by Nick Kyme
Fuge clapped his arms around his body for what must have been the fiftieth time. It was doing no good. Even the many layers of storm cloak, his padded jacket and bodyglove, couldn’t keep the cold out – it was insidious. The storm had worsened. Visibility was almost nothing. He looked at the magnoculars, sitting next to his freezing feet in the tent, and decided to ignore them. Captain Evvers was quite strict – scan the perimeter every fifteen minutes – but Fuge was too numb to move. What good would they do anyway? The Space Marines were protecting them now. He’d seen them, walking back and forth like animated statues, unperturbed by the cold. Not everyone was so hardy. Fuge didn’t see why he couldn’t just find a warmer tent and a sleeping bag to crawl into.
The sentry was still bemoaning his poor luck when he noticed something outside the tent, maybe fifty metres away. It was hard to tell – the snow was thick and the wind was tossing it around like a maelstrom. Fuge reached for the magnoculars.
His goggles were fogged with an icy sheen, but he didn’t bother clearing them when he pulled them down off his face so he could peer through the scopes. Training the magnoculars fifty metres distant, he tried to discern what he thought he’d seen earlier.
‘Definitely something…’
His voice trembled, teeth chattering as he spoke.
The wind was really howling now, making even thoughts hard to hear. It tugged at Fuge’s thermal layers, slipping in through the gaps, chilling him.
Through the greenish resolution of the scopes, he thought he saw something… burrowing. He knew of ice-worms that roamed the northern tundra – it was the closest thing he could think of to describe what he was seeing. But this was the mountains. No ice-worms up here.
Fuge zoomed in and worked the focus. Thirty metres out now. Just as he was about to raise someone on the vox, the wind kicked in, tearing his coat loose, and he dropped the magnoculars.
Scrambling at his feet – the fear was on him now for some reason – Fuge picked them up but only got the scopes halfway to his face when he felt a hot burn in his chest. He looked down and saw a metre of sharp metal jutting from his body. Lifting his head was an effort but when he managed it he met the gaze of his killer. Two emerald green orbs regarded him as a god would an insect. They flared, ignited by an infernal desire.
‘Your flesh is mine,’ the thing promised.
So frozen was he with terror, poor Fuge didn’t even scream as he was flayed alive.
Ankh watched as the last of the Undying’s limbs were finally attached to his body. The venerable necron shone with an unearthly lustre, gilded and ochroid as befitted his station as overlord.
It had taken time and many repair constructs to revivify his master.
As if a sudden power surge had granted him life, the Undying’s eyes flared brilliant and terrible.
‘Stormcaller is dead,’ he uttered.
‘He has returned to us, my lord,’ Ankh replied. ‘All must return in the end.’
‘Architect,’ said the Undying. His mental functions were still slightly addled by his aeons of slumber. ‘I am whole and desire to exact vengeance.’
‘Our forces have resorted to retreat protocols. It may be some time before Stormcaller and his vanguard can be resurrected.’
‘I have the means of resurrection,’ the Undying assured him, ‘and the tools of death.’ In his hand he clutched a brutal war-scythe, its blade coruscating with energy.
He exhaled breathlessly as the last of the scarab swarms reknitting his body retreated into the hidden alcoves of the chamber. The Undying’s revivification casket opened and the overlord strode out imperiously. His heavy footfalls clanked as they hit the metal floor.
Ankh bowed deeply in the manner of the old courts. ‘You are resplendent, my liege.’
The Undying glowered at him. ‘Send your drones, Architect. Retake the ground that the Stormcaller lost.’
Wrong-footed, Ankh stumbled a little. ‘I… my lord, our war cells are still reviving. All our repair constructs are needed to bring them online. It will only be a matter of–’
‘No. Send them now. Activate the monoliths and bring our legions into the city of the fleshed. I am awake and will not suffer the degradations of these interlopers any further.’
