by Braden Campbell, Mark Clapham, Ben Counter, Chris Dows, Peter Fehervari, Steve Lyons
Grytt rolled his shoulders as the thralls stepped away, the power pack on his back thrumming to life. The servants fell to their knees, offering trembling devotions to appease the spirit of the armour for the haste of its preparation. Grytt ignored them, scratching at the scars that branched over his face before donning his helm.
For a Space Marine, joining the ranks of the Deathwatch was among the highest of honours, worthy of remembrance in the annals of one’s parent Chapter.
For Grytt, it was exile. One that he had imposed upon himself.
Through the visor of his plough-faced helm, Grytt stared at the servo-skull that bobbed before him, the whirring clockwork of its optics pulsing in the gloom. The drone served as his spotter, expanding his view of a battlefield as his Devastator squad rained down the fury of Dorn upon the enemies of mankind.
Grytt blinked, and the skull’s pict feed overlaid his right eye-lens. He breathed in the armour’s stale air, and watched the recording of the battle he had fought mere days ago. He watched himself lead a squad of Imperial Fists through roughly hewn rock tunnels awash with blood and flame, heavy weapons unleashed at point-blank range upon a roaring horde of greenskins.
He watched as his brothers demonstrated the iron discipline and restraint that defined Dorn’s sons as they waged war.
He watched as he himself did not, striking ahead and casting abandon behind. He witnessed his loss of control mar the cohesion of his squad, and he saw his battle-brothers die because of it.
‘Never have I witnessed one so strong display such weakness,’ Grytt remembered the words of Captain Kyradon, now counted amongst the fallen as the vile xenos burned the system to ashes. The words dug into the core of him, taking root with barbs of cruel truth.
Grytt possessed a furious temperament, more in common with his zealous cousins of the Black Templars than that of the Chapter that had once been Legion. In a brotherhood where control was paramount, his recklessness was a mark of shame.
When the Deathwatch summoned him, requesting he join their ranks, Grytt had accepted without question. War’s intoxication had eroded his discipline, and the fight to not drink deep of it was the only battle he had ever lost. In order to atone, he would drown himself in it. He would return to the Imperial Fists tempered and purged of his weakness by the crucible of shadow war, or he would not return at all.
The deck shuddered beneath Grytt’s boots as the gunship landed upon the hangar deck of the Deathwatch frigate Kisertet. The Imperial Fist stepped down the embarkation ramp into the ordered pandemonium of the hangar bay, towards the figure that awaited him.
Like Grytt, the warrior was a Space Marine of the Deathwatch, his black armour edged in blue and etched with esoteric runes. A crystalline hood rose behind his head, crackling faintly with unnatural energies. The heraldry of the Silver Skulls displayed his origins, while his wargear marked him as a Librarian.
‘Brother Grytt,’ said the psyker, his tone soft for a Space Marine. ‘I am Adomar. You have arrived in haste, but we cannot tarry here. Kill Team Almuta gathers. We must join them.’
Grytt removed his helm again with a gasp of equalising air pressure, and carried it in the crook of his arm as he followed Adomar. The servo-skull whirred as it floated at his shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ asked Grytt, as the two Space Marines departed the bustle of rushing auxiliaries and hangar crew, walking through the darkened corridors of the Kisertet. ‘Have you crusaded amongst the Deathwatch long?’
‘No,’ replied Adomar, his steps silent compared to Grytt’s hulking gait. ‘I am a replacement for their fallen, as are you.’
‘This invasion has spilled much noble blood,’ said Grytt. ‘My company has been engaged with the greenskins assailing these worlds for weeks. My boarding party had only just returned from one of their wretched vessels when I was seconded here.’
‘It is an honour to serve,’ said Adomar. ‘Your experience with these orks will do us credit in the strife ahead.’
‘So long as this filth is burned from our dominions,’ Grytt replied. ‘If the Deathwatch is to be at the throat of this horde, I intend to be the blade that cuts it.’
Three warriors stood in the gloom of the strategium, fresh from the fires of battle. The Space Marines of Kill Team Almuta bore the scars of intense fighting, the damage clear to see as Grytt and Adomar entered.
