Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  He glanced over at the body of Simeon. They had no Apothecary with them which meant that as ranking commander present, the job of recovering the Chapter’s legacy fell to him. It was a messy, but necessary job. It was hard enough to lose a brother in such an inglorious way – far worse that it was their Prognosticator. The fact that they had lost their link with the Emperor’s will was a poor omen indeed. But they could not stay here. There was every possibility that whoever had shot them out of the sky would send out scouts of their own to make sure that the job was complete. Unlikely, given the mountainous terrain, but still a consideration.

  Porteus tore his eyes away and addressed the squad. ‘The terrain is going to be difficult, but we can allow it to work for us rather than against us. It will help us mask our approach more effectively.’ He straightened up. ‘Let’s get moving. I want a full weapons check, then we salvage whatever we can from the wreck and burn the rest. We don’t need it falling into enemy hands. Swiftly, brothers. Night is coming in fast and we should take that as another advantage.’

  The squad began to carry out their sergeant’s orders without question. Porteus joined Keyle in the belly of the Thunderhawk and ripped aside broken panels and wreckage until he located the emergency medical supplies. At some point during their rapid descent, the equipment had been thrown into complete disarray. No matter where he looked, there was no reductor to be found. That meant that he would be forced to commit the doubly heinous sin of carving out Simeon’s gene-seed with nothing more advanced than the sharp blade of his combat knife.

  Porteus took a deep breath. It felt almost like a violation, a disrespect to the dead Prognosticator, to be recovering his Quintessence Sacred in this barbaric way rather than an Apothecary performing the task with the reverence and skill it deserved. But needs must. The progenoid gland must be recovered so that the line of Silver Skulls could continue. The genetic stores of the Chapter were already greatly depleted.

  With Keyle’s help, he moved Simeon’s corpse from the ungracious position it had ended up in. They slid the dead Prognosticator clear of the girder and his body freed with a grotesque wet slurp. The girder had punched right through his back, cracking open the fused ribcage from behind. Whilst it made Porteus’s job easier, it was still an undignified mode of death.

  I wonder if he saw this coming?

  It was a blasphemous thought and Porteus quashed it immediately, ashamed at his own inner musings.

  With the Prognosticator laid on the ground, it was a swift enough job to remove the progenoid, but to Porteus’s dismay, it was ruined. The girder had torn through half of the organ leaving it ragged, a useless thing. It merely added to the heavy sense of foreboding the sergeant already felt at the loss of their psyker and he returned the damaged gland to the gaping hole in Simeon’s corpse. It would be incinerated along with the rest of his brother’s body.

  All that remained was to strip away Simeon’s battleplate. They would not be transporting it with them, but they could not perform the rite of cremation whilst he remained encased in its shell – and whatever bits and pieces they could salvage could be used by those who still lived. As he removed the other’s helm, Porteus was surprised at the expression on his battle-brother’s face. In death, Simeon had the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. His eyes were closed and he looked for all the world like he were meditating. The expression was achingly familiar. The sergeant lay the helm to one side and spoke a few words from one of the Silver Skulls many funerary litanies.

  Kneeling in the fading light and dust of the mountains, Porteus felt anger bubbling deep inside him. As he stood, he accepted a flamer from Keyle. Igniting it, he aimed it at Simeon’s lifeless body. The words of vengeance dropped from his lips before he could stop them.

  Around him, other voices joined his own and repeated the oath. Each felt Simeon’s loss as keenly as he did and Porteus took pride in the knowledge that every last one of them would exact that revenge by his side.

  The flames licked around the Prognosticator, burning ferociously. It would take time to fully dispose of the body and time was something that the squad had precious little of. Night had fallen completely now and the sky was studded with the many stars that made up the constellations of the Gildar system. Porteus looked up into the glittering tapestry and a smile ghosted across his face. He could almost hear Simeon explaining the importance of looking to the stars for guidance. It had been his preferred method of untangling the web of future events.

