Assault on Black Reach: The Novel

by Nick Kyme

  Face fixed in a grimace of belligerence, and with his enemy stricken and mutilated, the Ultramarines captain swung his Tempest Blade and decapitated the warlord in one savage cut.

  Zanzag’s gruesome head fell from his shoulders and bounced into the thronging orks below. Sicarius kicked the still-flailing body down after it and roared his triumph.

  A wave of disbelief swept over the orks. Their sudden distress was almost palpable. The infighting followed it immediately as rival chieftains sought to fill the power void.

  Zanzag’s minders, at first agog at the sudden slaying of their warlord, found their composure quickly and turned on Sicarius. The scar-veterans levelled their custom cannons, eager for revenge, but were swarmed by Strabo and his squad.

  Scipio was right on the assault sergeant’s heels with the Thunderbolts. Together they encircled the captain protectively, and held the orks at bay.

  The main Ultramarines force was now in full attack. Chaplain Orad was audible over the battle-din, using his vox-unit like a loud hailer again as he spat liturgies of cleansing and hate-filled catechisms.

  From the opposite direction, Sergeant Helios pressed with his inviolable Terminators and the mighty dreadnoughts Agnathio and Ultracius.

  Caught between two determined foes, and with Telion and his scouts cutting a swathe through the heart of their ranks, the orks broke. Discord reigned as the greenskins started killing each other in a desperate bid to escape the Astartes’ wrath.

  None shall survive. That was Sicarius’s decree. In the butchery that followed, the greenskins were slain to an ork.

  ZANZAG’S DEAD EYES stared glassily into the encroaching dawn. Itinerant smoke drifted across the charnel fields where the head lay, disturbed by a fitful breeze carrying the stench of death.

  A combat blade rammed unceremoniously into the decapitated cranium, and lifted it off the ground.

  Telion crouched atop a carpet of strewn greenskin corpses, the slain carcass of the warlord amongst them. He’d used the body to locate the head.

  Space Marines patrolled the battlefield in dispersed formations, executing injured greenskins, searching for the captain’s prize. It had not been where Sicarius had dispatched it, having been carried off by some of its kin in some final bizarre act of reverence.

  It was little wonder that Telion had found it first. Very little escaped the master scout’s notice.

  Scipio had been close, but the veteran sergeant had beaten him to it.

  As he lifted the head to examine it, a tic of dissatisfaction manifested briefly in Telion’s otherwise impassive expression.

  Captain Sicarius, having noticed the master scout’s find, had moved into his vicinity.

  ‘This is not the beast,’ said Telion, stoically.

  Sicarius’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. ‘Are you sure?’ It was an utterly pointless question, asked in hope rather than expectation.

  ‘See here,’ said the veteran sergeant, pulling back the dead ork’s lip. ‘A full set of tusks, no recent wounding.’

  Sicarius had stung the beast at Ghospora, shooting its neck and jaw. There was no evidence of such an injury on the head Telion held forth on his blade.

  ‘Trappings, size, mass – it’s almost a perfect analogue,’ said the scout. ‘Such cunning is rare in the greenskin.’

  ‘What do you mean, brother-sergeant?’ asked Scipio, similarly drawn by Telion’s discovery.

  ‘I mean that this was planned. The orks created an imperfect doppelganger.’

  ‘But to what end? What purpose could such a thing serve?’

  Sicarius answered. The hardness in his expression that was there on the sandblasted clearing in the corral of Thunderhawks had returned.

  ‘To lick its wounds, gather the strength of its horde for another assault. This way they wear us down, take us away from where we are needed most, and thin our ranks,’ he said. ‘We Ultramarines are more than a match for any ork, but our numbers are few in comparison. In a war of attrition, the greenskin hold the advantage,’ Sicarius conceded.

  The Blackwallow flowed nearby. Sicarius eyed it darkly as if trying to catch a glimpse of something just beyond his reach. ‘And now we must do it all again,’ he said.

  Veteran Sergeant Daceus tramped across the killing field, his face grimmer than usual, good eye as blank and cold as the bionic. He saluted tersely before he spoke.

  ‘A message has come in via the Gladius, my lord,’ he said. ‘The orks are moving on Sulphora Hive.’