A warrior of the Iron Hands crouched behind a Space Marine of the Revilers Chapter, hands and snaking mechadendrites attending to his comrade’s power pack. The Reviler leaned heavily against the polished onyx of the strategium table, bearing the full weight of his unpowered armour. With a few ministrations, the Iron Hands warrior sealed the power pack as the gooseflesh hum of power returned, and both straightened while adepts and serfs attended to and prayed over their sacred war-plate.
The third warrior, bearing the twin-blade livery of the Executioners, stood silently, looking down upon the power axe held in his hands. The weapon’s craftsmanship was exquisite, inlaid with pearl and ruby teardrops, its double blade fashioned to resemble outstretched wings. It was not an aesthetic style he would credit to the Chapter, but Grytt had seen its like before, forged in the armouries of Baal and carried into battle by the descendants of Sanguinius.
The Executioner looked up at the newcomers, his armour creaking with the stalling clicks of damaged servos. He stepped forwards, mag-locking the axe to his back.
‘Brother Adomar,’ he said in greeting. The Silver Skull inclined his head in reply, his face cast in the shadow of his psychic hood.
The Executioner looked to Grytt. ‘I am Ralon, now leader of Almuta.’ Grytt noticed the Reviler and Iron Hand look briefly to the warrior, before their eyes returned to him.
The successor, then, thought Grytt.
‘Brother Imre,’ said the Iron Hand in a mechanical snarl of introduction, pressing his cybernetic fist to his chest.
The Reviler inclined his head fractionally, no emotion disturbing the urbane calm of his pale features. ‘Kitra.’
‘We must be brief,’ said Ralon. ‘Brothers Grytt and Adomar have joined our ranks from amongst the forces conducting operations alongside us in the system. We were marked for withdrawal and recovery, but new orders have diverted us here.’
The hololithic projector at the centre of the table chattered. A blizzard of flickering light winked into the air, rolling and coalescing into the planet Basatani, where the Kisertet now perched at high orbit. The planet was sedate and verdant, with continents of rolling plains and calm oceans. A blinking dot arced down onto the surface with a flash, and from its impact spiralling clouds and storms bloomed over the world.
Kill Team Almuta studied the hololith of Basatani as it turned gently before them, the planet’s former beauty smothered beneath continent-spanning veils of dust like a sphere of curdled cream.
Grytt leaned forwards, planting his fists upon the table. ‘This is our target?’
Ralon cleared his throat. ‘Basatani. Ten days ago, a xenos hulk made landfall within the outskirts of Pomarii, the planetary capital. The city contains the majority of the planet’s population, and casualties are estimated to be catastrophic. The force of the impact has triggered ash storms that shroud nearly the entire globe, significantly inhibiting any scans of the surface from orbit.
‘We received scattered vox-transmissions that large numbers of orks emerged from the hulk. The Astra Militarum presence on the surface was little more than a token garrison, their regiments having been diverted to hot zones across the system. They now number among the dead.’
‘So what are we doing here?’ asked Grytt. ‘The entire system burns, rife with greenskin incursions of greater scale than this. What down there is so important?’
‘Not what,’ replied Adomar, ‘but who.’
The members of Almuta turned to the Silver Skull as the psyker continued. ‘We are here by mandate of the Navis Nobilite.’
‘We are the scourge of the xenos,’ said Imre. ‘Not thralls to task with the
errands of the Navigator Houses.’
‘There were envoys of two great dynasties on Basatani when the xenos hulk made landfall,’ said Ralon. ‘Our orders are to infiltrate the surface, confirm whether there are any survivors, and extract them.’
‘We are committing a full kill team in the middle of a system-wide invasion for a rescue mission?’ asked Grytt.
‘The two Houses have served the Imperium of Man since the time your gene-sire walked among mortals, son of Dorn,’ replied Kitra. ‘Navigators are prized, and carry much influence in the Council of Terra. Should they require aid, none but the Emperor’s elite shall do.’
Grytt made to reply, but Ralon raised a forestalling hand.
‘We all have our role to play, brothers. And if any leadership of this horde is below as well, killing it here and now could shorten the invasion by months.’
‘Greenskins are an infestation,’ said Grytt, running a gloved hand through his stripe of silver hair. ‘Their microscopic spores now carpet that city as surely as the ash. It is only a matter of time before millions of them taint its surface. You all have been fighting these xenos scum as I have. I say burn it from orbit, and be done.’
