But there was still the Roaring Blade before him to contend with.
Tall and lank, looking like a skeleton that had been coated in a thin covering of skin and leather, or perhaps like some kind of ragged scarecrow, the Roaring Blade wielded a long, curved sabre in a two-handed grip. His skull-like head was tilted back slightly, his chapped lips open in a wide circle, and from his thin throat a disconcertingly loud sound echoed, the kind of bellowing roar that had given the Traitor Guard their name. But despite the fact that he resembled a barely animated skeleton, and had his face tilted back towards the heavens, the sound issuing from his raw throat seemingly enough to drain the scarecrow of all his strength, he was fiendishly quick with his blade, and so far had rebuffed all of Jean-Robur’s attempts to land a killing blow.
With Captain Taelos’ order to sheathe his blade echoing in his ears, Scout du Queste remained in the en garde position, presenting his side to the enemy with his sword in a one-handed grip pointing towards the Roaring Blade, his free hand held out behind him for balance. His bolt pistol was holstered at his waist, and he could almost feel the weight of it through his armour, reminding him that he had yet to accede to the captain’s orders.
The scarecrow suddenly blurred into motion, thrusting the sabre two-handed at Jean-Robur’s midsection.
Keeping his hand where it was as a fulcrum, Scout du Queste pivoted his blade around in a sweeping motion, turning the scarecrow’s attack away. Then, while the Roaring Blade was off-balance, Jean-Robur riposted with a thrust aimed at the scarecrow’s throat.
The Roaring Blade jinked to the side just before Jean-Robur’s thrust struck home, so that rather than piercing the scarecrow’s throat as intended Scout du Queste’s thrust drove deep into the Roaring Blade’s right shoulder. As the heretic’s ululations increased in pitch and volume, his eyes fluttering in ecstasy, Scout du Queste yanked his sword free of the scarecrow’s shoulder, intending to press the attack. But before Jean-Robur could bring his blade once more to bear, the scarecrow swung his sabre from side-to-side like a club, the arc aimed directly at Scout du Queste’s head.
Jean-Robur barely managed to swing his combat blade up in time to block the scarecrow’s blow, the impact jarring his elbow and shoulder. For a moment, the two combatants locked swords, each pushing forwards against the other, Jean-Robur’s combat blade and the scarecrow’s sabre sliding against one another and sending up a shower of sparks, at last slamming together hilt-against-hilt.
Jean-Robur could feel the Roaring Blade’s increased strength, as the scarecrow’s tweaked nervous system pumped adrenaline and endorphins in response to the free-bleeding shoulder wound. In another instant, the scarecrow’s strength might be even greater. If Scout du Queste was to defeat the scarecrow, it would need to be soon. And there was still Captain Taelos’ order to consider.
“Scout du Queste,” came the warning tones of Veteran-Sergeant Hilts buzzing over a private vox channel to the micro-bead in Jean-Robur’s ear.
Scout du Queste saw the perfect solution to both his dilemmas. He shoved against the Roaring Blade, pushing his combat blade against the enemy’s sabre. The scarecrow was forced back a step, putting his arms out to either side to maintain his balance. In another instant he’d be stepping forwards once more and renewing the attack, but Jean-Robur wasn’t going to give him the opportunity.
As the scarecrow lowered his black eyes to Jean-Robur and began to swing his sabre back into an attack position, Scout du Queste simply raised the bolt pistol he’d drawn from his holster as he was shoving the scarecrow forwards, and shot the Roaring Blade down.
As the scarecrow crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut, Jean-Robur began to sheath his combat blade, taking a brief instant to glance over his shoulder at Veteran-Sergeant Hilts.
“A good bolt-and-blade combination, Scout du Queste,” Hilts voxed, and Jean-Robur could see the slightest suggestion of a smile tugging up the corners of the veteran-sergeant’s mouth. “Remind me to schedule two minutes in the pain-glove when we get back to the Phalanx for the delay in following orders, but a good combination, nonetheless.”
