The implication is shocking. ‘And would you include me, one of your battle-brothers, under that banner?’
‘That depends on what you decide to do next. Brother.’ Never has the word ‘brother’ seemed so lacking in implied brotherhood. ‘After all, as the holy Codex teaches, actions speak louder than words.’
‘So be it,’ Antenor says, inhaling deeply. ‘I am a loyal son of the primarch, and Roboute Guilliman would surely turn his face from the atrocities we have committed against the people of this world. I ask our father-primarch and the Emperor Himself for forgiveness. And, as a consequence, I must renounce my place within Squad Constantinus.’
‘What?’ the sergeant laughs. ‘You cannot! The only way you will leave my command is when our masters see fit to promote you – if our masters ever see fit to call us back to the Cyclades at all – or when one of us dies.’
It is with an even heavier heart that Antenor utters the next three doom-laden words: ‘So be it.’
‘So be it?’ The expression on Constantinus’s face says more than words ever could. ‘And do you speak for you alone or are there others here who feel as you do?’ The sergeant challenges the others with his granite gaze.
‘Never!’ Maimon declares. ‘I would follow you into the Eye of Terror itself, my lord!’
‘And you might yet,’ Antenor warns the other.
‘How dare you?’ Maimon roars, his boltgun finding a new target.
‘No! Brother Antenor is right,’ Diomed says, his tone as hard and as cold as marble. ‘We have broken our vows to the Chapter. We must repent and atone for our sins.’
‘And we live or die in brotherhood,’ Pius announces, quoting scripture himself now. ‘Brother-sergeant, I pledge my bolter to your service, always.’
‘What say you, Brother Hector?’ Constantinus growls. ‘Where do you stand?’
‘I stand with you, of course, brother-sergeant. The bond of brotherhood is what makes us what we are. Without our fellow battle-brothers we are nothing.’
‘Well said, brother!’ Pius proclaims.
‘What of you, Brother Palamedes? We fought together at the walls of Burranax and against the upstart tau on Numenor Six. Where do your loyalties lie?’
‘First and foremost I am loyal to the Golden Throne, then to the greatest of all his sons, Roboute Guilliman, and then to my Chapter. When my sergeant’s commands are contrary to the credos of the greater authority, then he is my commander no longer.’
Palamedes, ever the orator, has put the case as clearly as any of them.
‘Fine words,’ Constantinus retorts, ‘but what are your fine words worth when your Chapter abandons you, and through no wrongdoing on your part?’
‘We do not know that that is the case,’ Palamedes states plainly.
‘I fought long and hard to save this world from the Great Devourer and then for another three years – unrewarded and unremembered – at my Chapter’s behest to save it again. I do not ask for reward, only to be remembered. I ask for no more. I deserve nothing less.’
‘You?’ The sergeant’s choice of words bothers Antenor. Words have power. Such power can be all too easily abused. ‘We have all shed our life’s blood for Nova Terra.’
‘Nova Terra?’ the sergeant snarls. ‘I have shed so much blood for this world, seen so many battle-brothers under my command die for this world, it would be better if it were called Constantinium.’
‘You jest, surely?’
‘Constantinium, Antenor! In honour of the fallen brothers of Squad Constantinus!’
Antenor scans the plaza again. The brothers have grouped together, as the debate has raged, each according to the troths they have made or the vows they have broken. Only Brother Cain, the newest recruit to join Tactical Squad Constantinus, stands apart from the rest.
‘Brother Cain, it is time you revealed to us your heart and mind,’ the sergeant says, pointing a ceramite-armoured finger at the young Space Marine. ‘Come, join me.’
‘Much as it pains me to say so,’ Cain replies with a faltering voice, ‘I cannot.’
‘You cannot?’
‘I walked with Brother Antenor through the streets of the city as it burned and saw the evils we have perpetrated – not in the Emperor’s name but in the name of vengeance and bloody-minded obstinacy.’
The last eight Sons of Guilliman upon this strife-torn world face each other across the fragmented square, the smoking ruins of the palaces of the nobility rising like blackened fingers pointing to the skies in silent accusation behind the wild-eyed sergeant.
