The Ultramarines Omnibus

by Graham McNeill

  Onyx was his dark shadow, his protector, and he could think of no better a creature to be his champion and bodyguard.

  ‘Berossus is proud though,’ said Obax Zakayo, ‘and not to be underestimated. He has great strength and many warriors in his grand company’

  ‘Let them come,’ said Honsou.

  ‘They already do,’ pointed out Obax Zakayo, gesturing over the edge of the wall.

  Honsou followed Obax Zakayo’s pointing gauntlet and grinned with feral anticipation.

  Tens of thousands of soldiers swarmed across the smoking, cratered hell of the lower bastions, screaming like beasts as they slaughtered the few, mangled survivors of the shelling. Their victims begged for mercy, but their attackers had none to give and the carnage was on a truly grand scale.

  Banners with the devotional heraldry of Berossus were raised high and sacred standards that proclaimed the glory of Chaos in its most raw, visceral aspect were planted in the bloody soil. Within minutes, disembowelling racks were set up and the soldiers who were still alive were ritually butchered before the walls to taunt those who watched from above.

  ‘So like Berossus,’ scoffed Honsou, shaking his head and watching as another hundred screaming soldiers had their entrails dragged from their bellies and looped around rotating drum mechanisms.

  ‘What?’ asked Obax Zakayo.

  ‘He doesn’t even have the wit to allow some of his prisoners to live to show his honourable mercy.’

  ‘t fought with Lord Forrix at the side of Lord Berossus before,’ said Obax Zakayo wistfully, ‘and I know there is no such quality left within him.’

  ‘You know that and I know that, Zakayo, but if Berossus had any sense, he’d try and convince the soldiers of Khalan-Ghol that he does.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if our soldiers could be made to believe that Berossus would be merciful, the thought of surrender might enter their heads,’ answered Onyx. ‘But since they now know that only hideous death awaits them should they be taken alive, they will fight all the harder.’

  ‘To breach a fortress you need to break the men inside, not the walls. And to break a besieging army you must wear its warriors down to the point where they would rather turn their guns upon themselves than take another step forward,’ said Honsou. ‘We must make every one of Berossus’s soldiers feel he is living beneath the muzzle of one of our cannons: that he is nothing more than meat for the guns.’

  Obax Zakayo nodded in understanding and said, ‘We can do that. My guns will sow the ground before the walls with their shredded flesh and the rocks will flow with waterfalls of their blood.’

  ‘To the warp with that, Zakayo, so long as they die!’ snarled Honsou, pleased to see the ember of fear smouldering within Obax Zakayo flare to life once more. ‘Or else you will be down there with the scum next time. Ever since you lost those slaves bound for my forges to the damned renegades, your promises have been as worthless as the filth I scrape from my boot.’

  ‘I will not fail you again, my lord,’ promised Obax Zakayo.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Honsou. ‘Just remember that Forrix is no longer your master, I am, and I know that you are a true protégé of his. He may have become so jaded that he tolerated your lack of vision, but do not think for one second that I will.’

  Suitably chastened, Obax Zakayo returned his gaze to the slaughter below. ‘What will Berossus do now that he has the lower bastions?’ he asked.

  ‘He will send the daemon engines,’ said Honsou.

  As though on cue, the monstrous silhouettes of scores of hulking, spider-legged war engines and clanking dreadnoughts could be seen advancing through the pillars of smoke and blazing wreckage. Berossus’s daemonic war engines stalked through the ruined bastions, forcing their way through the fields of corpses, and began clambering across the rocks towards the battered slope of the next level of redoubts.

  ‘Just as you predicted he would,’ said Onyx, watching the approach of the daemonic machines.

  Honsou nodded, listening as the ululating shrieks of the terrifying war engines echoed towards the next level of defences, hundreds of the clawed and snapping monsters hauling their spiked bulk towards the defenders above them. The next rampart was some five hundred metres above the lower bastions, many levels below where Honsou and his lieutenants watched, but the daemon engines would not take long to reach the defenders. They poured their fire into the climbing machines, but nothing could stop them.

