Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Pedro Kantor clenched his jaw as he watched the deadly rain of bombs fall around him. Behind him, the brothers in his Honour Guard were restless, uneasy. In the sky above the Sercia Bastion on which they stood, alien payloads fell without cease. None struck the fortress-monastery. Those that should have done exploded harmlessly a half a kilometre above Kantor’s head, unable to penetrate the powerful void shield defence system that protected Arx Tyrannus.

  Every explosive impact on the shimmering shields caused the landscape below to flicker bright as day.

  With the void shields at full power, the air became close and clammy, almost oppressive, and there was a constant loud hum in the air, discernible in the spaces between the thunder of the relentless barrage.

  Kantor called Ordinator Savales to his side. The seneschal had been following his lord at a respectful distance, braving the greenskin storm in case Kantor should need him for anything. Now the Chapter Master wanted Savales safe. The moment the bombardment ended, the void shields would be lowered to allow return fire. Keeping the shields up was safer, but it would allow the orks to land wherever they wanted with relative impunity, challenged only by the scattered plasma defence installations operated by the Rynnsguard.

  At his lord’s command, Savales stepped forward and stood before Kantor with his head bowed. ‘What does my lord wish of me?’ he said, and looked up.

  Kantor searched the man’s expression for fear, and was proud to find none. Savales was as composed as ever. He should have been one of us, thought Kantor. He might have carved a fine legend for himself.

  ‘Return to the central keep, Ramir. The shields will go down soon, and I’ll not have you out in the open.’

  The old seneschal held his lord’s gaze. ‘My place is by your side, lord, whatever the danger, to see to your needs.’ There was no defiance in his tone. He simply stated this as plain, inarguable fact.

  ‘My current need is to have my seneschal return to the keep as ordered,’ said Kantor. ‘The dead serve no one. Gather the youngest of the Chosen in the Refectorum. They will be frightened, and you will teach them to deny their fear.’

  Savales let his reluctance show, but answered, ‘I will do as my lord commands, of course. Should you need anything of me, you need only call, no matter the circumstance.’

  Kantor was not prone to smiling. It was not an expression that came naturally to his long, solemn features. But, he smiled now, briefly, at a memory still crystal clear. Though Savales looked far older than he, Kantor felt an almost paternal affection for the man. He remembered Savales as a dejected youth, remembered his face as he had sat in that cell so long ago, believing death the only escape from his despair at failing to become Adeptus Astartes. He remembered, too, the change in that face when the boy had been offered a new and worthy purpose.

  Savales bowed deeply, excused himself, turned and strode off in the direction of the main keep, his robes billowing behind him. Explosions continued to flower and boom in the air above.

  On the comm-link, Kantor heard the voice of the Monitor.

  ‘My lord, we have just lost contact with Scar Lake Airbase. I have tried all secondary and tertiary frequencies, but there is nothing. Nor can I communicate with the Rynnsguard forces stationed at Caltara, Sagarro, Mycea… I- I cannot explain it, lord.’

  The Monitor’s agitation was well founded. Losing contact with one of the provincial capitals would have been bad enough, but the airbase at Scar Lake was heavily defended. If the orks had already knocked out the base’s communications, it would not be long until they overran the base itself. Were they even now marauding through the streets of the provincial capitals, cutting down whole families that fled before them?

  ‘What of New Rynn City?’ Kantor asked through the vox in his helmet.

  ‘The signal is weak,’ reported the Monitor. ‘Sporadic. But we are still in contact. The reports are grim. Ork landers have been spotted descending on all sides, a great many in the marshes to the south, near Vardua and Porto Kalis. The city’s entire defence grid is still engaging with surface-to-orbit munitions, but the density of targets…’

  Yes, thought Kantor. And they will try to land here, soon.

  ‘Do all you can to maintain links with the capital,’ he told the Monitor. ‘And keep me updated.’

  He turned to his Honour Guard and barked, ‘Our brothers have this bastion well in hand. We will proceed to the Protheo Bastion next. Follow.’

