Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Should I summon Apothecary Venatio?’

  Praxor winced as he snapped his dislocated shoulder into place. ‘No, Krixous,’ he said. ‘It’s just been a long time since I hurt this much after a fight.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Aboard the Valin’s Revenge, two years and nine months before the Damnos Incident

  By the time Praxor left the battle-cages, most of his brothers had gone to their cells for nocturnal meditation. True, some still trained on the shooting ranges or otherwise occupied their minds towards the betterment of making war in the Emperor’s name, but the way back to his dormitory was largely empty.

  The Cullinar Suppression had gone well. A task force of Ultramarines, on direct orders from Lord Calgar himself, had been sent to the little known planetoid of Balthar IV to eradicate an uprising of the tau in one of its principal cities. Cullinar was wretched with xenos, who’d managed to sway a significant amount of the human population with their lies including much of the noble family that ruled it. All efforts by the Vardia Imperial Guard 15th and 18th battalions had failed to break the will of the xenos, whose influence had spread to neighbouring enclaves. Allow them to go unchallenged for much longer and a planet-wide secession from the Imperium was in danger of becoming a reality.

  The arrival of the Ultramarines put a stop to that. Breaking into fire-teams, they cleansed the avenues and excised the root of alien taint within three days. Not all of the Second had been chosen for the duty, which had also included elements of the First Company veterans and Tenth Company Scouts. Praxor had neither seen nor heard Torias Telion at the battle, but knew the Master Scout was behind enemy lines pulling the strings and blowing things up. He suspected the explosion that had swept in a firestorm through the sewer lines where Praxor had then led the Shieldbearers to kill the tau ambassador was caused by the invisible hand of Torias Telion.

  Scipio had fought with the Master Scout at Black Reach. Most only glimpsed him in shadows or on the training fields, for Telion was a supreme mentor within the Chapter. Praxor admitted, shamefully, to a pang of jealousy on that account. He had bled with the Master Scout on Cullinar, but had never seen him. He had seen the Terminators, led by Helios, and was as impressed as he’d been on Black Reach when they’d joined bolter and blade together.

  Sicarius had not led the assault; rather it was Agemman that had captained the battle force in a methodical cleanse and burn approach. It was painstaking and exacting, where Sicarius would have been direct and brutal. The war had taken longer, Praxor suspected, than it would have with Sicarius but the risks were less and the results almost guaranteed. He would have preferred to serve his liege-lord, but Praxor was still ebullient after their victory and celebrated by performing seven hours of training katas upon return to the Valin’s Revenge. Agemman’s strategy was utterly unlike Sicarius’s, though adherence to the Codex ensured certain basic similarities, but these were almost unnoticeable due to the way they were applied. The experience had led Praxor to consider observing some of the senate sessions when afforded the opportunity. They were headed back to Macragge for an official ceremony: Mikael Fabian, the captain of Third, and Master of the Arsenal, was to be honoured.

  Ultramarines vaunted the successes of their Chapter; they did so proudly and in full voice. All who could attend would be expected to be there.

  On his way across the flight deck where the Thunderhawks slumbered, their landing stanchions mag-locked to the ground, and mindless servitors toiled, Praxor saw another Space Marine.

  He was also not wearing his power armour, but instead had a blue surplice with a cowl to hide his face. His bulk and manner marked him out as one of the Chapter.

  ‘Brother,’ he began in idle greeting.

  When the Ultramarine looked up, he realised it was Scipio.

  Praxor’s mood hardened to steel in an instant. He had witnessed first hand lately Scipio’s disregard in battle. To Praxor’s mind, there was a difference between insane bravery and just plain insanity. ‘You are no longer in Venatio’s care, then.’

  Scipio stopped in front of his old friend. ‘I left the apothecarion a few hours ago.’ He looked Praxor up and down, noting the training fatigues and half-carapace he was wearing. ‘I see you still live in the battle-cages when not at war.’

  Praxor raised an eyebrow. He felt a challenge in his brother’s tone. ‘And is that something to frown upon? Does it not make me a better warrior in the eyes of my captain and my Chapter Master?’

