[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Read online

  His focus rested momentarily on each of them, and he allowed himself the smallest of nods. Fine discipline. He expected no less. Not one of them moved. Not one spoke. All were utterly fixated on the solemn ceremony as it came, now, to its close.

  High Chaplain Tomasi finally lowered the venerable gold-chased bolter from above his head and boomed, “For each drop of our blood that is spilled, may crimson floods spill forth from the wounds of our enemies. For each scratch on our sacred armour, may their flesh and bone be cleaved apart by our blades, pulverised and shattered by our fists. The Imperium will endure. This Chapter will endure. Each of you shall endure. This we pray in the name of the primarch who shaped us, and in the name of the Emperor who made us.”

  “For Dorn and the Emperor,” the assembly intoned. “For the glory and honour of the Crimson Fists.”

  Cortez lent the full power of his voice to the response. Standing beside him in the western transept, the other members of the Chapter Council did likewise.

  “So we pray,” added the High Chaplain, more subdued now. “So shall it be.”

  Tomasi turned and nodded to a towering figure standing in a shadowed alcove to his left, then retreated from the altar to the reliquary at the rear of the Reclusiam, there to return the magnificent relics he had used during the service to their rightful place.

  The tall figure on the left emerged from the shadows now, striding forward on long legs to take centre stage in front of the altar. Revealed in all his splendour, he was a breathtaking sight to behold. Light glittered from his gem-encrusted breastplate and from the shimmering golden halo behind his head. Golden skulls and beautifully embossed eagles graced his gorget, knee-plates and greaves. From his armoured waist, a tabard of red silk hung, proudly displaying the Chapter icon, a clenched red fist on a circular field of black. The ancient purity seals that hung from his pauldrons fluttered as he came to a stop.

  Immediately, with the exception of the members of the Chapter Council, the congregation dropped to one knee.

  Cortez and his council brothers simply bowed their heads, a privilege of their rank, and waited for the figure to speak. The voice, when it came, was strong and deep, warm like the currents of the South Adacean, a great bass rumble that was impossible to ignore.

  “Stand, brothers. Please.”

  Cortez had spent most of his life listening to that voice, doing as it commanded and, on no small number of occasions, debating fiercely with it. It was the voice of his closest friend, but also of his lord and leader. It belonged to Pedro Kantor, twenty-ninth Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists, and, barring perhaps the eight mighty Dreadnoughts who stood with their engines idling at the back of the nave, by far the most impressive figure in the Reclusiam that day.

  “We have observed remembrance,” said the Chapter Master, “for all those honoured brothers lost to us in the last hundred years. Their names have been inscribed on the walls of Monument Hall, and the records of their deeds have been committed to the Book of Honour. Any of you wishing to pay personal tribute after today may approach one of the Chaplains at a suitable time and request the proper prayers and offerings. This I strongly encourage you to do, as is our tradition, as is our obligation.” His eyes scanned the rows of silent Space Marines. “We are the Crimson Fists,” he told them. “We do not forgive, and we do not forget. The dead live on in our memories and through the progenoid, and our deeds must always—always—serve to honour them.”

  In salute to the fallen, the Chapter Master balled his right gauntlet into a fist and clashed it three times against the sculpted left pectoral of his exquisitely crafted cuirass.

  He watched the assembled warriors mirror him. “We salute the fallen,” they intoned as one. “We honour the dead.”

  The Chapter Master waited for the echo to finish ricocheting from the shadowed rafters high above, then said, “In a moment your captains will lead you out. We shall assemble on the Protheo Bastion, there to witness the Miracle of the Blood and receive the first of the day’s battle-blessings. There will be no repast this day. The Day of Foundation requires us to fast, and you will all hold to that. After receiving our blessings on the Protheo Bastion, we shall return here for the initiations and the Steeping.”

