Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Makaal felt his own skin blistering, but he did not care, for Voldorius too was being dragged down.

  The daemon’s batlike wings were torn to ragged scraps, the bones snapping and falling away into the screaming nothingness. Voldorius bellowed as the coils drew him closer to the mouth. The surface of his armour smoked and blistered as the blue-green finish dissolved into atoms. Soon the skin of the daemon’s face was peeling back, his savage teeth exposed as the muscles were flensed away. The daemon’s bellow was now so loud that it drowned out all other sounds, even the wailing of the damned from beyond the portal.

  What was left of Makaal knew that Voldorius would be cast back to the warp that had spawned him and Quintus would be saved. Makaal’s very soul was forfeit, for Voldorius himself would torment him for all eternity as vengeance for this deed.

  And then Voldorius’s lieutenant cast off the whiplash energies that sought to bind him and the armoured warrior moved fast towards the edge of the platform. Denial welling up inside him, Makaal could only look on helplessly as the figure gained speed the further it travelled from the raging maw of warp energy. In an instant it had escaped and was leaping from the platform to land heavily upon the rock floor of the teleportarium chamber. Now entirely free, the figure looked around the chamber and crossed to one of the rearing copper-shafted machines. Drawing a black-bladed halberd that was slung across its back, the figure lashed out, slicing the copper machinery in two. The power sustaining the machinery fled and secondary explosions erupted across the chamber.

  The writhing maw convulsed and Voldorius broke free even as the last vaporous remains of his human servant were sucked through. The daemon prince was now little more than a charred, blackened skeleton, his armour burned away and the last remnants of his flesh falling from him in smoking chunks.

  The other warrior smashed another copper shaft apart, and the energies coursing through the chamber spluttered. There was a single moment of perfect frozen clarity, before the ragged maw blinked out of existence and the chamber was plunged back into flame-lit shadow.

  At the last, what had been Makaal felt himself fading. His final vision was of Voldorius forcing himself to stand upright. Black bones reknitted, veins regrew. Glistening muscles swathed the bones and the daemon’s armour flowed like liquid metal across his regenerated form. The batlike wings regrew from his back and Voldorius bellowed a savage victory cry.

  As his soul was whipped away to join the lost, the true extent of Makaal’s failure was revealed to him. Voldorius lived, and Makaal was damned for all eternity.

  ‘Qan’karro,’ Kor’sarro said, looking directly across the strategium chamber at the old Stormseer. ‘Please go on. Tell us of your brothers’ efforts to establish contact with Quintus.’

  Qan’karro gathered his thoughts. The old man looked pale, as if the weight of his years weighed heavily upon his soul.

  ‘Gladly, huntsman,’ said Qan’karro, before lifting a cup of sour Chogoran wine to his lips and draining the vessel in a single draught.

  ‘Pooling our efforts with the astropaths, my brethren and I have used every possible means at our disposal to make contact. The astropaths have come to the conclusion that none of their order survives upon Quintus, or if they do, they have been subjugated, brutally.’

  Kor’sarro and the assembled officers considered this dire news before the Master of the Hunt pressed the Stormseer further. ‘And your own efforts, honoured seer?’

  ‘I have little to report, Kor’sarro. We have cast our minds far ahead of us, piercing the warp even as this vessel races upon its tides.’

  Kor’sarro knew little of the ways of the Stormseers, for their skills were born of their psyker inheritance and unfathomable to others. He did understand that the seers could not communicate directly with others as the astropaths did, but he had an inkling that they had other abilities they could draw on.

  ‘All we can hope to do is plant visions, even mere notions, of our coming in the minds of those able to hear,’ Qan’karro went on. ‘If there are any such remaining, then I pray they hear our call.’

  ‘What of those on Quintus?’ Kor’sarro asked his comrade. ‘What of the portents?’

  ‘Codiciers Subas and Odakai have consulted every augur our people know, and several they do not,’ the Stormseer said, his eyes taking on a dark cast.

  Kor’sarro waited a moment before pressing further. ‘And?’

  ‘None are favourable, huntsman.’

