by Gav Thorpe
‘Can you hear me, Brother Anduriel?’
The Space Marine’s reply was barely a whisper, wheezed between laboured breaths.
‘You sound far away, brother,’ said Anduriel. ‘I can feel nothing and everything is dark. Are my battle-brothers safe? I tried to shield them from the explosion.’
‘Your brothers are still fighting,’ Nestor told him. ‘I cannot heal your wounds, brother.’
There was a long pause before Anduriel spoke again.
‘I understand, brother,’ he said. ‘I have yet to pass on my gene-seed. Please recover it for the Chapter.’
‘I will, Anduriel, I will,’ Nestor said, straddling the face-down Space Marine. ‘There will be no pain.’
‘I feel nothing at all,’ said Anduriel as Nestor set to work.
The Apothecary chanted the canticles of mercy as he removed Anduriel’s helmet and laid it to one side. Placing his left palm on the back of the Space Marine’s head, he fired the narthecium’s pneumatic spike, plunging twelve inches of reinforced alloy through the Space Marine’s neck and into his brain. It was the quickest and least painful way to despatch an Astartes – a Space Marine’s boosted immune system and enhanced physiology would fight against lethal injections, causing discomfort and distress.
Nestor checked that Anduriel was truly dead and set about his next task. With scalpels and saw he cut away the spine and tissue obscuring the progenoid gland located at the base of the Space Marine’s neck. It was a delicate process, but Nestor’s armoured fingers worked with the practiced ease of five decades’ experience. He took a zero-vac containment vial from his belt and opened it, placing the jar in the dirt beside Anduriel. With two more cuts and a twist, he pulled the progenoid free. Grey and glistening, it sat in the palm of his hand. Within, the gland contained all of the DNA material of the Dark Angels, dormant and sterile, ready to be grown into fresh organs for a future recruit. Nurtured inside a battle-brother, it was the greatest gift to the Chapter a Space Marine could give.
Quickly placing the progenoid into the flask and sealing it, Nestor considered the best course of action to retrieve the twin organ in Anduriel’s chest. It would be quicker to cut through and retrieve it from behind the Space Marine’s thick breastplate, so Nestor set about cutting away sections of the spine and ribs, slicing away at the anterior muscles until he could see into the chest cavity. There were a few organs in the way, which Nestor efficiently cut free and placed to one side. As before, he readied a containment flask and removed the progenoid from its cluster of blood vessels, securing the precious gene-seed at his belt inside a rigid pouch. He placed the parts he had removed back inside the Space Marine’s body and sealed the gaping hole with bio-foam. Anduriel would be returned to the Chapter as whole as possible. Honour and dignity demanded it.
Standing up, Nestor looked around and to his surprise realised the battle was won. He had been so engrossed in his gory work he had paid no attention to the roar of tank engines cresting the ridge or the boom of cannons ripping apart the ork lines. Looking east, he saw two battlewagons careering away down the slope, followed by a few dozen orks on foot. The black bikes of a Ravenwing squadron raced after them, gunning down more of the greenskins as they fled.
The Apothecary looked down at Anduriel and commended the fallen warrior’s spirit to the Emperor and the Lion. It seemed a shame that Anduriel had not lived to see the victory he had helped to achieve. Such was the fate of all Space Marines eventually, whether young like Anduriel, or as old as the veterans of the Deathwing.
Nestor took heart from the fact that his ministrations of the day had ensured two battle-brothers would survive to fight again. To become lost in regret and mourning would be a disservice to those who had given their lives for the Imperium across the ten thousand years of the Dark Angels’ existence. Anduriel had fought well, with skill and courage, and now he knew the peace of death. Nestor hoped that when it was his time, he would pass with equal honour.
Though the orks had suffered terribly as a result of their assault on Koth Ridge – estimates placed enemy casualties at seventy-five per cent for a relative few Imperial fallen – the news from Kadillus Harbour was not so encouraging. Nestor listened as Master Chaplain Uriel explained the situation to Brother Sarpedon and Colonel Haynes of the Free Militia.
