Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  But none appeared. A sigh passed through the heavy air of the chamber, making the banners rustle. The only sound was the heavy thud of power-armoured boots on the stairs, and the constant, thrumming growl of the packs.

  The man was dead. He stayed dead.

  Ironhelm looked down at the corpse, still panting from his exertion against the maleficarum. He knew he should feel elation. He knew should feel something. Instead, his entire frame felt hollow. Within him, he could sense a thin, mournful howling.

  Frei drew alongside. Like the Great Wolf, the Rune Priest emanated none of the feral exuberance he ought to have done.

  ‘What just happened?’ asked Ironhelm, as bewildered as a child. He began to feel a sickness well up within him. The quest of decades had been achieved, and there was nothing but a faint confusion and nausea to show for it.

  ‘The primarch was here,’ confirmed Frei, looking down at the body before the altar. ‘Now, he is not.’

  ‘Then I have killed him?’

  Ironhelm’s voice betrayed his desperation. He knew he hadn’t.

  ‘Something died,’ said Frei. Like his master, his voice had none of the earthy certainty it normally carried. ‘But I do not under–’

  ‘Lord!’

  The voice was Rangr’s, and it was full of alarm.

  The braziers were growing in intensity. The sapphire flames lashed up, creating columns of writhing, fluorescent energy. The light was powerful, throwing back even the darkest of the shadows in the chamber’s recesses. The banners were illuminated fully, exposing the company emblems. Ironhelm turned to look at them, finally sensing their importance. He had been wrong. They were not Thousand Sons devices. They never had been.

  ‘Adgr’s pack,’ he muttered, recognising the crossed fangs over the sickle moon. ‘And Gramm’s. And Beor’s...’

  Frei’s gaze swept across the newly lit-up emblems. Beyond them, carved into the walls of the chamber, were stone reliefs. They depicted familiar events in an angular, stylised fashion. On one frieze there were pyramids within a city, the exact dimensions of those on Gangava. The Gotthammar arriving in orbit was on another. The reinforcements from Fenris translating in-system, the destruction of the void shield generator, all the events were there. There was even a depiction of the Great Wolf hurling an autocannon mount from a burning tower.

  This has all been foreseen.

  Rangr kept his chainsword poised in the attack position. Like all the Wolves in the chamber, he was on high alert, his hackles high and his hearts beating solidly.

  ‘What is the meaning of those emblems, lord?’ the Wolf Guard asked. ‘They’re Fenryka, but no Great Companies that I know.’

  Ironhelm began to move away from the platform, lumbering down the steps heavily. Like his troops, he kept his frostblade activated. The worst of the nausea subsided, to be replaced by the cold hand of dread.

  ‘They are our cousins,’ he growled, his voice shot through with loathing. ‘The Wolf Brothers. The lost ones.’

  Frei joined the Great Wolf, and the pair of them descended the last steps from the pyramid quickly. The retinue followed in their wake.

  ‘The Brothers have been disbanded for over two hundred years,’ said Frei. ‘I do not understand–’

  ‘So you have already said, Rune Priest,’ snarled Ironhelm, losing patience. All his fury, all his kill-urge, had been suddenly blunted, and the result was an almost physical pain. ‘Enough uncertainty. This place is a mockery of us. We will return to the fleet and destroy it from orbit.’

  As he neared the far side of the chamber, close to where a gilded archway marked the exit out to the halls beyond, the braziers suddenly changed colour. From blazing sapphire they switched to a sickly green, intense and overbearing. The Wolf Brothers emblems became distorted and grotesque in the shifting light.

  With the sharp sound of metal grating against metal, massive blast-doors withdrew from the walls of the chamber. In every direction, huge vaults opened up, each of them bleeding more emerald sickness into the central chamber. Dark shapes emerged from the fog of green, twisted and diseased. They were Space Marine in profile, but horribly altered. Some had trailing tentacles in place of limbs, others had misshapen heads crowned with thorns. Their armour was warped and uprooted, the plate ripped by growths from below and fused with unholy flesh where it spilled into the open. Helm-lenses glowed with more sickly witchlight, piercing even the shifting miasma roiling from the vaults. They didn’t march cleanly, but limped, dragged or scuttled, hauling their broken bodies into the open, tottering on cloven hooves and clawed crow’s feet.

