‘No?’ Nullus crowed. ‘You have no proud boast, Scarred One?’
As his opponent pressed forwards again, his black-bladed halberd held ready to strike at any moment, it occurred to Kor’sarro that he might find some advantage in Nullus’s tirade. ‘What boast would you have me make?’ said Kor’sarro.
Nullus chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘What of the deeds of your beloved primarch?’
Forcing himself to calm as he allowed his enemy to berate him, Kor’sarro took the brief opportunity to gauge the progress of the larger battle. The traitor horde still surged all around, the White Scars driving a wedge into them. The banner of Third Company waved proudly nearby. The Alpha Legion were advancing upon his brethren and above it all, smoke stained the sky and gunfire stitched the air. Explosions and screams rose on the wind, mingled with the wild outpourings of the cultists and the mournful cries of the traitor militia.
All of this Kor’sarro discerned in but an instant, but there was nothing he could do to influence the strategy of his army. His cold eyes snapped back to his opponent. But in that instant, Nullus had raised his weapon and was making another lunge. There was no time to move, only to bring Moonfang up for another parry. The black halberd struck the base of Moonfang’s blade, and the two combatants matched their strength against one another, before pushing apart and stepping backwards. The blade’s power field flickered again, and Kor’sarro offered up a silent prayer that its blessed generator might withstand the halberd’s fell sorcery.
In that brief moment of contact, Kor’sarro had gained some measure of Nullus’s unnatural strength. The Master of the Hunt had pitted himself against every foe the universe had thrown at him, from tyranid carnifexes to cthellian ursids. The raw power behind that black halberd was as strong as any he had faced.
‘Where is your primarch now?’ Nullus pressed on, once more seeking to force a mistimed lunge or vengeful strike from Kor’sarro.
‘The blessed Great Khan hunts,’ Kor’sarro spat, seeking in turn to draw some misjudged response from Nullus. ‘He hunts the likes of you.’
Nullus advanced around the rim of the smoking hole in the top of the wrecked Ironsoul, Kor’sarro giving ground before him, if unwillingly. The proud banner of the 3rd came into view again, far closer this time. ‘How do you know he lives at all?’ Nullus sneered. ‘Perhaps he just hates that stinking mire you call a home world as much as I did.’
Nullus was turning his tirade back to the subject of the White Scars home world of Chogoris. He had claimed to be the whisper in the night, a spirit feared by many tribes, but vanished from Chogoris since before Jaghatai Khan had united the nations. The words of the Stormseers came once more to his mind…
…and then Nullus lunged forwards again, a mighty two-handed blow coming from nowhere. Kor’sarro dived aside as the black blade arced past. As it closed, the halberd emitted a piercing scream, the sound of a caged predator giving voice to a thousand years of bitterness and torment. The tip of the halberd scored a jagged line across his left shoulder plate, and tore his flowing cloak in two. Power bled from his armour’s systems, sucked into the halberd’s blade, and Kor’sarro’s movements became sluggish as his actuators whined. Kor’sarro rolled across the wreck’s upper deck, pulling himself to his feet upon a buckled and blackened grille that groaned in protest at his weight.
Nullus came on, the halberd scything, its shrill scream growing ever louder. His face was a twisted mass of scar tissue, forming into new and vile configurations as his expressions shifted. Kor’sarro fought with every ounce of his warrior skill and ferocity to fend off the champion of Voldorius, but with each blow, the Master of the Hunt was being pushed back towards the edge.
‘He thought he could beat me too,’ Nullus sneered. When Kor’sarro gave no reply other than a savage and unanticipated counterattack, he continued. ‘He thought he had banished the whisper in the dark, the voices in the night, but he was wrong…’
And then it came to Kor’sarro. The tales the Stormseers told the neophytes. Some believed them simple tales, but Kor’sarro saw now they were anything but myth. ‘I know thee…’ he said, a new conviction entering his voice.
‘Yes,’ Nullus replied. ‘We’ve already done that part.’
‘Kagayaga,’ Kor’sarro spat, stepping backwards to the very edge of the deck.