  ‘It depends on your motives, brother.’

  ‘And you suspect them to be less than admirable, do you, Scipio? It sounds as if you have decided my reason already and deemed it an unworthy one.’

  ‘A selfish one, perhaps.’

  Praxor licked his lips. It took all of his self-control not to unsheathe his rudius and smack Scipio around the head with it. ‘You were in that sus-an membrane coma for several weeks so I shall allow for your behaviour. Do not forget your place, brother.’

  ‘I am of sound mind, I can assure you, Praxor.’ Scipio drew back the hood. His eyes were diamond-hard. He wasn’t about to back down. ‘And we are both sergeants. You perhaps have loftier designs.’

  Now Praxor let his anger show. ‘What is your issue, brother? Ever since Karthax you have carried your aggression like a clenched fist aimed at whoever or whatever displeases you. Is that anger now focused on me?’

  ‘Seekers of personal glory will only ever find the means to undo themselves,’ Scipio spat.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘They are the words of Orad. You should know them, brother.’

  ‘What? What are you even doing here, Scipio? Were you awaiting my arrival so you could pick a fight?’

  Scipio’s mouth was a hard line. He gave nothing away, so Praxor was forced to continue without his participation.

  He leaned in close. ‘Do you know why I go to the battle-cages, why I seek to perfect my warrior-self? I shall tell you, Scipio, I shall do so because you and I are brothers, we are friends. I do it to become strong, in mind and in body. You cannot blame yourself for what happened. It was frailty that Karthax exposed. It was a tragedy, but one brought about through weakness.’

  ‘So I have heard you claim… several times.’

  Praxor frowned, incredulous.

  ‘I awoke from my coma days ago.’ There was a grating undercurrent to Scipio’s voice. Whether it was caused by his ire or his injuries, Praxor didn’t know. He went on. ‘Venatio had me confined to the apothecarion while my wounds healed–’

  ‘A pity whatever damage was done to your head and humours was not also allowed convalescence,’ Praxor interrupted. He was in no mood for Scipio’s misplaced anger, but when he went to move around him the other Ultramarine stepped in his path. ‘You are rash, brother. That’s why you spent time on the Apothecary’s table. I would counsel caution in your future actions.’ He was no longer referring to campaigning, Praxor made that much obvious with his tone.

  Scipio’s blood was up, though. He would not be denied this reckoning. ‘While my wounds healed,’ he said again, ‘I heard talk of Karthax and Orad.’

  ‘I did not speak ill of him, brother.’ There was a warning in Praxor’s voice, one that suggested he did not enjoy the inference Scipio was making.

  ‘Weakness, was it? Is that why he fell?’

  Praxor clenched his fists. There was no avoiding this now. Tensions had run high between them for months. It had to come out; this was as good a way as any.

  ‘You know the answer to that. Now,’ he added levelly, ‘do what you came here to do.’

  Scipio roared and threw himself at Praxor. Anger fuelled a rain of blows that battered the other Ultramarine before he could reply or throw up any defence. Still pumped and alert from the battle-cages, Praxor blocked a frenzied punch to the side of the head, deflecting it with his forearm before planting a jab in Scipio’s stomach. An elbow-smash to follow crunched Scipio’s shoulder blade and the combination was finished by
a blade-kick to the ribs.

  Scipio tumbled and rolled, grunting in pain, but got his footing quickly.

  ‘You’re still weak from the apothecarion,’ said Praxor, wheeling around Scipio’s flank, forcing him to rotate. ‘Let your wounds heal and we’ll settle this in the battle-cages in the proper manner.’

  Scipio shook his head. ‘We do it now.’

  Praxor scowled. ‘You are a fool, Scipio. A slave to your emotions and your anger.’

  ‘Are you afraid, brother?’ The curled lip made Scipio’s face ugly in the half-light. There was something dark inside his eyes.

  Praxor shook his head – it was inevitable then – drew the rudius and tossed it aside. This was a fist fight. He would not dishonour it further by using a weapon, even a blunted one, against an unarmed combatant. ‘You want me to break you, brother, I will break you!’

