‘What should I tell the acting governor, sir, he won’t–’
‘Tell him to feg off for all I care, Besseque! There are no more men, no spare battalions. It’s ov–’ Adanar caught himself before he went too far. He lowered his voice, just for the aide. ‘It’s over, Corporal Besseque. This world is our tomb.’
Slowly, Besseque nodded and backed away. The hollow anger in Adanar’s eyes was reflected in the corporal’s fearful pupils.
Adanar didn’t watch him go. He returned to observe the assault. Hard to see, as a sudden snowfall shawled the more distant defensive walls, but a line of shattered tanks punctuated the outer marker of the city where they’d first tried to meet the necrons. The enemy had annihilated the armour columns with perfunctory ease and then used their swarm creatures to gut the machine innards of the Imperial tanks and convert them into more necron warrior constructs. How foolish the humans had been to think anything other than hiding behind the walls of the capital would extend their lives, albeit fractionally.
‘How much of a fool,’ whispered Adanar. He rubbed his finger over a locket-charm chained to his wrist. There were two picts nestled inside, memories of the wife and child now slumbering beneath the Damnos earth like so many others.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ghosting the air with his breath, the din of the battle all around him receding. He felt the scar on his face, the ache in his shoulder and back from when he’d tried to save them. When the hab had collapsed and… and…
Adanar shut his eyes.
Tarn, the poor dead fegger, had been wise to tell him to flee with his family. A pity Adanar had not heeded him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he echoed, talking to the phantoms in his mind. He wiped away a tear, crystallised on his cheek, and the battle rushed back. They were stretched. He needed more men. Once the phasic-generator was in range it wouldn’t matter. Not long now. He’d be with them soon enough.
Some of the Ark Guard in the courtyard were pointing at the sky.
Adanar followed their gestures and saw… comets. Armoured comets, cobalt-blue and streaked in flame, emblazoned with an icon he had seen depicted in tapestries and triptychs, if never in real life.
Ultramarines.
The Space Marines had come.
When ordered to join the gate-guard, a soldier surrendered all semblance of control and accepted his fate was no longer in his own hands. Even firing a weapon was pointless. Engaging the enemy was impossible. The first moment a gate-guard would know of the enemy was when that enemy was bearing down on him, breaching the very portal he had sworn to protect.
Falka accepted the duty grimly. He never trembled like the other men did when the earth shook and the gate shuddered from artillery impacts. He gripped his lascarbine, felt the reassuring weight of the ice-pick tugging at his belt loop, and waited. He thought of Jynn, lost in the ice storm. It seemed like years, but in reality it was just months. She’d got them out of the mine and died an ignominious death for her bravery. Sometimes, the Emperor’s sense of humour was a cruel one. Falka’s last sight of her had been the ice bank collapsing, Jynn and a dozen or so others falling to the abysmal white of the frost-gale.
Now all he had was the gate. He had lived, she had not. It would count for something, Falka decided. He’d seen, first-hand, what had happened in the outer zones – ‘the wasteland’. Ferrocrete and plasteel were no barriers to these creatures, these necrons. They filled the air with their threats, their promises of annihilation and domination, and there was nothing the Ark Guard could do. This was a menace that could materialise through walls or inside bunkers. There was no place on all of Damnos to hide. So, it was with a certain irony that Falka regarded the western gate.
When the phasic-generator, an arcane device spoken of in fearful whispers by the men, got close enough or attained enough power, they would be tooth to nail with the necrons. Flesh against metal, the humans did not stand a chance.
‘You were the lucky one, Jynn,’ muttered Falka, and the sadness plucked at his stomach, making him feel sick.
‘Trooper Kolpeck.’ It was the gate-sergeant, a hard-edged brute called Muhrne. ‘Save your prayers until they’re at the gate.’
‘With respect, sir,’ Falka replied, ‘it won’t matter a shard. They’ll pass the western gate and be on us without warning.’
Muhrne nodded sagely. ‘So, like I said: save your prayers.’
Falka laughed before his gaze was drawn to the sky and he saw the stars falling, setting the clouds aflame.
