There was not a single body in sight.
One of the warriors consulted the auspex he held in his hand. ‘Life support systems are still on-line. Air is breathable but only just. I am guessing everything must have been automatically rerouted.’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot tell you any more without access to a working ship’s cogitator. The vessel is running on emergency power but there is no way of telling how long that has been the case.’
‘Is it possible that the Space Wolves trapped their enemy in here and vented them out to space?’ Matteus, for all his inane chatter, could often be relied upon to postulate possible solutions to the inexplicable.
‘It is a possibility, certainly. But surely the weapons would have gone too.’ Dasan’s logical thoughts put an end to that particular theory.
Ryarus cast a ruby-tinted gaze around the staging area. Runes ran across his retina and the auto-focus was working hard, picking out the rusty hue of the bloodied areas and the weapons that were strewn everywhere. The heat sensors in his visor showed nothing but his battle-brothers. He crouched and like Dasan, picked up a discarded bolt pistol. A cursory examination showed that it was empty.
He dropped it back down to the floor again with a dull thud. Ryarus touched the purity seal at the hilt of his bolter.
‘Mohave, we proceed to the bridge,’ he said. ‘Kyanite – begin proceeding to the engine room. Move with caution, brothers. This whole thing reeks of subterfuge.’
The lingering trace of blood was everywhere.
It streaked up the walls of the ship’s inner corridors. It was smeared on the deck leaving virulent scarlet trails. Brother Temerus, one of Dasan’s squad had tried, without success, to link into the Wolf’s vox-net. All he had met in response to his hails thus far had been static.
With every step that they took, Ryarus’s sense of unease grew. Whatever had happened to the Wolf of Fenris had been devastating and worse; whatever it had been that had committed such relentless slaughter may well still be aboard.
During the flight across from the Dread Argent, one of Matteus’s many observations had been that a complement of more than twenty Space Marines had seemed excessive for a search and rescue operation. Ryarus had quietly agreed with the sentiment. Arrun was being over-careful.
Now, though, he mentally praised the captain’s unerring sense of caution.
So far, they had encountered nothing but signs of battle. No bodies, no injured... nothing. A report from Matteus had detailed a brief diversion into one of the other staging areas which had turned up vast quantities of discarded battle plate. It had been massed into haphazard piles rather than carefully displayed and maintained as was the expected behaviour of a Space Marine. That was all that either squad had encountered.
The Silver Skulls made their way up from the aft section towards midships. The silence was eerie. No sounds of Chapter serfs or servitors, no distant clash of swords in training cages... there was nothing to be heard except for the heavy, metallic footfalls of Space Marine boots as they moved slowly across the fine steel mesh floors of the dimly lit corridors. The Wolf of Fenris creaked around them, the groans of super-stressed metal clearly audible without the usual rumble of the engine.
Tayln, one of Dasan’s squad raised his head to listen to the sounds of the vessel. ‘She sounds wrong,’ he noted. As a promising Techmarine, he had not yet been despatched to Mars for his formal induction into the ways of the Mechanicus. As such, he had undergone his initial training at the hands of the existing Chapter Techmarines. He tipped his head to one side, listening. ‘I can hear… something.’
‘It’s possibly a safe assumption that the engines were badly damaged in whatever battle the Wolf partook in, brother.’ Dasan responded. Tayln held up a hand, stilling any further words from his sergeant. Later, much later, Dasan agreed fervently that it was only because Tayln had told him to be quiet that they had got the early warning of the assault.
‘Listen, sergeant,’ he said, his voice terse. ‘I hear–’
The bark of a bolter stopped his words and every Space Marine present reached for their own weapon. There was no cover in this open, empty corridor and the flare of exploding bolter rounds bathed it in an unnatural glow that reflected off the highly-polished surface of the Silver Skulls armour. A round impacted on Tayln’s shoulder and detonated, sending the young Space Marine staggering backwards.
Instantly, the vox came alive.
‘Matteus, we’re under attack up here...’ Ryarus began to relay the information, but Matteus cut across him.
