'Then do something about it!' bellowed Pasanius.
Uriel felt their words fading and tried to open his mouth, but his vision greyed and he felt his hearts stop pumping as they clogged with coagulated blood.
He closed his eyes and the pain went away.
Learchus killed another tyranid creature and started another verse before he realised that the attacks were not coming with the same fury as before.
In fact, they were not coming at all.
The alien beasts thrashed in violent fits, their screeching roars rising to new heights. He saw packs of creatures turn on one another, slashing each other's bodies to red ruin without cease. Thrashing monsters filled the plaza, howling in pain as the overmind died, their bodies unable to survive the psychic Shockwave of its death.
Tyranid organisms scuttled and ran through the streets of District Quintus, howling in berserk fury and falling on one another in an orgy of senseless bloodletting.
The Space Marines forgotten, the tyranids tore themselves to pieces.
Before any of the larger creatures were able to regain control, the sixteen surviving Space Marines made their way towards the wall of District Sextos. Very few creatures opposed them and those that did attacked with no cohesion or purpose and were butchered without mercy.
The internecine slaughter continued throughout the rest of the day, the defenders watching with elation as the alien menace that had threatened their world for so long tore itself to pieces.
As night drew in and the temperatures plummeted, whole swathes of organisms perished as they succumbed to the freezing temperatures, unable to seek shelter without the control of the hive mind to direct them.
Some creatures survived, larger creatures with a degree of autonomy from the hive mind, and soon they accumulated small packs of desperate beasts, taking refuge in the warmer parts of the ruined city.
Night finally closed on Tarsis Ultra as a speck of light descended from the heavens, a battered Space Marine gun-ship, its wings dipped in mourning.
EPILOGUE
Pasanius sat alone on the ruins of the District Quintus wall, staring out into the white expanse of the plain before the devastated city. Stripped of his armour, he wore a simple chiton of blue cloth and cradled his silver arm close to his chest. He watched as a transport flashed overhead: returning from another ruined city with more bad news no doubt.
It had been six days since their return from the dying hive ship and Pasanius had spent much of his time in prayer, offering his thanks for their victory and his sorrows for those who had fallen in battle. There were so many dead, so many prayers to say. The vast chamber of the mosaic held a candle for every soldier dead or missing, and the glowing light from the crystal dome was visible from the far end of the valley.
Among the honoured dead was Sebastien Montante, his spine-pierced body discovered on the ruins of the very wall Pasanius now sat upon. His body lay in state in the Imperial palace and the priests of this world were already calling for his beatification. Pasanius knew it probably wouldn't be long before Sebastien was made into a saint and he chuckled, thinking how amusing the Fabricator Marshal would have found that idea. Saint Sebastien, it had a nice ring to it.
Colonel Stagler's body had been found by his men atop a mound of tyranid creatures, his frozen corpse brutally hacked to pieces. His men did not mourn him. He had died in the Krieg way and that was enough. With both Stagler and Rabelaq dead, Major Aries Satria of the Erebus Defence Legion assumed control of the Imperial Guard forces until such time as a more senior Guard officer could be appointed.
And such a time would not be long in coming. With the destruction of the hive ship, the Shadow in the Warp had lifted from the Tarsis Ultra system and a flood of astropathic communiques were received by those telepaths who had not been driven insane by the tyranids' infernal psychic noise.
Imperial Navy vessels were less than a week away, ponderous battlecruisers and vast transports bringing in fresh troops to bolster the weakened defences.
The Mortifactors had left Tarsis Ultra yesterday, Chaplain Astador offering to take the mortal remains of the fallen Ultramarines and inter them within the ossuaries of the Basilica Mortis. Learchus, who had taken command of the surviving warriors of the Fourth company, had politely, but firmly, declined.
Inquisitor Kryptman and the Deathwatch still prowled the ruins of the city, gathering alien carcasses for Magos Locard to study. The gene-poison might only have worked on this hive fleet, but there was still much to learn about the tyranid race.
