I nod to him, and he walks over, seemingly as bored with proceedings as I am. The orator is declaring how I ‘smote the blaspheming aliens as they dared defile the temple’s inner sanctum’. His words border on a sermon. He would have made a fine ecclesiarch, or a preacher in the Imperial Guard.
The ochre-clad soldier offers his hand for me to shake. I humour him by doing the same.
‘Hello, hero,’ he grins up at me.
‘Greetings, Andrej.’
‘I like your armour. It is much nicer now. Did you repaint it yourself, or is that the duty of slaves?’
I cannot tell if this is a joke or not.
‘Myself.’
‘Good! Good. Perhaps you should salute me now, though, yes?’ He taps his epaulettes, where a captain’s badges now show, freshly issued and polished silver.
‘I am not beholden to a Guard captain,’ I tell him. ‘But congratulations.’
‘Yes, I know, I know. But I must be offering many thanks for you keeping your word and telling my captain of my deeds.’
‘An oath is an oath.’ I have no idea what to say to the little man. ‘Your friend. Your love. Did you find her?’
I am no judge of human emotion, but I see his smile turn fragile and false. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I did find her.’
I think of the last time I saw the little storm trooper, standing over the dockmaster’s bloody corpse, bayoneting an alien in the throat, only moments before the basilica fell.
I find myself curiously glad that he is alive, but expressing that notion is not something I can easily forge into words. He has no such difficulty.
‘I am glad you made it,’ he uses my own unspoken words. ‘I heard you were very injured, yes?’
‘Not enough to kill me.’
But so close. I quickly grew bored of the Apothecaries on board the Crusader telling me that it was a miracle I clawed my way from the rubble.
He laughs, but there is little joy in it. His eyes are like glass since he mentioned finding his friend.
‘You are a very literal man, Reclusiarch. Some of us were in lazy moods that day. I waited for the digging crews, yes, I admit it. I did not have Adeptus Astartes armour to push the rocks off myself and get back to fighting the very next day.’
‘The reports I have heard indicated no one else survived the fall of the basilica,’ I tell him.
He laughs. ‘Yes, that would make for a wonderful story, no? The last black knight, the only survivor of the greatest battle in Helsreach. I apologise for surviving and breaking the flow of your legend, Reclusiarch. I promise most faithfully that I and the six or seven others will be very quiet and let you have all the thunder.’
He has made a joke. I recognise it, and try to think of something humorous with which to reply. Nothing surfaces in my mind.
‘Were you not injured at all?’
He shrugs. ‘I had a headache. But then it went away.’
This makes me smile.
‘Did you meet the fat priest?’ he asks. ‘Did you know him?’
‘I confess, I do not recall anyone by that name or description.’
‘He was a good man. You would have liked him. Very brave. He did not die in the battle. He was with the civilians. But he died two weeks after, from a problem with his heart. Ayah, that is unfair, I think. To live through the end and die at the new beginning? Not so fair, I am thinking.’
There is a twisted poetry to that.
I would like to speak words that comfort him. I would like to tell him I admire his courage, and that his world will survive this war. I want to speak with the ease Artarion would have done, and thank this soldier for standing with us when so many others ran. He honoured us all in that moment, as did the dying dockmaster, the prioress, and every other soul that faded from life on the night only I survived.
But I say nothing. Further conversation is broken by people chanting my name. How alien it sounds, voiced by human throats.
The orator whips the crowd up, speaking – of course – of the relics. They want to see them, and that is why I am here. To display them.
I signal the cenobyte servitors forward. Augmetic servants, vat-grown by the Chapter’s Apothecaries and augmented by Jurisian to haul the temple’s artefacts. None of the mindless wretches bear a name; just a relic that represents all I could do to ease my guilt at such a shameful defeat.
The crowd cheers again as the servitors move from the vulture shadow of my Thunderhawk, each of the three carrying one of the artefacts. The ragged scraps of the banner. The cracked stone pillar, topped by the shattered aquila. The sacred bronze globe, sloshing with its precious holy water.
