Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Night was threatening to fall before the aliens finally fled.

  Whether the mountain of their own dead had turned their fury to futility, or whether some cognition finally dawned over them all that the true battles were yet to come, the green tide retreated en masse. Horns sounded across the wasteland, hundreds of them, signalling a retreat that otherwise lacked even a hint of cohesion. Las-bolts flashed down from the walls as the Legion kept up a savage rate of fire, punishing the orks for their cowardice now just as they had punished them for their eager madness before. Hundreds more of the xenos collapsed to the ground, slain by the day’s last, bitterest volley.

  Soon, even the stragglers were out of range, limping their way behind the horde back to their landing sites.

  Ork ships covered the wasteland now from horizon to horizon. The largest ships, almost as tall as hive spires themselves, were opening to release colossal, stomping scrap-Titans. Like hunched, fat-bellied aliens in shape, the junk-giants crashed across the plains, their pounding tread raising dust clouds in their wake.

  These were the weapons that would bring the wall down. These were the foes that Invigilata had to destroy.

  ‘That,’ Artarion nodded at the sight as the knights remained on the wall, ‘is a bleak picture.’

  ‘The real battle begins tomorrow,’ Cador grunted. ‘At least we will not be bored.’

  ‘I believe they will wait.’ It was Grimaldus who spoke, his voice less bitter now the war cries and speeches were over. ‘They will wait until they have overwhelming force with which to crush us, and they will strike like a hammer.’

  The Chaplain paused, leaning on the battlements and staring at the army as sunset claimed the surrounded city.

  ‘I requested we withdraw all Guard forces from the wasteland installations across all of southern Armageddon Secundus. The colonel agreed in principle.’

  Bastilan joined the Reclusiarch at the wall. The sergeant disengaged his helm’s seals and stood barefaced, ignoring the cool wind that prickled at his unshaven scalp.

  ‘What’s worth guarding out there?’

  The Reclusiarch smiled, his expression hidden.

  ‘The days and days of briefings were a necessary evil to answer questions like that. Munitions,’ Grimaldus said. ‘A great deal of munitions, to be used when the hive cities fall and need to be reclaimed. But that is not all. The Desert Vultures spoke of a curious legend. Something buried beneath the sands. A weapon.’

  ‘We are involving ourselves in this world’s mythology now?’

  ‘Do not dismiss this. I heard something today that gave me hope.’ He took a breath, narrowing his eyes as he watched the sea of enemy banners. ‘And I have an idea. Where is Forgemaster Jurisian?’

  Chapter VII

  Ancient Secrets

  Cyria Tyro leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes to rid her vision of the numbers she’d been staring at.

  Casualties from the first day’s engagement were light, and damage to the wall was minimal. Flamer teams had been lowered to drag the alien dead away from the city walls and burn them in massive pyres. It was a volunteer-only duty, and one that came with an element of risk – if the orks decided to attack in the night, there was no guarantee the hundreds of pyre-lighters outside could be brought back in time.

  The funeral fires burned now, an hour before dawn, and though there were far too many bodies to complete the duty in a single night, the mounds of xenos dead were at least reduced.

  For now, she sighed.

  The ammunition expended on the first day alone had been… Well, she’d seen the numbers and could scarcely believe her eyes. The city was a fortress and its weapon reserves had seemed inexhaustible, but on a day of relatively sporadic fighting with only three regiments engaged, the logistical nightmare soon to be facing them was all too apparent. Their ammunition stocks would last months, but supplying it to regiments scattered throughout the city, ensuring they were aware of boltholes, weapons caches and…

  I’m tired, she thought with a dry smile. She’d not even fought today.

  Tyro signed a few data-slates with her thumbprint, authorising the transferral of reports to Lord General Kurov and Commissar Yarrick, far off in distant hives, already engaged in their own sieges.

  The door’s proximity chime pulsed once.

  ‘Enter,’ she called out.

  Major Ryken walked in. His greatcoat was unbuttoned, his rebreather mask was hanging from its cord around his neck, and his black hair was scruffy from the rain.

