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Battle-Brothers - Gav Thorpe

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BATTLE-BROTHERS

Gav Thorpe

The attack was going well. Elements of the Second and Fifth Companies of the Dark Angels had created a significant foothold on the rebel space station known as Port Imperial, and with a storm of firepower were pushing towards the central habitation and command spires. Though one might not have considered a star fort the ideal battleground for the bikes and Land Speeders of the Ravenwing, Port Imperial was more akin to a city in space, its halls and tunnelways more like plazas and streets than the confines of a starship’s chambers and passages.

With speed and daring, the Dark Angels had seized several landing zones and now the warriors of the Second Company were racing ahead to fracture the enemy resistance whilst the infantry of the Fifth Company secured what gains had already been made. The foe – pirate scum that presented barely a threat to the power armoured Dark Angels Space Marines – were being driven back, their prepared defences circumvented by the insertion of squads and squadrons by Thunderhawk and boarding torpedo.

Sergeant Cassiel and his bike squadron were amongst those at the forefront of the fighting. Having been thrown into the heart of the enemy star fort, theirs was a simple mission: rove the station sowing death and discord wherever they encountered the enemy.

Cassiel had not been drawn into the ranks of the Ravenwing for blindly following orders, but nor had he reached the rank of sergeant by second-guessing the intent of his superiors. His initiative had been enough to attract the attention of Grand Master Sammael and seen him initiated into the Rites of the Raven, but there his curiosity ended, making him an ideal squadron leader for the Second Company. He did not, therefore, wonder too much what brought the Ravenwing and their comrades in the Fifth Company to Port Imperial, but assumed that the anarchy the Dark Angels had discovered on the world of Piscina IV was somehow connected to the pirates.

Grand Master Sammael had explained that it was likely the pirates were led by a renegade of the Legiones Astartes; a traitor who had turned on the Emperor right at the birth of the galactic Imperium. Cassiel had been in the Ravenwing for seventy years and knew well enough what this meant; the Ravenwing would secure this renegade so that he could be taken back to the Chapter and face punishment for his crimes.

This was privileged information, known only to those in the Ravenwing. It was his task, along with the veteran Black Knights that served as Sammael’s inner cadre, to ensure that the Fifth Company were not unduly exposed to the machinations of the renegade. Sometimes Cassiel envied the warriors of the Fifth Company, and those like them that did not have to suffer the spiritual taint of the Truth. A careful facade was maintained by the Chaplains to ensure that the majority of the Dark Angels remained blissfully unaware of the taint that could touch even the soul of a Space Marine. On occasion, when afforded time for reflection in his squadron’s dormer, Cassiel was wistful for the days before he had been introduced to the Truth.

Today was not such a day. Cassiel was proud to be part of the spearhead that would bring the renegade to justice. He led his squadron secure in the knowledge that they honoured the memory of their primarch, the Lion, and did service to the Emperor through their deeds.

As such, the squadron had penetrated more than a kilometre from their insertion point and were making ground quickly towards the more heavily defended interior of Port Imperial. Auspex readings from his bike, Incitatus, had located a group of pirates trying to assemble for a counter-attack. Cassiel led his warriors directly into the ill-judged ambush, securing a large elevator unit to bring the fighting to the heart of the concentration of enemy signals. Las-fire and bullets criss-crossed the conveyor shaft as the squadron ascended in the open cage, stopping just one floor beneath the mass of enemy.

When there was just enough room between the opening cage door and the wall of the elevator, Sabrael hit the throttle and surged out of the carriage, his bolters blazing into the enemy waiting in the chamber outside, bike slamming through their falling bodies. With just enough room to pass Cassiel and hit the gap Annael accelerated from behind the sergeant, exiting the car a second before the sergeant could follow.

Cassiel paused for a moment longer to assess the battlescape. The elevator had deposited them in a warehouse-like chamber, several hundred metres square, and enemy fire descended like a storm from gantries above and behind. Below the walkways more pirates used bulky cargolifters and metal-cased extractor vents as cover, poking out to snap off shots that were wide of their targets more often than they hit.

Ahead, Annael rode over a pile of fallen pirates, cries of pain cut short indicating that at least two had still been alive. The wheels of his bike throwing up a spume of body parts and crimson, Annael hurtled into the mass of enemies while unleashing a constant hail of bolts into the broad space where the foe had lain in ambush.

Remarkably, a man beside the elevator door had been missed by both Sabrael and Annael and he hurled himself at them with a chainsword, the teeth of the weapon sparking across Annael’s backpack. The biker braked and hauled his steed sideways, using it as a weapon; the pirate disappeared beneath the rear wheel, the man’s remains pulped into the metal decking.

Cassiel whirled his bike around, the bolters at maximum elevation as he cleared a gantry above the elevator door, while Sabrael was racing to the far end of the chamber, his weapons gunning down several foes that were making a break for a stairwell up to a mezzanine floor. Fire from Zarall and Araton announced the opening of the other elevator door behind the sergeant as they broke out into the other part of the chamber.

Cassiel shifted his gaze and accelerated, the bolters mounted in the fairing of his bike adjusting their aim to where he looked. He pressed the firing studs and a hail of fire cut down two pirates lurking in the shadow of a large crate, the bolts puncturing flesh and snapping bone with their detonations. To the sergeant’s right Annael slewed his machine around and fired at a handful of foes skulking beside a bulk-hauler, the flash of bolts sparking from the upraised lifting blades on the front of the vehicle. Las-fire snapped back as he cruised across the warehouse, still firing, the fusillade puncturing balloon tyres and severing hydraulic hoses.

Annael’s next salvo struck a pool of leaking fuel. A blue fireball engulfed the load-hauler and several pirates, who staggered from their hiding places with clothes and hair aflame. Cassiel had no time to finish them off as he turned his bike to the left to confront a trio of foes clambering down one of the mezzanine ladders. Metal splinters filled the air as Incitatus’s guns blazed again, shredding the vulnerable pirates. Their ragged corpses flopped to the deck as Cassiel continued to the ladder, one hand on the handlebars, the other pulling a grenade from his belt. He primed the charge and tossed it up through the ladder opening, accelerating away before the explosion scythed down more enemies trying to seek cover above.

‘Maintenance access, quadrant four, high,’ Annael reported sharply.

