Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘And you,’ Tzula said, pointing at Shira playfully with one finger of her augmetic hand. ‘Forget everything you just heard,’ she added, following Epimetheus down towards the hidden depths of Atika.

  788960.M41 / Dark Angels Landing Zone. 1,013 kilometres south of Mount Olympax, Pythos

  Colonel Strike stepped down the ramp of Traitor’s Bane to find his route to the waiting Land Raider flanked by twenty green armoured Space Marines spaced at precise intervals. All of them helmeted, they stood stock still as the colonel crossed the distance between his own tank and Lord Azrael’s.

  It had been three days since the Dark Angels’ relief force had landed, and in that time Strike had received reports from strongholds all over Pythos detailing their liberation by Space Marine forces. No corner of the world remained untouched by the Dark Angels presence, and the high count of combat actions they had undertaken since arriving in orbit made Strike think that the entire Chapter had deployed to liberate the planet. Seeing the number of tanks, flyers, heavy weapons and troops that were making planetfall on the southern plains of Pythos Prime only confirmed that.

  Overhead, Thunderhawks engaged their retro boosters, slowing their ascent and hovering motionless barely a metre above the savannah, disgorging combat-ready squads of Space Marines before returning to orbit. Some way back from Azrael’s Land Raider, two figures with servo-arms protruding from their backs – Techmarines – fussed over a newly landed drop pod. After administering the correct blessings and key code, the massive craft opened like a flower blooming to reveal the Dreadnought within. It stomped forward ponderously and, after a brief inspection from the two Techmarines, strode off to join two others of its kind already freed of their confines. Sergeants calmly relayed orders to their squads before mounting Rhinos or bikes and heading off in the direction of their next mission flanked by tanks and land speeders. Sub-orbital jetfighters – Nephilim classification if the vox-chatter was accurate – formed contrails high in the clear blue sky, eyes open for signs of enemy movement and ready to strike should a target present itself.

  A loud boom sounded from off in the distance and Strike halted sharply, spinning on his heel in time to witness a mushroom cloud pluming upwards from several hundred kilometres away. Orbital bombardments had been a regular occurrence since the Space Marines’ arrival, targeting conglomerations of daemons when the orbiting vessels detected them out in the open, but this was the closest Strike had been to one. None of the Dark Angels honour guard paid it any heed, remaining locked at attention and staring dead ahead.

  Moments later, a gust of wind blew through the savannah, swaying the tall grass. The breeze felt cool on Strike’s arms, drying the near-permanent sheen of sweat there and he suddenly felt self-conscious; he was about to meet the Chapter Master of the Dark Angels, scions of one of the great founding Legions that pre-dated the Horus Heresy, and he was going to do so in torn fatigues and a blood-stained vest.

  When he reached the base of the Land Raider’s boarding ramp, he was almost pleased to see that Lord Azrael was in a similar state to him, armour split open in places and once fine cloak shredded and stained. He paused on the threshold, waiting for the Dark Angel to finish speaking to another Space Marine. He kept Strike waiting for what seemed to the Catachan like an age, motioning to markers on a hololithic map and gesticulating insistently to the other Space Marine. Eventually, Azrael noticed the colonel waiting patiently at the rear of the tank and broke off his conversation.

  ‘Colonel Strike,’ Azrael said, a smile that was more business-like than warm forcing its way onto his lips. ‘At last I have the pleasure of meeting the hero of Pythos.’ Behind the Catachan, the two squads of Dark Angels broke ranks in perfect choreography and returned to their duties.

  ‘My lord, this really wasn’t necessary,’ Strike replied.

  ‘Nonsense. If it wasn’t for the actions of your men and the leadership you’ve shown, there wouldn’t be a planet left for us to liberate.’ It was the other Space Marine who spoke now, and for the first time Strike noticed that he was wearing different armour from Lord Azrael. Not only was it Terminator pattern but it was silver too and covered in strips of parchment and purity seals. It wasn’t just the armour that marked him out as different. He radiated something that made Strike feel uneasy, the same feeling he had felt in his brief time around Inquisitor Dinalt’s astropath, and later, Epimetheus. Was this a Librarian? Strike had already seen Dark Angels in green, black and white armour; perhaps the fabled Space Marine psykers wore silver to denote their rank and station.

