by Nick Kyme
Outside, Faustus was already moving.
A shallow ledge, nothing more than a lip with room enough for the edge of his booted toes to snatch purchase, ran along the exterior gallery wall. Faustus had leapt onto it and then swung, pivoting on one foot and plunging his first knife into the rock. It sank in deep, the monomolecular edge retaining optimum sharpness. In under a second, he had swung again, using the opposite foot to pivot on and the embedded knife as a makeshift handhold, swiftly rolling his body across the gap from back to front. He crabbed in this manner across the entire length of the wall, using one blade then the other, pivoting off right foot then left, back over front until he had reached the firing slit beyond which he had judged the enemy forces to be barricaded.
The magenta-armoured warriors were so intent on the Luna Wolves pressing them to the front, they missed the five commandoes almost in their midst.
Faustus paused at the edge of the firing slit, sparing a glance at his four legionaries who had followed their captain’s example precisely and now awaited his next order. Sheathing one of the blades, Faustus attached the krak grenades, moving over to the opposite side of the firing slit before he primed them.
He gave one last look at the others, before mouthing, ‘Three, two…’
On one the incendiaries went off, erupting in a storm of stone shards, fire and pluming smoke. The men on the other side in the gallery choked on it. Those closest to the wall who had foolishly abandoned their posts were ripped apart in a flare of harsh, white light and knew nothing of their deaths. Others were mauled by the razor-edge stone shards. Some also caught on fire. Bodies were thrown inwards and bludgeoned into pieces by sheer concussive force.
But this was as nothing compared to what came in the wake of the explosion.
Faustus and his men were upon the enemy, the epitome of their savage namesake, howling and slitting throats with their blades.
Seeing the enemy stricken and distracted, Klaed ordered the headlong rush into their dwindling guns. The Luna Wolves took some hits but weathered the storm and struck the enemy mass like a threshing machine. None were spare, but the slaughter was brief. In under thirty seconds, every man wearing magenta armour in the corridor was dead.
The last one who died was cut down by Faustus. He had been a sniper, his weapon resting in the next alcove along from where the Centurion had made the breach. It was locked on a tripod, its firing position fixed. Out of curiosity, Faustus looked down the scope. Just moved into the crosshairs, having broken through the induction gate was the captain of Tenth. Faustus didn’t know his name and the warrior was gone in seconds anyway.
He smiled, though, amused at the fact this unknown officer would never realise how close he had come to death.
‘You’re very welcome,’ whispered Faustus, before looking away.
Ten thousand years later…
CHAPTER ONE
Heletine, at the outskirts of Canticus
Three contrails from a trio of gunships scored through the dark sky over Canticus.
The city was burning. Ash and smoke from the fires had brought on premature night. War had transformed this place. In the grubby brown half-light, once regal statuary writhed in imagined torment, proud temples hung open like cracked corpses and the gilded streets turned black with spilled blood. It was, in every respect, a haunted landscape. Death stalked the streets, death and the nightmares that brought death with them – a legion in black, a legacy most foul and one that still yearned for some scrap of its former power and prestige.
The Thunderhawks wove through the chaos, banking and turning to keep the buildings between them and the torrent of flak fire spitting from the gun emplacements entrenched somewhere below. They were snub-nosed, boxy-looking vessels, their Salamanders green begrimed by the war. And they were not alone. The polluted sky over Canticus was choked by more than smoke alone – a battle equal in ferocity to that being fought on the ground was being contested in the air. Stormtalon interceptors engaged in sporadic dogfights with the draconic, winged daemon-engines of the Archenemy, as they tried to shepherd the larger landers. The enemy vessels were more like beasts of ancient myth, steel and dark anima combined. Their name ‘Heldrake’ was well earned.
The Thunderhawks lost their last outrider when the Stormtalon was set upon from above, a daemon-engine seizing the interceptor in its claws and bearing it down into smoke and oblivion below.
