Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Do as you are ordered, brother.’ Arrun clicked off the connection with Correlan and gave the order to the bike squad to send support. Two of the riders immediately peeled off from the pack that was up ahead and raced away into the complex.

  The nearby barking of bolter fire drew Arrun’s attention and he doubled his pace, covering the distance with long, powerful strides. He emerged from the warren of buildings into a plaza tiled with ferrocrete slabs and littered with tumbled plastek cargo containers. The squad of bikes had drawn up in the cover of one of the fallen stacks and with the support of some of Daviks’s Devastators were engaged in a furious firefight with a defensive line of Red Corsairs. Behind the traitors, the panelled walls of several maglev cargo pods could be seen, though the bulk of the train remained out of sight.

  Above the roar of battle, Arrun could hear a rising thrum that peaked just above the subsonic and caused particles of debris to jump and dance. It was the sound of a gravitic engine spooling up, the sound of Blackheart making his escape. Arrun growled, a deep predatory sound in the back of his throat and jogged through the whickering shells to where the Devastator sergeant crouched.

  ‘Break that line,’ the captain commanded. ‘If that train leaves, we lose our best chance to keep the enemy contained.’ He scanned the plaza quickly, drawing a hail of desultory fire from the Red Corsairs and then gestured to the largest mass of crates. ‘Concentrate your efforts there,’ he ordered and then turned to the bikers. ‘Malachite, follow me in.’

  The Devastators drew their weapons together as one, twin streams of bolter shells stitching ragged holes in the fallen crates and blasting several Corsairs from their feet. Barely a moment later, the barricade disintegrated in a white-hot flare of searing fire, leaving nothing but molten ruin in its wake. The Silver Skull with the plasma cannon lowered the smouldering weapon and Arrun surged past him, a feral cry roaring from his lips.

  Bolts ripped through the air around him, gouging fist-sized chunks from the fallen crates, peppering him with debris and shrapnel. He was half way across the plaza when a well-placed shot blasted a crater in his pauldron, almost sending him spinning from his feet. Raw tenacity and determination pushed him forward. Then the bikers of Malachite surrounded him like a vanguard and the wave of Silver Skulls stormed into the breach.

  Smoke and vapour still filled the hollow created by the plasma cannon and Arrun put his trust unreservedly in the senses of his armour as he waded into the enemy position. He felt one of the bikes speed past behind him, the displaced air pulling the smoke into lazy coils. A Red Corsair lunged forward out of the fog and Arrun parried with his claws, tearing the traitor’s weapon into useless ribbons of metal before gutting him with the energised blades. The chatter of bolter fire drew his attention to the left and he hurried out of the obfuscating cloud into the open.

  The Red Corsairs were in retreat, falling back in groups of five and using the available cover to mask their movements. Several had already mounted bikes of their own and Arrun recognised the modified insignia of the Iron Hunters, the swift raiders of the Astral Claws. His own warriors were weaving in and out of the stacked crates, harassing the traitors with bursts of fire from their weapons. He took all of this in at a glance. Then the bass throb of the gravitic engines vanished with an almost audible pop and the maglev accelerated away from the plaza.

  16

  Pursuit

  His lightning claws retracted into the gauntlet with smooth, well-oiled precision. Like all of the Silver Skulls, Arrun spent a great deal of time scrupulously maintaining his wargear. There were, of course, serfs and artificers indentured to the Chapter who performed much of the work, but as captain, he had always taken particular pride in doing the job himself. The slightest fault in their performance could spell the difference between life and death.

  The gauntlets themselves were beautiful weapons, relics fashioned for the Chapter armoury in a time so long before, and none were living now to tell whose they had originally been. Handed down from captain to protégé over the centuries, they had come into Arrun’s possession a hundred years previously. Opulent and intricately designed skulls decorated the back of them, the cabling of the power field generators snaking through the insignia. He had fought with them since his elevation to captain and whilst not every engagement called for their singularly brutal style, they were always his preferred method of dispatching the enemy. Like most Varsavian-born Silver Skulls, Daerys Arrun had a core ferocity and fearlessness that made him a terrifying foe in close combat.

