Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Redpelt jumped up after him, pausing only to let the blood slew from his chainsword before flicking it back into life.

  ‘The Wolves are among you!’ he roared in Gothic, laughing riotously with the pleasure of the murder-make.

  Constricted and cramped, the enemy fell like wheat under the scythe, getting in each others’ way, frozen in herd-like horror. Some tried vainly to escape the slaughter and leap past the rampaging Blood Claws and onto the ice, but none made it through Redpelt’s gyrating blades. The rest retreated further back into the depths of the hold, postponing death by only few moments, letting loose their ineffective las-fire in panicked volleys.

  Then there was a booming detonation, and a thudding, grinding vibration across the steel floor of the loading bay. The drop-ship had managed to take off.

  ‘Cockpit,’ snarled Helfist.

  Redpelt was ahead of him, charging through the loading bay and racing up the first stairwell he came to. The bulky shoulder-guards of his armour scraped past the narrow walls, drawing huge gouges in the pressed metal.

  Helfist blink-clicked a rune on his helm display and his power fist’s energy-field sparked into life, throwing an electric-blue discharge across the ship’s interior. He slammed the burning gauntlet into the swaying floor and ripped up a sheet of it. With a savage yank, he hauled it back, throwing the first rank of cowering soldiers from their feet and exposing the innards of the ship’s structure beneath. He crouched down and pulled out a length of wiring, snapping the connections and shaking the cords loose like entrails pulled from a wounded beast.

  With a shudder, the lights died across the bay, plunging the space into utter darkness. High-pitched screams of terror echoed out from the press of troops ahead, suddenly flung back into a maelstrom of shadows and whirling helm-lumens.

  ‘Run while you can, little men,’ growled the Blood Claw, stowing his pistol and advancing into the dark, his power fist crackling lashes of disruptive force. ‘Now Hel is on your heels.’

  Redpelt thundered up on the next level, his boots denting the meshed metal stairs with every heavy tread. There were armed guards waiting on the platform above, and a snap of las-fire cracked against his right shoulder as he emerged.

  ‘Brave,’ he snarled, righting himself and sweeping his gore-soaked chainsword into the retreating body of the nearest. ‘But unwise.’

  He spun into the guards, flailing with his blade. The movements looked wild, but they were nothing of the sort – peerless conditioning had given his murder-strokes a deceptive efficiency.

  The guards held their ground against the onslaught, and so they died. As he butchered the last of them, Redpelt’s helm showed Helfist slicing his way through the hold-level below. From its reeling pitch, it was clear the drop-ship was in the air and climbing.

  At the end of the platform was a sealed door. Redpelt sprinted at it, loosing three rounds as he went, all hitting the intersection. The reactive bolts detonated as he crashed into the metal, cracking the doors open and sending the two panels tumbling inwards.

  There were four men inside, all seated at consoles, two by two. Cockpit windows lined the far end, showing flashes of the firefight below as the drop-ship struggled to make headway with its loading bay doors open.

  Redpelt laughed raucously in triumph, and the horrific sound echoed in the cramped space of the cockpit. Three of the flight-crew sprang up and tried clumsily to get out of the way of his rampage. There was nowhere for them to go. Redpelt’s chainsword whirred heavily. Two heavy swipes and all three mortals were hacked apart, scattering viscera across the metal-backed seats. Redpelt grabbed the remaining pilot from his flight position, ripping him out of his restraint harness by the nape of his neck. The man’s spine broke from the force of it and the corpse went limp in Redpelt’s gauntlet.

  Snarling with disdain, the Blood Claw hurled the body aside. The control column swayed drunkenly in the absence of a guiding hand, and the drop-ship began to list violently.

  ‘Hel,’ he voxed. ‘Time to go.’

  He plucked a krak grenade from his belt, but then saw incoming danger runes flicker across his lens. Redpelt’s head snapped up, just in time to see a wing of four Thousand Sons gunships home in on the plateau, a few hundred metres off and closing fast.

  Interesting.

  He flicked the grenade back to safety and grabbed the column. It was like a giant’s fist closing over a child’s toy, but the drop-ship instantly steadied under his touch. Instead of letting it crash to earth, Redpelt dragged it out of its dive and gunned the engines further. With a wail of protest, the tortured atmospheric drives blazed back into full throttle.

