Warhammer 40K - [Dawn of War 01] - Dawn of War

by C. S. Goto - (ebook by Undead)

  Anger and confusion curdled together in Brom’s head. The Blood Ravens had treated him like a lackey, and they had cast a slur on the honour of the Tartarans. He was a colonel of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, and should be treated as such. And it wasn’t as if the Blood Ravens were beyond reproach themselves: mighty though they may be in battle, inside those giant suits of power amour there was the heart and soul of a man. They could make mistakes too, just like the Tartarans. And they had. He knew that they had.

  Brom was hissing and muttering to himself as his anger seethed inside him. A voice called out from behind the barricade.

  “Colonel Brom? Is everything alright, sir?” It was Ckrius, again, probably carrying another cup of recaff and grinning inanely.

  “Fine, trooper,” said Brom dismissively, suddenly aware that he had been mumbling and spitting with quiet rage. “Fine.”

  “You need any more recaff, colonel?” asked the trooper hopefully.

  Brom laughed. He knew it. “No, thank you Trooper Ckrius. I’m fine.”

  As Ckrius climbed back down the barricade to rejoin his friends, Brom shook his head again. Where had all that anger come from? He threw his lho-stick to the ground and stamped it out with his boot. The Space Marines were a blessing from the Emperor himself. They were the finest warriors in the Imperium, selected from the most able hopefuls from thousands of different worlds and then cultivated for decades. Their honour and judgement was beyond reproach. Who was he to question them? And Captain Angelos was right—the Tartarans had collapsed, some troopers had turned in fear. Without the Blood Ravens, the spaceport would have fallen. Perhaps Angelos had been right to assign them construction duty while the Blood Ravens hunted the orks.

  IN THE SHADOWY depths of the forest, the Blood Ravens were deployed in an arc around the perimeter of a compound. The old buildings around the pumping station were decrepit and barely stable, but they still seemed to be in use. Certainly they would not provide any significant cover for the mob of orks that lumbered and snorted their way between them.

  The makeshift ork camp was a jumble of debris and filth. The green-skins had pulled down a couple of the old buildings and were using the wooden frames for their fires. Some of them bore deep flesh wounds on their limbs, but they still jostled and pushed each other about, trying to find their place in the food chain around the roasting meat. They snorted and snarled, spitting phlegm onto the ground as saliva ran between their jagged teeth.

  In the centre of the compound was the largest of the mob, one of the so-called “nobz.” Gabriel was watching it carefully as it smashed its fist into the smaller greenskins that fussed around it. They cowered under the blows but then set about their business with renewed vigour, as though the violence were itself a kind of language between the savage creatures. The nob was inspecting the pumping station with a small team of mekboyz, who prodded and poked at the end of a pipeline with their clumsy tools.

  “Corallis. Where do those pipes go?” asked Gabriel in a barely audible whisper.

  “They carry the water supply into Magna Bonum, captain,” answered the sergeant, realising at once how important this pumping station was to the people of Tartarus.

  Gabriel nodded, clicking open a vox-channel to the rest of the squad. “Focus on the largest of the creatures first—if we break their strongest warriors, then the others will flee. We can mop up the stragglers later.”

  After a brief pause, the forest erupted into a blaze of bolter fire as the Blood Ravens opened up from their positions around the perimeter of the compound. The fire flashed into the centre of the offensive arc, defining a lethal killing zone in which the orks were instantly cut down. The Blood Ravens loosed another hail of fire, and then Gabriel was on his feet and charging into the chaotic mess of the ork camp, his chainsword whirring with serrated death.

  The surviving orks scattered around the compound, diving for their weapons and colliding with each other with horrendous thumps. In the disarray, Gabriel hacked into the nearest knot of fumbling greenskins, thrusting his spluttering blade through bone and flesh, while his bolt pistol coughed shells from his other hand. In the heart of the mob, he could see the nob screaming commands at its bodyguard, sending the surrounding orks into a frenzy. The giant beast itself had tugged on a gleaming power claw, which still dripped with blood, and had drawn a huge gun into its other hand.

