Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Found a lot of patrols on our forays inland,’ Jynn explained. She turned on the lamp kit and rubbed her hands next to the warmth. She looked over her shoulder at Scipio. ‘You generate a lot of heat, don’t you?’

  The Ultramarine shrugged, as much as he could whilst wearing full power armour. He knew she was right but heat or cold was of no concern to one such as him.

  ‘We could have used some of your generators in the early days.’ She started to unbuckle her kit and peel off the bodyglove. ‘Certainly makes doing this a lot easier.’

  Jynn had her naked back to him as she changed out of the sodden kit into something dry. ‘Good thing about having fewer mouths to feed,’ she said ruefully. ‘It means there’s plenty of extra rags to go around too.’

  The tattoos on her neck went down her shoulder and across her back, all the way to the base of her spine. Despite her nakedness, Scipio didn’t avert his gaze. Jynn seemed unconcerned about it.

  She called. ‘Densk!’

  The bearded one from earlier came in, silent on account of his missing tongue. He stalled a little when he saw the Space Marine but moved around him to Jynn’s side.

  ‘Lamp’s hot,’ she said. ‘Three marks.’

  There was a metal prong next to the lamp. Densk took it and proceeded to burn the three marks Jynn had requested. To her credit, she barely flinched.

  When he was done, Densk dabbed some gauze with counter-septic on the wounds and left the tent just as he’d arrived.

  ‘Those scars,’ Scipio ventured when Densk had gone. ‘What do they represent?’

  She arched her neck to look, touching one of the higher tattoos. ‘Kill-marks,’ she said. ‘One for each metal-head I’ve ganked. Everyone alive in this camp has them.’

  Scipio counted at least seventeen kill-marks. He’d seen Chapter veterans do something similar on their armour.

  ‘Three from the ambush. Yours is the highest tally, am I right?’

  Jynn taped fresh pads of gauze over the burns. She struggled to reach the lowest one. ‘Could you assist me?’

  ‘I’m no Apothecary,’ Scipio replied, but came forward and applied the last of the tape. He had to be careful; his gauntlets were ill-suited to delicate work, especially field medicine.

  ‘Thank you.’ Jynn stepped away, shrugged on a fresh bodyglove then an overcoat, and faced him. Her eyes were like shards of glass. ‘Yes, mine is the highest tally. And I’ll see it doubled, tripled until everyone one of those mechanical bastards is dead.’

  Scipio recognised something in her demeanour. It was like looking into a mirror. The bitterness, the impotent anger. He wondered whom she had lost to make her this way.

  ‘You’ve buried many comrades-in-arms?’

  ‘No, but I’ve seen friends and colleagues die. And I’ve lost family too – my husband, but not to the necrons.’

  ‘My condolences,’ he said, even though he didn’t really feel the compassion of the words. He eyed the maps and charts, particularly the ones on the table. ‘You know these mountains?’

  Jynn laughed but it was without humour. ‘We’ve been dying and surviving in these crags for over a year. Yes, we know the mountains intimately.’

  Scipio walked up to the table. There was a marker to one side and Scipio used it to circle the Thanatos Hills. ‘And here,’ he added, drawing an arrow to represent the Ultramarines’ desired angle of attack on the necron artillery that would bypass their defensive cordon. ‘Do you know of an approach through to this region from this heading?’

  Jynn studied the map for a minute. She smiled at Scipio. ‘Now you’ll owe me two.’

  He eyed her curiously. ‘You are not like most humans I have met.’

  ‘Most humans haven’t seen the things I have or endured what I’ve had to.’ Sitting down on a crate, she started to field strip her weapons. ‘Do you know how many times I’ve died out here in this arctic hell. Well, almost died?’ Jynn held up four fingers. ‘Makes you think about your existence a little differently.’

  Though his expression was neutral, Scipio marvelled at her confidence. There was something about this woman, something great and indefatigable. Whatever her attire or current disposition, she was much more than she appeared to be. It wasn’t disrespect, Scipio didn’t feel that. It was fearlessness and a determination that made Jynn Evvers stand out amongst the human flock. Such a thing was rare and usually reserved for generals and great war-leaders with names like Macharius, Creed and Yarrick. She was just a miner turned guerrilla fighter but her charisma and presence were undeniable.

