Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  At a hand signal, several warriors fanned out from the marching group, increasing their pace as they traversed the rocky outcrop either side of the road. No longer approaching in a column, the Silver Skulls began to form a v-shape attack squad.

  ‘Garnet, Onyx, report.’ Matteus sought for an update from the two Assault squads who were even now making their way down the mountains either side of the refinery. Once the anti-aircraft weaponry was disabled, then the Thunderhawks could make their first pass and clear the gates and the front of the compound.

  ‘Target sighted. Estimate ten minutes to contact.’ Emareas’s voice was curt and clipped through the vox. Dyami suggested eight minutes. Emareas countered with seven. It seemed that the two squads were descending in relatively perfect symmetry. Matteus knew both sergeants well and didn’t doubt for a moment that they were engaged in what they referred to as ‘friendly’ competition as to who would succeed in their objective first. It was a moment of harmless frivolity that promoted enthusiasm.

  ‘Maintain contact,’ said Matteus. ‘Deploy together, whoever gets there first.’ He knew that they would, but it did not hurt to remind them.

  The winding column of Silver Skulls advancing determinedly towards the gate had closed to within a few hundred metres of the structure, coordinating their approach with that of the flanking squads. Daviks’s plan called for the assault to be simultaneous on all fronts and that goal was within moments of being achieved. Closeted within the billowing plumes of dust and shielded by their tanks, the Silver Skulls presented difficult targets for the traitors manning the turrets. Such an incidental detail did not stop them pouring fire on their attackers.

  Thunder rumbled once again in the mountains.

  The pict-feed was hazy and flickering, the interference caused by all the rubbish and debris in the heart of the Gildar Rift causing its usual problems. But it was adequate. From his vantage point far above the surface of the planet, Captain Daerys Arrun’s hands unconsciously closed into fists.

  ‘Purge them,’ he said in a voice so soft it could barely be heard. But it was perfectly pitched for the vox-net. Almost two hundred Silver Skulls warriors heard the words and they moved to contact.

  When that contact came, it was hard and it was relentless.

  The three attacking forces struck as a single unit. Inside the compound, several mortar teams had gone to work launching shells over the wall to shriek down onto the besieging Silver Skulls. The Vindicators continued to soak the worst of the damage, but their armour was showing pitting and scoring in dozens of places where solid rounds had chewed away at them. The shots were most assuredly no longer off target, but every shell that rang from the blocky vehicles spared the warriors behind. Direct hit after direct hit pounded the three tanks that shielded them. It was a potentially costly gamble, but the more the Vindicators drew enemy fire, the faster the enemy’s ammunition would deplete. Thus far at least, the strategy was proving itself.

  The previous silence of the company vox-net became a churning mass of orders, commands and updates. There was never any sense of hurry or sense of confused disorganisation. The Silver Skulls were created to be perfectly honed machines of war. They knew their objectives and they knew the plan. There was no need to question anything.

  During a momentary lull in the attack from the gate guns whilst the teams operating them reloaded, three of Daviks’s Devastators stepped down from the lead Rhino with calm assurance. Two were armed with heavy bolters which they trained on the gates and began to pound at them relentlessly with a steady stream of explosive shells. The third warrior was carrying a rocket launcher with practiced ease and at a single command from Daviks, aimed and fired at the nearest tower.

  The missile raced to its target on a plume of smoke, the warhead piercing the weapon mounting and bursting it apart with a thunderous explosion. Seconds later the ammunition hoppers detonated, consuming the turret in a ravening fire-storm. Screaming figures haloed with flame cascaded from the gate and fell to the hard earth far below whilst burning shrapnel from the destruction rained down on those both sides of the gates. It had been a direct hit, but then these were Space Marines heavily trained in siege warfare. The other gate turret had already begun firing again, this time turning away from the main force and directing its attentions specifically at the three Devastators.

  One of them took a shot to the shoulder. The armour soaked up the worst of the damage, but sent him staggering backwards, the heavy bolter in his hands which had been trained on the gate firing uselessly into the air.