The drop pods hammered into the earth with concussive fury. Adanar watched a wave slam into position around the Capitolis Administratum, burning scarabs off the walls with the displaced heat of their re-entry. Slab sides like the edges of an arrowhead crashed open with a hiss of venting pressure and a missile barrage disgorged from within. Tiny explosions, combining to form much larger ones, erupted throughout the necron ranks in close proximity to the bastion. Adanar had expected Space Marines; instead he got a fusillade that was punishing the enemy hard with automated precision. The defenders, pushed close to the brink of defeat, rallied at once. Redoubled las-fire spat from the walls adding to the carnage.
Adanar’s vicarious exultation was short-lived as the phasic-generator came into range and so too did the necron warrior cohorts. Several war cells translated through the Kellenport walls and fell upon the vanguard Adanar had positioned in front of the Courtyard of Thor. A strange sensation emanated from the newly arrived enemy, something brought on by the effects of the generator’s recent activation. The world spun vertiginously and Adanar was forced to cling to the battlement for support. He heard screams, echoing through the fog of sudden dislocation, and assumed several of the Ark Guard stationed on the wall had fallen.
‘Sergeant,’ he began, spitting out the word through gritted teeth.
Sergeant Nabor was on his knees, blubbering like an infant with his hands over his ears.
It had affected the entire garrison.
Adanar tried to move, thinking he was stepping back when in fact he went forward. He reached for his laspistol, hoping the sudden discharge might return his senses, but grabbed for the empty air on the left side of his belt, instead of the holster on his right.
‘Throne of Earth,’ he garbled, as an errant trickle of blood wept from his nostril and touched his lip. The copper tang was intense, almost acidic.
Below, through his tunnelling, kaleidoscopic vision, the vanguard was being slaughtered.
A voice, inhuman and metallic, resolved on the breeze.
Heed my words for I am the Herald and we are the footsteps of doom. Interlopers, do we name you. Defilers of our sacred earth. We have awoken to your primitive species and will not tolerate your presence. Ours is the way of logic, of cold hard reason; your irrationality, your human disease has no place in the necrontyr. Flesh is weak. Surrender to the machine incarnate. Surrender and die.
Adanar found his laspistol – it was as if it’d been placed in his trembling grasp – and pressed it to his forehead.
‘Surrender to the machine incarnate,’ he echoed macabrely. ‘Surrender and die.’ A thought, so small and insignificant he barely felt it, entered his brain and he paused for a few life-saving seconds. The trigger pull never came.
The comets from heaven crashed home, flooding the plaza beyond the walls with cobalt-blue angels, and the terrible sensation abated.
Weeping openly, Adanar put down his gun and praised the Emperor.
‘Thank you, my loves,’ he sobbed, rubbing at the locket-charm. ‘Thank you.’
Mustering his resolve, ignoring the fact Sergeant Nabor had forcibly evacuated much of his brainpan across the battlement, Adanar issued the order to open the western gate and empty the Courtyard of Thor.
The tide had turned.
Chapter Three
Aboard the Valin’s Revenge prior to drop pod assault
Scipio knelt on the assembly deck, blessing his weapons before launch. Less than fifty metres away row upon row of dro
p pods waited, cinched in their launch tubes.
‘As I anoint this holy bolter with these words of benediction, so too do I commit myself, body and mind, to the service of the Emperor. I swear by Guilliman’s blade and for the glory of Ultramar that Thy will be done.’ Holstering his bolt pistol, Scipio drew his chainsword from a sheath on his armour’s power generator and pressed the still blade to his forehead. ‘Make my hand into a ready sword; let my faith and certainty of purpose be my shield. For I am Adeptus Astartes, Ultramarine, pre-eminent of all Chapters. So swears Lord Guilliman.’
‘So swears Lord Guilliman,’ echoed a deep voice behind him.
Scipio smiled and turned, sheathing his weapon. ‘Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, brother.’
Iulus Fennion had a face like a slab of carved granite and displayed about the same amount of emotion. He clasped Scipio’s proffered hand and tiny cracks sprang out from the corners of his eyes in what could have been amusement.
‘A dangerous mission into the Thanatos Hills,’ Iulus replied, all business. His square jaw and flat nose shifted like a mountain crag as he spoke, and the stubble on his chin and head reminded Scipio of grit rather than hair.