‘Then we have reached an impasse. Brothers,’ Constantinus says, addressing only those who stand with him still. ‘The traitors have revealed their true colours. Once again we find ourselves confronted by treachery upon this hell-world, treachery that must be excised like a suppurating canker.’
‘Do not do this,’ Antenor warns, as Palamedes, Cain and Diomed line up alongside him. ‘If you cross this line there will be no going back.’
‘There has been no going back since the moment you broke faith with your sergeant!’ Pius rages.
‘You crossed that line long ago,’ Constantinus growls. ‘Traitor.’
In that moment, the universe turns and nothing will ever be the same again.
‘Brothers!’ Constantinus booms. ‘The enemy has revealed itself. The traitors have broken faith with those of us dedicated to the work that is still to be completed here. So I say to you, brothers, suffer not a traitor to live!’
Boltguns are primed, Brother Hector’s flamer blazes, and Constantinus’s blade hums with lethal power.
‘Sons of Guilliman!’ Antenor shouts, his unwavering gaze locked upon the errant sergeant, his finger tightening about the trigger of his own thrice-blessed boltgun. ‘Remember, Cirtus city! Remember Nova Terra!’
With that battle is joined.
The caverns thrum with the cacophonous clamour of battle, the rattle of bolter-fire, the sharp crack of frag grenades and the alien screams of the tyranids. Even the earth and rock cry out, shifting beneath them, protrusions cracking and crashing to the ground such is the savagery of the close quarters fighting now consuming the lava tunnels.
‘Brood-nest clear!’ Brother Ignatius’s voice crackles over the vox. It is only through their helm-comms that any Space Marine of Squad Constantinus can hear any other speak. The distortion is the result of geomagnetic interference, according to Hector’s auspex scans, but it doesn’t stop them doing their job.
‘In the Emperor’s name, fire in the hole!’ comes Brother Pius’s voice.
At his battle-brother’s warning, Brother Lucian drops into a crouch, one gauntleted hand upon the winged U raised from his breastplate, closing his eyes momentarily and offering up a prayer to Father Guilliman, once again asking the primarch to watch over their endeavours as they pursue their holy mission on Nova Terra.
Another seismic boom rocks the caves, shaking the crust of the planet. The torrent of flame comes moments later, licking at the grieves and shoulder guards of his blue and white battle plate, while Lucian intones the Prayer of Protection over and over.
The fires recede and Lucian rises to his feet again, his prayer-inscribed boltgun in hand, the vituperative words of his furious prayer still on his lips and an undying anger in his heart.
Something is burning within the extinct volcanic vent. Something that screams in pain and fury. Dancing shadows leap and caper across the walls, backlit by the flickering flames.
Pius has shaken another nest of the hibernating xenos from their bio-stasis slumber. They are angry, like fire-wasps – their hive disturbed by a dozy grox – and they are coming.
But Lucian and his brothers are ready for them.
Ridged, elongated skulls and fiercely taloned forelimbs throw leaping shades across the pitted walls of the lava tube tunnels. The retreating fires reflect fro
m obsidian scales and in the lidless black pearl orbs of their alien eyes.
Chittering and screeching, the genestealers come at them. The four Space Marines form into a line of unyielding armour across the width of the magma-carved passageway: Brother Cain, like Lucian, with boltgun in hand; Brother Pius, his bolter loose in one hand, fingering the trigger-pin of a frag grenade in the other; Ignatius, the snout of his charging plasma cannon aimed at the core of the approaching brood.
‘In Guilliman’s name, fire at will!’ Lucian bellows over the screeching cries of the xenos.
The clatter of bolter-fire ricochets from the basalt walls, accompanied by the crack of carapace exoskeletons being smashed open and the concussive boom of the detonating mass-reactive shells.
Lucian’s marksmanship is remarkable even among the Adeptus Astartes. No shot is wasted – bolter-rounds entering through eye sockets, exploding alien hearts and severing spinal columns; every hit a kill shot.
Pius is more measured and restrained, loosing off very deliberate shots into the throng. The genestealers fall, lower limbs fracturing, tumbling into the path of others. Those creatures behind that don’t react in time are sent sprawling.
