13th Legion

by Gav Thorpe

  13th Legion

  Gav Thorpe

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

  The Last Chancers

  13 th LEGION

  Gav Thorpe

  A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Games Workshop Publishing

  Willow Road, Lemon, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

  10 98765432

  Cover illustration by Kenson Low

  Copyright © 2000 Games Workshop Ltd. All rights reserved.

  Games Workshop, the Games Workshop logo and Warhammer are

  trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd., registered in the UK and other

  countries around the world. The Black Library and the Black Library logo

  are trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 1 84154 139 7

  Set in ГГС Giovanni

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Cardiff Rd, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX, UK

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  13 th LEGION

  The chamber hummed and vibrated with energy that coursed along the thick cables snaking across the low ceiling. Somewhere in the distance could be heard the steady thump-thump-thump of heavy machinery in operation. Glowglobes set at metre intervals around the metal walls of the square room illuminated the scene with a fitful, jaundiced light. With a creak the lock wheel on the door span slowly; thick metal bars to either side of the portal ground through their rusted brackets. The door swung open and a figure stepped inside, swathed in a long black greatcoat, the tall collar obscuring his face. As he paced into the light, his thin face caught the yellow glow giving him a sickly pallor. His dark eyes glanced back over his shoulder before he took another step forward, easing the door closed behind him.

  Suddenly the man stopped. His eyes snapped to the artefact stored in the middle of the room. It resembled a coffin, stood on end with a rat's nest of wires springing from it to fasten to hastily rigged connectors that pierced the cabling on the ceiling. The glass front of the coffin lay in shards and splinters across the floor. Of what was contained within, there was no sign. Recovering from his initial shock, the man began to

  examine the sarcophagus, prodding with an inexpert finger at various dials set into its sides. He stepped back and stroked the fingers of a hand gloved in black velvet through his short goatee beard, brow furrowed in concentration, lips twisted in agitation.

  'Emperor-damned stasis chamber/ he muttered to himself, looking around once more. 'I should have got it consecrated by a tech-priest/

  As he walked around to the back of the coffin his gaze was caught by a darker shadow in the top corner of the far wall. He peered closer and saw a ventilation duct. Its corroded grille had been twisted and torn, ripped to one side. Standing on tiptoe he pulled himself up to look into the opening: the faint light from the room illuminated a metre or so of a narrow shaft that swiftly sloped upwards and out of sight. Dropping back to the floor, he banged his fist against his thigh with a short frustrated gesture. He pulled the glove from his right hand and reached into a deep pocket inside his coat, pulling out a device the size of a clenched fist. As he stabbed a button on its surface, the light from the glowglobes caught on a golden ring on his index finger, inscribed with the device of an T inset with a grinning skull.

  Raising the device to his lips, the man spoke.

  Third day of Euphisdes. I have returned to the stasis genera­tor, which appears to have malfunctioned. The specimen has escaped. I will start immediate investigations to recover or eliminate it. I pray to the Emperor that I can recapture the monster. This mistake could cost us dearly'

  ONE

  LEAVING DELIVERANCE

  +++ What is the status of Operation Harvest? +++

  +++ Operation Harvest is beginning second stage as scheduled. +++

  The guardsman's nose explodes with blood as my fist crashes between his eyes. Next, I hit him with a left to the chin, knock­ing him backwards a step. He ducks out of the next punch, spitting blood from cracked lips. My nose is filled with the smell of old sweat and fresh blood, and perspiration from the blazing sun trickles down my face and throat. All around I can hear chanting and cheering.

  'Fraggin' kink his fraggin' neck!' I recognise Jorett's voice.

  'Break the son of an ork apart!' Franx yells.

  The guardsmen from Chorek are cheering their man on too, their flushed faces looking dark in contrast to their white and grey camouflage jackets and leggings.

  He makes a lunge at me, his face swathed in blood, his dusty uniform covered in red stains. I easily side-step his bullish charge, bringing my knee up hard into his abdomen and feeling some ribs crack under the blow. He's doubled up now, his face a mask of pain, but I'm not going to stop there. I grab the back of his head with both hands and ram my knee up into his face, hearing the snap of his cheek or jaw fracturing. He collapses sideways, and as he falls, the toecap of my standard-issue boot connects with his chin, hurling his head backward into the hard soil. I'm about to lay into him again when I realise everything's gone dead quiet. I look up to see what the hell's happening, panting hard.

  Pushing through the Chorek ranks is a massively muscled man, and I spot the insignia of a master sergeant on the blue sleeve of his tunic. He's got the black pelt of some shaggy crea­ture tied as a cloak over his left shoulder and his eyes are fixed on me with murderous intent. In his hand is a sixty-centimetre metal parade baton, red jewels clustered around one end, and as he steps up to me he smashes the point of it into my guts, knocking the wind out of me and forcing me to my knees.

  'Penal legion scum!' the Chorek master sergeant barks. 'I'll show you what they should have done to you!'