  ‘Two? How so?’ Scipio asked eventually, willing to play along.

  Jynn took the marker and jabbed it into the centre of the Ultramarine’s circle. ‘We’re the answer to your prayers, Angel.’

  Chapter Ten

  Though his mortal faculties had long since been surrendered, Sahtah the Enfleshed could still find prey. Other senses guided him now and though he didn’t fully understand the instincts of his machine brain, he learned to embrace them.

  Ice and snow were forming on his body, masking it against the all-consuming white. Scraps of delusion impaired his emerald vision. Images from a past he no longer fully remembered flicked back and forth like visual interference. The arctic mountains became high dunes; the tundra below, a desert plain stretching for leagues. There were cities, so small they were just specks, and carrion birds wheeled in flocks framed against the hot afternoon sun.

  Sahtah longed to bask, to feel the sun’s warmth against his neck and back, but his nerves were dead, his form cool and aberrant. Ever since biotransference it had been that way. Somewhere in the process, perhaps during the long sleep, his engrammic circuitry had been damaged. It was difficult to discern present from past, old from new. It hurt Sahtah’s mind and made him want to scream.

  The encampment had first appeared as an enemy village with high stockade walls and a wooden gatehouse. Now he saw it for what it was: a cluster of tents and the promise of new ‘robes’.

  He crouched and let the arctic storm smother him and his wretched companions. There were chunks of half-chewed flesh, the rime of dried blood around the flayed ones’ mouths where they’d gorged themselves.

  ‘We are ghouls…’ Sahtah told them, though they didn’t answer.

  They would circle the camp and avoid the genebred warriors at first.

  Sahtah wanted blood. He wanted skin.

  Oh, how I hunger…

  Fuge clapped his arms around his body for what must have been the fiftieth time. It was doing no good. Even the many layers of storm cloak, his padded jacket and bodyglove, couldn’t keep the cold out – it was insidious. The storm had worsened. Visibility was almost nothing. He looked at the magnoculars, sitting next to his freezing feet in the tent, and decided to ignore them. Captain Evvers was quite strict – scan the perimeter every fifteen minutes – but Fuge was too numb to move. What good would they do anyway? The Space Marines were protecting them now. He’d seen them, walking back and forth like animated statues, unperturbed by the cold. Not everyone was so hardy. Fuge didn’t see why he couldn’t just find a warmer tent and a sleeping bag to crawl into.

  The sentry was still bemoaning his poor luck when he noticed something outside the tent, maybe fifty metres away. It was hard to tell – the snow was thick and the wind was tossing it around like a maelstrom. Fuge reached for the magnoculars.

  His goggles were fogged with an icy sheen, but he didn’t bother clearing them when he pulled them down off his face so he could peer through the scopes. Training the magnoculars fifty metres distant, he tried to discern what he thought he’d seen earlier.

  ‘Definitely something…’

  His voice trembled, teeth chattering as he spoke.

  The wind was really howling now, making even thoughts hard to hear. It tugged at Fuge’s thermal layers, slipping in through the gaps, chilling him.

  Through the greenish resolution of the scopes, he thought he saw something… burrowing. He knew of ice-worms that
roamed the northern tundra – it was the closest thing he could think of to describe what he was seeing. But this was the mountains. No ice-worms up here.

  Fuge zoomed in and worked the focus. Thirty metres out now. Just as he was about to raise someone on the vox, the wind kicked in, tearing his coat loose, and he dropped the magnoculars.

  Scrambling at his feet – the fear was on him now for some reason – Fuge picked them up but only got the scopes halfway to his face when he felt a hot burn in his chest. He looked down and saw a metre of sharp metal jutting from his body. Lifting his head was an effort but when he managed it he met the gaze of his killer. Two emerald green orbs regarded him as a god would an insect. They flared, ignited by an infernal desire.

  ‘Your flesh is mine,’ the thing promised.

