The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Astador had already offered him the chance to partake in one of their barbaric blood rituals before the battle, but he had refused, marching away in disgust before doing something he might regret.

  ‘Courage and honour!’ he bellowed as the first bloated creatures moved sluggishly forward, tensioned, bony arms stretching back to launch their organic bombs.

  THE TASTE OF blood still strong in his mouth, Chaplain Astador watched the unyielding figure of Learchus as he stood ramrod-straight with his warriors. He knew Learchus was a great warrior, but Astador knew he could never be anything beyond that.

  His ghost-self had only recently returned to his body and his spirit still rebelled at its incarceration in the prison of flesh. Briefly Astador considered telling Learchus what the spirits of his ancestors had shown him, but shook his head and returned his gaze to the advancing tyranids.

  What would be the point in telling him?

  He would not be thankful for the knowledge that his captain was going to die.

  A PUNISHING TWO-HOUR barrage of spores hammered the District Quintus wall, wreathing the ramparts in drifting clouds of toxic vapours. High winds channelled down the length of the valley dispersed much of the poisonous filth, but interspersed with the gaseous spores were those that sprayed acidic viruses upon detonation. Huge portions of the parapet dissolved into puddles of molten rock, sliding down the face of the wall like thick rivulets of wax.

  A section of the southern rampart slid from the liquefying ground, sending a trio of Mortifactors tumbling to the base of the wall. They smashed through the thin ice of the moat, plunging beneath the icy waters only to rise minutes later as they swam to the surface.

  Learchus watched the black-armoured Space Marines take up firing stances as the hordes of aliens surged forwards in one homogenous mass. Immediately, he could see this was no normal attack, but a concerted hammer-blow designed to

  smash through their defences. The smaller, leaping organisms streamed forwards, a chittering black tide that covered the ground. Gunfire hammered their numbers, but such casualties were insignificant next to the size of the overall attack.

  The weight of so many creatures broke the ice of the moat with an almighty crack and thousands of organisms plunged into its subzero waters. They kept coming, the vast numbers of frozen bodies in the moat providing a means of crossing for those behind.

  Giant clawed beasts with entire broods of hissing aliens encased in their armour plates charged, throwing up great chunks of ice as they powered forward. Scorpion beasts that Learchus had not seen before scuttled forward, streaming weapons formed from bony outgrowths in their midsections firing at the wall.

  Lightning-sheathed beasts with vast, slashing claws slithered, snake-like, towards them, arcs of energy lashing the wall and blasting free tank-sized chunks of rockcrete.

  Learchus opened a channel to Major Satria of the Erebus Defence Legion.

  ‘Lead your men forwards now, Major. Pattern alpha one.’

  ‘ARE YOU SURE you’re ready for this, sir?’ asked Major Satria as he jogged towards the wall.

  ‘I’m sure, major. Now stop fussing,’ chided Sebastien Montante as he breathlessly tried to keep up with the major and the five thousand Defence Legion troopers. His webbing was loose and he was sweating profusely in his overwhites.

  His lasgun felt like it weighed as much as a lascannon, but he was glad of its reassuring feel. He felt powerful just carrying it and only hoped he remembered how to fire it when the time came to fight.

  DEEP IN THE many caves that riddled the high peaks of the eastern valley a keening screech built to a deafening howl that echoed around the upper echelons of the city. Many of the gargoyles that had penetrated the aerial cover of Erebus thanks to Simon van Gelder’s treachery had been hunted down and killed, but a great many had not. The majority of these had been simple warrior organisms bred to fly, but nine had been much more.

  Secreted in the deepest caves, the gargoyle brood-mothers had obeyed the overmind’s command to nest and produce more of its kin. Driven into a frenzy of reproduction, the brood mothers had since expired, but not before giving birth to thousands upon thousands of offspring.

  As the assault began on the wall, an implacable imperative seized the nesting gargoyles who took to the air in their thousands, and a black tide of monsters screeched from their hiding places to attack.

  ‘YOU GOT THEM, lieutenant?’ asked Captain Morten, tensing his fingers on the Fury’s control column.