  Scipio charged, but Praxor was quick to avoid his battering ram of an attack.

  ‘Reckless…’ He slammed a fist into Scipio’s flank. A chop to the side of his brother’s neck paralysed the nerves and sent pain sparks into his eyes. ‘And ill-considered.’

  They faced off, circling one another. Despite the inappropriate setting, the hangar deck made for a perfect arena. Their audience, the servitors, continued their labours without pause or regard. The long shadows of the Thunderhawks bathed the combatants in darkness. Scipio was breathing hard, belaboured by his injuries. Praxor had yet to break sweat.

  ‘Where is the warrior Torias Telion has spoken so highly of?’ he goaded.

  Scipio came on again. He feinted, drawing Praxor’s guard, and landed a heavy blow on the other sergeant’s cheek. A headbutt brought white dagger-flashes to Praxor’s eyes and he staggered.

  ‘He’s right here,’ Scipio promised and hit him again.

  Despite his earlier advantage, Praxor was being worn down by his brother’s fury and was forced back a step. Sensing his superiority, Scipio leapt and came at Praxor with his fists linked in an overhead smash. Had the blow connected it would have probably shattered his clavicle but Praxor sidestepped out of harm’s way, punching Scipio hard in the gut with the same motion. The other sergeant grunted then choked as the air blasted from his lungs.

  Expecting that to be the end of it, Praxor relented but Scipio whirled around and caught him with a wild haymaker. He felt the bone crack and reeled at the force of the impact. An uppercut from Scipio’s other hand glanced Praxor’s chin. He had enough presence of mind to retreat defensively, so the blow was telling. Throwing up his arms, Praxor hit the side of Scipio’s head with the flat of his hands, stunning him. Dizziness made the other sergeant sluggish and Praxor used it to his gain, blocking another all-or-nothing swing and driving a knee into his brother’s stomach. Seizing Scipio’s wrist, he bent it around and used his weight to push him down to his knees. The other arm he wrapped around his neck and squeezed.

  ‘Yield!’ He was breathing hard, partly from exertion, partly from anger.

  Scipio still struggled.

  ‘You’ve lost, brother. Give it up.’

  Still Scipio fought. He made enough room for an elbow strike to Praxor’s gut and drove it back hard.

  Praxor grunted, hurt, but held on.

  ‘Weakness,’ he hissed between clenched teeth, spitting phlegm. ‘Yes, you’re right, brother. It was weakness.’

  Scipio roared, anger lending him strength, but Praxor didn’t let up. Rather, he pressed further.

  ‘But who is weak, now?’ He wrenched Scipio’s neck when he tried to move. By now the air was being cut off to his lungs, though a Space Marine could last much longer than an ordinary man in a choke-hold – even one made by another Space Marine.

  Praxor leaned in so he could speak directly into Scipio’s ear. ‘You are a patrician son of Ultramar, an inheritor of Guilliman,’ he said, almost pleading. ‘This does not befit your Chapter or your heritage. Don’t dishonour that any further.’ His grip lessened, allowing Scipio to speak, albeit in a rasp.

  ‘I have no honour left.’

  Praxor loosened his arm further. Scipio had stopped struggling now and hung like dead weight in his arms. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you know what happened on Karthax?’

  Praxor’s eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘A tragedy, the death of a hero – we lost Orad.’

  ‘It was more than that. No one else knows… No one but the captain and maybe Daceus.’

  ‘What happened?’ A strange sensation was working its way up Praxor’s spine as he asked the question. He couldn’t quite place it; it had been a long time since he’d experienced the emotion or one similar.

  Scipio’s confession was delivered with sobs for a fallen brother. ‘I killed him, Praxor. I killed Orad.’

  ‘We need to move, now!’

  Scipio was waving the human guerrilla fighters farther down the mountain pass, but his attention was fixed on the upper slopes behind them.

