This time, the hatch’s armour peeled away, falling in molten gobbets to the blackened ground. The ragged edges still glowing fierce orange, Kor’sarro pressed the detonation stud on the ready frag grenade, and tossed it into the smoking opening. He ducked back, pressing himself against the bastion’s wall as Brother Kergis dived to the opposite side of the wrecked hatchway.
A moment later, the grenade detonated, razor-sharp shrapnel belching forth, followed by a great gout of flame and black smoke. Fierce warrior pride consuming him, Kor’sarro stepped before the opening and drew Moonfang, activating the ancient blade’s crackling power field with a familiar flick of his thumb.
Diving into the black, smoke-wreathed interior, Kor’sarro relied on senses other than sight. His genetically enhanced body gave him a wealth of advantages over his foes, and though he could barely make out a thing through the smoke, his superior hearing, smell and even taste drew him down upon his foe. The first enemies he found were very obviously dead, their bodies torn to shreds by the fragmentation grenade.
At the base of what Kor’sarro judged by touch to be an access ladder leading upwards to the next level, he came upon a wounded enemy soldier. With a single, coldly economical motion, he broke the man’s neck, ending the traitor’s blasphemy in a far more merciful way than he deserved. Allowing any survivors no time to regroup, Kor’sarro reached up and hauled open the hatch at the top of the ladder, readying another frag grenade as he did so. As the hatch rose, dull, red light shone through, and an instant later a torrent of bullets was unleashed, kicking up angry sparks from the metal of the hatch. Even as one bullet ploughed a deep furrow across Kor’sarro’s brow, he pressed the detonation stud, threw the grenade through the gap and slammed the hatch shut.
The explosion rocked the entire bastion, sending dust and loose debris in all directions. It must have caught an ammunition store. Kor’sarro grinned and cautiously lifted the hatch to see the damage. The bright violet-tinged light of the outside replaced the red illumination and Kor’sarro guessed that a viewing port had been blown outwards. Seeing no immediate threat, he rose through the hatch, Brother Kergis following close behind. As the smoke cleared, Kor’sarro saw that no defenders had survived the blast. Although blood was smeared across every surface and ragged parts of severed limbs were flung about, he could not tell how many of the deluded recidivists had manned the room.
Striding to the wrecked viewport, Kor’sarro looked out across the war-torn plain. His warriors had turned their weapons upon the counterattacking defenders, and were forcing them back with a fusillade of bolter fire. He judged that the enemy would soon turn and run for the outskirts of the refinery, which lay only a couple of hundred metres beyond the inner defence line. As Brother Kergis moved in to stand beside him, Kor’sarro allowed himself a grim smile.
“Order the warriors to mount up, brother,” he said. “We have a hunt to complete.”
CHAPTER 2
Fire and Ice
His Command squad following close behind, Kor’sarro raced through the promethium plant’s outer precincts. He himself had gunned down dozens of the recidivist defenders, and his companions scores more. The refinery resembled a vast machine, its innards laid bare and spilled across a hundred square kilometres of the frozen plain. There was scarcely any difference between buildings and processing facilities, both enveloped with impossibly complex masses of pipes, vents and cables. Kor’sarro suspected the plant’s original overseers drew no distinction, the convict work force no doubt sleeping beneath their workstations. They deserved no less, he thought.
What passed for streets were strewn with crates and barrels in a crude attempt on the defenders’ part to keep the White Scars at bay. The hastily raised barricades were smashed aside as the Space Marines’ Rhino transports ground barrels and defenders alike beneath their armoured treads. Many of the roadways were crossed at a height of about five metres by raised pipe runs, from which the White Scars were engaged on several occasions by recidivist snipers and fire bombers. The first sniper cost one of Sergeant Patha’s men an eye, but the wounded Space Marine exacted his revenge, putting a bolt-round through the man’s sneering mouth, the shell exploding within his skull and vaporising his entire head. Forewarned that more snipers were likely to be lurking upon the raised pipe runs, Kor’sarro ordered the Assault squads to range ahead of the strike force as it ploughed through the streets, engaging and neutralising dozens more snipers as they went.