‘Is that concern I hear, brother?’ Scipio asked, releasing his grip and patting his fellow sergeant on the shoulder.
Iulus shrugged, pretending to run a final check over his wargear. ‘A statement of fact. As part of the main push to relieve Kellenport, I won’t be there to watch your back.’
‘I can think of no better to perform such a task, either,’ Scipio replied with genuine bonhomie. ‘Or perhaps it’s you that’s in need of protection.’
Iulus grunted something when the pair were interrupted by a third figure.
‘Brother-sergeants.’ Praxor’s greeting was friendly enough, but a chill entered the air at his arrival nonetheless.
The three clasped vambraces in the manner of the old way once favoured by Macraggian battle-kings.
‘A glorious campaign is in prospect,’ said Praxor Manorian. ‘Our Lord Sicarius will bring many laurels to the Second this day.’
‘Cast off your politician’s mantle, Praxor,’ growled Iulus, finding the other sergeant’s vainglory distasteful. ‘It is war, plain and simple.’
‘There is more than mere soldiery at play here. We need to be seen to be supporting our captain.’
Scipio snorted. He hadn’t seen Praxor in many weeks – he originally believed he’d been secluded in the practice cages, but later discovered he was involved in senate dealings concerning Calgar’s eventual successor. ‘Support for what? Sicarius’s elevation?’
Praxor looked nonplussed, his thin face taut like wire. Together with his silver hair, the sergeant had the haughty cast of a statue. He was certainly inflexible enough when it came to Ultramar politics. ‘Yes, what else?’
Iulus shook his head. ‘We three have debated this point at length, and I still maintain it is unfitting talk for warriors. Agemman is First, therefore he sits at Lord Calgar’s right hand. I vaunt Sicarius as much and as readily as any in the Chapter, as any in the Second, but the law of ascendancy is what it is.’ The grizzled veteran folded his arms as if that were an end to it.
‘Just because you have a uniquely simple view of matters does not mean everyone else has, Iulus,’ chided Praxor. ‘Every victory, laurel and laudation we garner for the Second brings us closer to our rightful place, at the head of Calgar’s table.’
Bored of the debate, one that had been waxing and waning for over a century, Scipio began inspecting the seals on his power armour. ‘There is no struggle, save that devised by your imaginings, Praxor,’ he said dismissively. ‘You’ve been spending too much time in temples with the legates, senators and magistrates instead of on the battlefield. I liked you better when you were a slave to the battle-cages. At least that improved your blade-craft.’
Iulus laughed, a rare concession to humour for him, but Praxor returned a serious expression. ‘It is no trivial matter, Scipio. Our Chapter’s future and who shapes it is of the utmost importance to all of us.’ He relaxed a little, realising he was being goaded. ‘And besides, the struggle is plain to see.’
Scipio frowned, bidding Praxor to clarify.
‘Or did you not see Helios in the mission briefing? Him and four others of the First – Agemman’s watchmen.’
‘You see conspiracy and spies where I see only fellow battle-brothers–’
‘They are not alone,’ interrupted Iulus, pointing further down the deck where three mighty Chapter wardens stomped into view.
The drop pods meant to convey the Dreadnoughts were slightly larger than the rest and designed to accommodate their bulk. Ultracius, Agnathio and venerable Agrippen – veterans all, formerly battle-brothers but now warriors-eternal entombed within sarcophagi of ceramite. Their mechanised shells were festooned with honour gilding and reliquaries, purity seals and oaths of moment. Each bore the sigil of the Ultramarines proudly and was armed with a brutal array of weapons.
‘Agrippen is First, is he not?’ said Iulus, rubbing at the rough texture of his chin as he considered what it must be like to fight for the Chapter as a Dreadnought.
‘Aye,’ uttered Praxor darkly. ‘He is.’
‘You’ll turn us all into company separatists with this talk, brother,’ Scipio warned. ‘It’s not fitting.’
Praxor turned on him, flint in his eyes and ice in his voice. ‘Eventually you’ll need to find your loyalties, Scipio. The Second fight and die as one.’
