Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  The Ultramarines couldn’t win by sheer weight of arms – they didn’t have enough battle-brothers.

  ‘Any eyes on the command node, yet?’ Daceus had drawn them to halt, out of the firing line and approaching the flank of a necron phalanx exchanging fire with the Space Marine heavy guns. The storm was so thick now, they could only see through their retinal senses or magnoculars.

  Solinus was at the scopes, scanning the silver horde. ‘Nothing from here.’

  On the opposite side, Praxor also returned a negative.

  ‘We need to get into them, force their hand,’ said Daceus. He opened the feed. ‘All heavies advance and resume fire.’

  Praxor watched the line move up through the fog. Agrippen and Ultracius anchored it with Tirian and Atavian’s Devastators in the middle. The necron casualties intensified. And with slow inevitability they started to shift.

  Daceus grinned ferally. ‘That’s it, you xenos scum…’

  But the attack would still be stalled if the monolith couldn’t be destroyed, and without Sicarius they would have little chance of eliminating a necron overlord.

  Praxor looked to the looming pyramid. Its capacitors were wreathed with emerald lightning, preparing to fire. It would need to be soon.

  ‘Keep low, brother.’ Gauss-beams flashed overhead, forcing Sicarius into a stooping run.

  Gaius Prabian kept his combat shield up and close to his body. Several blasts had already skimmed off its surface.

  The power armour of both Ultramarines was pitted and scored from where they’d run the necron gauntlet. Ahead, the shadow of the monolith finally reached them.

  It was immense, a horrifying testament to the mechanoids’ power. In truth, Sicarius believed the necrons to be much more than mere robots. They were something else entirely. Something ancient.

  Although Arcona City had been pummelled into dust during the necron invasion, some ruined structures were still standing. Using the fog to cover their movements, the two Ultramarines skirted around to the monolith’s flank. Its gauss-arc projectors were patrolling the immediate vicinity but looked incapable of firing whilst the machine was feeding energy to its crystal power matrix. Close up, they got a chance to see the shimmering unreality of the monolith’s surface and the eldritch sigils engraved upon it. Truly, this was an engine of evil.

  Sicarius noticed the crystal at the pyramid’s summit start to glow brighter as the capacitors fed it power from their lightning field. Its power matrix was coming on-line.

  A small retinue of raider constructs protected the monolith, moving in step with it, their weapons ready but not yet firing. In his time as a warrior of Ultramar, Sicarius had prosecuted many tank ambushes. An armoured column was a fearsome force in battle; its guns were powerful and its resilience potent against all but the heaviest weapons. But it was also relatively slow and cumbersome. Surgical strikes by squads bearing armour-busting grenades were deadly to tank formations. This monolith was no tank, and Sicarius suspected its strange surface would be resistant to most weapons, but he was determined to at least neutralise if not destroy it utterly.

  A commando move such as the one he was about to attempt didn’t exactly follow the strictures of the Codex but then Sicarius had his own way of interpreting Guilliman’s writings. He hoped the primarch would approve of his ingenuity and bravura.

  ‘Champion,’ he said, resting a hand on Gaius’s shoulder guard as they crouched in the ruins and peered out at the passing monolith, ‘you are my unsheathed sword.’

  Gaius nodded slowly, his eyes on the raiders. There were only five of them. He ignited the blade of his power sword and it hummed hungrily.

  Before he let him go, Sicarius added, ‘Beware that portal at the front. Only Hera knows where it might lead you. Courage and honour.’

  Gaius growled back through the vox-grille of his ornate helm. ‘Courage and honour, my lord.’

  The two then split apart, Sicarius headed around what appeared to be the rear of the monolith and Gaius engaging from the front.

  The Champion vaulted the ruins and cried, ‘For Ultramar!’

  Turning as one, the raider screen opened fire with their gauss-weapons. Gaius Prabian was an experienced warrior. As Champion he had slain countless warlords, alien potentates and demagogues. Before Damnos, he had never engaged necrons. Held in an aggressive gladiatorial position, his combat shield absorbed much of the mechanoids’ fire and enabled him to run and defend at the same time. Several beams lanced his shoulder guard and greaves, but he ignored the damage runes flashing on his retinal display. Perhaps realising hand-to-hand combat was inevitable, the closest of the raiders stopped firing. Instead, it brandished its gauss-flayer like a club, intending to cut the Ultramarines Champion apart with its barrel-blade.