  He flexed his hands briefly and twisted the throttle of the armoured bike that he had commandeered. The maglev train had quickly picked up speed, but the captain was confident that he could easily catch up to it. What he did once he got there, of course, was an entirely different matter. He would consider those options when the moment demanded it.

  He had ordered one of the bike squad to hand over his vehicle and had made the spontaneous decision to lead the pursuit into the tunnel. With the loss of his best Apothecary and the countless deaths of so many good Space Marines, Arrun’s desire to end the traitors once and for all was a nigh-unstoppable force to be reckoned with. It had been many years since he had ridden such a vehicle into battle and he revelled, for the briefest of moments, in the speed and power it granted him.

  There was something strangely exhilarating about living life in the moment and not having to be beholden to a Prognosticator’s will. He had allowed himself, for the first time in many years, to simply react to a situation. Inteus had been part of the detachment corralling troops back for extraction. Arrun’s absence would doubtless be questioned shortly, but for now at least, he was engaged in pursuit. That was where he should be. Leading from the front.

  The bike growled easily under his control and with his head down against the buffeting wind, he led the pursuit squad into the tunnel directly after the train. It was only once they were swallowed by the subterranean darkness and were making their way across the undulating, rocky surface of the tunnel’s floor, that the dangers of the manoeuvre were revealed.

  The passage snaked its way through the interior of the mountains that covered much of the planet’s surface and had very evidently been carved out with industrial-grade meltas. The floor and walls were smooth and rippled, vitrified by nuclear heat. The tunnel was only a couple of metres wider than the train itself and obstructed throughout by supporting pylons running down its centre. The Space Marines were skilled enough to weave their way between them but it severely limited their manoeuvrability.

  It required consummate skill to negotiate the hazards the tunnel presented and the Silver Skulls had plenty of that. Not only was there the uneven ground to cope with, but the speed of their pursuit was such that the smallest error in judgement or lapse of concentration could easily prove catastrophic, even to the heightened reactions of a Space Marine.

  The bikes tore down the passage behind the train, powerful engines roaring like bestial predators. The maglev itself was a massive thing with no fewer than thirty or forty cars, all of which were no doubt filled with promethium and other assets that the Red Corsairs had stripped from the facility. Somewhere inside – most likely at the fore section – was Blackheart. The urge to reach him, the need to end his tenure once and for all was desperate and Arrun urged the bike forward.

  ‘As soon as the opportunity presents itself then we begin boarding and eliminate any remaining traitors,’ Arrun said across the vox when they reached a section of the tunnel that didn’t require quite so much of his concentration. ‘We need to advance to the control car and shut it down; stop this vehicle travelling any further than is necessary. That is our priority. That – and providing covering fire, of course.’

  His voice crackled and distorted across the channel, interference from the maglev tracks and from the fact that they were deep within the belly of the mountains. Vague voices hissed in his ear, not one of them completely clear. He had
to hope that the message had gotten through. None of the bike squad asked Arrun what his own priority was. They already knew.

  The captain raised a gauntleted hand and pointed ahead. There were at least the same number of Red Corsairs bikers travelling beneath the train in much the same way that they were. The two groups would converge imminently and any fighting that took place would be swift and brutal.

  Nodding in understanding, the Silver Skulls gunned their engines harder and picked up speed as they approached the enemy.

  ‘Enemy in pursuit,’ came the vox report, just as broken and distorted as Arrun’s had been to his men. Huron Blackheart laughed in sheer exuberant delight. Drool slavered down his chin and he made no effort to wipe it clear. The Corpsemaster, who stood beside him in the front car of the train, watched dispassionately. There were times when he had difficulty reconciling the former might and glory of the Tyrant of Badab with the insanity that had all but swallowed him. His service to Blackheart was eternally loyal, of course; that was never in question. But there were times when he ached to take Blackheart apart physically just to find out what made him who he was. The Tyrant’s behaviour could easily be attributed to the trials he had undergone, of course, but that didn’t quell the Corpsemaster’s curiosity.