  Gabriel ducked a viciously curving cleaver, using his own momentum to cut down with his chainsword, taking the legs off the offending greenskin next to him. Firing a rattle of bolter shells into a couple of shoota boyz that were fumbling with their guns in front of him, the Blood Ravens captain strode forward towards the nob. This kill was going to be his.

  On the other side of the camp, Isador was a blaze of blue energy. He brought his force staff sweeping round in great crescents, smashing its power into gaggles of orks that shrieked and sizzled under the tirade. From his left hand pulsed javelins of blue lightning, which chased after the fleeing greenskins and incinerated them as they tried to dive for cover.

  All around the compound, the Blood Ravens were laying into the broken camp of orks, capitalising on the confusion of the greenskins as the creatures struggled to mount a defence. Sergeant Corallis had lost his boltgun and was wrestling one of the beasts with his hands, pitting his power armour against the bunched musculature and the barbed teeth of the ork. In one smooth movement, Corallis rolled backwards onto the ground, carrying the greenskin with him and flipping it over his shoulder. As he rolled back up onto his feet, he snatched up a fallen cleaver from the dirt and smashed it down into the skull of the stunned ork before it could regain its feet. The cleaver dug deeply into the thick skull and the ork’s eyes bulged in surprise before the handle snapped clean away and the creature fell onto its face in the mud.

  Meanwhile, Gabriel was striding through the camp towards the ork leader, dispatching the smaller orks with almost casual abandon as they charged at him with axes and clubs. Nothing would draw him off course now. The ork boss could see him coming, and it was blasting out rounds from its crude gun, cackling into the air with insanity burning in its tiny red eyes. The shots bounced off Gabriel’s armour, denting it and scratching away the brilliant red paintwork. One or two of the slugs buried themselves in the joints between the armoured plates, punching into his flesh and sending shafts of pain darting through his limbs. But the Space Marine’s augmented nervous system quickly shut down the pain receptors and his enhanced blood clotted the wounds almost as soon as they were made.

  He cleared the last few strides with a running leap, throwing himself through the air towards the huge ork with his chainsword spluttering greenskin blood in an ichorous arc. The creature met Gabriel’s attack with a swipe from its power claw, dragging a clutch of deep gashes across the captain’s chest plate and throwing him aside, his bolt pistol falling into the dirt.

  Gabriel hit the ground in a roll, flipping back up onto his feet and spinning his chainsword with a flourish. In an instant he was upon the ork again, his blade flashing and coughing in a relentless tirade of hacks and swipes. But the greenskin was just as fast, parrying the Blood Raven’s weapon with flicks of his power claw and countering with a series of vicious kicks and scratches.

  In the depths of his mind, Gabriel could hear the silver choir flooding his soul with light once again, and he pressed his attack with righteous desperation, throwing all of his strength into each strike. The ork seemed to be lapsing into slow-motion, and Gabriel blocked its attacks with increasing ease.

  The opening seemed to gape and beg for him to slaughter the vile greenskin. Gabriel watched the ork flail and thrash with its power claw, but it all seemed pathetically slow. And there, in the centre of the frenzy of claws was a gap which the ork had left completely unprotected—Gabriel could see it as clear as day, as though the light of the Astronomican itself was piercing it for him. But, as he stepped forward to run his chainsword through the enemy, the choir in his head started to wail and scream, and the be
autiful silver light started to run with blood.

  Gabriel screamed as he thrust his blade into the beast’s chest, and then he ground the whirring teeth of the chainsword deeper into the creature’s abdomen before ripping it free with a vicious upward swing. The nob was rent in two as it fell back under the strike, already dead before it hit the ground.

  All around the camp, the remnants of the ork mob started to wail and shriek. They turned and tried to run, but were easily cut down by volleys of fire from the other Blood Ravens.

