Eye of Terra

by Various

  A ragged group of flak-armoured soldiers move to block their ground advance, at the urging of an officer standing with the panicking gun crew. Bracheus unleashes his flamer.

  The men are still burning when Thiel crashes through them, knocking them off the gantry to a merciful death below.

  The officer fumbles desperately for his chainsword. Thiel cuts him shoulder to hip, cleaving two equal slabs of meat. The gunners have their cannon loaded and swing it to bear – one aiming, another pumping the turning crank before a third hauls on the triggers.

  The triggerman’s head explodes before he can fire. Venator puts two more bolt shells through the other crew. Inviglio spikes the nest and the squad moves on to the sound of frag grenades in their wake, tearing apart what’s left of the gun emplacement.

  In the square below, an armoured vehicle rolls through a gated entranceway. Another ragged soldier sits in the cupola, muzzle flare tearing from the mouth of his heavy stubber.

  One of the barrack houses is in flames, its sides blown out by a missile hit and corpses strewn around it. Petronius is shouting to his squad. One legionary is down, but another hauls him onto his feet and they keep moving.

  Thiel jabs a finger at the armoured vehicle converging on Petronius and his men. ‘Finius! Heavy support! Now!’

  Finius sinks to one knee to brace himself on the trembling gantry, and fires his launcher. The missile streaks brightly across the square and hits the armoured vehicle in the flank. The whole thing goes up in a writhing ball of flame before crashing down a moment later. Petronius gives a casual salute, before urging his squad on.

  Dead men in rough soldiers’ garb litter the square. Tan uniform is turned black. They hang from the gantries too – more than sixty. The Ultramarines cut down these mortal rebels in under a minute.

  Thiel’s thoughts are fluid in his mind, running from one tactical decision to another, but a moment of reflection still creeps in.

  Their foes weren’t ready. Not for this.

  Nothing could have prepared them for this.

  Above the gate, crouched behind an armoured parapet, a second battalion has gathered. They wear the same grubby uniforms, but these men are split into heavier weapons teams. Amongst the wretched throng, Thiel sees legionaries too. Not in false colours this time – they wear deep red, blood-spattered white and shadowy, midnight blue.

  Petronius has drawn them out, and now Thiel commands their attention. The gantry abuts the gatehouse, although its terminus is strung with razor wire and the outward facing teeth of a tank trap improvised as an infantry deterrent.

  The Ultramarines meet the cannonade head on. Power armour absorbs the punishment in a flurry of rattling shell impacts and sparking metal.

  ‘Advance!’ Thiel roars into the hurricane. ‘Advance!’

  He moves almost on instinct, guided by the thunder of the guns. His bolt pistol barks in response, the electromagnetic longsword low by his side. They’re running hard and fast along what’s left of the gantry, but it feels slow, like pushing against a gale.

  Bracheus takes a solid hit. The legionary’s shoulder drops and he staggers, but keeps on running.

  Thiel is first to the wrecked barricade, barging through the twisted metal of the tank trap. He cuts down a traitor legionary in lightning-wreathed armour, splitting the Night Lord almost in two. The human gunners die just as quickly.

  As Thiel shakes blood from his blade, a second Night Lord emerges from a gatehouse tower. He’s alone, and his pale Nostraman skin looks gelid as he points a serrated sabre at Thiel.

  ‘Show me your honour,’ he hisses. ‘Match swords with me, legionary!’

  His armour scratched and scored, Thiel wearily eyes the other warrior. Then he raises his pistol and guns the Night Lord down.

  ‘There’s no room for honour here. Only vengeance, only justice.’

  Below, Petronius has secured the courtyard and fixed charges to the main gate. A dull plosive tremor shakes dust from the parapet’s battle-worn crenellations.

  Thiel activates the vox, as the armoured shapes below hurry through the broken gate. ‘Drenius, we’re though.’

  After a few seconds, the other sergeant replies.

  ‘Head north-east, through a bank of silos.’ He fights to be heard over the air rushing across the feed. It sounds like he’s airborne and the side hatch is open. ‘Follow the roadway to a manufactorum. Two flak cannons, so we’re keeping our distance.’