Brother Cain, the newest member of the squad and not long out of the Chapter’s Scout Company, is nonetheless the veteran of countless battles since elements of the Fourth Company came to the aid of Nova Terra. Happenstance and necessity have made him an accomplished tyranid hunter.
Then there is Brother Ignatius. He and Lucian were promoted to Squad Constantinus together, on the eve of the Laskarr Landings. While the others might look up to Lucian – seeing him as Constantinus’s natural successor, should the unthinkable happen – just as Lucian himself holds his sergeant in high esteem, it is Ignatius who has been afforded the honour of carrying a revered relic of the Chapter into battle.
With xenos bodies creating a bottleneck within the lava tunnel, Brother Pius hurls his frag grenade into the seething, shrieking mass. In the time it takes Lucian to whisper ‘the Emperor protects’, the grenade detonates.
A wave of concussive force flings ’stealer body parts at the Space Marines, hooves, skull ridges and limb pieces clattering against their besmirched battle plate.
Ignatius gasps.
Lucian looks.
A razor-sharp shard of chitin is embedded in his right thigh.
‘Guilliman’s bones!’ Ignatius curses, checking the plasma cannon’s charge. It is not yet ready. He curses again.
As the smoke and dust clear, and once his helm’s HUD has recovered from the shock-flash of the grenade’s detonation, Lucian sees the second wave of ’stealers advancing along the tunnel into the kill zone.
A purestrain leaps its fallen brood-kin, its powerful spring carrying it clear of their guns. It lands on top of Brother Cain, its claws scoring marks in his battle plate. His boltgun useless at close quarters, Cain lets the weapon fall to the ground, at the same time taking his combat knife from its sheath with his right hand as his left closes around the creature’s snout.
Cain puts the edge of the knife to the creature’s throat as the genestealer writhes within his grasp. The first cut takes off the end of the creature’s muzzle and its darting purple-black tongue. It gives a hideous wail as Cain repositions the blade and tries again. Space Marine and genestealer fall to the floor.
Brother Cain kicks the bucking monster from him, as violent, convulsive death throes take control of its body, his knife buried up to its hilt in the knot of ganglia and cerebral tissue that passes for the ’stealer’s brain.
Lucian observes all this at the periphery of his vision as he looses off a shot that blasts out the back of another purestrain’s skull.
‘Suffer not the unclean to live,’ Pius intones, ‘and uphold the honour of the Emperor!’
It has been regularly remarked upon by the brothers of Squad Constantinus that it can surely only be a matter of time before Pius is called to join the elite echelons of the Chapter’s Chaplains. He punctuates his vituperative mantra now with bursts of fire from his boltgun.
‘Thank the primarch!’ Ignatius’s voice booms over the comm-net. Lucian recognises the high-pitched hum emanating from the relic weapon in his battle-brother’s hands.
The plasma cannon fires and the melee is bathed in light as intense as that at the heart of a star. Tyranids die in their droves. Armoured carapaces crack, soft tissue sizzles and alien ichor boils in the heat blast.
The glow suffusing the cannon’s power coils fade to a dull ultramarine, the weapon’s energised plasma reserves expended again.
‘Good shooting, Brother Ignatius,’ Lucian says, picking off the surviving ’stealers with controlled bursts of bolter-fire.
‘The primarch is beneficent.’
‘None can resist the ardent fires of the Emperor’s holy wrath,’ Brother Pius chips in.
‘Nor the blast from a fully energised plasma cannon,’ adds Brother Cain.
The burning thing comes at them then. It is huge, its chitinous carapace the same glossy black as the ’stealers, its underbelly the same anaemic white.
Lucian is unsure whether this particular specimen is a ’stealer, like the others – mutated to gigantic size by the unknowable workings of alien hyper-evolution, to fill a void left by the departure of the tyranid splinter fleet three years before – or whether it is some other, as yet unidentified xeno-form. But what is clear is that it is on fire and it is coming straight for them.