Volunteer kill teams were being assembled to hunt down the surviving tyranid monsters that had gone to ground in the depths of the ruined city and caves of the high valleys. The shadow of destruction had been lifted from this world, but Pasanius knew that there would be trouble with the tyranids for many years to come if his experiences on Ichar IV had taught him anything.
The winds from the plain were cold and Pasanius extended the silver fingers of his right arm, the metal gleaming and pristine.
Already more than one tech-priest had commented on the skill of the artificer who had repaired his bionic arm following the battle on the hive ship.
Pasanius shivered, closing his eyes as he tucked his arm inside the fabric of his chiton.
He could tell them nothing, because there had been no artificer.
The arm had repaired itself.
There was pain. He supposed pain was good, it meant he was still alive.
Uriel opened his eyes, gummed with so long spent unconscious. He blinked away the residue and tried to push himself upright, but fell back, exhausted, unable to do much more than turn his head.
He lay on a sturdy bed in a stone chamber with a vaulted roof. It was warm and he felt a comfortable numbness that could only be the result of pain balms. He pulled back the sheet to look at his bandage-wrapped body. Scars crisscrossed his chest and he could feel the ache of recent surgery. Whatever had happened to him, it had been serious.
Uriel drifted in and out of consciousness for several hours until he was aware of a figure standing beside his bed, adjusting a drip feed attached to his arm.
He tried to speak, the words coming out as little more than a hoarse croak.
'You'll find it hard to speak for a while, Uriel,' said a voice he recognised as belonging to Apothecary Selenus. He managed to say, 'What happened?'
'You were poisoned by tyranid phage cells that attacked the Larraman cells in your bloodstream. The poison caused your blood to clot on a bodily scale and your hearts failed, clogged with agglomerated blood. Clinically, you were dead, but the Deathwatch were able to get you back to the Thunderhawk in time for Brother Damias to administer a massive dose of anticoagulants and begin infusions of fresh blood. Pasanius almost killed himself providing you with enough blood to keep you alive long enough to get you here. You are lucky indeed to have such a friend as he.'
Uriel nodded, trying to take in the information, but drifted off into unconsciousness. When he awoke again it was to see a man in the uniform of the Erebus Defence Legion with his arm in a sling sitting beside him. He wore a Space Marine purity seal pinned to his breast.
'You're awake,' he said, standing and extending his hand.
'Yes,' managed Uriel. 'You're—'
'Pavel Leforto, yes. You saved my life in the trenches.'
Uriel smiled in recognition. 'You saved mine too as I remember.'
'Yes, well, I was lucky with the missile launcher. On any normal day, I'd probably have hit you,' said Pavel.
'Well, thank you anyway, Pavel.'
'You're welcome, Captain Ventris. Anyway, I just came to say thank you, but I have to report to my unit now. You know, plenty more work to be done,' said Pavel.
Pavel came to attention and saluted before turning and marching from the room.
Uriel watched him go, thinking back to the picture of his family Pavel had had when he had lain injured.
When it came time for Pavel Leforto to die he would have the legacy o
f his wife's memories and his children's lives to proclaim that he existed, that he had enriched the Emperor's realms for a brief span with his labours.
What would Brother-Captain Uriel Ventris leave behind?
A lifetime dedicated to the service of the Emperor, to the service of Humanity, even though he was no longer part of it? He only dimly remembered his parents, they had been dead for almost a century now, their memory a distant shadow, eclipsed by decades of devotion to the Chapter and the Emperor. There was nothing left to remind him of his humanity, no family and few friends. Once he was gone it would be as though he had never existed.
Uriel had sacrificed his chance to experience such a life the instant he had become an Ultramarines novice.
And knowing this, would he have been so willing to become a Space Marine had he realised the enormity of what he was sacrificing to become one of the Emperor's elite?
Uriel smiled, his features softening as the answer was suddenly so clear that he was amazed he had even questioned it.
Yes. He would have. In giving up the chance for a normal life, he had gained something far greater. The chance to make a difference. The chance to stand defiant before the enemies of Mankind and hold back the tide of degenerate aliens, traitorous heretics and servants of Chaos that sought dominion over the Emperor's realm.