Nullus stopped dead in his tracks as Kor’sarro spoke the name. It was true, then. The spirit of the dread night, the daemon-thing which Chapter legend stated the Primarch Jaghatai Khan had banished over ten thousand years ago, was real, and standing before him. Perhaps this body, armoured in the mantle of the Alpha Legion, was not Kagayaga, but the thing within it, the blackness behind those eyes, most certainly was, of that he was now sure.
‘So,’ Nullus sneered, his scarred face split into a wide, leering grin. ‘You do know me, after all.’
At that instant, the banner of the Third Company rose fully into view directly behind Nullus. A moment later its bearer, Brother Temu, hauled himself onto the deck. Beside Temu was the newly appointed company champion, Brother Kergis.
‘As you once were banished from Chogoris,’ Kor’sarro called aloud, ‘so you are now banished from Quintus!’
Nullus began to form a mocking response, but the air was split by the sharp report of a bolt pistol round before the words could come forth. Brother Kergis’s pistol sent a bolt-round into the back of Nullus’s head, the round shattering his skull and penetrating deep into his brain. An instant later, the mass-reactive shell detonated.
But Nullus was no ordinary man to be slain so easily. As the shell exploded, the rent flesh of Nullus’s vile face resisted, even though it appeared to stretch and distort. Kor’sarro knew then that the champion of Voldorius was exerting every shred of his power in the effort of reknitting his form, so that he might fight on.
Kor’sarro reached for his belt and drew his bolt pistol. As his strength returned and his armour recovered from the energy drain Nullus’s daemon-blade had inflicted, he raised his arm to draw a bead on the other’s grossly distorted head.
‘For Jhogai,’ said Kor’sarro.
Kor’sarro fired and Nullus could keep his mortal form intact no longer. With a shower of gore, the scarred head came apart, showering all three White Scars with oozing grey matter. At the last, the body of the champion of Voldorius fell to its knees before the champion of Kor’sarro, and then pitched sideways into the smoking hole atop the ruined Ironsoul.
‘Filthy as thou art,’ Kor’sarro completed the line of the rite of exorcism, spitting into the hole the body had toppled into.
With the death of Nullus, the Alpha Legionnaires began to fall back towards the walls of Mankarra. The White Scars pressed their attacks, bike squadrons and Assault squads taking a fearsome toll on their ancient, bitter enemies as they disengaged. When it became clear that the Alpha Legion were a spent force, Kor’sarro ordered his squads to consolidate, for they had become spread out as each pursued its own individual battle against its foes.
The Master of the Hunt stood atop the smoking wreckage of the Ironsoul and ordered the banner of the Third Company brought to his side. Banks of black smoke drifted across the battlefield, but as if the Emperor Himself had willed it, they parted as the banner was raised. In that moment, every warrior on the battlefield saw the banner as it waved gloriously from its vantage point. Standing beside it was Kor’sarro, Khan of the Third Company, his white armour streaked with dirt and gore and his lava-wolf pelt cloak ragged and torn as it fluttered in the wind behind him. His face bled from a thousand microscopic cuts and his armour was rent and cracked in a dozen places.
Yet, Kor’sarro appeared to his brotherhood as glorious as any of the Chapter’s most revered heroes. He stood straight and proud, as had those greatest of men who had walked at the side of the primarch himself. The White Scars rallied to Kor’sarro and the banner beside him. Within minutes, the Chaplains and Stormseers that had accompanied the strike force stood upon the wrecked
tank beside their khan, and almost a hundred battle-brothers gathered all about.
To the enemy, the sight of the banner being raised high above the battlefield was the signal of their own defeat. Kor’sarro appeared to the traitorous horde a being of terrible vengeance sent to bring the Emperor’s justice upon them all. Worse still, word of the death of Nullus had spread quickly through the horde. None needed to exaggerate the story with the retelling. The sight of the Alpha Legion breaking off from the fight and falling back on the walls of Mankarra confirmed the worst of their fears. The horde’s erstwhile tormentors had abandoned it entirely to the vengeance of the White Scars.
