Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  She heard Savales say something – she didn’t quite catch it – and turned to look at him. He had one finger pressed to a small mechanical device that encircled his left ear.

  ‘I’m sorry, ordinator,’ she said. ‘Were you talking to me?’

  Savales didn’t answer immediately. Any words would have been drowned out by the tremendous metallic groan that now issued from the far side of the chasm.

  Maia turned and watched, her mouth slightly agape, as the gates of Arx Tyrannus creaked slowly open and, from a broad horizontal housing in the rock below them, a metal bridge extended.

  It was almost four minutes before the noise finally stopped. When it did, the bridge was firmly locked into place, spanning the width of the chasm, and the gates were thrown as wide as they would go.

  On the far side, Maia saw large humanoid figures marching out to meet them. Her heart leapt. Surely these were the first Crimson Fists she would lay eyes on today. As they moved out from the shadows of the gates she saw instead that they were hulking gun-servitors led by one of the Chapter’s senior serfs. They took up positions on either side of the bridge, facing inward like statues lining a long hall. They did not look in the direction of the nobles.

  Perhaps reading disappointment on Maia’s face, Ordinator Savales said, ‘It is a rare occasion that no Adeptus Astartes mans the gates, but today is just such an occasion, my lady. On the Day of Foundation, every battle-brother who is able is required to attend the ceremonies.’ He gestured to Maia’s palanquin. ‘Shall we proceed?’

  Maia was still a little overwhelmed by the cold, dark grandeur of Arx Tyrannus and didn’t trust herself to speak, but she nodded and accepted the ordinator’s help in returning to her seat, absently noting his quiet strength for the second time. Moments later, as the palanquins passed before the dull, expressionless eyes of the gun-servitors, Maia felt a chill that even her thick furs could do nothing to abate. This was most definitely not the warm welcome she had imagined. On either side of the bridge, the lobotomised living weapons tracked the palanquins as they passed. Their weapons were powered up. Maia could hear the hum of deadly, constrained energies. Her skin prickled and her breath became tight in her chest. No one had ever aimed a weapon at her before, at least not overtly. There had been a few failed assassination attempts over the years, but she had only learned of those after the fact.

  Now, she forced her eyes forwards, willing her heartbeat to slow back down.

  It didn’t return to its regular rhythm until she was beyond the gates.

  Three

  Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains

  From high atop the black stone walls of the central keep, banners of blue, crimson and gold rippled and snapped in a cold wind, each beautifully decorated with the proud heraldry of the Chapter’s ten companies and the iconography of a thousand glorious crusades.

  On the spacious, snow-dusted grounds of the Protheo Bastion, a hundred metres below those banners, the Space Marines of the Crimson Fists stood in perfect formation, each armoured warrior a metre apart from the battle-brothers to either side, all arranged according to company, squad and seniority.

  Trails of steamy breath and exhaust fumes rolled into the air from the vents in their helmets and backpacks. Their broad-barrelled boltguns were held rigidly in front of them, gripped in gauntleted hands, muzzles pointing skyward.

  Behind the Space Marines stood over six thousand of the Chosen, all robed in blue to match the armour of their masters, all with hooded heads bowed.

  No one, neither Space Marine nor serf, turned or gave even a flicker of notice as Ordinator Savales led Lady Maia and her party beneath the vast south-western archway and out onto the grounds.

  From the line of nobles following in Savales’s wake, there came a jumble of gasps and suitably hushed exclamations. Savales let the moment pass of its own accord and kept walking, anxious that his charges be seated out of the way as quickly as possible. To that end, he led them north along the base of the towering inner wall, thirty metres back from the closest row of Crimson Fists, guiding the nobles straight towards a small wooden terrace that had been constructed by the Chosen specifically for the purpose of their visit.

  Despite the brisk pace he set at the front of the line, he suddenly found himself addressed by the governor. She had come up alongside him, matching his stride easily with her long slender legs. ‘They’re incredible, ordinator,’ she breathed, making no effort to disguise the depth of her awe. ‘I mean, I’ve seen them before in the capital, but never like this. Never all together like this. I… I don’t think I’ve ever felt the Emperor’s presence as surely as I do right now.’

