The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  When it came time for Pavel Leforto to die he would have the legacy of his wife’s memories and his children’s lives to proclaim that he existed, that he had enriched the Emperor’s realms for a brief span with his labours.

  What would Brother-Captain Uriel Ventris leave behind?

  A lifetime dedicated to the service of the Emperor, to the service of Humanity, even though he was no longer part of it? He only dimly remembered his parents, they had been dead for almost a century now, their memory a distant shadow, eclipsed by decades of devotion to the Chapter and the Emperor. There was nothing left to remind him of his humanity, no family and few friends. Once he was gone it would be as though he had never existed.

  Uriel had sacrificed his chance to experience such a life the instant he had become an Ultramarines novice.

  And knowing this, would he have been so willing to become a Space Marine had he realised the enormity of what he was sacrificing to become one of the Emperor’s elite?

  Uriel smiled, his features softening as the answer was suddenly so clear that he was amazed he had even questioned it.

  Yes. He would have. In giving up the chance for a normal life, he had gained something far greater. The chance to make a difference. The chance to stand defiant before the enemies of Mankind and hold back the tide of degenerate aliens, traitorous heretics and servants of Chaos that sought dominion over the Emperor’s realm.

  That was something to be proud of. His strength came from ancient technology that made him stronger, faster and more deadly than any warrior had ever been before. He had sacrificed his chance to be truly human and, yes, he stood apart from the mass of Humanity, but countless lives would have been lost but for his sacrifice.

  That was a noble gift and he was thankful for what and who he was.

  Uriel smiled to himself as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  SNOWDOG WINCED AS he limped over to the bed where Silver lay asleep. His side hurt like a cast-iron bitch and the swelling on his face didn’t seem to want to go down. He pulled the blanket up over Silver and brushed a strand of white hair from her face.

  She stirred, opening her eyes and reaching up to touch his braised face.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, yourself. How you feeling?’

  She groaned as she pushed herself upright. ‘Terrible. Next dumb question?’

  Snowdog leaned down to kiss her, his cracked ribs flaring painfully.

  She saw the pain in his eyes and chuckled.

  ‘Some time, huh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he agreed, ‘some time.’

  ‘So what’s next for us, then?’

  Snowdog didn’t reply immediately, glancing over his shoulder into the front room of the abandoned hab-unit they’d commandeered as a temporary base. Lex and Tigerlily played dice and Jonny Stomp snored loudly on a bed of rolled-up coats.

  He’d lost most of what he’d lifted from the wreck of the crashed ship and as he looked at the shotgun and lasgun lying on the floor he smiled.

  ‘Looks like it’s business as usual, honey,’ he said. ‘Business as usual.’

  DEAD SKY

  BLACK SUN

  ‘He that fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster!’

  PROLOGUE

  DISTANT HAMMER BLOWS from monstrous engines reverberated through the chamber, echoing from the Halls of the Savage Morticians far below, rising alongside noxious tendrils of acrid vapours and agonised screams. Leering gargoyles of pressed and riveted iron ringed the chamber’s dizzyingly high, arched ceiling and the tops of impossibly huge, pillar-like pistons, each one wreathed in greasy steam, ground rhythmically up and down through wide, skull-rimmed holes that ran along its edges.

  A great chasm in the obsidian floor billowed scalding steam in roiling waves of heat and was crossed by a gantry of studded iron decking that rested upon massively thick girders, which in turn were supported on chains whose oily links were as thick as a man’s torso.

  Lit by a hot, orange glow from a snaking ribbon of molten metal at the chasm’s base, many hundreds of metres below, the chamber reeked of sulphurous fumes and the searing, bitter taste of beaten metal. The gantry led towards a massive, cyclopean wall of dark-veined stone, pierced by a great, iron gate that had been tempered in an ocean of blood during its forging. Studded with jagged black spikes, the inner gate of the fortress of Khalan-Ghol was flanked by two armoured colossi, whose burnished iron hides were scarred by millennia of war. The gate led to the inner halls of the fortress’s new master, and both daemon-visaged Titans, hung with the blighted banners of the Legio Mortis, raised fearsome guns – capable of laying waste to cities – to track a dozen figures who dared approach the gate.

