by Various
‘All units, engage,’ said Uriel.
The elongated form of a Land Speeder Storm dropped through the toxic smoke above the outpost, and Uriel saw four muzzle flashes as Ancient Peleus and Torias Telion took their shots. Stalker-pattern bolter shells took out the rocket crews, ensuring no more would be fired, but there was still one incoming round.
Uriel swung the cupola-mounted storm bolter around and mashed the triggers.
A hail of explosive rounds filled the air, and Uriel calmly walked his fire into the missile’s erratic path. The rocket exploded with a dull cough, its armour-penetrating warhead detonating fifty metres away.
The Land Speeder flew a screaming evasion pattern over the outpost, Telion and Peleus picking off targets with every shot. Rockets flew up towards them, but none came anywhere near the nimble flyer.
‘Hadrianus,’ said Uriel as the Rhino reached the outpost’s mismatched gates. The assault doors slammed back and Livius Hadrianus stepped onto the Rhino’s running boards. He fired two blasts from his meltagun and the gates vanished in a thunderous bang of superheated air and vaporised metal. Sagging nubs of molten steel were all that remained of the gates, and the Rhino skidded into the compound.
Uriel saw dead greenskins everywhere he looked, each killed cleanly with a bolt-round to the head. Fabricatus Ubrique and the highborn twins of House Nassaur were bound to oil-soaked crucifixes, their elaborate attire now ruined with mud and blood. All three were alive, their executioners-in-waiting lying at their feet with the tops of their skulls missing.
Two dozen greenskins remained on the overlooking gantries, and Uriel turned the storm bolters on those on the eastern sections. Thudding blasts blew orks back and ripped them apart in quick succession. Distant echoes of ranged bolter fire sounded from the hills as Pasanius’s covering squad opened up from concealment.
The greenskins milled in confusion.
The attack had come so suddenly, so brutally, that they had no idea in which direction to concentrate their force. A brute of an ork ran towards his captives, bigger than the rest and boasting a horned helm and monstrously clawed arm. The greenskin leader knew his fleeting defiance was over, but was determined to murder his prisoners.
A figure in cobalt-blue armour dropped from the circling speeder and landed with a grace that should have been impossible in the cloying mud. Petronius Nero rose and drew his sword in one sinuous motion. He spun with his newly-forged blade extended at shoulder height, and the horned helm and head of the greenskin was cut cleanly from its neck.
Uriel dropped from the Rhino and accepted his own bolter from Brutus Cyprian, who finished off the few remaining orks with kill-shots from his pistol. The Land Speeder skimmed lower, allowing Telion and Peleus to drop from its crew spaces. Two Ultramarines Scouts followed swiftly after and moved to high vantage points.
‘Outpost clear,’ voxed Telion, scanning the outpost with his hunter’s gaze.
Uriel nodded and banged a fist on the side of the Rhino.
Adept Komeda emerged from the troop compartment, his optics clicking as they adjusted for the change in light levels. A delighted squeal of sycophantic binary hissed from his clattering mouth as he saw Fabricatus Ubrique.
‘Adept Komeda was wrong to doubt you, Captain Ventris, this is an entirely satisfactory outcome,’ said Komeda. ‘The Mechanicus owes you a debt of gratitude.’
‘Sycorax is part of Ultramar.’ said Uriel. ‘Your gratitude is unnecessary.’
‘Adept Komeda offers it nonetheless.’
The Swords of Calth formed up around Uriel as Komeda hurried over to the Fabricatus and units of Skitarii moved in to secure the site.
‘What now, captain?’ asked Ancient Peleus.
‘Now we get these highborns home in one piece,’ said Uriel.
The world turned black.
His vision returned moments later. The Space Marine had not been unconscious for long – he could tell that from the debris still falling from the explosion. There was an elusive thought at the back of his brain, a question that refused to surface, but then he took his first breath of air and pain stabbed through his chest. With an effort, he picked himself up from the blood-slicked mud and almost fell as his body doubled over in agony.