Boosting their engines, the gunships increased speed, risking a more direct approach through the latticing flak fire to put some distance between them and the Heldrake. Wing-mounted bolters flaring, they strafed a landing zone ahead, committing to a rapid deployment dive.
From the roof of an old preceptory, an armour-clad warrior watched the gunships make their cargo drops into the heart of one of the city’s war zones. Seven identical drops had taken place in the last hour. More would follow. Each transporter went in hot. The first carried a single war machine – a hulking Redeemer-class Land Raider, named for devastating heavy flamers – for only in fire could true repentance be found. The others had two battle tanks apiece, Predators. Ubiquitous amongst the Adeptus Astartes’ armoury, these two were the less common Annihilators, armed with lascannons. In short, they were tank-killers.
The tracks of the five vehicles were already rolling at combat speed before touching down, weapon-targeting systems active and tracking movement. They hit the ground running with no break between landing and combat, before the Thunderhawks pulled away sharply, banking around with throaty pulses from their engines and disappearing intermittently behind great plumes of smoke.
Of the Heldrake, there was no sign. Perhaps it had been destroyed in the crash, or perhaps it had simply found other prey.
Drakgaard’s focus was elsewhere, on the tanks and their mission. It had been a sacrifice to redeploy the armour. They would pay for that, and lose some of the bitter ground they had gained with blood and sweat. Canticus, even the world of Heletine itself, was demanding like that. She was a warren, a dark labyrinth. Little was taken for granted in such theatres of war, save for the vastness of the death toll.
Despite the massive destruction already wreaked against it, a proud and pious city stretched out in front of Drakgaard. Temples stood silhouetted against the gloom, and beneath their columnar and statued glory lurked a sprawl of streets and avenues. If the monolithic temples and shrineholds were the flesh, then the streets were its veins and arteries. Though those arteries were shedding freely and spilling lagoons of blood, there was still artistry to the city’s claustrophobic design.
Possessed of a grim mien, the brother-captain seldom found much to enjoy in beauty. Some in the Chapter had whispered an iron hand would suit him better than a drake-scale mantle, but Drakgaard was Salamander from skin through to marrow. Yet, in spite of his quiet detractors, Drakgaard did wonder at what Canticus would have looked like before war had engulfed it.
With the fires that had broken out, very little remained of the city’s geography that wasn’t contested. Much of it was now in ruins, partly from brutal urban engagements and partly from the preliminary bombardment that had lasted four days and yielded little in the way of tactical traction for the allied Imperial commander.
Drakgaard looked upon his works from his vantage on the roof and saw only a long war of attrition ahead.
He had committed almost all of their strength to the taking of Canticus and the driving out of an entrenched enemy. Sixth Company’s entire complement as well as assault elements from Fourth made up the Salamanders infantry and Sergeant Zantho had assembled a sizeable division of battle tanks to neutralise the heretics’ heavy armour. Yet despite all of this formidable strength, the war was still a bitter grind.
It suited Drakgaard, it suited the Chapter. Meet them eye to eye and burn them out of their holes. The Salamanders had waged this way of war for centuries. None were as tenacious or as committed as the sons of Vulkan. He had been at Badab and
Armageddon, Drakgaard knew the full meaning of ‘attrition’ – his body bore the scars in testament to the fact.
Were he able, Drakgaard would have smiled at the thought of past glories but his face was drawn up into a permanent snarl because of old injuries. He had several, and wore them proudly, more proudly than the many honours he had received in a long and distinguished career. A warrior was measured by his scars not his medals, or so the captain of Sixth believed. It was a trite belief, but one he clung to when the ache of old wounds became pronounced. Much like this day.
A three-dimensional representation of Canticus projected from a hololithic device revolved in front of Drakgaard. The transmission was poor, which made the image grainy and prone to breaks in resolution, but the story it told was clear.
