Gabriel surveyed the ruins of the spaceport. It was spotted with ordnance craters and speckled with the corpses of Guardsmen—some of whom were facing back towards the centre of the compound with gunshot wounds in their backs. But he couldn’t see a single greenskin corpse inside the defensive perimeter.
Nodding slowly, he turned back to Brom. “You stood your ground in the face of the Emperor’s foes. You have done your duty, colonel.”
Brom nodded and let out a brief sigh of relief as he realised what the Blood Raven was looking at. “Thank you, captain.”
“I am not here for thanks, colonel. This spaceport must be held if we are to maintain troops and supply lines to planet’s surface. It is only by the provenance of the Emperor that we arrived in time,” replied Gabriel, already scanning the scene for signs of supplies in the compound itself. “And what of the wounded and the civilians?” he asked.
“They are stranded, captain. The Tartarans have few ships, and most were destroyed by the orks during the initial stages of the invasion,” explained Brom, feeling rather too much on the defensive.
“Then you shall have more ships,” said Gabriel simply, turning to Brother-Sergeant Corallis. “Sergeant, contact the Litany of Fury and order that Thunderhawks are deployed to evacuate the wounded. Meanwhile,” he added, turning back to Brom with the hint of a smile, “we will dispatch the ground forces.”
“But captain,” replied Brom, slightly confused. “The orks have retreated. The ground forces are already broken.”
The Blood Ravens captain turned away from Brom and watched the greenskins scrambling away into the mountains on the horizon. His Marines had driven them out of the combat theatre, but then had broken off the pursuit, firing volleys at the heels of the scampering vermin just to keep them moving.
“If you are to defeat your enemies, colonel, you must first understand them. The orks have a saying: never be beaten in battle. Do you know what this means?” Gabriel returned his searching gaze back to the colonel, who shook his head nervously. Its meaning seemed obvious to him.
“It means, Colonel Brom, that orks never retreat, they only regroup. If they die in battle, then they do not think that they have not been beaten—they are only beaten if the battle itself defeats them. War for its own sake, colonel. The orks will be back, and they will keep coming until you or they are all dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
In the distance there was a constant rumble of thunder as artillery fire and pockets of fighting continued. But the spaceport was secure and, tucked into the cliffs behind, the city of Magna Bonum remained relatively unscathed by the ravages of war. Its gleaming white buildings shimmered with bursts of red as the setting sun turned to orange and bounced the dying light off the bloody battlefield. Nothing moved in the streets, and an eerie calm had descended on the city.
The Blood Ravens were making preparations for their pursuit of the orks, overseeing the fortification of the spaceport in case the greenskins returned while they were away. Gabriel had already dispatched a squad of scouts into the wilderness to locate the rallying point of the foul aliens, and he was awaiting the return of Sergeant Corallis with impatience. He was certain that the warboss would be regrouping his forces for another assault, and was eager to thwart it before it began. The best way to beat orks was to prevent them from forming their forces in the first place.
“Prathios, my old friend,” said Gabriel as the Chaplain walked into the spaceport’s Imperial shrine. “It is good to see you.” The two Marines bowed slightly to each other, showing a respect suitable to a holy place.
“It is good to be here, Gabriel. It has been a long time since I saw planetfall. How can I serve you, captain?” The huge, old Marine looked down at Gabriel with compassionate eyes. “Why are you so troubled?” he asked.
Gabriel turned away from the Chaplain to face the altar, dropping to his knees before the image of the Emperor’s Golden Throne. It was encircled by a ring of silver angels, their wings tipped with blood. Facing away from the throne in the middle, their mouths were open and their heads thrown back, as though they were singing to the whole galaxy.
“I just need to be calm before the battle. I am impatient to deal with these orks, and impatience does not become me. I would not like to err in my judgment,” said Gabriel, admitting more than he would to anyone else.
“Your concern does you credit, captain,” answered Prathios, kneeling into prayer beside Gabriel, gazing at the images on the altar. “It is a beautiful sight, is it not?”
