Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Blackheart laughed. ‘As much as I’ve enjoyed our very one-sided conversation, it really is time for me to leave. If you hurry, you might be able to make it back to the hangar and steal that ship you were planning to escape on.’ He started to dematerialise. ‘Until next time, Da–’

  Epimetheus slammed the halberd down but it connected only with bulkhead, Huron Blackheart having already escaped. He flicked the weapon up and around towards the rail but the Red Corsair’s familiar had gone too. Warning sirens wailed and emergency lighting kicked in pitching the enginarium into a red gloom. He checked the dials on the instrument array and saw that they had all crept up into the orange zone. His duel with Blackheart had wasted valuable time but there was still a chance he could escape the Lamentation.

  Locking his halberd to his back, Epimetheus sprinted from the enginarium.

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

  Tamzarian threw the tank into reverse, desperate to avoid the mighty axe head bearing down on them, but Traitor’s Bane had barely moved before the Bloodthirster’s weapon hit. The clang of metal on metal reverberated around the command compartment but the hull held out, a long dent in the thick armour – much to K’Cee’s chagrin – the only damage.

  Without waiting for orders, the gunners let loose with all weapons, peppering the daemon’s hide with bolter and las-fire and igniting small fires across its wings and torso with the flamers, but this only enraged it further.

  The loaders slammed another hellhammer round into the main cannon but just as it was about to be fired, Strike called out, ‘Hold your fire!’

  The crew all looked at him dumbfounded.

  ‘We know we can take hits from that thing’s axe. How do you think we’d do against one of our own shells?’ A murmur of agreement and understanding rippled around the compartment. It did not last long. ‘Tamzarian. Full ahead. We’re going to ram it.’

  ‘But, chief–’ the driver said.

  ‘It’s not open to debate, trooper. Open that throttle and put us into that Skulltaker. The rest of you, keep those sponson guns firing.’

  Slamming the gear lever out of reverse, Tamzarian pushed forward on the throttle, propelling the tank forwards in a burst of acceleration. Smaller daemons caught under the treads but did nothing to impede the Hellhammer’s movement as it sped inexorably towards the Bloodthirster. The daemon did not attempt to get out of the way, did not beat its enormous wings and take to the air but stood its ground. As Traitor’s Bane crashed into it, the thing was actually smiling.

  The sound of impact was too great for K’Cee’s noise dampeners to compensate for and as the tank ground onwards with the daemon pinned to the front of its hull, the echo still rang out, painful to all those crewing the Hellhammer. The Bloodthirster raised its axe once again, gripping the side of the tank with its free hand, and brought it down upon the turret, shearing off the searchlight mounted there and leaving a gouge in the armour the twin of its earlier blow.

  Before it had a chance to bring it down again, Strike smashed his fist into the button on the armrest of his chair lighting up the outside of Traitor’s Bane in a nimbus of electrical energy. The Bloodthirster cried out, its body convulsing and shuddering under the massive voltage passing through it. Its skin blistered and smouldered and the hair on its head and face ignited, smoke pouring over the still moving tank.

  Without warning, the electrical field cut out.

  Strike mashed the button repeatedly but to no avail. The system was as dead as they soon would be. K’Cee tore a cover away from beneath one of the control consoles and slid underneath it on his back, pulling at cables and wires in an attempt to get it working again.

  ‘Slam on,’ Strike ordered. ‘Dead halt, now!’

  Not questioning the colonel, Tamzarian yanked back hard on the brake lever, instantly bringing the tank to a stop from a speed in excess of a hundred kilometres per hour. Thanks to the jokaero’s ministrations, none of the occupants of Traitor’s Bane felt any of the ill effects of such a rapid deceleration. The same could not be said of the Bloodthirster.

  It launched from the body of the Hellhammer, velocity driving it through the air for over fifty metres before it hit the ground and skidded the same distance again, bowling over its smaller daemonic cousins on its way. For several moments, it lay there unmoving, smoke still rising from its form. Just when Strike thought it was vanquished, it stirred, dragging itself to its feet and thrusting its fearsome axe towards the heavens. Bellowing a war cry, it dipped its head and charged, the ground beneath it cracking open with every stride.

