Before the strike force had parted company with the Lord of Heavens, Kor’sarro had meditated an entire night on the battle to come. Prior to that, he had spent long hours in counsel with both Chaplain Xia’ghan and the Stormseer, Qan’karro. The Master of the Hunt had sought to rid himself of the taint of what had occurred on Cernis IV. Xia’ghan had absolved him of both pride and guilt, declaring Kor’sarro pure in the eyes of the Emperor. Qan’karro had cast his augur-bones in the manner of a steppes-shaman, and announced that the mission was true, its conclusion unclear as yet but its objective blessed. Kor’sarro’s mind was now clear and his heart purified. Not since the conclusion of his first ever hunt, on the third moon of the gas giant Mai Nine, had he felt such purpose.
‘All commands,’ Kor’sarro hailed his strike force commanders. ‘We proceed with the blessing of the Emperor and of the primarch, honoured be his name. Our mission is clear and you have your orders. Engage silent running, and good hunting.’
‘Engaging as ordered, my khan,’ said the co-pilot, flipping a series of switches before pulling down on a lever mounted at his side. With each control deactivated, one part of the gunship’s machine systems was laid dormant until the time it would be called upon once more. As the Thunderhawk’s mighty thrusters powered down, the command deck became unnervingly quiet. All of a sudden, Kor’sarro could hear the thunder of his blood in his ears, his heart racing as his genetically enhanced body prepared itself for battle, bolstered still further by the complex combat-drug administration systems in his power armour. Mouthing a prayer that he had learned as a boy at the foot of his tribe’s shaman, he forced himself to focus. Several hours of flight lay ahead of the strike force, hours in which he must remain alert and ready for any opposition to the insertion.
At the last, the command deck was plunged into darkness as all non-essential systems were brought fully offline. Angular shadows were cast across the instrument panels and all was tinted with the pale green of Quintus’s moon. The vessels of the strike force were now being propelled through the void by momentum alone and their course would not be corrected until the very last stage of entry in Quintus’s atmosphere. Even the flight control panels lay dark, only a single screen glowing dimly amongst so much cold metal.
‘The cipher?’ Kor’sarro asked. The command deck was so quiet that he instinctively kept his voice down low, even though no enemy could possibly hear. It was force of habit for one born of the steppes of Chogoris, whose people moderated the volume of their speech according to the strength of the ever-present winds.
‘On track, my khan,’ the co-pilot replied. ‘The carrier wave is reading clearly.’
‘Good,’ Kor’sarro replied, though in truth he could not help but feel some frustration that he must rely on such methods to guide the strike force in to its target. The wave was being transmitted by the Lord of Heavens, at a sub-etheric wavelength that few in the entire Imperium could possibly detect, and was protected by encryption that even fewer could break. With the necessity for a silent insertion, the individual ships of the strike force had to have some way of remaining coordinated with one another so that they each arrived at the correct interface point at the correct moment in time. Instead of synchronising with each other’s machine systems, each Thunderhawk would follow the nigh undetectable signal transmitted by the Lord of Heavens, riding the wave right onto their target.
‘Dyloss to Shrike,’ the transmission came over the captain’s vox-bead. ‘Do you receive?’
‘Go ahead,’ Shrike replied, halting in his patrol of the rock-strewn area north-west of the Raven Guard base.
‘Brother-captain,’ the voice came over the vox, the signal clearer now that Shrike’s armour had been afforded time to repair its communication systems. ‘I have news regarding the cipher.’
Shrike signalled for the Space Marines nearby to halt, and with a curt gesture ordered them to assume a defensive posture, covering the terrain in all directions. ‘I’m listening,’ he replied. ‘Have you broken the encryption?’
‘The code itself remains intact,’ the Techmarine reported. ‘But I have cracked something of the signal’s nature, and of its source.’