  The five-man squad barked out a unified response and fell in behind him. As they walked, Kantor looked west over the battlements and saw, even through the bright rippling fire of detonating bombs, the entry glows of all too many xenos craft. All across Rynn’s World, ugly, filthy, noisy ork vehicles would be rolling down ramps and racing out over the hard-packed dirt in search of slaughter.

  The farming communities will be devastated, thought Kantor. The orks will descend on them like locusts, and nothing will be left alive. The beasts will have a bloodlust on them. If only the damned bombardment would cease so we can start knocking them out of the sky.

  His view from the Protheo Bastion only added to his concern. Where the mountains dropped to the low hills, and the hills dropped to the steppes, bright fires studded the night. The sky boiled with descending craft, their trails cutting across the black canvas of the sky in long curving arcs. Bombs continued to fall from space, cratering the mountains where the umbrella of the void shields ended.

  A disaster, thought Kantor. In the history of the Chapter, my name will forever be linked with this night. I must do all I can to ensure that it is remembered with honour, not shame. I will not be the Chapter Master who faltered on his home ground.

  When the bombardment began to slacken, as it did now, he noticed the change immediately. Soon, the fiery bursts above the fortress-monastery died off completely. It was a sign that the orks were coming. Soon, they would try to land nearby and launch their ground assault on Arx Tyrannus. He would teach them what a mistake that was!

  On the comm-link, he opened a channel to Forgemaster Adon.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ rasped the old Techmarine.

  ‘Drop the shields,’ Kantor commanded. ‘It is time to unleash our fury.’

  ‘The Sercia, Protheo and Marez batteries are ready, my lord. The Laculum batteries are powering up now.’

  ‘Problems, Javier?’

  ‘A momentary glitch, lord. System checks now report optimal status. We have targeting solutions already mapped. Tracking data for the missiles is being uploaded now. The Laculum batteries will be online within three minutes.’

  ‘As soon as they are ready,’ said Kantor, ‘launch everything we have. I want maximum retaliation on the greenskin fleet. We’ll honour Ranparre, by Terra! What is the risk of large-scale debris impacting post-contact?’

  ‘Very small, lord. The largest of the ork ships are locked in orbit so they can deploy their landers. Any heavy impact will propel debris outwards, away from the planet. The probability margin of collateral surface destruction is within the lower tenth of a percentile.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kantor replied. ‘You have my full confidence. Let the enemies of mankind know our wrath.’

  ‘In Dorn’s name,’ grated Adon.

  The comm-link clicked off.

  Over the command channel, Kantor addressed all his squad and company commanders. ‘The shields are going down, brothers. They will be coming. Bless your weapons and honour the Chapter with your kills.’

  Another voice, Marqol Tomasi’s, added, ‘There is only the Emperor.’

  Kantor’s voice joined the others in the traditional response.

  ‘He is our shield and our protector.’

  Sirens began to wail and red warning lamps spun into life. From the top of a tower sixty metres to Kantor’s right, a great cloud of steam billowed up into the air. A circular hatch in the tower roof, one metre thick and five metres across, hinged open with a hydraulic hiss. All around the fortress-monastery, the same was happening, hatches rising to
reveal the blunted noses of surface-to-orbit ballistic missiles, each equipped with the most devastating conventional warheads available.

  The sirens changed pitch now, warning of imminent launch. The Space Marines stopped checking each others’ gear for a moment to turn and watch as the first flames licked up from the top of the tower-silos. The ground began to shudder, and the air filled with a rumble that drowned out all else.

  Snagrod had underestimated the Crimson Fists in coming here. He was about to pay for that mistake.

  The deafening roar of plasma-jet rockets intensified in pitch, and the nose of the missile nearest to Kantor slowly rose into view. Its acceleration seemed painfully slow at first. It wrestled with gravity, fighting to heave its bulk into the air.

  More and more of the missile emerged from the silo, and its speed continued to increase. Gravity was losing. The missile burst clear of the silo, shooting straight up into the sky with a roar like an angry god. Its tail of flame was almost blindingly bright.