  Kor’sarro clenched the arms of his stone throne as the assembled officers considered the Stormseer’s words. His eyes settled for a moment on Brother Kergis, who he had appointed to serve as company champion following the death of Brother Jhogai on Cernis IV. After the events on that world, neither he nor his officers needed to hear more bad tidings. Kor’sarro indicated that the old warrior should, indeed must, continue.

  ‘Thousands have perished, of that we can be sure. But if we are honest, we expected that. But fell powers have been unleashed, possible futures etched upon the surface of time. I cannot put it into words, my friends, but truly, the vile one stands at the precipice and untold power awaits him.’

  ‘Then we must stop him,’ Kor’sarro replied, an oath forming in his mind. ‘We must all pledge that on Quintus, Voldorius dies. There can be no alternative.’

  The assembled Space Marines – Stormseers, Techmarines, Apothecaries, Chaplains and sergeants – nodded their agreement, each steeling themselves to face whatever fate held in store. Kor’sarro looked each in the eye in turn, seeing in every one of his officers the cold determination to end the hunt for Voldorius on Quintus.

  Resolving to steer the discussion away from gloomy portents, Kor’sarro took a deep breath and leaned forwards in his throne. ‘Brother Kholka,’ he addressed the veteran Scout-sergeant. ‘You have prepared a report on the world of Quintus. Please, illuminate us,’

  ‘We know little of the world, my brothers,’ Kholka said. ‘For its history is troubled. Quintus, along with three other systems, has been battered and assailed by warp storm Argenta. Though once Quintus was a bulwark, Argenta has laid it low, cutting it off for long periods. As can be imagined, maintaining standing forces amongst the worlds of the Imperium under such circumstances has proven nigh impossible, and the world has been forced to look to its own security.’

  ‘Yet,’ interjected a Codicier by the name of Ilkhan, ‘we know that Argenta has abated in recent months. The vile one must have had a hand in this.’

  ‘That is beyond my ken, honoured seer,’ the sergeant replied before going on. ‘What we know of Quintus is culled from the last census planetia. It is a barren world in the main, with little but its strategic location to make it noteworthy. As a result of that location, the world has been fortified over the millennia, primarily to act as a guardian against the orks that afflict the regions to the galactic south and east.’

  ‘What happened to Quintus during Argenta?’ asked Kor’sarro.

  ‘We have no current information on that subject, my khan,’ the Scout-sergeant replied. ‘We can only assume that it suffered greatly during that time.’

  ‘It did,’ interjected Qan’karro. ‘Of that I am certain. My instinct tells me that the vile one somehow brought the storm down upon Quintus, in order to turn it to his own ends. That the storm has now passed suggests to me that whatever wickedness he was about is now imminent.’

  ‘Is such a thing possible?’ Kor’sarro said. ‘Could one being truly conjure and control a warp storm?’

  ‘Aye, huntsman,’ Qan’karro replied, his craggy face a dour mask. ‘Do not underestimate Kernax Voldorius. He has done far worse, and means to do so again.’

  Grim silence settled upon the gathered White Scars, before Kor’sarro spoke. ‘Brothers, we have much work ahead of us. We must each prepare ourselves, our men and our weapons for the task ahead. We arrive at the Quintus system within hours, and we must be ready for whatever awaits.’

  Malya L’nor stumbled as a traitor militiaman shoved
her roughly. She turned to curse at the man, but the sheer press of bodies being herded forcibly into the grand square soon obscured him.

  ‘What do they want?’ a merchant shouted desperately from behind her, addressing his question to no one in particular. Hundreds of nearby citizens of Mankarra, the capital city of Quintus, voiced similar questions, some in outrage, many more in unadulterated panic.

  Malya soon found herself carried along in a torrent of fearful humanity towards the centre of the grand square. She could see little but the dark sky above, shot through with the stain of the accursed warp storm. Framing the livid sky were the tops of Mankarra’s brutal, fortified buildings. The tallest was the council mansion, towards which the vast crowd, including Malya, was being herded.

