Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  Breathing hard, he cursed the delay this engagement would entail. His talons spread wide either side of his body, the captain had but a second to prepare himself for the beast’s next attack. And then, the mutant was upon him.

  Even wounded, the ogryn was a fearsome opponent. What it lacked in skill it made up for in mass and sheer brute strength. Its fist powered forwards again. This time, the captain was ready, his gene-engineered physiology granting him the reflexes that had so often saved his life. Twisting his body, he sidestepped the massive fist and the ogryn found itself overextended and pitching forwards. Before it had the chance to check its forwards motion, he lashed out with both talons and the brute’s other arm was severed into three ragged pieces.

  Before the captain could aid his battle-brothers against the three brutal creatures throwing themselves at his Command squad, the crippled ogryn reared up in front of him. Blood sprayed in wild geysers from the armless stumps at its shoulders and it bellowed in mindless savagery. He hated the brute’s raw spirit and refusal to give in. It was trying to bring to bear the last weapon it had at its disposal: its thick-skulled, ugly-as-sin head.

  ‘Emperor’s mercy,’ the captain breathed. ‘Just die!’

  As if in answer, the ogryn redoubled its bellow and arched its back, tensing the slab-like muscles of its stomach, and then propelled its own head downwards towards him.

  The captain had no choice but to meet the attack, head-on. He had just enough time to raise a talon before the ogryn slammed into him. The ogryn’s head struck his helmet’s faceplate and he was propelled downwards to smash into the rocky ground.

  The captain must have blacked out for an instant. His vision cleared and he felt a tremendous weight pressing down upon him. Blinking, he realised that the weight belonged to the now lifeless body of the ogryn, the gleaming blades of his lightning claw protruding from its back.

  As more warning icons flashed across his visor, he pushed the massive dead weight upwards and rolled it away, pulling his talon clear from its gut as he did so. The brute’s face was crushed inwards, its ugly features no longer recognisable. Reaching a hand to the visor of his helmet, the captain felt several cracks across its surface. No matter, he thought, putting the damage from his mind as he turned to ascertain how his warriors were prevailing.

  The brute that the captain had faced must have been the alpha male of the pack, for the others were less fearsome opponents. Two were dead already, their massive bodies bearing witness to the damage that twinned lightning claws can wreak upon unarmoured flesh, even flesh as tough as an ogryn’s. The last of the ogryns was surrounded on all sides by his warriors, bleeding out from at least a dozen slashing wounds.

  The ogryn cursed as its legs gave way beneath it. With a final obscenity, it fell forwards and crashed to the earth, gallons of blood gushing across the ground.

  ‘Reserve group,’ the captain spoke into the vox-net. There was a burst of static indicating that the sophisticated communications systems built into his power armour had sustained damage when the ogryn had headbutted him. The armour’s war spirit would be much aggrieved, and would require placation before it would serve at full capacity again. Despite the damage, however, the squad sergeant’s acknowledgement came back a moment later.

  ‘Cover the right flank as they clear the other two haulers,’ the captain ordered. ‘All squads, be advised. There may be ogryns within the haulers. Deal with them, but leave the vehicles intact. Acknowledge.’

  As each of the squad sergeants transmitted their acknowledgement, the battle was all but done, the high tide of war having passed. Five of the troop carriers were ablaze, their former passengers slain in the deadly ambush. More black-clad Space Marines emerged from the darkness, bolters held ready as they advanced towards the two remaining cargo haulers. The Assault Marines of left and centre groups were despatching the last of the defenders towards the rear of the column, running to ground those who attempted to flee and cutting them down with cold, clinical efficiency.

  ‘No contact,’ came a sergeant’s voice over the vox-net. ‘Just cargo. Area secure.’

  ‘Acknowledged,’ said the captain as he strode towards the rear of the column. ‘Right group?’

  ‘Stand by,’ returned a sergeant.

  The captain continued through the darkness towards the column’s rear. The last few shots ran out and then it was over.

  ‘Just cargo here, too,’ the sergeant reported. ‘Secured.’

  ‘Orders,’ he said, not willing to waste a second of time. ‘On my lead.’

