“Very good,” Jurga Khan smiled, the expression highlighting the honour scars crosshatching his features. “Perhaps you missed your calling with the Stormseers, Kergis. You seem to have read my mind.”
“It was simply that I could see your intention, my Khan. When you assigned tasks to the other sergeants during the briefing earlier, I was surprised when myself and my squad were left without duties. Then, you called me aside to this briefing out of earshot of the others. I have never known you do something without reason. It suggested you had a particular mission in mind for me and my men.”
“Not a psyker, then,” the Khan’s smile deepened. “Simply a man with the mind of a chess master, always able to think several moves ahead of his commander. I said you missed your calling as a Stormseer. Perhaps I was in error, and your true calling was as a savant.”
He raised a hand good-naturedly to stifle Kergis’ protests.
“There is no shame in having a sharp mind, Kergis. The histories record that Jaghatai Khan, may he always be honoured, possessed one of the great military minds of his era. Too often we forget our primarch’s example in this. We honour our warriors for feats of arms, but we forget it is a man’s mind and the character of his heart which wins battles as much as the strength of his sinews. In this case, I chose you for this mission because you are well served in all three of those qualities.”
“My Khan’s words honour me.” Kergis bowed in obeisance.
“No more than your character merits it.” The Khan’s face became serious. “Besides, there were other considerations. Before you joined this company, you served with Kor’sarro Khan during the Hunt for Voldorius. I know you fought side by side with the Raven Guard, and learned some of their tricks of stealth. I know you have passed some of these lessons on to the men in your squad. I hear you emphasise to them that the lightning attack is negated in value if the enemy knows which direction it will come from. Such skills may be important on Tephra.”
Raising his hand again, Jurga Khan banished the hololith with a gesture. As the shimmering image of the geothermal complex faded away, the Khan’s expression grew darker. He lowered his hand to hover over the manual control of the hololithic generator.
“But there is something else, Kergis. Another reason I chose you for this mission. The same reason I decided to banish the others and hold this briefing in private. You will soon see I had good cause for secrecy.”
Jurga Khan’s hand moved over the control system’s keypad, inputting a coded sequence of numbers. In response to the code, the hololithic generators hummed to life once more and a new image began to form.
“The attack on Chaldis is scheduled to begin in a little over two days. It will be a dawn assault, meaning you and your men will be expected to infiltrate the complex the night before. But there are other considerations at work here beyond the re-conquest of this world. What I am going to show you is for your eyes alone. It is not to be shared with your squad. In time, when the matter is resolved, the need for such secrecy may pass. But for the present, it is better we keep this between ourselves.”
The new hololith coalesced, revealing a pict-image taken at a distance of an armoured figure standing on top of a plascrete bunker.
“A Naval Lightning adapted for long-range reconnaissance took a series of picts two days ago during a high-speed sweep over the Ignis Mons,” the Khan said. “The images are grainy, but you can clearly see the commander of the enemy garrison as he oversees the disposition of his troops.”
At a gesture from the Khan’s hand, a second pict appeared. It was taken from a slightly different angle, but it showed the same figure. Helpfully, the enemy commander had craned his head up to look skyward, presenting a clearer image of his face. Seeing it, Kergis felt a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He barely heard his Khan’s next words.
“It is almost as though he knows the spy-ship is there and is looking at it. Impossible, of course. The Lightning was moving at too high an altitude for anyone on the ground to spot it. But you see the reason for secrecy? This is an event of dark moment, Kergis. The honour of our Chapter is at stake.”
Kergis nodded, his mind still reeling at the revelation of the identity of the garrison commander. Standing on top of the bunker was a figure in battered white power armour emblazoned with a lightning insignia. Kergis could hardly believe it, but he saw the face of an old comrade, a man he had believed dead.
He saw the face of a battle-brother, a White Scar.
A friend.