‘Our esteemed watch-commander shares your sentiments,’ said the Executioner. ‘Accordingly, the Kisertet’s shipmaster has set a mission timeframe of ten hours before she begins an orbital bombardment of the hulk, survivors or not.’
‘There are many unresolved variables,’ said Imre flatly. ‘Too much is undefined. How are we certain any we seek remain alive?’
‘Brother Adomar?’ Ralon looked to the psyker.
‘I have seen it,’ said the Silver Skull. ‘There is one with the sight to guide through the Sea of Souls who yet lives upon the surface. A child without a crown, taken by storms of great rage. Fate showed me five who swam beneath the cowl to seek him out, but the storms are bladed, and much blood will be shed.’
Grytt regarded Adomar. A Prognosticator? He had heard tell of entire crusades being abandoned by the Silver Skulls based upon such vague divinations…
‘Our losses?’ asked Ralon.
‘They are… acceptable,’ Adomar replied, his gaze never leaving the planet’s flickering image.
‘Squad leader, I object,’ said Kitra. ‘If this is to be a covert infiltration and extraction of the asset, the Imperial Fist poses an unacceptable risk. I have reviewed his combat record. He is reckless, and will expose us to an ork warhost of which we know neither size nor capability. We are the razor’s edge, not a cudgel. His antics will see us dead.’
‘My apologies, cousin,’ Grytt’s eyes narrowed. ‘I like my enemies to fall down when I hit them.’
‘Oh, yes, very good. Why not enact Exterminatus upon every world our enemies touch? Destroy everything around us so that we might be the lords and kings of cinders.’
‘Enough,’ said Ralon. ‘I will not suffer this. We are elite, and your bickering like neophytes shames your Chapters. Prepare for drop pod deployment. Operations commence in two hours. Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ said Grytt. ‘I need a weapon.’
‘Come, my child,’ his mother cooed, extending her hand. ‘Follow me.’
Sai recoiled, uncertain. Her voice was fluid, unusual. It was not threaded with the iron calm it had always possessed. He was suddenly afraid.
‘Come with me now,’ she said, her voice deepening. ‘DO NOT DISOBEY.’
The light in Lady Trigarta’s eyes blackened, shrinking and turning the shade of old blood. Veins of dark ivy bloomed over her skin like ink through water. Her skull groaned and stretched, reforming into a squat plug sheathed in ochre-green flesh. Tusks of yellowed bone burst from her lipless maw, broken and etched with crude iconography.
Sai turned to run, but brutish hands seized him. They grabbed hold, spinning him roughly. The thing was massive, growing larger and larger, crushing him in its grip.
It roared, its language an incomprehensible dirge of alien rage. Sai’s hands slapped to his ears as the creature shook him. His headdress tumbled away, and though his mundane eyes were screwed shut, wreathed in tears, his other eye snapped open, blinding everything in a searing corona of light–
Sai awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat.
He saw only darkness, briefly illuminated by flickering sparks that did nothing to tell him where he was. He heard water dripping, and the disjointed thrum of engines in desperate need of repair.
His third eye throbbed in rhythm with his heart. He lifted his head and felt a heavy weight upon it. A cage of rough iron was bolted around his skull. Panic seized hold of him. His face was crusted with dried blood.
Sai reached out. Searing pain shot through his arms as he tried to move, every shift bringing fresh agony. His arms were locked out to his sides. He turned his head, and saw lengths of iron rebar driven through his wrists, pinning him like an insect for study.
A knot of haphazard machinery erupted in a cascade of sparks, throwing brief light into the chamber. Sai saw a cavern of rock, threaded with piping and junkyard steel. Crude pictographs and graffiti covered the walls. Ramshackle devices rumbled and ticked, operating in defiance of any mechanical logic. It resembled some cruel lunatic’s nightmarish laboratory.
It was then that Sai heard breathing. Deep, laboured and pained, like that of a wounded beast. Plodding footsteps closed on the Navigator, and a blinding light stole his sight.
