Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Only sporadically, brother-sergeant,’ said Meleriex. ‘I could use my fusion core to boost the signal, but that might compromise our mission.’

  Indeed, thought Kholka. Such a transmission might be the group’s last. ‘Only if we truly have need, brother,’ he said. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ the Raven Guard replied, before halting at a sign of activity further along the tunnel. Scout Gharn had stopped where the tunnel opened up into a larger chamber. The others had assumed covering positions nearby, melting into the shadows and utilising what little cover the protruding pipes and conduits afforded.

  Kholka halted too, his eyes trained on a pool of light in the centre of the chamber. He raised his boltgun and slowly made his way forwards past the neophytes, to squat next to the lead Scout.

  ‘The silvered moon enshrouds the hunted,’ Gharn whispered, not taking his eyes from the chamber. The youth had no need to use the Chapter’s battle-cant now, Kholka thought, but it was a good habit to cultivate. He looked out into the chamber, most of which was dominated by dormant machinery and twisting pipes. Only a single light source illuminated the space, a circle of wan light cast into the centre.

  Kholka’s glance took all this in within the span of seconds, before he looked to the area the Scout had indicated using the White Scars battle-cant. At the far edge of the pool of light he saw a pair of sturdy, rubber-soled boots, the rest of the body hidden in shadow. A deep red stain spread slowly outwards into the light.

  ‘Wait here,’ Kholka hissed. The group had no time to be distracted by what might be no more than a random act of violence inflicted by one traitor on another in the midst of a city-razing battle. He scanned the chamber through his boltgun’s sights. Detecting no enemies, the sergeant stepped out of the tunnel and skirted the edge of the chamber until he stood over the body.

  It was a servitor of some sort, but the manner of its death was not immediately apparent. The mind-scrubbed slave wore a work suit of heavy-duty, rubberised fabric, and its body was augmented by dozens of cybernetic parts designed to facilitate whatever tasks it had been created to fulfil. Its head was bald, and the entire left side of its brain had been surgically replaced with crude machinery. But none of this was out of place. What was unusual was the fact that every drop of the servitor’s blood was even now draining from its body, pouring out in fact, as if some pressure within was expelling it at a great rate. And the blood was leaving the body by any and every route possible, leaking from the mouth, nostrils and the one eye and ear that were not replaced by cybernetic versions. It was even seeping out through the pores in what little skin was visible, and spreading out in a great pool all around the body.

  ‘By the primarch,’ Kholka spat, ‘blessed be his name.’

  With one last look around to ensure that no enemies were nearby, Kholka moved quickly back to the mouth of the tunnel where the remainder of the group waited in the shadows. He waved them onwards, ensuring that each Scout was properly concentrating upon the task at hand and not distracted by the disturbing sight in the centre of the chamber. Brother Meleriex was the last to pass by, lingering for a moment to gaze down at the exsanguinated servitor. Then he looked up at Kholka, his dark eyes unreadable, and pressed on into the darkness.

  ‘Brother Sang.’ Kor’sarro took advantage of a brief lull in the bombardment to call the White Scar over. In a moment, the Techmarine was at his side, standing amongst the ruins that the combined force of Space Marines was holding against wave after wave of frenzied traitor militia troopers.

  ‘Brother,’ said Kor’sarro. ‘I am unable to contact Sergeant Kholka.’

  The Techmarine consulted a data-slate mounted in his vambrace. After a few seconds, he shook his head and replied. ‘Nor I, brother-captain. A combination of the effect of the bedrock, nearby structures and possibly ionisation caused by the bombardment.’

  As if to punctuate the Techmarine’s report, a deafening roar split the air above. A building only a hundred metres away exploded outwards, a huge mushroom cloud blossoming high into the now darkened sky.

  Chunks of shrapnel the size of bolter rounds ricocheted from the Space Marines’ armour, sending up fat sparks and razor-sharp fragments of rockcrete. Not one of the White Scars or the Raven Guard flinched.

  ‘If they do not make contact soon, we will have to commit regardless,’ Captain Shrike shouted above the sound of falling masonry and gunfire. ‘The vile one will rally his forces, or else he will slip from our grasp.’

