[Word Bearers 03] - Dark Creed

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  It had been two months since the enemy had first descended upon Boros Prime, and the beautiful cities of Verenus’ home world were almost unrecognisable. They had been turned into a living hell, once majestic tree-lined boulevards reduced to scorched rubble, the clear blue skies thick with black smoke and wheeling creatures that defied description.

  The once proud citizens of Boros Prime—or at least those that had not yet been slaughtered or taken—now bore haunted, hunted expressions. Every citizen of Boros Prime of eligible age, no matter his or her standing or profession, underwent years of military training. Every able man, woman and child had been issued with a lasgun and formed into auxiliary units to support the PDF and Guard units.

  Nevertheless, it was one thing to know how to arm and fire a lasgun, another to face an enemy such as they faced, day in day out, and to see one’s home world torn apart by warfare. The enemy’s corrupt presence could be felt everywhere, a vile, malignant touch that plagued the minds of every one of the Imperial world’s defenders.

  Verenus had not had a decent night’s sleep since the enemy’s arrival, plagued with violent nightmares filled with blood and malevolent, skinless daemons that had him awake and screaming minutes after closing his eyes. It was the same with everyone and Verenus knew that these were no normal dreams—they were an insidious weapon of the enemy, designed to sow terror and despair amongst the regiments. And damn them, but it was working, Verenus thought.

  It had become so bad that Verenus was starting to see those skinless daemons while he was awake. He saw them leering at him from the corner of his eye, but whenever he turned towards them there was nothing there. Sleep deprivation, he told himself. You are imagining things. And if he, a veteran with decades of fighting against the minions of the Ruinous Powers under his belt, was becoming unnerved by the dreams, then he could only imagine what it would be doing to the minds of those not trained for war. Indeed, suicides had already accounted for one man in twenty within the Guard units, a staggering total when one considered how many soldiers were fighting here on Boros.

  Tens of millions had been killed in battle. Millions more, the unlucky ones, had been taken by the enemy. Verenus grimaced to think of their fate. He’d put a lasround in his head before he allowed such a fate to claim him.

  He could hear the enemy chanting as they approached. It was a deep, mournful sound, filled with hatred. An even worse sound accompanied them—a hellish blare of insanity that made Verenus’ flesh crawl. It felt as though something was scratching painfully behind his eardrums, penetrating his head and reverberating within his mind. It made him feel sick, and his gorge rose.

  The infernal chanting was deeply unnerving, and he had already seen more than a dozen soldiers succumb to its madness, men that the commissars were forced to put down as insanity claimed them.

  It sounded like a faulty vox-unit, amplified a hundred times louder, deafening static overlaid with screams, whispers, roars, the sound of children crying. The pounding industrial clamour was overlaid with the sound of women screaming in unwholesome pleasure, of bones breaking, of animals howling in pain and terror.

  Verenus had come to associate it with Chaos itself, the sound of bedlam and despair. He heard it when he slept, insinuating itself into his dreams, and it was always there in the back of his head, even when the hideous floating machines that projected the discordant sound were nowhere nearby.

  Verenus ducked around the corner of a building and pressed himself back against the wall. Weapon lifted to his shoulder, he glanced around the corner. Most of the cultists his cohort had ambushed were dead, but it was not them that drew his attention. Through the fire and smoke he saw first one, then more of the hellish, red-armoured enemy, their faces obscured behind horned helmets fashioned into the horrific visage of beasts and daemons. The huge figures moved forward steadily, bellowing their hateful catechisms as they came.

  “Move it, soldiers! Move,” Verenus bellowed. Then the enemy Astartes began to fire, and his words were drowned out by the noise.

  A dozen soldiers of the 232nd were gunned down before Verenus’ eyes as they raced for cover, their bodies ripped apart as bolter fire raked across their backs. One of his men stumbled only metres from the corner as a ricochet clipped the back of his knee; the soldier fell with a cry.

  Verenus swore and ducked back around the corner, snapping off a pair of shots as he moved to the soldier’s aid. He saw one of his shots strike an enemy square in the forehead, but it did not even slow the warrior. The wall behind Verenus collapsed as a bolt struck it, showering him with dust and rock. Verenus kept moving, and dropped to one knee before the fallen soldier. He fired off another hastily aimed shot, and gripped the soldier by the scruff of his uniform, hauling him back into cover.