  The captain clenched his armoured fist, the gauntlet creaking under the stress. ‘Telion, continue the search for the ork. Perhaps a subtler approach is needed to draw it out.’ Turning to Daceus, he said: ‘The rest of the battle group will head for Sulphora.’

  The veteran sergeant nodded and went off to organise the troops.

  ‘I’m a scout squad down,’ said Telion. ‘Reinforcements will be needed for what I have in mind.’

  Sicarius turned to Scipio who was just about to gather the Thunderbolts. ‘Sergeant Vorolanus, your squad specialises in reconnaissance and deep-strike operations, yes?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Pick four of your best, send the others to Daceus to cover casualties in the other squads. You’re with Brother-Sergeant Telion now.’

  ‘You wish to break up my squad?’ To question a superior was insubordinate, but Scipio could not believe what he was hearing. He meant no disrespect by the remark.

  ‘For the good of the Chapter, select your brothers and Daceus will take care of the rest.’ Sicarius’s tone made it clear he would brook no debate.

  ‘Yes, brother-captain,’ answered Scipio, nodding his head in penance and respect.

  As Sicarius turned on his heel and stalked away, Scipio’s gaze drifted over to Telion.

  The master scout’s face was utterly unreadable. ‘Welcome to the 10th, Sergeant Vorolanus,’ he said without a trace of humour.

  Scipio met the icy glare of Telion with one of his own. He’d lost Hekor already; his body would be cooling in the mortarium aboard the Valin’s Revenge. Now, four more were being taken in the name of slaying Zanzag and getting the captain his prize. The Thunderbolts had been torn apart.

  Scipio’s response was terse.

  ‘What are your orders, Sergeant Telion?’

  THE NIGHT WAS quiet; identical, in fact, to the previous night. The distant retort of heavy guns as the battle for Sulphora was fought came over on the breeze like thunder. As he stared into the dark, surrounded by a copse of petrified trees in the lay of the Blackwallow River, Scipio imagined the fire-orange explosions, the powder-white smoke plaguing the walls as the defence artillery vented. His brothers, one half of his squad, fought in that combat whilst he surveilled a ruin.

  ‘South-east approach quadrant one, clear,’ he spoke softly into the comm-bead attached to his armour and which fed into his ear.

  Upon selecting his battle-brothers, Scipio and the four members of his squad had been instructed to report to the Xiphos at once. There, they had been divested of their power armour and clad in the armoured carapace of the scout company, the former deemed too loud and cumbersome for the covert operation Telion had in mind. The process had been swift, even though the Thunderhawk had lingered long after the other gunships. It would join the others later at Sulphora. Chaplain Orad had voiced concerns over the lack of proper observance during the removal of the battle-brothers’ power armour, but Sicarius was adamant that it be done. Every measure must be taken to find the beast, and taken quickly.

  In the end, Orad had no choice but to concede. Waiting behind with Xiphos and an honour guard of Squad Octavian, he gave a curt blessing and Telion’s latest recruits were made ready.

  The unfamiliar sensation of the lighter armour left Scipio feeling exposed and uncomfortable as Garrik’s report came back echoing his own – no movement in quadrant two, either.

  The two five-man squads were widely dispersed around the full perimeter of the wrecked ork stronghold. Every angle
of approach was covered. The Astartes waited silently in concealed positions. Telion reasoned that the orks would return to loot and scavenge. It was in their nature. The Ultramarines had only to make them believe that they had abandoned the ruins in favour of the war zone at Sulphora. As of yet, their prey had not bitten.

  A red scorpion, indigenous to Black Reach, scuttled towards him, its barbed tail poised to strike. Scipio impaled it on his combat blade before releasing the stricken insect and crushing it beneath his boot. Frustration from inactivity was starting to get the better of him, and for a moment he caught a glimpse into the self-same feelings of his captain.

  ‘How much longer must we wait, cowering in the dark?’ Scipio muttered to himself.

  ‘As long at it takes, brother.’

  Scipio started at the voice of Telion, instinct making him reach for his bolt pistol.

  ‘You have fast reactions,’ Telion noted, creeping up alongside him. The veteran sergeant was utterly soundless as he moved. Even Scipio’s advanced hearing had failed to detect his approach.