It is so vast it practically fills the lava tunnel. It pounds towards them on crushing hooves, huge scything talon-arms slicing the air before it. It gives voice to a hideous shriek, a sound that seems horribly high-pitched for something so large, so monstrous.
Ignatius prepares to face the monster’s barrelling charge with his plasma cannon, but it is still recharging after the last sun-burst blast that took out the bulk of the genestealer brood.
‘Guilliman’s oath!’ Lucian hears Ignatius cry before a burning bladed limb – more razor-sharp chitinous sword than organic appendage – descends with startling speed, leaving a smoking trail in the air behind it as it slices open the battle-brother’s power armour from shoulder guard to tasset.
Ignatius falls, his body bifurcated. The plasma cannon hits the floor of the cavern-tunnel with a dull thud. Rage boils within Brother Lucian.
‘As one! As all!’ Lucian screams, turning his boltgun on the beast.
With any other ’stealer every discharged bolter round would have been a kill-shot. Against this brute beast the mass-reactive shells detonate against chitinous hide leaving nothing more than lunar crater pock-marks on the surface of its obsidian armour.
‘Guilliman’s teeth!’ Pius rails against the hideous truth they are all confronted with now.
Another malformed limb lashes out, this one like some lumpen, chitinous wrecking ball, trailing smoke and plasma flames. The force of the impact launches Lucian back down the passageway, his head hitting the curved basalt wall hard.
His helmet absorbs the worst of the blow, but his vision blurs for a moment nonetheless. In that moment he sees a figure in blue and white, its gleaming armour under-lit a ruddy orange, bound up the monster’s back. The coruscating power sword in its hand flashing once as the armoured figure vaults over the tyranid’s head, the humming blade singing as it slices through chitin, ligaments, bone and oesophageal tubes.
The somersaulting figure, a cloak of snowtusk spread out behind it, lands on the floor of the tunnel, the basalt cracking under the avenging angel’s ceramite boots. A moment later, the tyranid’s head hits the floor in a welter of oozing ichor.
The over-grown brood-beast continues to claw the air, one spasming strike dealing Pius a grievous wound even through his chestplate. Then the carcass topples to the ground as well, the yellow-white pus that passes for the creature’s blood pumping from its severed neck, the persistent plasma fires fad
ing at last, the decapitated body still twitching with muscle-spasms for several seconds afterwards.
Sergeant Constantinus rises to his full impressive height, the cloak settling behind him. He regards Brothers Lucian, Pius, Cain and the savagely slaughtered Ignatius, the faceplate of his helm betraying no emotion.
‘Brother-sergeant!’ Lucian exclaims in unalloyed delight, shaking his head clear and getting to his feet again. ‘Thank the primarch!’
‘Well met, Brother Lucian.’ The survivors of the assault gather round their sergeant like delighted children at the arrival of a favourite uncle. ‘Brother Pius. Brother Cain.’
‘Brother Ignatius–’ Lucian begins.
‘Will be remembered, and his name added to the roll of the honoured dead who have given their lives for this world, for a great many of the hated xenos met their end at his hands, unable to match his might or vengeful wrath.’
The remainder of Squad Constantinus join them then, following Constantinus up from the deeper tunnels.
‘Brother Hector,’ the sergeant says, addressing another of the warriors joining them now, and who is holding his left hand with care – Lucian can see savage bite marks in the ceramite gauntlet – ‘what says your auspex’s machine-spirit?’
The Space Marine consults the scanner held in his other hand. It is a moment before he answers.
‘The caves are clear, Sergeant Constantinus.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes, brother-sergeant, I have recalibrated and rescanned twice to be certain.’
‘Then the Emperor be praised. Our work here is done.’
The sense of relief and joy is palpable.
‘Let us take up the body of our fallen battle-brother and return to the Ardent Fire, that we may preserve his gene-seed and signal our Chapter that Nova Terra is free of the xenos at last.’
‘Brother-sergeant,’ Brother Palamedes interrupts. ‘I have been monitoring a number of Adeptus Arbites transmissions over the Imperial vox-net. The signal is degraded but the implication I believe is clear.’
Treacheries of the Space Marines Page 12