Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘My lord.’ The cadaver-like face of the Corpsemaster twisted in a brief smile. ‘I trust your arrival in the system has thus far been unimpeded?’

  ‘As if there was any doubt.’ The Tyrant’s growl was grating and harsh as it was torn from the replacement larynx and metal teeth. ‘These worshippers of the corpse-Emperor will soon come to learn the futility of resistance. Even now, they prepare their paltry defences. I welcome this. It will be an amusing distraction.’

  A rhythmic grating suggested that Blackheart was laughing. ‘But tell me, my Lord Apothecary, my most glorious Corpsemaster, are my plans progressing well?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Our human allies did not disappoint us. They took the communications tower easily enough. The defences here at the refinery were weak at best.’ A slightly twisted smile. ‘They were easily overcome. I confess, I found the brief engagement almost disappointing. But there was fine bounty to be taken from it.’ He referred to the piles of dead from whom he could take any amount of genetic material to use in his experiments.

  The Corpsemaster hesitated briefly, then grudgingly continued. ‘Taemar led quite an impressive raid. He fights well, even with his inglorious heritage.’ The Corpsemaster’s face twisted in a supercilious sneer. ‘I have never been too proud to admit when I am wrong. You have chosen your lieutenant well. Even if he is not one of our very own.’

  ‘Curb your disdain, Garreon. Has he returned to the Wolf of Fenris?’

  ‘Yes. He departed as soon as the signal was received and the moment the Wolf was in range.’

  It had been a masterstroke. The positioning of the Wolf had been vital. It had needed to be within teleport range of the planet in order to both deliver the call to arms that had launched the Red Corsairs into action – and to receive Blackheart’s second-in-command as he returned ready for the next phase.

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘He sent a most interesting communication on his return. I am led to believe that there is a particular reward awaiting me on our ship. The capture of a number of Silver Skulls warriors.’ Against any sense of control he may have had, the Corpsemaster began to salivate at the thought of access to a much-coveted Chapter. The secrets to be unlocked would engage his attentions fully for months to come. He raised a hand absently to his lips and wiped the drool away from his chin.

  As though sensing what his Apothecary was thinking, Blackheart gave another of his grating, inhuman chuckles. ‘I deeply regret making you wait before you can indulge your insatiable curiosities, my Lord Apothecary. But this will be over soon. As soon as I have taken the Dread Argent, I will be joining you on the surface and we can take what we need and plenty more of that which we do not. You will ensure you hold it for me?’

  It was oddly plaintive; the request of a spoiled child and as he had always done, the Corpsemaster indulged his lord and master outrageously.

  ‘You must learn not to doubt your most faithful, my lord. Primus-Phi is ours now. Already we have destroyed a ship sent down by the Silver Skulls to investigate. We have a confirmation that all that remains is a hulk of metal. The refinery guns are firmly under our control and the wealth of this place is all ours.’

  The noise that came from Blackheart could only be described as an excitable giggle. The depth of madness implicit in the sound was extraordinary, but the Corpsemaster had grown used to his master’s growing instability over the decades. The noise ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘You are to be commended.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘We have very few options, brother-captain.’

  Daerys Arrun was staring out of the viewscreen, his eyes fixed on the battle-barge as its immense proportions grew ever larger. It was enormously frustrating, the feeling of being the prey instead of the hunter. Brand’s simple words forced him to turn away from the Spectre of Ruin and to look at the Prognosticator. There was a smouldering rage barely contained beneath the surface of the Silver Skulls captain and from the way the veins stood out in his neck and forehead, he was working exceptionally hard on keeping it quelled.

  ‘We make our stand,’ was all he said. ‘They outnumber us by too high a factor. We can only pray to the ancestors that the Tyrant does not know the rest of the fleet is inbound. If we can make a stand until then...’ He turned his head towards the Spectre of Ruin once again. ‘If we can make a stand until then, we can have a chance.’

  ‘We could consider Volker.’

  ‘Yes, we could consider Volker.’ The tone of Arrun’s voice suggested that it wasn’t a consideration that was particularly high on his list of options. ‘But without Ryarus, it would be a gamble at best, destructive for us all at worst.’

