Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  If Deguerro heard his two battle-brothers approach – and he could hardly have missed the floor-shuddering footfalls of the captain’s Terminator armour – he showed no sign. He did not look up from the cold stone floor.

  ‘Librarian,’ said Alvez, his voice kept low out of respect for the sacred nature of the place.

  Deguerro did not turn.

  Alvez raised his voice further, ‘Deguerro, I am talking to you!’

  Again, there was no reaction. Huron Grimm stepped forward and laid a hand on the Librarian’s right pauldron, with just enough pressure to turn him slightly. ‘Brother,’ he said. ‘This is no time for silence. We must know what ails you. Our entire Librarius contingent has been struck dumb. If you cannot speak, then show us in Adeptus Astartes battle-sign.’

  Deguerro’s voice, when it sounded, was scratchy and low. ‘This is exactly the time for silence.’

  He turned to face them at last and, when Alvez looked into his eyes, his first thought was of how hollow they seemed. No light glimmered there.

  ‘So much glory, so much nobility, bravery, pride… So much lost,’ Deguerro murmured. ‘Lost forever, brothers.’

  Alvez and Grimm exchanged looks. ‘Elaborate,’ said Alvez.

  ‘It was this tragedy,’ said Deguerro, ‘this that we sensed drawing near. If only the portents had been clearer…’

  He turned back to the altar, apparently done with explanations, and Alvez let out a growl. Enough! How could he hope to address the problem if no one would tell him what it was? He grasped the Librarian and wrenched him back around, something few others would have dared. ‘I am in command here, Epistolary. The Chapter Master assigned you to my service, and you will respect that assignment. You will tell me in plain language what is wrong with you, or, so help me, Eustace Mendoza will hear of it.’

  Deguerro struck Alvez’s hand aside. ‘Eustace Mendoza is dead, captain! Is that plain enough for you? They all are. All who stayed to defend our home have perished. Arx Tyrannus is gone!’

  That made no sense. Arx Tyrannus, gone? Of course it wasn’t gone. It was impregnable, unassailable. It would be there atop its mountain seat until the planet itself melted from the heat of its dying suns fifteen billion years from now.

  ‘Not since the Siege of Barenthal have so many brothers fallen together,’ muttered Deguerro. His anger had melted away again, the waters of his grief rising to submerge it.

  Alvez was having great difficulty processing what he had just heard. Deguerro was no fool, no deceiver. Surely, then, he was mistaken. But there was no denying the pain he was in, the sorrow carved in the flesh of his face.

  ‘You are confused,’ Alvez insisted. ‘A trick of the ork psykers.’

  ‘I wish it were, brother,’ said Deguerro without turning. ‘Last night, a catastrophe struck our home. Our brothers died in searing white flames. I heard it, felt it. We all did, as if we, too, were dying. The psychic shockwave threatened to rip away our souls.’

  ‘What stopped it?’ asked Sergeant Grimm, his voice kinder than the captain’s.

  Deguerro looked up and snorted, but it was an empty sound, without real humour.

  ‘The orks,’ he said simply.

  Alvez look at Grimm, face betraying his confusion.

  ‘The orks?’ he said dubiously.

  ‘The ork psykers,’ said Deguerro. ‘They have been launching psychic assaults since they landed. Nothing we couldn’t handle, though there are a great many of them with the Waaagh. Combined, their power is such that we cannot broadcast messages through the warp. Not while they are here in such force. Their unfocused thoughts create a choking psychic fog. Be glad you cannot perceive it, brothers. It is a smothering, suffocating thing.’

  ‘I still do not understand,’ said Grimm. ‘You said the presence of the ork psykers saved you?’

  ‘I did,’ said Deguerro, nodding. ‘We are surrounded by them. They are among the hordes on every side, enough of them to buffer us against the full blast of the psychic death-scream. You see, like energy in all its forms, psychic energy dissipates over distance, and much faster where it meets resistance. The ork shamans struggled to survive the blast. Had they not, we may have lost every last Librarian in this city. In that, if nothing else, we were lucky.’

