Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘We can deal with this situation. We have strength, numbers and the power of the Imperium on our side.’ He looked up. ‘That is assuming that the enemy doesn’t just run through us first.’

  ‘We will survive this encounter. The Wolf’s claws will not catch us. Not this time.’ Brand shifted his gaze to Arrun. ‘You do well to hold your ground, brother-captain. Standing proud in the face of such defiance will result in the survival of us all.’ He gave a slow nod, sure of himself in this matter.

  ‘I have never once questioned your advice in the many years we have served together, my friend. I am not going to start now.’ Arrun looked up at the looming vessel. ‘Evacuate non-essential areas. Lock down the bulkheads and all crew prepare for possible collision.’

  The full duplicity of Huron Blackheart’s scheme was still to unfold, but in low orbit, far beneath the stand-off between the two strike cruisers, another act was playing out.

  Squad Carnelian had travelled down from the Dread Argent in companionable silence, oblivious to any of the drama occurring above them. Their destination was the communications tower to the north of the Primus-Phi refinery on Gildar Secundus. Their orders had been straightforward enough. Land, ascertain all was well and remain on the planet until they were summoned back to the Dread Argent. Not exactly taxing – but, as Sergeant Porteus reasoned, it was a chance to run through a few environmental training exercises with his squad. The uniquely formed mountain ranges of the planet would allow for some considerable opportunities. Training cages could only allow for so many scenarios after all. Nothing beat live exercises and terrain training.

  The sergeant’s moment of thoughtful contemplation was invaded by a sudden lance of white light that speared past the nose of the Thunderhawk. Catching sight of the pulse of energy out of the corner of his eye, Porteus had only to turn his head slightly to recognise what it was. By then, it was far too late.

  Moments later, it happened again. The second lascannon shot struck its target this time, searing a crippling wound in the flank of the gunship. From his position at the controls, the human pilot was bellowing out curses and litanies to both the Emperor and the machine-spirits to keep them aloft.

  ‘Counter-measures! Counter-measures!’ Porteus roared to the pilot as he smacked his harness release buckle. ‘Where is that coming from?’

  ‘The shots are coming from the turrets on the promethium refinery! Aiming guns... firing...’

  There was the chatter of the Thunderhawk’s weapons as the slaved servitors engaged and then there was a disorienting, rocking explosion caused by another shot which completely obliterated the starboard engine. It tore itself away from the wing in a shower of smoke and debris and tumbled to the surface below.

  Any hope the pilot may have had of keeping control of the ship was ruined. The Thunderhawk was thrown off its trajectory and began a deadly corkscrew spin, plummeting downwards. Unbalanced, Porteus smashed into the side of the cockpit, his armour scraping with an unpleasant squeal against the hull interior. He lurched forward again. The warning sirens were blaring unnecessarily and he harboured a sudden raging urge to tear them from the walls.

  His gauntleted fingers scrabbled for purchase and then tightened around a weapons rack. He scrambled back into the main body of the gunship, shouting orders to his men to put on their helms and to prepare for a crash landing. Apart from Berem the pilot, an augmented human who had served Squad Carnelian for many years and the gun servitors, all aboard were Space Marines. The majority of them stood a good chance of surviving a controlled crash. The others were collateral damage. Clinical and harsh though that view might be, it had to be taken.

  The third shot vaporised the cockpit and Berem was lost along with it. The interior space filled up immediately with rushing wind and choking smoke. The burning remains of the Thunderhawk plunged downwards, comet trails of fire and smoke marking its passage. Next to him, the squad’s Prognosticator was speaking fervent words of passionate zeal, words designed to fill the hearts of Squad Carnelian with fire and courage. All of the squad’s voices raised in conjunction with his until they were all speaking the Chapter’s litanies, their voices perfectly in rhythm.

  The surface of Gildar Secundus loomed large in the sergeant’s vision and he broke off his recitation. The next words that he spoke were largely drowned out by the catastrophic introduction of the tortured hull to the unyielding mountain rock.

  ‘Brace for impact!’

