He had not slept since the destruction of Colonel Rabelaq's Capitol Imperialis, and while his catalepsean node had allowed him to continue to function, influencing the circadian rhythms of his brain and his response to sleep deprivation, he felt a marrow-deep tiredness saturate his body.
Looking at the thousands of men gathered around the lines of flaming braziers he felt his respect for them soar. If he was this tired, he could not imagine what the human soldiers must be feeling. Learchus, his armour similarly brutalised, looked well rested, his eyes bright and his stride sure as he marched beside his captain.
'Guilliman's oath, these men are weary,' said Uriel.
'Aye,' agreed Learchus. 'That they are, but they'll hold. I know they will.'
'You trained them well, brother-sergeant.'
'As well as the codex demands,' said Learchus, a hint of reproach in his tone.
Uriel ignored his sergeant's gentle rebuke as they emerged from the buildings of District Quatros and onto the rained plain before the second wall.
Where once the area had been thronged with factories, production hangars and dwellings, there was now only iced rockcrete rectangles to indicate where they had once stood. Lines of burning oil drums packed with whatever flammable materials were to hand burned and kept the air just above freezing. Already scores of soldiers had perished in the cold nights, frozen to death where they lay, their comrades forced to pry their corpses from the ground as dawn broke.
The council of Erebus, initially supporting Learchus's decision to demolish the buildings so as to deny the tyranids cover between the walls had balked as the reality of the proposition had hit home. Simon van Gelder led the most vocal group of opposition and, in a move of surprising boldness, Sebastien Montante had dissolved the council of Erebus, giving command of his city to Colonel Stagler until such time as the tyranids were driven off.
It amazed Uriel to think that on the brink of annihilation, men could still squabble over such petty concerns as property and wealth. This world might bear the name of the Ultramarines, but its leaders had long since forsaken the teachings of the primarch.
But as he and Learchus marched towards the wall, he was filled with love for the soldiers who stood defiant before the tide of alien invaders. Here was the spirit of Ultramar best exemplified. In the common man, who stood tall against the horrors of the galaxy and was willing to die to protect what he believed in.
The two Space Marines stopped by one of the blazing fires on the edge of the wall, nodding in greeting to the soldiers clustered around its fleeting warmth. Uriel cast his gaze out over the ruined ground between the first two walls at the masses of aliens gathered before him. The collective exhalations of millions of creatures breathing in concert filled the valley, sounding like a single slumbering monster.
It would likely not be that simple, but if Lord Admiral Tiberius's plan succeeded then there was a chance that it might be. He had conferred with Sebastien Montante following his dissolution of the council, finding him awkwardly climbing into a suit of thermal overwhites and pulling on a webbing belt of ammunition.
'What are you doing, Fabricator Montante?' Uriel had asked.
'Well, now that the council has been dissolved, I think it's about time I picked up a gun and started fighting, don't you?'
Uriel folded his arms and said, 'When was the last time you fired a weapon, fabricator?'
'Ah, now let me think… probably during basic training, when I did my regulation service in the Defence Legion.'
'And how many years ago was that?' pressed Uriel.
Montante had the decency to look abashed as he said, 'About thirty years ago, but I need to fight, don't you understand?'
'I do, Sebastien, have no fear of that. You are one of the finest logisticians I have met, and your place is here. You have kept the soldiers supplied with food and ammunition, invested time, effort and money to ensure that all our military needs are met. But you are not a soldier, Sebastien, and you will die in the first minutes of an assault.'
'But—'
'No,' said Uriel firmly, but not unkindly, 'You can best serve your city in other ways.'
'Like how?'
'Well, you can start by telling me all about the orbital defences of Erebus: where they are, their status and how we get them firing again.'
Montante looked confused, 'But there's nothing left of them, Uriel. The torpedo silos expended their stocks of ordnance and the defence lasers fired until their power capacitors were dry.'
'Indulge me,' said Uriel.
And he had. Uriel and Montante spent the next two hours poring over maps, computing ranges, fuel to weight ratios, introducing all manner of variables into their discussions until they settled on the optimum course of action. Satisfied that the admiral's plan was indeed workable, Uriel had left, forcing Montante to swear an oath that he would not attempt to join the fighting men on the walls until the end came.