Cassiel switched his gaze to the left and saw more enemies issuing from a metre-high crawlspace. One of them was dragging a heavy stubber into view as a companion set up a tripod for the machine gun. Sabrael responded first, cutting back along the storage hold, bolt pistol in hand. He fired up through the mesh of the walkway, tearing the legs from the renegade with the stubber and sending another pitching back into the bulkhead minus his left arm.

Trusting that the threat would be dealt with, Annael was continuing his circuit, picking up speed as he curved across the open ground in the centre of the warehouse, Cassiel turning his bike to a counter-circuit of the space. The pair of them opened fire in brief bursts, driving the pirates further back into the darkness behind the stores.

Annael brought his bike to a stop facing a pallet laden with metal drums and fired on full automatic as Cassiel crossed past him. The sergeant noticed a movement in the shadows and directed his volley into more crates and drums lining the far wall, the bolts punching through the metal containers with ease. Cassiel fired again to ensure nobody survived behind the containers, the thrum of the bolters echoing loudly as the din of battle grew quieter.

Cassiel slowed, sensing the enemy were all but wiped out. As he looked back over his shoulder for a quick sweep, he saw there were only a handful of foes left.

One of them had a final surprise for the Dark Angels. A blue plasma bolt shrieked down from overhead, smashing into the rear of Incitatus. Molten metal, ceramite and hardened rubber sprayed into the air and the sergeant was flung from his mount as it careened past Annael, trailing sparks across the floor.

Pain surged up through Cassiel’s right leg and his helmet display was alight with warning runes, a high pitched alert whining in his ear. The plasma blast had thrown him from his mount, and the sergeant’s first glance was to check the condition of his steed. The whole back fairing armour had been melted through, the rear wheel turned to a slag of silver and black. Half a metre further forward and the plasma bolt would have struck the sergeant full on.

Incitatus was wrecked, and as he checked himself, the sergeant saw that his right leg was missing below the knee. The plasma had cauterised the wound with its own energy; no immediate danger. Pulling free his pistol, Cassiel located the plasma gunner, who was skulking behind a support pillar while his weapon recharged. Increasing the magnification of his autosenses, the sergeant picked out the glow of the plasma gun’s combustion chamber. A single bolt penetrated the shielding and the plasma gun detonated, enveloping the pirate in superheated gas. Skin blistering, flesh sloughing away from the bone, the man toppled over the walkway rail and spun crazily to the floor, his impact punctuated by another small detonation.

‘Brother-sergeant?’ Zarall drew his bike to a stop beside Cassiel, shielding the sergeant from the fire of the few remaining enemies.

‘I will signal Command with my position. My steed is no more, anyway. Araton, you have the lead.’ The sergeant looked down at the remnants of his leg, his augmented blood clotting the injury further, the spurts of dark red slowing to a trickle. ‘It looks like I will not be riding with you for some time. Not until we return to the Rock and I can have a bionic fitted.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sabrael as he and Annael turned their bikes’ bolters on the remaining enemy. ‘You can still ride gunner in an attack bike. I will drive for you.’

‘I am obliged for the offer, brother, but if I am to be at the mercy of another’s riding, I will choose Zarall or Araton. You are too fast for my liking!’ Cassiel made light of the injury, knowing that he was in no immediate danger from the wound. More deeply felt was the damage to his steed, and his pride. Speed was one of the best defences of a Ravenwing biker, and Cassiel knew he had slowed too early, giving the plasma gunner an easier shot.

The last of the opposition died when a burst from Sabrael cut him in half across the chest. The warehouse suddenly fell quiet save for the throb of idling engines, the ping of cooling metal and the clink of settling shell cases.

‘Area clear,’ Annael announced. He joined the others as they gathered around Cassiel. Zarall dismounted and helped the sergeant across to the gantry stair where he was able to sit down, the metal steps sagging slightly under the Space Marine’s weight.

‘Keep pushing hubwards and then come around to sector four to meet up with the Grand Master’s advance,’ Cassiel told them. The ruined stub of his leg was now a black and brown mottled mass of coagulant and Larraman cells, the scab thick and leathery. Reloading his pistol, the sergeant gestured towards the wide warehouse doors. ‘No delays. Get moving.’

‘We will return for you, brother,’ said Sabrael, slapping a fist to the aquila on his chest as he turned his bike away. ‘Unless the Apothecaries reach you first.’

‘Concentrate on the mission, brothers. I am not the first casualty we have ever suffered.’

‘Vengeance shall be ours,’ said Zarall. ‘Every drop of blood shed by our own will be atoned for by a river from our foes.’

Cassiel noticed Annael, the newest recruit to the squadron, and raised a hand in thanks as the other Dark Angel bowed his head in respect as he rode past.

‘You are doing well, Annael,’ Cassiel said as Annael turned away and gunned his steed after the others. ‘A true brother of the Ravenwing.’

‘We will be using fists and pistols before we are done,’ Annael said as the squadron rolled out through the opening doors.

‘We shall smite the enemy, brother,’ replied Zarall. ‘Any way that we can.’

‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael.’ The sergeant watched as the others disappeared from view. ‘I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’

In an upper loading deck half a kilometre from the Ravenwing’s main insertion, Grand Master Sammael paused to take stock of the strategic situation. Pirate corpses littered the bay around Sammael and his command squad, and amongst the sable-liveried warriors of the Dark Angels one stood out in his white armour: Apothecary Gideon.

Gideon’s comm-net feed buzzed with activity, tuning in to any transmissions containing key words and phrases that required his attention: ‘Apothecary’, ‘medical aid’, ‘casualty’, ‘injured’, ‘trauma’. During the initial attack there had been no need of his attention, the shock of the Ravenwing assault preventing any serious casualties. However, as the fighting became more protracted and the defenders of Port Imperial responded in force to the intruders, several engagements had resulted in more significant injuries to the Space Marines under his charge.

The Apothecary had just finished replying to a call and was about to request permission to respond when his vox tapped into a communication to the Grand Master, replaying the last few seconds of transmission.

‘This is Sergeant Cassiel, signalling Grand Master Sammael. I have been rendered combat ineffective. Request Apothecary and Techmarine attendance to my transponder location.’

