“We picked up his trail at Sinopha Station, on the fringes of the Protean Ebb,” Kholka began. “The survivors’ accounts left us in no doubt that the attackers were Alpha Legion.” The Scout-sergeant paused, evidently calling to mind the scenes of carnage and butchery at the station.
“Go on, my friend,” Kor’sarro urged. “How did you identify the traitors as belonging to Voldorius’ band?”
“At first we had only the accounts to go by,” Kholka continued. “But these were… unclear, as I am sure you can imagine.”
Indeed I can, Kor’sarro thought. The Alpha Legion, erstwhile brothers of the Space Marines, had turned against the Imperium ten thousand years ago, and ever since their defeat in that galaxy-wide civil war they had waged a bitter campaign of terror on the peoples of the Imperium. The treacherous Alpha Legion were masters of insurrection and disorder, spreading the poison of rebellion wherever they went. They only left survivors when they intended accounts of their actions to spread panic across a wide area.
“Those victims who were not killed in the attack were driven beyond sanity by the cruelties inflicted upon them,” the sergeant said. “Others had been reduced to gibbering imbeciles by the traitors’ sorceries. Most were able to tell us very little. But one, who had served in the station’s watch-militia, had displayed the foresight to commit the initial stages of the attack to the archivum, and this we were able to retrieve.”
“What of this man?” Kor’sarro asked, even though he knew what the sergeant’s reply would be.
“We granted him the Emperor’s peace,” Kholka responded gravely. “His duty was done, and it was all we could do for him.”
Kor’sarro nodded for the sergeant to continue.
“The station’s archivum logs confirmed the identity of the attackers’ vessel.”
“The Ninth Eye,” Kor’sarro interjected. If it was indeed that hated ship that had delivered the Alpha Legion attackers to Sinopha Station, then the hunt for the Daemon Lord Voldorius was truly back underway, after so many galling months of cold trails and frustration.
“The Ninth Eye,” the sergeant confirmed. Kor’sarro watched Kholka as he paced before the viewing port, and paused before the skull of a fearsome ambull. “We set out immediately, and were able to pick up the vessel’s signature as it made for the jump point. Our astropath was able to track its jump, and our Navigator able to shadow it without our enemy becoming aware of our presence.”
“You know this?” Kor’sarro interrupted. “You are sure Voldorius was unaware of your pursuit?”
“Salpo is, as you know, my khan, one of our most skilled Navigators. I have this on his word.”
Kor’sarro allowed himself a feral grin, feeling his blood rise at the prospect of resuming the hunt. It had been almost a decade since Kyublai, Great Khan of the White Scars Chapter, had declared that the vile one Voldorius would be hunted down and slain in the name of the Emperor. As Captain of the 3rd Company and Master of the Hunt, it had fallen to Kor’sarro Khan to turn the Great Khan’s words into deeds. He had gone before the Great Khan and his court on the Chapter’s home world of Chogoris, and made a terrible oath.
By Kor’sarro’s honour, the Daemon Prince Voldorius, he who had unleashed the Bloodtide and reaped a thousand billion innocent souls, would be brought to justice. As befitted the Chapter’s traditions, the traitor would be slain by the hand of the Master of the Hunt. His skull would be masked in silver and mounted at the tip of a lance. The trophy would be placed along the road to the White Scars’ fortress-monastery, alongside thousands more, high in the Khum Karta Mountains, where it would remain for all time as warning to those who would betray their oaths and turn their hand against the Emperor.
Despite his savage desire to finally corner his foe, Kor’sarro bade the sergeant continue.
“We tracked The Ninth Eye through three systems. It laid over at none, merely recalibrating before pressing on. Twelve days after the last jump, it entered the Cernis system, where it made for the fourth planet.”
Kor’sarro had no knowledge of this star, for it was but a single, unremarkable system amongst over a million claimed by man. “What of this place?” he asked.
“Cernis IV is home to a small population of convicted sinners and petty transgressors, those whose sentences have been commuted from death to servitude.” Kor’sarro scowled at the mental picture the sergeant’s description brought to mind. Scum, undeserving of a second chance. “Most eke out a nomadic existence as krill farmers, chasing the seasonal drifts along the coasts.”