Something is wrong. You are of the Adeptus Astartes and should not have felt pain like that, not unless…
With a thought, he activated his auto-senses’ medicae augurs. A multitude of red lights flashed in front of his eyes, warning him that the damage to his body was severe. His secondary heart had stopped beating, his Larraman’s organ was failing and massive internal bleeding had been detected. The warning sigils continued to flash urgently for a few seconds, but then the Space Marine blink-clicked the display away. He didn’t need an Apothecary to interpret the extent of the damage. He was losing blood quickly, his genhanced body unable to stem the tide. He was dying, and fast. The knowledge brought with it a calming peace, and then the question that had been gnawing at the back of his mind suddenly swam into clarity.
What is your name?
He looked down at his body, the coating of mud and blood not quite obscuring the red and yellow of his battle-scarred power armour. Howling Griffon, Scion of Guilliman, Angel of Death. He was all these things, but they were titles, not names. The Space Marine surveyed the mist-wreathed battlefield, unsure of where exactly he was. A great battle had certainly been fought here, for he could see several other armoured figures lying dead in the churned mud. They were his battle-brothers. He could name each and every one of them and recall fighting at their side on a hundred worlds.
So why can’t you remember your name?
A shape loomed on the edge of his vision, pushing through the pall shrouding the battlefield. The figure resolved into an over-muscled, green-skinned brute, the unmistakable sight of an ork. Several others lumbered up behind the first, and as soon as they caught sight of the Space Marine they bellowed deep-throated war cries and charged.
The sight of the orks jogged something in his brain, a memory of his captain issuing orders. ‘Hold the line’, he had said simply. ‘Secure the beachhead until the company reaches your position. The greenskins must not break through.’
Thoughts of his name were put aside for a time. The enemy was upon him and he had a duty to perform.
He moved without thinking, bringing his bolter up in a smooth arc and drawing a bead on the shape at the lead of the mob. He pulled the trigger and the weapon roared. The Space Marine could see the bolt-round fly towards its target, see the infinitesimal delay between punching through the ork’s skull and blowing it apart from the inside. The headless corpse toppled forwards, a red mist hanging in the air as the body pitched into the mud. He was already tracking his bolter to the right, aiming at the next alien savage. The bolter barked again and again, each shot a hammer blow that punched another shape from its feet. Four more orks fell in quick succession, yet three more came on, iron-shod boots trampling the slain deeper into the blood-soaked muck.
The Howling Griffon drew a careful bead on the nearest ork, lining his bolter’s sights between the alien’s eyes before pulling the trigger. He heard a click. It was a small sound, but echoed loudly in his ears. He was dimly aware of a meter flashing zero on his helmet’s lens, a peripheral image that brought unbidden a flash of an ancient memory: a grizzled sergeant chastising him as a recruit for making just such an error.
How can you remember that but not your name?
A roar snapped his attention back to the now, the first greenskin mere strides from him, weapon raised. Though his body burned with pain, the Space Marine moved on instinct, stepping to the side and smashing the butt of his bolter’s grip into the greenskin’s throat. The blow crunched through cartilage back to the ork’s spine and the alien was dead before its body hit the ground. The move was muscle-memory, born of years of training. The same reflexes saved him as the second ork swung its axe.
The Howling Griffon dropped his empty bolter and caught the haft of the weapon
in his open palm. The impact almost broke his arm, but the axe came to a shuddering halt and the Space Marine smashed his other fist into the ork’s jaw. Teeth broke with the impact and the ork’s head snapped back violently. It was a punch that would have pulped a man’s head, but the ork was tough and recovered quickly. The alien roared fury into the Space Marine’s face, bloody drool spattering against his helmet. The deafening noise was cut off with a rasping gurgle when the Howling Griffon unsheathed his combat blade and rammed it into his foe’s throat. With a grunt, he kicked the corpse off his knife, but not in time to block the last ork’s arcing punch.
The Howling Griffon was knocked flying and landed hard on his back, pain lancing through his battered body once more. The ork, the biggest and ugliest one yet, looked down at its stricken prey and grinned as it advanced, the jaws of the great mechanical shears it had in place of an arm snapping open and shut in hungry anticipation. The Space Marine had lost his knife and tried to rise and draw his pistol. The ork’s boot smashed down on his breastplate, pinning him to the floor as the metal pincers clamped shut around his gun arm, cleaving through ceramite, flesh and bone in one piston-driven instant. The Howling Griffon was beyond pain now, on the brink of death, his vision growing dim. The ork loomed over him and raised its gleaming claw to finish the kill.