The rendezvous point was situated seven kilometres from the target. Having successfully navigated though the geyser field courtesy of Arik’s pathfinding skills, Kergis and his men reached the meeting place with fifteen minutes to spare. Seeking to stay out of sight, they hid their bikes in a low-lying gully that had once formed the riverbed of a long dead stream. While the rest of the squad stayed with their bikes, Kergis and his second-in-command Gurban climbed the gully’s eastern wall on foot to check their surroundings.
“It seems quiet,” Gurban whispered, once he had scanned the area with a handheld auspex. “I’m not reading any enemy patrols. But there’s no sign of Balat and his men, either.”
Balat was a sergeant in the White Scars’ 10th Company. When Kergis was told he would rendezvous with a squad of Scouts under Balat’s command before making his approach on the target, he had been pleased. He and the Scout-sergeant were old comrades. Before Balat had transferred across to 10th Company, they had served together for several decades. Balat had been the sergeant of the squad Kergis had served in during his early days as a battle-brother. Kergis had always regarded the older man as something of a mentor.
“I would be more surprised if we did see them,” Kergis replied. He raised his hand in a thumb-sideways gesture to signal to the men in the gully that the area was clear but they should remain wary. Then, he turned back to Gurban.
“Keep your eyes sharp,” he told him. “A broken undulating landscape like this one can play havoc with the auspex. It creates dead spots the sensors can’t reach. A platoon could be hiding within fifty metres of us and we wouldn’t know it.”
As though in proof of his words, the sound of a birdcall abruptly broke the silence. Kergis recognised it as the cawing of a razorhook, a sharp-beaked carrion eater native to the plains of Chogoris. Having been expecting the signal, Kergis had already removed his helmet. Decades ago, on a world called Quintus, a Raven Guard Space Marine named Melierax had taught him the vox-amplifiers in an Astartes helmet gave an unnatural timbre to attempts to imitate the sound of birds. An unknowing listener hearing the noise would be less likely to assume it was a genuine birdcall and ignore it.
Kergis responded to the razorhook’s cawing by whistling three times in imitation of another native Chogorian bird. In reply, the cawing stopped. After a second, he became aware of dim shapes moving through the darkness towards them. Kergis kept his hand on his bolt pistol, ready in case it was a trick, but as the figures came closer he recognised the face of his old sergeant, Balat.
“It is good to see you again,” he said, clasping Balat’s hand once the Scouts had joined them in the gully. “What is our situation?”
Before answering, Balat made a signal to his men. Silently, they deployed to take up sentry posts around the lip of the gully.
“The immediate area is clear,” Balat said, once the Scouts had moved into position. “Enemy patrols don’t like to come this close to the geyser field in case the wind blows the poison clouds towards them. Still, it is better to be careful.”
Satisfied his men had covered every approach to their location, Balat walked a little distance along the bottom of the gully with Kergis beside him until they were out of earshot of the others.
“I made planetfall with my squad forty-eight hours ago,” the Scout-sergeant said. “In that time, the enemy have tripled their patrols. This entire region has become a hotbed of activity.”
“Do you think they detected your arrival?”
“Per
haps,” Balat shrugged. “We were inserted by Thunderhawk, as you were. The pilots did their best to fly us in under the enemy’s sensor network, but it is possible we were detected. But, if that is the case, the enemy don’t appear to be actively searching for us. We have seen no flyers, nor any sign of auspex sweeps. Rather than being a direct response to our arrival, it seems more likely they have stepped up their patrols because they are expecting trouble.”
“It would make sense,” Kergis agreed. “They must know an invasion is coming. They may even have detected our reconnaissance flights. And they would realise the power complex is a target. They have probably increased their patrols as a precaution.”
“Even so, it is strange they have not brought in flyers or auspex,” Balat said. “Why take half-measures if they think the invasion is coming? They must know the landscape of the Cradle makes an attack by stealth a real possibility. You would think they would take every step they could to prevent it.”