‘We’ve got our own situation, Apothecary...’
‘Squad Mohave – on me!’
With a combined roar of battle fury that had, in the past, stopped their enemies dead in their tracks, Dasan and his squad began advancing down the open corridor. Their bolters and their spirits were raised high as they unleashed the Emperor’s wrath on those who had dared open fire on His chosen.
Ryarus stared at the reams of data scrolling in front of his retinas, his systems already adjusting from investigative to battle mode. The runes that had previously flashed white before his eyes began to wink urgently. He blink-clicked furiously, his eyes moving with rapid ease. He thumbed at the hilt of his power axe, ready to activate it at a moment’s notice. For now, he opted to maintain a rearguard, holding back from the rest of the squad.
A gout of flame lit the corridor once again as Tayln unleashed the power of his flamer, and not far behind the roar of cleansing fire came agonised screams. Human screams.
Then came an abrupt silence that lasted several seconds.
‘Dasan. Matteus. Report.’ The responses came almost instantly.
‘Human privateers, by the look of their clothing,’ Dasan spoke first. ‘No Space Wolf markings. These bastards weren’t servants of the Sons of Russ.’
‘Same here, Apothecary. We took them down easily enough.’ Matteus sounded angry. Ryarus wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him was the reality of the situation. The numbers must have been exponential to reduce the Wolf of Fenris to a drifting hulk. He kept his uncertainty in check. Both squads were already on edge. He did not wish to fan those flames any more than necessary.
‘And the weapons they’re firing?’
‘Bolt pistols, mostly. Looted, perhaps. They’re all dead now, anyway. But there’s no way a group of humans this size could wipe out an entire ship of Adeptus Astartes warriors. They must be...’
The vox crackled, then went dead. From further ahead, around the bend of the corridor, a familiar Silver Skulls battlecry was met with a sound even more feral and bone-chillingly menacing. Bolters began firing in earnest, the staccato sounds magnified many fold by the confined space. A sudden sunburst flare lit up the corridor as another belch of red-hot flame spewed forth from Tayln’s flamer. The glow remained steady this time as he trained it on whatever attacked.
The whine of a chainsword powering up added its voice to the fray and there was a grinding crunch as its adamantium teeth bit into ceramite and plasteel.
‘Matteus! Damn you... the one time I don’t want you to shut up, you go quiet on me! I need a report on Kyanite’s situation as soon as you can.’ Hurrying, he raced down the corridor to join Dasan and his squad. They were engaged in combat with other Space Marines. Some were wearing the grey battle plate of the Space Wolves Chapter, others wore armour that proclaimed allegiance – or at least a former allegiance – to other Chapters. In a frenzied moment, Ryarus saw the unmistakable yellow of an Imperial Fist and the bone-white of a White Scar. There were others too; some had defiled insignias that the Apothecary could not name. It mattered little. They were traitors one and all and they would all die.
Every one of them had one thing in common. The Imperial aquila across their chests were defiled and mutilated. Where their Chapter emblems had once been was a disfiguring red stain, a blotch of colour that obliterated their former fealty. A stain as red as the blood that had spattered the walls and floors of the Wolf of Fenris. Red as the blood t
hat flowed through Ryarus’s own veins. A blatant insult to the Chapters in question, it meant that those wearing the armour were allied to no loyal cohort of the Adeptus Astartes.
Ryarus had seen such armour markings before. He had fought against these warriors. He knew who they were. If the Space Wolves were already fighting with them, then any hope they may have had for their cousins was lost.
A chill ran through him at the realisation that in order to survive this situation they would have to kill their own brethren.
Not your brethren now. Not any more.
Traitors.
The two words that he barked across the vox carried a blatant undercurrent of disgust.
‘Red Corsairs.’
Ryarus gripped the hilt of his power axe, screamed out guttural expletives in his native tongue and let the Apothecary mask drop for battle before wading into the fray.
