‘We have breaches in the enginarium and several primary conduits have fractured. The emergency venting has served its purpose, however, my lord. To the eyes of others we appear wounded – but we retain precisely sixty-seven point three per cent combat efficiency.’
Arrun nodded. ‘It will have to be enough. Now, come just a little closer, you mongrel pack of traitors.’ He watched as the cloud of tiny runes on the flickering hololith closed around his beloved ship.
‘Our burst of acceleration has carried us beyond the stern of the enemy vessel,’ an officer informed him. His uniform was scuffed and he sported a shallow wound to his scalp, no doubt suffered during the barrage, but the young man carried himself with admirable confidence given their dire situation. The captain made a mental note to see that he was commended when the crisis was over.
‘Excellent,’ he glanced again at the cluster of runes that now almost surrounded his ship and smiled grimly. ‘Now... bring those insects down and all power that we can muster to the engines.’
The strike cruiser was famed for the ferocity of its guns, mighty cannons that hurled shells from orbit to crush cities and sunder continents. Like many ships however, it was studded from prow to stern with hundreds of smaller turrets that were most frequently employed to keep debris, missiles and other small projectiles at bay. Lascannons and massive rotary guns filled the space around the Dread Argent with a lethal storm of energy and shrapnel that cut the surrounding raiders to pieces with ruthless efficiency.
Simultaneously, the vast engines roared once more into life, propelling the cruiser from its lethal predicament and out of reach of the arsenal of the encroaching Spectre. The sly gambit by the Wolf of Fenris was now revisited upon the Red Corsairs flagship as they put the enemy to their back. From his command pulpit Daerys Arrun fancied he could hear the furious roar of Huron Blackheart as he was cheated of his prize.
‘We have time on our side now,’ he said to the Prognosticator who had forsaken propriety and was grinning wildly at his captain’s cunning. ‘It will take them as long as us to come about and attack and they will do that. We can use that time to our advantage and prepare for them. The Emperor willing, the rest of the fleet will be upon those traitors shortly. Arrange for the highest ranking Apothecary on board to meet me in Correlan’s workshop.’ Arrun stepped to the console and considered for a few moments.
‘This is Captain Arrun,’ he said, activating the ship vox. ‘All Fourth Company who are not yet geared for battle should make their way to the arming chambers with expediency. The Tyrant of Badab has designs on this ship and we are not going to let him take it without exacting a price in blood he will long remember. That is, if he even survives at all when we are through with him. We will prevail, brothers. Primus inter pares! To the fight!’
The Prognosticator murmured the company’s motto along with the captain and the two warriors swept from the bridge deck to prepare for battle.
Red snow was falling.
At this altitude, so high up in the mountains, precipitation from the heavy cloud cover over Gildar Secundus fell as snow, thick and cold. It coated the armour of the Silver Skulls, swiftly obscuring their Chapter sigils and dulling the orange carnelian gems in their pauldrons. As it made its way down through the atmosphere, it changed swiftly to sleet and rain. Up here though, the flakes floated serenely downwards, blanketing the jagged mountain tops. The flakes were stained with red, pollution and dust from the promethium refinery, wending its way back to the ground.
Sergeant Porteus brushed the rust-coloured snow from his shoulders as he led his squad cautiously through the peaks. The path here, such as it was, made for arduous passage. Every one of them had given thanks to the ancestors and to the guiding hand of the Emperor that their ship had dumped them unceremoniously on an outcropping. Another kilometre in any other direction and the Thunderhawk would have been pierced by the thrusting mountains. Had that happened, then all of them would have been destroyed utterly. So in exchange for the reward of continued existence, Porteus was more than prepared to undergo a little hardship.
It was the kind of environment that few could ever claim to feel comfortable in and yet there was something startlingly and mournfully familiar about the mountains. The fortress-monastery of the Silver Skulls was itself located deep in the heart of Varsavia’s northern mountain range. It was a harsh, inhospitable place that only the most tenacious and hardy souls would brave. Most of the Chapter’s young aspirants and novitiates saw their first view of the fortress-monastery from the window of the transport that carried them there. A select few, though, had climbed their way to the top of the mountains alone. This was an impressive feat even for an Adeptus Astartes, let alone the handful of children who had made it.