  ‘Affirmative. We’ll meet you at the outskirts, brother. Touchdown and regroup with us there.’

  An icon flashes up on Thiel’s tactical display.

  ‘I’ve laid a marker,’ says Drenius. ‘It’s well fortified, Thiel. They’ll be dug in, now they know we’re coming.’

  Thiel smiles. ‘It won’t matter. They can’t hide from death.’

  ‘There’s something else…’ Even through the vox, there’s a change in Drenius’ demeanour. A sharpness. ‘Their officer. I have seen him, brother. I know him.’

  Thiel guesses what Drenius is about to say.

  ‘Harrakon Skurn.’

  ‘He’s mine, Thiel.’

  Thiel nods slowly. He knows vengeance. He remembers Kurtha Sedd.

  ‘I’ll pave the way to his neck in blood. They’ll all burn, brother.’

  The flak guns are torn apart in a flurry of glorious explosions, and Spirit of Veridia soars low across an ashen sky, its contrails blazing. The roar turns into a scream as its missile tubes ignite and a lethal payload streaks towards to the manufactory wall.

  A chain of detonations stitches a line across a bulwark of plasteel and ferrocrete, leaving a gaping breach. The gunship gets lower, angling impudently towards the gap, heedless of the streamers of fire raining ineffectually against it.

  Drenius’ voice crackles over the vox. ‘Thiel, I’ll see you on the other side.’

  Thiel looks up at the Thunderhawk as it spears into the fiery darkness of the manufactory complex. ‘Good hunting, brother-sergeant.’

  ‘I feel reborn. Forged anew.’

  ‘You sound like a Nocturnean,’ Thiel laughs.

  ‘I am an Ultramarine. Let us tear these bastards down, and with those same hands raise ourselves back up in the eyes of our Legion.’

  Thiel is already running. Assuming Drenius’ sabotage mission achieves its goal, he needs to take full advantage of the inevitable confusion that will follow.

  Two flanks emerge from the Ultramarines’ battle plan. Petronius, his willingness to lead and tempered aggression making him the perfect successor to Thaddeus, takes the right and the vanguard. Thiel has the left.

  They rip through the outer defences with ruthless ease. The manufactory soldiers are poorly equipped and ill-disciplined. Many flee at the sight of the vengeful legionaries charging towards them.

  A throaty rumble resonates overhead, and Thiel smells the stench of engine wash and heat before he sees Spirit of Veridia roar back through the breach. Its part in the assault is over.

  Gantries and silos burn, and the air is choked on the death of the vehicles ranked up in the assembly yard where the Ultramarines are making their advance. Strategic missile strikes have destroyed most of the armour, which was in the midst of refit and mechanical overhaul.

  The centre of the yard is dominated by a tall column that serves as an overseer’s nest. About two-thirds of the way up is a wide viewing ring that runs the entire circumference of the column. Thiel gestures to it with his sword, to the bulky silhouettes moving behind the dimmed armourglass. ‘Up there.’

  A staggered ramp and stairway leads up to a pair of blast doors in the nest.

  ‘That’s our objective. Whatever Nightfane is, the answers are inside.’

  Thiel has Inviglio and Bracheus behind him, moving past the wreckage of blazing tanks. Bodies litter the ground, slumped against the armoured hides of Rhinos
or scattered in groups facing away from the battle. None wear legionary war-plate. Few mortals ever have the stomach to face those that do.

  Petronius’ voice comes across the vox. ‘Advancing right.’

  Thiel takes cover as the crack of bolter fire resounds around him.

  ‘Received. Circle around the column. I need some clearance to effect a breach.’

  That just leaves Drenius. Over the tactical feed running across Thiel’s right lens, he sees that the other sergeant has stalled somewhere up ahead.

  ‘Venator, do you have eyes on Drenius?’

  ‘Negative.’ The marksman has moved into an advanced position and taken high ground. ‘He’s deep, behind the nest.’

  ‘He’s out for blood…’ Inviglio mutters to himself.

  ‘So are we,’ replies Thiel, moving them on with a curt battle-sign.

  Defenders are moving through the oil-black clouds spilling over the vehicle yard. A gout of burning promethium hits them before a single shot is fired in retaliation.