  “GABRIEL?” ISADOR WAS at his shoulder, his hand resting gently on his punctured and torn armour. “Gabriel, are you alright?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” answered Gabriel, wondering why Isador was making such a fuss. He had fallen to the ground after the battle with the ork boss, but now pulled himself to his feet to face the Librarian. “I’m fine, Isador.”

  “Your scream had me worried, brother,” said Isador looking around the camp. “And I wasn’t the only one to notice it.” The rest of the squad were stalking around the compound, kicking each ork corpse in turn to make sure that the creatures were really dead, and firing a single shot into the heads of any that groaned.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you Isador. Where is Prathios? I must give my praise to the Emperor for this victory,” said Gabriel, searching the scene for the company Chaplain.

  “Prathios fought well, captain. He is over there with Corallis, who was injured in the fight,” replied Isador, pointing with his staff to one of the ruined buildings. After you have seen Prathios, you should visit the Apothecarion to see about those wounds, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel looked down at his armour and saw for the first time how much damage it had suffered. The paint was scratched and the plates were riddled with dents, gashes and holes. He couldn’t really remember suffering such an attack.

  “Yes, Isador. I will do that. Thank you again,” he said as he turned and made his way over to Prathios and Corallis.

  Standing alone in the centre of the compound, Isador surveyed the scene. Not a single Blood Raven had fallen in the attack, although Corallis had lost his left arm. All of the orks had been slain. It had been a good night for hunting after all.

  From out of the darkness something cold tapped at the inside of Isador’s mind, and he snapped his head round to stare into the forest at the edge of the compound. There was something in the shadows, something that was not quite there. A wave of whispers seemed to emanate from the darkness, questing for a space in the Librarian’s head. Isador slammed shut the doors to his soul and sent a sharp, noiseless blast into the trees: I will suffer no trespass. At that, the voices seemed to die into silence. After concentrating his gaze on the forest for a few more moments, Isador turned his attention back to the camp. Squinting slightly at the sudden pain in his head, he made his way back towards Gabriel and Prathios, the sound of his captain’s scream resounding in his mind once again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TERROR GRIPPED AT his soul, releasing the one thought that the struggling man should have suppressed for all time. He couldn’t hang on to his consciousness as it swam and curdled, as though stirred by the piercing force of a primeval spear. Voices were seducing him from all sides, licking at the inside of his head like exquisite flames, weakening his resolve and drawing him into hell. He could see the sorcerer towering over him, and could sense the muttering voices of his perverted priesthood ringed around him, but there was nothing he could do to fight them. Finally, without a word or even a breath, he cried out with his mind in desperate longing, Choose me!

  Chaos Sorcerer Sindri looked down at the ruined husk that was once a Marine of the accursed Alpha Legion, but there was no pity in his stare. His fist was clasped around his Bedlam Staff, clenching and unclenching in impatient anticipation, and, buried deep in the visor sockets of his bladed helmet, Sindri’s eyes glowered a thirsty red.

  “He is ready, my lord,” hissed the sorcerer, clearly pained by the requirement of deference. Nonetheless, his tone was soft and sibilant.

  “Then proceed, sorcerer, but proceed carefully. If you fail me, this will not be the only sacrifice tonight,” said Chaos Lord Bale bluntly, leaning his impressive weight against the great Manreaper scythe, which seemed to writhe hungrily in his grasp.

  The sorcerer did not reply. Instead he pointed with his staff and, without a word, the chosen Chaos Marine slouched towards the edge of the crater, as though held in a trance.

  At the bottom of the freshly excavated pit lay an altar. It was little more than a slab of rough hewn stone, but it pulsed with ancient promises. Its sides had been carved with snaking designs and icons depicting sacrifice and slaughter, and dark prayers had been etched into the rock with teeth and bones. Each inscription had drawn the blood of its artisan, and had been made in a frenzy of agony and love. The surface of the altar, stained with the life blood of countless sacrifices, ran with deep grooves and runnels.