“And the rest?” Kor’sarro asked, inferring that the Alpha Legion would have little interest in the convicts the sergeant described.
“The rest are indentured to a substantial promethium refining operation at the world’s northern pole.”
“And it is to this place that the enemy has retired,” Kor’sarro growled, a statement, not a question. The sergeant’s expression confirmed his suspicion. Voldorius and his band of traitors had no doubt infiltrated the criminals that laboured at the promethium plant. That being the case, he could only assume that the world’s government, no doubt seated at the refinery, had been compromised, if not completely overthrown. He had to assume that the entire work force had been bribed, corrupted or coerced into serving the daemon prince, and it had probably not taken much effort to do so. The White Scars would be entering hostile territory as they closed on their foe.
“My thanks, brother-sergeant,” Kor’sarro said. “Your deeds do us all great honour, and the Great Khan shall hear of them.” Kholka bowed deeply in response to the captain’s affirmation.
“The word is given,” Kor’sarro growled. “The hunt is on.”
As the Thunderhawk banked past another great crystal tower, Kor’sarro caught sight of the target. The Cernis IV promethium plant loomed on the horizon, a vast stain upon a wide, frozen plain studded with smaller crystal formations. Even from twelve kilometres out, the plant was imposing. Vast storage tanks and processing stacks reared into the cold sky, the tallest belching dark fumes or flaring with alchemical burn-off. The plant was the size of a city, its buildings sprawling across the plain, each connected to the next by a complex web of pipes and conduits carrying raw promethium. With an expert eye, Kor’sarro assessed two rings of defence thrown up around the plant, each punctuated by squat bastions mounted with heavy ground and anti-air ordnance. Scout-Sergeant Kholka’s reports had been characteristically accurate.
“Ten kilometres,” the pilot reported. “Confirm attack pattern?”
“As the moon swoops,” Kor’sarro replied, using the battle-cant of the White Scars Chapter. As the Thunderhawk dived towards the white plain, the sun glinted from the ice, the glare masking the defenders from Kor’sarro’s sight. He still had only estimates of the defenders’ strengths to go on, and the attack pattern would allow the gunships to reconnoitre the plant’s defences before committing to a final run.
The Thunderhawk levelled out as it streaked across the plain, the pilot jinking expertly to avoid the smaller crystal formations. At an altitude of only thirty metres, Kor’sarro could now discern the defence lines. Crudely fortified trenches had been dug into the snow, recently by his estimation. As the first line flashed by below, a storm of small-arms fire erupted, las-bolts pattering harmlessly against the gunship’s armoured hull.
Kor’sarro activated his command terminal and invoked the view from a spy-lens mounted to the Thunderhawk’s rear. The pict-slate showed the view of the trench the gunship had just passed over, and Kor’sarro could make out troops manning its ramparts. There were hundreds of them packed into the makeshift position, yet it was immediately clear that they were not professional soldiers, in any sense of the word. For a start, they showed no discernable uniform, each wearing a ragged ensemble of rubberised work suit, with crude armour fashioned from steel plates. Many wore rebreathers, originally intended no doubt to protect against the fumes belched out by the refinery but pressed into service against the biting cold beyon
d the plant’s limits. For an instant, Kor’sarro thought he saw a fell rune of the Chaos powers, daubed crudely upon a soldier’s chest plate, but the view receded before he could be sure.
“Closing on the second line,” the pilot intoned. “Brace for heavy fire.”
The second defence line was more heavily fortified than the first. The trenches were reinforced with armour plating, and rockcrete bunkers stood every two hundred metres.
“Brace!” the pilot called out.
A searing line of fire suddenly cut through the air as an autocannon mounted on one of the bastions opened up. The shot was poorly aimed, passing clean through the White Scars’ formation without inflicting any damage.
“That was just a ranging shot,” Kor’sarro growled, and immediately three more weapons, each mounted on a different bastion, opened fire.