  ‘The gamble may become our only option.’ Brand scratched his jaw. ‘Bear that in mind. Better by far that the Dread Argent is destroyed in the attempt than to let her fall into enemy hands.’

  There were many ships outside, effectively pinning them into position. Yet they all remained unmoving. Were it not for the occasional firing of a stabilising thruster from one of them, it could have been a scene frozen in time. They made no move to fire upon the Dread Argent, which to Arrun suggested only one thing.

  The Red Corsairs wanted to take the ship.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ the captain murmured to himself.

  ‘The God-Emperor willing, it won’t come to that, brother.’ Despite his low mutter, Brand had heard him.

  Their brief exchange was interrupted as the servitor slaved to the communications console spoke up. ‘Incoming transmission over the ship-to-ship vox-net,’ it droned.

  ‘Silver Skulls vessel Dread Argent, hold your position. Slow your engines and prepare to be boarded.’

  The voice was grating and inhuman, almost mechanical in sound. But there was still a lingering trace of humanity there as well. It was sneering in its tone, making a mockery of the words with which the Silver Skulls themselves used to deal with intruders. The implied insult did not go unnoticed, but Arrun remained silent. He did not have to wait long for confirmation of his suspicions. The enemy clearly had no desire to drag out the suspense and for that, Arrun was almost grateful.

  ‘As you have no doubt realised by now, I am Huron Blackheart, Master of the Red Corsairs. Your vessel will shortly belong to me. I would suggest that it would be in your best interests to give up any foolish thoughts of resistance or some kind of dramatic last stand. I am well aware of the Silver Skulls tendency to heroics and truly, Captain Daerys Arrun, there is no point. What happens to your crew at this point is up to you... although I suspect this will be your personal final battle.’

  Every soul on the bridge of the Dread Argent listened to the words as they dropped through the vox-net, their acidic nature and understated threat carrying much more weight than an outright boast. There was a barking laugh and Blackheart’s rumble resumed.

  ‘What, nothing to say, Captain Arrun? And you have been so talkative in the past! Such interesting transmissions.’

  ‘You will not take my ship, traitor.’ Arrun finally spoke up and Brand nodded quiet approval at the level tone of his voice. ‘The Silver Skulls will never betray the Imperium. You will not succeed here. We will prevail.’

  ‘I rather hoped you would choose to resist,’ the response came. ‘Had you meekly surrendered, it would have robbed us of an ideal opportunity for some much-needed sport. Later, when I am ripping out your pathetic chapel in the heart of my new ship, I will spare a thought for your spirited attempts at defiance. Who knows? I may even make a trophy of your skull to adorn my new chambers. Or perhaps I will let you live long enough to watch as I desecrate that which you hold so precious. I will–’

  ‘Kill the link.’ Arrun’s rage was towering. ‘Kill it. Now.’

  ‘Compliance.’ As the servitor severed the audio link from the Spectre of Ruin, the lingering sound of Blackheart’s inhuman laughter could still be heard.

>   The look of impotent fury that was locked on Arrun’s face could have adorned a war-mask. Yet behind his blazing eyes his mind was calculating and coming up with an alternative strategy with expediency. The evidence that he had been outmanoeuvred loomed large on the bridge hololith, mocking him, and the sight of it did nothing at all to salve his wounded pride. Yet he would never allow this ruthless warmonger the swift victory he so obviously craved.

  The Silver Skulls would never lay down arms in the face of the enemy. Huron Blackheart was a madman to think they might be persuaded otherwise.

  The bridge silenced to a hush as the crew anxiously awaited the orders that would send them into battle.

  After little more than several heartbeats, Arrun nodded and raised his head.

  ‘Reduce shields to minimal power. Divert everything we have to the engines.’ A few eyebrows raised in confusion, but he ignored them. ‘Ahead full speed. Full burn. Hard and fast as you can muster.’ An officer hastily relayed the orders and within seconds the angry thrum of the plasma reactors could be felt vibrating through the hull.

