Chaos warbands that had been scouring the Agripinaa Sector flocked to Faith’s Anchorage, eager to take their share in the spoils. They all joined in the attack. They came in drop pods and Thunderhawks, and more-ancient craft of brass and black ceramite. There were warbands from the Sons of Slaughter, the Black Legion, Crimson Slaughter and five other Legions. This time there was no counter-fire. The Hydra gun platforms were in ruin, the Baneblades had been destroyed, the survivors of Cadia dead.
The assembled warbands strode forward in their armour of black and brass, blue and gold, dripping red, black and white. They were here to witness, and celebrate, ten thousand years of struggle. It was a warrior from the Sons of Malice who singled General Grüber out. The Space Marine pointed with one hand, while from his other shoulder a black-suckered tentacle flicked about it, like the twitch of an irritated feline.
‘Cadian,’ he called out. ‘It is not too late to turn.’ Its tentacle made a gesture of taking in the assembled ring of Chaos Space Marines about them. ‘We all started, as you, defending the False Emperor. If you renounce your vows, I will spare you.’
General Grüber stumbled to his feet. His voice was clear and strong, despite the gashes that had been torn through his breastplate. He ignited his power sword as the dreadful monster strode towards him. ‘Never!’ he shouted as he charged.
Seven
Pax Imperialis
General Bendikt stood with Admiral d’Armitage on the bridge of the Emperor-class battleship Pax Imperialis, and counted the enemy craft that ringed Faith’s Anchorage.
There were five strike cruisers in the assorted colours of Renegade Space Marines, a black battle-barge and a number of modified escorts, their proud heraldry now defaced with the symbols of heresy.
‘Can we take them?’ Bendikt asked.
The admiral pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe we can.’
Bendikt felt a wave of responsibility upon his shoulders. He took in a deep breath and thought of all the other commanders who might be here – but most of all of Creed.
His loss had been the most grievous.
Bendikt was unworthy to lead the forces of Cadia, but there was no one left.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then let the attack begin.’
Without a Navigator as able as Hyppolytus Fremm, the evacuation fleet and the surviving ships of Battlefleet Cadia had been scattered across the galaxy by the warp. About half had followed in the wake of the Lord-Lieutenant Berwicke, re-entering real space in the far reaches of the Agripinaa System.
The wounded ships had gathered well beyond the elliptical orbit of far-flung Urath and the labour-rich Narsine, and proceeded cautiously into the system. Admiral d’Armitage had imposed strict silence on all ships and crews as his damaged craft went through necessary repairs and refitting. As soon as his Cobra scouts reported a gathering of heretical ships within the orbit of Agripinaa and Morten’s Quay, he’d ordered his fleet to move forward at dead slow and to maintain void-silence.
By the time d’Armitage and Bendikt were surveying the Chaos fleet, a lifetime of training had reasserted itself and the forces of Cadia were eager for another fight. A chance to prove themselves. Bendikt would give them that, he promised.
The Grand Alliance led Battlefleet Cadia forward, her entire complement of fighters and bombers sitting on the flight decks, ready to go. The heretic ships had been so focused on destroying Grüber that they only suddenly saw, with horror and alarm, that another, much larger Cadian fleet was sailing towards them.
On each bridge, the heretic skeleton crews left behind were presented with a desperate challenge: to engage or to flee.
Each of the captains on board responded according to their own priorities. For some, it was a chance to seize control of a valuable void-craft; others saw the Imperial fleet and knew that the forces that had met on the ice world of Faith’s Anchorage would be lost without them.
But none of the choices were good. It was just a matter of picking the least worst from a range of options. The Hades-class heavy cruiser Tears of Hate jabbed forward, attempting to engage the lead Imperial ships with her deadly broadsides and slow them down. Her slave gun crews were hauling the last of her vast shells into the breech when she was struck squarely on the armour-plated nose by a nova cannon shot from the Golden Farrel, a Lunar-class cruiser.
