The chamber was mid-sized – a refectory, by the looks of the broken steel tables and long benches scattered across the bare floor. The lumens had been smashed, plunging the place into near total darkness.
The soldiers were Shardenus regulars. They had dug in behind rows of upturned tables with their backs to the door and had been resisting incoming las-fire from the far end of the hall when they’d been disturbed. Bolts still shot out from that direction, spitting across the refectory in intermittent blazes of colour.
Morvox felt a glancing impact on his breastplate and rocked back on to his heels. He lashed out savagely with his gun-hand, crunching in the skull of a reeling mortal. Then he mag-locked his bolter and strode forwards through the lines of overturned tables and startled soldiers.
‘Hold position,’ he voxed on the tactical channel to the rest of the clave. ‘Something strange is going on here.’
More las-beams arced out through the darkness, though few were aimed at him – the whole melee had descended into confusion. Behind Morvox, the Iron Hands moved with dreadful, inexorable power, hacking and blasting their way through the hapless Shardenus soldiers with contemptuous ease. The whip-crack of las-fire was soon mingled with the wet crunch of breaking bodies and the intermittent thud of bolter fire.
Morvox strode down the length of the refectory, casually smashing aside any mortals who blundered into his path. The remaining Shardenus troops had started fleeing by then, dropping their weapons into the mire and searching frantically for some kind of refuge. A few of them wept like children, terrified by the night-black giants in their midst despite all the marks and sigils of protection carved into their suppurating flesh.
Las-beams continued to flicker out from the far end of the refectory, many of them poorly aimed. Morvox walked straight into the heart of the incoming torrent, grunting as his plate was hit by several more beams.
A lumbering figure blundered into his visual field: a mutant, dressed in the remnants of a Shardenus Guard uniform, running blindly away from him. He was far bigger than most of the others and was decked out in plates of loose-fitting carapace armour. In place of his right arm he had a forest of writhing, stubby growths, each ending with a curved hook.
The mutant screamed as he ran, and the sound of it somehow cut through the cacophony around him. He took several las-beams to the chest as he blundered onwards, but they seemed to fizzle out before they did any serious damage. A trail of glowing spores streamed out in his wake, shimmering with phosphorescence.
Morvox went after him, catching up quickly and hauling his chainsword back for the swing. As the blade was about to plummet down into the mutant’s back, something made him hold back.
‘For the Emperor!’ came a voice, as clear and unsullied as daylight.
Morvox stayed his hand, just in time to see a mortal dart out in front of the mutant. The man’s head was bare, and a line of blood ran down his temple. His unruly blond hair swung around his face as he shoved a lasgun right into the mutant’s distorted torso. He fired, and the point-blank blast halted the creature in its tracks, sending it reeling backwards, chest smoking. Before the man could reload, the mutant lurched back into the attack, punching out with its hook-handed arm and aiming at the man’s neck.
Had it landed, the blow would have taken the man’s head clean off. By then, though, Morvox had seen enough. He swept his chainsword round in a wide arc, carving straight through the creature’s upper body. The whirring blades dragged through the corrupted flesh, churning it up and throwing gobbets in all direction.
The mutant screamed, and Morvox jerked the blade down, tearing through ribs and organs. With a throaty cry of agony, the mutant broke into a death-spasm, flinging its tortured limbs out and shuddering in time with the rhythm of the cycling teeth of the chainsword.
Morvox wrenched the weapon free and let the mutant collapse to the ground. Then he turned to face the other one, the lone soldier with the blond hair. For a second, he let the chainsword blades whirr on – his instincts were to keep killing. In truth, that was all he ever truly wished to do.
The man’s expression halted him. It was ecstatic. His eyes, full of defiance and determination, shone in the dark like jewels. Morvox could see evidence of wounds all across his body, especially around his shoulder, where blood had seeped through bandages.