  ‘Yes,’ snarled Keill Pelaur. The attack logister can’t keep up with all the signals it’s getting. ‘The bio-ships are altering formation to face us, but they’re slow. We’ll be on them before they’re properly aligned.’

  Morten grinned beneath his oxygen mask.

  The target information on Pelaur’s slate was being echoed on his own display and the sheer numbers they were about to face were beyond anything in the squadron’s history.

  Fitting then, that this should be its last battle.

  A rune on Morten’s armaments panel flashed, indicating that he was within his missiles’ optimum kill range.

  He opened a channel to the aircraft he led.

  ‘All craft open fire!’

  He pulled the trigger on the control column twice in quick succession, shouting, ‘For the Vincennes’

  Scores of missiles leapt from beneath the wings of hundreds of aircraft, streaking upwards towards the tyranid fleet. They had to punch a hole through the screen for the Thunderhawk. All other concerns were secondary.

  The gap was rapidly closing between the two forces and Morten knew it would get real ugly, real quick. Even as he watched, the enemy creatures smoothly moved into blocking positions, scores of smaller, faster creatures moving to intercept them.

  ‘Stay sharp,’ called Morten, ‘the enemy is turning into us.’

  The initial volley had cut a swathe through the outer screen of tyranid spores, but hundreds more remained, all closing on his aerial armada. A lesser man might have been cowed, but

  Owen Morten was a born and bred Fury pilot who lived for combat.

  He pulled into a shallow climb and armed his last missiles.

  Almost as soon as he’d done so, he and his squadron were tangled up in a madly spinning dogfight with dozens of fleshy, spore creatures that spun and wove almost as fast as the Furies. Morten rolled hard left, catching sight of a speeding organism and followed it down.

  ‘I’m too close for a missile shot!’ he yelled, switching to guns as the creature tried to shake him.

  Every move the creature made, the Fury was with it, spinning around like insects in a bizarre mating ritual. The beast flashed across his gunsight and he pulled the trigger.

  ‘Got you, you bastard!’ he roared as bright lasbolts ripped the tyranid beast in two.

  ‘Captain! Break right!’ screamed Pelaur as a spuming bolt of light speared past the Fury’s canopy.

  He pulled around and breathed deeply, amazed at how close their near miss had been. He eased back on the throttle and switched back to missiles.

  A warbling tone in his ear told him the missile’s war-spirit had found a target and he pulled the trigger again.

  ‘Captain!’ called Erin Harlen. ‘You’ve got one right behind you!’

  Morten hauled right and checked his rear, twisting his Fury in an attempt to shake the pursuing organism.

  ‘I can’t get rid of it!’ swore Morten as the beast matched his wild manoeuvrings.

  ‘It’s firing!’ shouted Pelaur.

  ‘Breaking left!’ answered Morten, rolling hard and kicking in the afterburner. He felt his flight suit expand and his heartbeat race.

  A bolt of crackling energy spat below him and he spun the plane round in a screaming, tight turn, chopping the throttle and almost stalling the engine.

  The creature tried to match his turn, but was too slow.

  Morten rolled inverted and pulled in behind the pulsing organism, lining it up in his sights and firing.
<
br />   Bolts from the lascannon shredded the creature and it exploded in a bloody spray.

  Listening to the vox-chatter, he heard screams and imprecations from the rest of the aircraft. The tyranids were slaughtering them, but he couldn’t think about that just now. Not while there was a battle still to be fought. But as he scanned the space before him, he could see they’d blown a gap. The Thunderhawk was streaking through it, the blue glare of its plasma engines bright against the darkness of the massive hive ship’s stony carapace.

  Then he saw a giant, winged creature with spitting, electrical mandibles powering after the Space Marine gunship. Arcs of crackling energies lashed the Thunderhawk again and again, and Morten could see it wouldn’t survive much longer.

  His flight suit was soaked with perspiration and he knew he was at the edge of exhaustion, but he pushed out the engines to follow the Thunderhawk.

