by Guy Haley
There were so many, but Holos fought like a man possessed, the shades of Blood Drinkers not yet born fighting their own, unknowable battles alongside him. And then there were no more.
Holos panted in the midst of ruin, his blood mingling with that of the slain astorgai.
‘My lord.’
Holos’s head rose slowly. Two brothers were before him. They shimmered as a mirage over the lava traps, and vanished. A Chaplain stood in their stead. It was he who had spoken. Holos thought it was Reclusiarch Shanandar for a moment, but no, he did not know this man.
‘My lord, we must go on.’
Holos swayed on his feet. A flash of a leering face, mocking him as it broke his wings. He screwed his eyes shut, bit the insides of his cheeks raw until it departed. ‘The Black Rage,’ he said, not knowing to whom he spoke, for surely he was alone, ‘It takes me. I do not have much time.’
Caedis looked into Mazrael’s skull-mask. Dead genestealers were scattered all over the alien chamber. Alarms rang in his helmet, the sensorium warning him that more were on the way. Caedis was deaf to them.
‘How do I speak with you? I am alone.’
‘A brother of the Blood Drinkers is never alone, Lord Holos.’
Caedis appeared to understand this.
‘Lo-tan, it is he I must slay if I wish to gain the peak of Mount Calicium. I must go on!’
Mazrael nodded. ‘I will take you to him, my lord.’ He took the lord of the Blood Drinkers by the arm.
‘This way,’ said Guinian. ‘He is waiting for us.’
Chapter 17
Blood is Life, Life is Duty
Voldo had his squad arrayed in a staggered line, enabling as many weapons to come to bear as possible. They had gained an intersection forming the shape of a ‘Y’ before stopping, judging it a good place to fight. The corridor broadened slightly where the corridors met. Lockers for equipment that had rusted to nothing were set into its wall, but the intersection was cramped with enough room only for two Space Marines to fire down each of the corridors. Twin lines of red dots were converging on their position.
‘We cannot destroy them all, brother-sergeant,’ said Alanius.
‘We cannot escape them,’ said Voldo. ‘We make our stand here.’
‘While we fight, the main body of xenos is free to attack our brothers!’ said Azmael. Emotion was thick in his voice.
‘What choice do we have?’ said Voldo calmly. ‘We will do what we were born to do, fight the Emperor’s enemies. He will know whether we are to be successful or not already, and those of us who fall have already been judged.’
‘Brother-sergeant!’ shouted Eskerio. ‘They are coming.’
‘And now from three directions,’ said Voldo. ‘Militor, cover Sergeant Alanius.’
Alanius nodded. ‘Tarael, join our brother Novamarines.’
The Space Marines shuffled around one another into the prescribed position.
‘Brother Astomar, let fly at twenty metres range. If necessary, down both corridors to our front,’ said Voldo. ‘Then retire and let Tarael through.’
Azmael and Alanius stood shoulder to shoulder, both twisted slightly to the side so that Militor could fire down the narrow corridor forming the stick of the ‘Y’. A minute passed. The Space Marines watched the red dots move around out of range; their motion detected by Eskerio’s advanced auspex and fed into their sensoriums.
‘They seek to delay us further, by delaying their own attack,’ said Azmael frustratedly. ‘Come to us, come to us now!’
‘That cousin, or they marshal their forces to destroy us more efficiently,’ said Voldo.
‘Be glad, Blood Drinker, they come now,’ said Eskerio.
‘Brothers! Prepare!’
Bolters were brought up. Prayers of good function and true ranging were voiced. Silence.
In a rush the genestealers came, a huddle of them down both of the corridors in the sticks of the ‘Y’ at once. Bolters fired, the distinctive double crack of weapon discharge and the propellant ignition of the bolts as they left the barrel followed by their delayed explosion as they penetrated flesh or metal, all doubled again by the storm bolters. Storm bolters were boltguns with two barrels and sophisticated fire control, capable of a withering rate of fire, and the Novamarines used them well.
