Hammer and Bolter Year One

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Of what pit do you speak?’ demanded Wrann. ‘And this Manter Thyll? We know nothing of–’

  ‘Do not lie to me!’ shouted N’Kalo. The councillors sitting closest to him tried to scramble away, ending up on one another’s laps to put some distance between them and the angry Space Marine. ‘I sought to understand for myself. I went to the historical archives in Molik Tertiam. Yes, to that place you thought hidden from the eyes of outsiders! My battle-brothers stormed the estate of Horse Marshal Konigen, that hero of your history, and demanded of him the truth of why he first led his armies into the delta lands! We know the truth, my brothers and I. The war on Molikor is not about an uprising by the Eshkeen. It is about your desire to exploit Molikor’s dead as labour for your mines and shipyards! It is about the wealth they can bring you! It is about your willingness to exploit the powers bleeding from the warp, and the Eshkeen’s determination to prevent you from committing such a sin!’

  ‘Then what would you have us do?’ shouted Wrann. ‘This frontier hangs by a thread! Without the war materiel that such labour could produce, we will never hold the Ghoul Stars! Humanity can barely survive out here as it is! Would you have us enslave our own? Would you have us grind our own hands to bone?’

  ‘No,’ replied N’Kalo calmly. ‘I would have you leave.’

  The Judgement Upon Garadan made little concession to the embellishment and glorification that endowed many other Adeptus Astartes strike cruisers. It was every inch a warship, all riveted iron and hard, brutal lines, and as it hung in orbit over Molikor it seemed to glower down at the clouded planet. The lion-head crest, mounted above the prow like heraldry on a feudal knight’s helm, was the sole concession to appearances.

  Inside, the Judgement was much the same, with little to suggest the glorious history the Iron Knights brought with them. N’Kalo conducted most of his ship’s business from the monastic cell in which he trained and meditated when his flag-captain did not require him on the bridge. The pict screen mounted on one wall showed a close-up of the space above Molikor’s main spaceport. N’Kalo watched as a flock of merchant and cargo ships drifted up from the cloud cover, a shower of silvery sparks. On those ships was the Imperial population of Molikor, among them the Parliamentarian leaders. Those leaders had, less than three days ago, received an ivory scroll case containing orders to evacuate their planet on pain of destruction. Those orders were signed with a single ‘I’, which gave them an authority within the Imperium second only to the word of the God-Emperor Himself.

  Inside the scroll case had also been a string of rosarius beads. It was a traditional message. If you defy these orders, they implied, then use these beads to pray, for prayer is your only hope of deliverance.

  Events moved slowly in space, given the vast distances involved. The pict screen flicked between the views of the fleeing Parliamentarian ships, and the single vessel, its livery gold and black, that drifted in from its concealed observation position behind one of Molikor’s moons. This ship, of which N’Kalo did not know the name, had arrived at Molikor so quickly it must have possessed archeotech or even xenos drives to have made so rapid a journey through the warp.

  It was a vessel of the Inquisition. N’Kalo needed no communications with the craft to know that. His flag-captain had hailed it anyway and, as expected, there had been no reply. The Adeptus Astartes had done their job on Molikor. Now the Inquisition took over, and they answered to no one.

  N’Kalo had seen quarantine orders enforced before. He hoped that everyone had got off Molikor safely. Though he had little love for the Parliamentarians, once the lead conspirators had been weeded out those who remained would be largely blameless Imperial citizens. The Inquisition would quarantine the world, destroy the spaceport and let it be known that it was forbidden thanks to the bizarre warp disturbance beneath its crust that caused it to spew its dead out as mindless facsimiles. The Parliamentarians who had sought to exploit the pit would be tried, questioned and probably executed for dabbling so willingly in matters of the warp. N’Kalo did not think much about their fates. Worse things happened to better people with every moment in the Imperium. He would not waste his thoughts on them. This was a grim business, but he had faith that this was the way it had to be.