The battle was brief and frenzied, an intense tangle of limbs, weapons and exploding bolter rounds making it difficult to distinguish where one warrior stopped and another began. A battle rage gripped the Apothecary as he lay about him with his axe, fending off the encroaching warriors in the constricting corridor. The Silver Skulls had numbers on their side, but the Red Corsair warriors were ably supported by human raiders who were emerging from the distant gloom in a steady stream. They didn’t present a major challenge, not to warriors of Adeptus Astartes calibre. But their small arms fire was a distraction the battle-engaged Space Marines could well do without.
Across the vox Ryarus paid close attention to the battle conversation between the two squads. The noise eventually faded out to be nothing more than background as he played his own part in the battle. He grunted and flew backwards as one of the Space Wolf warriors ploughed into him with a full shoulder charge, sending him barrelling to the floor.
The Space Marine who had attacked him was flaxen-haired with ragged rats-tails hanging around an unshaven face. The warrior went without a helm and the fury and hatred in his ruddy face was visible for all to see. He spat bitter curses at the Silver Skulls Apothecary as he dropped to place one knee on Ryarus’s chest. The Apothecary was pinned, the Space Wolf being stronger by far.
A bolter was brought up to his head, the heat detectors in his visor screaming alarms at the proximity of the white-hot muzzle. This was it, then. This was how it ended.
As abruptly as the Space Wolf had floored him, the dissident Son of Russ was sent staggering by a Silver Skull who had been flung away by the maelstrom of battle. It was a moment of fortune rather than judgement and Ryarus seized the opportunity with all the ferocity of his gene-enhanced might. The crackling, energy-sheathed axe head buried itself in the traitor’s chest and split it like old wood. The Apothecary dragged himself free of the gory wreckage of the Red Corsair and clambered to his feet as quickly as he could in the frenzied melee.
There was no point in thanking the battle-brother who had knocked the Space Wolf clear. He was dead, his headless corpse the solid weight that had fallen into the battling pair and saved the Apothecary. Ryarus swore softly.
‘We’re outnumbered down here, Apothecary.’ Matteus reported in. The sounds of battle were heavy across the vox.
‘All units... begin a fighting retreat to the Thunderhawk,’ Ryarus’s gave the order in-between swings of his axe. ‘Kill anything in your way. Matteus, keep trying to contact the Dread Argent. Tell them it’s a trap.’
‘Already on it, sir. They’re filling the corridor behind us.’
‘Concentrate on cutting your way through them. And get that message to Captain Arrun!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And no matter what else you do... don’t stop. Fall back to the Thunderhawk and disengage. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The faintest hint of annoyance was there in the tone and Ryarus almost smiled.
Almost.
Ryarus brought his axe above his head with all the force he could muster and slammed it with deadly accuracy into the skull of another Space Wolf assailant. He took no pleasure from the kill. He couldn’t. This was not some foul xenos. This was a great warrior from a noble Chapter with a long and glorious history who had lost his way. In ending his existence in this manner, he was offering a service. It was the only way he could see it.
The retreat was slow but steady, the Silver Skulls managing to hold off the worst of the attack. But despite their best efforts, they were not winning. More of his brothers had fallen to the onslaught and there was no chance for respite. He yearned for a moment where he could check to see if they were dead or whether they were merely incapacitated. Worse still… if they were dead, he would be allowing their prized gene-seed, the Quintessence Sacred, to fall into the hands of these traitors. Denied the opportunity to recover the organs from the fallen was anathema to Ryarus’s core ethic. To abandon the Chapter’s legacy in this place was unthinkable. He was an Apothecary. He had sworn oaths to preserve the lives of his brothers and to preserve their heritage.
He forced himself to concentrate instead on aiding in the preservation of the living. It did not come easily.
At some point, the two squads merged; but the chaos in the corridor made it impossible to tell when that had happened. As they retreated up the corridor, Mohave and Kyanite squads dealt with the human element attempting to halt their egress, in some instances by crushing them underfoot. Skulls and spines gave way easily under their heavy tread. The screams of the dying and the stench of the dead was everywhere, permeating every fibre of the Silver Skulls beings... and it also had the effect of driving the already semi-feral Space Wolves Corsairs into a further frenzy of near berserker rage.
