Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘What about the Sisters?’

  ‘Umberto II’s remains are too fragile to transport,’ the Apothecary explained. ‘With or without the pontifex, the Order of the August Vigil have orders to protect the Ecclesiarch’s bones. I think we can rely upon them to do that, but little else.’

  Kersh stormed out of the stairwell and out onto the hermitage thoroughfare.

  ‘My battle-plate,’ he roared up the cloister at his serfs. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ Kersh asked, holding out the crystalline wafer he’d been holding. Ezrachi took it. ‘It was placed with me as I slept.’

  ‘From the Emperor’s Tarot. Members of the Librarius use them,’ the Apothecary told him. Ezrachi squinted at the card. ‘The Great Eye,’ he read.

  ‘Give it back to Melmoch,’ Kersh ordered.

  ‘It wasn’t Melmoch,’ Ezrachi said. As the Scourge continued marching up the cloister, the Apothecary stopped. He opened a nearby door and called, ‘Kersh!’

  Scowling, the Scourge returned and looked in through the open door. It was the small sanctuary chamber Ezrachi had converted to a temporary apothecarion. Epistolary Melmoch lay upon a hermit’s slab, arms across his chest.

  ‘Is he…’

  ‘No,’ Ezrachi interjected as the two Excoriators entered the room. ‘But he is out cold. He breathes but fails to respond to drugs or stimuli.’

  ‘What happened?’ Kersh asked as Bethesda and Old Enoch began running in pieces of plate from the rack outside.

  ‘He was found like this,’ Ezrachi replied. ‘I believe it might have something to do with this,’ the Apothecary said, picking up a small, ornately decorated urn from a dormitory shelf. He handed it to the Scourge who examined it with interest. ‘It was reported stolen from the Memorial Mausoleum by the Sisters but found here with Melmoch.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Palatine was short on detail but I gather it is used in an annual, ceremonial capacity to dust the Ecclesiarch’s shrine. The material inside the urn is formulated from a by-product of the Emperor’s metabolism, if you believe that. The dust particles are impregnated with negative psychic energy, so I’m told. For all I know there could be bread crumbs inside, but for the fact that the Palatine and her Sisters were almost on the verge of charging down the hermitage door to recover it and the effect exposure has had on Melmoch here.’

  ‘Why would he do that to himself?’ Kersh asked as his serfs worked fast about him.

  ‘This is nothing. Ever since the comet appeared, witchbreeds have been dying,’ Ezrachi told the corpus-captain.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Astropaths hanging from cloisters, Navigators stepping unsuited into airlocks. All kinds of insanity.’

  ‘What about the Angelica Mortis?’

  ‘Zaragoza’s dead. That bird of his went mad and tore his throat out,’ the Apothecary said.

  ‘Something wrong with the pet?’

  ‘Or with Zaragoza,’ Ezrachi said. ‘Who knows? Shadrath recalled the Angelica Mortis back to the cemetery world. She has the sprint trader Avignor Star under her guns. The captain wishes to leave with the last of the great and good, but the trader carries the only remaining Navigator. Commander Bartimeus is under orders to destroy her if she attempts to leave. With the pontifex’s chief astropath, Melmoch and this Navigator are the only psykers left on or around the planet.’

  ‘Chaplain Shadrath has been in command?’ the Scourge asked.

  Ezrachi nodded. ‘He charged me with your care and completed the destruction of the Ruinous monument.’

  ‘The monument,’ the corpus-commander repeated, looking down at the Librarian. ‘Melmoch said it was a beacon.’

  ‘Well, now we know what it was beckoning,’ the Apothecary said.

  ‘Why didn’t Shadrath just leave?’ Kersh asked. ‘That’s what he wanted.’

  ‘He had no orders to leave,’ Ezrachi insisted. ‘I told him your symptoms were likely to be short-term. He restricted his commands to the execution of your wishes and precautionary measures. The Gauntlet sits on the rockrete, fuelled and ready to go. The strike cruiser awaits your order to leave. We are leaving, aren’t we?’

  Kersh’s mind seemed elsewhere. He was looking down at the small urn.

  ‘We should return this…’

  ‘Kersh!’ Ezrachi said. ‘We’re leaving, yes?’

  ‘You would have me abandon one of the Emperor’s worlds at the sight of an omen in the sky?’ Kersh grizzled.

