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It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

‘They came with the ice, so the natives would later tell us. But the truth was they had always been there, slumbering, waiting. We knew little about them during that first encounter, save that they were ages old and hard to kill. We know precious little more now.

‘The dead don’t stay dead, not on Damnos. They came back, from up out of the ice, and we shed much blood to put them back beneath it. We are Ultramarines. The exemplars. Our victories are many, but against the enemy on Damnos we tasted that rarest of things, a word I thought lost to our vocabulary – defeat. Few foes have ever claimed that over us, but in the necrons we found a worthy and most terrible one. In the necrons, we found a nemesis, and one which we were destined to meet again.’

– Chapter Master Marneus Calgar, after the
so-called ‘Damnos Incident’

CHAPTER ONE

FROZEN TRACKS

Bent-backed, frozen to the core despite his thermal labour-suit, Engineer Thain swore as he broke the handle of his ice axe.

It was his third one, with only a fourth left in his tool kit. Discarding the broken haft, Thain glared ruefully at the frozen tank track he had failed to loosen. He rubbed his hands together – they were bone-cold, despite his heavy gloves – but got little feeling back into the fingers.

‘Use a hand flamer to thaw the hoarfrost, then switch to the ice axe.’

Thain would have started at the voice behind him, but he was too tired, too cold to react.

‘It’ll fuse the track guards,’ he snapped, testy, rising as he turned. ‘Make ’em sti–’ The word died in his mouth, which was now agape and ghosting air.

He came up to the warrior’s armoured chest: a plastron of cobalt emblazoned with the frost-white Ultima symbol of his Chapter.

The huge warrior had taken a hand flamer from the engineer’s kit and offered it to the man in his massive gauntleted hand.

‘Not if you tweak the setting, keep the flame low and take it off when the ice starts to melt,’ the warrior replied. He was not wearing a helmet, which seemed insane to Thain, given the conditions, and a white rime of frost crusted his hairless brow and sharp cheekbones. There was a platinum stud above his left eye, a record of service, so Thain understood. This one was a veteran, then. The Ultramarine smiled, though the gesture was far from warming. ‘You’ll break fewer handles that way.’

Thain genuflected awkwardly because of his stiff limbs.

‘Gratitude, my lord.’

‘I’m not your lord,’ the warrior said, moving on. ‘Your lords are dead. Go to your duty, and that track had best be unfrozen by the time we’re ready to roll out.’

The man attempted a salute, but was hindered again by his chilled bones. ‘Yes, sir.’

He went back to thawing out the tank track, using the hand flamer as instructed, but the chill never left him.

Antaro Chronus left the serf behind as he went to inspect the rest of the squadron, but reached out to touch the metal hull of the tank before he did so.

‘Antonius, old friend…’ he sighed. ‘You’ll be battle-ready for the war on this barren rock.’

Three Predators, Annihilator-patterns on account of their twin-linked lascannon turrets and heavy bolter sponsons, waited in the cold, engines growling. They had been back less than an hour and the Damnos ice had already crept back into their workings. Chronus was no Techmarine but he knew tanks and his were not at ease. Their machine-spirits were displeased.

A short reconnoitre into the wastes had revealed little. As reported, the immediate area surrounding Kellenport was free of necrons. The retreat looked to be total. It meant they would have to press further, towards Damnos Secundus, but that required a refuel and now a thorough de-icing after waiting so long in the cold.

As the serfs kept the vehicles from freezing over, his crew were performing other checks according to protocol and taking on extra ammunition before their next foray. This time they would head north into the region where Tigurius had alleged the necrons were regrouping.

Emerging from The Vengeful’s cupola, one of the Ultramarines crewmen hailed the tank commander and disembarked to speak to Chronus.

‘They work too slowly,’ he said, jutting his chin at the shivering labour gangs. Fabricus was a driver as fearless as any Chronus had known, and as relentless.

Chronus cast his eye over the serfs: first the ones striving to keep their tanks functional, then the much larger workforce currently attempting to reinforce the sundered walls of Kellenport. According to Tigurius, it was the last bastion of human habitation in all of Damnos. Judging by the shattered revetments, collapsed bulwarks and broken gates, it was a poor one and not particularly defensible.

‘It’s the cold, Brother Fabricus,’ said Chronus. ‘Remember, they are merely men and cannot be expected to endure what we can. They’ll do their duty. This is their city after all, their world, and we are all that stands between it and annihilation.’

They walked together in lockstep, passing first through three Predators and then between the heavier armoured forms of three siege tanks, the Vindicators Glory of Calth, The Ram and Wrath of Invictus. The Ultramarines who noticed Chronus as he passed saluted the tank commander before going back to their preparations.

‘Have you been to see him?’ asked Fabricus solemnly.

‘Who?’ Chronus replied as they reached a group of three immense Land Raiders, their drop-ramps down as crews within worked on thawing out the interior troop compartments.

‘Captain Sicarius.’

They stopped at the edge of the improvised laager provided by the hefty Land Raiders, looking in the same direction as the tanks’ hull-mounted heavy bolters towards featureless tundra and endless ice wastes. A storm had rolled in, obliterating the distant horizon line behind a wall of white.

‘What purpose would that serve, brother? I know Sicarius is being tended in the apothecarion of the Valin’s Revenge. There is precious little I can do for him when he is unconscious and at high anchor above this frozen world, is there?’

Fabricus frowned, and the ice riming his face and closely shorn scalp cracked.

‘The Master of the Watch has fallen. Does that not concern you, commander?’

Chronus folded his arms, but kept his gaze on the white false horizon as Fabricus looked at him for his answer. ‘Do I think his absence harms our chances of success out here? Yes, of course. He is an inspirational leader and a fierce warrior, albeit capricious. But does it concern me?’ He gave a derisory laugh. ‘No more than a thrown track or a malfunctioning sponson mount. We adapt, we maintain, we overcome. We are armour.’ He slammed his fist against his chest with a heavy clank. ‘We are inviolable. The necron have yet to taste our fury, and I am wholly confident it won’t be to their liking when they do.’

Fabricus slammed his fist against his armour too, nodding at this declaration.

A second tank squadron idled within fifty metres of the first and comprised an identical array of vehicles, with the exception that the siege tanks were replaced by launcher-fitted patterns, excellent for long-range sustained barrage.

Alongside this fearsome alliance of armour was a void. It was waiting to be filled by a third group, one that was now almost an hour late.

‘Has there been any sign of them yet?’ Chronus asked.

‘Sergeant Egnatius’s last communication had them entering the Vogenhoff region. It’s remote, plagued by ravines and ice caves. Together with the storm…’ Fabricus let it hang like that, knowing there was no need to go further.

Chronus scowled, as if satisfied for now, but he was itching to be back aboard the Rage of Antonius, his own Predator tank, and back amidst the ice. ‘Inform Sergeant Gnaeus he has temporary command of the company, and vox me the moment Egnatius returns.’

‘Yes, commander.’

‘Have them stand by. We move on my order. One I must delay until I speak with our captains.’

Fabricus saluted again and went to carry out his orders.

Turning on his heel, Chronus began to stride back towards Kellenport.

Labour crews swarmed over the city like ants, directed by Techmarines and a few battle-brothers from the Tactical squads. Despite superior Space Marine engineering and fortification, the city looked far from siege-worthy. It was ragged. Only he and his armour would serve as any real protection for these people.

Despite what Tigurius believed, Chronus knew he could save this world. He had but to be afforded the opportunity.

CHAPTER TWO

FIRST MEETINGS AND OLD REUNIONS

The Ultramarines command section had made camp just within the broken gatehouse of Kellenport’s north wall. Most of the officers present were Second Company, some of Sicarius’s squad sergeants and honour guard. The rest were well known to Chronus, and he picked out faces he recognised as he breached the makeshift cordon of barricades and came to stand alongside the warriors surrounding a map table.

‘Hololiths are out,’ explained one sergeant, an officious sort given his stilted bearing, Chronus thought, but with a shadow behind his eyes. He had seen a lot of that since they had made landfall in the Thunderhawk transporters, and he wondered exactly what had happened prior to their arrival. He had not stopped to ask, just rolled out with his vehicles to secure the immediate perimeter. In the end, it had proven unnecessary, a fact that made the back of the tank commander’s neck itch in irritation.

‘Vintage,’ Chronus replied, stepping into the circle of officers and taking stock of the parchment map they were all examining. ‘I find something quite reassuring about that. Antaro,’ he added, offering a hand.

‘Brother-Sergeant Manorian,’ said the sergeant, clasping the tank commander’s wrist in the traditional Ultramarines greeting.

‘I know your rank, brother. It’s on your armour. Tell me your given name.’ Chronus was already absorbing all the information on the map and matching it to what he knew of the landscape first-hand from his initial reconnoitre and futile harrying mission. ‘If we are to bleed together, then I would know who you are.’ He looked back at the sergeant, his eyes bright and alert.

The sergeant nodded. ‘Praxor.’

Chronus smiled. ‘Excellent.’ He looked up at the rest of the gathering, who had been in the midst of determining strategy when he arrived. ‘So then, who can provide me with a situation report and who else around this table have I yet to become acquainted with?’

At the head of the table loomed a massive and imposing figure, the veteran Brother Agrippen, now encased in a holy Dreadnought sarcophagus. He was roughly a third taller than any of the assembled Ultramarines and easily twice as broad. Out of the vox-emitter built into his sarcophagus churned a machine-growl that Chronus took to be laughter.

‘It is good you are here, Brother Chronus. I see you did not wait to make greeting after landfall.’

‘Securing the perimeter of the city was more of a priority, Ancient.’ Chronus crafted a small bow to the Dreadnought, who gave a nod of sorts in return. ‘I was informed you have command?’

‘Yes,’ answered Agrippen, ‘together with our Chief Librarian.’

Chronus smiled at the hooded psyker, who kept his distance from the strategy table. His eyes glowed with power in the dusk that had settled over Kellenport.

‘Varro and I are well known to one another.’

Tigurius nodded. Even in the shadows, Chronus saw the Librarian’s jawbone tense at the informality.

Chronus did not linger on it. He gestured to another of the gathering, one armoured in black. ‘And Chaplain Trajan, also.’

He knew all of Sicarius’s Lions, too. Daceus, Vandius, Malican and Gaius Prabian. Only Venatio, the Apothecary, was absent. Doubtless, there were many injured who required his attention. Two others, besides the sergeant called Praxor, were unknown to him.

‘Strabo,’ said one, his markings indicating him as an Assault Marine. ‘Mathias,’ he corrected, before the tank commander had to request it.

‘Maxima Atavian,’ said the final officer, his bionic eye suggesting his position as a Devastator. ‘It is an honour to fight alongside you.’

Three line sergeants from each of the three squad dispositions of Second. ‘Well then,’ Chronus addressed the group, nodding in turn at the warriors he had not met before. ‘I don’t need to be told how Kellenport fares, this city is fit to crumble, but what of the rest of Damnos?’

‘From the Thanatos Hills, we saw a great force of necrons amassing to the north,’ said Tigurius. ‘And more phalanxes are activating in several other regions too.’

Chronus cast his eye over the map again, and the marks made in charcoal to indicate known and suspected enemy dispositions.

‘We are surrounded, Commander Chronus,’ uttered Tigurius. ‘Kellenport is a solitary lantern amidst a sea of night.’

‘I always admired your poetry, Varro,’ said Chronus, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. ‘I have no gift for it, myself. I am altogether a much blunter instrument.’ He looked up. ‘Perhaps that is what’s needed now, the more direct approach.’

‘I thought you a pragmatist also, Chronus,’ Tigurius replied, ‘and yet it sounds like you’re suggesting we can still take this world.’

Chronus was impassive. ‘I would see what kind of fight the necrons still have in them. Perhaps Damnos can still be saved. And if not, then the phasic generators present an issue for all of us, which requires an attack.’

‘Withdrawal is the only strategy left to us.’ A flash of power filled Tigurius’s eyes in sympathetic frustration. ‘Don’t risk your arsenal on what would be a pyrrhic victory, commander. By destroying the phasic generators you give us precious time to evacuate. To attempt any more than that is foolhardy. Damnos is lost.’

‘And yet here we all stand, stooped over a strategium,’ replied Chronus.

‘I find myself in agreement with Tigurius,’ said Chaplain Trajan from behind the death-skull mask of his helmet. ‘Even with the leadership of Sicarius, we cannot triumph here.’ He bowed his head to Agrippen. ‘No disrespect, Ancient.’

‘None taken, Brother-Chaplain.’ The Dreadnought’s gaze through his vision slit fell upon Chronus, though. ‘But if victory is still possible, then we must strive for it.’

‘Even at the potentially futile cost of more lives?’ asked Tigurius.

All present knew of the guilt he felt about Sicarius, and of the premonition he had failed to discern in time to prevent the captain’s mortal wounding.

Agrippen had already decided what their course would be, however.

‘What is our purpose, if it is not to lay down our lives in protecting humanity and its sovereign domains?’

Tigurius bowed to the Dreadnought.

‘Wise words, Ancient.’ He spared a glance at Chronus, who was studying the map and committing it to memory. ‘If the commander believes there is a chance to save Damnos then we are duty-bound to pursue that unto its end. Whatever end that might be,’ he added, somewhat forbiddingly.

When he was finished, Chronus looked up.

‘From what I know, the majority of the necrons are on foot. They are also slow and their tactics predictable.’

‘As we routed them at the gates, they were not as formidable,’ Agrippen agreed. ‘The loss of their leader crippled them in some gestalt fashion.’

Chronus nodded. ‘The primary function of a tank is to kill infantry. It’s the reason we were forged. We should look towards our defence, and fortify Kellenport. Have your warriors keep vigil on the walls, your gunships the skies,’ he said. ‘I can see you’ve drawn all defences back to the city walls and abandoned all else beyond it. Make what preparations must be made for a planet-wide evacuation. In the meantime I will seek engagement, and treat these necrons like any other enemy in my crosshairs. Piece by piece, phalanx by phalanx, I’ll dismantle them. I have twenty-four engines at my disposal and several others in support. Not to mention those still in their berths aboard the Valin’s Revenge. We’ll head north into Damnos Secundus. Soon as I get a sight of the enemy, we’ll bombard them, break them apart. I understand they don’t run, so if they want to engage us they’ll have to advance. Slow as they are, that will hurt them, even these creatures. When they do, I’ll bring up a second line of armour, heavy cannon and bolters. By the time they reach us they’ll be a ragged mess. And if anything does remain, I’ll crush it under my tracks. There’s no coming back from that.’

‘There could be thousands of necrons, commander,’ said Trajan.

Chronus faced the dour Chaplain.

‘Then I shall have to take sufficient ammunition. Rest assured, this is not arrogance or vainglory. I want to know we are beaten before we accept defeat. With all good conscience, I cannot say that I do yet. So I fight.’

Spurred on by the tank commander’s rhetoric, Sergeant Manorian stepped forwards.

‘I’d like to pledge my warriors to your cause, Commander Chronus.’

‘Aye, and mine,’ added Atavian.

Strabo’s fervour was obvious in his eyes, so no offer was needed to convey his feelings.

All three sergeants looked eager for retribution, but Chronus knew he was going to deny them.

‘Your courage is without question, but your place is on the wall. My armoured company can end this threat, but I need to move quickly and with what I know. I am a commander of machines, not men. See to the protection of Kellenport, in case I am unsuccessful.’ Chronus turned to Agrippen. ‘We are in agreement, Ancient?’

‘Aye, we are. Engage the necrons and assess the threat they still pose to us, but the Chapter has lost one hero already to this enemy. I would not see it lose another.’

Chronus bowed reverently to the veteran Dreadnought. ‘Understood.’

Tigurius and Trajan nodded their assent to Chronus’s plan too.

A warrior appeared at the edge of the circle of officers. His armour markings described him as tank crew.

‘Then if all are agreed and everything is in order,’ said Chronus as he noticed the driver, ‘I believe Brother Fabricus here has arrived with news of my errant sergeant’s return, so I shall put actions to these words and seek engagement.’

He saluted, looking at each and every officer in turn.

‘Your gunships, Ancient,’ said Chronus as he was about to leave. ‘I need them as my eyes, to show where my hammer should fall hardest.’

A machine-growl emanated from Agrippen’s vox-emitter, expressing his eagerness to see Sicarius and all of the fallen avenged.

‘They are yours to command, Antaro. Do so wisely.’

Chronus nodded curtly, saluted again and left with Fabricus.

The six engines idling on the snow plain expelled steam and exhaust smoke. Ice clung to the hulls of the Predator tanks, but they were, nonetheless, fully operational.

Chronus approached the lead vehicle as one of its occupants appeared out of the cupola hatch.

‘Apologies, commander,’ said Egnatius. ‘We were caught in the storm. Our augurs malfunctioned and took us into a blind ravine. The Vogenhoff region is more treacherous than I at first believed.’ He bowed his head contritely, snow cresting the ridge of his battle-helm. It bore a steel laurel, and some scars that had not been there before.

‘Did you run into some trouble, brother-sergeant?’ asked Chronus.

‘Just the elements, sir.’

‘Then let’s hope you fare better against the necrons. Your squadron is second in the line after mine. We’re heading north into Damnos Secundus.’

Egnatius looked askance at the serfs freighting a cache of fuel drums in the direction of his squadron, but kept most of his attention on Chronus.

‘Far north, it would seem.’

‘Indeed. The enemy have retreated deep and are attempting to regroup. We’re not going to allow that. Take on your extra fuel and fall in as instructed.’

Egnatius saluted and Chronus left him to it. Fabricus had already returned to his vehicle, so Chronus crossed the snow plain alone to where the Rage of Antonius was waiting.

As he was climbing back into the open cupola hatch, he spared a last look at the white veil beyond the Kellenport perimeter.

It looked almost impenetrable.

Almost.

Ducking inside, he shut the overhead hatch with a dull clang.

Slowly at first, their tracks grinding and slipping on the snow until they found purchase, the tank company of Antaro Chronus rolled out.

CHAPTER THREE

ICE ON THE WIND

Ice was in the air and it cleaved to the Gladius, riming its wings in white.

‘The storm’s fouling the augurs.’

The voice issued through the hold’s vox, from the pilot in the cockpit up front.

‘They’re still down there, Brother Kastus,’ said Scipio, standing in the hold with one hand clasping the rail above his head to keep him stable. ‘How are the engines holding up?’

There was a short pause whilst Kastus checked his instruments before his disembodied voice answered.

‘One of the turbofans is a little sluggish, but nothing to threaten loft or propulsion.’

‘We need to come back down out of this cloud,’ said Scipio, ‘and get sight of the enemy.’

‘As you wish, brother-sergeant. I’ll plot in a descent vector.’

The roaring sound within the Gladius’s hold shifted in pitch almost immediately, going from a dull drone to a screech as the descent thrusters eased in and slowly took them down.

‘No sensors?’ asked Brakkius, sitting down next to the exit hatch and his sergeant. ‘We’d be coming out of this blind, and low enough for ground-to-air attack.’

Scipio unclamped the magnoculars attached to his belt and adjusted the settings one-handed.

‘They’ve shown little interest so far, brother.’ He gave a feral smile. ‘Besides, I want to take a closer look at what they’re doing.’

Scipio’s squad, the Thunderbolts, all sat in sturdy grey grav couches, harnesses up and unlocked. They had been reduced down to combat-squad strength, just five men including the sergeant. A gunship the size of the Gladius had capacity for up to thirty armoured Space Marines, including their wargear. With just the five of them aboard, the troop hold felt cavernous.

Most of Second’s squads had been redeployed, the warriors from the more intact squads re-tasked to those with diminished combat efficacy in order to provide solid operational efficiency overall. Weapons too had been reappropriated and redistributed according to need. All retasked squads operated under their sergeant’s preferred honorific. In Scipio’s case this was the Thunderbolts, Squad Vorolanus.

Most of Second’s warriors were back at Kellenport on wall duty, and this included some surviving Thunderbolts. Recon patrol did not usually require a gunship’s hold to be encumbered with troops but Agrippen wanted protection for the Thunderhawks he had sent out in case they were shot down. Besides, more souls aboard meant a greater chance of someone surviving and being able enough to send a message if the necrons decided to move or change tactics. The extra guns aboard did not hurt either when trying to put a dent in their vast phalanxes.

Scipio got back on the vox. ‘Bring us in, pilot.’

The hull shuddered with some minor turbulence, but the engine noise began to return to its previous drone. Scipio could feel the Gladius levelling off. The gunship’s pilot confirmed it.

‘Breaching cloud layer now…’

Brakkius was on his feet, bolter low-slung but with the slide racked ready to fire. Garrik joined him, the heavy’s missile launcher braced against his shoulder.

‘Just in case,’ Brakkius said to Scipio. Auris and Largo, the final two members of the squad, loitered behind him.

All five Ultramarines had mag-locked their boots to the deck. This close in, their transport might have to shift to combat speed or perform evasive manoeuvres.

Magnetically secured, Scipio let go of the rail.

‘Open her up, Brakkius.’

Disengaging the locking clamps, Brakkius slid the side hatch of the gunship open, admitting the ice and buffeting wind. It hit them at once, forcefully, peppering their armour with chips of hail. The Gladius pitched a little as its interior integrity was altered, but Scipio and his squad stood firm.

The sergeant leaned out, hanging on to the rail again so he could extend his body a little further from the hatch without falling out. He was right – the necrons were still there, marching slowly and in phalanx formation. Despite the fact the deadly gunship screamed overhead, none of them looked skywards. Their eyes were dull, aglow, but with barely any sentience, assuming their brightness was any barometer of that. The Ultramarines did not know. They had precious little intelligence about the necrons beyond the fact that they were extremely difficult to kill.

With one hand, Scipio pressed the scopes to his eyes.

The image return was awash with grainy green resolution, but the filter cut through the cold interference and the natural obfuscation of snow flurries well. Any heat signature was weak, and judging by that the necrons appeared in some kind of semi-dormant state. They moved in lockstep, their flayer weapons held at ease across their bodies. Definitely advancing south, they still seemed without much purpose.

‘Garrik,’ said Scipio, still monitoring the phalanx through the magnoculars, ‘put a missile in their ranks, centre of formation.’

Brakkius stepped aside to give the heavy weapons carrier some room. Garrik nodded, took a knee to adopt a more stable position and flipped up the targeter array on his launcher. The red crosshair flashed into life on the scope’s small screen, overlaying a hazy rendering of the selfsame image on Garrik’s eye. He closed the other to increase his focus, and gave a thumbs-up to Brakkius before getting his gauntleted finger on the trigger.

‘Firing,’ declared Brakkius, warning the others to brace.

A second later and Garrik’s body jerked with recoil as a payload of light ordnance was spat from the mouth of the launcher with a throaty choom of expelled pressure. A winding contrail of white vapour snaked downwards before impacting in the midst of the phalanx and detonating.

The explosion tore through the necrons’ ranks, throwing up metal bodies and plumes of displaced snow and earth.

Scipio let the incendiary flare fade from his magnoculars, the visual briefly overloaded with light and rendering nothing but ugly green. After a few seconds, the image resolved again.

‘Nothing,’ he told the others, still looking through the scopes. He saw mechanised limbs and body parts strewn in all directions, and a small crater where Garrik’s missile had found its mark. Already, the necrons were self-repairing. There was a single flare of light where one of the automatons had been too badly damaged and phased out. Scipio increased the range, refocused for a closer examination. Entire mechanised systems were reconstructing themselves. Metal appeared to reflow and coalesce, refashioning back into whatever shape it had previously possessed. Wires reattached themselves, fragments of shattered gears and servos reassembled with one another as if suddenly magnetised.

The necrons that were spared the blast closed ranks around the fallen, absorbing the damage, whilst those that were self-repairing found fresh positions at the end or edge of the formation as soon as they were mobile again. Barring the one necron that had phased out, the phalanx was identical to what it had been prior to the attack. Their pace had not changed, their demeanour remained the same. Despite analysing the aftermath in detail, Scipio could find no discernible reaction to what had just happened.

He lowered the scopes and leaned back inside.

‘It’s as if we weren’t even here,’ he commented to himself.

‘We could try a strafing run?’ suggested Brakkius. Through his helmet’s vox-grille, his voice sounded tinny with a slight reverberation. It could not disguise his doubt, however.

Scipio’s second-in-command was reaching. They all were. The sergeant shook his head.

‘What do you think caused it?’ asked Auris, his beaked helmet giving him the same resonant cadence as Brakkius, only not as deep.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Scipio, still watching the necrons.

Reports from the Thunderstorm, also on recon patrol over the Damnos skies, gave much the same account. The remnants of the necron horde thrown back at the Kellenport gates after the heroic sacrifice of Captain Sicarius had regrouped much farther north and were advancing, but showed no other signs of aggression.

‘I’ve seen servitors acting in a similar vein,’ said a voice from the back of the hold. Brother Vantor sat apart from the rest of the group, quietly ministering to the Gladius’s aggrieved machine-spirits.

So circumspect was the Techmarine, Scipio had almost forgotten he was there at all.

Vantor looked up from speaking his canticles of function to address the sergeant. Both Thunderhawks in the skies at that moment each had a Techmarine on their roster. With such adverse weather conditions, together with the Second relying so heavily on the gunships’ ability to track and monitor the enemy, everything was done to ensure they stayed aloft. That included taking a servant of the Martian creed, a Techmarine.

‘They are following a prescribed protocol,’ Vantor went on, the dull internal lighting of the hold limning the right side of his red power armour but plunging the left, where he wore his blue Ultramarines shoulder guard, into shadow. The servo-arms attached to his power generator and their various concomitant mechadendrites resembled arachnid silhouettes in the dingy hold. ‘Imagine the entire phalanx slaved to a rigid doctrina wafer instruction,’ he went on.

‘These mechanoids are no servitors, Vantor,’ said Scipio.

‘Correct, and nor is their synaptic instruction methodology so crude.’ His eyes widened a little and a hollow smile just curled the edge of his lips. ‘It is advanced.’

‘You sound almost as if you admire them.’ Brakkius scowled behind his faceplate, but his distaste was obvious in the tone of his voice.