  The Chaos Marine climbed carefully down the sides of the crater towards the altar, more and more horrified with each step, not able to understand what he was doing. But the voices whispered into his soul, drawing him onwards and dissolving his resistance. He required no escort—despite himself he knew what he had to do. Stealing a glance back up to the rim of the pit, he could see a ring of his battle-brothers from the Alpha Legion, each shimmering in the dark black and green of their ancient armour. They stared down at him in silence, filling the humid night with their heavy malignancy.

  As he approached the altar, he realised that Sindri and Lord Bale were there already with retinues of armed Marines fanned out behind them. Just in case. Even in the night and in the heavy shadow of the crater, he could see the steady evil throbbing in their eyes. Lord Bale himself was a monster of man—hugely tall and draped with corpse-like flesh that paled into a sickly white in the thin moonlight. Only his bladed teeth seemed to reflect any light at all, and that was vicious beyond the imaginings of men. A terrible stench wafted through the night air, and the Chaos Marine noticed for the last time how Bale’s burnished green armour was coated in a thick, ichorous film of ruined flesh. It was the last residue of the countless men who had fallen beneath the Chaos Lord’s war-scythe in his millennia of bloody rampage across worlds and galaxies.

  Without any prompting, the nameless Marine climbed up onto the altar and lay down, throwing his arms up over his head and pushing his feet across into the corners of the stone. He closed his eyes and felt the tablet’s almost imperceptible vibrations beneath him. So, this is where it would all begin.

  Sindri’s voice was hissing and muttering at the head of the altar, drawing more and more movement from the rock itself, which began to emanate heat. Bale could see the runes and the prayers start to glow around the sides of the tablet, and blood started to ooze out of the eyes of the daemons etched into the stone. In the sky, dark clouds started to congeal and swirl, condensing a sleet of rain and filling the night with sheets of lightning.

  The prostrate Marine could feel the rain falling onto his face and splashing off the altar. Droplets began to seep into his mouth, and his tongue licked at them automatically. The familiar irony taste rippled through his body, sending a thrill into his soul as he realised that it was a rain of blood, and that it was all for him.

  Suddenly Sindri stopped his chant and silence filled the pit, broken only by the persistent spatter of heavy rain. Then the Marine screamed. A great gash had opened up across his chest, spilling blood and organs out across the altar. Another tore into his stomach, and then smaller cuts started to criss-cross his legs and arms. After a couple of seconds, his face was ripped to shreds by the invisible force and a torrent of blood was cascading down the sides of the altar, spewing out of every inch of the screaming Marine.

  Lord Bale ran his tongue along his razor-sharp teeth, watching the Chaotic powers rack the body of the victim, dreaming that such power would one day be his. But his reverie was broken as Sindri raised his staff into the sky and drew down a sizzling bolt of purpl
e lightning, wailing a prayer as the energy coursed through his body and bounced back into the dual-pronged blade at the crest of his Bedlam Staff. With a dramatic flourish, Sindri spun the blade and brought it down in a sudden, single sweep, cleaving the Marine’s head from his shoulders.

  “And so it begins,” hissed the sorcerer, as a raucous cheer arose from the Chaos Marines around the rim of the crater.

  THE FIRST HINTS of daylight dusted the ornate stonework of the cathedral, but dawn brought with it the promise of war on the horizon. The city of Magna Bonum was still resting, its streets filled with the half-baked shelters of refugees who had flooded in through the great gates, thinking that the high city wall would bring them some measure of protection. It had never been breached before, but never before had it faced such a colossal onslaught of ork power. Despite the glorious sunrise, the horizon was heavy with a dark ocean of greenskin warriors, rumbling their way towards the city.

  The Blood Ravens had returned from their hunt only a few hours before dawn, and Gabriel had appropriated the cathedral as the most suitable location for their base in the city. They had swept past the spaceport with barely a nod to the cheering troopers of the Tartarans. Sergeant Matiel had paused for a moment, and presented one of the Guardsmen with the severed head of an ork, as a memento and as inspiration for them in the battle to come.

  The young trooper had stared at the huge, heavy skull in disbelief, and for a moment Matiel had thought that the man would drop it in horror.