Codex

Graham McNeill

‘You take a grave risk, Captain Ventris,’ said Adept Komeda, peering at the Rhino’s hololithic command display. His cherry-red optics flickered as they processed the incoming data.

‘The risk is negligible,’ replied Uriel. ‘My warriors know their Codex.’

‘Adept Komeda certainly hopes so,’ said Komeda. ‘House Nassaur and the Mechanicus will be greatly displeased should our people come to harm.’

‘They won’t,’ said Uriel.

‘Adept Komeda does not share your confidence.’

Uriel pulled Komeda from the display and a binaric squall of irritation pulsed from the adept’s mechanised mouth parts.

‘You are used to dealing with Skitarii, so I will excuse the insult to our competence this once,’ said Uriel. ‘But doubt us again and you and I will have a problem.’

‘Apologies,’ said the tech-priest. ‘Adept Komeda meant no offence.’

‘Then count this a lesson learned,’ said Uriel, nodding to the warriors in the Rhino’s troop compartment. Brutus Cyprian racked the slide on his bolter and tapped the weapon on the metal of his augmetic knee. A pervasive hum filled the compartment as Livius Hadrianus fired up his meltagun’s charge-coils. The warriors returned his nod. No words were needed. The plan was Codex and both men knew their part in it.

Uriel had forgone a command squad for so long, but now it felt strange going into battle without the Swords of Calth assembled. Petronius Nero and Ancient Peleus had other roles to play and Apothecary Selenus was back on Calth, helping root out the last of the Bloodborn from its deep caverns.

The vox-bead in Uriel’s ear chirruped and a gruff voice spoke in clipped, efficient tones.

‘All tier-one targets in sight,’ said Torias Telion.

‘On my mark,’ said Uriel, spinning the locking wheel of the Rhino’s command hatch and pushing it open. The wet, muddy reek of Sycorax’s atmosphere rushed in, an astringent reek of churned earth and volcanic sulphurs.

Uriel hauled himself up, seeing the ugly collection of towers, barricades and titanic drilling equipment ahead, squatting in the haunches of mud-caked hills where Pasanius’s Firebrands squad was concealed.

‘Pasanius,’ said Uriel. ‘Telion has made a positive identification of Fabricatus Ubrique, Alexia Nassaur and Casimir Nassaur.’

‘They’re alive?’ replied Pasanius. ‘That’s a new combat blade I owe Brutus. Telion’s sure it’s them? Hard to be sure of anything with all this damn mud.’

‘If the old man says it’s them, I’ll not be the one to question him.’

‘True enough,’ agreed Pasanius, signing off.

The Rhino churned the sodden surface of Sycorax as it laboured towards the ruin of the drilling site. Its structure was partially sunken into the deep mud, its rig-towers listing drunkenly or collapsed entirely. What little remained had been reinforced with ad-hoc panels and hastily-rigged steel props. This had once been a temporary Mechanicus outpost, designed to siphon the promethium oceans beneath the planet’s lithosphere until the mud claimed it, but was now an ork fort.

Crude glyphs defaced the silver aquilas and Icons Mechanicus, and horned totems had been raised over the gateway. These and the pillars of petrochemical fumes testified to the presence of greenskins. It was unusual for the orks to remain fixed in place for so long after a supply raid, but it wasn’t every day they captured the planet’s senior Fabricatus and the highborn twins of the planetary governor engaged in a surprise inspection.

That the greenskins hadn’t just killed them outright told Uriel the orks had recognised their captives as valuable. Response teams of Skitarii and Defence Auxilia were keeping their distance, wary of moving closer for fear of the hostages being executed.

But now the Ultramarines were here.

A chime sounded in Uriel’s ear as the Rhino came within range of the ork-held structure. The vehicle surged forward, throwing up huge sprays of mud behind it.

Rocket contrails bloomed on the walls of the outpost, corkscrewing wildly in the Rhino’s general direction. Two were clearly flying wide of the mark, a third buried itself in the ground before the gate in a shower of mud and rock, but the fourth fang-painted missile was weaving a wobbling path that might actually intercept them.

