Scout-Sergeant Kholka looked up towards the darkening skies for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes, even though he knew the strike force would not be inbound for at least an hour, and that was assuming nothing had gone awry.
Kholka and his Scouts had located a landing zone and transmitted its coordinates to the shielded gun-ship on its last pass five days ago. Now they waited, watching for enemy intrusion or interference.
The landing zone was the flat floor of a dormant volcano, protected by a five hundred-metre-tall rim, breached on its northern edge by a wide fracture.
Of course, the suitability of the landing zone might have been noted by potential enemies. For that reason, Kholka had ordered the young Scouts to keep a watchful vigil for enemy activity, spreading them out in order to cover as much of the surrounding region as possible. An hour ago, Borchu had reported a glimpse of movement to the north and Kholka had worked his way stealthily around the volcano’s rim to the Scout’s hide.
Lowering his eyes from the skies above, Kholka looked down upon the black wastelands far below. The sun was setting, casting long, jagged shadows across the lands. Any enemy at all might be creeping through those shadows. He hesitated before lifting the magnoculars, seeking to get a feel for the landscape before him, to imagine himself a predator moving through it in search of prey. He ignored the fact that in truth he himself might be the prey, if indeed a hunter lurked down there, in the dark shadows.
The wastes stretched for kilometres in every direction, but to the north-west, beyond the horizon, were the outskirts of the agri-zone. Another one hundred or so kilometres beyond that was the capital city of Mankarra. It was from that direction that any enemy action was most likely to come, and it was there that Borchu had seen the movement.
Having familiarised himself with the landscape, Kholka raised the magnoculars to his eyes. “Coordinates?” he asked the Scout beside him.
“Five by the winter deeps,” Borchu replied in the White Scars battle-cant. “Three score and nine by the herd.”
The veteran sergeant was so accustomed to the use of battle-cant that he had no need to convert the code phrase into conventional coordinates. Indeed, the form of communication was in many cases more efficient than standard coordinates, for it contained descriptive shorthand that drew the eye to specific terrain features. Perhaps most importantly, it relied on cultural references that only one raised on the steppes of Chogoris would understand, making it nigh impossible for an enemy to decipher should he intercept it.
Panning the magnoculars from west to east, Kholka adjusted the magnification so that his field of vision was focussed on an area some three kilometres out. Like the majority of the landscape, the area was dominated by twisted arches and jagged outcrops of volcanic rock, black or dark grey in colour and ideal terrain for an enemy to creep through at dusk. He zoomed outwards slightly, absorbing the general lay of the land, seeking to imagine himself passing through it. What path would he take, were he approaching the volcano?
Kholka’s eye was caught by a black bridge of rock between two outcroppings, formed no doubt by the action of blisteringly hot lava carving its way through an older feature. The channel below the bridge snaked its way from the north-east and its depths would be cast in the deepest of shadow for much of the day.
Having located a possible route an enemy might approach the landing zone by, the sergeant traced its path as far as he could see. At times the channel was hidden by intervening terrain features such as tall, bladelike spires or massive coils of solidified lava. Seeing no sign of an enemy on his first sweep, Kholka engaged the thermal imaging function. He soon found however that the background temperature of the volcanic rocks was relatively high, high enough to mask the presence of any foe taking measures to avoid detection by such means. No matter, Kholka thought as he disengaged the thermal imaging; he far preferred to rely upon his own senses, enhanced as they were by arcane genetic engineering and honed by centuries of battlefield experience.
Kholka focussed in upon a particular area of shadow. If I were moving along that route, he thought, that is where I would be. It offered an unobstructed view of the volcano and had ample overhead cover from an angular blade of rock jutting out above the channel.
Only after he had been looking directly at that patch of shadow, unblinking and utterly focussed, for upwards of fifteen minutes, did Kholka detect the very faintest of movement. A black patch of shadow, barely discernable against the darkness all around, moved ever so slightly.
“Enemy located,” the sergeant growled.
