Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Scipio ran off towards the Librarian, his brother in tow.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Jynn. ‘Don’t leave us!’

  Brakkius, Herdantes and the others were engaging the necrons closing on the pylon. They were stretched and more wraiths were moving sinuously on the undefended humans.

  Scipio paused, torn. He had brought them into this fight. After they’d penetrated the mountains, he could have left Jynn and her guerrilla fighters behind. They could have watched from a safe distance. But he wanted to destroy the necrons utterly, smash their artillery and grab glory for gaining the Thanatos Hills. It was too late to turn back. The humans had chosen their fate. He ran to Tigurius.

  ‘Scipio!’ Jynn’s impassioned cries followed him all the way like a curse.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ever since becoming a battle-brother, Sergeant Atavian had been in the Second Company Devastators. It was a full-fledged Ultramarine’s first calling in the Chapter proper – Maxima Atavian had simply never left. His squad were known as the Titan Slayers, a name which they’d earned for obvious reasons. As a heavy weapon trooper, Atavian had principally been responsible for the lascannon. It was his favoured weapon. Tank-killer, it was also called. Atavian’s motto had always been, ‘Why stop at tanks?’

  The honour of carrying the Slayers’ lascannon went to Brothers Hektar and Ulius. Sergeant Atavian had to satisfy himself with guiding their destructive fury. During his century of service, he had seen many monsters and machineries felled by the hot beams of a lascannon. Tyranid bio-forms, daemonic engines of the Great Enemy, ramshackle ork battle-fortresses – Atavian had seen them all undone by this stalwart weapon. For a Space Marine on foot and at range, there was nothing so powerful. But here on Damnos, he had seen such technologies that he wondered if even a lascannon would prevail against them. Floating obelisks of living metal, skeletal warriors utterly destroyed only to rise as if unscathed, small beetle-like creatures capable of twisting a weapon’s machine-spirit and turning it on its wielder – this was what the Second were up against, the necrontyr.

  On bended knee and with their heads bowed, Atavian and his brothers recited the litanies of accuracy and function. They had formed a half-circle, heavies in the middle either side of their sergeant and bolters at the ends. A flattened column offered them little cover but a good vantage point to overlook the wasteland tundra between the edge of Arcona City and Kellenport.

  Across from the Titan Slayers were their brother Devastators, led by Sergeant Tirian. Atavian gave him a curt salute when he’d finished the litanies and was on his feet again, to which Tirian replied by holding his power fist aloft and giving a slow nod. His squad, Guilliman’s Hammer, occupied a staggered platform of rock. It might once have been the tiered steps of a temple but was all but obliterated now. Heavy bolters took the first level, the missile launchers behind them crouched down and pointing eastwards towards the advancing necrons.

  The shadows of the monoliths were easy to pick out as the sun faded quickly on the horizon. These would be Atavian’s principal targets, the living metal pyramids that fired death from the crystals at their zeniths. There was a larger monstrosity moving amongst the still-gargantuan smaller ones. It was taller, a tower of long tubular crystal attached to a conventional monolith base. Energies crackled between this one and the other two surrounding it. A node of some sort, Atavian decided. He put the targeting scope back on the stock of his bolter and addressed his warriors.

  ‘Steel and death! Meltas and plasma to the fore, tank-killers with me at the rear. Remember how we took the Soulmauler apart, a renegade Titan, no less! Remind me why we earned the Principex Maxima that day and why our name shall pass in to legend when we are dead.’

  Shouts of approval and affirmation met the sergeant’s words. These were campaign veterans, despite their role as Devastators. He trusted each and every one.

  ‘Glory to the Titan Slayers and may the God-Emperor revel in our furious thunder!’

  A collective roar belted from the Ultramarines mouths.

  Sergeant Atavian had never been prouder. The cries of his Titan Slayers echoed into silence, as did the shouts of Tirian’s warriors across from them. One last look down the targeter revealed the necron hordes were coming within range. Emerald energy was building between the phalanx of monoliths. Everything depended on their incapacitation. Atavian prepared to give the order to fire.

  ‘Pinion’, the tutors of the Chapter, Praxor’s old masters, had called it. ‘When one force manages to outflank and surround another.’