  ‘Whatever is ending worlds in the wake of the Keeler Comet, I fear we are too few a number to dissuade it from taking this tiny planet of the dead,’ Ezrachi barked back. ‘We have a ship. We have a Navigator. We should alert the cordon at Vanaheim. There – shoulder to shoulder with our brothers – we can make our stand.’

  ‘We have an astropath – you said it yourself,’ the corpus-captain persisted. ‘And we have a message for him to send. The Viper Legion are nearest.’

  ‘There is an astrotelepathic blackout for light years around,’ Ezrachi shot back.

  ‘Then he shall have to double his efforts!’

  ‘Kersh, don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what, Ezrachi? Carry out my Chapter Master’s orders?’

  ‘Our purpose here is fulfilled. Events are unfolding on a larger canvas. We must make a run for Vanaheim–’

  ‘We are Excoriators,’ Kersh seethed. ‘Attrition fighters. Our gene-kindred fought before the walls of the Imperial Palace. We are not heralds and harbingers. We are Excoriators and this is the Imperium beneath our feet. We stand our ground and we fight, whatever the odds. As though this were the palace itself. I have failed my Chapter Master. I will not fail my Emperor.’ The two Space Marines burned into each other with searing eyes as Kersh’s serfs pressurised his seals and attached his weapons to his belt. ‘And neither will you.’

  Ezrachi looked away as Brother Micah appeared at the doorway. The champion looked unsure of himself amongst the heated exchange. The corpus-captain turned to the young Excoriator. ‘Have word sent to Chaplain Shadrath. Tell the Chaplain I need him and Brother Toralech at the pontifex’s palace, immediately. We shall meet them there.’ Micah nodded. ‘You too,’ Kersh added before looking back at the livid Apothecary. ‘And you.’ Ezrachi looked down and nodded gently. ‘We have words and deeds for Pontifex Oliphant and his chief astropath.’

  Chapter Nine

  Harbinger

  Before the Obelisk Ecclesiarchical palace – which served Erasmus Oliphant as both pontifex and planetary governor – two groups of Excoriators marched out of the darkness towards one another. Kersh was flanked by his Apothecary and Brother Micah, who walked a little out front with his bolter and combat shield attachment held out before him. Chaplain Shadrath had with him the Fifth Company’s standard bearer, Brother Toralech, holding his banner proudly above them. A little way behind them, Second Squad Whip Ishmael and Brother Levi – from Squad Castigir – marched across the cobbles. The two Excoriators were helmetless and scorn was etched into their sour faces.

  ‘I won’t offer my gauntlet, brother, for fear you would not take it – and that would only shame us both,’ Kersh opened aggressively, ‘but I thank you for the care you have given to the Fifth in my absence and my existing orders.’

  Shadrath came to a halt. His half-skull helm remained fixed on the corpus-captain but did little to acknowledge the appreciation.

  ‘I did no less than Katafalque expected,’ Shadrath said finally.

  ‘And no more,’ Kersh admitted.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ Ishmael spat, the veteran’s face contorting itself around the expression of disgust.

  ‘Our duty, Brother Ishmael,’ the Scourge informed him. ‘Which I am not about to debate here. The Adeptus Astartes is not a democratic institution. Neither is the Emperor’s Imperium – I’ll have you remember that. You and your Excoriators will do as you’re damn well ordered.’

  Ishmael and Levi exchanged dark glances.

  Twin columns of Char
nel Guard jogged across the plaza carrying the lengths of their lasfusils and in the full sobriety of ceremonial dress. A helmetless lieutenant led them across to the palace doors, replacing the powerpack in his taper-barrelled pistol.

  ‘What is it, lieutenant?’ the Scourge demanded to know.

  ‘We’ve been summoned by the High Constable, my lord,’ the dour officer replied.

  ‘Go,’ Kersh ordered his Excoriators, who had little trouble reaching the palace doors before the Guardsmen. With Ishmael and Toralech flanking the archway, Brothers Micah and Levi kicked aside the heavy doors and led the group into the small palace and up through the Obelisk’s stairwells. Before the reception chambers and beneath the great belfry, the Space Marines found High Constable Colquhoun barking orders to a gathering of his Guardsmen. Some were stationed at the bronze doors of the pontifex’s reception chambers, calling through the thick metal. Others had the long barrels of their lasfusils pointed at the aperture, while a small group had toppled a masonry statue at the High Constable’s instruction and were trying to batter the doors down.