  Was it Cortez’s imagination? For a split second, he was sure the Chapter Master had flicked a discreet glance in his direction before he continued, saying, “We shall be joined today by members of the Upper Rynnhouse, who are travelling from New Rynn City to pay their respects to our Chapter and its traditions, and to celebrate the anniversary of our Founding with us. Some of you have made your objections known regarding this, and to these I say this; do not underestimate the importance of our relationship with the Rynnite nobility. In accepting the great responsibility of this star system’s political governance, they have lifted from our shoulders all those burdens which do not befit men of war.”

  He paused briefly before adding, “See the value in that, as I do. They shall be landing at Tarvo Peak shortly and are here by my invitation. In all likelihood, you will not need to speak to them, but, if you do, you will show tolerance and courtesy. Remember, in a galaxy such as this, they are but children, and we are their protectors.”

  Cortez frowned, certain, now, that much of this was directed his way. He and Kantor had locked horns over permitting the spoiled, self-indulgent aristocrats inside the sacred walls of the fortress-monastery, but the Chapter Master’s word was law. With little choice, Cortez had ultimately backed down, stalking off to vent his frustrations on a combat drone in the training pits.

  Cortez believed it was far better to be feared than loved. He knew Tomasi would have agreed. Better to maintain as much distance as possible from the weakling masses. The shameless way they threw themselves into utter dependence on those stronger than themselves sickened him. And what did inbred, soft-bellied socialites know of the meaning of sacrifice? What did the Imperium mean to them, save the security, comfort and personal profit it brought? Even those rare nobles who opted to spend a few years in the Rynnsguard only did so for the right to wear a dress uniform on festival days. Their terms of so-called active service were famously short and without incident.

  The Chapter Master resumed speaking, abruptly cutting across Cortez’s train of thought.

  “My brother Astartes,” he said. “This service is ended. Go with honour, with courage and with the Emperor’s blessing, remembering always your sacred duty.”

  “By your command,” replied the ranks.

  The incense-thick air of the Reclusiam soon shook with the sound of armoured boots on stone as each of the captains led their companies through the sanctum’s vast bronze doors. Cortez’s turn came, and he moved out of the transept and down the central aisle, leaving only Captains Ashor Drakken and Drigo Alvez to follow.

  Cortez threw the servitor choir a last brief, disdainful look as he left, noting that they had already been powered down. In their stationary silence, they now seemed little more than a row of hideous alabaster busts.

  At a nod, 4th Company fell in behind him.

  As he marched them under the great arched portal and out into the wide, snow-carpeted courtyard beyond, Cortez looked to the sky. Two hours ago, when the service had started, it had been a starless, midnight black. Since then, morning had broken over the Hellblade Mountains, bringing snowfall and a crisp, icy air that refreshed him, purging the unpleasantly rich incense from his nostrils.

  As he marched, he wondered if, by the next Day of Foundation, his own name would be etched on the walls of Monument Hall. He had never feared death, always throwing himself headlong into even the most hopeless of battles with far more thought for the objective than for his own survival. Perhaps, coupled with his bottomless reserve of hatred for the enemy, that was exactly why he always survived. To fight without fear of death was liberating. Not that he was foolish enough to believe the myths that had sprung up around him, of course— myths in which the men of his company, marching in unison behind him, seemed to take a
great and obvious delight.

  Cortez the Immortal, they called him out of earshot.

  He was certainly not immortal, despite popular speculation. One day, he knew, he would meet his match, and the preposterous rumours would be proven false. A part of him almost looked forward to that. If nothing else, it would be a most memorable fight.

  When that day finally arrived, he wanted only two things from it.

  The first was to die well, to sell his life dear with power fist smashing through armour and bone, pistol barking in his hand and a bloodcurdling battle cry on his lips.

  The second was that the brothers who received organs cultured from his progenoid glands would honour him with their deeds, one day becoming heroes of the Chapter themselves.

  It pleased Alessio Cortez to imagine such things.

  Neither hope seemed particularly unreasonable.

  When he and his men were halfway across the courtyard, his attention was suddenly diverted. A small, robed figure burst from a stone archway to the right, stumbled, and fell face-down in the snow. He got up immediately, ignoring the clods of white that now caked him, and continued his run in the direction of the Reclusiam’s main entrance. The cog symbol on his left breast identified him as a serf belonging to Javier Adon’s Technicarum. The runes underneath it showed that he served in the tower known as the Communicatus.