  ‘Full ahead. Ram it again,’ Strike said calmly.

  In time with the sponson weapons opening up, Tamzarian milked the power plant for all it was worth, launching like a rocket towards the daemon. An unstoppable force on its way to meet an immovable object. Its rage focused on the tank speeding towards it, the Bloodthirster shrugged off the bolter and las-shots impacting against it and built up a head of speed. Mere metres from collision, it threw itself into the air. Axe held aloft in both hands, it drove the warpforged blade down, this time splitting the top layer of armour across the front of the hull. Standing astride the turret, the claws of its feet dug deep into the metal to prevent it from being bucked off as it rained blows down upon the Hellhammer.

  ‘Any time now would be good, K’Cee,’ Strike said. The jokaero slid out from under the console and gave a frustrated shrug before burying himself in wires and circuitry again.

  Across the battlefield, the Imperial infantry and Space Marines were faring little better than the stricken super-heavy tank. The ruined corpses of Mordians and Catachans carpeted the approach to the delver-stronghold, the smaller winged daemons having taken to snatching Guardsmen up before dropping them from a great height onto their comrades below. Those few able to mount any kind of defence found themselves woefully underarmed, lasrifles virtually ineffective against their daemonic foes.

  Gabriel and the Deathwing had regrouped in the face of the surprise attack, and though they had been fighting to protect stronghold 2761/b for far longer than their brethren, their defence was as spirited as when it first began. Corralled in a circle, their storm bolters glowed red from overuse, forcing them to alternate between ranged and close combat weapons. Several of their number lay dead, their ancient suits of Terminator armour split open by claw and fang, and those who fought on all laboured under grievous wounds.

  Above them, the Dark Talons struggled to provide effective air support, harried constantly by the winged daemons still spilling forth from the portals. The handful who had attempted strafing runs soon found themselves the target of daemons on the ground and plumes of thick black smoke billowed upwards from numerous crash sites. The only effective aerial response the Dark Angels had been able to mount was Sammael’s jetbike and the destructive power of his underslung plasma cannon, but he now found himself having to cope with the attentions of two bloated monstrosities clinging to the body of the Corvex.

  Azrael and Draigo had distinguished themselves, as would be expected of Space Marines of their position and status, but even they were hard pressed to fend off such a sustained assault. The Grey Knight bled from a head wound, his Larraman’s Organ struggling to seal the deep gouge yet still he fought on, the gore-streaked blade of the Titansword keeping the ravening horde at bay. Azrael’s cloak was nothing but rags and his armour was pierced across his thigh. The right greave was missing altogether, stripped away by daemonic claws, and congealed blood coated his forearm. Like his counterpart, he continued to slay the Neverborn with abandon but the weight of numbers was threatening to consume both Supreme Grand Masters.

  The Bloodthirster hammered on the hull of Traitor’s Bane, the rhythmic beating of the axe splitting armour and destroying weapons. Inside, the crew awaited the inevitable while Tamzarian swung the steering controls sharply left and right to throw the unwanted rider from its back. Another heavy blow struck the turret, the rending of the armour as loud as the cre
ature’s incessant grunts and cries of fury, quickly followed by another, this time cracking all the way through and sending daylight leaking into the darkened confines.

  ‘Drop the rear hatch, Tamzarian,’ Strike called. ‘We’re going to have to bail out.’

  Above him, more light bled in, the Bloodthirster tearing back the torn plates to create an opening big enough for him to get at the nuisance tank’s occupants. Fully aware of the futility of the act, Strike drew his laspistol and aimed it at the daemon who was peering down through the aperture. The Bloodthirster snorted derisorily and reached down, unbothered by the pinpricks of las-fire aimed at its head and face. Suddenly, as if scooped away by some invisible force, the daemon was gone, replaced by the report of artillery fire. Lots of artillery fire.

  Being careful not to slice himself open on the sharp edges of torn armour plating, Strike lifted himself up and looked out from the ruined turret.