‘The orks are stubbornly resisting any attempt to dislodge them from the docks,’ said Uriel. ‘Twice in the last day they have attempted to break out of our cordon, and both times they have been held back by the slimmest of margins. Ghazghkull is probably unaware that this attempt to link with the city has failed, but if there are more orks to the east we can expect them to try again. Even with the Piscina defence force, there are not enough warriors to effectively garrison both the city and Koth Ridge.’
A shout from a picket of defence troopers down the slope interrupted the Chaplain. Nestor turned with the others to see what was causing the commotion. A vague shape emerged from one of the narrow gulleys a few hundred metres away and resolved into the figure of a Scout-sergeant, cameleoline cloak tossed back over one shoulder. As the bloodied and dirty warrior strode up the slope, Nestor recognised the new arrival as Sergeant Naaman of the 10th Company. He carried his bolter in both hands and had a sniper rifle slung over one shoulder. Of his squad and the Ravenwing squadron that had accompanied him into the east, there was no sign.
Nestor hurried down to Naaman, noticing the Space Marine had a limp and that some of the blood that stained his armour and uniform was his own. The Scout-sergeant waved away any attempt at assistance.
‘Thank you for your concern, brother, but I have a more urgent need,’ said Naaman. His eyes were intent through the mask of dried blood that covered his face. ‘I need a long-range comm. I must speak with Master Belial.’
Sarpedon joined the pair and escorted Naaman to Uriel’s Rhino, where the Master Chaplain was already stabilising the command link. Naaman took the proffered pick-up from Uriel and slumped down onto the transport’s ramp, bolter cradled in his lap. The battered-looking sergeant coughed once, took a deep breath and thumbed the activation rune.
‘Brother-Captain Belial? This is Veteran Sergeant Naaman, requesting permission to make my report.’
THE TALE OF NAAMAN
Shadow Warriors
Master Belial listened without interruption while Naaman delivered his lengthy account of what had happened in the east. Naaman simply laid out the facts of the mission: the times, places and sightings of the enemy. He held back his observations on what this information might mean to the Dark Angels’ strategy and allowed Belial a few minutes to digest the information and consult with his advisors.
He waited close to Uriel’s Rhino for the master’s return signal, watching the Piscina defence troopers digging shallow graves for their fallen comrades. Several dozen more arrived along the road as dusk darkened the ridge. Some of the men were detailed to assist Apothecary Nestor as he removed Brother Anduriel’s remains from the field. The eight men lifted up the dead Space Marine with as much dignity as they could muster, but the strain soon cut through their solemn expressions and they were puffing and sweating by the time they lowered Anduriel into the back of one of the Rhinos.
One young trooper caught the sergeant’s eye. He leaned against the hull of the transport, mopping the sweat from his face with his sleeve, raking his fingers through his thick blond hair. There was dust and blood on his uniform, which didn’t fit well: tight across his wide shoulders, baggy along his short legs.
Naaman wondered what it was like to face something like the orks as a normal man. Like his battle-brothers, the sergeant saw himself as a military asset, and the preservation of his life was a tactical objective: the preservation of force. Several times in the past day he had come close to dying, but it was the potential of failing his mission that had motivated him to survive, not an emotional attachment to his continued existence. He knew that his deeds and his memory would live on through the Chapter – and quite literally through
the gene-seed he had incubated within his body – so he felt none of the sense of ending that other men might feel about death. Even his name was something that Naaman was only borrowing from the Dark Angels; he knew the stories of twenty-six Brother Naamans that had come before and also knew that the twenty-eighth Brother Naaman would learn of his actions.
The young trooper, on the other hand, went against the enemy not knowing if he would be remembered or forgotten, or even noticed. He was just one amongst many thousands – Naaman was one amongst a thousand – and there was little chance his acts, heroic or cowardly as they might be, would ever be recorded for posterity. Millions of men like him died every day to protect and expand the realm of the Emperor. Looking at the blond-haired youth, Naaman was reminded of an Imperial saying: for every battle honour, a thousand heroes die alone, unsung and unremembered.