  Savales glanced at her, intending to express his agreement in the briefest possible terms, but the words died on his lips the moment he saw that the governor was actually weeping. Tears were running in two glistening tracks down her soft, powdered cheeks.

  He and the governor came from different worlds, both literally and figuratively speaking, but here, in her reaction to the great spectacle before her, was something he could truly identify with. The assembled Adeptus Astartes were a sight to stir the heart of any Imperial loyalist.

  He didn’t slow his pace, but his voice was kind as he answered, ‘No one has seen the Chapter together like this for a hundred years, ma’am. Not even I. It is indeed a magnificent sight, as you rightly say. My heart is gladdened that it affects you so.’

  The governor smiled a little self-consciously at that, then quietly dropped back beside her secretary, who offered her a small square of silk with which to dab at her face.

  If the nearest of the Space Marines had heard the exchange – and of course they had, for their powers of hearing went far beyond those of a normal man – they showed no sign of interest. Both they and the Chosen remained as still as marble sculptures, awaiting the arrival of the Chaplains and the members of the Chapter Council.

  Savales and his wealthy charges soon reached a set of shallow wooden stairs that led up into the small terrace. The ordinator stopped beside them and helped Lady Maia up the first few steps, more out of propriety than anything else. The lady clearly had no need of a man’s steadying arm, but took it anyway, no doubt as a point of etiquette.

  ‘Your party shall have an excellent view of the proceedings from here, ma’am,’ said Savales to her back as she stepped through the doorway at the top.

  And it will keep you all penned in very nicely, he thought to himself. No one must interfere with the procession.

  Once the last of the entourage from the capital had climbed the stairs, Savales ascended them himself and found most of the nobles already seated in the well-cushioned ebonwood chairs that had been laid out for them. A handful of the Chapter’s most junior serfs stood silently in the shadows at the back, awaiting any command Savales might deign to give. As he looked along the front row, Savales saw that the chair closest to Lady Maia remained curiously empty. Standing in front of it, looking slightly put out, was Viscount Isopho, Minister of Trade, senior representative for the Province of Dorado.

  ‘I don’t understand, Maia,’ he said, absentmindedly addressing her as if no one else were within earshot. ‘It is quite clearly my seat. Why in blazes–’

  Lady Maia threw him the kind of smile that Savales judged she must have used countless times to get her own way. It was dazzling and absolutely filled with promise. ‘My dear, gallant Nilo,’ she said. ‘Your close company is always a great blessing, as I’ve expressed before. But I had hoped Ordinator Savales might sit beside me today, unless you feel that you can explain the various elements of the procession better than he.’

  The viscount, a slim, dapper, thickly-moustached man in his mid-fifties, threw Savales a brief, hard glance. He was obviously incensed that the governor wished him to defer to someone who was still, technically, a member of the peasant class, no matter what Savales’s status within these hallowed walls might be. After a few seconds the viscount mustered a fairly convincing smile of his own, bowed to the lady, and s
aid, ‘As you wish, of course.’ Then he turned towards Savales, walked down the row of seats towards him, and said, ‘Might one of your people bring another chair, ordinator?’

  Secretary Mylos, who was seated at the near end of the front row, leapt to his feet. ‘There’s no need for that, sir,’ he said. ‘Please, take mine. I’ll be quite content to sit with the other aides in the second row.’

  Isopho muttered something vaguely appreciative to Mylos, and dropped himself into the seat, dropping his smile at the same time.

  Savales noticed Lady Maia gesturing to him and, with some reluctance, for he had no wish to talk during the procession, took the proffered seat next to her. On his right sat Margravine Lyotsa of Macarro Province, a slightly plump woman who was beaming with enthusiasm for the whole affair. ‘Do you think the Chapter Master might wave to us as he passes?’ she asked Savales.