  Gaius’s shield broke skeletal teeth and snapped the necron’s corded neck as he thrust it into the creature’s face. The head was hanging by a piece of cabling at an odd angle when the mechanoid crumpled. A second creature Gaius cut down with his power sword, slicing through a weapon barrel and then the necron itself. The wound was catastrophic and it phased out. The third and fourth were dispatched by fierce sweeps of his blade – the air hummed and crackled as the weapon bisected it. The fifth he battered with the shield. He was a force of will, a deadly guardian intent on his mission. All three necrons phased out. He stalked over to the last, the one he’d injured but not quite enough. Already, the necron’s broken neck was repairing itself. Gaius slammed the edge of his shield against the cabling that was holding the mechanoid’s head to its body, severing it.

  ‘Stay dead,’ he spat, and the last of the retinue phased out…

  …Only to return, or so it appeared, through the portal – five more raider constructs, carbon copies of the first. They moved slowly, resolving first as dark shadows in the pooling emerald light, then as actual beings of metal and hate.

  Gaius Prabian faced them down and, touching the blade of his power weapon to his forehead, saluted.

  No, he had never fought necrons before. It was to be a challenge.

  ‘I am the unsheathed sword,’ he vowed, and charged.

  A battle tank had flanks, it had hatches and tracks, it possessed weak points and was forged of metal in a foundry – this monolith was something else. It had no aspects, save perhaps the front and that was only because the emerald portal suggested it together with the direction it moved in. The flanks or rear were merely faces of the pyramid, constructed of some dark pseudo-metal, a substance that didn’t appear entirely corporeal or, at least, constant. Looking carefully, Sicarius could see that the sides of the monolith rippled, their hue changing in the light like oil upon water. He wasn’t even certain that an explosive charge could be attached to its surface, let alone destroy it. Priming a melta bomb, he eyed the gauss-arc projectors. The cannons protruding from the machine swivelled and turned to draw a bead on him and Gaius Prabian, but they were powerless as a defensive measure whilst all the monolith’s energy was being used to unleash the crystal power matrix.

  That situation wouldn’t last. Sicarius slammed the first charge against the flank of the machine. It took hold and stuck there. Then he attached another. And another. He planted four melta bombs in total, all of his and Daceus’s supply.

  A pulse rippled down the side of the monolith as they went off, expelling intense microwaves that the machine seemed to absorb and nullify. Ordinary metal would slough and corrode against a melta bomb, but the material comprising the monolith was much more resistant.

  Despite its alien resilience, the combined explosive fury of Sicarius’s melta bombs would not be denied and the captain shouted his approval as something in the machine died and it floated slowly to the ground. At its peak, the crystal faded as the charging of the power matrix was forcibly aborted.

  ‘Brother Gaius.’ Sicarius ran around to the front of the machine in time to see his Champion destroying the last of the retinue. Even the emerald portal was dormant, revealing bare metal behind it. With its st
ructural integrity damaged, the necron monolith became nothing more than a monument, inert and powerless. At least for now.

  ‘Should we enter?’ Gaius pointed his sword at the area where the portal had been. It seemed he intended on cutting their way inside.

  ‘No. We return to the others. We don’t know how long the war machine will be offline. Let’s make the most of it.’

  Mission achieved, they headed back to the line.

  Behind his battle-helm Sicarius smiled. Perhaps there was glory to be had on Damnos after all.

  Sicarius’s return was heralded with restrained joy. There was no time for celebration. The Devastators and Dreadnoughts were taking a lot of fire. With the monolith neutralised, at least for a time, the others had to press the attack from the flank and cut into the necron horde.

  The captain of Second Company lifted his Tempest Blade into the air as the mechanoids advanced into a position where the edge of their formation was exposed.

  ‘There is still no sign of the command node,’ Daceus warned.

  Sicarius was not about to be denied. ‘We can wait no longer.’ He slashed his sword down. ‘Ultramarines, attack!’

