Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Its hollowed form collapsed to the rocky ground, steam rising from the gaping cavity in its chest.

  How many more of them were out here on the slopes?

  They had been assaulting Arx Tyrannus in great number. Had the cataclysm devastated them, too?

  Had any of his brothers survived?

  Kantor tried to open a comm-channel, unencrypted, desperate to reach anyone at all, but his visor display reported too much interference from the residual energies of the great explosion. He removed his helmet, considering whether or not to call out. If the orks were still here in number, they would make straight for him with murder on their minds.

  Let them come, he thought.

  He would take whatever temporary comfort he could in dispensing death to them.

  Clipping his helmet to his belt, he took a great lungful of air and was about to call out when he heard the distinctive sound of bolter-fire just off to the north. Without hesitation, he followed it. Was one of his brothers alive, or had some greenskin marauder simply salvaged a boltgun and was firing it at random into the air?

  As Kantor moved north along the lip of the chasm, he saw a great many shapes on the ground. Most were orks, their heavy bodies burned black or pulverised by large blocks of stone thrown out in the blast, but there was a far sadder sight among them. With increasing frequency, Kantor came across the still forms of Crimson Fists lying among the xenos dead. They, too, had been thrown from the fortress-monastery’s ramparts to land here, their bodies broken beyond their ability to heal. He wanted to stop, to check each for signs of life, but the sound of the boltgun was closer now, and he could see muzzle flare through the smoke up ahead.

  Stepping over the dead, ready to join the combat, Kantor hurried towards it.

  ‘More!’ yelled a familiar voice. ‘Come and meet your death, filthy scum. You’ve won nothing, do you hear me? As long as I live, your kind will have reason to fear.’

  Kantor saw an ugly shape loom up on the speaker’s left and, before the furious battle-brother could turn his bolt pistol on the creature, he fired, two bolts punching wounds in the monster’s side.

  It sank to the ground, dead and, for a moment, the area was clear of threats. The determined battle-brother turned. ‘You there!’ he barked. ‘Well met. Now name yourself, brother!’

  Despite everything, Kantor grinned. Of all the voices he could have heard at that moment, here was the very one he would have wished for most. He stepped towards the figure, presenting himself, and answered, ‘You once called me Pollux reborn, brother, but you were in error then.’

  The other stood stunned, then surged forward to place his hands on Kantor’s shoulders.

  ‘Pedro! By all the worlds… You’re alive!’

  Kantor returned his old friend’s embrace. ‘Unless we have died, Alessio, and our spirits wander a nightmare… yes, I am alive.’

  They released each other and stepped back, each studying the other’s face. Alessio Cortez was smiling, but it was impossible to miss the pain in his eyes. Kantor knew his friend felt the loss of so much every bit as keenly as he did.

  ‘Others?’ he asked.

  ‘None that I have found so far,’ answered Cortez quietly. ‘I have checked a great many bodies, brother. But, no. None, yet.’

  ‘Do you know…?’

  Cortez scowled. ‘One of our own missiles, Pedro. By the blasted bones of the scythians, it was one of our own damned missiles! Rhava and I saw it just before it hit. It hammered straight into the mountainside.’

  Kantor shook his head. ‘The Forgemaster said there were problems with the Laculum batteries, but the follow-up scans showed everything in order.’

  ‘Adon would not have fired otherwise.’

  It was true. The Chapter Master could not believe that Javier Adon had been at fault here. Had it simply been an accident? A billion-to-one quirk of ill fate? If not, had sabotage been the cause? Each of these explanations was equally difficult to swallow.

  ‘A ship-killer couldn’t have wreaked so much devastation on its own,’ Cortez offered. ‘It must have detonated our underground munitions stores. A massive chain reaction is the only thing that would explain such a… catastrophe.’

  Kantor was about to respond when the report of a bolter sounded from the west, a little further down the mountain.

  A look between them was all that was needed. The two Adeptus Astartes turned and began racing in the direction of the noise. As they ran side-by-side past the smoking ruins of ork machines and the heaped bodies of the greenskin dead, Kantor said, ‘If there are answers to be had here, brother, we will have them one day but our destiny lies elsewhere. We must gather together anyone that lives and move from here. More orks will be coming.’