The shot detonated with incredible power, ripping the Tears of Hate apart. In an instant, nine thousand lives were lost: Black Legion, heretics, cultists and slaves. The void did not care. As the two fleets closed the heretics began to exact a growing toll on the weakened Imperial craft. Assault torpedoes were launched across the void, with Cadians storming Chaos ships and Black Legion kill squads fighting their way through to the enginariums, bridges and void-shield generators, and disabling them with a series of well-laid melta bombs.
The skies above the small moon were thick with flashes of fire and smoke, as debris began to rain down on Faith’s Anchorage. In the midst of it all, the Grand Alliance’s flight crews tore gaping holes in the enemy craft, but she herself was raked by a pair of broadsides that left her listing to port and unable to steer.
Her course drove her straight into the middle of the Chaos fleet, where she was set upon with merciless fury. There were fights in almost every landing bay as the heretics sought to seize control of the Imperial flagship. It was only the sudden intervention of a lean grey hunter that saved her.
Where the Space Wolves strike cruiser Stiklestad came from, no one could tell, but suddenly she appeared between the two ships and took the broadside that was meant to finish off the Grand Alliance on her void shields, and then retorted with a broadside of her own, crippling the burning Slaughter-class cruiser, the Hand of Abaddon.
The battle was deadly and bloody. Bit by bit the Chaos fleet was broken, destroyed or boarded, the few survivors fleeing sunwards, late arrivals quickly turning back.
After eight hours of relentless Naval fighting, the Chaos forces on Faith’s Anchorage faced the same predicament that Grüber’s small force had before them. The Imperials held space above them, and Faith’s Anchorage was to be their grave.
Admiral d’Armitage led his fleet forward and they unleashed a devastating barrage upon the moon.
‘We could destroy it,’ he said, as the green light of the holo-pict underlit his face.
‘Don’t,’ Bendikt said. ‘Allow my men the opportunity to take revenge.’
‘How many do you have?’
Bendikt paused. ‘Enough,’ he said.
‘Think you could take out the forces on the moon?’
Bendikt smiled. ‘I am sure of it.’
D’Armitage bowed. ‘General Bendikt. My landers are at your disposal. Take revenge for us all.’
Eight
New Cadia
It took two weeks for the Cadian Shock Troops under Bendikt’s command to scour Faith’s Anchorage clear of any heretic trace. General Grüber’s body was found, and he was buried in a colossal marble mausoleum, all the defenders of Faith’s Anchorage laid out in a neat, starlit graveyard about him.
Three Cobras were selected to make the journey to Holy Terra, to bring news of the Cadian Gate’s fall, while planet by planet the whole Agripinaa System was cleansed of the enemy, the Naval facilities of Aurent and Morten’s Quay were returned to production, and the proud ships of Battlefleet Cadia were brought back to full strength. Bendikt let it be known that Chaeros, the seventh planet in the system, would henceforth be known as New Cadia.
The Space Wolves of the Stiklestad did not help in this effort, but they did send a lander across to the Grand Alliance: a sleek grey arrow that filled the main landing bay on the lower port side.
Once the ship was near docking, General Bendikt and Admiral d’Armitage came down to meet it. Neither of them felt entirely comfortable. The Space Wolves had a certain reputation, and a human c
ould not meet a member of the Adeptus Astartes without a tremor of fear running through them, especially after the last months, when they had faced the terror of Space Marines who had lost their way.
The Space Wolves Thunderhawk slowly filled the rectangular mouth of the landing bay and seemed to barely scrape inside. It touched down with a hiss as the incredible weight of the craft settled slowly on the dampeners. The loading ramps lowered and then the carriage clamps disengaged, and the Thunderhawk began to rise into the air, leaving a cargo container behind.
D’Armitage and Bendikt exchanged glances as the Thunderhawk turned and powered out of the landing bay.
‘Is it safe?’ d’Armitage demanded.
Bendikt ordered his kasrkin squad forward to investigate, but as they approached it two figures appeared from behind the cargo container. They were both dressed in Cadian drab.
‘Captain Rath Sturm,’ the first declared as he made the sign of the aquila. ‘Last surviving member of the Cadian 94th, Kasrkin, the Brothers of Death.’