Genestealers fell, dropping under the feet of those that followed. The gravity here functioned, but the genestealers used every surface, scuttling along the ceiling and walls as well as the floor. In the short-ranged illumination of the suit lights, the corridors were full of aliens. The boltguns spat their peculiar explosive song, every round finding a target. The xenos were tough, some requiring several shots to bring them down. Every dead genestealer was one less set of rending claws to trouble the Space Marines, but every death brought them two or three footsteps closer, and the genestealers were in seemingly endless supply.
Militor’s storm bolter jammed, and the genestealers gained metres of ground before he had it cleared and opened fire again. Several more died before they were within striking distance, and Brother Militor was forced to stand back to allow Azmael and Alanius to fight effectively. They sang songs that sounded barbaric to the Novamarines, songs of blood and songs of death welcomed. But all of them recognised the sentiment of service that threaded the hymnal through and through. Deadly claws flashing with powerful energies, the Blood Drinkers methodically killed every genestealer that came within reach.
At the other side of the intersection, Astomar sent a burst of promethium down one corridor, and then the other. The maximum range of his heavy flamer was about thirty metres, but he waited until the genestealers were within twenty metres as ordered, engulfing as many of the xenos as possible. The promethium burned so hot it made the metal glow red and set everything else ablaze. Paint peeled and burned, plastics dripped from seals and fittings, droplets igniting as they fell. The temperature rose markedly. The genestealers screamed, a terrible, polyphonic reedy sound with enough of a human voice to it to raise the hair on the adept’s spines. It was the kind of scream that appealed directly to the baser levels of consciousness, those so deep that could not be altered by the training and mental conditioning the Space Marines underwent, only contained. The flames died back. Genestealers braved the corridors again, but in fewer numbers. Astomar stepped back, allowing Tarael to take his place. His brothers fired and fired. Genestealers fell. None came close enough for Tarael to engage.
The number of movement blips in the auspex dwindled until the arms of the ‘Y’ were nearly clear.
On the other side, where Alanius and Azmael fought, it was another matter. The corridor was a red block of movement on the motion scanner, jammed with genestealers. The sheer weight of their numbers were pushing Alanius and Azmael back.
‘Brother Voldo, go! Go now!’
‘You cannot hold them!’ said Voldo. ‘You will die. Step back and let Brother Astomar through.’
Astomar readied his flamer.
Alanius panted as he eviscerated another genestealer. ‘The blowback will hit us, stay your hand Cousin Astomar.’
‘We can take our chances, our armour is strong,’ replied Astomar, levelling his weapon down the corridor.
‘It is too much of a risk! Go now, while your way is clear, you can achieve more if you attack the xenos ambushers from the rear while they attack our brothers. Here, we will do nothing.’
‘Except survive,’ said Voldo. But he recognised the wisdom of what Alanius said.
‘Or die, and I will do so willingly only if it serves some purpose in the service of the Imperium! Go now!’
Voldo ran the auspex map around. They were not far from the cavern where the combined forces of the Blood Drinkers and Novamarines of Battleforce Anvil fought. The genestealers they had been pursuing would be already there. Between his squad and the rear of the genestealers outflanking group was minima
l resistance. ‘You speak truth, Brother Alanius, but we can aid you in other ways.’
Alanius and Azmael were forced back further. The genestealers pushed at them. Voldo had his men fire past the Blood Drinkers where they could, or pick those genestealers off who tried to come in along the ceiling. Alien flesh rained on the Terminators. Alanius and Azmael moved back a little, and more bolts found their targets. The pressure ceased as the genestealers backed away, jaws snapping. They withdrew to the far end of the corridor. Alanius turned to face Voldo.
‘They will come again. There are dozens of them. They pause to mass once more.’ The Blood Drinker was breathing heavily.
‘We go. We will send aid for you as soon as we may.’
Alanius shook his head and laughed. ‘Whoever comes will find we have gone to the Emperor. I will convey your good wishes to him!’