Five major war zones across the world of Heletine, all being fought with fang and claw. To the equatorial south a predominantly Cadian force fought a guerrilla war for dominance of the Centari Mountains. Drakgaard had lent the Astra Militarum forces several squadrons of Stormtalons to leaven their war burden. Judging by the skies over Canticus, he might need to recall them soon. In the east, at Veloth, Sergeant V’reth of Third Squad held the fringe of the barren desert region and its few remote temples, supported by some minor Cadian armour and Sentinel squadrons. The city of Solist was all but destroyed, and only a token force skirmished over its remains now. Escadan was firmly in Imperial control and served as a muster point for the other major cities. An industrial region in the main, the heretics had paid it no mind, presumably deeming it of little tactical significance.
The rest had come to Canticus. It was here, Drakgaard was convinced, that the deadlock would finally break. He had but to find a way. He accessed a dispositional feed from his battle-helm prompting force organisational data to scroll down his left retinal lens.
The Cadian 81st were almost down to bare bones after being first responders to the crisis and bearing the brunt of the heretics’ wrath and martial strength. The local defence forces were all but depleted or had defected. Drakgaard had witnessed sixteen separate firing squads that morning as the dogmatic Cadians sought to excise further traitors from the allied ranks. A thankless task, but one that fortunately did not burden the brother-captain.
The Salamanders held firm. They did so with honour, and according to the Promethean Creed. As commanding officer, it was Drakgaard’s opportunity to expunge the stain on the Chapter’s glory brought about by the troubled Third. Agatone had not taken kindly to his warriors being taken off the frontline. It had been five years since Nocturne, five years since a Lexicanium named Hazon Dak’ir had nearly destroyed them all. After the deaths of two captains and a verified record of renegade defections coming from within the ranks of the company, Drakgaard was not surprised when Chapter Master Tu’Shan had demanded a period of investigation and spiritual restoration.
It was the fire-born way, and now Drakgaard’s star was in the ascendency. He resolved to conduct himself with honour, and bring glory back to the Salamanders. First, he had to win the war on Heletine.
His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairwell behind him.
‘Chaplain,’ said Drakgaard, recognising his visitor without needing to see him.
Elysius acknowledged the greeting with a nod. The black-armoured Chaplain stood a little taller than the captain, but not as wide, though the presence of a power fist served to bulk out his frame. Unlike Drakgaard, he wasn’t wearing his helmet and had it mag-locked to his belt instead. His head was cleanly shorn, all the way down to the scalp. It shone like a smooth nub of onyx.
‘I can’t recall the last time I saw your face, brother-captain.’
Drakgaard didn’t even spare Elysius a sideways glance. ‘We are at war. Such things as helms are necessary when bad men are trying to kill you.’
‘You know what I mean. Much is revealed by the face, the eyes in particular.’
‘You of all of us should know something of the desire to hide one’s face.’
‘I did it out of shame and respect,’ Elysius replied. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Very well…’
With a hiss of escaping pressure, Drakgaard unlocked his helm from his gorget and lifted it off. Then he faced the Chaplain. He was a mess of scars and exposed muscle, only partially healed. In his left cheek, his molars were visible through the sizeable gouge in his skin.
‘What do you see?’ Drakgaard asked.
Elysius’s expression softened marginally.
‘Pain, a legacy of it.’
Drakgaard snorted, unimpressed with Elysius’s attempts at camaraderie. He returned his helmet to its proper place.
‘Is that all? By your sermonising tone I was expecting you to reveal some revelation of my character.’
‘I need only hear your voice for that.’
Drakgaard didn’t answer.
Since they had been talking, vox reports had been feeding in to Drakgaard’s comm from the various battlefronts. None were directed at him personally, he just liked to keep abreast of developments. What he was hearing far from satisfied the captain. Despite their difficult relationship, he allowed himself to vent in front of the Chaplain.