  Colonel Strike was not a man given over to open displays of emotion – a lifetime in the 183rd and growing up with nine elder brothers for company saw to that – but what he was greeted by as he emerged from Traitor’s Bane almost made him weep.

  Tanks.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of tanks.

  826960.M41 / Lamentation. Imperial Fleet, Pandorax System

  All notions of stealth abandoned on his hurried journey back through the supply ship, Epimetheus put two rounds from his bolt pistol through the head of the Red Corsair barring his way.

  The plague zombies he had been escorting continued on in ignorance that their overseer had been killed and Epimetheus barged his way through them, causing more than one to spill the container it was carrying, contaminated dry ration packs tumbling to the deck. Unsure of what to do, the mindless slaves looked around aimlessly until they too took bolt rounds to the head, another of Huron’s traitors emerging from a corridor and opening fire in the direction of the fleeing Grey Knight. Without breaking stride, Epimetheus turned his torso and fired from the hip, a single shot striking his would-be killer in the throat and felling him. The alarms grew more insistent and a female voice speaking High Gothic intoned a continuous warning, urging anybody left on board to abandon ship.

  Rounding the next corner, Epimetheus almost ran into two more Red Corsairs attempting to do exactly that. The first he took down with his bolt pistol, the second with his mind, stabbing out through the immaterium with a psi-lance and lobotomising the Traitor Marine. He hurdled the quivering figure and raced towards the hangar bay. Shoulder barging the doors open, he was instantly assailed by the smell of smoke and the crackle of fire.

  The fighter-interceptors that had been berthed here upon his arrival were ablaze, each one at an advanced stage of consumption by the inferno and certainly in no fit state to fly. Around them lay the corpses of cultists who had likely fled here to use the craft to flee the ailing Lamentation, skulls ruined by what appeared to be las-fire. At the far end of the landing bay, sitting atop the sleek roof of the shuttle that had delivered Epimetheus here, was the source of this carnage.

  ‘I thought you’d need a ride back,’ Shira said cheerfully, sliding down from the top of the shuttle onto the already open boarding ramp.

  ‘And I thought I told you to get out of here,’ Epimetheus retorted, his anger barely tempered by relief.

  ‘I never was very good at following orders,’ Shira countered, disappearing into the shuttle.

  Shaking his head, Epimetheus followed her up the ramp.

  A minute later, the Inquisition shuttle burst clear of the Lamentation and back out among the fleet. The general vox-channels were abuzz with talk of the supply ship that had seemingly appeared from nowhere in their midst not long earlier, and Shira put out a general call informing the Imperial vessels to avoid it along with a précis of the reason why. Hurriedly, admirals and captains ordered their ships away from the doomed craft.

  The two closest frigates had just finished their evasive manoeuvres when the Lamentation’s sub-warp engines finally reached critical point and the hijacked ship exploded with the brightness of a small sun. Chunks of debris scattered in all directions, many burning up against the shields of the fleet, accompanied by a cosmic shockwave that buffeted the smaller vessels like a storm surge tossing driftwood.

  Shira fought with the controls of the shuttle, turbulence threatening to force it into a terminal spin but, with help from the Ordos-funded automated systems, she retained control and kept the craft level until the swell abated. Once she was certain that the threat had passed, she switched most of the systems over to auto and turned to Epimetheus who was stood at the rear of the cockpit, his armoured form too bulky for any of the seats.

  ‘I was listening in on the vox-traffic while I was waiting for you. That Catachan colonel you and Tzula talked about has set up a base at one of the strongholds south-east of Atika. The Dark Angels are operating out of there too. Three Navy fighter wings are among the reconquest force and I’m sure they’d be better off with somebody of my obvious skills flying with them.’ She looked at Epimetheus hopefully. ‘What do you say? Should I make for there?’

  The Grey Knight removed his helmet and looked back at her, staring her dead in the eyes. ‘And it has nothing to do with the Heldrake that’s been reported attacking patrols and strongholds across the southern peninsula of Pythos Prime? The one with the ragged wing?’

  Revenge. That was exactly the reason why Shira wanted to make for the Imperial base and get back into combat. But she had only found out that ‘Ragwing’, as the vox-operators were calling it, was terrorising Pythos from a broadcast she had picked up less than an hour ago.