  The Soul Drinkers did not have faith, not in the Imperium. Perhaps that was understandable, thought N’Kalo. He had seen the same things they had, the same brutality and the spiteful randomness of how the fortunes of the Imperium were parcelled out. He had not strayed beyond the Imperial line – he had informed the Inquisition of the threat on Molikor, after all – but he was forced to wonder, considering the recent events there in his cell, whether he would have to have seen many more injustices to end up renegades like the Soul Drinkers.

  ‘Commander N’Kalo,’ came a vox from the flag-captain. ‘We are receiving a communication, tagged for you by name.’

  ‘Send it,’ said N’Kalo.

  ‘Greetings, commander,’ said a voice that, until a short time ago, had been an unfamiliar one reaching N’Kalo’s ears through the gunfire and crunching branches of the forest gap.

  ‘Sarpedon,’ said N’Kalo. ‘I had not expected you to still be around. You should be warned that the Inquisition would dearly love to listen in.’

  ‘My ship has communications even the Inquisition cannot intercept in a hurry,’ replied Sarpedon. His voice was transmitted in real time, meaning the Soul Drinkers and their ship had to be close by. ‘I wanted to thank you for doing the right thing by Molikor and the Eshkeen. You could have followed the Imperial line, but you did not. That takes something beyond mere bravery.’

  ‘I did not turn in the Parliaments of Molikor to garner thanks,’ replied N’Kalo. ‘I did it because it had to be done. The moral threat on that world could not have been left unchecked. But I am glad that I was not the instrument of injustice and so I should pay thanks to you, for showing me all the paths I might take.’

  ‘And yet I suspect that your gratitude will not prevent you from turning in a renegade and a mutant like myself,’ said Sarpedon, ‘and so I must leave here.’

  ‘I concur, Sarpedon. That would be wise. I have one question before you go.’

  ‘Speak it.’

  ‘What happened to the Eshkeen?’

  N’Kalo thought he heard a small chuckle. ‘Do not fear for them,’ said Sarpedon. ‘My Chapter possesses the means to transport them somewhere they can start anew, and where the Imperium will not rediscover them for a very long time.’

  ‘I see. For my sake it is best I leave it at that. Fare well, Sarpedon, and I shall pray that our paths do not cross, for I feel if they do I must fight to bring you in.’

  ‘I shall pray for that too, Commander N’Kalo. Emperor’s speed to you.’

  The comm-channel went dead.

  In the hours to follow, the scanners of the Judgement Upon Garadan detected the possible signature of a ship making a warp jump near the outlying worlds of the Molikor System. The signature suggested a ship far bigger than any Imperial craft, however, and one that seemed dark and shadowy as if cloaked by some stealth system beyond Imperial technology. N’Kalo did not challenge his flag-captain when the event was logged and dismissed as a sensor error, and the Soul Drinkers vanished from the Chapter history of the Iron Knights.

  Action & Consequence

  Sarah Cawkwell

  Vincit Qui Patitur.

  The words of the company motto were bold and confident, standing out in silver lettering on the midnight black of the Eighth Company’s war banner. He conquers who endures.

  On board the strike cruiser Silver Arrow, the chapel was the same as many thousands of other such chapels scattered throughout the Space Marine ships of the Imperium. A quiet place of reflection, prayer and preparation, the battle-brothers of the Eighth Company all found their way here eventually prior to deployment. Some came, gave due deference to the statue of the God-Emperor and retreated.

  Others lingered.

  Within this cradle of ultimate f
aith, a warrior could assert his place in the universe. Within this sacred place, a warrior of the Imperium could come as close to knowing peace as he was ever likely to.

  Gileas Ur’ten, a man rarely at peace, knelt at the front of the chapel. His dark hair fell forwards, framing his face as his head bowed in reverence. Softly, he recanted his own personal litanies of battle, paying particular care to those that honoured his forebears. Above his head, the company’s war banner was displayed proudly, pinned wide to display all the names written on it in tiny, delicate filigree script. Battle-brothers would gladly sit for hours to add a name to the banner. It was always considered to be an honour, never a duty.