All of the Silver Skulls were required to undertake something of a pilgrimage prior to their final conversion and deployment into the Scout Company. The long, lonely trip to the far-flung Prognosticator Temple where individual auguries were cast had necessitated travelling in mountains that were no easier than this. Strange, how it brought back such largely forgotten memories. It was clear from the conversation he was listening to across the squad’s vox that it wasn’t just a memory-jogger for Porteus; the other members of Carnelian were sharing quiet reminiscences. Occasionally, despite the situation, one would chuckle lightly.
Porteus did not cut across the conversation. With the death of Simeon, there was unsettling talk amongst his battle-brothers of poor omens. Without the guiding hand of the Emperor’s Chosen walking alongside them, the Silver Skulls felt uncomfortable. So Porteus allowed the easy banter to continue. They needed to hold on to whatever drove them forward. Porteus felt Simeon’s loss as keenly as they did, but he kept it clamped down. There would be time later for the appropriate rites.
The sergeant knew that once they located the source of the threat, all of their scurrilous whispers would dissolve in the one outlet that would allow them to release their pent-up anger. Battle.
Every brother of Squad Carnelian burned with the same desire to exact retribution on those who had dared commit the twin crimes of shooting them out of the sky and murdering one of their most revered. Any unfortunate who found themselves on the end of that particularly well-honed blade of fury would not fare well.
For now, though, things remained subdued. It was as though the snow itself somehow muted them.
The sergeant checked the various data feeds that he was receiving in his helmet. His positioning systems were compromised by the proximity of the mountains, but he did what he could to plot a course through the treacherous peaks. He even attempted some of the navigation by the old Varsavian method of using the stars; but the thick cloud cover that had descended rendered much of the night sky lost to his sight. By both Porteus’s own reckoning and that of his power armour, they were heading more or less in a straight line towards the Primus-Phi refinery.
Direction was not his primary concern right now. What was giving him pause for thought was the problem that they would undoubtedly need to consider the practicalities of descent. These weren’t well-travelled mountains; they were forging a complicated path by climbing and descending where opportunities presented themselves. At some point, they would have to drop down further. It was unlikely that there would be a path downwards from this altitude. There would be no easy way to descend. Suited in their battle plate as they were, they could easily withstand falls of some reasonable distance – but it would not be the most desirable method. They would end up with potentially damaged and compromised armour, something which they could ill-afford.
Porteus once again reminded himself of the fact that they were still alive at all and the squad moved on without him verbally expressing his concerns. If he could not allow himself to believe that they were guided in this venture by the Emperor, he could not expect his squad to. So for now at least, he kept his own counsel.
They moved onwards.
The arming chamber was a riotous discord of noise. A large area of the embarkat
ion deck that had long ago been set aside for this specific purpose, the chamber was always busy with the comings and goings of the Silver Skulls. During times they were not engaged in war, the Space Marines would come here to work out imperfections in their armour. Each battle-brother took great pride and care of his battle plate knowing that not only was his life at stake if he did not, but that it was to bring shame on the Silver Skulls to appear as anything other than perfect. It was always teeming with activity, the shouts of one brother to another commonplace.
Now, though, the shouts of Fourth Company warriors could barely be heard, drowned out by the whining and shrieking of the riveters being used by a swathe of servitors. Machining the Space Marines into their power armour was not a difficult job, but it involved critical attention to detail, something the servitors were eminently practical at.
Each individual segment of the ceramite plate had to be anointed and blessed by a tech-adept before it could be connected with adequate care and an assurance that not a single socket was loose. One false connection could knock out the suit’s core systems in a potentially fatal way.
