Iulus looked stern as he about-turned to face the battlefield again. ‘Good. Now I expect them to fight.’
Words, just words. That was all they were. Even when spoken aloud and with purpose by an Angel of the Emperor, Adanar could not deny the fact. His faith had been crushed long ago under the tenement rubble that killed his wife and daughter.
He wanted to be uplifted, to believe there was anything else but death for the people of Damnos, but he couldn’t.
Corporal Humis, his new aide, stepped into his peripheral vision. ‘I can hear cheering.’ He was standing at Adanar’s shoulder and turned towards the commander. His face was full of hope. It could get a man killed, hope. It could hollow him from the inside out and he wouldn’t realise he was dead until he dared to hope again. By then it was too late, he was already a walking corpse, a shadow waiting for some hell to claim him.
‘It is just a false dawn, Humis, that’s all.’
The corporal licked his lips. He’d been Adanar’s aide for less than an hour. ‘Perhaps a few words would steel the troops on this side of the wall. Perhaps a rousing speech–’
‘There’ll be no speeches. There’ll be no hollow words.’
‘But, commander… Why not?’
Adanar fixed him with a withering gaze, and as Humis looked into his dead eyes he understood.
‘Because I won’t lie to them, corporal. I won’t lie.’
Chapter Twelve
It had been aeons since the throne room had enjoyed attendance. It was a dust-clogged ruin now, its lustre dulled, its ostentation tarnished and decrepit.
Old statues lined the alcoves, clutching ancient glaives, their appearance skeletal and overly regal. Sickly luminescence emanated from the geometric sigils carved into the floor and walls, the chamber’s only light source. Their emerald glow limned the throne. It was immense, set upon an oval dais and wrought of gold or some superior mineral compound that looked like gold. Rune-sigils marked its every surface.
Ankh toured the dilapidated halls and anterooms with an air of detachment. It did not surprise him that the Undying avoided this place now. It was a reminder of a long-dead age, of a former life. Sahtah bemoaned his loss of skin and blood like a crazed, hungry dog but he was not alone in that malady. It was an affliction that clawed at every necron, at least those whose memory engrams still functioned with lucidity.
He flickered out of time for a moment, bending the chronology of the universe and mocking its laws with his advanced science. Ankh was back in the revivification chambers again, the lowest catacombs this time.
Malady.
The forming of the word in his subconscious had brought something to mind, something aberrant. He regarded the humming caskets of the destroyers. This cancer, the one which the destroyers represented, was everywhere amongst the necrontyr. Ankh would have pitied them if he were still capable of such an emotion. Nihilistic, fatalistic and possessed of the conviction that their sole purpose was to eradicate, the destroyers were a breed apart.
Madness flowed through their mechanised arteries, fed the electric impulses of their cables and hard-wiring. This was the fate of all necrons. They butchered their bodies, removing limbs and replacing them with repulsor platforms, tesla beams and gauss-cannons – all the better to destroy, all in the service of the destroyers’ only creed: annihilation.
Delusion was common, as was a false sense of pre-eminence.
It was at times like these, when confronted with the realities of their existence and its potential corruptions, that Ankh felt the necrontyr’s fall most keenly.
Virus plagued them, more insidious than any disease of mortal flesh. They had exchanged their humanity for bodies of metal, their sinews for servos, their individuality for servitude and base sentience. They had done all of that and still they were not immune to corruption. Little wonder that so many of Ankh’s kind were angry or insane.
He would revive the destroyers soon.
Tens of thousands of caskets lined the catacombs. The tomb went deep into the world’s heart and many levels were surrendered to the revivification chambers. Of all the constructs, the destroyers numbered the greatest. A dull glow emanated from every runic archway to every sarcophagus. To a non-machine mind the vista would be incomprehensible, stretching into infinity in all dimensions.
The role of the destroyers in this conflict was assured and predestined – he had already witnessed it with his own cold, dead eyes. Ankh just wanted to look upon them and remember the shared doom of his damned race.