  To the west, the necrons from the tomb itself, amongst them their overlord and the one Sicarius wanted to bring to single combat. To the east, the forces that had got around them to assault Kellenport, recently recalled to close the Ultramarines in a trap they might not escape from.

  Knowing he faced a foe on two fronts, Sicarius had arranged his forces in two semi-circles each facing an aspect of where a threat was coming from. To the rear he positioned the Devastators. The necrons had brought machineries: the hulking monoliths Praxor had seen the captain take on single-handedly. Through sheer bravura, he had destroyed one of them, or at least immobilised it. If only they had three more Sicariuses with the same fortune, the same skill to achieve that feat three more times. Tactical Squad Solinus completed the rearguard, ready to wade in once the heavy guns had done all they could.

  Praxor was amongst the force facing the brunt of the necron infantry as well as its command echelon. The Dreadnoughts Ultracius and Agrippen joined them, stoic alongside the Lions of Macragge. At either flank, Sicarius had used the assault squads as anchor. They would strike at the heart of the phalanxes, cutting a way through so that the captain of Second might get his opportunity to kill the necron overlord.

  Chaplain Trajan knelt in the centre, between the two semi-circles of Ultramarines. Their last stand was apparently on top of the remains of some ancient basilica. The Chaplain had discovered a large stone aquila buried under all the fallen snow. He performed a final blessing on top of the ruins, beseeching the Emperor to protect and grant them courage.

  In his heart, Praxor knew this would be the single biggest and hardest battle he would ever fight as an Ultramarine. Making the sign of the Imperial eagle over his breast, he hoped it would not be his last. His gaze fell on Sicarius.

  The captain was looking to the north, towards the Thanatos Hills.

  ‘It’s quiet,’ he said underneath his breath. His Lions, including Daceus, stood by silently.

  Praxor spoke up. ‘A cessation to the barrage could mean that Scipio…’ He paused to correct himself. ‘Sergeant Vorolanus and Lord Tigurius have been successful in their mission.’

  Sicarius turned. His eyes were hard like granite as they appraised Praxor. He hadn’t realised he’d intruded on the captain’s private thoughts.

  ‘Scipio?’

  ‘He is – was – my friend, brother-captain.’

  Sicarius looked to the west. Battle was approaching rapidly.

  ‘We are, all of us, linked by a shared brotherhood. Our blood is the distilled life essence of our primarch, may he one day stir from slumber in the Temple of Correction. But some bonds are stronger than others. Do you understand?’

  Praxor nodded humbly.

  Satisfied he was understood, Sicarius drew his Tempest Blade and levelled it at the oncoming necrons. It was a gesture he was overfond of making.

  ‘Do you know what I see out there, brother-sergeant?’ he said. ‘I see destiny. I see our names alongside the legends of our Chapter’s greatest heroes, inscribed for all time on the walls of the Temple of Hera. Are you ready to embrace it?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, Sicarius summoned his Lions and advanced to the front of the line. Agrippen was close by.

  ‘You wish to share in the glory of this moment, venerable one?’ asked the captain.

  ‘It is only fitting that I am by my liege-lord’s right hand. It is the Chapter’s will.’

  Sicarius laughed
, loud and belligerent, before putting on his helmet. So close now, the necrons seemed endless. The Lions appeared unfazed, their demeanour stoic. It had been Praxor’s desire to join them, to be like Gaius Prabian or Daceus. In these last moments before the final clash, he found himself questioning whether he could stare into the void and not blink.

  He caught Vandius looking at him. Perhaps the Company Banner Bearer could guess what was on his mind. What he thought of Praxor’s ambitions was unknown; he merely nodded to the sergeant and fixed his standard high. The gilded twin-headed eagle perched upon the Ultima symbol around a deathless skull stared down upon the Space Marines as if measuring them. ‘Guardians of the Temple’, warriors of the Second – if they survived, even achieved victory here, it would be spoken about for hundreds of years to come.

  Sicarius seemed attuned to the magnitude of the moment.