  Following the sounds of bolter-fire, Kantor and Cortez were soon reunited with a sergeant by the name of Viejo. When they found him, he was standing over a body in black armour, cutting down a small mob of greenskin filth he had discovered trying to loot it.

  Viejo’s joy at seeing his two superiors was tempered by the horror of all that had happened. The body in black was that of Chaplain Rhava. Cortez knelt beside it and offered a short prayer. Around Rhava’s neck there hung a thick gold and ruby pendant, its aura of power palpable. It was a rosarius, a protective amulet given to all Chaplains on full acceptance into the Sacratium. In these times, its ancient technology was only barely understood. Cortez removed it gently, muttering to the corpse, ‘If you will permit me, holy brother, I will carry this until I might return it to another of your order. It belongs with them.’

  He did not presume to hang the rosarius around his neck. Only another Chaplain might wear it in such a manner. Instead, Cortez fixed the pendant to his belt, noting a strange pricking sensation on his skin as he did so. Then he rose, swearing revenge.

  Continuing the search, Kantor, Cortez and Viejo moved off, maintaining a ten-metre gap between them. Time and again, they turned over the bodies of their brothers to find the armour crumpled or split, and the flesh within cold and dead. But they did not give up, and their determination soon paid off.

  Half an hour later, the three had become nine. An hour after that, sixteen. Though they continued to scour the area, killing any greenskins that stumbled onto their path, their number rose no higher.

  Sixteen Crimson Fists had survived from a force of over six hundred. Of most of those who had perished, there were no remains to be found. The explosion that had destroyed their ancient home had obliterated all trace of them. So it was with the thousands of Chosen who had believed themselves relatively safe within the fortress-monastery’s walls.

  A few of the Chapter’s serfs lay here on the slopes among the Adeptus Astartes and the aliens, but not many. Their twisted, broken forms would have been hard to recognise but for the distinctive robes in which they’d died. Every last one he passed made Kantor think of his loyal ordinator. The knowledge that the old man would never again bring him spiced fruits and fresh water in his chambers, nor stay a while to share in the joys of friendly discussion, was like a knife in his side. He would miss Savales’s honest, open face and his kind ways.

  It soon became clear that any further searching was futile. It was time to think about setting some objectives. There was only one place to go, Kantor knew – New Rynn City. Thank the Emperor and the primarch that a good number of the Crimson Fists had been there when the missile struck.

  ‘Weapons,’ he told the somewhat battered-looking Adeptus Astartes that stood in front of him. ‘We will need supplies. Grenades, ammunition, water, nutricaps, blades, anything you can find. Strap on as much as you can. We’ve a long and difficult path ahead of us.’

  Cortez came in close, and said in an undertone, ‘What of our fallen? We can’t just leave them out here like carrion.’

  Kantor knew exactly how the orks would treat the dead. They would strip the sacred armour from them and bastardise it to suit their own ends. Then they would defile the corpses, hacking off heads and hands to wear as sickening
trophies.

  He shook his head, as much to rid himself of that image as to reject what Cortez was suggesting.

  ‘I wish we could honour our brothers properly, Alessio, but we have lingered here long enough. More orks will be coming, and in force. They will want to gloat over this. There is no time to bury anyone.’

  ‘If I may, lord,’ said a brother called Galica, a member of Fifth Company. ‘We could perhaps burn them. Some of the dead xenos were carrying crude flamers. A pyre would deny them their sacrilege.’

  Kantor felt fifteen pairs of eyes on him, awaiting his pronouncement. He could read their faces. If he denied them this, he was sure, they would follow him, but none would be happy about leaving the dead this way. In his heart of hearts, he knew he wouldn’t be, either.

  ‘Very well,’ he told them. ‘Galica, Olvero and Teves will gather the xenos flamers. Look for fuel canisters, too. The orks may have been carrying extra ammunition for them. The rest of us will gather our dead. Work quickly.’

