Seeing what was happening, and eager to grant Balthasar some measure of rectitude for their brother’s death, other Deathwings stepped from cover and engaged the now regrouping Black Legionnaires, inspiring more of the heads-down Mordians to abandon their cover and do likewise. Shoulder to shoulder, Gabriel and Barachiel drove back an embryonic counter-assault, shredding three of the dark-armoured traitors with a concerted volley.
Balthasar’s sword was a blur of blue energy, sweeping through the air with a crackle of energy. At the last moment, the Black Legionnaire raised his own blade, countering the blow in a shower of chainblade teeth. The two warriors pushed against each other, both weapons protesting at the strain being placed upon them. Though wearing only the ancient armour that may have once been painted in the colours of the Luna Wolves, then the Sons of Horus, the traitor’s strength matched that of Balthasar, augmented as it was by a suit of tactical dreadnought armour. Servos and muscles straining, the Deathwing allowed himself to be driven back, overbalancing the Chaos Marine slightly. Dragging his power sword away from the squealing chainsword, Balthasar drew back the energy-tinged blade and swept with it once again. Momentum his temporary master, the traitor stepped forwards into the blow but, in defiance of his bulk, spun away from the Dark Angel’s blade. The tip of Balthasar’s weapon caught the Black Legionnaire around the waist, gouging a deep furrow in his armour from which spilled crimson that stained the jet of the ceramite.
The traitor did not bellow in rage like a lackey of the Blood God, nor did he revel in his own pain like a follower of the Prince of Pleasure, instead bringing his weapon back to the guard position and awaiting the next riposte like the consummate warrior he evidently was. A moment later, was became the operative word.
The ground in front of the Traitor Marine threw up dust where the rock had been turned to powder, tiny explosions impacting every two metres or so racing towards him. The heavy bolter shells reached the Black Legionnaire and, instead of dust, a cloud of blood and viscera filled the air, a dozen rounds disintegrating him in the space of seconds. His body fell forwards, helmeted head crashing down in front of Balthasar’s feet and the Deathwing drove his power sword down into the traitor’s skull, being careful to avoid damaging the gene-seed in the throat.
Tugging his blade from the corpse, Balthasar turned to find the source of the Black Legionnaire’s demise and found the sky full of Dark Angels and Imperial Navy flyers breaking over the cover of the mountains. At their head was Roar of Vengeance, most ancient of all the Dark Angels Thunderhawks and, when he deployed with the Chapter, personal transport of Supreme Grand Master Azrael. As it got closer, Balthasar saw that the barrels of the nose-mounted heavy bolters were still smoking and he raised his blade in salute and gratitude. Being denied his victory in personal combat was not an issue, Jephael’s slayer had been vanquished and vengeance belonged to the Dark Angels. As Roar of Vengeance swept low, Azrael returned the salute from the cockpit.
Sheathing his sword, Balthasar sprinted down the slope, storm bolter blazing, to help secure the landing zone.
826960.M41 / Inquisition Shuttle Virtuous. Imperial Fleet, Pandorax System
‘I still don’t see anything,’ Shira said, leaning forward in the pilot’s seat to peer out through the cockpit window. All around her, lights flashed and dials spun on consoles and instrument arrays, the purpose or function of which she had little idea. The shuttle that Tzula had left in the jungle was a very different craft from a Kestrel and though the principles of flying it were the same, she was sure there were systems that would aid their journey that she was in complete ignorance of. She had managed to get the cloaking system working at least and, as they glided between the monolithic chips of the Pythos Reconquest Fleet, they did so unseen.
‘It’s not what you can see,’ Epimetheus said, standing over the co-pilot’s seat that was far too tiny to accommodate him. ‘It’s what you can’t.’
Shira turned to look at the Space Marine. ‘That’s not very helpful, you know?’ she said.
‘Here. Look again,’ he said.
Shira turned back, feeling a tingling sensation around her eyes as she did so. Although he had only used his powers on Shira on a couple of occasions, she found it disconcerting that he never asked or gave warning that he was about to do so. The ‘possession’ he carried out a couple of days ago was particularly invasive and Shira had not fully recovered from its effects, a weird feeling she could neither pinpoint nor shake.