It was pointless to protest. The Undying was all and everything; Ankh was a mere cryptek at his whim and command. True, he had dominion over the scarabs and the tomb spyders. He could make them all cease with but a simple command, but the Undying was not an overlord to deny. His wrath might see Ankh destroyed and another set in his place. He had worked too long, too hard as Architect to allow that to happen. ‘As you wish, overlord.’
The Undying did not wait for confirmation. At some invisible, mechanised signal an aperture opened in the ceiling of the resurrection chamber. At the same time a band of light delineated a circular disc in the floor that began to rise. The overlord rode the levitating disc all the way out of the chamber, bound for the surface.
Ankh was linked to the tomb like no other in the hierarchy. He felt its movements, knew the position and condition of every scarab, tomb spyder and wraith that made up its dedicated cohorts. Through them, he was interfaced with the hundreds of thousands still slumbering, still self-repairing and gradually coming online, that made up the necron war cells.
With the repair constructs occupied elsewhere that process would take exponentially more time to complete. Ankh made the calculations in a nanosecond. In the next he retasked the swarms to attack the city above.
Izarvaah was not a subtle creature; he shared many traits with Tahek. He would gladly march his immortals and his warriors into the jaws of enemy guns, convinced of his own inviolability. Cloaked by lightning, his eldritch darkness swarming with wraiths, he assumed he was untouchable. At least one amongst the genebred saviours had disproved that belief.
Ankh was not so foolish or arrogant. His ways were cunning. He resolved to use a different method of attack.
But first he would chill their hearts and make their mortal bodies tremble. The Herald of Dismay extended his skeletal fingers and summoned the invocation node.
Unlike the Stormcaller, he would not fail.
Sicarius surveyed the battlefield ahead. Just like at Telrendar, Selonopolis and Ghospora, he looked every inch the hero. Cape flapping in the breeze, his patrician face open to the elements, he was Invictus, Cestus, Galatan – a true inheritor of Guilliman.
The forces from Kellenport Plaza had joined his spearhead. Sicarius had summoned their sergeants. Standing amidst the ruins of an Imperial temple, Praxor was amongst them.
This was an ill-fated place, he decided. It had none of the glory or culture of Macragge. Even Calth, its upper atmosphere wretched with poisonous fumes, had spirit. These were a broken people. Damnos should be defiant, yet the humans cowered in their last remaining city, their lord governor in hiding and their military commander unwilling to leave the safety of his walls. Praxos thought of the sacrifices already made and wondered if the Damnosians were a people worth saving.
Daceus intruded on Praxor’s dark thoughts, and he was glad of the interruption. Never far from his captain’s side, the veteran had a pict-slate clutched in his hand and showed it to Sicarius. It was a geographical map of the immediate area, radiating several kilometres from the Ultramarines position.
‘Since the defeat of their vanguard, several necron phalanxes have started to converge on us,’ said Daceus.
The initial defeat of the Stormcaller had immobilised the necrons under the lord’s immediate command. The Ultramarines found them holding their ground where they stood, unwilling or unable to press. It made them much easier to neutralise. At first, it seemed as if the necrons were in retreat but soon other forces, those attacking distant areas of the city, were rerouted. Another necron command node had taken over. It regarded the Ultramarines as a threat it could not ignore, or tolerate.
&
nbsp; Sicarius glanced at the slate, but only cursorily. His attention was on the horizon where the necrons could be seen in the distance manoeuvring and amassing. There were thousands.
‘A cut from the gladius’s blade has got their attention, then.’ He smiled, but Praxor thought it had an indulgent, ugly quality about it.
A storm was rolling in, coming off the mountains. Low drifts were already curling across the tundra. Soon it would develop into a blizzard.
‘Even if Guilliman were still with us,’ offered Daceus, ‘we cannot fight them all.’
Sicarius stepped down from a rocky plinth where he’d taken vantage.
‘And yet, we shall still engage them. The weather turns, worsening still. We’ll use it to our advantage.’
His sergeants were arrayed before him in a semi-circle. The Lions, along with Daceus, stood apart. Trajan stuck to the shadows, divorced from the rest but ever watchful. In the background, towering over them all, was Agrippen. The other Dreadnought, Ultracius, was with the squads waiting outside the temple ruins.