  The terrible enormity of the chamber did not faze the warriors who marched towards the groaning bridge: they had seen such sights before. Indeed, the leader of this group of warriors hailed from a citadel far more ancient and monolithic than this.

  Lord Toramino, warsmith of the Iron Warriors, curled his lip in contempt as he raised his altered eyes to stare down the barrels of the Titans’ weapons. If the half-breed thought such a vulgar display of power would intimidate him, then he was even more foolish than his inferior lineage would suggest. They had passed through the fortress’s gatehouse three days ago, travelling unchallenged by any of the half-breed’s warriors, though Toramino had felt supernatural eyes upon them ever since. No doubt warlocks of the kabal were watching them even now, but Toramino could not have cared less, marching with his head held high and hands clasped behind his back.

  Alongside him, Lord Berossus growled as he watched the Titans’ guns train upon them, spooling up his own weapons. Toramino looked up at Berossus and shook his head at his vassal warsmith’s lack of restraint. None here could face a Titan and live, but such were the ingrained responses of Berossus that no other reaction was possible.

  Toramino stepped onto the iron bridge, the metal hissing beneath his armoured boot and rippling like mercury, reflecting his massive, armoured form in its glistening lustre. Standing well over two metres tall, Lord Toramino wore a suit of exquisitely tooled power armour, handcrafted on Olympia itself and burnished to a mirror sheen. Its trims were edged with arabesques of carven gold and onyx chevrons and its every surface wrought with terrible sigils of ruin. An ochre cloak of woven metallic thread, stronger than adamantium, billowed around his wide frame, partially obscuring the skull-masked symbol of the Iron Warriors on one shoulder guard and his own personal heraldry of a mailed fist above a plan view of a breached redoubt on the other.

  An Iron Warrior from his most trusted retinue carried his elaborately carved helm, and another carried his blasted standard, an eight-pointed star of blackened bone set upon a spiked, brass-rimmed wheel and woven with sinew extracted from a thousand screaming victims. Long white hair, pulled into a tight scalp-lock, trailed down his back and his stern, patrician features were pinched and angular -speaking of long years of bitter experience. His eyes were opalescent orbs of gold, smouldering with suppressed rage beneath thick brows.

  As they approached the wall, huge blasts of stinking, oil-streaked gases jetted from the pistons either side of the gate and with a groan and squeal of grinding metalwork, the colossal locks disengaged with percussive booms that shook the dust from the chamber’s ceiling.

  The Titans lowered their mighty weapons and the upper portions of their bodies twisted around on bronze joints to grip the spiked gateway and pull. Steam jetted from wheezing fibre-bundle muscles, and slowly the awful gate groaned open, spilling an emerald light into the chamber as Toramino and Berossus passed between the mighty death machines and into the sanctum sanctorum of the lord of the fortress.

  Toramino remembered this place from the many times he had come to pay homage to Khalan-Ghol’s former castellan – a great and terrible warrior who had now ascended to the dark majesty of daemonhood. The walls within were of a plain black stone, threaded with gold and silver and glistening with moistur
e, despite the heat radiating from the terrazzo floor of powdered bone. Sickly white light reflected as pearlescent streaks on the floor from a score of tall and thin arched windows that pierced the eastern wall, draining the chamber of life and imparting a deathly pallor to its occupants.

  A score of Iron Warriors stood to attention at the far end of the chamber, gathered about a polished throne of white and silver upon which sat a warrior in battered power armour.

  It galled Toramino that he came before the fortress’s new lord as a supposed equal. The half-breed was a bastard mongrel, not fit to wipe the blood from an Iron Warrior’s armour, let alone command them in battle. Such an affront to the honour of the Legion was almost more than Toramino could bear, and as he watched the lord of the fortress rise from his throne of fused iron and bone, he felt his hatred rise in a venomous wave of bile.

  The half-breed’s appearance matched Toramino’s opinion of him in that he was unclean and had none of the nobility of the ancients of Olympia. His close-cropped black hair topped a rugged, scarred face with bluntly prosaic features, and his armour was dented and scarred, still marked with the residue of battle. Did the half-breed not care that he was now receiving two of the most ancient and noble warsmiths of Medrengard? That this upstart’s warsmith could have appointed such a low mongrel as his successor beggared belief.