Genestealer shrieks echoed up the corridor.
‘Brother Astomar, lend our cousins of our meagre purse of time.’
‘Affirmative, brother-sergeant.’ Astomar pushed Alanius aside before he could voice an objection. The noise of the approaching aliens was drowned out by the roar of promethium igniting. A trio of genestealers at the far end were caught in the billow of fire. They fell to the floor writhing. Astomar stepped back, leaving the corridor aflame.
‘You have a few more seconds, at least,’ said Voldo.
‘The Emperor watch over you,’ said Militor.
‘Sanguinius’s wings shield you, brothers,’ said Tarael. ‘May the blood sing your demise in bright song. I will carve a eulogy into alien flesh for your sacrifice.’
‘It has been an honour to fight by your side, brother, cousins,’ said Alanius, dipping his helmet at each in turn.
Voldo did not answer immediately, weighing his words before he spoke. ‘And by yours,’ he said. ‘Come! Brother Militor, to the front. Brother Tarael, behind him. ‘We have little time if we wish to be of use to our brethren.’
The Novamarines positioned themselves in Voldo’s order, and clumped off down the left-hand branch of the ‘Y’, backs swaying as they went.
Alanius turned back to face the burning corridor, Azmael at his side. Alanius’s armour was reporting multiple minor breaches all across his suit, with drops in power to various subsystems. Azmael’s armour fed its own data to Alanius’s sensorium. It was in similar shape.
‘Here is where it ends brother, the long song of our lives,’ said Azmael.
‘We have served gladly, and I for one would do so again,’ said Alanius. ‘Let us face the Emperor together and beg his judgement of our worth.’
Alanius began to recite the Sanguis Moritura, the death song of the Blood Drinkers. His voice was a low growl at first, rising to a loud song as he continued.
‘The blood of life flows quickly!’ Alanius said. Azmael joined him, repeating the lines Alanius sang before he had finished them, creating a harmony in two rounds. Together they sang, their voices were harsh with the battle-joy, and yet there was a beauty to their music. Like everything about the Blood Drinkers, it was a beauty marred by monstrous violence, nonetheless a beauty that could not be hidden.
Down the corridor, alien eyes glittered in multitude, flames dancing in them as the fire in the corridors died back. Claws flexed as they waited out the heat.
‘Only in death can it be stilled!’ They sang. ‘Let not ours be stilled easily, let it flow on and outward – let it flow from us as we slay those who free it!’
‘Blood is strength, in death it quickens!’
They sang an eerie, wordless tune, their voices low and sorrowful. Within it were expressed all they were and all they had been. They were notes full of the certainty of song’s ending.
The last flames guttered out. The genestealers advanced.
‘Blood is life. Life is duty,’ said Alanius.
‘To deny the blood is to deny life,’ said Azmael.
‘To deny life is to deny duty,’ said Alanius.
The first genestealer bounded along the corridor, using all six limbs to propel itself. Alanius braced for the impact of it, turning away its claws with his own. He skewered it through the chest, but the impact of it sent him back a step. Others were coming.
‘To deny duty is to betray the Emperor. Betrayal is worse than damnation.’
‘Service has its price, and we willingly pay it.’
‘We choose duty, we choose life,’ they said together.
‘We choose the blood.’
Then the genestealers rushed forward, a wall of black teeth and razor talons The Blood Drinkers fought hard, and many were the foes they slew before they found the judgement they sought at the feet of the Lord of Mankind.
Captain Sorael struggled to hear Captain Mastrik. Reception was bad and the entire cavern was a maelstrom of battle that deafened him even through his helmet.
‘There is no sign of the pursuit groups,’ Mastrik said, his voice indistinct. ‘We are mired in close combat. The genestealers continue to outflank us. Hold the west of the cave, hold the–’
Mastrik was interrupted. He shouted something Sorael did not hear, there was the sound of boltgun fire, and the screech of dying xenos, then the feed cut out altogether.
The situation worsened.
