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

  Several of the captains bowed their heads at this proclamation.

  Kantor did likewise. When he lifted his head a second later, he said, “I have made my decision. Judgement is passed. Janus Kennon shall undergo servitor conversion.”

  Alessio Cortez loosed a string of quiet curses.

  Mendoza nodded. “The Librarius will be ready to receive him once he has been informed.” Turning to Captain Icario, he added, “The process of mind-ripping is painful. I shall not lie to you, my brother. But it will be mercifully short. This much, I promise.”

  Ishmael Icario did not answer. He rested his shaved head in his hands, allowing his elbows to support him on the crystal tabletop.

  Forgemaster Adon interjected in crisp machine monotone. “Kennon’s innate skills may still be utilised. They need not be lost. As a gun-servitor, he will serve the Chapter for a thousand years, and, on his decommissioning, will perhaps have expunged the stain on his honour.”

  “Whether or not his guilt shall be expunged is a matter for the Emperor alone to decide,” said Tomasi.

  “Ishmael,” said Kantor. “Take Brother Kennon to the Librarium at sunrise tomorrow. Do it quietly while the rest of your men are observing the morning combat rituals. Let them learn of it after the fact. I would have this matter seen to and put behind us as soon as possible. It must not linger to cast its shadow over the honour service for the dead.”

  “Sunrise,” said Icario softly. “I will see it done, lord.”

  For a moment, silence descended over the crystal table once again. Then Kantor stood and formally ended the session, dismissing the council members. They would be back here soon enough, he knew.

  He and Cortez were the last to leave.

  As they walked together though the gloomy, candlelit hallways of the fortress keep, past shadowed alcoves where the stone likenesses of past heroes stood at eternal attention, Cortez asked his old friend and master a question.

  “Thinking of the glory, of the blow it would strike to the enemy, and unaware of whatever technology was shielding this Mag-Kull beast, would you yourself not have taken the shot?”

  The Chapter Master frowned. “You already know my answer to that, Alessio.”

  “I suppose I do,” Cortez replied heavily, “as certainly as you know mine.”

  “Indeed.”

  They walked on, side-by-side, unspeaking for a few more paces, until they reached the junction in the corridor where they would part. Kantor’s private chambers were high in the uppermost levels of the central keep and he had many hundreds of stairs to climb. The art of climbing them often helped to clear his mind, and he knew he needed that clarity of thought now more than he had needed it in a very long time.

  Before the two friends went off in different directions, Kantor placed a hand on Cortez’s shoulder and said, “In the name of the primarch, Alessio, never put me in that position. To pass judgement over you as I just did over Brother Kennon would destroy me, brother.”

  “No,” said Cortez. “It would not destroy you, Pedro. You have the right strength for such things. It is why you were chosen to lead us.”

  Kantor smiled briefly at that, but it was hollow and he knew Cortez could tell. There were no secrets between them. They knew each other far too well for that.

  He dropped his hand from his friend’s shoulder, turned in the direction of the great stone staircase at the end of the corridor, and walked off, hoping it would be the last they spoke of disobeying orders for a long time.

  SEVEN

  New Rynn Spaceport, Rynnland Province

  The capital awoke to the deep, window-shaking roar of sixteen Crimson Fist Thunderhawks as they swept in low over the sprawling slums that had grown up around the planet’s only spaceport. Sturdy landing gear emerged from metal hulls. Powerful turbines changed pitch, from a roar to a high, throbbing whine. The Thunderhawks settled on an airstrip that had been cleared for their arrival only twenty minutes earlier.

  It wasn’t that the New Rynn Spaceport staff were lazy or disorganised. They simply hadn’t been told until the very last moment that the Space Marines were coming. That lack of adequate warning was deliberate. Captain Alvez did not want the people of the city to know. He had no wish to drive through streets thronged with cheering civilians. They did not know what they were cheering for. He was born to wage war. Did they wish to celebrate his gift for slaughter? Did they wish to celebrate the thousands of gallons of blood he had spilled year after year? He doubted it. Most would be sickened by the things he had seen and done. If not sickened, then terrified to the point of madness.