A coded identifier tag confirmed the transmission originated from the sergeant; not all casualties were capable of broadcasting their identity or position.

‘Understood, brother,’ replied the Grand Master. ‘Remain in position. There is a squadron within two kilometres of your location, await their arrival.’ Sammael cut the link with Sergeant Cassiel and turned to Gideon. ‘Join with Sergeant Charael and his Black Knights. They will perform escort for you. Of the casualties, which is your priority?’

‘Brother Gabrael needs my attention swiftly,’ replied the Apothecary, referring to a communication he had received moments before Sergeant Cassiel’s. ‘The others are stable as far as I can judge by the reports.’

‘Very well.’ Sammael paused, checking the data display on his steed. ‘Tell Charael you can cut through a maintenance hangar grid-north-west of here. That should take you to Gabrael and his squadron with least delay.’

‘As you command, Grand Master,’ said Gideon. The Apothecary turned his bike around and headed back towards the docking spar where the majority of the Ravenwing had inserted aboard their gunships.

Following the telemetry guidance of his steed, Eclipse, Gideon sped through the empty chambers and tunnels of Port Imperial, occasionally passing piles of bodies and other signs of fighting. His bike’s augur detected the signal of Charael’s Black Knights not far ahead even as the distant ring of detonations and grenade blasts echoed back down the corridors.

Gunning the engine, Gideon caught up with the Black Knights as they exchanged fire with a group of pirates holed up behind makeshift barricades at the end of a transit corridor. Plasma fire had smashed through some of the upturned containers and wrecked transport loaders, but not enough to clear a gap for Charael’s squadron to ride through. Thwarted by the barrier, they had withdrawn and were using the grenade launchers of their steeds to lob explosives beyond the barricade. Despite this, there were still several life signals on Gideon’s display as he joined the squadron.

‘The Grand Master said you would be joining us,’ said Charael. The huntmaster turned his ornate winged helm to look at the Apothecary as sporadic las- and bullet-fire whipped down the long corridor towards the Black Knights. ‘How bad is Brother Gabrael’s condition?’

‘Severe chest injury,’ said Gideon. ‘Last report said he was rapidly deteriorating. We have little time.’

Charael grunted in response and returned his gaze to the two-metre-high barricade.

‘The wall must part before us,’ he told his squadron. ‘Durrigan, load stasis grenade. Squadron, pistol covering fire. Follow me!’

Gideon fell in behind the six-strong squadron as they once more roared down the tunnel towards the enemy. The weight of fire increased to greet them as Charael surged ahead. Fifty metres from the barricade, the Black Knights slewed their bikes to a stop and opened fire with their bolt pistols, the rounds snapping past Charael as he continued to close with the enemy.

‘Durrigan, now!’ ordered the huntmaster.

The Black Knight’s grenade launcher coughed once, sending a glittering orb arcing over the barricade. Just as it fell from view, the stasis charge detonated, throwing up a crackling globe of white. Everything inside the field slowed for a moment. Gideon could see a pirate reloading the charge pack on his lasgun, seemingly frozen in place; another rebel was suspended in the act of ducking behind the plasma-melted engine of a cargo hauler, his face caught in a wide-eyed stare.

Tyres screeching and skidding across the deck, Charael hauled his steed sideways and tossed something onto one of the barricade sections. The charge was caught right on the edge of the stasis field and hung in mid-air, a red light glinting at its centre. Turning his steed around, the Huntmaster headed back towards the squadron.

Two seconds later the stasis field collapsed. Bullets and las-flares rang out, criss-crossing with bolt-rounds, while the charge thrown by Charael clanged heavily against the barricade.

Another second passed before the melta bomb detonated, shredding the metal carcass of a loading vehicle, spraying white-hot metal and deadly splinters.

The Black Knights needed no further order and formed up in a line behind their huntmaster as he aimed his bike at the gap.

‘No cease in our speed, we will return for justice later,’ commanded Charael as his bike disappeared into the pall of smoke billowing from the ruined barricade.

Gideon trusted to his autosenses and aimed for the gap, on the tail of the last Black Knight. The squadron plunged through the opening, still accelerating as the shocked pirates hurled themselves out of their path.

Not pausing to finish off their foes, the squadron raced on into the depths of Port Imperial, forming up in escort around Gideon. A few last desultory rounds sparked from their armour and the walls as the pirates sent a final flurry of shots after them.

The Apothecary activated his vox-link.

‘Sergeant Tennerus, how is Gabrael?’

‘Barely conscious, brother.’

‘Hold firm, we will be with you shortly.’

Gideon cut the link and concentrated on following Charael as he swerved between heaps of debris, past collapsed walls and through doors at breakneck speed. The Apothecary was determined that no Dark Angel would die today if he could prevent it.

Considering his situation, Cassiel concluded that he had been in more dire circumstances before, but not many. Glancing around the battle-marked warehouse, he considered his options and formulated a plan. His first priority was to reduce the number of entrances into the chamber, so that the enemy would not be able to come at him from too many directions.

Heaving himself from the steps, he used the wall as a brace to hobble towards the main doors. He activated the locking mechanism and keyed in a new override code so that the pirates would not be able to open it again. With this done, he conveyed himself across the chamber in a series of leaps towards the elevator, pausing every few seconds to scan the upper level and hatchways for foes. It was not a dignified way to move, but it was effective, and within a minute he had reached the elevator doors.

Pushing himself upright inside the cage, he smashed a fist into the control panel, ripping out the workings with his gauntleted fingers. To make sure of his handiwork, he pulled a grenade from his belt, set the charge to ten seconds’ delay and forced it into the ragged hole he had made.

Exiting the elevator, Cassiel propelled himself back towards the remains of Incitatus. He had covered about twenty metres when the grenade detonated behind him. Tortured metal screeched for a moment and he turned to see the cage dropping from view, its descent ending with a thunderous crash a few seconds later.

With a combination of jumping and crawling, he dragged himself on to the broken remnants of his steed and checked its condition. There was no way it could be ridden; the back end and wheel were completely destroyed. However, a quick diagnostic scan showed that most of the major systems were still working and he activated Incitatus’s auspex. The scanner blinked into life on the display, showing roughly half a dozen life signals close at hand, on the level above the warehouse.