  ‘My apologies, brother-sergeant,’ Scipio replied.

  Telion moved almost imperceptibly in what might have been a shrug.

  ‘It’s patient work. You’re used to the roar and thrust of the battlefield now. Adjustment is never easy. The hardest time for a warrior is when he is at rest.’ Telion kept his eyes on the Blackwallow as he spoke, his stalker-pattern boltgun with its shortened stock and targeter cradled loosely in his lap. The effect was disarming, but in truth, Scipio knew, Telion was in a state of absolute readiness. Whenever he adopted that veneer of calm was when the master scout was at his most dangerous.

  Silence descended for a beat, broken only by the gentle flow of the river, and the droning of cicada and the other chitinous native species of Black Reach skittering across displaced sand.

  ‘You trained him, didn’t you,’ said Scipio, wanting to dispel some of the tension but also trusting Telion enough to engage his opinion.

  ‘I trained many of the captains of the Chapter, as I have done numerous Chapters,’ Telion replied, understanding immediately what Scipio was driving towards.

  ‘I saw him at Ghospora. He was magnificent. His heroism and courage seems to have no limits.’

  Telion stayed silent, inviting Scipio to continue.

  ‘It was no different at the fort. But there was a moment… a moment when I thought hubris would get the better of him.’

  ‘You refer to the bravura attack that single-handedly broke the will of the horde,’ Telion interjected. ‘I saw it, too.’

  If there was any implication in Telion’s words then Scipio did not detect it.

  ‘If he had failed that jump, he would likely be dead and our victory would not have been as easy, if in fact guaranteed at all,’ Scipio asserted, trying to choose his next words carefully. ‘It seemed… fraught with risk.’

  Telion went silent again for a beat, as if contemplating.

  ‘We are all guilty of hubris, Brother Vorolanus. The mere fact we campaign the length of the galaxy to ensure mankind’s dominance of it is proof of that. And risk? Risk is only equal to reward, and at the stronghold the reward was great. I have never sought the trappings of glory, though the honours bequeathed to me by my captains and my Chapter Masters are many. But I understand the need for heroes. Not those that skulk around in the dark or forge iron-hard warriors from the soft clay of neophytes, but visible heroes who will see glory for what it is and seize it. On such things are the foundations of our Chapter built.’

  Now it was Scipio’s turn to fall silent. Telion was right, of course. His wisdom was centuries old, and it showed. Any reply of gratitude, though, was forestalled by the master scout’s raised hand.

  Slowly, he nodded towards the dormant surface of the Blackwallow.

  Scipio followed his eye-line.

  ‘Something comes,’ he hissed, and crouched down further into the petrified trees.

  Scipio followed suit, watching as a dense cluster of bubbles rose to the surface of the cloying water, discreet at first but then developing rapidly into an almighty emergence. An array of antennas and exhausts burst from the churning depths, closely followed by a jagged metal fin shearing through the surface of the wide river. A dense black hull, thick with armour plating and glyphs, emerged after that. Piping and circular portholes punctuated the sides of the vessel’s bulky body. Dorsal gun mounts cascaded with dark water as they surfaced. A brutal-looking propulsion motor squatted at the vessel’s aft, slowing to a stop as it finished blowing ballast in order to rise. Scipio, a veteran ork hunter who knew something of their debased language, read a crude appellation on its nearside in ork glyph script: Morkilus.

  The mystery surrounding how the greenskins launched their lightning assaults and disappeared without trace was solved – they had a submersible.

  After a periscope had probed the surrounding area for potential threats, a series of hatches opened in the submersible’s roof, and a dozen orks and over three times that number of gretchin pooled out. They grunted to one another in their debased language. One ork, his head and torso protruding from the hatch, wore a large, battered hat and chewed on a cigar. He cuffed one of the gretchin around the ear for some slight before disappearing back into the lumpen vessel and slamming the hatch shut.

  The scouts waited patiently in the shadow of the trees until the entire greenskin landing party had entered the ruins of the stronghold. Only a pair of gretchin remained on the surface outside the vessel, yanking at the pipe work and battering down bent armour plates with oversized wrenches and hammers.

