by Andy Clark
‘Movement,’ reported Dysorian’s pilot, magnifying the cockpit vid-feed and panning it across the breach. ‘Multiple hostiles emerging from the wreck and entering the hive.’
‘Canoness,’ voxed Dysorian. ‘It looks as though your Saint spoke the truth. Whatever you have available, deploy it. We need to push them back, now.’
‘The Saint herself is on her way, captain. She will lead the counter-attack, and I would ask that you support her with everything you can.’
‘In Dorn’s name,’ said Dysorian. He issued a quick string of orders, stripping away all but the most essential forces from the surrounding combat zones and requesting initial casualty reports. They were not encouraging.
‘Brother Haldyne,’ said Dysorian to his pilot. ‘Get us down there.’
‘At once, my captain,’ said Haldyne. ‘Brace for flak.’
Dysorian swung himself back through the hatch into the Stormraven’s troop bay, gripping a restraint as the Tactical Marines around him did likewise.
‘Brothers,’ said Dysorian as he felt the craft accelerate into a dive. ‘For the Emperor and the primarch.’
The Stormraven swept in low along the spine of the crashed cruiser, making for the ragged breach it had torn in the flesh of the hive. It streaked through a fire-lit hell, weaving left and right as shots stabbed up at it.
‘I can’t land,’ voxed Haldyne through gritted teeth. ‘It’s taking all I’ve got to evade the fire from the cruiser’s functional turrets. Prepare for a combat drop.’
Haldyne brought the Stormraven low and decelerated as much as he dared before lowering the rear ramp. As flames and mangled metal flashed by below, Dysorian and his brothers leapt.
Dysorian’s boots hit decking and he dropped into a roll, softening the impact and coming up with blade in hand. He found himself in the ragged stub of a corridor, one end part-sealed by a seized bulkhead, the other a torn wound open to the darkening skies. Checking his auspex feed, Dysorian dropped from the corridor’s end, landing on the exposed hull plating of the Chaos cruiser. Flames danced around him, and the monstrous superstructure of the warship loomed, spiked towers still menacing despite being shattered and canted.
‘Dorn preserve us from their taint,’ he muttered.
Smoke billowed. Gunfire and the roar of chainaxes sounded from nearby and Dysorian, still alone, followed it.
Running down the Hellbringer’s hull, the captain ducked under a splayed web of melted girders and found himself amidst the charnel ruin of a hab block. A honeycomb of sundered floors and chambers surrounded him, punched through by the cruiser’s passage. Bodies, or what remained of them, lay under heaps of rubble or sprawled in burning profusion. The wreckage of ruined lives was everywhere.
‘Captain,’ came a shout from ahead. Two of the Tactical Marines, Sergeant Vynus and one of his brothers, were battling several Khorne Berzerkers amidst the ruins. Dysorian broke into a run, firing his bolt pistol.
He managed to knock one of the traitors off their feet with a shot to the chest, but another carved his chainaxe through Vynus’ neck, sending the sergeant’s head tumbling away. Dysorian roared in anger, crashing headlong into the bellowing Berzerker and running him through. Ripping his power sword free, Dysorian swung it in a crackling arc that lopped an arm from the third heretic. Blood sprayed, but the Khorne worshipper kept howling even as his axe arm clanged to the floor.
He fired his pistol into Dysorian’s chest, staggering the captain. In return, the surviving Tactical brother swept the Berzerker’s legs from under him, then emptied a clip of bolt shells into his helm.
Gulping a lungful of air, Dysorian nodded.
‘My thanks, Brother Lytor. Let us find our comrades.’
The two of them set off, clambering down through a mangled mishmash of warship and hab block. Dysorian picked up four more of squad Vynus as he went, still making for the clangour of combat.
They dropped through a torn patch of decking, landing in a fire-blackened chamber. A mangled heap of machinery dominated half the space, and beyond it could be seen the flash and flare of gunfire.
‘Brothers,’ said Dysorian. ‘With me.’
As one, the Imperial Fists gripped the blackened tangle of machine-parts and heaved them aside. As they did, a desperate battle was revealed.
