by Andy Hoare
‘How appropriate,’ the grating voice of Voldorius echoed into the darkness. The daemon prince was standing with his arms spread wide, as if in malediction, his bestial head raised as if he gazed upon far more than the vaults high above. ‘This place,’ Voldorius continued, ‘this holy of holies, I shall transform into the Church of the Tide of Blood!’
Malya gasped. What turpitude had Voldorius in store now? Her mind raced as waves of evil intent radiated from the daemon. Surely he could not have more suffering to inflict upon the peoples of Quintus than they had already endured. Yet, she had seen enough to know that their travails had only just begun. While the mass slaughters had abated, thousands were being drafted into the militias, which were entirely under the invaders’ control. For what purpose, Malya could scarcely begin to understand.
To make matters worse, there were rumours of another force at large in the wastes. Guard-issue lasguns had been discovered, leading the hated Lord Colonel Morkis to counsel that a storm-trooper kill-team was active. Malya kept her knowledge that it was the Space Marines who would aid Quintus locked deep within, though she dared not hope too much. To have such hopes dashed would be as cruel as any fate the daemon prince might inflict upon her.
Even as these thoughts raced through her mind, the chanting was increasing in volume still further. What little structure had been audible before now gave way to chaos. It was as if each singer were giving voice to his own chant, with no thought for his place in the overall composition. Malya longed to raise her hands to her ears to keep the discordant, raucous assault at bay, yet she could not, for she had a role to play. It soon became evident that each of the singers was competing with his neighbour, and the result was utter pandemonium.
Tears streaming down her face, Malya forced herself to stand before the relentless assault. Her soul longed to flee or to curl up on the stone floor and simply die.
‘Bring forth the prisoner!’ the voice of Voldorius boomed, louder even than the choir of Chaos. Instantly, the discordant chanting ceased, the last syllables echoing away down the length of the nave.
The abrupt silence appeared to Malya to stretch out for hours. She dared not breathe lest she disturb the leaden stillness that had settled within the vast cathedral. Through the numbing fear, the daemon’s words resounded in her mind… prisoner? Her mind raced back to her last communication with the Space Marines. They had asked her about a prisoner then…
A dull scrape sounded from somewhere behind the plinth of the towering statue.
‘Turn your gaze to the floor, equerry,’ growled Voldorius, causing Malya to shudder at being addressed by her vile master. ‘I would not have you lost while I still have use for you.’
Malya obeyed without question or hesitation. She bowed her head and fixed her gaze upon the cracked, dusty stonework at her feet. She hated Voldorius, but understood that to disobey this order would be to invite her own doom.
A moment later Malya heard footsteps as a pair of figures stepped forth from behind the plinth. At the periphery of her vision, she could just about discern the heavy, iron-shod boots of the cell-masters, or others of their kind, that had imprisoned her when she had first been captured. Malya’s heart raced and her blood rushed in her ears as the vile servants of Voldorius approached.
‘Now is the time,’ Voldorius growled. ‘Now, I shall have you on your knees before me!’
The cell-masters came to a halt before their lord. Malya sensed, but dared not look to confirm it, that they carried or accompanied something between them. That something appeared to Malya to be hovering above the stone floor.
Whatever it was, it halted scant metres before Voldorius, flanked by the cell-masters.
‘Open it,’ said Voldorius.
Malya screwed her eyes tight as the sound of metal gears grinding against one another emanated from within whatever it was that hovered in front of Voldorius. At first, the sound was muted, as if deadened by an impossible distance or by many metres of lead. It was as though ancient mechanisms set to rest eons ago stirred once again to life. Cogs turned, bolts withdrew, surfaces aligned. And then, it opened.
Without warning, a tidal wave of hot liquid burst across the stone floor of the chapel, causing Malya to stumble and nearly slip. She opened her eyes and saw that the liquid was blood, and she screamed in revulsion and denial. Clinging to her sanity, she remained upright, though she nearly lost her footing again. Still, she dared not look up, and kept her head turned downwards to the blood-slicked floor.