  The gunships, their pilots looking for targets on the ground, saw the danger too late. The drop-ship rose up to meet them head-on, huge and sluggish.

  Redpelt grinned and smashed the nearside window with his chainsword handle. He let go of the controls, crouched, then crashed headlong through the gap, tearing through the metal frame, spinning out into the night even as the swooping gunships veered to avoid the massive chunk of steel and promethium sent lurching into their path.

  It was only then that he saw how high up he’d taken it. The plateau was over two hundred metres down, still lit up by sporadic las-fire.

  ‘Skítja,’ he spat. ‘This is going to–’

  He plummeted like a stone, barely registering the explosion above him as two of the gunships collided with the stricken drop-ship and the sky was lit with a vast, thundering ball of igniting fuel and ammunition.

  ‘–hurt.’

  He hit the rock before rolling away from the impact and skidding across the ice. Both knees blazed with pain, even protected by his power armour, and he felt a sharp, hot whip-crack run up his compressed spine.

  He lay immobile for a second, dazed from the heavy impact. Then his vision cleared. Grimacing, Redpelt hauled himself to his feet, ignoring the warning runes indicating muscle damage and a fractured tibia.

  Dimly, he was aware he should be paying attention to something else.

  ‘Run, you stupid bastard!’ voxed Helfist from somewhere close by.

  Then he realised what it was. He broke into an agonised sprint, tearing across the rock as the ball of fire in the sky swung down to his position. The broken drop-ship, directionless and ripped open by the gunship collisions, was slewing back to earth again, streaming flames like an earth-bound comet as its engines gave up the fight to stay airborne.

  He ran. He ran like a raging skeiskre, pumping his damaged limbs, feeling endorphins pulse through his battered frame.

  Russ, you’re slow.

  There was a crunching, earth-shaking boom as the metal shell thudded into the rock behind him, crushing any residual survivors within and spraying slivers of red-hot metal across the whole battlefield. The ruined ship kept rolling, toppling like a downed beast on the plains, roaring in its death-throes and igniting fresh explosions within its bulbous carcass before it finally, grindingly, painfully, came to rest.

  Only then did Redpelt stop and turn, looking over the devastation he’d triggered, aware that his second heart had kicked in and was hammering hard. Pain-deadeners had started work as his stressed bones began to knit, but the strongest drive within him was the inner wolf, raging and tearing. He felt the rush of the kill-urge sweep over him, a heady mix of adrenaline and gene-rage.

  ‘Fenrys!’ he roared, whirling his chainsword in a huge loop around his head, glorying in his triumph. ‘Hjolda!’

  Then there was another presence at his side. Helfist slapped him hard on the back, laughing harshly over the comm.

  ‘Morkai’s arse, you’re as thick as an ungur,’ he said, giving away the wolf-rage within him too. Even through his armour, Redpelt could pick up the kill-pheromones spiking the air. ‘Tough as one, too.’

  Then Brakk was there too, and the rest of the pack, looming against the burning shell. The las-fire had ceased. No Spireguard had lived to see the drop-ship come down, and the surviving gunships were still coming back ro
und for another attack run.

  ‘Next time just use grenades,’ the Wolf Guard growled irritably. ‘Next target’s north, and they’ve established a bridgehead. Move out.’

  The pack broke into a run instantly, loping across the shattered rock as one, sweeping over it like a grey fluid sliding into the shadows. Power fists were shut down and chainblades were stilled, and once more the Claws drifted into the ghost-like stealth that was the terrifying mirror of their battle-rage.

  By the time the gunships came back, flying low over the dropsite, all that remained on it were the guttering flames, the twisted metal, and the already frozen corpses of those unwary enough to bring war to the world of the Wolves.

  Chapter Seven

  Auries Fuerza of the Pavoni cult-discipline leaned back against the bulkhead, flexing his pain-drenched limbs. He’d seen death staring at him, the final embrace of the flesh-change, and it had been horrifying. Even now, having finally thrown off the horrors of warp-delirium, he could feel his hearts labour, thumping against his ravaged ribcage like animals trying to claw their way out. How long had he been out cold? Minutes? Hours? Days? In the warp, it was always hard to tell.