  URIEL FELT THE gunship lurch, and leaping streaks of blue energy sparked from the fuselage. The pilot threw them in a series of wild turns, but Thunderhawks had never been designed for dogfights and Uriel knew it was only a matter of time before whatever was pursuing them was able to destroy them. Weapons and ammo packs tumbled from the lockers above him.

  He pushed clear of the restraint harness and rose to his feet, turning to retrieve the weapon Inquisitor Kryptman had given him. To lose it now would end their mission before it had begun. He staggered as another impact smashed into the gunship. Flames erupted from a shattered fuel line and warning klaxons screamed.

  Yet another hammer-blow struck the rear quarter of the Thunderhawk and one of the vision ports blew out with a decompressive boom.

  Rushing air howled from the gunship, and Uriel felt his rage growing. They could not fail. Not after coming so close.

  But as further impacts rocked the Thunderhawk, he knew they could not survive another.

  CAPTAIN OWEN MORTEN pushed the Fury as fast as it could go. His fighter streaked past the tyranid organism pummelling the Thunderhawk as he armed the last of his missiles.

  A flickering blue glow illuminated the interior of the Fury as bolts of lightning lashed from the mandibles of the creature. Fully six times the size of the Fury, Morten knew that only a direct hit on its most vulnerable location would destroy it.

  ‘Captain!’ shouted Pelaur, ‘ease back on the throttle or we won’t have enough fuel to get back to the planet.’

  ‘We’re not going back,’ said Morten calmly as he neatly slotted the Fury between the giant tyranid beast and the Thunderhawk.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ screamed Pelaur.

  ‘What needs to be done,’ answered Morten, cutting the engines and spinning the Fury on its axis until it had turned a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

  The crackling maw of the tyranid beast filled his canopy. Giant arcs of lighting enveloped the Fury. Sparks and flames filled the cockpit.

  Captain Morten pulled the trigger, sending his last missile straight down the monster’s throat.

  URIEL FELT A huge detonation behind the gunship, and awaited the inevitable destruction of the Thunderhawk. But the fatal blow never landed and the Thunderhawk levelled out, weaving through the hail of spores that gathered around the monstrous hive ship.

  He made his way up the central aisle of the gunship towards the cockpit. All he could see ahead was the craggy cliff of the hive ship’s hide. Inquisitor Kryptman had shown them the most likely locations of possible entry points, and he scanned the grey moonscape before him for one.

  The aerial armada had got them through and now it was time to make good on that sacrifice.

  ‘There!’ he said, pointing to a rippling, fleshy orifice on the side of the gargantuan creature, organic waste venting through it into space by peristaltic motion of flesh. A ribbed sphincter muscle expanded as more waste was expelled and Uriel knew they had found what they had come for.

  ‘Hurry! If what Inquisitor Kryptman says is true, it will close in seconds!’

  The pilot deftly guided the gunship forward, increasing power to the engines as the fleshy orifice began to contract.

  Only as they approached did Uriel realise how vast it was, fully sixty metres in diameter.

  Before it could close completely, the Thunderhawk sped into the ribbed, fleshy tunnel beyond.

  Truly they were in the belly of the beast, thought Uriel as the sphincter vent closed and the faint light of the stars was snuffed out.

  LEARCHUS SWEPT HIS chainsword through the neck of yet another tyranid creature, his blade clogged with alien meat and gristle. His bolter had long since run out of shells and he fought two-handed with his blade.

  Clotted blood caked his shoulder where a screeching monster twice the height of a man had gained the walls and torn through his armour. The wall was a charnel house of alien and human dead. Cracked pillars and columns clustered at the wall’s edge were hung with gory spatters of blood and entrails that spilled over the icy ground, making it treacherous underfoot. Learchus fought for balance with every step he took.

  Major Satria fought alongside him, stabbing with his bayonet and firing with his lasgun whenever he had the chance to reload. Beside him, Fabricator Montante fought with desperation and courage, if not skill. Learchus had already saved his life on numerous occasions and though it was foolish of Montante to be here, he was forced to admire his bravery.

  ‘Warriors of Ultramar hold fast!’ bellowed Learchus.