My voice carries with ease, amplified by my helm. The crowd quietens, and Hel’s Highway falls silent. I am reminded, against my will, of the impenetrable silence beneath the mountain of marble and rockcrete when the temple came down upon us all.
‘We are judged in life,’ I tell them, ‘for the evil we destroy’.
Never my words. Always Mordred’s.
For the first time, I have an answer to them. A greater understanding. And my mentor… You were wrong. Forgive me, that it took so long to leave your shadow and realise it. Forgive me, that it took the deaths of my brothers to learn the lesson they each tried to teach me while they yet drew breath.
Artarion. Priamus. Bastilan. Cador. Nero.
Forgive me for living, while you all lie cold and still.
‘We are judged in life for the evil we destroy. It is a bleak truth, that there is nothing but blood awaiting us in the spaces between the stars. But the Emperor sees all that transpires in His domain. And we are judged equally for the illumination we bring to the blackest nights. We are judged in life for those moments we spill light into the darkest reaches of His Imperium.
‘Your world taught me this. Your world, and the war that brought me here.
‘These are your relics. The last treasures of the first men and women ever to set foot upon your world. They are the most precious treasures of your ancestors, and they are yours by right of legacy and blood.
‘I return them to you from the edge of destruction. And I thank you not only for the honour of standing by the people of this city, but for the lessons I have learned. My brothers in orbit have asked me why I dragged these relics from beneath the fallen temple. But you have no need to ask, for you each already know the answer. They are yours, and no alien beast will deny the people of this world the inheritance they deserve.
‘I dragged these relics back into the sunlight for you – to honour you, and to thank you all. And in humility now, I return them to you.’
This time, when the cheers come, they are shaped by the orator. He uses the title I swore to High Marshal Helbrecht, standing before Mordred’s statue, that I would not refuse when it was formally awarded to me.
‘I am told,’ the High Marshal had said afterwards, ‘that Yarrick and Kurov have spoken with the Ecclesiarchy. You are being given the relics, to carry Helsreach’s memory and honour with you, in the Eternal Crusade.’
‘When I return to the surface, I will offer the icons back to the people.’
‘Mordred would not have done so,’ Helbrecht said, masking any emotion, any judgement, from me.
‘I am not Mordred,’ I told my liege. ‘And the people deserve the choice. It is for them that we waged that war, for them and their world. Not purely for the holy reaping of inhuman life.’
And I wonder now, as they chant my new title, what they will decide to do with the relics.
Hero of Helsreach, the crowd cheers.
As if there is only one.
Rynn’s World
Steve Parker
Prologue
Transmission
There won’t be time to broadcast again, so this is it. We’ve held out for as long as we can, but they’ll breach within the hour, and this array, the only real hope we had, will be lost to us. There isn’t time to scuttle it properly. Sergeant Praetes wants us to leave immediately. The greenskin artill
ery barrage is creeping closer by the second. They’ve already obliterated the government buildings and the collegium, and neither of those is far from here. But I have to try, just one last message before we pull out for good. If we’re lucky, the orks will reduce this facility to rubble behind us, not recognising its value.
I’ve already started moving the last of the Lammasian squads out of the north gate. I’ll retreat with the rearguard as soon as this is sent. The final party of civilians and wounded troopers left yesterday with an escort of able-bodied men from the 18th Mordian. There aren’t many left. That goes for civilians and soldiers both. I’m down to a handful of combat platoons cobbled together from what’s left of three shattered regiments.
It has fallen to me to lead them. Six days ago, I assumed overall command, and not by choice. The entire cadre of senior officers was wiped out in some kind of greenskin stealth attack. That might sound implausible given the nature of the foe, but on my honour, they were in and out like ghosts, leaving a room full of headless corpses behind them. I suppose they wanted more foul trophies, though Emperor knows, they should have enough of them by now.