  The artillery fire from below resumed with a thunderous crescendo, the first volley exploding against the rock between the defenders and the climbing daemon engines. Boulders the size of tanks tumbled down the sloping rockface, smashing a number of dreadnoughts to flattened hunks of metal as the bombardment continued, the gunners shifting their aim as they found their range.

  ‘Now?’ asked Obax Zakayo.

  Honsou shook his head. ‘No, let the dreadnoughts get closer first.’

  Obax Zakayo nodded, watching as the first of the spider-like daemon engines reached the next level, their massive, clawed pincers snatching up soldiers and ripping them apart. They howled as they killed, revelling in the slaughter and hurling the corpses from the battlements.

  ‘Now,’ said Honsou.

  Obax Zakayo nodded and spoke a single word into his power armour’s vox unit.

  Honsou watched with relish as the ground of the bastions below shook and trembled as though an earth tremor had struck. Huge, gaping cracks ripped across the bastions, splitting the rock with a hollow boom that rivalled the thunder of the guns. Smoke and flames blasted from the cracks as the ground beneath the entire front half of the bastions sagged and splintered. With a groaning creak, millions of tonnes of rock exploded and detached from the side of Khalan-Gol, sliding ponderously down the face of the mountain.

  Thousands of Khalan-Gol’s soldiers were carried screaming to their deaths, the avalanche of rubble and debris smashing every one of the daemon engines from the mountainside, crushing them beneath the unstoppable tide of rock. Hundreds were buried beneath the mountain: their shrieking roars billowing from the rubble as their mystical bindings were smashed asunder and the daemons within them were shorn from their iron vessels.

  Honsou laughed as he watched the dreadnoughts and the thousands of enemy soldiers below turn to flee the avalanche, knowing that they were already doomed. The tide of rock swept over them all, pouring down the slopes they had fought and bled to capture.

  The rumble of grinding rock slowly faded, as did the bellowing roar of the guns, Berossus realising that their fire would be wasted without an escalade.

  Honsou turned from the mass destruction he had unleashed.

  Now Berossus would know he had a fight on his hands.

  THE UNCHANGING SKY and static sun made it impossible to discern the passage of time through their surroundings, and the internal chronometer on Uriel’s visor had only displayed a constantly fluctuating readout that he eventually disabled. Days must surely have passed, but how many was a mystery. He had heard that time flowed differently in the Eye of Terror, and supposed he should not have been surprised at such affronts to the laws of nature.

  ‘Emperor, I hate this place,’ said Pasanius, picking his way over a pile of twisted iron jutting from the rock of the mountain. ‘There is not one natural thing here.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Uriel, tired and hungry despite his armour’s best efforts at filtering and recycling his bodily excretions into drinkable water and nutrient pastes. ‘It is a wasteland of death. Nothing could live here.’

  ‘I think something lives out here,’ said Pasanius, glancing at the darkened peaks all about them. ‘I’m just not sure what or that I even want to find out.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Haven’t you felt it? That we’re being watched? Followed.’

  ‘No,’ said Uriel, ashamed that his instinct for danger appeared to have deserted him. ‘Have you seen anything?’

  Pasanius shook his head. ‘
Nothing for sure, no, but I keep thinking I can see, I don’t know, something.’

  ‘Something? What kind of something?’

  ‘I’m not sure, it’s like a whisper in the corner of my mind’s eye, something that vanishes as soon as I try to look at it,’ said Pasanius, darkly. ‘Something red…’

  ‘It is this place,’ said Uriel. ‘The lair of the Enemy will attempt to mislead and betray your senses. We must be strong in our faith and resist its evil magicks.’

  Pasanius shook his head. ‘No, it is something not of the Enemy, but something that lives here. I think it’s what killed those people in the cave.’

  ‘Whatever killed and skinned those people was evil and an enemy of all living things. Let them come, whatever they are, they will find only death.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Pasanius as they climbed onwards. ‘Death.’