‘I find them fascinating,’ the Techmarine confessed.

‘The more we know, the easier it will be for us to destroy them,’ Scipio conceded. ‘Every weakness is crucial to us, and this,’ he jabbed his finger through the still-open hatch at the marching necrons, ‘is definitely a weakness, one we must exploit.’

‘I have a theory,’ offered Vantor. All eyes were suddenly on the Techmarine. ‘Based on what I’ve observed, I believe the necrons are an evolved cybernetic race, but not all of them have evolved to the same degree.’

Scipio found himself in agreement. The one proclaiming itself the ‘Voidbringer’ had spoken to them during the assault in the Thanatos Hills, displaying an awareness and intelligence beyond that of the more ubiquitous necron constructs. And they had all heard the propaganda message of the so-called ‘Herald of Dismay’.

‘There is a hierarchy, a command structure,’ said Scipio.

‘I think it’s more than that, Sergeant Vorolanus. I believe it to be dynastic, and the older or the more aware the necron, the greater its influence upon the horde. A nodal structure, if you will. Remove that influence and the mass will revert to whatever basic protocols their lesser functioning brains possess.’

‘These things have no brains, Vantor,’ snapped Brakkius. ‘They’re machine, and neither flesh nor blood.’

‘A figure of speech, brother,’ Vantor replied, mildly placating. ‘As to them being flesh and blood, I think perhaps they were, once. No machine, however advanced, acts as the necrons do. That behaviour cannot be programmed, it can only be learned or known.’

‘If what you’re saying is true, Vantor, then the creature Agrippen vanquished at the gates must have been a general of some kind,’ said Scipio.

‘Not a general, brother-sergeant. A king.’

‘So we’re dealing with a kingdom of these things,’ muttered Brakkius, his displeasure increasing by the second.

Vantor met his disgruntled gaze. ‘That is a distinct possibility.’

‘So, where is this “kingdom” then?’ asked Scipio.

The Techmarine laughed, but without humour.

‘An excellent question to which I have no answer. If I were to posit a theory, I would say it is below us.’

Scipio’s eyes narrowed. ‘Beneath the ice crust?’

‘I think it’s deeper than that,’ said Vantor. ‘It has to be, or the miners would have discovered something before now.’

The crackle of static presaging the activation of the hold’s vox forestalled further discussion.

‘Communication from Kellenport, brother-sergeant,’ came the voice of Kastus.

Scipio looked at the others, then replied, ‘Put it through, pilot.’

There was a short wait and a slight vox-modulation as an external channel was fed into the hold.

‘This is Commander Antaro Chronus. Respond.’

Scipio knew the veteran tank commander by reputation only. He had heard there was significant armour being deployed from the Valin’s Revenge but had seen none during muster or transit. Chronus and his vehicle squadrons had been lodged on a different assembly deck. Until Scipio’s commandos, assisted in no small part by Librarian Tigurius, had neutralised the necron ordnance on the Thanatos Hills, Chronus and his tanks had been trapped in low orbit.

‘Sergeant Scipio Vorolanus, aboard the gunship Gladius.’

‘Good to hear your voice, Scipio.’ The signal quality was relatively poor, but the tank commander had a dauntless quality to his voice and demeanour that came across in spite of the weak vox-return. ‘I have over twenty pieces of tracked armour on the ice plains. We’re looking for a fight, but in need of some direction.’

Scipio smiled and felt the faintest stirrings of hope kindle.

‘We have eyes on the enemy, commander, and can guide you in along with the Thunderstorm.’

The others shared his sudden optimism, the fire that had been waning inside them now stoked with fresh enthusiasm at Chronus’s words. Only Vantor remained pensive.

‘Glorious, brother,’ Chronus replied. ‘Our coordinates are being transmitted to your augurs as we speak.’

‘Augurs are down at present, commander. Please relay hard coordinates over vox instead.’

Chronus laughed. It sounded deep and hearty, but briefly overloaded the vox-link. He came back a moment later. ‘Such antiquated methodology. It gives me heart, Scipio.’

‘Commander?’

‘We of Guilliman’s blood, we always find a way. Do we not, brother-sergeant?’

Scipio nodded, and felt his smile broaden.

‘Indeed, commander.’

Chronus gave Scipio everything he needed to find the armoured column. The tank company was just outside Arcona City, which they had flown over on their way north. It was an empty shell now, devoid and abandoned of all life. Even the necrons had moved on, surrendering it to ruin and entropy.

The entire war so far on Damnos had felt attritional. Piece by piece, Scipio had seen the Second being chipped away like the ice encrusting their boots. No Ultramarine ever wanted to admit defeat. They were pre-eminent warriors and tacticians, even amongst their fellow Adeptus Astartes, but the necrons had driven them close. Perhaps closer than anyone dared to admit out loud. In his heart, Scipio had felt a deep weariness, one that afflicted the soul as well as the body. Endless winter had gripped Damnos, and there were monsters within the ice, ones that came back from the dead and were capable of killing Space Marines.

Now you know who you are, brother.

Tigurius had uttered those words to him. He had spoken of courage and self-sacrifice. Since the war had begun, there had been plenty of both. Standing in the wind-blown hold and surrounded by his brothers, Scipio had a feeling there would be more… much more, before this was done.

‘He sounds like he wants to win this war,’ said Garrik once the vox-link was severed.

‘Perhaps he thinks he can,’ said Largo, and Scipio could hear the desire to get back into the fight in his voice.

The Ultramarines had been battered in the opening salvos of the campaign. Now, they wanted to hit back. They needed to hit back.

‘We are badly in need of reinforcement, that I do know,’ said Scipio, sliding the hatch shut and returning the hold to some semblance of stillness again. ‘With an armoured company as our spearhead and the necrons seemingly debilitated, perhaps there is a slim hope.’

‘Hope of victory, brother-sergeant?’ asked Auris.

Scipio met the gaze of the warrior through his retinal lenses. ‘At the very least, revenge.’

Now you know who you are, brother.

The words of Tigurius echoed in Scipio’s mind. He only prayed he would not know himself a fool for trusting to hope.

CHAPTER FOUR

WATCHERS ON THE WALL

Falka stood alone on the wall, and tugged the collar of his storm jacket up around his neck to ward off the cold.

A bleak wind was rolling in from the north, one of the fiercest and most bitter he had ever known on Damnos. Kellenport was besieged by it, trading the necrons for the elements as its next oppressor. In the last half-hour the storm had intensified. Life had never been easy on this world. Throne knew, he had seen many men killed in the mines and known those lost to the drifts or dead of sickness. Damnos was a harsh world, but in hiding the necrons beneath its icy surface it had betrayed them more than the harsh weather ever could.

Thick drifts shawled the walls in snow but failed to hide the city’s ruination. Ice clung to its stunted bulwarks and beheaded towers. Frost lay heavy over stone and metal, grey-white like a funerary shroud. It was a fitting metaphor. The city was dead, inhabited by ghosts. Falka watched them as they went about their existence. When the necrons had retreated, disappearing in a flash of actinic, lurid green, it should have been met with jubilation. Instead, a mood of sullen acceptance had descended like a pall over Kellenport. It was pregnant with mordant anticipation of an end merely delayed and not averted at all. Falka saw it in every face, every deed. Their saviours had been humbled, their greatest hero fallen, some even said killed. How could they, the simple citizens of the Imperium, trust to hope when even their champions had succumbed to doubt? Yet still the Damnosians went on, because it was all they knew how to do. It was all they could do.

Labour teams toiled in silence to repair the city’s outer walls, shoring them up with fallen slabs of masonry or reinforcing unstable structures with metal struts salvaged from buildings inside the gates. Triage stations and makeshift infirmaries had been set up. Few actual medics had survived the initial assault, so unskilled but enthusiastic hands were put to use as orderlies in the improvised medicae teams that had evolved in the aftermath of the first siege. Soldiers not on watch huddled together around fires, muttering quietly, their faces as dark and bleak as the sky.

Falka saw Ultramarines striding through the groups of Damnosian workers and the disenfranchised Ark Guard but even sight of these cobalt Angels could not seem to stir the people’s spirits. The career soldiers looked worst of all, bereft of purpose and low-spirited. At least the workers could build and repair, losing themselves in the menial routine.

Falka scowled at a sudden thought that sent a deeper chill through his marrow.

We have become no different to the necrons. We are automatons now too, but ones of flesh and blood. Quick to die and easier killed.

What he would not give to see a gilded sunrise over the wastes and the light striking the high peaks of the mountains, casting all the way to Halaheim… But Damnos was slate-grey, the grey of tombs and unforgiving metal. Falka did not think he would see it different again during his lifetime. The old ex-miner was a hard bastard, hard as ice, but he wiped a gloved hand across his eye at that maudlin thought. In the time it took to reach his face, his solitary tear had already frozen to his cheek and broke apart as he touched it.

‘Throne, Jynn…’ he murmured, as more ice froze on his face. ‘I pray you are at peace now, girl.’

He shook, once, with an involuntary sob and then it was over. It was difficult to grieve when your life was being measured in minutes and seconds. It seemed a waste, somehow.

Falka was a soldier now, part of the ill-fated, if brave, ‘One Hundred’. It was an inaccurate name for the militia that had arisen to defend Kellenport in its darkest moments. There had never been one hundred of them… There were fewer than that now.

Despite his fear, he had caught a few hours of sleep since the siege had ended and exhaustion finally claimed him. But it had been a fitful, restive slumber in which Falka had dreamed of a cold, grey world and the metal-clad revenants who had once claimed it as their own. The passage of ages and the death of its nearest sun had veneered the world in ice while its old masters slept in their cages, dreaming of a better age when their kingdoms still thrived and they treated with the very gods themselves. Bitterness was all that was left to them now, and a remorseless desire to take back what was theirs.

They would kill everything on this world, everything on Damnos.

Feverish sweat had lathered Falka’s body as he had come to in the half-ruined barrack house, some of his comrades suffering the same nightmare.

He had recently surfaced from the dream to take his appointed watch upon the wall. Even a good twenty minutes later, memories of it still lingered and made his hands shake as he tried to light up the stick of tabac pressed to his frost-touched lips.

‘Here,’ said a man next to him, Ark Guard judging by his ragged uniform and the shoulder patch on his coat. So deep in thought was he, Falka had not noticed him approach. The newcomer took Falka’s small silver igniter and held it steady so he could light his tabac.

Falka drew deep with a shuddering, nerve-settling inhalation before expelling a plume of smoke.

‘I needed that,’ he said, his words ghosting in the air.

‘Tanner Greishof,’ said the man. ‘Ark Guard, corporal rank.’

‘Falka Kolpeck,’ replied Falka. ‘Old man freezing his arse off on this damn wall.’

He did not shake Greishof’s hand, it was far too cold for that. Both kept their arms as close as they could to their bodies, hugging their chests and rubbing their arms.

Falka offered the tabac stick, but Tanner refused.

‘It’s all yours.’

Falka nodded. ‘Your loss. But thanks, anyway.’

‘You fought at the gate?’ asked Greishof.

Falka grinned ruefully and his head drooped a little. I should have known he was a talker. ‘I was with the One Hundred.’

Falka expected surprise, perhaps even respect, but all he got was indifference. Greishof nodded, as if this was not really news.

‘We fought at the gate,’ he said, ‘my men and I. They died, every one of them. Mechanoids got ’em. Took the flesh right off the bone, then turned what was left to ash. Didn’t even have anything to bury.’ Greishof started to whistle, the tune light and carefree. Fearless. What he said next made Falka realise why. ‘No one’s getting out of this. We’re all dying here, Kolpeck. Every one of us. Dead men’s boots and ghosts walkin’ in ’em.’ Greishof looked over. ‘Another smoke?’ he asked, gesturing to the tabac stick that had almost burned to the nub in Falka’s hand.

‘No, thank you.’

Falka left him and went to another part of the wall. Greishof did not follow, he did not move at all. He just stared into the ice, whistling. He would be dead in the morning, either having jumped or slashed his wrists. Most preferred to jump, they did not have to take off their gloves for that.

Falka wondered how long it would be until his mind gave in, until he looked down over that wall and saw something appealing at its broken footings on the other side.

A runner caught his attention. Little more than a boy, he was wearing a medicae smock under cold-weather gear.

‘Kolpeck?’ the boy asked, breathless. He had obviously run up the steps to the wall and kept on going until he had found the man he had been charged to seek out.

‘Take a breath, lad,’ said Falka. ‘I’m Kolpeck, yes. What is it?’

‘Infirmary Seven,’ the boy said, pointing vaguely in the direction of a unit of warehouses beyond the courtyard. Denuded of all their machinery and raw materials to make barricades and plug gaps in the wall, the warehouses had been co-opted to act as medical stations for the many hundreds of injured.

‘What of it, lad? Tell me.’ Falka gripped the boy’s shoulders, firmly but not hard, in his frustration to hear whatever message he had come to impart.

‘A woman… injured. She’s asking for you.’

A thick lump swelled in Falka’s throat and he almost could not speak.

‘What’s her name, lad?’

The boy checked on a scrap of parchment that had been thrust into his hands. Falka saw there were several names on it and guessed the runner was making the identity of survivors known to their relatives and loved ones.

‘Evvers, sir. Captain Jynn Evvers.’

‘Let me see that.’ Falka snatched the parchment. Hurriedly reading down the list, heart beating hard in his chest, he saw the name the boy had given him. He almost did not dare believe.

‘She’s alive?’ he whispered, tears filling his eyes and freezing on his cheek. ‘Throne above…’

But he could not leave the wall, he could not leave his duty. Yet this might be the last chance, their last chance… Falka looked to Greishof, but discounted him immediately. The man was clearly imbalanced.

‘I cannot leave my station, lad,’ he said, ‘but get a message to her for me, would you?’

The boy nodded, but was only half listening. Now he had delivered the news, he had the rest of the names on that list to work through. Falka suddenly doubted his message would reach Jynn before… He shut his eyes, desperately wishing he could leave.

And then, as by some divine hand, his prayer was answered by an Angel.

‘I have your watch, Brother Kolpeck,’ said a deep, gruff voice.

Both Falka and the boy looked over to where an armoured giant clad in cobalt blue was striding up to the battlements.

He looked more grizzled than when Falka had last set eyes on him, if that were even possible, the stubble on his chin like asphalt and his face set like a granite cliff. His leg greave was battered and recently repaired, but he carried the wound he had received at the gate well. If only they all had the constitution of Space Marines, perhaps then they would not all be staring down the prospect of an unpleasant death at the hands of the necrons. Despite his outwardly harsh appearance though, Brother-Sergeant Iulus Fennion was not unfeeling as stone. He had more heart than any of the Ultramarines Falka had met on Damnos.

When Iulus reached the top of the stairs, he towered over both of them and was twice as broad as Falka, who was built like a tundra-ox.

Trying not to weep in sheer awe and terror, the boy was about to take a knee when Iulus’s booming voice held him fast.

‘Don’t bow to me, boy. Never do that. Bow when you’re dead and your sword slips from your hand, but not until then, not to me. Are you dead yet, boy?’

‘N-n-no, sir,’ he stammered, standing again.

‘Then let’s try to keep it that way. Go to your duty. I’ll relieve Sergeant Kolpeck on this part of the wall.’

More than a little relieved, the boy nodded and quickly scurried off.

‘You’re not wearing your battle-helm, Sergeant Kolpeck,’ said Iulus, glaring.

‘I was always just a rig-hand, Brother-Angel,’ Falka answered with good nature, ‘and besides, a padded hood is much warmer.’

Iulus smiled, unable to keep the pretence going any longer. ‘Justly spoken.’ He nodded, something like pride in his shadowy eyes. ‘I am glad to see you still live.’

‘And I you, Brother-Angel.’

A brief silence descended, wherein the giant Ultramarine said nothing but merely stared.

‘Begone then,’ he said thunderously at last, and stood aside for Falka to pass. ‘You have relinquished your guard post to me, Sergeant Kolpeck.’

Falka nodded, before hurrying in the direction of Infirmary Seven.

Iulus watched him go, and thought how desperately the humans clung to what remained of their lives here. He did not know how much longer there would be threads strong enough for them to grasp.

A dull thud that came from the opposite side of the wall made him turn. Looking across, the battlements were empty, where before there had been a solitary Ark Guard trooper standing watch. An urgent shout from one of the upper towers told Iulus another one had gone to his death. He paid it little heed, taking up his post.

‘How long, indeed?’ he muttered to himself.

Beyond Kellenport, the ice was still and dead. Ever-thickening snow drifts had obliterated much from view past a few hundred metres. If the necrons were out there, regrouping, readying for another assault, the watch would not see them coming until they were almost on top of them.

That was assuming they travelled over the ice at all. For the longest time since the siege, Iulus had been aware of something below the surface. It was hard to describe, more of a feeling than an explicable perception. He dearly wished to tell Scipio of it, but the brother-sergeant was abroad in the Gladius keeping a watchful eye on the suspiciously dormant necrons that had rematerialised in the far north.

Agrippen had yet to sanction a full-scale attack on them. With their gunships and armour planetside, it was now possible, but a lightning strike would be foolhardy against an enemy whose strength the Ultramarines could not yet gauge. And there was talk of evacuation, also.

There was much unknown, and they would not underestimate the necrons again.

If Damnos could be won, they would win it. If not, they would get every living soul off this dead world and scour it from orbit.

Unable to guess the future himself, Iulus did the only thing he could and settled in for a long watch.

CHAPTER FIVE

WE ARE LEGION

The under-caverns below the surface of Damnos were a lie. Unbeknownst to the parasites currently embedded on this world, they were but a shell, an outer crust formed over its true core.

Ankh knew the truth. He was the Architect, the cryptek who had borne witness to the death of the first sun and the birth of the creeping ice that came in its wake. Cold did not affect the necrontyr, not any more. Since the long sleep, such things as warmth and comfort had become but the petty concerns of lesser beings.

They no longer felt as they once had, though some still dreamed and confused that dream with waking. A great many had been damaged during their slumber, like Sahtah the Enfleshed and the Undying. The risk in reviving them, the potential damage to their memory engrams… So many curses, the Sautekh Dynasty had indeed been brought low by them.

Ankh still held to hope. Tahek, Sahtah, even the Undying – they had been but lordlings compared to the true dynasts of Sautekh. The Architect was cunning. He had no desire to make the same mistake he had with the others, lost to grief, envy and madness. A chronomancer, he knew well the importance of time. In revivifying the Undying’s paltry war host, he had garnered enough of it to set the great mechanism in motion and bring about the return of the Sautekh’s pre-eminent overlord.

When he arose, the ice would cloak their world no longer and the wretched epithet of Damnos would be a footnote in the empire-history of the necrontyr. As a vaunted servant and trusted vizier, Ankh would bask in the reflected glory, his status assured.

As he walked slowly through the under-caverns, every slow and measured step carrying the cryptek deeper into the subterranean realm, legions of arachnid constructs were hard at work reactivating the tomb-pyramids and revivifying the necron hosts within.

Ankh could feel their life-signatures, perceive the growing web of necron awareness as it latticed over his subconscious.

Staff in hand, he paused by the slab-sided flank of a tomb. It was partially buried in a crust of hoarfrost. Just the summit was clad in ice – the bulk of the structure went deep into the actual tomb-world’s catacombs and was still locked in ageless slumber. Ankh resolved to alter that.

His skeletal fingers traced ancient sigil-runes over the surface of the tomb, manipulating an activation panel only perceivable to another cryptek. The sequence was complex and delicate. An error now could result in the dramatic and fatal deterioration of every memory engram contained within the tomb-pyramid.

Within seconds, Ankh activated it without mishap and felt the anima of hundreds start to waken.

‘Doom,’ he muttered to himself, his rictus jaw unmoving as the words emitted from vocalisers in his polished, metal skull. ‘Annihilation… Let slip these chariots of retribution.’

Through the metres-thick metal, his mind perceived the deadly war machines and their enslaved crew slowly being restored. Ankh saw their eyes alight with verdant balefire, felt the thrum of engines and power coils coming online.

In ancient days the necrontyr had waged war on the back of resplendent arks and barges. So they would again.

But more was needed, much more.

Having begun the process, Ankh could leave the scarabs and spyders to finish revivifying the war machines. At a command gesture, two canoptek wraiths, his watchdogs and guardians, materialised into being before him. Tall and serpentine, their bladed limbs clacked together in anticipation of their master’s command.

‘Show me the rest,’ Ankh ordered in a sibilant voice.

His mind connected with those of the wraiths and he perceived rank upon rank of tombs, stretching ever deeper into his world’s forgotten core. Some were damaged, and would have to be destroyed. This was an eventuality for which Ankh had already prepared. But the majority harboured legions. He saw foot soldiers, the gilded retainers of kings, walker constructs and the venerable overlords themselves. And at the last, something else, a malign intelligence that when unleashed would scour all life from this world and restore it to the necrontyr.

‘Good,’ hissed Ankh, myriad plans already forming as he focused on the image of a many-limbed walker. ‘We shall begin with the Triarch.’

A barren ice plain stretched before Chronus through his magnoculars. Riding in the cupola of the Rage of Antonius, hatch thrown back, he barely felt the bite of the ice and the scything hail hammering against the Predator’s armour.

Somewhere in the storm, his enemy was lurking. From all the intelligence he had gathered, the necron force was still numerous and growing. But it also consisted solely of infantry, and slow-moving, tactically inert infantry at that. Chronus did not consider himself an arrogant man. He was logical and tried to base his assumptions only on fact, but a laborious host of foot soldiers would not last long against an Ultramarines tank company. They would be easily defeated, and he suspected there were more forces held in reserve somewhere, sterner opponents.

But he had to engage the remnants first, and goad whatever else was waiting for them out of the ice. He had seen the reports of the phasic generators, large-scale teleportation devices that had moved entire phalanxes from the battle zone to an unknown regrouping point in the northern polar wastes. If engaging the necrons was the primary mission, then finding and destroying the generator was next.

Of course, that was assuming he could even find the necron remnants left after the Kellenport siege.

Setting the scopes down on the hull, he took the auspex from his belt. The backlit screen still returned an empty scanner pulse. Since leaving Kellenport they had continued north, following the map coordinates he had given the sergeant who had contacted them earlier. Chronus led the line, a column of twenty-four battle tanks with fourteen other armoured carriers advancing along either flank. He kept them in file until engagement was imminent; it was easier to conceal their martial strength that way.

Taking up the scopes again, he first ranged left and then right, checking on formation dispersal. It was wide, just as instructed, and the column was also spread. If he was riding into a trap, if the necron reinforcements were closer at hand than gathered intelligence suggested, then the wide spread across the length and width of the formation would give those not caught directly in the ambush a chance to counter, or regroup.

He was just about to despair of ever making contact with the enemy to run such a risk when a blip came through on the auspex. A pair of markers, they flashed red against the screen and then returned a second later.

He recognised the origin of the markers. They were Ultramarines.

Chronus called down into the hold.

‘Novus, I have the Gladius and the Thunderstorm.’ He sent the markers to the driver’s retinal display.

‘Affirmative, commander.’

Chronus switched channels through his comm-feed to his sergeants leading the other two squadrons.

‘Be advised our guides are inbound.’

‘I have them on auspex, Commander Chronus,’ replied Gnaeus.

Egnatius’s comm-channel remained silent.

Chronus tried the link again. ‘Sergeant Egnatius, respond.’

Still no answer. He went back to the other sergeant.

‘Gnaeus, are you experiencing any comms interference?’

‘Nothing unusual, commander.’

‘What about between vehicles in Sergeant Egnatius’s squadrons?’

‘I’ve not had vox contact with Sergeant Egnatius since we left Kellenport.’

Egnatius’s formation was second in column. Chronus cut the link to Gnaeus and opened up a channel to the next battle tank in the line, The Vengeful.

Fabricus answered his hail.

‘Brother Fabricus, take front of column.’

‘Commander?’ asked Fabricus, nonplussed.

‘That’s a direct order, driver.’

Chronus shouted down for Novus to peel off the column and double back along the flanks, then voxed the nearest Razorback and Rhino outriders with the brief change in the order of march.

‘Novus,’ Chronus shouted down into the hold. ‘I want you to bring us right alongside the Stormwarden,’ he said, referring to Egnatius’s Predator Destructor.

The Rage of Antonius rode down the line, running against the churning tide. Ice cracked and snow was ground to slush before the ruthless advance of the armoured column. Exhaust ports plumed grey smoke that was quickly caught on the wind and dispersed. Frost hugged the flanks of every vehicle and ice rimed their turrets where thick snow squalls had built up and then solidified.

Rolling close to combat speed, engines spitting out a throaty rumble as if grateful for the sudden run-out, the Rage of Antonius came up alongside the Stormwarden in a few minutes.

Hail and ice were slamming down hard now, chipping paintwork, and Chronus donned his helmet before the storm got bad enough to cut flesh or take an eye.

‘Vutrius,’ he called down to his own gunner. ‘Put the searchlight onto the Stormwarden.’

Novus had expertly brought them around and alongside the Predator Destructor so they were rolling with the column again, directly adjacent to the Stormwarden. The automated lamp attached to the Rage of Antonius’s turret swung around and, with a heavy chank of activation, blazed into life. Magnesium-bright, it lit up the side of the Stormwarden and flooded its vision slits.

When Egnatius did not respond, Chronus unholstered his sidearm and fired off a single shot at the Destructor’s front arc, leaving a dent but no permanent damage. It barely registered outside in the storm, but he knew that inside it would resonate.

A few seconds later, the turret hatch disengaged and Egnatius emerged from the cupola. Though it was difficult to tell with him wearing his helmet, Chronus could tell his sergeant was angry. When Egnatius looked over and saw the commander his ire cooled almost immediately.

Chronus tapped the side of his helmet.

Egnatius’s channel came online, indicated by a single glowing Ultima rune on Chronus’s retinal display.

‘Why did you not respond to my hails, brother-sergeant?’

Egnatius’s reply was chopped with static and bad signal return.

‘Apologies, commander. We are… periencing… issue… ith… comms.’