Then he had explained his idea to the other commanders. Initially sceptical, a cautious excitement gripped the senior officers as he outlined the results of his and Montante's labours, and they began to appreciate the scope of the plan.
Preparations were already underway and all they could do was hold until the battered remnants of the fleet were in position to strike. The operation was planned for the day after tomorrow and Uriel was anxious to begin. For too long they had retreated before the aliens. Now they had a chance to strike back.
Kryptman's pet Mechanicus had promised them a weapon to use against the tyranids, but had yet to deliver. Time was running out for Locard, and Uriel knew that the admiral's plan was the best shot they had at ending this war. It was a long shot, but as he looked down at the immensity of the tyranid swarm, he knew it was the only one they had.
He turned from the wall to see Learchus standing beside the brazier, his palms outstretched towards the flames. Uriel's brow furrowed in puzzlement, knowing Learchus was perfectly insulated from both the heat and cold within his power armour, before realising his sergeant was unconsciously copying the men around him. He smiled and listened to what Learchus was saying as he saw Chaplain Astador and Major Satria approach from further along the length of the wall. More men began drifting over from other fires as Learchus raised his voice to carry further.
'You have fought with courage and honour,' said Learchus, 'giving your all for the fight and no man can do more than that. Vile aliens assail us from all sides, yet amidst the death and carnage not one amongst you is willing to take a backwards step. I am proud of you all.'
'You taught us well, Sergeant Learchus,' shouted Major Satria.
'No, greatness was in all of you, I just knew where to look for it. You are known as the Erebus Defence Legion, the protectors of your people. But you are more than this. The oath of brotherhood sworn between your world and mine at the dawn of the Imperium binds us together more surely than the strongest chains of adamantium.'
Learchus raised his fist and shouted, 'You are warriors of Ultramar, and I am proud to call you brothers.'
A huge cheer echoed from the sides of the valley.
Snowdog fished out the last pair of guns from a crate before kicking it to splinters. Tigerlily and Lex collected the smashed timbers in large plastic bags, for sale as firewood to the thousands of people that now filled the warehouse and its adjacent buildings. He handed a freshly stamped lasgun with a pair of power cells fixed to the stock with duct tape to Jonny Stomp. The weapon looked absurdly tiny in Jonny's shovel-like hands and Snowdog grinned.
'I'll try and find something better for you soon, big man,' he promised.
'Good,' grunted Jonny. 'These pipsqueak guns just don't cut it, Snowdog.'
'Hey, it's all we got.'
The ammo for Jonny's grenade launcher had long since ran out and he'd been unhappy with anything less destructive. And they could certainly do with something more powerful: the attacks on the warehouse had increased in ferocity and number over the last few days, as though the aliens knew there was a
smorgasbord of prey just sitting here.
So far the guns they'd heisted from the Guard were doing the job adequately, and Lex's bombs were proving to be as effective against aliens as they were against the Arbites. But Snowdog knew that soon they'd need more.
He said, 'Hey, Trask, catch,' and tossed him a gleaming auto-gun with a bag of clips. Trask fumbled the catch, too busy scratching at an ugly red rash he'd developed on the side of his face and neck.
It made his dog-ugly features even more unpleasant to look at and he never stopped clawing at his flaking, mottled skin.
'Damn it, Trask, you gotta pay more attention,' said Snowdog.
Trask made an obscene gesture and turned away, heading back into the noisy interior of the warehouse. Snowdog put Trask from his mind and made his way to where those men he'd deemed relatively trustworthy were guarding the remainder of his purloined supplies.
Still plenty left and there were more people coming in every day. His stash was growing steadily as desperate people gave him all they had for what they needed. Analgesic spray? That'll cost you. Ration packs to feed your children? That'll cost you.
It was simple economics really, supply and demand.
They wanted his supplies, and he demanded their money.