  ‘Destiny!’ His voice echoed around the shattered basilica like a clarion call. ‘Sons of Ultramar, if you seek renown eternal then it is before you. Ours is a proud line, it is cobalt and steel, it is unbreakable, it is spirit as adamantium. We are kings, you and I, like the old lords of Macragge in bygone days. On this soil, this frozen earth, we will make our stand and live forever in the annals of our brothers. Fight for the fallen, fight for the Second and the legacy left by those who came before us. Honour them with your deeds, your sacrifice.’ He extended his open hand and clenched it tight. ‘Reach out for immortality with your gauntleted fist and seize it!’ The Tempest Blade was held aloft. Its edge shimmered in the fading sunlight, casting it in visceral red. ‘In the name of Roboute Guilliman, Victoris Ultra!’

  The call to arms resonated throughout the ruins, repeated by every Ultramarine who was about to give his blood to war. As the roar of it slowly faded, the sound was replaced by the merciless, clanking march of the necrons.

  Sicarius turned away from the hordes for a moment to look at Praxor. ‘Sergeant Manorian, you and your Shieldbearers will be at my side.’

  ‘It is our honour, my lord,’ Praxor replied. Yet after everything he’d seen on Damnos, it didn’t feel as glorious as he’d expected.

  Only the Lions were listening. Only they, his honour guard and inner circle knights, could hear what Sicarius had to say next.

  ‘No battle cries for them, no rousing speeches,’ he murmured. The Lions maintained their silence. ‘They are devoid of humanity, these necrons. They have no capacity for compassion or pity, or any notions of glory or comradeship.’ He spat the words, repulsed at such hollow creatures. Sicarius shook his head slowly. ‘I will need to get into the heart of their ranks. Your blades and bolters will open the way.’

  ‘We are your unsheathed swords, sire,’ snarled Gaius Prabian with a vertical blade salute. He was eager for battle.

  ‘When it comes, Gaius, you must lower your sword and allow me to fight it alone.’

  The Champion assented but did so reluctantly.

  ‘Daceus, you will lead them once I am engaged. Vandius, the banner must not fall.’

  Both nodding, the veteran-sergeant clanged his power fist against his right pauldron, whilst the Second Company’s standard bearer replied, ‘To my dying breath, lord.’

  ‘And you, Apothecary,’ Sicarius turned his head to look at Venatio. ‘You know what your duty is.’

  ‘I hope not to have to perform it, but the legacy of Ultramar will be preserved, rest assured of that, my captain.’

  Lastly, Sicarius spoke to them all again as one. ‘You are my brothers, my equals and peers. I expect of you what I expect from myself – duty unflinching, courage unwavering, blade unswerving. These soulless automatons will drown the galaxy in darkness if they are left unchecked. I care not for Damnos, I care that this foe is taught to fear the Adeptus Astartes. Mankind will not be destroyed without a fight. Let it begin here, on these frozen wastes. Whatever else, the Ultramarines must not fail. The necrons have to be stopped, one way or another.’

  Vast phalanxes of raiders had been roused from the tomb. The Architect had done well, but the Undying was finding it increasingly difficult to keep hold of that thought. His mind was awash with visions of destruction and annihilation. The cold emptiness of eternity clawed at his resolve. Far from being an unfeeling golem of metal and machinery, he was deeply afraid of the long dark. He had already slept, it had seemed endlessly, and now awake he was confronted by oblivion of an altogether different stripe.

  Destroyers glided on their repulsor platforms, moving slowly into formation at either end of the necron battle line. Abhorred by those who could still comprehend such an emotion, simply avoided by those with simpler engrams left to them after the long sleep, the destroyers were both loathsome and terrifying at the same time. Unlike most of the necrontyr, even those of the basest level, the destroyers had abandoned all hope of returning to fleshtime. Their bodies were… amended, given over to the pursuit of decimation. Though it scared him to admit it, the Undying liked the idea. He could imagine repulsors where his legs now were, a gauss-cannon to replace his arm; perhaps his war-scythe could be merged with the other limb too.

  Such carnage I will reap… All the souls of this world.

  Out in front, ahead of his bodyguard who crowded around him with glaives crackling with eldritch light, were the immortals. Stoic and implacable, these superior constructs would spearhead the advance. Anything that survived them was obviously worthy indeed and something the Undying should test his prowess against. Hubris then, and arrogance, still stirred in his cruel machine heart.