  Hundreds, even thousands of names were represented on the banner: brothers-in-arms he had fought alongside in his one hundred and twenty years of service, and still more names there of those he had never met, but whose deeds were legendary. His eyes lifted briefly and rested on the name of Captain Andreas Kulle, his own mentor and the only man who had initially believed the savage little boy from the south had possessed the potential to succeed. Kulle had long passed to the arms of the Emperor. But his name lived on, and as long as the banner remained, that would never change.

  Whoever was chosen to bear the standard into battle was greatly honoured. Gileas had carried the relic many times over the campaigns of the last five years. He had held on to it with grim tenacity against seemingly overwhelming odds, and had always returned it. He was a valiant, fearless warrior whose own deeds on the battlefield were earning him a reputation that many envied and others watched with cautious uncertainty.

  Gileas Ur’ten’s career had gone from strength to strength. The first recruit from the tribal people of Varsavia’s southern continent to achieve a sergeant’s rank, Gileas was stalwart and confident. He had led his squad for several years, and it was grudgingly acknowledged that they were amongst the best in the entire company. He was a charismatic man whose brothers followed him willingly and without question. Even the majority of his greatest antagonists had reluctantly accepted that his promotion to the rank of sergeant had been well earned.

  And yet this was not a universal opinion. To others, Gileas was still considered a loose cannon, a Space Marine whose tempestuous nature and fiery spirit could not truly be trusted. A savage southerner whose instincts overruled his head on far too many occasions.

  If Gileas was aware of the opinions of his brother Space Marines, he rarely – if ever – commented on them. He was, he had reasoned many years ago, who he was. He lived only to serve the Imperium and he would die in the line of duty. It was a reward he anticipated with the inherent pragmatism of all the Adeptus Astartes. He was loyal, honest and, as far as his superior officer was concerned, completely trustworthy. It was these qualities that had marked him out for the honour that had become his.

  The death of Brother-Sergeant Oniker during the last campaign had left a void in the Eighth Company that many of the other company sergeants were eager to fill. The captain would need to nominate his chosen second-in-command, a role that Oniker had filled until his untimely death at the hands of the ork warboss Skullrencha. Each one of the sergeants had brought unique qualities to the table. The final decision, however, had gone to the company Prognosticator.

  Shae Bast, Captain Meyoran’s advisor, had cast the runes. For long hours he had communed with and channelled the Emperor’s will. He had finally brought forth the Emperor’s decision, knowing that there would be unrest in the wake of the announcement. The captain had been completely satisfied with the choice of Gileas Ur’ten, but there were plenty amongst the Eighth Company with whom the decision did not sit comfortably. Indeed, there were rumblings about what was considered an ill-omened choice from other companies throughout the Chapter.

  Gileas knew it well. Despite his own misgivings and barely understood concerns, he bore it all without comment, other than to take up the mantle of his new role with the same enthusiasm with which he approached everything. He looked now at the statue of the Emperor which stared impassively ahead, its gaze as cool as the stone from which it was carved. The solidity and permanence of the Emperor’s presence was a soothing balm to Gileas’s troubled heart, and he took quiet strength from it.

  ‘I am not disturbing you, I hope, brother-sergeant?’ The voice came from behind him, low and rumbling. Gileas raised his head and turned to take in the sight of his captain filling the chapel’s doorway.

  ‘Not at all, brother-captain.’ Gileas rocked back onto his bare heels. Whilst aboard the Silver Arrow and not in the training cages, most of the battle-brothers of the Eighth Company wore simple surplices and either soft leather sandals or chose to go barefoot. Gileas settled into a cross-legged sitting position and looked up expectantly.

  With the quiet confidence that marked his every action, the captain strode into the chapel, crossing the short distance between the doors and the altar swiftly. Like most of the men under his command, Keile Meyoran was exceptionally huge – even for a genetically altered Space Marine. He kept his head and face shaved completely smooth, barring a long, thin-plaited black beard that served only to make him look even more aggressive. The years of honour tattoos that were painstakingly designed and worked into his face made him look at one and the same time both barbaric and mystical to those who did not understand the Silver Skulls’ tradition of marking themselves in such a way. They recruited from worlds other than Varsavia, but all were introduced to the planet’s tradition of tattooing on their induction into the Chapter.

