by Paul Kearney
‘Acknowledged, sergeant. Pull back, and we will come forward to meet you. Brother Starn and reinforcements are on their way.’
‘I have seventy-five contacts, a hundred yards out and closing,’ Brother Unser said.
‘Pull back by twos,’ Gaden told his squad. ‘I will cover the first move.’
Brother Tersius climbed to his feet and backed away along with Brother Surus. His aiming reticule was trying to latch on to targets out in the falling snow. There were two dozen in his arc alone. Some broke forward of the rest, dark shapes he could barely make out. He loosed a series of controlled bursts, relishing the feel of the bolter coming to life in his hand.
Another great bloom of promethium as Brother Darius laid down a wall of fire to cover their retreat. The five Ultramarines withdrew slowly, snapping off disciplined bursts of fire.
‘Enemy still closing fast. Let us check them, brothers,’ Sergeant Gaden said calmly. ‘Stand fast, pick three targets each, make sure they go down.’
They stood there and fired from the hip, long bursts, their bolters keyed into the aiming auspex of their power armour. There were screams out there in the snow-choked darkness, and now Tersius could see several figures floundering on fire through the drifts as Brother Darius set them ablaze.
And now there was return fire. Tracer whipped out of the snow towards them in bright streaks, bolter rounds. A burst took Brother Surus full across the chest, and he grunted, falling to one knee, still firing. At once, Tersius ran over to his wounded battle-brother, and stood over him, changing a magazine with blurringly quick movements before opening up again. To his front, three figures came thrashing out of the dark – big looming figures with red lights for eyes, uttering that eerie howl as they charged.
They were Space Marines, but something had taken them and twisted their anatomy into a degraded nightmare. They had tentacles for arms, horns poking up through their helms and what looked like slapping appendages of black, dripping meat hanging from their shoulders and waist; these rose up and spat at him with tiny fanged mouths. They came howling, reaching for him with the dilating suckers of their corrupted flesh, and Tersius felt a wave of disgust as he let loose on full automatic, an entire magazine of the heavy self-propelled 20mm bolter rounds, which slammed into them and blasted chunks of flesh and ceramite from their bodies.
But that did not stop them. They fell, got up, and tottered forward again. A bolter round smashed into Tersius’s left shoulder-guard, sending amber runes lighting up in his helm display. His left arm stiffened at once, and his armour sent analgesics racing into his bloodstream. The adrenaline sang in his blood. He stepped forward in a black fury and brought the muzzle of his bolter down square upon the skull of one horned monstrosity that was roaring in his face, breaking off a chunk of the noisome helm, snapping a curved horn and splattering curd-grey brains into the air. In the same moment he whipped out his gladius and with a bright sweep of the wicked blade he decapitated the thing entirely, booting it aside.
But others were reaching for him. His armour smoked as their tentacles fastened upon it, the paint blistering, steam rising from the seared ceramite. They were splattering him with acid, spitting it in his face. His helm display shorted out for a second, then came back online. He chopped and stabbed with the gladius, fired his bolter with the muzzle pressed close to his attackers’ foul flesh, blasted them clear, and stepped back, gasping.
Brother Surus was gone, his bolter lying in the snow, still smoking. His hand was still on the pistol-grip. The rest of the squad were surrounded, fighting with gladius and bolt pistol, struggling in a crowd of the enemy.
Another flare of promethium as Brother Darius was smashed onto his back and fired up at his attackers, enmeshing them in a greasy, searing cloud of flame. They were embroiled in a murderous hand-to-hand fight now, and they were about to be overwhelmed. Tersius snarled as he fought. He heard Sergeant Gaden’s voice bellow ‘Guilliman!’ and he answered it.
Tersius was tripped up, a tentacle taking him by the ankle and flipping him off his feet. He could smell burning metal within his armour. An Adeptus Astartes helm was pushed close to his own, but the face grille was gone, and in its place was a wet gleam of fangs snapping at him. They fastened onto his head, and he heard the ceramite groan. He punched it away, breaking the fangs, feeling the shards of them break off in his knuckles.