  “You there!” Cortez barked. “Halt!”

  The man’s legs froze before his mind even had time to process the words, such was the razor-sharp edge of authority in Cortez’s voice.

  “Are you so eager to die, Chosen?” asked Cortez, glaring over at him. “You must know what will happen if you step beyond those doors.”

  The men of 4th Company came to a smart halt behind their captain. They, too, stood facing the lone figure.

  If the little man set one foot within the sanctum’s walls, he was as good as dead. The strictures prohibited it. With the exception of the rare individuals who served the Sacratium, and servitors, only a full-blooded Astartes could enter the Reclusiam and live.

  The man bowed low to Cortez, then once again to the battle-brothers behind him, and said, “Honoured lord, I am imprinted with a message for the Chapter Master. Its urgency was deeply impressed upon me by the Monitor. I… I am ordered to deliver it no matter the consequences to my person.” He indicated the Reclusiam’s wide entrance. “I thought perhaps to catch Lord Kantor as he leaves.”

  “He will not come out that way,” said Cortez, punctuating the remark with a small thrust of his chin in the direction of the great bronze portal. “And Durlan Cholo knows better than to bother our lord on the Chapter’s Day of Foundation. What kind of message warrants such urgency, I wonder?”

  The serf fixed his gaze on the ground at Cortez’s feet and replied, “I was placed in trance for the imprinting, lord, so the content is unknown to me. I know only what the Monitor told me. He was most insistent that Master Kantor hear it at once.”

  Cortez moved closer, his armoured boots crunching virgin snow, until he stood looking down on the little man from only a few metres away. “Relay the message to me,” he said. “I will go back inside immediately and pass it to His Lordship on your behalf.”

  The serf weighed the offer for only a heartbeat. Any longer would have been a grave insult, for every living soul in Arx Tyrannus knew that Pedro Kantor loved and trusted Alessio Cortez above all others. To Cortez’s knowledge, there were no secrets between the two of them.

  His decision made, the serf smiled gratefully and dipped his head. “The famous captain is both kind and wise. I shall sign the activation code to you now. Speak it back to me, lord, and I will automatically recount the message.”

  Cortez nodded and watched closely as the serfs fingers fluttered, making a series of rapid symbols on the air.

  “I have it,” said Cortez. “Fifteen Theta Cerberus.”

  The serfs body immediately stiffened as if it had just received a massive electric shock. His head rolled to one side, his eyes glazed over, and he began speaking in a voice that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the one he had used only moments before.

  “Emergency communication from Imperial commercial transport vessel Videnhaus. Omega-level encoding. Relay of deep space pulse-burst signal transmitted by Commissar Alhaus Baldur. Identicode verified. Message content follows…”

  The voice changed again, dramatically.

  Cortez felt a flood of mixed emotions wash over him as he listened to the little serf replay the words of the desperate Commissar Baldur, words that had been flung out into deep space weeks ago. The message had taken its time, but it had at last reached its destination. The odds that there were any defenders left alive on Badlanding were slim, to say the least. Then came mention of the ork Waaagh.

  Cortez felt his pulse quicken. He heard blood rushing in his ears. Restless energy welled up inside him, charging his muscles, readying him for combat on the strength of the words alone.

  A Waaagh!

  Yes, this was something Pedro Kantor had to hear at once, regardless of ceremony, regardless of everything this day signified. The orks wouldn’t wait. Ceremony and tradition meant nothing to them. There were few things in the galaxy more lethal and destructive than a full-scale Waaagh. Even now, the greenskins might be forcing their way further into the Loki Sector, smashing aside unprepared naval patrols and planetary defence forces. Badlanding would be an ideal beachhead.

  The serf came to the end of his message and returned to full consciousness with a start. For a moment, Cortez thought the man would fall over in the snow and have some kind of seizure, but he steadied himself and looked up meekly. “If my lord wishes me to repeat…”

  Cortez shook his head. “What is your name, Chosen?” he asked.