  Drifting spores exploded amongst the battling warriors, but they refused to give way. He kicked out at a screeching hormagaunt as it scrabbled over the lip of the wall, sending its shattered skull spinning to the heaving mass of aliens below.

  Over the deafening clash of battle at the wall, Learchus heard the roar of guns behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder to see who was shooting. The few remaining Hydra flak tanks were firing eastwards and his hearts skipped a beat as he saw the impenetrable black cloud of gargoyles sweeping down the length of the valley.

  ‘Guilliman save us…’ whispered Learchus as he took in the numbers of enemy now closing on their rear.

  ‘Astador!’ he yelled over the vox.

  ‘I see them!’ replied the Chaplain.

  The Hydras punched holes in the swarm, but Learchus could see the sheer scale of the attack would defeat them.

  SEBASTIEN MONTANTE FOUGHT with a strength and courage he never knew he possessed. His arms ached from the fighting, but he was filled with elation at finally having proven himself worthy of the mantle of leadership of this world. He ducked behind a fluted pillar as he reached for a fresh energy cell for his lasgun. A Space Marine fell beside him, a smoking crater blasted in his armour where his chest had been.

  Sebastien hastily reloaded and spun around the pillar, opening up on a swarm of scuttling creatures with wide, webbed hands circling behind Learchus and Major Satria.

  He felled three with a single burst of full auto and crippled a fourth as a giant shadow reared over him.

  Sebastien spun and raised his rifle. A lashing, spined whip hacked his gun in two and spun him from his feet. He scrambled upright, using the pillar for support and fumbled for his sabre as the huge warrior organism towered above him. Its bony carapace was brightly patterned with crimson streaks and its hissing jaws seemed to leer at him as the writhing whips on the end of its upper limb lashed out again.

  Sebastien screamed as the razor-edged tendril gouged his flesh, binding him to the pillar as it tightened. The monster’s claws reached out towards him…

  Then Learchus was there, hacking through the fleshy lash with his sword and spinning inside the monster’s guard. Its claws closed around his body as he stabbed his blade through its hard, chitinous plates. It screamed and gouged great holes in Learchus’s armour.

  Sebastien struggled to free himself, but gave up as the talons embedded in the whip’s length continued to bite deep into his flesh.

  Learchus roared as he finally drove his sword through the beast’s throat and Major Satria rushed over
to help.

  A black shadow passed overhead and Sebastien saw a teeming multitude of creatures descend on the defenders at the wall. The carnage was terrible as men were lifted up and clawed to death by this new foe. As the resistance at the wall began to disintegrate, Major Satria unsheathed his knife.

  ‘Soon have you free, my lord,’ he said, moving around the back of the pillar.

  Sebastien nodded, in too much pain to reply.

  Then he saw a massive set of ridged claws hammer into the rampart and a vast, gurgling beast haul its incredible bulk over the wall. A flock of creatures, red and black, with the same webbed fists as those he’d killed, scuttled from the folds of its flesh and raced towards them.

  ‘Major…’ he croaked, too quietly to be heard.

  The beasts paused, raising their bizarre looking hands, as though they were waving at him and the ridiculousness of the thought almost made him want to laugh.

  Their fists expanded, as though filling with air and suddenly dozens of sharp spines blasted from their hands and slashed towards him.

  He screamed as he felt them penetrate his flesh. How many he didn’t know, all he could feel was pain and fire racing around his body. He sagged against the barbed alien cord binding him to the pillar, his body pierced by dozens of long organic spines. His head sagged on his neck and he saw a spreading pool of blood expanding around his boots.

  He heard someone shout his name, but everything was growing dim and he couldn’t make out who.

  Then everything went black and consciousness slipped away.

  URIEL CLIMBED DOWN from the battered Thunderhawk and stepped onto the soft, spongy flesh of the hive ship’s interior. Inquisitor Kryptman’s weapon was stored in a holster at his hip. It didn’t fit exactly, but was close enough not to matter.

  A diffuse green light lit up the ribbed chamber they found themselves in, its vastness filled with pungent fumes and knee-deep organic effluent. The stench was indescribable and Uriel turned down his olfactory auto-senses before his disgust overwhelmed him.