  A stray shot rang out towards the front of the column, the sound of a Space Marine despatching a wounded enemy trooper. Within a minute, the squad sergeants had assembled beside the second transport, the only one not aflame. Bracing his weight against a handle, the captain pulled himself upwards and swung his massively armoured form up onto the deck.

  ‘Well fought,’ he said.

  The assembled Space Marines nodded sombrely, their Chapter not disposed to rude displays of triumphalism. Where Space Marines of other Chapters might have revelled openly in their victory, theirs celebrated victory in a far more personal manner. Later, when the fighting was done, each would mount a silent vigil. He would pray for hours, even days on end, seeking unity with the Emperor and the primarch in the midst of a universe of blood and slaughter and doom.

  ‘Status?’ the captain asked as he looked down upon his officers.

  Each of the leaders gave their report in turn, a clipped delivery listing wounds sustained and ammunition expended. Though a number of battle-brothers had been injured in the brief firefight, none had been lost. The captain’s orders had been to conserve resources, for more reasons than one. More squads were in action across the entire region of Quintus, sowing fear and confusion amongst the native forces, and the leaders of these small forces each reported in over the vox-net.

  ‘Sergeant,’ he addressed a veteran Tactical squad leader. ‘Your men are prepared?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ the sergeant replied. ‘They are ready to begin at your order.’

  ‘Good,’ the captain replied. ‘I want three Munitorum-issue lasguns placed centrally on the right flank, along with a dozen expended power packs. Set down one of the Guard-issue bolters in right group’s ambush position. See it done.’

  Nodding his understanding, the sergeant turned and stalked off into the night. The warriors of his squad would place a weapon they had brought to Quintus for this very purpose.

  ‘What of the bolter wounds?’ another sergeant asked. ‘Many were cut down by our brothers’ weapons.’

  ‘Even if the enemy note the nature of the militia’s wounds, sufficient doubt will have been created for our purposes,’ he answered.

  ‘And doubt,’ said Captain Kayvaan Shrike of the Raven Guard Chapter, ‘is the seed of misdirection.’

  ‘You can kill me now!’ spat Malya L’nor. ‘I will not serve him!’

  Heaving against the restraints at her wrists and ankles, Malya knew it was useless. She had awoken in the dank cell several hours before, her first sight that of the hooded cell-master standing over her. At first she had begged to be released, but as the full extent of her plight had revealed itself she had desired only a swift death.

  ‘I refuse,’ she screamed, her lungs burning. ‘I would rather die!’

  From beneath his leathern hood, the cell-master had whispered with unadulterated glee of the plans that Voldorius had in store for Malya L’nor. What cruel strand of fate was unravelling before her, she had despaired? Why was it that she had been chosen, seemingly at random, for such a duty?

  ‘Oh, you shall serve,’ came a new voice from behind Malya. Her head restrained by steel braces, all she could see was the corroded ironwork of the ceiling above her and the fleeting shadows cast across it by flickering lumens. Something about this new voice forced her to silence, despite herself, so low and threatening were its sibilant tones.

  ‘My lord Voldorius has great hopes for you, equerry.’ />
  Malya bit back a caustic reply as the speaker stepped into her field of vision. Cold terror filled her, the sweat on her body turning instantly as cold as ice. He was huge, his shoulders broad. He wore the blue-green armour that the people of Quintus had come to hate so much. It was the livery of the Alpha Legion, whose leader had laid their world so low.

  ‘My name is Nullus,’ the warrior continued, his vile visage pressing in towards Malya’s. Up close, his face was revealed to Malya as a white globe of solid scar tissue, his black, slit-like eyes gazing down at her. Tears welled in her own eyes under that soulless gaze, yet she refused to yield to her sorrow.

  ‘You are wilful,’ Nullus said. ‘That will serve you well in your new office.’

  ‘I–’ Malya started.

  ‘You will,’ Nullus interjected, his face lowering still further towards her own until she could see nothing but his black eyes and the scars traced around them in obscene patterns. ‘Voldorius has need of an… intermediary, one who will keep the people of this miserable rock in line, while he attends to his own concerns. You will serve in this capacity.’

