“Keep moving,” he barked as he drew his bolt pistol once more.
Kol Badar hissed as the claws of a xenos creatures sheared through one of his immense shoulder plates, gouging a deep wound in his flesh. Firing his combi-bolter at point blank range, explosive rounds tore through the thorax of the creature, ripping it in two. He smashed another alien predator away with a backhand sweep of his fist, the blow crushing bone and sending it reeling into the wall. Another creature leapt upon him, claws scraping deep furrows through his Terminator armour, and its jaws opened wide as its thick, muscular tongue darted towards his throat.
The Coryphaus closed his power talons around his xenos attacker’s head, coruscating energy rippling up the long blades. With a twist, he ripped the alien’s head from its shoulders, half a metre of its spinal column still attached, and flung it away from him before unloading with his combi-bolter once more, tearing another two aliens apart with concentrated bursts of fire. Warning icons flickered before his eyes as the chambers of his weapon emptied.
“Swap,” ordered the hulking Coryphaus, and he stepped to the side to allow the Anointed warrior behind him to pass.
The massive warrior stamped forwards to take up the position at the front of the formation, and his freshly loaded weapon roared.
“Keep moving,” ordered Kol Badar as he reloaded, feeding a fresh pair of ammunition belts into his weapon system and locking them into position. His weapon whined and pulled the first bolts into the firing chambers, and the warning icon within his helmet flashed green and disappeared.
The formation approached a cross-junction, the side-passages hidden from view by the dull metal corners.
“Khalaxis,” said Kol Badar. “Grenades.” The column paused briefly as the sergeant-champion of the 17th primed a pair of frag grenades.
“Fire in the hole!” he shouted, tossing the grenades forward. Kol Badar’s optic stabilisers compensated for the sudden flash as the grenades exploded, dimming his vision so that the sudden flash did not blind him, and instantly the column was moving once more, the lead warriors stepping around the blind corners.
Lumps of flesh and severed xenos limbs had been scattered by the explosions, and Kol Badar began to fire as he picked up movement. The creatures had been lying in ambush for them, and he gunned a pair of them down as his auto-sensors flashed up targeting cross-hairs before his eyes.
Too late, he registered a flash of movement to his flank, and tried to bring his weapon to bear on the alien leaping towards him from the side, but the bulk of his Terminator armour slowed his movements.
A chainaxe slammed the creature into the ground, whirring teeth ripping it almost in two, its hot blood steaming as it poured over the floor panels, dripping down between the metal grid. Khalaxis kicked the corpse off the blade of his axe, his bolt pistol making another alien’s head disappear in a red mist, and Kol Badar nodded his thanks to the veteran berserker.
“Advance to the east,” said Marduk through the vox network. “Our quarry is near.”
Kol Badar took up the lead once more, stamping forward down the long corridor leading to the east, wary of attacks, but sighting no enemies. The corridor was a hundred metres long, and he felt a growing unease as he led the advance.
Behind him, the rest of the formation was following in his footsteps, the Anointed warrior in the rear walking backwards steadily, his combi-bolter firing almost constantly.
Stepping over ribbed pipes and cables that made his footing uneven, Kol Badar came upon a closed room, its walls thick with a tangle of pipes and insulated wiring. His combi-bolter tracked around the enclosed space, registering no threats, but he saw that there was no exit from the room bar a heavy blast-door on the far side.
Cursing, he moved swiftly towards the blast-door, but it was sealed shut. It had been welded fast, and deep gouges in its thick surface attested to its strength. Clearly, the xenos creatures had attempted to gain access through the door, but even their deadly claws, which had torn through power armour and even the vaunted suits of Terminator armour with contemptible ease seemed incapable of penetrating this thick bulkhead.
A chainfist would make short work of the bulkhead, but of his Anointed warriors, only Elimkhar was equipped with one of the weapons, and he was bringing up the rear.
Swinging his heavy, quad-tusked helmet around, the Coryphaus saw that the bulk of the warriors had already entered the room. Only two of Khalaxis’s 17th coterie still stood, and he cursed again.