  ‘It’s hurling it down out there,’ he grumbled. He’d come all the way from the east wall. ‘You wouldn’t believe what the orbital disturbance has done to the atmosphere. What did you want that couldn’t be done over the vox?’

  ‘I couldn’t reach Colonel Sarren.’

  ‘He’d not slept in over sixty hours. I think Falkov threatened to shoot him unless he got some rest.’ Ryken narrowed his eyes. ‘There are other colonels. Dozens of them.’

  ‘True, but none of those are the city commander’s executive officer.’

  The major scratched the back of his neck. His skin was cold, itching and grimy with the faintly acidic rainwater.

  ‘Miss Tyro,’ he began.

  ‘Actually, given my rank as adjutant quintus to the planetary leader, I’ll settle for “ma’am” or “advisor”. Not “Miss Tyro”. This is not a society function, and if it were, I would not be spending it talking to a drowned rat like you, major.’

  Ryken grinned. Tyro didn’t.

  ‘Very well, ma’am, how may this lowly rodent be of service? I have a storm to get back out into before dawn.’

  She looked around her own cramped but warm office in the central command tower, hiding her guilty flush by faking a cough.

  ‘We received these from Acheron Hive an hour ago.’ She gestured at several printed sheets of paper featuring topographic images. Ryken picked them up from her messy desk, flipping through them.

  ‘These are orbital picts,’ he said.

  ‘I know what they are.’

  ‘I thought the enemy fleet had destroyed all our satellites.’

  ‘They have. These were among the last images our orbital defence array was able to send. Acheron received them, and sent them on to the other cities.’

  Ryken turned one of the images to face her. ‘This one has a caffeine stain on it. Did Acheron send that?’

  Tyro scowled at him. ‘Grow up, major.’

  He spent a few more moments regarding the printed picts. ‘What am I looking for here?’

  ‘These are picts of the Dead Lands to the south. Far to the south, across the ocean.’

  ‘I paid attention in basic geography, thank you, ma’am.’ Ryken went through the picts a second time, lingering over the images of massive ork planetfall discolouring the landscape. ‘This makes no sense,’ he said at last.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the Dead Lands. Not a thing.’

  ‘I know, major.’

  ‘So do we have any idea why they landed a force there that looks large enough to take a city?’

  ‘Tacticians suggest the enemy is establishing a spaceport there. Or a colony.’

  Ryken snorted, letting the picts drop back onto her desk.

  ‘The tacticians are drunk,’ he said. ‘Every man, woman and child knows why the xenos come here: to fight. To fight until either they’re all dead, or we are. They don’t raise the greatest armada in history just to pitch tents at the south pole and raise ugly alien babies.’

  ‘The fact remains,’ Tyro gestured to the prints, ‘that the enemy is there. Their distance across the ocean puts them out of reach for air strikes. No flyers would reach us without needing to refuel several times. They could just as easily set up airstrips in the wastelands much nearer the hive cities. In fact, we can already see they’re doing just that.’

  ‘What about the oil platforms?’ he asked.

  ‘The platforms?’ she shook her head, not sure where he w
as leading with this.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ Ryken said. ‘The Valdez oil platforms. Didn’t you study Helsreach before you were posted here? Where do you think half of the hive cities in Armageddon Secundus get their fuel from? They take it in here from the offshore platforms and cook it into promethium for the rest of the continent.’

  Tyro already knew this. She let him have his moment of feigned indignity.

  ‘I paid attention,’ she smiled, ‘in basic economics. The platforms are protected from these southernmost raiders by the same virtue we are. It’s just too far to strike at them.’

  ‘Then with all due respect, ma’am, why did you pull me off the wall? I have duties to perform.’

  And here it was. She had to deal with this matter delicately.

  ‘I… would appreciate your assistance. First, I must disseminate this information among the other officers.’

  ‘You don’t need my help for that. You need access to a vox-caster, and you’re sitting in a building full of them. Why should they care, anyway? What does a potential colony of the enemy on the polar cap have to do with the defence of the hive?’

