Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  Porteus looked up at the sky. The inky blackness of the Gildar night was fully upon them now and if they were going to make any sort of move to reclaim the communications array, night would give them the best possible cover and greatest advantage.

  Whilst the behemoths of the two opposing Chapters traded their opening salvoes, the fighters and gunships that both had launched were weaving their way through the spinning debris of the Gildar Rift. The lethal route had already claimed a number of casualties on both sides, although the Red Corsairs were perhaps faring worse.

  A battlegroup of Thunderhawks which had burst from the front of the Manifest Destiny ploughed through an expanding cloud of gas and wreckage that had, up until mere moments ago, been a squadron of Doomfire bombers. The first unit to have been scrambled on the Silver Skulls battle-barge’s arrival in-system, Seventh Strike had been stalking the hazardous space lanes whilst more of their brethren spewed forth into the void surrounding the escalating conflict.

  Designed and modified by the Chapter’s tech-priests and Techmarines, these close-support variants of the ubiquitous Space Marine gunships were of a slightly sleeker design and boasted las-weapons in place of the more common heavy bolter mounts. Clutches of high explosive warheads hung beneath the stubby wings. The ships punctured through the dissipating smoke and raced onwards towards another one of the seemingly endless stream of traitor craft that poured from the shadowed interior of the Spectre of Ruin.

  Piloted by human serfs – the Adeptus Astartes battle-brothers considered too valuable to deploy into a dogfight – Silver Skulls were nonetheless stringent about the training their pilots undertook. Each one was exceptionally talented at what they did, in receipt of intense, relentless instruction.

  The vox-net linking the Thunderhawks to one another was alive. Some of the transmissions filtered back to the bridge of the Dread Argent where Yanus was listening grimly.

  ‘Pursuing target... just out of range...’

  ‘You’ve got one on your tail. Do you need–’

  ‘No. No, it’s all right. I can lose him in the debris field.’

  There was a pause, then a flare of light burst forth as a Red Corsairs Doomfire misjudged a turn. The overcompensation caused it to collide with an asteroid, a chunk of rock that was easily half its size. It never stood a chance of avoiding its doom. The moment of victory was short lived as the pilot who had lured the Red Corsairs raider to its end spoke again.

  ‘There’s another three of th–’

  Another detonation blossomed and the pilot’s communication went dead.

  Through the expanding aurora, another Silver Skulls craft emerged, its weapons blazing. The lascannon carved a dazzling blue path through the void and the engine housing of the furthermost Red Corsairs ship was ruptured. Burning fuel spilled into space, spitting and boiling away. As the Thunderhawk screamed past, the helmsman caught the briefest of brief glimpses of the pilot and gunner of the traitor ship, both roaring in impotent fury as he burned past them.

  A moment later, the Doomfire was lost in a cloud of plasma as its drives detonated.

  ‘They’re still coming!’

  ‘And they will be met in kind! Punish them for their insolence, for the Silver Skulls and for the Emperor!’

  The words were simple but stirred the blood. The Thunderhawks renewed their attack run with gusto. Two more of the Silver Skulls ships were lost within scant seconds to the continued fire of the Red Corsairs. Another was lost due to a moment’s overconfidence on the part of the pilot, who misjudged his distances. He was clipped by a spinning piece of debris that had once been the wing section of one of his own fleet. The ship went spinning wildly out of control. The only saving grace was that as it came to a stop, it did so embedded in one of the other Red Corsairs ships. Both of them were vaporised in an instant.

  The pace of battle was fierce and relentless, but the Silver Skulls pilots were keeping the worst of the pounding at bay. Were it not for the undoubted skill and efficiency of their efforts, things would have been far worse.

  Despite the fleeting moments of triumph, the Silver Skulls were still heavily outnumbered. The rest of their fleet may be inbound, but they needed to arrive sooner rather than later.

  ‘Their defences are holding, lord.’