  It was infectious. Praxor felt the groundswell of strength and righteous anger first in his feet, then his legs until it infused his entire body. Sicarius was the source of that power, he was certain of it. In his presence, it was as if a halo of inner fortitude surrounded them and made them capable of the deeds of legend.

  ‘I am my captain’s sword!’ he swore, power sword tearing open the first necron in his path even as his bolt pistol shattered a second. All of his doubts, his notions of Sicarius’s vainglory, were banished from his mind in that single attack. In their place came an utter certainty that they would triumph, that Cato Sicarius would lead them to glory.

  He had never fought harder, neither had the warriors around him. Together with the Lions of Macragge, the Shieldbearers and the Indomitable ripped into the necron flank and sundered it. They were several ranks deep, mechanised limbs and appendages tossed like metal refuse, before the Ultramarines slowed.

  ‘Come to me,’ he heard Sicarius rage at the heart of the battle. ‘Face me now!’

  The captain searched the silver horde for the command node but still it would not present itself. Row upon row of endless necron warriors did instead. The Tempest Blade was reaping a heavy tally, but it could not slay them all. Even the mighty Cato Sicarius could not achieve that feat.

  Praxor glanced behind him. They were slowly being surrounded. Even now, some of his warriors had formed a rearguard with battle-brothers from Solinus’s squad. In a matter of moments, they would be enveloped.

  Trajan was at the front with the Lions, spitting curses and litanies. He would never surrender – he was, in every way, Sicarius’s Chaplain. But it occurred to Praxor that there was now a certain futility to this plan. Without sight of the necron overlord the Ultramarines were effectively attacking an infinite production line of necrons. In that, there could be no victory.

  In the end, it was Solinus that was the first to break.

  ‘We should retreat,’ he said, defending against a flurry of attacks before replying with one of his own. ‘There is no glory in this, for Damnos or the Second.’

  Smashing necrons with his crozius, Trajan was quick to silence him. ‘Hold to your purpose and the orders of your captain. Fight for the glory of Ul–’

  A necron blade in his gorget cut the diatribe short. Trajan blasted the creature with his bolt pistol, before dismembering it with his crozius, but could not remove the metal wedged in his neck armour.

  The circle of Ultramarines was getting tighter. They were back-to-back now, their gallant charge stalled by the sheer amount of resistance facing them.

  Sicarius turned to Daceus. ‘Signal the other squads, close and concentrate fire on this part of the line.’

  ‘Our brothers might be hit also, lord,’ suggested Venatio. The Apothecary was holding his own, as gifted a warrior as any of the Lions.

  Sicarius was quick to counter. ‘It’s worth the risk. Daceus, give the order.’

  ‘Should I order the Dreadnoughts to engage, also?’ came the veteran’s gruff reply.

  ‘Negative, they won’t reach us in time.’ Sicarius sounded angry. ‘This isn’t working. We’re disengaging.’ It wasn’t an easy decision but the captain of Second didn’t like lost causes, nor did he like admitting to them. He opened up the comm-feed to the flanking force. ‘Cut a hole through them. Fall back.’

  Despite his daring actions that neutralised the monolith, despite goading the necron horde into being outflanked, despite everything the plan had failed. Sicarius needed something to strike; something to attack and kill that might make a difference. He could not do that slaying endless hordes of mechanoid warriors. Though it was difficult to admit, he had underestimated the necrons and their forces. He resolved not to do so again. He needed greater numbers.

  Victory was possible; he felt it in his heart. It could be won at the tip of his Tempest Blade, but for now it eluded him.

  Cutting his way back through the necron ranks, one hand dragging an injured Brother Samnite of the Lions, an unpleasant taste filled Sicarius’s mouth. It was at once acerbic and unfamiliar.

  It was defeat.

  In the chaos of the melee there is little time for thought. Instinct takes over. It is a part of every Space Marine’s genetic coding; it is the reason for his existence, his purpose and God-Emperor given duty. War is not just their craft, it is their sacred calling.

  So it was for Praxor as he fought his way back through the horde that had slammed around the Ultramarines like a vice. The warriors of Ultramar had sprung the ambush but they were the ones caught in the necrons’ trap. These things, with their cold logic, their calculating processes, could not be fought like an ordinary foe. And they were endless; at least, it felt that way as Praxor’s shoulder burned with the continuous hacking through living metal.

