Matteus put a hand to his bolter and let his fingers close around the parchment that fluttered from the fresh purity seal. He silently gave thanks to its machine spirit, asking for its cooperation in the battle to come. Others around him acted in a similar vein, soothing their weapons and checking ammunition. The sergeant turned to the west. The vast, labyrinthine tangle of towers and pipework wreathing the refinery were clearly visible and on an almost direct route from their current position. The plans and strategies as decided by the two company captains had been communicated to all of the Silver Skulls taking the field and all objectives were clear.
More of the company’s drop-pods had made landfall by now and almost the entirety of Fourth Company was accounted for. The two Dreadnoughts were still to arrive and Matteus felt again that stirring of pride at having two such honourable warriors under his command.
‘Fourth Company,’ he said across the vox, ‘take your positions. Prepare yourselves.’
The command was almost redundant. The Silver Skulls were a finely honed war machine, well-oiled and compliant to the last warrior. They had, whether consciously or not, already arranged themselves in marching formation, ready to take the fight to the Red Corsairs.
And they shall know no fear.
Porteus had never known fear during his service to the Silver Skulls. If he had known it as a child, it was a memory that was best forgotten. Fear was nothing more than a word. It was something used to give cohesive shape and form to things that were unknown. Know your enemy; face your worst nightmares and there was nothing to be afraid of.
It wasn’t fear he felt now. What he felt now was rage that ran so deep that it went beyond human comprehension. It was white hot, an incandescent thing and restrained as he was, he could not act upon his base instincts. Instead, he was held here, helpless and unable to exact the justice these treacherous dogs deserved.
He could see the creeping dawn as it made its presence known in a sliver of light beneath the doorway that barred him from the outside world, but it made little difference to the stifling windowless room where he lay.
The sergeant shifted position slightly and the heavy restraints that bound him clanked dully. He had bitterly given up any further attempts to release himself from his bonds. It was an exercise in futility. The cuffs, chains and collar had been designed to hold Space Marines and were proof against even the greatest strength. There would be no way out of this for him now. Not unless his captors chose to release him. They were highly unlikely to do that. He was raging.
But he was not afraid.
The pulsing throb of hot fury in his veins helped him to retain his focus. It served as an anchor for his drifting thoughts; a physical reminder of his purpose and a wild ocean of untapped fortitude. It was an entirely good thing. It helped remind him that he lived.
He breathed slowly, ‘cooling his heels’ as one of his brothers described it. Outwardly, he calmed himself, allowing his training to take over and sought out an equilibrium. It wasn’t a perfect result, not by any means, but it was the closest he could come given his current circumstances. Deep within his breast the darkness continued to seethe.
He turned his attentions reluctantly to the dull ache of his body. The supply of analgesics and combat narcotics that his power armour would have fed him to counter the burning, ceaseless pounding of his injuries had been denied to him and despite his post-human strength, he felt pain now. He knew that the pain was transitory and he knew that his body would mend in time, but those cold facts didn’t stop it from boring deep into his nerve endings and settling into his bones.
Porteus had never imagined that he would become so deeply intimate with suffering. As a warrior he expected injuries, incapacitation and even more likely, a violent death, but as a battle-brother of the Silver Skulls Chapter, he had never once let his thoughts linger on the possibility of capture. The first was something that could be fought, denied or accepted; but the second was something else entirely.
Words rose without conscious thought to his lips. A passage he remembered from the books he had spent so long absorbing in his earliest days as a novitiate. Just like his brothers, he had devoured the litanies and prayers until he could recite them verbatim. In the darkened room, his voice boomed with surety.
‘The meaning of victory is not to defeat your enemy but to destroy him, to eradicate him from living memory, to leave no remnant of his endeavours, to crush utterly his every achievement and remove from all record his every trace of existence. From that defeat, no enemy can recover. That is the meaning of victory.’
That was the meaning of victory. That was what he would do to the Red Corsairs the very second fate saw fit to grant him the opportunity.