Bendikt saluted him and turned to the girl.
‘Whiteshield Arminka Lesk, Kasr Myrak Defence Force.’
‘The Space Wolves carried you from the planet?’ Bendikt asked.
It was the girl who spoke. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And they brought you here?’
The two soldiers nodded, and the girl said, ‘Sir, Lord General, there is something we must show you.’ She led him to the back of the vast container. From inside came the scent of earth and rock. Bendikt looked at the thing that lay cushioned there. It was grey and smooth and riddled with holes. It was intimately familiar to anyone who had been on Cadia.
‘Impossible,’ Bendikt said, but he stepped up onto the ramp, walked inside and put his hand to its side. The stone was dead and cold and still. But it was from Cadia.
‘You brought a pylon from Cadia?’ Bendikt said.
They nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘We must make a memorial of it,’ he said. ‘We must never forget where we came from.’
Minka nodded. Her eyes were hard. ‘Never,’ she promised him.
Never.
Epilogue
Pax Imperialis
Minka sits on her bunk and turns her Whiteshield helmet in her hands.
In a ceremony this morning she was promoted with the other surviving cadets.
She is a Cadian Shock Trooper, even though her planet no longer exists. They are veteran warriors, on course for Holy Terra. This is all she had ever wanted, she thinks, as the troop ship prepares to enter the warp. To leave home. To graduate from the cadets. To fight for the Emperor.
The iron bulkheads rattle as the Geller field generator powers up. A low whine fills the troop hangar.
Rath is lying on the bunk above her. He is smoking a lho-stick. The metal bed creaks as he turns over. He peers down, his augmetic eye glowing red. ‘Get some sleep,’ he says.
She nods. ‘How long will it take?’
His head appears again. ‘What?’
‘The transition?’
Rath laughs. ‘Who knows,’ he says, lying back. ‘We might never get there.’
Minka knows they will. She lies back and closes her eyes, and for a moment she is a child again, staring into the Eye of Terror.
Her father holds her up, and she shouts at the sky, and the moment is over.
He puts her back down, puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her head. ‘Do you have faith, my child?’
She nods.
‘Say it!’ he urges.
She speaks the words. ‘I have faith in the Emperor.’
Minka opens her eyes. She has seen the Saint. She has faith. They will reach Holy Terra.
‘We’ll get there,’ she says.
Rath says nothing for a while. He takes another lho-stick from his breast pocket and lights it, puffs blue smoke into the air, takes a drag. ‘Great,’ he says at last.
Minka lies back as the alarms begin to ring. There is a lurch as the ship transits into the warp, and she feels bile rise and swallows it back. It is just warp sickness. It will pass. In a month or two, they will arrive at the centre of the Imperium of Man.
A battle has been lost, but the fight will still go on.
She stares up at the bunk above her, where Rath’s shape is imprinted through the mattress.
Minka looks to the future. She sees only war.
About the Author
Justin D Hill is the author of the Space Marine Battles novel Storm of Damocles and the Warhammer 40,000 short stories ‘Last Step Backwards’, ‘Lost Hope’ and ‘The Battle of Tyrok Fields’, following the adventures of Lord Castellan Ursarkar E. Creed, as well as ‘Truth Is My Weapon’. For Warhammer he has written the tales ‘Golgfag’s Revenge’ and ‘The Battle of Whitestone’.
An extract from Shroud of Night.
The warp churned. It raged and roiled.
Storms of wrath tore through tattered veils of fate and falsehood, splitting the skin of reality. Ethereal abominations howled their hunger to the void, twining their kaleidoscopic tendrils between the stars. Real space met the immaterium along interstitial fault lines, convulsing with a violence that shattered time and set reason ablaze from one end of the galaxy to the other.
Somewhere amidst the madness hung a world. Above it, in orbit, a fleet. The spacecraft were ornate, buttressed gothic monsters whose hulls flowed and twisted in shapes both elegant and hideous. One amongst them was larger than the rest, a grotesquery of burnished gold and fleshy purple. Upon its flanks the battleship bore the taloned wing of the Emperor’s Children. Below the emblem was a name.