Pulling free his bolt pistol, the sergeant manoeuvred himself with his back propped up against the bike, facing towards a pair of maintenance ducts about thirty metres away. His autosenses picked up the sounds of heavy breaths and the scrape of boots issuing from the narrow passages.

‘Come on in, little rats,’ he muttered.

The first pirate that crawled out of the duct was a woman, dressed in dirty blue coveralls and a padded helmet. She had a lasgun slung awkwardly across her chest and she struggled to free the weapon as she stood up.

Cassiel’s bolt took her full in the face, blowing her head apart.

Switching his view to thermal scan, he sent three rounds into the other vent access, the white detonations of the bolts creating a spatter of orange against the accessway lining. Turning his attention back to the first duct, he fired again, two bolts greeting another pirate as he tried to push himself free of its confines.

The vague blobs of heat that signified the presence of the other attackers withdrew before he could fire again. Turning slightly, he checked Incitatus’s display. The gunfire had attracted some attention, or perhaps the rebels had communicated his presence in some other way. Whatever the cause, more signals were converging on his position from above.

Pulling himself to his right, Cassiel searched through his bike’s remaining pannier storage compartment and found another four bolt pistol magazines and several frag grenades. He laid them on the decking beside him within easy reach, took another look at the auspex returns, and waited for the next group of attackers to make their move.

Gideon and the Black Knights found Gabrael and his battle-brothers at a crossroads of sorts; a high vaulted chamber where six tunnelways converged. The area was choked with fallen debris from the bombardment of the two strike cruisers and Gabrael lay atop a mound of rubble next to his half-buried steed. Sergeant Tennerus was dismounted beside him while the rest of the squadron had been dispersed to hold three of the intersecting passages; their bike-mounted bolters rang out intermittently as they confronted incoming groups of pirates.

‘Praise the Lion you are here, brother,’ said Tennerus, stepping away from the prone Space Marine.

‘We will aid the defence,’ announced Charael, indicating to his squadron to follow him as he continued past the casualty. ‘Take the all the time needed.’

‘I think Sergeant Cassiel might prefer otherwise,’ replied Gideon as he stepped off Eclipse’s saddle.

‘A grenade dislodged a partially collapsed support,’ explained Tennerus. ‘Bad luck, nothing more.’

Gabrael’s helm had been removed and his face was covered with waxy sweat, eyelids flickering between wakefulness and unconsciousness. A trail of blood showed where he had been dragged from the rubble, but it was not the half-tonne of rockrete that had caused the damage. Jutting from the left side of the Space Marine’s chest was a five-centimetre-thick reinforcing spar. Thick, coagulating fluid bubbled across his plastron from the wound, coating his black armour with a slick sheen.

Gideon worked in silence, removing Gabrael’s shoulder guards first, trying not to move the casualty, so that he could decouple the breastplate. With this done, Gideon stood and gestured to Tennerus.

‘I need you to pull out the bar, sergeant.’

Tennerus nodded, grasping the jutting shaft in both hands. He steadied himself, planting his feet apart to brace, and then looked again at the Apothecary.

‘Swiftly and surely, brother,’ Gideon assured the sergeant.

With another nod, Tennerus flexed his grip and then pulled.

Gabrael moaned, blood-flecked saliva bubbling from his mouth as the sergeant wrenched away the spar and chestplate together, exposing the wound. The Space Marine had been forced down onto the jagged metal, which had driven up through his ribcage into the chest cavity, piercing a lung and possibly one of Gabrael’s hearts. Any normal human would have died instantly, and many Space Marines too, but Gabrael was obviously made of sterner stuff and Gideon was impressed he was able to remain semi-aware.

‘Bad, but not fatal,’ Gideon announced, examining the damage.

He activated the narthecium built into the gauntlet and forearm of his left arm, spraying anaesthetic agent into the bloody gash. Bloodied miniature bonesaws and suturing needles worked at the wound under Gideon’s direction, stitching and patching the internal damage as best he could, stemming the worst of the blood loss. The Apothecary finished with an organic foam sealant that quickly hardened, reinforcing the scabbing that was already occurring.

‘He can be moved,’ Gideon said, standing up. ‘Sergeant, detail one of your warriors to take him back to grid alpha. I have orderlies there ready to evacuate casualties back to the strike cruiser. They will be able to stabilise him further.’

‘Our thanks, Brother-Apothecary,’ said Tennerus.

Gideon said nothing and opened up a communication channel.

‘Sergeant Cassiel, your signal is still strong. What is your condition?’

Several seconds passed before Cassiel replied.

‘I am a little busy with these pirate scum, Brother Gideon, but otherwise faring well.’

‘Acknowledged, sergeant. I will be en route to your position shortly.’

‘I’ll be waiting. Nowhere else to go for the moment.’

Gideon smiled at the sergeant’s poor joke and cut the vox-link. He reviewed the last few minutes’ worth of filtered transmissions and assured himself that there had been no further serious injuries requiring more immediate attention than Cassiel.

‘Huntmaster, please fix on Sergeant Cassiel’s position. Let us leave Sergeant Tennerus and his brothers to their mission.’

‘As you wish, Brother-Apothecary,’ came Charael’s reply. ‘Fixing augurs on Cassiel’s location beacon. One and a half kilometres, grid north-east.’

Gideon mounted Eclipse and raised a hand in salute to Gabrael as Tennerus lifted the wounded Space Marine to his feet. There was already more clarity in the Dark Angel’s eyes.

‘Only in death does duty end,’ Gabrael said hoarsely.

‘Aye, brother,’ replied Gideon. ‘Yours will not end this day.’

Slipping another magazine into his bolt pistol – only two left – Cassiel wondered why the rebels seemed so determined to kill him. In his current state and position he posed no operational threat to their plans, yet they had come at him three more times since the squadron had departed. Twenty-two more bodies lay cooling in the dim light of the warehouse as testament to the welcome he had given them.

He had heard over the vox-link talk of the ‘Unworthy’. From the scattered information he gathered that these rebels were more than merely pirates. They had a cult-like mentality, and it seemed that they considered slaying him as some kind of unholy goal. Fortunately, their single-mindedness was not matched by their skill, or their tactical acumen. They seemed willing to die by the dozen in exchange for just his death; a situation that allowed him to continue to aid his brothers’ efforts by continuing to survive.