  The spaceport was about sixty kilometres southeast from the outermost of the capital city’s great defensive walls, but the noise of the Thunderhawks’ powerful turbines carried all the way to the city centre, a glorious fortified island surrounded on both sides by the waters of the River Rynn. This was the Zona Regis, often called the Silver Citadel, home of the governor and secondary residence to all the members of the Upper Rynnhouse. The Cassar lay within its towering walls, a large keep built by the Chapter after the greenskin invasion of twelve hundred years ago so that a detachment of Crimson Fists could garrison the capital if it were ever threatened again.

  It seemed that time had come.

  As the Thunderhawks powered down their engines, the sun crested the horizon to the east. Most of the people who had heard the roar, adults and children alike, were already dressing for another day of labour in the fields and manufactora, their sweat and toil dedicated to an Emperor none would ever see save in ancient carvings and frescoes, or rendered as figurines for sale on the stalls of the city’s zonae commercia.

  It was not uncommon for the citizens of the capital to hear ships coming and going, no matter the time of day. The spaceport often played host to far bigger, noisier craft than Thunderhawks. Aside from its many ground-level airstrips, the gargantuan structure boasted three vast, thick cylindrical towers, each topped with circular landing plates supported by anti-grav suspension. They could provide berths for even the largest trans-atmospheric craft. Most of the citizens who heard the noise of the Thunderhawks stopped what they were doing and cocked their heads to listen. There was something different about this sound. Only military aircraft ever approached together and in such numbers.

  On contacting the spaceport’s air traffic personnel, Captain Alvez had been adamant that his force’s arrival go unannounced. He told the spaceport’s chief administrator over the vox-net that, if there were any choirs or bands, fanfare of any kind, he would kill the man himself.

  Alvez was naturally somewhat angry, then, when he marched down the ramp of his Thunderhawk to find himself being greeted by over a thousand individuals in immaculate cream-coloured uniforms.

  The moment they laid eyes on his broad, armoured frame, they dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. A heavy-set officer with golden shoulder-boards shouted out a command, and the kneeling troopers called out as one, “All hail the Crimson Fists, righteous sons of Rogal Dorn, hand of the Emperor, saviour of the people!”

  “Dorn’s blood,” cursed Alvez quietly, eyes panning across the rows of starched soldiers. “This is just perfect.”

  Behind him, his Astartes were beginning to disembark, marching briskly down Thunderhawk ramps, heavy boots striking metal in perfect military cadence. Serfs and servitors followed in great number, hefting ammunition cases, weapons and supplies of every possible description.

  Spaceport servitors shambled forward to assist, and the airstrip was abuzz with activity.

  Alvez strode forward and called out to the Rynnsguard, “At ease, you men. On your feet. Get up!”

  The unsolicited welcoming committee rose smartly. Every last one of them kept his eyes straight forward, not daring to meet the Space Marine captain’s icy glare. It was patently obvious they were at anything but ease.

  “Officer in charge,” bellowed Alvez. “Make yourself known to me. Now!”

  The deep, harsh, barking quality of his voice made so
me of the Rynnsguard jump. After a heartbeat’s nervous hesitation, the overweight officer with the shoulder boards strode forward, arms swinging rigidly at his sides. His chest glittered with bronze, silver and gold starbursts, and, above the brim of his starched cap, there was a badge in the shape of a golden aquila.

  Alvez noted the polished silver skulls on the man’s tunic collar, and said, “Your name, colonel.”

  It was phrased as a demand. The colonel bowed at the waist, hands pressed to his chest in the standard Imperial salute. When he stood upright, he removed his cap, fixed his gaze on the centre of Alvez’s gleaming breastplate, and said, “Portius Cantrell, my lord, commanding officer of the Rynnland Second Garrisoning Regiment, Soroccan Defensive Operations Group, at your service.” Alvez wasn’t impressed.