“You have led us into a dead end, First Acolyte,” barked Kol Badar.
“She is there,” said Marduk, staring resolutely towards the sealed bulkhead door.
Only Elimkhar was still moving down the long corridor, walking steadily backwards, his combi-bolter firing almost constantly. The corridor was filling with the xenos dead, but still more of the creatures were surging forwards, throwing themselves uncaring into the deadly fire.
“Brother Elimkhar, keep moving, we need your chain-fist,” ordered Kol Badar, urging the Anointed warrior to hurry. “Brother Akkar, be ready to clear the corridor.”
Brother Akkar nodded his acknowledgement of the order, and stepped towards the corridor, the heavy barrels of his reaper autocannon extending forwards beneath his arm.
Abruptly, Brother Elimkhar’s weapon jammed, and he stared down at the suddenly silent, overheated bolter.
“Move!” roared Kol Badar, but the strength and speed of the xenos creatures was staggering, and the Anointed disappeared as a wave of enemies smashed over him, claws stabbing and rending. He was dead in an instant, and Kol Badar swore again.
The reaper autocannnon of the Anointed warrior brother, Akkar, roared into life, the flame of the mighty weapon’s muzzle flash lighting up the dark room as if it were daylight. Hundreds of shell casings poured from the heavy weapon as it unleashed its full power, and a constant stream of high calibre rounds ripped up the length of the corridor, shredding everything that they struck.
Scores of the aliens were ripped apart as the shells tore through them, the high-pitched screams of the dying aliens all but lost beneath the roaring of the autocannon’s twin barrels.
“We must go back,” shouted Kol Badar over the roar of the heavy weapon. “There is no way through here.”
“She is in there, I know it,” said Marduk hotly. “There is no going back.”
“How do you propose to get through that?” snapped Kol Badar, gesturing with one of his powered talons towards the bulkhead.
Marduk stared at the door for a moment.
“Darioq-Grendh’al,” he ordered. “Open it.”
“As you wish, Marduk, First Acolyte of the Word Bearers Legion of Astartes, genetic descendant of the glorified Primarch Lorgar,” said the hulking figure of the magos, stepping forwards, his four mechanical servo arms unfolding from his back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Solon Marcabus trudged through the blinding snowstorm, leaning into the relentless winds that threatened to knock him to the ground with every gust. He stumbled as he stepped into a small drift, sinking up to his knees. It took all his effort to haul himself out, and he lay on his back for a moment, catching his breath.
His eyelids flickered and closed as his breathing steadied. It would be so easy just to drift away, to give in to exhaustion. He knew that to fall asleep out here unprotected was to die, but he almost didn’t care anymore. He would just close his eyes for a few minutes.
It had been almost a full day since they had left the dead husk of the crawler behind. It had not been an easy decision to try to make the starport on foot, for their chance of success was minimal, but it was better than waiting for what the boy called ghosts return. He was jolted from his micro-sleep as he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him, and he looked up at the boy, Dios, who was kneeling over him. Through the circular goggles set into the boy’s oversized exposure suit hood, he saw the concern in Dios’s eyes.
The boy’s face was an unhealthy blue, and his eyes gleamed feverishly. Solo
n was impressed with the boy’s stamina, and he realised that if he succumbed to the lure of sleep, he would not only be condemning himself to death; out here, lost in the wilderness of swirling snow, the boy would not last a day.
Nodding to the boy, Solon pushed himself painfully to his feet and continued to trudge on. Dios followed in his wake, walking through the furrow that Solon’s feet made, one hand holding onto Solon’s belt.
The boy’s determination was driving Solon on, and he drew strength from Dios’s indefatigable will to live. He gritted his teeth and cursed his momentary weakness. He knew that if the boy had not been with him, he would not have woken. He would have died out here but for the strength of a boy no more than ten years of age. Perhaps his body would have been buried beneath the snow, entombed within the ice of Perdus Skylla. Perhaps in a thousand years, erosion and wind may have exposed his preserved corpse, and someone would have wondered what had become of him. Why had this man been wandering the wastes, they might have asked.
