Chapter war, p.23
Chapter War, page 23
The warlord normally permitted only his hunters and scouts to venture ahead of the main body of the horde. But now, when victory was so close, he surged through the dense jungle like an ork possessed. His mechanical arm tore up trees at the roots and crushed the trunks of the soaring greatwoods. He kicked through undergrowth that tried to snare his feet as he trampled through it. Steam and smoke billowed from his artificial torso, the fires stoked hot inside him.
He could taste it, the tang of salt and the electric crackle of the storm. The jungle around him shuddered as if afraid, the canopy high above lashed by winds, shredded leaves and broken branches falling like rain. The foliage parted in front of the warlord and he was confronted with the gnarled, iron-hard trunks of a nest of trees. On either side they formed an impenetrable barrier in front of him, blocking his path.
The warlord roared in frustration. A gout of steam spurted from the elbow joint of his huge metal claw as he flexed his artificial muscles angrily. With rage flaring in his eyes he charged into the trees, his metallic fist slamming again and again into the wood. The bark splintered and wood pulped. The warlord jammed his body between two immense trunks and pushed, forcing the trees apart as if they were the ribcage of an enemy. Roots splintered in the ground below and with an awful tearing sound the trunks fell, crashing deafeningly through the canopy down to the ground.
Cold, wet air lashed at him through the gap the warlord had torn in the jungle. He could hear the cries of birds thrown into the air by the commotion of the falling trees. There was grey, swirling sky overhead.
The warlord forged ahead, stamping up the rocky slope in front of him. The temperature dropped and stinging salt-heavy winds battered against him. Finally, after an age confined to the green cage of the jungle, the warlord finally broke through into the open air.
The jungle ended against a high broken ridge of dark stone, like a scar. Beyond that was the sea. The storm brewing overhead had whipped the sea into an expanse of shifting mountains, the cloudy sky reflected in a grim dark grey that merged with the horizon. The waves crashed into the rocks and flung plumes of salt spray over the edge of the jungle, and over the warlord.
This was the objective the greenskins had fought and died for on Vanqualis. The sea. The warlord gazed across the waters towards the horizon where a strip of hazy darkness suggested land. The sea was all that separated Nevermourn and the orks from Herograve, the continent studded with cities full of hateful humans all but begging to be put to death by orkish blades. The warlord could see it – actually see it, for the first time. Herograve, where the greenskins would have their revenge, and where the ork gods would finally have a slaughter worthy of their worship.
The warlord looked down the coast from his vantage point up on the rocks. The jungle hung over the rocky cliffs in many places, turned feeble and brown by the salt spray. Elsewhere spectacular waterfalls plunged down into the sea, their waters swallowed up by the churning white mass that roared around the foot of the cliffs.
A kilometre or two down the coast was a bulge in the coastline where twin spurs of stone, like encircling arms, formed the boundaries of a bay. Within the confines of the bay the waters were less ferocious, and the jungle reached almost to the very edge of a beach of black sand.
For the first time in what might have been a lifetime, a broad, savage smile split the warlord’s face. His ancient gnarled face showed joy perhaps unheard of in a creature so driven by hate and rage. The bay was his final objective on Nevermourn. It was the place where, generations ago, the humans had first gained a foothold on the jungle continent. Now all that remained of the human presence here were a few ruined stone buildings and a half-collapsed lighthouse on one of the spurs of the bay, abandoned after the city of Palatium and its spaceport provided a safer way for the humans to arrive on Nevermourn. But now, of course, Palatium burned.
The warlord could already see the orkish boats being built on the shore, sheltered in the bay until the time came for the final charge onto Herograve. The ingenuity and industriousness of the orks knew no limits when the prospect of slaughter and conquest was held in front of them – the horde would work ceaselessly, hewing trees from the jungle and cannibalising engines and weapons from the horde’s war machines, until a ramshackle fleet was built to make the short voyage across the sea to Herograve. Many in the horde would be killed during the voyage, blown up by malfunctioning engines or drowned as their vessels sank, but it did not matter. There were always enough orks. And more than enough would arrive on Herograve to make victory inevitable.
