Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  He stopped and looked back down the trail.

  ‘Why have you been so reluctant to see your Grey Knights brothers again?’

  Epimetheus grinned. ‘What makes you so certain it is my brothers in the Grey Knights I have no desire to see again?’ he said before catching up to Shira.

  As the murk of the jungle swallowed him up, Tzula knew it would be the last time she ever saw him.

  Chapter Twelve

  825960.M41 / Imperial Forward Command. Thermenos Stronghold, Pythos

  ‘When are you going to realise your tactics aren’t working?’

  Kaldor Draigo slid the data-slate across the unfurled map spread over the table. It came to rest next to the icons of three delver-strongholds, red ‘X’s scored through them to denote their destruction. Azrael picked the tablet up to see the previous day’s casualty figures scrolling across it in flickering green type.

  ‘Eight hundred lost at Bakira, over three hundred unaccounted for at Awgreave and both holds lost. Abaddon is hitting us where we are weakest and continues to exact a heavy toll. Your rapid reaction approach isn’t working. We need to go on the offensive. We need to take Atika,’ Draigo said, banging his meaty fist against the thick metal table.

  The assembled Imperial Guard commanders looked uneasy at this display of dissent, despite having witnessed it almost every day since the Pythos campaign had begun. For months Draigo had been petitioning for an orbital bombardment of the planetary capital, and for months Azrael had ignored him. Early in the fighting it had become obvious to the Grey Knight that the source of the daemonic forces lay beneath Atika and his preferred strategy was to cut off the enemy’s supply of combatants at source. The Dark Angel disagreed.

  Atika had been home to the largest concentration of people on the planet and Strike’s forethought to send them to shelter in the cave system had likely saved them all. Draigo countered that nothing had been heard from the hive since the day it fell but Azrael argued that until they had conclusive proof to the contrary, they were to assume the inhabitants of Atika were still alive. It was as if Azrael was making a very public show of preserving human life in front of the commanders of the liberation force.

  The irony was not lost on Draigo. He knew how ruthless the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels could be to protect his Chapter’s precious secrets, how many human lives he would shed to preserve its privacy. Draigo could make informed guesses as to the nature of those secrets, but it was his knowledge of the methods the Dark Angels employed to keep them that had ultimately ensured they honoured the ancient pact struck with the Grey Knights.

  ‘Abaddon is the one prosecuting this campaign, and like myself he is leading it from the front,’ Azrael retorted. The battle-damaged state of his armour bore testimony to the amount of action he had seen. ‘Rapid reaction achieves two goals. It protects the lives of Imperial Guard troops and it will lead us to Abaddon. If we remove the head of the enemy, the body will soon die.’

  ‘And in the meantime the Damnation Cache keeps building him an army of daemons while we keep chasing our tails,’ the Grey Knight scoffed.

  As was usual at these strategy discussions, the Imperial Guard representatives were simply bystanders, an uneasy audience to the constant clashes between the two Space Marine commanders. Only one among them had the testicular fortitude to stand up to the Supreme Grand Masters, let alone speak at these meetings.

  ‘What were the enemy casualty figures for yesterday?’ Colonel Strike asked. Though he had refused the position of overall Imperial Guard Commander of the Pythos Reconquest Force, both Azrael and Draigo had insisted that he form part of the forward command structure on the ground. A Cadian colonel by the name of Kardine sat up in the fleet controlling troop deployments, supply lines and rotations, but for all intents and purposes Strike was in charge of Imperial Guard combat operations on Pythos, albeit in deference to the two Chapter Masters.

  Azrael looked at the slate once again. ‘Twenty-two Traitor Legion fatalities. Half that number again in confirmed daemon kills. At least a thousand cultists slain.’

  ‘We’re not making a dent in their numbers. If we keep throwing men at defending the mines like this, we won’t be able to hold out much longer. Fighting a war of attrition will only lead to defeat.’ The other Imperial Guardsmen seated around the table fidgeted and looked at each other nervously. There was no love lost between Strike and his peers. Since the reconquest force had arrived on Pythos, the Catachans had suffered casualty rates way below those of the other regiments, the enemy avoiding those holds defended by the death worlders. Strike had also refused to rotate his men out and give them downtime back in the fleet, choosing instead to keep them on the frontlines, something the 183rd had accepted without dissent.