  As the stink of charred flesh permeated the air, Porteus hefted the weapon and nodded.

  ‘Helmets back on. We’re moving out now.’

  They were at stalemate, for now at least.

  More ships had entered the system. Escort vessels, more Infidels… but as of yet, nothing as large as the Wolf of Fenris. The strike cruiser had presented a clever ruse. Bait to lure the Silver Skulls out into the open and even now, Arrun cursed himself for taking it like a naïve child. Even as he had dealt with the repercussions of that, further things were occurring.

  In carrying out his orders to commune with the rest of the fleet, the astropaths had initially experienced a terrible psychic interference that had left most of them wailing and weeping bloody tears of pain. They had been driven to greater efforts by the whiplash tongue of the Head Astropath however, and eventually, one of them had managed to penetrate the raging currents of the empyrean, pierce her way through the psychic static and project her message. She had died straight afterwards, the sheer force of effort curdling her brain with psychic feedback and causing her to haemorrhage, but the message had been sent. Several others now lay in degrees of useless torpor, of no use to the astropathic choir or, indeed, anybody any more.

  ‘Word has been sent to the fleet as you ordered, my lord,’ reported the Head Astropath who had been duly summoned to the bridge. Fear rippled from him in waves that caused Brand to stare at him in disgust. If Arrun was aware of it, he didn’t indicate it as he nodded and dismissed the human psyker.

  The astropath scurried from the bridge in relief, Brand’s eyes boring into him all the while.

  ‘He possesses a mediocre talent at best,’ the Prognosticator observed. ‘How he rose to his position defies belief. We should consider a replacement when this is over.’

  Brand’s easy confidence that the situation would be resolved satisfactorily was surprising, but not unexpected. Arrun was standing at the hololithic display that projected their current situation in the Gildar Rift and he was not liking the picture it painted.

  ‘We could hold out well enough against the escort ships,’ he said as he stared at the flickering images. ‘But by the time we are well positioned for attacking them, the Wolf of Fenris will undoubtedly have begun to come about and be seeking to enter the fray. We can deploy our gunships, but without heavy support…’ Arrun scowled. ‘They won’t last long.’

  ‘What I would be more concerned about,’ suggested the Prognosticator, ‘is exactly why it should be that none of them, apart from the Wolf, have made any sort of aggressive gesture towards us yet.’ He joined Arrun at the hololithic display and studied it thoughtfully, his eyes picking out one ship after another.

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind. Right now, though...’ Arrun took a step back. ‘I’m more interested in understanding exactly what it is that they are doing. Or, more precisely, what they are not doing.’ Other than the broadside attack by the Wolf of Fenris, not a single vessel had made so much as a threatening move. No weapons were firing at them. The ships were just there. Waiting.

  Arrun glared at the display as though he could rectify the problem by staring it down. ‘There is much to consider. I have fought the Red Corsairs many times, but this is something new. They’ve never sent a fleet this size into the Gildar Rift before.’ He leaned forward onto the pedestal on which the sector map was projected and met his Prognosticator’s gaze head on.

  ‘On top of that, I stil
l have to consider the impact of Ryarus’s death on the Resurgent Project.’ Brand noted that the captain chose to consider the other Silver Skull dead rather than contemplate the alternatives. It was a logical choice and the Prognosticator approved.

  ‘He kept copious notes, brother.’

  ‘But the bond he built up with Volker... the boy trusted him implicitly. Do you think he will be so willing to make the final sacrifice without that?’

  ‘He is Varsavian through and through. He wishes to serve the Chapter in the only way he can. I would not concern yourself as to Volker’s conviction. The other Apothecaries will pick up where Ryarus left off.’ Arrun found himself smiling bitterly.

  ‘I presume you have already divined whether or not we should continue with the Resurgent Project?’

  ‘Yes. And we must not stop. Not now.’ Arrun sighed, resignation weighing on his shoulders heavily.