  Alvez stared up at the stylised glass image of Rogal Dorn, resplendent in armour of shimmering gold. ‘It cannot be,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Arx Tyrannus? Pedro Kantor? I will not believe it until I see it with my own eyes. When we win this war, we will return to the Hellblades, and you will see for yourself, Deguerro.’ He stared hard at the back of the Librarian’s head. ‘You will see that you are wrong.’

  The Librarian made no response.

  ‘Report to the walls within the hour,’ the captain commanded, his voice harsh. ‘You and all your Librarius brothers. There will be no more of this. You are still a Crimson Fist, by Throne, and you will do your duty with honour, no matter the circumstances.‘

  So saying, he turned and thundered from the Reclusiam, his steps shaking stands of devotional candles as he went.

  Grimm was left behind, looking down on a brother whose suffering he did not know how to ease. With no other choice, he turned and made his way to the doors of the small Reclusiam. Before he passed between them he turned and said, ‘I believe you, brother, though I wish I did not. Still, the captain is right. This despair, this hopelessness…’ He shook his head. ‘You know as well as I that it is not our way. We are Adeptus Astartes. Eustace Mendoza would expect you to fight.’

  Then Grimm, too, left the nave, and silence returned.

  A long minute later, Deguerro pushed himself to his feet. He looked up at the image of the Emperor, at His noble features cast in amber glass, and said quietly, ‘I am a Space Marine. Of course I will fight.’

  Captain Alvez was already beyond the walls of the Cassar when Grimm caught up to him. In fact, he had almost crossed the bridge between the Zona Regis and the Residentia Primaris. Even in his Terminator armour, the tireless captain covered ground quickly, and there was a new urgency in his stride. Grimm could see it clearly as he closed the distance. He fell into step with the captain just as they passed beneath the arch of the ornate Ocaro Gatehouse.

  ‘It is true,’ said Grimm. ‘You can see it in his eyes.’

  Alvez grunted something unintelligible.

  ‘You will have to tell the others. They know something is deeply wrong here.’

  The captain didn’t slow. ‘And if it is true?’ he boomed. ‘Can we do anything about it now? Can we somehow go back in time and undo it? We don’t even know what happened.’

  ‘But you do believe him,’ said Grimm.

  ‘I wish I did not,’ replied Alvez. ‘I am fighting to keep the full implications of it at bay, but I have my orders, and even this can hardly change them. We are defending a city from a siege the likes of which I have never known. If our Chapter has suffered this terrible blow, we must ensure that we, at least, survive. I don’t know about you, Huron, but I didn’t plan on dying at the hands of some cack-eating xenos anyway, so it changes nothing.’

  Grim found he had no answer for that.

  ‘Actually,’ said Alvez when they had gone a dozen more metres, ‘there is one thing I can do about it. I’m initiating the Ceres Protocol.’

  Grimm looked up in surprise. The Ceres Protocol hadn’t been employed since it had first been put to parchment all those centuries ago in the years after the blasted scythian race had reduced the Chapter to a handful of squads. Its strictures were clear: no Crimson Fist was permitted to die in battle for any other cause than the saving of his battle-brothers. The strength of the Chapter was everything. That meant no battle-brothers lost for the sake of protecting humans or materiel of any kind.

  ‘Are you sure that’s necessary, my lord?’ asked Grimm.

  Alvez kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘I’m putting it in place anyway.’

  Eighteen minutes later, they passed into a lower-class hab zone called the Deltoro
Residentia. The streets were narrow here, and untidy, and the lop-sided habs loomed over them as if they might topple at any moment. Many of the buildings looked as if they had been built in a hurry, then added to little by little over the years, so that the stonework of the upper stories was seldom the same colour or tone as that of the lower.

  The contrast with the Zona Regis and the noble estates was stark. Here, the shadowed side alleys were strewn with heaps of waste and the occasional, fly-covered remains of a dead canid or felis. The air smelled strongly of chemical compounds drifting over from the nearby manufacturing zone. To live in such surroundings, or worse, was the lot of the vast majority in cities all across the Imperium. If New Rynn City was any different, it was not evident among the people of the so-called Poor Quarters.

  What these people lacked in material riches, they clearly made up for in faith. The sign of the Imperial aquila was everywhere, as were street-corner shrines to myriad saints and other assorted religious figures. In contrast to all else, these were immaculate. They bore no signs of damage or graffiti.