  ‘And what would your suggested course of action be, colonel?’ asked Azrael without malice. The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels was the arch-pragmatist and, if he could be shown a better way to fight this war, that is how he would fight it. Of all those around the table, Strike would be the most likely to find the key that would unlock the war, Draigo excepted. Though Azrael had an intense personal dislike for his Grey Knights counterpart, his pragmatism did at least allow him to recognise that, in matters of warfare at least, he was his equal.

  ‘The Space Marine and inquisitor have failed to report in,’ Strike said. Draigo and Azrael both bristled at the mention of Epimetheus. ‘We have to assume that they, like the population of Atika, are dead. I agree with Lord Draigo. An orbital bombardment of the hive followed by a ground assault is the only way we can win this war.’

  Whether Azrael would have ever heeded the colonel’s advice would remain another secret of a man who had come to embody the word. A blue armoured Dark Angel strode into the command room, slipping back his hood as he did so to reveal a freshly shorn pate. He was young, no more than thirty certainly, and his intense green eyes seemed to stray off into the distance as if he was looking for something beyond his vision.

  ‘Codicier Turmiel. You bring news?’ Azrael asked.

  The Librarian nodded respectfully to his Supreme Grand Master before doing the same towards Draigo. The Grey Knight returned the gesture. ‘I do, Lord Azrael. We have received a request for reinforcements from Master Gabriel at Mount Dhume. The hold there has been attacked by a small force of Black Legion. They have been under fire for many hours already.’

  ‘Gabriel has thirty Deathwing with him as well as several thousand Imperial Guard. Why is he requesting reinforcements? Has the jungle heat sapped him of his courage?’ Azrael replied.

  ‘No, Lord Azrael,’ Turmiel cast his gaze around the assembled Imperial Guard commanders. Strike felt as if the Librarian was staring straight through him, as if he wasn’t there. ‘He has visual confirmation that Abaddon himself is leading the assault.’

  826960.M41 / The Deathglades. Sixty-three kilometres south-west of Atika, Pythos

  They broke camp as the first rays of dawn filtered through the canopies high above. Tzula put out the dying embers of a camp fire before sweeping the ashes away with her feet, not wishing to leave any sign of their passing for enemy patrols. Within minutes of waking, they were back on the jungle trail again, following the path to Thermenos that had been revealed by the receding swamp waters.

  Her new travelling companions were understandably grim faced, being the last four survivors of the Catachan platoon stationed at Mortenshold, a small delver-stronghold on the eastern edge of the Olympax range. Despite its proximity to Atika, Mortenshold had avoided the attention of the Chaos forces until three nights ago when a Black Legion raiding party, backed up by gibbering warp-bred monstrosities, struck under cover of darkness, killing almost fifty Imperial Guardsmen and the squad of Dark Angels posted with them. Tzula had witnessed the assault from where she had slept that night. At first she had thought it to be an unseasonal storm, mistaking the distant pop of grenade and missile detonation for thunder, but the sporadic flashes of light from high up in the mountains could not be c
onfused with lightning.

  She had considered deviating from her route to check for survivors but she knew it would be futile. Experience told her that if the hold was in enemy hands there would be nobody friendly left in there alive. Besides, without Epimetheus around, she was less inclined to do anything that would risk the athame falling into the clutches of the enemy.

  As it transpired, the survivors of Mortenshold had found her, rather than the other way around. Late on the evening following the far-off lights on the mountain, just as she was looking to make camp for the night, Tzula was surprised by a knife at her throat and a well-toned forearm at the back of her neck. Fortunately for her, the four Catachans had been stalking her for the best part of an hour without her being aware, during which time the sergeant among them, Magrik, had recognised Tzula from the battle for Atika docks. Rather than being cautious, sneaking up behind her and putting an unsheathed fang to her throat was Magrik’s way of saying hello.