  Kor’sarro felt a stab of frustration at the thought of Voldorius slipping away amidst the destruction his flagship was unleashing upon his own city. But just as quickly, he dismissed the notion. ‘No, brother,’ he shouted back. ‘It is not his intention to escape, of that I am sure. I have hunted him for a decade, and know something of his ways.’

  ‘But this prisoner,’ Shrike called back. ‘He must be–’

  ‘Secondary!’ Kor’sarro snapped back. ‘Kholka is my battle-brother and my friend, but if he is unable to locate this prisoner and ascertain his place in the daemon’s plans, we must proceed regardless. We will have no choice but to assault the vile one’s lair, with or without Kholka’s intelligence.’

  Captain Shrike turned his head away from the Master of the Hunt. His true feelings were as hidden from Kor’sarro as his face was by the helmet he wore.

  Kor’sarro put the prisoner from his mind, and turned his thoughts to the layout of the city instead, estimating how long it would take the Space Marines to fight through to the Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom where the daemon prince would be waiting. It would not take long, but that meant that Sergeant Kholka had very little time to report back, if he even could with the interference afflicting the vox-net.

  ‘Let us be about it then,’ Kor’sarro called to Captain Shrike, a savage glint in his eye. ‘Let us gather the warriors for the final assault.’

  ‘That makes seven,’ Kholka whispered as he looked down at another exsanguinated corpse. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Nor would it,’ replied Brother Meleriex. ‘The workings of the Great Enemy are mercifully beyond the understanding of such as we.’

  The whole length of the corridor the group had passed along was scattered with the blood-drained bodies of servitors and menials. ‘This is something else, brother,’ said Kholka. ‘Something more than bloodshed and wickedness.’

  The Raven Guard considered this, his black eyes glinting in the shadows cast by a flickering overhead lumen. ‘Perhaps you are correct, brother-sergeant. But it has no bearing upon our mission.’

  ‘It may,’ Kholka replied, readying himself to press on. ‘The two may prove to be connected.’

  Meleriex was about to answer when a tortured scream sounded from further down the passageway. The Space Marines were instantly alert, weapons raised and ready to face an attack from any quarter.

  ‘Fifty metres ahead,’ Kholka whispered. ‘Seek the blood as the sabre-hound at dawn.’

  The Scouts assumed the formation that Kholka’s battle-cant order had specified, moving into position with well-drilled precision. The three Raven Guard Space Marines remained where they were, however, Meleriex casting a questioning glance towards the Scout-sergeant.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Kholka. He switched to a more common idiom used by many of the Imperium’s countless and varied military institutions. ‘Advance to contact, ten-metre separation, bolters to the fore.’

  ‘No, brother-sergeant,’ the Raven Guard said darkly. ‘Myself and my brothers must go first. We are better armoured than your Scouts. We can fight through any ambush we might encounter.’

  Meleriex emphasised his assertion by raising a lightning claw and activating it so that arcs of power seethed up and down the length of its talons.

  ‘Do so,’ Kholka replied. He had no time to debate patrol formations, and knew there was truth in the Raven Guard’s words. ‘Move out.’

  Ordinarily, full Adeptus Astartes power armour would have compromised the patrol’s steal
thy advance. Its electro-magnetic signature might have given it away to augur sweeps or the faint hum of its fusion core might have been heard by watchful sentinels. The armour worn by the Raven Guard was different, every sound baffled and their tread almost as silent as the Scouts’. Nevertheless, it appeared that there were no enemies waiting in ambush, or if they had been, they had been slain before they could attack.

  Ahead of Kholka, the Raven Guard slipped out of the shadows of the passageway and into a larger chamber. Meleriex scanned the area, his crackling lightning claws held ready to engage any foe that might lurk nearby. The chamber was clear, and Meleriex waved the Scouts on.

  ‘What is this place?’ Scout Borchu whispered as he tracked his boltgun across the dark, vaulted ceiling. ‘It looks like a medicae chamber, only…’

  Kholka looked across to Meleriex, guessing that the Raven Guard would have a ready answer. ‘It’s a torturer’s lair, boy,’ the Raven Guard answered. ‘But not like any the Inquisition might employ.’