Shrike longed to engage his jump pack and hurl himself through the darkening skies towards the contact his auspex had detected hiding in the rocks up ahead, yet he dared not. Not until he had confirmed their full strength and disposition at least. To reveal his location now would be suicide.
Having tracked the sub-etheric transmission to its terminus, Shrike was now sure that the target was the inside of the volcano up ahead. It made sense. The inside of the vast crater would offer an ideal location for a planetary landing. But only if whoever was inbound wished to avoid detection by other forces on the surface of Quintus.
Ten hours ago, before the sun had risen across the wastes south-west of Mankarra, Shrike had convened a council of his officers and specialists. All had been afforded the opportunity to speak, to offer their theories on the identity of the strangers they knew would be arriving soon. Several had expressed the hope that the force represented aid for Mankarra, perhaps in the form of reinforcements, yet the case against had been well made. Before embarking on the mission, Shrike had been fully appraised of the Imperium’s forces in the region. As far as he knew, none had been allotted to target the world. And besides, some had argued, it was too soon to expect an intervention, for such a force would take many months to gather and prepare, and would be unlikely to approach the world in such a stealthy manner.
Other opinions had been voiced too. Perhaps the strangers were reinforcements for the invaders. But why then hide their approach? Were they a rival war-band, perhaps intent upon dislodging the tyranny of Voldorius only to replace it with another, perhaps even more brutal rule?
One last possibility had emerged during the gathering. Might the strangers be brother Space Marines come to Quintus to lend their aid to its resistance and to oust the Alpha Legion and their vile overlord? That would certainly explain the use of the highly sophisticated carrier signal, but Shrike was aware of no other Chapter in the immediate vicinity.
The Salamanders Chapter, Shrike knew, had a strike force in the benighted Magulanox sector, but had departed the galactic arm entirely in pursuit of the traitor rogue trader Lord Hax. The Celestial Guard Chapter were also known to be operating within a dozen light years of Quintus, but the last Shrike had heard, all of their forces had been recalled to defend the Chapter’s home world of Erenon against a large ork incursion. The Imperial Fists had a force inbound on the anarchic Jagga Cluster, but that lay dozens of light years away, while the Tigers Argent, White Scars and the Howling Griffons could all, in theory, be operating even further out still.
No, Shrike had decided. The Raven Guard could not make the assumption that whoever was approaching Quintus was a friend. He had ordered his force to proceed to the landing zone with all caution and to be ready for action against the strangers.
Settling back into the darkness of the channel, Shrike waited.
“Final corrections input,” reported Brother Koban. “Beginning final descent.”
Kor’sarro watched through the canopy of the Thunderhawk’s command deck as the dark surface of Quintus loomed. The strike force was approaching on the planet’s night side, the bright crescent of dawn casting a semi-circular halo across its shoulder. Behind the strike force, the moon of Quintus shone its sickly luminescence, bathing the nighted surface below in soft green light. As the minutes counted down, small pinpricks of artificial light became visible, the telltale signs of civilisation. Whether those lights were cast
by industry or were simply the glowing embers of ruin, Kor’sarro could not yet discern.
The gunship bucked violently as it penetrated the upper reaches of the world’s atmosphere, and Kor’sarro mouthed a silent prayer to the primarch. He beseeched the first Great Khan for his blessing, as he had done on hundreds of previous occasions. To date, the primarch had watched over the Master of the Hunt and his brotherhood of White Scars. Wherever Jaghatai Khan was, whatever far reaches of the galaxy he hunted, he was always with his favoured sons, the proud warriors of the steppes of Chogoris.
“Approaching local Karman line,” the pilot said. “One hundred kilometres.”
The turbulence increased still further as the Thunderhawk plummeted through the atmosphere. The view through the canopy was now entirely of the planet’s surface. Because the need for stealth was so great, the vessel and its sister ships would only engage manoeuvring thrusters at the last possible moment, before triggering their anti-grav generators to arrest their final descent.
