Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Good luck,’ she called over her shoulder. The Grey Knight stood framing the open hatchway, his hands gripping the frame. A burst of blue balefire silhouetted him against the darkening evening sky. In a blink he was gone.

  Shira hit the door control again and the hatch retracted. Pulling back on the controls, she made for the open skies and away from Atika. As she ploughed the shuttle through the thick grey cloud cover, a familiar voice invaded her mind for one last time.

  +Good luck, Shira.+

  Epimetheus tucked his arms and legs in as the ground quickly came up to meet him. It had been ten thousand years since he had free-fallen from a moving craft – in the days before he had sworn his new oaths and his gene-seed swapped out for that containing the Emperor’s own biological material – but the memory of it came easily to him.

  His shoulder hit first, shattering the glassaic ground under the force of impact and opening a wide crater. Momentum carrying him on, he rolled, limbs still tight to his body to prevent them snapping or snagging until finally coming to rest some twenty-five metres from where he had made landfall. He lifted himself quickly to his feet, drawing his scavenged bolter in the same movement and tracked it around in a full circle, alert for any signs of Abaddon and his Black Legionnaires. Satisfied that there were none, he made his way to the tunnel mouth, weapon still raised and using the steaming wrecks of vehicles as cover.

  Eviscerated corpses lay strewn haphazardly across the smooth floor and draped over burned-out frames of Chimera and Leman Russ variants. True to what he had seen of the Black Legion’s handiwork in the preceding weeks, this was a total massacre, though on a vastly greater scale to any of the lightly garrisoned delver-strongholds. Through the lashing rain, as far as even augmented eyes could see, an entire regiment lay butchered, the downpour washing their blood into narrow gullies that bisected the battlefield like veins. Almost an entire regiment.

  Noise and movement in the distance drew Epimetheus’s attention and he raised his bolter to his shoulder, looking out over the wide body and barrel to find its source. Proceeding cautiously, he stepped over the dead as he followed the sound. As he got closer two voices became apparent, one weak and little more than a hoarse whisper, the other deep, resonant and distorted by static.

  ‘Please…’ the quiet voice said. ‘Ab… Abaddon is in the… underhive. Kill… killed us all. You have… have to stop him…’

  ‘What are his numbers?’ came the vox-distorted response.

  ‘They hit… us so quickly. Hard… hard to tell.’ The man’s voice was laboured. Breathing, let alone speaking, was a supreme effort for him. ‘Doz… dozens? Hundreds…?’

  The second voice was lower this time, as if the speaker had turned away to address somebody else. The noise in the background sounded like a mighty battle was raging. ‘Don’t be a fool, Azrael. If the Black Legion are sweeping in behind us, we have to meet their assault.’

  Epimetheus could make out another voice replying but his enhanced hearing couldn’t discern the exact words.

  ‘Well, you and your Dark Angels can die and your damned secrets with you,’ the voice at the end of the vox-link raged. ‘I am withdrawing my Grey Knights to meet the threat.’

  Epimetheus was now close enough to see the owner of the first voice. A human lay slumped against the side of a semi-intact scout vehicle, a vox-receiver held limply to his mouth. His tunic was soaked, not only with rainwater but with blood too, the white chevrons denoting his rank of lieutenant stained red. The lower half of his body was missing from the waist down and his face was as pale as the moon rising overhead. He noticed Epimetheus approaching and grew more animated, thick black liquid spilling from his mouth as he spoke.

  ‘No… no. Sweet Emperor, please… have mercy,’ the man spluttered. As Epimetheus drew nearer, his tone changed to one of serenity. ‘You… you aren’t Black Legion. You’re one of… of them. You’re a… a Grey Knight.’ His eyes grew wide and in that instant he finally gave in to his wounds, one last long exhale presaging his journey into oblivion. The vox, which had remained open, sprang rudely to life.

  ‘Who is that? Why have you fled the battle? This is Supreme Grand Master Draigo. Answer me, Emperor damn you!’ the other voice boomed. After a pause filled by the static addled noise of combat, it added, more calmly, ‘Lord Epimetheus?’

  Epimetheus crouched down, closing the dead man’s eyes with one hand and picking up the vox-receiver with the other. He lingered for a moment.