  Heavy stubbers ripped across the advancing enemy, buying the retreating soldiers precious moments, but the traitors kept advancing steadily, gunning down more Boros Guardsmen with every burst of fire. One of the Word Bearers fired up at a window, almost casually taking out one of the heavy weapon operators. His head exploded, spraying blood and brain matter across the face of his shocked comrade, reams of ammunition still held in his hands.

  There was only a handful of the traitor Space Marines, Verenus saw. Even so, it was enough. He had learnt the hard way that each of those cursed giants was easily the equivalent of thirty or forty of his own battle-hardened veteran Guardsmen, or more than a hundred auxiliary draftees. More, perhaps. Each one of the bastards that his regiment took down was cause for celebration.

  He had been engaged with the enemy in constant battle for the past two months, and though the war had devolved into a horrid, bloody grind, he knew that they were winning.

  Tank companies and hundreds of millions of soldiers fought the enemy toe-to-toe, day in day out, and it had become an exercise of military logistics, a constant rotation of regiments to and from the front in order to maintain pressure. The Word Bearers could not keep up this pace forever, and would eventually be ground down, or at least Verenus prayed that this would be so, but how many Imperial citizens would be lost in the meanwhile? And what would be left of Boros Prime once the dust settled? Nothing worth salvaging, he thought darkly.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the soldier that he had just hauled to safety, and he nodded to him. A pair of Guardsmen lifted the man from the ground, and hurried him away from danger.

  Verenus signalled, and broke into a run, his soldiers scattering into the ruins at his order. He threw himself over a smashed low wall into what had once been a beautiful garden, and propped himself behind it, keeping his head down. Blackened skeletons of trees stood sentinel above him. With curt hand signals, he moved his troops into position. Soldiers hefted heavy tripod-mounted autocannons into cover, slamming them down behind low walls and piles of rubble and hurriedly loading them with fresh spools of ammunition.

  “Come on, you bastards,” said Verenus.

  He was lathered in sweat and grime, the unbearable Boros Prime heat only emphasised by the oppressive black smoke filling the sky. There was a horrible stink in the air, something akin to burnt flesh and bones. Verenus thought again of the men and women that the enemy had forced into servitude, slaving away upon the horrific construction works that were sprouting up all across the continent, corrupting them into base creatures that spurned the light of the Emperor.

  There seemed to be some form of pattern to the location of the enemy’s construction, but Verenus was damned if he knew what it was. He snorted without humour as he realised he probably would be damned if he understood.

  A corrupted Guardsman was the first around the corner, diabolical symbols of the Ruinous Powers smeared in blood and faeces across his helmet and breastplate. He held a standard-issue lasgun in his hands, but was gunned down before he could raise it. Another heretic appeared, his face contorted with hatred and loathing, his blackened cheeks streaked with tears. He too was shot down, smoking burns riddling his chest and face.

  The first of the Word
Bearers rounded the corner, a hulking traitor encased in gore-splattered plate. Curving horns of obsidian rose from his helmet, which had been fashioned to resemble a snarling beast. Verenus fired. His lasgun beam struck the immense warrior in the chest, to little effect. From all around, dozens of blue lasbeams were fired as more of the hated traitors appeared. The heavy thump of autocannons joined the fusillade, spraying bullets across power-armoured foes.

  One of the enemy went down, peppered with bullet craters and covered in lasburns. Verenus grinned savagely. That grin turned into a grimace as he saw the enemy warrior push himself back to his feet, blood and oil leaking from his wounds.

  A handful of the Boros infantrymen were cut down with short bursts of enemy fire. The man next to Verenus was struck as he raised his lasgun to fire, the shot tearing his arm off and creating a gaping hole in his chest. He gaped up at Verenus in the second before he died, a look of shock on his blood-drenched face.

