Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Kor’sarro opened the vox-channel again, but before he could speak a further salvo of fire erupted from every bastion within a kilometre. The channel erupted with howling feedback as the very air burned.

  ‘All Hunters,’ Kor’sarro said, not knowing whether his transmission would penetrate the sudden interference but sure he had no choice but to try. ‘The arrow turns, the deluge.’

  ‘Coming about on new heading,’ the pilot announced, obeying the battle-cant order. In seconds, the Thunderhawk was banking over the outer defence line, pursued by angry autocannon bursts. With great relief, Kor’sarro noted the other vessels doing likewise.

  Kor’sarro fought down the galling frustration at encountering such an effective air defence grid. It could only have been erected under the oversight of one of Voldorius’s lieutenants. The Alpha Legion were adept at corrupting lesser forces, and would easily have established themselves as masters over the treacherous convicts that laboured in Cernis IV’s promethium refinery. He consoled himself with the knowledge that such scum could never have mounted such a stout defence themselves. It was a timely reminder of just how dangerous a foe the Alpha Legion were. Furthermore, as fearsome as the defenders’ fire had proven, the White Scars pilots were superior. Although minor damage had been sustained, the strike force was still effective, even with the loss of Hunter Three.

  And besides, Kor’sarro thought, the White Scars never relied on a single battle plan. Even now, the Thunderhawks were closing on the secondary landing zone where Kor’sarro and his warriors would disembark and approach the target by the alternative route, planned for just such an eventuality.

  ‘Touch down in thirty,’ the pilot announced.

  ‘Enemy position at sigma-seven,’ the co-pilot interjected.

  Kor’sarro saw the secondary landing zone up ahead, but nearby, in the shadow of a jagged cluster of crystals, was a hurriedly dug enemy gun pit. Several of the defenders were armed with shoulder-mounted missile launchers.

  ‘Neutralise it,’ Kor’sarro ordered.

  The air between the Thunderhawk and the gun pit was split asunder as the vessel’s heavy bolters opened up. Hundreds of rounds had been expended in seconds, the snow all around the target vaporised into an obscuring mist. Surely, nothing could have survived such a torrent of fire.

  As if to mock the White Scars, a missile streaked out of the roiling mist, passing within a handful of metres of the gunship’s armoured canopy.

  ‘I cannot resolve a target,’ the co-pilot said.

  ‘Target the crystal,’ Kor’sarro ordered. ‘Hellstrike.’

  A moment later, a missile lanced from beneath the Thunderhawk’s stubby wings towards the gun pit. But instead of disappearing into the vapour created by the heavy bolter fire, the projectile sped towards the crystal overhead. The impact came mere seconds later.

  In a repetition of the incident on the approach run, the crystal exploded into a billion shards. The vapour cloud was blown away, the ground for a hundred metres all about studded by countless micro-impacts. Those defenders who had survived the heavy bolter fire were torn apart as the crystal shards ripped through their bodies. At the last, only the jagged remains of the crystal formation and a wide red stain upon the frozen ground marked the formerly enemy-held position.

  ‘Take us in,’ Kor’sarro ordered.

  Even as Kor’sarro powered his roaring bike, Moondrakkan, down the Thunderhawk’s ramp, Hunters Two, Four and Five were touching down nearby. Screaming retro jets vaporised the ice, before the mighty gunships settled upon hissing, flexing landing struts. Hunter One, Kor’sarro’s command platform, was a conventional Thunderhawk specially modified to carry the Command squad’s beloved bikes. Hunter Five was likewise modified, and carried the task force’s other two bike-mounted squads. The other ships, including the missing Hunter Three, were transporters, and carried between the three vessels four Rhino-borne Tactical squads, two Rhino-borne Devastator squads and three jump pack-equipped Assault squads. A pair of Rhino transport vehicles was cradled below each transporter, their engines growling as if in anticipation of churning up the frozen plain.

  As the two transporters settled, the sturdy arms holding the Rhinos in place released, and, accompanied by the angry hiss of hydraulics, retracted upwards. Almost in unison, the launch jets of both transporters fired up again, and both lifted perfectly vertically, leaving a pair of Rhinos on the ground beneath each. In a moment, all four Thunderhawks had cleared the landing zone, streaking away to establish a holding pattern until called upon.