They were words that loaned strength to his soul and he clung to them with zealous fervour. Occasionally, he could hear voices. Sometimes he thought, just for a fleeting moment, that he recognised the voice of one of his battle-brothers. But when the voices turned into screams of terrible agony which in turn ended in an abrupt silence, Porteus took back the hope ardently. Nobody, least of all his brothers, should ever have to give voice to such anguish.
He did not know why his captors had not killed him. Perhaps his tenacity amused them. The Corpsemaster had stolen his birthright, taking his gene-seed. Porteus’s training and personal beliefs now led him to believe that he was nothing more than an abomination. Even his own battle-brothers would consider him as such. Should they find him, had they not already assumed him to be dead, they would do their best to end his pathetic existence. Were his own Chapter to grant him continued life, the cleansing process would be considerable. He was tainted. No better than a thing.
Stranger still… the fact that the Corpsemaster had even healed him. He felt violated by this transgression. There was no gratitude towards his saviour. He had been restored to health in order to suffer further torment. He knew that; he was no fool.
Better to be dead, fighting in the Emperor’s service than this uncertainty. Far better.
The lack of knowledge regarding the fates of his men ate at him constantly, gnawing away at him. It added further fuel to his already quite considerable boiling pot of fury.
This was unacceptable. He would not lose himself to his temper. It would addle his ability to retain control. Calm, he told himself. Calm, Porteus. Remember your training.
He breathed slowly. In, and out. The dank air of the room and the lingering scent of decay that hung around the Corpsemaster wherever he passed filled his lungs and nostrils, offending his sensibilities.
Murmuring the words of the litany aloud once again Porteus added a private oath at the end. When – not if – he devised some way out of his current predicament, he would visit his wrath upon the whoresons of the Red Corsairs without mercy. He would no doubt die in the process, but retribution would be exacted. Oh, it would be glorious.
These were the things he had now. Divested of his tools of war, these thoughts and feelings were the only weapons he had at his disposal, and he would wield them well when the time came. His training and his creed would drive him to his ultimate demise gladly. He was not unprepared. He was clad in the armour of righteousness and faith and he was armed with the weapons of rage, anger and hate.
But he did not know fear.
He would never know fear.
‘His mutterings are worthless.’
Beyond the door that was the only thing standing between the Silver Skulls sergeant and his much-desired vengeance, Huron Blackheart and the Corpsemaster were locked in a conversation of their own. The Master of the Red Corsairs scowled blackly and folded his arms across his chest. The movement dislodged the invisible presence and he felt its ethereal claws bite through his armour and dig for purchase.
‘Everything he says is worthless. I despise the way he bleats the words of the Corpse-God. He has no value to us now, Garreon. He is no witch-kin. He is not even a proper commander. A sergeant? That is the best we can do? He is a rank and file warrior, no more.’
Blackheart uncrossed his arms and waved his hand dismissively. ‘We do not need converts like that, especially ones so deeply rooted in false doctrine. We have taken what we need from him. I see no reason to keep him here any longer.’
‘You know I do not like to disagree with your wisdom, my lord, but I have to say that you are wrong in this. I may have his gene-seed, that is true. But there is much, much more that our “guest” can give to us. Perhaps not now, but in time. His DNA is a valuable prize, most certainly; but whilst it will grant me precious access to his genetic legacy, it will never yield the secrets of his home world. I am sure that I can persuade him to part with them if you will allow me to bring him with us.’
‘We have one of their Apothecaries on board the Wolf of Fenris. Can you not indulge your desires for torture with him?’
‘Indeed I could, my lord, but the warrior within the room there is expendable. We need more Apothecaries. Did you not say so yourself?’
Curiously, the roles had reversed. Before, Blackheart had made his petulant demands and the Corpsemaster had obligingly catered to his whims. Now it was the Apothecary’s turn to insert just the right level of wheedling into his voice to communicate his desires. Blackheart’s scowl grew darker still and he glowered at his Apothecary. The two warriors met each other’s stares without any sign that one would concede defeat to the other.