  ‘Cleansed,’ Bracheus grins.

  Thiel acknowledges him, still pushing forwards. ‘Keep going! Nothing stops us. We win or we die!’

  He eyes Venator, who has just marked eight more targets on the tactical feed.

  Inviglio sinks down next to Thiel as the Ultramarines take cover again. ‘Renegades close. At least two squads.’

  ‘We knew they’d be here in force.’ Thiel sees them through the gaps in their sporadic fire. Word Bearers and Death Guard. ‘Petronius, engage. We’ll move on the primary target.’

  There’s a feral humour in Petronius’ voice. ‘With pleasure, sir.’

  Bracheus laughs. ‘At least we haven’t completely civilised him.’

  Thiel nods to the blast doors. ‘I want answers.’

  Just beyond the column, Petronius has engaged the renegades. The fire fight is close, but has drawn the enemy off. The way is clear.

  ‘Be ready to breach!’

  Armourglass blows outwards in a concussive wave. Thiel leads the squad through the breach and wastes no time in gutting the sentry too slow to raise his sword. Inviglio and Venator gun down the others – two more stunned Word Bearers, reaching for their bolters.

  Bracheus holds at the ruined blast doors, while Finius maintains position with his missile launcher at the head of the stairway.

  In the middle of the circular room, a servitor is attempting an aggressive data-scrub of the facility’s logic engine, infecting it with scrapcode. Thiel cleaves its cyborganic skull in two, silencing its machine chatter.

  Instead it stammers out a phrase, over and over, through its damaged vox-grille.

  ‘N-N-Nightfane. Nightfane-fane. N-Nightf-fane. Ni–’

  Venator finally silences it with a bolt round.

  Removing his helm, Thiel moves to the logic engine, retrieving what he can about Nightfane. He finds schematics, partially corrupted plans, lists of ships and troop dispositions.

  There are many names he doesn’t recognise. Malig Laestygon. The Furious Abyss. Janus Hellespont…

  ‘This is a prelude to invasion. The silenced outposts provide a crucial blind zone for our enemies to exploit. Phraetius was to be their staging ground.’

  ‘An invasion of where?’ asks Inviglio.

  ‘Where else? Macragge.’

  ‘Guilliman’s blood…’

  ‘Aye, it might well have been.’

  Venator calls out. ‘Brother-sergeant!’

  Thiel glances to where he is looking out through the shattered viewing ring. The marksman gestures, and Thiel follows his gaze.

  Sergeant Drenius emerges from the smoke.

  He duels Harrakon Skurn inside an inferno. The World Eater is as ferocious as the warrior Thiel fought and just as unhinged, but Drenius matches him with the refined skill of a swordmaster.

  Thiel admires him – not for his blade-work, but his composure. The one who robbed his honour and cast him into disgrace stands before him, and yet Drenius looks calm as a statue.

  Venator braces his bolter on the rim of the shattered ring, but Thiel puts a hand on the stock.

  ‘I can execute that madman from here,’ the legionary insists.

  ‘I know. But I made an oath to Drenius. Skurn is his to kill.’

  ‘What if he dies trying?’

  ‘Then it will be with honour.’

  So they watch as chain-teeth spit sparks and grind against one another. Drenius gives a muted cry as the World Eater breaks his guard and sinks his blade into the Ultramarine’s shoulder.

  The riposte is emphatic, though. Even half-cleaved, Drenius rams the point of his chainsword into the renegade’s snarling mouth grille. Blood erupts in a spray, spattering down the blade, the teeth quickly clogging with gore.

  But the World Eater’s chain-teeth are still howling, the weapon’s trigger locked in the renegade’s death grip. They chew through Drenius’ armour, ripping flesh and bone.

  Thiel cries out, cursing himself. ‘Shoot! Damn it, Venator – shoot!’

  The bolt takes the World Eater in the chest, tearing apart his torso, but it’s too late. Drenius slumps to his knees, wrenching the horrific chainblade from his chest while still clinging to his own weapon and using it as a crutch. Bleeding, beyond reach, surrounded by fire, he hails Thiel on the vox.