Behind that man, arranged in ranks three deep, were other fighters, all of them decked out in variants of Shardenus military uniforms with the insignia removed. A woman stood just beyond the blond-haired man. Behind her, hundreds more had taken their positions, each with a lasgun in hand. They were all staring at Morvox, everything else forgotten in the face of the giant standing before them.
‘Praise His immortal name!’ cried the blond-haired man, falling to one knee before Morvox and making the sign of the aquila.
Morvox glanced down at him, uncertain how to react. From behind him, he could hear the final sounds of butchery as the Iron Hands finished off the remaining Shardenus soldiers.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Morvox, letting his chain-sword run freely, still poised to use it.
‘I am Alend Marivo, lord,’ replied the man, his face transported with excitement, as if some long-planned scheme had just come to fruition. ‘Of the 9th Platoon, 3rd Company, 23rd Shardenus Imperial Guard. Loyal to the Throne of Terra, as are those who serve under me.’
He rose to his feet again, showing no fear of the whining chainsword held just a hand’s breadth from his face.
‘We are ready to serve, lord,’ said Marivo, looking directly at Morvox as he spoke. ‘What are your orders?’
Still Morvox hesitated. The only indigenous mortals he’d seen in the Melamar hives had been traitors or civilians, and both had been slaughtered in droves. The man before him was neither. He showed no trace of fear; only expectation.
Morvox let his chainsword gutter out. As the blades slowed, flecks of torn flesh dropped to the floor.
Morvox considered the question. He knew the scant forces under Marivo’s command would be of little consequence in the battles to come. A few hundred troops, each armed only with las-weapons, would be little more than a hindrance to the main battlegroup – their rations and supplies alone would probably outweigh any military benefit they could bring.
And yet.
‘How long have you been fighting?’ Morvox asked, trying to modify the machine-growl of his voice so it didn’t sound like a threat.
‘Since you made planetfall, lord,’ said Marivo proudly. ‘We brought down a defence tower when the airborne assault began. Since then we’ve been harrying the traitor forces, aiming to join with you, just as Valien instructed.’
‘Valien?’
‘Your agent, lord,’ said Marivo. ‘Surely you know?’
Morvox grunted, and stowed his chainsword. By then his clave had finished their work. They came to join him. At the sight of more armour-clad monsters striding through ankle-deep pools of still-steaming human gore, even Marivo swallowed.
‘What now, brother-sergeant?’ asked Fierez, barely looking at the mortals.
Morvox ignored him. He ran through the options for an unusually long time – five seconds – before reaching a conclusion.
‘You will come with us,’ said Morvox to Marivo. ‘All of you. The spearhead is in the Primus hive. You will be given your orders, and will deploy accordingly.’
The Guardsman nodded. His eagerness was palpable.
‘By your command,’ he said. ‘We wish to serve again, all of us.’
Morvox regarded Marivo coolly. Once, perhaps, he would have found such dedication to duty admirable. He had served with mortals before, and had witnessed great heroism as well as abject wretchedness. Back then, he had felt that heroism required some kind of reward, some kind of encouragement. In a darkening galaxy, the mass of humanity needed support as well as censure. To abandon them, to use them for some greater purpose; that had seemed careless at the least, callous at the worst.
Morvox found he
could no longer summon up such thoughts. As he looked at Marivo, he saw only the pathetic eagerness, the naivety, the lack of power. The man looked too fragile, too weak. Too fleshy.
A sensation like an itch broke out across the back of his neck.
‘You will do your duty,’ Morvox said, and turned away.
Nethata glanced at the auspex readings, and allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction.
‘Maintain course,’ he voxed to Malevolentia’s commander. ‘We have them now.’
Since close-range hostilities had broken out, Nethata had withdrawn from the main turret and hunkered down with the rest of the tank’s crew in the main command unit. Malevolentia had been kitted out with high-gain scanner equipment, giving him an overview of the entire warzone. He and Heriat pored over it, studying flickering motes on rotating hololiths, plotting ingress routes, marking weaknesses in the ever-extending supply lines.