  ‘Lord Epimetheus? Is that you?’ Draigo said again.

  Epimetheus raised the handset, tiny in his huge hands, but let it drop again. Getting to his feet he opened a mind link with the Chapter Master of the Grey Knights.

  +Well met, Master Draigo,+ he sent. +From what Tzula tells me, the Brotherhoods have a worthy commander.+

  +By the Throne!+ Draigo’s mind voice was full of reverence. +It is you, returned to us after all these years.+

  +I am returned to no one. It was my sworn oath to remain here in slumber watching over the seals. Those seals are now broken and, though I am released of my oath, I am still duty bound to ensure that this world does not fall to Chaos and become a haven for the Neverborn.+

  +But you are one of the–+

  +Who I am and what I was is of no relevance. All that matters now is closing the Damnation Cache and dealing with what was released from the Emerald Cave.+

  +You have done both of those things before, but you choose not to aid us in our hour of need?+ Draigo’s reverence started to secede to frustration. +Why do you abandon us?+

  +I have not abandoned you. I came here to deal with Abaddon and his Black Legion dogs who are snapping at your heels. You already have the means to vanquish the daemon and close the Cache.+

  +The athame.+

  +And Tzula. She does not know it, but I have implanted within her the knowledge she needs to use the knife to seal the portal. She will not be able to recall what she has done once she has committed the act, but the information will bury itself in her psyche should it be needed again.+

  +And the daemon?+

  +Azrael’s plan is sound. You only have to get close enough to the daemon to carry it out.+

  +How could you know of the Dark Angel’s plan? It was never discussed by vox so you could not have intercepted it.+

  A pause followed by realisation.

  +The scriptures are true.+ The awe returned to Draigo’s mind voice. +Your psychic power levels are prodigious.+

  +I have been privy to Azrael’s thoughts ever since he arrived on Pythos.+

  +Hence your reluctance to reveal your presence to him.+

  +What would you know of that?+ Epimetheus countered.

  +Not nearly enough. But if you wish to share what you have found in the recesses of his mind…+

  Some vestige of Epimetheus’s former loyalties rose to the fore. +All men have secrets and Azrael is entitled to his. Just like I know about your future, Kaldor Draigo, and choose to keep that knowledge from you.+

  +My future?+ Draigo sent. +What happens to me in the future?+

  +You will find out soon enough as you will be the one to live it.+ Epimetheus replied. +We waste time with this discussion. I will go and hold Abaddon off. You use the time I buy you to banish the daemon and reseal the Cache. Farewell, Kaldor Draigo.+

  Abruptly, Epimetheus cut the mind link. Hoisting his bolter in both hands, the ancient Grey Knight set off through the rain in pursuit of Abaddon.

  157961.M41 / The Emerald Cave. Atika, Pythos

  Blood cascaded from Draigo’s nose, the strain of maintaining a psychic sanctuary around himself and Tzula whilst simultaneously battling off a cohort of daemons and engaging in communion was exacting its toll.

  In his shadow, the junior interrogator fired away relentlessly with her plasma pistol, each clean headshot accounting for another of the Neverborn. Her bodyglove was torn open across her stomach and thighs and she bled from gashes to her arms and chest. The athame remained safely tucked into her belt.<
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  ‘You looked distracted for a moment there,’ Tzula said, drawing in closer to the Grey Knight to make herself heard. ‘Having second thoughts about withdrawing to face Abaddon?’

  The Titansword flashed through the air, bifurcating a daemon that had strayed within the shield generated by his mind. ‘No need. A friend of yours is taking care of that.’

  Even in the midst of battle she spared a grin.

  Draigo swung his blade again, taking an enemy down on both the front and backstroke. It was like stamping his feet to clear water from a lake; no matter how many he killed, more would flood in to take their place. ‘This is getting us nowhere. With me.’

  Pushing the boundary of his sanctuary further out, he wielded the Titansword one-handed, raising the storm bolter mounted on his other arm and blasted a path through the daemons through to where Azrael was fighting nearby. Gibbering fiends tried to move in to plug the void but fell under the concentrated fire of the Grey Knight and the inquisitor, those not eliminated by plasma blast or bolt shell impaled on the end of his sword or smashed out of the way by storm shield.