The venerable one’s modulated voice rumbled, ‘Our odds of victory against such a force are miniscule, brother-captain.’
Sicarius bowed to Agrippen’s obvious wisdom. ‘We are still the gladius, Ancient, and our thrust has barely pierced our enemy’s armour. With the application of greater force, we will penetrate flesh and organs.’
Agrippen shifted and his servos churned as he moved his massive bulk. A few of the sergeants stepped out of the way to avoid being crushed. ‘You mean to strike the heart.’
Sicarius was pugnacious. ‘I mean to cut it out. The necrons come for us. We are a threat that they must neutralise. I shall turn that mechanised response against them.’ He pointed to the silvered legions mobilising in the Ultramarines’ direction. Pyramidal structures shadowed the horizon too, but they seemed to be locked on a less direct route. ‘These are creatures of cause and effect. Whatever we do to them, they react accordingly.’ He clenched his fist. ‘It is a weakness that we can use against them. Force is met with greater force. Apply it in the correct place and the enemy will render its heart to us. That is when they are vulnerable.’
Brother-Sergeant Solinus spoke up. ‘Tell us where you wish us to strike, captain, and it shall be done.’
Nodding approvingly at his commanders, Sicarius pointed to the slate at the core of the necron force. ‘Here, right in the middle. With everything we’ve got.’ He pointed the fingers of his left hand, making them into a blade. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the necron line. It is predictable, industrious. Here,’ he added, making a fist with his right hand, ‘we are. Our heavy guns will get their attention. We’ll emulate their tactics and hold the line. The necrons, realising they possess overwhelming firepower, will simply advance towards us.’ The bladed hand moved closer to the fist. ‘When the storm rolls in it will obscure our positions and mask our true intent.’
‘What is our true intent, captain?’ Praxor asked, not yet seeing the wisdom of this plan.
Sicarius smiled and made the fist into two fingers, which he then proceeded to move around his other hand to the tips of the fingers. ‘While our Devastators and Dreadnoughts hold their attention, you and I, brother, and the Indomitable–’ Sergeant Solinus nodded humbly ‘–will attack their flank, cutting a hole through to their very heart.’
Praxor was unconvinced but chose to keep his misgivings private. He was not Sicarius and did not see battles as his captain did. It was his duty to obey and fight to his utmost, for the Second, for the Chapter and Lord Calgar.
Sicarius picked up his battle-helm that was sitting on a broken stone tablet nearby, indicating that the tactical briefing was over. He faced Trajan, clasping the crested helm under his arm. Sinking to one knee, he said, ‘Chaplain, bless us as we go to war.’
Behind Sicarius, the other sergeants followed their captain’s example and kneeled before Trajan. Praxor was amongst the last. Agrippen met his pensive gaze before the Dreadnought too bowed, as much as he was able, to the Chaplain.
It was a deadly gambit that Sicarius proposed. The Second had already lost so many.
Praxor’s slain battle-brothers rose foremost into his mind. As the Shieldbearers, they had been at the forefront of countless engagements for company and Chapter but they had never been as badly mauled in any action as they had on Damnos.
I am my captain’s sword, Praxor reminded himself of the oath he had sworn upon elevation to the Second and the rank of sergeant. I am his will and blood, his fury and his courage.
But as Trajan’s shadow fell over him and he closed his eyes to receive benediction, Praxor couldn’t banish his doubts entirely. All of the catechisms and liturgies known to the Chapter couldn’t do that.
After benediction, Sicarius dismissed the other officers. Ahead were the ruins where he planned to make their stand. By the time the Ultramarines had reached them, he reasoned that the storm would have already begun to impede visibility. Once in position, the attack would have to come swiftly.
The Lions were already moving to the centre of the battle line. Daceus was the last to leave.
Sicarius called out, ‘Brother.’
Daceus stopped and turned. Like no other in the Second he wore his veteran status with the pride of a hard-won battle-scar. He had lost his left eye in a previous engagement – a bionic one replaced it – and his left arm was gloved by a formidable power fist, another relic earned during an earlier campaign. His face was a knotwork of scars and scabbed flesh. His laurels and purity seals were as abundant as the chips and grooves in his well-worn armour.