  ‘No,’ Malya said flatly, forcing her voice to remain steady. Despite her denial, she could not meet the other’s eyes for they threatened the destruction of her very soul.

  Nullus’s face was split by a mocking grin, the scars aligning themselves into new patterns as the flesh beneath them shifted. ‘Henceforth,’ Nullus continued, ‘with each denial that issues from your pretty lips, a hundred of your people shall die. Ten thousand were slain in the grand square, and you alone were spared. Their corpses shall remain as a warning. You can see them if you like. Should you prefer that ten thousand more be slain to make the point, then please, continue with your foolish protest.

  ‘Do you understand?’

  Now the tears flowed freely from Malya’s eyes, and she screwed them tightly shut.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, as much as the restraints would allow. ‘I understand…’

  ‘Your report,’ said Shrike as he entered the dark cave in which Techmarine Dyloss tended the cipher matrix.

  ‘Brother-captain,’ Techmarine Dyloss nodded a greeting as Shrike came to stand opposite him. He turned back to the softly glowing globe atop the machinery in front of him, reams of zeroes scrolling across its screen. ‘I cannot raise her, nor any of her associates.’

  Shrike sighed. The Techmarine had only recently established contact with a group of fighters within Mankarra city and several reticent communications had passed between them. The fighters had, of course, been suspicious, sensibly concluding that Shrike’s transmissions might have been those of the enemy, intent upon entrapment.

  ‘The last contact?’ Shrike asked.

  ‘Twelve hours ago. As per your orders, I communicated your opposition to an attempt upon the vile one’s life until full coordination of action was possible.’

  ‘And her response?’ Shrike enquired.

  ‘She agreed,’ Techmarine Dyloss replied. ‘But she could not vouch for her compatriots.’

  ‘Fools,’ Shrike cursed. Voldorius had the blood of billions on his hands and countless numbers of humanity’s finest warriors had sacrificed their lives to try and defeat him. Yet, none had succeeded, so what chance had a handful of desperate civilians-turned-resistance fighters?

  ‘You asked her about the prisoner,’ Shrike said. It was not a question.

  ‘I did,’ the Techmarine replied. ‘She knew nothing.’

  Shrike’s mood darkened and he made to stalk from the cave.

  ‘Since then, brother-captain,’ the Techmarine continued, ‘I have intercepted a number of other signals.’

  ‘Go on,’ Shrike said, halting at the cave’s mouth.

  ‘The rudimentary command and control network that the resistance had established has been entirely destroyed. As each node fell, brief and desperate pleas were transmitted. Many mentioned an atrocity in which thousands were slain.’

  ‘What they reap…’ Shrike muttered.

  ‘Brother-captain?’ Dyloss said, unsure of Shrike’s meaning.

  ‘No matter,’ Shrike said, turning his back on the cipher matrix and its Techmarine attendant. ‘We stand alone, as ever.’

  ‘The blood-rats,’ whispered Scout Telluk. ‘Falling upon the sky-drake’s bones.’

  ‘Understood,’ Scout-Sergeant Kholka replied, moving silently to lie beside the neophyte at the lip of the rock.

  Kholka eased himself forwards cautiously, for the sun had fully risen in the sky overhead. Slowly, he raised his magnoculars to his eyes and examined the scene below.

  The boy was correct, and he had used the proper battle-cant to describe what he had seen. The rocky terrain was cut by a gully and in it a column of armour belonging to the traitor militia had been ambushed. Not just ambushed; taken apart with ruthless efficiency.

  Scanning left, the sergeant caught a glimpse of movement amongst the smoking wreckage of armoured carriers. Figures moved amongst the detritus, picking over the remains of vehicles and corpses alike.

  ‘Militia? Scout Telluk asked his sergeant.

  Kholka continued to scan the scene for a moment before replying, taking in at least a platoon’s worth of soldiers. ‘It appears so, neophyte,’ he said. ‘Your impressions?’

  ‘An ambush,’ Telluk said, ‘that much is clear. Very recently.’

  ‘When?’ Kholka pressed.