It was done. The ork victory would happen. Herograve and its cities would burn. All that remained was for the blood itself to flow.
The other orks of the horde were reaching the edge of the jungle and clambering up the sharp rocks to see the waters spread out before them. They were hooting and cheering, bellowing war-cries towards distant Herograve, jeering at the humans who did not realise just how close their destruction had come. Already the greenskins were in the bay, swarming over the spurs of rock and through the beachfront jungles to secure their base for the voyage. Smoke-belching war machines were driven to the water’s edge and slave-creatures whipped and corralled ready to begin the work of building the fleet. Orks worked quickly and paid no heed to safety or sanity – the boats would be built in two or three days, overseen by the insane masters of the horde’s war machines.
For a moment the warlord was prepared to stride down to the bay and force the whole horde to congregate before him, so he could crack heads and bellow at them about why they were there. He could tell them of the treachery that had seen the humans take Vanqualis from the orks in the first place, about the orkish gods and how they demanded revenge. He could try to instil in them the same passion and dedication which had brought the horde to Vanqualis and hammered it forward through everything the humans could throw at it.
But they could not understand. Just as some orks possessed freakish abilities for engineering or crude medicine, so the warlord was a born leader, capable of perceiving strategies and truths that passed well over the head of any other ork. They did not know what it meant to pursue a distant dream with a passion, to defy all obstacles in its way, and finally reach the cusp of it. They did not need to know, either – no matter what happened now the orks would cross the sea and destroy Herograve, because they had been born to seek out such slaughter.
Nothing could stop the horde now, not when its momentum had brought it so far already. The warlord himself, even if he had wanted to, could not have saved Herograve from destruction.
The only safe place in the city now was high above it, in the sky yacht owned by a scion of House Falken who now doubtless lay dead in the ruins of Palatium. It was an elegant craft, its broad wings designed to catch currents and send it gliding majestically across the sky. Inside, though small, it was comfortable, and at least it was large enough for Countess Ismenissa to house her chamberlain, a full crew and her hem-bearers. The yacht was permanently airborne now save for occasional refuelling stops, and the luxurious passenger compartment was bathed in the hum of the trim-jets and whistle of the wind under the wings.
Lord Sovelin Falken knelt before the countess. His shoulders slumped as if a weight had finally been taken off him. Though he had at least made some effort to clean up since he had arrived on the shore of Herograve, he was still unshaven and his uniform was torn and scorched. In any other situation Lord Sovelin Falken would have been a disgrace, unfit to present before the countess.
‘My lady,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘I bring news from Nevermourn.’
Countess Ismenissa Falken stood over Sovelin. Even in her current surroundings, which were less regal than she was used to, the countess exuded an air of majesty and authority.
‘Then you have travelled far,’ said the countess. She had changed into her mourning clothes to show her distress at the state of Herograve’s cities. Behind her the tormented city, wreathed in its customary smoke, could be seen rolling out through the arched windows surrounding the yacht’s passenger compartment. Riots had broken out, and been gradually replaced by pitched battles between angry, frightened civilians and House Falken’s household troops. The battles had been bloody, and House Falken had not won them all. The countess’s berth on the yacht had been hurriedly arranged to keep her safe from the rampaging crowds. The Countess’s magnificent dress was now black trimmed with crimson and her face had been made up with exaggerated darkness around her eyes, to symbolise the sadness of these events.
‘From Palatium itself,’ continued Sovelin, his eyes still fixed on the floor. ‘Through the jungle, where I fought alongside the Imperial Guard until we were betrayed by the Bearers of the Black Chalice. And then to the coast itself, to watch for signs of the greenskins.’
‘I did not think you of any note among the members of our House,’ said the countess. ‘I imagined you would do but little service to your world, and then away from the fires of battle. I certainly did not think you would escape Palatium when men like my husband did not.’
Lord Sovelin wavered, unsure of how to answer. ‘No, my lady,’ he said.
‘But you have survived. Please, what news is it that you bring?’