Pushing such morbid thoughts from his mind, Solon concentrated on keeping moving, each painful step a challenge, but also a minor victory. Just keep moving, he told himself, and he repeated the phrase under his breath, like a mantra, just keep moving. One step at a time.
Solon had no idea how long he had been walking when he realised that there was no longer a small hand grasping his belt. He turned around as quickly as the bulky exposure suit allowed him. Dios was no longer walking in his footsteps. The boy was nowhere in sight.
Cursing himself, Solon turned around in every direction, eyes straining to pierce the whitewash of billowing snow and fog all around him, desperately trying to sight the boy. He saw nothing.
Throwing his fatigue off, Solon began to backtrack, following the path he had cleared through the snow. It was not hard to follow, though the falling snow was already beginning to fill in his footsteps. In an hour, they would be gone.
He hurried back along his path, jogging heavily through the snow, stumbling several times, but pushing himself back to his feet, his fear for the boy’s safety allowing him to plumb reserves of strength that he didn’t know he had.
He had failed the boy, just as he had failed his son.
Despair lent him strength, and he pushed on, slogging through the mire of snow and ice, desperately squinting through the blinding blizzard.
At last, he saw a small, dark shape slumped in the snow, and he broke into a run as he drew towards it. It was covered in a light dusting of snow, and Solon prayed that he was not too late.
“You can’t be dead,” said Solon desperately, and drawing near, he dropped to his knees before the figure of the boy. Rolling Dios over onto his front, he looked down into eyes that were half open and unfocused. Dark circles surrounded the boy’s eyes, and his flesh was a sickly blue colour.
“No, no, no, no, no,” said Solon, feeling panicked and desperate.
He quickly erected his survival tent, pulling it loose from his thigh-pocket and unravelling it before turning it into the wind, which expanded it like a balloon. He dragged Dios’s lifeless body into the cramped interior and ran a finger down the tent-flap, sealing it, before ripping loose the seals of the boy’s hood, pulling it down away from his face.
Tearing his own suit away from his upper body, Solon pressed his fingers to the boy’s throat. There was a pulse there, though it was weak and irregular, and he groaned in relief. Solon pulled off the insulating inner gloves from Dios’s hands, and pulled off his own gloves with his teeth.
Ignoring the throbbing pain as feeling began to return to his fingers, Solon began rubbing warmth into Dios’s hands. Blood was not circulating properly and the boy’s fingertips were icy to the touch.
For an hour, Solon rubbed life back into the boy’s hands and feet, until colour had returned to the digits, and his breathing had become steady. The temperature in the tent had risen sharply from their body-heat, and condensation had formed on its translucent walls.
Solon had set up his water distiller, and the trickle of purified water was now constant. He had filled both his water flasks, and the taste of the cold, fresh water on his tongue was like divine nectar. He had dribbled water into Dios’s mouth, and had felt his spirits soar as the boy swallowed greedily.
At last, the boy had woken, and smiled weakly at Solon. Finally satisfied that the boy was out of immediate danger, Solon had allowed himself to fall into an exhausted slumber, as the wind battered the fragile tent outside.
Dios appeared as strong as ever when Solon woke, and the pair shared a small portion of the emergency ration bar that every exposure suit was equipped with. The dry protein ration was stale and old, but it tasted as fine as any meal Solon had ever eaten, though he was stringent in how much he allowed them to eat.
Water was not a problem. With his water distiller, and the amount of ice and snow around, they had an abundant supply. Food was another matter, however. This one ration bar was all they had, and though he portioned it out only sparingly, he knew that it would not last more than two days. Without food, they would become increasingly tired and sluggish, and they needed all the energy they had to make the long walk to the Phorcys starport.
In his heart, Solon knew that it was impossible, but as he saw Dios smile, the first smile he had seen on the boy, he felt rejuvenated and refreshed.
They had to dig themselves out of the tent, which was buried beneath five feet of snow, and Solon was exhausted as they clambered out onto the moon’s icy surface, but his spirits were strangely high. He felt almost euphoric, and though he assumed it was a side effect of exhaustion and lack of nourishment, he didn’t care at that moment.