  ‘High Command has informed me that the matter is to be considered Helsreach’s problem. We are – relatively speaking – the closest city.’

  Ryken laughed. ‘Would they like us to invade? I’ll get the men ready and tell them to wrap up warm and lay siege to the south pole. I hope the orks outside the city respect the fact we’ll be absent for the rest of the siege. They look like sporting gentlemen. I’m sure they’ll wait for us to return to the hive before attacking again.’

  ‘Major.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘High Command has informed me to spread the information and let all officers be aware of the concern. That is all. No invasions. And it is not what I require your aid with.’

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘Grimaldus,’ she said.

  ‘Is that a fact? Problems with the Emperor’s finest?’

  ‘This is a serious matter.’ Tyro frowned.

  ‘Fair enough. But talk from the Vultures said that he was finally getting involved. They apparently got one hell of a speech.’

  ‘He performed his duties on the wall with great skill and devotion.’ She still wasn’t smiling. ‘That is not the problem at hand.’

  Ryken let his raised eyebrow do the talking.

  Tyro sighed. ‘The problem is one of contact and mediation. He refuses to talk to me.’ She paused, as if considering something for the first time. ‘Perhaps because I’m female.’

  ‘You’re serious,’ Ryken said. ‘You truly believe that.’

  ‘Well… He has bonded with the male officers, hasn’t he?’

  Ryken thought that was debatable. He’d heard that the only commander in the city Grimaldus had treated with anything more than disdainful impatience was the ancient woman that led the Legio Invigilata. And even that was just rumour.

  ‘It’s not because you’re female,’ the major said. ‘It’s because you’re useless.’

  The pause lasted several seconds, during which Cyria Tyro’s face hardened with each passing moment.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she asked.

  ‘Useless to them, shall we say. It’s simple. You’re the liaison between a High Command that is too busy to care what happens here, too distant to make much difference even if it did care, and off-world forces that have no need or interest in playing nice with the grunts of the Guard. Does the Crone of Invigilata need to pass orders through you? Does Grimaldus? No. Neither group cares.’

  ‘The chain of command…’ she started, but trailed off.

  ‘The chain of command is a system both the Legio and the Templars are outside. And above, if they choose to be.’

  ‘I feel useless,’ she finally said. ‘And not just to them.’

  He could see how much that admission cost her. He could also see that she didn’t seem such a haughty bitch when her defences were down. Just as Ryken drew breath to speak, and tell her a more polite version of his current thoughts, her desk vox-speaker buzzed.

  ‘Adjutant Quintus Cyria Tyro?’ asked a deep, resonant male voice.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Reclusiarch Grimaldus of the Black Templars. I must speak with you.’

  The Crone of Invigilata floated in her fluid-filled coffin, appearing to listen to the muffled sounds outside.

  In truth, she was paying little attention. The muted sounds of speech and movement belonged to a world of physicality that she barely remembered. Linked with Stormherald, the god-machine’s ever-present rumbling anger infected her like a chemical injected into her mind. Even in moments of peace, it was difficult to focus on anything but wrath.

  To share a mind with Stormherald was to dwell within a maze of memories that were not her own. Stormherald had looked upon countless battlefields for hundreds of years before Princeps Zarha was even born. She had only to shut down the imagefinders that now served as her eyes, and as the hazy image of her milky surroundings faded to nothing, she could remember deserts she had never seen, wars she had never fought, glories she had never won.

  Stormherald’s voice in her mind was an unrelenting murmur, a hum of quiet tension, like a low-burning fire. It challenged her, with wordless growls, to taste of the victories it had tasted for so long – to swim beneath the surface memories and surrender to them. Its spirit was a proud and indefatigable machine-soul, and it hungered not only for the fiery maelstrom of war, but also the cold exultation of triumph. It felt the banners of past wars that hung from its metal skin, and it knew fierce, unbreakable pride.