  It was a preposterous question, and Savales fought to hold back a sharp retort. Did the woman think this some kind of carnival? Instead, he feigned an apologetic tone and answered, ‘I shouldn’t think so, my lady. In truth, the Day of Foundation is a time of great solemnity and reflection, not celebration. As I tried to impress on your honoured personage during the journey here, we who bask in the glory of the Crimson Fists this day must make ourselves all but invisible during their observances. To draw undue attention, to interfere in even the smallest of ways, so much as a well-meaning wave of your hand, for example, would be a very grave insult to the honour of our protectors. We must conduct ourselves just as if we were in the Great Basilica. One refrains from calling out to Archbishop Galenda during his famous sermons, does one not?’

  The margravine looked horrified at the thought. ‘By the Golden Throne,’ she huffed, ‘I would never… Your point is well taken, ordinator. I shall be as invisible as my countenance allows.’

  Savales wasn’t sure what she meant, but it hardly mattered. He was pleased to see the expression on her round face settle into something more appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion. It was then that he felt the lightest touch of fingertips on the back of his left hand and turned to face Lady Maia again.

  ‘How long will they stand immobile like this?’ the governor asked him, looking out at the rigid Space Marines. ‘Not one of them has so much as twitched a muscle since we arrived. If not for their breath on the air, I would swear those suits of armour were empty.’

  As Savales listened to her, he eased the old brass chronometer from his pocket and stared at its face in confusion.

  It must be broken, he thought. This cannot be correct.

  But no, one hand was still ticking off the seconds as steadily as it had always done. The chronometer was an ancient piece, inherited from old Kondris, and it had not dropped a second in all the years Savales had owned it. What its elegant metal hands told him now was that something must be wrong. He watched more seconds tick off, filled with a mounting sense of unease.

  The morning procession should have started by now. And Lord Kantor, as Ramir Savales knew better than anyone else, was never late.

  The great domed and pillared hall of the Strategium was quiet, but it was far from empty. Only two of the heavy, square-cut onyx chairs arranged around the massive crystal table at its centre remained unoccupied.

  Where the devil are they, thought Cortez? He had been the third member of the council to arrive, and now he was becoming restless.

  He had passed Hammond’s message to the Chapter Master in the nave of the Reclusiam, and had watched the words take effect. The Chapter Master had reacted exactly as Cortez had known he would: calm, controlled, only the slight narrowing of his eyes betraying a hint of anger that news of the attack on Badlanding should reach Arx Tyrannus now, on this of all days. Inconvenient, yes, but none who had faced the might of the greenskins before and survived would dare to take such news lightly. The message’s significance could not be ignored. Like a thunderstorm gathering on the horizon, its charge building on the wind, it seemed the threat of a major war here in the Loki Sector was closer than it had been in over a millennium.

  Orks!

  Give or take a dozen light-years, Badlanding essentially lay on a straight line between the Rynnstar system and the domain of Charadon, a star cluster that was absolutely infested with the savage beasts. If the transmission from the struggling commissar was to be believed, and a Waaagh was indeed gaining momentum on the fringes of the sector, then the Crimson Fists were the only force within a year’s warp travel that had a chance of reacting in time and with the appropriate level of force. Founding Day or not, action in the face of a major Waaagh could not be postponed.

  So where in blazes are you, Pedro, thought Cortez?

  He drummed his gauntleted fingers on the table, the sound cutting sharply across a tense silence. A few of the other council members glared over at him in irritation.

  ‘What?’ he said in a challenging tone, but he stopped drumming.

  After another minute of silence, he said, ‘If we have to wait much longer I think I’ll chair the meeting myself.’

  Raphael Acastus, Master of Siege, Captain of the Ninth Company, snorted out a laugh. No one took the comment seriously. Cortez was famously impatient and rarely disinclined to express it. But Drigo Alvez, Master of the Shield, Captain of Second Company, saw a chance to knock Cortez down a peg. He met his gaze and said, ‘Actually, Alessio, that duty would fall to me. Still, I commend your enthusiasm. If only you could channel it into sitting still…’

  A few of the other captains raised half-smiles at this. Cortez grunted. He and Alvez had no great love of each other. The Second Company captain was as dour and over-starched a Space Marine as Cortez had ever met, unimaginative in the extreme, but it was these very qualities that apparently inspired the Chapter Master’s confidence in him. Besides, Alvez was wrong. It was, in fact, Eustace Mendoza, Master of the Librarius, who would preside over the Strategium in the event of the Chapter Master’s absence. And if Mendoza were absent, the duty would fall to High Chaplain Tomasi.