Jean-Robur smiled, and fired another bolter round at a Roaring Blade a few paces away, the shot searing into the flesh of the Roaring Blade’s shoulder. He tightened his grip on his bolt pistol’s handle, and planted the next round in the side of the Roaring Blade’s skull, right above his ear. The renegade dropped to the ground with an ecstatic grimace on its face.
Two minutes in the pain-glove, Scout du Queste thought with a smile. I’d have expected it to be at least twice that much.
The last of the Roaring Blades fell in a hail of bolt-fire, as half-a-dozen Scouts turned their bolt pistols on it at once, hitting it with so many rounds that the wretch’s head evaporated. It fell to the ground with its sword still gripped in one hand, amidst the piles of its fallen brethren.
The only casualties sustained by the column of 10th Company Scouts had been the three Scouts felled early in the attack, all three of them having been killed by las-fire from an enemy sniper. After the last of the Roaring Blades was put down, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts paused to inspect one of the fallen enemy’s lasrifles, and it was revealed that the firearm was an antique that’d had only enough charge in its power cells for two or three shots before it was completely drained. The lasrifle was of use now only as a cudgel or club, its usefulness as a ranged weapon completely lost.
Hilts broke the lasrifle in half with a single footfall of his booted foot. “A few hundred infantry armed only with blades and depleted weapons? This can’t be meant as a serious threat, can it?”
Captain Taelos glanced at three lifeless bodies in gold, which were laid out side-by-side at the bottom of the valley. “Threat enough to cost the Chapter three neophytes,” the captain answered, “but not much more than that.”
Veteran-Sergeant Derex, whose Squad Ursus was now only seven Scouts strong, scanned the horizon, his bolter still in his hands. “The reports were that the Chaotic forces had overrun this world, and wiped out the PDF to a man.”
Veteran-Sergeant Karn came to stand beside him. “Not with troops like these, they didn’t. Spirited fighters, I’ll grant, but not armed like this. And what of the Emperor’s Children?”
“They could be elsewhere, lying in wait. Perhaps these Emperor-forsaken wretches were sent out as a delaying tactic?” Captain Taelos suggested. “Or possibly they represent a unit that got separated from the main body of the enemy forces?” He looked from one veteran-sergeant to another, studying their expressions. “Hardly matters now. Form up your squads, sergeants. We’re making for the mountain stronghold, best possible speed.”
The veteran-sergeants crashed their forearms across their chests and then raised their fists in salute. Captain Taelos returned the salute, and then as the veteran-sergeants went off to muster their squads, he looked back to the bodies of the Traitor Guard which lay scattered all around.
Three more bodies to add to his count. Three more deaths for which he would one day atone, when given leave to go on his Warrior’s Pilgrimage.
The Scouts of the 10th Company advanced over the remaining hills and rises marching three abreast, with Squads Vulpes and Ursus formed into single ranks on either side of Squad Pardus, who marched up the middle. The Scouts on either side were given orders to cover the approaches to north and south, respectively, with Squad Pardus concentrating their attention on the horizon directly before them. If they encountered another group of enemy elements, they would already be in position to form up in a defensive wedge and to respond appropriately.
Despite the fact that all of them—Scouts and sergeants alike—were keyed up after the recent exchange and prepared for another fight, as hill after crunching hill passed beneath their boots the column marched on with no additional sign of the enemy.
The mountain stronghold loomed ever larger in the west, until finally they had crested the last hill of shale and flint and stood upon the mountain’s foot. To the north snaked a massi
ve overground pipeline that ran from a tunnel blasted halfway up the northern face of the mountain and out across the undulating grey hills. A quarter of the way around the circumference of the mountain, facing the eastward direction from which the Scouts had come, was a wide ledge cut into the living rock a few metres above the surrounding landscape. Ramps were cut into the slope leading down to the right and left from the ledge, and tracks which snaked from the base of the ramp off towards the north suggested the ramps had been used by ground transport at some point in the recent past. Behind the ledge was set the hatch through which the transports had evidently passed, and it was clear to see that even the largest transports would have had no difficulty in entering. The hatch was massive, easily large enough for a Dreadnought to march through without scraping the top or sides.