My own head would be hanging from the belt of some greenskin savage right now were it not for my duties. I was executing a trio of faithless deserters at the time.
I see the Emperor’s hand in that.
My own faith, the fuel by which I continue to fight, tells me that He must be watching over me. All things are part of His great plan. I will not allow myself to fall into a deadly despair. I know that Rynn’s World is not far from here, barely two weeks’ travel as the warp flows. If the Emperor wills it, the Crimson Fists may have received word of our plight already. Lord of Mankind, grant that they are en route even as I speak.
It is not an unreasonable supposition. We have been transmitting steadily, every hour, on the hour, since the first of the greenskin assault ships cut across the sky. Surely someone has heard our call.
(Sound of muffled artillery fire and explosive impacts.)
Damn the filthy xenos! Their shells are definitely getting closer. It won’t be long now. I… I can still barely comprehend the numbers we face. The orbital defence grid was overstretched from the start. The sky went dark with their ships. I should have executed someone for that; according to records, the missile and plasma defence batteries hadn’t been inspected by a tech-priest in over three hundred years!
At the very least, there should have been some kind of warning. Why was there no word from the relay station on Dagoth? I can only imagine that the orks struck there first, and with such speed that there was no time to alert the rest of the sector. Now Badlanding pays the price.
If anyone receives this – it doesn’t matter who you are – you must send word to the Crimson Fists. Do not try to aid us alone. Only the Adeptus Astartes can help us now. This is no fight for a lesser force. An ork incursion of this magnitude… it has to be a Waaagh! And, if it isn’t checked here, it will grow. By Throne, will it grow.
Lord of Mankind, don’t let it be too late.
To the Space Marines of the Crimson Fists, I say this: if you receive this message in time to offer us any hope of rescue, know that we have abandoned Krugerport for the cave networks beneath the Scratch Mountains just north of the city. We’ll dig in there for as long as we can. There is no other refuge left to us.
Our supplies are expected to last another week, perhaps two if we–
(Sound of distant stubber-fire answered immediately by the closer, louder crack of las-weapons. Urgent shouting from multiple individuals at once.)
The artillery has ceased. They’re making an infantry push!
We’re pulling out. I’m sending this without encryption.
In the name of the Immortal Saviour, I pray that someone hears it.
Hurry! Get this message to Rynn’s World! If we are to die here so that others might be warned, then so be it. But let our deaths not be in vain.
This is Commissar Alhaus Baldur signing off.
Munitorum Identicode (verified): CM41656-18F Timestamp (IST): 17:44:01 3015989.M41
Part One
‘When a man dies before his time, how much is truly lost?
’More than just a life, certainly. A branch withers and bears no more fruit. Futures are erased. Paths close that can never be re-opened. Would his offspring have been saints? Killers? Both?
’When a man dies before his time, the answers go with him.
’This begs the question: should not all men be saved?’
Extract: Diary of a Survivor Viscount Nilo Vanader Isopho (936.M41-991.M41)
One
Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains
‘Upheaval,’ said Ruthio Terraro, staring down at the cards he had pulled from the deck. They lay in the pattern known as The Burning Star, a dark omen in itself. He did not remember touching a single one, nor had he consciously chosen their arrangement, but the absence of those memories did not surprise him. The deep trance was always the same. So was the awakening. Like a vivid dream of falling to one’s death, it always ended with a shout and a shudder and a gasping for breath.
That he still emerged from the trance this way angered Terraro, for it was the mark of a Librarian yet to fully master his gifts, and the other Codiciers had already moved beyond it. But if it bothered the giant figure on Terraro’s right, there was no indication.
‘Upheaval,’ echoed the giant. ‘Go on, my brother.’
‘A struggle against great odds,’ Terraro continued, turning from the cards. ‘Oceans of blood. Storm clouds, dark and heavy with impending violence. Below them, a fork in the road, signifying choice. Two paths, one leading to day, the other to night. So it has been the last four times, honoured brother, and with only the most minor variations. Do you wish me to try again?’
