and flame peeling off the hull; a cluster of bullet-nosed vessels, lit up like fiery teardrops, surging down alongside it. The sight of those falling stars was a herald, a harbinger.
The Angels of Death are descending from on high and they are coming. They are coming for you.
They were close. Seconds to landfall. Scipio jammed on his helmet; its brow was decorated with a gilded laurel. He would justify again the weight of that honour this day, measure it in greenskin dead.
‘Squad Vorolanus, make ready!’ he bellowed over the shriek of the drop pod’s engines as they gave their last. ‘Remember who you are,’ he told them. ‘You are Ultramarines. You are the Emperor’s finest warriors. Thunderbolts,’ he said, using the squad’s agnomen. ‘Let us paint this day in the blood of His enemies.’
As one, Scipio’s battle-brothers roared in affirmation.
‘Emperor’s finest,’ he repeated, warning lights screaming. ‘Courage and honour!’
‘Courage and honour!’ they cried, and the drop pod smashed into the surface of Black Reach.
As the plasma missiles continued to fall like thermonuclear rain, their titanic impacts vibrating through the drop pod’s hull as it started to split, Scipio thought for a moment that they might have to run the gauntlet of the bombardment too. He hoped that Iulus wasn’t right and that Sicarius’s plan wasn’t indeed reckless…
Space Marine Strike Cruiser Valin’s Revenge, two weeks earlier
‘YOU KNOW I’M right,’ snarled Sergeant Fennion.
‘I know that Sicarius is High Suzerain, that he earned honours at Crusade Minor, Dyzanyr and Fort Telendrar. That is what I know, Iulus,’ hissed Sergean
t Manorian in return.
Scipio had been privy to their entire hushed conversation, and knew that the debate was growing heated when Manorian reverted to calling Sergeant Fennion by his first name.
Sergeant Praxor Manorian was thin-faced with close shaven silver hair and as straight-backed as they came. Honour and glory was his chief credo, so, if Iulus was to be believed, he had much in common with his captain. Iulus, on the other hand, could not be more different. Sacrificing idealism for pragmatism, he was primarily concerned with getting the job done. He had little use for laurels and medals, though he wore his Iron Skull, the insignia for all sergeants, proudly.
Iulus’s appearance matched his demeanour. He had a flat nose and a square jaw. A pepper wash of stubble was scattered over his head. His face was about as uncompromising and rigid as a Space Marine’s could get. Scipio had seen rocks with more character. The bluntness extended to Iulus’s voicing of opinion too; opinions that had roused the interest of others. For hushed though it was, his and Praxor’s exchange had alerted the attention of their fellow sergeants.
They all sat together around a white table; it, like the icons on their power armour, was fashioned into the Ultramarine symbol. The room itself was well lit by lume-globes set in alcoves along the three walls. They threw an azure cast over everything and made the Ultramarines’ blue power armour shine with even greater lustre. The fourth wall was dominated by an immense double blast door carved in ornate filigree and depicting split over the two faces, Chapter Master Marneus Calgar seated upon the throne of Macragge, the fabled Gauntlets of Ultramar resting on his lap. The rest of the chamber sported little ornamentation. The banner of 2nd Company hung reverently upon the wall opposite the blast doors. It sat proudly behind a shimmering integrity field, refracted light from the lume-globes the only clue to the field’s presence. It was a powerful totem, displaying the heraldry of the vaunted company alongside some of Captain Sicarius’s very own merits.
The noble captain’s entire officer cadre awaited him in the strategium, one of many in the strike cruiser. The chamber’s austerity was only exacerbated by its size – there was room enough to accommodate half the 2nd Company – and sound echoed powerfully within its white walls, hence the current interest in the sergeants’ thinly-veiled conversation.
‘I do not deny his valour, Praxor. In that regard Sicarius is beyond reproach’, snapped Iulus, and turned to face his debating partner directly. ‘It is his ambition which I question, and the reckless ends to which he pursues it.’
Praxor snorted contemptuously, turning away. ‘You only fear his favour will eclipse that of Agemman.’
‘And is that such a ridiculous claim? Who would not wish to be at the right hand of the Chapter Master, to become the Regent of Ultramar?’
Like many organisations within the Imperium, the Ultramarines Chapter, despite being a strongly-forged brotherhood, had its factions. It functioned not unlike a republic, with Calgar as its president. In times gone by, Macragge had its battle kings, warrior-monarchs who led and governed its peoples; now it had democracy and solidarity, a republic in many respects with the sergeants within its companies as its senators. At least this was how Scipio interpreted it.
There were several positions of power within the Chapter. Highest were those of Chapter Command: Lord Calgar himself and Chaplain Ortan Cassius, his Master of Sanctity, and then the other masters. Next came the company captains and of these, two in particular vied for a seat at Marneus Calgar’s right hand. Agemman held the prestige of leading 1st Company, the veterans of the Chapter and its finest warriors; Sicarius, though, was a star in the ascendant, Master of the Watch and High Suzerain of the Ultramarines. Some, the die-hard factionalists that supported Agemman, believed that the Captain of 2nd Company regarded the regent’s position enviously. Iulus was one such arch-traditionalist, and it was a widely held belief that he desired to join 1st Company himself and be at the side of Agemman. Praxor Manorian, however, held a differing view and saw only Sicarius the hero, Sicarius the battle leader. Like most of the 2nd, to him the captain was above any reproach, his tactics sound and beyond question. All respected his bravery; all venerated Sicarius as they should with him as their captain.