  Transportation through the malignant currents of the aether was physically demanding at the best of times, but to make a leap at such notice and under such conditions was both painful and dangerous. When he’d seen the Dog vessel hurtle toward his stricken ship, he’d only had seconds to make the decision. Thankfully, the preparations for evacuation had already been made due to the heavy fire the Illusion of Certainty had taken. Even so, scrying new warp vectors in the middle of a ferocious void-battle had been far from trivial.

  Fuerza could take a certain level of pride that he’d not sent himself directly into the structure of the recipient ship. The fact he was breathing air and not metal struck him as more proof that the pattern of the universe had a design, and one that included him in it.

  Only barely, though. His palms had been stripped of skin and now shone like glossy sides of meat in the dark. His breath came in sharp, rattling gasps, and under his mask he could feel the damage done to his face.

  There had been four Rubricae with him in the warp bubble, but only one had made it intact. Two must have been lost in the jump, ripped apart by the capricious currents of the Ocean. A third had materialised within a heavy adamantium strut, and black metal rods impaled the soulless creature fast. Flickers of warp residue ran across its broken breastplate, still trying to knit the form of the Thousand Sons warrior back together.

  It was hopeless. A Rubricae was one of the toughest mobile structures in the galaxy, immune to pain and despair, able to keep operating even after massive structural damage, but being fused with the hull of a loyalist interceptor had destroyed the integrity of the Traitor Marine’s armour-shell. As Fuerza watched, too weak to intervene, the pale light in the broken Rubricae’s helm guttered and died. The spirit of the warrior, such as it was, had failed.

  Fuerza felt a profound sadness, an echo of psychic pain within his physical agony.

  So few. Now one fewer.

  He turned, slowly and with spasms of torment shooting up his compressed spine, to face the survivor. It stood impassively, unmoving. It didn’t betray the slightest interest in the fate of its comrades. Not for the first time, Fuerza wondered what kind of attenuated existence the Rubricae had. Did they see the runes running across their helm-displays like he did? Did speech register with them as it did with mortal men?

  Impossible to tell. Ahriman, curse his black name, had made them as cold and unfeeling as the graven images of Neiumas Tertius.

  For all that, it was an impressive statue. Huge and dominating in its sapphire and bronze battle plate, the Rubricae still held the ornate bolter it had carried into battle on Prospero as a living, breathing Space Marine. Its breastplate displayed the delicate images of serpents and dragons, of constellations and astrological symbols, of obscure sigils and ancient glyphs of power, each a piece of stunning artistry.

  The images changed. Fuerza didn’t know how, or even notice when, but they were rarely constant for long. The only thing that remained was the Eye, the one symbol that they wore at all times.

  ‘So, brother,’ Fuerza croaked, looking around him warily, feeling the blood run down his chin and over his damaged chest. ‘What shall we make of this?’

  The two of them had rematerialised in a dark corridor that stretched into shadow in either direction, Fuerza slumped against the wall, the Rubricae standing. The walls were formed of exposed machinery and pipework, unadorned and brutal. The floor was a metal mesh, the ceiling a morass of power cables, coolant tubes and boxy life support modules. It was dark and almost freezing.

  Fuerza guessed they were down in the lower levels, since the rumble of the engines felt close. The noise of the warp drives sounded healthy enough, but even in his critical state Fuerza was enough of an empath to detect the hurt the vessel’s machine-spirit had suffered. From far above them, there were faint cries, and heavy, resounding crashes. The crew was doing its best to keep the ship from coming apart.

  ‘We’re in the warp,’ mused Fuerza, licking his dry, cracked lips. ‘For all we know, this is the only ship that escaped Aphael’s blockade.’

  He looked up at the helm of the Rubricae, watching the way the polished ceramite of its crest caught the faint interior light and turned it into a thing of beauty.

  ‘A Wolves vessel,’ he continued, trying to construct a mental picture of how the ship would be laid out. ‘There may be many of them on board.’