‘Find a solution. Our Thunderhawks have just made contact and will be guiding us in. We are about to rendezvous. I want you and your squadron back in vox contact before that happens.’

‘Yes, comm… der. It… ill… be done.’

‘See it is, Egnatius.’

Chronus went down below, sealing the hatch behind him. Disengaging the holding clamps, he removed his helmet to drink in the atmosphere. It was louder inside the Predator’s hold, the engine noise exacerbated by the close confines, and every contour of the rough terrain could be felt through the shuddering hull. Though during combat there was no better place to be than riding in the cupola and seeing the destruction wrought by his war machine first-hand, Chronus had always found the interior of the battle tank calming.

It was dingy and cramped inside, the majority of the hold taken up with machinery and munitions. Novus sat up front, surrounded by instrumentation. A control panel was lit up dully next to him, providing a slew of information including fuel, speed and acceleration. The forward vision slit was open. Hands on the steering column, Novus peered intently through the gap. Internal auspex and sensorium were proving patchy on account of the adverse weather, so Novus preferred the evidence of his own eyes as opposed to the Predator’s on-board systems.

The only other crewman of the Antonius, Vutrius, sat at the back of the hold and nodded to the commander as he descended and joined them both in the shadows.

‘Are we battle-hungry yet, gunner?’ Chronus asked as he took up position midway down the cramped crew compartment.

‘Running final readiness procedures now, commander,’ replied Vutrius without much of the hunger his commander had asked for. Chronus was unconcerned. His gunner might be cold but his aim was deadly and unforgiving.

Arrayed around Vutrius’s gunnery seat were three monitors, one for each of the Annihilator’s main weapons. Ammunition counts were at maximum, though they also carried two additional drum mags for the heavy bolters and a spare power generator for the twin-linked lascannon. According to his readouts, all weapons were at acceptable temperature levels and currently running at full efficacy.

‘Could it have been environmental interference?’ suggested Vutrius.

‘Could be.’ Chronus did not sound convinced. ‘I want you to send them a hail every three minutes until they’re back on comms.’

Vutrius nodded, his attention still on the Predator’s arsenal. He was not wearing his battle-helm, none of them did once inside the tank, and Chronus could see his gunner’s lips moving in silent litanies of accuracy and function.

Satisfied, he called up to Novus.

‘Get us back to the front of column. I want to meet our aerial support at the tip of the spear.’

Novus increased speed and the drone within the hold grew to a roar.

Chronus recalled his earlier words to Agrippen and the others.

‘It’s the reason we were forged.’

He smiled, knowing he was not just referring to the tanks.

CHAPTER SIX

ARMOURED FURY

The tank column slowed to within approximately three kilometres of the enemy and began to fan out. Its concomitant elements, formerly alloyed together in a long line of tracked steel, dispersed into their smaller squadrons.

Twenty-four battle tanks with additional armoured support faced off against six infantry cohorts. From the air, Scipio gauged each necron formation was roughly fifty warriors strong. None of them were the more advanced constructs he and his brothers had fought during the siege and the assault on the Thanatos Hills. Despite the obvious enemy threat, the necrons still appeared sluggish, but had begun to adopt some approximation of a firing line as they advanced into the teeth of Chronus’s armour.

The tank commander rejoined his sergeants, forming a twelve-engine-strong phalanx of Predators. Judging from the formation Scipio could see emerging from his vantage point in the Gladius, he assumed Chronus would attack in two waves.

On a shallow ridge that overlooked the vast ice plain where the necrons were marching, Chronus had positioned his preliminary bombardiers. At the rear, a trio of Whirlwinds cycled their launchers and adjusted for precise trajectory. To the front of them and a little further down the ridge were the formidable Vindicators, their massive Demolisher cannons angled to maximum elevation. It was clear to Scipio that Chronus meant to soften the necrons up before he committed to closer engagement.

Six hulking Land Raiders were ranged on the opposite flank to the Predators. Pre-eminent troop transports, the tank commander had deployed them as mobile weapon platforms, a trio each of the standard and Crusader-pattern variants.

Last were the armoured outriders, the Razorbacks and Rhinos that would run interference for the larger, more destructive battle tanks.

‘He’s creating a killbox,’ said Brakkius unnecessarily, competing with the howling gale ripping through the gunship’s open side-hatch. ‘The necrons will engage the obvious threat, the tanks on the ridge, and they’ll be outflanked by the farther ranging engines to their right and left.’

From the air, Chronus’s stratagem was obvious but, against a slow-moving infantry force, also deadly. The necrons would be destroyed, but Scipio still frowned.

‘This cannot be all that is left of them,’ he said, ‘these rudimentary, half-functioning constructs.’

‘We can only fight what’s in front of us, brother-sergeant,’ replied Largo, ever the philosopher.

‘And that is precisely what concerns me. That this is all there is in front of us. We fought an enemy ten times more potent than this. Not all of those necrons were destroyed in the rout at the gates. Some endured, they must have.’

Garrik pointed down to the kilometre-spanning battlefield unfolding below, his missile launcher shouldered and ready.

‘Whatever their mettle, Sergeant Vorolanus, we are about to see it tested.’

The last of the battle tanks and their attendant outriders were moving into position. The order to commence bombardment was about to be given.

The Gladius and the Thunderstorm remained at the edge of the battle zone for now. Both gunships were tooled for war with dorsal-mounted battle cannons, a payload of heavy ordnance and several reserve weapons that would still be ruthlessly effective against the necrons.

Scipio was about to raise Sergeant Vandar on the vox to discuss potential attack-run vectors when something fast bolted across the skyline and shot between them. A thunderous boom shook the air and the hold, resonating down the Gladius’s hull.

A pair of vessels cruising at supersonic speed had just arrowed between them, making the gunships look slow and cumbersome by comparison.

‘Guilliman’s sacred blood!’

Brakkius tried to follow their flight path through the open side-hatch, but it was impossible.

Vandar’s voice crackled over the vox.

‘Did you see that, Vorolanus?’

‘A pair of flyers. Sickle-shaped, I think,’ said Scipio, tracking a rapidly disappearing smudge through his magnoculars. ‘Extremely fast.’

‘They’re headed for Kellenport. I’m going to pursue in the Thunderstorm. We might not catch them but we’ll sure as Hera take them apart if they are bound for the city.’

‘Two birds against one, Vandar. We can guard your wing for you.’

‘Appreciated, but we’ll have plenty of support when we arrive. Stay with Chronus. I don’t believe this is all there is of our enemies.’

Vandar cut the link. A few seconds later, the Thunderstorm streaked past on full engine burn.

There was little time for the warriors aboard the Gladius to watch their fellow gunship depart because, below them, a storm was about to break.

Chronus watched the bombardment commence from the Rage of Antonius’s cupola. The Whirlwinds fired in strict and regimented succession, one missile per salvo. Their rocket-fuelled payloads streaked into the air on thick contrails of white smoke, their perfect telemetry bringing the combined barrage down amidst the necrons with destructive results.

Vengeance-class missiles were solid-fuel, fragmentation ordnance. Not tank-busters by any gauge, but against densely packed infantry they were devastating. Necron bodies were blasted apart under this aggressive and sustained barrage. Three salvos went out, nine missiles in total, shattering one region of the ice plain into craters and gouging a cleft in the enemy ranks.

Through his raised scopes, Chronus saw the telltale flashes of multiple phase-outs. On a tactical screen slaved to one lens of his retinal display, the entire tank formation was arrayed and lit.

‘Cease barrage,’ he uttered into the vox, speaking directly to the gunnery crews of Fury Unbound, Ceaseless Endeavour and Scion of Talassar. ‘Resupply, Castellan load-out.’

He smiled grimly, all his good humour faded as the aspect of war came upon him. ‘You think that hurt,’ he muttered, watching the dogged necron advance. ‘That didn’t hurt.’

Returning to the vox, the icons of Glory of Calth, The Ram and Wrath of Invictus glowed brightest on the right lens retinal display as Chronus opened his command channel to their crews.

‘Vindicators advance fifty metres and engage.’

A string of affirmation runes flashed across Chronus’s display as the three battle tanks ground forwards in unison. At the fifty-metre mark, the hull-mounted Demolishers jutting belligerently through each Vindicator’s siege shield spoke.

Their combined voice was terrifically loud and roared with captured thunder that shook the earth as far as the Rage of Antonius. Chronus laughed loud and wrathfully as his Predator shuddered with the awesome resonance of the siege tanks. Three wide and impossibly powerful explosions erupted to the front of the necron ranks. Amidst the flying limbs and other body parts, Chronus witnessed over a score of phase-outs. After the smoke cleared and the few surviving necrons had managed to crawl from the trench dug by the Vindicators’ ordnance, there was almost nothing left of the first phalanx. He had done it to prove a point, to show the mechanoids that the Ultramarines yet had weapons in their arsenal that could dismantle them, just as Chronus had vowed to his comrades.

Five more fully intact phalanxes advanced after the necron vanguard, the broken remnants slowly to be absorbed into the larger formations. Their weapons were fixed forwards, intent on the artillery squadrons occupying the ridge.

Chronus watched the necrons enter the killbox and gave the order for the flanking forces to circle around and entrap them.

‘All gunners on the ridge,’ he voxed, as Novus got the Rage of Antonius moving steadily in concert with the other Predators. ‘Sustained barrage until flanks reach within two hundred metres. Commence with extreme prejudice.’ He leaned into the hatch to speak directly to his driver. ‘Bring us in, Novus. I want to vent the guns. Vutrius?’

‘We are weapons-ready, commander.’

‘Good. The turret is mine, brother.’

Vutrius responded with a clipped affirmative, switching control to Chronus.

Heavy thunder was rolling down off the ridge, turning the ice plain into a wrecker’s yard and the necrons into a distant memory. If he had not wanted to taste some of that righteous fury himself, Chronus would have gladly watched the faultless display of his battle tanks and revelled in its perfect destruction.

Overhead in the Gladius, Scipio marvelled at the superlative tactical display being orchestrated by Chronus. A sizeable contingent of almost three hundred necrons had already been reduced to two-thirds that number, and they were but casualties of the bombardment. Chronus had yet to even engage with his flanking forces.

A stilted layer of return fire was coming from the necrons now that they had advanced far enough across the ice plain, but it was sporadic and at extreme range. Certainly, nothing to trouble the Ultramarines armour on the ridge.

Even still, the sergeant could not put his mind at ease.

‘Bring us in closer, but circle the flanks,’ he voxed up to their pilot, prompting an immediate shift in velocity and altitude from the Thunderhawk.

‘Do you see it too, brother-sergeant?’

Scipio turned sharply at the resonant, machine-like voice. Something in his subconscious almost made him draw his pistol, but it was no necron that addressed him. It was Vantor, skulking in the shadows behind them.

‘See what?’ asked Scipio, though he thought he knew the Techmarine’s meaning.

‘A trap…’

‘We all see it, Techmarine, it is Chronus’s–’ Brakkius began.

‘Around our armour, brother,’ Vantor corrected. ‘This is but a feint.’

‘How is that even possible?’ snapped Brakkius. ‘Look at them, they are all but defeated. There is no tactical acumen at work, just mechanised shells slaved to routine.’

‘I agree,’ said Vantor, ‘but analyse that battlefield below us… What word comes to mind when you see the necrons?’

Brakkius snarled, still not comprehending. ‘Scrap. Metal.’

‘Bait,’ said Scipio, believing the Techmarine but unsure what their next move should be. ‘And how do you suggest I convey to the commander that he is being drawn into a trap?’

‘What trap?’ asked Brakkius, exasperated. He gestured to the decimated necrons. ‘It’s already over.’

Vantor ignored him, and looked impassive as he answered Scipio’s question.

‘How do you tell a hero of Ultramar his perfect strategy is part of an elaborate enemy ruse? I’m not sure you can, brother-sergeant.’

Scipio looked down onto the battlefield.

The Predators were engaging.

Novus pushed the Rage of Antonius up to combat speed, leading the first squadron by the smallest of margins. Rather than envelop the necron infantry in a pincer-like movement that would amply suit a ground-based force, Chronus had the two lines attack in file obliquely so they overlapped and enfiladed the enemy prior to the point of intersection.

The Rage of Antonius was on its first pass, The Vengeful and Hellhunter on its tracked heels in close squadron formation, when the optimum range marker flashed on the tank commander’s retinal display.

‘Unleash guns!’ Chronus roared, without ceremony. War sang in his heart, buoyed higher through the exhilaration of tank-mounted combat. Still rolling at combat speed, the Predator’s turret swung around to forty-five degrees and released a searing lance of energy. The azure beam struck the edge of a necron formation and vaporised one of the automatons. It was followed fractionally later by a second beam. Paired phase-outs overlapped, creating a bright burst of viridian energy. Capacitors in the Rage of Antonius took a few seconds to build back up to power before a second volley was released.

Targets in his sights, Chronus poured on the punishment, shifting his aim and the turret as the battle tank moved. The side sponsons chattered below, spitting out shells that detonated upon impact and chewed holes in the packed necron ranks. The heavy bolters kept up a steady refrain, audible between the high-pitched whine of the pounding lascannon.

Twelve engines released their weapons on one flank, whilst on the opposite side the half-dozen Land Raiders lit up the dwindling snowstorm with ranks of explosive muzzle flare from assault cannons and hurricane bolters. Las-beams, distant on the opposite side of the battlefield but getting closer, stabbed from the shadows like spears of light and were joined by the barking report of heavy bolters. Necrons were cut apart. Those struck by the lascannons were summarily destroyed in actinic flashes. The solid-shell weapons took a heavier toll at first, levelling a veritable deluge of fire, but several necrons were showing signs of self-repair and those felled in the earlier salvos were returning to their dauntless ranks.

Down the centre, the bombardment ceased as the other tanks came to within the two hundred metre no-fire zone. It mattered little – the necrons had been drawn into the trap and were being picked apart by Chronus’s armoured squadrons.

‘Dismantle you,’ the tank commander said to himself, holding fire for a moment to appreciate the carnage his engines were causing, ‘piece by piece.’

Through the open hatch of the Gladius, the battlefield below looked strung out. From his vantage leaning out of the hold, Scipio saw vast gaps emerging in the necrons’ previously closed ranks. Even the slow-moving automatons had reverted to defensive protocols now, recognising the danger posed by the artillery to their front and the more dynamic battle tanks to their flanks and rear.

Keeping up a steady stream of verdant gauss fire, the necrons towards the core of their now slowly collapsing formations remained still, whilst those further out and cut off began to retreat. Like the musket regiments of old Terra, they were forming square.

As part of Roboute Guilliman’s teachings in the Codex Astartes, all Ultramarines were comprehensively versed in military tactics, both contemporary and archaic. Scipio recognised what the necrons were doing at once. They attempted to fight their enemy on all fronts and prevent them from breaking up their coherency. Only these were not mere cavalrymen armed with lance and flintlocks; the battle tanks of the Ultramarines Chapter assailed them. Their outmoded strategy was fated to fail. And yet, the idea persisted in the brother-sergeant that these mechanoids were just sacrificial, intended to draw Chronus and his battle tanks in.

Straying from the systematic destruction of the necrons, Scipio’s gaze was drawn to the ice. The constant barrage, the heat of energy discharge from las-weapons and gauss flayers had damaged its integrity. He looked through the scopes, training them on a point just outside the shrinking square of necrons.

‘Pilot, bring us in closer,’ he voxed.

With the dull growl of engine deceleration, the Gladius descended.

‘What is it? What do you see?’ hissed Vantor before the others could speak.

‘I’m not sure… Increasing magnification.’

The image through the scopes blurred then quickly refocused, a line of data scrolling down one side of the lens telling Scipio he was at maximum range. There were small fissures in the ice, nothing that would split it; the frozen plain was thick and densely packed. But it was not this that had caught the sergeant’s attention.

‘I see…’ he began, ‘a shadow.’

‘Say that again,’ said Brakkius, staring down at the point where his sergeant was looking, trying to see the same shadow but without success.

‘Under the ice,’ Scipio went on, his heart rate increasing with sudden, irrational urgency.

He looked up from the scopes as the shadow came so close and grew so large against the frosted lens of surface ice that even Brakkius and the others saw it.

‘Fortress of Hera!’ the second-in-command shouted.

Suddenly the gunship they were riding in felt perilously low.

‘Kastus,’ Scipio said quickly into the vox. ‘Bring us up!’

The Gladius was rising just as a vast flash of light ignited to the west, within a half-kilometre of where Chronus had almost vanquished the necron infantry. It was massive, like a verdant sunrise only much faster and more violent. Scipio had seen its like before: it was a teleportation flare.

‘Guilliman’s blood…’ breathed Brakkius.

The necrons had activated a phase generator and transported an entire phalanx into sudden and immediate battle.

Auris and Largo stared, disbelieving, and Garrik made the sign of the old Legion, a single clenched fist, against his breastplate.

‘We’ve sprung the trap, brother-sergeant,’ said Vantor.

Scipio snarled into the vox. ‘Bring us up, damn it!’

Within the verdant light, which was slowly dying after the force of its dramatic arrival, a second necron horde had emerged.

‘Not infantry,’ said Garrik, sighting through his launcher’s targeter.

‘Something worse…’ added Vantor.

The Gladius was rising, Kastus pushing the turbofans to achieve a faster escape velocity.

Facing down the rapidly deploying flanking force, Scipio already knew they would not be fast enough.

An entire fleet of large skimmer-tanks was surging across the ice plain, devouring the kilometres between them and the Ultramarines with alarming speed. Before Scipio could get a decent look at the force in the dying after-flare of their materialisation, a slew of crackling beams arced from several necron turrets. One struck the left wing of the Gladius as Kastus was attempting to turn, ripping up one of the turbofans.

Thrown back into the hold and slamming into Vantor and Brakkius, Scipio saw a spit of flame shoot up from the engine, smoke pluming a second later before being sucked up by the still-turning fan and coiling in over itself.

Alert sirens were wailing in the hold, the engine noise high-pitched, almost desperate. If the Gladius had a living, beating heart, some sense of anima, it had just been wounded and was crying out in pain.

‘Hold on!’ Kastus bellowed through the vox, the sound of emergency systems kicking in audible in the background as the pilot struggled to keep them airborne.

‘What else does he expect us to do?’ growled Brakkius, clinging to the overhead rail.

The Thunderhawk was spinning, the gaping hatch revealing ever-quickening flashes of the advancing necron host and then the harsh white of ice mountains. The former was shrinking as the latter grew inexorably closer.

Ditching fast, the Gladius would not clear the rugged terrain that was rapidly advancing upon them.

‘Brace yourselves,’ Scipio shouted above the shrieking engine noise bleeding in from the outside. He managed to get on his battle-helm and bring up the ident-markers for his combat squad as well as one for Vantor.

The Techmarine was kneeling, his servo-arms extended and braced either side of the hold to keep him steady. Vantor had no helmet, so the Ultramarines aboard the stricken gunship could see him muttering litanies of function to soothe the Gladius’s injured machine-spirit.

‘Maybe we should all start chanting,’ sniped Brakkius.

Scipio shot him a stern look through his retinal lenses.

‘Just hold on.’

With a spurt of throttle, the damaged turbofan cycled down to a full stop, leaving Kastus relying on the remaining engine to keep them up. Its protests were loud and discordant – it was not going to keep them aloft for long.

Scipio tried to catch a look out of the side hatch, but the terrain was whipping by too quickly for him to determine how far they had strayed from the battlefield. In its current predicament, directionality was not a facility the gunship had in abundance at that moment. It was taking all of Kastus’s concentration and effort just to keep them going and find a safe place to land. Wherever that was, it would be far from the ice plain now.

Scipio felt a sudden shift in velocity, a brief interlude of anti-gravity followed by an acute sinking sensation, and assumed they had dipped. The Gladius was burning at full speed; peaks and crags jetted by in a frost-hazed blur.

Despite the disadvantage of having only one functioning turbofan, Kastus had guided them around the peaks and was racing through a narrow canyon.

The Ultramarines in the hold grimly seized the crash rails. There was no way they could reach their harnesses and strap in. The slightest upright movement could throw them out of the gaping hatch and into the white void streaking beyond it.

With the creak of sundering metal, the rail where Brakkius was clinging bent and came away from its fixings. He hung on for another second, roaring defiantly, before the railing snapped and was thrown loose.

Despite the risk to himself, Scipio reached out one-handed to grab the flailing Ultramarine. His gauntleted fingers snagged armour, then slipped as Brakkius was torn from his grasp.

‘Brother!’

Horrified, Scipio thought he was about to watch his second-in-command be dragged to almost certain death when Vantor pinned him with one of his servo-arms. Brakkius cried out as his back and shoulder were pierced, but at least he was secured.

There was no time to feel relief. Kastus’s voice crackled through the vox just as the engine noise rose sharply in pitch and the violent shuddering felt within the hold increased.

‘We’re going down,’ he said. ‘We’re going–’

They struck earth. The engine noise ceased abruptly, overwhelmed by the sound of buckling, splitting armour. Scipio thought he saw a chunk of wing ripped off, spiralling away down their flank before the ice and rock piled through the open hatch, suffocating everyone inside the hold.

Light became dark, sound became silence. The shuddering, jolting gunship finally grew still. Scipio’s head struck metal. The right side of his helm crumpled, crazing the retinal lens as he hit the interior wall or one of his brothers – he didn’t know which – and felt something warm trickle down the side of his face inside his helmet before blacking out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NOWHERE TO HIDE

Featureless ice sped past below, so fast it blurred into a smear of seemingly endless white. Storm squalls broke against the edge of the flyer like waves striking the bow of a ship, but nothing slowed it. It was moving at hyper-velocity now, running at supersonic and cutting through the belligerent wind with sickle-edged ease.

Pilot did not notice. No chill touched his body, though he was cocooned in a cockpit open to the elements and wore no flight suit or visored helmet. He experienced no exertion of any kind, no sense of inertia as his craft knifed through the air at such a phenomenal speed. Hail whipped against the flyer’s hull, against his exposed ‘skin’, but he paid it no heed. It was as inconsequential as the battle on the ice plain he had left behind several minutes ago. Emotion, even one as bright and blazing as hate, did not feature in his limited consciousness. For Pilot, sentience was reduced to the data stream and what it told him.

Multitudinous stacks of operational protocols streamed across his vision, enhanced cogitation assessing each before accessing prefigured routines and responses. A shift in wind speed, a sudden airburst, and Pilot activated the secondary protocol that told him to dip his wing and change the flyer’s angle of approach.

His twin craft, far too divorced from any bonds of brotherhood to be considered a wingman, performed a similar manoeuvre, reacting to the selfsame protocols. Both were acutely aware of each other’s presence, but not in the conventional sense. Pilot visualised the second flyer as a line of data, only acknowledged through the inclusion of the additional protocols it afforded within his vast but prescribed decision matrix.

Proximity markers entering the data stream provided further options for Pilot to sift through. He increased speed, deaf to the atonal shriek emanating from the flyer’s aggressive approach. A second concomitant data stream aligned onside the first, informing Pilot his twinned craft had mirrored the manoeuvre.

Up ahead, a large structure began to materialise through the ice fog. Pilot saw it in the data-feed first, a stream of code that unlocked a tertiary vault of responses. Then his cold machine eyes saw the city and he vectored towards the aspect which possessed the lowest threat ratio in order to increase the chances of mission success. This too was relayed and cogitated through the myriad datastacks.

Pilot felt no pity for the beings of flesh within the city’s walls; only cold logic raged through his android brain. He processed, adapted and realigned with the addition of new data. He did not feel in any way. He had no desire for carnage, but that was what Pilot brought with him on scythed wings; carnage and death.

Conditions in Infirmary Seven were overcrowded and far from sanitary. Buckets brimming with reams of used bandages and gauze lay clustered together in the corners, waiting to be cleaned or burned. Blood slicked the floor in places, waiting to be sluiced away. The warehouse-turned-medicae centre was capacious but the injured numbered in the hundreds, just at this location alone. Herded here in their droves, the men and women inside were like cattle. Beds were stacked close together, some rigged up as bunks for the more stable or terminal patients that could not be moved. Intravenous lines were hooked up to the extant machinery too cumbersome to move out for the barricades, or looped around bed rails. Some were even held by diligent servitors slaved to that single task.

The moment he stepped past the guard detail outside and entered the makeshift infirmary, Falka had to cover his nose and mouth. The place reeked of blood and contagion, the air thick with it and ringing with the screams of those undergoing emergency surgeries. Misery touched everything, clinging like a second skin. It was a product of despair, one that had affected all of Damnos since the invasion and was slowly eroding what little resolve its people had left.

Through the dingy light of overhead phosphor tubes that did little to lift the gloom of the place, Falka saw a small army of medics, orderlies and servitors rushing to keep the Damnosian wounded alive a little longer. Most wore masks to retard the worst of the stench, a few even utilised the mouth cups from Guard rebreathers.

Pressing through the mob of walking wounded, careful not to cause any further distress, Falka found what he took to be the nearest medic and gently gripped his shoulder.

Exasperated, the medic turned. He was a young man, too gaunt for his actual years, Falka suspected, and wore a smock stained dark with blood.

‘You one of the orderlies I requested?’ snapped the medic, without waiting for Falka to speak.

‘I– no, I–’ Falka began, wrong-footed.

‘Good,’ said the medic, seemingly hearing what he wanted to. ‘Name’s Rauter.’

‘Kolpeck, Falka,’ said Falka, events running a little too fast for him to keep up.

‘Follow me, please, Kolpeck.’ He turned on his heel, wading through the waves of meandering injured men and women, shouting orders here and there. To whom, Falka had no idea. It seemed chaotic in the shadowy infirmary. With bodies pressed so close together, it felt as if he were back in the One Hundred about to face the necron assault all over again.

Somewhat dumbstruck and appalled by it all, he followed, but struggled to keep up with the medic. Thronged with bodies, beds and what little medical equipment could be scavenged, it was a labyrinth without walls; one in which Falka could see his destination, but just had no idea how best to reach it. It was only by virtue of his size and intimidating stature that he was able to catch up with the medic at all. When he finally did, Rauter had found a rare scrap of open space where several avenues of beds connected.

