The Chapter relied heavily on their Prognosticators to carry the word of the Emperor into the heart of battle. Over the centuries, their reliance on the Librarian-Chaplains had become such that Chaplains were few and far between now.
Arrun, though, was superb at stoking the embers of battle fury into raging infernos. Brand gladly allowed him the room he needed for this task, knowing that Arrun’s charisma and zeal was greater than his own.
Here stand my brothers, Arrun thought as he allowed his eyes to roam the ranks of assembled warriors. Apart from those who had been killed or wounded on the recent deployment to the Wolf of Fenris and the men of Porteus’s squad, Fourth Company was almost at full complement. The best part of a hundred good warriors who would make a stand for the Emperor and who would bring further glory to the name of the Silver Skulls.
My brothers. My charges. My responsibility.
He shot a glance at Brand who opened his hands wide in the gesture that meant he had divined the Emperor’s will and that Arrun’s plan of action was to continue without question. Uncharacteristically, Arrun was glad that there was no lengthy discussion on the possible alternative options. Time did not favour them. His eyes raked the assembled company and he spoke. His voice was low, but carried easily with a power that could not be ignored.
‘The Tyrant of Badab is closing the net, brothers,’ he began. Several of the Silver Skulls made the sign of the aquila at the words; a Chapter custom that was firmly believed could ward off evil. ‘But he will never contain us. Lugft Huron was once a master of strategy, but in his warp-tainted madness, he exposes chinks in his armour. He says he wishes us to surrender, yet he must know that we never will. He opens fire on us. His words are meaningless.’
Arrun allowed himself to laugh aloud; a hollow noise that held no humour at all. ‘I say this to you now, battle-brothers of Fourth Company. This Tyrant has had his day. He is no being of terror to be feared, least of all by the Silver Skulls. He is a desperate madman whose taint tarnishes a system under our protection. It is our job, no, it is our duty to remove the stain he brings.’
His words were stirring the enthusiasm and energy in his men that he knew they would. Quiet ripples of untapped potential welled up in them and he tapped it relentlessly. He believed every word he spoke with almost fevered passion and that feeling flowed down through his men.
‘When the time comes for us to stand and fight against him, we will do so with everything we have. We will give the Red Corsairs no quarter. We will scrub every remnant of these foul traitors from the Gildar Rift. For the Emperor! For Argentius! For Varsavia! We are the Silver Skulls! And you all know what that means!’
‘We will prevail!’ Nearly a hundred voices cried out the ritual response, their voices caught and filtered upwards through the interior of the Dread Argent. The sound reached the human crew on the bridge and fired up courage there.
Arrun nodded and allowed the zealous moment to die down before he continued. He lowered his voice just enough to lend an air of mystery to his tone. Brand watched him, marvelling at his oratory deftness.
‘We are taking a step into the unknown. Even as we speak, the Resurgent is being primed for awakening. We must believe that it will succeed. Because we will not fail. That is not our way.’
For the first time, Arrun discovered that he meant every word he spoke. Could it be that his belief in the Resurgent was finally coming to the fore? Was it that all the doubts and uncertainties, all the opposition he had shown had been wrong and all that had been needed was the right moment to awaken his faith in Volker Straub?
‘Whatever happens, the rest of the fleet is inbound. Even if we are fated to fall under the onslaught of the Tyrant, our brothers will ensure that his celebration is curtailed. Prepare yourselves.’
His final words were met with a mighty roar from the assembled company. They would meet whatever was thrown at them with stoicism and might. As the roar settled again, Yanus’s voice came across the vox.
‘Captain Arrun... they are coming,’ was all he said.
NINE
DEADLOCK
His death loomed above him, twisting and glinting like a sword hanging on a silken thread. Given his current predicament, the unfortunate refinery overseer couldn’t help but review the easy life he had led so far. In the twinkling of an eye he suddenly knew a million regrets; all the wasted years, the countless errors he had made – some crucial, others inconsequential – the women and financial deals that he had let slip through his fingers... but most of all, he regretted the fact that he was here right now. He thought, bizarrely, of his parents and his younger sister, none of whom he had seen in over thirty years. He should really have made more of an effort to keep in touch.