  The enemy were moving steadily forwards, conserving ammunition as they took their shots with robotic precision. Few of their bolts did not find their mark, and any of his warriors that were hit suffered horrendous injuries. He fired another shot then ducked into cover as one of the enemy swung a bolter in his direction. Verenus dropped flat and began to crawl arm over arm to a new position as bolter fire smashed into his cover, blowing it away in explosive detonations.

  “Armour in position, sir!” shouted one of his sergeants, a heavy vox-caster unit strapped to his back.

  “Finally,” said Verenus. He turned and shouted, “Back! Fall back!”

  His soldiers responded instantly, slipping back into the rubble of the shattered buildings, snapping off occasional shots as they scrambled into heavier cover. Verenus pushed himself to his feet, and began running, keeping his profile low. A man further along the street turned and shouted something, but Verenus couldn’t make it out. Then the man was killed, his torso becoming one huge, bloodied crater, and he fell without a sound. Glancing back, he saw the enemy perhaps halfway along the street. Verenus hurled himself over a fallen statue and dropped in behind it, his heart pounding, and gunfire zipped past him.

  He heard the grind of engines nearby, followed closely by a crash that shook the ground. There was a whoop of joy from one of his soldiers, and he peered over the top of the fallen statue. His fire-blackened face broke into a smile as he saw a wall collapse, brought down by the dozer blades of three tracked armoured vehicles.

  The tanks, a support division of the 53rd armoured company, were Hellhounds, close support vehicles based on the Chimera STC chassis. Armed with their flame-throwing Inferno cannons, they had proven themselves invaluable in the brutal, close quarter fighting on Boros Prime in the last months. While some battle tanks had proved unwieldy within the tight confines of the city fight, the Hellhounds had excelled.

  They rambled through the dust and smoke, crunching over the rabble of the fallen wall. A half-cohort of the 232nd swarmed in their wake, scrambling to take position amongst the debris. Inferno cannons spewed liquid fire across the Word Bearers, who stoically refused to back away, bolters roaring even as they were consumed in flame.

  Their armour cracked and blistered, but still they gunned down almost a score of Guardsmen before they fell. Their resilience and their absolute refusal to back down even in the face of certain death never ceased to stagger Verenus. One of the Hellhounds exploded in an incandescent plume of fire as krak grenades ignited its fuel reserve.

  Only two of the enemy Astartes were still standing, bolters blazing in their hands when there came a hideous screeching sound from overhead.

  “The sky!” shouted one of his men.

  Verenus panned his weapon across the smoke-filled heavens. For a moment he saw nothing, then a blood-red flock of skinless, winged horrors swept over the rooftops, screaming towards the Boros soldiers.

  “In the name of the Throne,” breathed Verenus, seeing his nightmares come to life.

  The daemons, for they could have been nothing else, descended in a screeching rash, leathery wings tightly furled as they dropped towards the ground. They were horrific creatures, their glistening exposed musculature a perverted mockery of humanity. Lipless mouths were twisted into feral grins, exposing needle-like fangs, and barbed, serpentine tails of wet muscle trailed behind them as they hurtled towards the horrified soldiers below. Their forms shimmered like a mirage, as if they were at once there but not there, or perhaps existed simultaneously in more than one realm.

  Cold fear gripping him, Verenus began to fire wildly up at the incoming daemons. His soldiers began to run.

  The monsters swooped down low over the Boros 232nd, unfurling blade-like talons to slash at their prey. The face of one soldier was ripped off as claws hooked into his flesh. Several soldiers were lifted off their feet, talons locking around their necks and shoulders, and others fell screaming as daemons dropped upon them, bearing them to the ground under their weight, biting and ripping.

  A wild shot from Verenus hit one of the creatures in its skinless head. Its flesh, the colour of raw liver, turned grey and black as it cooked, and it crashed to the ground, the bones of its wings snapping as it impacted and rolled, bowling one of his soldiers over in the process. The man screamed horribly as the creature tore at him, slashing with its talons and biting with its needle fangs.

  All semblance of order was lost. The Guardsmen of the Boros 232nd scattered blindly, and the daemons continued to sow their terror, ripping the soldiers apart in a gory frenzy.