‘There are a lot of burns, first through to fourth degree. Mostly from the weaponry those metal bastards were using, but from fires too,’ he explained, gesturing in several directions whilst reading off a data-slate Falka had only just realised Rauter was carrying. ‘Some amputations,’ the medic went on, ‘but we’ve got shock victims as well, burst ear drums, ocular scarring, breaks. You’re not skilled, so I don’t expect miracles. Make them comfortable if you can.’

Rauter turned from his data-slate to face him, wondering just how many of the able-bodied had been pressed into this service and what would happen when the injured outnumbered the fit and healthy. Perhaps they already did.

Now they had stopped and Falka was regaining his composure, he got his first proper look at the medic. A pepper-wash of stubble masked the lower half of Rauter’s jaw and neck and there were blood splashes he had not noticed or had time to clean off. His hair was short, not military, but still cropped. Falka guessed he was twenty-one standard, give or take. Too young to run a facility like this, but he saw no one else answering to the description.

‘Despite donations from our heavenward protectors,’ his tone was cynical and Falka had to resist the urge to strike him, but realised Rauter was just exhausted and had seen and lost too much, ‘we’re dangerously low on any form of sedative, so most of what you do will probably be holding down patients who are in agony but can’t be spared any pain relief. We’re also running out of coagulant gel, synth-skin, disinfectant and bandages. You care to name it, we probably haven’t got it or are almost out of it, so improvise.’

Rauter was about to hurry off when Falka put up a big hand to stop him.

‘I’m not here as an orderly,’ he said, stalling the young medic’s anger by going on to say, ‘I’m a soldier. I was told Jynn Evvers is in here somewhere and was asking for me.’

Rauter frowned, incredulous, as he opened up his arms wide to gesture at the squalid surroundings.

‘Look around. Can you see any organisation here? I have no idea where your friend is. If you’re not here to help please stay out of the way.’ Rauter was starting to walk away again and Falka’s urge to punch the medic came back with greater insistence, when he turned and said, ‘There’s a medical servitor with most of the patient data inloaded.’ Rauter jabbed a thumb in the vague direction behind Falka. ‘It’s voice activated, you only have to say her name. She might not have been logged, many haven’t, but it’s probably your best chance at finding her.’ He paused for a moment, his shoulders briefly sagging as he let Falka see the broken man he had become and was trying to keep at bay for as long as he was needed. ‘Is she your wife, daughter?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ he said, and felt hollow. ‘Just a friend.’

‘I am sorry… Kolpeck, was that your name?’ said Rauter. ‘I don’t mean to be insensitive, I don’t regard myself as such, but we are at the bleeding edge here. I’m not ashamed to admit that we’re ragged, but I haven’t slept for twenty hours and my patience is worn a little thin. Try the servitor, maybe it can help.’

Rauter nodded curtly before hurrying off to conduct his many duties, and was quickly lost in the crowd. In his wake, his words lingered. They were ragged, worn thin, and when ice is like that a break is not far off. All of Damnos was cracking. If the necrons did not kill them, then the heinous conditions they were being forced to endure probably would. Life had never been easy on the colony, ice mining never was, but this crisis was fast exceeding mortal forbearance.

Following the directions he had been given, chastening himself a second time for his lack of sympathy towards the medic, Falka eventually found the servitor.

It was a battered, half-organic model with a bare metal faceplate riveted across the nose and mouth where a vox-grille had been implanted, and all too human eyes. Given the nature of the enemy they were facing on Damnos, Falka found the spectacle of the servitor a little chilling. It was a walker, bipedal, with medical overalls and boots. It still had arms, but the organic limbs had been amputated and replaced with bionics. The servitor’s back was laden with various packs and canisters now mostly denuded of the medical supplies they had once carried.

Blank-eyed, the servitor paused in its preconfigured rounds and stopped in front of Falka.

‘I’m looking for Jynn Evvers. She here?’ he asked, a little unsettled by the corpse-like automaton.

Its dead-eyed stare persisted for a few seconds, giving the servitor time to search its records before blurting in machine-like cadence. ‘Name: Evvers, Jynn. Rank: Captain, Militia. Presence: Affirmative.’

There the report ended.

‘Where?’ asked Falka, frustrated. He had got used to the smell by now, but the constant moaning and wailing from the injured was wearing at his nerves.

After a few seconds of further searching, the servitor answered, ‘Insufficient data.’

Falka scowled. ‘What? She’s in here, right? Where is she? Evvers. Jynn,’ he repeated, and grabbed the servitor’s shoulders. The metal was cold and unyielding, and Falka suppressed an involuntary shiver at the touch.

‘Insufficient data,’ it answered again, in a carbon copy of its first response.

Irrational anger gripped Falka, prompting him to try and shake the truth he needed from the automaton. The patients around him were growing agitated too, thrashing and shouting. Some had risen from their beds and were remonstrating violently with the strung-out medicae staff. The break in the ice was coming, just as he knew it would…

Falka was wiping his eyes and shaking his head to clear the sudden bout of nausea threatening to empty his stomach when he heard someone puking nearby… then another.

‘Insufficient data, insufficient data, insufficien–’ blurted the servitor, trapped in a loop.

Something was happening. Falka felt it deep in his core, but could not pinpoint exactly what. Dizzy, he let go of the servitor and backed up a step before it suddenly convulsed and a line of blood streaked out of its eye from some internal haemorrhage.

‘What the hell…?’

Within a few metres of the servitor, a burn victim had kicked over his IV and collapsed on the floor. Another man, an orderly, fell to his knees and started scratching at his eyes. Farther away, he heard a woman shriek and someone else collided with a crash cart, spilling tools and equipment.

Through the crowd, which was slowly succumbing to some invisible malady, Falka noticed Rauter. The medic was slumped against the side of a bunk, his mouth slack and drooling. Then all the shouting, wailing and moaning stopped. Medical saws and machinery continued to burr and churn, but did so without human accompaniment.

Then came the keening.

It began as a low-level hum, just below the normal range of human hearing, but felt through the resonance of the hairs erect on the body or as a dull aching sensation in the gums, before growing in amplitude to an ear-wrenching shriek.

Falka did not realise what was happening until he had hit the ground, hands pressed instinctively over his ears. Somewhere close by he heard a gunshot, then the screaming began in earnest as the human voices returned. Patients were lurching up out of their beds, crawling their burn-ravaged bodies over the bloody infirmary floor. The medi-servitor Falka had been ineptly attempting to threaten was still upright but leaking a deluge of blood and oil from every one of its biological and non-biological orifices. The cyborganic was dead and no amount of augmentation would coax it back to functionality again. Never had he felt his own mortality so acutely. And as Falka looked up into the eyes of a hospitaller nurse who had fallen to her knees as he had done, he knew he was not alone. Terrified, she backed away and was lost to the darkness. Everywhere the same terror-etched faces, all experiencing the same revelation.

Death had come, and it was here amongst them.

Trembling, through tear-blurred vision, Falka saw someone he recognised emerging through the throng of slowly-maddening medics and patients. The whole infirmary was infected, the terrible shrieking an almost white-noise tinnitus that brought people to their knees or sent them into pangs of violent insanity. It was a man dressed in an Ark Guard uniform that Falka had seen. In one hand he held a simple igniter and a pack of smokes; in the other, a Damnosian ice axe already slick with blood. As he stepped into the dim light of a phosphor tube, the face of Corporal Tanner Greishof was revealed, only it was half-decayed and bloated with putrefaction.

‘Need a light?’ asked Greishof, the blackened tongue lolling around the cavity of his mouth slurring his voice.

Falka took out his sidearm, a simple heavy-gauge laslock, and pointed it towards the apparition. His rational mind knew what he was seeing could not be real, but his eyes were sending a different message to his brain, terrifying him.

‘Stay back!’ Falka warned.

Greishof frowned, flakes of skin peeling from his rotting face.

‘Do you want to jump instead? Down to the ice? It’s cold down there, you won’t feel a thing. Not a thing…’

The ground under Falka tilted like it was seesawing to the left and a profound sense of vertigo overtook him, enhancing his nausea. He vomited, but kept his eyes on Greishof, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Keep away…’

Other shapes moved in the darkness, within Falka’s peripheral vision. They were hunched and broad… skeletal.

Greishof advanced, paying the other spectres no mind, languidly swinging his ice axe.

‘Sure you don’t wanna smoke?’

‘Go to hell.’

Falka fired and missed, struggling to remain steady with the ground pitching and yawing beneath him. A second shot flashed into the darkness beyond Greishof’s shoulder. A third struck his cheek and exploded the trooper’s jaw. Falka was about to unload a fourth when he caught sight of something behind Greishof.

No, not something, someone.

As his gaze alighted on a woman lying comatose on a nearby bunk, his heart beat a little faster, the flicker of hope rekindled in it.

‘Jynn…’

She lived. After everything, after he thought she had perished, Jynn lived.

‘Always knew you were a born survivor, girl,’ he murmured through tears of relief.

And like smoke shadows drifting away into the cold air, the spectres at the edge of Falka’s sight faded. But the crowd of half-mad Damnosians standing between them was very real. Crazed, capering figures barrelled through the darkness. Some were becoming increasingly violent, their fear turning them hostile. One slammed into Falka, but he managed to get his shoulder into the man’s abdomen and haul him over his head.

Knowing he would probably be crushed to death if he stayed on his knees, Falka staggered to his feet. He was tempted to keep out his pistol but holstered it instead, afraid of what he might do if he were so armed. At least Greishof had gone. He had never been there in the first place.

Just a ghost… Falka realised. They’re all just ghosts.

A woman wearing Guard fatigues rushed him out of the darkness. She was wailing incoherently, so Falka cuffed her across the left temple to put her down, knocking her unconscious.

‘Out of my way!’ he shouted, mustering what little resolve he had left, only the prospect of reaching Jynn compelling every laboured step. His concern for her was an anchor he could cling to and helped overcome his irrational fear. Even still, Falka’s heart was hammering like a rock-drill and he clutched at it, scarcely able to breathe. For a moment he genuinely believed his chest might burst and imagined a host of mechanical scarabs swarming out to consume him, flesh and bone.

It’s just the fear talking. Ignore it. Grit your teeth.

Falka did; he gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. He had reached the makeshift avenue of beds that led him to where Jynn was lying. Clutching one of the beds’ metal rails, barely noticing the catatonic figure seemingly paralysed upon it, he struggled on. It was like wading through an ice storm, only it was the phantoms in his mind and not the elements assailing him. Something lurked in the outer darkness of the infirmary, and it was slowly creeping towards him. Falka fought to maintain his tunnel vision, eyes locked on her and only her. She needed him, and he used that thought to galvanise him and reach Jynn’s bed. Even comatose, she had not been spared the horrors. Whether experiencing some nightmare brought on by the coma or feeling the shared dread that had affected everyone in the infirmary, Jynn was convulsing too.

Hands trembling, Falka managed to hold her down.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he soothed, one giant hand keeping her still while he tenderly stroked her forehead with the other. No one came close. She and he were an island amidst the madness. His presence seemed to calm her but she was mewling in her coma sleep, reliving Throne-only-knew what dark moments embedded in her psyche.

Falka knew it was this deep-seeded fear that affected them, one so potent it could conjure the dead or render a grown man insensate. Without exception, the entire infirmary had capitulated before it. Perhaps all of Kellenport was lost to it? What if this were the end?

Falka rallied, forcing himself to focus on Jynn and getting her out of this alive.

‘Hold on,’ he whispered, clinging to his last shreds of sanity. ‘Hold on, for me,’ he repeated as the far wall of the infirmary was wrenched away in a storm of tearing metal and iridescent energy.

Men and women were thrown into the air by the blast. Some were shredded, cut in half by the wreckage of the destroyed wall. Falka saw others transfixed by jade-green lightning arcs, their bodies shuddering as they were rendered down to their scorched bones.

It happened so fast, experienced through fear-dulled senses, he barely reacted. But this was no apparition brought on by the terrible din droning throughout the infirmary; it was real.

Through the gaping hole where the infirmary wall had once stood, Falka saw out into the Damnos night and glimpsed two sickle-shaped objects arcing rapidly through the sky. It was the necrons; he felt it in his marrow. They had returned at last, just as he always knew they would.

The city was under attack.

Bodies had been cast everywhere. Some lay unmoving, either dead or too scared to move. Others, farther from the blast, had noticed the burly rig-hand and the woman he was protecting. Their faces looked feral in the half-light, barely human at all. Falka saw things glinting in their hands. They looked to him like blades: scalpels, knives and medical saws. He pulled out the laslock, brandishing it in the hope they would get the message and back away. To his right, another group had seen them and was advancing. They had just finished cutting into another coma victim, his blood still on their knives.

‘Cut it out,’ said one, drunk with madness.

‘Cut out the horrors,’ echoed another, and Falka was reminded of the scarab swarm, the one he had imagined nesting in his chest. They had seen them too, only they did not possess the strength of mind to realise they were not real.

The men and women converging on him and Jynn were lost. Waving a pistol at them would do no good.

‘Stay away,’ Falka warned one last time as the shadows behind them came alive again with the hulking skeletal figures. He squeezed Jynn’s hand, willing her to give him strength.

Falka fired, but the laslock went dead in his hand, its power cell drained. He calmly holstered the pistol, knowing the feral Damnosians would be on them in moments.

‘You can’t have her,’ he told them, scowling. ‘You’ll have to go through me first.’

‘Cut it out,’ said the leader of the mob, a simple clerk. He seemed not to hear Falka’s threat. ‘Cut it all out…’

From his position on the wall, Iulus swung around and tried to aim through his bolter’s scope. The skimmer was moving too fast, like a bullet, and banking as it sped over Kellenport, letting out a wailing dirge from its engines.

It was not alone, either. A second craft joined the first, both small enough to be fighters and armed with underslung weaponry. Iulus heard the wall guns answering the threat, and saw one lit up by a twin lightning arc spat from one fighter’s cannons. Both the emplacement and its crew were ripped apart and splattered over Kellenport’s cold stone with nothing in reply.

Down in the courtyard below, the Damnosian citizenry – runners, soldiers, militia, medics – were screaming in fear. Imagined terrors spilled from their lips as spectres of old friends or gratefully forgotten enemies came back to claim them for the afterlife. A battalion of Ark Guard sent to quell the sudden distemper had succumbed to it instead. To see them so unmanned would have disgusted Iulus once; now, he just pitied them and knew this enemy was merely beyond them. No human, as far as he could determine anyway, was immune. Only the Ultramarines seemed unaffected.

He raised his squad on the vox, following the arcing flight path of the fighters as they turned and wheeled. Hitting a flyer at that speed would be nigh-on impossible. They needed an advantage.

Iulus scowled. One had yet to present itself.

‘Immortals, gain the walls if you’re not already on them and try to bring these things down!’

Fortune might yet favour them. It was better than nothing, but not much better.

Staccato bolter fire echoed from the city battlements, muzzle flashes lighting the gloom and showing Iulus where his men had responded. But as the sergeant had predicted, the fighters were too fast and nimble. Hot tracer whipped through the air, but it was like chasing smoke on a gale.

Other squads joined the fusillade being levelled at the fighters and the sky ignited with explosions and spearing las-beams. The necrons ran the entire gauntlet without so much as a glancing hit. Atavian had marshalled his Devastators in the square but even the so-called ‘Titan Slayers’ struggled to get a bead on the rapidly moving craft.

The presence of the fighters was disconcerting. The Ultramarines had not encountered forces such as these before on Damnos. As he tried to chase one down through his targeter, Iulus wondered what else was in the necron arsenal, lurking below the ice.

Scythe-edged and menacing, one of the fighters broke off from its attack pattern and dived towards Infirmary Seven where Iulus had sent Kolpeck. With a burst from its guns, the necron tore the makeshift field hospital open and exposed its wounded to the elements and its further wrath.

Leaping from the wall, Iulus split rockcrete as he landed. Ignoring the gibbering bodies thronging the courtyard, he raced for the infirmary. Kolpeck had saved his life during the siege; he was not about to allow that debt to go unpaid by letting the man die in ignominy.

Having seen their sergeant so driven, Aristaeus and Venkelius joined him from the lower battlements.

‘Brothers,’ Iulus told them as they ran across the courtyard, careful to avoid the fear-gripped Damnosians, ‘they will be afraid, and almost certainly not themselves. Try not to kill them.’

Both Ultramarines nodded to their sergeant.

Upon reaching the terrified guards still manning their posts at the infirmary entrance, Aristaeus stepped up and subdued the men with two swift blows from the pommel of his gladius.

‘Like that?’ he asked.

‘There’ll be more inside,’ Iulus warned them both, ‘and in much closer confines. Put your weapons away.’

Aristaeus had his flamer, whilst Venkelius carried a missile launcher slung across his back. Both warriors had their standard bolt pistol sidearm and Ultramarian gladius.

‘And hold on to them,’ added Iulus, once all three had secured their arms. ‘Last thing we need in there is someone drawing your blade in the chaos.’

Iulus opened the infirmary gate with a hard kick. As they stepped inside, a hellish vista greeted them. Even the darkness could not hide what had become of the hundreds hiding within. Bloodied, wailing, clad in scraps and scuttling like beasts; the infirmary had become more of an asylum, and one in which the inmates were running amok.

Several were dead already, their bodies slumped and pooling blood. Skirmishes had broken out in places, whilst some of the victims turned their terror-fuelled anger against shadows or the inanimate. Fear-sweat drenched the air. Iulus detected heavy concentrations of epinephrine, norepinephrine and adrenaline secreted by the victims and expressed through the Damnosians’ autonomic responses. The heady chemical cocktail merged with the stench of recently spilled blood, exacerbating the terror felt by those inside the infirmary.

‘This is no hospital,’ growled Aristaeus, unable to suppress his combat instincts. ‘It’s a war zone.’ He slid a finger’s width of gladius blade out of the sheath before Iulus’s voice stopped him going any further.

‘No weapons,’ he stated firmly.

‘Hand-to-hand then…’ uttered Venkelius, nodding to a group of manic-looking Damnosians who had reacted to the Ultramarines’ sudden presence.

‘And no killing,’ added Iulus as an orderly came at him with a surgical saw. Emitting a low grunt, he backhanded the man gently enough so as not to kill him, but still sent him sprawling.

Aristaeus deflected an IV frame swung at him by another, the metal bending around his armoured forearm before he planted the flat of his palm into his aggressor’s chest, flooring him.

Venkelius broke the arm of a third, a woman, using a deft elbow strike to shatter the bone.

‘Battle-brother!’ Iulus warned the heavy weapon trooper.

The woman had collapsed into a heap, clutching her broken limb.

‘She’s not dead, sergeant,’ Venkelius answered, mildly apologetic.

Iulus glanced sharply in his direction. ‘Pull your punches.’

Dispatching a second round of attackers, the humans so mindless with terror that they hurled themselves at them, the three Ultramarines advanced through the masses. When faced with the giant warriors, most of the Damnosians balked and fled. Others collapsed in foetal despair, willing the nightmare to be over. Iulus did not know what these poor wretches were seeing but if it kept them at bay he was not about to question it. Only the worst affected attacked, and these fools the Ultramarines dealt with swiftly, but not lethally.

As he fought, Iulus scanned the crowd for Kolpeck. He had locked the man’s image in his mind and would know it immediately.

‘There!’ he shouted to his comrades, who had spread out to cover more ground and subdue more of the truly insane. Iulus pointed to a nearby bunk surrounded by a clutch of blade-wielding men and women. At the heart of it was Kolpeck, an unconscious woman next to him. He was trying to protect her, roaring his defiance at the homicidal figures closing their net of sharp steel.

Ignoring his own orders, Iulus drew his bolt pistol and discharged an explosive round into the air.

The pistol report resounded in the infirmary, despite the terror-dirge. Several Damnosians in his path turned at the sound.

‘Step aside!’ Iulus bellowed, and the majority ran. Any stupid enough to stay were battered by the charging Ultramarine. He was just a few metres away. Out of the corner of his eye, Iulus caught sight of Aristaeus and Venkelius converging on him. He also noticed the gaping hole in the side of the infirmary, and heard the necron fighter descending in front of it before he saw it.

Despite Kolpeck’s imminent peril, Iulus stopped and crouched, aiming at the cleft in the wall.

‘Venkelius,’ he said over the vox.

The heavy weapon trooper was also on one knee, bracing his missile launcher on his shoulder. Knowing his flamer was of little use, Aristaeus kept his brother free of interference.

With his warriors now in position, Iulus thought back to that advantage he had sought. The sickle-edge of the necron fighter came into view. It was moving slowly, hovering to get a better shot, and believing there was no threat inside the infirmary.

Iulus smiled when he saw the pilot’s glowing eyes.

‘Surprise…’ he murmured.

Pilot had broken off from his twin, enacting annihilation protocols extracted from his datastacks. One would distract, whilst the other would reap the maximum damage, both biological and structural. Pilot had reviewed and theoretically tested all potential tactics and had determined that splitting the ships was the most effective.

Though he did not understand or possess the capacity to appreciate the psychological effects of terror, Pilot could determine the logic path to this form of attack and the reduction in the overall combat efficacy of an entrenched enemy because of it. Based on experiential data contained within the stacks, he knew it would increase the success ratio of further attacks and that there was a direct and statistically significant correlation between terror attacks and the eventual capitulation of an enemy force.

The punitive tesla arc he had unleashed against the structure, thus making it more vulnerable, was therefore not only logical but also the most effective course of action his android brain would allow him to take.

Decreasing propulsion, Pilot brought his flyer into a descent pattern that would place all effective weapons within lethal range of the biological matter inside the ruined structure. He calculated he had time for a single salvo before a further delay would breach acceptable threat parameters. A data stream indicated his primary weapon was the pre-eminent choice in this scenario.

Pilot engaged the death ray’s capacitors, fed energy into its power coils so that by the time he had the optimum shot it would be fire-ready. But as his targeting matrices locked on the focus of his beam, new data cascaded over the old. Threat parameters dramatically increased, warning Pilot that additional, un-factored variables had suddenly intruded on the balanced equation he had just made.

Processing the appropriate responses in nanoseconds, Pilot took evasive action as explosive fire raked over the hull of his craft. It achieved no lasting damage, and it was only then, as another data stream describing an incoming incendiary washed over his visual feed, that Pilot ascertained the first attack had been a feint and this second attack was the one intended to destroy him.

Pilot had enough time to realise his miscalculation, to see his inevitable doom relayed in streams of unfeeling, undeniable logic, before the missile struck the coruscating tip of the death ray and tore him and his scythed craft apart.

Iulus clenched a fist as the necron flyer exploded. Venkelius had shot well, and would be recommended for a battle honour. Mercifully, no other casualties were caused by the flyer’s destruction. Well acquainted by now with necron tactics, Aristaeus was already rushing over to the burning wreck but the necron inside was gone, phased out from irreparable damage.

The flamer trooper turned to the others, giving the all clear.

Through the gap in the wall, the Thunderstorm streaked past on screaming turbofans, engines flaring. Just before the gunship disappeared from sight again, Iulus saw it discharge a missile payload at a target beyond his limited field of vision through the ruined wall and knew it was engaging the second flyer. With the destruction of his wingman, Iulus assumed the surviving craft would disengage. That assumption was borne out as, slowly, the terror-dirge receded and with its abeyance some semblance of composure returned. The chill of fear lingered still in its wake, but the men and women of the infirmary were beginning to come around. Some blinked, as if waking from a terrible dream; others wept, appalled at what they had done or still coming to terms with the remembered nightmares of the past.

It was raw, the atmosphere choked with grief and regret, but at least it was sane.

Iulus reached Kolpeck at last. The man was slow to come down from his heightened emotional state, and he battered at the Ultramarine at first, hammering impotently at the warrior’s chest with his fists.

‘Stand down, Sergeant Kolpeck,’ Iulus told him, holding the man to his chest, holding him steady and firmly. ‘Stand down.’

Like some of his fellow Damnosians, Kolpeck blinked – there were tears in his eyes, not of fear or sorrow but defiance – and looked up at his saviour.

‘Brother-Angel,’ he said, voice choked with emotion. ‘Is she…?’ Iulus released him and Falka Kolpeck began to turn around.

‘She’s alive, trooper,’ Iulus told him, nodding to the prone woman on the bed whom Kolpeck had been protecting.

Now the tears really began to flow, of relief, of hope, of desperation.

‘Thank the Emperor…’ said Kolpeck.

Iulus did not stay to watch. He summoned Venkelius and Aristaeus, and the three of them went back out into Kellenport to see what was left of the city defences and, more importantly, the resolve of its defenders.

Iulus placed little hope in the continued endurance of either.

CHAPTER EIGHT

BROKEN SWORD

With a grunt of effort, Scipio dragged himself out of the snow-choked hold of the Gladius. From a cursory look, the gunship appeared to be largely intact, although it had been badly raked where its hull had connected with the sides of the canyon and a large section of wing including most of the right-hand side was buried under churned ice and snow.

They had crash-landed in a rocky valley, the surrounding crags and slab-sided boulders edged with frost. In the middle distance as he rapidly surveyed the area, Scipio noticed a nest of caves. A ridge of ice-rimed stone led to the lowest mouth, which was large enough to accommodate an entire armoured column. Drifts were still descending, not as heavy as before, but swathing any tracks friendly or enemy that might recently have been formed in the snow underfoot. To the naked eye it would appear virginal, but Scipio detected heat traces and the oily remnants of fuel thronging the ice-crisp breeze. Something had passed through this way, but he could detect no further sign of it beyond these lingering spoors.

Satisfied they were not about to be attacked, he plunged a gauntleted hand into the hold and hauled out Garrik.

‘We alive, brother-sergeant?’ asked the heavy weapons trooper. He was still clinging to his launcher, thick clumps of hard-packed snow disintegrating off his body as the heat from his power armour melted it.

‘Only in death, brother,’ Scipio replied, returning to his surveilling. ‘You know that.’

‘Duty it is then.’

