[Warhammer 40K] - Victories of the Space marines Read online

  Something was in their midst, hunted and cowering. The xenos had come to slay.

  “Humans!” called out Lokjr, barrelling into the nearest walker. His frost axe slammed against its trailing leg, throwing up shards and sparks.

  “Preserve them,” ordered Ravenblade, dropping to one knee and spraying bolter fire up at the circling flyers.

  Svelok charged into the nearest spiked xenos, ducking under a clumsy swipe and punching up with his power fist. The stone chest shattered as the crackling disruption field tore through it. He threw an uppercut at the monster’s head, ripping away spikes, before cracking it apart with a savage back-handed lunge. What was left of the xenos fell away and he ploughed on, heading to the heart of the melee.

  A dozen weapon-servitors, grey-skinned and fizzing from the acid in the air, were being torn apart by two of the Grendels. Even as Svelok raced to intercept, a big one was ripped limb from limb by a talon-thrust, its pallid flesh impaled on the tips of massive claws, implanted machinery snapping and crunching. Las-blasts spat out in all directions, bouncing harmlessly from the rock-hide of the xenos.

  “What are they doing here?” growled Varek, taking down his target with a volley of superbly positioned bolter rounds and whirling to confront the first of the slower-moving walkers.

  Svelok sent a column of bolter shells into another spiked creature and charged into assault range. Above him, a Grendel was turning, its massive fists clenching with intent.

  “Russ only knows,” he snapped. “Just finish them!”

  There was a crack of thunder above them and forks of lightning plunged from the sky. As coolly as ever, Ravenblade had got to work. Bolts of searing witch-fire slammed down, punching through rock-hide and breaking limbs apart. The rain of whining destruction was withering, and the smaller flyers were cut down from the air.

  Svelok engaged the nearest Grendel, glorying in the crackling aura of his power fist. The wolf-spirit howled within him, and he crunched his fist into the creature’s leading knee-joint. The stone shell shattered, bringing the massive xenos down. It plunged its own fist at Svelok’s head, but the Space Wolf was already moving, darting to the left and releasing a barrage of rounds at the Grendel’s open mouth. The bolts exploded, dousing the monster in a cataclysm of sparks.

  “Death to the alien!” roared Svelok, his ragged voice ringing out of his helm’s vox-unit and echoing across the ravine. His fist clenched around the trigger, and the twin barrels spat more streams of rock-tearing bolts.

  Thrown back by the fury of the assault, the Grendel toppled, broken limbs grasping for purchase. Svelok leapt after it. His armour powered him into the air and on top of the creature’s chest. He plunged down, pinning the monster, his power fist thrumming. Twice, three, four times he punched, his arm moving like a piston, his disruptor-shrouded gauntlet tearing up stone and delving into the heart of the xenos. It cracked, stove, crunched, shattered.

  Then he leapt free, whirling to face his next target, clenching the power fist for another assault.

  The Space Marines had sliced through the xenos as they’d been made to do. Only one of the big walkers remained. Ravenblade had it enclosed in an aura of blazing light, raised from the ground, coils of lightning crackling between it and the Rune Priest’s staff. Helpless, it writhed within the nimbus of psychic power, trapped inside like an insect in amber. Ravenblade uttered a single word. The cracks in the creature’s armour blazed white-hot, frozen for a second in a lattice of blazing tracery, then it blew itself apart in an orgy of bursting aether-fuelled immolation. Massive chunks of broken hide tore through the air, smoking and fizzing from the Rune Priest’s warp-born energies.

  Varek and Lokjr let their heads fall back and howled their victory, swinging their weapons around them like the barbarous warriors of Fenris they’d once been.

  “For the Allfather!” Svelok bellowed, giving vent to his battle-fury. As Lokjr raised his massive arms in a gesture of defiance and triumph, the skulls at his belt clattered and swirled around him.

  Only the Rune Priest remained unmoved. He let the vast power at his command bleed away and strode silently forwards. The bodies of servitors lay before him, ripped to shreds by the acid, or the xenos, or both. In the middle of them all hunched a human shape, clad in some kind of suit and unsteadily regaining its feet.