  Verenus was shouting orders, but no one heard him. Hot blood splashed across his face as the man at his side was slain, his throat torn out. Talons raked his shoulder, and Verenus screamed in pain, dropping his weapon. Wild with panic, one of his own soldiers ran into him blindly, desperate to escape, and Verenus was knocked to the ground. All hope was lost. Death had finally come for him.

  A shadow descended on Verenus and he dropped to one knee, raising an arm protectively as a hideous, screeching fury hurtled overhead, talons slashing. He gasped as the daemon’s claws locked shut around his forearm, digging deep into his flesh. His shoulder was almost torn from its socket as he was dragged to his feet. Leathery wings covered in a spider web of red and blue veins flapped heavily, and Verenus felt a sudden panic as his feet lost contact with the ground.

  The fury looked down at him, snarling. Its eyes were yellow and catlike and oozed steaming, milky tears. It opened its mouth wide—too wide—and strings of saliva dripped from its needle-teeth. A dozen worm-like tongues squirmed in its throat, and Verenus felt its hot breath upon his face. It smelt like sulphur, rotting meat and electricity.

  A heavy weight suddenly pulled the fury back down towards the earth, and it screeched in anger. It released Verenus, who fell to the ground heavily, and coiled around to slash at the figure that had a solid grip upon its tail.

  From the ground, Verenus looked up to see an imposing figure surrounded in a halo of light, a holy aura that made his breath catch in his throat. For a moment it was as if time stood still. Verenus was not alone in witnessing this divine vision; all the soldiers of Boros Prime nearby saw it, this holy figure bathed in seraphic light.

  The glowing nimbus lasted just a fraction of a second, and while the rational part of Verenus’ mind insisted it was nothing but a momentary trick of the light reflecting off alabaster armour plates, the impression was indelible.

  The halo bathing the figure dissipated, and the immense figure of a White Consul stood there, defiant and unwavering. Brother Aquilius, Coadjutor of Boros Prime, held the daemon by one of its hind legs. As it turned to swipe at him, spitting in hatred, he slammed his bolter into the side of its head. The force of the blow smashed it to the ground, crushing its skull.

  Still alive, it landed heavily upon its back, and in one swift, violent movement it flipped itself over, snarling, crouched on all fours. Its tail cracked like a whip as it readied to spring, but before it could, Aquilius planted his foot upon its back and pinned it to the gr
ound.

  The White Consul pressed the barrel of his bolter against the back of its skinless head. It thrashed wildly but could not escape the crushing weight of the Space Marine.

  “Begone daemon-spawn!” said Aquilius. The infernal beast’s movements ceased as he planted a bolt in its head. Within seconds, the creature had rotted away, its flesh ridden with maggots and worms before liquefying, leaving just a foetid pool of foulness upon the ground.

  “Be strong, men of Boros!” shouted the White Consul. “The Emperor is with us!”

  Verenus snatched up a lasgun from a fallen Guardsman and began firing on full auto, all fear evaporated. Other soldiers of the Boros 232nd fell in around Aquilius and Verenus, forming a tight knot of defiance anchored around the holy Astartes warrior.

  One by one the screaming daemons were cut down, hissing ichor bursting from their Chaotic bodies, and Verenus felt savage joy to see the deviant, unholy beasts banished back to the warp.

  In the aftermath of battle he felt exultant, invigorated and inspired. He had felt the presence of the Emperor in that battle, and he saw the same glow of belief reflected in the eyes of his soldiers.

  “We are going to win this war, aren’t we?” said one of his men.

  “We are,” said Verenus, for the first time actually believing it. He turned his gaze towards Aquilius, talking softly with some of his soldiers. “The White Angel is with us.”

  To the Word Bearers, the battlefield was their most sacred church, and Boros Prime had become one immense battlefield. The full Hosts of three Dark Apostles had descended upon it, hatred in their hearts. Every death was a sacrifice, and Marduk could feel the gluttonous pleasure of his infernal deities. Yet he could also sense their impatience, mirroring his own, and those of his captains.

  Marduk’s chainsword was glutted with blood, but it still hungered for more. He was crouched low, moving towards the enemy position. He saw the enemy gathering for another assault, he knew that the daemon within his weapon, Borgh’ash, would not have long to wait.