The death blow never came. The ork jerked backwards without warning, a fist-sized hole punching through its chest. One shot, then another. The third blew the hulking brute backwards and as the Space Marine tilted his head, he caught sight of gold and crimson figures striding towards him, smoking bolters searching the distance for more foes to slay. They were calling out to him. It was his name, he was sure, but he could not make it out, muffled as it was over the echoing thump of his very last heartbeat in his ears. It didn’t matter anyway. His name, whatever it was, would be added to the Chapter’s roll of honour. He was a Space Marine, a Howling Griffon, and he had done his duty.
The world turned black for the last time.
I breathe in and taste ashes. Ashes and death.
The sun squints out from behind yellow clouds and smog. Acid rain hits my battleplate, hissing softly and curdling the black and bone paintwork. Hundreds of my Mortifactors brothers stand behind me, unmoving statues. Steam and smoke rises from their armour. Before us lies a hive city that reaches up into the sky like a desperate, grasping hand.
The hive is burning.
The distant wailing of hundreds of thousands of human voices carries on the wind. It is near-constant, like background distortion on a vox-channel. Titans move through the smog, illuminated by the fires and the flaring discharge of their weapons. I can feel their tread, even out here.
We stand at the foot of the city walls but we are not alone. Legions of dirty, grey-brown tanks churn the ground and rattle and squeal behind us. Hordes of mortal men in breather masks clutch their lasguns with grim determination. I smell the fear on them despite the stink of the chemical rain.
Inside the city, the enemy burn and ruin and roar.
I take a step forward and I falter, falling to one knee. My chest burns.
A hand on my arm. I look up. It is one of my brothers. He pulls me to my feet without a word.
I do not recognise him.
Inside the city, the Titan-tread rattles my teeth.
The smog is thicker here. It coils around my limbs as if it is sentient. I can no longer see the battle tanks, though I can still hear their engines chugging.
At a crossroads, we meet our foe.
A huddle of thick-necked orks bark and snap at each other beside the smoking hull of a Chimera transport. They club at the access hatches, knocking great ugly dents into the metal.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I start to run and the rhythmic pounding echoes in my ears. My chest burns.
The orks only turn to face me when I am close enough to see every pitted crack in their monstrous faces. I bring my bolter to bear. Three shots tear the first ork to pieces, separating his top and bottom jaws like a flower opening. The next ork in line howls in animal pain, shattered pieces of tooth and bone lacerating its face and neck, blinding it.
I silence its wailing with a clubbing strike from my crozius, caving in its brow. It lands a lucky strike with its blade as it dies, the rusty metal digging deep underneath my chest plate. I try to curse but it is blood that leaves my lips, not words.
I haul myself up onto the top of the transport. The other greenskins are gone. I cannot see my brothers either. Perhaps the smog hides them from me.
I hear a noise behind me and turn.
A huge, rusted claw clamps on to the hull of the transport, bending the metal shell of the tank. A massive black-skinned ork uses the claw to drag its bulk up onto the roof of the tank beside me. The creature is vast, at least twice my height. Strapped to its shoulders are huge pieces of curved metal.
Tank armour. It is wearing tank armour.
I ready my weapons and the ork roars.
The metal claw connects with my chest, knocking the air out of my body in a bloody gasp.
I see ground, sky, ground, sky.
Ground.
I blink heavily. I am lying at the base of a rockcrete wall. Pieces of my fused ribcage grind together as I breathe. My chest burns. I roll onto my back and reach for my weapons but they are gone.
A huge shape blocks the light out. The ork. It plants its foot on my chest, pressing my body into the stinking mud. I can’t breathe.
The claw comes down and closes around my battle-helm. I draw my combat blade, jamming it into the meat of the ork’s thigh. The creature doesn’t seem to notice. It just pushes down harder with its foot, splitting the ceramite of my plastron. Something inside my chest bursts under the pressure. Blood washes into my mouth.