  ‘Thank the God-Emperor,’ Colquhoun said at the appearance of the Adeptus Astartes.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The pontifex has been in there for many hours. We thought he was at prayer,’ the High Constable confessed. ‘When planetary business necessitated a disturbance I tried to enter myself.’

  ‘Locked?’

  ‘There is no lock. They must be blocked from the other side.’

  ‘Anyone in there, beside the pontifex?’ Kersh asked.

  ‘Only his chief astropath,’ Colquhoun confirmed. The Scourge pursed his grizzled lips.

  ‘Toralech, Ishmael,’ the corpus-captain ordered.

  As the Charnel Guard and their improvised ram retreated, the squad whip and the hulking standard bearer put their ceramite shoulders to the bronze. As the Space Marines pushed against the metal with superhuman might, the doors began to give. With a screech they parted slightly, at which Ishmael put his eye to the crack. ‘Barricaded with masonry,’ he reported.

  ‘What?’ the High Constable exclaimed.

  A sulphurous tang stung the Scourge’s nostrils.

  ‘Do you smell that?’ he asked. As he snorted he detected the otherworldly odours of ozone and scalded reality. The same reek he experienced on the battlefield when the witchbreeds of the Librarius brought the full force of their warp-drawn powers down on the Emperor’s enemies.

  ‘Warpstench…’ Shadrath snarled.

  ‘Pontifex!’ Ezrachi boomed through the gap in the bronze. When no sound returned, Kersh stabbed a finger at Brother Micah and then at the stone wall.

  ‘Shoot it out!’

  Pulling the bolter into his shoulder, the company champion hammered the masonry with diamantine-tip precision. As the dust cleared, a ragged circle in the wall was revealed, as well as a peppering of holes that had broken up the masonry within. Like a torpedo, Kersh launched himself at the wall. Punching through the crumbling stone, he dived through the opening. Rolling across a pauldron and the curvature of his pack, the Scourge landed back on his feet. With dust cascading off his armour, he unclipped his chainsword and brought the short, falchion-shaped weapon out in front of him. Gunning the Ryza-pattern blade to life, he waved it from left to right like a flaming torch in the darkness of a cave. Beyond, the throne room appeared in a state of considerable disarray.

  Rolling into a covering position, both Micah and Levi followed their corpus-captain through, bolters up and scanning the chamber.

  ‘Oliphant!’ Kersh called above the chug of the company heirloom.

  Shadrath and Ezrachi stepped through the wall with Squad Whip Ishmael bringing up the rear. Toralech waited by the opening with the standard in hand and his bolter pointed through the hole. ‘Spread out,’ the corpus-captain called, prompting the Excoriators to advance through the pontifex’s reception chambers and throne room.

  ‘Kersh,’ the Apothecary called, drawing the Scourge’s attention to the small mountain of masonry that had been ripped out of the walls and ceiling and piled before the bronze doors.

  Sweeping through the wreckage of the darkened chamber, the Excoriators moved in on the throne room. As Kersh led the way with the idling chainsword, flanked by the gaping muzzles of Micah and Levi’s bolters, the Space Marines found a robed form slumped in the ecclesiarch’s throne.

  ‘Pontifex?’ Kersh called. When the figure didn’t reply, the corpus-captain shouted, ‘Ezrachi!’

  The Apothecary moved up behind the group as they advanced on the throne. The remaining Excoriators gathered at the door, ready to provide cover fire. Levi moved in and pulled the figure’s head back. Slipping the hood off, the Excoriators found themselves looking into the empty sockets of the pontifex’s chief astropath. Ezrachi moved in.

  ‘Unconscious,’ the Apothecary confirmed. ‘Like Melmoch.’

  ‘Listen!’ Kersh said, shutting off the chainsword’s brutal motor. The remaining Excoriators, who had been moving through the expanse of the throne room, froze. As they scanned the chamber, they heard a distant murmur.

  ‘It’s coming from outside,’ Ishmael said. Kersh joined him on the pontifex’s balcony, squinting through the darkness. A narrow ledge ran along the four sides of the Obelisk, running under the balcony, a decorative rather than a practical structure. Peering through the murk along it, the Excoriators caught a glimpse of fingers, clasping the corner of the building with bone-white desperation. A figure was somehow situated out on the ledge. As a fearful face edged around the corner, peering at the Excoriators, the figure released a howl of relief and urgency.