The situation was unquestionably dire. There was very little that could make it even more perilous. At least, that’s what Ryarus’s fleeting thought was, right before the ship’s light levels began to increase, brightening to an almost dazzling brilliance. The chorus of screams was temporarily muted by the sound of plasma engines that had been gently thrumming on emergency power firing back up to full thrust.
The Wolf of Fenris was awakening.
‘She’s powering up!’
Captain Arrun looked up from his command throne at the words, his brow furrowing as he turned sharply to the viewscreen. The strike cruiser, which until now had been drifting aimlessly through the Rift was indeed taking on very visible and obvious life. Lights glowed in the viewports and contrails were starting to form in the wake of the engines as they switched gradually from emergency power to full. The massive ship began to nudge forward sluggishly.
There was a brief moment of jubilation. It ended abruptly when the next words were spoken. The console operator’s voice shook as he spoke. ‘Their weapons are charging. Sir, the Wolf of Fenris is preparing an attack.’
Arrun’s reaction was instantaneous. He had allowed himself a moment’s optimism; a spark of hope that Ryarus and his squads had been successful in locating and aiding the Space Wolves. He regretted that moment of laxity now. His orders came out in clipped, precise tones.
‘Get the gunships ready to launch. Divert more power to the shield banks. Load the prow bombardment cannon. All other weapons batteries on standby.’ His arms folded across his massive chest. ‘If it’s a fight that they want…’ Arrun scowled, his scarred face darkening with anger. ‘Then it’s a fight that they will get. And we will fight them face to face. Aim to disable rather than destroy. We need that ship intact if we can manage it.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The operative activated the ship-wide vox. ‘Calling all hands, calling all hands, this is an Alpha-level emergency. All hands, prepare for combat. This is not a drill.’
‘Send out fleet-wide astropathic messages to the other ships in the Rift. They will have been waiting for this. They should all be prepared to mobilise on my command. None of them should be far away if they’ve stuck to their prescribed course.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The human serf couldn’t keep the tone of impressed awe out of his voice at the realisation that the Silver
Skulls Master of the Fleet had already laid the seeds of a counterstrike seemingly based on little more than intuition.
But then, there was a reason why Daerys Arrun had become Master of the Fleet in the first place.
‘One step ahead,’ he murmured.
Around the bridge, servitors and serfs scurried to carry out Arrun’s orders. Theirs was never to question. Theirs was just to carry out the will of their masters. Despite a tendency to let his temper flare on occasion, the captain was both respected and even revered amongst the human crew.
‘You are wise sometimes, Daerys,’ remarked Brand from his position at Arrun’s side. ‘I occasionally wonder if you need me at all.’ Arrun shot a glance sideways. Throne, but the Prognosticator could move silently when he wanted to. He had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The captain shrugged, a barely perceptible movement.
‘Of course I need you here, my friend. I need you to remind me how clever I am.’
They shared a moment of levity, but it was swiftly replaced by a mutual concern for the safety of their warriors.
Both wrestled with the other dilemma that faced them. If it came down to basic survival, if they had to destroy the Wolf of Fenris in self-defence, there would be many questions from the Space Wolves; something which would be hard to validate without proof that they were attacked first. Of course, were the Wolf to fire on them first, it would be recorded in the banks of both ship cogitators. It would still be excruciatingly awkward, though. This situation held far reaching consequences that both Silver Skulls were acutely and agonisingly well aware of.
‘She’s coming about.’
‘Cannon crews are engaged.’
‘All hands reporting ready.’
‘As it should be.’ Arrun switched his vox-bead to the ship-wide channel. His words carried throughout the whole of the Dread Argent, reaching every soul on board. He only had to speak a few simple words, but they would be enough. Fourth Company knew their captain well.
The Gildar Rift Page 10
