Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  His Corsairs were never idle, of course; they were every bit as disciplined a fighting force as the Imperium’s best. The quiet but ever-present menace of the Corpsemaster ensured compliance amongst the slaves and even saw a certain curtailment of the aggressive in-fighting that so marked the Red Corsairs at times.

  Now, though, the entire refinery was a veritable hive of activity. Every last one of the traitors was going about his business with eager energy, attempting to catch their master’s attention whilst being especially careful not to incur his wrath. Word of Taemar’s death had spread swiftly. The master would eventually have to choose a new champion which meant that his attentions would be wandering to his men.

  His anger had been terrible to behold. The near-destruction of his fleet had not been any feature of his original plan and the fact that the Silver Skulls had pulled their forces together in such an organised and devastating way had left him not best pleased. Within fifteen minutes of his arrival at the refinery, he had executed two of his own slaves in what could only be described as a fit of pique. He had raged and fumed his way through the refinery, criticising everything and everyone he passed until he had reached the Corpsemaster. Then, and only then, his anger and rage had finally begun to ebb slightly.

  ‘How many?’ was all he had asked. ‘How many have you taken so far?’

  ‘Just the one still alive,’ the Corpsemaster replied mildly. ‘A squad sergeant.’

  ‘I want those warriors,’ Blackheart said, his hand clenched tightly into a fist. His voice, grating and harsh through the metallic jaw and teeth, was inhuman and every word delivered with mechanical precision. ‘The Silver Skulls must be brought into the fold of our cause. I want their strength. I want their foresight and I want Daerys Arrun’s ship.’ His augmetic eye whirred and glinted in the flickering half-light of the Corpsemaster’s temporary apothecarion. His massive claw curled in on itself in a mechanical mockery of his own hand as it clenched. The Corpsemaster had witnessed that claw tear through Space Marines as though their power armour were paper. He had seen Blackheart decapitate and dismember his way through battle after battle.

  The Corpsemaster’s eyes caught the faintest flicker of movement and he turned his head sharply. The being continued to defy his attempts to see it but even the Corpsemaster was aware of its presence. It carried with it the musty stink of decay. There was the vaguest hint of wings, but there was no noise.

  Death comes on silent wings.

  A strange creature. It chose to be seen when it desired and it did not always maintain the same form. As far as the Corpsemaster had ever been able to tell, the farther from the Maelstrom Blackheart travelled, the more ephemeral the thing’s corporeal form became.

  Denied in his attempts to see the entity, the Corpsemaster turned his head back towards his lord and master. His fascination with the Silver Skulls was undeniably bordering on the obsessive. His interest in their Prognosticators was understandable, of course. For all his ferocity and might, Huron Blackheart was a deeply superstitious warrior, who tried to find omens and portents in many things. His inability to read or understand such signs was another personal failing that fed his mighty rage. He would never have admitted as such, but the Corpsemaster knew him well. His tone became soothing.

  ‘They will come, my lord. There is no doubt about that. This refinery is far too important to their foolish Imperium for them to simply leave it in our hands. When they come, when they take the irresistible bait that we have laid before them, we will kill those we must and we will take those we can.’

  Blackheart considered him for a few moments, then gestured over his shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Garreon.’

  ‘As my lord commands.’ The Apothecary bowed deeply and respectfully. It was good to see Blackheart so vigorous and full of vitality. It was a stark contrast to the days he lingered in a state hovering somewhere between life and death, barricading himself against the endless pain that came with his condition. This lucid time would not last. It never did.

  The two Red Corsairs cut a curious tableau as they walked out of the refinery into the compound. They were almost complete physical opposites, despite the obvious similarities caused by their shared heritage. The massively armoured bulk of Huron Blackheart made the Corpsemaster seem almost frail. Both warriors went bare headed and the grizzled mane that crowned the Apothecary’s head was in stark contrast to Blackheart’s half-shaven, half-metallic head.