This time, the shots passed by far closer, inscribing a deadly web across the air space the gunships flew through.
“That plotting is far too coordinated to be the work of recidivist scum,” Kor’sarro said. “The Alpha Legion have been here before.” How long, he could only guess, but certainly long enough to have overseen the construction of the inner line of trenches and to plot a highly effective air defence net. As the full extent of the defences revealed themselves, the autocannons barked again. This time, the air blazed with over a dozen bursts, and the Thunderhawk rocked violently as it was struck.
“Taking effective fire!” the pilot called out. “Implementing evasive manoeuvres.”
Alarms blared out as the gunship’s aggrieved war spirit described its wounds. The Thunderhawk shook as the pilot undertook a series of jarring evasions, throwing the enemy gunners’ aim, for a brief moment at least.
“Starboard control vanes compromised,” the pilot announced as he fought the shaking control column.
“And we’re bleeding fuel from engine beta,” the copilot added.
“Stand by,” Kor’sarro ordered as he opened a vox-channel to the formation. There was little to be gained by maintaining vox silence now. “All Hunters, report.”
“Hunter Two, Hunter One,” the response came back immediately. “The arrow’s flight, shrouded by mist.”
“Hunter Four, Hunter One,” the next report came in, after the speaker had allowed an optimistic chance for Hunter Three to report. “The trail, winter rises.”
“Hunter Five, Hunter One,” the last gunship responded. “The crest by dawn.”
“Damn them,” Kor’sarro spat in response to the battle-cant reports. Hunter Two’s augurs were damaged, Four had lost pressure in at least one compartment and Hunter Five’s forward landing gear had taken a glancing hit. There was no word of Hunter Three.
Kor’sarro opened the vox-channel again, but before he could speak a further salvo of fire erupted from every bastion within a kilometre. The channel erupted with howling feedback as the very air burned.
“All Hunters,” Kor’sarro said, not knowing whether his transmission would penetrate the sudden interference but sure he had no choice but to try. “The arrow turns, the deluge.”
“Coming about on new heading,” the pilot announced, obeying the battle-cant order. In seconds, the Thunderhawk was banking over the outer defence line, pursued by angry autocannon bursts. With great relief, Kor’sarro noted the other vessels doing likewise.
Kor’sarro fought down the galling frustration at encountering such an effective air defence grid. It could only have been erected under the oversight of one of Voldorius’ lieutenants. The Alpha Legion were adept at corrupting lesser forces, and would easily have established themselves as masters over the treacherous convicts that laboured in Cernis IV’s promethium refinery. He consoled himself with the knowledge that such scum could never have mounted such a stout defence themselves. It was a timely reminder of just how dangerous a foe the Alpha Legion were. Furthermore, as fearsome as the defenders’ fire had proven, the White Scars pilots were superior. Although minor damage had been sustained, the strike force was still effective, even with the loss of Hunter Three.
And besides, Kor’sarro thought, the White Scars never relied on a single battle plan. Even now, the Thunderhawks were closing on the secondary landing zone where Kor’sarro and his warriors would disembark and approach the target by the alternative route, planned for just such an eventuality.
“Touch down in thirty,” the pilot announced.
“Enemy position at sigma-seven,” the co-pilot interjected.
Kor’sarro saw the secondary landing zone up ahead, but nearby, in the shadow of a jagged cluster of crystals, was a hurriedly dug enemy gun pit. Several of the defenders were armed with shoulder-mounted missile launchers.
“Neutralise it,” Kor’sarro ordered.
The air between the Thunderhawk and the gun pit was split asunder as the vessel’s heavy bolters opened up. Hundreds of rounds had been expended in seconds, the snow all around the target vaporised into an obscuring mist. Surely, nothing could have survived such a torrent of fire.
As if to mock the White Scars, a missile streaked out of the roiling mist, passing within a handful of metres of the gunship’s armoured canopy.
“I cannot resolve a target,” the co-pilot said.
“Target the crystal,” Kor’sarro ordered. “Hellstrike.”