The claw tightens around my helm and twists. The seals snap and hiss, and it is torn loose from the collar of my suit. The ork wrenches it free and throws it to one side. I see it land in the dirt, crushed. The acid rain starts to sting my face.
The pressure on my chest eases for a moment as the ork removes its foot. I try to get to my feet.
I manage to get to my knees.
The ork’s unarmoured hand closes around my neck, lifting me from the ground.
I stare it in the eyes. Those tiny eyes set deep in its head, burning like the last embers in an untended grate. The ork grunts and barks through a mouthful of yellowing tusks. I think it is laughing.
I spit in its face. In its eyes. The acidic saliva eats into the ork’s flesh and it roars, enraged. The metal claw wraps around my chest and squeezes.
My lungs burst.
My hearts judder.
My chest burns.
I awaken. It is like breaking the surface after swimming up from the aphotic depths of an ocean.
‘Gavador,’ a voice from beside me says the name. My name.
I blink heavily and breathe deep. I should not be alive. I should…
‘Gavador,’ the voice repeats.
The lights are bright and my eyes adjust slowly. I am in an apothecarion.
No.
The apothecarion. I am in the main apothecarion aboard the Basilica Mortis.
‘Gavador, can you hear me?’ the voice says again.
I look now and I actually see. Apothecary Hekimar stands beside me. The bright white light reflects glaringly off his armour-plate.
‘The vision nearly killed you this time,’ He says with a cold smile. ‘Both your hearts arrested whilst you dreamt. I have never seen the like.’
I remember. The vision-quest. The battle with the orks. It was a premonition. It was an omen.
‘Armageddon,’ I say. My voice is a rattling gasp. ‘I saw it. We must go to Armageddon.’
Hekimar nods solemnly.
‘You were not the only Chaplain to see Armageddon.’
I sit up, breathless.
‘Who else?’
Hekimar looks at me with another cold smile.
‘All of them.’
&nb
sp; ‘I suppose that concludes our business, Lord Konstantos. I must say that the… famously inhospitable nature of the Doom Legion has not been exaggerated.’
Konstantos, the Chapter Master of the Doom Legion, looked down at the inquisitor with a mixture of cool cordiality and barely concealed contempt.
‘Given the nature of your mission, Inquisitor Hassan, I feel that I have been more than hospitable. You will be eager to return to your own ship, where you may seek more… comfort.’
The Space Marine’s words were ice. The inquisitor sighed and nodded, handing the Chapter Master a holo-scroll bearing his seal.
‘Very well, I will depart immediately. Our agreement is contained within those documents, a copy of which will be sent to Holy Terra. I suppose, Lord Konstantos, that we must be thankful that your entire Chapter did not enter the Eye of Terror, or perhaps you would all have fallen from the path of righteousness.’
‘My men have ever been loyal. I cannot begin to imagine what horrors they must have faced to turn their backs on the Imperium, and I would not be so sure that you could have fared better. I warn you, inquisitor, that I will not tolerate insinuations about the loyalty of the Doom Legion. Four companies remain, and we will eradicate the stain on our honour. Be sure of it.’
‘Oh, I hope so. But I will not be sure of anything until the gene-seed has been tested. You know the procedure, my lord. Should your stock be found wanting, there will be great challenges ahead of you.’
‘The Adeptus Terra will find no hint of corruption. We were born of Guilliman himself and have fought proudly for millennia.’
‘Indeed you have. Then again, the Dionys storm claimed many a noble servant of the Emperor, did it not?’
‘Perhaps. Though we only have the word of a false saint to that effect. Tell me, inquisitor, do you seek to damn us with the word of Basillius? Is such a decision in itself not heretical?’
It was the inquisitor’s turn to glare at the Space Marine who towered over him. He suddenly felt very alone on the bridge of the Faithful’s Deliverance. The large chamber had been vacated so that they may speak freely. Hassan had with him two servo-scribes, whilst Konstantos had kept Chaplain Vincenzo by his side. The Chaplain was silent as the grave, as always.