  Sudden activity on either side of the compound caused a momentary distraction as aided by their jump packs the two Assault squads hurdled the walls and began the job of relieving the other guns of their crews. From where he stood, Matteus could see the thruster-glow of the Assault Marines as they worked.

  ‘Take those gates down,’ Daviks ordered.

  The centre-most of the three Vindicators, designation Judicious Requital, growled and began to advance towards the fortifications. Any of the enemy who suddenly found themselves in the unfortunate place of being right behind the gates were swiftly crushed beneath the weight of the heavily armoured vehicle as it tore right through the plasteel barriers of the promethium refinery. The flimsy portal was wrenched from its hinges without any real resistance. They had never been designed to withstand such an assault and gave way like tearing paper.

  ‘Advance!’ Matteus gave the command and the Silver Skulls poured in through the broken gates in a mercurial stream of gleaming silver. Weapons primed and ready, they began firing on the Red Corsairs who returned the attack with equal enthusiasm.

  This was no epic, sweeping field of battle. This was up close and very, very personal. The Silver Skulls merged with the mass of seething bodies and began to unleash hell upon them. Chainswords clashed in earnest, their motors screaming furiously. The teeth of the weapons ground together until they were worn to nothing, or the hilts began to pour with smoke. When that happened, the warriors moved to fighting with other weapons or even engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

  Any slaves caught up in the multitude of Space Marines were quickly dispatched; whether at the end of a blade, from a bolter shell or simply by being crushed in the mob. A number tried to defend themselves with what would have been commendable valour, but their status as traitors of the Imperium meant that there would be no memorial and never any commendation.

  Vox traffic finally began to become more frequent as the battling intensified and Matteus caught the pertinent points. Dyami and Emareas had successfully disabled the anti-aircraft guns and were even now engaged in their own fighting along the perimeter of the facility. The walls were already beginning to crumble, falling to dust under the combined firepower of the Vindicators. The frequent burst of flame from the Assault squad jump packs marked their bounding passage through the enemy.

  With the artillery disabled, the Thunderhawks would be able to deploy and offer air support at any time. The Devastators were reaping a bloody harvest of the enemy cultists, swathing through them and felling them with consummate ease. The majority of souls on the receiving end of the attack were killed outright; others lay wounded and dying across the compound.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ Matteus voxed. ‘There are less of them than I would have anti–’

  ‘Death to the False Emperor!’

  Matteus spun at the unholy shriek and faced an oncoming Red Corsair whose dented and pitted armour bore the original colours of the Astral Claws. A white-hot bolter muzzle was practically level with Matteus’s face and he ducked and spun, lashing out with his foot to catch his would-be attacker behind the knees, bringing him crashing down. He squeezed the trigger of his own bolter and the explosive shells slammed into his enemy’s chest, shattering the breastplate and sternum beneath. The Traitor Space Marine’s body convulsed in response to the impact and pitched forward. The corpse shuddered once and then stilled forev
er. There was no time for Matteus to rest on the laurels of satisfaction as he was jostled into the next fight. Everything was a blur.

  ‘Repeat last transmission, sergeant.’ Daviks was the epitome of calmness. Matteus, granted a brief moment of respite, lowered his bolter briefly and looked around the compound.

  ‘Their numbers are thinning exponentially. Much faster than we anticipated,’ he reported. ‘There is no way that this can possibly represent their full force if reports of Huron Blackheart’s activities are to be believed. There are perhaps…’ He cast his gaze around, letting the sensors in his helmet do their job. ‘Twenty? Maybe thirty of them. The rest are cultists and slaves. There is something deeply suspicious going on here.’

  ‘Break into fire teams. Search the buildings. My men will clear and hold the compound.’

  ‘Yes, Captain Daviks.’

  ‘Loading is almost complete, my lord.’