This hatch was open, it seemed to Zatori against all logic or wisdom, leaving vulnerable whomever or whatever lay within. But he quickly saw that there was no immediate cause for alarm, as a half-dozen battle-brothers of the Imperial Fists were currently standing along the edge of the ledge, their gaze scanning the horizon. On seeing the approach of Captain Taelos and the 10th Company column, one of the Space Marines upon the ledge raised a fist in salute.
Scout Zatori watched as Captain Taelos tilted his head fractionally to one side for an instant, an unconscious gesture that indicated he was receiving a vox transmission to the micro-bead in his ear, and then he turned to Scout Zatori and the rest of the 10th Company with a faint smile on his weathered and scarred face.
“It appears that we are expected.”
* * *
“With all due respect, Captain Lysander, what do you mean, ‘gone’?” Captain Taelos stood with his hand on the hilt of his power sword, his helmet mag-locked against his hip.
Captain Lysander gestured to the trio of Vernalian locals who stood a short distance off, two men and a woman who wore the luxuriant and extravagant clothing of the planet’s ruling elite. Each of the three displayed their family crest somewhere on their person, whether on a gold medallion hanging from a necklace, or embroidered on the breast of a tunic, or even tattooed with luminous ink onto the skin of their forehead. The three Vernalians were just at the range of earshot, and kept casting anxious glances at the Imperial Fists, almost as though they were grateful for their arrival but worried that Captain Lysander and his Astartes might turn their weapons on them at any moment. It was a common reaction on the part of normal humans on first encountering an Astartes, and Taelos had experienced it himself countless times before.
They stood in a vast, vacant loading bay not far inside the metal hatch on the mountain’s eastern face. The smell of petrochem was heavy in the air, and from the corridors that led into the mountain’s heart could be heard the distant whispers of a throng of people all talking at once, the huddled survivors discussing what the arrival of the Imperial Fists to their beleaguered world presaged.
“The accounts of our hosts are corroborated by the logs of the automated planetary defences,” Lysander said matter-of-factly, “and by our own orbital surveillance. The bulk of the enemy forces appear to have left the planet more than a week ago, and while we don’t know precisely how many infantry elements were left behind on Vernalis—such as the Traitor Guard you encountered en route—it is believed that they are relatively few in number.”
“Without the ability to make astropathic contact,” Captain Khrusaor added, “they had no way of letting anyone know. They apparently sent out radio signals that are even now only a few light-days away, if anyone was in the path of the signal to receive it.”
“Few enough ground forces were left behind,” Lysander said, “that there’s every possibility that they simply missed the last ship out. It seems that, unable to overcome the planet’s automated defence systems, the enemy opted to cut their losses and move on.”
Taelos scowled, a crease forming that connected the four golden service studs affixed to his forehead. “But where did they go?”
“I believe that…” Lysander began, and then raised a gauntleted finger for silence as his head tilted almost imperceptibly to one side. He paused for a brief instant, listening to a closed-channel vox, and then nodded. “As I suspected,” he finally continued, lowering his hand and frowning. “The Titus signals that they have received astropathic communication from the planet Quernum, an Imperial colony a few light years from here. Quernum reports that they are under attack by Chaotic forces, whose orbital vessels match the composition and variety of the craft scanned by the Vernalian defence systems.”
Captain Lysander looked from Taelos to Khrusaor, and nodded.
“Brothers,” he said, “it would appear we are now bound for Quernum.”
Lysander turned to Captain Taelos.
“Captain, I will take the Titus and the squads of the 1st and 5th Companies to Quernum to hunt down this heretical scum, while you and your Scouts of the 10th will remain here to defend the inhabitants against any lingering Chaotic forces, and to hunt down and eliminate any enemy elements that remain.” He paused, and then added significantly, “And keep careful watch for any sign of the arch-traitor Sybaris.”
Lysander turned to the three Vernalians.