‘All units, engage,’ said Uriel.

The elongated form of a Land Speeder Storm dropped through the toxic smoke above the outpost, and Uriel saw four muzzle flashes as Ancient Peleus and Torias Telion took their shots. Stalker-pattern bolter shells took out the rocket crews, ensuring no more would be fired, but there was still one incoming round.

Uriel swung the cupola-mounted storm bolter around and mashed the triggers.

A hail of explosive rounds filled the air, and Uriel calmly walked his fire into the missile’s erratic path. The rocket exploded with a dull cough, its armour-penetrating warhead detonating fifty metres away.

The Land Speeder flew a screaming evasion pattern over the outpost, Telion and Peleus picking off targets with every shot. Rockets flew up towards them, but none came anywhere near the nimble flyer.

‘Hadrianus,’ said Uriel as the Rhino reached the outpost’s mismatched gates. The assault doors slammed back and Livius Hadrianus stepped onto the Rhino’s running boards. He fired two blasts from his meltagun and the gates vanished in a thunderous bang of superheated air and vaporised metal. Sagging nubs of molten steel were all that remained of the gates, and the Rhino skidded into the compound.

Uriel saw dead greenskins everywhere he looked, each killed cleanly with a bolt-round to the head. Fabricatus Ubrique and the highborn twins of House Nassaur were bound to oil-soaked crucifixes, their elaborate attire now ruined with mud and blood. All three were alive, their executioners-in-waiting lying at their feet with the tops of their skulls missing.

Two dozen greenskins remained on the overlooking gantries, and Uriel turned the storm bolters on those on the eastern sections. Thudding blasts blew orks back and ripped them apart in quick succession. Distant echoes of ranged bolter fire sounded from the hills as Pasanius’s covering squad opened up from concealment.

The greenskins milled in confusion.

The attack had come so suddenly, so brutally, that they had no idea in which direction to concentrate their force. A brute of an ork ran towards his captives, bigger than the rest and boasting a horned helm and monstrously clawed arm. The greenskin leader knew his fleeting defiance was over, but was determined to murder his prisoners.

A figure in cobalt-blue armour dropped from the circling speeder and landed with a grace that should have been impossible in the cloying mud. Petronius Nero rose and drew his sword in one sinuous motion. He spun with his newly-forged blade extended at shoulder height, and the horned helm and head of the greenskin was cut cleanly from its neck.

Uriel dropped from the Rhino and accepted his own bolter from Brutus Cyprian, who finished off the few remaining orks with kill-shots from his pistol. The Land Speeder skimmed lower, allowing Telion and Peleus to drop from its crew spaces. Two Ultramarines Scouts followed swiftly after and moved to high vantage points.

‘Outpost clear,’ voxed Telion, scanning the outpost with his hunter’s gaze.

Uriel nodded and banged a fist on the side of the Rhino.

Adept Komeda emerged from the troop compartment, his optics clicking as they adjusted for the change in light levels. A delighted squeal of sycophantic binary hissed from his clattering mouth as he saw Fabricatus Ubrique.

‘Adept Komeda was wrong to doubt you, Captain Ventris, this is an entirely satisfactory outcome,’ said Komeda. ‘The Mechanicus owes you a debt of gratitude.’

‘Sycorax is part of Ultramar.’ said Uriel. ‘Your gratitude is unnecessary.’

‘Adept Komeda offers it nonetheless.’

The Swords of Calth formed up around Uriel as Komeda hurried over to the Fabricatus and units of Skitarii moved in to secure the site.

‘What now, captain?’ asked Ancient Peleus.

‘Now we get these highborns home in one piece,’ said Uriel.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Graham McNeill has written a host of novels for Black Library, including the ever popular Ultramarines and Iron Warriors series. His Horus Heresy novel, A Thousand Sons, was a New York Times bestseller and his Time of Legends novel, Empire, won the 2010 David Gemmell Legend Award. Originally hailing from Scotland, Graham now lives and works in Nottingham.

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