It had been five days since Techmarine Dyloss had detected the cipher signal, and he had been working upon it without rest or respite, day and night, ever since. In the meantime, the Raven Guard had stepped up their patrols of the region around Mankarra, sowing death and destruction against any and all enemies they had encountered. After each battle, the Raven Guard had planted false evidence of their identity, leaving Imperial Guard-issue weapons and equipment at the ambush sites. After one ambush, they had even dressed the corpse of a traitor militia soldier in an Imperial Guard uniform they had brought along for just such a deception. It was not that Shrike truly aimed to convince the invaders that an Imperial Guard force was active on Quintus, but any amount of confusion he could plant in the minds of their commanders would aid the Space Marines’ cause.
‘The signal is a co-ord beam, the type used for blind navigation,’ Dyloss reported.
‘Then someone’s inbound,’ said Shrike, as much to himself as to the Techmarine. ‘Do you have the coordinates?’
There was a brief pause, during which Shrike could hear the sound of the Techmarine’s hands and servo-arms working upon the cipher matrix, which droned and churned in the background. ‘I am still filtering the exact location, but I am transmitting the approximate coordinates to you now.’
Captain Shrike raised his left arm and slid back the cover of a data-screen integrated into his vambrace. A representation of the surrounding region appeared on the screen, a red circle at its centre. ‘A day’s march,’ he said, switching his vox-link to transmit on the command frequency. ‘All units,’ Shrike addressed his squad leaders and specialists. ‘Converge on my coordinates, tactical state gamma-nine. Confirm.’
Within moments, each of Shrike’s officers had confirmed their understanding of his orders. Shrike would not allow his mission on Quintus to be compromised by another force entering the war, no matter who they were.
Scout-Sergeant Kholka looked up towards the darkening skies for what must have been the tenth time in as many minutes, even though he knew the strike force would not be inbound for at least an hour, and that was assuming nothing had gone awry.
Kholka and his Scouts had located a landing zone and transmitted its coordinates to the shielded gunship on its last pass five days ago. Now they waited, watching for enemy intrusion or interference.
The landing zone was the flat floor of a dormant volcano, protected by a five hundred-metre-tall rim, breached on its northern edge by a wide fracture.
Of course, the suitability of the landing zone might have been noted by potential enemies. For that reason, Kholka had ordered the young Scouts to keep a watchful vigil for enemy activity, spreading them out in order to cover as much of the surrounding region as possible. An hour ago, Borchu had reported a glimpse of movement to the north and Kholka had worked his way stealthily around the volcano’s rim to the Scout’s hide.
Lowering his eyes from the skies above, Kholka looked down upon the black wastelands far below. The sun was setting, casting long, jagged shadows across the lands. Any enemy at all might be creeping through those shadows. He hesitated before lifting the magnoculars, seeking to get a feel for the landscape before him, to imagine himself a predator moving through it in search of prey. He ignored the fact that in truth he himself might be the prey, if indeed a hunter lurked down there, in the dark shadows.
The wastes stretched for kilometres in every direction, but to the north-west, beyond the horizon, were the outskirts of the agri-zone. Another one hundred or so kilometres beyond that was the capital city of Mankarra. It was from that direction that any enemy action was most likely to come, and it was there that Borchu had seen the movement.
Having familiarised himself with the landscape, Kholka raised the magnoculars to his eyes. ‘Coordinates?’ he asked the Scout beside him.
‘Five by the winter deeps,’ Borchu replied in the White Scars battle-cant. ‘Three score and nine by the herd.’
The veteran sergeant was so accustomed to the use of battle-cant that he had no need to convert the code phrase into conventional coordinates. Indeed, the form of communication was in many cases more efficient than standard coordinates, for it contained descriptive shorthand that drew the eye to specific terrain features. Perhaps most importantly, it relied on cultural references that only one raised on the steppes of Chogoris would understand, making it nigh impossible for an enemy to decipher should he intercept it.
Panning the magnoculars from west to east, Kholka adjusted the magnification so that his field of vision was focused on an area some three kilometres out. Like the majority of the landscape, the area was dominated by twisted arches and jagged outcrops of volcanic rock, black or dark grey in colour and ideal terrain for an enemy to creep through at dusk. He zoomed outwards slightly, absorbing the general lay of the land, seeking to imagine himself passing through it. What path would he take, were he approaching the volcano?