  Others followed, streaking upwards on thick columns of fire and smoke.

  Watching them arc towards their distant targets, Pedro Kantor never imagined, not even for an instant, that a terrible hammer was about to fall on everything he held most dear.

  The Night of the Burning Sky had only just begun.

  Savales stopped in the hall just outside the Refectorum and immediately perceived the fear that hung in the air. The smooth stone benches within were crowded with the youngest of the Chosen, many of whom were hunched over, looking up at the vaulted ceiling from beneath rumpled brows. Others had their eyes shut tight. Some hugged themselves or rocked back and forth. The youngest were a mere eight years old, the oldest closer to fourteen. None had experienced anything like this before. Even Savales would have bet against the orks being so brash as to assault an Adeptus Astartes home world directly.

  The young Chosen had been gathered here to wait out the orbital bombardment, but also to keep them from under the feet of the Adeptus Astartes and the older serfs, many of whom had duties critical to the defence of the fortress-monastery. A few adults paced between the benches, telling the boys to be strong, that the storm which was shaking the entire mountain would be over soon enough.

  One of the adults, a whip-thin man named Bernis Kalisde, Master of the Refectorum, barked at some of the boys as he passed close to them, causing several to jump and one to cry out in surprise. ‘You are pathetic!’ he told them. ‘Look at you, cowering like beaten dogs. You belong to the Chapter. In your time here, have you learned nothing from your betters? Fear is useless to you. It holds you back. Let go of it, or it will have to be beaten out of you.’

  Savales watched Kalisde from the shadow of the western entrance. No one had yet noticed his presence. He did not like the man. Kalisde was quick to criticise and loath to hand out praise where it was well deserved, and he had no right to beat anyone who did not serve directly under him. Some of these boys were already marked to study for roles in the Sacratium, apothecarion and Technicarum once they were old enough. If the Master of the Refectorum lifted a hand to them, he would find himself facing a very harsh penance.

  ‘Look at me,’ Kalisde continued. ‘Do you see me shaking? Are my eyes wet with tears like yours? No. You are weak, all of you. The bombs do not scare me at all. I’d be laughing at you all if I wasn’t so disgusted.’

  Savales stepped fully into the Refectorum now, walking straight for the centre of the hall. His robes, bearing the personal heraldry of the Chapter Master on the back and breast, marked him out as the supreme authority among the Chosen. No other mortal man had the right to bear that sigil until Savales passed it on. On seeing the ordinator enter, Kalisde stopped pacing and drew himself up straight. He eyed Savales with grudging respect as he approached.

  ‘Look here, you boys. Ordinator Savales fears no greenskin bombs, is that not right, ordinator?’

  ‘Not so long as I have void shields over my head,’ said Savales, stopping a few paces from Kalisde and smiling at the boys who looked up at him from either side. Then he fixed his eyes on the Master of the Refectorum and said, ‘I will take things from here, Bernis. You and your staff are free to retire for now.’

  Kalisde did not like being told what to do on territory he considered his own, but he knew the power the ordinator wielded. His jaw worked for a moment while he considered a response but, if he found one, he thought better of voicing it. He gave a curt nod and moved off to an arch in the north wall that would take him back to the kitchens. The other adults followed in silence.

  Savales looked at the boys around him. He couldn’t fault Kalisde for what he had been trying to do, but there were better ways to do it than making scared children feel guilty and miserable.

  ‘Make room,’ he told two on his right. He stepped over their bench and sat down beside them. ‘Gather close, the rest of you,’ he called out. ‘Make sure you can all hear me.’

  Wordlessly, the young serfs from other tables rose and gathered around, their fellows making room for them so that the benches became closely packed. There was a certain primal comfort in this new proximity. Huddled together like this, the shuddering of the mountain lost a little of its edge.

  ‘Now,’ said Savales, ‘how many of you understand what is happening outside?’