  ‘It’s over… brother…’

  His breath and his words come in gasps, but he sounds at peace.

  ‘We can reach you, Drenius!’ Thiel replies.

  The other sergeant shakes his head. ‘I’m… done. Thank you, Thiel. For my… honour… For…’

  The link falls silent. Thiel closes his eyes, then opens the squad-wide feed.

  ‘We have what we came for. Phraetius is finished. We leave. Now.’

  He spares a last glance at Drenius, on his knees but defiant even in death, before the smoke rolls in once more.

  Ten caskets lie in two equal rows in the middle of the chamber, waiting for an Apothecary. Thiel’s breath ghosts in the cold air.

  ‘It wasn’t easy getting you back, brothers.’

  He feels Bracheus’ gauntleted hand on his shoulder. ‘Their legacy will live on.’

  ‘Ave legiones,’ Thiel intones with a sigh. ‘They sacrificed their lives for this. Now I must ask for others to do the same.’ He allows a moment of silence before he turns to Inviglio. ‘We are ready?’

  ‘They are waiting, sergeant.’

  A muted hubbub emanates through the barrack house doors. The last time Thiel was here, twenty-two legionaries swore their loyalty to him and his mission. They had halted an incursion, but the rot within Ultramar was far from excised. It would require more, much more.

  Bracheus and Inviglio push open the heavy doors, allowing Thiel to step through.

  Over two thousand legionaries stand in readiness. Every warrior of Oran garrison has mustered. Thiel sees Petronius and shares a nod with the warrior. He sees the others who followed him to Phraetius, amongst them Venator and Finius.

  Captain Likane is here too, his war-helm in the crook of his arm and a sword sheathed at his side.

  ‘I misjudged you, Thiel,’ he says. ‘I spoke ill, and recognise my error.’

  ‘Sir, I–’

  ‘You are a leader, Aeonid Thiel. Two thousand Ultramarines stand ready to heed your command. I am one of them. Lead us. We won’t stand idle while Macragge and Ultramar are threatened. So, we shall all be Red-Marked.’ Likane gestures to the assembled warriors. ‘That’s what you’re calling yourselves, isn’t it?’

  Thiel smiles wryly, and nods.

  ‘It is. You can join us. You can all be Red-Marked… if you’re worthy.’

  Master of

  the First

  Gav Thorpe

  The commands of the recruiting sergeants drifted through the open window,
harsh alongside the bucolic hiss of the wind and the buzz of insects that drifted through the hot summer air. The clump of boots was almost perfectly in time. Almost, but not quite, and this became a cause for more shouting from the sergeants.

  If he closed his eyes, Astelan could almost believe that he was back on the plains where he had been born. He had to close his eyes to ignore the towering fortifications of Aldurukh that surrounded him, and the comm-panels and data displays of the guard post command chamber. If he did that, concentrating on the flitting insects and the heat coming in through the narrow glass window, he could picture the broad waters of the Dynepri meandering between pale-leaved trees, and the silvery shimmer of the camp hab-covers reflected along her banks…

  A chime came from the door panel, and the memories disappeared like the morning mist had on that fateful day, so many years ago.

  Astelan opened the door locks. Though the Legion had brought many of the technological miracles of the Imperium to Caliban, much of Aldurukh remained unchanged, still using basic pre-Imperial systems and mechanics. The lack of voice-activation in particular still irked the Terran-born warrior.

  The door slid open with a rumble of well-oiled gears, revealing Captain Melian, one of Astelan’s company commanders. The captain bowed his head in greeting.

  ‘Chapter Master, you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Former Chapter Master, captain. My rank is still held in abeyance. My summons was in reply to your request that we might have a conversation in private.’ Astelan waved a hand at the unthinking dials and screens and automated systems of the guard chamber. ‘There is nobody here to observe us.’

  Melian glanced at the open doorway. Astelan activated the control and the door groaned back into place. He gestured to Melian to speak.

  ‘I… I am not sure how to express myself on the matter I wish to discuss. I have reservations.’

  ‘Doubts?’

  ‘Yes, doubts, Chapter Master. Regarding the Calibanites.’

  ‘There are no Terrans and Calibanites any more, Melian. We are all Dark Angels.’