A quiet sob escaped him.
Turning at the noise, the Corpsemaster treated the overseer to a smile that seemed as though it had come from the very depths of the Maelstrom itself. His skull-like face always seemed to be fixed in a rictus grin anyway; but the thin lips were twisting upward.
During the brief battle for domination of the refinery, the workforce had put up fierce resistance. It had all been to no avail. Even the trained armed forces had lasted a pathetically short time. The Red Corsairs human infiltrators had mostly been slaughtered along with the rest during the frenzied attack, but they could easily be replaced. Slaves, after all, were plentiful enough and easy enough to breed.
The overseer was restrained on a table in what had, until a few short hours ago, been one of the refinery mess halls. His ostentatious, richly embroidered robes that had denoted his station had been stripped from his body and he lay naked and shivering as the day he had been born. All around him were the signs of the Red Corsairs relentless assault. His workers lay dead and torn apart around the mess hall. The smell of blood and urine and faecal waste from exposed bowels was strong. Had he not already thrown up everything that had been in his expansive belly, he would still be vomiting. As it was, he merely retched silently.
The Corpsemaster turned away again and considered a selection of equipment on the table. When he spoke, his voice carried over his shoulder to the unfortunate man. ‘My battle-brothers will be busy for some time securing this facility and fortifying it against the inevitable attempt at a counter-attack. This delay in our plans suits me perfectly as it gives me the opportunity to indulge in a little... experimentation.’ He took up one of the instruments he had laid out and held it up to eye level, twisting it so that it gleamed. ‘Normally, by the time they cross into my path, the only human subjects I receive are dead already. Much of my live experimentation has to be carried out on my injured brothers. And believe me, I find humans just as interesting as my own kind.’
Fat tears of terror rolled down the overseer’s face and he squirmed miserably. His voice, when it came, was barely recognisable. It came out as a squeak, shaking and frightened. ‘I will tell you anything you want to know. Codes to the cogitators, security frequencies... anything.’
‘You will?’ The surprise in the Corpsemaster’s voice caught the overseer off guard. The Red Corsairs Apothecary moved closer, delight apparent on his hideous, twisted face. ‘That’s excellent! Then you can tell me which of your DNA strands give you those green eyes, and which of them mean that you have two kidneys, or why it is that your liver functions. Why it is that you dream, what it is that you see when you sleep. You can tell me these things?’
All the time he had been speaking, he had moved in closer until the overseer could smell the oil in the servos of his power armour. This close up, the skin of the Space Marine was puckered and pockmarked with tiny craters and scars from many decades of warfare. There was a hunger in his eyes and the overseer knew without question that his life was forfeit.
‘Well?’ The Corpsemaster repeated the question in a gentle, almost encouraging tone of voice. ‘Can you tell me these things?’
Mutely, the overseer shook his head.
‘A pity. For you.’ The Corpsemaster took his flesh cutter in hand. ‘I
will have to find out these things for myself, then.’
The overseer learned, to his ultimate cost, that pain could last a long time before it killed you. Tragically, he would never pass on that knowledge.
The Dreadclaw assault boats and boarding torpedoes were almost lazy in their motion as they moved towards the Dread Argent. The Spectre of Ruin had finally come about enough that its gaping maw could release the assault like a swarm.
The damage that would be caused to the hull of the Silver Skulls strike cruiser alone would be considerable, but both Chapters had assessed the likelihood that not every one of the boarding vessels would reach its target. Even as they were launched, the guns lining the Dread Argent were powering up, ready to destroy as many of them as possible before they ever got close enough to cause any threat. The Manifest Destiny could offer them no help. They had troubles of their own.