And then the great weight of his foe was flung off him, and a massive grip hauled him to his feet.
‘Up, brother. We must make some space here.’
It was the Chapter Master himself. Marneus Calgar stood there flanked by the Terminators of First Company. He strode ahead of Tersius and opened up a deadly torrent of fire from his storm bolters. The Terminators joined in, laying down a stream of destruction that blasted the enemy backwards, tearing them asunder. Calgar’s fists were glowing, the Gauntlets of Ultramar alight. Tersius saw his Chapter Master lift one of the wriggling foe into the air and rip him apart, throwing the sundered halves into the faces of the enemy.
‘Macragge!’ Calgar was roaring, and the ancient cry was taken up. Tersius scrambled to his feet, reloaded, and saw that more squads of Fifth had come up, thirty or forty of his battle brethren advancing in extended line, firing as they came. A great rush of joy flooded his hearts. The Ultramarines advanced inexorably, tossing out frag grenades into the ranks of the foe, then following up with reams of heavy bolter fire. Tersius saw the bright lances of melta-guns and heard the harsh pop of missile launchers as the Devastators of Ninth joined in.
The enemy line was torn to pieces, engulfed by bright explosions, lit up with gouts of blazing promethium and then chopped down by heavy bolter volleys, the tracer scything out in great shining arcs. The Ultramarines followed up, squad by squad, a tactical checkerboard which swept forward, bowling the enemy backwards.
But those they fought were not simple cultists, or brutish orks, or even the subtle eldar. The Ultramarines were combating an enemy that had once been like themselves, with the same vicious stubbornness, the same maniacal courage, and genetically enhanced forms that were still clad in what had once been Adeptus Astartes power armour.
The enemy gave ground, but did so grudgingly, fighting for every foot, and rushing forward every now and again to take advantage of imperfections in the Ultramarines formations. They did not heed their own casualties, but fought with the daemonic energy of things possessed. The only thing that made them more vulnerable than Calgar’s brethren was the insane craving to come to grips with their foe. They had been warped and twisted into creatures which excelled at close-quarter fighting, and when they managed to come in near to the Ultramarines line, they would leap upon their enemy and then the acid-drenched tentacles, the snapping fangs, the horn-frapped appendages that festooned them would come into play, deadly and effective.
Two and three of them at a time would burst out of their own ranks and sacrifice their lives to bring down a single Ultramarine. Tersius, advancing to Calgar’s left, saw half a dozen of his brethren go down in this fashion. The shining gladii of the Ultramarines would go up and down in murderous swings which chopped the attackers to pieces, but by the time they had been flung back, they would have done their work, and an Ultramarine would lie torn and smoking on the frozen ground, the acid scars etched across his armour, his innards spread far and wide in a dark steaming stain upon the snow.
The company banner bearer, Gerd Ameronn, had unsheathed Warspite, his ancient powerblade, and he strode into the ranks of the enemy and hacked them to pieces with a ferocity that matched theirs. Beside him was Chaplain Murtorius, his crozius spitting lightning, battering the enemy apart. Around them a blue crackling fire was kindled, burning the enemy from the feet up, as Librarian Ulfius waded in, protecting his brothers, hurling the enemy back with blunt waves of psychic force. The very snow seemed to kindle in that quarter of the fight, lighting up in blue and yellow flame, searing the Ultramarines’ arm
our black, making of their foes living torches that shrieked and writhed and flailed against the disciplined waves of fire which were hosing them down.
Finally, they broke. It was not a rout, more a bitter acknowledgement of defeat. They retreated by squads, covered by bolter fire and streams of promethium. A pulsing wall of flame was flung round them as they fell back, and they were still tactically astute enough to cover their retreat with frag grenades, volleys of bolter fire and, here and there, the long streak of a plasma burst, blinding bright, carving smoking furrows in the snow. But in the rearguard of their retreat the largest champions of their kind stood unbeaten, falling back step by step with unbalanced rabid hatred shining out of their eyes. They could be seen rallying their own – preparing for a last assault.