  ‘You have absolute conviction we will come out of this situation, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said the Prognosticator, surprised at Arrun’s words. ‘The Emperor guides me. The Emperor protects.’

  ‘The Emperor protects,’ Arrun acknowledged. He lifted his eyes to the viewscreen and his posture stiffened.

  ‘Whatever they were waiting for,’ he said, moving into the centre of the bridge deck. ‘I think we’re about to find out.’

  There was a ripple, a distortion beyond them; more ships translating in-system. Only this time, it wasn’t something small and comparatively insignificant. This time, the vessel that emerged from the warp, slowly and menacingly moving towards them, was bigger even than the Wolf of Fenris.

  Arrun knew this ship. He knew it well. ‘The Spectre of Ruin,’ he said, staring at it.

  ‘You know this vessel?’

  ‘Aye, brother, I do.’ Arrun’s spine straightened and pure hatred filled his eyes. ‘It is one of the chosen transports of the Tyrant of Badab. I suspect, my brother, that Lugft Huron is on board.’

  7

  Blackheart

  Once, he had been Lugft Huron, Chapter Master of the Astral Claws. Then the Imperium had forsaken him. The Imperium had tried to deny him what had been rightfully his and the Imperium had tried to strike him down when he made the decision to take it anyway. Lugft Huron had faced down the amassed forces that the Imperium had thrown at him and he had survived. But the cost had been beyond measure.

  The long ago siege on the Palace of Thorns, and the final assault on his throne room instigated by the thrice-cursed Androcles of the Star Phantoms had been costly and it had been bloody. The wounds Huron had received had been critical and had it not been for the subsequent, tireless efforts of all of the Apothecaries and tech-priests who served their master with unswerving loyalty, the Tyrant of Badab would have been no more.

  Against all the odds, the Tyrant lived. He survived levels of physical stress and pain tolerance that would have killed lesser warriors. He had been so heavily augmented and enhanced that it was true to say that the Space Marine known to the Imperium as Lugft Huron had died that day and Huron Blackheart had been born.

  There were rumours, but there were always rumours, that he was literally not even the same man. He knew who he was. He was content in his identity. It was he who lived with the agony of his continued existence. What did he care if the rest of the universe speculated and disagreed? Let them. Whatever and whoever he was, he had died once already.

  It had been both a physical and metaphorical death: the Tyrant’s disgust at the lies of the Imperium combined with his status as an outcast renegade had led him to sever any and all ties to his own past. Lugft Huron was a being he cast aside without compunction, caught as he was in the iron grip of vainglorious madness. During the long period of his delirium, in the days he clung to the spark of life with tenacious fury against overwhelming odds, he engaged in negotiations with unseen powers he never openly acknowledged and he made countless deals of which he never spoke.

  He was granted rebirth. Eight days after he was struck down by Androcles, the former Master of the Astral Claws rejoined the physical plane and spoke to his loyal men once more. They thrilled to the reality of his impossible return, rejoicing in his restored presence. The very fact he had survived certain death awoke the spark of fanaticism. He soaked up their adulation and his arrogance knew no bounds.

  In acknowledgement of who and what he had become, he took the name ‘Blackheart’ to his breast and decreed that the name of the Astral Claws be forever stricken from their lips and memories. They had desecrated their power armour, defiling the aquila and painting over the sigil of their once-noble Chapter. In time, others had flocked to Blackheart’s banner. Cultists who revelled in the Red Corsairs brutality. Space Marines from other Chapters who felt that they had been wronged in some way. Some were convinced to serve Huron Blackheart in lieu of owed payments on substantial debts. There were those who truly believed in what he was doing, or who could be persuaded to believe in it very quickly.

  Blackheart and his men, it was said, could be surprisingly persuasive when the mood took them.