  It was Largo who had spotted it, skulking in the peaks, concealed by the drifts. Not content with its feast, it still craved their skin and had come to claim it. What was more, the flayed lord was not alone – it had brought its cohorts with it. Like slavering dogs, ruddy with the life-blood of others, they galloped down through the icy crags on all fours. A wave of sheer terror had swept through the humans upon the first sighting. Men and women, those who were left of Captain Evvers’s group, had fled wildly. One had even pitched off the side of the mountain in his haste to escape. The scream only lasted a few seconds before it was lost to the wind or snuffed by the razored flanks of rocks.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Brakkius. He was kneeling down by the edge of the pass, bolter aimed at the peaks where the silhouettes of necrons were steadily gaining ground on them.

  ‘Look how it moves,’ added Cator, a little incredulously. These things were not merely the automatons the Ultramarines had first suspected them to be; they were so much more than that. ‘An automaton should not be that agile.’

  ‘We can’t outrun them,’ said Scipio, once all of the humans had passed him. ‘So we fight.’ He turned to Cator. ‘Have Garrik and Auris get Herdantes back to the camp. Brakkius, Largo and I will hold back the necrons for as long as we can.’

  Brakkius went to protest, as did Cator, but Scipio silenced them with a glance. ‘See it done,’ he said.

  Neither Ultramarine would see their sergeant endangered but they were dutiful soldiers and followed orders.

  Only Largo made no reaction. He still had unfinished business with the flayed lord – the blood of Renatus was on the fiend’s talons and he would make it pay for that. He eyed the storm intently, tracking each shadow as it moved through the drift, a patch of grey on white.

  ‘I’ll return as soon as Garrik and Auris are on their way,’ promised Cator. The others were at the front of the column, scouting the way ahead, all except Herdantes who was only able to limp alongside the guerrillas. His wounds were healing but it would take time. A ready bolter filled his grasp and Scipio didn’t doubt his purpose, only his combat effectiveness.

  ‘See that you do,’ said Scipio, clapping a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘We’ll need all the bolters and blades we can get.’

  Cator saluted and set off down the pass in search of the others.

  ‘That leaves the three of us for now,’ said Brakkius, somewhat redundantly. He checked the load of his weapon – the ammunition count was low. Scipio saw it flash red in the darkness. He had a similar number of shells remaining in his pistol.

  Largo wasn’t watching, but breathed deeply. ‘The air is crisp and clean. I like it up here,’ he added. ‘I think I will be happy to lay my gladius down in this place.’

  Scipio didn’t bother to reprimand him. It wasn’t fatalism. Largo had simply come to terms with his probable death and embraced it. If anything, Scipio admired him for it. He racked the slide of his bolt pistol. ‘Hold them off for as long as you can,’ he said, the whipping wind adding drama and sorrow to his words. ‘Let’s
give our brothers every chance to reach the sanctuary of the camp.’

  Brakkius nodded. His weapon was already primed.

  ‘Brother-sergeant,’ he said. ‘It has been an honour to cross blades and shed blood with you.’

  ‘I could not be prouder of the Thunderbolts,’ Scipio replied. ‘You are my warriors, my brothers.’

  ‘Courage and honour,’ added Largo in a level voice.

  Brakkius echoed him.

  ‘And to the hells of the warp if we fail in this task,’ said Scipio at the end.

  Shoulder-to-shoulder, bolters ready, they waited for the flayed lord to come. There’d be no precipice to send it over this time, no cunning ploy to trap or destroy it. Scipio was as proud as any warrior of Guilliman. He was one of his patrician sons, something a friend had told him long ago – a shame it took his imminent demise to realise that. But he was not dragged down by hubris, either. He knew this creature had the beating of them. He avowed he would make it work for its feast. While there was blood still pumping in his veins and the veins of his brothers, there was hope. A keening cry split the rushing of the wind, giving it a sharp edge that felt as if it could shear steel. Death was coming.

  It would reach them soon.

  Anger and shame warred with excitement in the mind of the Enfleshed. Since his apotheosis, a need had arisen in his jagged psyche. It was a wholly unnatural hunger. He had railed against it at first, but now he embraced it and let it consume him.

  If I am damned then so be it…

  His slaves scurried on all fours like pack hounds on the hunt. He resisted the urge to prostrate himself like that; he was still a noble lord of the necrontyr despite how debased his form had become. He was not an animal yet, not quite.