Marneus Calgar and his Honour Guards charged into this rearguard, scattering them, the axes of Brothers Ohtar and Morent flashing bloody as they rose and fell, and to the right, Brother Starn’s Terminators burst into the thinned enemy line like a thunderbolt, their armour on fire as they fought, the power fists they bore sending the enemy reeling back in shattered knots of broken, staggering wounded.
‘Hold,’ Marneus Calgar’s voice came over the vox. ‘Hold here. Single shots. Launchers, give me a salvo.’
Three missiles streaked over the heads of the Ultramarines and slammed into the enemy rearguard, destroying all remnant of formation, the explosions fountaining up in bursts of fire and earth and tortured ice. The last of the enemy champions fell, his helm blown off, his face a tortured grey skull that had barely any shred of humanity, baying defiance to the last.
More tracer spat out in long bright lines. But the meat of the thing was done. The enemy had been decimated, and only a few pulled free of the slaughter, still snarling hate, disappearing towards the shadow of the immense structure that loomed tall as a hill in the falling snow to their rear. Behind them, they left at least eighty of their own dead, and some thirty Ultramarines still standing.
Fifteen
‘What casualties have we taken?’ Calgar asked, shaking the clotted viscera from his fingers with a grimace.
Apothecary Philo ran his own gauntleted fingers along the bloodstained drill of his narthecium. ‘Heavy enough for such a short fight, my lord. Eight dead, seventeen wounded to varying degrees. I have recovered the gene-seed of six of the fallen. The other two were too badly burned to be of use. Acid.’ The last word was laced with disgust.
Calgar gestured to the huge structure which loomed dark ahead of them.
‘We will call up the rest of the company and move up into that building, clear it, and then take stock. I want no weapons or ammunition left behind, not a single round. We will need all of it before we are done.’ He paused. ‘If any of the enemy’s munitions are still usable, then they must be gathered also. Now is not the time to be worried about what we put in our bolters. Captain Galenus?’
The Ultramarines captain came over the vox. ‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Bring up the rest of the column, grav-sleds and all. Fane’s skitarii will provide the rearguard. We are moving on. Join us at best speed.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Brother Starn, lead out. Sergeant Greynius, you will take Third and Fourth squads and police the battlefield. First and Fifth, on me. Devastators will go from here and join with Galenus as he comes up.’
They moved out again, striding past the burning plumes of smoke that rose into the dropping snow, passing by the torn corpses of their foes and the bodies of their brothers. Their formations were as perfect as though practising on Martial Square in Magna Civitas, Calgar noted, though the squads were understrength now, and many of those moving up with him were wounded, slowing the overall pace. But those who were still alive would heal, given time and Brother Philo’s skill.
Calgar looked his own wargear over. The ancient battleplate was scored and splotched with acid burns, but most of the damage was little more than cosmetic. Whatever technical savant had created his armour, back in the misty years of the Chapter’s past, had been an artisan of genius. The Iron Halo the Chapter Master bore had also mitigated the worst effects of the splashing acid.
‘First Company, take the vanguard. Make ingress of the building ahead and report,’ he said.
‘Acknowledged,’ Brother Starn replied, as nonchalant as ever. The four Terminators went ahead of the main body, their storm bolters still hissing as the snow landed on the hot metal. Now and then a pale blue ribbon of light would pulse around their power fists.
‘Chapter Master,’ Starn said a few minutes later, ‘the structure is immense, a roofless ruin. But the walls are more or less intact. It appears to be some kind of cathedral, at a guess. No sign of the enemy. They have pulled out. The far end of the chamber is now in view, perhaps half a mile beyond.’ A pause. ‘There are things here Inquisitor Drake might be interested in.’
‘Take cover there and watch the far approach,’ Calgar told him. ‘On our way.’
The forward elements of the Ultramarines came up to the tall walls of the building. It soared up in front of them, a maze of gothic spires and buttresses, empty windows lined with broken glass, at least two hundred feet high and a quarter of a mile wide. An enormous broken gate lay at the top of a sweep of stone steps, all slippery with congealed ice. On the gate was an emblem, inlaid in shining adamantium plates that time had not tarnished. The ultima sigil of their own Chapter, bisected by a two-handed sword and flanked by stylised, wing-like flames. Calgar stared at it, disturbed. Below the emblem were the words Fidelitas ad Mortuum, picked out in blackened silver that was inlaid with winking green jade.