With an instinctual glance at the auspex, the sergeant confirmed that the Unworthy had given up trying to enter the warehouse through the maintenance ducts and accessways. Now they had gathered outside the main doors.

Casting his gaze towards the large portal he could see the glow of some kind of cutting gear heating up the metal; a las-cutter most likely, unwieldy and slow compared to a melta-charge. Though their entry would not be swift, their numbers were still growing. The life signals merged together on the auspex but numbered at least two dozen.

For a moment, Cassiel considered signalling to Command for assistance. He dismissed the notion quickly. The Ravenwing and Fifth Company had a task to complete, to apprehend the mysterious enemy commander who was referred to as the Overlord by the Unworthy. It would be a grossly selfish act by Cassiel to distract them from that objective simply for his own survival.

With that decision made, the sergeant considered how best to confront the growing threat outside the main doors. He evaluated his resources.

Firstly, himself. Mobility impaired, thirty rounds of bolt pistol ammunition remaining. His short-bladed power sword was still sheathed at his waist. Sufficient for the moment, but against a concerted attack from a single direction he would eventually be overwhelmed.

Secondly, Incitatus. Pulling himself over the bike’s remains, Cassiel inspected his fallen steed’s weapon systems. The right-mounted bolter was operational but the ammunition and feed had been destroyed by the plasma blast. The left bolter system was still intact.

His hands moved without thought, centuries of maintenance and experience guiding his fingers better than conscious effort, as he decoupled the bolter from its mounting and dragged free the chain of bolt ammunition. Setting this to one side, he checked on the doors, seeing droplets of metal now running down the inside. He still had a couple of minutes until the Unworthy made their first breach.

He freed the right-hand bolter next, pulling it away from the mangled remnants of the feed mechanism. He gave silent thanks to the ancient tech-priests that had first devised the wargear of the Adeptus Astartes ten thousand years before as he slipped back the bolter’s casing, exposing a slot that matched his pistol magazines. He slammed in the spare and reattached the bolter to Incitatus, dragging the bike through ninety degrees so that the front mounting was aimed towards the door. The fairing canopy would add to the protection afforded by his power armour.

The outline of a roughly man-sized hole was glowing across the door now, the metal flowing into pools to cool on the decking.

Cassiel settled as best he could and rested his arm on the top of the bike’s fairing, pistol in hand, and waited.

With a clang, the cut section of door dropped into the warehouse. Cassiel did not wait to see an enemy, but opened fire immediately, sending a flurry of bolts into the opening, rewarded by shrieks of pain from whoever had been wielding the las-cutter.

The first pirate through was cut in half by Cassiel’s next salvo, as was the next. There seemed to be no fear in the Unworthy as they leapt through the gap, wildly snapping shots from lasguns and autoguns, each met by one or two carefully-placed bolt-rounds.

In the press of bodies, one of the pirates made a move for the door control panel. From the inside, the override code could be circumvented. Cassiel recognised the danger immediately and adjusted his aim, ignoring another Unworthy who was levelling her automatic pistol in his direction. The pirate reaching for the door controls fell with a fist-sized hole in the back of his head as the other let loose with a burst of fire.

Bullets sprayed from Incitatus’s front mounting, flecking chips of ceramite and paint into Cassiel’s face. He didn’t flinch, and calmly fired back, sending two bolts into the Unworthy’s gut and chest. The momentary distraction had allowed two more pirates to enter, and they again split, forcing Cassiel to divide his fire as a las-flash streaked off his left shoulder guard.

Ditching the empty bolt pistol, Cassiel grabbed the manual trigger of the bike bolter and fired on full automatic, emptying the fifteen-bolt magazine in a few seconds, shredding the handful of Unworthy that had gained entry. A glance down at the auspex glowing beside him showed that there were about half a dozen foes left.

Cassiel freed a grenade from his belt and lobbed it through the hole in the door, the flash of its detonation silhouetting two pirates for a moment before the fragmentation shards flung their bodies through the opening.

Silence descended, broken by the patter of feet as the surviving Unworthy retreated. Through the ragged breach in the door he could see them regrouping at the far end of the corridor. With this he realised that as well as he could see them, they could see him. If he remained where he was, and if the Unworthy could find another plasma gun or perhaps a rocket launcher or other heavy weapon, he would be in plain sight for a long-range shot.

He rolled away from the bike to get out of sight, taking the dismounted bolter with him. From this angle he could still see a few metres up the passageway, but no further. Cassiel gathered up the snaking cable of the ammunition feed and coiled it on the floor next to him.

Pressing the firing stud on his bike’s handlebars, Gideon unleashed a ripple of bolt detonations into the packed enemies ahead. Around him, more fire spewed down the passageway from his escort. The green-skinned brutes parted like a wave before the charge of the Black Knights; the presence of orks aboard Port Imperial had come as a surprise to the Dark Angels. Somehow, the xenos fiends had found common cause with the Unworthy and were proving a tougher foe to eliminate.

Gideon and the squadron were responding to a call for aid from a squad from the Fifth Company, who had been set upon by the orks whilst clearing out a maze of chambers beneath one of the major power and coolant interchanges. One of the Space Marines was already dead and another critically wounded, forcing the Apothecary to adjust his priorities.

As more orks tumbled lifelessly to the floor, Gideon caught a glimpse of his green-armoured brethren defending a stairwell and intersection. The orks came at them from above and below and the squad was engulfed in a storm of bullets, las-fire and grenade blasts.

Like a thunderbolt, the Black Knights swept into the press of foes, swinging their glowing corvus hammers, Charael leading the charge with glittering power sword chopping to the left and right. Gideon tracked his fire to one side, sending another hail of bullets into one of the adjoining corridors as he slowed at the junction, cutting down more foes.

Stirred by the arrival of reinforcements, the warriors of the Fifth Company sallied out from their defensive position, bolters blazing, their sergeant wading into the orks with wide sweeps of his chainsword. Gideon slowed only enough to avoid a pile of the dead, cannoning through the orks directly, sending them sprawling to either side; the Black Knights were around him to guard against counter-attack.

Tyres screeching, Gideon brought Eclipse to a stop at the foot of the stairwell and leapt onto the steps, his narthecium activated. Halfway to the next landing, two brothers of the squad stood guard over their wounded companion, their bolters holding back a mob of human pirates trying to descend.