  As they emerged into the light of the braziers, their origins became clearer. Their battle-plate had once been grey, adorned with the totems and fetishes of the hunt. There were pelts still clinging to the corrupted ceramite, as botched and altered as the armour beneath. Images of fangs and runes were still graven into breastplates and greaves, though stretched into new and blasphemous patterns by some dark and subtle artistry. As they lumbered into view, the mutated warriors began to howl in a mockery of the battle cries they had once roared so proudly. The sound was horrific, a chorus of fluted misery and distortion that resounded from the high walls around them and filled the chamber with perverted hatred.

  ‘The Bane of the Wolves,’ breathed Frei, finally understanding. ‘Not him. Not us. Them.’

  Rangr and the other Wolf Guard hesitated. Normally they’d have rushed into combat at the first sight of such corruption, but this time none of them moved. They could all see the runes on the armour, the withered pelts and the beast-mask helms.

  They all knew, without needing to be told, that the gene-seed in each one of those horrors was the same as the Helix that animated them.

  ‘Orders, lord?’ asked Frei, seizing his staff in both hands, as riven by indecision as those about him.

  Ironhelm raised himself to his full, terrible height then, watching the oncoming mutants with a grim horror. They were brothers in more than name. They were the only successors the Space Wolves had ever permitted to be made, the only other scions of the primarch Leman Russ that remained in the galaxy.

  They shared blood. They shared gene-memory. They shared everything.

  ‘Remember yourself, priest,’ Ironhelm growled, picking out the first of his targets from the hundreds that presented themselves. ‘These are no longer Wolf Brothers. Kill them. Kill them all, and do not cease until their abomination has been cleansed from the universe forever.’

  Jarl Arvek Kjarlskar turned away from the slab in the Gotthammar’s medi-bay. The Wolf Scout he’d dragged out of the void, Blackwing, lay on the metal, more dead than alive, though somehow still capable of disagreeable amounts of sarcasm. The ship he’d arrived in was now nothing more than a ball of spinning ash, though the Gotthammar’s reclamators were still picking up saviour pods.

  ‘Do we have a comm-link?’ Kjarlskar asked. The great voice was as deep and resonant as ever, though there was a note of unusual urgency in it.

  ‘Not yet, lord,’ replied Anjarm, the ship’s Iron Priest. ‘Ironhelm is in the central pyramid, heavily engaged. There’s jamming down there.’

  Kjarlskar’s eyes blazed dangerously.

  ‘How can there be jamming? We destroyed everything.’

  He clenched his giant fists, bunching them as if he wanted to punch his way through the tiled walls of the apothecarium. Controlling his rage with difficulty, he whirled back to face Blackwing.

  ‘You’re sure, Wolf Scout?’ he asked. ‘We’ve had comms from Fenris – all of them routine.’

  Blackwing managed a weak, hacking laugh. More blood bubbled up from his throat.

  ‘Sure? No, not really, Jarl. Maybe the Skraemar wasn’t torn apart by a battleship twice its size. Maybe we didn’t lose our orbital batteries in a few hours. And maybe Jarl Greyloc didn’t really order me out here, at the expense of my ship and most of my crew. I just can’t be sure...’

  Kjarlskar swooped down on Blackwing, grabbing him by his broken vo
id-armour and hauling him up to his face.

  ‘No more games,’ he hissed, his fangs fully exposed. ‘You ask for the recall of the entire Chapter. This is Ironhelm’s moment of triumph.’

  Blackwing’s head lolled as the Wolf Lord shook him. His eyes went glassy, and the sardonic smile left his lips.

  ‘I nearly died to bring you this message, lord,’ he drawled, on the edge of consciousness and loquacious from medication. ‘In itself, that matters not. But the fact you’re hesitating over this is now massively pissing me off. There are Thousand Sons on Fenris, a whole bloody Legion of them. Even if the fleet returns now, the odds are the Aett will still fall. So what else do you want me to say? Please?’

  Kjarlskar glared at him for another moment, as if his eyes could somehow bore into the Scout’s soul and uncover the truth. Then, with as much disgust as despair, he threw Blackwing back against the hard metal slab.

  ‘Get me a comm-link,’ he snarled to the Iron Priest. ‘Get it now. Then organise landers, and send a message to the other ships to prepare for re-translation. We’re going back.’