Kholka’s eye was caught by a black bridge of rock between two outcroppings, formed no doubt by the action of blisteringly hot lava carving its way through an older feature. The channel below the bridge snaked its way from the north-east and its depths would be cast in the deepest of shadow for much of the day.
Having located a possible route an enemy might approach the landing zone by, the sergeant traced its path as far as he could see. At times the channel was hidden by intervening terrain features such as tall, bladelike spires or massive coils of solidified lava. Seeing no sign of an enemy on his first sweep, Kholka engaged the thermal imaging function. He soon found however that the background temperature of the volcanic rocks was relatively high, high enough to mask the presence of any foe taking measures to avoid detection by such means. No matter, Kholka thought as he disengaged the thermal imaging; he far preferred to rely upon his own senses, enhanced as they were by arcane genetic engineering and honed by centuries of battlefield experience.
Kholka focused in upon a particular area of shadow. If I were moving along that route, he thought, that is where I would be. It offered an unobstructed view of the volcano and had ample overhead cover from an angular blade of rock jutting out above the channel.
Only after he had been looking directly at that patch of shadow, unblinking and utterly focused, for upwards of fifteen minutes, did Kholka detect the very faintest hint of movement. A black patch of shadow, barely discernable against the darkness all around, moved ever so slightly.
‘Enemy located,’ the sergeant growled.
Shrike longed to engage his jump pack and hurl himself through the darkening skies towards the contact his auspex had detected hiding in the rocks up ahead, yet he dared not. Not until he had confirmed their full strength and disposition at least. To reveal his location now would be suicide.
Having tracked the sub-etheric transmission to its terminus, Shrike was now sure that the target was the inside of the volcano up ahead. It made sense. The inside of the vast crater would offer an ideal location for a planetary landing. But only if whoever was inbound wished to avoid detection by other forces on the surface of Quintus.
Ten hours ago, before the sun had risen across the wastes south-west of Mankarra, Shrike had convened a council of his officers and specialists. All had been afforded the opportunity to speak, to offer their theories on the identity of the strangers they knew would be arriving soon. Several had expressed the hope that the force represented aid for Mankarra, perhaps in the form of reinforcements, yet the case against had been well made. Before embarking on the mission, Shrike had been fully appraised of the Imperium’s forces in the region. As far as he knew, none had been allotted to target the world. And besides, some had argued, it was too soon to expect an intervention, for such a force would take many months to gather and prepare, and would be unlikely to approach the world in such a stealthy manner.
Other opinions had been voiced too. Perhaps the strangers were reinforcements for the invaders. But why then hide their approach? Were they a rival warband, perhaps intent upon dislodging the tyranny of Voldorius only to replace it with another, perhaps even more brutal rule?
One last possibility had emerged during the gathering. Might the strangers be brother Space Marines come to Quintus to lend their aid to its resistance and to oust the Alpha Legion and their vile overlord? That would certainly explain the use of the highly sophisticated carrier signal, but Shrike was aware of no other Chapter in the immediate vicinity.
The Salamanders Chapter, Shrike knew, had a strike force in the benighted Magulanox sector, but had departed the galactic arm entirely in pursuit of the traitor rogue trader Lord Hax. The Celestial Guard Chapter were also known to be operating within a dozen light years of Quintus, but the last Shrike had heard, all of their forces had been recalled to defend the Chapter’s home world of Erenon against a large ork incursion. The Imperial Fists had a force inbound on the anarchic Jagga Cluster, but that lay dozens of light years away, while the Tigers Argent, White Scars and the Howling Griffons could all, in theory, be operating even further out still.
No, Shrike had decided. The Raven Guard could not make the assumption that whoever was approaching Quintus was a friend. He had ordered his force to proceed to the landing zone with all caution and to be ready for action against the strangers.
Settling back into the darkness of the channel, Shrike waited.