‘You are very quiet, Scipio, what do you say?’
Scipio groaned inwardly. Iulus had obviously tired of trying to convert Praxor and was turning his attentions elsewhere. Scipio, though, had no wish to join the debate. The sergeant had not long joined the 2nd and had no wish to tarnish or even endanger his future tenure by being drawn into internal politics.
Scipio regarded the faces of the officers around the table – seven sergeants, not including himself, Iulus and Praxor, five along each curve of the stylised “U”. Young and old, scarred and unblemished, shaven-headed – all were stern of face and bore multiple service studs drilled into their skulls; one for every ten years of service to the Chapter.
The seated sergeants returned Scipio’s gaze stoically; some nodding in fraternal camaraderie, others just meeting it with steel in their eyes. One such sergeant was Arcus Helios. He was not of the 2nd; he was one of Agemman’s chosen, a veteran whose usual attire was the tactical dreadnought armour of the Terminators. He eschewed that suit of tank-busting, nigh-on indestructibility for his power armour now; the former being a highly impractical choice, even given the expansive strategium. If Helios had heard any of the debate between the other two sergeants and thought anything of it, he did not show it.
There was another not of 2nd Company within the room, and Scipio’s gaze strayed to him next. He stayed in the shadows at the edge of the chamber, just beyond the glow of the lume-globes. Though shrouded in gloom, Scipio’s enhanced vision made out a face framed by a grey-white beard, with patrician cheekbones. A long camo-cloak hung over the warrior’s broad shoulders which were bereft of the power-armoured pauldrons worn by every other officer in the room.
Scipio had not noticed him before. Perhaps he had wished not to be noticed. He perched – for he seemed in such a state of idle readiness that it could hardly be called ‘standing’ – in absolute stillness, so inert that Scipio might have mistaken him for a statue. This then was Telion, Brother-Sergeant of the 10th, master scout, a veteran under three different Chapter Masters and battle-tutor to four of the current Ultramarines’ captains. There were not enough honours and service studs crafted by the Chapter artisans to fit his brow and breast.
Telion returned the young sergeant’s gaze, and his eyes were like ice. Scipio looked away despite himself. ‘Well?’ Iulus pressed.
In his desire to break visual contact with the intimidating Telion, Scipio’s eyes fell upon a final figure. Armoured in black ceramite replete with icons of death and mortality, this one stood alone, and he was no less threatening.
‘We are blessed to have two such noble heroes in our midst,’ Scipio replied at last, mustering some diplomacy. ‘And I also think that Chaplain Orad would take a dim view of this debate.’
Iulus had clearly followed his gaze, and stayed silent before the glowering countenance of the Chaplain. Orad had been attached to 2nd Company for many long years. None amongst the battle-brothers could ever recall him removing his skull-mask battle helm, at least not in public. Rumours abounded that most his face had been burned off, eaten away by bio-acid, fighting the tyranid of Hive Fleet Behemoth over a hundred years ago. Apocryphal or not, the very fact that the Chaplain effectively had a bleached skull for a head compounded his already fearsome reputation. He spoke in a harsh, grating whisper, his voice enhanced by a vox-unit built into his gorget that made it audible and metallic. Yes, Orad was every inch the forbidding spectre.
The silence that fell at last was short-lived. The mighty blast doors to the strategium split open and slid apart, and a wash of warm ochre light spilled in from the corridor beyond. Shadows were immediately realised in the pool of spreading light, long and low as they reached into the room. Sicarius’s command squad, the Lions of Macragge, stepped in, and the officer cadre sto
od as one, turning to face them.
First into the room was Daceus, a veteran sergeant who had fought with the captain in every one of his campaigns. He’d lost an eye at the Siege of Zalathras, and the bionic replacement whirred and clicked as it surveyed the standing officers. Brothers Prabian and Vandius followed, Prabian wore his power sword and combat shield attached to his belt, while Vandius glanced at the company banner that he usually carried, and muttered an oath of piety. Last were Venatio, Apothecary to the 2nd, and Brother Malcian. These Astartes were heroes all, their bravery filling the Chapter’s archives for many volumes. But even combined they could not hope to match the valour of the one who strode in next.
Upright and imperious, head held high, he seemed to glow with inner glory. He was resplendent in his artificer armour, crafted by the Chapter artisans upon his appointment to High Suzerain. He cradled an ornate battle helm in the crook of his arm, the low crest running from left to right temple an indication of his superiority and rank. An array of pteruges hung beneath a broad loincloth dedicated with the stylised symbol of the Chapter, and the armoured plastron he wore over his chest was wreathed with honour brocade.
Cato Sicarius had entered the chamber, and all within it, even the cantankerous Iulus, could not help but be lifted by his presence. Master of the Watch, High Suzerain of Ultramar, Knight Champion of Macragge, Grand Duke Talassar: Sicarius had many titles, all earned on the battlefield, all dispensed for the glory of his many great deeds and victories. But in truth, he valued only one: captain.
Sicarius strode into the strategium, eyeing each of his officers in turn and giving a slight nod to Arcus Helios to acknowledge him as a battle-brother from a company other than the 2nd. Chaplain Orad followed his captain, and the Lions of Macragge fell into line behind him. When Sicarius came to the apex of the U-shaped strategium table, he stood in the void where the two points of the sweeping arc ended, and started speaking.