  Anjarm nodded.

  ‘It will be done. But we’ve had reports of Traitor Marines in the pyramid – Ironhelm will not come away from that fight easily.’

  Kjarlskar spat on the floor.

  ‘That is why they’re there. Blood of Russ, how easily we’ve been led.’ He started to stride across the medi-bay, thrusting aside the fleshmaker-thralls who got in his way. ‘I’ll make planetfall myself. By the Allfather, he’ll listen to me.’

  It was as the massive Wolf Lord neared the exit that Blackwing lifted his battered head a final time. The encounter with the drive-shaft had left him uglier and more misshapen than ever. His nose and cheekbones had been shattered, his chest driven in and both arms badly broken. Even for a Space Marine, those were serious wounds. The huge amounts of sedative in his bloodstream seemed to have finally got to him, and his bruised eyelids drooped half-closed.

  ‘You do that, Jarl,’ he slurred, drifting back into forgetfulness. ‘And don’t think I’ll hold any of this against you. I’m a generous sort, so you can thank me properly when we get back.’

  Part IV:

  The Crimson King

  Chapter Seventeen

  The lights were low in Greyloc’s chamber. None of the Jarls had ostentatious private quarters, and they were all arranged in much the same way: bare rock walls, racks of weapons taken from past encounters, totems gifted by the Wolf Priests, a hard bed layered with tough hides. Greyloc’s was perhaps a little more sparse than most, but not by much. The only item that marked his territory was the old axe Frengir, hanging over the whetstone like an amulet.

  The Wolf Lord was seated on a low three-legged wooden stool, the kind the men of the ice used for tribal councils. It was built to mortal scale, and even out of armour Greyloc looked awkward on it, all limbs and hands.

  His eyes were closed, the pale skin of his face relaxed. The sounds of the Aett – the hammering, the shouting, the grind of machinery – were muted. A fire glowed in the corner of the chamber, now little more than embers. A mortal would have struggled to see much in the gloom and would have found the cold crushing. The extremity of the chamber’s conditions were testament to the majesty of the Adeptus Astartes, even if the contents were not.

  Alone with his thoughts, Greyloc let his mind wander across possibilities, soaring like a gyrhawk across an open sky. He could sense the vast tide of hatred closing in on his citadel, pressing against the stone, burrowing into its roots, determined to break inside and destroy the life within. A lesser warrior might have been intimidated by that. Even a great leader might have felt a tremor of frustration, a burning sense of injustice that his time in command had been rendered so cruelly short.

  Greyloc felt none of that. His humours were balanced, and the inner wolf was at ease. It was unusual for one of his kin to be in such a state prior to the outbreak of battle, and it was a trait he never revealed. There were times, he knew, when his battle-brothers felt he had lost something essential, that he had become too much like a mortal, and there was no point in fuelling the rumours further.

  He understood why they thought such things. Greyloc was as much a gene-child of Russ as they were, but he had command of a quality that they often lacked, for all their bluster and outward confidence.

  Certainty.

  That had never wavered, not since the first implants had taken, not since he’d learned to use the new, powerful body given to him by the Helix, not since he’d risen through the orders to become Hunter, then Guard, then Lord. At every stage, he’d known what his destiny was.

  In another soul, that might have constituted arrogance. Greyloc, though, had never gloried in it, or even taken satisfaction. It was merely the way of the universe, as sacred as the balance between hunter and prey, between cause and effect.

  At every stage, I chose the path I had to. Every note of the wyrd then was true. It will be no different now. The runes guide, and they never lie.

  By the doorway, a red light briefly winked on. Greyloc’s eyelids flickered open. His pin-pupils were dilated, as if he’d been hunting. They shrunk quickly, returning to their normal state.

  ‘Come,’ he said quietly.

  The iron doors to his chamber slid open, and a hunched figure strode in. Wyrmblade was in his armour, as ever. As he walked, it hummed arhythmically, breaking the peace of the chamber. The doors slid closed again, sealing the two of them in.

  Greyloc did not rise. Seated, he looked diminished. More so than most of his battle-brothers, he could control his aura of intimidation. A warrior like Rossek would always be terrifying; Greyloc was only terrifying when he chose to be.