  “Ha—Hammond, my lord,” said the man, clearly flattered to be asked. “Hammond, if it please you.”

  “Return to the Communicatus, Hammond,” said Cortez, “and tell Cholo… tell the Monitor that Captain Cortez sends his gratitude. You have fulfilled your duty with distinction. On my honour, I go now to relay your words to the Chapter Master.”

  Hammond’s eyes started to glisten as the compliment registered. With some effort, he managed to hold back tears of joy and pride while still under Cortez’s gaze. He bowed low once again, then made the sign of the aquila upon his chest and said, “My lord’s intervention has spared this unworthy life. He is as munificent as he is skilled in war. Truly, may the Emperor’s glorious light ever shine upon him.”

  Cortez silently prayed that his munificence and his skill in war were not equal. He would be dead many times over if they were.

  He dismissed Hammond with a nod towards the stone archway through which the serf had come, then turned and walked back towards the Reclusiam’s entrance. Over his shoulder, he called out, “Sergeant Cabrero, lead the men to Protheo Bastion and wait for me there. I will join you momentarily.”

  “At once, your munificence,” said Cabrero, almost managing to suppress a grin.

  Cortez grinned back. His spirits, he realised, had been lifted by the very thought of going to war, and not just against any old opponent, but against the savage, filth-eating orks. Now there was an enemy who knew how to fight!

  “You’ll find out how munificent I am tomorrow on the training fields,” he told Cabrero.

  The sergeant looked a lot less jovial at this prospect. He saluted stiffly, right fist to breastplate, and led 4th Company away as instructed.

  Cortez walked back the way he had came, boots retracing the trail he and his men had just cut in the snow.

  Ashor Drakken was emerging from the shadows of the Reclusiam’s granite portico, leading his 3rd Company out into the wintry air. As Cortez marched in his direction, Drakken remarked dryly, “Aren’t you going the wrong way, brother?”

  Cortez slowed only a little as he passed his fellow captain. “This cannot wait, Ashor. Be ready to attend council. A session will surely be called.”

  “Not today,” said Drakk
en, voice edged with arrogant certainty.

  Cortez said no more. Grinning like a wolf, he turned, strode on and disappeared through the sanctum’s doors.

  TWO

  Tarvo Peak, Hellblade Mountains

  Ramir Savales forced himself to straighten up. The mountain air held an icy chill this early in the morning, particularly now that Primagiddus, the Month of First Cold, was here, and he realised he had been hunching over to protect himself from its bite. That wouldn’t do. One did not meet the planetary governor and the members of the Upper Rynnhouse standing stooped like an old man, whatever one’s actual age.

  Pulling a battered brass chronometer from his hip pocket, he checked the time. The shuttle still had a few more minutes to go before it could rightly be called late. He saw, too, that his fingers were reddish-pink, raw with the cold, and tried to rub some warmth into them.

  Every year, the winter was getting marginally worse, or so it seemed to him. Life in the Hellblade Mountains became that little bit harder, and the Month of First Warmth all the more welcome when it came. But he knew it wasn’t the climate that was changing. Not really. It was his body, plain and simple. His best years were well behind him. Soon, he would have to approach the master about selecting an apprentice. Pride and simple stubbornness had delayed that particular conversation for far too long already.

  He had been waiting for almost an hour now, standing on the periphery of the Tarvo Peak landing pad, just beyond the thick yellow line that marked the edge of the safety zone. The pad was a broad circle about a hundred metres across, projecting slightly outward from the gentle lower slope of the mountain like an oversized discus, supported from underneath by massive iron stanchions as thick as any of the lim’lat trees that grew in the far north. Tiny red lights winked in unison all along its circumference, and, painted in the very centre with its wings spread wide, was a massive white icon—a stylised eagle with two heads. He had supervised the repainting of it himself last summer. Its lines were still fine and sharp, though the day’s snowfall was just starting to cover them.