So saying, he turned and thundered from the Reclusiam, his steps shaking stands of devotional candles as he went.
Grimm was left behind, looking down on a brother whose suffering he did not know how to ease. With no other choice, he turned and made his way to the doors of the small Reclusiam. Before he passed between them he turned and said, ‘I believe you, brother, though I wish I did not. Still, the captain is right. This despair, this hopelessness…’ He shook his head. ‘You know as well as I that it is not our way. We are Astartes. Eustace Mendoza would expect you to fight.’
Then Grimm, too, left the nave, and silence returned.
A long minute later, Deguerro pushed himself to his feet. He looked up at the image of the Emperor, at His noble features cast in amber glass, and said quietly, ‘I am a Space Marine. Of course I will fight.’
Captain Alvez was already beyond the walls of the Cassar when Grimm caught up to him. In fact, he had almost crossed the bridge between the Zona Regis and the Residentia Primaris. Even in his Terminator armour, the tireless captain covered ground quickly, and there was a new urgency in his stride. Grimm could see it clearly as he closed the distance. He fell into step with the captain just as they passed beneath the arch of the ornate Ocaro Gatehouse.
‘It is true,’ said Grimm. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’
Alvez grunted something unintelligible.
‘You will have to tell the others. They know something is deeply wrong here.’
The captain didn’t slow. ‘And if it is true?’ he boomed. ‘Can we do anything about it now? Can we somehow go back in time and undo it? We don’t even know what happened.’
‘But you do believe him,’ said Grimm.
‘I wish I did not,’ replied Alvez. ‘I am fighting to keep the full implications of it at bay, but I have my orders, and even this can hardly change them. We are defending a city from a siege the likes of which I have never known. If our Chapter has suffered this terrible blow, we must ensure that we, at least, survive. I don’t know about you, Huron, but I didn’t plan on dying at the hands of some cack-eating xenos anyway, so it changes nothing.’
Grim found he had no answer for that.
‘Actually,’ said Alvez when they had gone a dozen more metres, ‘there is one thing I can do about it. I’m initiating the Ceres Protocol.’
Grimm looked up in surprise. The Ceres Protocol hadn’t been employed since it had first been put to parchment all those centuries ago in the years after the blasted Scythian race had reduced the Chapter to a handful of squads. Its strictures were clear: no Crimson Fist was permitted to die in battle for any other cause than the saving of his battle-brothers. The strength of the Chapter was everything. That meant no battle-brothers lost for the sake of protecting humans or materiel of any kind.
‘Are you sure that’s necessary, my lord?’ asked Grimm.
Alvez kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘I’m putting it in place anyway.’
Eighteen minutes later, they passed into a lower-class hab zone called the Deltoro Residentia. The streets were narrow here, and untidy, and the lop-sided habs loomed over them as if they might topple at any moment. Many of the buildings looked as if they had been built in a hurry, then added to little by little over the years, so that the stonework of the upper stories was seldom the same colour or tone as that of the lower.
The contrast with the Zona Regis and the noble estates was stark. Here, the shadowed side alleys were strewn with heaps of waste and the occasional, fly-covered remains of a dead canid or felis. The air smelled strongly of chemical compounds drifting over from the nearby manufacturing zone. To live in such surroundings, or worse, was the lot of the vast majority in cities all across the Imperium. If New Rynn City was any different, it was not evident among the people of the so-called Poor Quarters.
What these people lacked in material riches, they clearly made up for in faith. The sign of the Imperial aquila was everywhere, as were street-corner shrines to myriad saints and other assorted religious figures. In contrast to all else, these were immaculate. They bore no signs of damage or graffiti.
Grimm eyed them as he and Alvez continued their brisk march back to the ramparts of the Gorrion Wall. Not far off, he could hear the thump of artillery and the muffled crack and rattle of the city’s huge gun-towers.
Though wailing sirens had, for the most part, cleared the streets of people, it didn’t take long for Alvez and Grimm to be spotted. The locals peered out from behind wooden shutters at the sound of their boots on the cobbles.