  Meyoran joined Gileas at the altar and looked up wordlessly at the statue of the Emperor. His lips moved in a silent prayer and he placed his right hand on the figure. Gileas watched his captain without comment until the older warrior turned to study him thoughtfully.

  ‘Are your preparations complete, brother?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Gileas made a move to get to his feet, but Meyoran held up a hand, forestalling him.

  ‘There is no need for me to interrupt you for long, Gileas. I merely wanted to bring you a message. Your presence is greatly desired in the strategium. We will translate in-system in less than four hours – and your experience in urban warfare will prove invaluable to us.’ His lips curled upwards into a smile at the look on Gileas’s face. ‘Is this invitation such a surprise to you, brother?’

  ‘Surprised? No, sir.’ As the youngest sergeant in the company, he had rarely been invited to attend a war meeting in the strategium – and never a direct invitation from the company captain. ‘Not surprised, merely… honoured.’

  Gileas had never been a good liar, and given the way the tips of his ears turned slightly pink where they were visible beneath his unruly dark curls, it seemed that he was unlikely to start grasping the concept now. Meyoran’s smile broadened and he reached down and clasped the younger warrior’s shoulder.

  ‘You will be fine, Gileas,’ he said, quietly. ‘I have every faith in your ability to put your personal stamp on this position. I know that you have misgivings. I know also that some have questioned your own suitability for this role. You have commanded – what is it? Twenty missions as sergeant?’

  ‘Twenty-five, sir.’ Such pride in his voice. Only twenty-five missions. Practically a novice.

  Meyoran nodded. ‘Twenty-five missions. Successful missions.’ The flicker of a smile tweaked the captain’s lips, then he resumed his serious expression. ‘But Gileas, whatever your misgivings may be… when we deploy, there will be no opportunity to dwell on them. I need to know that your head is in the right place. I need to know that your heart and mind are focussed on the mission.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Gileas, a faint tone of indignation coming into his voice. ‘I am fully prepared and I will not let you down.’ This time, he was not lying.

  ‘No,’ mused Meyoran, touching his hand to the statue of the Emperor once again. ‘No, I don’t believe you will, lad.’

  It will be the actions of the rest of my company that worry me, he added silently.

  Less than four
hours later, Gileas found himself in an environment as far removed from the peace of the chapel as could possibly be imagined. The familiar, almost comforting roar of the retro-jets filled his aural senses as the drop-pod punched through the haze of cloud lying in a perpetual gloom over the planet. Pressed down hard in his seat by the harness, the sergeant put a hand to the hilt of his chainsword and cast a glance around the pod’s interior.

  His companions were all murmuring pre-battle litanies, apart from Theoderyk the Techmarine, whose voice soared loudly above the others. His litanies were fervently directed at the machine-spirits that guided them to their destination. Gileas allowed his own thoughts to stray to that particular outcome. There was a great battle to be had at the end of this drop and the thought of it filled his veins with fire.

  He blink-clicked through final system checks, absorbing the vast quantities of scrolling information and runes that flashed before his eyes. His jump pack was functioning well and he had lovingly stripped and cleaned his weapons in the hours before they had deployed. He was as ready as he was likely to be.

  The potential pressures of additional responsibility had not really bothered him. Like all the Silver Skulls, he was an enormously pragmatic man. He knew that he had the competence and the training to handle whatever these enemies could throw at him and he also knew that on the field of battle, the men under his command would obey his orders unquestioningly. Whatever his battle-brothers might have thought of him off the field of war was inconsequential.

  Such confidence came easily. Certainty in those thoughts did not.

  ‘Prepare for impact.’ Theoderyk’s voice crackled across the vox and Gileas, along with the others on board, murmured their acquiescence. The sergeant’s hand closed still more tightly around the hilt of the chainsword and he offered up an impassioned prayer to the God-Emperor that this matter would be dealt with swiftly and without heavy losses. The Eighth Company was already low in numbers. It could not afford further deaths.