‘We are still some distance from Rauth’s coordinates,’ said Heriat. His voice was even – he was just stating the fact.
‘I know that, Slavo,’ said Nethata, affecting unconcern.
Even as he spoke, he recognised how much of a strain it put on him to disobey a direct order.
No, that was not right. He was disobeying nothing, and the relationship between Rauth and the Guard was not entirely simple. The Adeptus Astartes was a separate branch of the Imperial military machine, a vast, sprawling force of trillions that encompassed a million worlds and battlefields. The Guard did not answer to them, and they did not answer to the Guard. Only convention and expedience made Rauth the overall commander of the Shardenus operation; the vast majority of Territo’s resources owed their direct allegiance to Nethata.
And so it was perfectly within his rights to take his time responding to Rauth’s summons. Nethata had freedom of manoeuvre, the right to exercise his judgement, a duty of care over his men.
The Ferik were his men. In the normal run of things he looked out for them – ensured they got their supplies in decent time, were well-equipped and supported, didn’t end up being driven into useless dead ends. He had stood by long enough while Rauth had herded whole companies of prime soldiery into ruinous, bloody gunfights. He’d seen the casualty rates from the Melamar front, and they had stuck in his gullet.
The tank battalions were different. Nethata had maintained full control over them, just as he had with the long-range artillery pieces. They were his weapons, ones over which the Iron Hands, now they were fully occupied with spire-fighting, could not easily lay claim.
So he didn’t disobey; not quite. He just took his time in responding. A warzone was a complicated place, and the targets before him just kept lining up.
Malevolentia rocked as its enormous cannon fired. Nethata didn’t need to look at the tactical display to know how devastating the impact would be. The enemy didn’t possess tanks of the same calibre, though they had plenty of units capable of troubling the rest of Territo’s convoy. In the broken wasteland between the hives, the fighting had become thick and difficult.
‘The Warhounds are leaving,’ said Heriat.
Nethata only half-listened, still held rapt by the dancing lights over the hololith pillar. He could see his forces, company by company, forcing their way north alongside the burning flanks of Melamar Primus. In the distance, even more immense, were the walls of the first Axis hive. Beyond that, out of range of all useful sensor readings, was the Capitolis, the ultimate target.
‘This is the right approach,’ said Nethata, talking to himself. ‘Rauth would see it too, were he not so pig-headed.’
Shardenus Prime was, essentially, a ring of subordinate spires arranged around the Capitolis in the centre. Only one element of that protective circle had been broken – both Melamar conurbations were shattered and smouldering. Nethata could see that a direct approach across the wasteland in such conditions would be a mistake of an elementary nature. An invading army, out in the open, would find itself sandwiched between the huge guns mounted on the Capitolis walls and supporting fire from the unharmed Axis, Hierat, Ceres, Temnos and Phelox hives. Even the mighty Iron Hands would suffer in that scenario.
No, the right thing to do was to take out the subordinate hives, one by one, to clear the way forward. At the least, Axis could be destroyed. Nethata had the means to do it – the tanks, the guns, the troops – he just needed time.
He also knew, of course, that Rauth had a problem with time, but that was his issue to deal with.
‘Sir, the Warhounds are heading west.’
Nethata maintained concentration on the tactical display. His forces had spread out, company by company, hammering the enemy back, clearing the way for the assault on Axis. Ahead of them, twenty kilometres distant, the two Warlord Titans were bludgeoning spire-based targets with vicious abandon.
‘Why?’ he asked absently.
‘I don’t know,’ said Heriat. He had reproach in his voice then. ‘Should we not make some attempt to find out?’
Nethata looked up. He didn’t like hearing disapproval from his advisor. They had been through too much together for that.
‘You have something to say, Slavo?’
Heriat looked evenly at him. The man’s skin had got worse during his time on Shardenus. How much longer, Nethata wondered, did he have? Heriat’s continued existence was something he had a direct interest in; something, after all, that he’d paid heavily to extend.