Gideon ignored the fighting and stooped over the injured Space Marine. His helmet had been cleaved almost in two, skull and face opened up by the jagged teeth of some viciously toothed chain-weapon. His right ear was missing and his jaw hanging limply, breaths coming fast and ragged. Now and then a spray of bullets or spatter of las-fire sparked from the bulkhead beside the Apothecary but he focused on the task at hand.

He inserted one of the narthecium’s injectors into the neck of the wounded battle-brother, sending a stream of stimulants into the Dark Angel. Almost immediately his eyes flickered open, confused and roving. The Larraman cells coursing through the Space Marine’s bloodstream had created a thick clot over the worst of the wound, but prevented Gideon from seeing the damage within. He applied an anti-coagulant and deftly scraped away the scab, exposing torn artery and shattered skull.

‘Not much I can do about the bone damage here,’ he told the warrior, who had now fixed the Apothecary with an intent, almost mindless stare. ‘The blood loss is another matter.’

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, Gideon brought forth a length of resinous, flexible piping. It was a crude substitute for cartilage and flesh but would suffice for the moment.

‘Be still, brother,’ he said, laying a hand on the Space Marine’s chest as he attempted to sit up.

Skilfully and swiftly, Gideon removed two centimetres of damaged artery from the neck of the Space Marine, quickly replacing it with the surgical tubing. Bio-gel and organic weld secured the bypass in place, but before the Apothecary could apply a layer of protective foam sheath a shouted warning from above him drew his attention.

The Unworthy had rushed the two Space Marines at the top of the stair, and though a handful lay dead, one had managed to slip past in the fray and came at Gideon with an upraised axe.

The Apothecary reacted in a moment, punching the blades and syringes of his narthecium into the pirate’s chest, hurling him backwards. Blood frothed from the gaping wound and the man spasmed and thrashed as a lethal cocktail of elixirs created for the augmented physiology of Space Marines coursed through his all-too-human system. Blood poured from his ears and mouth and his eyes burst from the internal pressure.

Two seconds later the man fell still, organs and nervous system totally overloaded by the stimms and vital fluids that had ravaged his body.

Back at the top of the stairwell, the Space Marines had thrown back the fresh attack and were finishing off the wounded with single bolt-rounds.

‘Apologies, Brother-Apothecary,’ one of them said, turning to look at Gideon. ‘Such disturbance will not happen again.’

Gideon nodded and returned to his charge, cauterising and sealing the wound. When he was done, he glanced back down to the intersection to see that Charael and his warriors, with the help of the Fifth Company battle-brothers, had slain the orks.

‘My work here is almost complete,’ said Gideon.

‘The presence of the orks has changed the strategic situation,’ replied Charael. ‘Master Sammael requests that we rejoin the main assault.’

‘Then do so,’ said the Apothecary. He switched his comm-feed and hailed Sergeant Cassiel.

‘This is Cassiel,’ came the reply.

‘What is your current situation, brother-sergeant?’

‘Combat outcome is deteriorating, Brother-Apothecary, although physically I have suffered no further injury.’

‘I am only a few hundred metres from your position, but we have a substantial enemy presence between us. Can you relocate?’

There was a pause and some grunting.

‘I shall attempt to move position, brother, though I must confess I am not wholly sure where I might find sufficient surcease from attack.’

‘If possible head to rimwards, brother, the fighting is strongest towards the central spires.’

‘Understood. Location transponder still operational.’

‘Keep strong, sergeant, I am coming.’

‘We cannot ride escort, brother,’ said Charael as Gideon cut the link. ‘Did you not hear?’

‘I understand, huntmaster,’ Gideon replied. He strode back to Eclipse and mounted. ‘Thank you for your assistance but I will proceed alone from here.’

Charael lifted his blade in salute to the Apothecary’s decision and Gideon raised a fist in reply.

‘Speed well and bring salvation, brother,’ said the huntmaster, before leading his squadron away.

Cassiel had not been entirely truthful in his report to the Apothecary. His entire leg was now numb and his right side and arm were also starting to lose sensation. Knowing that his strength would not last forever, he worked quickly, knowing from the auspex scan that his foes were once again gathering their strength before their next attack. He had accounted for another forty enemies, give or take a couple, but each Unworthy that fell seemed to only add to their determination to see him dead; perhaps they desired to settle the score regardless of cost.

Looping the bolter feed around his arm, the sergeant set about uncoupling the main unit from Incitatus; the bulky cogitator and display that retained the spirit of his steed. Detaching the device from the bike, he set it to one side and primed the anti-tamper mechanism of his fallen mount. With a grunt, he grabbed the machine-spirit casing under one arm, took up the bolter and crawled back across the warehouse towards the open elevator shaft.

Detached from the bike’s scanning systems, the auspex had been reduced to short range, intermittently beeping out the welter of contacts behind Cassiel as he dragged himself metre-by-metre towards his escape route. The sound became a more insistent shrilling as the enemy signals started to close once more, and with a last effort, the sergeant hauled himself to the edge of the shaft. A glance at the display showed that the Unworthy, dozens of them, were only a few metres beyond the broken doors.

Taking a deep breath, Cassiel looked down the shaft. The remnants of the elevator cage were about twenty metres below, three levels down. Pieces of snapped metal jutted dangerously up towards him, but a look up confirmed there were no good handholds to effect a climb; not with the bolter and machine-spirit console to carry.

The sound of running footsteps spurred the sergeant into action.

He pushed himself over the lip of the drop, angling his fall so that his backpack would take the brunt of the damage.

Cassiel’s landing smashed his head into something hard and through the ringing in his ears he dimly heard the thunderous reverberation of his fall echoing back up the shaft. He lay dazed for a moment, vision swimming. A damage warning indicator flashed at the edge of his vision and a whining tone alerted him to several systems failures in his armour, but he did not care.

‘The Machine-God blessed you well,’ he muttered in thanks to the spirit of his powered suit. ‘I shall see that proper honour is paid when opportunity presents.’

The open access door above glowed brighter for an instant, followed by the sharp noise from the explosion of his bike’s self-termination; one of the Unworthy had not been able to fight curiosity, apparently. Shrieks of the wounded and cries of surprise sounded out moments later.