  The bridge deck of the Spectre of Ruin was dimly lit and crewed predominately by Red Corsairs Space Marines. Ships’ power systems were far too valuable to waste on things like maintaining bright lighting when they had vision that could see into the infrared. The power was far better diverted to the engines to increase the velocity of the turn they were making. The fact that there were lumen-strips at all was a grudging concession to the human contingent.

  Standing stock-still in the middle of the bridge deck, Huron Blackheart stared out of the fore occulus of the battle-barge. If it had not been for his heavy, rasping breathing, he could well have been a statue placed there to honour the dread Lord of the Red Corsairs. At the helmsman’s words, he whipped his head to the right, spittle flying as he roared a string of furious, guttural curses. Daerys Arrun had outmanoeuvred him once already. He would not do it again.

  ‘How long until we have a firing solution?’ His voice grated, the vocal cords straining over metal augmetics. The Red Corsair to whom he spoke showed no fear in the onslaught of his commander’s wrath and consulted the ship’s augurs.

  ‘Soon, my lord.’ The Red Corsair remained totally calm in the face of Blackheart’s spitting fury. ‘The dorsal cannons have been brought to bear...’ He glanced back at the augur arrays. ‘The broadside batteries still do not have their range. Not yet.’

  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Very soon.’

  ‘Boarding parties to embarkation decks. We will take them down from within. They cannot hope to hold that ship against my men. The minute we come about, unleash.’

  He headed towards the console. Despite his massive bulk, he moved with a predator’s grace, almost a prowl. He put a gauntleted finger on one of the switches, opening a vox-channel to the Wolf of Fenris.

  ‘Taemar. Execute the plan at your leisure.’ Blackheart closed his hand into a tight fist. ‘Break them. Destroy them. I want their ship and I place the responsibility into your hands.’

  ‘About time.’

  Blackheart’s scarred, disfigured face twisted at his first captain’s words. Taemar was a bloodthirsty warrior from a bloodthirsty Chapter. He would delight in the slaughter he would create this day.

  ‘I want the Dread Argent as my trophy before the day is through. Make it happen. I want you to bring me Daerys Arrun alive.’ He paused, flickering embers of malice glittering like jewels in the depths of his mismatched eyes. ‘If, of course, it is reasonably practical to take him alive. I will show him that nobody can stand against the might of the Blood Reaver. Your reward will be great if you accomplish these things, Taemar. As will your punishment should you fail in this.’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ The hunger and impatience in Taemar’s voice perfectly mirrored that in Blackheart’s own.

  ‘Open fire on the battle-barge as soon as we are able. If we can take that as well, so much the better. But right now, it is that strike cruiser I want.‘

  His augmented eye flared red deep in its socket. There was a sudden sound, like the fluttering of wings and the Tyrant raised his head. He felt the settle of a familiar weight on his shoulder. He could not see it, but that was its nature. Nobody could see it, not properly. Only glimpses of... something out of the corner of one’s eye. To look directly upon it effectively rendered it invisible.

  Its presence was welcome, however. When the hamadraya was not with him, he was mighty. When it was, then he was invincible. Such was his arrogance.

  ‘I want it. And I will have it.’

  ‘It’s too soon. Far too soon.’

  Correlan stood, young and defiant in the face of his captain, not even attempting t
o keep his expression neutral. He folded his arms across his chest. Fully armoured, now wearing his harness, Correlan had the height advantage. But Arrun had dealt with many arrogant young warriors in his time and he was neither the slightest bit intimidated nor in the least impressed at the display of attitude.

  ‘I gave a direct order, Techmarine. I want you to work with Naryn and I want the Resurgent Project on-line within as short a time frame as possible.’ Arrun’s ice-blue eyes burned as he stared down the younger warrior. ‘We are holding the enemy at bay, but there is no saying how long that will be the case. You will do as I order you and you will do it now. I am your captain and you will not defy me like this.’