  ‘I’m sorry, lord,’ said Wyrmblade, looking at the embers, the axe, and the simple robes worn by the Jarl. ‘I can come another time.’

  Greyloc waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘You may come and go when you please,’ he said. ‘Or have the Wolf Priests given up that right?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Wyrmblade acknowledged. ‘And not likely to.’

  He did not sit. His armoured weight would have crushed a stool like Greyloc’s, and there were no other chairs.

  ‘You’ve been in seclusion long,’ he said, leaning against the stone walls.

  ‘There’s been much to reflect on,’ said Greyloc. ‘Much to plan.’

  ‘You’re content with what has been done?’

  Greyloc snorted.

  ‘I’d be content if we had another three Companies and a battle-fleet. But, as we haven’t, then yes. I am. The tunnel collapse has given us precious days. They’ll break through soon, and we’ll be ready. Bjorn is with us, so they’ll get a fight.’

  Wyrmblade looked at the Jarl cryptically. ‘One we can win?’

  Greyloc shrugged. ‘What use is that thought, Thar? We’ll do what we’re bred to. After that, it’s in the lap of the Allfather.’

  ‘You know why I ask. There are things... secrets within the Aett. There is knowledge here that must never leave. Ironhelm knows it, and a handful of others, but no more. If we are defeated, then...’

  Wyrmblade left the sentence hanging.

  ‘You speak as if you were the only one who’s thought about such things,’ said Greyloc. ‘It’s been in my mind too. But what do you propose? That we destroy the Tempering? Ironhelm would have to sanction it.’

  ‘He’s not, as you may have noticed, here.’

  ‘So is that what you want?’

  Wyrmblade looked pained.

  ‘You know it isn’t. My life has been devoted to it. Yours too, since you were taken into confidence. But we must have a plan. This battle has already made it hard to retain the secrecy we need, and it will only get worse. If the time comes, I need to know I have your authority to act.’

  Greyloc met Wyrmblade’s gaze. The two of them were so physically different – one cold, white and vital, the other battered, dark and cynical – and yet there was a kinship there, a shared understanding. />
  For several heartbeats they remained silent.

  ‘You do,’ said Greyloc at last. ‘But do not act until the very last moment, and then only if the Aett must be lost beyond recovery. Until then, preserve what you have. Lives may be sacrificed. Relics may be lost. But I would not see the work ended here, unless all else must be ended.’

  As he spoke, his pale hands closed into fists.

  ‘This is our future, Thar,’ he said. ‘This is our chance to grow. Should we lose it now, it will never come again.’

  Wyrmblade nodded.

  ‘Then you feel as I do,’ he said. ‘I’m glad, and it will be as you command. But I make one more request: keep Sturmhjart away from the Valgard. He has been given orders to interfere, and would not understand the need for further secrecy.’

  ‘Sturmhjart is already taken care of. He will stand beside Bjorn and me at Borek’s Seal. You will have the services of Cloudbreaker at the Fangthane. So do not worry – the need to divide our forces has rid you of your gadfly.’

  The old Wolf Priest smiled.

  ‘You would have made a formidable Great Wolf, Vaer,’ he said, and his crooked smile was wistful.

  ‘Would have?’ replied Greyloc. ‘You have so little faith in our chances?’

  Wyrmblade shrugged, and looked down.

  ‘It’s in the lap of the Allfather,’ he repeated, though the words sounded empty a second time.

  Two days later, and the Fangthane was finally made ready. All clustered there knew that the tunnels would be breached imminently. Their demolition had given the Aett a much needed respite from assault, and it had been now been a full ten days since the gates had been lost. Now the fighting would begin again. There would be further retreats, further fighting withdrawals, all aimed at inflicting the maximum pain for the minimum of ground. But now the space to shrink into was finite. The Aett was massive, but even its network of tunnels ran out eventually.

  Redpelt knelt low on the stone steps leading up to the Fangthane. His helm lay beside him as he carefully lacquered his russet hair down, ready to put it on. As ever, his armour was covered in layers of blood, and the lower jaw of his helm had its row of teeth embedded. Many of them had been knocked out, but enough remained to mark him. His breastplate was new, a replacement for the one cracked apart by the Rubric Marine’s bolter rounds. Despite several days of acclimatisation, it felt awkward against his black carapace interface, and the input nodes still chafed.