  Grimm eyed them as he and Alvez continued their brisk march back to the ramparts of the Gorrion Wall. Not far off, he could hear the thump of artillery and the muffled crack and rattle of the city’s huge gun-towers.

  Though wailing sirens had, for the most part, cleared the streets of people, it didn’t take long for Alvez and Grimm to be spotted. The locals peered out from behind wooden shutters at the sound of their boots on the cobbles.

  ‘It is the Crimson Fists!’ called one.

  Grimm heard the shout being taken up all along the streets.

  ‘Damn,’ said Captain Alvez.

  Doors were flung open and people poured out into the light of day to throw themselves onto the ground before the two Adeptus Astartes. The air filled with the sound of pleading voices. Shabby women elbowed their way forward, holding their screaming babies out to be blessed. The old and the sick begged to be touched on the head, believing, perhaps, that this alone might cure them of all their pains and ailments, or just bring them a little closer to the Emperor somehow. Others offered up their most prized possessions, hoping to win favour. Here, a curved knife, badly chipped, with a small red gem – almost certainly just coloured glass – set in its tarnished hilt. There, a kynid’s-tooth statue of Saint Clario of the Blazing Lance with its left hand missing, broken off many years before. None of these, nor any of a hundred others, would have fetched more than a single Imperial centim at market, but they clearly meant a great deal to their possessors. These people were desperate that their district be saved from the orks. They were used to finding themselves and their neighbourhood low on the ladder of the politicians’ priorities.

  Alvez and Grimm found their path utterly blocked. To push through would leave many injured, perhaps even dead.

  ‘Fools,’ cursed Alvez quietly, so quiet, in fact, that only Grimm’s superior hearing could pick it up. ‘Do I look like a blasted Chaplain?’

  A bent-backed old woman in a moth-eaten red shawl pushed herself up from her knees and shambled towards them, cradling something precious in her tiny withered hands. Grimm saw that she was weeping. He could not identify with her emotion, nor with the emotions of the people all around them, but he had seen its like enough times to know that such a potent effect on the faithful was one of the burdens of being a Space Marine. In all likelihood, these people had never been as close to a living symbol of the Emperor’s light as they were now. He could see the zeal in their eyes. It was right there alongside their joy.

  The old woman limped straight towards Alvez, and, mumbling something indecipherable, raised her hands, offering her personal treasure to him.

  Grimm knew instinctively that things were about to take a turn for the worst.

  ‘In Dorn’s name,’ the captain snarled, ‘get out of our way at once. All of you, get back to your homes. This city is under martial law. We do not have time for this.’

  In anger, he batted the old woman’s hands aside, and the little treasure she offered went flying from her. She collapsed to the rockcrete surface of the road, cradling her broken wrists, mewling softly. The crowd gasped and shuffled backwards, still on their knees. Some pressed their foreheads to the ground in utter submission. None spoke.

  ‘Make way,’ Alvez commanded through the vox-amp in his helmet. His voice reverberated along the street, shaking dust and grit from the sills and ledges of the buildings. ‘We are at war. Do not seek blessings from any of my Adeptus Astartes again. Is that understood? We are not priests, we are warriors. Move aside, damn you!’

  When the people leapt to obey, clearing the road so the Adeptus Astartes could pass easily, Grimm saw that fear had replaced the joy in their eyes. That was regrettable. Did Captain Alvez truly think so little of the people’s love and respect? Sooner or later, Grimm believed, these very people would be called on to fight, to give their lives in a battle none of them had ever trained a single day for. They would die to hold back the foe just a little longer. Would they not fight that much harder inspired by their Adeptus Astartes betters, rather than terrified by them?

  Alvez was already thundering off down the street, not deigning to glance at the rows of people bowing and begging his forgiveness from either side of the street.

  Grimm turned to the old woman on the road and, gently, lifted her to a sitting position. She gazed up at him and smiled a toothless smile. Though her bones were broken and it must have caused her great pain, she lifted a limp hand to the faceplate of his helmet and brushed it with her fingertips, mumbling something Grimm could not make out.

  In her eyes he saw adoration and joy, as if Captain Alvez had not struck her down at all.