  The Techmarine’s mechadendrites twitched with some mental impulse that Correlan was barely keeping contained, snaking briefly around him in a defensive gesture. He shook his head. Several of the ever-present tech-priests looked as though they would step forward and protest, but at a signal from Correlan they held their position and they held their tongues.

  ‘I mean no disrespect, captain, but you do not understand the sheer magnitude of what you are asking of me. There are protocols and rituals that must be observed, and individuals that need to be present. If we are lax on even one element of the process, the machine spirits may not accept him and the consequences of that–’

  The second shot from the Spectre of Ruin struck at that point and everyone in the Resurgent chamber stumbled, except Volker himself, who was secure in his restraints. The young novitiate’s eyes were closed and he looked for all the world like he was meditating peacefully.

  Correlan continued where he had left off as though he had not even been interrupted. ‘…could be grave indeed. Not to mention the sheer biological issues surrounding the project. If we try to engage the subject with the systems at this stage in the process, he will experience mental stresses the like of which you and I couldn’t even begin to fathom!’ Correlan was hugely animated as he spoke, his hands weaving about. The tendrils on his harness moved with him, adding further emphasis to his words. ‘Captain, even Vashiro himself would struggle with this if he wasn’t given the right preparation time.’

  Arrun glanced up at the youth restrained in the chamber, then back at Correlan. ‘We don’t have preparation time, Correlan. The wolf is quite literally at our heels. You will work with Naryn and you will find a way. This is not a request. I am warning you. Do not make me repeat myself a third time. It is an order.’

  Correlan’s mouth opened again, but the look that Arrun shot him was so furious that he clamped it closed again. The young Techmarine was not afraid to speak his mind and for that, he knew he engendered equal responses of respect and frustration from his superiors – but he would never openly disobey a direct order. He limited his disapproving response to a scowl and nodded abruptly.

  The Apothecary had taken a step back to avoid being a part of the heated debate between his battle-brothers but now that the worst of it seemed to have dissipated, he moved forward again with his data-slate in hand. He engaged every ounce of diplomacy he possessed and he gauged it accurately. His words put a thin veneer of calmness back over the situation.

  ‘I took the liberty of compiling an implementation checklist based on Ryarus’s notes. I am sure that with Brother Correlan’s assistance, we can achieve what you ask of us as swiftly and with as few hindrances as possible. I really need you to help me in this, Brother Correlan. Nobody else knows the project as well as you.’

  The gentle compliment was enough to mollify the Techmarine and he took the proffered data-slate, scanning his eyes across it. Within moments, the two of them were locked in technical conversation.

  Arrun left them to it. He shot one last glance at the apparently sleeping Volker Straub. The boy would soon be introduced to his full potential. He fervently hoped that the Prognosticatum had been right when they had picked him out from his peers.

  The captain made his way to the assembly tier, usually alive with the sounds of the training cages, but now thronging with fully armoured battle-brothers who stood to attention in mute respect as he passed. They maintained an attentive stance as their captain made his way to the dais where his chief advisor already stood. Arrun lived for these moments, the times when he could speak the words that would spur his company on to great things. This was something usually reserved for either the Prognosticator or Chaplain, depending on which a company had with them at the time. Captain Arrun, who would have become a Chaplain had he not demonstrated such aplomb and skill in the field of strategic planning, had always preferred to take responsibility for his company’s inner fires. The Silver Skulls had thus lost a great Chaplain, but had gained a frenetic, powerful warrior who had risen to become Master of the Fleet.

  The Chapter relied heavily on their Prognosticators to carry the word of the Emperor into the heart of battle. Over the centuries, their reliance on the Librarian-Chaplains had become such that Chaplains were now few and far between.

  Arrun, though, was superb at stoking the embers of battle fury into raging infernos. Brand gladly allowed him the room he needed for this task, knowing that Arrun’s charisma and zeal was greater than his own.