  ‘Lord Honsou,’ said Toramino, forcing himself to bow before the half-breed while keeping his hands clasped behind his back. His tone was formal and he spoke in low, sibilant tones, though he was careful to include a mocking inflection to his words.

  ‘Lord Toramino,’ answered Honsou. ‘You honour me with your presence. And you also, Lord Berossus. It has been many years since the walls of Khalan-Ghol shook to the tread of your steps.’

  The floor cracked under the weight of Lord Berossus, a hulking monster of dark iron and bronze with a leering skull face. Fully twice the height of Toramino, the living remains of Warsmith Berossus had been fused within the defiled sarcophagus of a dreadnought many thousands of years ago.

  The grotesque machine hissed and a grating voice, muffled and distorted by a bronze vox-unit, said, ‘Aye, it has, though I feel sullied to stand within its walls knowing a bastard mongrel like you is its new lord.’

  Augmented and extensively engineered since his interment, Berossus’s mechanical form towered above the other dreadnoughts of his grand company, his leg assemblies strengthened and widened to allow him to carry heavier and heavier breaching equipment. The dreadnought’s upper body was scarred and pitted, the testament of uncounted sieges engraved on its adamantium shell. One arm bore a mighty, piston-driven siege hammer, the other a monstrous drill ringed with heavy calibre cannons.

  Four thick, iron arms ending in vicious picks, blades, claws and heavy gauge breachers sprouted from behind Berossus’s sarcophagus and hung ready for use over his armoured carapace.

  Toramino saw Honsou bite back a retort and his soulless, golden eyes sparkled with amusement at the directness of Berossus. Honsou must already know what had brought them both here. There was only one thing that would make both him and Berossus deign to step within the walls of the half-breed’s lair and he smiled, easily able to imagine Honsou’s chagrin at having to share what his former master had won.

  ‘You must forgive Berossus, Lord Honsou,’ said Toramino smoothly, stepping forward and extending his hands before him. Unlike the rest of his armour, his gauntlets were fashioned from a brutal, dark iron, pitted and scarred with innumerable battles. Steeped in carnage, Toramino had long ago vowed never to clean a death from his hands and his gauntlets were gnarled with aeons of blood and suffering. As his armoured gauntlets came into view, the Iron Warriors behind Honsou snapped their bolters upright, every one aiming his weapon at Toramino’s head.

  Toramino grinned, exposing teeth of gleaming silver, and said, ‘I come before you to offer my congratulations on the victory at Hydra Cordatus. Your former master executed a masterful campaign: to carry the walls of such a formidable stronghold was a truly great achievement. And your fellow captains, Forrix and Kroeger? Where are they that I might fete them with honours also?’

  ‘They are dead,’ snapped Honsou, and Toramino took pleasure in the vexation the half-breed took from his exclusion from the honours of victory. He scented the mongrel’s pathetic desire to be accepted by them and closed on the true purpose of their journey here.

  ‘A pity,’ said Toramino, ‘but their deaths served a greater purpose, yes? You were successful in capturing the prize that lay beneath the citadel?’

  ‘A pity?’ repeated Honsou. ‘It is only a pity that I was not able kill them myself, though I did have the pleasure of watching Forrix die. And yes, we took the spoils of war from the cryo-facility beneath the mountains – what the Imperials hadn’t managed to destroy at least.’

  ‘Stable gene-seed?’ breathed Toramino, unable to keep the hunger from his voice.

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Honsou. ‘Biologically stable and without mutation. And all of it for the Despoiler. You know that, Toramino.’

  Lord Berossus laughed, a grainy wash of feedback-laced static, his massive armoured body leaning down as he said, ‘Do not think us fools, half-breed. We know you kept some for yourself. You would be foolish not to have.’

  ‘And if I did, what business is it of yours, Berossus?’ snarled Honsou.

  ‘Whelp!’ roared the dreadnought, taking a crashing step forward as the clawed servo-arms on his back snapped to life. ‘You dare speak in such tones to your betters!’