  ‘If we try to run with such weakened defences, then the Tyrant will burn us from the void in seconds,’ Brand stated. There was no reproach in the Prognosticator’s words, more a sense of bafflement at his captain’s strategy.

  ‘I know,’ Arrun replied, ‘in fact I’m counting on it.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘It’s obvious.’ A sardonic smile crossed Arrun’s face. ‘He doesn’t want a ruined hulk, he wants a trophy. As such, he will aim to cripple rather than destroy us. Once he’s achieved that, he will descend and pick us apart from within. He has played us from the very beginning. But now?’

  The smile on Arrun’s face became something different. ‘Now... I intend to do the same to him. It is time to level this playing arena.’ It was a dangerous gamble, but given their situation there was little choice.

  Brand nodded his agreement, understanding the reasoning behind what appeared to be little more than a random decision. Seeing the mixed, worried expressions on the faces of his crew, Arrun wordlessly cursed the Tyrant for his cunning. Caught as they were, with their backs on the frigate blockade that lay between them and Gildar Secundus, they had no choice. They had to keep the Dread Argent held together and in their possession long enough for the rest of the flotilla to arrive.

  Arrun knew that his crew would trust his orders. He had never made random decisions during his time in command and he was not acting randomly now.

  Thrusters burning hot with the increase of power, the Dread Argent began its desperate lunge for freedom. As Arrun had predicted, within moments of their move, the guns of the Spectre unleashed a murderous volley. What the slave crew of Huron Blackheart’s massive vessel lacked in skill they more than made up for with enthusiasm and before the Dread Argent had truly begun to make any headway its shields had collapsed under the barrage.

  Half a second later a brass-wrought shell the size of a battle tank tore a savage hole in the armoured engine housing. Immediately, liquid plasma, the ship’s life-blood began to spill into the void. Wounded, the mighty thrusters sputtered and died, their raging fury dulling to a sullen orange glow.

  Their quarry brought to heel, dozens of barbed boarding craft detached from the belly of the Tyrant’s flagship, swarming their way towards the limping vessel like ants racing to a carcass.

  On the bridge of the Dread Argent, Captain Arrun watched their approach with grim satisfaction. The deck was bathed in flickering crimson light and several banks of cogitators belched smoke and sparks, their slaved servitors fused and ruined.

  It could have been worse, Arrun considered, but did not articulate. The Tyrant was reaching out and taking the bait.

  ‘Is there still power to the reactors?’ The captain laid a firm hand on the shoulder of the tech-adept hovering by the nearby console. The young woman looked up at him, then pressed a few buttons, turned a few dials and engaged some levers. Eventually, she nodded, although it was hesitant. There was something akin to reproach in her eyes. The ship, her charge had been damaged after all – but she fully understood the compromise. She crisply relayed the information he wanted and he gave her a grim, self-satisfied smile.

  ‘We have breaches in the enginarium and several primary conduits have fractured. The emergency venting has served its purpose, however, my lord. To the eyes of others we appear wounded – but we retain precisely sixty-seven point three per cent combat efficiency.’

  Arrun nodded. ‘It will have to be enough. Now, come just a little closer, you mongrel pack of traitors.’ He watched as the cloud of tiny runes on the flickering hololith closed around his beloved ship.

  ‘Our burst of acceleration has carried us beyond the stern of the enemy vessel,’ an officer informed him. His uniform was scuffed and he sported a shallow wound to his scalp, no doubt suffered during the barrage, but the young man carried himself with admirable confidence given their dire situation. The captain made a mental note to see that he was commended when the crisis was over.

  ‘Excellent,’ he glanced again at the cluster of runes that now almost surrounded his ship and smiled grimly. ‘Now... bring those insects down and all power that we can muster to the engines.’

  The strike cruiser was famed for the ferocity of its guns, mighty cannons that hurled shells from orbit to crush cities and sunder continents. Like many ships however, it was studded from prow to stern with hundreds of smaller turrets that were most frequently employed to keep debris, missiles and other small projectiles at bay. Lascannons and massive rotary guns filled the space around the Dread Argent with a lethal storm of energy and shrapnel that cut the surrounding raiders to pieces with ruthless efficiency.