Another flicker of chrono-dislocation brought him back to the throne room. His true business was here, now that he’d satisfied idle curiosity. The effect of translocating was disconcerting. It pulled at the strands of Ankh’s sense of reality. For a moment, he tried to recall what this place was like before biotransference. But the images in his subconscious mind were far from vivid.
Despite the stability of his memory engrams, he found recollection a little difficult to come by sometimes. He was a master of the elements, a chronomancer, a phantasmal manipulator, a walker between universes, but still he could not always grasp the thread of his former existence. In fact, the more he tried the more it unravelled until he realised his grip on the days before the long sleep was eroding, inexorably.
He regarded a cracked mirror of polished jet along one of the walls. Faces swarmed in and out of focus within its reflective surface. It was not Ankh, nor was it several beings. Rather, it was just one, trapped inside the stone a fraction out of time like the cryptek in his speculum. Ankh liked this particular torture most of all.
He uttered, ‘Awaken.’ It was more than just a word; it was a command, a mechanical imperative that put balefires in the eyes of the statue-guardians. The lych-like creatures arrayed through the hall came jerkily to life. Rimes of filth cracked open as their slow-moving joints stirred. Dust motes spilled from their servos and webs of gossamer parted from their cabling like torn funerary shrouds.
‘We serve the royarch,’ they chimed as one.
Standing in the centre of the hall, within the protective cordon of a ceramic sigil-totem inscribed in the floor, Ankh was surrounded.
He bowed. ‘I am the Architect, the royarch’s vassal and extension of his will.’
The guards did not react. Instead they stood with their pole-armed glaives straight against their armoured bodies, pommel down against the floor.
‘Your apotheosis is at hand,’ Ankh declared. He drew a portal with his staff in which a vision of Damnos was projected. It showed the walls of Kellenport, occupied by the fleshed and their genebred saviours. ‘Our world is overrun and the royarch calls you to war.’
One of the lych-like guards stepped forward. He wore a circlet of tarnished gold around his forehead and his shoulder guards were cracked pieces of super-hardened ceramic – this was the leader. He raised his war-glaive and cut through the portal-image, banishing it.
His eyes flared with millennia-old anger. ‘We obey.’
Largo listened to the wind as he kept vigil over Renatus. His wounded battle-brother was deep into sus-an membrane coma now and would not easily be revived. It was a regenerative measure, triggered in extremis when a Space Marine was so badly injured that he could fight no further. Much of Renatus’s armour had been removed so he could be examined properly. His power generator, helmet and plastron were nearby, laid out reverently by Herdantes. There were blade marks in the ceramite, as long and thick as one of Largo’s gauntleted fingers. They were a killer’s marks, aimed for the weak points and targeting vital organs. Renatus had survived by virtue of being Adeptus Astartes, but only barely.
Largo hadn’t witnessed what happened in the gorge but suspected it was bad. Herdantes was on the other side of the tent, lost in shadow and catalepsean sleep. Another hour and it would be Largo’s turn. The other Ultramarine hadn’t spoken about the ambush. There’d been little time and too much blood. Brakkius had left the tent earlier, in need of air and an opportunity to stretch his injured leg
.
Outside the medi-tent, the storm was building. Largo didn’t like it. He didn’t like being stuck in this camp with the humans and so far away from the rest of their battle group. He didn’t blame Scipio. He was Largo’s sergeant, as brave and resourceful a Space Marine as he’d ever known, but there was no denying the necrons had them reeling. He wanted, bitterly, to strike a blow.
‘I will watch him,’ said the medic. His name was Holdst, a man of middling human years but with a world-weary air that made him hunch. ‘If you need to rest, like your comrade.’ He glanced at Herdantes.
‘I need no rest. I am a Space Marine.’ It came out harder than Largo had intended, but he wasn’t sufficiently moved to apologise.
‘Of course,’ said Holdst. He’d been washing the blood off his hands and carried a pinkish rag that he used to dry his fingers. ‘There’s nothing further I can do for him, though.’
‘I understand. The Chapter thanks you for doing your duty to the Emperor.’
Holdst lingered and set down the rag.
Largo looked at him.
‘There is more?’
‘This was my world that has become a wasteland. I had a family, a life. I am angry too.’