  ‘What changed your mind, Grand Master?’ Azrael scoffed as Draigo took up position alongside him. As they had done several times already during the Pandorax campaign, the Sword of Secrets and the Titansword rose and fell in union, slick with the gore of daemons. At his other shoulder, Gabriel fought with an identical vigour and relish.

  The Grey Knight ignored him. ‘We’re bogged down here. For every metre we take, they push us back two.’

  ‘If we could get the teleporters to work this far underground this would have been over long ago. What do you suggest, Draigo?’ Azrael sounded as if he was genuinely open to ideas.

  ‘On the Revenge. Your Deathwing formed a cordon around my Grey Knights to get them to the warp rifts on the lower decks. There are more daemons here but you have more Terminators too.’

  The Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels thought about this for a moment but no more. ‘Gabriel. Form two circles. You have command of the outer, I the inner.’

  ‘As you wish, Lord Azrael,’ Gabriel said. At his signal, close to seventy Terminators formed two concentric rings. The bulk took up position in the outer, a smaller number including Draigo, Tzula, Azrael and the company masters, in the inner. It was a formation the Dark Angels had utilised in combat for millennia and it was the work of mere seconds before they were all in position, the gap between the two armoured rings cleared of daemons.

  At another signal from Gabriel, the outer circle started to move, not only forwards but in a spinning motion too. The inner circle moved in time with them, guns aimed high to deal with any winged daemons or those scrambling over others to bypass the wall of Terminators. Warp lightning leapt from Draigo’s fingertips, turning any daemon it came into contact with to ash. The Deathwing alongside him muttered a curse under his breath and the Grey Knight realised that it was Balthasar, the one he had encountered on board the Revenge when he first met Gabriel. The Terminator was helmeted, but Draigo recognised him by the wave of repulsion and unease he emanated.

  Their progress through the horde was slow but at least it was progress, each metre hard earned and paid for in the hellish blood of the Neverborn. Barely any ivory remained visible of the armour of the Deathwing, each one of them coated from head to foot in unnaturally coloured gore. Even the silver of Draigo’s own Terminator suit was dulled by the foul, stinking liquid.

  The Titans and tanks continued to pound away, the colossal daemon seemingly oblivious and impervious to their weapons. Fledgling horrors oozed from his body like sweat, a continual slick that provided fresh fodder for the Imperial guns or new reapers for their souls depending on where they were drawn forth from the immaterium.

  As quickly as the Imperial forces had gained the upper hand, the battle turned against them.

  Whether it was a reluctance to take any further part in the conflict on the part of its machine spirit, the incorrect prayers incanted over it or simple malfunction, the plasma blaster of one of the Warhound Titans ceased firing. Detecting an opportunity, the daemon sprouted a clump of fat tentacles which it thrust towards the ailing Titan. The war machine brought its other arm to bear but only managed to rattle off a handful of shots before the vulcan mega-bolter seized, the clack clack of a jammed shell issuing forth in place of the roar of full automatic fire. The probing limbs clasped hold of the Warhound, wrapping around it massive arms to stop them from being used as cudgels, acrid steam rising from where corrosive slime met the ancient metal of its body. Servos and motors screeched in protest as the princeps fought to prevent his charge from being dragged into the beast and subsumed into the daemonic mass.

  The fleshy tentacles stretched as the Titan struggled to move backwards until, just as it seemed it was breaking free, the tendrils suddenly withdrew. Momentum did the rest.

  Packed tightly into the confines of the Emerald Cave, neither daemon nor Imperial Guardsman could move quickly enough to avoid the felled Warhound. Like one of the mighty redwoods from the jungle above, it crashed backwards obliterating anything unfortunate enough to be caught underneath it. A Baneblade and its Hellhound escort were crushed under the Titan’s massive head, the ensuing explosion wiping out everything in a five hundred metre radius and setting light to the prone god machine.