  The besieged fortress was lost to sight for now, the path from the tunnels leading them down into the rocky gullies and crevasses of the mountains. The white sky beat down upon them, harsher than the fiercest sun, and Uriel deliberately kept his eyes averted from its flat emptiness. Once, he thought he caught a glimpse of the red things Pasanius claimed were following them, but they defied his every attempt to see them properly. Eventually he gave up, unable to catch sight of them, and concentrated on simply putting one foot in front of the other.

  The harsh, metallic shale of the mountainside grated beneath his boots and every now and then they saw grilled vents piercing the rock that disgorged a hot steam that tasted of beaten metal. The vents plunged down into the mountain, the darkness impenetrable, even to a Space Marine’s enhanced eyesight.

  Uriel saw billowing smoke stacks hundreds of metres above them, thousands of blocky chimneys lining the ridge like great pylons that spewed corrosive fumes into the atmosphere. Yet no matter how much black waste was released into the air, the dead sky was always above them, blank and oppressive.

  Over the tops of the mountains before them, Uriel could see what looked like bloated dirigibles, drifting above somewhere ahead in the mountains. Long cables drooped from their bellies, but whether these were simply anchoring them to the ground or acting as some form of barrage balloon, Uriel could not tell. Perhaps they were designed to keep the delirium spectres at bay from some facility as yet unseen?

  As their weary trudge through the reeking air of the mountains continued, the two Space Marines passed a shorn quarry of shattered stone, where the side of one of these Cyclopean smoke stacks was exposed. Reddish-brown stains spilled from the joints between the massive, curved blocks making up the stack and a monstrous heat radiated from the stonework in pulsing waves.

  ‘Where do you think it goes?’ said Uriel.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is some manufactory below the mountains.’

  Uriel nodded, wondering what diabolical production line was at work beneath their very feet. Were men and women dying even now to forge weapons, armour and materiel for the dread legions of Chaos? It galled him that he could do nothing to prevent such abomination, but what choice did they have? The sacred task of the death oath placed upon them by Marneus Cal-gar took precedence over all other concerns. The daemonic womb creatures… these daemonculaba were in the besieged fortress they had seen as they climbed from the darkness of the tunnels beneath the mountains and nothing would stand in Uriel’s way of reaching that damned place.

  Pressing on, Uriel and Pasanius climbed a jagged, saw-toothed ridge, its sides sheer and corrugated, as though gouged by some gargantuan bulldozer blade. A blackened depression of splintered stone and iron, thousands of metres in diameter, fell away from them on the other side, crags of iron columns and twisted girders protruding from the mountain like clawed fingers. The depression appeared to be perfectly circular, though it was difficult to tell, whipping particles of sand and iron filings filling the air and lashing round the circular valley in spiteful, howling vortices. A narrow sliver of white sky was just visible on the far side of the depression, but all Uriel’s attention was fixed on the sight that filled the centre of the depression.

  ‘In the name of the Emperor…’ breathed Uriel in disgust.

  A huge grilled platform filled the centre of the depression. Agglomerated layers of dust coated its every surface and its perforated floor dripped and dogged with jelly-like runnels of fat and viscera. Tall poles jutted from the platform, held in place by quivering steel guys that sang as the unnatural wind whistled through them. Hooked between the poles were billowing sails of flesh, stretched across timber frames that the scouring, wind-borne particles might strip them of the leavings of their former owners.

  Monstrous, debased creatures in vulcanised rubber masks with rounded glass eye sockets and ribbed piping running into tanks carried on their backs scraped at the stretched skins with long, bladed polearms. They lurched across the platform with a twisted, mutated gait and gurgled monotone commands to one another.

  ‘What are they doing?’ said Pasanius, horrified at the sight before him.

  ‘It looks like they’re curing the hides, scraping them clean,’ said Uriel.

  ‘But the hides of what?’ said Pasanius. ‘They can’t be human, they’re too large.’

  ‘I don’t care what they are,’ snarled Uriel, setting off down the treacherous slope towards the platform and drawing his golden-hilted sword. ‘This ends now.’