For a human, Holdst was remarkably perceptive. Largo was about to respond when Holdst turned around at a noise behind him. It was hard to see what had got the medic’s attention, the tent was poorly lit and his body was in the way.
‘Fuge?’ he said at first, then, ‘Merciful Thro–’
Four blades punched through Holdst’s back and lifted the medic off his feet. His legs were already spasming as the thing wearing Fuge’s face stepped into the tent and the light. Largo was up, his bolter loose.
‘Herdantes!’
The other Ultramarine snapped awake and armed himself.
Twin muzzle flares tore open the darkness, filling it with fire and noise.
Poor Holdst was shredded. The man was already dead when Largo and Herdantes opened up at the ghoul inside the tent with them. Bolter shells exploded against its tough carapace but failed to slow it. The creature sprang, its body swathed in bloodied flesh flayed from one of the sentries, and landed on the bench supporting Renatus.
Largo drew his gladius, afraid he’d hit Renatus if he kept on shooting. In his peripheral vision, he saw Herdantes turn and spray wide as another flayed one ripped through the tent lining and came scurrying inside. The blast pitched the necron off its feet but it was followed by another and another.
Largo kept going. Renatus was in danger. A fifth creature emerged on his flank and he was forced to engage. A swipe of his gladius parried its talons wide of the mark, leaving them to scrape the ceramite of his greave, before Largo triggered his bolter point-blank and blew a hole in the flayed one’s torso.
‘Herdantes. Our brother!’
Seeing the danger, Herdantes was moving. He punched one necron in the jaw, stunning it, before bounding onto the slab where Renatus slumbered. The necron crouching over the wounded Ultramarine was different to the others. There was a gleam of malicious sentience in its eyes and its trappings were more elaborate.
‘Fleeessshhh…’
It hissed at Herdantes. Its teeth were gummed with blood and viscera. There wasn’t time to lift a gladius as a swipe of the necron’s talons ripped Herdantes’s armour open and sent him sprawling.
Largo reacted to his brother’s cry of pain and converged on Renatus. But he was too late to stop the creature lopping off Renatus’s head and bathing in the bloody fountain projected from his neck stump.
‘No!’
A flayed one tried to stop him, but Largo rammed his gladius into its neck all the way to the hilt. A second he gunned down with the last of his ammunition, before discarding both weapons and leaping for Renatus’s slayer, his hands curled into strangling claws.
The creature wearing Fuge’s face punched both talons into Renatus’s lifeless body, hoisted the dead Space Marine onto its back and, pumping its legs, sprang through the roof and out into the night.
Largo’s fingers closed on air and he cursed again.
Herdantes had been finishing off the last of the flayed ones in the medi-tent but saw what happened. There was something akin to fear in his voice. ‘It will defile him…’
Largo roared through clenched teeth, took up his fallen bolter and ran outside into the storm.
The camp was in chaos. Screaming merged with sporadic las-fire, half heard through the wind, as Scipio rushed from Jynn’s command tent and realised they were under attack.
He tapped the comm-feed in his ear, scanning the darkness for threats. ‘Brothers! Thunderbolts! Report!’
Cator’s voice, crackling with the weather interference, came through first. ‘Something got through the gate… went under… everywhere… Engaging!’ Percussive bolter fire cut him off. Scipio saw the muzzle flashes in the distance. Several more came from the direction of the medi-tent and he was torn.
‘Largo!’ he shouted down the feed. Silhouettes crossed his vision, the guerrillas were running back and forth as they struggled to fight an enemy they couldn’t see. Scipio almost shot one of them on reflex. ‘Captain Evvers,’ he called behind him. ‘Marshal your troops before my brothers and I cut them down by mistake.’ She was on the vox in her tent, trying to find out what was happening.
Her reply was cut off by the voice of Largo, loud and urgent in Scipio’s ear. ‘It’s got Renatus! It cut off his head, sergeant. It took him.’
First Naceon then Ortus and now Renatus – this war is exacting a heavy toll.
