by C. L. Werner
The craft crunched down onto the surface of a landing pad. Heavy skids on the underside of the ship jostled as their pneumatic compensators absorbed the impact of the landing. For a time, the strange ship was silent, resting on the field like some great silver spider. The numerals and heraldry painted onto the sides of the craft were both archaic and unsettling. The soldiers on the field scrambled to bring weapons to bear on the unknown attacker while pilgrims fled from its vicinity, pressing the troops guarding the transports even more desperately than they had before.
Major Ranj hurried down from the observation tower. Whoever was inside the warship was obviously hostile. He wondered if it could be some subterfuge of the rebels, if they’d somehow made contact with sympathisers from off-world. Whatever they were, he intended to receive them in kind. Barking orders to his men as he sprinted towards the landing pad, he commanded them to hold fire until the attackers exposed themselves.
After several anxious minutes, the ship exhibited signs of activity. A loud hiss sounded from just behind where the tail joined the main body of the craft. Dark steam jetted into the air, expelled from the windlasses that lowered an armaplas ramp onto the ferrocrete pad. A black, cave-like bay within the ship was revealed as the ramp slammed down. Ranj could feel the change that swept through his men. Apprehension quickly turned to terror. The major felt his own heart racing as he looked at what was emerging from the ship. Striding out from the darkness, descending the lowered ramp, was a colossal figure. Nearly three metres tall, encased in an immense suit of power armour, the giant strode out onto the landing pad, indifferent to the fear of the onlookers.
Those soldiers who’d drawn close to the landing zone to confront the destroyers of the control tower were beset not simply by fear but also confusion. Ranj shared their distress. There wasn’t any mistaking what kind of warrior they were looking at. He was one of the holy Space Marines, the revered defenders of humanity. The mighty protectors of the Imperium.
Yet this ship had only moments ago obliterated the control tower.
The Space Marine stepped out from beneath the shadow of his ship, making room for his brethren to descend the ramp. As he did, Ranj could see more clearly the dull silver armour bordered and accented in gold, the black pauldrons that covered his shoulders and the yellow slashes painted across his vambraces. A chainsword nearly as tall as a normal man hung at the Space Marine’s hip and in one of his gauntlets he held a savage-looking bolt pistol adorned with disquieting symbols and barbarous flourishes of bone. The helm that enclosed his head was a still darker shade of silver than his armour and the face was pulled out into a long beak, the sides of which were etched to resemble the fangs of some reptilian horror. A pair of horns rose from the back of the helm, curling back from the mask.
The Space Marine looked across the landing field, raising his head as he stared off in the direction of Mount Rama. For a moment the mountain and the cathedral perched atop it held his attention, then he turned his gaze upon the soldiers and labourers watching him. Ranj felt a thrill of horror rush down his spine when the Space Marine’s gaze fixed upon him, aware that he was the ranking officer among those near the landing pad.
‘I am Rhodaan, warsmith of the Third Grand Company of the Iron Warriors Legion,’ the Space Marine’s voice rumbled through the speakers inside his helm. ‘I will suffer no obstruction of my mission here.’ He gestured at the rubble of the control tower. ‘If you are wise, you’ll tell your minions to stay out of our way.’
Chapter VI
Rhodaan turned away from the frightened soldiers and civilians watching the Iron Warriors disembark. They were only flesh, of little concern to a Space Marine. What was of more concern to him were his surroundings. Lubentina was a world the Third Grand Company had raided several millennia before. Rhodaan had been there. What he looked at now was almost unrecognisable. There had been no sprawling city or bustling spaceport then, only scattered mineral outposts and the camps of explorators.
‘They’ve been busy since we were last here,’ Captain Uzraal commented as he marched out from under the gunship’s wing.
‘They’re still busy,’ Rhodaan said. He indicated the plumes of smoke rising from the skyscape of Tharsis. When the gunship’s augur had scanned the city on their descent, the signs of turmoil had been evident. Now that he looked on the scene for himself, Rhodaan dismissed possibilities of industrial accident or natural disaster. No Iron Warrior could mistake the signs of combat for anything else. Who the opponents were, what was in contest, were of less concern to the warsmith than how he could use this to accomplish his mission.