Beyond the chamber’s end lay a broad communal plaza. Half of it was buried beneath the titanic bulk of the cruiser, which rose as a ruptured wall of crimson armour and profane sigils from floor to ceiling. In the shadow of the ship’s carcass lay a toppled statue of the Emperor and beyond it, a wide rampway leading through a hundred-foot-high arch into the commercia district beyond.
On that ramp, hunkered behind scattered lumps of rubble and wreckage, a thin line of Tsadrekhans and Imperial Fists was making a desperate stand. Teeming masses of dagger-wielding blood cultists surged into the loyalists’ gunfire, exhorted by bellowing Heretic Astartes in the colours of some Khorne-sworn renegade warband. At their head stamped a blood-spattered Helbrute, heavy bolters chattering as they raked fire across the defenders.
‘For Dorn and the Emperor!’ cried Dysorian. ‘Enfilading fire!’
The brothers of Squad Vynus let fly into the traitors’ flank. Bolters roared. Frag grenades exploded amidst the cultist mass with thumping booms. Brother Volnys hefted his squad’s missile launcher and sent a krak missile arcing over the fight to explode between the Helbrute’s hulking shoulders. The hellish machine staggered and ichor sprayed, but it stayed on its feet.
From the ramp, Intercessor Sergeant Loriyan voxed Dysorian.
‘It is good to see you, my captain.’
‘Report status,’ replied Dysorian, firing his bolt pistol.
‘Two brothers down from my squad,’ said Loriyan. ‘Devastator Squad Lynarus have lost three more. The Tsadrekhans have suffered approximately seventy per cent casualties and rising.’
‘Hold, brother,’ said Dysorian. ‘More aid is on its way.’
Loriyan pipped acknowledgement, firing his bolt rifle into the onrushing masses. Meanwhile, a portion of the horde spilling from the cruiser had now redirected their charge towards Dysorian and his brothers. Shrieking praise to Khorne, hundreds of cultists flowed towards them over the bodies of the dead.
‘This is Captain Paetrov Dysorian, Imperial Fists,’ voxed the captain across all channels. ‘Priority alert to all Imperial forces in the region of south face five-two-two. Overwhelming enemy forces disembarking from the cruiser. Multiple breaches. We hold one, but there are others, and we shall soon be overrun. All available forces, converge and repel invaders before we lose the hive!’
Then the cultists’ charge slammed home, and Dysorian focused his mind upon the fight. Individually, these malnourished lunatics were no match for the Imperial Fists. Yet there were hundreds of them, a screaming, frothing mass, and they fought with lunatic fury.
Bullets ricocheted off Dysorian’s armour. Blades clanged against it. The captain gunned down a swathe of enemies, and hacked his blade through two more.
Hands clawed at his limbs. His cloak tore from his shoulders. A jagged blade found a join in his armour, snaking through and drawing blood. Point-blank gunfire sprayed into his face, cracking one eye-lens.
With no time to reload, Dysorian clamped his pistol to his thigh and gripped his blade’s hilt with both hands. Swinging the weapon in wide arcs, he carved away the mass of foes pressing in around him, buying himself room to breathe.
‘Fight, brothers,’ he shouted, vox-amplifying his voice so it boomed across the chamber. ‘Fight for Dorn, for the Emperor, for Tsadrekha!’
To his right, Brother Lytor crashed to his knees, a crude bayonet jutting from one eye-lens. Nearby he heard Brother Volnys cursing in pain and anger.
A masked fanatic lunged at Dysorian, only to have his head swept from his shoulders. Another came from the side, firing his pistol point
blank. Dysorian lopped him in two. Another cultist came at him, and another, stabbing and firing frantically. One clamped both arms around one of Dysorian’s and refused to let go, weighing down the captain’s blade. To Dysorian’s disgust, yet another cultist tried to bite into his power-armoured gorget, shattering his teeth to bloodied stumps.
Dysorian felt the sting of a wound behind his knee, another where a shot had cracked his breastplate. He couldn’t see Squad Vynus any more, just a sea of chanting cultists on every side.
‘Captain,’ voxed Sergeant Loriyan. ‘We can’t hold them! The Helbrute–’
Dimly, Dysorian heard the war machine roaring, its guns hammering.
‘To the last man,’ he bellowed. ‘No weakness! No surrender!’