Naaman strode across the ridge to the group of troopers catching their breath. They turned and stared at him as he approached. The sergeant ignored their surprise and raised his fist in salute to the blond-haired trooper.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Trooper Tauno,’ the man replied hesitantly. ‘Can I help you, er, sergeant?’
‘Just remember to do your duty and fight as if the Emperor Himself watches you,’ said Naaman.
‘I will, sergeant,’ Tauno said, his gaze flickering nervously to his companions.
Naaman nodded and returned to the command Rhino, ignoring the confused whispers that erupted from the squad. Naaman could have heard them if he so decided, but it was better for the men to have their gossip to themselves.
The comm rune was blinking when he returned and he snatched up the handset.
‘This is Veteran Sergeant Naaman.’
‘Naaman, this is Master Belial. I cannot risk the Unrelenting Fury for a sensor sweep of the East Barrens geothermal plant. In your estimation, what is the strength of the remaining ork forces to the east?’
‘Any figure I could tell you would be a wild guess, brother-captain,’ replied Naaman. ‘It seems that the majority of the force I witnessed was destroyed earlier today, but whether that accounts for all, some or only a small part of the enemy army is unknown.’
‘It occurs to me that you would have seen any ship capable of holding a much larger force.’
‘I am not sure that the geothermal station was the landing site, brother-captain. It may simply have been a staging area for a ship further into the Barrens. The lack of heavier vehicles, particularly large battle fortresses and war machines, suggests that as remarkable as it may seem, we may have only encountered a vanguard of a much larger force.’
‘I find it hard to agree with that assessment, sergeant,’ said Belial. ‘We have already encountered two sizeable ork armies. It is highly unlikely that several vessels made it planetside without detection.’
‘It is improbable, brother-captain, but not impossible. Without any confirmation regarding the size and location of the landing zone, any observations are pure speculation.’
There was a pause; Naaman assumed the company commander was deciding what to do. He did not envy Belial the choice ahead of him. There were no troops to spare from the fighting in Kadillus Harbour, but if there was still a significant threat from the east, the battle in the city would be rendered pointless.
The comm crackled again.
‘It is my current view that the threat from the east has been neutralised. Any remaining ork forces will be scattered. It is imperative that these remnants are not allowed to regroup. I will order an eastward push towards Indola to clear any remaining resistance. This will be an advance-in-force, sergeant. I will send Sergeant Damas and his Scouts to join with you at Koth Ridge and you will provide standard reconnaissance and support observation for the eastward push. Confirm.’
‘Confirm, brother-captain. Join with Squad Damas and recon to the east alongside the main force.’
‘Very well, brother-sergeant. Your action in the East Barrens is exemplary of the finest traditions of the Chapter. Though not full battle-brothers, the names of your fallen Scouts will be added to the Roll of Honour for the war, alongside Sergeant Aquila and his squadron. The Third Company owes the Tenth Company a debt for the service you have provided these last few days and your part in our victory will be lauded by your brothers.’
‘I thank you for honouring the fallen, brother-captain. I will also honour them with my continued dedication to victory. Do you wish to speak to Brother Sarpedon?’
‘Master Uriel is now the force commander. Please bring him to the comm, sergeant.’
Naaman hung up the handset and attracted Uriel’s attention. As the Master Chaplain broke away from his discussions with the Free Militia colonel, Naaman walked away and sat down with his back to a low rock, facing east. The cloud had thinned and evening stars glimmered on the horizon, while the first curve of a moonrise crept into view. It would be some time before Damas arrived from the city.
Naaman closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
With more Free Militia forces arriving from across Kadillus and air-lifted from other parts of Piscina, the defence of Koth Ridge was looking more secure as Naaman and Squad Damas set out ahead of the Imperial advance. Artillery positions were being dug, linked by a growing network of trenches and emplacements. With the Free Militia continuing to dig in, the Dark Angels pressed eastwards from the ridge.
Naaman and Sergeant Damas led their Scouts along the southern flank a few kilometres ahead of the other Dark Angels. There was little sign of the orks; what debris and trails Naaman found indicated that the new warlord had retired hurriedly eastwards again, probably to regroup or perhaps to escape. Belial’s orders were straightforward: hunt down the orks and annihilate them before they could recover.