For a moment or two Gabriel said nothing; he just stared straight ahead, as though his gaze was trapped in the icon. “Yes, indeed it is. But tell me, Brother Prathios, haven’t you ever wondered what it might sound like?”
The Chaplain continued to look at the image, considering the question. “I wonder every day, Gabriel, but I will hear it soon enough, when the Emperor finally calls my soul to him.”
Colonel Brom looked over his men in the remains of the spaceport. They were tired. Exhausted. The ork invasion had taken them by surprise and it had been more severe than any of the previous incursions into the Tartarus system. The Tartarans’ small space-bound force had been virtually annihilated in the orks’ attack run, and then the giant, clumsy kill kroozer had plunged into the planet’s atmosphere, spewing an invasion force of orks onto the surface. The greenskins had no need for the spaceport, which the Tartarans had defended so desperately. They had just attacked Magna Bonum because that was where the Tartarans’ Fifth Regiment had dug in—so that was where the good fighting was to be found. Brom shook his head at the irony: if they hadn’t tried to defend the city, perhaps the orks would have just ignored it.
“Colonel Brom,” said Trooper Ckrius, flicking a sharp salute as he snapped to attention.
“Yes, trooper. What can I do for you?” Brom was getting a little tired of Ckrius’ enthusiasm. The young Guardsman had fought bravely against the orks, standing his ground with Brom himself, albeit after attempting to desert the battle. This was as much as Brom could ask of any of his men, but Ckrius seemed to think that he owed more than any of the others. As though his moment of hesitation had condemned him to a lifetime of penitence and of service to the officer who had made him see the light.
“I have brought you some recaff, colonel,” said Ckrius, thrusting a battered, tin cup towards his commanding officer.
Despite himself, Brom was grateful. It had been a long day and, although the sun was setting in a dazzling array of golds and reds, he knew that there would be no sleep for them tonight. Perhaps never again.
“Thank you, Trooper Ckrius,” he replied wearily, reaching out and taking the hot cup from the young man, who was still saluting. “You can relax, soldier.”
“We can sleep when we’re dead, right colonel?” said Ckrius eagerly, excited that Brom had remembered his name. He nodded his head energetically towards the recaff cup as though it contained the elixir of life.
Brom glanced down at the steaming liquid and raised it to his lips. It was so hot that it burnt his throat as he swallowed a large mouthful. He didn’t care. If that was the worst pain he would feel today, he would have no complaints.
“Let’s hope that we don’t have to wait that long,” replied the colonel, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking levelly at the young trooper. The young man looked terrible, running on hysteria and nervous energy. “You fought well today, son. Get some sleep, and you will also fight well tomorrow.”
“But there is no time for sleep,” protested Ckrius, twitching his head excitedly from side to side, taking in the flurry of activity around the spaceport. “There is so much to do.”
“The orks will not be back for a while yet. Captain Gabriel tells me that they will have to regroup at a safe distance and then reorganise before they will return to face the Tartarans again. Evidently, the reorganisation of a mob of orks can take a long time. We will be ready for them,” said Brom, hoping that the Blood Raven was right.
“Ca
ptain Gabriel?” asked Ckrius, as though he had heard a secret password. “Is that the Space Marine captain?”
“Yes, Captain Gabriel is the Space Marine commander. He is here to help us with the ork problem,” explained Brom carefully, conscious of the excitement in the young trooper’s face.
“The boys… that is, we were wondering who they were, colonel,” said Ckrius self-consciously. He looked back over his shoulder to a group of troopers who sat around a small fire on the hard-deck, sipping recaff from mangled tins. They all pretended to be chatting casually or looking elsewhere when Brom followed his gaze.
“I see,” said Brom as the real motivation for bringing him the recaff dawned on him. He smiled—these troopers had probably never even seen a Space Marine before. “They are Blood Ravens, trooper. The Blood Ravens Third Company.”