Balat shook his head in frustration. He was old, even by Astartes standards. He had nearly four centuries behind him, the years etched as lines on his face as surely as the many honour scars he wore as mark of his deeds. Kergis had heard rumours that Balat had once respectfully declined a promotion to become Master of the Watch back on Chogoris. In its place, he had asked to remain a simple sergeant and transferred to the 10th Company so he could pass on his skills to new generations of White Scars. Having experienced Balat’s tutorship himself, Kergis had no doubt the Chapter’s Scouts would be better warriors for it.
“Still, we should not be surprised if we find it difficult to divine the enemy’s plans,” Balat said. “It was always the same in the battle with Chaos. Do you remember Cernis? We thought to catch Voldorius unawares there, but he was ready for us.”
“I remember,” Kergis nodded. Briefly, he thought of the battle in the polar wastes. He remembered the race across the ice fields and the monstrous enemy they had fought under the northern lights. His memories brought to mind other battles: he thought of Kavell and icy Zoran, of the underhives of Modanna and the guntowers of Quintus. He thought of his encounter with the Bloodtide. He had come far and survived much. With Balat as his mentor, he had learned lessons in every battle.
“It was always so,” the Scout-sergeant continued. “Of all the enemies we face, Chaos is the most treacherous, its champions the most cunning.”
Abruptly, Balat fell quiet. Staring intently at Kergis, he grimaced.
“You are smiling. I have said something amusing?”
“Forgive me, arban,” Kergis said, using a traditional Chogorian word for sergeant. Strictly speaking its meaning translated simply as “leader of ten men”, but among the White Scars it had grown to mean much more. The word held no official standing, but it was used commonly when referring to a sergeant whose courage and wisdom were highly regarded. It was meant as a mark of honour, a term of great respect.
“I was reminded of the old days when I served in your squad as a newly promoted battle-brother,” Kergis continued. “To become a White Scar, I had passed through trials that not one in ten thousand men could have survived. On my first day, you told me not to get too cocky.”
“I was right,” Balat scowled. “Arrogance is a dangerous vice in a warrior. It blinds him to his own weaknesses and the enemy’s strengths.”
“Yes,” Kergis agreed. “You taught me what it truly means to be Astartes. You moulded me to be a better warrior, a better servant of the Chapter and our Khan. I was smiling because the lessons continue. Despite the passing of a century, I am still the student and you the master. And, to be truthful, I was also smiling because your motive is transparent. In discussing Chaos and reminding me of Voldorius, you were not talking idly. You had a specific aim in mind.”
“Subtlety was never one of my own vices,” Balat admitted grudgingly. “I have been fully briefed on the details of your mission. Including the identity of the enemy commander.”
“And you were wary I might need reminding of my duty?”
“No, not that. Never that.” All through their conversation, Balat had continued to stare at Kergis’ face. Now, his gaze became more searching, more insightful. “I simply hoped to remind you that Borchu is gone. Don’t let your hand be slowed by the memory of past friendship. Strike fast, and strike to kill. If you hesitate, the enemy will make use of it.”
“Sound advice,” Kergis nodded again. “I will follow it, I promise you.”
He glanced briefly above their heads. The sky was dark and overcast. Night still held its grip over the Cradle.
“But now, my men and I need to make ready. The darkness will not last forever. And we need to be at the Ignis Mons before dawn.”
It soon became apparent Balat and his Scouts had made able use of their time on Tephra VII. In their forty-eight hours in the Cradle, while being careful to stay out of sight, they had observed every aspect of the defences surrounding the Ignis Mons.
By the time he and Kergis met at the rendezvous, Balat possessed the kind of in-depth intelligence that might well prove vital to the successful outcome of their mission. While Kergis and his men watched and listened, he sketched out the positions of the ring of sentry points, minefields and hidden bunkers protecting the Mons. He provided an analysis of the enemy’s patrol schedules, indicating the route each patrol took through the Cradle. He had even prepared a map outlining a suggested approach to their objective. Checking the approach and finding no flaw in it, Kergis ordered his men to memorise it.