  ‘You know, it’s so creepy when you do that,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her shoulders. ‘So? Shall I land us there?’

  The Space Marine looked thoughtful for a moment, weighing up the options. ‘Put us down in the far north of the continent. There are strongholds there that could use our aid.’

  This was something else he had got from reading Shira and the vox-chatter she had absorbed. The Dark Angels were concentrating their forces in the south leaving Imperial Guard regiments to garrison the more remote strongholds.

  Sighing, she turned back to the controls and adjusted their course.

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

  Strike clambered from the back of the Hellhammer, following his crew out of the stricken vehicle. K’Cee shambled alongside him, blinking in the daylight after spending so long in the darkened confines of Traitor’s Bane.

  The rumble of tanks was overwhelming, not only the noise but the nauseating bass rumble that heralded their coming. Scores of vehicles were rolling into the landing zone with many more behind them in an armoured column stretching back as far as Strike could see. Baneblades, Shadowswords, Leman Russ, Hellhounds, Vanquishers, Executioners; tanks of almost every pattern currently in service with the Imperial Guard. Most sported the camo green livery of the 183rd, but in amongst their number were grey and plain green hulled tanks – Vostroyan and Cadian judging by their markings.

  Daemons fell by the dozen to their cannons, returned to the warp in a crescendo of explosive fury. Some of the smaller ones panicked and turned to flee, running into a wall of fire from the Dark Angels and emboldened Guardsmen advancing down the slope. The greater daemons held no such terror of the Imperial armour and sought to engage them, clawing and rending with daemonic appendages.

  A grotesque horned thing, its four arms ending in crab-like claws and vicious spikes, tore at a Hellhound ripping open the crew compartment and slicing at the Cadians inside. The gunner, paralysed with fear, maintained his grip on the trigger of the flamethrower bathing the blessed of the Pleasure God in ignited promethium. The daemon revelled in the pain, moaning in ecstasy as its flesh sizzled and cracked, but its rapture was short-lived. The flames from the engulfed Keeper of Secrets caught the tanks supplying the flamethrower, exploding them in a powerful burst that evaporated the greater daemon and other les
ser ones that were caught in the blast radius.

  The Bloodthirster that had crippled Traitor’s Bane was in a bad shape, its left arm and wing shorn away entirely by the tank shell that had flung it from the hull of the Hellhammer. Recovering its axe, it roared in the direction of a Catachan Baneblade, knocking Guardsmen, Space Marines and daemons to the ground with its force. It charged, but got no more than a few metres before more shells struck it, taking its other arm and a good chunk of its torso. It slumped to its knees, bellowing in defiance as more ordnance eviscerated it. Howling its rage to the last, two of the Deathwing moved in and finished the beast off with their blades.

  ‘Find somewhere to hide,’ Strike yelled to the jokaero over the sound of tank fire. K’Cee was a genius with weapons and machines, but combat was not his forte and Strike still wasn’t certain how the Dark Angels would react to a xenos in their midst. Picking up discarded lasrifles as he went, K’Cee loped over to a large rock and took up position behind it.

  Retrieving a heavy flamer from beneath the body of a dead Mordian, Strike burned a path through the battlefield, fighting his way to the two Chapter Masters still battling alongside one another. The way they fought was like warfare made art, each stroke of their swords measured and precise, painting the ground around them in ichor and gore.

  ‘It seems you’ve found your tanks, colonel,’ Azrael said, ramming the tip of the Sword of Secrets into a daemon’s gullet. ‘Or rather your tanks found you.’

  ‘These aren’t just mine,’ Strike replied, frying a pink multi-limbed monstrosity with a quick burst of flame. ‘Half the armour on Pythos must be rolling in here.’

  The advancing column showed no sign of ending. The landing zone was already filling up and the approach to stronghold 2761/b was lined with tanks driving the daemons caught before them onto the guns of the waiting Dark Angels, Mordians and Catachans. Above them, another rent opened in the sky, spewing forth more of the Neverborn.