Blackheart tired of the battle of wills far sooner than the other. Garreon’s presumption had always irritated him, but the Apothecary’s value had saved him from execution on more than one occasion. There were very few who could remain defiant in the face of Blackheart’s cold fury, but Garreon knew his worth. He knew the debt Blackheart owed to the Apothecaries and Techmarines who had rebuilt him following his critical wounding at the hands of the Star Phantoms – and he ensured he extorted as much leeway as he could muster from it.
Blackheart turned away and nodded curtly. ‘Very well. I will... consider it. There is a long road ahead of us before it becomes a real issue, however. Now stop squabbling over your toys and make preparations for battle, Garreon.’
With those words, he stormed from the room, effectively dismissing the matter. The Corpsemaster lowered his head graciously, a triumphant smirk on his face.
‘As my lord commands.’
The primary defence turrets of the promethium refinery had roared into life, belching near-continuous lethal streams of flak and las-fire into the air. The two Thunderhawks carrying the Silver Skulls assault squads were well out of range of the warning shots but continued to keep their distance. Let the enemy see their approach.
The two gunships were keeping pace, flying side by side but as they closed on the facility they split, peeling off to the north and south flanks of the refinery. The teams manning the turrets redirected their fire accordingly, but the Thunderhawks held course and remained tantalisingly out of range. There was not a lot of ideal landing ground amidst the craggy peaks, but equipped with their jump packs the Assault Marines would not require their transports to make landfall. The mountain range provided enough cover for the Silver Skulls as they descended from the heavens on pillars of fire. Their rapid transit was stalled at the last minute by powerful bursts from their packs that kicked plumes of dust into the air and vitrified what remained into shimmering basins. With a crunch of breaking glass twenty Space Marines arrived within striking distance of their targets and began to advance in leaps and bounds.
Their objective was the anti-aircraft guns. Once they were disabled, then the Silver Skulls ground forces would be able to call in air support. With that on their side, reinforcements could be deployed directly into the heart of the enemy force.
Victory would follow soon afterwards.
‘It has begun.’
Matteus lifted his head to the morning sky. The retinal display on his helmet scanned and zoomed in on the movement obvious in the far distance. The incoming roar of the gunships was unmistakable and the answering retort of the refinery’s guns was every bit as loud in its shattering of the morning. From silence to uproar in seconds.
The initial drop of the two companies was all but complete now and the Thunderhawks that brought the heavy vehicle support were unloading. Most of Daviks’s Devastator squads were already in place inside the Rhino carriers, with more versatile battle-brothers mounted on bikes. Matteus’s troops would be making the approach to the refinery on foot, but they were not foolish enough to attack without serious heavy support.
Their approach was going to be made behind the three Vindicators that stood next to one another on the ferrocrete highway. The road was more or less a straight line towards the Primus-Phi facility and barely wide enough for the three tanks. The siege cannons they sported were a deterrent, no more. They could not be fired inside the compound of a highly volatile promethium refinery, but they could certainly provide great help in reducing the perimeter to rubble. In addition, their thick hulls and armoured dozer blades would provide superb cover for the ground force.
Their assault drop completed, the Thunderhawks boomed overhead as they repositioned themselves behind the assembled Silver Skulls. Everywhere noise and smoke belched from the engines of the vehicles, permeating the air with a chemical fog and clouds of ruddy dust. In less than an hour the shuttle terminal had gone from deserted to being a staging area for war. Yet, the Silver Skulls themselves remained remarkably silent but for muttered prayers and words to the machine spirits residing within their weapons. There was no pre-battle banter between brothers, only terse nods and clipped responses to direct questions and orders.
The hunger for this fight was very real. Every one of the Silver Skulls warriors present on the planet was ready, willing and eager to fight. Their minds were engaged with the finer points of battle strategy. There was no time for idle conversation.