Genestealers had emerged in small groups from crevices all over the wall. Contact with the surface had been lost. There had been reports of genestealers daring the vacuum to attack the Adeptus Mechanicus and their machines before the network had been brought down.
The Novamarines, for all their experience of fighting genestealers aboard space hulks, had underestimated this foe. What should have been a ranged extermination of the aliens had turned into a desperate close-quarters battle, and it was a battle the genestealers were better equipped to win.
Sorael’s helmet display was crowded with tac-data, information fed from his squad sergeants all over the
cul-de-sac. Through the overlays on his visor, he could see the genestealers running and leaping through the cavern, unhindered by the low gravity. Their four arms helped greatly, pulling them along walls and ceilings as easily as the floor. Sorael had to exert all his will to keep his mind in the tactical situation, and not throw himself into personal combat with the genestealers. He was a great warrior, and he would claim many heads; but if he were to abdicate his tactical responsibilities his part of the task force would be left without guidance. He ground his teeth in frustration, such was the price duty demanded of him.
Terminator squads fought hand-to-hand battles, aiming to keep the less heavily armoured brothers of the tactical and Devastator squads safe. Sorael himself was stationed with these lighter-armoured brothers upon a low rise in the cavern floor, close to the overhang of the asteroid. His tactical squads were spread in an arc, his four Devastator squads behind them. A few of the power armoured brothers had succumbed to the urgings of the Thirst, throwing themselves into combat, but many of his men held their ground and laid complex patterns of fire that took a heavy toll on the genestealers. There were few Chapters among the sons of Sanguinius who could claim such restraint.
‘All praise Brother Holos,’ said Sorael to himself.
Two of his three assault squads roared through the thinning air on jump packs, better able to counter threats in the three-dimensional battle space than the others. Sanguinary Master Teale led one of these airborne squads, his laughter and exhortations to slaughter commanding in the multiple audio threads clamouring for Sorael’s attention. The third assault squad was embroiled in a vicious melee near a gap in the wall. They had acquitted themselves well, but the fight had devolved into one of attrition, with fresh genestealers feeding into the fight, and only four of the red warriors remained.
Sorael shouted orders into his vox, sending a mauled tactical squad back behind the line of Terminators. The rearmost portion of his position, where the Devastators were dug in, covered
them as they fell back. Genestealers were consumed in balls of fire as missiles slammed home, their severed limbs flying outwards.
The line of red was holding. Casualties were light. There could not be an infinite number of the xenos. Surely their numbers would dwindle eventually…
A shout, then another. The fire from the Devastators’ heavy weapons tailed off, and the sounds of combat and quickly voiced orders replaced their reports in Sorael’s helmet. He turned around to see genestealers emerging from a fold in the metal. A tunnel they had not found, despite their vigilance. Several xenos had slipped through undetected and attacked the heavy weapons’ position. More came through, then more again. Some of the Devastator brothers turned their weapons upon them, but they were so fast that only a few shots got through before the gene-stealers were among all four squads, and combat raged. The Tactical Marines in front of them could not fire through their comrades. More warnings were shouted, a second group of genestealers were rushing headfirst down the side of the asteroid. Sorael urged his tactical squads to hold their ground and deal with this other threat with righteous bolt and steady aim.
Inside his helmet, Sorael smiled a humourless smile. It looked like he would get to vent his battle-fury after all. Raising his storm bolter, he strode forward.
Mastrik gunned down another genestealer. The rest were dealt with by his bodyguard. Ranial drove his force staff through the head of an alien he had pinned to the floor under his boot.
‘That was too close, brother,’ said Mastrik. His usual humour had gone.
‘The third attack on our position. Intentionally so. They are guided, brother-captain. There is strategy behind this assault. They target us.’ Ranial pointed his staff at a group of genestealers. They ran then changed direction, all of them switching at once. ‘See how they move?’ said Ranial. ‘Their psyches are linked to one another, and to something more besides. The mind that guides them is like none I have encountered so far. Vast, alien, powerful.’