‘Hold here. I want to recon our position.’

Garrik nodded, before going to dig out the rest of the squad so Scipio could scout further out.

First impressions were that the crash site was deserted. That was both good and bad. Good because it meant an attack was highly unlikely, as in their current disposition that could prove terminal. Bad because help would not be forthcoming or easy to summon.

High cliffs on either side shielded the valley basin from the worst of the elements. It was largely barren, with the caves rising up to enclose the south-facing aspect, and the jagged path that had led them to this point heading off towards the north. As Scipio scouted past the fifty-metre mark, he realised they must have travelled some distance. He could see all the way to the edge of the valley mouth, but even through the scopes there was no evidence of the battlefield they had left behind or Chronus’s tanks. If they were in retreat, or worse, destroyed, there was no way of knowing.

Scipio recalled the shadow under the ice just before the flash of light signalling the massed necron phase shift. Guilliman’s blood, it had been so sudden: a vast and immediate spike of teleportation that had caught the Ultramarines forces totally unaware. But that was not what had first alerted him to the danger. Chronus was caught between two enemy formations, one above the ice; one below it. Even the vaunted tank commander would struggle to overcome such odds. Just as Scipio had suspected, the necrons were far from defeated. They were not even diminished in their military efficacy – they had merely been dormant, and now they were waking up.

He tried the vox, hoping to contact one of the vehicles in the tank commander’s company, but got only static in reply. According to his retinal display, all vox-frequencies were down. Scipio guessed environmental interference was the cause. They would need to gain higher ground, and try again without obstruction. With sheer cliffs on either side, that made the caves their best hope of reaching a high enough vantage to get a signal.

Largo joined him beyond the fifty-metre perimeter. This was surprising, as he had been expecting his second-in-command.

‘Where is Brother Brakkius?’ Scipio asked.

‘Injured, brother-sergeant. During the crash, his legs were crushed. He can’t walk.’

That was a blow. Scipio relied on Brakkius’s counsel and experience.

‘Any other injuries?’

‘Brother Kastus is incapacitated. The Gladius’s prow bore the brunt of the impact. The glacis was shattered instantly, and it took some hits.’

Scipio met Largo’s gaze. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Sus-anic coma, brother-sergeant.’

‘At least that’s something,’ Scipio conceded. With both Brakkius and Kastus out of action, that limited their options. A march into the wastes was out of the question. ‘What about the ship?’

‘The prow is more or less intact but our Techmarine holds it must be repaired if we’re to get airborne again.’

‘Airborne?’ Scipio asked quizzically. ‘I assumed we were grounded.’

A voice a little farther away answered, the unmistakable mechanical cadence of Vantor.

‘The machine-spirit of the Gladius yet lives,’ said the Techmarine. ‘I can not only repair, I can also fly it in Kastus’s absence.’

‘How long do you need?’ asked Scipio.

‘Most of the damage is superficial. There is a split in the port-side wing that must be fixed, the prow you already know about. I’ll need to run a thorough diagnostic too…’

‘How long?’ the sergeant pressed, quickly tiring of Vantor’s loquaciousness when discussing mechanics.

‘I estimate an hour.’

Scipio shook his head ruefully. ‘Chronus could be dead in an hour. We need to send a message to Kellenport, and raise the tank commander if we can. He might be in need of reinforcement.’ He turned back to Largo. ‘Gather the rest of the squad. We’re going on a scouting mission.’

‘What of Brakkius, brother-sergeant?’

‘He stays with Vantor. Now go.’

Looking back in the direction of the crash site, Scipio could see that most of Squad Vorolanus was ready for deployment. Only Brakkius, currently laid up against the unburied side of the Gladius’s hull, would be absent.

‘We’ll be heading towards the caves,’ Scipio told the Techmarine. ‘Make sure the gunship is flight-worthy by the time we return.’

Vantor nodded. ‘Be wary, brother-sergeant. I have never seen such ingenuity and resilience in a foe before as I have with the necrons.’

Scipio looked askance at the Techmarine. ‘I think I am starting to agree with Brakkius.’

‘How so?’

‘You sound like you admire these creatures.’

‘As I said to him, it is merely fascination. But also respect. They are devious and possess technology about which we know almost nothing. They are deadly, Sergeant Vorolanus.’

Scipio said nothing, and returned to the downed gunship to gather his squad.

CHAPTER NINE

ARMOUR KILLS

The Honour of Calgar was ablaze. Tongues of fire lapped eagerly across its scorched hull, its crew trapped inside and without hope of rescue. They did not try to escape. They were sons of Guilliman. They kept fighting. It burned for another eight seconds, floundering blindly, sponson guns chugging, before its fuel and ammunition cooked off and the Predator exploded. The shrapnel struck a second battle tank, Hera’s Banner, which was mired in ice. Half its hull was sunk beneath the permafrost, tracks whirring but skidding badly and failing to find purchase. Unable to defend itself, Hera could only await the inevitable as an arachnid necron construct clambered over its roof and gutted it from close range with a heat ray. Metal sloughed to molten slag under the weapon’s angry glow, the incumbent crew likewise. Within a few seconds, Hera was no more. It did not even resemble the proud war machine it had once been. ‘Scrap’ would have been too kind a term for it.

Glaring at Chronus on his retinal lens display, the icon for Hera went from amber to crimson. As the tank commander brought the Rage of Antonius around for another pass, he saw several other war machines were flaring terminally on the tactical feed too.

Two Razorbacks had been eviscerated by heat beams, their lascannon fusillade seemingly ineffective against the shielding of the spider-like walker that had destroyed them both. A third had been cut in half, then rendered down by a focused beam from a second arachnid construct.

Four Rhinos were blazing wrecks, still burning despite the snowfall, and pluming oily smoke. It smeared the sky, and blackened Chronus’s already bitter mood.

But it was the Vigilant that had been the first to die.

Caught in the act of dismantling the pitiful necron infantry, the Ultramarines armour had been strung out and lacking cohesion when the phase shift manifested, bringing with it a vastly superior and more manoeuvrable war host.

How quickly triumph had turned to urgent desperation.

The Vigilant was a veteran war machine, a Crusader-variant Land Raider. It took three hits simultaneously, still turning as it tried to bring its guns to bear. The first tore up its steering then severed a track guard before finally wrecking the armoured tread itself. The second punched a hole into the Vigilant’s back, taking out any remaining motive power and damaging its secondary weapon systems. The third destroyed it, the grizzled old Raider mushrooming upwards with the force of its own internal detonation, only to crash down again seconds later in a fire-wreathed heap.

The two other engines in its squadron, Merciless Orar and Lord Protector, gave retaliatory fire but by then Chronus was ordering a full withdrawal to a more cohesive formation.

Engines fighting engines was bad. Without infantry support, especially against the anti-gravitic and hyper-manoeuvrable skimmers the necrons possessed, the tanks were at a distinct disadvantage. But even caught unawares, Chronus believed he could rally his forces back into some semblance of order and regain the upper hand.

It was only partially successful. As the tanks unleashed suppressing fire to try and stultify the swift necron assault and were forming up into a sweeping line breaker formation to scatter the enemy, a second force emerged from below.

The walkers were spider-like in aspect and came from under the ice. They broke up Chronus’s hastily restored order, appearing across the battlefield seemingly at will. It was as if some overarching consciousness commanded them, one that could perceive the entire theatre of combat and predict each of its unfolding acts before they transpired. Despite their less than robust design, the arachnid constructs were hard to kill, protected as they were by some kind of energy shielding.

Faced with the almost certain destruction of his forces, Chronus had little choice but to abandon formation and give the order for all vehicles to engage the nearest target and pray to the Throne the Ultramarines could weather the storm long enough to reassert dominance later.

As his battle tanks effectively duelled with the necron skimmers over several kilometres of churned snow and ice, a close-quarters encounter despite there being at least fifty metres between most of the vehicles, it was proving frustrating for Chronus.

‘All weapons!’ he snarled to Vutrius below, taking personal account of their lascannon turret. ‘Tear that thing apart.’

The Rage of Antonius shuddered, muzzle flare roaring from its side sponsons before Chronus cored out one of the arachnids with an accurate las-lance from the twin-link. They were moving at maximum combat speed, the Predator’s machine-spirit and advanced systems compensating for the continuous motion over the rugged ice. A flash of verdant fire made Chronus grimace despite his battle-helm. The larger skimmers were coming in again, not content with the destruction wreaked in their previous attack run.

Chronus slewed the turret around and fired across the necrons’ front arc, as Novus poured on more speed to get away from the floating, barge-like skimmers. As far as the tank commander had been able to discern during the sudden and unheralded enemy assault, there were two major necron engines involved in this armour skirmish. One was fashioned into a simulacrum of a scorpion, an ersatz tail rising from its rear aspect with its primary weapon location on its underside, encased in something approximating a metal ribcage or exoskeleton. Its single crewman was necron, of course, but appeared to be of a higher caste than the foot soldiers Chronus had been slaughtering before he had sprung the trap. The other engine was reminiscent of an anti-gravitic throne-barge, with a vast cannon array positioned above its two crewmen who were suspended in control cradles either side of the weapon’s power source. Whatever drove it, the effects were terrible to behold. A single blast had shredded open Hellhunter, but the Predator had survived and limped on.

These necrons, the ones driving their infernal vehicles, were much more advanced and tactically adroit. That lesson had been learned now, but had cost Chronus three major engines and six support vehicles.

Amidst the chaos of chattering shell bursts, whining beam weapons and energy discharge, Chronus opened up the vox.

‘Gnaeus, try to bring your flank together and put the heavier armour to your rear.’

The necrons were almost running rings around the slower Ultramarines vehicles, though the tanks could take more of a beating. As soon as it became clear they would not be able to regroup, Chronus had the company split into three separate battlegroups commanded by himself and his two sergeants.

Gnaeus’s affirmation rune flashed up on Chronus’s lens display, indicating he had understood and would proceed as ordered. Gnaeus had drawn together two of the Vindicators, The Ram and Glory of Calth, as well as Fury Unbound and Ceaseless Endeavour from the Whirlwind squadron. The other siege tanks had managed to disengage from the frantic melee on Gnaeus’s orders, putting some distance between themselves and the enemy so they could regroup and offer stationary bombardment. With the engagement so tightly packed, the opportunity had yet to present itself.

The two Land Raiders, Merciless Orar and Lord Protector, reduced speed and dropped back behind Gnaeus’s Destructor, Secutor Maximus, the last of his Predator squadron. At the brunt of the necron assault force when it materialised, Gnaeus’s engines had been the hardest hit but were digging in now and showing their mettle.

A beam flashed overhead, hot and angry, and Chronus was forced back down into the cupola.

‘Guilliman’s holy blood!’ he swore, checking his shoulder guard where the beam’s passage had seared it. The paint was stripped down to bare armour and even the outer ceramite layer was burned off. The vox-link was still open. ‘Egnatius…’

Chronus roughly held the centre, though the battlefield was ever changing and difficult to predict, leaving his sergeants to the flanks. Of the three officers, Egnatius’s battlegroup was the only one unscathed, aside from minor glancing hits.

His rune flashed up on a sub-screen on Chronus’s display, indicating they were in contact.

‘Pull your Predators wide, brother, and send the remaining Raiders to reinforce my flank.’

There was no answer at first, and Chronus was about to curse his fellow tank commander and the malfunctioning vox-link he had evidently failed to repair when Egnatius replied.

‘Manoeuvring now.’

He sounded preoccupied, but then they all were. This kind of fight, an enemy this quick and with advanced shielding and weapon technology… A human tank commander would have crumbled under the pressure. As it was, Chronus saw all. He knew the fight was still winnable. The necrons were swift and their war machines possessed phenomenal attacking power, but they lacked true grit and endurance.

‘Dismantled. Piece by piece,’ Chronus swore to himself beneath his breath. He would make it so.

A long-range autocannon burst from one of Egnatius’s Destructors slipped through a skimmer’s shielding, splitting the ark-craft in half and sending viridian energy coursing over its broken frame.

‘Ha!’ Chronus clenched his fist in a vicarious expression of triumph as he watched the skimmer’s demise on the tactical display.

A second salvo went close to the Antonius, spurring alert runes in urgent warning.

‘Watch your firing solutions,’ Chronus snapped at Egnatius over the vox.

The sergeant did not respond, but his tanks were moving into a flanking position as ordered.

Chronus had little time to think on it, for they were headed right into the teeth of a necron formation – two of the throne-barges and a single ark. A pair of arachnid walkers scuttled either side, seen through the Antonius’s vision slits.

Vutrius unleashed their heavy bolters frontwards, ignoring the walkers who were stitching desultory heat beams across the Antonius’s battle-seared hull.

‘Keep that speed up, Novus,’ Chronus said to his driver, having to shout above the roaring din inside the tank. By maintaining combat speed, they were a tougher target. Thus far, three heat beams had connected but failed to penetrate their outer armour. Slow down and that would change fast.

Enthroned at his command station, Chronus pulled down the scopes that would give him a lascannon’s-eye view of the battle. Verdant gauss fire rippled from the approaching enemy skimmers. Eldritch lightning arcs flashed across the visual display, but Chronus kept the crosshairs steady, adjusting each time Novus slewed the Antonius aside from a coruscating beam.

‘Maintain heading,’ Chronus ordered calmly, as the necron ark slipped into his targeting grid. The whine in his ears told him the lascannon’s power coils were at maximum. Waiting another two seconds to bring the ark a few crucial metres closer, he seized the triggers.

Twin las-beams lanced from the turret, striking the ark midway along its spine before severing the scorpion tail. Not needing to see its destruction, Chronus swung the turret around incrementally for a second shot at one of the throne-barges. It tried to jink but the beam cut it a glancing hit, ruining its aim. The second throne-barge hit the Antonius square.

Novus roared, his cry of pain strangely muffled by his battle-helm and the interior noise, and a series of alert klaxons began sounding.

‘Can you drive, brother?’ shouted Chronus across the claustrophobic hold.

He saw Novus nodding, one hand clutching his upper chest, the other firmly grasping the steering control.

With both barges slipping beyond his immediate targeting arc, Chronus slammed the scopes back into the ceiling recess and disengaged the locking clamps on his command seat.

‘Pour on the power, punch us through!’ he said.

Throwing open the roof hatch, Chronus took up position in the cupola, swinging around as the Antonius rumbled past the necrons to get a first-hand look at the battlefield and the damage they had obviously sustained.

Smoke was billowing up from the Predator’s left track assembly and a section of armour plating was gouged open and bleeding fluid.

Chronus patted the hull, and muttered, ‘Sorry, old friend.’

He relayed orders down to Novus to decrease overall speed and reduce the strain on the damaged track.

Across the ice plain, skimmers and battle tanks were locked in a brutal armoured engagement. The contrast in tactics was stark. Where the necrons utilised their enhanced manoeuvrability, the Ultramarines relied on their ability to absorb punishment and return it with interest. Though the tesla-lightning and heat-ray weaponry was potent, it was better suited to the annihilation of infantry. Against heavy Space Marine armour it was not enjoying the same level of dominance. The necrons did have weapons in their arsenal that could hurt them, however. The smouldering wrecks of Hera’s Banner, Honour of Calgar and The Vigilant were testament to that.

Despite the ambush, some cohesion was returning to the Ultramarines forces. The three battlegroups, together with the pair of disparate bombardment vehicles, were beginning to work together and this was taking its toll on the necrons who could not hope to match the tactical agility of Guilliman’s sons.

The wisdom of a primarch, the scion of Konor and the Immortal Emperor, flowed in their veins – Chronus saw this engagement ending only in an Ultramarines victory. All of this he processed in seconds, whilst the other half of his strategic attention was fixed on the two skimmers the Rage of Antonius was embattled with.

The pair of necron barges were swinging around, lightning cannons charging. One took a stray hit from The Ram and detonated explosively from the siege tank’s heavy ordnance. The blast buffeted the second skimmer but it was intent on the stricken Antonius, which Novus was desperately trying to turn about, and did not deviate. An arc of tesla-lightning spat out, searing the Predator’s hull but causing no significant damage. One of the side sponsons came into firing range and Vutrius gunned the heavy bolter from below. Thick shells hammered against the barge but its shielding was practically inviolable.

Both tanks had fired their secondary weapons to no avail, and like jousting knights of old, came at one another to finish it at close quarters. Chronus had his lance, the turret lascannon turning with agonising slowness, whilst the necron barge primed its main destructor.

At the edge of his vision through his battle-helm, the intimidating forms of Galatan and Strength of Konor came into view. Lascannon sponsons on both the Terminus Ultra and standard pattern Raider were flashing deadly bolts of light across the field, cutting the legs from under the two arachnid constructs as the necrons’ shields were overwhelmed. For a moment the walkers floundered on the ice, attempting to retaliate with their deadly heat weaponry. In advance of the other two Land Raiders in its formation, the Shield of Iax put paid to that by rolling over both walkers and crushing them beneath its merciless tracks.

Revenge for the Vigilant, thought Chronus, believing engines of the same template were of kindred machine-spirit.

The barges seemed to sense the demise of their walker outriders, one peeling off to escape the certain destruction of the ruthless Land Raiders, while the other was locked into its course against the Rage of Antonius.

A cascade of tesla-lightning flashed across the Predator’s flank, tearing up a heavy bolter but otherwise leaving the tank intact.

Chronus smiled behind his battle-helm’s faceplate.

‘Too soon…’

Two more crucial seconds and the twin-link let out a shrieking las-bolt. Chronus drove his lance right into his enemy’s heart and vanquished it. Before the kill could be confirmed, he was on the vox to the Raiders curtly expressing his gratitude. Disappearing back down below, he switched channels to his squadron brothers.

‘Fabricus, Deneor, form up on the Antonius’s lead.’

Both The Vengeful and Hellhunter moved towards formation with Chronus’s Predator. A cursory examination of the battlefield showed that Ultramarines engines outnumbered necron two to one. The enemy were also down to just their skimmers, all the walker constructs having fallen back beneath the ice. Whatever anima drove these creatures, they clearly understood the value of self-preservation.

Once the hatch was closed above, Chronus moved through the hold to the driver’s location.

‘Vutrius,’ he said on the way, crouching down as he navigated the tight confines of the tank, ‘you have all weapons.’ Chronus’s tactical display switched out the twin-link and transferred it to his gunner. He laid his hand on Novus’s shoulder. The driver was shaking, blood seeping freely from a savage crack in his power armour.

‘Switch to automatic,’ Chronus told him. ‘Antonius’s machine-spirit will guide us until I can take the controls.’

Novus was a proud warrior, and Chronus knew he would not easily relinquish his station. ‘I can do my duty, commander,’ he said.

‘Of that I have no doubt, brother. But you’re wounded, and that’s a direct order.’

Reluctantly, Novus reduced speed to allow the other Predators in their formation to catch up to them and form a bodyguard. He disengaged from his driver’s position, and Chronus caught him as he nearly fell. ‘Rest easy, brother. Bind that wound. I’d have you back at the Antonius’s controls before this war is done.’

‘It would be my honour, commander.’ Novus saluted – it lacked some of his usual vehemence – and retreated to the back of the hold where they kept the Predator’s medi-kit.

Replacing him at the driver’s console, Chronus slaved all systems to his retinal display and opened up the company-wide vox.

‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘let us end this. Ultramar victoris!’

CHAPTER TEN

ICE CAVERNS

Standing on his vantage at the top of the ice ridge, Vantor and Brakkius looked distinctly small to Scipio. From on high, the Gladius appeared in worse condition than the sergeant had first believed. One of its wings had almost completely sheared off and the fuselage was battered. Brakkius was still sat up against the largely intact side, whilst the Techmarine worked at the other, sparks caused by his plasma-welder flashing in the gloom.

An hour, Vantor had said. The wing would be repaired, the glacis restored and hermetically sound, landing struts straightened and re-strengthened.

It had taken Scipio’s reduced combat squad almost twenty minutes to summit the ice ridge and, looking down now, he could not see how the gunship would be ready for flight by the time they returned.

He briefly tried the vox and got more static.

Brother Auris was consulting an auspex. ‘According to the scan,’ he relayed to the squad, ‘we are in the Vogenhoff region.’ Inputting some data, he then added, ‘It’s riddled with caverns and ravines. We are fortunate to have landed at all.’

‘Can you tell me where this one leads?’ Scipio asked, indicating the vast cave mouth yawning in front of them. Close up, it was even larger than it had appeared in the valley. Frost encrusted the rocky edge of the mouth that faced the elements, and fangs of ice protruded from the irregular arch at its apex. Superstitious men might have believed it to be the maw of some frost giant of old, entombed in the ice and asleep.

Auris stepped forwards. ‘Running topographical scan now…’ he reported. ‘It will take a few seconds.’

Whilst Largo kept his gaze and his bolter trained on the darkness within the cave, Garrik faced north towards the battlefield they had left behind.

‘When we were hit,’ he said as Scipio approached, ‘Chronus was not only outmanoeuvred, he was outgunned.’

Garrik had removed his helmet. It was sitting in the crook of his arm, his other hand just then lowering the scopes. He was scarred, a jagged line of pink flesh running from his chin to alongside his right eye. It was an old wound, received long ago. The hair on that side of his face was patchy too, the black fading to grey. Fortunately, his eyesight was unaffected or that would have been the end of his role as a heavy weapons specialist. Either that, or take a bionic.

He and Scipio had fought together a long time.

‘You think Chronus has fallen?’ asked the sergeant.

‘No,’ Garrik replied, ‘he seems too stubborn for that. But I wonder what else waits under the ice of this world.’ He turned to face Scipio. ‘How many necrons are on Damnos, brother-sergeant? How many is too many?’

‘We’ll know that when we’re back aboard the Valin’s Revenge or lying dead on an icy battlefield, brother.’

‘I don’t fear death, sergeant.’

‘Of course you don’t, none of us do, but something has unsettled you.’

‘It’s Damnos,’ Garrik confessed frankly. ‘Ever since we arrived on this world and engaged the necrons, I’ve felt as if something was aware of us. I didn’t understand it at first, but after the siege I spoke to Largo and some of the others. Something is buried deep, and it’s not human, not remotely. I’m not referring to whatever legions are slumbering below the ice. This is a singular mind. During meditation, I have dreamed about it.’

‘A beating heart at the world’s core,’ said Scipio. ‘It’s no delusion, Garrik, but we can only face what is in front of us, and not the enemies in our thoughts. Only Master Tigurius can do that.’

Garrik handed back the scopes, having said what he needed to on the matter. ‘No sign of the battle tanks. I couldn’t even find the Thunderstorm.’

‘Vandar’s back at Kellenport by now,’ Scipio replied, locking the magnoculars back onto his armour, ‘dealing with whatever flew by us before the attack.’ He clapped his hand on Garrik’s armoured shoulder. ‘We are, all of us, being sorely tested in this campaign. But I believe we will not yield to this pressure, brother. We are sons of Ultramar and do not bend easily.’

Garrik nodded. ‘Courage and honour, sergeant.’

Scipio smiled back, and felt some of the humanity he had thought lost on Damnos start to return. ‘Courage and honour. It’s what separates us from the necrons.’

Auris approached them, having completed the scan.

‘Cave leads out to a plateau higher up the range. We should be clear of interference there.’

‘Weapons ready, brothers,’ Scipio told them both, facing the cave mouth. ‘Be prepared for anything.’

Just before they entered the cave, Scipio opened the short-range vox to the warriors they had been forced to leave behind. The signal was patchy, but localised, so he got through almost unimpeded.

Brakkius answered.

‘All’s quiet down here, sergeant,’ he said. ‘Assuming you’re not counting our Techmarine’s labours. If there are any necrons slumbering beneath us, they’ll soon be awake and upon us.’

‘Keep your eyes open, brother. Soon as we get word to Kellenport or Commander Chronus, we will return. How go the repairs?’

‘Difficult to judge. Vantor and I have yet to exchange words on the subject. I hope well, for I doubt I’ll be walking back to the city.’

Brakkius’s black humour was encouraging, as was his thinly veiled annoyance at being trapped with the Techmarine.

‘Guard my ship for me, brother. Keep Vantor on course, if you can.’

‘Aye, sergeant. I’ll watch him too.’

‘He’s one of us, Brakkius,’ Scipio reminded him.

‘No he isn’t, sergeant. He is not one of the Thunderbolts, and I have not fought with him before.’ He paused, then asked, ‘May I speak freely?’

‘Proceed, but whatever it is be quick. We are about to embark.’

‘Something is fundamentally wrong with this world, Scipio. There is a… presence here.’

Scipio was instantly reminded of his previous conversation with Garrik but a moment ago.

‘And I believe we have all felt it,’ Brakkius went on. ‘Perhaps some of us more deeply than others, the Techmarine amongst them.’

‘The Martian creed is an esoteric and clandestine one, but Vantor still wears a white Ultima on a blue field on his shoulder, Brakkius. You’d do well to keep that in mind.’

‘I will watch his back, as you would, sergeant.’

‘Just make sure the Gladius is ready upon our return. Eyes open, as I said, brother.’

‘Eyes open, sergeant,’ Brakkius confirmed, ‘and good hunting.’

Scipio cut the vox-link, and waved Largo forwards. He was acting scout, and the first to snap on his helmet’s luminators. A sharp magnesium glow filled the outer threshold of the cave, but revealed only further rock and ice.

Eyes open, thought Scipio and went in after Largo.

During his service as an Ultramarine, Brakkius had stood sentry many times. The fact he was technically sitting this duty made it no different to all those others. Scanning the immediate surroundings revealed no threats on his retinal lens display. An icon showed the position of the Techmarine relative to Brakkius, but his bio-reading was green and all was apparently well. He had no line of sight to Vantor and periodically checked in over the vox to keep apprised on the progress of repairs. Brakkius felt no regret at the loss of his legs. He would either walk again naturally or bionics would be grafted in place of his ruined limbs. As long as he was able to serve, he remained unconcerned. It did leave him feeling vulnerable, however, and the constant reports with the Techmarine helped to assuage that feeling and served to make up the shortfall in vigilance he knew was a reality of his current condition.