  So they did, and soon there was a mound of figures in dark blue armour. Among them were other colour in lesser number – Chaplains in black, Rhava among them, Techmarines in red, Apothecaries in white.

  Kantor particularly lamented the fact that none of the latter had survived. An Apothecary could have recovered priceless gene-seed from the dead. That gene-seed was needed now more than ever, a critical resource in bringing the Chapter back up to strength in the future… if the Chapter was to have a future.

  The work of ensuring it did, Kantor knew, fell squarely on his shoulders.

  He prayed to Pollux that he was equal to the task.

  Brothers Galica, Teves and Olvero lit the pyre, white fire gushing and spitting from the nozzles of the alien weapons. Then, when the fuel canisters were spent, they threw the weapons aside and joined the others in a final salute.

  As the fire claimed the bodies of the dead, Kantor found himself wishing that High Chaplain Tomasi were here, for his spiritual strength as much as for his knowledge of the appropriate rites. He offered words of his own as the flames crackled and snapped, but, though his brothers appeared moved by them, he felt they were a poor substitute.

  Tomasi had been ministering to the souls of his fellow Crimson Fists since long before either Kantor or Cortez were even born – almost five hundred years of unswerving loyalty and honour. And then, in an eye-blink, he had been wiped from existence. One of the largest, most forceful personalities Kantor had ever known, snuffed out in an instant with those he tended, another legend cut short without fitting glory to punctuate it. It had been Tomasi who had overseen the Rites of Succession that saw ultimate authority pass from the late Chapter Master Visidar to Kantor. Who would oversee those rites now? Who among the Chaplains in the capital was fit to take Tomasi’s place?

  He reached out and put a hand on Cortez’s shoulder. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We have done all we can here. New Rynn City is over a thousand kilometres away, and the land that separates us from our goal will be seething with the foe. Snagrod means to obliterate us entirely. He may think it a task already accomplished, but he will send forces to make sure. Get the others ready to leave.’

  Cortez didn’t move. He stood staring into the flames. ‘When I lay eyes on the vile bastard, Pedro…’

  There was a shout from the other side of the fire. Kantor left Cortez where he was and strode around it, already certain it would not be good news.

  He was right.

  Brother Alcador was staring out over the vast expanse of the Arcalan Basin to the west, eyes fixed on a point in the sky. ‘We have aircraft inbound, my lord,’ he said. ‘And they are not ours!’

  Kantor followed the battle-brother’s gaze.

  He saw them now, a cluster of dark shapes in the distance, far away but moving swiftly. If they didn’t change vector, they would be on top of the Fists position in a matter of minutes.

  They flew in what could only loosely be called formation. The smaller craft rolled and swooped dangerously close to a knot of larger, bulkier machines.

  Their recklessness was unmistakeable.

  ‘Damn them,’ spat Kantor.

  Cortez had followed him around the fire, and was now tracking the dark objects in the distance, too. ‘This is a gift, brother.’ He lifted his bolt pistol in front of his breastplate to emphasise his point. ‘We can begin our vengeance now!’

  ‘I will not risk the lives of the Fists I have left,’ snapped Kantor. ‘How do you propose to fight their jets without anti-air weaponry?’

  The approaching ork aircraft might be carrying high-yield bombs, air-to-ground missiles and Throne-knew-what-else. To die here, bombed from the air by the filthy savages… No. Their chance for justice, for revenge, would vanish like smoke on the wind.

  ‘We pull out,’ said Kantor. ‘Now!’

  Cortez glared at him as if he were mad.

  ‘Run, Pedro? You cannot mean that. Let them land. We can ambush them. If we allow ourselves to fear death now, we are not worthy to survive. Surely you see that. Honour will only be served by taking the fight to them. It is the Adeptus Astartes way. It is the only way.’

  Kantor’s eyes bored into Cortez’s. ‘This is not about honour or pride, damn you. This is about the survival of our Chapter. Nothing else. New Rynn City is our only hope. We must reunite with Alvez’s force. Now move these battle-brothers out, captain. We will follow the Yanna Gorge. It will give us good cover until we reach the steppes.’