  Svelok cursed under his breath. What was wrong with the priest? Were his fangs so blunted by meddling in runes that he couldn’t revel in the joy of victory like a Son of Russ should? He reined in his own exuberance grudgingly, and made his way to the cowering form on the ground. Varek and Lokjr took up guard around them, no doubt eager for more combat.

  The survivor was clad in bulky armour of an ancient template, blood-red in colour and fully covering his body. It looked obsolete, scored with the patina of years and covered in esoteric devices Svelok didn’t recognise. Brass-coloured implants studded the surface, humming sclerotically and issuing hisses of steam. As the human rose, servos whined in protest and a thicket of mechadendrites scuttled out from hidden panels at his shoulders to begin repairing surface damage. Across his chest was the skull of the Adeptus Mechanicus, pitted and worn from age.

  The man’s face was hidden beneath a translucent dome of plexiglass filled with a thin blue mist. His head was little more than a dark shadow within that clouded interior, though the spidery shapes of augmetic rebreathers and sensor couplings could be made out.

  “Speak, mortal,” ordered Svelok in Low Gothic, determined to interrogate him before Ravenblade could.

  A series of clicks emerged from the dome. Eventually, hidden behind a wall of distortion, speech emerged from a vox-unit mounted on his sternum. There was no emotion in it, barely any humanity. It had been filtered through some proxy mechanism, cleansed of its imperfections and rendered blank and sterile. Svelok felt nothing but disgust.

  “Adeptus Astartes,” came the voice. Then a train of jumbled clicks. “Low Gothic, dialect Fenris Vulgaris. Recalling.”

  Ravenblade stayed silent. Even through the barrier of the runic armour, Svelok could feel his keen interest in the pheromones his pack-brother emitted. Something had got the prophet worked up. Another vision? Or something else? He suppressed a low throat-rattle of irritation. There was no time for this.

  “Identify as Logis Alsmo 3/66 Charis. Departmento Archeotech IV Gamma.”

  Another pause.

  “I should add,” he said. “Thank you.”

  They came to a standstill. As they’d headed south, the plains had given way to twisting, steep-sided gorges. Pools of fluid could be seen glistening at the base of the defiles, harbingers of the deluge to come. They were closing on their quarry, but time was running out. The acid was coming.

  “What do you sense?” asked the exarch.

  The warlock remained silent, his head inclined to one side. Above him, the sides of the gorge soared upwards.

  “Mon-keigh,” he said at last. “And something else.”

  Even as Valiel finished speaking, there was a crack in the rock face closest to him. The warriors snapped into a defensive cordon around the warlock.

  A pillar of rock seemed to detach from the cliff nearest them. As it did so, jagged arms broke free from the torso, showering corrosive fluid. Silent as death, an eyeless creature, obsidian-clad and uncurling talons of stone, began to move towards them. Further down the gully, spiked variants detached, unfurling glossy limbs and exposing gem-like teeth.

  “This world dislikes intruders,” said Valiel.

  The exarch hissed an order, and the troops fanned out into a line in front of the warlock. The creatures lumbered nearer.

  “Was this in your visions?” asked the exarch over his shoulder.

  Valiel let the psychic surface of his witchblade fill with energy. These creatures hadn’t been, but then glimpses of the future were always imperfect. That was what made the universe so interesting.

  “You don’t need to know. Just kill them.”

  Ravenblade glanced at
his auspex. Thirty-nine minutes.

  “Your purpose here, tech-priest,” he said, towering over the logis. “Speak quickly—I can kill you as well as those xenos.”

  He could still feel the dark wolf within him panting, circling impatiently, thirsting for more release. It would have to wait. There was also a shard of fear from the logis, generated by the vestigial part of whatever humanity he’d once had. The Space Wolves towered over him, their massive war-plate draped in gruesome trophies and adorned with runes of destruction.

  “Rune Priest,” said the logis. “Artificer armour, Fenris-pattern.”

  Svelok growled his displeasure. “Stop babbling, mortal, or I’ll rip your arms off. Answer him.”

  The logis shrank back, cogitators whirring. Communication in anything other than binaric seemed difficult.