  ‘Brace for impact!’

  The Wolf of Fenris was going to hit them. The two ships were going to annihilate one another.

  But it did not.

  The tiniest of mathematical calculations that had been input in the Wolf’s helm several minutes earlier was enough to bring the ships agonisingly close. Yet in spatial terms, ‘agonisingly close’ was still an astonishing distance away.

  ‘She’s preparing to fire her port batteries.’

  ‘Run out our own. They want to take a broadside swipe, then we will give them one of our own back.’

  ‘Aye, my lord.’

  Relentlessly pounding at each other, the two behemoth vessels ran parallel for a time. Void shields trembled and shrieked at the proximity, flooding the space between them with crackling, arcing discharge. The energy that each ship’s shields generated sought to repel the other with equal ferocity.

  Macro shells that were easily the size of battle tanks, streams of plasma so potent that they could boil hab-blocks and huge calibre laser fire filled the spatial gulf, stippling the void shields of both with thousands of tiny impact craters, each desperately seeking to claw its way through.

  ‘Our shield generators are starting to fail. They’re still holding for now, but we can’t take much more of this.’

  ‘She will hold.’ Arrun’s confidence and faith in the Dread Argent was absolute and those on the bridge accepted his quiet assurance without question. She was taking a beating, yes, but like the Chapter who utilised her she was made of stern stuff.

  It was apparent to even the untrained eye that the Wolf of Fenris was not faring quite so well. Not all of her guns were operational, probably as a result of whatever had happened to her. As such, the fiery venom that she spat at the Dread Argent was nowhere near indicative of her true deadly force. The Silver Skulls ship, on the other hand, was at peak performance.

  The punishing assault finally collapsed the last of the Wolf’s shield banks and the multitude of projectiles from the Dread Argent began tearing at the armoured skin, now raw and exposed. Venting gases, armour plating and bodies spiralled into space as the Silver Skulls arsenal chewed breaches through the port decks, leaving nothing but blackened scars and frost-rimed corpses in its wake.

  The Space Wolves ship was critically damaged – but even an assault of this magnitude had failed to blunt her tenacity. It wasn’t until after the last shot was fired and the guns fell silent that the reality and truth of the matter became fully evident. They had been tricked.

  The Dread Argent was now far out of Gildar Secundus’s orbit, having left it to intercept the apparently drifting Wolf of Fenris. This had put the other ship now directly behind them accelerating with alarming pace towards a planet now devoid of the Silver Skulls defence. Turning around was a slow, cumbersome process. It had been a cunning ploy. It had worked.

  But there was more to it.

  ‘Augury contact,’ said the console operator. Arrun turned his head, only to realise that the operator hadn’t finished. ‘Another augury contact. Three. Four!’ Panic came into his voice and Arrun strode across the bridge and stared at the screen himself.

  One after another, ships were being disgorged from the warp and emerging into real space. Translating deep in-system to the Gildar Rift was the kind of risk that only a fool would take. There was a catastrophic risk of collision. The captains of these vessels were either fools, desperate... or they were fearless.

  Longer
range sensors began to announce the arrival of still more ships, not translating quite so close and the truth of the matter became horribly apparent. Arrun’s fist came down in fury on to the console.

  Seven ships. Eight. More. Every single one of them was heading directly for Gildar Secundus. Not a single one of them would be hindered by the patrolling Dread Argent… because the Dread Argent had swallowed their bait without hesitation and was no longer in position and patrolling.

  Far too late, Arrun realised what had happened. Shouts from various console officers overlaid one another in discordant anger, a counterpoint of horror and disbelief that all ultimately sang the same song.

  ‘We have been outmanoeuvred,’ marvelled Brand as the console operators reported the disturbing news. Arrun treated the psyker to a venomous glower.

  ‘No, Prognosticator. We have not been “outmanoeuvred”. If you would, perhaps you will recall that I put out an astropathic call to the other ships in the Rift. They will be here in a matter of hours as soon as I give the word. The Manifest Destiny is amongst them. With a battle-barge on our side, these traitors don’t stand a chance.’ He turned his attentions back to the crew. ‘Bring us about. None of these ships can cause us any real harm, not yet. In the main, they’re nothing more than frigates, destroyers... maybe a couple of escorts. If necessary, we will pick them off one at a time.’