He had always been at Sicarius’s side and the captain trusted Daceus above all others. He also confided in him.
‘Back aboard the Valin’s Revenge, just before planetfall, I was wrong.’
‘Sir?’
‘I said our chance of victory here was almost none. I was wrong.’
Daceus frowned, wondering what had changed.
‘They are automatons, brother. They cannot function properly without leadership. When I struck down the leader of their vanguard, the others capitulated. It affected them, tactically.’
Daceus nodded, remembering, ‘And unlike greenskins, these revenants are all cast into specific roles. One does not simply supplant the other.’
‘Exactly. If I can incapacitate their principal command node, it will send shockwaves throughout their war infrastructure. They will be crippled.’
Daceus’s eye narrowed as he thought about it. ‘An impossible victory.’
‘Attributed to the Second,’ Sicarius concluded for him.
‘Agemman’s position would be tenuous after this.’
Sicarius’s demeanour hardened instantly and he straightened as if insulted. ‘I serve the Chapter and its glory, Daceus, as do we all.’
The veteran-sergeant bowed, reprimanded. ‘Of course, captain. We are the inheritors of Guilliman. His legacy is the torch by which we light the darkness of the galaxy.’
‘You sound like Elianu.’
‘It is one of his sermons, or a part at least.’ Several affirmation runes flashed up on Daceus’s retinal display. ‘The battle company is in position. We move out on your order.’
Sicarius donned his helmet. It clamped to his battle-plate with a hiss of pressurisation. His voice was full of grit as it came through the vox-grille. ‘Then make ready. Glory awaits us, brother. Guilliman is watching.’
Chapter Eleven
The water felt cold but it did nothing to revive Adanar as he splashed his face.
He was in the bombed-out ruins of ex-Commander Tarn’s operations chamber. It looked quite different now from how it had been less than a year ago. Much of its superstructure was exposed, like the metal innards of some dying beast. The wounds from the necron gauss-artillery went deep. Parts of the chamber were little more than rubble. Blank map screens, thick with dust, re
flected Adanar’s grim face. He had aged twenty years since the invasion, or at least that was how it appeared to him.
Fresh water from the ice caverns below Kellenport’s bedrock was still being pumped into the facility, and Adanar stood bent-backed over a dirty basin in the corner of the room. He surveyed it despairingly. Tarn’s old desk was broken, the two halves slumped in the centre where a chunk of debris from the ceiling had cracked it. Occasionally the walls shook – most of the paintings and tapestries had fallen and been crushed underfoot by the incessant necron bombardment. Statues of former nobles and Ark Guard officers, once standing proudly in alcoves around the chamber, lay shattered and discarded. So much for glory, now.
An overwhelming weariness overtook him. The weight of it sank Adanar to the ground, one hand limply grasping the edge of the basin when he fell. Fumbling around in his uniform jacket, he found his service pistol and set it down on the floor. Then he unwound the chain from around his wrist and took the locket-charm in the palm of his left hand.
‘How much more must I give?’ he asked.
The two picts inside of his wife and child couldn’t answer.
‘Why didn’t I flee? Why didn’t I send you away?’ The fingers of his right hand brushed against the laspistol’s grip. ‘Say I’ve done enough…’
He was abruptly aware of someone watching from the broken archway into the room. An ashen-faced Corporal Besseque was standing there staring.
‘Commander Sonne?’
‘What is it, Besseque?’
The corporal ventured a few steps into the chamber. ‘Sir, the– are you all right?’
Adanar growled at him, tucking his possessions away again and getting to his feet. ‘Make your report.’
‘The Space Marines have signalled they are in position.’ He pulled a data-slate from the folds of his padded jacket. Besseque shivered as he did it – the water was still being piped in to the city but the heating was out. It was almost as cold as it was on the wall in the operations chamber. ‘I have the dispositions here. Our defences are ready, sir.’