  “Gath Rimmon,” Charis said. “Third world Iopheas Secundus system. Acid surface, total coverage, impenetrable, sensor-resistant, hyper-corrosive. No settlement possible, no surveys archived.”

  Svelok took a half-step forwards, his gauntlet curling into a fist. “We know this!” he rasped over the mission channel to Ravenblade. “He’s wasting our time.”

  “Let him speak,” replied Ravenblade. His voice was calm, but firm.

  “Single satellite, class Tertius, designation Riapax. Orbit highly irregular. Period 5.467 solar years. Proximity induces tidal withdrawal across polar massif for three local days, total exposure thirty-four standard hours. Opportunity for exploration. Sensors detect artefact. Mission dispatched. Xenos infiltration unanticipated.”

  “What kind of artefact?”

  “Unknown. Benefit analysis determined by age. Assessed Majoris Beta in priority rank system Philexus. Resources deployed accordingly.”

  “You have a location?”

  “Signal intermittent, 2.34 kilometres, bearing 5/66/774.”

  “Then we need him,” said Ravenblade to Svelok on the closed channel.

  “Forget it,” said Svelok. “Too weak.”

  “He has a lock. We don’t have time to waste looking.”

  “Morkai take you, prophet!” cried Svelok, spitting with vehemence. “What is this thing? We diverted a strike cruiser for your visions.”

  Ravenblade remained impassive. Svelok was the deadliest killer he’d ever seen, a single-minded inferno of perfectly controlled rage and zeal. Despite all of that, the Wolf Guard had no idea of the power of the Wyrd and the knowledge it gave Ravenblade. How could he? How could anyone but a Rune Priest understand?

  “He comes with us. We have less than an hour to find it and return to the pick-up coordinates. The acid is returning, brother. When it comes, the chance will have gone for another five millennia.”

  “Then let it lie. This worm can scurry after it.”

  Ravenblade felt the dark wolf issue a low psychic growl, hidden to all but his aether-attuned instinct. Svelok was a stubborn bastard, as stubborn as the Great Wolf himself, but there were other ways of deciding this.

  “Enough.”

  He twisted open a casket hanging from his neck to reveal a dozen pieces of bone, each inscribed with a single rune on both sides. He spilled the pieces into his gauntlet’s palm, marking how each fell. As he worked, he saw Svelok turn away in exasperation. The Wolf Guard had no time for the runes. That was his problem.

  Ravenblade studied the sigils. Rune patterns were complex and subtle things. He opened his mind to the patterns in the abstract shapes. Across time and space, the angular outlines locked into their sacred formation. The sequence fell into place. He had his sign.

  “The runes never lie, brother,” he said. “We are meant to be here, and we are on the right course. The strands of fate demand it. And there’s something else.”

  He looked at Svelok, and this time spoke over the standard vox. Another element had emerged, one he’d not foreseen.

  “I sense xenos,” he announced. “They are here.”

  The exarch called his warriors back. None of the creatures remained alive. Two had died in the assault, their fragile armour rent by the talons of the world’s guardians. Once the shell was broken, the acid rain did the rest.

  “Safeguard the spirit stones,” ordered Valiel, sheathing his witchblade and bringing his breathing under control. The survivors did his bidding silently.

  “Are we near?” The exarch’s voice, muffled by a damaged speech matrix, was tainted with accusation. Valiel regarded him carefully. The exarch was the deadliest killer he’d ever seen, a relentless master of close-ranged combat. Despite all of that, the warrior had little idea of the full power of the warp and the knowledge it gave Valiel. How could he? How could anyone but a warlock understand?

  “See for yourself.”

  Before them, the series of winding gullies opened out into a wide valley which ran towards the southern horizon. At the far end of the valley was a cliff of cloud, flecked with pale lightning at its base. A distant roar came from it, just like the sea coming in.

  “The tides approach,” said the exarch, resentment still in his voice. He feared nothing but that which he couldn’t fight. So it was with all those lost on the warrior path.

  “What we seek lies on the precipice of danger,” said Valiel. “Remember your vows, killer.”

  The warriors returned and waited. Valiel could sense their doubt, just like their master’s.