‘They are a horde, Elysius,’ said Drakgaard, gesturing to the amorphous enemy below. There was little to see, even from the roof. The cultists and their dark masters had become little more than a homogenous mass. Now day was finally turning to night, vision was further impaired. Though, with all the smoke, the transition was difficult to appreciate. ‘We should have broken them by now, and restored this world to the grace of the Throne.’
‘Quite the pious sentiment, brother.’
‘I am not without faith,’ Drakgaard quickly replied, as if his pride had been wounded.
‘Indeed, I apologise. Dug in, with knowledge of the terrain… They are more than just a horde, brother. Black Legion is a formidable enemy. They were like us once.’
‘No longer,’ Drakgaard scowled, unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking. ‘And I have seen precious few actual Renegade Space Marines amongst the heretics to warrant considering them our main enemy here.’
‘Rest assured, they are here and have been brutalising Cadians and turning what’s left of the Heletine militia against us.’
‘I am far from assured.’ Drakgaard folded his arms. ‘How easily some can fall to ruin…’
A strained silence fell between them that lasted a few seconds before Elysius replied.
‘Have you set yourself in judgement too? Did your eyes see more than my own during Dak’ir’s trial?’
‘I have great respect for you, Elysius. Your record is beyond reproach but Third Company was ill-fated ever since the day it lost Ko’tan Kadai. Some believe that curse spread to all associated with it.’ Drakgaard turned, his helmet’s faceplate ever-snarling as if echoing his mood. ‘I am no gifted dissembler–’
‘Nor am I, brother. What are you insinuating?’
Drakgaard raised a placatory hand. ‘Nothing. I merely speak and see plainly. There was something cankerous at the heart of the Third, and you were closer to it than most. Perhaps Agatone can reforge what has been broken, perhaps not…’
‘And if not, then who? You, Ur’zan Drakgaard?’
Whatever Drakgaard felt at Elysius’s intentional snipe was left unsaid as the low thrum of thrusters interrupted them.
Their attention was drawn skyward to another vessel. Not a gunship this time, but a lander.
Elyisus narrowed his eyes.
‘You recognise that vessel,’ said Drakgaard.
‘I do. I’ve fought alongside their kind before. Although not this particular order.’
Like the Chaplain’s armour, the ship was also black but that was where any affiliation ended. Through occluding smoke, the icon of a chalice became visible. The stylised cup dominated the underside
of the lander and was depicted holding a stark white flame like a brazier.
‘What was your appraisal?’
Stabiliser jets flared as the main engines died off and all forward momentum slackened to nothing. Eddies of dust and swirling smoke spun away as if retreating from the vessel as it hovered into a slow descent. Below, Imperial engineers and labourers scattered as a Salamanders command squad approached the landing zone with weapons at ease but ready.
‘You have not fought with the Adepta Sororitas before, then, brother-captain?’ asked Elysius.
‘You mean beside.’
Elysius looked confused.
‘Beside, not with.’
‘I know what I meant.’
Drakgaard shook his head.
‘They are good fighters,’ Elysius continued. ‘Not Adeptus Astartes, but resolute, determined.’
‘That all?’
As the ship emerged through the smoke, so did several others, all armoured in black with the sigil of a chalice on their flanks and underside. Some were smaller with the aspect and armament of gunships.
‘No. They’re fanatics. Only their brand of fanaticism is sanctioned.’
‘Brand? Is that supposed to be humorous, Brother-Chaplain?’
The ships touched down on the landing field, a host of ground crew hustling back and forth in the resultant dust storm kicked up by a host of descent thrusters. Whilst the ground crews coughed behind their sleeves, trying to keep the grit from their eyes and waving to their comrades in an attempt to exert some order on the unexpected arrivals, Drakgaard’s warriors stood and watched. To the practised military eye, they had formed a defensive perimeter.
‘Believe me, brother, there is nothing amusing about the Order of the Ebon Chalice,’ Elysius concluded.
Then they descended the stairs from the preceptory, and went to meet the Sisters of Battle.
CHAPTER TWO
Heletine, Canticus southern war zone