‘Final corrections input,’ reported Brother Koban. ‘Beginning final descent.’
Kor’sarro watched through the canopy of the Thunderhawk’s command deck as the dark surface of Quintus loomed. The strike force was approaching on the planet’s night side, the bright crescent of dawn casting a semi-circular halo across its shoulder. Behind the strike force, the moon of Quintus shone its sickly luminescence, bathing the nighted surface below in soft green light. As the minutes counted down, small pinpricks of artificial light became visible, the telltale signs of civilisation. Whether those lights were cast by industry or were simply the glowing embers of ruin, Kor’sarro could not yet discern.
The gunship bucked violently as it penetrated the upper reaches of the world’s atmosphere, and Kor’sarro mouthed a silent prayer to the primarch. He beseeched the first Great Khan for his blessing, as he had done on hundreds of previous occasions. To date, the primarch had watched over the Master of the Hunt and his brotherhood of White Scars. Wherever Jaghatai Khan was, whatever far reaches of the galaxy he hunted, he was always with his favoured sons, the proud warriors of the steppes of Chogoris.
‘Approaching local Kármán line,’ the pilot said. ‘One hundred kilometres.’
The turbulence increased still further as the Thunderhawk plummeted through the atmosphere. The view through the canopy was now entirely of the planet’s surface. Because the need for stealth was so great, the vessel and its sister ships would only engage manoeuvring thrusters at the last possible moment, before triggering their anti-grav generators to arrest their final descent.
As the gunship plummeted, the features of the landscape below became more discernable. Kor’sarro’s first impression of Quintus was of a planet crossed by vast mountain ranges and pockmarked with the scars of massive amounts of volcanic activity. Though it appeared green in the light of the moon, Kor’sarro knew that much of the surface was in fact ash-grey or black, and very little of it was able to support any life.
Between the vast mountain ranges stretched barren, trackless wastes, strewn with twisted rock formations and crossed with deep valleys forged by the passage of torrents of lava at some distant point in the world’s prehistory. Due to the nature of the terrain, mankind had only settled in a scattering of regions, and then the only reason for doing so was to provide a strategic base from which Imperial forces could guard against alien incursions from nearby stars. In truth, this place was little more than a backstop: its defenders would never have stood a chance against invasion, b
ut their defiance and sacrifice would have bought time for a coordinated counterattack to be assembled. With the coming of Kernax Voldorius, that purpose had been negated.
‘Activating manoeuvring thrusters,’ Brother Koban announced. This was it – the point at which there truly was no going back. Were an enemy to be casting his gaze in the portion of the sky the strike force was approaching through, the gunships might be detected as their thrusters flared into life. A moment later, the sound of the atmosphere rushing against the hull was drowned out by that of the jets coming online, a sound which to Kor’sarro seemed shockingly loud.
Pulling back hard on the flight control, the pilot brought the gunship around onto its approach heading, the horizon swinging downwards sharply as the vessel levelled out.
‘One hundred kilometres to objective,’ Brother Koban announced. ‘Applying anti-grav in ten seconds.’
Kor’sarro braced himself and counted down the seconds in his head. As he reached zero, the gunship’s forwards momentum was dramatically reduced, its structure groaning in protest. Yet the Thunderhawk was constructed to the very highest of specifications and attended to by the ministrations of the most devoted Techmarines. It could survive far worse punishment.
‘Fifty kilometres to landing zone,’ the pilot calmly announced. ‘Awakening machine systems.’
A deep thrum suddenly filled the command deck and the instrumentation panels all around the flight crew came fully to life. Pict screens lit up, reams of data scrolling across their surfaces and bright indicators blinking their warnings.
Kor’sarro scanned the command terminal and quickly located the landing zone. Looking through the canopy, he caught his first sight of the massive volcano the strike force was heading towards. The screens showed no indication of the other eight gunships of his force, which carried between them the entire Third Company and a number of armoured vehicles. All were proceeding on a signals blackout, their identification transponders silent for the time being lest an enemy detect them. Only the carrier signal that each followed would guide them in.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 14