Both his legs had been crushed during the crash. They lay mangled in their greaves in front of him, utterly useless. Had Vantor not pinned him through the shoulder, it might be him and Kastus comatose in the hold. As it was, though, Brakkius felt of little service to the Techmarine.

‘All clear on this side,’ he voxed.

Vantor’s few seconds’ delay was infuriating, and Brakkius was about to repeat his message when the Techmarine answered.

‘Is there something you need, brother? I am currently quite preoccupied with the repairs to the Gladius.’

‘Just your status report, Techmarine.’

‘Work would proceed faster without interruption,’ Vantor replied.

Brakkius was cursing his misfortune to be stranded with this of all Ultramarines and about to give a terse reply, when he noticed the slightest seismic tremor register on his lens display.

‘Brother Brakkius?’ prompted Vantor when the expected rejoinder was not forthcoming.

‘Wait…’ Brakkius replied. The tremor returned, stronger than before… and again, stronger still and with greater frequency. ‘Something is happening.’

‘You’ll need to be more specific.’

Brakkius raised his bolter at a spot on the ground that had begun to shake. As he looked down the targeter, he saw small fissures beginning to form and a mound rising from the ice.

‘Get around here now.’

Vantor cut the link.

‘Damn it!’ Brakkius swore. The mound was rising, developing into a large inverted funnel. Something burst through at its apex, the size of a gauntleted fist, insectoid and obviously metallic.

Whilst on Damnos, Brakkius had seen a swarm of necron scarabs reduce a speeder to scrap. He tried not to imagine what one would do to a prone Space Marine slumped against the side of a downed gunship.

He fired two rounds into the side of the funnel that exploded upon impact. Machine parts, insect limbs, broken mandibles and chunks of carapace fountained outwards in a plume of wreckage. In their wake came more of the creatures, scurrying over the metal carcasses of the others, pincers clacking.

To the left of Brakkius a second funnel speared up from the ice, followed by a wave of high-pitched chittering.

Switching to burst fire, he broke apart the second funnel before quickly turning his attention to the surviving scarabs of the first. Alternating from one to the other, he conserved ammunition but kept up a steady rate of fire. Slowly, the diminutive constructs were broken apart, their emergence funnels collapsed and destroyed. But, miraculously, two scarabs from the first funnel made it through the shell storm and leapt at the injured Ultramarine. Brakkius caught the first, having switched to a one-handed grip. The bolter’s recoil violently jolted his shoulder and the pain came back anew, but he gritted his teeth and smashed the scarab against the gunship’s flank. The second latched onto his face and immediately he could hear its tiny mandibles chewing through ceramite. He head-butted the Gladius, destroying the construct before it could do any real damage.

Three more funnels spiralled up from the ground.

Brakkius’s ammo gauge was flashing, warning him to slot in a fresh clip. That would take precious seconds and the scarabs were already spilling out onto the ice. Firing off the last three rounds, sharing them evenly between the funnels, Brakkius cast his bolter aside and drew his combat blade. He had mag-locked it to his chest, knowing that drawing it from his thigh would be a needless hindrance in his current position.

Even so, it would not stop the twenty or so constructs scuttling towards him.

‘Come on then,’ he growled, determined that if he was going to fall he would do so fighting.

A sheet of flame swept over the swarm, setting them ablaze and turning the scarabs to fire-blackened metal.

Brakkius turned and saw Vantor, a flame-unit attached to his servo harness, releasing a constant plume of super-heated promethium that washed over the constructs and turned their emergence funnels into slurries of melted snow.

Only once all of the scarabs had been utterly destroyed did the Techmarine relent.

‘I thought you’d abandoned me,’ Brakkius told him, sheathing his combat blade so he could pick up his bolter again and rearm.

‘Because I am part machine?’ asked Vantor, coming over to inspect what was left of the constructs.

‘Yes.’

‘I will always be more son of Ultramar than of Mars, Brakkius.’

‘I am beginning to appreciate that.’

Vantor turned his head, regarding the other Ultramarine through his cold retinal lenses.

‘Evidently, saving your life during the crash was not proof enough.’

‘Forgive me, brother.’

Vantor gestured to the fused remains of the scarabs.

‘They are feeder constructs, consuming matter and turning it into energy, designed to maintain the horde. Protect it during dormancy.’

‘How can you know that?’ asked Brakkius, still unable to shake his disgust at Vantor’s seeming admiration for the necrons.

‘Since we have been here, I have watched them, studied them and the effects of their weapons on our own. Only by building a repository of knowledge can we truly fight the necrons effectively. A better question though, brother, might be: why might such creatures be needed here in this remote region?’

Realisation came quickly and starkly to Brakkius.

‘There are necrons right here beneath us.’

‘I would estimate in their hundreds, but that’s not all the presence of the scarabs tells us.’

‘What else?’ asked Brakkius.

‘That they are waking up.’

‘Vox-comms are down,’ shouted Largo, scouting at the front of the squad.

Scipio called them to a halt.

Garrik checked Largo’s findings to make sure it was not just his brother’s vox that was malfunctioning.

‘Mine too, brother-sergeant,’ he reported, tapping the ear-bead embedded inside his helmet, but unable to provoke the unit into function.

‘Brother Auris?’ Scipio asked the Ultramarine consulting the auspex.

‘It must be the cave walls, some mineral interference. We’ll be free of it once we’re on the other side.’

‘What kind of scanner returns are you getting?’

‘Weak, brother-sergeant,’ said Auris. ‘But there’s a larger chamber up ahead. It’s possible we could receive an improved signal in there.’

‘This entire complex is large,’ said Garrik. ‘I have never seen anything like it, save for the old arcologies on Calth. It makes me question what it’s for.’

Scipio regarded him. ‘What it’s for? You don’t believe these caves are natural, brother?’

Garrik shone his luminators, casting the interior rock faces in pellucid white.

‘Look at the walls. They’re smooth, as if bored. No cave system is this vast, not all the way through. Where is the variation, the natural beauty? I see none of that here.’

Scipio saw that Garrik was right. So focused was he on getting a signal to Chronus or Agrippen back in Kellenport, he had neglected to pay attention to what was in front of his face.

The tunnels were – he hesitated, knowing the word he sought was not ‘man-made’ – machine-made, carved from the bedrock of Damnos. From what little he knew of the Vogenhoff region, it was extremely remote and had no mining operations. There were no cities, subterranean or otherwise, no settlements of any kind. It was far enough north of Kellenport to be uninhabited and yet these caves had seen the passage of one life form or another.

For a moment, Scipio considered what exactly the ice and rock of Damnos encrusted. Before the coming of the Emperor’s illuminance and the Great Crusade, some ten thousand years ago, the galaxy had been a lightless place. And it was old, so Imperial scholars and the alien eldar believed. Races far more ancient than man once ruled the stars. It was only logical to assume that some of them had lived on the worlds mankind had colonised. Perhaps some, those able to withstand the entropy of time and the elements, had never left.

The chrono counting down on Scipio’s retinal display was at twenty-eight minutes. They had used up over half of Vantor’s time getting this far.

‘Keep moving,’ he ordered. ‘And, scout,’ he added to Largo, who was leading them out, ‘stay close until we can restore vox.’

It took another six minutes to reach the cavern Auris had specified.

It was vast. Immense, in fact. Ice floes trickled down ribbed walls that rose up into a vaulted ceiling prickled with distant stalactites. Swathes of frost crunched underfoot, becoming bulwarks of ice where the floor met the walls.

An entire hangar of gunships would have no difficulty fitting inside the massive chamber, Scipio realised. But like the others, it was not the cavern’s sheer size that caught his attention, it was the strange vents in the floor.

There were hundreds, arranged in perfect symmetry, their wide necks tapering to a much narrower aperture at the end. Languid vapour was oozing from the mouths of these bizarre, unnatural formations. Encrusted with hoarfrost, a casual observer might have mistaken them for some genus of subterranean flora, but they were not remotely anything like that.

Scipio realised almost at once that the vents were metallic and distinctly alien in origin. The vapour spilling from their mouths was doing so downwards, carpeting the floor around them in a pale mist. He suspected this too was unnaturally produced, likely heavy in nitrogen or fluorine.

‘Tell me what you see, brother,’ he said to Largo, who had reached the strange crop of vents and was knelt down examining one of them.

Auris joined him, scanning with the auspex.

‘Definitely inorganic…’ Auris muttered.

‘There are tracks here, too,’ added Largo, leaving his brother to his analysis and moving further into the chamber.

With Garrik on overwatch, Scipio went after Largo to see what he had discovered.

‘Two kinds,’ Largo continued, throwing the light of his luminator over a deep impression of what could only be a booted imprint made by power armour. ‘And here,’ he added, highlighting a second example. The latter were also recognisable.

‘Tank tracks,’ Scipio whispered, trying to put together what he was seeing into some form of logical order. ‘We are not the first Ultramarines to reconnoitre this cave system.’

‘Sergeant Egnatius’s tank company scouted into the Vogenhoff region,’ said Largo.

‘I heard of no reports of this cavern. Why would a veteran officer like Votan Egnatius not make mention of it?’ Scipio looked around. They were surrounded by a veritable field of vents. He and Largo were standing near the edge, but Auris was deep in amongst them conducting further scans. There were several others, colonising the entire chamber in perfectly rectangular areas.

‘Brother Auris…’ Scipio began, instinctively reaching for his bolt pistol.

‘Something is happening…’ Auris replied, intent on his analysis.

‘Brother,’ said Largo.

Scipio caught Garrik’s attention and signalled him to hold position.

Auris was peering down into the mouth of one of the vents. ‘The gaseous vapour is abating. I can see something inside it…’ He checked the auspex, before looking back. ‘Retinal analysis is inconclu–’

A dark mass was suddenly expectorated from the vent. It spattered against Auris’s faceplate, forcing him to drop the auspex and recoil.

Garrik was about to advance, but Scipio’s raised hand stopped him.

All of the vents had stopped fuming. Something was trickling down their fluted sides. No, not trickling… crawling.

‘It’s all right,’ said Auris, signalling the all clear. ‘Must have been some kind of blockage, probably from–’ He stopped with an abrupt jerk. A swarm of tiny insect-like creatures had penetrated his vox-grille, bored through the hairline gaps between his helmet and its retinal lenses. They had bypassed his gorget and were, even now, infiltrating his body through his mouth, ears and nose.

Hidden by the vapour cloud amassing around the base of the vents, Scipio failed to see the rest of the swarm until it crept beyond the edge of the field in an oily black mass.

‘Watch your footing,’ he warned Garrik, pulling Largo back a few steps and gesturing down to where the insects had begun to converge. ‘Auris,’ he shouted out, his voice echoing and hollow. ‘Brother!’ Scipio said more urgently when the Ultramarine did not immediately respond.

Auris was covered in the writhing creatures, but he made no move against them. Instead, he looked up slowly, straightening his body.

‘You should not have come,’ he uttered in a voice not entirely his own.

‘Ghost of Hera…’ hissed Largo, and carefully raised his bolter.

‘This is not your world,’ said Auris, ‘it never was,’ and shot Largo in the chest.

Both Scipio and Garrik opened fire a half-second later, killing a warrior they had once called brother but who was now lost to some terrible affliction neither could understand.

Auris went down amongst the vapour. His ident-rune turned red on Scipio’s tactical display, indicating a kill.

‘What just happened?’ Garrik shouted from across the chamber, sidearm still in hand. About twenty metres separated them, the width of one of the vent fields.

‘Stay where you are,’ Scipio told him. ‘Do not cross the vents.’ He went to Largo. Mercifully, the Ultramarine’s armour had taken the brunt of the shot but his ribplate could be cracked. ‘Can you walk?’ Scipio asked, acutely aware of the oily swarm creeping ever closer.

With some difficulty, Largo nodded. Scipio got him to his feet.

‘Soon as we are clear,’ he called to Garrik, ‘I want you to destroy this abomination.’

Garrik scowled. ‘With pleasure, sergeant.’

As he helped Largo around the field of vents protruding obscenely from the ice, Scipio realised the function of this place. It was a breeding ground, both for the minute constructs oozing from the vents and the unwilling slaves they created. Here they had peeled back another layer of the necron epidermis and found yet greater aberration.

Garrik had backed up as far as the cavern entrance.

There would be no pressing ahead now. The entire cave system was enemy territory. They had to go back, and get airborne as quickly as possible.

‘Bring it down, brother,’ said Scipio. ‘Then fall back.’

Garrik nodded, having already shouldered his launcher, and released a fragmentation missile into the ceiling. Cracking ice followed in the wake of the explosion as a rain of brittle, razor-edged stalactites cascaded down onto the vents. The entire cavern shook, but not just with the force of detonation. The Ultramarines’ presence and subsequent attack had prompted a response. As the deluge of rock and ice crushed the vents, fissures were already splitting the cavern floor and walls. These were not natural clefts, but machine-engineered. Heat swept in from below, the heat of engines and subterranean power coils. Verdant light exuded through the slowly expanding cracks, melting the ice floes and liquidising the frost.

Garrik fed two more missiles into the vent field that had claimed Auris, just to be sure, stowed his launcher and then ran. He caught up to Scipio in short order, the sergeant having lagged behind to help Largo.

‘Brother-sergeant, what happened to Auris?’ asked the heavy weapon trooper.

‘I don’t know,’ Scipio answered honestly. Behind them the verdant light was growing, spilling outwards like the dawning of some viridian sun. It would herald the coming of the necrons Scipio now realised were buried below. If they had not reached the Gladius and got airborne by the time that happened, there would be no dawn for them.

A salutary thought penetrated his consciousness then – Damnos could not be saved. The only recourse left was to get everyone off-planet as quickly as possible, and the realisation of that fact at least provided purpose.

‘He fired on Largo,’ said Garrik, unnerved by what he had witnessed. ‘To see him taken over so quickly, so easily…’

Largo did not meet his gaze. He was concentrating hard on staying upright and ignoring the pain in his chest.

‘Something inside the vent infected him,’ said Scipio.

‘Infected him?’ asked Garrik, incredulous.

‘Turned his mind, I don’t know how. But he might not be the only one.’

‘If that’s true…’ Garrik let his words hang.

‘We must reach the Gladius,’ Scipio told them, ‘and hope that when we do, Vantor is ready for immediate take-off.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PYRRHIC VICTORY

Chronus could not deny a deep sense of self-satisfaction.

Despite the necron surprise attack, the battle was his. Ultramar victoris!

From here they could use the victory as a staging ground, bring in the gunships from the Valin’s Revenge, bring in Rhino-mounted infantry and drive their assault deep into the heart of enemy territory. They would crush the necrons in their sleep, set charges around their tombs and purge this world in the name of the Emperor, reclaiming it for the Imperium.

He was not a man given to vainglory; what he did, he did for duty and honour, but these necrons were a singular foe he took pride in vanquishing.

The last of their resistance on the ice plain was fading. All of the arachnid constructs had withdrawn from the field, and the final few barges and arks were slowly being corralled by an unrelenting ring of Ultramarian steel. An android brain, however advanced, was no match for true will and human heart. And here was the evidence of that.

Both the Vindicators and Whirlwinds had removed themselves from the engagement and taken up bombardment positions again back on the ridge line. It was a needless contingency, but Chronus was wary of further rapid deployments courtesy of the necron phasic generators. With the withdrawal of the siege engines, that left the more manoeuvrable Predators and Raiders to chase down the more stubborn enemy elements, support vehicles acting as outriders.

Tesla-lightning and the verdant flare of gauss beams whipped across the battlefield, but it was desultory. A cohort of necron arks was bearing down on the Antonius and the other two tanks in its squadron. Chronus let them come on, pushing up to combat speed to draw them in. Over on the flank, he had the perfect answer to the necrons’ aggression.

‘Egnatius, bring in Stormwarden, Titus and Venator,’ he voxed. ‘Hammer them.’

An affirmation rune flashed up on Chronus’s retinal lens. Satisfied, he kept up the pace and checked the tactical display.

The five Raiders had formed up and were taking the necrons on the left flank apart. Gnaeus had joined them in the Secutor Maximus, adding to their already formidable firepower with his Predator Destructor.

That left Chronus and Egnatius to destroy the rest.

‘Vutrius,’ Chronus called back to his gunner. ‘Keep that turret on them.’ Suppressing fire from the other two tanks in the commander’s squadron, The Vengeful and Hellhunter, wrecked one of the arks and sent it ploughing into the ice.

That left two. No challenge for Egnatius.

Stormwarden was leading the charge with Titus and Venator close on the front Predator’s heels. They had yet to discharge weapons. Three autocannons would make scrap of the necron vehicles.

Gauss fire hammered in on the Antonius and its fellow squadron members. An outriding Rhino was hit and went up explosively, showering The Vengeful with shrapnel.

‘Egnatius,’ Chronus barked down the vox, ‘what are you waiting for? Engage!’

Still the necron arks came on, slipping into an advantageous position as the Predators’ attack vector took them out of a forwards firing arc and presented their flanks and rear to the enemy.

One of the arks unleashed its main energy weapon. It struck the already wounded Hellhunter in the side, flipping the tank onto its roof where it convulsed explosively. Rolling hard, trying to manoeuvre back into a better firing position, the Rage of Antonius and The Vengeful left the sorry carcass of their destroyed squadron tank behind.

Scipio reached the cave mouth with Largo and Garrik close behind him.

What he saw in the valley below turned his determination into a sense of grim finality. The Gladius was gone, doubtless consumed by an undulating swarm.

The crash site was obliterated from view, overrun by diminutive necron scarab constructs.

‘There must be thousands,’ said Largo, slumping against a rock.

Behind them, the din of machine activation still sounded and the verdant glow of necron revivification intensified.

‘Can’t go forwards, can’t go back,’ uttered Garrik. He checked his ammunition. ‘I have two krak missiles and one fragmentation in my rack. How shall I spend them, brother-sergeant?’

Scipio drew his chainsword and planted it blade-first in the ice.

‘This is our ridge now. I have just claimed it for our Chapter. As sovereign territory of Ultramar, it is our honour-bound duty to defend it. Let the necrons come. They’ll find Ultramarines do not die easily.’

‘They won’t have long to learn that,’ said Garrik, gesturing to the scarab swarm that swept towards them like a dark cloud.

From deep inside the cave mouth came the hollow cadence of mechanised feet marching in unison. The first warrior constructs had awoken.

Scipio wrenched his chainsword free and drew his bolt pistol.

‘In my eyes, you are all heroes.’

Above them, the unmistakable burr of turbine engines could be heard as a very welcome shadow fell across the trio.

‘Guilliman’s blood…’ breathed Garrik, looking up at the descending form of the Gladius. For a moment, it stayed suspended in the air, Vantor watching them through the repaired glacis. Then with a burst of the gunship’s stabiliser jets, the Techmarine swung around to present the Gladius’s flank where Brakkius and an open side-hatch awaited.

Largo went first. Well harnessed in the flank gunner’s seat, Brakkius caught his wrist and helped him aboard. Garrik went next, leaving Scipio for last. Brakkius grabbed his sergeant’s shoulder guard as he came aboard and Vantor gunned the engines.

‘You’re late,’ he said, betraying not a trace of humour.

‘And you are very much alive, brother,’ Scipio replied. ‘A fact I find surprisingly pleasing.’

Brakkius clapped him on the shoulder in comradely fashion, but then added, ‘Where is Brother Auris?’

Scipio shook his head.

‘His duty has ended.’

Not lingering, Scipio went immediately to the on-board vox. Amplified by the gunship’s superior communication systems and now free of environmental interference, he was able to open a channel to Commander Chronus. He only hoped he was not already too late.

Chronus was incensed. From a position of certain victory, Egnatius’s defiance of orders had given the necrons a foothold back and endangered his engines into the bargain.

‘Brother-sergeant,’ he began down the vox-link, though he knew that something was seriously wrong. ‘You will open fire on the enemy immed–’

The Stormwarden fired, but its heavy shell burst against the armour of The Vengeful. A second muzzle flash erupted from Venator a second later and crashed just wide of the Antonius.

‘What in Hera’s name does he think he’s doing?’ snapped Vutrius.

‘Disengage at once,’ ordered Chronus. ‘Egnatius, you are targeting friendlies. I repeat, you are opening fire on your brothers!’

Still no response came from Egnatius. Chronus hastily tried the other two engines in his squadron but got no answer there, either.

‘Have they gone mad?’ asked Vutrius. ‘Should I open fire?’

‘No, not until I know what’s going on. It could be a targeting malfunction.’ The tank commander did not sound convinced.

Titus was moving in, too, when one of the necron arks hovered in behind it and gutted it with a direct hit to its rear facing. The subsequent explosion pushed the tank into a violent roll, barrelling it into a Razorback that was smashed aside and disabled.

Two more engine kills flashed red on Chronus’s tactical display.

Titus had just left itself open to attack. It was not a targeting malfunction.

The vox-link crackled, and Chronus answered it to find Sergeant Vorolanus on the other end.

‘I thought the Gladius destroyed, brother-sergeant.’

Scipio did not waste words. ‘Commander, one of your squadrons has been infiltrated by the enemy. I lost one of my squad to the same mind control.’

‘What?’

‘One of your squadrons is lost, commander. It is no longer loyal to Ultramar. I believe it to be one belonging to Sergeant Egnatius.’

Chronus abruptly cut the feed, resigned to finding out further answers later. He urgently activated the vox-link to the entire company.

‘All vehicles. Squadron Egnatius has been compromised. Engage as if enemy. All siege engines occupying the ridge, your orders are to neutralise the Stormwarden and Venator.’

Chronus severed the link, anger and denial warring in his heart. Whatever had happened to Egnatius, it obviously was not just a comms malfunction. As Scipio had said, he was lost. Chronus only hoped he could stop him before he took anyone else with him.

‘Commander, I do not wish to question–’ Vutrius began.

‘Then don’t,’ Chronus snapped. ‘There is no other choice.’

Affirmation runes flashed up on the tactical display for Scion of Talassar, Wrath of Invictus and The Ram. All three had firing solutions on Squadron Egnatius.

Chronus tried one more time to raise his fellow tank commander, but Votan Egnatius was clearly no longer in control. He raised the three siege engines, and with steel in his heart gave the order.

‘Execute.’

Thunder felt all the way from the ridge line resonated through the Antonius’s hull as multiple hits registered against the Stormwarden and Venator. Chronus briefly closed his eyes, asking his dead primarch for forgiveness. He knew the crew of both tanks, had fought with them on countless occasions. Egnatius he had trusted with his life. Two engine kills flared up on the tactical display. The Stormwarden and Venator were gone.

Crushing down his grief, Chronus was about to bring the Rage of Antonius about to engage their pursuers, when an actinic flash lit up a distant ridge. A second flash followed moments later towards the north, and then a third to the east.

Three more necron battle formations, comprising further heavy weapons and infantry cohorts, according to the ranged auspex.

The skimmers currently engaged by the Ultramarines began to withdraw. One of the barges was destroyed by a vengeful assault cannon burst from the Merciless Orar as it tried to fall back, but none of the other necron engines responded. Soon they were beyond optimum weapons range, and Chronus was disinclined to give chase.

During the ill-fated skirmish, he had lost no fewer than seven major pieces of armour and almost twice that number in support vehicles. Chronus called all the tanks to a halt. While they idled on the ice plain with their engines humming and exhausts fuming, he tried to ascertain the enemy strength.

Even a conservative estimate placed it at much greater than their own.

The phasic materialisation of all three battlegroups was several kilometres out. Without air support, it would be impossible to know the enemy’s disposition, tactics and movements. If they possessed any gunships like the ones that had streaked towards Kellenport, that could alter the complexion of a second battle considerably.

Too many unknowns. Too few full-strength battle tanks. No Ultramarines vehicle had escaped unscathed. Necron phasic technology meant rapid redeployment was also a factor.

Steam rising off their battered hulls, a company of tanks patiently awaited their commander’s decision.

‘It serves no one if we die here this day,’ Chronus muttered bitterly.

The direct approach had failed. The necrons were not as beaten as he had first believed. Rearm, redeploy, were his only options now.

‘Full retreat,’ Chronus uttered, his voice dark and full of reticence. ‘Back to Kellenport.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

RESURRECTION

Ankh released the mindshackle, returning cognisance to the tank commander as he burned inside his own vehicle.

Such arrogance and belief in their own pre-eminence; the Architect despised them. Humans. Even the thought of the word left a bitter trace in his memory engrams. He had proven their weakness, as all alien races were, ultimately, weak.

Discovery of one of the northern ice tombs had forced Ankh to escalate his schedule of reactivation. Hundreds of canoptek drones now scurried about the subterranean chambers, nurturing, restoring, revivifying, all for the glory of the necrontyr.

War hosts, thousands strong, were slowly awakening. Ankh perceived each and every one of their soulless flames igniting with activation. It was patient work, careful work, but then the Architect had already waited for aeons. What did a few more years matter?

According to his global analysis, one faction of resistance yet remained between the Sautekh Dynasty and dominance of this world. It was concentrated in the human city, the one the Undying had failed to sack during his abortive siege. With the recently resurrected war cells, Ankh had deterred further interference from the armoured crusaders and their crude war engines. Unmolested, the Architect could divert his complete attention to revivifying a legion of such magnitude as to engulf the surface city and wipe it from existence.

There would be no siege, only annihilation.

Then he could turn his ageless mind towards other concerns. The beating heart of this tomb world was stirring. A sliver of a c’tan. A pale simulacrum of what it had once been, but still potent in spite of that. Ankh could feel it through its necrodermis, the agitation of its essence. It would not be long now. The slave would awaken soon and then the stars themselves would quail.

It took two days to limp back to the city. The Gladius had shadowed the survivors of the tank company every step of the way, allowing Chronus to learn of the fate of Egnatius from Sergeant Vorolanus. Neither of them knew for certain what had befallen the Ultramarines that had entered that cavern; even Techmarine Vantor could offer little by way of explanation. Several had lost their lives to it, and betrayed their sworn brothers into the bargain. Chronus only hoped that was an end to this particular blight, and tried not to fathom what other horrors the necrons possessed that the Ultramarines had yet to see.