  None of the banter Tzula would usually associate with a group of Catachans was evident among this bunch, and they tromped through the undergrowth without ever sharing a quip or joke. Their combat readiness was undiminished however, lasrifles raised to just above waist height ready to be aimed at the slightest sign of movement. Enemy units were the greatest danger they now faced in the jungles of Pythos, but although much of the native fauna had been hunted for sport by daemons, many hungry predators still lurked within the bush.

  The pink rays of sunrise were giving way to the yellow lances of early morning when Magrik signalled for them to get into cover. The other three Catachans – Trondar, Santarini and the veteran Gdolni – made for the far side of the trail and dissolved into the green. Tzula and Magrik sought refuge behind the thick trunk of an ancient redwood. The sergeant cocked her head, positioning her ear to capture any sound carrying on the almost imperceptible breeze. Picking up on something, she turned to Tzula and motioned in the direction she thought it was coming from.

  Had Magrik been a man, she would have been described as grizzled, sharp lines cut deep into a face sculpted by battle. Being a woman, the more patronising way she would undoubtedly be described would be she had ‘had a hard life’. Magrik was a Catachan. She hadn’t lived a hard life, she had lived life hard.

  Tzula turned her ear towards the light wind. Almost immediately, she heard the sound of engines. Lots of engines.

  Magrik dropped to her haunches, placing her palm on the ground. Whatever she felt vibrating through the jungle floor did not impress her. Rising to her feet, she unclipped a pair of grenades from the bandolier slung diagonally across her torso and passed one to Tzula.

  ‘War engines. Plenty of them,’ she said in that hushed but at the same time loud tone all Catachans seemed to adopt when combat was imminent. ‘Don’t throw it at the hull because it’ll bounce off. Roll it under the chassis. The armour is usually weaker underneath.’

  Abaddon’s capacity to deploy war machines had been remarkable since the earliest days of the invasion and was the primary reason the Catachans had chosen to fight the war in the delver-strongholds which were inaccessible to the daemon engines and other tracked monstrosities. With so many now deployed on the planet, Abaddon must have established a forge on Pythos for their creation.

  Across the wide track, the other Catachans followed Magrik’s lead, priming grenades and awaiting their targets. If their attack went true to form, the Catachans would have melted back into the jungle before the front ranks of vehicles were destroyed, barring passage to those behind until the wrecks were moved clear. It may not stop the column’s advance but it would certainly slow it down.

  The bass rumble grew louder and the vibrations that Magrik had felt with the palm of her hand, Tzula could now feel jarring up through her legs. Magrik looked concerned.

  ‘More of them than I thought,’ the Catachan sergeant lamented, picking another grenade from the bandolier. She couldn’t say anything else as the growl of engines became a fully fledged roar, stifling the possibility of any other noise. ‘A hell of a lot more than I thought,’ Tzula saw Magrik mouth.

  Sooner than any of them expected, the barrel of something massive poked its way over the brow of a ridge, collapsing trees as it went.

  Magrik’s cry of ‘Now!’ lost beneath the din, Tzula stepped out from cover ready to destroy whatever the fearsome gun was attached to.

  826960.M41 / Delver-stronghold 2761/b. Mount Dhume, Pythos

  The Thunderhawk swung wide around the mountain peak, banking right as it did so and granting Azrael his first view of the battle raging below. Thick black smoke drifted across the shallow incline that led up to the entrance of the mine, billowing from the wrecks of two Rhinos, spiked, corrupted imitations of the Dark Angels’ own troop carriers. Black armoured corpses dotted the slope along with countless more Imperial Guard. Much to Azrael’s consternation, several in the ivory of the Deathwing also lay among them. Bursts of muzzle-flare highlighted the positions of the traitors advancing towards the hold, their shots returned by a wall of fire from the cave’s mouth and from behind cover along the approach.

  Alongside him in the cockpit, standing behind the two pilots, Kaldor Draigo witnessed the same scene. The Dark Angels’ response had been the very definition of rapid, calling in all available forces from the holds close to Thermenos and being in the air within three hours of receiving the call from Gabriel. Though the entire Chapter was not deploying as it had done to liberate the Revenge, over half their number were now in the air above Mount Dhume preparing to defend the hold and kill Abaddon the Despoiler, a blight on the Imperium since the time of the Emperor. At their flanks flew hundreds of Valkyries, their troop holds crammed with Imperial Guardsmen ready to lend their guns to the effort. High above them all, guardian angels in the truest sense of the word, a score of Dark Talons flew escort.