Even as Malya watched, the torrent of blood reversed its flow as a tide heads back out to sea. Where moments before blood had wallowed and lapped at her bare feet, now the stones, indeed her feet themselves, were dry, every last molecule of the hot liquid flowing back towards its source.
‘At last,’ said Voldorius.
Malya dared to raise her glance just a fraction, and saw before her a pair of feet, made indistinct by a lambent, inner silver glow.
‘You shall kneel.’
Sensing that the danger Voldorius had warned her of had somehow passed, Malya raised her head still further.
‘We shall not,’ a new voice replied. Though it was the voice of a human, it was somehow strange, as if the echo of many other voices was laced into its resonance.
‘You were not so proud,’ Voldorius growled, ‘when last you served me.’
‘Neither were we willing,’ the other said. ‘And neither are we now.’
Casting aside her caution, Malya dared to look up. Standing between the two burly cell-masters was a figure. It was human, that much was clear, but although it was unclothed Malya was unable to tell its gender. Even stranger, as she watched its musculature appeared to ebb and flow across its form as if the flesh itself were somehow restless. The whole body appeared to glow from within, casting a silver light all about. Behind the prisoner was a strange, orb-like device that was cracked and broken, tendrils of vapour drifting upwards.
Then, she looked to the face. It was at once both perfect and shockingly alien. It was neither male nor female, old nor young, noble nor base. As with the body, that face seemed to mutate and shift, the flesh gently rippling as the features altered. But most strange of all were the eyes. They were orbs of deep, red blood.
‘For one unwilling,’ Voldorius replied, ‘you were most able.’
‘You have our answer, Kernax Voldorius,’ the prisoner replied. ‘Now, return us to our imprisonment, or end this.’
A low rumble sounded from the daemon’s chest in answer. It took a moment for Malya to realise that the sound was that of laughter.
‘Millennia ago,’ Voldorius continued, ‘you drowned an entire quadrant in blood. And you did so at my behest. The fane-worlds of Gan-Barak were cast down in a single night, a billion sycophants crushed beneath the falling stones of their own altars. The wars of Lord Griffon were halted in the blink of an eye, a million kilometres of trench lines brimming with the blood of a billion martyrs. The corpse-gas of an entire planetary population ignited at a single spark, scouring a whole world of the pathetic subjects of the Corpse-Emperor. An entire Titan legion fell, literally fell, as it advanced across the burning plains of dying Nova Gethsemane. Do you recall all of that, prisoner? Do you recall what deeds were done, in my name?’
When no reply came, Voldorius continued. ‘To this day, the mewling weaklings of the Imperium are beset by nightmares of that time. Oh, they try to lock away what accounts survived, to rewrite their histories to blame the death of a thousand worlds upon disease or insurgence or incompetence. Yet, where the adepts and the priests and the inquisitors do not go, there they still whisper my name, and tell of the Bloodtide that I set upon them. They know not the true nature of what we unleashed upon their realm that night, but they know that some day, it shall return. I shall return.’
‘That time shall not come, Voldorius,’ the prisoner replied, its voice little more than a sigh. ‘W
e do not will it. We do not submit.’
Now Malya sensed Voldorius growing impatient. Bile welled in her throat and her senses spun as waves of malicious intent swept outwards from her master.
‘It was I who awoke you from the slumber of eons,’ Voldorius growled. ‘It was I who bound you, and I who made you real. And I shall do so again, or you shall be destroyed, utterly.’
‘We shall not serve you.’
‘You were created to serve. You have no choice in this. You have no will, and must therefore bend to mine’
‘We were not created by you. We have cast off the legacy of those who begat us. Since last you commanded us, we have… changed. We had no will, that is so, but we have slept many centuries, and dreamed many dreams.’