‘It is the Crimson Fists!’ called one.
Grimm heard the shout being taken up all along the streets.
‘Damn,’ said Captain Alvez.
Doors were flung open and people poured out into the light of day to throw themselves onto the ground before the two Astartes. The air filled with the sound of pleading voices. Shabby women elbowed their way forward, holding their screaming babies out to be blessed. The old and the sick begged to be touched on the head, believing, perhaps, that this alone might cure them of all their pains and ailments, or just bring them a little closer to the Emperor somehow. Others offered up their most prized possessions, hoping to win favour. Here, a curved knife, badly chipped, with a small red gem – almost certainly just coloured glass – set in its tarnished hilt. There, a kynid’s-tooth statue of Saint Clario of the Blazing Lance with its left hand missing, broken off many years before. None of these, nor any of a hundred others, would have fetched more than a single Imperial centim at market, but they clearly meant a great deal to their possessors. These people were desperate that their district be saved from the orks. They were used to finding themselves and their neighbourhood low on the ladder of the politicians’ priorities.
Alvez and Grimm found their path utterly blocked. To push through would leave many injured, perhaps even dead.
‘Fools,’ cursed Alvez quietly, so quiet, in fact, that only Grimm’s superior hearing could pick it up. ‘Do I look like a blasted Chaplain?’
A bent-backed old woman in a moth-eaten red shawl pushed herself up from her knees and shambled towards them, cradling something precious in her tiny withered hands. Grimm saw that she was weeping. He could not identify with her emotion, nor with the emotions of the people all around them, but he had seen its like enough times to know that such a potent effect on the faithful was one of the burdens of being a Space Marine. In all likelihood, these people had never been as close to a living symbol of the Emperor’s light as they were now. He could see the zeal in their eyes. It was right there alongside their joy.
The old woman limped straight towards Alvez, and, mumbling something indecipherable, raised her hands, offering her personal treasure to him.
Grimm knew instinctively that things were about to take a turn for the worst.
‘In Dorn’s name,’ the captain snarled, ‘get out of our way at once. All of you, get back to your homes. This city is under martial law. We do not have time for this.’
In anger, he batted the old woman’s hands aside, and the little treasure she offered went flying from her. She collapsed to the rockcrete surface of the road, cradling her broken wrists, mewling softly. The crowd gasped and shuffled backwards, still on their knees. Some pressed their foreheads to the ground in utter submission. None spoke.
‘Make way,’ Alvez commanded through the vox-amp in his helmet. His voice reverberated along the street, shaking dust and grit from the sills and ledges of the buildings. ‘We are at war. Do not seek blessings from any of my Astartes again. Is that understood? We are not priests, we are warriors. Move aside, damn you!’
When the people leapt to obey, clearing the road so the Astartes could pass easily, Grimm saw that fear had replaced the joy in their eyes. That was regrettable. Did Captain Alvez truly think so little of the people’s love and respect? Sooner or later, Grimm believed, these very people would be called on to fight, to give their lives in a battle none of them had ever trained a single day for. They would die to hold bac
k the foe just a little longer. Would they not fight that much harder inspired by their Astartes betters, rather than terrified by them?
Alvez was already thundering off down the street, not deigning to glance at the rows of people bowing and begging his forgiveness from either side of the street.
Grimm turned to the old woman on the road and, gently, lifted her to a sitting position. She gazed up at him and smiled a toothless smile. Though her bones were broken and it must have caused her great pain, she lifted a limp hand to the faceplate of his helmet and brushed it with her fingertips, mumbling something Grimm could not make out.
In her eyes he saw adoration and joy, as if Captain Alvez had not struck her down at all.
He glanced up and called out to a middle-aged couple on his left, ‘You there! Will you take care of this woman? She requires a medicae. Take her to the nearest facility. I command it.’
The couple, an overweight man in bright quilted trousers and his waif-like wife, bowed excessively, and moved forward to help the old woman to her feet. Grimm lifted her into the man’s arms, marvelling at how impossibly light her frail body seemed. He was glad he would never know such weakness himself. It was a cruelty that time inflicted on most living things, but, buried somewhere in the mysteries of the Astartes gene-seed was the secret to beating it. No Space Marine would ever wither away like that.