  To Draigo’s chagrin, his Brotherhood of Grey Knights, seldom used thus far in the Pythos campaign, would not be taking part in the battle.

  Ignoring the Grey Knight Supreme Grand Master’s request to be allowed time to get his battle-brothers planetside, Azrael had insisted that speed was of the essence, that Abaddon could not be allowed to slip through their grasp. Draigo was convinced that it was only because he was present when the message was relayed to Azrael that the Dark Angel had deigned to allow him to take part in this mission. Had the report come in while he was with the fleet he would have been none the wiser, another secret Azrael would have kept to himself.

  ‘I still think this is reckless, Azrael,’ Draigo snarled. ‘You’re committing too large a force. What if this is a feint and it enables Abaddon to launch assaults on those holds you’ve left undefended? Take a look down there. Does that look like an army strong enough to capture a hold from thirty Terminators and a few battalions of Imperial Guard? Or does it look more like an army just strong enough to hold out until reinforcements can arrive to bolster the defenders?’

  ‘That works in our favour. If he elects to spread his forces so thinly, there is little chance of his forces being strengthened before our battle is through. Even if we do lose a few holds, it will be a small price to pay for the elimination of Abaddon.’

  Azrael pointed to a large plateau behind the Black Legion lines. ‘Put us down over there,’ he instructed the pilot.

  ‘If it even is Abaddon leading this assault,’ Draigo retorted.

  ‘If the Grand Master of my First Company says that Abaddon is here then he is here,’ Azrael snapped, as if it was his own reliability that the Grey Knight were casting doubt upon.

  ‘Then the real question we have to ask ourselves,’ Draigo said, making ready his wargear so that he could enter the fray the moment the Thunderhawk doors opened, ‘is why is he here?’

  Rising from cover, Balthasar’s storm bolter erupted in a hail of shells, scattering the Black Legionnaires converging on his position. Beside him, five Mordians, their once pristine blue uniforms coated in the dust of the distant world on which they had been sent to fight
and the blood of their comrades, rose up from behind the upturned mining cart and opened up with their lasrifles. One of the traitors went down under Balthasar’s fire and was finished off by the Guardsmen peppering their fallen enemy with concentrated bursts.

  Another of the Traitor Marines, a brute almost the same size in his ancient power armour as Balthasar was in his Terminator suit, tore open two of the Mordians with a pair of shots from his bolter. Convulsing and almost split in half, both men were dead before they hit the ground. Balthasar recognised this one. It was the same warrior who had slain Brother Jephael earlier in the day, mercilessly gunning him down as he rushed to the aid of a stricken Deathwing.

  Balthasar grinned. Like all of his order, he strove for vengeance above all else, a vengeance that had grown ever darker as he had advanced through the Dark Angels’ ranks. Already he had been made privy to the most guarded secret of his Chapter, that during the galactic civil war of ten millennia ago, over half of what was then the Dark Angels Legion threw in their lot with the Ruinous Powers, shunning both Emperor and primarch. In the few years since he had ascended to the Deathwing, he had already taken part in several hunts for these erstwhile battle-brothers, the Fallen as they are known amongst the Chapter’s inner circle, and more than once had returned to the Rock as part of one of their guard details. The Dark Angels were patient hunters, playing the long game of centuries to capture their prey, but sometimes the universe had a way of offering up the chance for instant vengeance. The enemy facing him was not one of the Fallen but Jephael would soon be avenged.

  On the periphery of his vision, one of the other Black Legionnaires took aim at Balthasar with his bolter, but the Deathwing raised his storm bolter and obliterated the traitor’s faceplate before he could return fire. Drawing his power sword, Balthasar ignited the blade and swung at Jephael’s killer, ruining his bolter with the downstroke and gouging a furrow in his breastplate with the return. Bereft of his gun, the Traitor Marine drew the chainblade hung at his thigh and revved it into life, preparing to duel with the Dark Angel.