Another blade found his elbow joint, drawing a line of fire across his flesh. Finally dislodging the lunatic on his arm, Dysorian stamped on the man’s skull then whirled his sword in a glowing arc, driving the enemy back. The move earned him seconds, long enough to see Chaos Space Marines closing on him with evil leers.
‘I’ll make you suffer for it,’ snarled Dysorian, bracing himself for their attack. ‘Come on, you traitorous filth.’
It was then that blinding light suffused the chamber, and Dysorian heard a pure, crystalline note singing in the air. The Khorne worshippers faltered at that sound, many clutching their heads and snarling in pain. As they reeled, so came the Saint.
She descended from on high, the metallic wings of her magnificent jump pack spread wide. A halo flickered about her head, and beneath its radiance, Dysorian felt the pain of his wounds lessen. Celestine swept down upon the Chaos horde with the Ardent Blade held high, the pair of jump-pack-wearing champions known as the Geminae Superia dropping on pillars of flame at her side.
Celestine hung above the fight for a moment, a star radiating the pure light of divine judgement. Imperial soldiers cried out in rapturous voices at the sight of her, and even Dysorian was surprised to feel fervent emotions swelling in his chest. By comparison, the heretic cultists quailed in terror, while their renegade masters shielded their eyes from the Saint’s luminescence and spat vile curses through their vox grilles.
Then she fell upon her foes, slamming down into their midst like a comet while her Sisters rained bolt shells upon their heads. Dysorian lost sight of the Saint as she plunged into the enemy, but the glowing luminescence and sprays of heretic blood told him precisely where she was.
At the same moment, fresh gunfire sounded from the head of the ramp. Dysorian caught a fleeting glimpse of Battle Sisters in black-and-bone armour, pouring into the chamber with their guns thundering. They cried out praise to the Saint, and their eyes seemed to flash with a holy light.
As the enemy around him wavered, Dysorian felt his fatigue lift, replaced by surging new strength. His first swing cut down three cultists, his next another two. Shouldering between the reeling fanatics, Dysorian managed to reach the lead Chaos Marine and hack him down in turn with a savage lateral cut. Gaining momentum, leaping the traitor’s corpse, Dysorian carved a path through his foes. The cultists milled in panic, the fervour driven out of them by Celestine’s divine aura. Cursing, clubbing, their Heretic Astartes masters tried to force them back into the fight.
Another of the traitors fell to Dysorian’s blade, then another. The fourth managed to carve a bloody wound into the captain’s side with his chainsword, but then bolt-rounds blew out the traitor’s helm and threw his body into the cultists behind. Blood leaking from the blade still jammed into his eye socket, Brother Lytor bulled his way through the panicking cultists to stand alongside his captain. With him came another Tactical Marine, Brother Tylorn, clutching a pair of combat knives that were red to the hilt.
‘Brothers,’ said Dysorian. ‘Together.’
‘Yes, my captain,’ said Lytor and Tylorn, and together the three of them hacked their way towards the Saint.
As the final rank of cultists fell before them, Dysorian bore witness to the Saint’s true glory for the first time. He felt her presence like a physical blow. She was glorious, stern, merciless. She was death incarnate.
Celestine fought with perfect form, duelling five Chaos Space Marines at once as though she fought in a practice cage. She leapt and spun, using bursts of propulsion from her ornate jump pack to carry her high above her enemies’ heads, and to evade their wild swings. The Ardent Blade sang as it cut through the air, lopping the arm from one traitor then the head from the next. Celestine sprang backwards from a furious lunge, kicked the blade elegantly from her attacker’s hand, then landed in a crouch and eviscerated him.
‘She is magnificent,’ breathed brother Lytor.
At her back, one of the Geminae Superia lay in a pool of blood. The other stood over her body, raining merciless fire into the cultist masses and driving them back.
Recognising that the Saint needed no aid, Dysorian and his brothers sprang to help her living Sister, hurling back those few cultists with fight left in them. At the same time, Dysorian heard Sergeant Loriyan’s voice in his ear again.
‘Captain, we have them! Permission to pursue.’
‘Granted, Loriyan. Drive them back and we will crush them as they come to us. We stand in the Emperor’s light. These traitors can know no victory!’