Muted celebration greeted the tank company as it rolled through Kellenport’s western gate. Despite the improved fortifications, the city was still a ruin. Its walls carried the legacy of the previous siege, still breached in dozens of places. Many of the outer districts had been abandoned, allowing the Capitolis Administratum and the spaceport adjacent to it to be bolstered. Gun emplacements lined these walls, and Ultramarines manned strategic points along them to better support the failing Damnosian courage.

Chronus rode up in the Antonius’s cupola, Novus having recovered enough to drive. He did it not to appear the conquering hero, he was anything but that, but to see their faces for himself. Antaro Chronus prided himself on knowing the measure of a soldier by the strength of conviction he saw in his or her eyes. What he saw in the downtrodden Guardsmen and militia that circled the city gates or gathered in packs around what few monuments still stood, was defeat. These were a broken people. He did not know if it had happened during the terror raid Sergeant Vandar had apprised him of or if it had been growing ever since that first day when Damnos’s lord governor had been slaughtered with his entire staff. It did not matter.

What he did know, what he had experienced first-hand, was that the necrons were a resourceful and insidious enemy. They could harness immense legions, far in excess of the Ultramarines’ ability to defeat with their current strength.

After Chronus had entered the shell of the city, driven past the drum fires and the hollow ruins thronged by hollow men and women, and reached the end of the roadway, he learned of Agrippen’s war council. Few strategies remained, but it seemed the veteran wanted to consider them all.

They gathered in the Capitolis Administratum’s debating chamber. It was a large, oval room that could better accommodate the Adeptus Astartes and their Dreadnought commander. It would also serve to keep the Ultramarines officers and the delicate nature of their council away from the prying eyes and ears of the populace.

‘It is hard for me to admit this,’ Tigurius began. ‘Upon Commander Chronus’s arrival, I dared to believe we could resist. But now we must all acknowledge that Damnos is lost.’

A few high-ranking Guardsmen, here to represent the natives, tried to stand a little straighter or show steel in the face of adversity, but Chronus could see the light had already died in their eyes. Tigurius had just given word to the fear they had all been living with ever since the invasion began, and made it real.

No Ultramarines officer present gainsaid him. Even Agrippen bowed his armoured form slightly at this admission of defeat.

A sergeant, Chronus recalled his name was Praxor, spoke up.

‘So what recourses are left to us? We cannot abandon these people.’

Like all the wall guard, Praxor Manorian bore the scars of battle upon his armour. Evidently, he had been caught in the fighting during the now infamous terror strikes by the necron flyers.

Tigurius met the gaze of each and every warrior in the room, be they Adeptus Astartes or Guardsman.

‘Evacuation is our only option now.’

‘You want to abandon Damnos?’ asked a tremulous Ark Guard captain who was trying to hold it together, his despair of the plan overriding his fear of the Chief Librarian.

Tigurius tried to be sympathetic. ‘I want to save its people.’

‘Doom has come to your world, captain,’ Agrippen told him in his deep, mechanised voice. ‘I am ashamed for my Chapter that we have been unable to turn back this tide, but we must now be pragmatic.’

‘Evacuating the city will take time,’ said Scipio, having joined the council whilst the Gladius was undergoing repairs. He had also been summoned for his report about his squad’s encounter in the caverns at Vogenhoff and the necron forces amassing there. ‘Yet the necrons are advancing with purpose and in numbers from every direction.’

‘Can we stall them?’ asked Praxor. ‘Slow them down enough so we get the people out?’

‘The Valin’s Revenge and its frigates are at anchor in low orbit,’ said Tigurius. ‘Lighters from the surface have already begun to ferry the population to them, but we have had casualties.’

Since the re-emergence of the necron forces, some of their ground-to-air weaponry had resurfaced and was keeping a steady stream of gauss fire aimed at the skies above Kellenport.

‘Our forces on the wall are depleted,’ offered another, a bald, grizzled-looking sergeant with a face like a granite cliff. ‘I should be back there now, keeping an eye on them.’

‘They can endure without your presence for a short while, Sergeant Fennion,’ said Tigurius. ‘You were present during the attack on Infirmary Seven, were you not?’

Fennion nodded. ‘It has left morale extremely low amongst the Guard cohorts, and we will be in need of them if we are to mount a significant defence. Many are still suffering the psychological after-effects of the attack.’

‘And what would you deem as significant, Iulus?’ asked Scipio. Evidently, the two knew each other fairly well.

‘One that doesn’t capitulate after the first assault. But my assessment, for what it’s worth–’

‘The same as everyone else’s in this chamber, Sergeant Fennion,’ Agrippen advised him.

Iulus Fennion nodded in appreciation. ‘I do not think defence is even tenable at this point. If we can slow them down, if… then I’d suggest a series of fall-backs. We try to hold the walls and they will not hold. We draw the necrons into the city, behind several carefully engineered firebreaks, then we might retard their progress enough to make a difference.’

Agrippen activated a hololith of revolving blue light that described Kellenport in exact detail.

‘This is from an orbital capture of the city,’ he began. ‘As you can all see, the outer defences are abandoned, leaving our forces concentrated on the walls around the Courtyard of Thor and the capitolis building in which we now debate. Our third strongpoint is the spaceport, which must be protected at all costs. Points of ingress for the necrons are the north and west gates. That is where their strength will likely be focused.’

‘Your problem is not the overwhelming force the necrons will bring to bear on Kellenport.’ Having listened to all good counsel thus far, Chronus finally spoke up. All eyes turned to him at the sound of his voice. ‘It is the rapidity with which our enemy can deploy. Twice, I was outmanoeuvred on the ice plain. Vast forces simply teleported in, surrounded us and would have destroyed us had I not ordered the retreat.’ This last part was hard for the tank commander to say, spoken as it was through clenched teeth.

‘You refer to the necron phasic generators,’ Tigurius replied.

‘I do. We must destroy them first if we are to stand any chance of evacuating a significant amount of the population and wresting something from this disastrous campaign.’

For a few seconds no one spoke. Chronus had just said aloud what they had all been thinking. That did not mean it stung their pride any less.

‘Ever since Sicarius fell, we have struggled,’ he went on. No one denied it. Chronus meant no disrespect, he was merely stating facts at this point. ‘So then, show me where the generators are and I’ll try to buy us some time.’

Agrippen broadened the hololith’s scope so it encompassed the much larger continental region around Kellenport and Damnos Prime.

‘Thanks to your efforts out on the ice, commander, we have been able to track the position of three crucial phasic generators. The Valin’s sensorium places them in these locations.’

Three nodes flashed up on the display in hazy red.

‘We’ll secure a drop-zone with low strafing attacks from Gladius and Thunderstorm,’ Agrippen continued.

‘Why not just destroy the generators in a series of bombing runs?’ Praxor asked the obvious question.

Chronus answered. ‘Because they’ll be shielded just like their walkers and skimmers. We’ll need to get in close, on the ground, penetrate their defences first.’

‘Indeed,’ said Agrippen. ‘If you’re looking for vengeance for Egnatius and the others, this is it. But choose your formations carefully, commander.’

Now Chronus smiled like the true lion of Macragge he was.

‘I have just the warriors in mind.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ACTS OF SABOTAGE

Fabricus had accepted the field promotion with all the solemnity and humility Chronus had come to expect from the warrior. Someone needed to take Egnatius’s place. Gnaeus had wholeheartedly supported his brother’s elevation.

They had left Kellenport far behind and were bound for one of the phasic generators. A pair of Thunderhawk transporters ferried both the Rage of Antonius and Triumph of Espandor, as well as a Rhino transport bearing Squad Atavian. Two similar forces led by Fabricus in The Vengeful and Gnaeus in Secutor Maximus were headed for the other sites. The remnants of Egnatius’s battle tanks, their crew having been cleared by Techmarine Vantor of any technological contagion, had been split up amongst the new command structure.

Ahead of all three forces were Gladius and Thunderstorm, who would scorch the earth heralding the armoured squadrons’ arrival.

Three primary objectives: two to be hit simultaneously, the third, slightly more remote, to be attacked a few minutes later. Chronus had opted for the third and more difficult target, feeling it was his responsibility and risk as commander to do it.

A voice crackled over the vox inside the hold of the Antonius. Though the vision slits were sealed, the passage of air as their transporter cut through it at speed buffeted the sides of the Predator loudly and made the hull shudder. The effect was disconcerting for someone used to fighting all of his battles on terra firma with the grind of tracks, not the whipping of air, as his combat refrain.

So Chronus was a little agitated when he responded to the hail.

‘Speak.’

‘We are two minutes out,’ came the voice of Scipio from Gladius. ‘You sound perturbed, commander.’

‘I’ll be glad when we’re on the ground, sergeant.’

‘Resistance is fairly thick around all three generators. You’ll need to go in hard and fast once you hit the ground.’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Scipio. Burn me a path and we’ll roll right up it and tear that generator apart.’

‘Affirmative, commander.’ Sergeant Vorolanus cut the link.

Chronus addressed his crew. ‘Make all final preparations and adjust mission chronos. We disembark in under two minutes.’

‘Any word on Gnaeus or Fabricus?’ Vutrius asked from the gunner’s seat.

‘They should be engaging now. Focus on our part of the mission, brother. We’ll know of its greater success as soon as we return to the city. Courage and honour.’

Chronus’s crew echoed him.

Across the vox-link the transporter pilot issued a time warning. They were vectoring in on Gladius’s designated drop zone coordinates now.

Chronus opened the feed to the entire battlegroup.

‘Make this for Egnatius, and the engines we lost,’ he said.

The three battle tanks landed hard, tracks already whirring. They hit the fire-black earth running, spitting up clods of dirt and the accumulated slush that had somehow survived Gladius’s immolating missile strike.

Partially destroyed necron skeletons crunched and phased out under their treads. Chronus ignored them, heedless of the smoking ruins of skimmer-tanks and the hollowed-out remains of anti-gravitic weapon platforms. There was only one enemy weapon he was interested in as he drove at the front of the spear. It loomed before him on his retinal display, its crackling energy signature like a comet flare.

During the few hours they had spent in the city, the Antonius’s heavy bolter load-out had been replaced with a pair of lascannons. The full Annihilator-pattern was better suited to taking down a static emplacement. The Triumph of Espandor was equipped with identical armaments, while Atavian’s Devastators, dubbed ‘the Titan Slayers’, earned their honorific thanks to their armour-busting heavy weapon configuration.

The phasic generator was immense. Riding up in the turret’s cupola, Chronus regarded it with his own eyes. An extension of the necron form, it reminded him of a gigantic claw, albeit with three identical talons all cradling a jade crystal of energy at its centre. Alien sigils were embossed in gold upon the generator’s base, and three clawed feet extending from it provided stability. And flickering at the periphery of the foul machine was its shield.

From fighting the walkers and skimmer barges on the ice plain, Chronus knew this defence could be overwhelmed with force. Riding in hard and fast as Sergeant Vorolanus had advised, he gave the order to do just that.

Lascannons bristling from the turrets and side sponsons of the Predators, a sustained salvo broke against the generator’s shield. It endured this punishment for almost a full minute before collapsing under the strain. Vented power coils still charging, Chronus signalled Sergeant Atavian.

Disembarking in short order, the Titan Slayers unleashed their heavy weapons against the vulnerable necron machine and destroyed it.

It was swift, brutal and tactically exemplary.

Chronus allowed himself no satisfaction in the deed, however, as he recalled the Thunderhawk transporters. As the two massive drop-ships appeared in the sky above them and the magna-grapnels were descending, he reminded himself that they were merely delaying the inevitable.

‘A successful mission, commander,’ said one of the pilots by way of congratulation.

Chronus remained grim.

‘We have bought them days, if that.’

Leaving the wreckage of the phasic generator behind them, they made course back to Kellenport.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BATTLEMENTS

Standing sentry at the walls surrounding the Courtyard of Thor, Iulus Fennion looked out at the legions marching implacably across the ice towards Kellenport.

It had been days, days, since the successful sabotage mission conducted by Commander Chronus and the Ultramarines armour. The destruction of the phasic generators should have crippled the necrons – it barely broke their stride, and now here they were again, a few hours from the gates.

‘How many do you think are out there, Brother-Angel?’

At his own request, Iulus had taken up a position on the wall nearest the Ark Guard fighters, and dispersed his Immortals to do the same. Men needed courage at times like this. He resolved that they would find it in his example, and that of his warriors.

‘More than we have shells and bullets for, Sergeant Kolpeck.’

Iulus knew, of all the Guardsmen and militia who fought on Damnos, he need not lie to this one. Falka Kolpeck had survived the initial assault, he had lived through the first siege, he had even endured when others lost their minds during the attack on Infirmary Seven. He was a hard man, as hard as the Damnos ice he used to cut with his rigging tools. It did not make him a better soldier, but it did make him tough and that was something Iulus found he could respect.

‘You saw off her transport?’ asked the Ultramarine, watching the distant skeletal hordes. Perversely perhaps, the storms had abated in the last few hours. Behind the drifts and whiteouts, a vast arctic landscape had emerged, and upon it legions of necrons.

Kolpeck nodded and checked the iron sights of the heavy stubber he was charged with manning.

In the wintry skies above, Arvus lighters and a host of other atmospheric craft comprised a steady stream of traffic coming from the spaceport. Thousands had been evacuated already, but there had been losses in the hundreds too. Verdant gauss fire from the distant necron cannons, entrenched in the northern wastes, maintained a constant barrage that gave the Damnos night the illusion of pyrotechnics on Founding Day. It was, of course, much deadlier than that and not remotely celebratory.

Every ship sent from the port, its gunwales brimming with refugees, was directed on an easterly course first. They went low to the ground, beneath the lattice of enemy fire, until rising and striking for the Valin’s Revenge or one of its flotilla.

Iulus had heard from Vandar on the northern gate that an entire graveyard of destroyed vessels now languished out in those wastes. It was a cynical, if necessary, measure. The last thing the fragile courage of the Damnosian soldiery needed was falling skies.

‘She did not wake before her medi-casket was taken aboard,’ Kolpeck offered, ‘but I believe she knew I was there.’

Iulus gave the facial equivalent of a shrug. He had seen how Kolpeck had been willing to give his life to protect this woman. It was a form of brotherhood, he supposed. He chose not to disabuse him of the notion that she would survive the journey to the Valin’s Revenge, or warn him that she was most likely to be in a coma forever and the chances of them ever being reunited were remote in the extreme. That would dishonour this man, and Iulus had no desire to do that when he had earned so much more for his life.

‘You could have joined her,’ said the Ultramarine, turning to look at the ex-rig-hand, ‘but you chose to remain.’

‘How is it any different to your brothers staying behind for us?’

Iulus sniffed, incredulous. ‘We are Adeptus Astartes, much hardier than mortal men. It is our duty. Our honour.’

Kolpeck met his gaze, but had to crane his neck. ‘The oaths I have taken, the ones I swore to Jynn as she lay in her coma, are not so different. It is my world. I want to fight for it, even if it means my death.’ He turned back to continue his weapons check.

Iulus regarded him silently for a few more seconds, before deciding he had no answer to that. But as he returned to watch the metallic horde coming down on Kellenport, he vowed to do everything in his power to save this man. To Iulus’s mind, he had earned that much.

Engines idling noisily, Chronus stood up in the Rage of Antonius’s cupola and watched the necrons advancing. He suspected a great many, mortal and superhuman, were doing the same.

His battle tanks were assembled in three squadrons. The first, comprising all the siege engines, was ringed around the space port and would provide suppressing bombardment fire as soon as the outer walls were deemed no longer defensible; the second, which was made up of Predators and Land Raiders commanded by Gnaeus, assembled behind the north gate; that left the third with Chronus himself at the west gate.

There were enough breaches in the outer walls to provide adequate apertures for unleashing their long-range guns. Once that was no longer practical, their orders were to withdraw into the warren of streets and provide armoured bottlenecks to slow the necrons down and give their infantry time to effect an ordered retreat.

Of course, that was assuming the enemy could penetrate the indomitable guard of Agrippen. The Ancient had taken position at the western gate and looked in no mood to relinquish it.

Chronus knew it was partly for show. An astute strategy in terms of human psychology. By the tank commander’s calculation, they were near reduced to half-strength, which meant just over fifty Ultramarines give or take pilots, crewmen and a few attached specialists. Roughly ten times that number were left in the Damnosian Ark Guard, and perhaps a further three hundred in conscripted militia. Kellenport was not a huge city by any standard, and with its outer districts abandoned, it shrank further still, but the Imperial forces were paltry in number and inhabited a virtual ghost town. The necrons were legions strong, tens of thousands, and with an abundance of esoteric heavy weaponry at their disposal.

Chronus was under no illusions about the outcome of this fight.

Fabricus pulled up alongside in The Vengeful, sitting up in the cupola like his commander.

‘Come to wish me well for the battle ahead, Sergeant Fabricus? I do believe they may write stories about this one. No doubt our exploits in destroying those phasic generators are already being immortalised,’ said Chronus, with more than a hint of irony. ‘I expect we will have thrown several necron war cells into defeat and nearly single-handedly turned the fates of this war by the time the ink is dry on its parchment. Stories do seldom reflect the truth, don’t you find?’

‘I had come to gauge your thoughts before battle, commander, but can hear they are only bitter and lacking in the inspiration I sought.’

Chronus gave Fabricus a sideways glance. He had yet to don his helmet, and left it sitting on the Predator’s roof. By the standard of most sergeants, Fabricus was youthful and bereft of scars. He also had a shock of close-cropped blond hair, which meant he must be young, but there was maturity in his eyes, born of hard experience.

‘I make you sergeant and all of a sudden you are questioning my demeanour.’

Fabricus was instantly contrite. ‘I meant no offence, commander–’

‘Stop, please.’ Chronus held up his hand. ‘A poor attempt at levity. I apologise. But you’re right,’ he added. ‘I am bitter. I don’t like to lose and although we are standing defiant at Kellenport’s gates, I cannot shake the feeling that we are already beaten.’

‘So what would your counsel be then, commander?’

It was a fair question, one which Chronus had already asked himself and subsequently answered.

‘We make them pay for their victory as painfully as we can.’

Hunkered down amongst the ruins by the north gate, Scipio closely observed a soulless robotic horde through his scopes.

Vast phalanxes of infantry, flanked by skimmers and walkers, descended on the city from its two gated aspects. Unlike a living foe, they did not shout war cries or even stare in that grim, determined fashion that Scipio had seen some warriors affect. It was cold, methodical, and calculated in every way. Necron strategy was a logic engine, a long and dispassionate equation that factored in nothing of courage or individual heroism. The only human facility they had ever accounted for was fear, and in that they were consummate masters.

The terrified faces of the Damnosian soldiery surrounding him attested to that fact. Scipio’s Tactical squad, the Thunderbolts, had been reunited for this last defence. There were some exceptions. Auris was dead and Brakkius had become an unlikely gunner for Vantor aboard Gladius. The gunship had used most of its ordnance payload by now and had been pressed into service, like all atmospheric craft, ferrying citizens from the surface to the ships at low anchor above.

Eighteen runs that ship had made so far. It had survived every one without a scratch.

Say what you will about the Techmarine, thought Scipio, but he is a determined and excellent pilot. He suspected Brakkius’s marksmanship might have something to do with the Thunderhawk’s Throne-blessed existence, too.

A flash of crackling lightning and the whip of turbulent storm winds manifested near Scipio’s position, causing some of the Guardsmen to turn and aim their guns fearfully. When they saw the figure that stepped from the psychic tempest, they had to resist the urge to kneel instead.

Scipio contented himself with a shallow bow.

‘My lord.’

‘It does our charges good to see that we still possess power, Sergeant Vorolanus,’ uttered Tigurius. He never just spoke, the Chief Librarian; he declared, and in this kind of mood he did so always in a resonant voice, redolent of his psychic might.

Tigurius was staring out into the icy void, but his eyes seemed far away, as if seeing far more than any mortal or Space Marine standing guard at that wall ever could. His staff, a ram-horned stave of master artifice, he clutched in one hand, sending a ripple of eldritch energy down the shaft.

‘You are most welcome at the wall, my lord.’

‘I am not merely on the wall, Sergeant Vorolanus. I am in all places, at once.’ He gestured with his staff. ‘Do you want to know what I have seen in the ether?’

‘If it is our demise, then no, my lord, I do not.’

Tigurius turned slowly, the trace of a smile playing on his inscrutable face. They had fought together on the Thanatos Hills, but he was deep into the warp in that moment, all of his attention bent towards his powers and unerring prescience. He barely seemed to recognise the sergeant.

Even for a Space Marine as veteran as Scipio, it was unnerving. To know such a being was by your side in any fight was ultimately galvanising, however, and so here Tigurius was.

‘You are a curious one, Scipio Vorolanus,’ he uttered. ‘I see greatness in you, a potential you might yet reach, or die in agony in the attempt.’

‘A sobering thought,’ Scipio replied, dryly.

The Chief Librarian lowered his voice. ‘Our paths here on Damnos are myriad, but none of them leads to victory. Not yet, not in this future.’

He turned away again, and Scipio was left to wonder at his meaning.

A shout ran out from one of the few watchtowers that were still standing, forcing the sergeant’s attention onto the immediate present.

The distant hills rumbled and flashed, heralding the inception of the necrons’ preliminary bombardment.

The final siege of Kellenport had begun.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DEFIANCE

Gauss fire crackled across the ice plain in an unending storm. It tainted the oil-black night, heating the air and turning it an ugly verdant green. It ripped apart the meagre defences, tore up the gun emplacements and rendered men to ash. It thundered from skimmer-tanks, implacable warrior-cohorts and the distant, pyramidal silhouettes of the largest terror weapons in the enemy arsenal. A green haze of atomisation hung over the ruins in the wake of rapid and collective particle fusion.

It reminded Scipio of a funeral shroud, and the corpse beneath it was Kellenport and all its desperate citizens.

Delivering valiant if mostly ineffective return fire, the defenders at the north wall had held for just under an hour. That staunch resistance had ended when the gatehouse and one of its watchtowers had collapsed into rubble, leaving a vast breach into which hordes of robotic infantry were now marching.

The skeletal faces of the necrons were pitiless as they emerged through the gloom. Their advance was slow and inexorable, preceded by a constant fusillade from their gauss rifles.

As soon as the wall came down, Scipio gave the order to fall back. He saw Vandar do the same from farther up the battlements. His helmet vox crackled with the voices of Solinus and Octavian, also sounding the retreat. He had no line of sight on his fellow sergeants, the defence being stretched and necessarily ragged, but knew they would be heading deeper into the city.

Somewhere behind him the assault squads of Ixion and Strabo were already redeploying. Across the length and breadth of the city, Devastators would be occupying their predetermined strongpoints from which they could launch support fire. As he retreated with the others – the remnants of three Ark Guard formations, a band of militia and his own Thunderbolts – Scipio heard the heavy guns give voice.

Out beyond the walls, on the crowded tundra past the city’s outer defences, came a succession of missile detonations and the after-flare of a plasma ignition. Chugging heavy bolters and the hard-whine of lascannons kept up a steady chorus in the wake of these grander beats of war. And yet Scipio knew it was barely a scratch. There would be no holding here. The only way was back.

Kellenport’s streets were warrens, although many of them had been flattened by clustered enemy bombardments and were little more than blackened ruins now. Guerrilla fighting favoured the smaller, native force. It would slow the necrons down and thus give more time for the civilians to evacuate.

‘Fall back!’ he cried, vox-amplifying his words through his helmet. ‘Retreat to the commercia-districts. Quickly and in good order.’

Hit by a stray gauss beam, an old refinery shed combusted explosively. Guardsmen and Ultramarines too close to the blast were thrown skywards. Revealed in the sudden burst of flame Scipio thought he saw Praxor, sword raised, rallying his troops as they fell back to another part of the city. The vista died as quickly as it was born. Scipio did not linger, and signalled his own forces to pull back.

Some of the Guardsmen fled, militia too. They ran blindly, and without the support of their comrades would die swiftly. Some were even cut down during the initial act of flight. But the majority did as ordered, emboldened by the presence of the Ultramarines or simply too afraid to run. Either was fine by Scipio; in these final hours, he had learned to be pragmatic.

A single round from his outstretched bolt pistol took a necron in the skull, erasing its rictus grin with satisfying lethality. A second three-round burst shredded two others. By now the combined las and bolter fire of the retreating Guardsmen and Ultramarines had joined his, impeding the necrons’ efforts to overwhelm their position quickly.

From the left flank, rolling across a largely uncluttered plaza that was pockmarked with shell holes, a battle tank rumbled into view. It bucked on its tracks, its autocannon chewing a hole in the necron ranks before its heavy bolters poured on further punishment.

Those few crucial seconds gave Scipio and his men a chance to retreat. He was about to signal the driver his gratitude when the immense shadow of a monolith fell across them. The Predator’s turret was still turning when the floating necron obelisk unleashed an arc of power from the energy crystal glowing feverishly at the pyramid’s apex. The blast uncoiled, tearing open the Predator’s frontal armour and gutting it. The fuel tanks went up momentarily, bathing the ruined walls and their fleeing defenders in more reflected fire.

One of Tirian’s men, Scipio could not tell which, had crouched in the lee of a shattered gun emplacement and released a missile from his launcher. The incendiary exploded harmlessly against the monolith’s shielding, a bloom of displaced energy like water flashing on oil. Before the Devastator had time to load another, a gauss salvo reduced him to a ruin of smoking armour.

Scipio muttered an oath for the warrior’s passing, and urged his own troops back.

More tanks were moving in to avenge the destruction of the Predator. Three lascannon bursts lit up the dark. One even penetrated the monolith’s armour, but barely slowed it. They were priming for a second shot when the vast obelisk began to move, crashing down half-ruined wall sections as it simply pushed through them.

Falling debris claimed several militiamen unwise enough to seek refuge behind the stunted remains of the walls, but their death cries barely registered in the chaos.