‘I’m sorry but this is necessary,’ Epimetheus said, if not reading her thoughts then certainly sensing her discomfort. ‘Can you see it now?’
A purple haze forming on the periphery of her vision, Shira squinted and, as if looking down a tunnel, the vague impression of… something resolved itself.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘It’s like somebody has torn off a strip of space and has put it in the wrong place, like it’s not supposed to be there.’
Epimetheus smiled. ‘Precisely. Now, can you take us in closer?’
Up close, the outline of the Lamentation – the call sign the ship was broadcasting – certainly resembled that of a Neptune-class supply frigate, but one that had been covered in a blanket made from the void. The dips and grooves of the vessel’s hull could be made out along with the bumps and rises of sensor arrays and comms equipment; it wasn’t so much that the ship was invisible, it was more like space had been wrapped around it.
‘There should be a landing bay towards the rear of the ship. Bring the shuttle down on top of the hull and I’ll insert from the outside,’ Epimetheus said causing Shira to frown. ‘Too risky to attempt a landing on board. If they don’t have the bay guarded, the arrival sensors will trigger on board the bridge and tip them off.’
Satisfied with the Space Marine’s reasoning, she slowed the shuttle’s velocity trying to find a clear patch of hull to set down upon. Seeing a spot at the very rear of the ship that appeared smoother than the rest, she went to engage the landing gear. Out of habit, she reached down underneath the console to find the release lever but, realising she wasn’t at the controls of a Kestrel, sat back up again and studied the myriad controls blinking at her.
‘Is there a problem?’ Epimetheus said after Shira had guided the shuttle over the rear of the Lamentation and turned one hundred and eighty degrees to fly back along the hull.
‘No. No problem here,’ she said dismissively, eyes flitting this way and that, scanning the unfamiliar icons and runes of the shuttle for any control that might operate the landing gear.
‘If you’re looking for the landing gear,’ Epimetheus said, leaning forwards over the co-pilot’s chair and stretching out an arm, ‘it’s this one here.’ He stabbed one of the flashing buttons with a huge finger. The suppressed whirr of three magnetised feet emerging from the bottom of the shuttle followed.
‘That’s the one I was going to press,’ Shira said not very convincingly.
‘Of course you were,’ Epimetheus replied, smiling. He unlocked his helmet from his thigh and put it over his head, sealing it in place with a hiss of pressure. ‘As soon as I’m clear, head back to Pythos and find Tzula and Strike. If this goes to plan, they should be gearing up to assault Atika by the time you find them.’
‘But–’ Shira said.
‘No “buts”, Shira. That’s an order.’
Leaving no room for protest, Epimetheus stepped through into the shuttle’s rear chamber and made ready to disembark.
826960.M41 / Delver-stronghold 2761/b. Mount Dhume, Pythos
The hellhammer cannon erupted into a riot of noise and explosive fury before the Valkyries carrying it had even begun their landing.
In the command compartment Strike directed the crew in the reloading and firing, not aiming for specific targets but instead laying down a carpet of suppressing fire to cover the approach of the combined Catachan and Dark Angels forces. Still several metres above the landing, the four Valkyries that had transported it from Thermenos released the thick metal chains s
uspending Traitor’s Bane between them and the tank dropped, cracking open the rocky terrain beneath. Thanks to the impact suppression system that K’Cee had overhauled, to the occupants of the tank it felt as though they had landed on sand. The jokaero thrust out his lower jaw and nodded his head in satisfaction as the tank sped towards the enemy position the instant it was on the ground, all weapons blazing.
A Rhino flipped violently into the air, its flaming husk crashing back down on the two Black Legionnaires who had been using it as cover. The barrel of the Hellhammer’s main gun spun to target a second Rhino causing the half dozen traitors behind it to beat a hasty retreat. Two never made it from the armoured personnel carrier’s shadow, cut down by bolter fire from a squad of Dark Angels deploying on jump packs from a rapidly moving Thunderhawk. The handful who avoided their comrades’ fate were driven onto the plasma cannon of Corvex, superheated hydrogen burning through armour and roasting the flesh and organs of those beneath. The Master of the Ravenwing gracefully turned his jetbike through one hundred and eighty degrees, skimming back over the smouldering Traitor Marines to finish off any survivors.