‘Unless the flesh provides provocation, take no action against them,’ Rhodaan voxed to his followers.
‘Mercy for the flesh?’ The question crackled across the vox. Rhodaan swung around to face the Space Marine who’d said it.
Periphetes was a recent initiate of the Third Grand Company, a renegade from the Steel Brethren who’d made his way to Castellax on a pirate raider some little time after the invasion of Waaagh Biglug. His armour still bore elements of his old allegiance. Not of his own choice, but on Rhodaan’s order. He wanted Periphetes never to forget that his comrades in the Steel Brethren had splintered off from the Legion, and by doing so had forsaken their share in the legacy of the Iron Warriors.
‘You are here to reclaim something for the Legion,’ Rhodaan said. ‘Anything that distracts from that mission will be avoided.’
Rhodaan turned from the chastened Periphetes, letting his gaze linger on the other Space Marines of his retinue. Brother Gaos and the lethal bulk of his autocannon. Brother Morak, a veteran of the former warsmith’s bodyguard. Brother Turu, his pauldrons adorned with the skulls of enemies. Brother Mahar, who’d fought his way across a hundred kilometres of ork-infested desert to rejoin the Iron Warriors at Aboro.
‘All of you will do what is expected of you,’ Rhodaan told them. ‘Any failure will be considered defiance and there are none who defy me twice.’ He looked aside to Uzraal. ‘We march as soon as I confer with the sorcerer.’
‘It would seem he heard you,’ Uzraal said as the sorcerer emerged from the ship.
‘Good. There is much I would have him hear,’ Rhodaan said.
Cornak of Ouroboros stalked out from beneath the gunship’s fuselage, yet even when he stood in the open, his aspect seemed dulled by shadows. The cabbalistic emblems woven into the black robes he wore over his armour exuded a pulsating glow, at once appearing to inhale and expel the darkness within which Cornak strode.
‘I overheard you talking to your warriors,’ Cornak told the warsmith. ‘Most instructive.’
‘It is a simple lesson to learn,’ Rhodaan replied. ‘Failing me is a dangerous mistake.’ He stared into the yellowed lenses of Cornak’s mask. ‘It is a simple lesson but there is always one who refuses to learn it.’
Cornak bowed his head. ‘I stand to gain nothing by defying you, Dread Lord.’ He tapped an armoured finger against the side of his helm. ‘My visions have guided me to you. The portents are clear. My future is bound into that of the Third Grand Company. Only through your triumph can I find my own.’
‘I have invested no small effort to chase these visions of yours, sorcerer,’ Rhodaan said. ‘It will go ill for you if your warp sight has led us astray.’
‘You may trust my divinations,’ Cornak assured the warsmith.
Rhodaan laughed at the remark, the vox speakers in his helm turning the sound into a reptilian cackle. ‘Things must be very different on Medrengard. Had you spent more time on Castellax you would understand that nothing and no one is to be trusted. Those who forget that wind up being fed to the flesh.’
The sorcerer bowed once more, acknowledging both the warsmith’s threat and his authority to make it.
Rhodaan wasn’t taken in by the display. Cornak had an unerring facility for alternating between a pose of dutiful subservience and one of cold indifference,
depending on the mood of those around him. His appearance on Castellax after the ork invasion had been a complete mystery. No raider or transport had deposited him on the world. He’d simply shown up one day, requesting audience with the warsmith.
‘Lubentina isn’t the world I was familiar with,’ Rhodaan stated. ‘Much has changed. Before it was an isolated mining world. Now it is a den of the False Emperor’s slaves. How is it that your visions failed to show this to you? Or did you simply forget to mention it?’