As one, a thousand cultists fell on their knees and a great wailing rose across the battlefield. The White Scars would never know if that dire sound represented a plea for forgiveness or a bemoaning of fate. Even as the White Scars looked on with horror, the assembled cultists began to scourge themselves with chains, hooks, spikes and any other implement that came to hand including the severed limbs of their fellows. The White Scars turned their faces from the vile spectacle, knowing that the wretches were beyond even the mercy of the Emperor of Mankind.
While the cultists surrendered themselves to whatever fate awaited them, the greater number of the horde, the pressed militias, were gripped by sheer, unadulterated terror. These men and women knew they had committed the sin of treachery, for death at the hands of the Alpha Legion would have been an honourable end compared to the fate they had submitted to by allowing themselves to be enslaved.
With the sight of the White Scars banner waving victorious above the black plain, ten thousand traitor militia dropped their weapons and fled for the imagined safety of the walls of Mankarra. As the White Scars looked on in disgust, the fear surged through the horde, passing even to the breach in the wall of defence installation South Nine. In an instant, the tide was turned. The hordes swarming through the breach stalled, a great roar of terror rising to mingle with the wailing of the cultists. Then the direction of movement reversed, and the swarm that had been assaulting the breach was surging away from it.
Inside the walls, Captain Kayvaan Shrike found himself facing not an unstoppable tide of enemies but a rapidly receding torrent of fleeing, panic-stricken traitors. His first instinct was to order his squads to open fire on the enemy as they fled, to gun the foe down without mercy. But Shrike’s force had run so dangerously low on ammunition that even when magazines were shared out each warrior had only a single clip remaining. Reluctantly, Shrike ordered his squads to follow up their routing foe, to ensure none remained, but to allow them to flee unmolested.
Back on the plain, the last of the horde was surging around the wreck of the Ironsoul as a raging torrent breaks around a rock. The White Scars too allowed the traitors to flee. Thunderhawks were inbound to extract the squads, rearm them and move them rapidly to their next objective – the walls of Mankarra itself. The strike force’s armoured vehicles, the Vindicator siege tank known as Thunderheart at their head, were already formed into a spearhead which was arrowing towards the gates of the capital city.
As the Space Marines boarded gunships and Rhinos, the skies above the plain were split by a deafening thunderbolt. A moment later, the last of the battle-brothers embarking in their transports saw what at first appeared to be a storm of meteors falling from the skies high above.
The Ninth Eye, the flagship of Lord Voldorius, had moved into orbit and on its master’s order unleashed a fearsome orbit-to-surface bombardment. Warheads the size of tanks streaked from the skies upon black contrails. The first struck the wreckage of the Ironsoul, atomising the twisted ruin and blasting a crater ten metres deep and fifty across. But the White Scars were already gone, speeding away in their armoured transports.
The next warhead plunged into the breach in the wall of South Nine, blasting the installation’s fortifications wide apart. The Raven Guard too were gone, their next objective already in their sights.
The remainder of the warheads ploughed into the horde seething across the corpse-littered plain towards the walls of Mankarra. In his anger and rage Lord Voldorius had ordered his own slave-troops and deluded followers slaughtered, their deaths serving to quench his vengeance and perhaps bring the favour of the Ruinous Powers of the warp. Dozens of warheads slammed from the skies to obliterate the traitorous horde. So great was the destruction that the walls of Mankarra themselves were shaken and the speeding gunships bucked violently as blast wave after blast wave overtook them. The paintwork of the White Scars armoured vehicles blistered and blackened as Rhinos, Predators and the Thunderheart sped away, hatches sealed tight against the air that burned all around.
The first of the militia troopers to have fled the battlefield were following close behind the retreating Alpha Legion, moaning in terror as the last of the green-blue-armoured warriors passed through the mighty gates of Mankarra and closed them on the horde.
The entire plain was scoured of life. Though the horde of Voldorius had been turned and his champion slain, the warp resounded to the daemon prince’s offering of ten thousand souls. The assault on South Nine was ended, but as the Space Marines closed on Mankarra, they knew that the true battle was yet to be fought.