Dysorian’s words were proven true in a matter of minutes. There came a hissing roar from the head of the ramp, a Battle Sister’s multi-melta carving through the hull of the Khornate Helbrute and blowing it apart in a shower of molten wreckage. Shorn of the Heretic Astartes who had driven them into battle and the beast that had led them to war, the cultists collapsed. They became a surging, panicked crowd. Some screamed in fear, or fell to be trampled. Others, the truly devoted amongst them, attacked their comrades, hacking and stabbing to spill as much blood as they could before the end. Some fought, frantic as cornered rats, but against the resurgent Imperial warriors they stood little chance.
The last of their number fled back into the cruiser, or else scrambled away into bolt-holes amidst the wreckage.
‘Brothers,’ ordered Dysorian. ‘Charges into the cruiser hatches. Blow them. Entomb the foe.’
Dull booms shook the chamber as the captain’s orders were followed. Gunfire stuttered here and there as the Imperial forces put down the enemy stragglers. Meanwhile, Captain Dysorian knelt before the Saint.
She looked upon him, her visage ageless, peaceful, infinitely wise. Though she had fought outnumbered against the murderous warriors of the Heretic Astartes, there was not a mark on Celestine’s armour, not a scratch on her alabaster skin. Bathed in her light, Dysorian felt disbelief and wonder warring within him.
‘My lady,’ he said. ‘Saint Celestine. My thanks for your timely aid.’
Celestine smiled at Dysorian, motioning for him to stand.
‘You remind me of another,’ she said. ‘A brother from amongst your Chapter’s successors, who fought valiantly at my side when our need was most desperate.’
Dysorian rose, with the sense that he had just been paid a significant compliment.
‘Saint Celestine, I believe that our need is desperate on this day, also. And I thank you again for your intercession. But the enemy will have forced many breaches here. And I did not see Lord Khordas amongst the fallen. I have more warriors on their way, but we must press on lest we lose the hive.’
‘I admire your ardour, Captain Dysorian,’ said Celestine. ‘And so we shall. But first I must attend my fallen Sister, for the Emperor’s work is not done.’
Dysorian went to utter words of condolence for the Saint’s loss, but something stopped him. Instead he watched as Celestine paced across to the fallen Seraphim and knelt in her blood. The Saint cradled her Sister’s head, brushing the hair back from her pale forehead. A single tear welled from Celestine’s eye. It glittered as it fell, splashing upon the Seraphim’s cheek, and Dysorian’s eyes widened in amazement as the fallen Ba
ttle Sister gave a sudden gasp. Her eyes snapped open, and for a moment she fought frantically in Celestine’s embrace. Then her eyes focused, and as she looked upon the face of the Saint she too wept, this time in love and gratitude.
A murmur of hushed awe flowed through the crowd of onlookers, for surely they had witnessed a miracle. Dysorian shook his head slowly, at a loss to explain the incredible phenomenon that had just occurred.
Celestine rose, her armour stained with the blood of her resurrected Sister, and turned to Captain Dysorian.
‘In three centuries of courageous service, you have never seen anything to prove the literal truth of the Emperor’s divinity, have you, Paetrov?’ she asked gently.
Dysorian shook his head. ‘Some psychic ability?’ he asked. ‘Medicae tech? None can bring the dead back to life… Not even the primarch had such a power.’
Celestine smiled. ‘Tell yourself whatever you wish, Captain Dysorian,’ she said. ‘But know that the Emperor’s light shines upon you, and what is ordained to befall in this place shall do so in his name. Take heart in that.’
‘As you say, my lady,’ said Dysorian.
‘And now, captain,’ said Celestine as the Battle Sisters, Imperial Fists and Tsadrekhans gathered around them, ‘you are correct. The battle lies before us, and the fate of the beacon hangs in the balance. In the Emperor’s name, lead us on, Brother-Captain Dysorian. To battle.’
Chapter Nine
Deep beneath the ocean, some miles distant from where the dark waters had almost ended their mission in disaster, the Unsung crouched on a long metal gantry in the gloom of tunnel thirteen.
‘This is insane,’ said Makhor. ‘I’ve mentioned that, haven’t I?’
‘Several times, brother,’ said D’sakh.
‘And yet…’ said Makhor.
‘You worry too much,’ said Haltheus. ‘This is by far the fastest and most efficient way of reaching the hive city.’
‘Only if we survive it,’ said Makhor.