‘My spells were directed at locating the relic,’ Cornak explained. ‘It was upon that purpose alone that I set my magic. And I have found it, Dread Lord.’ He raised his grisly staff, a fossil rod that once had been the tooth of some alien leviathan, pointing it at the mountain that had arrested Rhodaan’s attention before. ‘They are keeping it there, within the temple on the summit.’
‘Your magic can tell you precisely where the relic is, but fails to inform you that there’s an entire city around it?’ Rhodaan waved at the distant smoke billowing from Tharsis. ‘Did your spells warn you this place was a battlefield?’
‘It was more important to locate the relic,’ Cornak said. ‘When peering into the warp, the more one tries to see the less clear the picture becomes.’
‘I will hold you to account,’ Rhodaan promised. ‘What the flesh calls the Warmason’s Casket had best be where you say it will be.’ The warsmith turned from Cornak and issued orders over the inter-squad vox. ‘Captain Uzraal, get our brothers moving. I want to get what we came for and be gone before the dust of our landing has time to settle.’
The Iron Warriors marched away from their gunship, striking out across the spaceport. Eight armoured giants, they held the fascination of every eye with a view of the field. Soldiers kept away from their line of march, trying to do nothing that would provoke the Space Marines. Crowds of pilgrims fled in terror as the Iron Warriors passed them.
The Space Marines didn’t encounter any resistance until they drew close to the gates at the perimeter of the spaceport. Here the soldiers didn’t abandon their posts, but maintained their position with grim resignation. Even as the threat of the Iron Warriors poured fear into their minds, an awareness of what would happen if the barrier was left undefended instilled a stubborn determination in them to stay where they were.
Rhodaan stared across the defences. ‘The Fourth Legion commands you to open your gates.’ The order thundered from his helmet’s vox-caster.
Uzraal glanced back at Rhodaan as they came closer to the gates. The soldiers had positioned several Chimeras and flamers to bolster their defence, but all of these heavy weapons were turned outwards to address the threat posed by the mobs trying to gain the comparative security of the spaceport. As yet, none of these weapons had been turned around to confront the advance of the Iron Warriors. The commander at the gates was still trying to walk the line between antagonising the Space Marines and defending the barrier.
Rhodaan wasn’t going to wait for the men to reach a decision. Uzraal was an old comrade of Rhodaan’s, last survivor of the Raptors the warsmith had once commanded. All it needed was a slight dip of his horned helm for Uzraal to understand his leader’s intentions.
‘Break them,’ Uzraal cried out to his warriors. The instant the command was given, the hulking Space Marines erupted into action. Gaos set his autocannon raking across the Chimeras, high-velocity rounds sheering through the plasteel hulls to bounce about within the interiors and pulp the soldiers inside. Periphetes blasted troops from the barricade with his bolter. Turu stormed forwards with a shaped meltabomb, flinging it underneath the chassis of a Taurox assault vehicle.
The explosion as the meltabomb detonated lifted the Taurox into the air, hurling it several metres upwards before its armoured mass came slamming back down, crushing a huge part of the gates as it landed. A few dazed soldiers staggered about the site of the impact, but they were swiftly overwhelmed by the surging crush of humanity that came rushing into the breach. Held at bay so long by the threat of militia guns, the desperate pilgrims trapped within Tharsis had cowered in the buildings facing the spaceport, watching with envy as transports rose into the sky. Fear of being left behind was the single passion left to them. They didn’t trouble themselves over the nature of what had happened behind the high walls of the barricade. All that spurred them on was the fact that the wall had come crashing down.
Decimated by the Iron Warriors, such troops as remained fled when the crowd surged through the breach. The mob came rushing onwards, their impetus pushing those at the forefront ahead even as they stared in wonder at the towering Space Marines.
‘Clear a path for us,’ Rhodaan told Uzraal.
On the warsmith’s command, Uzraal sent a blast from his meltagun searing into the pilgrims. The front of the crowd was vaporised instantly; those behind them screamed as their hair and clothes caught fire and their skin blistered. Desperately the burning victims tried to find escape, fleeing back through the gates. Those trying to force their way inside, refusing to give ground before, now broke and fled as these living firebrands came streaming at them. In a matter of moments the flood of pilgrims fell back, retreating from the gates that had moments before offered them hope and now presented them only with terror.