When this was over, he was going to be rich, and then there'd be nothing he couldn't do. Take the Nightcrawlers legit or dump them and move on - he didn't know which yet, but with his pockets bulging with cash, there was no limit to the opportunities. Maybe even get off this planet and hit some virgin territory that was just waiting for a man with his talents to open it up.
Satisfied that all was as it should be, he slung his shotgun and made his way back into the warehouse. Crammed in tight, nearly three thousand people covered virtually every square metre of floor space. Smouldering braziers kept the worst of the night's biting chill away and stolen, high-calorie Imperial ration packs designed for winter operations were stretched to feed entire families. Ragged tarpaulins offered a little privacy to those who could scavenge them. Only the cold kept the stench of so many unwashed bodies from stinking the place up.
Tigerlily made her way through the crowded warehouse and, though he knew she was giving away firewood without taking anything in return, he let it go, figuring it was as well to keep her sweet. There was no one better with a knife and he'd seen her handiwork often enough to know that pissing her off wasn't a good idea. Soft sobbing and low voices filled the warehouse. Glares of hostility followed him everywhere, but he didn't care.
They might hate him, but they needed him. Without him, they were all as good as dead. It was that simple, and if he made a killing along the way, well that was just fine and dandy.
As he made his way to the front of the warehouse he heard a strangled cry from behind a tied-down tarp.
It was a common enough sound in here and Snowdog ignored it until he heard a familiar voice hiss, 'Shut your mouth, girl. Your man agreed to this, so shut your damn mouth and lie still.'
Immediately, Snowdog spun on his heel and racked his shotgun. He ripped aside the tarp, snarling in rage as he saw Trask holding down a weeping girl, her dress hitched up over her knees.
'Trask, damn you! I said no more of this!'
'Frag you, Snowdog,' snapped Trask, rising to his feet. 'They ain't got no money!'
'I said no,' repeated Snowdog. He stepped forwards and hammered his shotgun into Trask's face. The thick wooden stock broke his nose with a sharp crack. He followed up with a boot to the groin. Trask dropped, hands clutched to his crotch and blood spurting from his nose. Snowdog spun the shotgun and jammed the blue-steel barrel between Trask's legs.
'I even think you've done this again and I pull the trigger next time. You get me?'
Trask coughed a wad of blood and phlegm.
'I said, "do you get me?".' bellowed Snowdog.
'Yeah, yeah,' coughed Trask. 'I get you, you bastard.'
'Get out of my sight, Trask,' snapped Snowdog.
His face a bloody mask, Trask painfully picked himself up and lurched away, shouting at sniggering people to shut the hell up. Snowdog took a deep breath and held out his hand to the crying girl. She shook her head, tears cutting clear streaks down the dirt on her face.
'Whatever,' shrugged Snowdog, fishing out a couple of crumpled bills from his trousers. He tossed them to her and said, 'I might be many things, but I won't stoop that low. You understand?'
The girl nodded hurriedly, tucking the cash into her dress and scurrying away.
Snowdog watched her go as Silver came up behind him and slid her arms around his waist.
'He's gonna kill you if you don't kill him first,' she said.
'Not Trask,' said Snowdog, 'he ain't got the guts to come at me face to face.'
'I know, that's why you'd better watch your back.'
'I will,' promised Snowdog.
Lord Inquisitor Kryptman shivered, despite the thick robes he wore and the thermal generator burning brightly beside him. His breath misted in the air and the stench from the huge pile of corpses gathered on the esplanade behind the wall on the orders of Magos Locard was beginning to make him nauseous. He had studied, dissected and killed tyranids for over two centuries, but could never get used to their disgusting alien smell. The sooner this race was exterminated the better.
His personal retinue of Storm Troopers as well as two members of the Deathwatch led by Captain Bannon formed a cordon around them, hellguns and bolters pointed outwards into the night.
'Anything?' he shouted to Locard, who was waist-deep in tyranid viscera. His robes were filthy, his mechadendrites sifting through the organic waste and a genoprobe chiming softly in his hands.
'No, my lord. All the creatures I have examined so far are at least sixth generation iterations and therefore useless.'
'Damn,' swore Kryptman. 'Very well, burn them. Burn them all.'