Scipio crouched in the lee of another tent. The tripod guns had started rattling. Someone was panicking. ‘Largo, repeat. You’re not making sense.’
‘It took him,’ said Largo – his breathing was hard, he was running and angry. ‘I’m getting him back.’
A skin-draped horror emerged from the gloom before him and Scipio realised at last what was attacking the camp.
He ran at the flayed one, thumbing the activation rune of his chainsword.
There was a hollow prang and a cascade of sparks rained down onto the snow as blade met talon but Scipio would not be denied. He aimed a punch at the creature’s neck, followed by a blow that cut through its clavicle and severed a clutch of cabling. It crumpled and Scipio finished it. Instant phase-out told him he’d done it right.
Jynn Evvers came running up beside him. She was armed and kitted out for a sudden departure. ‘We’re overrun.’
Scipio’s eyes were on the darkness. ‘They’re here for us.’ Shadows cast in the camp’s portable floodlights swivelled in all directions. It was like trying to catch smoke. A dozen gun battles were happening at once but most of the guerrillas were firing at shadows. Or each other.
Jynn sounded rueful. ‘I know.’
Before Scipio could respond, Brakkius joined them. His cooling meltagun suggested he’d had a recent encounter.
‘Necrons have tunnelled into the camp and bypassed the sentries.’
‘How many?’
Brakkius shook his head. ‘Hard to tell. Could be as many as twenty, possibly more.’ He clapped the stock of his weapon. ‘I took out two, but there are skirmishes breaking out everywhere.’
‘Have you seen Largo or Herdantes?’
‘No. I went back to the medi-tent but they were already gone.’ He met Jynn’s questioning gaze. ‘I’m sorry, but your medic is dead.’
Her face tightened into a hard line as she suppressed the grief. That wouldn’t serve her now.
Brakkius focused his attention back on his sergeant.
‘We can’t mount an effective counter-attack in these conditions. What are your orders, sir?’
Nodding, Scipio said, ‘Signal the squad, all Thunderbolts to regroup at the command tent.’ He turned to Jynn. ‘Your men, too, Captain Evvers. Bring them all here, what’s left of them. We’re falling back.’
Scipio broke into a run, away from the command tent.
‘Sir, where are you going?’ asked Brakkius.<
br />
He looked over his shoulder, his face determined. ‘After Largo. He’ll ignore the order. He wants revenge for Renatus.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because it’s what I’d do.’
‘Wait!’ Brakkius pulled a spare bolt clip from his belt and threw it over.
Scipio caught it, nodded and ran off into the night. The snowfall thickened in his wake, smothering him from sight as if he’d never even been there.
Brakkius raised the others on the comm-feed.
Scipio’s blood was up. He was crouched low against the wind, using the falling snow to mask his advance through the camp, but all he really wanted to do was unleash his anger. One clip, given up by Brakkius, was all he had – that, his chainsword and his gladius – he’d need to make every one count.
He headed for the medi-tent, hoping to pick up on Largo’s trail. The camp was relatively small and should have been easy to navigate but the battle was spilling over its borders into the mountains beyond and the weather conditions were impeding even his superhuman senses. The guerrilla fighters had trained in this arctic waste, they’d fought and survived the environs but even so they would be blind in this blizzard. Their screaming punctuated Scipio’s every thought. He blocked it out, focused on finding Largo.
Can’t lose another. Not this way.
The medi-tent was empty, aside from the carnage. Even the medic’s corpse was gone, though Scipio discerned bloody drag marks in the snow.
What kind of automatons are these things?
He found Herdantes a few metres away. He was slumped against a rock, veiled in snow and holding his ruined chest so his organs stayed inside.
‘Brother-sergeant,’ he rasped. The frozen air from Herdantes’s mouth was blood-flecked, suggesting internal bleeding. Even his Larraman cells were struggling to form clots. ‘Opened me up,’ he continued, moving his hand for a few seconds to show the red crater in his torso. ‘But I killed it, sent it back to whatever hell spawned it.’
Scipio wasn’t sure what that place was or if the necrons could even be killed. He knelt beside Herdantes, assessing the damage. ‘Where’s Largo?’
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 116