Just after mid-morning, Naaman received a comm-message on the long-range set Sergeant Damas had brought from Kadillus Harbour. It was a general transmission from the pilot on board one of the company’s three Thunderhawk gunships, which had been sent on an overflight mission of the East Barrens power plant.
‘This is Zealous Guardian, Brother Hadrazael in command. Extremis vindicus. Contacting Task Force Uriel. Please confirm reception of this signal.’
‘Confirm, Zealous Guardian. This is Vet–’
‘Zealous Guardian, Master Uriel receiving your transmission,’ the force commander cut across Naaman. The Scout-sergeant motioned for the squad to halt and take cover while he listened to the exchange.
‘Sustained damage from anti-air fire in vicinity of East Barrens thermal plant. Losing altitude. Please confirm reception readiness for report.’
‘I can hear you, Hadrazael,’ said Uriel. ‘Deliver your report.’
‘Approaching sensor sweeps detected growing life-form presence in the area around the East Barrens plant. Large energy spike also detected. We approached on a circling course at two kilometres distance. Visually identified numerous enemy in and around the facility, estimate one hundred or more orks. No visual identification to corroborate with energy spike signature. Engaged by multiple-missile anti-aircraft vehicle of unknown design. Exotic gravimetric field warhead as well as explosives. Stabilisation systems lost, instruments erratic. Visual estimate of altitude is at four thousand metres and falling.’
‘Zealous Guardian, this is Uriel. Describe composition of enemy forces at power plant.’
‘No war engines or sizeable armour seen. No static defences. Buggies, Dreadnoughts and bikes in low number. Mostly infantry, Brother-Chaplain. Transmission ending. Impact imminent.’
‘Naaman!’ Damas’s shout dragged the sergeant’s attention away from the comm-set.
A dozen kilometres or so to the east, a dark shape plummeted out of the clouds trailing fire and smoke. It cleared the line of ridges and seemed to settle on a stable course for a few hundred metres. Naaman could imagine Hadrazael struggling at the controls trying to wrestle the blocky aircraft with damaged mechanical systems and brute strength; the Thunderhawk’s borderline a
erodynamics required complex automated systems and gravity-dampeners to stay airworthy and without them Hadrazael’s only option was to slow the inevitable descent as much as was possible and crash-land.
The Thunderhawk’s nose dipped suddenly. Naaman could hear the whining of the Zealous Guardian’s engines as they were throttled into reverse. The heavily armoured gunship bobbed once, and then dived almost vertically, smashing into the ground. Stubby wings, armoured plates and tail planes spun out of the dust cloud. Naaman whipped out his monocular and through the haze and dirt could see the Thunderhawk lying on its side about four kilometres away. There was no sign of smoke or flames.
‘Secure that wreck site,’ Naaman snapped to the others. ‘Full run. There could be orks in that area.’
As the others set off towards the rising column of dust, Naaman activated the long-range comm.
‘Master Uriel, this is Naaman. We have located the crash site and are moving to secure. Any further instructions?’
‘Negative, brother-sergeant. Establish condition of crew and viability of gunship retrieval. If the Thunderhawk cannot be recovered, activate the on-board charges and destroy it. If possible, retrieve sensor logs before destruction.’
‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain. Will report on our arrival.’
Naaman ran after the others, bolter in one hand, comm-piece in the other. He jabbed the standard tactical frequency into the digipad.
‘Zealous Guardian, do you receive? Brother Hadrazael?’
There was no reply.
Damas led his Scouts in a circuitous sweep around the wreck, knowing that the crash would have attracted any orks in the area. While the Scouts patrolled, Naaman headed straight for the Thunderhawk. It was laid on the port side of the fuselage, at the end of a furrow more than a hundred metres long. The hull armour had been ripped away along with the wing and starboard portion of the tail. The starboard and fuselage engines emanated a thick haze of heat. Metal pinged and cracked as it settled. The armoured canopy of the cockpit appeared to be intact but there were shards of rock scattered in front of the Thunderhawk’s path where it had struck a large boulder before being halted.