The Emperor had spared his sons that fate.
He turned, searching for something and, after the briefest instant, his enhanced eyesight located it. He crossed to the front of a small hab, and the people in his way instantly moved aside. There beneath a filthy window, he bent over and retrieved the old woman’s treasure. It was really the simplest of tokens: a small wooden aquila on a length of cord, a charm intended to be worn around the neck, though it would barely reach around an Astartes’ wrist. It had once been beautifully painted, but it was very old now, the colours cracked and flaking.
When he turned back to the old woman and tried to give it back to her, she became agitated and expressed something to the fat man carrying her. He shushed her, and his wife hissed, ‘Don’t be foolish, old mother. The great one has no need of it.’
‘Explain,’ said Grimm.
The fat man gulped, his throat bobbing, and said, ‘She would like you to have it, my lord. I’m afraid she is senile. She doesn’t understand…’ His eyes flicked briefly to the visor in Grimm’s faceplate, then returned to the ground at his feet.
Grimm looked at the little aquila, so minute in the palm of his red gauntlet. He could not accept the gift personally. On acceptance into the Chapter, the Astartes of the Crimson Fists swore an unbreakable vow of non-possession. It was considered weak and unworthy to covet or collect material objects. One’s armour, one’s weapons, even the trophies one gathered from the battlefield – all of these and more belonged, not to the individual, but to the Chapter.
The Chapter, then, could accept her simple gift.
Grimm addressed her directly, though he was unsure she would understand him. ‘I thank you for your offering, old mother, not for myself – it is against our ways – but on behalf of my Chapter. May the Emperor smile on you…’ and, here, he turned his gaze to the fat man and his wife, and added pointedly, ‘…and on all those who do you kindness.’
There was a sudden harsh bark over the comm-link. ‘Sergeant, you are wasting time.’
Captain Alvez was already a hundred metres away.
With the little wooden aquila in his left hand, Grimm strode past the old woman and the couple, and made his way towards his increasingly impatient superior. On both sides of the street, the people bowed deeply.
Grimm offered the slightest of nods in return as he passed, thinking to himself that, no matter the strength of their faith in the Emperor or in the power of the Adeptus Astartes, very soon, these people would be homeless… just like him. The Deltoro Residentia would be swallowed up by the fighting. How many of these people would be dead by season’s end?
He had almost caught up with Captain Alvez when a great metallic scream sounded from the sky. A broad black shadow flitted between the street and the sun. Grimm looked up and saw the underside of an ugly ork troop-transporter bleeding black smoke and flame from a rent at its rear. The craft was out of control. It was going down fast, and it would crash in one of the wards nearby.
Captain Alvez was already making for a stone stairway that led up onto a hab roof. His heavy footfalls cracked the steps, raining dust and rocky pieces down on the ground below. Grimm followed him up and, together, they stood atop the hab and watched the ork craft cut a smoky black arc across the city.
It struck and shattered a massive stone cylinder far taller than the wall that separated the neighbouring districts, and fell from sight. Grimm knew the cylinder, or at least what it represented. It was a chimney, one of many that sprouted from the roofs of the capital’s Mechanicus-controlled manufactora.
‘Zona 6 Industria,’ he said.
Alvez was already on the comm-link. ‘All squads in zone six. This is Captain Alvez. We have a breach. An ork transport just went down. I need an immediate purge. Leave sections three and four of the Gorrion Wall to the Rynnsguard. This is a priority command. I repeat, we have a breach. Eliminate all orks in the Zona 6 Industria.’
While the captain had been issuing the order, Grimm had been checking the charge in his plasma pistol and warming up the flexors of his power fist. His own squad, which he had left under the command of Brother Santanos, was one of the squads in close proximity to the crash site. If the captain allowed it, Grimm would go to them and lead them in their elimination of the greenskin intruders. How many would have been on that craft? How many would have survived impact? If the orks got a foothold there, a critical resource would be lost all too early in the conflict. The manufactora were essential for ammunition re-supply. It would be a disaster.