  What secrets lurked in the darkest corners of Huron Blackheart’s brain?

  ‘Slaughter them,’ Blackheart retorted. ‘I want to drag their worthless carcasses behind this train like banners. If they will not join with us, then they will not live to regret it.’

  The Corpsemaster considered him for a moment, then spoke. He had never hesitated to speak his mind before and yet he felt a certain reluctance at uttering his next words. He could anticipate, without any of the foresight that was so prevalent in the Silver Skulls, exactly what Blackheart’s response would be. His instincts did not fail him this time.

  ‘You should perhaps consider uncoupling the cargo, my lord,’ he said in his soft whisper. ‘We will make better haste without its weight holding us back. The Silver Skulls are fierce, tenacious and they will not stop until they have eliminated us. We have made our impact here. Why should we ling–’

  He never finished the sentence and had no time to regret his poorly chosen advice. In a swift movement, Blackheart’s power claw had closed around his body and thrust the Apothecary up against the interior of the train. The steel wall groaned and buckled under the pressure and a nearby armaplas window burst, filling the space with roaring wind. Bigger and more powerful by far than the Corpsemaster, the latter was wise enough not to attempt resistance. Mad eyes – one biological, the other mechanical – stared ferociously at the Apothecary. Saliva flew from Blackheart’s misshapen mouth as he screamed his fury over the howling gale.

  ‘Never, ever suggest to me that an enemy stands a hope of defeating us. If we believed that every time we engaged, we would have been wiped out decades past. I have never given up a prize willingly, Apothecary.’ His fist closed more tightly around the Corpsemaster and his armour creaked alarmingly. Hairline cracks appeared in the breastplate under the stress of the grip. ‘I have never given up a prize and you can rest assured that I will not be starting today. Is that clear? I propose that you refrain from giving me advice that is not asked for.’

  The Corpsemaster nodded, a spare movement that was all that Blackheart’s constrictive grip allowed him to make. Sneering, Blackheart released him and turned away, his anger gone as quickly as it had come. ‘When we have finished our work on this forsaken rock, we will look to deal this Chapter a fatal blow. We will look to strike at their heart. Not immediately of course, but some time in the future when they think that everything is under control and that their ridiculous Corpse-God once again favours them.’

  ‘You plan to attack Varsavia?’

  ‘Exactly, Garreon.’ A smile of infinite cruelty played around Blackheart’s lipless mouth. ‘But not only Varsavia. We will speak with our Silver Skulls guests and we will have them reveal the locations of their other recruiting worlds. Once we have that information, we will plunder them. We will take their able-bodied and make them our own. From what we know, their numbers are dwindling. Imagine how much further towards our embrace they will run when they realise who it is that has stolen their future from beneath their blinkered gaze.’ A gurgling laugh emitted from his ruined throat. ‘They may search the whole length of the Imperium for us, but we can easily hide. By the time they track us down, their recruits will be ours.’

  The presence that always lingered around his master like a fusty scent stirred at the passion in Blackheart’s words and the leader of the Red Corsairs listened to encouraging, secret whispers that only he could hear. The Corpsemaster could scent the faintest hint of ozone in the air, as though a psyker were using their powers. He felt discomfited.

  ‘An excellent plan, my lord,’ he affirmed eventually, his voice slightly strained whilst his vocal cords untangled themselves. ‘And one in which I can see no truly obvious flaws. There must be no continued existence for those who will not see the truth. We will take their futures from them.’ It was a regurgitation of words that Blackheart had spoken many times before and they were spoken almost as a matter of rote.

  ‘I am glad we at least agree on that, Garreon.’ Blackheart stooped to pick up the massive axe that he favoured as his support weapon. He ran one of the crooked fingers of his power claw down its length with a lingering, metallic screech that would set even the teeth of other Space Marines on edge.

  The Corpsemaster turned from Blackheart, feigning great interest in the darkness of the tunnel ahead. To look at his master’s face was to stare into the very maw of madness and despite his own arguable levels of borderline insanity, the Corpsemaster had never been able to manage it for more than a few seconds.