  Arrun’s voice held both the tone of authority and the ring of steel. His fingers toyed idly with the belt that cinched his tabard at the waist. A thrill of anticipation ran through his veins. Soon he would be back into his wargear. The promise of battle was upon them. They would slaughter these raiders to the last man. They would cleanse the Gildar Rift of this taint. Once the Manifest Destiny arrived, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

  The battle-barge, one of two the Silver Skulls boasted, was his usual command. It was quite capable of enough firepower to wipe these intruders from the face of the Gildar Rift with a few barrages of its main weapons.

  ‘Brother-captain.’

  Sergeant Matteus’s voice broke across his thoughts. In the frenzy of the moment, Arrun had all but forgotten the returned Thunderhawk. The young warrior’s voice was reasonably well modulated, but the strain implicit was felt by all.

  ‘Speak, brother-sergeant. What’s happening over there?’

  ‘It was the Red Corsairs, sir. They took the Wolf of Fenris.’ Arrun nodded slowly. He should have suspected as much. The loss of the strike cruiser was a blow to the Space Wolves and a great source of fury for all loyal battle-brothers. Information travelled so slowly throughout the Imperium of Man, given the great distances, that it was entirely possible Terra itself wasn’t even yet aware of this turn of events. Despite the gravity of his own present situation, he made a mental note to set an astropath the task of sending the news as soon as possible.

  ‘Give me a quick report. How many of you have returned?’

  ‘We lost eight, sir. Apothecary Ryarus among them.’

  ‘No…’ Brand breathed the word instantly. ‘No! He must still be alive. He has to still be alive. The Emperor did not see eternal darkness for him during my divinations.’

  ‘Alive or not, Apothecary Ryarus is in the hands of the Archenemy. You and I both know what that means, brother.’ Arrun’s own crushing disappointment at the loss of such a key member of his project team had to be put aside for the moment. ‘If he lives still, he will be given a choice. Swear allegiance to Blackheart, or die. Much as it pains me to say it, I would wish for his swift death, Prognosticator. I wholeheartedly believe that he will do the same.’ His face darkened. ‘Unlikely as it is, I would not want to ever come up against one of my own brothers in battle.’

  Whether Ryarus lived or not was not even worthy of debate. Given the cutthroat nature and attitude of the Red Corsairs, one thing was certain. Ryarus was lost to them. It was a blow on more than one level. First and foremost, they had lost a brother. An Apothecary at that – and a blessed good one. His key involvement in the Resurgent Project was another reason. There was a brief, wild thought that perhaps the Prognosticator’s insight would suggest a cessation of the project. For the first time since he had been pulled into the whole thing, Arrun realised that this made him feel concern far more than hope. He was in too deep now. He did not want the project to stop.

  Either way, he knew that he would have to keep his regrets at bay until the current matter was dealt with. He was still smarting, deep down, that the Wolf of Fenris had been used as a lure to draw him out in the open. At least they were still in one piece. It was a small mercy, but a crucial one at that. Perhaps, the Emperor willing, they would be given the chance to return to the stolen strike cruiser for Ryarus and the others who had been lost.

  But now they were caught quite literally between a rock and a hard place. Arrun was going to have to play the game a little longer.

  What had once been a proud Thunderhawk gunship was now nothing more than a twisted, molten knuckle of metal, its fist plunged into the ground of Gildar Secundus. Black, acrid smoke poured up in thick columns, twisting and curling into the dusk of the planet’s night sky. Broken conduits fizzed and popped whilst ruptured fuel lines dribbled their contents out onto the ground in some sort of cheap mockery of the promethium refinery several kilometres away.