  He pulls his arm back for a good swing at me but then stops in mid-strike. Just try it, I think to myself, I've killed harder men and creatures than you. I'm still fired up from the fight and ready to pounce on this jumped-up bully of an officer. I'll give him the same treatment I've just dealt out to his man. He glances over my head and a shadow falls over me. A prickly sen­sation starts at the back of my neck and turns into a slight shiver down my spine. I turn to look over my shoulder, still clutching my aching guts, and see that he's there. The Colonel. Colonel Schaeffer, commanding officer of the 13th Penal Legion, known by those unlucky enough to be counted amongst its number as the Last Chancers. The swollen dusk sun's behind him - the sun always seems to be behind him, he's always in shadow or sil­houette when you first see him, like it's a talent he's got. All I can see is the icy glitter of his sharp blue eyes, looking at the master sergeant, not me. I'm glad of that because his face is set like stone, a sure sign that he is in a bad mood.

  That will be all, master sergeant/ the Colonel says calmly, just standing there with his left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his power sword.

  This man needs disciplining,' replies the Chorek, arm still raised for the blow. I think this guy is stupid enough to try it as
well, and secretly hope he will, just to see what Schaeffer does to him.

  'Disperse your troopers from the landing field/ the Colonel tells the master sergeant, 'and mine will then be soon out of your way.'

  The Chorek officer looks like he's going to argue some more, but then I see he makes the mistake of meeting the Colonel's gaze and I smirk as I see him flinch under that cold stare. Everyone sees something different in those blue eyes, but it's always something painful and unpleasant that they're reminded of. The Colonel doesn't move or say anything while the master sergeant herds his men away, pushing them with the baton when they turn to look back. He details two of them to drag away the trooper I knocked out and he casts one murder­ous glance back at me. I know his kind, an unmistakable bully, and the Choreks are going to suffer for his humiliation when they reach their camp.

  'On your feet, Kage!' snaps the Colonel, still not moving a muscle. I struggle up, wincing as soreness flashes across my stomach from the master sergeant's blow. I don't meet the Colonel's gaze, but already I'm tensing, expecting the sharp edge of his tongue.

  'Explain yourself, lieutenant/ he says quietly, folding his arms like a cross tutor.

  That Chorek scum said we should've all died in Deliverance, sir/ I tell him. 'Said we didn't deserve to live. Well, sir, I've just been on burial detail for nearly a hundred and fifty Last Chancers, and I lost my temper/

  You think that gutter scum like you deserve to live?' the Colonel asks quietly.

  'I know that we fought as hard as any bloody Chorek guards­man, harder even/ I tell him, looking straight at him for the first time. The Colonel seems to think for a moment, before nodding sharply.

  'Good/ he says, and I can't stop my jaw from dropping in sur­prise. 'Get these men onto the shutde - without any more fighting, Lieutenant Kage/ the Colonel orders, turning on his heel and marching off back towards the settlement of Deliverance.

  I cast an astonished look at the other Last Chancers around me, the glance met with knotted brows and shrugs. I compose myself for a moment, trying not to work out what the hell that was all about. I've learnt it's best not to try to fathom out the Colonel sometimes, it'll just tie your head in knots.

  'Well, you useless bunch of fraggin' lowlifes/ I snap at the remnants of my platoon, 'you heard the Colonel. Get your sorry hides onto that shuttle at the double!'

  As I jog towards the blocky shape of our shuttle, Franx falls in on my left. I try to ignore the big sergeant, still annoyed with him from a couple of days ago, when he could have got me into deep trouble with the Colonel.

  'Kage/ he begins, glancing down across his broad shoulder at me. 'Haven't had a chance to talk to you since... Well, since before the tyranids attacked/

  You mean since before you tried to lead the platoon into the jungles on some stupid escape attempt?' I snap back, my voice purposefully harsh. He wasn't going to get off easily, even if I

  did consider him something of a friend. A friendship he'd

  pushed to the limits by trying to incite a rebellion around me.

  'Can't blame me, Kage/ he says, with a slight whine to his

  deep voice that irritates me. 'Should've all died back then, you

  know it/

  'I'm still alive, and I know that if I'd let you take off I wouldn't be/ I reply, not even bothering to look at him. The Colonel would've killed me for letting you go, even before the 'nids had a chance/ "Yeah, I know, I know/ Franx tells me apologetically. 'Look' I say, finally meeting his eye, 'I can't blame you for wanting out. Emperor knows, it's what we all want. But you've got to be smarter about it. Pick your time better, and not one that's gonna leave me implicated/

  'I understand, Kage/ Franx nods before falling silent. One of the shuttle crewmen, looking hot and bothered in his crisp blue and white Navy uniform, is counting us off as we head up the loading ramp, giving us sullen looks as if he wishes they could just leave us here. It's hot inside the shuttle, which has slowly baked in the harsh sun until the air inside feels like a kiln. I see the others settling into places along the three benches, securing themselves with thick restraint belts that hang from beams that stretch at head height along the shuttle chamber's ten-metre length. As I find a place and strap myself into the restraining harnesses, Franx takes the place next to me. 'How's Kronin?' he asks, fumbling with a metal buckle as he pulls the leather straps tighter across his barrel chest.