  So frozen was he with terror, poor Fuge didn’t even scream as he was flayed alive.

  Ankh watched as the last of the Undying’s limbs were finally attached to his body. The venerable necron shone with an unearthly lustre, gilded and ochroid as befitted his station as overlord.

  It had taken time and many repair constructs to revivify his master.

  As if a sudden power surge had granted him life, the Undying’s eyes flared brilliant and terrible.

  ‘Stormcaller is dead,’ he uttered.

  ‘He has returned to us, my lord,’ Ankh replied. ‘All must return in the end.’

  ‘Architect,’ said the Undying. His mental functions were still slightly addled by his aeons of slumber. ‘I am whole and desire to exact vengeance.’

  ‘Our forces have resorted to retreat protocols. It may be some time before Stormcaller and his vanguard can be resurrected.’

  ‘I have the means of resurrection,’ the Undying assured him, ‘and the tools of death.’ In his hand he clutched a brutal war-scythe, its blade coruscating with energy.

  He exhaled breathlessly as the last of the scarab swarms reknitting his body retreated into the hidden alcoves of the chamber. The Undying’s revivification casket opened and the overlord strode out imperiously. His heavy footfalls clanked as they hit the metal floor.

  Ankh bowed deeply in the manner of the old courts. ‘You are resplendent, my liege.’

  The Undying glowered at him. ‘Send your drones, Architect. Retake the ground that the Stormcaller lost.’

  Wrong-footed, Ankh stumbled a little. ‘I… My lord, our war cells are still reviving. All our repair constructs are needed to bring them online. It will only be a matter of–’

  ‘No. Send them now. Activate the monoliths and bring our legions into the city of the fleshed. I am awake and will not suffer the degradations of these interlopers any further.’

  It was pointless to protest. The Undying was all and everything; Ankh was a mere cryptek at his whim and command. True, he had dominion over the scarabs and the tomb spyders. He could make them all cease with but a simple command, but the Undying was not an overlord to deny. His wrath might see Ankh destroyed and another set in his place. He had worked too long, too hard as Architect to allow that to happen. ‘As you wish, overlord.’

  The Undying did not wait for confirmation. At some invisible, mechanised signal an aperture opened in the ceiling of the resurrection chamber. At the same time a band of light delineated a circular disc in the floor that began to rise. The overlord rode the levitating disc all the way out of the chamber, bound for the surface.

  Ankh was linked to the tomb like no other in the hierarchy. He felt its movements, knew the position and condition of every scarab, tomb spyder and wraith that made up its dedicated cohorts. Through them, he was interfaced with the hundreds of thousands still slumbering, still self-repairing and gradually coming online, that made up the necron war cells.

  With the repair constructs occupied elsewhere that process would take exponentially more time to complete. Ankh made the calculations in a nanosecond. In the next he retasked the swarms to attack the city above.

  Izarvaah was not a subtle creature; he shared many traits with Tahek. He would gladly march his immortals and his warriors into the jaws of enemy guns, convinced of his own inviolability. Cloaked by lightning, his eldritch darkness swarming with wraiths, he assumed he was untouchable. At least one amongst the genebred saviours had disproved that belief.

  Ankh was not so foolish or arrogant. His ways were cunning. He resolved to use a different method of attack.

  But first he would chill their hearts and make their mortal bodies tremble. The Herald of Dismay extended his skeletal fingers and summoned the invocation node.

  Unlike the Stormcaller, he would not fail.

  Sicarius surveyed the battlefield ahead. Just like at Telrendar, Selonopolis and Ghospora, he looked every inch the hero. Cape flapping in the breeze, his patrician face open to the elements, he was Invictus, Cestus, Galatan – a true inheritor of Guilliman.

  The forces from Kellenport Plaza had joined his spearhead. Sicarius had summoned their sergeants. Standing amidst the ruins of an Imperial temple, Praxor was amongst them.

  This was an ill-fated place, he decided. It had none of the glory or culture of Macragge. Even Calth, its upper atmosphere wretched with poisonous fumes, had spirit. These were a broken people. Damnos should be defiant, yet the humans cowered in their last remaining city, their lord governor in hiding and their military commander unwilling to leave the safety of his walls. Praxor thought of the sacrifices already made and wondered if the Damnosians were a people worth saving.