  Porteus dragged himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it of the buzzing in his ears. A glance around told him very little but the obvious: Brother Simeon had died shortly after the point of impact, unable to make any noise beyond an agonised gurgle. One of the Thunderhawk’s structural girders, a massive thing, had torn from its mountings and impaled the unfortunate psyker from behind. It had torn through his chest and his body hung there, limp as a broken doll, congealing blood dripping slowly and stickily from the hole that had been punched right through him.

  Blood now dribbled down the front of his blue battleplate, the armour that marked him as different from the rest of the squad. It pooled beneath him in a sticky mass on the floor of the gunship. Porteus turned his head away briefly, touched by a moment of profound grief for the loss of one of his closest friends. His swift death had ensured that his suffering was minimal.

  That was to say, Porteus hoped it had been swift.

  The Silver Skulls who formed Squad Carnelian variously knelt or lay on the ground, as stunned by the landing as the sergeant had been. Porteus tore his eyes from the dead psyker, whose face was hidden from sight by the helm he wore.

  ‘Status report,’ the squad sergeant said. ‘Who’s still with me here?’ Removing his helm, he hawked up a mouthful of bile. It came out stained red. The air was thin here, suggesting they were at a reasonable altitude. How they had not been impaled on the reaching fingers of the mountainside defied all odds. The Thunderhawk had come down in a dusty patch of scrubland somewhere in the heart of the mountains, within a range that on the local maps of Gildar Secundus was called the Steeple. Brown, sickly-looking plants sprouted out of the rock here and there, clinging desperately to life, although many of them were smouldering having been caught in the toxic fumes and fire of the wreck.

  Porteus had no idea how he had survived the crash and he did not care to linger on the how of the situation. Right now, he had to establish the condition of the living. The dead he would take care of later. Dire situation or not, the psyker had not only been his friend and his battle-brother. He was a Prognosticator – and there were rites that had to be observed, lest the Emperor’s wrath descend upon them. At the thought, Porteus made the sign of the aquila, his thumbs interlinked across his chest.

  By the Emperor’s grace, only Simeon was dead. Their armour was in varying states of disrepair and there were a few broken limbs which were not worrying. They would heal swiftly enough. Keyle, one of his surviving squad members, found an unbroken auspex somewhere in the remains of the Thunderhawk. With a mumbled and decidedly clumsy prayer to its dormant machine spirit, Porteus was able to force
it to awaken. It didn’t offer much to alleviate their situation, but it gave them an idea as to their current position in relation to their intended target zone.

  They had been sent down here to complete a mission and they would execute that command to the bitter end. Every attempt they made at ground-to-ship communication failed.

  ‘Interference from the Rift, probably,’ Keyle suggested. ‘Although there may be some sort of blocking signal being utilised by whoever tried to shoot us down.’ One of the newer members of his squad, the young warrior had sustained a minor injury to his head. A clotted stream of dark red was on his face, issuing from a jagged cut on his scalp.

  ‘“Probably” isn’t a word I want to hear at this time, Keyle,’ replied Porteus. ‘There is no time for woolly thought or fleeting guesses. We need to establish why it is that the refinery was firing on us. There is an obvious answer, I feel.’ Porteus did not frequently act in accordance with his gut instincts, something he had inherited from a previous commanding officer. The sergeant had always been very much of the opinion that assumption was the providence of fools... and the dead. Forgetting that rule was the way good warriors died. Despite the situation, Porteus’s lips twitched in a smile. Gileas hadn’t expressed his blunt view in those exact words; his choice of language had always been far more colourful and definitely more descriptive. But it was close enough.

  Looking around at the squad in their dented and damaged suits of power armour and assortment of injuries, Porteus checked a sigh. ‘We will have to scout it out ourselves and establish the situation. We also need to get to the comms tower on the north of the refinery. Here.’

  He knelt in the dust and began drawing a rough diagram using a combination of the auspex and his own mental map of the layout as reference. ‘We were supposed to land here… a few kilometres away from the communications array. The tower itself is a little north of the refinery. We were knocked off course. By my estimation, we’re about…’ He marked a point on the crude map. ‘Thirty, maybe forty kilometres to the west.’