  Pasanius set off after Uriel, unlimbering his flamer and checking its fuel load.

  If the mutant creatures were aware of them they gave no sign, the howling wind and rumble of distant artillery masking the sounds of their approach. But whatever they lacked for in awareness, they made up for in thorough diligence, dragging their bladed polearms up and down the length of the billowing skins to clear them of whatever the lashing winds left behind. Uriel saw a carven set of stone stairs leading to the platform and took them two at a time as his anger continued to build.

  The first of the mutants died with a strangled screech on the point of Uriel’s sword, the second fell without a sound as Uriel hacked its head from its body with one blow. Now aware of the killers in their midst, the remainder scattered in terror. A sheet of flame incinerated more of the mutants, their screams ululating as their rubber bodysuits melted on their corrupted flesh.

  The slaughter was over in a matter of moments, the twisted mutants no match for the power and fury of the Adeptus Astartes. Most turned to flee, but there was nowhere to hide from Uriel’s wrath. As the last mutated creature fell beneath his blade, Uriel took a deep breath, taking profound pleasure in the butchery of such worthless wretches. Whatever deviant beasts they had been in life, they were only so much dead flesh now.

  He turned as Pasanius said, ‘Uriel, look…’ and pointed at the nearest of the skins.

  Uriel felt his heart tighten in his chest as he saw the dead features of a man atop the huge expanse of skin. Stretched almost beyond recognition, but a man’s nonetheless.

  ‘Holy blood. But how could a man become so vast?’ said Pasanius.

  Uriel shook his head. ‘Not by any natural means.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The ways of the Enemy are unknown,’ said Uriel. ‘Better that some remain so.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  Uriel turned in a circle, seeing row upon row of faces in the skins circling the platform – dead, slack features of men and women staring down at him as though he were the subject in an anatomist’s theatre.

  ‘Burn it,’ he said. ‘Burn it all.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  WITH THE SCORCHED reek of burning flesh still in their nostrils, Uriel and Pasanius left the depression in the rock, leaving the smouldering remains to the scouring wind and whatever passed for carrion on Medrengard. Invigorated and filled with purpose from the slaying of the mutant things, their step was quick and energised, but by the time they passed through the narrow slice in the rock face and began climbing worn steps carved into the rock, the leaden weight of the daemon world had settled upon them on
ce more.

  Uriel glanced back down at the blazing sheets of skin, feeling his hate at what had been done to these people burn as brightly. He knew that the image of the skinned man’s features would haunt him forever, and was reminded of the horror of the disassembled flesh sculpture created by the loathsome xeno surgeon beneath the estate of Kasimir de Valtos on Pavonis.

  Just by being here he felt polluted, as though his very soul was becoming hardened or being drained from his body to nourish the dead rock underfoot, and he was becoming less himself. The emptiness of Medrengard was leaving him hollowed out, a shell of his former self.

  ‘What will be left,’ he whispered, ‘when this world takes the last of me?’

  He could tell Pasanius was feeling the same way, his cheeks hollow and his eyes glazed as he trudged up the winding stairs. Even as he watched, Pasanius stumbled, his silver arm reaching out to arrest his fall, but at the last minute his friend snatched his arm back and he fell to his knees instead.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Uriel.

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Pasanius. ‘Just hard to keep focussed without an enemy to fight.’

  ‘Fear not, my friend,’ said Uriel. ‘Once we reach this fortress, I am sure we will have enemies aplenty. If what the Omphalos Daemonium has told us is true, then we will have a surfeit of them.’

  ‘Do you think a daemon of the Skull Lord is capable of telling the truth?’

  ‘I do not know for sure,’ said Uriel honestly, ‘but I believe daemons only cloak what they need to in lies, wrapping kernels of truth in shrouds of deceit. Part of what it told us is true, I am sure, but which part… well, who knows?’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Pasanius, trudging after Uriel.

  ‘Whatever we can, my friend,’ said Uriel. ‘We will act with courage and honour and hope that that is enough.’

  ‘It will need to be,’ said Pasanius. ‘It is all we have left.’