Faithful unto death.
Was this their motto, the lost brethren of the Viridian Consuls? If so, it was a hollow irony. For a similar emblem had been on the shoulder guards of many of the monstrosities he had just killed.
Similar, but not the same. On their armour, the enemy had reversed the sigil, so that it formed the ancient Omega sign, which signified the end of all things.
But this ultima element – did it mean that the survivors of this lost Chapter were also sons of Guilliman – their own primarch?
The thought filled him with mingled disgust and grief. For a while, back in the fight, he had been able to set free his rage, to let it run loose in glad abandon. He had fought the enemy with a joy he had not known in combat for a long time. A primitive fury. Now, he felt as cold as the snow which mounded up in grey drifts about the broken cathedral. This had been their sacred place, this majestic ruin. They had brought it with them when they had elected to try and cleanse their name in the Abyssal Crusade.
Calgar looked at the ceiling of the immense chamber far above, gauging the dimensions. With a sudden flash of insight, he thought he knew now what it was.
They were walking in the vast, hollowed-out hull of a Space Marine battle-barge.
The expedition reassembled within the walls of the lost cathedral, and set up a perimeter there while Sergeant Greynius saw to it that ammo was redistributed, Brother Salvator effected repairs to those whose power armour had been damaged in the fighting, and Apothecary Philo tended the wounded.
Inquisitor Drake joined Calgar as the Chapter Master watched over his brethren, turning over in his mind the cluttered blueprint that Magos Fane had found back in the tunnels.
‘So, there is no doubt of it at last,’ the inquisitor said. ‘The Consuls turned to Chaos.’
‘Not all of them,’ Calgar told him, thinking of the eight dead Adeptus Astartes standing stark in the snow. ‘Some at least elected to die with their faith intact. And what is more, they were allowed to do so.’
‘Yes, I saw them. A pitiful way for the Emperor’s Chosen to die.’
‘Better that than turn to the Ruinous Powers,’ Calgar said, though he had to agree. For himself, he would have fought to the end. There was no despair so great that it would ever make him lay down his arms. He woul
d fight on alone against all the powers of the warp if it came to that. And he trusted that his brothers would do the same.
Something else had made those Space Marines stand there and wait for death – some betrayal so foul that it had sapped their will to fight.
‘The Consuls were sent here on the word of a heretic,’ Drake went on. ‘Their name and their honour destroyed, the favour of the Emperor withdrawn. Perhaps that in itself was enough to break their faith. It is one of the saddest episodes in Imperium history.’
‘There are many events which vie for that title,’ Calgar said wryly. ‘You are surprisingly compassionate, for one of your Order, Drake.’
‘I hate to see excellence wasted. Imagine, my lord – thirty entire Chapters of your Adeptus, lost to the Eye of Terror. It was a great defeat, and a betrayal which ranks high in infamy. The Astartes Praeses – twenty Chapters entrusted with watching over the Eye of Terror, were broken apart by the loss of so many of their own. Thanks to the counsels of the accursed Saint Basillius, the whole defence of the sectors around the Eye, and what is now called the Cadian Gate, was wrecked, leading to the perpetual state of siege which exists in the region to this day.’
‘Warp Storm Dionys, and its legacy. I have scanned the records. Tigurius sent them to me.’
‘Basillius was a major figure in the Age of Redemption, as it is called. He was given overall command of several Space Marine Chapters, and in the wake of the warp storm he decreed that the home worlds of those Chapters which it had passed be rendered up for judgement. Thirty Chapters were deemed to have been corrupted by the warp, and were ordered to undertake the Abyssal Crusade in penance. It was a death sentence. Only one re-emerged from the Eye, centuries later. The Vorpal Swords. They denounced Basillius, though he was long dead, and his evil was finally recognised for what it was. But for all the others, it was much too late.’