  The traitor militiamen were using electro-prods on their own people. The cruel devices were employed by the gaksmen of the agri-zones to control the unruly grox that provided a staple of the population’s diet. They were far too powerful to be used on humans.

  Malya seethed with anger as the sheer weight of the crowd carried her inexorably across the square and towards the council mansion. The grand square was capable of hosting crowds of hundreds of thousands, and she herself had attended dozens of municipal functions there. Those functions had seen multitudes of the faithful giving praise to the Emperor or witnessing the coronation of a new planetary governor. The gathering that Malya and countless others were now being forced to attend was clearly something very different.

  Malya steeled herself against whatever evil might soon be unleashed upon her and her people. She whispered a prayer to the Emperor. Such an act was now counted as subversion, and while she was cautious not to be seen, the deed gave her strength. The grey bulk of the council mansion loomed before the crowd, its thick armoured towers bristling with anti-air defences. The long banners celebrating the glories of the Emperor that once adorned the walls were now tattered and burned, defiled by the followers of the daemon Voldorius.

  The mere thought of the vile beast that had come to her world brought cold dread to Malya’s heart. For Quintus to have been subjugated so quickly must have been the result of infiltration of the planetary militia at the very highest levels, of that Malya was certain. The invasion was over almost before it had begun, those few defence units that had not welcomed the attackers being driven to ground and wiped out within weeks. Malya, herself a junior officer in the reserve, had joined the nascent underground resistance and in a very short time become one of its senior members. Her rapid ascension had been due to what little military training she had undertaken in the reserves, though many, such as that fool Makaal, refused to acknowledge even that.

  Malya’s greatest hope had come mere days ago, when she and her fellows had made tentative contact with the outside. That anyone should have heard her pleas was a miracle in itself, but her heart had soared when she had discovered that a force of Space Marines was inbound for Quintus. She had dared to believe that deliverance was on its way to her home world.

  The movement of the crowd was slowing down as it was pressed towards the rockcrete facade of the council mansion, and a cold silence settled across the packed multitudes. The faces of the people nearest to Malya held the same fear she herself felt deep inside her soul. All gathered in the grand square knew of the atrocities that had been committed, by the turncoat militia as well as by the invading forces. All knew the name of the archfiend in whose name the horrors had been enacted. Malya knew that she would soon lay eyes upon that fiend. It was said that only those about to die a horrible death at the daemon’s hand ever saw his face.

  Even as that terrible thought coalesced in her mind, the crowd fell completely silent. All eyes were drawn to movement at the wide, statue-lined balcony near the top of the council mansion. Malya strained her eyes and saw that the double doors were opening slowly inwards.

  A group of men stepped through, each taking their place upon the balcony. These were the high commanders of the planetary militia, each a respected officer before Voldorius had come to Quintus. But they had cast off their Emperor-granted duty and betrayed their own world. It was through their treachery that the planet had fallen, and they were now counted as figures of loathing by the populace.

  General Orson, Lord Kline, Quartermaster General Ackenvol, Lord Colonel Lannus and Lord Colonel Elenritch took their places on the balcony, each staring fixedly ahead as if unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of any of the multitude packed in below them. Then came the last of their number, Lord Colonel Morkis, who glowered down at the crowd with obvious contempt. It was said that Morkis was the worst of them, that he harboured such ambition that he would willingly see his entire home world burn to gain the favour of Voldorius.

  And then a dark shape ducked as it passed through the open portal, a massive pair of black wings folded at its back.

  As one, a hundred thousand throats gave voice to a soul-wrenching moan of utter despair. The very embodiment of evil stood before the gathered masses. The preachers and the confessors and the cardinals warned that the Emperor had almost died to cast down such servants of Chaos. Thousands collapsed to the ground, and thousands more thrust their arms in the air and begged deliverance. Many stood dumbfounded, unable to comprehend the fate that was about to overtake them.

  A few, Malya L’nor included, refused to bend their knee or abandon their faith. These few stood still and silent as the beatific statues that had lined the square before the coming of the invaders. They steeled themselves body and soul for the martyrdom that must surely be their fate.