Although the Assault squads dealt with the snipers easily enough, the fire bombers proved a more demanding problem. One of the Rhinos was engulfed in chemical fire as it passed under one of the raised pipe runs, a fire bomber hidden amongst the conduits. The vehicle appeared to be utterly consumed by flame, but miraculously survived, its only damage cosmetic, the pure white livery of the White Scars Chapter reduced to charred black. The vehicle’s war spirit would be much aggrieved and would have to be placated with repeated Rites of Appeasement before the transport could be considered battle worthy once more.
The fire bombers displayed no regard for their own safety, unleashing highly volatile, improvised explosives in the heart of a facility that refined one of the most combustible substances known to man. They were surely corrupted by the Alpha Legion, Kor’sarro decided, or perhaps drugged or mind-slaved in some way. Whatever the case, it was yet another example of Voldorius’ many crimes against mankind. Kor’sarro ordered the fire bombers to be engaged as a matter of priority, and no more attacks came so near to success as that first ambush.
Several fire bombers were reduced to human torches as massed bolter fire cut them down and ignited their bombs in the process, sending them plummeting from the overhead pipe runs to the ground below. Their guttering forms were crashed beneath the tracks of the White Scars Rhinos and the wheels of their speeding bikes.
Passing under an other of the overhead conduits, the strike force closed on the plant’s centre. Kor’sarro’s bike-mounted Command squad, accompanied by the other two bike squads from Hunter Five, ranged ahead, while the four Rhino-mounted Tactical squads from Hunters Two and Four formed a column. The two Assault squads streaked overhead on contrails of fire. The street narrowed as the machinery on either side became more and more densely packed. The machinelike buildings became taller, until they reared many hundreds of metres into the sky, which was now barely visible through the web of pipes that connected each part of the vast refinery. Great vents appeared as gaping maws, acrid chemical fumes spewing forth, and it felt to Kor’sarro that his force was travelling through the bowels of a vast, mechanical beast.
“Beware the fore, my khan,” bellowed Brother Temu, as a pressure suit-encased defender rose from behind another of the makeshift barricades. The man hefted a bulky weapon, a locally manufactured heavy stubber by the looks of it. Kor’sarro hauled on Moondrakkan’s handlebars as the defender opened fire, the fusillade of shells spitting past him. With a flick of his thumbs, Kor’sarro activated the twin bolters mounted on his bike’s armoured fairing, and gunned the man down in a rain of shells. More of the defenders appeared from a side street, shouldering crude firearms as they attempted to draw a bead on the rapidly moving White Scars. Kor’sarro veered towards them, his Command squad close behind, and drew Moonfang as he closed on his target.
Kor’sarro beheaded the first of the defenders with a wide sweep of his power blade as he raced past and in the same motion gutted a second and sliced the arm from a third. The remainder were crushed beneath the heavy wheels of his companions’ bikes, and the White Scars barrelled on down the street.
The environs were becoming too confined to continue along mounted on their bikes, so Kor’sarro hauled on Moondrakkan’s brakes and his mount came to a halt.
“Dismount!” he called as his Command squad caught up. “We approach the heart. Spread out and continue the hunt on foot.”
“Where to, my khan?” asked Brother Jhogai, hefting his ceremonial power sword and combat shield.
Kor’sarro looked tow
ards the central zone of the promethium facility, and located the towering structure that marked its centre. Voldorius had yet to reveal himself, and Kor’sarro knew from prior experience that the fiend preferred to draw his enemies in and lie in wait for them. Although wary of entrapment, Kor’sarro was determined to face Voldorius in his lair.
“The tower,” Kor’sarro replied. “But we continue with caution.”
Kor’sarro’s men nodded in agreement, for every one of them knew well the duplicity of the foe. The daemon prince would be in no doubt that the White Scars had come for him. Kor’sarro would have it no other way, but he would not walk blindly into a trap.
“Taura, Patha, to me,” Kor’sarro called, and within seconds the two sergeants stood before him, ready to receive his orders. “Taura, take your squads west of the central tower, Patha, you go east.” Although brief, Kor’sarro knew that his orders would be fully understood, for these veterans had followed him for decades and fought at his side in countless battles. “Go, and the Great Khan be with you, honoured be his name.”