As the gunship plummeted, the features of the landscape below became more discernable. Kor’sarro’s first impression of Quintus was of a planet crossed by vast mountain ranges and pockmarked with the scars of massive amounts of volcanic activity. Though it appeared green in the light of the moon, Kor’sarro knew that much of the surface was in fact ash-grey or black, and very little of it was able to support any life.
Between the vast mountain ranges stretched barren, trackless wastes, strewn with twisted rock formations and crossed with deep valleys forged by the passage of torrents of lava at some distant point in the world’s prehistory. Due to the nature of the terrain, mankind had only settled in a scattering of regions, and then the only reason for doing so was to provide a strategic base from which Imperial forces could guard against alien incursions from nearby stars. In truth, this place was little more than a backstop: its defenders would never have stood a chance against invasion, but their defiance and sacrifice would have bought time for a coordinated counterattack to be assembled. With the coming of Kernax Voldorius, that purpose had been negated.
“Activating manoeuvring thrusters,” Brother Koban announced. This was it; the point at which there truly was no going back. Were an enemy to be casting his gaze in the portion of the sky the strike force was approaching through, the gunships might be detected as their thrusters flared into life. A moment later, the sound of the atmosphere rushing against the hull was drowned out by that of the jets coming online, a sound which to Kor’sarro seemed shockingly loud.
Pulling back hard on the flight control, the pilot brought the gunship around onto its approach heading, the horizon swinging downwards sharply as the vessel levelled out.
“One hundred kilometres to objective,” Brother Koban announced. “Applying anti-grav in ten seconds.”
Kor’sarro braced himself and counted down the seconds in his head. As he reached zero, the gunship’s forwards momentum was dramatically reduced, its structure groaning in protest. Yet the Thunderhawk was constructed to the very highest of specifications and attended to by the ministrations of the most devoted Techmarines. It could survive far worse punishment.
“Fifty kilometres to landing zone,” the pilot calmly announced. “Awakening machine systems.”
A deep thrum suddenly filled the command deck and the instrumentation panels all around the flight crew came fully to life. Pict screens lit up, reams of data scrolling across their surfaces and bright indicators blinking their warnings.
Kor’sarro scanned the command terminal and quickly located the landing zone. Looking through the canopy, he caught his first sight of the massive volcano the strike force was heading towards. The screens showed no indication of the other eight gunships of his force, which carried between them the entire 3rd Company and a number of armoured vehicles. All were proceeding on a signals blackout, their identification transponders silent for the time being lest an enemy detect them. Only the carrier signal that each followed would guide them in.
As the volcano loomed, Kor’sarro scanned the terrain at its base. He knew that should any enemy be waiting, they would be well hidden amongst the twisted black rock formations. As the range closed to ten kilometres, Kor’sarro barked an order. “Circle the perimeter, Brother Koban. Then take us in.”
The Thunderhawk banked to port, the sheer black flank of the volcano passing by. Somewhere on that mighty crater, Kor’sarro knew, Sergeant Kholka and his Scouts were hidden. He fully expected them to be so well concealed that he would not see them until they chose to reveal themselves. The Thunderhawk continued its manoeuvre, keeping the mighty volcano to starboard as it sped through the dark skies. After several minutes, the pilot hauled back on the flight control, bringing the vessel directly over the black maw of the crater.
“No sign of—” the co-pilot began.
“There!” said Kor’sarro, indicating a gully that cut through the jagged landscape towards the mighty breach in the crater’s rim. “Movement. Take us in for a pass.”
“Shall I attempt to raise the Scout force, my khan?” asked the co-pilot.
“Do so, but arm all weapons systems. Now.”
The Thunderhawk banked again as the pilot brought it about on to the new heading. In seconds, the vessel was following the path of the winding gully at an altitude of a mere fifty metres. Runes blinked as the gunship’s weapons came online. Kor’sarro’s command terminal showed targeting reticules tracing the line of the gully for potential targets.
As Kor’sarro watched, the gunship’s targeting spirits detected a return, the reticules blinking red as the weapons prepared to fire.