  “I am Drigo Alvez, colonel. I am the captain of the Crimson Fists’ Second Company, Master of the Shield, and you will do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye when you speak to me. Your reverence has been duly noted, but I would have you address my face, not my armour.”

  Cantrell, who, at one hundred and seventy-eight centimetres, came up only as high as the embossed eagle on the Astartes captain’s chest, gulped and hastily lifted his eyes.

  Alvez glared down at him, unsmiling. “That is better. Now tell me what you and your men are doing here. I issued strict orders to this facility’s administrator. He was warned that I would execute him for disobeying.”

  Cantrell glanced down at the ferrocrete surface of the landing strip on reflex, then hurriedly returned his gaze to Alvez’s face. “Air Controller Celembra did not disobey you, my lord. He issued no request for a formal welcome. My men and I, however, were already here on a security rotation. One of my lieutenants was in the air traffic control centre when your message came through. He brought word of it to me, and I took the liberty. Forgive me, lord. I know you were most specific about fanfare, but I thought a respectful military greeting would be appropriate. I could not, in good conscience, have let your arrival pass without some show of respect.”

  My orders left room enough for that, I suppose, thought Alvez.

  “Though I was not advised of your coming in time to prepare properly,” continued the colonel, “my men and I are honoured to be at your disposal. Anything you need, anything at all, and we will endeavour to provide it, in the name of the Emperor and of Lord Hellblade.”

  At our disposal, thought Alvez darkly. You’ll soon learn the real meaning of that, colonel, but not today. Look at you, so willing to have your men reduced to the level of servants. Fighting men should have more pride.

  Alvez hated diffidence, hated the way most humans fawned and scraped in front of him, always so desperate to earn the favour and protection of the Astartes. The situation would get worse, he knew, once his forces were established in the city proper. He had been through it all a hundred times and more during the course of his life. The presence of even a single Astartes among normal people caused a range of often extreme reactions. From sickening servility to abject terror, he had seen it all.

  In most cases, it was standard operating procedure to keep his forces as far from the civilian populace as possible. It didn’t do for the people to get too close to their protectors. Fear and avoidance he could handle—in fact, in light of the alternatives, he welcomed them—but excesses of worship, love and attention soon became a hindrance, with hourly offerings of luxury foodstuffs, expensive silks, religious trinkets, alcohol, narcotics, even women—none of which an Astartes had any use for in the slightest.

  “I do not foresee us requiring your services at the moment, colonel,” said Alvez. “If that is to change, rest assured I will alert you. As to the reason for our presence here, you will be fully briefed when I decide it is time. For now, you will clear your men from this airstrip and return to your security duties. We have much to unload, and there may be injuries if you get in the way.”

  Just for a second, Alvez saw the colonel’s expression grow rock hard at the barely veiled insult. Good, he thought. Perhaps there is a fighting man underneath all that decoration. We shall find out for sure when he learns of the coming storm. By Terra, it’s high time these people were reminded that the price of survival is paid in blood.

  “A good day to you, then, my lord,” said the colonel, his tone slightly colder than before. Having been so bluntly dismissed, he saluted once more, turned and marched back to his men. When he had crossed half the distance towards them, Alvez relented and called out to him.

  “Colonel Cantrell.”

  The Rynnsguard officer stopped and turned. This time his eyes went straight to the towering captain’s face and stayed there. “My lord?”

  Alvez paused, then, pitching his voice so that Cantrell’s troopers could hear it clearly, he said, “Perhaps you and your men could do me a service after all.”

  The colonel’s face visibly brightened, and the chests of the Rynnsguard troops seemed to inflate.

  “Anything my lord requires. Anything at all.”

  “Provide a cordon,” said Alvez. “Keep the public and the rest of the spaceport personnel at arm’s length while we prepare our ground transports. We shall be leaving for the Cassar as soon as possible. Have a direct route cleared for us. Set up barriers, do what you must. Co-opt local law enforcement if you feel it necessary, but I want nothing in our way between here and the Zona Regis.”