  Such things repulsed Sergeant Kholka, for torture was anathema to a warrior’s honour and all but unknown amongst his people, with the exception of some north-eastern tribes who had never accepted the unity Jaghatai Khan had brought to Chogoris. Kholka determined not to press the Raven Guard on his knowledge of such things, having no desire to discover the answer. Nevertheless, this was evidently important, and might have a bearing on their mission. ‘To what end?’ Kholka growled.

  Meleriex was interrupted before he could answer. Scout Khula, who had positioned himself at one of the large portals leading from the chamber, gave a low hiss and raised a clenched fist to signal a warning.

  Kholka and Meleriex both froze, before the sergeant silently crossed the chamber to stand behind the Scout. Neither spoke, as Kholka strained his hearing to listen for what Khula had detected.

  There it was: a low, atonal chant, accompanied by the distant echo of armoured boots. Judging the distance was all but impossible, for the pipe-choked passageways distorted sound in unpredictable ways. Of one thing Kholka was certain however: the sound was coming from the direction of the Cathedral of the Emperor’s Wisdom.

  Kholka heard Meleriex approach to stand behind him. After another ten seconds had passed, the Raven Guard whispered, ‘Astartes boots.’

  ‘Indeed, brother,’ Kholka replied. ‘At least a hundred, marching towards the subterranean cathedral.’

  ‘The other sound, brother-sergeant?’ ventured Scout Khula.

  Kholka concentrated on the echoing skirl, his genetically enhanced hearing able to filter out the sound of marching boots. ‘Blasphemy,’ he spat, recognising the taint of vile sorceries in the chanting. ‘Something is occurring in the cathedral. We must not allow it to.’

  ‘Our mission–’ interjected Brother Meleriex, before Sergeant Kholka rounded upon him with barely contained anger.

  ‘Has just been altered.’

  ‘Then now is the time to contact our brothers.’

  ‘Then do so, Raven Guard,’ Kholka replied, eager to track down and slay the followers of the Great Enemy before they could complete whatever wickedness they were about. Whatever blasphemy they were engaged in, its timing, at the height of the Space Marines’ assault on Mankarra, must surely be significant. And what had the mysterious prisoner to do with this, he thought?

  Meleriex bled power from his armour’s fusion core to boost its vox-transponder, and spoke for a moment in low tones into the vox-link at his wrist. Kholka could not hear the Raven Guard’s report. ‘It is done. But if the enemy have the sense to monitor for transmissions, they will have detected our presence now.’

  ‘Did you get through?’ asked Sergeant Kholka. ‘Did you receive confirmation?’

  ‘I sent the message,’ Meleriex answered. ‘I told our captains that the prisoner has yet to be located, but that a significant number of Alpha Legionnaires and cultists are gathering in the cathedral. I informed them that some fell deed is afoot, and that we are engaging.’

  ‘And their reply?’

  ‘I received none.’ The Raven Guard glowered. ‘Though I am sure that the message got through.’

  ‘You cannot be sure,’ Kholka growled. ‘We must proceed as if it had not.’

  Meleriex scowled back at Kholka, but he did not voice any disagreement with the sergeant’s statement. ‘Squad,’ Kholka addressed his Scouts. ‘Prepare to move out, contact imminent.’

  The answer to Kholka’s order was a strangled, gurgling scream as Shahan, who had been guarding the portal, collapsed to the ground heavily.

  Every gun was brought up and trained instantly on the darkness beyond the portal. The stricken Scout writhed upon the ground, his hands held up to his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

  ‘Shahan,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What did you see, boy? Quickly!’

  The Scout moaned in response, and convulsed violently as the blood flow from between his fingers increased. Space Marines were gifted of a unique enhancement that caused their blood to clot almost the instant it left the body, and Kholka’s mind raced as he tried to recall if there had been any problems with the process in Scout Shahan’s case. He recalled none – the blood should not have been flowing with such force, if at all.

  ‘Kholka!’ Brother Meleriex hissed, bringing the sergeant’s attention back to the darkness beyond the opening. And then he saw that it was not the same darkness they had passed through before, but one laced with a wan, silvery light.

  ‘He’s here…’ Meleriex growled as the Raven Guard powered up his lightning claws.