  ‘My princeps,’ came a muffled voice.

  Zarha activated her photoreceptors. Borrowed memories faded and vision returned. Strange, how the former were so much clearer than the latter, these days.

  Hello, Valian.

  ‘Hello, Valian.’

  ‘My princeps, the adepts of the soul are reporting discontent within Stormherald’s heart. We are getting anomalous readings of ill-temper from the reactor core.’

  We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.

  ‘We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.’

  ‘That is understandable, my princeps. You are… operating at peak capacity? You are sanguine?’

  Are you querying if I am at risk of being consumed by Stormherald’s heart?

  ‘Are you querying if I am at risk of bekkrrssshhhhh heart?’

  ‘Maintenance adept,’ Valian Carsomir called to a robed tech-priest. ‘Attend to the princeps’s vocaliser unit.’ He turned back to his commander. ‘I trust you, my princeps. Forgive me for troubling you.’

  There is nothing to forgive, Valian.

  ‘There is nothkkkrrrrrsssssssssh.’

  That would become annoying after a while, she thought, but did not pulse the sentiment to her vocaliser. Your concern touches me, Valian.

  ‘Your concern touches me, Valian.’

  But I am well.

  ‘Bkrsh I am well.’

  The tech-adept stood by the side of Zarha’s amniotic tank. Mechanical arms slid from his robe and began to do their work.

  Moderati Primus Valian Carsomir hesitated, before making the sign of the cog and returning to his station.

  We will see battle soon, Valian. Grimaldus has promised it to us.

  ‘We will see battle soon, Valian. Grimaldus has promised it to us.’

  Valian didn’t reply at first. If the enemy was going to amass its numbers first, shelling the foe from the safety of the city walls was hardly seeing battle, in his eyes.

  ‘We are all ready, my princeps.’

  Tomaz couldn’t sleep.

  He sat up in bed, swallowing another stinging mouthful of amasec, the cheap, thin stuff that Heddon brewed in one of the back warehouses down at the docks. The stuff tasted more than a little of engine oil. It wouldn’t have surprised Tomaz to learn that was one of the ingredients.

  H
e swallowed another burning gulp that itched its way down his throat. There was, he realised, a more than good chance he was going to throw this stuff back up soon. It had a habit of not sitting too well on an empty stomach once it went down, but he didn’t think he could manage another dry meal of preserved rations. Tomaz glanced at several packets of unopened, densely packed grain tablets on the table.

  Maybe later.

  He’d not been anywhere near the north and eastern walls. At the south docks, there was little difference between today and any other day. The grinding joints of his crane drowned out any of the distant sounds of the war, and he’d spent his twelve-hour shift unloading tankers and organising distribution from the warehouses in his district – just as he spent every shift.

  The backlog of docked tankers, and those awaiting docking clearance, was beyond a joke. Half of Tomaz’s crew was gone, conscripted into the militia reserves and sent across the city to play at being Guardsmen, kilometres away from where they were really needed. He was the elected representative of the Dockers’ Union, and he knew every other foreman was suffering the same lack of manpower. It made a difficult job completely laughable, except none of them were smiling.

  There had been talk of limiting the flow of crude coming in from the Valdez platforms once the orbital defences fell, under fears the orks would bombard the shipping lanes.

  Necessity outweighed the risk of tanker crews dying, of course. Helsreach needed fuel. The flow continued. Even with the city sealed, the docks remained open.

  And they were somehow busier than before, despite the fact there was only half the manpower on the crews. Teams of Steel Legionnaires and menial servitors manned the many anti-air turrets along the dockside and the warehouse rooftops. Hundreds upon hundreds of warehouses were now used to house tanks, converted into maintenance terminals and garages for war machine repair. Convoys of Leman Russ battle tanks shuddered through the docks, strangling thoroughfares with their slow processions.

  Half-crewed and slowed by constant interference, the Helsreach docks were almost at a standstill.

  And still the tankers arrived.

  Tomaz checked his wrist chronometer. Just over two hours until dawn.