  Huron Blackheart grinned. A string of drool ran from his metallic mouth down his chin and hung there for a moment before puddling on the floor. He flexed his hands, the power claw chinking ominously.

  The facility had been stripped almost bare of anything that the Red Corsairs could use. Medical supplies, tools… even a short coffle of slaves had been bundled off.

  ‘What of the subject?’ The Corpsemaster nodded towards the room where his Silver Skulls captive lay. Blackheart’s grin twisted into a scowl. The Corpsemaster opened his mouth as though he would remind Blackheart of his promise, but the leader of the Red Corsairs spoke first.

  ‘He is singularly unimportant. Leave him there. Let his “brothers”...’ The single word was loaded with venomous contempt. ‘...find him. You said yourself that there is dissension in their ranks, did you not? Let him go back to them and ensure it eats at them from within. He may unwittingly be of far more use to us if we let him go than if we drag him with us.’

  No words passed between servant and master, but they locked wills silently for a few seconds.

  ‘It is a terrible waste of a subject,’ the Corpsemaster said, eventually. ‘But as my lord commands.’ There was a hint of spite in his voice, which delighted Blackheart.

  ‘Prepare to depart, Garreon. I am going to personally remind the Silver Skulls of our martial prowess and then I will join you.’

  ‘A foolish indulgence.’ The Corpsemaster’s scowl was almost as twisted as Blackheart’s own. It earned him a backhand from Huron Blackheart that sent him spinning. He careened into the wall which was the only thing that stopped him falling and from being completely humiliated.

  ‘A foolish indulgence perhaps. But a worthy one. Now go and carry out your orders as I have charged.’ With that casual dismissal, Huron Blackheart exited into the main compound, power already charging his claw to deliver killing blows.

  The Corpsemaster watched him go with fascination in his face, even as he raised his hand to rub at his jaw.

  It was Matteus who saw him first, but Daerys Arrun, watching events on the pict-screen was a very close second. Almost simultaneously, both of the Silver Skulls murmured his name, a peculiar mixture of hatred and disgust colouring their tones. Spinning from the sight, Arrun snatched up his helmet, worked into the half-skull of a Silver Skulls captain. He had already ensured that another wave of drop pods be put on standby should they be required. This, he was certain, was such an eventuality.

  He gathered a small retinue to travel with him and they made their way to the staging area. Arrun was so incensed, so furious, that he gave no thought to consulting his wounded Prognosticator laying in the apothecarion. His mind was focused on one thing and one thing only.

  Huron Blackheart had not left aboard the Spectre of Ruin. He was still on the world below. If Daerys Arrun had his way, then the planet would become his grave and he would be the one to drop the traitor into it.

  ‘Throne of Terra,’ breathed Matteus into the vox before he could give the command to search and clear. ‘The Tyrant of Badab. He is here!’

  He was huge, the bulk of his armour and the size of the power claw that dominated his appearance causing Huron Blackheart to loom menacingly wherever he went. His twisted, scarred, half-metal face was a rictus grin of self-indulgent amusement. Eyes, one mechanical and one inhuman beyond recognition, locked with those of the Silver Skulls sergeant and Matteus felt the acid taste of loathing in his mouth. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to simply launch himself at the foul traitor across the compound.

  He had no need to. Blackheart was bringing the fight to him. In an easy lope, curiously graceful given his bulk, the Master of the Red Corsairs was heading directly for Matteus.

  Decades of service and hours of endless training overrode the moment of intense revulsion and Matteus brought his bolter up, smoke still curling from its barrel. He could feel the shaking rage as he aimed the weapon. Every fibre of his being twisted in acrimony at Blackheart’s existence. To have turned his back on the Emperor’s light and the truth of the Imperium… it was a concept so alien to Matteus that it was completely incomprehensible.

  He fired the weapon, launching several shots at the approaching warrior, but the monster seemingly had the fortune of a daemon and the fortitude to match. Despite Matteus’s shot being perfectly on target, the first shell careened wildly to the side as though cast aside, tearing a chunk from the compound wall, while the second blew apart a cultist who stumbled fatally into its path. The third blasted a crater at Blackheart’s feet, but he didn’t even break his stride.