‘Squads Onyx and Garnet, are you in position?’ Matteus opened a channel on the company vox to the assault sergeants.
Emareas’s voice confirmed Onyx’s position and a few scant seconds later, Dyami chorused his readiness.
‘We have located Curis,’ the sergeant of Squad Garnet added. ‘He will scout ahead and join our effort as ground support when we acquire the target.’ Matteus, who was leading the marching troops, nodded firmly. Directly behind him, the two massive bodies of the Ninth Company’s Dreadnoughts stood almost motionless awaiting the word to advance.
Matteus flicked his vox-channel to contact the Dread Argent. His report was brief and Arrun’s reply equally so.
‘All is in readiness, captain.’
‘Then proceed, brother-sergeant.’
The sergeant sought out the rune that would transmit a pict-feed from his helmet to the Dread Argent. Once it was running steadily, he blink-clicked it until it reduced to a tiny window in the bottom right of his display. He nodded and changed vox-channel once again.
‘You all know your objectives, my brothers,’ he said. ‘Preserve the refinery. Purge the traitors.’
In the distance, the Primus-Phi facility continued to disgorge its endless clouds of smoke and steam into the air, casting a pall of gloom over the coming conflict. It continued to function despite its occupation, the unfathomable machinery at its heart grinding eternally onward heedless of the tread of traitors and mute testament to the skills of the Adeptus Mechanicus. The tech-priests would need to reconsecrate the site once the battle was won but, like the Imperium, it would endure.
Matteus smiled darkly beneath his helmet, then stooped to the ground. He ran his fingers through the packed red dust whilst a host of internal sensors calculated its density and consistency. Once battle was joined it would fill the air in a choking cloud but would do little to impede the senses of the Adeptus Astartes. Should the combat be prolonged, however, it would clog joints, jam weapons and score visors.
It was best then, to complete the operation with all alacrity. Matteus wiped his fingers dismissively along his armoured thigh, leaving two red streaks in their wake.
‘Brothers! We fi
ght for Gildar Secundus. End these traitors.’
The army advanced, dust swirling around them like a boiling storm cloud and heralding their arrival.
The bridge of the Dread Argent seemed uncannily quiet following the intense pandemonium of the earlier battle. Despite the extent of damage and the death of many of the crew, things had returned to as normal as could be expected under the circumstances. Enginseers and servitors were already working on the ships internal repairs. The traces of Brand and Taemar’s mighty battle had been removed completely but for the odd gemstone that could be seen glistening beneath a console.
Still clad in his battle plate, Arrun was seated in the command throne, casting a practiced eye over the data-slates containing the initial reports from the repair teams. It was truly incredible that the Dread Argent had not sustained more serious damage and he said a quiet word of thanks to the Throne of Terra that they had come this far with comparatively minimal losses.
He had yet to receive any further reports from the ground forces deployed to Gildar Secundus, but a transmission had been received from Sinopa who had taken the Manifest Destiny further into the heart of the system. The extent of the traitors’ infiltration was starting to make itself known. On all of the inhabited worlds of the system, small battles were unfolding, invariably led by Red Corsairs sympathisers and bands of cultists. As of yet, there had been minimal need for Sinopa to deploy backup to the beleaguered militia. The very presence of the Silver Skulls battle-barge in orbit had been enough to cause one group of rebels to turn their weapons on themselves rather than face the wrath of an Adeptus Astartes battle force.
‘Your orders, Master of the Fleet?’ Sinopa’s query had cut across Arrun’s distracted thoughts. He had given the question a moment’s consideration before replying.
‘Continue to sweep for activity elsewhere in the Rift,’ he replied, noting the Manifest Destiny’s location around Gildar Quintus. ‘Send down Scout forces to those inhabited worlds that have reported disturbances. Once they are cleared, we can concentrate on the rest of the planets in the system. They have undoubtedly deployed to those worlds as well. They will not last long, however. I will not stand for Red Corsairs infecting this system longer than necessary.’
The Gildar Rift Page 29