Ckrius’ eyes lit up. “I’ve heard of them,” he blurted excitedly. Then he paused for a moment and a shadow fell over his face as his thoughts caught up with him. “Aren’t they—”
“Yes, I dare say you have, trooper. Their reputation precedes them wherever they go, I’m sure. The Adeptus Astartes are justly exalted throughout the Imperium. As I say, they are here to help us with the orks, and we should thank the Emperor for that.” Brom cut Ckrius off, aware of the rumours about the Cyrene affair but unsure of the facts himself. “Now I suggest that you get some sleep, trooper. Tomorrow will be a long day, and you will need all of your strength if you are to show the Blood Ravens the worth of the Tartaran Fifth.”
“Yes, colonel,” replied Ckrius, saluting weakly and turning away. Brom watched him walk back to his friends around the fire, and smiled to himself as they crowded around the trooper, pestering him with questions.
The Blood Ravens scouts swept back into the spaceport on their bikes, engines roaring with power. Against the setting red sun, the ruby bikes seemed to fluoresce with energy, and the heat haze from the exhaust vents blurred into the fading daylight. Brom watched them slide the huge machines to a halt, and shook his head in faint disbelief. Those assault bikes were faster than a Sentinel walker and packed an awesome amount of firepower. And just one Marine sat astride each of the awesome machines, throwing it around as though it were nothing.
The Marines climbed off their bikes and pulled off their helmets, apparently enjoying the last rays of sunlight on their faces. The air was cooling rapidly as the night drew in, and Brom could only imagine how hot the Marines must have been inside that heavy armour all day. But the faces of the scouts were even and unbothered. Their hair was not matted to their heads, and they looked perfectly comfortable. The colonel shook his head again, wondering what he could achieve with a squad of such soldiers.
There were mutterings and faint whistles from some of the Guardsmen as they saw the bikes roll onto the hard-deck. At the end of a day like this one, the sight of nine Blood Raven assault bikes riding out of the sunset was more than any of them could have expected, and they didn’t try too hard to hide their awe.
Brom cast his eyes over his men once again, still shaking his head. They certainly needed this kind of inspiration. It had been a bad day for the Tartarans. Hundreds of men had fallen—good men who had stood their ground in the face of the alien onslaught. Many bad men had fallen too; he had dispatched them himself with his own pistol as they had tried to run from their duty.
He had not known that the Tartaran Fifth boasted so many cowards. His men had stood defiantly in the face of many foes before today. They had confronted insurrections and rebellions. They had cleansed cities of perverted and mutated cultists. They had even met orks before, when greenskin raiders had tried to plunder the resources of Tartarus. And always his men had stood firm—fighting for their honour, for the Emperor, and for their homes.
Something was different about this invasion. Although the arrival of the Blood Ravens was welcome, and their timely intervention had been decisive, the Tartarans had dealt with orks before, even without the help of the Adeptus Astartes. This glut of greenskins was no bigger than any they had faced before. But something was different. The men were whispering amongst themselves, casting furtive glances at each other, muttering quiet suspicions around the campfires. Brom couldn’t help but wonder whether the presence of the Space Marines actually made the men more suspicious: if the Adeptus Astartes are here, this must be some serious shit.
And Captain Angelos didn’t help—his haughty attitude was almost insulting. He hadn’t even included the Tartarans in his plans for the fortification of the spaceport; the Blood Ravens were doing everything. In truth, most of Brom’s men were grateful for the chance to rest, but he had heard some of them grumbling about not being good enough for the Space Marines.
A shiver ran down his back as Brom realised what Angelos’ first impression of the Tartarans must have been. In his mind’s eye, he could still see those men laying face down on the ground with his pistol wounds in their backs.
Then a realisation struck him. Something had been different even before the Space Marines had arrived. Some of his men had been defeated even before the battle had started. He had heard them talking about the voices in the wind. Some of them had heard warnings whispered in the breeze ahead of the ork assault—whispering songs and choruses that echoed into their ears from everywhere at once. Even Brom had convinced himself that he had heard something.
The scouts were striding over to the Blood Ravens’ encampment around the spaceport’s shrine, while a team of other Marines walked back towards their bikes, presumably to make the necessary offerings to their machine spirits before they would be ready to go out again.