Concealed by the night's darkness, the lictor slid through the darkness of the city, making its way towards where the pheromone signature of its alien kin was strongest.
Drawn towards the valley mouth, the lictor moved with stealth and speed, like a flickering shadow that darted from cover to cover, unseen and unheard, even by those it killed. On occasion it had encountered prey and killed them to bolster its energy reserves before moving onwards.
The lictor rounded the corner of a ruined building, feeling the scene before it wash through its sensory receptors in a heartbeat. It sensed heat, dead kin and a pheromone signature that surely indicated a leader beast of prey.
Captain Bannon's eyes scanned from side to side as Inquisitor Kryptman and Locard performed their grisly autopsies on the tyranid corpses they had been ordered to gather. For what purpose, Bannon didn't know and didn't care, so long as it helped the defenders exterminate these xenos. He and his men had travelled the length and breadth of the city's armed forces, instructing every squad in the best methods of combating tyranids, pointing out weak spots in their natural armour, vulnerable organs and the correct hymnals to recite both prior to and following combat.
It was slow work, but it was paying off, as the daily casualty rosters, while still horrifying, were not as high as they might have been. Bannon understood that this could partly be accounted for by the weakest men having already fallen and the strongest remaining, but the men of Erebus had learned quickly and he knew that alien losses were much higher.
He had been impressed by the Ultramarines and the Mortifactors, though he found it hard to believe that both were descended from the same gene stock. His proud lineage came from the blessed Rogal Dorn and he briefly wondered how many of the successor Chapters of me Imperial Fists had deviated from their original teachings. Not many, he surmised, if the Black Templars were anything to go by.
'Captain Bannon,' said Inquisitor Kryptman.
'My lord?'
'There is nothing here of value. Burn it all.'
Bannon said, 'Aye,' and nodded to Brother Elwaine, originally of the Salamanders Chapter, who raised
his flamer and sent a sheet of burning promethium over the mound of cadavers. His mouth twitched in a smile of satisfaction as he watched them immolate.
'Brother-captain,' snarled Henghast of the Space Wolves. 'Enemy near!'
Bannon knew better than to doubt the Space Wolfs senses, but before he could do more than face outwards, it was upon them.
One of the inquisitor's Storm Troopers was lifted from the ground, multiple barbs bursting from his back in a spray of blood and bone. Hellguns fired blindly into the dark, the soldiers having lost their night vision looking into the fire. Another soldier fell, his legs shorn from his body by a massive swipe of chitinous claws.
He saw it in the flickering glow of the flames. A lictor, its upper claws unsheathed and bloody. He raised his bolter, aiming for the junction of thorax and legs, and fired a hail of shells. The lictor spun away from his shots, speeding around the edge of the burning pyre of alien corpses.
Bannon ran around the fire, shouting, 'Henghast, go left! Elwaine, cover!'
Elwaine widened his stance, bracing his flamer as Henghast made his way around the other side. Kryptman had his pistol drawn and Locard twisted his head left and right, chattering excitedly to the inquisitor.
He scanned the ground before him, shutting out the screams of those wounded by the lictor. Damn, but it was quick. Where had it come from?
Bannon heard it a second before it attacked.
Powerful muscles hurled the lictor straight over the pyre, its claws aimed at his heart. He dropped, rolling and firing in one motion. Its claws ploughed the rockcrete, shearing through his shoulder guard and drawing blood. His shots went wild as a tongue of flame washed over the lictor.
But it was no longer there, vaulting from Elwaine's line of fire and smashing the Space Marine from his feet. Clawed hands ripped the flamer from his grip and tore his arms from his sockets in a flood of crimson. Elwaine dropped with a grunt of pain, still kicking at beast as it dismembered him.
Bannon fired again, this time drawing a screech of pain from the lictor as his bolts penetrated its chitinous hide. It spun, blindingly quick, and barbed tendons lashed out, skewering his bolter. The weapon exploded as the propellant in the ruptured shells ignited and Bannon fell back, his gauntlets melted in the blast.
Ultramarines Omnibus (warhammer 40000: ultramarines) Page 60