When his eyes adjusted, Sai screamed as he beheld a creature standing inches away from him. It was the thing from his nightmare, massive and green, with beady crimson eyes glaring from a sloping brow. A crown of crackling electrodes, which sparked and linked with crimson lightning, was screwed into its skull. Totems and metal tools clinked from hooks on the apron of crude sackcloth it wore, and it leaned heavily upon a staff of rusted iron topped with a cluster of smouldering human skulls.
Sai’s memories returned, riding a wave of throbbing pressure boiling within his skull. The dust. The crash. Crawling through the wreckage, hearing the bestial howl of the things rampaging through the city. Struggling against green hands, opening his eye–
His blood froze.
What his eye had done to them. They knew what he was.
Sai looked up, and the ork returned his gaze with an uncouth, bestial grin.
The drop pod hurtled through the tortured skies of Basatani like a drop of oil through smoke. The pod jinked and rolled, buffeted by ash tempests that spanned continents. Within, the kill team made their final preparations for planetfall.
‘Brother Grytt,’ said Imre, ‘your Chapter engaged the xenos in this system.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Yes,’ Grytt replied. ‘It was my last action before being seconded here. My company is entrenched against the greenskins at the system’s core, where we believed the flagship of the orks was located. We boarded their ships to cripple them and destroy their leadership. Without a clear ruler, it was surmised that the horde would fall to infighting and scatter.’
He glanced around the confines of the pod for a moment, then back to the deck.
‘We destroyed much of their armada, but they were too many. At great cost we destroyed the flagship, but the rest scattered across the system before we could intercept them all. This hulk was among them, and may carry the one who has taken up the mantle to lead the xenos.’
‘You were among the warriors who assaulted the flagship?’ asked Imre. ‘An achievement.’
‘It would have been if any of the brothers you commanded got out alive,’ Kitra muttered.
Grytt ignored the Reviler, his gaze meeting that of the servo-skull stowed before him. His scars itched beneath his helm.
‘Irrelevant,’ said Imre. ‘Sacrifice will be necessary to contain this outbreak. These xenos are cunning for their race.’
Grytt remembered the fighting in the tunnels. Extracting the gene-seed of the fallen. Regrouping with the fleet as the flagship burned, hearing the rumours of him being considered to lead the company in the wake
of Kyradon’s death. He shook his head, and focussed.
‘These orks are ferocious fighters,’ replied Grytt. ‘Only superior strength will crush them. We will be engaged below, and the wrath of Dorn will be waiting for them.’
‘We require speed and stealth here, brothers,’ said Ralon. ‘We hit, pick up any traces from the Navigator Houses, and avoid detection by the xenos. If there are no survivors to extract for the Navis Nobilite, we leave before the greenskins know we were ever there. Let the ship purify the site from orbit.’
‘What of the civilian population?’ asked Adomar.
‘Not our concern,’ replied the Executioner. ‘This is a fast operation, Almuta, quiet and by the numbers.’ His helm turned to Grytt, nodding to the Devastator’s stowed weapon. ‘You fire that thing without my sanction, and we will have a problem.’
The Imperial Fist nodded, his gaze returning to the skull. ‘As you wish, brother.’
The kill team stepped from the drop pod and into the devastation of the city. Ash covered everything like filthy snow, swirling about in drifts at the whims of the howling storms. The sky was black, lanced through with lightning as thunderheads clashed and cast everything in eerie twilight. The dense ashfall marred the armour of the Space Marines, until they resembled living statues advancing through the streets.
Visibility was limited to just a few yards, the auspex crowded with ghosts and false returns. Hab blocks collapsed into heaps of rubble. Any walls that remained standing were vandalised with crude greenskin graffiti. Statues of Imperial saints, and even the Emperor Himself, were torn down and defaced, their faces daubed green. In the distance, pillars of smoke and heat haze curled up from the base of the hulk with the distant din of fledgling greenskin industry.
Uneven mounds of ash littered the streets. Wind swept over a cluster of them, revealing bodies, and pieces of bodies. The level of mutilation cast objective doubt on whether or not the remains had ever been human.
The Space Marines formed a chevron, Kitra stalking ahead on point, Grytt and Imre anchoring the flanks. Grytt’s servo-skull rose above them, the spotter bobbing and swaying in the crosswind. The Imperial Fist unlimbered his new weapon, chambering a round with a deep clunk.