  He glanced up and called out to a middle-aged couple on his left, ‘You there! Will you take care of this woman? She requires a medicae. Take her to the nearest facility. I command it.’

  The couple, an overweight man in bright quilted trousers and his waif-like wife, bowed excessively, and moved forward to help the old woman to her feet. Grimm lifted her into the man’s arms, marvelling at how impossibly light her frail body seemed. He was glad he would never know such weakness himself. It was a cruelty that time inflicted on most living things, but, buried somewhere in the mysteries of the Adeptus Astartes gene-seed was the secret to beating it. No Space Marine would ever wither away like that.

  The Emperor had spared His sons that fate.

  He turned, searching for something and, after the briefest instant, his enhanced eyesight located it. He crossed to the front of a small hab, and the people in his way instantly moved aside. There beneath a filthy window, he bent over and retrieved the old woman’s treasure. It was really the simplest of tokens: a small wooden aquila on a length of cord, a charm intended to be worn around the neck, though it would barely reach around an Adeptus Astartes’ wrist. It had once been beautifully painted, but it was very old now, the colours cracked and flaking.

  When he turned back to the old woman and tried to give it back to her, she became agitated and expressed something to the fat man carrying her. He shushed her, and his wife hissed, ‘Don’t be foolish, old mother. The great one has no need of it.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Grimm.

  The fat man gulped, his throat bobbing, and said, ‘She would like you to have it, my lord. I’m afraid she is senile. She doesn’t understand…’ His eyes flicked briefly to the visor in Grimm’s faceplate, then returned to the ground at his feet.

  Grimm looked at the little aquila, so minute in the palm of his red gauntlet. He could not accept the gift personally. On acceptance into the Chapter, the Adeptus Astartes of the Crimson Fists swore an unbreakable vow of non-possession. It was considered weak and unworthy to covet or collect material objects. One’s armour, one’s weapons, even the trophies one gathered from the battlefield – all of these and more belonged, not to the individual, but to the Chapter.

  The Chapter, then, could accept her simple gift.

  Grimm addressed her directly, though
he was unsure she would understand him. ‘I thank you for your offering, old mother, not for myself – it is against our ways – but on behalf of my Chapter. May the Emperor smile on you…’ and, here, he turned his gaze to the fat man and his wife, and added pointedly, ‘…and on all those who do you kindness.’

  There was a sudden harsh bark over the comm-link. ‘Sergeant, you are wasting time.’

  Captain Alvez was already a hundred metres away.

  With the little wooden aquila in his left hand, Grimm strode past the old woman and the couple, and made his way towards his increasingly impatient superior. On both sides of the street, the people bowed deeply.

  Grimm offered the slightest of nods in return as he passed, thinking to himself that, no matter the strength of their faith in the Emperor or in the power of the Adeptus Astartes, very soon, these people would be homeless… just like him. The Deltoro Residentia would be swallowed up by the fighting. How many of these people would be dead by season’s end?

  He had almost caught up with Captain Alvez when a great metallic scream sounded from the sky. A broad black shadow flitted between the street and the sun. Grimm looked up and saw the underside of an ugly ork troop-transporter bleeding black smoke and flame from a rent at its rear. The craft was out of control. It was going down fast, and it would crash in one of the wards nearby.

  Captain Alvez was already making for a stone stairway that led up onto a hab roof. His heavy footfalls cracked the steps, raining dust and rocky pieces down on the ground below. Grimm followed him up and, together, they stood atop the hab and watched the ork craft cut a smoky black arc across the city.

  It struck and shattered a massive stone cylinder far taller than the wall that separated the neighbouring districts, and fell from sight. Grimm knew the cylinder, or at least what it represented. It was a chimney, one of many that sprouted from the roofs of the capital’s Mechanicus-controlled manufactora.

  ‘Zona 6 Industria,’ he said.

  Alvez was already on the comm-link. ‘All squads in zone six. This is Captain Alvez. We have a breach. An ork transport just went down. I need an immediate purge. Leave sections three and four of the Gorrion Wall to the Rynnsguard. This is a priority command. I repeat, we have a breach. Eliminate all orks in the Zona 6 Industria.’