Heartened by the arrival of reinforcements, the Mordian soldiers taking cover at the entrance of the mine charged down the approach, trapping the Chaos forces between a wave of green on one side, a tide of blue on the other. In amongst the Mordians, Gabriel and the Deathwing roused the Imperial Guardsmen, their white armour sticking out like surf at the head of a tidal wave.
The Black Legion caught between them didn’t stand a chance.
From a view slit in Traitor’s Bane, Strike watched as the approach to the mine head became a cauldron of las and bolter fire. With no way out, the few remaining Black Legionnaires attempted a desperate rearguard, fighting back to back, mowing down Guardsmen by the score. But to no avail.
Azrael and Draigo at their head, power-armoured figures pushed through the throng of humans, some shoved bodily out of the way by Dark Angels eager to claim their kills. From the rear, the Deathwing converged, penning in the last few Black Legionnaires.
There were no offers of clemency from either side, no appeals for weapons to be laid down or terms of surrender proposed. Nobody begged for their life to be spared and not a single one of them stopped fighting until the breath had fled from their lungs and their hearts had stopped beating. Less than three minutes after Roar of Vengeance had crested the peak of Mount Dhume, the Black Legion had been defeated.
It had been a rout. If Azrael had only brought a third of the force with him – a quarter even – it would still have been a resounding victory, but the Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels did not look pleased. Standing over the corpses of the slain Black Legionnaires a heated exchange was taking place between Azrael, Draigo and Gabriel. Enemy bodies were kicked over onto their backs and helmets cracked open with sword tips, revealing their faces for identification. Not supplying the result that Azrael had been looking for, he went face-to-face with Gabriel, simmering resentment threatening to boil over into violence. Gabriel stood his ground. Moments later, Azrael broke off from the confrontation and raised his head skywards.
‘Abaddon! Show yourself. Come and face me on the field of battle instead of cowering behind rocks like the craven traitor you are,’ Azrael bellowed. He spun around slowly, looking at the surrounding peaks and outcrops for signs of movement. All about him, human and Space Marine eyes did the same.
The echo from the Dark Angel’s words had almost faded to nothing when the silhouette of a huge figure, right arm terminating in a crackling power claw, appeared on a promontory high above the battlefield. He raised his other arm, sword in hand, but it was not in salute. It was in threat. Abaddon brought the blade down in a chopping motion.
Inside Traitor’s Bane, the hairs on the back of Strike’s arms rose and the tang of scorched ozone carried on the air.
826960.M41 / Lamentation. Imperial Fleet, Pandorax System
As he had surmised, Epimetheus’s insertion onto the supply vessel had been without incident. The landing bay was empty, save for a few Chaos fighter-interceptors that could be used to eliminate any Imperial craft that took too much of an interest in the Lamentation or, more likely, for escape if Corpulax and Huron Blackheart’s scheme went awry. No guards had been posted and there was very little sign of recent activity.
Deeper into the ship, things had taken on a very different complexion. Corpses of the crew had been left to rot where they had been butchered, many with wounds to the back of the head and torso where they had been shot from behind. Just as Epimetheus was boarding via stealth, it appeared the raiders who had taken this vessel had done so too. Where wounds from attacks from the rear weren’t apparent, throats had been slit to prevent the victim from crying out for help.
But it was the dead who were the lucky ones.
As in Atika plague zombies lurched along the corridors, but instead of rock and ore, they carried vials and containers, food and poison with which to taint the fleet’s provisions. Unlike Atika, their overseers wore crimson armour, the red crudely painted over whatever colour their armour originally was.