‘I stayed on the coast to watch for them, my lady. The orks. And they came. Through the jungle like a… like a monster, driving even the greatwoods before them. I found a vessel at the old bay, barely seaworthy, and as soon as I saw them I made for Herograve. The greenskins have made it to the coast, a great host of them barely dented by the efforts of the Imperial Guard. They will surely invade Herograve soon. It is but a matter of days, my lady.’
Countess Ismenissa was silent for a long while. She looked down at the city below her, at how some streets were wholly ablaze, forming intricate mazes of flame coiling through the darkness. Her children carried the long strings of mourning beads that trailed from the hem of her black dress, cradling them in tiny dead hands. The portable juvenat units, newer and less efficient than those in her pinnacle chambers, filled the back of the passenger deck and emitted occasional spurts of freezing white vapour.
‘Look at me, Sovelin,’ she said.
Lord Sovelin looked up at the countess, almost unable to meet her gaze.
‘You have journeyed across Nevermourn, and across the sea, and then begged permission to fly a shuttle up to this yacht,’ she said, ‘just to tell me that we are doomed.’
‘No, my lady. Merely to tell you when the greenskins will arrive. If we face them at the coast we could fend them off. It is as they land that they will be most vulnerable.’
‘I know this, Sovelin. It has always been the only viable plan for the defence of Herograve. But look!’ The countess indicated the city below. Sovelin followed her gaze and saw the flames guttering in the darkness. An explosion toppled a great dark spire and it fell, as slow and powerful as any toppling greatwood, into the mass of the city below.
‘The people of Herograve are going mad with fear,’ she said. ‘Lunatics are walking the streets shouting prophecies and they are believed. The slightest rumour sparks riots. The troops have banished me to this cursed flying contraption because they cannot guarantee my throne chambers will be secure. And the dead are piling up, Sovelin, the dead! Great piles of them, in the streets. The household troops cannot keep order as it is. With the Warders lost at Palatium, we have nowhere near enough men under arms to both keep Herograve’s cities from burning, and to fight a battle with the orks at the coast. It cannot be done.’
‘Now, my lady, you are the one telling me we are doomed.’
Countess Ismenissa looked at Sovelin sternly. ‘Something of the greenskin has rubbed off on you, Sovelin. You forget your tongue. I do not blame you for bringing me this news. You did your duty, after all. But I cannot pretend it spells anything other than disaster for us. And what of the Black Chalice?’
Sovelin sighed. ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I fled them.’
‘You ran for the coast as soon as you could. You did not stand and fight them.’
‘I am just one man, my lady! I knew I could not stand against them. So I concerned myself with the foe we could defeat on our own, with the greenskins.’
The countess did not look impressed by Sovelin’s words. ‘The Black Chalice will be dealt with,’ she said. ‘The Howling Griffons answered our plea. They are honour-bound to destroy the chalice and its bearers. The greenskins are another matter.’
‘My lady,’ said Sovelin, ‘if I may beg your leave. At the next refuelling stop, let me off this craft again. I wish to go to the coast and do what I can there to prepare the defences. It is our best chance to defeat the orks. Perhaps a militia can be raised from the cities on the coast. I bear the blood of House Falken and the uniform of the Warders. My presence might make a difference.’
‘Make a difference to the battle, Lord Sovelin, or to yourself? To place yourself in the path of the greenskins would be a fine way to absolve yourself from fleeing the challenge of the Black Chalice.’
Sovelin stood, anger and exhaustion getting the better of him. ‘I nearly died, my lady!’ he snapped. ‘Time and time again. I writhed through filth to evade the greenskins, I marched day and night, and I all but drowned to reach Herograve, all to fulfil my duty to my planet and my house! What do you want of me?’
The countess looked down her regal nose at Sovelin, utterly unflustered by his outburst. ‘For you to be gone, Lord Sovelin, and for my husband, or one of the other commanders of the Vanqualian Warders, to have survived in your place. That is what I want. Go to the coast and do what you can, if that is where you see your fate. I must stay here and see that my people do not kill themselves before the greenskins ever arrive.’