“Honoured be his name,” the two warriors repeated, before bowing to Kor’sarro and heading back to their commands. Kor’sarro heard their bellowed orders as they walked away, and smiled wryly to himself.
The men of Kor’sarro’s biker group had dismounted from their bikes, which would be stowed out of sight and rigged with booby traps in case the defenders attempted to interfere with them. Taking stock of his surroundings, Kor’sarro turned his gaze towards the distant tower. All of his past experience told him that the tower would be the place where he would find Voldorius. He steeled himself for the confrontation, eager to corner his nemesis once and for all, but fully aware of the scale of the challenge ahead. Voldorius was a fiend of nigh unimaginable proportions, and his crimes were of a galactic scale.
Many centuries ago, the daemon prince had harnessed the power of an ancient and terrible weapon, a relic of the all but forgotten epoch known as the Dark Age of Technology. The weapon was called the Bloodtide, and although none knew how it functioned, at Voldorius’ word it had slain uncounted billions of the Emperor’s subjects. In a single night, its curse had swept across a dozen worlds and reduced every one of them to a charnel house of desiccated corpses. All of this Voldorius did in the name of the fell Gods of Chaos, the ultimate enemies of mankind.
“Brothers,” Kor’sarro said, aware that the eyes of each man were upon him. “Each of you has stood by my side throughout our hunt for the vile one.” The sound of gunfire rang out from nearby as the two flanking groups engaged more of the enemy. He continued, “Each of us has lost battle-brothers by his hand, or those of his followers. So far this day, we have only faced convict scum, turned from the Emperor’s light by the lies of Voldorius. But we know that the vile one’s companions must be here too. Be alert, my brothers. Though I know not how many of us will see the next dawn,” Kor’sarro continued, “I know for certain that those who do not shall ride upon the great hunt at the right hand of the Emperor for all eternity. We have earned that much!”
“Aye!” replied two-dozen voices in unison, and Kor’sarro raised a hand to silence them.
“Later, we feast. Now, we hunt!”
At that, Kor’sarro turned and advanced along the narrow street, the central tower rising no more than a couple of kilometres distant. The small force adopted a well-practised formation that ensured that all sectors were covered and no enemy could engage the White Scars without warning.
A burst of angry gunfire sounded from the direction of the western flanking group, reminding Kor’sarro that Voldorius and his Alpha Legion followers were not the only enemy in the city-sized refinery. A moment later, an explosion rocked the street, tangled pipes and twisted chunks of metal ricocheting down its length.
“Opportunity fire,” Kor’sarro growled. “The act of an undisciplined rabble.”
As the gunfire and explosions grew louder, Kor’sarro became aware of another sound amidst the tumult of battle. Concentrating as he advanced, Kor’sarro filtered out the noises all around. Discarding the sound of his own breathing, the beating of his hearts and the tread of his armoured boots upon the debris-strewn ground, he detected a low drone, and it was coming from up ahead.
“The vile one’s sorceries…” he muttered, looking towards the peak of the tower rising in the sky, silhouetted against the pulsating, violet-hued aurora. The sound grew steadily in volume, and soon it was clearly audible over the clamour of war. It was a plaintive drone that could only have been voiced by something other than human. Yet, though no human throat could have produced that sound, there was something in it that spoke of anger, pain and suffering in an all too mortal way. Kor’sarro was consumed with disgust, all of his senses piqued and alert for the danger the sound might preclude. It could only be Voldorius, unleashing some new nightmare upon the galaxy, damning himself still further if such a thing were possible.
The dirge became louder yet, until it pulsated from the tower’s summit, spreading outwards in palpable waves of grating doom. It echoed from the vast machineries of the promethium refinery, and structural damage was starting to appear in the stacks nearest to the plant’s centre.