  Simultaneously, the vast engines roared once more into life, propelling the cruiser from its lethal predicament and out of reach of the arsenal of the encroaching Spectre. The sly gambit by the Wolf of Fenris was now revisited upon the Red Corsairs flagship as they put the enemy to their back. From his command pulpit Daerys Arrun fancied he could hear the furious roar of Huron Blackheart as he was cheated of his prize.

  ‘We have time on our side now,’ he said to the Prognosticator who had forsaken propriety and was grinning wildly at his captain’s cunning. ‘It will take them as long as us to come about and attack and they will do that. We can use that time to our advantage and prepare for them. The Emperor willing, the rest of the fleet will be upon those traitors shortly. Arrange for the highest ranking Apothecary on board to meet me in Correlan’s workshop.’ Arrun stepped to the console and considered for a few moments.

  ‘This is Captain Arrun,’ he said, activating the ship vox. ‘All Fourth Company who are not yet geared for battle should make their way to the arming chambers with expediency. The Tyrant of Badab has designs on this ship and we are not going to let him take it without exacting a price in blood he will long remember. That is, if he even survives at all when we are through with him. We will prevail, brothers. Primus inter pares! To the fight!’

  The Prognosticator murmured the company’s motto along with the captain and the two warriors swept from the bridge deck to prepare for battle.

  Red snow was falling.

  At this altitude, so high up in the mountains, precipitation from the heavy cloud cover over Gildar Secundus fell as snow, thick and cold. It coated the armour of the Silver Skulls, swiftly obscuring their Chapter sigils and dulling the orange carnelian gems in their pauldrons. As it made its way down through the atmosphere, it changed swiftly to sleet and rain. Up here though, the flakes floated serenely downwards, blanketing the jagged mountain tops. The flakes were stained with red, pollution and dust from the promethium refinery, wending its way back to the ground.

  Sergeant Porteus brushed the rust-coloured snow from his shoulders as he led his squad cautiously through the peaks. The path here, such as it was, made for arduous passage. Every one of them had given thanks
to the ancestors and to the guiding hand of the Emperor that their ship had dumped them unceremoniously on an outcropping. Another kilometre in any other direction and the Thunderhawk would have been pierced by the thrusting mountains. Had that happened, then all of them would have been destroyed utterly. So in exchange for the reward of continued existence, Porteus was more than prepared to undergo a little hardship.

  It was the kind of environment that few could ever claim to feel comfortable in and yet there was something startlingly and mournfully familiar about the mountains. The fortress-monastery of the Silver Skulls was itself located deep in the heart of Varsavia’s northern mountain range. It was a harsh, inhospitable place that only the most tenacious and hardy souls would brave. Most of the Chapter’s young aspirants and novitiates saw their first view of the fortress-monastery from the window of the transport that carried them there. A select few, though, had climbed their way to the top of the mountains alone. This was an impressive feat even for an Adeptus Astartes, let alone the handful of children who had made it.

  All of the Silver Skulls were required to undertake something of a pilgrimage prior to their final conversion and deployment into the Scout Company. The long, lonely trip to the far-flung Prognosticator Temple where individual auguries were cast had necessitated travelling in mountains that were no easier than this. Strange, how it brought back such largely forgotten memories. It was clear from the conversation he was listening to across the squad’s vox that it wasn’t just a memory-jogger for Porteus; the other members of Carnelian were sharing quiet reminiscences. Occasionally, despite the situation, one would chuckle lightly.

  Porteus did not cut across the conversation. With the death of Simeon, there was unsettling talk amongst his battle-brothers of poor omens. Without the guiding hand of the Emperor’s Chosen walking alongside them, the Silver Skulls felt uncomfortable. So Porteus allowed the easy banter to continue. They needed to hold on to whatever drove them forward. Porteus felt Simeon’s loss as keenly as they did, but he kept it clamped down. There would be time later for the appropriate rites.