  The Lord of the Red Corsairs armour was remarkably well-tended; at least, as well as it could be given the number of ceramite cracks and weapon damage it had sustained over the years. It was frequently maintained, although with his foul moods Huron got through more artificers than most. A number of tokens and fetishes hung from his waist; at least three human skulls and even a wizened human hand that had been perfectly preserved. Also at his waist, he wore a long vial, crafted from thick glass and encased within a fretwork of ornate metal. Nobody knew what was in that vial. Nobody had ever asked.

  His very aura was menacing and as they walked, those who were not Space Marines moved swiftly to put themselves out of his way and out of his thoughts.

  The velvet darkness of the Gildar Secundus night was beginning to bleed through to the grey of pre-dawn. A pinkish tinge on the far horizon hinted at the arrival of the morning, but the scent of rain remained in the air. Inhaling deeply, Huron Blackheart’s augmetic eye whirred and clicked a few times. In-built sensors tracked the ionic particles in the air. An ability to predict meteorological conditions was often a massive advantage on any battlefield.

  ‘There’s another storm in the air,’ he observed.

  ‘This planet has more than its fair share of them, it seems,’ acknowledged the Apothecary. ‘Tiresome weather patterns and a poor ecology. I am glad that your plan is not to remain here longer than is absolutely necessary. I grow bored of the Gildar system.’

  ‘You grow bored of the system, old friend? Or is it simply that your impatience is getting the better of you? At least one of the Silver Skulls waits your undivided attention on the Wolf of Fenris. I am sure that you can hold your instruments steady for a few more hours.’

  ‘You know me too well,’ lamented the Corpsemaster. ‘Still, I admit that it is an intriguing prospect. I confess I am looking forward to seeing what it takes to break one such as they.’

  ‘You are filled with more cunning than any other I have ever known, Garreon. I am sure that your investigations will prove most fruitful. And the more we learn about the Silver Skulls, the better our chances of embracing them within our fold become.’

  ‘They are unlikely to appreciate the gesture, my lord.’ The Apothecary’s pinched, puckered face stared out across the jagged peaks. ‘They will not see it for the glorious opportunity that it is. I fear that their hearts are too set. Too engaged with the outmoded concept of nobility. Their minds are far too pliant to the will of the Corpse-God. But there is a weakness, oh yes.’

  He turned his head from the horizon and looked up at his commander. ‘There is doubt in their hearts as to the veracity of the Prognosticators. If we can feed that doubt, if we can turn it from something innocuous and uncertain into something tangible, we may be able to divide them from within.’

  ‘An interesting prospect, Garreon.’ Blackheart drummed the claws of his artificial hand against the thigh plate of his armour, then raised the index finger of his other hand to the skies.

  ‘See there,’ he said, and there was immense satisfaction in his tone. ‘They take the bait, my old friend.’

  Streaks of light were illuminating the pre-dawn sky as the drop pods and gunships of the Silver Skulls Chapter burned into the lower atmosphere. A cruel, twisted smile played across the Tyrant’s face. ‘As I planned,’ he repeated in a satisfied voice. ‘They come.’

  ‘Confirmation, Captain Arrun. Fourth Company deployment has commenced. All units are now en route to planet’s surface.’

/>   The monotone of the servitor reverberated around the walls of Arrun’s arming chamber. The captain nodded absently, before voicing acknowledgement of the fact. He had already paid a brief visit to the chapel where he had knelt before the statue of the God-Emperor, attempting to bring a little calm to the turbulent waters of his soul. It was a lamentable fact, whether he liked it or not, that his lofty position as Master of the Fleet meant his responsibilities lay here, aboard the Dread Argent rather than facing the hated enemy on the ground. He had murmured soft words of prayer and quiet apologies to the distant God-Emperor of Mankind for even considering abandoning his duties.

  He was sure that the God-Emperor would understand his moment of laxity, but he chastised himself softly nonetheless. It was every Space Marine’s right to be filled with the yearning desire to prosecute the Emperor’s will, but he had duties to his Chapter as well.