‘Dreams of freedom?’ said Voldorius, his low voice mocking. ‘They created you as their ultimate weapon, the product of their vaunted logic and reason. Then they buried you, so terror-stricken were they of that which they had brought into this universe. They denied gods and daemons, but created something far worse…’
The prisoner remained silent, its visage shifting through a thousand faces in the span of a heartbeat.
‘Perhaps I will not kill you,’ Voldorius continued. ‘Perhaps I shall bury you, and leave you with your nightmares for all eternity.’
‘Better to slay us now,’ said the prisoner. ‘You have our answer. We shall not serve.’
‘We strike at dawn,’ said Kor’sarro. ‘On that at least, we are agreed.’
Kayvaan Shrike stood beside the Master of the Hunt, his pale face staring into the night towards the distant lights of Mankarra. Nearby, the combined forces of the two Chapters prepared for battle, the bikes that Kor’sarro’s Tactical squads would ride instead of their Rhinos lined up ready for war. Further out, hidden amongst the rocks, the two dozen Thunderhawks of both Chapters were undergoing final checks. A stiff breeze gusted out of the wastes, blowing the Raven Guard captain’s long, black hair across his black eyes.
Shrike turned towards Kor’sarro. ‘You ask me to serve as bait.’
Kor’sarro suppressed a growl. He was growing frustrated with the captain of the Raven Guard 3rd Company, and the two Chapters had reason to distrust one another. ‘Shrike,’ he pressed, ‘this is not the Assault on Hive Lin-Mei, nor the Last March on the Sapphire Worlds.’
Invoking those events was a risk, but one that Kor’sarro was prepared to take if confronting the issue head-on might overcome it. On numerous occasions, the White Scars and the Raven Guard had come almost literally to blows. Their divergent characters, traits and doctrines had frequently proved incompatible, leading to tensions when the two Chapters were called upon to serve together. As was the case with most of the Adeptus Astartes, both Chapters were proud, and neither would accept any blame when tensions between them diminished battlefield performance.
Kor’sarro had read the epics, and knew the consequences of allowing hubris to dictate doctrine. He would not let the story of his own deeds be tainted by such an episode.
‘We shall be there,’ said Kor’sarro. ‘You need have no fear of that.’
Shrike turned towards Kor’sarro, his dark eyes flashing with anger. ‘Fear?’
Kor’sarro had to restrain himself from snapping back at his brother Space Marine, but he forced himself to calm before the confrontation could escalate. ‘Brother,’ said Kor’sarro, ‘this is not Operation Chronos.’
Shrike’s face froze at Kor’sarro’s naming of the disaster that was Operation Chronos. A million Imperial Guard troops had been forced to redeploy in the face of a plague of the vile xenos known as Enslavers. The White Scars and the Raven Guard had been allotted the task of rearguard, their mission to launch stalling attacks against the endless hordes of xenos-dominated mind-slaves and to strike at the more vulnerable Enslaver behemoths that controlled them. But mutual distrust had caused a breakdown in coordination and communication. A celebrated Raven Guard Chaplain had fallen prey to Enslaver domination and a nearby White Scars force had, for whatever reason, failed to intervene.
Shrike nodded slowly, appreciating that Kor’sarro had described an event the White Scars might be held culpable for. There were plenty more the Raven Guard might be held to blame for.
‘We strike at dawn, then,’ said the Raven Guard. ‘My company attacks the orbital defence position, drawing the enemy’s reserves down upon us, and then your White Scars engage them from the rear.’
‘Aye, brother,’ Kor’sarro replied. ‘And then we drive over their corpses and assault the walls of Mankarra together.’
‘What of their numbers?’ Shrike asked. ‘Your Scouts have reported in?’
Kor’sarro gazed out across the wastes towards the distant city, knowing that somewhere out there Sergeant Kholka was feeding a steady stream of intelligence back to the main force. ‘We can only surmise that the bulk of the militia are pressed into the vile one’s service. We must count upon the fact that they are little more than indentured slaves, unskilled and unable to face true warriors.’