  ‘All units,’ Kor’sarro spoke into his helmet vox-link as he slewed Moondrakkan to a halt. ‘Converge on me.’

  Behind him, the five bike-mounted warriors of Kor’sarro’s Command squad formed up. These men were his brothers, for they had travelled by his side for the last decade, never wavering in the hunt for Voldorius. Kor’sarro’s company champion, Brother Jhogai, removed his helmet having brought his growling mount to a halt, and took in a great lungful of the freezing air. Beside him, Brother Yeku bore the standard of the Third Company, an honoured banner adorned with the lightning-strike symbol of the White Scars Chapter, and topped with a fluttering mane of black horsehair. Apothecary Khagus halted his bike beside the standard bearer, and behind him came Brothers Temu and Kergis.

  ‘Is there any word?’ Kor’sarro addressed Brother Temu, knowing the warrior would understand his meaning.

  ‘There is none, my khan,’ Temu replied. ‘Lord of Heavens reports heavy atmospheric sensor interference, but assures us they will keep up their sweeps until Hunter Three’s fate is known.’

  ‘Understood,’ Kor’sarro replied, forcing his concern for his brethren to the back of his mind, for all of his attention would be needed in the coming attack. It was only moments before the entire strike force would be assembled before him, ready to move out upon his word.

  Following his company champion’s example, Kor’sarro reached up and unlatched his helmet. As he lifted it clear, the cold air struck his scarred face. Even through the cold, he could taste the underlying chemical pollution caused by the activities at the promethium plant – it did not take the enhanced senses of a Space Marine to detect it. Squinting against the breeze, Kor’sarro regarded his force with fiercely burning pride.

  Four Rhino transports, set down in pairs by Hunters Two and Four, idled. Each one carried a ten-man Tactical squad. With the loss of Hunter Three, two more vehicles were missing, and the absence of the heavy weapons of the Devastator squads they had carried might well be felt in the coming battle. Twenty more Space Marines stood nearby, each equipped with a bulky jump pack, marking them out as the Third Company’s Assault squads. A third Assault squad had been carried on the missing Hunter Three. Lastly, two squads of White Scars bikers had formed up to either side of the Rhinos, having been set down from the modified troop bay of Hunter Five, their engines growling and the cold air shimmering around their exhausts.

  The sight of his warriors stirred fierce pride in Kor’sarro’s savage heart. These men were the sons of the steppes of Chogoris, the windswept home world of the White Scars Chapter. They were born of the nomadic tribes that lived, fought and died across the trackless plains. They were hunters one and all, born in the saddle and had none become a White Scar, each would have been a king of a noble tribe. These men of the Third Company had earned Kor’sarro’s trust and loyalty a thousand times over. They had shared with him every peril and every horror the galaxy could conjure.

  This last decade, they had followed him in the hunt for one of the Chapter’s most hated enemies, indeed, one of the Imperium’s most despised sinners. The daemon prince Voldorius – Kor’sarro spat as he conjured the name of his foe – would be run to ground by these men, and by the hand of the Master of the Hunt, would be slain.

  Savouring the moment for a few seconds more, Kor’sarro filled his lungs with air. Then, raising Moonfang, his ancient and revered blade, high above him, he uttered the war cry that his men had heard a thousand times be
fore, on a thousand battlefields, before a thousand victories.

  ‘For the Khan, and for the Emperor!’

  The cry was echoed in the throats of four score warriors. Kor’sarro opened Moondrakkan’s throttle, its engine roaring deafeningly in the manner of its namesake. The bikes of Kor’sarro’s Command squad and of the other two groups of riders took up the savage cry, and were followed an instant later by the deeper, throaty roar of the Rhinos. Then the Assault squads gunned their jump packs to a high-pitched scream, putting Kor’sarro in mind of the deadly avian predators of Chogoris. With the roar of the proud, noble tribesmen of his home world, Kor’sarro span Moondrakkan around to face the distant refinery, and opened the throttle fully.