That was something to be proud of. His strength came from ancient technology that made him stronger, faster and more deadly than any warrior had ever been before. He had sacrificed his chance to be truly human and, yes, he stood apart from the mass of Humanity, but countless lives would have been lost but for his sacrifice.
That was a noble gift and he was thankful for what and who he was.
Uriel smiled to himself as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Snowdog winced as he limped over to the bed where Silver lay asleep. His side hurt like a cast-iron bitch and the swelling on his face didn't seem to want to go down. He pulled the blanket up over Silver and brushed a strand of white hair from her face.
She stirred, opening her eyes and reaching up to touch his braised face.
'Hey,' she said.
'Hey, yourself. How you feeling?'
She groaned as she pushed herself upright. 'Terrible. Next dumb question?'
Snowdog leaned down to kiss her, his cracked ribs flaring painfully.
She saw the pain in his eyes and chuckled.
'Some time, huh?'
'Yeah,' he agreed, 'some time.'
'So what's next for us, then?'
Snowdog didn't reply immediately, glancing over his shoulder into the front room of the abandoned hab-unit they'd commandeered as a temporary base. Lex and Tigerlily played dice and Jonny Stomp snored loudly on a bed of rolled-up coats.
He'd lost most of what he'd lifted from the wreck of the crashed ship and as he looked at the shotgun and lasgun lying on the floor he smiled.
'Looks like it's business as usual, honey,' he said. 'Business as usual.'
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hailing from Scotland, Graham narrowly escaped a career in surveying nearly five years ago to join Games Workshop's Games Development team, which, let's face it, sounds much more exciting. He's worked on loads of codexes since then, the most recent being Codex: Space Marines. As well as six novels, he's also written a host of short stories for Inferno! and takes on too much freelance work than can be healthy. Graham's housemate, a life-size cardboard cut-out of Buffy, recently suffered a terrible accident during a party and now keeps herself to herself in the spare room, scaring people who don't know she's there and plotting the best way to have her revenge on the miscreant that damaged her.
DEAD SKY
BLACK SUN
A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL
An Ultramarines Novel
Graham McNeill
To the Games Dev guys Andy, Ant and Phil. It's a dirty job, keeping me right, hut someone's got to do it.
'He that fights, with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster! '
PROLOGUE
Distant hammer blows from monstrous engines reverberated through the chamber, echoing from the Halls of the Savage Morticians far below, rising alongside noxious tendrils of acrid vapours and agonised screams. Leering gargoyles of pressed and riveted iron ringed the chamber's dizzyingly high, arched ceiling and the tops of impossibly huge, pillar-like pistons, each one wreathed in greasy steam, ground rhythmically up and down through wide, skull-rimmed holes that ran along its edges.
A great chasm in the obsidian floor billowed scalding steam in roiling waves of heat and was crossed by a gantry of studded iron decking that rested upon massively thick girders, which in turn were supported on chains whose oily links were as thick as a man's torso.
Lit by a hot, orange glow from a snaking ribbon of molten metal at the chasm's base, many hundreds of metres below, the chamber reeked of sulphurous fumes and the searing, bitter taste of beaten metal. The gantry led towards a massive, cyclopean wall of dark-veined stone, pierced by a great, iron gate that had been tempered in an ocean of blood during its forging. Studded with jagged black spikes, the inner gate of the fortress of Khalan-Ghol was flanked by two armoured colossi, whose burnished iron hides were scarred by millennia of war. The gate led to the inner halls of the fortress's new master, and both daemon-visaged Titans, hung with the blighted banners of the Legio Mortis, raised fearsome guns - capable of laying waste to cities - to track a dozen figures who dared approach the gate.
The terrible enormity of the chamber did not faze the warriors who marched towards the groaning bridge: they had seen such sights before. Indeed, the leader of this group of warriors hailed from a citadel far more ancient and monolithic than this.