Lifting the smiling Dios onto his shoulders, determined not to let the child out of sight, Solon began a new day of walking.
He would be damned if he allowed himself to succumb to fatigue before he saw the boy to safety.
“Ammunition thirty per cent,” growled the Anointed warrior Akkar, registering the blinking icon that flashed before his eyes. Smoke rose from the twin barrels of the weapon, and he swung them before him, seeking a target.
Another wave of enemy creatures surged down the corridor, leaping the shattered remains of their kind, and Akkar depressed the thumb trigger of his heavy reaper autocannon once more, sending hundreds of high-calibre rounds into their line, ripping them apart without remorse.
“Weapon temperature peaking,” said Akkar.
“Understood,” said Kol Badar. Indicating with one of his glowing power talons, he organised the remaining warriors into a semicircle facing the corridor, and with a curt command ordered Akkar back from the corridor entrance.
The Anointed warrior stepped slowly backwards, still firing, the barrels of his high-velocity weapon glowing hot.
“Hold,” said Kol Badar, as Akkar’s reaper fell silent. The hissing of the aliens was clearly audible in the sudden silence and clawed limbs clicked loudly on the corridor floor and walls.
“Hold,” repeated Kol Badar. The reaper autocannon’s killing range was far in excess of the bolters and combi-bolters wielded by the other warriors, and conserving ammunition was becoming a serious issue.
“Now!” roared the Coryphaus as the first xenos creatures spilled from the corridor into the room, bounding forwards with inhuman speed. At his order, the warriors began firing, ripping the aliens apart. Within twenty seconds a score of the aliens were dead, and gore and blood splashed across the walls.
Marduk risked a glance behind him, seeing the hulking form of Darioq-Grendh’al working on the bulkhead. The lascutter on the tip of one of his servo-arms burned white hot as it seared through the reinforced, thirty-centimetre structure, but the magos was only half way around the bulkhead’s circumference, and he growled in frustration before turning away and burying a bolt in another alien’s brainpan.
The xenos attacked their position furiously, racing headlong towards the Word Bearers only to be shredded by the concentrated weight of fire. Still more of them poured into the room, and
the pile of dead at the corridor entrance was growing.
“Have your Mechanicus lapdog hurry it up,” rumbled Kol Badar to Marduk. “Our ammunition will not last forever.”
Marduk did not answer. No words would have hurried the methodical work of the magos, but he knew that the Coryphaus was right; if the enemy maintained this intensity in attack, they could not hold.
Even as the thought formed, one of the aliens reached the semicircular line of the Legion warriors, despite the weight of fire. Two of its arms were blown clear of its body by percussive blasts, but it did not drop, and it leapt forwards and drove its claws through the faceplate of a brother Space Marine’s helmet, popping his skull like an overripe fruit.
The alien was cut from shoulder to hip by Khalaxis’s roaring chainaxe, and then in half by the veteran’s chainsword, retrieved from one of his fallen warriors, which he wielded in his other hand.
“Hold the line,” roared Kol Badar, but Marduk had seen Khalaxis’s bloodlust dozens of times, and knew that the words would probably not penetrate the red haze that had descended over the warrior.
Alien blood splattered across his armour, Khalaxis roared as he leapt forwards into the no-man’s land, spinning the pair of chain weapons around in a brutal arc that tore through the body of another alien as it was forced backwards by explosive bolt rounds.
Not wishing to be outdone by the blood-frenzied champion, Burias-Drak’shal leapt into the fray, slamming another of the aliens into the wall with a swing of his icon, his talons shearing the face from another.
The killing ground was gone, and firing into the melee risked hitting Khalaxis and the Icon Bearer, and so Marduk roared a deafening cry and hurled himself into the fray, his daemonic, heavy-bladed chainsword roaring.
The other warriors reacted instantly, throwing themselves forwards without thought for their own safety, firing their bolt pistols at point blank range into the melee and swinging their chainblades in murderous arcs.
[Word Bearers 02] - Dark Disciple Page 20