  ‘Fire only on my order,’ Kholka warned.

  The silver glow became a blinding light that swelled to fill the entire portal. ‘Only on my order…’ Kholka repeated.

  The light moved into the chamber, chasing away the shadows that had hidden its details from the Scouts. The machines lining the walls were revealed to be attached to an intricate array of conduits and pipes, snaking upwards and converging in the centre of the vaulted ceiling. The light began to swim and coalesce, resolving itself into a human form before the Space Marines’ eyes. Some small part of Kholka was reminded of the tales his people told of the angelic beings that bore the slain from the field of battle to sit forever at the side of the Emperor. He forced the notion from his mind in an instant as his finger tightened on the trigger of his boltgun and he prepared to give the order to fire.

  Before Sergeant Kholka could speak, the chamber was filled with the staccato burst of a boltgun. Scout Telluk had opened fire. It was impossible for his shots to miss at such short range.

  The figure did not falter, despite having three bolt-rounds pumped into its torso from virtually point-blank range. Its luminous, silver body rippled and swirled. The face maintained a disturbingly serene expression. Its features changed every few seconds, though its eyes remained solid, deep, blood-red. Where the rounds struck, they were swallowed up as if by fluid, leaving behind no trace of their impact.

  ‘Burst fire!’ Kholka barked, squeezing his boltgun’s trigger hard.

  The chamber was filled with the shocking cacophony of the squad’s boltguns discharging as one, the air filling with smoke and the sharp stink of cordite. Burst after burst was fired, yet the figure seemed to absorb every single shot.

  Kholka opened his mouth to bark another order when he became aware of the metallic taste of blood. He spat upon the floor, and saw in the gobbet of saliva the red of his own blood. Glancing at the nearest of his charges, he saw that the Scout had a rivulet of blood running from his nostrils.

  ‘Curse you!’ Meleriex bellowed, raising his lightning claws and stepping before the luminous figure.

  ‘Meleriex!’ Kholka flicked the selector on his boltgun from burst fire to full automatic. ‘Get back!’

  Even as the Raven Guard approached the figure and was silhouetted against the blinding radiance, it raised a hand and made an almost casual gesture towards Brother Meleriex. A silver light, glistening with microscopic motes, sprang from the raised h
and and bathed Meleriex in its glow. The Space Marine faltered, then bent double, retching a great torrent of blood across the ground.

  ‘Full auto!’ Kholka bellowed. As dangerous as it was to open fire with Meleriex so close to the target, Kholka knew he had no other choice, for the Raven Guard was vulnerable and would otherwise be slain. The boltguns roared, dozens of rounds slamming into the silver figure, yet still the target stood, unaffected by a fusillade that would have ripped a man to shreds.

  Kholka’s boltgun clicked as the last of the rounds in the magazine was expended. He reached to his belt for another. As he did so, he coughed, and saw blood misting in the air.

  ‘Get back, he is mine!’ Brother Meleriex called out as he straightened up. As he did so, the figure raised its other hand, and repeated its earlier gesture with both hands.

  ‘Spawn of blood,’ the Raven Guard spat, his lightning claws arcing raw power. ‘I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I–’

  The blinding silver radiance suddenly died.

  Silence descended on the smoke-filled chamber.

  The silver figure stood frozen, its shifting features finally stabilised. The face was neither male nor female, old nor young, but something human, something intelligent appeared in its eyes.

  ‘Everyone back,’ Sergeant Kholka hissed, slamming a fresh magazine into his boltgun as a distant explosion rumbled through the stone of the chamber’s walls. His Scouts moved slowly backwards but the three Raven Guard remained where they were.

  ‘You…’ the figure spoke, its voice not that of a single being, but countless voices speaking as one. ‘You are the foes of Voldorius.’ It was a statement, Kholka understood, not a question.

  ‘We are that,’ Kholka replied.

  ‘We do the work of the Emperor,’ Meleriex growled through blood-flecked lips. ‘You must die. Now.’

  ‘Meleriex…’ said Kholka. ‘Do not–’

  ‘He speaks the truth,’ the silver figure interrupted the Raven Guard, its voice, or voices, laced with eons of pain and sadness. ‘He knows the truth. We must die.’