  Moondrakkan leapt forwards, Kor’sarro’s long cloak billowing in the cold air behind him. Without turning to look, he knew that his warriors were following, and instead focused on the objective. The outer defence line was only two kilometres distant, and the inner line another two beyond that. Another kilometre past the inner trench line lay the outer edges of the refinery itself and beyond that, Kor’sarro’s foe, the target of his ten-year hunt. Kor’sarro’s attack plan was simple and audacious, and entirely in keeping with the martial heritage of his people. If the bastions of the inner defence line were so heavily armed that the Thunderhawks could not penetrate to the refinery, then his warriors would ride those defences down, smashing them aside in an unstoppable assault none could withstand.

  But Kor’sarro’s attack would not be the maddened charge of an unreasoning berserker, for the White Scars were well schooled in the subtleties of the arts of war. The strike force would break into three bodies as it closed on the outer line. One would mount a feint against one length of the trench line, drawing in reinforcements from nearby sectors. Only when Kor’sarro was sure the enemy had taken the bait would the second body strike at the weakest section. Even as that group was consolidating its victory and the first breaking off, the third body would be racing towards the inner fortifications, and the process would be repeated.

  The strike force was well-practised in such assaults, for their people had been undertaking similar actions since time immemorial. As Moondrakkan closed on the outer line and the cold air whipped up Kor’sarro’s long, braided, black moustaches, he was put in mind of his first ever charge against an enemy. He had been barely in his twelfth summer, yet considered a man by his people. That day he had spilled his first blood, claimed his first life and earned his first honour scar. Many more had been traced across his craggy face since becoming a Space Marine. He prayed that more still might be added, yet in truth, only one counted. The scar earned by the death of Voldorius.

  A missile streaked past, billowing an ugly black contrail, and Kor’sarro snapped back to the present. He traced the trail back to a concealed gun pit dug hastily into the snow nearby, and veered Moondrakkan towards it before the firer had a chance to load a second projectile.

  Moondrakkan’s front wheel hit the spoil pile in front of the pit, and Kor’sarro hauled back on the handlebars, gunning the engine as he did so. The bike launched into the air above the pit, and in an instant, Kor’sarro had drawn his bolt pistol. In the two seconds in which the bike was airborne, the Master of the Hunt located his target, a refinery worker bedecked in filthy brown rubberised overalls and wearing an insect-like gas mask, drew a bead on the man’s weapon, and pulled the trigger.

  Moondrakkan slammed to the frozen ground on the far side of the gun pit, kicking up a spray of ice. Kor’sarro heard the crack of the bolt as it struck the freshly-loaded missile launcher, followed an instant later by a sharp detonation as it, and the launcher’s ammunition, exploded. Stealing a glance behind him, Kor’sarro grinned savagely at the destruction he had wrought: the firer and the dozen or so other enemy warriors taking shelter in the pit lay scattered about, body parts strewn across the reddened snow for metres in all directions.

  Turning his head back around, Kor’sarro saw that he was rapidly closing on the outer defence line. He scanned the fortifications, and immediately located the point where the feint attack should be aimed.

  ‘Taura,’ Kor’sarro addressed the sergeant of one of the Tactical squads over the vox-net. ‘Noon, as the ram-hound strikes.’

  The sergeant’s confirmation came back over the net and two of the armoured Rhino transports peeled away from the body of attackers and arrowed for the point Kor’sarro had indicated in the battle-cant of his Chapter. As the squat transports ground up the frozen plain, one of the Assault squads screamed overhead, the ten Space Marines diving upon the enemy position with chainswords whirring angrily. The sounds of battle were audible over the vox-net, Kor’sarro keeping the channel open for a moment to gauge the intensity of the fight. There was little he could do to influence the outcome now, however, as more pressing concerns presented themselves.

  Hauling on Moondrakkan’s handlebars, Kor’sarro led the remainder of the strike force in a wide sweep, away from the point where Sergeant Taura’s units were engaged. The White Scars made expert use of every scrap of cover, especially the man-high crystal formations studded about the plain. In minutes, the force was barrelling towards what Kor’sarro judged to be a less well-defended length of the trench line.

  ‘Enemy reinforcements committed,’ Kor’sarro heard Sergeant Taura call over the vox-net, the transmission punctuated with the sound of chainswords cleaving flesh and bolt pistols firing at point-blank range. Good, thought Kor’sarro: now is the time.