Lord Toramino, warsmith of the Iron Warriors, curled his lip in contempt as he raised his altered eyes to stare down the barrels of the Titans' weapons. If the half-breed thought such a vulgar display of power would intimidate him, then he was even more foolish than his inferior lineage would suggest. They had passed through the fortress's gatehouse three days ago, travelling unchallenged by any of the half-breed's warriors, though Toramino had felt supernatural eyes upon them ever since. No doubt warlocks of the kabal were watching them even now, but Toramino could not have cared less, marching with his head held high and hands clasped behind his back.
Alongside him, Lord Berossus growled as he watched the Titans' guns train upon them, spooling up his own weapons. Toramino looked up at Berossus and shook his head at his vassal warsmith's lack of restraint. None here could face a Titan and live, but such were the ingrained responses of Berossus that no other reaction was possible.
Toramino stepped onto the iron bridge, the metal hissing beneath his armoured boot and rippling like mercury, reflecting his massive, armoured form in its glistening lustre. Standing well over two metres tall, Lord Toramino wore a suit of exquisitely tooled power armour, handcrafted on Olympia itself and burnished to a mirror sheen. Its trims were edged with arabesques of carven gold and onyx chevrons and its every surface wrought with terrible sigils of ruin. An ochre cloak of woven metallic thread, stronger than adamantium, billowed around his wide frame, partially obscuring the skull-masked symbol of the Iron Warriors on one shoulder guard and his own personal heraldry of a mailed fist above a plan view of a breached redoubt on the other.
An Iron Warrior from his most trusted retinue carried his elaborately carved helm, and another carried his blasted standard, an eight-pointed star of blackened bone set upon a spiked, brass-rimmed wheel and woven with sinew extracted from a thousand screaming victims. Long white hair, pulled into a tight scalp-lock, trailed down his back and his stern, patrician features were pinched and angular - speaking of long years of bitter experience. His eyes were opalescent orbs of gold, smouldering with suppressed rage beneath thick brows.
As they approached the wall, huge blasts of stinking, oil-streaked gases jetted from the pistons either side of the gate and with a groan and squeal of grinding metalwork, the colossal locks dise
ngaged with percussive booms that shook the dust from the chamber's ceiling.
The Titans lowered their mighty weapons and the upper portions of their bodies twisted around on bronze joints to grip the spiked gateway and pull. Steam jetted from wheezing fibre-bundle muscles, and slowly the awful gate groaned open, spilling an emerald light into the chamber as Toramino and Berossus passed between the mighty death machines and into the sanctum sanctorum of the lord of the fortress.
Toramino remembered this place from the many times he had come to pay homage to Khalan-Ghol's former castellan - a great and terrible warrior who had now ascended to the dark majesty of daemonhood. The walls within were of a plain black stone, threaded with gold and silver and glistening with moisture, despite the heat radiating from the terrazzo floor of powdered bone. Sickly white light reflected as pearlescent streaks on the floor from a score of tall and thin arched windows that pierced the eastern wall, draining the chamber of life and imparting a deathly pallor to its occupants.
A score of Iron Warriors stood to attention at the far end of the chamber, gathered about a polished throne of white and silver upon which sat a warrior in battered power armour.
It galled Toramino that he came before the fortress's new lord as a supposed equal. The half-breed was a bastard mongrel, not fit to wipe the blood from an Iron Warrior's armour, let alone command them in battle. Such an affront to the honour of the Legion was almost more than Toramino could bear, and as he watched the lord of the fortress rise from his throne of fused iron and bone, he felt his hatred rise in a venomous wave of bile.
The half-breed's appearance matched Toramino's opinion of him in that he was unclean and had none of the nobility of the ancients of Olympia. His close-cropped black hair topped a rugged, scarred face with bluntly prosaic features, and his armour was dented and scarred, still marked with the residue of battle. Did the half-breed not care that he was now receiving two of the most ancient and noble warsmiths of Medrengard? That this upstart's warsmith could have appointed such a low mongrel as his successor beggared belief.
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