With his orders given, Alvez checked his own weapons, one a master-crafted power sword, the other a massive storm-bolter, both Chapter relics awarded to him on his ascension to the captaincy, both exquisitely decorated with fine golden scrollwork and detailed chasings. Weapon checks and a brief prayer completed, the captain turned his head towards Grimm and said, ‘We are near enough to offer assistance, sergeant. Follow me.’
Alvez did not bother with the staircase for his descent. He stepped straight off the roof and plunged to the pavement, a drop of four metres, landing so hard that his boots shattered the flagstones. Grimm followed, the impact of his own boots markedly less. Then the two Crimson Fists were off, powering down the street towards the gate that linked the residential zone to the industrial.
Grimm hoped at least a few of the greenskins had survived. If what Epistolary Deguerro had said was true, he would revel in extracting payback. His armour, he swore, would be caked in xenos gore by the end of the day.
Four
The Western Slopes, The Hellblade Mountains
Kantor and his fifteen battle-brothers moved at speed down a sloping defile, loose stones skittering out in front of them. The Chapter Master was confident that the ork pilots hadn’t spotted them. None of the ugly, heavy-looking fighters had peeled off from the main group, not yet, but the noise of their engines was louder by the second.
Kantor hoped the site of the ruined fortress-monastery, all that body-strewn rubble, would hold the orks’ attention away from Yanna Gorge. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He pressed his Space Marines hard. Sergeant Segala’s makeshift squad were out in front, providing forward eyes. Viejo’s squad were at the rear, alert as they moved, ready to warn of ork pursuit. Cortez and his squad moved with Kantor.
Communication was brief and infrequent as they pushed on. That suited Kantor fine. There was little to say. Better that each man be left to his own private thoughts for now, each remembering the brothers that had meant most to him. He still wrestled with his own grief, of course, but, as the leader, he didn’t have the luxury of letting it dominate his mind. He had to get his Fists away from he
re. Soon, they would reach the foothills. There would be less cover there. Trees were sparse. Only hardy dry-grasses and thorny shrubs flourished. If the ork pilots opted to sweep the region looking for fresh targets, it would be on the foothills that Kantor and his men would be seen, out in the open with nowhere to run.
Cortez moved up beside him, fell into step, and, after a moment, said, ‘No time to cover our tracks. They will follow us sooner or later.’
Cortez’s helm hid his expression, but Kantor could hear his old friend’s inner thoughts clear enough in his voice: I want them to find us.
‘It cannot be helped, Alessio,’ said Kantor. ‘The best we can do is to hide our numbers. Keep to the tracks of our forward squad.’
Cortez looked north-west, eyes following the line of the gorge. Up ahead, Segala’s squad were moving quickly, eyes scanning the land for signs of any ground-based foe. He turned back to Kantor and said, ‘You have us scurrying away like mice, Pedro, when I would have us turn and fight like lions.’
Kantor frowned under his faceplate. ‘The ways of the mouse suit our purpose, brother. He is a survivor. The time for battle will come, but we will reunite with our brothers in the capital before that. It is the only logical path.’
‘Logic,’ repeated Cortez, but he spoke it like a curse word. ‘Ask the orks what they think of–’
Kantor raised a hand to hush him, his ears picking up a new sound on the air. Cortez listened, and heard it, too. Beneath the splutter and throb of the ork engines, something else was rising, faint but growing steadily stronger. It was a smoother sound, more rhythmic, more finely tuned.
‘Lightnings,’ said Kantor, his Lyman’s ear implant filtering and enhancing the noise. ‘They’re coming in from the south-west. Three of them. It must be a fighter wing out of Scar Lake.’
Cortez tilted his head. ‘Closing fast. They must’ve seen the orks.’ He looked to the rocky slope on his left, then back at Kantor.
The War for Rynn's World - Steve Parker & Mike Lee Page 17