  ‘Second wave,’ Kor’sarro bellowed, for he had no need of the vox to give this order. ‘With me!’

  A savage war cry went up behind him as Kor’sarro steered Moondrakkan for the defence line. Knowing that the enemy had drawn off defenders in an attempt to repel Sergeant Taura’s feint, he led his force directly down upon their foe, while the last third held back.

  The White Scars’ charge ate up the last hundred metres in seconds, and only at the last instant did the few defenders still manning this section of the line open fire. Kor’sarro and his Command squad leapt over the trench as he had done before, and upon striking the ground on the other side, slewed their mounts around. The stunned defenders were caught entirely off guard, few even having turned before they were cut down in a storm of bolt pistol fire.

  Stowing his pistol, Kor’sarro drew Moonfang, and ignited its blade, its entire length crackling with barely contained energies. The dozen defenders not slain in the opening fusillade rose from the trench and threw themselves at Kor’sarro and his men, who as one leapt from their bikes to counter-charge. The melee was brief, the defenders not standing a chance against the superhuman Space Marines, but Kor’sarro was surprised by the vigour of the attack.

  Though not disciplined or veteran troops, the defenders were fired up by a hatred that granted them the strength to face the White Scars, however brief and futile the effort. Only the lies of the Great Enemy could motivate such men as these, and he detected the unmistakable, bitter taint of blasphemy in the air. How tight was the grip of Voldorius on this place, and on these men? He would soon find out.

  Even as Moonfang cleaved the last of the traitors in two, spilling the man’s innards across the debris-strewn trench, the last body of the strike force was moving forwards. Two more armoured transports ground across the trench nearby, their tracks crushing defenders to a bloody pulp as a squad of Assault Marines soared overhead. Taking stock of the situation, Kor’sarro activated his vox-link.

  ‘Taura,’ he called to the leader of the first wave. ‘Report.’

  There was a brief pause before the sergeant’s voice filled the channel, the background static laced with the screaming of chainswords as they cut through armour and flesh. ‘Heavy resistance, my khan, and mounting. I have three wounded, but no ineffectives. Standing by.’

  ‘Understood,’ Kor’sarro replied, before switching back to battle-cant. ‘The north wind turns.’

  ‘The wind turns at moonrise,’ the sergeant replied, his voice drowned out for a moment by
gunfire.

  Satisfied that Sergeant Taura’s force would soon have extricated itself from the fighting, Kor’sarro swung into Moondrakkan’s saddle and consulted the tactical slate mounted above the handlebars. Icons representing the units of the strike force winked green, and the enemy defence lines were etched in red, the data provided by the augurs of the Lord of Heavens in orbit high above. Three of those icons represented the constituent parts of the third wave, which was bearing down on the inner trench line. Even as Kor’sarro prepared to move out, he heard the unmistakable sound of heavy cannon fire, followed a moment later by a rumbling explosion. In the distance, he saw a mighty cloud rise, and knew that the third wave had encountered heavy resistance.

  ‘Patha,’ Kor’sarro addressed the leader of the third wave. ‘What is your status?’

  The vox-channel churned with interference, and a second explosion blossomed in the distance. Then Sergeant Patha’s voice cut in. ‘Repeat, coming under fire from a heavy-calibre battle cannon mounted in the bastion to our fore. I have two badly wounded, one ineffective, over.’

  Rising in Moondrakkan’s saddle, Kor’sarro squinted towards the inner defence line. Against the glare reflected by the frozen plain, he could see the bastion of which Sergeant Patha spoke. As he watched, a low turret at the bastion’s top swivelled, the barrel tracking one of Patha’s Rhino transports. Before Kor’sarro could voice a warning, the cannon fired, the heavy shell impacting the ice scant metres from the carrier. As the projectile detonated, the rear of the vehicle was thrown several metres into the air, before it crashed down again. Incredibly, the Rhino continued on its course towards the gun tower.

  The air all around was rapidly filling with gunfire, evidence, if any were needed, that the enemy were reacting to the White Scars’ attack. The strike force had been fortunate so far. Perhaps the defenders had not believed they would return and mount a ground attack so soon after determining the full extent of the air defence net. They would pay for their mistake, Kor’sarro swore, but only if the White Scars pressed home the attack for all they were worth, right now.