A moment later, a missile lanced from beneath the Thunderhawk’s stubby wings towards the gun pit. But instead of disappearing into the vapour created by the heavy bolter fire, the projectile sped towards the crystal overhead. The impact came mere seconds later.
In a repetition of the incident on the approach run, the crystal exploded into a billion shards. The vapour cloud was blown away, the ground for a hundred metres all about studded by countless micro-impacts. Those defenders who had survived the heavy bolter fire were torn apart as the crystal shards ripped through their bodies. At the last, only the jagged remains of the crystal formation and a wide red stain upon the frozen ground marked the formerly enemy-held position.
“Take us in,” Kor’sarro ordered.
Even as Kor’sarro powered his roaring bike, Moondrakkan, down the Thunderhawk’s ramp, Hunters Two, Four and Five were touching down nearby. Screaming retro jets vaporised the ice, before the mighty gunships settled upon hissing, flexing landing struts. Hunter One, Kor’sarro’s command platform, was a conventional Thunderhawk specially modified to carry the Command squad’s beloved bikes. Hunter Five was likewise modified, and carried the task force’s other two bike-mounted squads. The other ships, including the missing Hunter Three, were transporters, and carried between the three vessels four Rhino-borne Tactical squads, two Rhino-borne Devastator squads and three jump pack-equipped Assault squads. A pair of Rhino transport vehicles was cradled below each transporter, their engines growling as if in anticipation of churning up the frozen plain.
As the two transporters settled, the sturdy arms holding the Rhinos in place released, and, accompanied by the angry hiss of hydraulics, retracted upwards. Almost in unison, the launch jets of both transporters fired up again, and both lifted perfectly vertically, leaving a pair of Rhinos on the ground beneath each. In a moment, all four Thunderhawks had cleared the landing zone, streaking away to establish a holding pattern until called upon.
“All units,” Kor’sarro spoke into his helmet vox-link as he slewed Moondrakkan to a halt. “Converge on me.”
Behind him, the five bike-mounted warriors of Kor’sarro’s Command squad formed up. These men were his brothers, for they had travelled by his side for the last decade, never wavering in the hunt for Voldorius. Kor’sarro’s company champion, Brother Jhogai, removed his helmet having brought his growling mount to a halt, and took in a great lungful of the freezing air. Beside him, Brother Yeku bore the standard of the 3rd Company, an honoured banner adorned with the lightning-strike symbol of the White Scars Chapter, and topped with a fluttering mane of black horsehair. Apothecary Khagus halted his bike beside the standard bearer, and behind him came Brothers Temu and Kergis.
> “Is there any word?” Kor’sarro addressed Brother Temu, knowing the warrior would understand his meaning.
“There is none, my khan,” Temu replied. “Lord of Heavens reports heavy atmospheric sensor interference, but assures us they will keep up their sweeps until Hunter Three’s fate is known.”
“Understood,” Kor’sarro replied, forcing his concern for his brethren to the back of his mind, for all of his attention would be needed in the coming attack. It was only moments before the entire strike force would be assembled before him, ready to move out upon his word.
Following his company champion’s example, Kor’sarro reached up and unlatched his helmet. As he lifted it clear, the cold air struck his scarred face. Even through the cold, he could taste the underlying chemical pollution caused by the activities at the promethium plant—it did not take the enhanced senses of a Space Marine to detect it. Squinting against the breeze, Kor’sarro regarded his force with fiercely burning pride.
Four Rhino transports, set down in pairs by Hunters Two and Four, idled. Each one carried a ten-man Tactical squad. With the loss of Hunter Three, two more vehicles were missing, and the absence of the heavy weapons of the Devastator squads they had carried might well be felt in the coming battle. Twenty more Space Marines stood nearby, each equipped with a bulky jump pack, marking them out as the 3rd Company’s Assault squads. A third Assault Squad had been carried on the missing Hunter Three. Lastly, two squads of White Scars bikers had formed up to either side of the Rhinos having been set down from the modified troop bay of Hunter Five, their engines growling and the cold air shimmering around their exhausts.
03 - Hunt for Voldorius Page 2