More of the Silver Skulls fleet was beginning to translate in-system, arriving as ordered from their outlying patrol routes. Mostly escort ships and light cruisers, but their additional fire power was critical at this stage. These newcomers were already fully occupied dealing with the Executors bearing down on the Silver Skulls fleet battle-barge. The three ships were delivering a punishing attack that was starting to tell in the Manifest Destiny’s failing shields and erratic return fire. The void shields continued to respond to the Executors’ attacks with a miasma of swirling colours that rippled across the invisible barrier between the warring ships.
So the Dread Argent was, for the time being, on her own. If the Executors continued their assault, then that was the way it would stay, too.
Thunderhawks and Swiftdeaths continued in their seemingly endless, balletic dance of death, contrails of flame and fury intertwining as they battled one another amidst the lethal backdrop of the Gildar Rift. Under cover of their attack, the bigger Doomfire bombers were weaving their reckless way towards the Silver Skulls. Periodically, one of the Thunderhawks, freed from battle with a Swiftdeath, turned its guns onto one of the assault boats or torpedoes. Their powerful weapons detonated the unshielded and defenceless shuttles with ease. For every transport that was destroyed, more debris was produced; pieces of armour-plate, corpses frozen in death and more, rushed in to add to the disorder.
Several Space Marines disgorged from the shattered pods survived thanks to their enhanced physiologies and the additional sanctity offered by their armour – but it was a poor triumph when bare seconds later they were obliterated as a chunk of plasteel hurtled into them. If their bones weren’t pulverised by the impact, then their armour shattered, cracking open like a shell and exposing them fully unprotected to the vacuum of space. They were equipped to survive for a short period in the void, but very few would do so.
Conversation between the Manifest Destiny and the Dread Argent was fast-paced and urgent. Yanus had to accept that he was effectively in sole charge of the strike cruiser whilst the battle-barge dealt with the Executors. One of the three was already critically damaged, flames belching from its engine housings and whilst its inevitable destruction would even the odds a little, the damage it could cause when it exploded might be insurmountable.
The strike cruiser’s point defence weapons came on-line and a steady stream of fire started up from the guns studded at regular intervals across the hull. They hammered explosive round after explosive round towards the incoming boarding vessels. The fortunate ones that made their way through the onslaught and struck the Dread Argent were far fewer in number than had been deployed, but the imminent onslaught was massive.
‘They’re splitting up their attack,’ Yanus reported through the ship vox to Arrun.
‘Their most likely targets once they are aboard are going to be the enginarium and the bridge,’ Arrun said to his assembled warriors. ‘Matteus – you are in charge of the defence of the bridge. I will take two squads with me to the engine decks. The rest of you deploy as necessary between the two. Be ready to move with alacrity to breach points as they are detected. Squads Onyx and Garnet – you are best suited to this task.’ The sergeants of the two assault squads nodded their understanding.
Arrun glanced around. ‘Above all else, protect the apothecarion and Volker. Be ready for anything, brothers. The Dread Argent must not fall into the hands of the enemy.’
The Silver Skulls followed their captain’s orders immediately and without question. Silently, they deployed, a mismatched group of humans moving out alongside them. Weapons had been passed out to the non Adeptus Astartes contingent down in the armoury. The captain of Fourth Company knew that they would fight every bit as fiercely as any of them. He turned and considered the Prognosticator.
‘Get the bridge sealed,’ he said, although there was hesitation in his voice. ‘As of this moment, it is under your control. Unless that door is breached, it will not open again unless it is either at my word or at your own command. You know that they will try to take it. Do not let it happen, brother.’ Brand inclined his head and joined Matteus. Arrun looked from Naryn to Correlan.
‘You all know your duty and what must be done if we are overrun. Take up your positions and begin work. Be prepared to activate the Resurgent on my word.’