Kor’sarro pressed on along his course. The face of his company champion was set in a grim mask, his eyes black pits of revulsion. Several of the battle-brothers made gestures of warding against evil, the ancient rites of the peoples of Chogoris as passed down by the seers and shamans for millennia. The droning, tuneless note revolted him and a dire feeling of uncleanness threatened to consume him. It put him in mind of a dying predator, some leviathan thrashing in the deepest oceans as it bled its guts into the cold waters far from the cleansing sunlight and winds of the plains. He shook his head to clear the grim vision from his mind, and stepped up his pace towards the centre of the refinery. And not a moment too soon.
Less than a hundred metres ahead, in the cavernous mouth of a vast storage depot, Kor’sarro saw movement.
“The gnarldrake rises, noon!” he called in battle-cant, indicating to his warriors the presence of the enemy waiting in ambush ahead. Kor’sarro and his Command squad peeled to one side of the narrowing street, moving steadily along its length while making use of the cover of tangled pipes and upturned barrels. With a simple gesture he ordered the other two squads to move along the opposite side of the street, one slightly ahead of him, one slightly behind.
“My khan,” Brother Kergis said from close behind. “These do not appear to be the same defenders—”
Before Kergis could complete the sentence, a shot rang out from the depot’s mouth. Kor’sarro knew instantly that these foes were not the recidivist convicts the White Scars had faced earlier. The weapon fired was not a locally manufactured autogun, but a boltgun, like those carried by the Space Marines.
“Alpha Legion!” Kor’sarro spat, as a burst of bolter fire erupted along the street.
Yet, the shots had not been aimed at Kor’sarro or his men, nor was the timing consistent with an ambush.
“White Scars!” a dry voice from up ahead shouted. Bile rose in Kor’sarro’s throat. “The scent of dung precedes you. Face us!”
A feral growl sounded from behind Kor’sarro as Brother Jhogai made to advance into the open. With a hand upon Jhogai’s shoulder, Kor’sarro stopped his old companion. “No, my friend. This is my burden.”
Kor’sarro stepped out into the open street.
Five figures stepped out from the yawning mouth of the storage facility. As they passed from the shadows into the violet-tinged sunlight, Kor’sarro knew that he had been correct. Each was a giant, wearing power armour of a similar design, only more archaic, to the White Scars’. While Kor’sarro and his men wore armour bearing the white and red livery of the White Scars Chapter, the armour of these warriors was painted a greenish blue. Where the White Scars bore proudly the lightning bolt icon of their Chapter, these wore the writhing hydra device of the traitorous Alpha Legion.
“Nullus,” Kor’sarro growled.
The name of this foe was like ashes in his mouth.
The warrior Kor’sarro had addressed stepped ahead of his companions. He was taller even than the other Alpha Legion warriors, and bore a long-hafted halberd, the blade blacker than night and radiating darkness. The traitor wore no helmet, forcing Kor’sarro to look upon his vile features. His head was hairless, and covered in a mass of scar tissue. But these were not the intricate tracery of the honour scars Kor’sarro and his kin wore with pride, each applied in remembrance of a great victory or a fallen companion. They were the result of countless years of exposure to the warping, unclean energies of Chaos. What from a distance appeared as a single, solid burn scar was upon closer inspection more like the scrawlings of a madman, each scar traced over the last in swirling runes and sigils until only an anarchic mess remained. The warrior’s features were largely obscured by that mass of scar tissue, his lips thin, his eyes narrow slits. But those eyes were bottomless pits of blackness, radiating doom, as if not a man but a presence lurked behind them.
“You come for Voldorius,” the traitor said.
“Aye, and for you, Nullus,” Kor’sarro replied.
“He awaits,” Nullus said, indicating the tower with a sharp movement of his ravaged head. “But you must first pass me.”
“Then face me,” Kor’sarro growled, drawing Moonfang and taking a pace forwards. The traitor’s fellows spread out across the street and behind, his own warriors did likewise.
The fight would be uneven, two score of White Scars against a handful of the Alpha Legion traitors. The sound from the tower grew still louder, a subsonic rumble passing through the ground beneath Kor’sarro’s feet.
“Not yet, hunter,” Nullus replied, with a mocking grin.
“What duplicity is…?” Kor’sarro began, as a tide of figures appeared behind the traitors, stepping out from the dark entrance to the storage depot.
03 - Hunt for Voldorius Page 4