  Before Honsou could reply, Toramino said, ‘Though he speaks bluntly, Lord Berossus also speaks true. I know you kept some gene-seed for yourself. So listen well, half-breed: your former master was a sworn ally of Berossus and myself, and we expect you, as his successor, to honour these oaths and share the spoils of victory’

  Honsou said nothing for long seconds then laughed in their faces. Toramino felt his hatred for this insolent half-breed burn hotter than ever.

  ‘Share?’ said Honsou, turning and receiving a long, broad-bladed axe from an Iron Warrior behind him and nodding to another, who bent to lift a heavy iron cryo-chest from behind the throne as scores of warriors from Honsou’s grand company marched into the hall from behind them.

  The Iron Warrior with the cryo-chest held it out before Toramino as Honsou said, ‘In that cryo-chest is all that I am willing to share. It is my only offer so I advise you to take it and leave.’

  Toramino’s eyes narrowed as he reached a battered gauntlet out to lift the lid, wisps of condensing air ghosting from within the chest. His every instinct told him that this was a trap, but he could not show weakness before the half-breed.

  He opened the container and stiffened as he saw that it was empty.

  ‘Is this some pathetic attempt at a jest, half-breed?’ hissed Toramino. ‘You turn your back on your master’s oaths?’

  Honsou took a step towards Toramino and spat on the warsmith’s gleaming breastplate. ‘I spit on those oaths as I spit on you,’ he said. ‘You and your idiot monster. And no, it is no jest. Understand this, Toramino, you will get nothing from me. None of you will. What I took from the Imperials on Hydra Cordatus I fought and bled for, and neither you or any one else, is going to take from me.’

  Toramino seethed with anger, but bit it back. The muscles of his neck bunched, and it was all he could do to quell the rage boiling within him. He snarled an oath and nodded to Berossus, who roared and slammed his mighty siege hammer down upon the Iron Warrior carrying the cryo-chest, obliterating him in an explosion of flesh and armour. A blazing corona of electrical discharge flared around the cratered floor and gory matter drooled from the crackling hammer.

  Incredulous that this vile half-breed had the nerve to behave in this manner before one such as he, Toramino bellowed, ‘You dare insult me like this?’

  ‘I do, and you are no longer welcome in my halls. I give you leave to depart as befits warsmiths of your station, but you will never set foot within thi
s fortress again while I draw breath.’

  ‘To defy me means death,’ promised Toramino. ‘My armies will tear this place down stone by stone, girder by girder, and I will feed you to the Unfleshed.’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Honsou, gripping his axe tightly. ‘Send your armies here, Toramino, they will find only death before my walls.’

  Without deigning to reply, Lord Toramino spun on his heel and marched from the chamber, his retinue and Lord Berossus following close behind.

  If the half-breed wanted war, then Toramino would give him war.

  A war that would stir the mighty Perturabo himself from his bitter reveries.

  PART ONE

  DEATH OATH

  CHAPTER ONE

  URIEL KEPT HIS breathing smooth as he stepped through the last moves of his attack routine, every action in perfect balance and focus, his body and mind acting in absolute synchronicity. Slowly and deliberately, he performed the strikes, first his elbow then his fist striking an imaginary foe, keeping his movements precise. He kept his eyes closed, his stance light and balanced, with all parts of his body starting and ending their movements at the same time.

  Completing his steps, Uriel took an intake of breath as his fists crossed before him, then exhaled, maintaining his concentration as he returned his arms smoothly to his sides, centring his power within himself.

  He could feel the potentiality of the lethal force in his limbs, sensing the strength grow within him and

  feeling a calmness he had not felt in many weeks enfold him as he completed the last of the prescribed movements.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Pasanius.

  Uriel nodded and shook his limbs loose as he dropped into a fighting crouch, fists raised before him. His former sergeant was much larger than him, hugely muscled and wearing a sparring chiton of blue cotton that left his legs and arms bare. Even though it had been nearly two years since Pasanius had lost his arm fighting beneath the world against an ancient star-god, Uriel still found his eyes drawn to the gleaming, silver-smooth augmetic arm that replaced his lost limb.