  Of course, he now had additional duties and responsibilities to the young man forever sealed in a transparent coffin far from this place of repose in the engineering decks. It had been through his machinations and manipulation that Volker and the Dread Argent had become one. It would be his guidance that saw the project through to full completion.

  He found pride in that thought and his misgivings settled a little. His skills and talents would undoubtedly be far better served here. Should the need arise, his own deployment could be engineered without any trouble. As long as the portents agreed, of course.

  Considering this took his thoughts down a new branch. Brand’s recovery was progressing well and whilst the highest-ranking Prognosticator would not be taking the field with the company, his underlings were more than competent to fill the void left by his absence. He remained critical but stable and was accessible for advice and guidance. Arrun felt some small relief in that knowledge. The two of them had fought side by side for so many decades that to think of a permanent void where his Prognosticator had once stood chilled him to the marrow. It would happen one day, but he was relieved that it was not this day.

  His duties in the chapel complete, Arrun had retired to his personal arming chamber where he had sat in deep contemplation, seeking to quench the thirst for battle that flowed through his blood. Things were constantly shifting around him and it was unsettling. He was no psyker and had never laid claim to any psychic ability, but over the course of the past few months, even he had sensed the winds of change blowing through the Chapter. Private conversations with his fellow captains and with Brand had accentuated the anxieties of the diminishing levels of experience and the rise of the impetuous. It was a shift in dynamic that did not sit well with the veteran captain.

  Now, he felt a moment’s guilt at the thoughts. ‘Forgive me, distant Father,’ he murmured quietly. ‘I think poorly of my own brothers and such behaviour has no place in the mind of an Adeptus Astartes.’ The Emperor had offered no word of reply, but it didn’t matter. He felt sure that his words were listened to and that was good enough for him.

  He closed his eyes and called to mind the soothing peace of the chapel. Perhaps he should have lingered awhile. Its grandeur and familiarity had always offered a modicum of calm and he would often spend long periods of time in there, his eyes raking around the many and varied trophies of his company. The thought of those trophies now served to fuel his pride and obstinacy once again. Look at what his battle-brothers had achieved. Look at Volker. Look at everything the future held. All its opportunity. All of this glory. Thinking of this cast him back to a prior conversation with his advisor.

  ‘The future,’ Brand had said to him, barely days before the arrival of the Red Corsairs had accelerated the Resurgent Project, ‘is a series of blank pages. These ambitious young warriors are waiting to fill them with their deeds and even as we watch, they act. It does us ill to dwell on uncertainty and regret. It is and always has been our duty to mould and guide them as best we can. We are moving towards a new episode in the history of the Silver Skulls, Daerys. Neither you nor I can prevent the passage of time. It is an inevitability, as certain as the tides of the Mare Argentium lap at the shores of Varsavia.’

  They had been fine, eloquent words. Yet even now, they had done little to quell the doubts in the captain’s heart. He almost reluctantly abandoned his meditations, rising to his feet and marching briskly from his arming chambers to take his rightful place on the bridge of his ship.

  14

  Red and silver

  A pale light was creeping slowly above the horizon as the drop pods carrying the warriors of the Silver Skulls Chapter screamed into sight. Watched by the Red Corsairs already deployed to defend the refinery, they were heralds of the battle to come. Both sides hungered for this fight. Both sides were ready.

  Thunder rolled around the mountains, providing an ominous accompaniment to the proceedings. Added into the noise was the roar of the retro-thrusters on the drop pods as they slowed to minimise impact. Together, the sounds were deafening.

  As it hammered solidly into the ferrocrete of the landing port, the pod carrying Matteus and his squad stood proud; the steel-grey symbol of a Chapter’s tenacity. It remained stable and unmoving for a moment or two, then charges detonated, blowing open the doors. Immediately, they folded out like the waking petals of a flower greeting the rosy fingers of the Gildar Secundus dawn.