‘This is a dangerous game,’ Heriat said. ‘Rauth is not a man to be toyed with.’
‘He is not a man at all.’
‘He will wish to know why our course has deviated.’
‘When he asks, I will tell him.’
Heriat’s sore-laced mouth pursed.
‘I understand, sir,’ he said. ‘I understand why you’re doing this. Think, though, how far you can take this, and all for pride.’
‘Pride?’
‘Examine yourself,’ said Heriat. ‘Please. You’ve achieved everything a mortal could hope in the service of the Imperium. What test could remain, except, perhaps, defying the Emperor’s elect?’
Nethata felt his cheeks flush with anger.
He held Heriat’s gaze a little longer. Further down in the cramped command chamber, he heard men go about their business, affecting not to hear the strained conversation between their superiors.
‘Is that truly what you think this is?’
Heriat didn’t blink.
‘Not wholly,’ he said. ‘Like I said, examine yourself.’
Nethata felt an uncomfortable pang then, right in his torso, like nerves before the first experience of combat.
They only respect strength.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps this was just some futile trial of wills, human versus transhuman. He’d always told himself it was about the lives of his men, the integrity of the Ferik Tactical, the triumph of ordered military planning over a headlong dash into disaster.
Heriat knew him about as well as any man alive. He knew his foibles, his weaknesses, the little tics and habits a man picks up over centuries of service.
That didn’t mean he was right.
‘We’ll maintain course,’ said Nethata at last, affecting more certainty than he felt. ‘Once we’ve blunted the long-range guns on Axis, we can head back to Melamar. Rauth can wait a little longer – if he objects, I shall speak to him myself.’
He let his eyes fall away from Heriat’s soft, critical gaze.
‘This is about tactics, Slavo,’ he said. ‘This is about prosecuting this war the way it ought to be prosecuted.’
He turned back to the tactical display. The three Warhound Titans under Princeps Lopi’s command were indeed heading west, away from the larger Warlords and towards the northernmost point on Melamar Primus. Deployment runes from the Ferik brigades under Rauth’s supervision clustered at the same location, deep underground.
Nethata knew he should query that. He should have queried it earlier, back when the first signals began registering. That, though, would
require opening a vox-channel to Rauth, something he wanted to postpone as long as possible.
So he shifted his attention back to the columns of tanks and tracked guns, watching as they ground onwards, driving a wedge north-east and slowly coming within range of Axis’s long-range weaponry.
‘They only respect strength,’ he breathed, watching the lights on the hololith dance like ghosts.
Chapter Twelve
Recall the principal lessons.
Naim Morvox mouthed the words to himself slowly, just as he had done many times before. He felt his chapped lips move against one another, brushing against the steel wire that ran down the edge of his jawline and into his helm gorget.
Only the spirit is pure.
The mind may be swayed, the body may fail.
Only the soul cradles vengeance purely.
Become the weapon of the soul.
His clave stood behind him. He could hear the hum of their armour – a tinny, sparse sound in the darkness. The life-signs of his troops registered on his lens display as nine Medusan sigils, badly rendered by the Martian creators of his suit’s visual system. For all that the fabricators of the Red Planet professed to understand the psyche of the Iron Hands, they still fell short where it mattered.
Where the mind hesitates, overcome it.
Where the body fails, replace it.
Aspire to the condition of the Primarch.
Emulate his union with steel.
He stood in a gigantic hall at the very base of Melamar Primus. The ceiling was lost in darkness – it could have been over a hundred metres up. Colossal pillars of ferro-crete soared up into obscurity, marching in long ranks along the immense width of the chamber.
Never waver.
Never retreat.
Never doubt.
Morvox turned his head slightly, casting his gaze behind him.
High up the walls, ancient inscriptions had been carved into stone panels. Most were unreadable, scrubbed near-clean by the wearing millennia. Morvox could still make out a broken passage over on the far right – majoram portam ad Capitolis Shardenus – though only because his helm lens magnified the resolution.
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