  None raised a hand. They all knew that the fortress-monastery was under attack by orks, of course, but none had ever seen one. All they knew of the greenskins was the stories the older serfs sometimes told, always third hand, and whatever they could glean from the friezes that decorated many of the Chapter corridors, ancient artwork in which Crimson Fist heroes were depicted slaying thick green figures by the hundreds.

  ‘You know that the aliens hoped to surprise Master Kantor, yes? They hoped to strike hard at the Chapter’s foundations and gain a quick victory. Well, try to imagine how frustrated the foolish greenskin leader must be feeling right now. He and his troops have spent years preparing, maybe even decades. His armies have crossed great stretches of cold, dark space, intent on obliterating the single greatest threat to their species in the entire sector. They risked death by the millions, exiting the warp dangerously close to a planet, losing many of their most powerful ships in the process. It’s true. And now, having finally reached their goal, they launch their payloads, only to find their weapons utterly useless. Every last bomb they drop explodes harmlessly on our shields. Afraid? Us? Throne, no! It is fine comedy.’

  He saw a few faces brighten as they listened, but the walls still rumbled. The bombardment seemed endless and it was clear the youngsters needed more from him.

  ‘When I was your age,’ he told them, ‘I experienced the greatest fear of my life. Do you know what that was?’

  ‘You saw a xenos,’ said a wide-eyed boy of nine from across the table.

  ‘No,’ said Savales. ‘Not that.’

  ‘A daemon, then?’ said another of about the same age.

  The others hissed at him and made warding signs, and he shrank back from them.

  Savales frowned and shook his head, but he was not angry. ‘No, not that. And we do not say that word aloud, child. Remember your lessons. Well, it seems none of you will ever guess, so I will tell you. The greatest fear of my life was that my chance to serve the Chapter was lost forever. I was not much older than you are when I discovered I would never be Adeptus Astartes. I had wanted it so much. I doubted the worth of any other kind of life. I thought my life over. I was sure I would be put to death. But I’ve lived a better life than I ever deserved, and so will each of you. The Chapter needs us, you know, and each of us need the Chapter. Master Kantor knows all your names. He cares for all the Chosen. In fact, he once said to me, “Ramir, the Chosen are like this mountain”. “How so, my lord?”’ I asked him. “They are the rock on which the Chapter stands,” he told me. “It is by their labours that the battle-brothers are always ready for war. I only wish the rest of the Imperium knew how much of our glory and honour rightly belongs to the ones who serve us.�
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  ‘He really said that?’ asked a boy on Savales’s left.

  ‘He did,’ said Savales. ‘Throughout your lives, the Chapter will ask much from each of you. Sometimes you will be tired, but you must go on. Sometimes you will feel pain, but you must overcome it. You must give everything you have to your duties. Lord Hellblade is depending on you. The Chapter’s victories are our victories, too. Do not forget it.’ He pointed upwards towards the high ceiling and raised his eyes. ‘When the orks finish dropping their useless bombs, our masters will begin the real fight, and they will finish it, too. You will see. The Crimson Fists cannot be overcome. Even the accursed scythians failed in the end and fled into the Great Dark to escape the Chapter’s wrath.’

  The air in the Refectorum had brightened noticeably now. Most of the boys had straightened in their seats. Savales saw pride burning in bright eyes. Good, he thought.

  ‘I hope you all know Gordeau’s Ninth Litany Against Fear.’

  The youngest looked nervous and guilty, but the others nodded.

  ‘If you don’t know it,’ Savales said kindly, ‘just listen and do your best. You will soon pick it up.’

  So, he led them in the litany, their voices joining to fill the air and challenge the noise of the bombs. They hardly noticed when the bombs stopped falling. A short time later, when death came to take them all, that was how it found them; unafraid, with pride in their hearts.

  Savales need not have worried about the worth of his life. He had lived it with great honour, and it ended in the only place he ever called home.

  The orks came soon after the first of the ship-killers were launched. They came in uncountable numbers, with tanks and bikes and weapons that beggared description, spewing forth from fat transports that braved the fortress-monastery’s mid- and close-range defences to land and disgorge them. They swarmed up the mountainsides, heedless of the fire that spilled out to meet them.