  Around them, other drop pods were similarly reaching their destination. Hairline cracks spidered beneath his feet and ruptured the ground as more descended, landing with quite considerable force. Matteus, his mind and focus on the matter at hand, nonetheless allowed himself the pride and pleasure of gazing upwards. There was an unmistakable, simple thrill in watching the streaking comets still many kilometres above them, carrying the promise of more of his comrades in arms. The calm before the breaking of the storm was a moment that he never grew tired of and to see the deployment of his battle-brothers was an honour beyond measure.

  Like all Adeptus Astartes in service to the Imperium, Matteus had nigh-on unshakeable faith in the Emperor and in the right to deliver His will and word to those who did not – or would not – heed it.

  During the descent, he had received word from Captain Arrun that one of Porteus’s squad was in the mountains and his eyes moved with inhuman celerity to the vox-rune on the retinal feed of his helmet. He blinked, setting a repeating signal sounding on a secure channel. Curis would no doubt be waiting for contact from his brethren and once he homed in on the transmission, then the lost warrior could rejoin the battle.

  Matteus put a hand to his bolter and let his fingers close around the parchment that fluttered from the fresh purity seal. He silently gave thanks to its machine spirit, asking for its cooperation in the battle to come. Others around him acted in a similar vein, soothing their weapons and checking ammunition. The sergeant turned to the west. The vast, labyrinthine tangle of towers and pipework wreathing the refinery were clearly visible and on an almost direct route from their current position. The plans and strategies as decided by the two company captains had been communicated to all of the Silver Skulls taking the field and all objectives were clear.

  More of the company’s drop pods had made landfall by now and almost the entirety of Fourth Company was accounted for. The two Dreadnoughts were still to arrive and Matteus felt again that stirring of pride at having two such honourable warriors under his command.

  ‘Fourth Company,’ he said across the vox, ‘take your positions. Prepare yourselves.’

  The command was almost redundant. The Silver Skulls were a finely honed war machine, well-oiled and compliant to the last warrior. They had, whether consciously or not, already arranged themselves in marching formation, ready to take the fight to the Red Corsairs.

  And they shall know no fear.

  Porteus had never known fear during his service to the Silver Skulls. If he had known it as a child, it was a memory that was best forgotten. Fear was nothing more than a word. It was something used to give cohesive
shape and form to things that were unknown. Know your enemy – face your worst nightmares and there was nothing to be afraid of.

  It wasn’t fear he felt now. What he felt now was rage that ran so deep that it went beyond human comprehension. It was white hot, an incandescent thing and restrained as he was, he could not act upon his base instincts. Instead, he was held here, helpless and unable to exact the justice these treacherous dogs deserved.

  He could see the creeping dawn as it made its presence known in a sliver of light beneath the doorway that barred him from the outside world, but it made little difference to the stifling windowless room where he lay.

  The sergeant shifted position slightly and the heavy restraints that bound him clanked dully. He had bitterly given up any further attempts to release himself from his bonds. It was an exercise in futility. The cuffs, chains and collar had been designed to hold Space Marines and were proof against even the greatest strength. There would be no way out of this for him now. Not unless his captors chose to release him. They were highly unlikely to do that. He was raging.

  But he was not afraid.

  The pulsing throb of hot fury in his veins helped him to retain his focus. It served as an anchor for his drifting thoughts, a physical reminder of his purpose and a wild ocean of untapped fortitude. It was an entirely good thing. It helped remind him that he lived.

  He breathed slowly, ‘cooling his heels’ as one of his brothers described it. Outwardly, he calmed himself, allowing his training to take over and sought out an equilibrium. It wasn’t a perfect result, not by any means, but it was the closest he could come given his current circumstances. Deep within his breast the darkness continued to seethe.

  He turned his attentions reluctantly to the dull ache of his body. The supply of analgesics and combat narcotics that his power armour would have fed him to counter the burning, ceaseless pounding of his injuries had been denied to him and despite his post-human strength, he felt pain now. He knew that the pain was transitory and he knew that his body would mend in time, but those cold facts didn’t stop it from boring deep into his nerve endings and settling into his bones.