  “Follow me,” said the warlock. He didn’t wait for the exarch’s assent. Now, above all else, he trusted in the vindication of his vision. The artefact was at hand. Ignoring the acid rain as it streaked across his armour, the warlock strode down the floor of the gorge and into the valley beyond.

  Svelok’s pack broke from the cover of the gorges and into a wide, bowl-shaped valley. At its far end, a few kilometres distant, the storm raged unabated. A low roar echoed from the mountain walls on either side. The tide-line was almost visible. Even now the rocks underfoot were sodden with puddles of gently hissing fluid. The planet’s inhabitants had been driven off for now, but the pack was still being shadowed by flyers, circling out of bolter range like vultures.

  They kept running, kept the pace tight. Twenty-five minutes. Ravenblade could taste the acrid stench of the distant acid ocean. Readings scrolled down his helm-display detailing atmospheric toxicity. Nothing his armour couldn’t handle. For now.

  “Bearing,” he ordered over the mission channel.

  “Imminent, Space Marine,” responded the logis, struggling to match the pace in his archaic armour. “Recommend halt.”

  The Space Wolves came to a standstill and waited for Charis to catch up. The rain streaked and steamed from their battle-plate. Lokjr’s bear pelt was being eaten away, and the runes of Ravenblade’s pauldrons were still glowing an angry red, like wounds washed in iodine.

  “Located,” said Charis. A laser-sight extended from his right shoulder and pointed out a piece of flat rock a few metres distant.

  “Russ, that’s nothing!” mocked Varek.

  “Silence!” ordered Svelok, his mood clearly still dark. “We’ll examine it.”

  As Ravenblade approached the site he had a sudden lurch of remembrance. He’d seen it before. Like a déjà vu, the blank gap in the stone loomed up towards him. He had no doubts. This was where he’d been drawn to.

  No more than five metres square, a shaft had been bored directly down into the valley floor. It plunged vertically, sides smooth and open to the elements. It was perfectly black, as if it went all the way down to Hel. There were no steps, and few hand-holds. Far above them, the thunder growled, echoing from the valley sides.

  “That’s it?” demanded Svelok.

  Ravenblade nodded, mag-locking his staff. “Where we’re meant to be, brother.”

  “You sense it?”

  The psychic signal filled Ravenblade’s mind, drowning out the pheromone-signatures of his battle-brothers. All that he could sense was the thing that had drawn him, and the stench of the xenos. Both were close.

  “Trust me.”

 
Svelok turned away. “Lokjr, you’ll hold. Drop anything that gets close. Varek, take point. We’re going down.”

  Panels on Charis’ gauntlets and vambraces opened up, revealing clawed extensions capable of gripping the rock face. The Space Marines, with their occulobe-enhanced vision and superhuman poise, needed no such aids.

  Varek swung himself over the edge, his boots finding instant purchases against the rock, and started to descend.

  Ravenblade turned away, reaching for the runes again. Surreptitiously, keeping them shielded from Svelok, he spilled the bone fragments into his palm once more.

  “What do you see?” The rumbling voice was Lokjr’s. Unlike his superior, the Grey Hunter had a pious respect for the readings.

  Ravenblade stared at the figures resting on his gauntlet. The fragments glistened pale in the darkness. Shapes swam before his eyes, resisting interpretation. Elk, Fire, Axe, Death, Ice. None of them stood in their proper relations. There was no pattern. Ravenblade felt a rare pang of unease. For the first time in his life, over a hundred years of service, the runes were blank. There was nothing.

  “All is at it should be,” he said, snatching up the bones and putting them away. “Time to go.”

  Svelok went carefully but quickly, testing each hold before placing his weight on it. He knew as well as the others that when the tide came up the valley floor it would cascade down the shaft on top of them. Whatever happened, they had to be back up on the surface before then. Damn that priest. This mission was pointlessly dangerous. They didn’t even know what they were hunting down. His pack-brothers respected the Wyrd, but he’d never trusted it. There was a thin line between augmentation and corruption, and Rune Priests walked it perilously.

  He blink-clicked a feed from Ravenblade’s auspex to his helm display. Twenty minutes.