  ‘This is Grand Master Draigo,’ said Azrael.

  ‘Supreme Grand Master Draigo,’ Draigo corrected.

  ‘Of course,’ Azrael replied.

  Though far from being an expert on Space Marines, Strike was an excellent judge of people. Right now, he could not shake the feeling that not only were Azrael and Draigo not of the same Chapter, but neither could stand to be in the presence of the other. ‘Enough of the pleasantries. Lord Draigo and I are about to return to orbit to coordinate the liberation of Pythos and would like you to accompany us to assume command of the Imperial Guard forces that will begin landing in the next few hours.’

  ‘I am flattered, my lords, but I am only a colonel. Surely there are higher ranking officers in the liberation fleet?’ Strike said, taken aback at the offer.

  ‘Hundreds of them,’ Azrael replied. ‘But none of them with the jungle fighting experience or knowledge of the terrain to lead this campaign effectively. Up until now this has been your war, Strike. I see no reason for that to change now.’

  Strike considered his response. ‘Permission to speak freely, my lords?’ he asked, his voice not betraying the nervousness he felt.

  ‘By all means. Frankness is a trait much admired by the Dark Angels,’ Azrael said. He regarded the Catachan a little more intently.

  ‘With all respect, my jungle fighting experience and knowledge of the terrain would be put to better use down here,’ Strike said. ‘If there are others among the regiments in orbit who have led campaigns before, I’d urge you to call upon them to coordinate the Guard effort on Pythos. My place is leading my men from the front.’

  Draigo’s face darkened, his brow furrowing in the manner of somebody not used to being told no. Azrael by contrast warmed to Strike in that moment.

  ‘Your candour is both noted and appreciated, colonel. My battle-brothers who have already fought alongside your men are full of tales regarding their valour and if half the stories they have told about you are true, I would be pleased to keep you at the spearhead of the resistance effort.’

  ‘Once again you flatter me, lord. I was not without aid though.’

  ‘You mean Inquisitor Dinalt? It was his distress call that called us here. I presume he is dead, otherwise he would have already made contact,’ said Draigo.

  Strike smiled a little at hearing this. Mack’s sacrifice hadn’t been in vain after all. ‘Yes, my lord,’ Strike said, noticing for the first time the stylised ‘I’ of the Inquisition emblazoned over Draigo’s breast. ‘One of his apprentices turned out to be a traitor and led him to his death. She’s dead too along with most of his cohort. His other apprentice, Tzula, is still alive. At least she was the last time I saw her.’

  He neglected to mention that K’Cee still survived. He’d left the simian genius back at Thermenos until he could get a handle on how the Dark Angels would react to a xenos life form, no matter how useful and loyal, operating as part of an Imperial Guard command structure.

  ‘And the Space Marine still lives,’ Strike added, almost as an afterthought.

  Draigo and Azrael turned to each other and locked gazes.

  ‘A Space Marine? What Space Marine?’ Draigo asked switching his attention to Strike.

  ‘He showed up right before we made our escape from Olympax. Took down a daemon single-handed and allowed us to escape. I presumed he had been sent in advance of the full liberation force.’

  ‘We made all haste to Pan
dorax as soon as we received the distress call. We are the advance of the liberation force,’ Draigo said.

  ‘This Space Marine?’ Azrael asked. ‘What colour armour was he wearing?’

  Draigo shot his counterpart a suspicious look.

  ‘It was green. Like yours but darker,’ Strike said gesturing to the Dark Angel. ‘But that was just moss and lichen that had formed upon it with age. Where patches had worn away, it was the same colour as yours.’ He pointed now at Draigo. ‘It was a similar size and pattern too, but archaic. Looked like the same kind you see in the paintings and frescoes of Imperial cathedrals.’

  ‘Did this Space Marine have a name? Do you know which Chapter he was from?’ Azrael’s latest questions were not delivered with the same intensity as the first, as if Strike’s answer had assuaged him.