  ‘Oliphant!’ Kersh cried. ‘Ishmael–’

  But the squad whip was already over the balcony balustrade and stepping down onto the narrow ledge. ‘Ezrachi,’ the corpus-captain called, as he craned his head back around into the reception chamber. The Apothecary left Brother Levi with the comatose astropath and made his way up the steps.

  ‘He’s coming around,’ the Excoriator announced as the astropath’s head came up. Instead of empty sockets, a pair of dark orbs – black as midnight and sizzling with blank hatred – rolled over in the psyker’s skull. Momentarily transfixed, Brother Levi watched as twisted horns of charred bone sliced their way out of the man-puppet’s gaunt flesh.

  ‘Daemo–’ Levi began, but the thing before him exploded in a bloodstorm of shattered skull and brain. An elongated cranium blasted out of the back of the astropath’s head, while daemonfangs burst through his forehead and neck, swallowing his face whole. In its place a visage of infernal flesh appeared: primordial, bestial and depraved. Willowy, lurid limbs and talons erupted from the palms and soles of the astropath’s own and the daemon grew, wearing the puppet’s body like a garment over its horrific and emaciated torso. Pinpricks of immaterial life, like keyholes into a furnace, burned through the inky incomprehension in the monster’s eyes. In one savage motion, the daemon seized Brother Levi by his pauldrons and enveloped the Excoriator’s head with the cage of its jaws. Snapping down, the beast sheared Levi’s head from his neck and swallowed, leaving the Space Marine’s power armour to fountain gore from the neckbrace.

  With his attention split between the throne room and the ledge, Kersh was slow to react. The first he truly understood of the danger was the sight of his Excoriators lifting their weapons at the far end of the throne room. The Scourge felt a shockwave of rage and hatred spread through the chamber like a red mist that could be felt but not seen. All Kersh saw was the cavernous muzzle of Shadrath’s bolt pistol thrust at him and the Chaplain lean into a firing position.

  Kersh snatched his own Mark II piece from his holster only to see Brother Micah slam the Chaplain’s arms aside with his shoulder.

  ‘The corpus-captain!’ he yelled.

  Before the Scourge could take aim a florid blur shot across the entrance to the balcony. The corpus-captain got the impression of something spindly and daemonic, all horns, claws and blasphemous flesh. Kersh thrus
t a palm back at Ishmael on the ledge, the squad whip having the exhausted pontifex under one arm. By the time he turned back, the creature had bounded halfway down the chamber on its gangly legs. Both Micah and Chaplain Shadrath’s gunfire had now been unleashed, blasting its way up the precious Ecclesiarchical relics that adorned the throne room wall. Kersh brought his own to bear, trapping the beast between two converging arcs of .75 calibre hell.

  Clawing a foothold in the masonry, the daemon vaulted up through the beams of the chamber ceiling and into the great belfry above. The clangs of its ungainly movements could be heard against the metal of the Obelisk’s bell. As the Chaplain indulged a slick reload of his pistol, Brother Micah sidestepped across the chamber towards his corpus-captain, dribbling bolt-rounds at the ceiling beams. These were joined by the judicious crash of the Apothecary’s pistol and the fully automatic hurricane of fire from Toralech. The standard bearer had been drawn in by the sound of gunfire and held his banner upright like some religious artefact, ready to repel the infernal beast with faith alone.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Kersh ordered, bringing even Toralech’s chattering bolter to a halt. The Excoriators listened to the ring and scrape of the thing’s talons on the bell. Kersh’s eyes widened as the potential calamity of the situation crystallised in his mind. ‘Fall back!’ the corpus-captain roared, but by then the calamity was already in play.

  The Obelisk’s Great Bell crashed down through the ceiling beams from the belfry above. The colossal instrument descended on a furious cloud of masonry dust and debris, clanging and pealing its thunderous way down through the throne room floor. Kersh watched in horror as Chaplain Shadrath, Toralech and Brother Micah all disappeared, carried down with the bell as it made its cacophonous descent through the different floors of the Obelisk. Once again, Kersh was treated to the hazy impression of the daemon, clinging to the bell crown and riding the instrument down through its path of destruction.