  'Haven't seen him. He went up on the first shuttle run/ I tell him, checking around to see that everybody else is secured. Seeing that the survivors of my platoon are sitting as tight as a Battle Sister's affections, I give the signal to the naval rating waiting at the end of the seating bay. He disappears through the bulkhead and the red take-off lights flash three times in

  warning.

  'I haven't got the full story about Kronin yet/ I say to Franx, pushing my back against the hard metal of the bench to settle myself. Franx is about to reply when the rumble of thrasters reverberates through the fuselage of the shuttle. The rumbling increases in volume to a roar and I feel myself being pushed fur­ther into the bench by the shuttle's take-off. The whole craft starts to shake violemly as it gathers momentum, soaring

  upwards into the sky above Deliverance. My booted feet judder against the mesh decking of the shuttle and my backside slides slightly across the metal bench. My stomach is still painful, and I feel slightly sick as the shuttle banks over sharply to take its new course. The twelve centimetre slash in my thigh begins to throb painfully as more blood is forced into my legs by the acceleration. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain. Through a viewport opposite I can see the ground dropping away, the seemingly haphazard scattering of shuttles and dropships sit­ting a kilometre beyond the walls of Deliverance. The settlement itself is receding quickly, until I can only dimly make out the line of the curtain wall and the block of the central keep. Then we're into the clouds and everything turns white.

  As we break out of the atmosphere the engines turn to a dull whine and a scattering of stars replaces the blue of the sky out­side the viewport. Franx leans over.

  They say Kronin is touched/ he says, tapping the side of his head to emphasise his point.

  'It's bloody strange, I'll give you that/ I reply. 'Something happened to him when he was in the chapel/

  'Chapel?' Franx asks, scratching his head vigorously through a thick bush of brown curls.

  AVhat did you hear?' I say, curious to find out what rumours had started flying around, only a day after the battle against the tyranids. Gossip is a good way of gauging morale, as well as the reactions to a recent battle. Of course, we're never happy, being stuck in a penal legion until we die, but sometimes some of the men are more depressed than usual. The fight against the alien tyranids at the missionary station was horrific, combating monsters like them always is. I wanted to know what the men were focusing their thoughts on.

  'Nothing really/ Franx says, trying unsuccessfully to shrug in the tight confines of the safety harness. 'People are saying that he went over the edge/

  The way I heard it, he and the rest of 2nd platoon had fallen back to the chapel/ I tell him. There were 'nids rushing about everywhere, coming over the east wall. Most of them were the big warriors, smashing at the doors of the shrine with their claws, battering their way in. They crashed through the win­dows and got inside. There was nowhere to run; those alien bastards just started hacking and chopping at everything inside.

  They lost the whole platoon except for Kronin. They must have left him for dead, since the Colonel found him under a pile of

  bodies/ That's a sure way to crack/ Franx says sagely, a half-smile on

  his bulbous lips.

  'Anyway/ I continue, 'Kronin is cracked, like you say. Keeps talking all this gibber, constantly jabbering away about some­thing that no one could work out/

  'I've seen that sort of thing before/ says Poal, who's been lis­tening from the other side of Franx. His narrow, chiselled face has a knowing air about it, like he was a sage dispensing t
he wisdom of the ancients or something. 'I had a sergeant once whose leg was blown off by a mine on Gaulis II. He just kept repeating his brother's name, minute after minute, day after day. He slit his own throat with a med's scalpel in the end/

  There's a moment of silence as everybody considers this, and I carry on with the story to distract them from thoughts of self-murder.

  'Yeah, that's pretty grim/ I tell them, 'but Kronin's case just gets weirder. Turns out, he's not mumbling just any old thing, oh no. He's quoting scripture, right? Nathaniel, the preacher back in Deliverance, overhears him saying out lines from the Litanies of Faith. Stuff like: "And the Beast from the Abyss rose up with its multitudes and laid low the servants of the Emperor with its clawed hands". Things like that/

  'Fragged if I've ever seen Kronin with a damned prayer book, not in two fragging years of fighting under the son of an ork/ Jorett announces from the bench down the middle of the shut­tle, looking around. Everybody's listening in now that we can be heard over the dimmed noise of the engines. Forty pairs of eyes look towards me in anticipation of the next twist of the

  tale.

  'Exactly!' I declare with an emphatic nod, beginning to play to the audience a little bit. I'm enjoying having a new tale to tell for a change, and it keeps them from falling out with each other, which usually happens when we wind down from a mission.

  'Nathaniel sits down with him for a couple of hours while we bury the dead/ I continue, passing my gaze over those that can see me. 'I heard him explaining his view on things to the Colonel. Seems Kronin had a visitation from the Emperor himself while he lay half-dead in the chapel. Says he has been

  given divine knowledge. Of course, he doesn't actually say this, he's just quoting appropriate lines from the Litanies, like: "And the Emperor appeared with a shimmering halo and spake unto His people on Gathalamor." And like you say, how in the seven hells does he know any of this stuff?'

  There is nothing mystical about that/ answers Gappo, sitting on his own towards the rear of the shutde. Nearly everybody seems to give an inward groan, except a couple of the guys who are looking forward to this new development in the entertain­ment. Myself, I've kind of come to like Gappo - he's not such a meathead as most of the others.