Across the scorched ruin, the Iron Warriors marched. They spared no notice for the devastation they’d inflicted. It was but a mote in the atrocities they’d already witnessed over the course of the Long War. After ten millennia, of what consequence were a few dozen flesh crushed underfoot?
When the Iron Warriors emerged onto the street beyond the gates they found thousands of stunned pilgrims watching them. Some fled as the Space Marines came forwards, but most simply observed them in shocked silence. With cold indifference, the Iron Warriors marched past the crowds. As they left the pilgrims behind, a dull roar rose from the throng, a desperate cry that betokened a renewed rush on the gates. With neither soldiers nor Space Marines to stop them, thousands of pilgrims swarmed into the spaceport.
The crack of lasguns as the remaining local militia tried to stem the tide was of less concern to the Iron Warriors than the boom of artillery and the chatter of gunfire they could hear in the distance. Some of the shots sounded only a few kilometres away while others were so faint they could be several times as far.
‘This conflict will make things easier,’ Cornak said. ‘Rebellion or guild war, this turmoil will benefit us.’
‘An opportune moment, as you said,’ Rhodaan agreed. ‘Whatever this unrest means it will keep the Imperial dogs busy while we attend to our business.’
Cornak tapped the butt of his staff against the charred ground. ‘It is as my visions have shown me,’ he said. He pointed upwards, past the buildings around them towards an immense structure that rose above the city on the peak of a small mountain.
‘Captain Uzraal,’ Rhodaan called across the vox. ‘Check the auspex and tell me how far that is.’ It was a petty, mundane task to set the captain. Just the sort of thing to remind him of his place.
‘The mountain is just over forty-five hundred metres from our current position, warsmith,’ Uzraal answered after a moment.
Rhodaan peered at the towering temple, scrutinising its leaning structure. His appraisal was one of disdain. The cathedral was almost childish in design, hardly built with an eye towards fortification. Certainly it wouldn’t withstand a siege – not one executed by the Iron Warriors.
The pack of genestealers scrabbled up the winding stairs of the Ladder of Obeisance, circling round and round the slopes of Mount Rama. They kept close to the side of the mountain, their chitinous shells scraping against the intricate frescos carved into the rock. At regular intervals they came upon the cave-like stalls where vendors sought to tempt pilgrims with flasks of water and tubes of protein paste to sustain them on their arduous climb, their inhabitants now fled during the general exodus to the cathedral.
Less freq
uently the genestealers came upon small bands of humans struggling to ascend the Ladder. Pilgrims caught upon the stairs when the crisis began or refugees thinking the long route was a better prospect than the mobs filling the Chastened Road, the weary travellers were easy prey for the prowling aliens. By claw and fang each little band was brought down, their mangled bodies pushed close against the mountainside lest some observer from above spy their corpses.
In the rush to gain safety, in the desperate effort to control the crowds sweeping up the mountain, the Ladder had been forgotten by those above. The few pilgrims who entered the plaza from the top of the stairway were nothing when measured against the surge of refugees ascending the other approaches. No guard had been set upon the Ladder, no sentinel waited to receive the handful of people braving the stairs. When that trickle of pilgrims fell to nothing, there was no one paying attention to wonder why, to discover that the only creatures left on the Ladder weren’t human.
Warily, the three-armed genestealer advanced up the stair, the blood of its last victims still dripping off its remaining claws. It glared out across the plaza, studying the mass of refugees packed into the square, struggling against one another in their efforts to reach the Great Gate of the cathedral. It could see the massive Leman Russ battle tanks drawn up at either side of the square, the tan-uniformed soldiers trying to direct the crowds. On the steps of the cathedral and standing in the gigantic doorway it could see the black-armoured Sisters, their bolters at the ready. High above them, from balconies and platforms, local militia troopers kept watch.