Smiling grimly to himself, faculties returning, Cassiel pulled himself free from the tangle of the cage around him; the metal struts had been flattened by the impact of his fall. Rolling to one side, he managed to pull himself upright, powered fingers tearing at the mesh of the cage door. Shots started to ring out from above, shells and las-blasts lighting the interior of the elevator shaft.

Cassiel considered firing back but decided to conserve energy and ammunition. With a snarl, he pulled apart the last segment of the cage door and flopped out into the hallway beyond.

He checked his surroundings, finding himself at the end of a short corridor, which split into a T-junction ten metres away. There were no other routes of entry or exit.

Would the Unworthy attempt the climb down? Unlikely, he concluded, but not impossible. Also, a grenade thrown down the shaft might gift his foes a lucky bounce into the hall. And, when he thought about it, he was Ravenwing and mobility, however much impaired, was still a weapon to be used.

The throbbing pain from his leg was becoming harder to ignore as his armour’s suppressant systems started to run out of stimulants. Steeling himself, Cassiel forced himself upright, slumping against the bulkhead wall. He looked back at the remains of the elevator cage but saw nothing that would be strong enough to fashion into a crutch, so he turned away and started hop-shuffling his way along the corridor, bolter in one hand, Incitatus’s spirit in the other.

The Dark Angels’ drive towards the central command and habitation spires had punched through the defenders of Port Imperial, leaving scattered bands of pirates and orks in their wake. As Gideon rode through the dilapidated tunnels the roar of Eclipse’s engine heralded his approach, sending stray auspex returns and half-seen figures running from his path.

Here and there he encountered signs of fighting – bullet-pocked walls, bloody corpses and discarded weapons. Occasionally shots sounded in the distance, echoing oddly through the maze of chambers and passages, their sources unknown.

Gideon opened a vox-channel, concerned that his efforts might yet turn out to be in vain.

‘Sergeant Cassiel, respond. What is your situation?’

Several seconds passed without reply. The Apothecary turned his bike onto a main thoroughfare, noting as he did so the orkish graffiti and the drifts of garbage against the walls. A check of the bike display confirmed that he was only four hundred metres from Cassiel’s transponder position, but also that there were quite a number of unknown energy signatures converging in front of him. An off-ramp less than a hundred metres ahead would take him into the sub-decks where Cassiel would be found.

Taking the curving ramp, Gideon had to brake sharply as he almost rode into an improvised barricade across the roadway. Storage vats, plates of corrugated metal and other detritus were heaped across his path, metal spars jutting out like the stakes of a revetment.

As he wrenched Eclipse to the side, tyres juddering over the uneven floor, Gideon saw something else; metal discs half-hidden amongst the trash strewn over the ferrocrete surface. Explosive mines. He braked harder, shedding beads of rubber from the reinforced tyres of his steed, avoiding a mine by less than a metre.

He stopped, staring at the obstacle, calculating a path through the mess of explosives and debris, but as he did so he also saw a number of enemy signals congregating on his position from stairs and ducts along the rampway.

A pair of Unworthy burst out of a floor-level maintenance hatch to his right, pistols spitting bullets. A glance directed Eclipse’s bolters in their direction and the Apothecary opened fire, cutting them down as shells sparked from his armour and the canopy of his steed. Others were taking position behind the cover of the barricades; pirates and orks together.

‘Shade of the Lion,’ Gideon cursed, returning fire with his bolt pistol as enemy shots zipped and buzzed around him.

Immobile, he would make too easy a target for his foes, but the mines and obstacles gave him no room to manoeuvre. With a frustrated snarl, Gideon wrenched his mount around, turning back to the main tunnel. As much as he wished to fight, he had a greater priority. Just as the Grand Master was intent upon reaching his objective and would deal with the survivors later, so he too had to withdraw from battle to achieve a higher goal, though it pained him to do so. He might be an Apothecary by rank and expertise, but he was still a Space Marine of the Dark Angels and it wounded his honour to leave the enemy without retort.

Hitting the main transit route again, he opened the throttle full, knowing that every delay and backtrack cost him time and might cost Cassiel his life.

Firing again as another Unworthy came around the corner of the corridor, Cassiel put a bolt into the man’s leg, sending him toppling sideways. Another shot ripped open the pirate’s chest as he struggled to stand. The sergeant continued to unleash a hail of bolts as more foes tried to dash across the passage to the sanctuary of a doorway to his right. None reached their goal, their bodies and limbs ripped and torn by the flurry of detonations.

In the brief pause that followed, Cassiel turned and hopped further along the concourse, heading towards a stairwell twenty metres away. A las-blast skimmed from the wall next to him and Cassiel turned back again after only a few metres, firing once more at a pirate poking his weapon around the corner. The bolt hit the man’s lasgun, shattering the weapon, sending slivers of plastek into his old, wrinkled face. He fell back out of sight with a cry.

More Unworthy burst into view, firing their weapons wildly in Cassiel’s direction as they raced towards the door, trying to outflank him. Bullets cracked against the sergeant’s armour and one struck the elbow joint of his left arm. His hand spasmed with pain and Incitatus’s mind core fell to the deck with a clang.

Thoughts muddled with pain, Cassiel returned fire, cutting down two foes, but two more reached the haven of the doorway and disappeared into the hall beyond. The sergeant gazed numbly at the bike console lying at his feet and for a moment considered leaving it there; a free hand would be invaluable.

He could not forsake the spirit of his mount, though. He had sworn on his honour as a warrior of the Ravenwing to serve and protect his steed as it served and protected him, and he was not about to abandon Incitatus’s machine-spirit to an uncertain fate.

Summoning up what focus he could, Cassiel directed a deadly torrent of fire at the next band of reckless pirates to dash into the corridor. The first was flung back by two hits to the chest; the second fell with half her head missing; the third was sent spinning to the deck with a bolt in the shoulder, his arm hanging by threads of bone and sinew. As he fired, Cassiel dimly noted that there were about thirty rounds remaining in the feed belt of his weapon.

With a last salvo of fire to drive back any more pursuers, Cassiel stooped to snatch up Incitatus’s cogitator. Gripping the boxy device to his chest he laboured towards the stairwell, aware that another door ahead passed into the same room into which some of the Unworthy had run.