  Daceus intruded on Praxor’s dark thoughts and he was glad of the interruption. Never far from his captain’s side, the veteran had a pict-slate clutched in his hand and showed it to Sicarius. It was a geographical map of the immediate area, radiating several kilometres from the Ultramarines position.

  ‘Since the defeat of their vanguard, several necron phalanxes have started to converge on us,’ said Daceus.

  The initial defeat of the Stormcaller had immobilised the necrons under the lord’s immediate command. The Ultramarines found them holding their ground where they stood, unwilling or unable to press. It made them much easier to neutralise. At first, it seemed as if the necrons were in retreat but soon other forces, those attacking distant areas of the city, were rerouted. Another necron command node had taken over. It regarded the Ultramarines as a threat it could not ignore, or tolerate.

  Sicarius glanced at the slate, but only cursorily. His attention was on the horizon where the necrons could be seen in the distance manoeuvring and amassing. There were thousands.

  ‘A cut from the gladius’s blade has got their attention, then.’ He smiled, but Praxor thought it had an indulgent, ugly quality about it.

  A storm was rolling in, coming off the mountains. Low drifts were already curling across the tundra. Soon it would develop into a blizzard.

  ‘Even if Guilliman were still with us,’ offered Daceus, ‘we cannot fight them all.’

  Sicarius stepped down from a rocky plinth where he’d taken vantage.

  ‘And yet, we shall still engage them. The weather turns, worsening still. We’ll use it to our advantage.’

  His sergeants were arrayed before him in a semi-circle. The Lions, along with Daceus, stood apart. Trajan stuck to the shadows, divorced from the rest but ever watchful. In the background, towering over them all, was Agrippen. The other Dreadnought, Ultracius, was with the squads waiting outside the temple ruins.

  The venerable one’s modulated voice rumbled, ‘Our odds of victory against such a force are miniscule, brother-captain.’

  Sicarius bowed to Agrippen’s obvious wisdom. ‘We are still the gladius, Ancient, and our thrust has barely pierced our enemy’s armour. With the application of greater force, we will penetrate flesh and organs.’

  Agrippen shifted and his servos churned as he moved his massive bulk. A few of the sergeants stepped out of the way to avoid being crushed. ‘You mean to strike the heart.’

  Sicarius was pugnacious. ‘I mean to cut it out. The necrons come for us. We are a threat that they must ne
utralise. I shall turn that mechanised response against them.’ He pointed to the silvered legions mobilising in the Ultramarines’ direction. Pyramidal structures shadowed the horizon too, but they seemed to be locked on a less direct route. ‘These are creatures of cause and effect. Whatever we do to them, they react accordingly.’ He clenched his fist. ‘It is a weakness that we can use against them. Force is met with greater force. Apply it in the correct place and the enemy will render its heart to us. That is when they are vulnerable.’

  Brother-Sergeant Solinus spoke up. ‘Tell us where you wish us to strike, captain, and it shall be done.’

  Nodding approvingly at his commanders, Sicarius pointed to the slate at the core of the necron force. ‘Here, right in the middle. With everything we’ve got.’ He pointed the fingers of his left hand, making them into a blade. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the necron line. It is predictable, industrious. Here,’ he added, making a fist with his right hand, ‘we are. Our heavy guns will get their attention. We’ll emulate their tactics and hold the line. The necrons, realising they possess overwhelming firepower, will simply advance towards us.’ The bladed hand moved closer to the fist. ‘When the storm rolls in it will obscure our positions and mask our true intent.’

  ‘What is our true intent, captain?’ Praxor asked, not yet seeing the wisdom of this plan.

  Sicarius smiled and made the fist into two fingers, which he then proceeded to move around his other hand to the tips of the fingers. ‘While our Devastators and Dreadnoughts hold their attention, you and I, brother, and the Indomitable–’ Sergeant Solinus nodded humbly ‘–will attack their flank, cutting a hole through to their very heart.’