  ‘I barely spoke to him, my lord, and his armour bore no heraldry or insignia. In the weeks he travelled with us he spoke almost exclusively to Tzula. Chose to keep himself to himself. I did hear her refer to him as “Epimetheus” on one occasion though.’

  Draigo’s face wore a look of shock that passed within an instant. Azrael noticed it, Strike did not.

  ‘You have our gratitude, Colonel Strike, both for the information you have imparted and your resistance efforts in the months since Pythos fell. Go now and lead your men into glorious battle,’ Draigo said.

  It felt to Strike as if he was being ushered away before he could reveal any more about the mystery Space Marine. Not that he had anything else to reveal.

  Strike bowed reverently to the two Space Marines, internalising his chastisement at not having done the same when bidden to enter the Land Raider. He was about to leave when he found the courage to speak again. ‘My lords, if I might be so bold?’

  Both Space Marines looked at him implacably.

  ‘You say there are Imperial Guard regiments awaiting deployment from orbit?’ Strike asked.

  ‘That is correct,’ Azrael said. ‘Three entire regiments survived the void war that allowed us to break through to Pythos and will make planetfall by dusk. A dozen more regiments, mainly Cadian, are due to warp translate in the next day for immediate deployment.’

  ‘Could I request that the newly arrived regiments be kept in orbit for a few days before entering combat?’

  ‘I’ll certainly consider it provided you can demonstrate sound reasoning for such a bizarre request,’ Azrael said archly.

  ‘Travel through the warp is draining for a man, even a soldier of the Imperial Guard. They’re not whole again for some time afterwards. It’s as if their body has arrived but they’re waiting for their soul to catch up with them.’

  Strike’s belief stemmed from old Catachan superstition but other Guard regiments he had encountered over the years held similar beliefs, and experience had taught him there was more than a sliver of truth to it. It was bad enough that regiments without death world backgrounds were being thrown at Pythos and the colonel saw no reason to compound that misery by sending warp-lagged soldiers into the fray. ‘If any were needed for imminent operations, I will gladly send the 183rd in their place.’

  ‘I have witnessed the same phenomena myself among humans who have fought alongside me in the past,’ Azrael said. ‘Provided your troops will fill in for them, I will acquiesce to your request. Now, was there anything else before you finally take your leave of us?’

  ‘Just one more thing, Lord Azrael. Could you have the fleet scan the Pythosian oceans?’

  ‘Once again, I’m sure you have a good reason for asking such a thing but could you please enlighten me why?’

  Strike turned away briefly and ran the edge of his hand against his sweat-slicked forehead. He looked back at the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels before speaking again. ‘Because a year ago I sent an entire mechanised brigade to sea and I haven’t heard from them since.’

  Chapter Eleven

  801960.M41 / The Underhive. Atika, Pythos

  Shira stood up in the miners’ hut and clasped the fingers of both hands together, raising them towards the ceiling in a full body-length stretch. After weeks of crawling around on her belly and traversing tunnels at a stoop, the discovery of the workers’ refuge had been a welcome one and even Tzula seemed to appreciate the respite from sneaking around and clinging to the shadows. The dry ration packs they’d taken with them from Thermenos had run out weeks ago and the food they had obtained in the city above was almost at an end. As well as a concealed shelter, the hut had provided canned provisions and wafers of processed grain that had not yet become too mouldy to consume.

  Dropping her arms to her sides and twisting several times at the hip, Shira accepted the remnants of a can of unspecified – and unidentifiable – fruit from Tzula. She sat down next to Epimetheus who was standing at the metal structure’s single window, a position he had barely moved from since they entered the hut more than two days ago. It was pitch black both inside and out, no natural light filtered so far down into the tunnels beneath the hive and the miners’ discarded lantern was left unlit to prevent it drawing the attention of any passing patrols. Shira assumed that his enhanced Space Marine vision would enable him to see what he was looking for, whatever that was.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she vocalised after spending some time staring at the same point Epimetheus was fixated on but seeing only darkness. Although hidden and muffled by the corrugated metal walls, she was careful to keep her voice as low as possible.