  He smiled, suppressing the coughing-up of more blood, and laid a trusting hand on the Rubricae’s vambrace.

  ‘No matter, my brother,’ he said. ‘I can recover from these wounds. You will be my protector in the days to come. By the time this ship leaves the embrace of the Ocean, we will be the only living souls within it.’

  For three days, the landings in the mountains of Asaheim continued. For three days, the hunting packs disrupted and burned them, launching attack after attack across the ice. For three days, they racked up victories, preventing permanent footholds, scouring the rock clean of the taint of the invader. Many drop ships were destroyed before landing by clusters of Long Fangs; more were knocked out soon afterwards by the roaming packs.

  Despite all of this, the invaders succeeded in establishing bridgeheads. Time wore on, and the Wolves were faced with ever more of the enemy. They could not be everywhere at once, and the battles became fiercer and more protracted. The Thousand Sons established enduring positions at nine points in the mountain ranges around the Fang, landing ever more men and materiel, gradually constructing the stranglehold from which the main assault would be launched.

  As dawn broke over the Fang on the fourth day, the fortress was ringed with fire. Oily black columns, generated by promethium spills that would burn even on the ice, formed a vast, kilometres-wide circle across the mountain chain. The leaguer was closing, forged by the sacrifice of thousands of invading soldiers, each one of their deaths buying space for another drop-ship to land, another lascannon to be unloaded, another tank to rumble down the embarkation ramps.

  Greyloc’s Thunderhawk, the Vragnek, touched down in the Valgard, swooping hard under the umbrella of exploding plasma where the void shields still resisted the constant orbital bombardment. As it came to rest on the rock floor of the hangar, the crew bay doors slammed down and the Wolf Lord himself strode back into the Aett, followed by his Terminator-clad retinue. Wyrmblade was there to meet him.

  Greyloc’s armour was scorched black across one side and streaked with dried blood. A chunk had been knocked out of his right shoulder-guard, scarring the face of the rune Trysk. His wolfclaws were still fizzing with residual energy, and the crust of gore on his wrists showed that they’d been in heavy use.

  ‘Good hunting?’ asked Wyrmblade, looking at the signs of battle with approval.

  Greyloc removed his helm with a sucking hiss and locked it under his arm. His white eyes burned cold
ly.

  ‘Too many of them,’ he muttered, striding past Wyrmblade, forcing the Wolf Priest to turn to keep up with him. ‘We turn the ice red, but they keep landing.’

  Wyrmblade nodded.

  ‘The first rank of drop-ships were to keep us busy. They’ve landed heavy carriers further out. Traitor Marine squads now march with the mortals.’

  Greyloc spat a gobbet of blood-flecked saliva and shook his head.

  ‘Bones of Russ, Thar,’ he hissed. ‘I wanted nothing more than to keep fighting. I could have stayed out on the ice until my claws were rending their cold, dead bones.’

  He looked into the Wolf Priest’s eyes, and there was ferocity in his lean face.

  ‘I wanted nothing more. Do you understand?’

  Wyrmblade looked back carefully, his old eyes scanning for the tell-tale signs. He scrutinised long, paying particular attention to the white irises.

  ‘Righteous rage, brother,’ he said at last, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. ‘As it should be.’

  Greyloc grunted, hiding his relief badly, and shook himself from the Wolf Priest’s grip.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘We’re surrounded,’ said Wyrmblade. He spoke bluntly, factually. ‘The net’s closed. If you leave the packs out there, they’ll be picked off. There are sorcerers in the ranks of the enemy now, and we don’t have the Rune Priests to counter them.’

  ‘They won’t be called back easily.’

  ‘Then they’ll die. I can show you the auspex scans.’

  Greyloc remained silent, grimly weighing up the options.

  ‘We’re hunters, Thar,’ he said eventually. The harsh edge had left his voice as the kill-urge receded. ‘We pursue. They’ve got us cornered. This fighting won’t suit the Claws.’

  Wyrmblade smiled, and his mouth hooked like a knife wound in his old, wrinkled face. ‘Then we’ll learn a new way. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?’

  ‘I had a vision for it. The Tempering is–’

  ‘They’ll learn. You have to lead them.’