The giant, Eustace Mendoza, Master of the Librarius, moved to the Codicier’s shoulder and stood over him, glaring down with dark, hooded eyes at the ancient cards. Their stylised images seemed to move, to dance in the glow from the golden candelabras, while the rest of the chamber remained thick with shadow.
‘No, Ruthio,’ he said, his voice a deep baritone. ‘That will not be necessary. Your interpretation corroborates Brother Deguerro’s visions. The currents of time and the immaterium will reveal nothing more to us tonight. The Epistolaries and I will discuss the matter at the next council. For now, you must return to your quarters and have the Chosen attend you. Full plate and arms, do you understand? We must look our finest. First light will break in four hours, and the Day of Foundation shall be upon us. There is a great deal of ceremony to observe.’
With a nod, Terraro gathered up his cards, pushed his chair back from the broad oak desk, and rose to his feet. Standing two metres tall, he was still a head shorter than the Master of the Librarius, but equally broad across the shoulders. On one of those shoulders, his master now placed a big calloused hand and, together, they walked from the room.
‘Until the coming day is over,’ Eustace Mendoza told Terraro as they passed into the echoing, lamplit corridor beyond, ‘the future will have to wait.’
Alessio Cortez, who by his own confession lacked the slightest interest in the musical arts, found himself deeply moved by the hymn that now echoed from the Reclusiam’s dark stone walls. It was as mournful as it was ancient, its every beautiful note a heart-rending lament to the battle-brothers the Chapter had lost, not just in the last hundred years, but in all the long millennia since its glorious inception.
Cortez had heard the hymn just three times in his life, for it was only sung on the Day of Foundation, but his perfect recall of those previous times did nothing to dull its effect now. All those deaths, all the one-sided farewells, they came back to him, just as they were meant to. This was the time to mourn properly. This was the time to remember the sacrifice his noble brothers had made, and his heart was heavy with the sorrow of it. More importantly, it was also filled with pride.
There was no guilt to dampen that feeling. He had survived t
hree and a half centuries of war, and he was long past survivor’s guilt. A Space Marine lived or died by his skills and attributes, his teamwork, his unending dedication to perfecting the art of war and to the oaths of honourable service he had made. Death was inevitable, even for a Space Marine. It was just a matter of time. Immortality was the province of the Emperor alone, regardless of what anyone else said.
He looked across the Reclusiam to the opposite arm of the transept, studying the servitor-choir from which the hymn continued to pour forth. What pitiful creatures they were! Their skinny, limbless bodies were fixed to short pillars of black marble which concealed the mechanical workings that kept them half-alive. Every eye-socket was bolted over with iron plate. From every mouth, a black vox-amp grille protruded, and from each pale, hairless head, ribbed cables extended, linking them together in perfect synchronicity, their rudimentary intellects united and focussed only on the song.
On the gallery to Cortez’s right, high above the Reclusiam’s entrance, yet another servitor sat, hardwired into a massive mechanical steam organ that boomed out dour musical accompaniment.
Wretches all, thought Cortez. But perhaps it is better they sing our sadness for us than that we try to sing it for ourselves.
He almost grinned, thinking that his own rough voice, if forced into song, would do no honour to the dead. In fact, it was more likely to cause insult.
This was not an original thought. He made the same joke to himself every century, and let it pass just as quickly. Matters which did not involve the killing of the Chapter’s many foes seldom held Cortez’s attention for more than a few seconds.
Pedro was always chastising him for that.
The hymn came to an end now, its final sorrowful note reverberating in the minds of the congregation for moments after the sound itself had ceased. Cortez let it go, feeling unburdened somehow, and turned his attention towards the apse, to an altar of gilt-edged black marble where High Chaplain Tomasi now stepped forwards and began reciting words of remembrance from the Book of Dorn.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 65