Chapter 11
The Beginning of the End
Malya stood in front of the command chamber’s huge viewing screen, staring up in sheer disbelief. As explosions blossomed across the screen, their thunderous report sounded from beyond the metres-thick walls of the militia’s strategium complex. Lumen-bulbs flickered and the screen went blank, before flashing to life again as small pieces of debris fell from the ceiling to scatter all about.
As the last of the explosions faded, an ominous silence descended upon the chamber. Even the ever-present chatter of the vox-links ceased as every one of the three dozen and more officers in the command chamber stared at the screen.
The full enormity of what she had just witnessed came crashing down upon Malya. When the cultists had fallen at the sight of the Space Marines banner, she had felt vindication, for these men and women were the very lowest of their kind and not fit in her mind to call Quintus their home. But when the militias had turned and fled, Malya had known utter despair. No matter the circumstances of their servitude, these were her people. These were innocent men and women pressed into the service of a despicable tyrant, their only alternative death.
The thousands of militia had turned and stampeded back towards the walls of Mankarra and in their desperation many troopers had been reduced to animals. Hundreds stumbled and were crushed beneath the feet of their comrades. And then, Voldorius had issued the order to The Ninth Eye in orbit overhead, and the orbital bombardment had commenced.
As the bombs had fallen in the midst of the fleeing horde, Malya had been wrenched back to the atrocity in the grand square. The crushed bodies still lay where they had died as a grim warning against further rebellion, and it was said that the vilest of the daemon’s servants haunted the corpse-strewn centre of the city. It was as if Voldorius was taunting her, making her witness over and over again the terrible deeds he could enact upon her people. Yet still she refused to submit to the total, all-encompassing horror that gibbered in the darkest recesses of her soul. She drew on deeper and deeper reserves of faith, long hidden and built up through a lifetime of devotion and worship. Perhaps others did not heed the words the preachers spoke, but she did, every one of them. Perhaps it was her faith that made Voldorius toy with her so, the daemon prince deriving some unholy sport from the spectacle of one of the faithful being forced to endure such unceasing blasphemies.
At length, the silence was broken as Lord Voldorius spoke. ‘Even in their death do they serve.’
None dared look towards their vile master, three dozen pairs of eyes turning downwards towards the floor. Some feigned deference and humility, others were too petrified to do so and collapsed to their knees. Malya stood firm, though a single tear ran slowly down her cheek.
At that moment, Malya’s mind was set. She
knew the Space Marines needed to know about the prisoner, but she also knew that the Space Marines must soon assault the city walls. She could help. As equerry, she had knowledge of which sections had been fortified and which were still to be reinforced. She would transmit a signal and inform the Space Marines which gate would fall the quickest, even should it cost her life. She just needed a distraction…
‘Those who recruited the militias shall step forwards,’ Lord Voldorius growled, his low voice sounding like tectonic plates grinding inexorably together.
At first, none responded. Then Voldorius brought himself to his full height and several more of the staff officers collapsed to their knees. Five high commanders stepped forwards.
Lord Colonel Morkis was not amongst them.
All eyes turned to the high commanders, while Voldorius’s own gaze was sweeping the faces of each of the men who had stepped before him. Glancing down to a command terminal by her side, Malya decided that the time to act was now, for she might never have another opportunity. Moving only her right hand, she invoked the rite of communion and awoke the spirit of the vox-terminal. Malya forced her mind to calm in order to recall the transmission code she had used what seemed like months before to contact the Space Marines. She had buried the code deep within her mind, lest it be torn from her under duress and condemn even more innocents to death or torture. Yet, she had never allowed herself to forget the code entirely, some small part of her clinging to the hope that she might have cause to use it one more time. The code sprang instantly to her mind, and Malya entered it into the terminal and began to compose in her mind the message she must send.
Meanwhile, Lord Voldorius was looming down upon the officers. ‘Which of you shall bear the responsibility for this?’
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 23