Watching the scouts, Brom noticed a group of Blood Ravens emerge from the shrine to greet them. One of them caught his eye immediately—slightly taller than the others, his armour was the colour of a clear blue sky. He bore the insignia of the Blood Ravens on his auto-reactive shoulder guard, and his gleaming armour was studded with purity seals. In place of the grey raven that adorned the chests of his battle-brothers, the figure had a starburst of gold and, although he had no helmet, his face was obscured by an ornate hood that was somehow integrated into his armour. In his hand he held a long staff, crested with the wings of a raven with a glowing red droplet in its heart.
Brom made his way over to the Blood Ravens’ compound and presented himself to the unusual Marine. “I am Colonel Carus Brom of the Tartarus Planetary Defence Force. It is an honour to be in the presence of a Librarian of the Adeptus Astartes,” said Brom formally, after a short cough.
Isador turned. “Wait,” he said sharply, then turned back to the scouts that were about to enter the shrine to make their report to the captain. “Corallis—Captain Angelos should not be disturbed at the moment. He will be finished soon.”
The sergeant nodded his understanding to the Librarian and stood to the side of the doorway, as though on sentry duty, and Isador turned back to face Brom. “Yes?”
“I am Col—” began Brom.
“Yes, I know who you are Colonel Brom. What do you want?”
In the rapidly fading light, Brom could not see Isador’s face under the psychic hood, and the reddening sunset had transformed his pale blue armour into a disturbing purple. Brom swallowed hard, more cowed by this Librarian even than by the rampage of orks that he had encountered that afternoon.
He collected himself. “I wish to know how the Tartaran Fifth can be of service to you.”
Isador watched the man closely, noting how the fear in his voice competed with the fierce pride in his eyes. There was something unspoken in that stare—something both hopeful and desperate at the same time.
“I saw you fight today, colonel. You are a brave man.” Isador’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Thank you, my lord,” said Brom, genuinely proud.
“I am not your lord, colonel. We must all be watchful for false idols. I am a servant of the Emperor, just like you,” said Isador, watching Brom’s response with interest.
A voice seemed to be whispering i
nto Brom’s mind and tugging at his consciousness. Without thinking about it, he flicked his eyes from side to side, looking for the source of the noise.
“Colonel?” inquired Isador, and Brom’s gaze snapped back to Isador’s shrouded face, where his eyes seemed to be glowing with a distant light. “Is there something else?”
“No. No, there is nothing else, Brother-Librarian,” replied Brom, picking his words carefully.
“You are a brave man, Colonel Brom, but it seems that your men are merely shadows of your resolve. Brother-Captain Angelos is doubtful about their efficacy in this theatre,” said Isador frankly.
Brom smarted. “I shall strengthen their resolve. You may rely on that.”
“See that you do, or we shall be forced to do it for you.”
Brom took a breath. “I should like to offer my assurances and the Tartarans’ services to Captain Angelos himself.”
The Librarian nodded slowly. “As you wish. But you will wait until the captain has finished his prayers.”
For a few moments the two men stood in silence, but then Isador spoke again. “You have something else that you wish to say. Say it, colonel.”
“I have no gift for words, Brother-Librarian,” said Brom, a little taken aback by Isador’s astute question, “so I will be blunt. Some of the men are talking about the fate of planet Cyrene, and I was hoping that you could set the rumours straight before they get out of hand.”
“What are the men saying?” asked Isador, checking that Gabriel had not yet emerged from the shrine behind them.
“They have heard that your company cleansed the planet of a terrible heresy,” explained Brom, hoping that the Librarian would finish the story for him. But there was silence, so he continued. “They have heard that you performed an exterminatus, down to the last man, woman and child.”
“Rumours are dangerous things, colonel,” said Isador, leaning down towards Brom. “Colonel Brom, your company and even your precious Tartarans are welcome, but such questions are not. You would do well not to ask the captain about Cyrene if you wish to retain what little good will he currently has towards you.”
[Dawn of War 01] - Dawn of War Page 5