  ‘Impossible,’ breathed Matteus. He had seen Prognosticators defend themselves on the field of battle in such a way, but Blackheart was no psyker. The sergeant breathed, balanced himself mentally and physically and fired again. This time he scored a direct hit to Blackheart’s right shoulder, but it rebounded with a metallic chink, the prosthetics and augmetics turning the shell aside before it detonated.

  The traitor laughed. The sight and sound of that misplaced humour set Matteus’s blood to boiling and he snatched his combat blade from its place on his waist, the bolter transferring with comparative ease to his left hand.

  ‘Engaging the enemy,’ he voxed and his voice was more of a growl than words. A deep-rooted feral fury, the Varsavian birthright, was churning in his soul and the urge to kill and take a trophy was rising. The rushing tide of his blind anger lapped against a wall of steady calm. Keep level-headed, he told himself. For the Emperor, for Argentius and for the good of the Imperium, this will be done. Huron Blackheart must die.

  Blackheart was almost on top of him now, his power claw sweeping backwards ready for the strike. With a practiced flick of his thumb, Matteus switched the bolter to full automatic and exerted pressure on the trigger.

  The drop pod carrying Arrun and his retinue plummeted through the atmosphere, coming to a juddering stop just short of the other opened landing craft. There were a few of Daviks’s company remaining on alert at the shuttle terminal and they nodded their respects to the captain as he emerged.

  He had prepared his lightning claws on the way to the planet’s surface. They had ever been his personal close assault weapon of choice and he wielded them with deadly grace. More than once, when training with his peers, he had caused more than mild injuries, much to Ryarus’s rebuking consternation. He moved quickly and his skill as a strategist more than carried over into his ability as a combatant.

  Now out of the stifling confines of the drop pod and making his way with grim determination across the rocky terrain towards Primus-Phi, he felt the old familiar rush of adrenaline and combat hunger that he felt had been so long missing from his existence. He would never have refused the honour of his position when Lord Argentius had bestowed it upon him, but it had meant that opportunities to engage in field combat had been noticeably curtailed.

  As he jogged lightly down the dusty highway, he voxed to alert the kill squads to his presence.

  ‘This is Cap
tain Arrun. I am en route to the battle.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be minding ships or something?’ Daviks’s grumble was oddly welcoming. ‘Good to have you alongside us, old friend.’

  The stacks and pipework of the refinery loomed larger in Arrun’s vision as he approached. Any attempts to raise a response from Matteus had been met with nothing but bursts of static in response. If the sergeant was still engaged in battle with Blackheart...

  ‘Situation report,’ he demanded as he reached the shattered gates of the refinery. The fighting had all but died out in the immediate area, but for a few pockets of fierce resistance that were stubbornly holding their ground. The captain cast his eyes around the compound, seeking his quarry. ‘Where is he? Where is Lugft Huron?’

  ‘I am right here, Daerys Arrun.’

  The chirp in his ear from the vox-bead heralded a voice that was most certainly not one that belonged to any of his battle-brothers. It was a voice he had heard barely hours before and it did not bode well for Matteus’s fate.

  ‘You are far too late,’ continued Blackheart, vicious gloating in his voice. ‘But do not be too concerned. Your sergeant has no further need for his helmet now that he lacks a head for it to protect. Perhaps I should keep it as a trophy at the foot of my throne? What do you think?’

  The transmission was filled with a grinding, wheezing sound which Arrun realised with creeping loathing was laughter. ‘I will however extend my offer a second time, in case you have decided to come to your senses. Join your men with mine and the Silver Skulls will live to soar to new heights of mastery at my side.’

  ‘You are nothing but a warp-tainted monster with delusions of grandeur and your “offer” is nothing but an insult,’ Arrun responded through gritted teeth, the twin blades of grief and incandescent rage piercing him to the quick.