  Cortez cursed and spat on the ground and, just for the briefest instant, Kantor found himself furious at his insolence. They were friends, yes, and he had always afforded Cortez certain liberties because of that. But he was taking them too far now. Rank superseded all else. The captain clearly needed reminding.

  Kantor’s voice was dangerously quiet as he said, ‘Understand me, Alessio. These are my orders. Orders, brother! You have debated them countless times before, but you have never disobeyed them. You will not do so now when I need your strength most.’

  Cortez’s eyes were wild. Missile malfunction or not, his soul burned with a need, a compulsion, to eviscerate those who had come to Rynn’s World with the intention of doing his brothers harm. His home was gone, his proud Fourth Company obliterated with he the only member left. He struggled with himself, the effort plain on his scarred face. He was torn between doing as his master ordered and doing what his heart demanded. As Kantor watched him, he saw the psycho-conditioning win through. Cortez’s face became gradually less feral, the curled upper lip sliding back down over clenched teeth.

  ‘I will do as my lord asks,’ Cortez growled at last, ‘but I don’t have to like it.’

  Kantor let that pass. Cortez would do as ordered. Despite their words in the corridor after judgement had been passed on Janus Kennon, he could not disobey. A true Adeptus Astartes embraced his psychological augmentation utterly. Cortez’s mood would remain foul until his armour was slick with the blood of the foe, but that moment would come soon enough of its own accord.

  The black shapes in the sky were growing closer, visible in more detail.

  Fighter-bombers and troop carriers, thought Kantor. The orks control our airspace. How easy it was for them. We were complacent. I was complacent, and it must never happen again.

  Raucous jet engines could be heard clearly now, their noise echoing up from the plains below. Kantor stepped past Cortez, intent on getting his party moving quickly.

  Wordlessly, Cortez fell in behind him.

  Do you think I want to punish the xenos any less than you do, Alessio, Kantor silently raged? I would slaughter every last one of them. I would look into their red eyes as I twisted my blade, and steep both my hands in their blood. But I will wait until the time is right, and so will you. My orders will be followed. We are Adeptus Astartes. Space Marines. We are the shield against the darkness, yes. But without discipline, we are nothing at all.

  Three

  The Cassar, New Rynn City

  Dawn at the capital brought no re
lief. In fact, with the coming of the light, it brought more horror and despair than the night could ever have. The extent of the invasion was revealed, and many who gazed out over a horizon literally filled with hostile alien monstrosities lost all hope. In that first morning, there were over four hundred suicides on the Gorrion Wall alone. Most of these were Rynnsguard, men who should have known better, men who should have been trained to sell their lives dear, who were expected to fight, no matter what, for the sake of all that depended on them. But most had joined up never expecting to see combat. They joined for the uniform, the attention of loose women, for the money to feed families.

  As they gazed out over what had once been teeming suburbs built to house the city’s cheap, uneducated labour force, all they saw was death.

  Death was green. Death carried strange, shoddy looking weaponry and roared around in noisy, fume-spewing junk-heaps. And death was everywhere, bellowing curses, promising slaughter, and trying to get inside the gates.

  Alvez had given temporary command of the Gorrion Wall to a veteran sergeant from Third Company, Dremir Soto, while he and Grimm sought out the most senior of the Librarians. All the reports listed the same phenomena – Librarians everywhere across the defensive line suddenly howling in pain and crashing to their knees. They had been either unable or unwilling to talk to anyone since. Alvez suspected a concentrated psychic assault of some kind, perpetrated by the ork shamans in Snagrod’s army.

  He was not prepared for the truth.

  He and Grimm found the senior Epistolary, Delevan Deguerro, kneeling in silence before the altar in the Cassar’s small but adequate Reclusiam. Images of Dorn and the Emperor gazed down impassively from the intricate stained-glass windows. Alvez could tell by the Librarian’s posture that something was gravely wrong. Deguerro had always cut such a powerful, confident figure. Now he looked, not like a mighty son of the greatest primarch who had ever lived, but beaten, stricken as if by an illness that robbed him of all strength.