Red Corsairs. Rather than have Tzula explain who Huron Blackheart was, Epimetheus had been able to extract the information directly from her mind but what he had found there appalled him. Bad enough that Horus had turned half of the Emperor’s Legions ten thousand years ago but for it to still happen today, often willingly, was difficult to comprehend. Were the false promises of the Dark Powers still that attractive after all that history had taught? No matter. Vengeance ran in Epimetheus’s blood and soon, when the ship was destroyed, vengeance would be his, regardless of the cost.
Epimetheus was forced to keep to the shadows and seek cover in cabins and crew dormitories to avoid detection. Though his desire to throttle these turncoats was immense, the last thing he wanted to do was tip the pirates off about his presence on board and his progress towards his goal was both slow and measured.
His psychic gifts had revealed two locations on the ship where sorcerous activity was at its most intense. The first was amidships while the other was several decks lower down, but both burned like beacon fires in the warp. According to a parchment schematic of the ship he had discovered in one of the officers’ cabins, the first was on the route he needed to take to reach the second so that was where he was headed.
The closer he got, the more the ship began to alter. At first, it was simply a rime of hoarfrost dappling the metal of the bulkhead, but this gradually gave way to the metal itself taking on a new aspect and bizarre fronds descending from the ceiling like polyps. The plague zombies and their overseers became less frequent, as if this part of the ship had been shunned due to the changes wrought upon it and their mystical nature.
The psychic resonance grew stronger and Epimetheus drew his bolt pistol, safe in the knowledge that if he were to use it, nobody other than those on the receiving end of the contents of its magazine would be able to hear it. His back to an ice-sheened wall, he sidled along it, approaching an open hatchway from which he could hear voices. In such close proximity of others gifted by othersight, he had to strain to keep his presence in the warp occluded. Reaching the threshold, he risked a surreptitious glance into the room beyond.
Four Chaos sorcerers stood facing each other in a circle at the centre of the chamber. The walls and floor were even more misshapen than the approaching corridors, and leering daemonic faces filled every surface, observing the scene dispassionately with unblinking, lidless eyes.
All the sorcerers carried staves, as different from each other as their bearers. The one with his back to Epimetheus wore armour of iridescent purple, trimmed with silver and black hair that tumbled over ornate pauldrons. His staff was made of the darkest wood, almost black in colour, and it was inset along its length with human-sized eyes, each blinking out of time with the others.
Next to him was an emaciated figure, his unadorned, unpainted power armour too large for his diminished frame. His face was wrinkled like the bar
k of a dead tree and his completely bloodshot eyes and the clumps of wispy hair that dotted his scalp lent him the aspect of one who had paid a high price for his dalliances with the warp. The staff in his hand, as simple as his armour yet greyed and carbonised by fire, served to reinforce this.
Opposite him was a sorcerer who was obviously a follower of the Plague God. Though still recognisable as power armour, the plates no longer resembled ceramite and were instead coated in a scabrous material criss-crossed in a network of translucent veins through which flowed pus and other noxious fluids. His face appeared to be was painted white, but just beneath the surface capillaries and burst blood vessels gave it a pale violet hue, the same colour as his staff which looked like a length of solidified intestine.
The final sorcerer stood a head taller than the others, and in him Epimetheus recognised something. Under different circumstances, ones where the Imperium had not been torn asunder by civil strife in millennia past, the Grey Knight might have called him a kindred spirit, another who could recall times past as if it was only yesterday. The traitor’s armour was the exact twin of Epimetheus’s own set of Cataphractii but, whereas the Grey Knight’s suit was silver tarnished by a few remaining patches of green, the sorcerer’s was blue and gold. Even hooded and in unfamiliar livery, Epimetheus could still recognise his features as being that of a Prosperan, one of the Thousand Sons sorcerer elite.
Epimetheus was preparing to burst into the chamber and kill all four of them before they could react when the son of Magnus tapped his ornate staff twice on the floor and uttered a single word in a language Epimetheus didn’t understand.
When he swung around the corner, bolt pistol raised, all he found was the after image of teleportation and the whiff of seared ozone.
826960.M41 / Delver-stronghold 2761/b. Mount Dhume, Pythos
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 336