The mechadendrites on Correlan’s back reared up like hissing snakes and he scowled. ‘Aye, captain. I hope to Throne it does not come to that. For all our sakes.’ The two of them swiftly headed off for the apothecarion taking with them the last hope of success for the project that Arrun had.
He checked the magazine in his bolt pistol and set off at a light run after the rest of his battle-brothers.
A shudder rocked the ship as the Spectre of Ruin opened fire one last time on them, reducing their shields to nothing. The resultant wailing sirens and pulsing lumen warning lights heralded the next stage of the attack. Arrun’s apprehension at the situation with his beloved project was washed away in a wave of battle adrenaline, heightened by a sudden flow of stimms from his armour. He pulled on his helm, its silver half-skull denoting his rank and he took up his bolter. He had consciously elected to use a bolt pistol and his chainsword in the confined spaces of the ship corridors. They suited the purpose far more than would his usual choice of power claws.
A clutch of torpedoes had run the gauntlet of debris and gunfire and sunk their fangs into the aft section of the strike cruiser. They were now relentlessly grinding and drilling their way through the hull of the Silver Skulls strike cruiser. The first breach was imminent and the Space Marines were ready for them. The torpedoes bit and chewed through strategic points along the side of the Dread Argent. Several more were destroyed by Silver Skulls fire even as they tried to make their entrance, prised like limpets from a rock with melta charges and heavy weapons.
‘First contact in ten… nine… eight…’
Taemar’s axe hungered.
The champion of the Red Corsairs paced the length of the room, unable to stand still such was his impatience. His axe was clasped tightly in his fist. It was a massive, double edged two-handed weapon that suited his visceral, bludgeoning style very well indeed. Soon it would satisfy its hunger with the blood of the Silver Skulls. Soon he would sate its desperate thirst. It was a weapon that no other could wield with such vicious perfection and this was all because of the additional talents that Taemar brought to its use.
He ran a gauntleted finger down the razor-sharp blade with a screech of ceramite that set the teeth of the slaves in the room on edge. None of them could see his face beneath the helm that he wore, but Taemar was smiling. It was not a pleasant expression. It was the ravenous, toothy smile of a predator about to be released on the hunt.
Even as his weapon lusted for the kill, so did he. Impatience got the better of him.
‘When?’ Taemar stormed up to the slave who was monitoring the augurs and cogitators. The man trembled visibly at Taemar’s proximity and spoke with a voice that tried to be bold.
‘You will know the second I do, my lord,’ he promised. ‘We need to finish taking down their shields and
the forward team need to reach the...’
‘I know the plan, slave. Do not presume to lecture me.’
‘No, my lord, I would never...’
Taemar made a move as though he would cuff the slave around the face, but stayed his hand at the last. Instead, he leaned forward until the expressionless face of his helmet was level with that of the operative. He gleaned great satisfaction from the fact that the man was shaking visibly.
‘Never answer me back if you value your life. You are a slave. You will speak when you are spoken to and not before. Are we clear?’
The man nodded vigorously. Taemar patted his face hard enough that there would be bruising and returned to his ceaseless pacing. He was like a caged lion, desperate to be unleashed.
Taemar had fought against the Chapter before and his twin hearts thrilled at the thought of the battle to come. The Silver Skulls may have been Imperium lackeys, but they were fierce fighters, warriors who acquitted themselves on the field of battle with almost legendary savagery. They were skirmishers rather than line troops, and a skirmish was exactly what they would get now. In his past battles against them, the Silver Skulls had never given ground.
He had been charged with the all-important task of taking the bridge. Blackheart had led the same charge when they had taken the Wolf of Fenris and to hand this honour to Taemar was great. He was diligent in the discharge of his duties and he was eager to please. He would not fail.
But the waiting was tortuous.
‘Fire on decks sixteen through forty,’ droned the servitor in response to Sinopa’s demand for a status report. ‘Plasma lines have ruptured and there are electrical fires in several locations. Containment teams have deployed. Situation under control. Situation under control.’
The Gildar Rift Page 18