  Unfazed by the loss of such a mighty ally, Draigo and the Dark Angels fought on relentlessly but the nature of their enemy changed. Instead of the lesser daemons and spawn of the Prisoner, plague zombies swarmed the twin rings of ceramite, sheer weight of numbers impeding their progress. The Terminator directly in front of Draigo went down, a hole punched clean through his helmet, blood fountaining from the exit wound. His brother alongside him took a round to the shoulder, spinning him backwards but not causing enough damage to remove him from the fight. Draigo followed the report of the bolters back to their source.

  ‘Plague Marines!’ he called, spotting the misshapen armoured forms lurking in amongst their undead minions. Almost taking his warning to be an order, the Deathwing shifted their formation, those among their number armed with close combat weapons and storm shields forming a tighter outer ring to fend off the zombies, the rest firing over their brothers’ shoulders at the Traitor Marines.

  All forward movement ceased as yet more plague zombies hemmed in the Space Marines, tearing away armour to expose the weaker flesh beneath. Anything became a weapon as Draigo and the Dark Angels swung out elbows and knees, rotted limbs and organs popping with each blow.

  The Dark Angel who had taken the shot to the shoulder shuddered as two more rounds found their mark, the first squarely into his chest, the other blasting out the lower half of his torso. Instantly, the plague zombie horde was upon him, dragging him to the ground and revealing his killer.

  A rusted, serrated blade in one remaining hand, the Plague Marine strode boldly forward, fixated on Tzula, who had remained by Draigo’s side. The junior interrogator let off two quick shots of her plasma pistol which her target evaded with an ease belying his bloated form.

  ‘Corpulax,’ she stated plainly to Draigo. The muzzle of her pistol was glowing from overuse and her Catachan blade flashed in her other hand, stabbing viciously at anything that came within arm’s reach.

  Ignoring the Grey Knight, the Plague Lord carved through the ranks of his own thralls to get at Tzula. Draigo swung the Titansword but it snagged against the throng, plague zombies packed in so tight that the dead remained on their feet to serve as further impediment to the Space Marines. Just as Corpulax was about to lunge for the junior interrogator, warp lightning shot forth from Draigo’s free hand, knocking the Traitor Marine backwards.

  ‘It would seem there’s always a knight around to save you, Tzula,’ Corpulax said, disentangling himself from the undead mass. ‘And this one wears shining armour,’ he added, looking Draigo up and down.

  The Grey Knight let rip with another salvo of crackling blue energy from his fingertips, but Corpulax merely waved his hand
to dissipate it.

  ‘My god favours me, Grey Knight. You won’t find me as easy to kill as these daemons or my thralls,’ Corpulax sneered, the knife in his hand lengthening and broadening organically under the malign influence of the warp until it was a match for Draigo’s own blade.

  Raising his sword high, the Plague Lord charged the Supreme Grand Master of the Grey Knights, a benediction to his foul master rasping wetly from his dead lips.

  ‘Right turn, K’Cee,’ Strike called from the command seat.

  The jokaero swung the controls and the tank veered off in the direction of the oncoming daemons the colonel had espied through the viewslit. A slight vibration resonated through the tank as the majority of them were crushed beneath the tracks, the combined efforts of the sponson-mounted flamers and Tindalos’s main gun accounting for those not flattened.

  Traitor’s Bane’s main turret swung around, the hellhammer cannon firing back in the direction from which the tank had come, annihilating a pursuing pack of plague-touched Neverborn. The demolisher cannon did likewise to a second wave of horrors approaching from the front while heavy bolters and flamers continued to despatch anything getting too close.

  With almost two full crews on board, Traitor’s Bane was operating at peak efficiency, its guns only falling silent when all of its immediate targets had been killed. Leaving K’Cee to drive once again, Brigstone had formed part of the loading team for the Hellhammer’s primary weapon system, and as soon as one empty casing had been cleared from the breech, he was there straight away with a fresh shell.

  To Strike, it was just like old times. Brigstone had been a loader on the first ever tank he had commanded, a Leman Russ Eradicator named Longfang, and the man’s indefatigability had seen them through many deadly battles. The enemy back then had been orks, rather than the vile servants of the Plague God, and at that moment Strike would have given anything – even his cherished Catachan fang – to have been back on any of those worlds fighting under open skies instead of trapped deep underground in a ready-made tomb.