Herald of Pain.
On the warship’s twisted bridge, its master of auguries knelt in supplication before his lord. He had been borne from the chamber of silvered mirrors upon an ornate walking-carriage, but though slaves and champions alike had cleared his path with their eyes downcast, still he felt only fear. One amongst the coven of scryer surgeons had had to convey news of the battle upon the planet below. That unpleasant duty had fallen to him.
‘The auguries in flesh were clear, my lord. We saw through the lens of the screaming veil all that transpired below. They are all dead.’
The master of auguries was a hunched creature, swathed in perfumed robes, bent double beneath the weight of the metal fetishes that pierced his flesh. Before the unwavering gaze of his masked and armoured lord, the lumpen creature cowered lower still.
When he spoke, Lord Excrucias the Flawless’ voice slithered from the lips of his gilded mask in a silken whisper. Still it carried to the furthest corners of the cavernous bridge.
‘If our enemies are slain, then why do you grovel so? Was it an… untidy… victory?’ Excrucias’ thoughts turned to his golden flensing knives with a tingle of anticipation. They would have delightful work to do, if his servants had made a hash of his elegant battle plans.
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then what?’ hissed Excrucias. ‘Reticence is a flaw.’
The master of auguries flinched. He gathered himself before replying.
‘My lord. Some of our enemies were slain. Not all. It is our warriors who lie dead.’
Silence fell across the bridge of the Herald of Pain. Gold-armoured Chaos Space Marines stood statue-still, watching with avid excitement. Cultist crew and slave-mutants halted mid-sentence, leaving astrogation readings unfinished and vox exchanges hanging. Even the captives locked within dangling excruciation-cages turned their screams to whimpers. Only the distant rumble of the ship’s drives and the mindless binharic babble of servitors disturbed the quiet.
‘All of them…?’ asked Excrucias.
‘Yes, lord,’ replied the master of auguries. The creature abased itself before Excrucias’ living throne, veiled face pressed to the decking.
‘How?’
‘The enemy, l
ord. They had traps. Defences. They fought like daemons.’
‘Truly,’ whispered Excrucias. ‘You assured me that your scryer surgeons detected but thirty-one souls on that world. I despatched two hundred warriors to effect their sacrifice. There were Terminators amongst our ranks. The battle was to last seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds, no longer. Instead, it has been more than an hour since I gave the order to attack. And you say that these thirty-one enemies… slew them all?’
‘Yes, lord,’ whimpered the mutant.
‘How many of these mysterious foes did we kill in return?’ asked Excrucias.
‘We believe… perhaps half…’ The master of auguries’ voice was little more than a croak.
‘Fascinating…’ said Excrucias, running his tongue delicately along the serrated edge of his mask’s lips. His armour hummed as he rose from his squirming throne.
Excrucias’ sorcerer, Phelkorian Twyst, detached himself from the shadow of the throne and lumbered in his wake. Phelkorian’s body was encased in a gem-encrusted suit of power armour, but the cowl of his rubberised cloak did little to hide the bloated mass of tentacles and fangs that was his face. Gasping wet, eager breaths, the sorcerer joined his master at the marble railing of Excrucias’ command dais. Before them, looming large in the bridge’s primary vid-screen, was the planet of Bloodforge.
‘It looks like a blinded eye,’ panted Phelkorian from his lamprey-like mouth. ‘As though our divine mistress slipped a needle into one of the Blood God’s vacant orbs.’
Excrucias let slip a murmur of agreement, staring intently at the planet below. Two hundred, slain by just thirty-one. He should feel anger, he supposed. Instead, he was fascinated. Oh, his knives would taste blood, of course, pleasurable offerings cut from his living flesh and given to Slaanesh to atone for this failure. But still, an opportunity presented itself.
‘Prepare the teleportarium,’ ordered Excrucias.
One of his attendant champions slammed a fist to his breastplate in salute.
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