  He surveyed the metal multitudes of skeletal warriors, each the same as the last, without need for banners or laurels of any kind, and knew the days of humankind were finite. These warriors were but a fraction of the cohorts still slumbering within the tomb. With a wordless command, the Undying impelled his army forward and imagined the slaughter to come.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Jynn Evvers was strong-willed, some might even say fearless. She’d had to be. After losing her husband to the quakes – it seemed longer than a couple of years, more like lifetimes – she’d needed courage and had dug down into herself to find it. For a while, during the darkest days, Jynn had wondered if she’d come back from that insular place at all. Buried so deeply, she’d returned a different person when she’d finally emerged. The prospect of living her life alone, without Korve, terrified her. She would have gladly spent all of eternity with that man. Even the ice and the long, relentless days didn’t seem so bad when he was still there. When Korve died, a part of Jynn died too. She became as hard and unyielding as the rock face she laboured over for the greater glories of the Imperium.

  She saw the same sense of disconnection in Scipio. He was a Space Marine, as far from humankind as was possible without actually being a different species. Jynn was in awe of these warriors from beyond the stars, they all were, but she also pitied them. Never at peace, incapable of love. Bonds of duty bound them to their purpose. It was a noble one, and they valued honour, like any soldier, but had little else. Bred without fear, without compassion and only the will to act, they were the warriors that mankind needed. But why then did they feel grief? Perhaps it was to separate them, however thinly, from the unliving automatons that were trying to eradicate the people of Damnos? Perhaps it was some anachronism of humanity that had endured whatever process it took to become a Space Marine?

  There was a hardness to Scipio. Jynn had once believed she was devoid of emotion too and then the attack on the Thanatos Hills came and all of that changed. Guerrilla warfare was one thing, striking from the dark, ambushing small groups – it was dangerous but doable. This was insane. Out here in the open, Jynn felt exposed. She felt threatened. Most of all, she felt fear. She’d believed she’d given up on life, that it didn’t matter if she died. She was wrong and it took mortality staring her in the face for her to realise that.

  ‘Sia, get down!’

  Though the Space Marines bore the brunt of the fighting, there were too many necrons for them to repel at once.
Without Scipio and the others, the humans were in tremendous danger. If they died here, their names would not be put on a plaque and venerated in some dusty temple. Their legacy would not live on for future generations. They would be dead and that would be an end to it.

  Jynn grabbed Sia by the collar of her jacket and dragged her down behind the massive platform supporting the necron weapon. She’d heard Scipio call it a ‘pylon’. It was huge and terrifying, an arc of black metal spitting emerald-tinged death into the sky. The noise of it hurt her ears. Jynn had gritted her teeth so long that when she’d shouted to Sia she’d found it hard to dislodge them.

  Sia went down with a grunt. She was clutching a pack filled with explosive. ‘We need to get this attached to the gun, bring it down. It’s what Densk, Holdst – what all the others – would have wanted.’

  Gauss-fire flashed overhead, burning the air with its acrid stench. Below the fog line everything else was hazy white. Necron silhouettes were moving in the mist, though. Their eyes were the first things that became visible. Jynn saw them everywhere. Lucky for her and Sia, they had yet to turn in their direction.

  ‘You can’t avenge them if you’re dead. We have to stay down for a while.’

  Sia shook her head. There was a wildness in her eyes, a sense of abandon that said she’d cracked under the pressure of it all.

  ‘It’s now or never, captain.’

  Jynn reaffirmed her grip. ‘Sia, no.’

  ‘I can’t stay like this. Ever since the camp, ever since…’ She was crying. Sia threw off Jynn’s hand and was on her feet. She got a couple of metres with the pack and was unclasping it when the beam caught her in the chest.

  Jynn cried out but Sia was gone, her torso vaporised by the flayer blast. She slumped, gurgling blood, and died.

  Holding her breath, Jynn was waiting to see if the necron would follow up on its kill. The hard bang of bolter fire caught its attention and it moved away. Sia was right, even if her attempt at completing the mission was suicidal – they needed to attach the bombs. Jynn got down on her belly – even through the thermal layers, the icy ground felt cold – and started to elbow her way towards the fallen pack. She had explosives of her own, tied up in webbing around her back, but they’d need Sia’s too.