The pirates emerged just ahead of him, autoguns held at their waists, firing madly. Cassiel snarled as he was caught in the hail of bullets, his shoulder guards and plastron sparking with impacts, chips of ceramite and slivers of paint forming a dust cloud around him. Raising his bolter he returned fire, still slumping against the wall, hopping forward as best he could.

The two men were cut down in a single fusillade, bodies raked with bolts, their blood splashing against the walls and decking. More fire rattled against the sergeant from behind, but this time he did not pause but with a herculean effort propelled himself towards the welcoming sanctuary of the now-empty doorway.

He almost fell into the room – some kind of storage bay lined with empty shelves and broken crates – and only saved himself from toppling by slamming against the frame of the door. Cassiel pivoted and fired back up the corridor before launching himself across the corridor towards the steps.

Even the sergeant’s enhanced muscles and power armour-boosted leap could not make the gap and he fell short, falling with a loud clatter a metre short of the stairwell. Rolling to his side, he fired blindly along the passageway, his good leg trying to find purchase to heave himself the last metre to the next moment of safety.

A rocket sped past his head, exploding behind him.

Cassiel had thought he had no strength left but the appearance of a heavy weapon amongst the enemy spurred him into another impossible effort, flinging himself bodily down the stairs. He rolled and bounced down the steps, cracking armour and ferrocrete, coming to an ungainly stop at a landing. Out of instinct he turned and pushed himself away from the wall, once more tossed and spun by his descent down the next flight.

The chamber below was lit only by dim red emergency lighting. In the gloom Cassiel could see only one exit, a sealed door just to his right. Hooking the bolter on his belt, the sergeant tried the wheel-lock but it would not move, rusted shut by decades of neglect.

The sound of boots on the steps caused him to turn, snatching up the bolter again. He did not need to check the auspex to know that dozens of foes were close on his heels, intent on his death. The sergeant fired as the first of them rounded the landing above, and kept firing as more and more Unworthy descended.

Still shooting, Cassiel allowed himself to slump to the deck, propped up against the door.

The bolter clicked empty but it took a moment for his pain-addled senses to register that he was out of ammunition. He tossed the weapon aside, but the hesitation allowed the Unworthy to set upon him with blades and rifle butts before he could draw his sword.

Still Cassiel fought back, snatching a man by the throat to slam him into his companions. The sergeant swung the cogitator as a weapon, cracking open the skull of a pirate even as his fingers drove into the chest of a third.

There was a heartbeat’s pause as the dead men fell away, the others behind blocked by their deceased comrades. Cassiel snatched his sword from its sheath, its glowing blade swinging up to sever the arm from a woman looking to drive a knife into the sergeant’s face.

Cassiel’s rage at being cornered like an animal boiled up inside him. A maul clanged against his helm and an axe head skittered from his right pauldron as he surged up, power sword carving a bloody ruin through the foes that surrounded him.

‘For the Emperor! For the Lion!’

The sounds of fighting from ahead had fallen silent, raising grim suspicion in Gideon. Like a white-and-black thunderbolt he had fallen upon the Unworthy as they had surged towards Cassiel’s last position, Eclipse’s bolters roaring as the Apothecary drove headlong through them.

Confronted by the vengeful apparition of the Apothecary, unharmed and bellowing for vengeance, the Unworthy scattered, fleeing back into the ducts and holes rather than face his wrath. Coming to a turning, Gideon slowed, heaving his bike around the corner, the heavy machine pulping through the remains of a score of dead pirates. Cassiel had certainly taken a heavy toll before succumbing.

Following the blinking light of the sergeant’s transponder on the display, Gideon came to a halt next to a stairwell. More bodies littered the steps, a mess of flesh and blood. The Apothecary saw from the auspex return that the Unworthy had withdrawn several dozen metres, scampering away through the narrow hatches and under-levels where he could not follow.

With pistol in hand, Gideon descended the steps, treading carefully over the dead Unworthy. At the bottom of the stairs was a scene of total carnage; bodies lay upon each other, gouged, limbless or decapitated, at least another dozen.

Of Cassiel there was no sign.

It was only as the Apothecary shifted one of the bodies that he spied black armour. Dragging aside the dead pirates, he unearthed Sergeant Cassiel from the mound. He still held his power blade in one hand and the cogitator console of a bike in the other.

‘Brother? Brother Cassiel?’

The sergeant’s armour was a bloody mess, but how much was his and how much had belonged to his foes was impossible to tell. His helm was scratched and battered, but otherwise seemed intact. Lowering to one knee, Gideon rapped on the sergeant’s breastplate.

‘Sergeant! Sergeant Cassiel!’

The Space Marine’s arm twitched and Gideon had to react quickly, grabbing Cassiel’s wrist as he swung his power sword towards the Apothecary.

‘It is Gideon, brother!’

Cassiel’s arm relaxed and he slowly turned his head to look at the Apothecary.

‘A welcome sight, Brother Gideon,’ croaked the sergeant.

‘For me, also. I am glad my efforts have not proved fruitless.’

Gideon helped up Cassiel, supporting the sergeant with his free arm.

‘An effort that is appreciated, brother, but I do not understand something. There must be others requiring your assistance, why expend so much energy for me when my brothers still fight?’

‘I will attend to them soon enough, brother-sergeant,’ Gideon said, guiding Cassiel to the steps. ‘None have been fighting harder than you. They know, as you did, that no matter where they fall, the Chapter shall not forget them, and nor shall I.’

Cassiel looked down at the blood-slicked, battered casing of his bike’s cogitation engine.

‘Aye, I understand, Gideon. We stand together and fall together.’ He clasped the cogitator to his chest. ‘The Master of the Forge will find a new body for my steed, even as mine is repaired. We fight for the Emperor, for the Lion and, perhaps above all, for each other. That is what it is to be battle-brothers.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gav Thorpe is the New York Times bestselling author of ‘The Lion’, a novella in the collection The Primarchs. He has written many other Black Library books, including the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost and audio drama Raven’s Flight as well as fan-favourite Warhammer 40,000 novel Angels of Darkness and the epic Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering. He is currently working on a new Dark Angels series, The Legacy of Caliban. Gav hails from Nottingham, where he shares his hideout with the evil genius that is Dennis, the mechanical hamster.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2013 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

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