  Trajan punctuated his every blow with grating vitriol. The Chaplain had removed the metal sliver from his neck, or rather it had phased out along with the necron it belonged to, but it had left him with a razored harshness to his voice. If anything, it only made his wrath even more imposing. These realisations would come upon Praxor later, after the maddened fight to break out of the necron phalanx was done.

  Punching through the other side, mechanoids exploding dangerously around them with the heavies’ suppressing fire, an ordered retreat was put into effect. Veteran-Sergeant Daceus was first out, battering his way through with his power fist. He marshalled the line, setting up a fire base of bolters to open the gate of the trap for the others. Slowly, the Ultramarines emerged. Mercifully none fell, but Samnite was injured and so too were three of Solinus’s men. Praxor had been spared more casualties.

  The mist thickened further still, enabling the Ultramarines to make a tactical retreat without pursuit. Sicarius was the last to leave the fight. His reticence to do so and his rage were almost palpable.

  In truth, all of the Ultramarines felt it.

  ‘Retreat to the line,’ he snarled when they’d put some distance between the phalanx. He caught Daceus up. ‘Have the Devastators and Dreadnoughts begin a staggered retreat. We’re withdrawing from Arcona City.’

  Snow and fog swallowed the Ultramarines. It took the necrons too, who merely continued their implacable advance. They already had forces headed to Kellenport, a phalanx of monoliths. Some of the other phalanxes would reroute there too.

  ‘Are we regrouping with the others?’ asked Daceus. In the background, Venatio supported Brother Samnite. Gaius Prabian kept a wary eye on the fog as if expecting a necron to spring forth at any moment, but none did. The mechanoids had even ceased the gauss-barrage.

  Sicarius sheathed his blade. He took a while to do it and for a moment Praxor thought he might plunge back into the fog and seek his prey anew. ‘No, the necron artillery must be destroyed. I want heavy armour and the guns of the Valin’s Revenge on th
ese metal heretics. But the assault squads should be reappropriated. We need to attack and withdraw, disrupt their formations, strike at the weakest points. Heavy punishment hasn’t worked, so we sting them with punitive raids instead.’

  ‘Lord Tigurius won’t be pleased, captain.’

  Sicarius was remorseless. ‘He will submit to my orders. The Librarian’s pleasure is not my concern. Make it so, Daceus.’

  The veteran-sergeant saluted, opening up the long-range feed as they began the march back towards Kellenport. He only got a few footsteps when Agrippen spoke up.

  ‘Are we still trying to win this war?’

  All eyes went to Sicarius who’d turned at the Dreadnought’s voice to face him. He removed his battle-helm so the venerable warrior could see his eyes. ‘Of course. If victory is possible then we must strive to achieve it.’

  ‘Though I serve the Chapter eternal and would glorify it with every deed, I can see no victory here.’

  It was a bold statement. Only Agrippen as one of the First and a revered Ultramarines veteran could have made it. The old and wise had ever had the right to challenge the decisions of the young and reckless.

  ‘There is,’ said Sicarius with finality. He replaced his battle-helm, the last part of his statement grating through the vox-grille. ‘I will make it thus.’

  Agrippen bowed. If he had any further doubts, he did not voice them but merely continued the march instead. Praxor had no idea if the Dreadnought was assuaged. When Agrippen had spoken up, he’d at first thought this was the moment when Agemman, through his venerable champion, would make his feelings known about the captain of Second. In the middle of a campaign, the timing would have been inauspicious but seldom were the moments when Sicarius could be brought to task.

  The words, though not as inflammatory as they might have been, lingered. They resonated inside Praxor’s skull, kindling the sparks of his own uncertainty. He wished they were not on the battlefield, though perhaps that was where the instincts to follow and obey were simplest to adhere to. Trajan was an iron-hard bastard but he was their Chaplain. His counsel would be greatly appreciated. In lieu of that, Praxor opted to be pragmatic. He organised his squad into the march, silently proud at their battle-conduct. It was a defeat, but the Shieldbearers had acquitted themselves well. Even still, it was hard fought for little to no gain. Heading out, he rotated his shoulder to work out some of the muscle ache.