The Scout-sergeant breathed a sigh of relief as the gunships blazed across the dark skies to the east. Yet it now fell to him to confirm whether or not the landing should be aborted in the face of any potential enemy activity below. The first of the Thunderhawks soared overhead and then banked hard, swooping in low over the very gully that Kholka himself was concentrating upon. Evidently, the gunship’s superior weapon spirits had detected the presence too and the vessel was commencing an attack run.
Focussing his attentions on the spot where he had earlier seen movement, Kholka knew that he had scant seconds to arrive at a decision. And then, he saw it again. A sudden movement of black against black. Bracing himself, he increased the magnoculars’ magnification to full.
“Brother-sergeant,” Borchu whispered from beside him, the neophyte’s hand raised to the vox-bead in his ear. “Hunter One is requesting confirmation of our status.”
“Tell them to stand by,” Kholka replied through gritted teeth as he caught a fleeting glimpse of a black-clad figure wreathed in shadows beneath the rock shelf.
The sergeant filtered out the sound of the Scout passing the communication back to the gunship, concentrating all of his attention upon the scene through the viewfinder.
“My apologies, brother-sergeant,” the Scout interrupted. “Brother-Captain Kor’sarro needs confirmation right now. He’s engaging!”
As the gunship dived towards the position Kholka was studying, he saw a flash of white against the black backdrop.
“The conspirer…” Kholka named the target in battle-cant as he reached for his own vox-bead. “Pull up, brother-captain, contact confirmed,” he barked into the vox. “Abort!”
* * *
Kor’sarro strode down the gunship’s ramp, his armoured boots crunching the black, rocky ground before the Thunderhawk had even fully touched down. Around him stretched the flat bottom of the volcano’s inner surface, swirling lines of solidified lava etched across the ground. The crater wall towered high above, framing the circle of the now purple and red stained night sky high above. He turned and looked upwards and saw the first vessels of the remainder of the strike force descending upon screaming columns of white flame.
“You!” Kor’sarro growled as he stalked towards a group of black-armoured Space Marines, his Command squad at his back. Anger and indignation rose within him. He would not allow anything to come
between him, and the object of his decade-long hunt.
“Raven Guard,” Kor’sarro said as he came to a halt before the other. Waiting for him was a Space Marine, his power armour black with a heraldic raven emblazoned at the shoulder. The Space Marine was helmetless, his face deathly pale and his long, dark hair loose at his shoulders. His eyes were shadowed, black pits with no whites visible at all, a trait shared by many of the longer-lived sons of his Chapter. “Why do you haunt the shadows of Quintus?”
Shrike’s voice was low and dangerous as he replied, “I bring death. I bring deliverance.” Shrike stared darkly at Kor’sarro. “What of you, White Scar?”
“I hunt,” Kor’sarro said. From behind him came the sound of mighty engines growling to life, of tanks grinding forwards from the bellies of Thunderhawk transporters. The company’s Tactical squads would ride to war on bikes in the coming battles, and the sound of their engines revving up reverberated around the crater. “The White Scars come for the head of Voldorius. I come to claim that honour.”
Shrike’s dark eyes locked on Kor’sarro’s own. “You can have it,” the other growled. “My concerns are greater.”
“Explain yourself, Shadow Captain,” Kor’sarro said, deliberately using the title by which Shrike was sometimes known.
“Ever was it thus,” Shrike sighed, blatantly changing the subject. “Ever did the sons of the steppes seek to charge headlong to glory without pause or consideration of the grand scheme.”
“And ever did the ravens haunt the shadows,” Kor’sarro replied bitterly, “biding their time while glory passed them by.”
A host of White Scars had gathered at Kor’sarro’s back, drawn to the meeting of commanders. The Storm Seer Qan’karro stepped to Kor’sarro’s side and placed a firm, gauntleted hand upon his armoured shoulder.
“Huntsman,” the Storm Seer said quietly. “Be wary of the sin of pride.”
Kor’sarro was ready to argue with his old friend, but the wisdom of the Storm Seer’s words penetrated his anger. Forcing himself to calm, Kor’sarro turned back to the Raven Guard captain. “How long?”
03 - Hunt for Voldorius Page 14