  For a moment, Cortez considered pointing this out, but before he spoke, his eyes flicked towards the old Librarian, and he noticed that Mendoza was looking straight back at him. The Librarian held his gaze, giving a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  In Cortez’s mind, the powerful psyker placed three words.

  Leave it, brother.

  Cortez responded with a tiny shrug and resumed drumming his fingers on the tabletop, once again drawing the eyes of the others towards him.

  Ishmael Icario, Master of Shadows, Captain of the Tenth Company, laughed aloud. ‘Alessio,’ he said, ‘of every battle-brother I have ever known, none are as restless as you. Chapter Master Traegus said it best, I think. Only in the absolute stillness of the body and the complete silencing of the voice can we hear the truth of our inner thoughts, and so hearing, know ourselves that much the better.’

  Cortez threw Icario a dangerous look.

  Algernon Traegus had been the controversial sixteenth Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists, a particular favourite of Icario’s, judging by the frequency with which the Scout captain quoted the late Master’s writings. Many of the older members of the Chapter were wary of Traegus’s teachings. It was Traegus who had initiated the controversial breeding programmes – programmes by which the Chapter’s failed aspirants, those who had survived the trials and had not been rendered sterile, were bred with women of suitable genetic stock in the hope of creating male offspring strong enough to swell the ranks of the Chapter one day as full Adeptus Astartes.

  Unfortunately, the results had been unpredictable and disappointing.

  Upon his accession, the seventeenth Chapter Master, Klede Sargo, had immediately halted his predecessor’s plan, and no Chapter Master had attempted to revive it since.

  Responding to Icario, Cortez said, ‘I can hear my inner voice fine, brother. It speaks with the volume of a thunderstorm, and right now, it tells me there are xenos to kill. The sooner we engage them, the better.’


  ‘And so we shall,’ answered a sonorous voice from the far side of the hall. The words echoed for a moment, bouncing back from the frescoed inner surface of the dome. The seated Adeptus Astartes twisted and saw Pedro Kantor closing two massive ebonwood doors. They rose to their feet as the Chapter Master turned and descended the steps of the main aisle, walking between steeply tiered rows of white marble benches, down onto the Strategium floor. With a long, easy stride, as if his heavy power armour weighed little more than cloth, he crossed to the onyx throne at the head of the table and seated himself, gesturing for the others to do likewise. The chair beneath him detected his weight as he sat, and gear assemblies sunk into the floor groaned and rattled as they pulled him in towards the table’s edge.

  The Chapter Master rested his heavy vambraces on the gently glowing crystal surface, meshed his armoured fingers together and leaned forward. ‘My apologies, brothers, for keeping you waiting these extra moments. I wished to talk to the Monitor directly, and to send word to Ordinator Savales that there would be a slight delay to the day’s proceedings. You all know by now the reason this impromptu session has been called.’

  Captain Acastus stared pointedly at the only onyx chair which remained empty. ‘Shall the High Chaplain not be joining us, my lord? Should we not wait for him?’

  Kantor angled his head towards Acastus, and said, ‘The great majority of this day’s responsibilities fall on Tomasi’s shoulders, certainly far more than fall on mine. He cannot be distracted before the Miracle of the Blood. I will apprise him later of what is said here, but we will hear Brother Adon’s report without him.’

  Having said this, Kantor nodded to a member of the assembly who, on appearance alone, truly stood out among the rest. This was the Forgemaster, Javier Adon, Master of the Technicarum, the Chapter’s supreme Techmarine. His great affinity with the machine-spirits was all too evident in the clash of meat and metal that he had become. His armour bore the iconography of both the Chapter and the Adeptus Mechanicus, and the powerful servo-arms which sprouted from his back gave him something of the aspect of a mighty mechanical arachnid. When he spoke, the sound reverberated from a grille that masked the lower half of his face, and his words emerged in a rasping, grating mechanical buzz without tone or inflection.