The tanks fired again, but still the monolith endured. It ripped the treads from one vehicle with a wicked gauss arc. It tore the turret off a second, leaving a smouldering crater in the metal and the hull. Its commander emerged from the flaming crevice, bolt pistol firing. It was more out of defiance than a belief that he could actually stop this thing.

‘All weapons,’ shouted Scipio, out of a desire to go down fighting when he realised they could not escape the monolith. ‘Fire at will!’

Bolter shells and las-beams roared up at the vast floating edifice, mere insect stings against a hide of alien metal. There would be no stopping it, and Scipio began reciting his final litanies, until he saw the lightning storm.

A figure hung within it, suspended several metres from the ground. His body shimmered with coruscation as he sent an arc of bolts hammering into the ground. The necrons pushing for the breach jerked and spasmed in the lightning storm, each jag leaping from one to another until more than a score were smitten into ruin.

Muttering psychic canticles and arcane rites known only by the Librarius, Tigurius hurled a fork of azure power against the monolith. The bolt split against its flank, tearing back the plates of armour and exposing the circuitry within. Chained lightning followed, rippling from the psyker’s brow and tearing off a side bank of gauss flayers.

Its apex crystal flaring in sympathetic anger, the monolith released an energy lash, but Tigurius threw up a kine-shield and bore the blast against it. The psyker staggered, his armour scorched in the violent throes of the particle whip’s dispersion, but not yet finished.

Tracing the sigils of his order in the air before him, Tigurius fashioned a vortex in the very fabric of reality, ripping open a passage to the warp in the monolith’s very midst. Howling, ethereal winds tore at the necron war engine. Potent energies of unmaking cascaded through it. The obelisk endured for a few moments before crumpling in on itself as the destructive fury of a star’s death was ignited in its midst and then faded like a flare of solar wind.

Tigurius resealed the breach in reality. The vortex had left a gaping hole in its wake and an empty crater in the vast necron ranks. The reprieve would be brief. More were coming, undaunted by the fate of the others.

The surviving battle tanks pushed on into the gap in the wall, allowing Scipio and his men to continue their withdrawal.

‘Do you hold here?’ Tigurius asked him as he returned to the ground. He looked tired, but the fury of a psychic storm still raged in his eyes.

Scipio shook his head. ‘We make for the streets. These walls are lost.’

‘Then go quickly,’ the Librarian replied before stepping back to summon a gateway of light. He was gone in an eye blink, manifesting in some other part of the city where his supreme prescience told him he was needed.

‘Back, back,’ Scipio urged his men, as the battle tanks sitting in the breach began to fire. They could not hold it for long and would soon need to retreat, too. The city streets beckoned, as well as the prospect of bitter, close-quarter fighting.

The walls around the western gate were barely standing, yet one warrior had not moved from his post.

Chronus had not known Agrippen as he was before being entombed, but if his flesh-and-blood predecessor was anything like the war machine that now stood sentinel in the Courtyard of Thor, the tank commander suspected he would have been a stubborn bastard.

Necrons littered the ground before the mighty Dreadnought, their wreckage unable to phase out fast enough before Agrippen added to the ruination surrounding him. Nothing could fell him, although his armour was rent and torn by dozens of minor wounds. A burst from his plasma cannon gouged a hole in the tight ranks of automatons, before the exhaust vents spiked to cool the weapon down again. There was no respite for the enemy, though, as Agrippen laid about him with his power fist. Chronus saw one necron, armed with claws and draped in a grisly hide of human flesh, seized and crushed by the Dreadnought’s massive fist. Agrippen then used the broken robotic corpse to club another, before pulverising a third beneath his foot.

With a hiss of vented pressure and a low-energy hum, the plasma cannon was fire-ready again. The resulting bolt vaporised an arachnid walker shouldering through the mass to reach the gate. More followed, acting as vanguard for a squadron of arks that trailed close behind them.

Chronus opened up the vox to Reckoner and Triumph of Espandor, directing the Predators’ fire at the more distant arks through gaps in the withered Kellenport defences. He then issued a string of pinpoint coordinates to the Whirlwinds and more advance-positioned Vindicators. A hail of ordnance from the vicinity of the space port and the surrounding region descended a few seconds later, engulfing the walkers and a sizeable portion of necron infantry.

The order to fall back from the walls had been given, so the tanks had moved up in accordance with that to provide much needed covering fire. According to his retinal display and the tactical feed scrolling across one of the lenses, all Ultramarines sergeants who still lived had made an effective withdrawal into the streets.

Chronus ordered the siege tanks back into their defensive positions and told his two commanders to do the same with their engines. He would follow in short order. There was but one matter to attend to first.

‘Ancient,’ said Chronus over the vox. ‘We are falling back.’

‘Then go with Guilliman, Antaro,’ Agrippen replied, not for a moment breaking his destructive rhythm. ‘I shall hold the line here.’

‘None shall pass, Ancient,’ said Chronus, the guns of his battle tanks both close and distant thundering in his ears, despite his battle-helm.

‘None shall pass. Courage and honour.’

‘Yours has been an example to us all.’ It was a bittersweet moment, for Chronus knew the sacrifice Agrippen was making to allow his brothers a chance at escape. Thumping the roof of the Antonius, Chronus signalled the retreat.

The streets were clogged with bodies and rubble. Most of the necron skimmers had reportedly been diverted to attack the Ultramarines tank divisions, their unarmoured frames and much-reduced manoeuvrability making them too vulnerable in the close confines of Kellenport’s warren of roads and avenues. Instead, the enemy deployed their ground troops in force: roving packs of flesh-cowled horrors, hulking heavy infantry and the ubiquitous raiders.

Though Falka had no vox like Sergeant Iulus Fennion, no means of keeping apprised of the greater warfront, he had discerned that the walls had taken severe punishment across the entire city and would likely not last much longer. They had abandoned their post, him and the few Guard and militia that remained, on the orders of Sergeant Fennion and his men.

They retreated in phases, hunkering down in what scraps of cover they could find before unleashing suppressing fire, rushing to the next scraps and then doing it all over again.

Fire. Run. Hide.

Then repeat.

During the last hour or so, it had become his mantra.

For the moment at least, Falka, sixteen other men and a battle-brother called Venkelius were taking cover as Iulus and another group raked the end of the alleyway with las- and bolt-shells. He saw one Ultramarine step out into the street and release a plume of fire from his flamer. It roared across the ground like some serpent of old myth, devouring the skin-wearing necrons scuttling into its path.

Several made it through, still burning, but the others brought them down with a brutal salvo.

Iulus waved them on, urging, ‘Retreat in good order!’

Venkelius filtered the Guardsmen and militia in single fire, whilst Falka did what he had done for the last hour. Head down, he ran. He kept his lascarbine close to his body, just as he had been shown. It was not his original weapon. When his power pack had run dry, he had taken a fully charged replacement gun from one of the dead. He could not bring the man’s face to mind and was surprised at how much that bothered him, even as he was struggling to survive the chaos of the streets.

As far as Falka could tell from the snatched pieces of vox-communication between Sergeant Fennion and his warriors, they were not the only ones. He got the impression the Ultramarines were stretched across the length of Kellenport, dispersed amongst the few Guard and militia regiments that were alive and holding their nerve. On more than one occasion, Iulus had tried and failed to reach one of his fellow sergeants. Falka took this to be a bad sign, but said nothing and kept his eyes down when confronted with the wrathful-looking Space Marines protecting them.

Death was part of duty, Falka had learned that about the Ultramarines from Iulus, but this was tantamount to slaughter.

As if to emphasise the fact, gauss fire from the necrons following up their skin-clad comrades fizzed and crackled in the tight alleyway. An Ark Guard trooper who had run ahead of the line and caught up to Falka was spun, his innards terminally flayed away. Falka did not see him fall; to look back now would mean death. Another did, though, and barrelled into the ex-rig-hand, recoiling in horror from the dead man’s extremely visceral demise. He took Falka off his feet, and sent him tumbling to the ground. Falka’s last sight was of Sergeant Fennion, putting up a hand and rushing towards him.

Something hot lashed his face and for a moment he thought he had been struck, but it was the fleeing trooper’s blood as a gauss beam eviscerated him and pasted his remains across everything in close proximity, including Falka.

He got to his knees, dimly aware of the men screaming around him and the Space Marines urgently shouting in front and behind. He heard the necrons too, the cold metallic sound of their footfalls, the crackling burr of their gauss weapons re-powering.

Out the corner of his eye, as he broke into a shambling run, Falka saw Venkelius shoot one necron at close range, thrusting the muzzle of his borrowed bolter into the creature’s midriff and pulling the trigger. It broke apart, its soulless existence ended by the Ultramarine’s fury, but more were coming.

As the telltale whine of a gauss flayer discharge made the hair on the back of Falka’s neck prickle, Iulus suddenly arrived out of the shadows and was putting his armoured body in harm’s way. The beam seared him, raking his plastron and left shoulder guard.

Thrown into cover, Falka cried out just before he hit the ground, ‘Brother-Angel!’

Iulus staggered, almost to one knee, but cracked off a three-round burst that destroyed his attacker. Venkelius hurried by a split second later and hauled his sergeant from the path of further return fire. The entire alleyway was stitched with it, an unrelenting swathe of viridian gauss beams from rifles and the heavier cannons wielded by the hulking necron elite.

Venkelius and Aristaeus, the one who had stepped out with the flamer, were replying in kind, but the firestorm levelled against them was fearsome and they barely got off more than a shot each.

Gasping in pain, Iulus slumped to his haunches and they hunkered down behind an empty ore silo. It was reinforced adamantium with a ceramite over-layer, so Falka knew it could take a battering. But it would not last indefinitely.

‘How far?’ asked Iulus, rasping as he removed and discarded his battle-helm. It was wrecked to all hell, and without its functioning systems impeded his breathing. He wore a rebreather underneath it, but tore this away too as he took a gulp of air.

‘Not gakking far enough,’ Falka replied. He scowled, trying to gauge the distance from their position to the necrons and then the end of the street. ‘Thirty-three metres for them to advance, twenty-six for us to run.’

Iulus sagged a little further, then checked the ammo gauge of his bolt pistol. His expression suggested what he had seen was not welcome news.

‘Sorry, Sergeant Kolpeck. I said I’d save you…’ he breathed, making an abortive effort to struggle to his feet with Falka’s help.

‘I’m not a sergeant, Brother-Angel, and you already did save my life. More than once. Our debt is paid.’

‘It was never to you that I was indebted, Kolpeck.’

The necrons were closing, a firing line of raiders as a dogged vanguard with a rear echelon of heavier elites behind them.

Falka closed his eyes and thought of Jynn, glad that she had made it off-world. He hoped she would find the strength she needed to rebuild her life and begin again, just as all the refugees of Damnos would have to.

Venkelius ducked back into cover to make a quick report.

‘At least thirty raiders and half as many in immortals, brother-sergeant. And I saw reinforcements en route, also.’

‘We are the Immortals, brother,’ Iulus told him. ‘Never forget that, even if that honorific is about to be sorely tested.’

Venkelius nodded.

‘What about the others?’ asked Iulus, inquiring about the rest of the squad and the staggered Second Company.

‘Seems long-range is down in this district. We have no way of knowing.’

Iulus snorted ruefully. ‘Let’s hope they’re doing better than us, eh? Are you ready to die on your feet with a bolter in your hands, Venkelius?’

‘I have prayed for this day to be so glorious, brother-sergeant.’

Iulus angled his head towards the other Ultramarine, who had exhausted his flamer’s ammunition and was down to his sidearm. ‘And you, Aristaeus?’

‘Venkelius and I are of the same mind, brother-sergeant.’

They helped the injured sergeant to his feet, with Falka’s aid. Intense gauss fire reflected on the stern-faced Guardsmen and militia who remained as they contemplated their almost certain, imminent deaths.

‘You are all heroes of Damnos,’ said Iulus as he drew his chainsword and set it growling. ‘Show me why, one last time.’

But the charge into death never happened. The left flanking wall collapsed instead, a half-dozen necrons crushed beneath it and the emergent bulk of Merciless Orar and The Vengeful. Their names were daubed on their battle-scarred hulls, but Falka scarcely had time to read them as the tanks turned and punitively hammered the mechanoid foot soldiers thronging the alleyway. It took eight seconds of sustained fire before the necron ranks had been thinned enough to earn a brief respite for the survivors.

With the smaller The Vengeful maintaining a sentry position in the middle of the broken alleyway, the imposing form of Merciless Orar turned about and lowered its embarkation ramp. An Ultramarine emerged from its roof hatch and beckoned them inside.

Iulus stepped forwards. ‘What news from the wall?’

‘Completely overrun, barring the western gate where last I heard the Ancient was holding firm,’ said the tanker.

‘And the streets?’

‘According to the Thunderhawks, a fresh necron offensive is moving in. Much larger than this last one. Streets are being abandoned. We’re pulling back, all the way to the space port. Final evacuation.’

Iulus nodded, and ordered all of them aboard.

Falka stalled as the shadow of the immense battle tank fell upon him.

‘It’s just a Land Raider, Kolpeck,’ Iulus assured him. ‘I am sorry for your world, but it’s beyond saving now. But you are not. Now get aboard.’

The Rage of Antonius was close to shutdown. Warning sirens screamed inside the hull, accompanied by flashing crimson icons across every console. Despite exploiting the natural cover and giving a good account of themselves against the necrons, the data feed rolling across Chronus’s retinal lens display told him that the battering they had taken was close to reaching the venerable battle tank’s limit.

‘Just a little more, old friend…’ he muttered, having already rerouted power and jerry-rigged a half-dozen battlefield ‘fixes’ to keep the Predator moving and its weapon systems functional. Reports from the Triumph of Espandor suggested it was also on the brink of expiry, and they had lost Reckoner a short while back when three heat beams had finally transfixed it and resulted in the engine’s catastrophic failure.

The ball of fire it had made was still etched onto the back of Chronus’s eyelids; his roar of grief and defiance still echoed in his mind. Reckoner was gone, but others yet lived.

‘Gnaeus, are you still with us?’ He had opened vox and was trying to contact his other commanders.

‘Taking heavy fire, commander,’ Gnaeus replied. Chronus could hear it on the vox-link, the ugly shriek of necron weaponry. ‘Everyone is falling back. The walls are gone… so too the streets. Fabricus is non-contactable. Lord Tigurius has issued orders for final evacuation.’

‘Confirmed,’ said Chronus, having received the same orders.

Fabricus was likely dead, along with his squadrons. Nothing could be done about that now. Nor was there any way to substantiate that belief either.

‘I will reconnoitre with you if you ask it of me, commander.’

‘Get your men out, Gnaeus. Follow Tigurius’s orders. It’s over, brother. The Antonius and I will try to hold the west avenue as long as we can. I want to keep an eye on Agrippen before the end.’

Gnaeus paused, as if processing.

‘I’ll see you on the Valin’s Revenge then, sir.’

‘Aye, Guilliman willing, you may indeed.’

Chronus ended the conversation, then went on to order the Triumph of Espandor back.

Everyone was leaving, except for Agrippen.

The Dreadnought had been pegged back to the centre of the Courtyard of Thor, but fought just as fiercely.

Necrons were teeming through the gaps in the western wall now. Chronus fired sporadic bursts into the melee from a distance, but it was like shooting at a dirty, silver ocean.

‘We have power for another four salvos, five at a push,’ his gunner’s voice came through the vox.

‘Then push, Vutrius. I don’t want Agrippen to be alone if we can help it.’

Through his magnoculars, Chronus watched as the Dreadnought continued to rip the necrons apart. They were crawling over him now as he thrashed at them and crushed their bodies as if they were ants, but he was slowly being overwhelmed. His plasma cannon was destroyed and sparks flashed angrily from his damaged servos and machinery.

Chronus knew he could not stay much longer. More enemy contacts were moving in via phasic insertion and would be upon them soon. He had to think of his crew.

The fifth lascannon burst sounded, the beams hazing through dust-choked air and spearing a clutch of the mechanoids advancing into the courtyard. They paid the Antonius no heed, their attack protocols slaved entirely to the destruction of the Dreadnought.

Lowering his scopes, Chronus bade a final farewell to Agrippen and then called down to his driver.

‘Novus, get us out of here.’

As they began to reverse, Chronus witnessed the huge form of a necron monolith materialise in the courtyard.

‘Bring those cannons back on line!’ he bellowed down to Vutrius.

‘I cannot, commander. Our power coils are spent… Worse than spent, they are burned.’

The data feed confirmed it – all main weapon systems were non-functional.

‘Hera damn it!’

The monolith’s anterior gauss array unleashed a concentrated salvo into the Ancient.

When it failed to bring Agrippen down, he stepped forwards and punched through the war machine’s armour with his fist. The monolith shuddered, viridian lightning coursing over its ruptured shell as it suffered an unexpected but catastrophic malfunction. The resulting explosion, hot and verdant, forced Chronus to look away.

When he looked back, Agrippen was still standing but near the end of his strength.

Through the Merciless Orar’s vision slits, Falka saw Ultramarines fighting and dying in Kellenport’s battle-choked streets.

Every metre, the Land Raider’s guns punished the necrons with deadly shellfire. A whirring cannon mounted on its front chewed through debris and mechanoid alike, whilst its side guns kept up a steady rate of burst fire.

Falka and those aboard the Merciless Orar’s troop hold fired out from the slits too, las and bolter adding to the tank’s destruction. It felt good to fight alongside the Space Marines, to not be so afraid when riding in the belly of this metal beast. That determination and resolve had spread to the other Guard and militia too. They fought with their pride, their vengeance and it made Falka’s heart soar to be a part of it.

A pair of necron walkers scuttled into view from behind the smoking remains of a battle tank they had just destroyed. Falka’s sense of invulnerability wavered as he saw the walkers about to turn their heat rays on the Merciless Orar. They were intercepted by an arcane-looking figure, lightning cascading from his brow and eldritch words upon his lips that Falka did not understand. But he did not need to know their meaning to realise they were words of power.

The Librarian almost moved faster than sight, blurring around the clumsy attacks of the walkers as they reacted to the threat and tried to neutralise it. With phenomenal strength, he cut one walker in half before lifting the other off the ground with what seemed the merest thought, and casting it to ruin against the side of a silo.

‘Who was that?’ Falka heard one awe-filled Guardsman ask.

‘Lord Tigurius,’ Iulus replied.

The Merciless Orar was rumbling on as a squad of Ultramarines joined Tigurius in the street and went to engage a necron infantry force that had just phased in.

Though Falka tried to see as much as he could through the vision slit, the warriors were soon lost from view and he did not get to witness how the fight would end.

It was the first time Scipio and the Thunderbolts had been reunited with Tigurius since that first defence at the wall. During that time, he had seen the Librarian rip a monolith apart and lay waste to half a necron phalanx with the power of his mind. Potent as he was on the Thanatos Hills, this was something else entirely.

Scipio was not ashamed to admit to himself that he was intimidated as the awesome figure of the Librarian returned to their midst again.

‘The battle’s over,’ said Tigurius, unleashing a storm of lightning at the necrons trying to force their way through the rubble-strewn streets at them. A flurry of gauss fire answered. Drained from his exertions, Tigurius’s psychic shield was a little slow to manifest and he cried out, falling to one knee, as several beams struck him and went through his armour.

The Thunderbolts moved in ahead of him, raking the necron survivors with bolter fire and cleansing the street of enemies for a precious few seconds.

Scipio leaned down to help Tigurius to his feet and saw the Librarian’s eyes were aglow with power. He spoke in a voice like prophecy as his unerring prescience stared out into the ether.

‘We cannot stay. We will be overrun. The sun will rise again for one last time over Damnos, igniting all with its fury.’

It had been dark for weeks, some symptom of the necrons’ mass awakening or simply a result of the season, Scipio had no idea. But looking up into the eternal night, he wondered how the dawn would ever rise again for Damnos.

There was no time to consider further. A second and third phalanx had moved into the street Scipio’s men had just cleared. With a flash of phasic energy, a vast slab-sided monolith materialised behind them. More necrons were emerging through a portal that warped and cracked within its dark armour plating.

‘If you have any power remaining, my lord, now would be the time,’ said Scipio.

Tigurius smiled. ‘I have a little…’

As the Thunderbolts prepared for a last stand, the Librarian threw up his arms and uttered a final incantation. In a split second, Tigurius was gone, taking Scipio and all of his men with him.

The sky over the spaceport was threaded with gauss fire.

Realising the interlopers were attempting to escape, the necrons had brought all of their siege cannons into the city itself and were now strafing the heavens.

Entire flotillas of ships, Thunderhawks and Arvus lighters, soared desperately into the deadly beams as the last defenders of Damnos finally accepted defeat and fled.

Chronus was amongst the last.

After taking more punishment than any battle tank had a right to endure, the Rage of Antonius had shut down a quarter of a kilometre from the space port. Its saviour appeared out of the night, screaming down towards the tank commander on its turbine engines. Two other Thunderhawks alongside it, Gladius and Thunderstorm, peeled off from their flying formation in the direction of the space port itself.

The familiar sight of magna-grapnels came down out of the darkness, took hold and began hauling the Predator into the transporter’s waiting vehicle clamps. Then they were aloft, engines blazing again.

Despite his better judgement, Chronus cranked open the side hatch and looked out in the direction of the Courtyard of Thor.

Far below him, diminishing as the Thunderhawk rose up, he saw Agrippen.

Debris was hitting the roof of the transporter, Chronus could hear and feel it resonating through the dormant shell of the Antonius. It was from other vessels, torn down by enemy flak fire. Soon they would be headed into that maelstrom and Hera help them.

Agrippen was far from these concerns, though. He fought gloriously, an end worthy of the great Dreadnought. Necrons swarmed the Courtyard of Thor, their broken remains lying thick around Agrippen’s feet. He could no longer move, only swing with his power fist. Still he refused to fall, and for a moment Chronus dared believe he could somehow prevail.

When it came, the end was swift.

His armoured frame already split, oozing blood and oil, Agrippen staggered at last. Thick fumes were spewing from his reactor, suggesting an imminent meltdown. A cascade of beams erupted from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard, ripping through the thronging necrons to strike the Ancient.

Chronus was reminded of a beast of myth, the great drakon or khimeraera, pierced by a dozen lances as its hunters finally brought it down.

Agrippen stood transfixed for a few moments, his last breaths devoted to his Chapter and his brothers, before his reactor overloaded and took most of the courtyard and the necrons around him with it.

Falka had to turn away as the light blazed through the vision ports of the gunship they were riding in. He caught the impression of an immense and terrible fire raging through Kellenport, one much too bright and fierce for him to watch. His gaze went to the Ultramarines instead. There were just under ten of them in the hold and all were staring out at the blaze engulfing his city.

One of them even stood by the open side-hatch of the gunship, letting in the light and the distant reek of flame.

Someone had died. It was ash Falka could smell on the hot, whipping breeze. Ash, and retribution.

Standing in the hold of the Gladius, Scipio watched as the sun rose for one last time over Damnos, banishing the perpetual night. It was a firestorm that emanated from the Courtyard of Thor, bright, beautiful and fierce. It obliterated hundreds of necrons. The resultant shock wave warmed the air with atomic heat and buffeted the ships aloft upon it, and it tore the enemy siege guns apart. Rolling outwards in a vast trembling wave, it immolated everything in its path.

Vantor’s voice crackled through the hold’s vox.

‘Rough skies ahead, Sergeant Vorolanus.’

‘Agrippen has shown us the way, brother,’ Scipio replied.

Above them, the lattice of gauss beams promising certain destruction flickered and broke apart, until only a few sporadic salvos cut into the night.

As they prepared for atmospheric entry, Scipio closed the side hatch and looked around the hold.

Together with those that had escaped aboard the Thunderstorm, there were barely four squads of Ultramarines and half that in Damnosian Guard and militia that had escaped. Thousands of refugees had made it aboard the Valin’s Revenge and her frigates. But it was small recompense for the millions who had lost their lives.

He met the gaze of Iulus, who was wounded and slumped against a bulkhead. A thick-set, bearded man sat next to him and the two were in conversation when the other sergeant nodded to Scipio.

Praxor had survived too, though Scipio had seen little of him during the conflict. He was aboard the other gunship, both of which now broke into the upper atmosphere, beyond range of the necron guns and bound for the Valin’s Revenge.

EPILOGUE

OATHS

Antaro Chronus stood in the apothecarion of the Valin’s Revenge for the very first time since what had recently become known as ‘The Damnos Incident’.

Massacre or slaughter was too incendiary a word, but all those of the Second Company and the men who fought beside them knew the truth of that.

He was standing next to a medi-casket, regarding the warrior slumbering fitfully inside. The casket was fixed upright to the wall, its occupant held aloft by the viscous solution within. A rebreather was clamped around his face, but Chronus knew who this was.

Cato Sicarius.

The Master of the Watch would not be best pleased he had missed the final hours of the fight on Damnos.

Apart from Venatio, who was deep into his work monitoring Sicarius’s vitals, Chronus was alone. Daceus, the captain’s faithful retainer, stood vigil outside the chamber.

Chronus placed his gauntleted hand against the hard glass of the medi-casket.

‘We of Guilliman’s blood, do we not always find a way? Rise soon, brother-captain,’ he whispered.

Even in suspended animation coma, Sicarius looked belligerent. He was fighting as he slept, remembering all and vowing revenge. And as he watched him, Chronus was certain of two things.

Sicarius would return. The battle was over, but not the war.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nick Kyme is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deathfire and Vulkan Lives, the novellas Promethean Sun and Scorched Earth, and the audio drama Censure. His novella Feat of Iron was a New York Times bestseller in the Horus Heresy collection, The Primarchs. Nick is well known for his popular Salamanders novels, including Rebirth, the Space Marine Battles novel Damnos, and numerous short stories. He has also written fiction set in the world of Warhammer, most notably the Time of Legends novel The Great Betrayal. He lives and works in Nottingham, and has a rabbit.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2012
This edition published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Doo Chun.
Internal art by Sam Lamont and John Michelbach.

Spear of Macragge © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2015. Spear of Macragge, Space Marine Battles, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-78251-229-5

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