‘May your blessed battle plate awaken, brother-captain,’ intoned the tech-adept standing before Arrun. He laid a hand on the captain’s arm and closed his eyes. ‘They are girding themselves for the fight to come. Bear this precious gift of the Omnissiah into battle well and let the warrior spirits sleeping within guide your hand.’
Having so spoken, the tech-adept moved to the next battle-brother in the line, making room for a second who spoke further blessings to the spirits housed within the armour asking for harmony with the warrior who carried them forth.
As the shell of ceramite began to take shape around him, Arrun welcomed the return of its weight. He relished the familiar, and yet slightly unpleasant, feeling of the suit’s nodes entering the points in his black carapace like probing tendrils. His gene-enhanced body and the armour had long ago attuned to one another and as he flexed his now-gauntleted hand, Arrun revelled briefly in the sensation of feeling invincible.
With a shrieking whine, the final rivet was driven in, studding his gauntlet to the vambraces and he stepped down from the arming podium. He took a brief moment or two to unconsciously alter his carriage; the design of the power armour necessitated a change in posture after time wearing his shipboard clothing. His back straightened and the servos at work in the armour adjusted to his movements after barely a nanosecond’s delay.
Brand was already clad in his cobalt blue armour; the visual reminder that he was forever set apart from his brethren, the armour that marked him out as a psyker. He stood to one side of the arming chamber, his face set and stern, awaiting his captain’s pleasure. As Arrun approached, Brand inclined his head in greeting.
‘Brother Naryn is on his way to the apothecarion,’ he said as the two of them fell into a matched stride. ‘As is Techmarine Correlan.’
‘You understand, Prognosticator, that engaging the Resurgent must be the absolute last resort?’ They did not walk with the same easy pace that they had employed so recently when they had walked together to the chapel. There was controlled expediency in their stride now.
‘Yes, brother-captain. I am well aware of the additional reservations you have now that Ryarus is not involved. But Naryn has an impeccable record as both a warrior and an Apothecary. I trust him to pick up Ryarus’s work without any difficulty.’ Brand’s tone was measured.
‘Have we heard from Porteus at all regarding the situation down on Gildar Secundus?’ Arrun preferred to turn the conversation back to strategy rather than the inevitability of the conclusion of the project. He was all too aware of the issues that would be faced were the Red Corsairs to gain control of such a critical Imperium stronghold.
‘Our communications are continuing to experience difficulties. I believe that the Red Corsairs are employing some form of jamming technology alongside whatever psychic interference it is that they’ve been broadcasting.’ Brand himself had dared to test the psychic waters between the two ships and had come out of the experience with a headache. It was no wonder so many of the astropathic choir were dead – or useless. Whatever psychic support Huron Blackheart had brought with him was considerable.
‘There is too much space and too many hostiles between us and him in order to provide him with effective support at this time.’ Arrun rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘In addition, I require every battle-brother aboard to stand in defence of this ship should we be boarded. No, not should. When.’ Arrun looked at Brand and the Prognosticator nodded slowly. ‘Not to mention that for now at least, we have moved ourselves out of position. Right now, the risk of sending more brothers to the surface is too great. Porteus is a good man and an astute warrior. He will cope.’
‘A wise decision.’ Brand nodded.
‘Has there been any change at all in the Tyrant’s position?’ Arrun would never allow himself to speak the name that the leader of the Red Corsairs had chosen to bestow upon himself. To the loyal members of the Imperium, he was and always would be the Tyrant of Badab. The Blood Reaver. A traitor who needed to be brought to justice.
‘Nothing. Although three further ships have come up alongside the Spectre of Ruin.’
‘Three more?’
‘Executor-class.’ The words were enough to stop Arrun dead in his tracks, as Brand had known they would. ‘All of them.’
‘Executor-class?’
‘Yes, brother-captain. We’ve not yet established their lineage, but they are most definitely Executors.’