“You and your people are to remain here in the mountain stronghold, under Captain Taelos’ direct authority.”
The Vernalians seemed less than pleased with this.
“Do I understand you correctly?” said the Vernalian with the family crest tattooed in gently glowing ink upon his forehead. He was storming over to the place where the three captains stood, his two fellow Vernalians trailing uncertainly behind. “Weeks we spend occupied by one invading force, and now we’re expected to remain in the Bastion under the thumb of yet another occupying power?”
Lysander looked down at the Vernalian noble, who stood scarcely more than half his own height. The First Captain of the Imperial Fists, the Master of the 1st Company himself, paused for a moment, as though marshalling his reserves of patience and self-control, resisting the impulse to respond to the little man in kind. Space Marines were not used to being addressed in such a fashion, and it took considerable restraint for Lysander not to backhand the man across the floor.
“Our orders are to defend Vernalis and to scour the stain of Chaos from the face of the planet,” Lysander said in calm, measured tones. “And that is precisely what we will do.”
Taelos was puzzled. Stay behind and protect a group of civilian refugees while Lysander and the others carried the battle to Quernum? This was hardly the typical duty of an Astartes. And why was Lysander so quick to believe the enemy had quit the planet, when there was still every chance that a larger force had remained behind in hiding, waiting for their moment to strike?
But he was a dutiful Imperial Fist, and went where he was ordered to go, even if it meant that he and the Scouts under his command would not see any real action.
Lysander must have seen the confusion on Taelos’ face, for he paused and regarded him meaningfully. “Captain Taelos, you have your orders.”
The captain of the 10th Company crashed his arm against his chest and raised his fist in salute. “In the name of Dorn!”
PART FOUR
“The wise warrior plans out his actions meticulously.”
–Rhetoricus, The Book of Five Spheres
CHAPTER TEN
Scout Jean-Robur du Queste and his brothers in Scout Squad Pardus mustered in a single rank out in the open air, the mournful wind that whistled past the open hatch sounding like the haunting voices of the damned. They stood on the ledge cut into the eastern face of the mountain slope. The locals apparently called the mountain the Bastion, though the name was not written down in any of the planetary surveys, and if the reports were to be believed every living inhabitant of Vernalis, all of those who had survived the attacks of the forces of Chaos, were sheltered within.
“You should make yourselves at home, Scouts,” Veteran-Sergeant Hilts said dryly, the hint of a smile shadowing the corners of his m
outh. “It doesn’t appear we’ll be going anywhere, any time soon.”
Jean-Robur had at first been unsure why the locals had remained within the spartan and austere confines of the mountain, which had not been intended for long-term inhabitation by anyone, much less thousands of refugees. But then Veteran-Sergeant Hilts had explained that the hab-domes to the north, which the bulk of the planet’s inhabitants had called home, had been left by the Chaos forces in an uninhabitable state, and that the Bastion contained the only facility of a sufficient size to house thousands that was still capable of generating light, heat, water and sustenance.
The living conditions were cramped and uncomfortable, to be sure, but it was the clear choice when the alternative was weathering a cold Vernalian night out on the shale dunes, or sheltering in the refineries down on the shores of the petrochem seas. The interior of the Bastion was at least climate-controlled, heated in the cold of night and cooled in the heat of the Vernalian day, and while the whole place was pervaded by the rangy stench of petrochem, it appeared there was no place on Vernalis that wasn’t.
“While Squads Vulpes and Ursus are away,” Hilts went on, “it falls to us to patrol and defend the approaches to the Bastion.”
Captain Lysander and the rest of Task Force Gauntlet left for Quernum nearly a day before, and were still doubtless en route through the warp for the neighbouring world. Taking into consideration the vagaries of calculating the time needed for any journey through the empyrean, much less the two legs of the trip outbound and inbound and the uncertain amount of time needed to defeat the Chaotic forces on Quernum, the Scouts of the 10th Company who had remained on Vernalis had no way of knowing how long they would wait until the strike cruiser Titus returned for them.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 18