  ‘Patrols,’ Epimetheus said not averting his stare. ‘In approximately two minutes’ time, two guards will walk along the tunnel that runs alongside the hut. They will be in visual contact for less than thirty seconds but it will be nearly an hour before they pass this way again. Once they have passed and there is clear distance between us, we shall emerge and move further down the tunnel to another hiding place I found yesterday.’

  Twice Epimetheus had left the hut, both times shortly after Plague Marines had passed by on patrol and on each occasion he had been gone barely any time at all.

  ‘You think this tunnel leads down to the Cache?’ Tzula asked, sipping from the last dregs of water in her canteen. This too she offered to Shira when she had finished. The pilot refused, instead slurping the juice from the bottom of the can of fruit.

  ‘No cultists have come along here since we began our descent and the patrols are more frequent than along any of the other tunnels we tried. Plague zombies are led down here but we haven’t seen any of them come back up, not even transporting ore,’ said the Grey Knight.

  ‘But the cache is a repository of daemons and thankfully we haven’t seen any of those. It could be something else down there? Something else they’re trying to protect?’ countered Tzula.

  ‘If it is, we’ll find out what it is and find a way to destroy it if needs be.’

  Though stealth had been their watchword since descending into Atika’s mine levels, Epimetheus had begun to communicate more with the two women. Only a week ago he wouldn’t have shared that they were moving on to their next hiding place until the very last moment and neither would he discuss what he was thinking. He would simply lead and expect Tzula and Shira to blindly follow, in the dark both literally and figuratively. They all knew the risk they were taking just by being here, even Shira who had asked, and been told, about the knife while Epimetheus was away on one of his scouting missions. If they were discovered by a patrol, simply killing them wouldn’t be enough. As soon as their disappearance was noticed, the tunnels would flood with Traitor Astartes and the blade would soon be forfeit. The slow, patient approach was the right way to proceed and Shira had learned to accept this, although she still found it difficult.

  Epimetheus held up a gauntleted hand to silence his two companions. Tzula froze, the lid of her canteen only half screwed back on. Shira gently pulled the fruit can away from her lips and angled her head slightly so that she could see out of the window. Two beams of muggy brown half-light played across the tunnel floor, widening as the bearers of
the sources grew closer. Illuminated solely by the backwash from the torches mounted atop their bolters, two Plague Marines clomped past, their ill-fitting power armour causing echoes with every step. Even poorly lit and visible briefly through the window, the sight of their distended bulk repulsed Shira. She had seen many things she wished she could forget since she had taken off from the Revenge and every new day brought with it fresh horrors for her to contend with.

  As if caught in amber, the three figures in the hut listened as the echoes grew fainter as the patrol moved further away. When all sound had ceased carrying, Epimetheus lowered his hand.

  ‘Now we go,’ he said.

  Their progress was methodical as they passed through the dark.

  Weapons drawn, one of them would advance a couple of metres being careful not to trip over any rocks underfoot or unduly disturb the scree before halting and allowing the next in line to move up alongside them, followed by the next. The last to move up would be the first to move on and this pattern was repeated until they reached their destination.

  The next bolthole Epimetheus had selected for them was only fifty metres from the miners’ hut, but at this rate of movement they would barely make it before the patrol doubled back on itself and came this way again. Better to get there slowly rather than give their presence away.

  Shira shivered involuntarily. The modifications she had made to her flight suit had been necessary in the jungle, tolerable in the hive city but, deep below ground level, she regretted the moment she had gone at it with Tzula’s combat knife. At least the cold was keeping her alert. Or so she thought.

  Creeping up on the spot where Epimetheus and Tzula already were, she continued forward several paces, eyes down so that her dark-adjusted vision could pick out any obstacles. Planting her front foot down, the toe cap of her boot became visible to her. Too late she realised that she had stepped into a beam of light. Snapping her head upwards she was dazzled by the light from a torch, the glare so intense that she could not make out who, or what, was carrying it. She would have bet a month’s booze rations it was a Traitor Marine.