Scipio smacked away his brother’s coaxing hand before it touched his shoulder. ‘No, we the Chapter are as one. Politics be damned.’
‘It is for the good of the Chapter that I speak!’ Praxor was clearly becoming exasperated. As if remembering where he was, he lowered his voice. ‘And by supporting our captain, we are achieving that aim. There will come a time when political schism is inevitable. You won’t be able to hide behind your indifference then, Scipio. Your hand will be counted, as will every other sergeant and captain’s.’
‘Then I hope that day is long in the coming, brother. For it holds no interest for me.’ It came out harder than Scipio had intended.
Praxor’s expression went from animated to one of resignation. ‘As you wish.’ He saluted, somewhat crisply, and stalked away to find his squad. By now the assembly deck was thronged with battle-brothers from the Second. There were elements from other companies too: specialist forces the Ultramarines would need to face the necrons. Praxor only had issue with those warriors from the First, perceived as a threat by the paranoid brother-sergeant.
‘He craves the captain’s validation still, even after all this time,’ said Iulus. ‘Space Marines have long memories and pride, the same as any man.’
‘I would see Praxor’s pride lanced swiftly before it overtakes his reason.’
Iulus only nodded.
Scipio scowled at Praxor’s back as he departed. ‘He’s a fool.’
‘Perhaps.’
A raised eyebrow gave away Scipio’s surprise. ‘You agree with him?’
‘I am a soldier, brother. I care not for the politics of advancement. Calgar will appoint the right successor, I trust in that. But I’m not blind, either. Agemman is looking over his shoulder, and Sicarius has his gaze fixed on what’s ahead of the First Captain. Power struggles are inevitable in any organised structure – they don’t need to be a bad thing, either.’
‘You sound more like a Salamander, all tedious pragmatism and fatalistic acceptance.’
‘Better to accept what you cannot change and learn to adapt than rail against the immutable and end up wasting time and effort.’
Scipio gave the facial equivalent of a shrug, indicating his interest in the matter was at an end. ‘Battle calls, brother,’ he said. Squad Vorolanus was gathering around their drop pod, awaiting their sergeant. ‘May Guilliman guide your hand and the Emperor shield you.’ His gauntlet slapping Iulus’s pauldron made a dull ring before he turned away.
The hard-faced brother-sergeant seized Scipio’s forearm, stopping him.
‘Those heavy guns,’ he said, releasing his grip. ‘They won’t be easy to knock out, even with Lord Tigurius at your side.’
‘It is I who’ll be at his side, Iulus.’
Scipio hadn’t seen the Master of Librarians throughout the muster but somehow felt his presence. Varro Tigurius was formidable in the psychic arts – to take to the field with him was a great honour, but also a source of trepidation for the sergeant. What misgivings might he uncover in Scipio’s turbulent mind?
Iulus brought him back. ‘Even still, you’ll be far from the rest of us.’
Confusion creased Scipio’s brow. Did Iulus doubt him for some reason?
‘The necron pylons will be destroyed, brother.’ His eye-line strayed to the distant figure of Antaro Chronus as he inspected the Ultramarines armour. ‘Rest assured of that.’
The master tank commander would not be deployed with the first wave, but Thunderhawk transporters stood ready on the launch bay for when the enemy beam weapons were silenced and passage opened for the Predators, Whirlwinds and Devastators in Chronus’s arsenal.
‘I don’t doubt it. Antaro’s cannons will be a welcome friend in a sea of foes when you do.’
‘What is it, then? All this evasion.’ Scipio’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not like you.’
‘I give you counsel, that is all,’ Iulus said plainly. He paused, as if deciding how and if to proceed. Good advice given at a bad time by a friend was always harder to hear; it was even harder to give. ‘You are becoming like him.’
Scipio’s face stiffened. It had lost much of its youthful exuberance over the last century, only the close-cropped hair remained the same. ‘More allusion. Are you sure that’s not Praxor Manorian under all that grim and sturm?’
Iulus didn’t return Scipio’s smile.
‘I am my own man, Iulus.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ The sergeant had his hands up in a plaintive gesture. ‘But these creatures are not ork, nor are they eldar or even Traitors…’
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