  ‘During the night, sergeant. Perhaps around zero-three-zero.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘The ambushers must have been well hidden to approach so close to the column. But the moon last night was full. Any attacker would have been illuminated, and spotted.’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless the moon was behind that outcrop.’ The Scout nodded towards a tall formation of volcanic rock to the pair’s right. ‘Only when the column rounded that rock slide would the moon have provided light, at which point, the ambushers attacked.’

  ‘Good,’ Kholka replied. He too had reached that conclusion and had hoped that his testing of the youngster would have yielded such positive results. As he watched the militia soldiers go from one body to the next he heard a shout from off to the left. Panning the magnoculars, he located the source. Amidst some boulders, a soldier was waving with one hand, and holding a lasgun aloft in the other.

  A few minutes later, an officer was directing a search among the rocks to either side of the gully. Soon several more of the weapons, as well as a far rarer boltgun, had been found.

  ‘Imperial Guard?’ Scout Telluk said.

  ‘I very much doubt it, boy,’ replied the sergeant. ‘But someone certainly wants them to believe it so.’

  ‘Brother-captain,’ Techmarine Dyloss called out, even as Shrike stalked away from the cave. He turned towards the Space Marine standing in the cave’s mouth.

  ‘What is it?’ Shrike replied. A dark shroud had fallen across his soul when he had learned of the Alpha Legion’s deeds and he was ill-disposed towards conversation right now.

  ‘Another signal.’

  Shrike turned back towards the cave and ducked beneath its low opening. The Techmarine had returned to his station attending the cipher matrix and was making a series of complex adjustments to its settings. Where ranks of zeroes had scrolled across its globe-shaped screen, now a series of numbers had appeared.

  ‘What is it?’ Shrike asked. The captain was not initiated into the ways of the Machine, and like all Space Marine leaders, relied upon the specialised skills of the Chapter’s Techmarines to attend to such things.

  ‘It’s a sub-ether carrier wave,’ Techmarine Dyloss replied matter-of-factly. Shrike raised his eyebrows.

  ‘A ranging signal. Right on the edge of what this unit can detect.’

  ‘Who from?’ Shrike pressed. ‘And who to?’

  ‘It’s an obscure cipher,’ Dyloss continued, his hands moving across the dials in an attempt to lock onto the signal. ‘Highly encrypted, but not by any means I am familiar with. I cannot say.’r />
  ‘A sub-ether carrier,’ Shrike said. ‘A beacon?’

  ‘It could be. But the diffusion makes tracking both source and destination impossible without the key.’

  ‘Which we do not have,’ Shrike replied. ‘I want that signal broken. And inform all commands. We will soon have company, of one sort or another.’

  Chapter 7

  Planetfall

  ‘Clearing lambda-point alpha,’ reported the pilot, before reaching up to make a series of adjustments to a bank of instruments above his head. ‘Optimal velocity within five. Silent running at your command, my khan.’

  Kor’sarro scanned his command terminal, one of its many screens displaying a rearward view of space. As the sickly green disc of Quintus’s moon receded, the Thunderhawk gunships of Kor’sarro’s strike force slipped free of its gravitational influence into that of Quintus itself. Within five minutes, the entire force, representing every single deployable unit under Kor’sarro’s command, would assume not only silent running, but complete signal silence. With the Lord of Heavens left far behind in the outer reaches of the Quintus system, the company would soon be very much alone.

  The data scrolling across the terminal screen told Kor’sarro that all of the vessels of his strike force were in formation, their status optimal. But the Master of the Hunt knew better than to trust such things to the spirits of the machine.

  ‘All Hunters,’ Kor’sarro spoke into the vox-net. ‘Confirm status.’

  One by one, each vessel in the strike force called in. Hunter Three’s repairs were settling in well enough, its commander reported, following the damage the ship had sustained at Cernis IV. Seven Techmarines had administered to the Thunderhawk transporter’s systems, replacing an entire aileron before praying to the vessel’s wounded machine-spirit for three days and three nights. Kor’sarro hoped fervently that their devotions would prove sufficient, for every vessel, and every Space Marine it carried, was vital to the mission ahead. Hunter Nine, the gunship assigned to carry the strike force’s ammunition, was the last to call in, its commander reporting the ship’s status satisfactory.