Once Balat had passed on all the intelligence, the two groups took their leave of each other.
The pre-arranged mission plan called for the Scouts to remain behind and cover the line of retreat of Kergis’ squad. At the same time, they would guard the mission team’s bikes. They were close enough to the target that Kergis and his men could no longer use their vehicles for fear the sound of their engines would give them away. As much as it pained them as White Scars to leave their bikes behind, they had no choice. Henceforth, they would continue their mission on foot.
It was not the only change which had been forced upon them by the needs of the mission. Ordinarily, at least two of the men in his squad would have been equipped with meltas or other heavy weapons. Instead, the nature of their mission in the Cradle meant they had left behind their heavy weapons in order to carry more explosives. Each man in the squad carried a grey, polyleather satchel filled with demolition charges and detonators: necessary equipment to sabotage the power plant. To save on weight, their only other arms were bolt pistols, knives and their normal close combat weapons.
“May the spirits of your ancestors go with you,” Balat said, once preparations had been made and Kergis was ready to leave. The rest of Kergis’ squad stood nearby, watching as the two sergeants clasped hands once more in parting.
“May they be your guide and guardians. May they strike the stones from your path and leave your enemies grieving in your wake.”
“And may your ancestors ride with you also,” Kergis responded, completing the form of a traditional Chogorian farewell. “May they always be beside you.”
To Kergis’ surprise, Balat refused at first to release his grip once the goodbyes were done. While their hands were still joined he leaned forward, whispering a few words out of hearing of the others.
“Good luck,” he said. “I know the choice you have made. It honours you. But do not assume this will be our last meeting. I will see you again, Kergis. I count on it.”
“I hope you are right, arban,” Kergis answered quietly. “Things will fall where they may. Whatever the outcome, you should know I have always valued your guidance.”
The contact was broken. With nothing more to be said, Kergis turned and took his place at the head of his squad. With a gesture, he set them moving. With half the night gone already, they could not afford to waste an instant. Seven kilometres of hard terrain lay ahead before they reached their target.
Despite that, as he and his men followed a path throug
h the gully, he spared a glance behind him. Balat was consulting with one of his Scouts, his head nodding sagely as he corrected some of his men’s positioning. A moment later the line of the gully turned, blocking Kergis’ last sight of his old mentor.
Despite Balat’s good wishes, he did not expect the two of them would meet again.
In the end it was easier to infiltrate his men into the immediate vicinity of the Ignis Mons than Kergis would have expected. Although Balat’s warnings of increased activity proved accurate, the sentries and patrols guarding the approaches to the enemy stronghold were surprisingly badly organised and half-hearted in the performance of their duty. Kergis did not doubt that the enemy’s troops would fight fanatically to the last man to repel an Imperial invasion. But when it came to the more drudging tasks of soldiery, the night patrols and the long boring hours on watch, the enemy’s lack of discipline told against them.
Even as Kergis and his men moved to within sight of the lower slopes of the Mons, the same defects of organisation among the enemy’s defences were readily apparent. Any halfway competent commander would have ordered the ground of the lower slopes bulldozed and cleared so as to provide open fields of fire for the defenders’ guns. As it was, the entire area was littered with rocky outcrops and dense patches of wiry scrub, as well as the occasional low ridge of dried lava.
The landscape provided Kergis and his men with ample cover as they made their way closer to their target. Similarly, the laxity of the enemy sentries meant they were able to reach the very edge of the slopes without having to once unsheathe their knives.
Suddenly, as Kergis crept onto the foot of the Mons, he heard voices approaching. Careful not to make any noise, he signalled to his men to stay in cover and sought refuge in the shadow of a weathered boulder. As the voices came closer he crouched in the darkness, waiting. His knife was in his hand, the blade smudged with volcanic ash to dull its reflection.
Legends of the Space Marines Page 7