  Voldorius stepped fully onto the balcony and even the officers shrank back. At the sight of the daemon, the crowd’s wailing was redoubled until it reached a near deafening crescendo. The rank stink of discharged bodily fluids filled the air, testament to the horror that reduced grown men to the level of mewling infants.

  Voldorius stood upon the balcony flanked by his treacherous underlings, his bestial face looking down upon a seething ocean of despair. Alien thoughts flooded Malya’s mind, formless notions of atrophy and entropy washing over her soul in ever-stronger waves. Sharp probes stabbed into her consciousness and she fought to hide away her previous thoughts of deliverance from the tyranny of Voldorius. She must not reveal her thoughts, even if it cost her life.

  Now the most despairing of the crowd were convulsing and shaking, as if they were being ripped apart from within by the sheer evil of the armoured, bat-winged figure on the balcony. Many were now falling silent, choking on their own blood as they gnawed their tongues away.

  Yet Malya’s soul stood firm, her faith in the Emperor a bulwark against which the evil of Voldorius was broken. Bodies carpeted the ground, the faithful few standing upright amongst them.

  Only when nine out of every ten of the multitude were curled up upon the ground, dead or entirely overcome by despair, did the daemon speak.

  ‘This day,’ the voice rumbled across the grand square, as low and ancient as continents grinding one another to dust. ‘A crime was committed.’

  Those who had wailed before now sobbed, for the daemon’s voice spoke to each present. It enveloped the soul and threatened to consume it, to snub out its meagre light.

  ‘That crime,’ the voice continued, ‘was the sin of denial, and it shall be punished.’

  Malya forced herself to stand firm, but she was painfully aware that she was terribly exposed. So few now stood, the vast majority lying collapsed upon the ground.

  ‘One who served me was slain.’

  A cold realisation dawned then upon Malya. Makaal. He had done what he had threatened to do, what Malya and the other leaders of the resistance had begged him not to. He had made an attempt on the vile one’s life, and had failed, even if he had killed one of Voldorius’s underlings.

  The people would pay for Makaal’s deed.

  ‘One here,’ the daemon continued, ‘shall as punishment take his place and serve as my equerry. They shall be blessed to witness the coming tide of blood.’ A premonition ros
e in Malya’s mind as the words sank in. ‘The remainder shall die.’

  The crowd’s sorrowful cries were drowned out as the sound of a mighty engine coughing to life filled the grand square. A super-heavy tank, one of the few so-called Baneblades in the militia’s arsenal, ground forwards from a side street.

  The armoured behemoth bristled with weaponry, its huge turret tracking left and right. Realising what was about to happen, Malya looked to the other roads that led onto the grand square. The traitor militia had barricaded every possible escape. Voldorius meant to crush the people beneath the tracks of the tank or to gun them down under its cannons. Those who fled would be shot dead by the militia.

  Voldorius spread his arms wide in blasphemous benediction. His dark gaze swept the square, his bestial eyes alighting on each of those who remained standing before passing to the next. He ignored those who cowered on the ground, and they in turn sought to make themselves invisible to the daemon, burying their heads in their arms or curling into foetal balls. The waves of fell emotion battered Malya’s soul, but she repeated over and over the verses she had learned before the pulpit of Mankarra’s great basilica. She prayed for deliverance from evil, from damnation, and from death.

  ‘You,’ the daemon said, the voice sounding within Malya’s head. ‘You shall be my servant.’

  Malya stood transfixed by Voldorius’s daemonic gaze. Part of her wanted to join those sprawled across the ground, to join them in the death grinding inexorably towards them. But another part of her, the greater, stronger part, refused to yield.

  ‘Join me,’ the voice said. ‘Now.’

  Even as she filled her lungs to bellow her denial, Malya felt two hands grasp her arms, pinning them roughly behind her back. She turned and looked into the faceless visor of a trooper of the palace guard. The man put all his strength into twisting her body around and she was flung across the ground, tripping on a prostrate body and sprawling beside it. For an instant she thought that she might be able to feign the same stupor that had befallen the multitudes, but all too soon she was grabbed by both arms and hauled to her feet.