  Telion gave a sub-vocal command over the comm-bead, signalling for the scouts to hold position and maintain overwatch. Using Astartes battle-sign, he then told Scipio what would happen next.

  The submersible had emerged in their quadrant, therefore he and Telion would prosecute the mission. Both Space Marines trod silently from their concealed positions in the petrified trees, eyes fixed on the bickering gretchin.

  As he stalked towards his prey, Scipio lost sight of Telion, the master scout blending into the surrounding darkness. Five metres from the gretchin crew and one of them turned. Scipio’s blood froze and he was about to throw his combat blade when the diminutive greenskin jolted and a puff of crimson ejected from its ear. Its cousin reacted to the sudden movement, eyes wide when it saw the Ultramarine. Its mouth was sketching a scream when a silenced thunk came from the dark, and it suffered the same fate as its kin.

  Scipio moved past the corpses at once. His instructions were clear, relayed to him before surveillance had begun. Reaching the bank of the river, he waded slowly into the water. It was chill as it seeped through his fatigues and armour.

  Guiding himself around the hull, using the armour plating for purchase, his body flat against it so as to limit his exposure, Scipio worked his way to the nose. Once there, he let go of the plating and allowed himself to sink beneath the surface. His multi-lung let him breathe the water like air, though he wasn’t down in the Blackwallow’s depths for long enough to need it.

  Feeling for a pouch on his combat belt, Scipio produced a small tracer and fixed it to the underside of the hull. Once he was certain the device was operative, he swam back up to the surface. The sound of raucous looting was carried to him on the breeze. The orks were still busy. As he got to the bank again, Scipio noticed that the gretchin corpses had already gone. There were no tracks, no sign of them ever having been present. It was as if they had simply disappeared. Likely the orks would think so too, if they even noticed they were gone at all.

  Once he was back in hiding, Scipio simply waited.

  MORNING SUN SPILLED over the sand dunes of Black Reach like a fiery veil. The petrified trees cast long and jagged shadows against its brilliance. The Blackwallow flowed quietly, dormantly – the moored submersible was gone. Earlier in the night, the orks had returned from their scavenging, boarded and left. Hatches were slammed shut, the dead gretchin were not missed and the submersible
had filled its tanks and plunged back beneath the river.

  ‘The tracer beacon is working,’ said Telion, standing at the edge of the forest. Garrik was alongside him and held up an auspex for the veteran-sergeant’s perusal. Scipio stood with them both.

  ‘The signal terminates at the cliff face where the river reaches its end,’ Telion said, after a moment.

  ‘How can we be sure it was Zanzag’s vessel?’ Scipio asked.

  ‘We can’t,’ admitted Telion, ‘which is why we have these.’ He held up the two dead gretchin he had executed like a hunter with a brace of vermin.

  ‘We only need one,’ he added, dropping a gretchin to the ground before ordering Garrik to hide the other in the trees.

  Kneeling next to the corpse, Telion drew his combat blade and made a deep incision in the gretchin’s skull. First, he cut away the skin and flesh, then he used the combat blade’s pommel to crack the bone and break open the skull. He dipped his fingers through the crevice, reaching for the gooey mass of matter encased within. He then consumed it and closed his eyes.

  A Space Marine’s omophagea was situated between the thoracic vertebrae and the stomach wall. For the more poetically inclined, it was named the Remembrancer, as it allowed Astartes who consumed the flesh and organs of any creature to absorb part of that creature’s memory. Delving into an alien psyche in this way was always dangerous, but gretchin were not possessed with the same unpredictable energy as orks; the experience could be controlled.

  Telion’s lids flickered, the rapid eye movement beneath an indication that the process of assimilation had begun. A few seconds passed and the master scout’s face contorted in a grimace. He bared his teeth, jaw locked in concentration. Images would be flooding his mind, impressions garnered from the gretchin’s primitive neural pathways. From this melange of sensations – sight, sound, smell, touch and taste – Telion would build a mental picture, using his advanced Astartes physiology to sift and sort memory strands into cognisance, into meaning.

  Scipio and the other Astartes looked on stoically, knowing not to intervene, but to let the process take its course. In spite of that, the tension was still palpable.