  “You will have it, lord,” said Cantrell. “Is there someone with whom I can coordinate?”

  “Coordinate with my personal retainer,” said Alvez. “Keep a vox-channel clear. Beta-channel, band four will suffice. His name is Merrin, and he will tell you all you need to know.”

  Cantrell accepted this information with a final bow, then turned towards his men and started snapping out orders.

  Alvez watched the Rynnsguard march off at double-time, then turned to supervise the unloading of his Thunderhawks.

  Had the politicians heard of his arrival by now? Almost certainly. They would be scurrying to make a great occasion of it, eager for the people to see them beside the Emperor’s finest. Blasted peacocks!

  There was a deep rumble and a clanking of treads from his right, and he turned to see his Land Raider armoured transport approaching to take him into the city.

  He walked off towards the massive machine, silently wondering just how long he had to get this city ready for the tide of foul xenos that was coming.

  Somehow, he knew it would not be long enough.

  EIGHT

  Zona Regis, New Rynn City

  Maia Cagliestra couldn’t recall being shaken awake since she had been a child of ten years old, but that was exactly how she met the world today. Groggy, her eyelids feeling like they had been tacked together, she struggled to get her bearings. “What… what’s going on?”

  When she opened her eyes, there was a moment of bright pain. Golden sunlight was already spilling into the room from the south windows. The heavy velvet drapes had been pulled back. Outside, the sky was blue and cloudless, a clear indication that the summer was on its way.

  Her chief lady-in-waiting was gently gripping Maia’s shoulders. She had stopped shaking them now. “You need to wake up, ma’am. We must get you ready at once. Secretary Mylos is already waiting for you on the grand balcony. I shall bring you breakfast there.”

  “What time is it?” asked Maia. “And why are you waking me like this? You’ve never done that before, Shivara.”

  Shivara took her hands away now, but her expression was steely. She was a unique and formidable woman, and Maia trusted no one, not even Mylos, as much as she trusted her. Shivara was tall and beautiful, and, under her form-fitting robes of white silk, powerfully muscled, though no less feminine in appearance for all that. Few people realised that Shivara was an off-worlder, not even Mylos. The woman was a sister of the Adeptus Sororitas, trained from birth to be bodyguard and aide to those judged worthy of such protection. Planetary governors across the Imperium were protected by these deadly guardians. If somet
hing was bothering Shivara, Maia knew that she, too, had ample reason to be worried.

  “Please get up, ma’am,” said Shivara. “Something unexpected has happened. The Crimson Fists have come to the city.”

  Maia sat bolt upright in her bed, dark hair tumbling down over her pale shoulders, a great smile spreading across her face. “They have? This is wonderful. Dare I hope the Chapter Master himself is among them?”

  Shivara frowned.

  “What is the matter with you?” asked Maia, confused. “Their presence bothers you?”

  “Greatly, ma’am.”

  Maia was getting angry now. Her smile fell away. “I think you had better explain yourself. The sons of the Emperor Himself are here. I cannot understand your mood.”

  She threw off her sheets, swung her legs over the side for the four-poster bed, slid her feet into fine white slippers, stood and stretched her lean form.

  Her eyes went automatically, as they did every morning, to the great statue in the southwest corner of the room. It was cut from the purest white marble on the planet. Amelia’s Adonis in Death. A masterpiece. If the Secretary of the Treasury knew how much Maia had appropriated from the palace funds for its purchase, there would be hell to pay. But she had been unable to resist when the sculptor, Ianous Amelia, had finally offered it for sale. Blackmailing the old man had been a difficult and lengthy process, but ultimately worth it.

  Shivara’s gaze followed that of her mistress.

  The figure, Adonis, was as big as an Astartes, and there was something about the face, some subtle nuance of expression or bone structure, that reminded Maia daily of the Chapter Master, Pedro Kantor.