‘Damn him.’ At the mention of the three ships, there was an unmistakable admiration in Arrun’s tone; a professional interest in the vessels rather than in their current owner. ‘Damn him to the bottom of the Mare Argentium. Those things were thought to have all been lost. And he has been keeping them to himself. Well, add taking them back to our list of objectives. Right after killing Lugft Huron and taking his skull as a trophy.’
‘Employ caution, Captain Arrun.’ The Prognosticator arched an eyebrow at the tone of his captain’s voice. ‘The Tyrant of Badab is no fool. He is insane, certainly, but he has thus far anticipated every move you have made.’
‘Thus far, I grant you.’ The two Space Marines resumed walking. ‘But with luck, the arrival of the rest of the fleet will give us tactical and numerical superiority.’
‘In my experience,’ said the Prognosticator quietly, not truly wishing to prick the bubble of arrogance that the captain had formed around himself, ‘there is the Emperor’s will, that which myself and my brother Prognosticators divine. Luck, chance... All of these things that suggest a deviation from the Emperor’s pre-ordained path simply do not exist.’
The lights in the corridor that pulsed a dull red as the ship remained on high alert picked up every line, every scar on Arrun’s face as he took this statement to heart. It was a matter he and Brand had spent many a time discussing and he had never satisfactorily come to an agreement with the Prognosticator over it. Now, of course, was hardly the time to engage in philosophical debate.
Another alert siren began to sound. The bridge officer’s voice came over the ship-wide vox, crackling and breaking up slightly.
‘Proximity warning. Another vessel is entering the system. Augury lock in four... three...’
‘Time to see if the gamble has paid off,’ said Arrun quietly.
‘Two... one... We have contact. I repeat, we have contact. Scanning for identification... receiving ident. My lord, it’s the Manifest Destiny.’ The note of excited relief in the officer’s voice could not be missed and the captain’s spine straightened still further.
‘No such thing as luck?’ said Arrun, triumphantly. ‘I beg to differ. I will see you on the bridge. The battle is just starting and I want to be there for the first shot. Take whatever time you need to divine the Emperor’s will and report to me.’
He pressed his fist across his chest in salute and strode away from Brand. The renewed surety and confidence in his walk was evident for all t
o see. Several battle-brothers, passing through the corridor on their way from the armoury stood to attention, making the sign of the aquila and gazing after their captain with untold admiration. When he was at his best, Daerys Arrun inspired his men to greatness just by his presence alone.
Brand hoped it would be enough this time.
EIGHT
ENGAGEMENT
To Arrun’s eyes, the Manifest Destiny was a thing of beauty and as he strode onto the bridge, the battle-barge loomed large in the viewscreen. The captain’s heart swelled with pride at the sight of his own ship. The Dread Argent was a huge ship, but the Silver Skulls battle-barge, implacable and grim, dwarfed her into insignificance.
Almost immediately, the captain fell into an efficient exchange of information with his bridge officer.
‘We are reading massive spikes in power from the Red Corsairs fleet. They’re arming weapons. There’s been no communiqué from the Quicksilver as yet, I’m afraid, sir. For now, at least, it’s just them and us.’
The arrival of the Manifest Destiny was a blessed welcome; a turn in their fortunes that would, without question, go a long way towards evening the odds in this conflict. But even then, they were still considerably outnumbered and outgunned. If... Arrun corrected himself. Not if. When the other strike cruiser arrived, then as far as he was concerned, victory would be assured.
‘Get me a vox-link to the Manifest Destiny. We must discuss our strategy. Make it swift and patch it through to me in the apothecarion once you have her. There are matters I must attend to.’
‘At once, Captain Arrun.’
One of the slaved servitors reported that the Spectre of Ruin was starting to move slowly forwards, evidently beginning to make its turn. Arrun frowned. The vessel was colossal and it was going to take some time for her to come about fully, a manoeuvre that would be made even more complicated given the amount of debris that needed to be carefully avoided. Once she had negotiated her way through that hazard, she would undoubtedly bring her prodigious fore arsenal to bear. In the meantime, they could expect a burst from her broadside batteries on the way.
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