  For the most part, the Tyrant himself remained a figurehead, rarely leading the standard raids and boarding actions that formed the backbone of his Red Corsairs’ activities. He remained in solitary contemplation of his dark fate. Apothecaries and tech-priests attended him as required, ensuring his augmetics were well maintained and doing whatever they could to relieve the constant pain. But every so often, something would pique his interest. At these times, he would step from his throne room as though he had never been away and he would once again indulge his voracious appetite for power.

  When he chose to take command, he did so with the same charisma that he had demonstrated in his heyday. He was an unstoppable, powerful force with an ability to plan for several possible contingencies and adapt his ideas at the very last minute. He was considered to be a scourge and he revelled in the moniker.

  The activities of the Silver Skulls in the Gildar Rift had engaged his curiosity and the old, unslakeable thirst for things that were not his own had bubbled to the surface. He had monitored them for long enough. He knew their patrols, understood their methods and he had decreed that the waiting was at an end.

  Today the Red Corsairs would strike.

  All across the Gildar system, the arrival of the Spectre of Ruin heralded the rousing of a rebellion that had been sleeping peacefully for several long months. The hydra heads of insurrection and incursion that had been so carefully and strategically placed reacted to the moment of the flagship’s arrival with precision timing.

  Their poisonous strikes were swift and struck true, seeing vital Imperial structures brought to their knees with alarming alacrity.

  Gildar Primus, the airless mining world orbiting closest to the sun, saw sudden raids on atmospheric generators which caused more than a dozen hab-domes to be starved of oxygen. Countless workers and defence troops died in breathless agony without ever knowing the reason why. Defence forces mustering in response to the disaster found themselves cut off by the airless, frozen domes. They stood helpless, unable to react as the Red Corsairs, safe from the ravages of the atmosphere, took control.

  The hydroponic gardens of Gildar Quintus suffered terribly. Once fruitful and yielding vital foodstuffs that served not only the Gildar system but were exported to Imperial worlds beyond, their bounty withered and died as the poisonous chemicals introduced into the feed lines by human Red Corsair infiltrators seeped forth their toxic fumes.

  For every world a different plan. Civil rioting broke out across the Gildar worlds, engaging the planetary defence forces and keeping their attention from the true threat that loomed beyond the planet’s atmosphere far above them.

  As Porteus and his squad had discovered on their way to the surface, Gildar Secundus was already dealing with its own situation. But it wasn’t the only planet that was under threat. Across the eight majo
r planets of the Gildar system, the arrival of Huron Blackheart meant that loyal Imperial citizens were finding themselves drowned in the relentless tide that he had brought. Red Corsairs raiders, Adeptus Astartes and humans both received the call to arms from their revered leader and they did exactly what they were instructed to do.

  Everything happened quickly. Far too quickly for any kind of fast response. The Gildar system was falling.

  The full extent of Huron Blackheart’s complex strategy was only just beginning to come to light. They were schemes that were so twisted, convoluted and duplicitous that they had passed by even the uncanny predictive capabilities of the Silver Skulls greatest Prognosticators.

  ‘My Lord Apothecary.’

  If Huron Blackheart was capable of expressing any kind of pleasure, this was as close at it came. The hololithic display from the Spectre of Ruin flickered before Garreon, poor in quality, but a welcome sight nonetheless. He and Taemar had been tasked with this most important element of Blackheart’s ground plans and the one which had been in effect longer than any other. Their infiltrators had been in place for months. Taking control of the communications tower at the given moment had been a work of almost breathtaking simplicity.

  Once the communications tower had been taken, it had been the easiest thing to broadcast the message sent by the Spectre of Ruin across the system, heralding the start of the attack. The promethium refinery had fallen swiftly into the Red Corsairs’ hands, the Corpsemaster himself dealing much of the death that was evidenced before him.

  Broken, bloodied bodies of Primus-Phi’s outer defence guard lay in dismembered ruin everywhere. The stench of death was dulled a little by the falling rain – but not to Garreon. He could still smell death and it fired his blood and his soul. Red Corsairs moved within the exterior compound of the refinery, some manning the cannons, others merely looting the bodies of the dead for anything of value.