Lord Sovelin did not answer. He just bowed to his countess, turned and walked out of her makeshift throne room, into the crew compartment from which he could disembark at the next fuel stop.
The countess turned back to the arched window looking down on the city. Far below, the streets of Herograve continued to burn.
The alien craft descended through the canopy of the swamp, its black metal mouthparts slicing through the branches. The light from the bombardment at the swamp’s edge cast strange reflections in the liquid darkness of its hull.
Inside the ship, in the cockpit towards its upper surface, was Lygris. He was flying the ship with Eumenes’s permission, and with many misgivings. None of the Soul Drinkers could be sure that Eumenes’s offer, to let Lygris take them back onto the Brokenback, was not some kind of cruel traitorous trick. Only Sarpedon himself had convinced Lygris to take the alien ship from the depths of the hulk and fly it through the range of the Brokenback’s guns, down into the swamp.
The Soul Drinkers crouched in the filthy swamp water hurried to take up positions beneath the craft as it descended to chest-height, the alien anti-grav generators around the edge of its dome keeping it eerily aloft without disturbing the water. The first Soul Drinkers clambered up into the ship’s belly.
Sarpedon would be the last on. He watched his Soul Drinkers embarking – the alien ship was unarmed and poorly armoured, and the operation had to go quickly and without a hitch lest the 901st or the Howling Griffons had time to aim heavy weapons. Sarpedon hated feeling this vulnerable – it was not the way of the Astartes to place themselves at such risk, but he had no choice.
‘I pray, Sarpedon, that this was worth it,’ said Captain Luko. Luko’s squad were acting as the rearguard, watching for Penal Legion troopers or Howling Griffons who might get close enough to prevent the Soul Drinkers from escaping.
Sarpedon looked at the Soul Drinkers captain next to him. Luko had put on the most warlike face of any of the Soul Drinkers, behaving as if war was something he relished. He had little of that bravado now. ‘The Chapter must survive,’ said Sarpedon. ‘We have made sacrifices before.’
‘There is no Chapter any more, Sarpedon. The Chapter died when you killed Gorgoleon. All we have left are the principles for which we fight and when those die, we might as well be another band of renegades killing for no reason. Eumenes does not believe in the same things as you, Sarpedon. If he is in command we will be the Soul Drinkers no longer.’
‘If we do not co-operate with Eumenes we will be hunted down and killed on this planet,’ said Sarpedon. ‘Would you rather die?’
‘Yes!’ snapped Luko. ‘When the alternative is to live a life of dishonour, killing for something I never believed in? Following the man who betrayed me? I would rather die than fight on like that.’
‘Then walk away, captain,’ said Sarpedon. He indicated the spacecraft into which the Soul Drinkers were climbing. ‘These men will probably follow you. Lead them back into the swamp and die down here. If that is what you want, be the one to defy me and die the death you choose.’
Luko couldn’t answer straight away. For a long, awful moment he just stared at Sarpedon, trying to gauge whether Sarpedon would really let that happen.
‘I do this,’ said Luko at last, ‘because perhaps it will give me a chance to avenge Karraidin, and our other brothers who died by Eumenes’s hand. And because you are still my Chapter Master.’
‘Commander, captain,’ said Sergeant Salk, trudging through the swamp towards them. ‘The men are on board and Lygris is ready to leave. It’s time to go.’
The three Soul Drinkers made their way through the swamp to the underbelly of the spacecraft that hovered above them. Sarpedon’s Soul Drinkers, almost two hundred of them, were crammed inside the craft, their armoured bodies packed close. One missile fired by the 901st’s troopers, one good volley of bolter fire from the Howling Griffons, one misplaced shot from the Brokenback, would do for them all. Sarpedon hated the whole situation, the rebellion, this damned planet, which had conspired to make him so vulnerable. It was not just the journey to the Brokenback that exposed the Soul Drinkers – it was the fact that for the first time since the death of Gorgoleon they were commanded by someone else, who could order them butchered wholesale if he wanted.