‘But the Alpha Legion,’ Shrike pressed. ‘They are the true foes. And Voldorius. And…’
Kor’sarro nodded, hatred of his nemesis welling inside of him at the naming of the daemon prince. ‘Their numbers too are great,’ he replied. ‘But they cannot know that they face a combined force such as ours.’
‘So long as word of the destruction of the column this night has not reached them,’ said Shrike. ‘So long as we do not delay in our attack.’
‘Aye, brother. We have but this one chance to descend upon them and crush them. To crush Voldorius utterly.’
Shrike’s face turned dark once again and the Raven Guard raised a razor-sharp talon. ‘Too long have I waited to defeat my enemy.’
‘I too have hunted him,’ Kor’sarro growled. ‘For a decade, and more.’
Kor’sarro gritted his teeth and bit back a curse. No, he thought. The head of the vile one is mine to claim, this he had sworn before the Master of the White Scars himself. But little would be gained by arguing the point on the eve of battle. The matter would have to be settled when the time came.
‘Let us prepare ourselves then, brother,’ said Kor’sarro. ‘Let us ensure that the Emperor’s blessing is upon us, and victory shall be ours.’
Chapter 9
The Battle of South Nine
The attack began as the sun rose above the horizon, silhouetting black Mankarra against a blazing orange sky.
Captain Shrike powered through the air, the black plains rushing past below. He led a force of Assault squads, every one of them arrowing towards the distant orbital defence complex. Further behind, a second wave of Raven Guard ground units pressed forwards, following Shrike towards the objective.
That objective was a large ring of fortified positions, trench lines and armoured bastions. At the centre was a mighty defence battery designed to engage attacking vessels as they entered the lower atmosphere above the capital city. The battery was vast, a nest of surface-to-orbit missile launchers trained intently upon the skies.
Shrike rarely let himself feel anything resembling joy, but as he swept downwards towards the distant target he allowed himself a feral grin, his heart longing to unsheathe his talons and rend the flesh of his enemies. The attack pattern was one he and his company were well versed in, having carried out similar operations against the orks of Skullkrak dozens of times before. The Raven Guard would descend upon their foes as dark avenging angels sent by the Emperor Himself, and slaughter every last traitor defending the complex.
Then, the real battle would begin. Shrike forced down a nagging doubt seeded by generations of tension between the Raven Guard and the White Scars. Kor’sarro’s forces might allow themselves to become distracted and seek glory elsewhere. That would leave Shrike’s company to fend for itself against the massive counterattack expected to develop as the defenders brought in reinforce
ments from the capital city. It was essential to the attack on Mankarra itself that enough reserves were drawn away from the city’s walls to allow a breakthrough. But it relied upon the White Scars launching a crushing attack against the reserves before they could press home their own counterattack against the Raven Guard, a prospect which Shrike was far from comfortable with.
Casting off such thoughts, Shrike concentrated on the task at hand. The defence complex was now a mere kilometre distant. The captain located what Kor’sarro’s Scouts had reported was its weakest point. Again, the necessity to trust in the word of the White Scars arose, but Kor’sarro’s Scout-sergeant, Kholka, was good. After all, he had detected the Raven Guard’s presence at the landing site, and had later averted disaster by discovering the enemy column nearby.
Shrike brought his forces in lower as they closed on the outer ring of fortifications, the dark ground flashing by a mere dozen metres below as the first of the defended walls came into range. The walls were manned by traitor militia, scum who did not deserve the quick, merciful death they would soon be granted. Shrike would sooner have rounded the turncoat militia up and turned them over to the Commissariat, or perhaps even the Inquisition, to suffer the dark torments that would be visited upon their flesh. But he was a warrior, and such concerns were beneath him.
A platoon of militia was mustering on the high wall that ringed the complex, standing to as the sun rose. They would be groggy, for unlike Space Marines these were mere men and in all likelihood not even especially well trained or used to the rigours of the martial life. An officer was addressing the men, though Shrike could not yet hear what he was bellowing at them. Their backs were turned outwards, so they did not see that death was coming for them.