  Dropping back from the main escort, two Red Corsairs bikers slid their vehicles sideways in the narrow confines of the tunnel before turning to face the oncoming Silver Skulls. The engines screamed in protest at the abrupt nature of the manoeuvre and then changed their direction. Now the traitors were racing headlong towards the Silver Skulls, their bolters roaring.

  It was not much of a diversion or even that much of a delaying tactic and Arrun wondered what it was that they were trying to achieve. The lead Silver Skulls bikers returned fire with the twin-linked bolters on the armoured fairings of their vehicles. The tunnel was briefly filled with blistering crossfire as the rapidly approaching bikers sought to unseat their enemies. Shells chewed the passage walls and burst against the thickly plated vehicles but fortune and numbers were on the side of the Silver Skulls.

  One of the two Red Corsairs bikes blew apart in a cloud of greasy smoke and debris, its rider thrown clear and crashing heavily against the rock side of the tunnel. Blue sparks marked his passage as he scraped along the stone surface. It did little to impede the speed of his transit and he finally came to a halt some six or seven metres behind the Silver Skulls. He lay still and unmoving, whether injured or stunned it was impossible to tell. There was no time to consider whether or not he remained a threat.

  The other enemy biker skidded briefly as his companion was unseated, but maintained his balance as he continued to ride towards them. His face could not be seen behind the helm he wore, but Arrun fancied there was a look of grim determination. Were that the case, then it was a look that would not last very long. A further exchange of fire shredded the front wheel of his vehicle and burst his skull in a welter of gore. The headless corpse maintained its grip on the bike for a few seconds before it slackened, then the bike and rider toppled and fell, sliding and screeching along the floor of the tunnel.

  Hopelessly out of control, it careened into the Silver Skulls, causing three of them to overbalance and come off their own bikes. The others swerved as much as they possibly could to avoid the situation, but there was very little manoeuvring space.

  What had seemed a pointless waste of life on the part of the Red Corsa
irs had proven to be a surprisingly canny move, blocking the passage until they were able to recover their vehicles. As for moving the corpse of the enemy out of the way, there was no need. The heavy bikes were perfectly able to grind over the armoured body with the minimum of difficulty.

  For good measure, one of the riders at the back turned to the unmoving body of the first biker and fired on him with the meltagun he carried. The battered ceramite armour explosively vaporised under the weapon’s fury and within scant seconds, all that remained of the rider were his melted gauntlets and a few other scraps of armour. He would most assuredly present no threat now.

  Following this moment of cold – but necessary – brutality, the Silver Skulls resumed their pursuit, but the maglev had pulled further away from them during the brief altercation.

  Gunning the throttle, pulling it round as far as the mechanism would let him, Arrun’s front wheel briefly left the ground. He inched his bike ahead of the others, taking the lead. He was not going to let the traitors get away if he could do anything at all to prevent it. As they rounded a bend in the tunnel, several figures could barely be made out in silhouette as they mounted the top of the train.

  Seconds later, the pursuing Silver Skulls were being subjected to covering fire. They increased their speed, tucking in as close as possible to the underside of the maglev rail and making themselves difficult targets. They wove masterfully in and out of the slender struts, describing strangely graceful figures of eight. Their control over the bikes was consummate and despite the hail of fire, they dodged and avoided without any seeming difficulty. The Red Corsairs, robbed of their moving targets, began firing instead at the tunnel walls. Rock and shell shrapnel ricocheted off the Silver Skulls, peppering them with tiny, razor-sharp projectiles and filling the tunnel with choking dust.

  They pressed onward, passing several carriages and promethium hoppers, coaxing more speed from the bikes until they were more than halfway up the length of the maglev. Riding beneath the rail proved to be a good tactic, but it forced the Silver Skulls into a slower pace that Arrun found unacceptable. Every part of his being burned with the need to reach Huron Blackheart and these delaying techniques on the part of the Red Corsairs were unnecessary obstacles in his way. Enough, he determined. It was time to make his move.