  Here stand my brothers, Arrun thought as he allowed his eyes to roam the ranks of assembled warriors. Apart from those who had been killed or wounded on the recent deployment to the Wolf of Fenris and the men of Porteus’s squad, Fourth Company was almost at full complement. The best part of a hundred good warriors who would make a stand for the Emperor and who would bring further glory to the name of the Silver Skulls.

  My brothers. My charges. My responsibility.

  He shot a glance at Brand who opened his hands wide in the gesture that meant he had divined the Emperor’s will and that Arrun’s plan of action was to continue without question. Uncharacteristically, Arrun was glad that there was no lengthy discussion on the possible alternative options. Time did not favour them. His eyes raked the assembled company and he spoke. His voice was low, but carried easily with a power that could not be ignored.

  ‘The Tyrant of Badab is closing the net, brothers,’ he began. Several of the Silver Skulls made the sign of the aquila at the words, a Chapter custom that was firmly believed could ward off evil. ‘But he will never contain us. Lugft Huron was once a master of strategy, but in his warp-tainted madness, he exposes chinks in his armour. He says he wishes us to surrender, yet he must know that we never will. He opens fire on us. His words are meaningless.’

  Arrun allowed himself to laugh aloud, a hollow noise that held no humour at all. ‘I say this to you now, battle-brothers of Fourth Company. This Tyrant has had his day. He is no being of terror to be feared, least of all by the Silver Skulls. He is a desperate madman whose taint tarnishes a system under our protection. It is our job, no, it is our duty to remove the stain he brings.’

  His words were stirring the enthusiasm and energy in his men that he knew they would. Quiet ripples of untapped potential welled up in them and he tapped it relentlessly. He believed every word he spoke with almost fevered passion and that feeling flowed down through his men.

  ‘When the time comes for us to stand and fight against him, we will do so with everything we have. We will give the Red Corsairs no quarter. We will scrub every remnant of these foul traitors from the Gildar Rift. For the Emperor! For Argentius! For Varsavia! We are the Silver Skulls! And you all know what that means!’

  ‘We will prevail!’ Nearly a hundred voices cried out the ritual response, their voices caught and filtered upwards through the interior of the Dread Argent. The sound reached the human crew on the bridge and fired up courage there.

  Arrun nodded and allowed the zealous moment to die down before he continued. He lowered his voice just enough to lend an air of mystery to his tone. Brand watched him, marvelling at his oratory deftness.

  ‘We are taking a step into the unknown. Even as we speak, the Resurgent is being primed for awakening. We must belie
ve that it will succeed. Because we will not fail. That is not our way.’

  For the first time, Arrun discovered that he meant every word he spoke. Could it be that his belief in the Resurgent was finally coming to the fore? Was it that all the doubts and uncertainties, all the opposition he had shown had been wrong and all that had been needed was the right moment to awaken his faith in Volker Straub?

  ‘Whatever happens, the rest of the fleet is inbound. Even if we are fated to fall under the onslaught of the Tyrant, our brothers will ensure that his celebration is curtailed. Prepare yourselves.’

  His final words were met with a mighty roar from the assembled company. They would meet whatever was thrown at them with stoicism and might. As the roar settled again, Yanus’s voice came across the vox.

  ‘Captain Arrun... they are coming,’ was all he said.

  9

  Deadlock

  His death loomed above him, twisting and glinting like a sword hanging on a silken thread. Given his current predicament, the unfortunate refinery overseer couldn’t help but review the easy life he had led so far. In the twinkling of an eye he suddenly knew a million regrets; all the wasted years, the countless errors he had made – some crucial, others inconsequential – the women and financial deals that he had let slip through his fingers... but most of all, he regretted the fact that he was here right now. He thought, bizarrely, of his parents and his younger sister, none of whom he had seen in over thirty years. He should really have made more of an effort to keep in touch.

  A quiet sob escaped him.

  Turning at the noise, the Corpsemaster treated the overseer to a smile that seemed as though it had come from the very depths of the Maelstrom itself. His skull-like face always seemed to be fixed in a rictus grin anyway, but the thin lips were twisting upward.