The Ultramarines Omnibus

  Uriel nodded, unsure as to why this particular quill-pusher was to be accorded such protection, but dismissed the thought as irrelevant. That Lord Calgar had entrusted the man’s safety to Uriel was enough of a reason to see that he came to no harm.

  ‘Lord Admiral Tiberius has the Vae Victus ready for departure and your charge will be aboard on the morrow with more detailed information. I expect you and your men to be ready to depart before the next sunset.’

  ‘It shall be so, Lord Calgar,’ assured Uriel, truly honoured at the trust the master of the Ultramarines had bestowed upon him. He knew that he would die before he would allow that trust to be misplaced.

  ‘Go then, Captain Ventris,’ ordered Calgar, standing and saluting Uriel. ‘Make your obeisance at the Shrine of the Primarch, then ready your men.’

  Calgar offered his hand and Uriel stood, the two warriors sealing their oath of loyalty and courage to one another in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist.

  Uriel bowed deeply to Calgar and marched with renewed purpose from the courtyard. Calgar watched his newest captain pass through the bronze doors and into the evening sun, wishing he could have told him more. He picked up his goblet and drained its contents in a single gulp.

  His enhanced hearing picked up the rustle of cloth behind him and he knew without turning who stood behind him in the shadow of the cloisters.

  ‘That one carries a great responsibility now, Lord Calgar. There is much at stake here. Will he prevail?’ asked the newcomer.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marneus Calgar softly, ‘I believe he will.’

  URIEL MARCHED ALONG the golden processional, between throngs of robed pilgrims, oblivious to the stares of wonder his presence garnered. Head and shoulders above those who had come to witness one of the most holy places in the Imperium, Uriel felt his heartbeats increase as he neared the centre of the Temple of Correction.

  Like much of the Fortress of Hera, the temple was said to have been designed by Roboute Guilliman, its proportions defying the mind with the scale of its construction and the grandeur of its ornamentation. Multi-coloured radiance spilled from a massive archway ahead of him, light from the low evening sun shimmering through the stained-glass dome in gold, azure, ruby and emerald rays. The multitude of pilgrims parted before him, his status as one of the Emperor’s chosen granting him hushed precedence over their desire to lay their eyes on the blessed Guilliman.

  As always, his breath caught in his throat as he emerged into the awesome, humbling presence of the primarch and he cast his eyes downwards, unworthy of allowing his gaze to dwell upon his Chapter’s founding father for too long.

  The massively armoured form of Roboute Guilliman, primarch of the Ultramarines, sat upon his enormous marble throne, entombed these last ten thousand years within the luminous sepulchre of a stasis field. Gathered around the primarch’s feet were his weapons and shield and, behind him, the first banner of Macragge, said to have been woven from the shorn hair of a thousand martyrs and touched by the Emperor’s own hand. Uriel felt a fierce pride swell within his breast that his veins ran with the blood of this mightiest of heroes and warriors stretching back to the days of the Great Crusade. He dropped to one knee, overwhelmed by the honour his very existence brought him.

  Even in death the primarch’s features spoke of great courage and fortitude and were it not for the glistening wound upon his neck, Uriel would have sworn that the giant warrior could stand and march from the temple. He felt a cold, steel rage as his eyes fixed upon the scarlet wound. Beads of blood, like tiny, glittering rubies, were held immobile below the primarch’s neck, suspended in mid air by the static time stream within. Guilliman’s life had been cut short by the envenomed blade of the traitor primarch, Fulgrim of the Emperor’s Children, his works undone, his legacy unfulfilled and in that lay the greatest tragedy of Guilliman’s death.

  Uriel knew that there were those who believed that the primarch’s wounds were slowly healing and claimed he would one day arise from his throne. How such an impossibility could occur within the time-sealed bubble of a stasis field was a matter such prophets ascribed to the infallible will of the Emperor.

  He could sense the presence of the silent masses behind him, aware of the holy esteem they held him in, and feeling unworthy of such reverence. He knew such thoughts marked him out from the majority of his brethren, but Idaeus had taught him the value of looking beyond the boundaries of conventional thinking.

  The ordinary, faceless masses of humanity were the true heroes of the galaxy. The men and women of the Imperium who stood, naked and vulnerable, before the horrors of an infinite universe and refused to bow before its sheer incomprehensible vastness. It was for them that he existed. His purpose in life was to protect them so that they would go onto fulfil humankind’s manifest destiny of ruling the galaxy in the name of the Emperor. Most would have travelled for many months or years across thousands of light years and sacrificed everything they owned to be here, but every one of them kept a respectful distance as one of the sons of Guilliman honoured his primarch.

  Uriel dropped to one knee, and whispered, ‘Forgive me, my lord, but I come before you to seek your blessing. I lead my men to war and ask that you might grant me the courage and wisdom to lead them through the fires of battle with honour.’

  Uriel closed his eyes, allowing his surroundings to infuse him with its serenity and majesty. He took a deep breath, the scent of faded battle honours hung around the circumference of the high, domed ceiling filling his senses.

  Sensations flooded through him as the neuroglottis situated at the back of his mouth assessed the chemical content of the air, redolent with the scent of alien worlds and crusades fought in ancient times. Memories came tumbling over themselves, one in particular reaching up from over a century ago. He had just turned fourteen, barely a month since he had first been brought to the Temple of Hera.

  URIEL HAD BEEN racing uphill, his breath burning in his chest as his long stride carried him swiftly through the sprawling evergreen forests of the high mountain. Already his fitness was greater than most of the other recruits chosen by the Ultramarines and only Learchus was ahead of him now. Uriel was gaining on him though. Working the cavern farms of Calth and training at the Agiselus Barracks had kept his body lean and hard and he knew he had the stamina to catch Learchus before the top.

  Only Cleander was close behind him, but Uriel could not spare a glance to see how near Learchus’s friend was. Uriel was closing the gap on Learchus and only a few strides separated them now. He grinned as he slowly reeled in the larger youth, all his energy focussed on drawing past the race leader. Cleander’s footfalls were close, but Uriel was too intent on catching Learchus.

  Learchus threw a quick glance over his shoulder, worry plain on his exhausted features, and Uriel exulted. He could see the knowledge of defeat writ large on Learchus’s features and pushed himself harder, arms pistoning at his sides as he drew level.

  Uriel cut to the right to overtake Learchus, fighting through the burning pain in his thighs as he pushed himself to a sprint. Learchus glanced round as he caught sight of Uriel in his peripheral vision and slashed back with his elbow.

  Blood sprayed from Uriel’s nose and his eyes filled with water. Blinding light sunburst before him and he stumbled forwards, hands flying to his face. He felt hands seize his shoulders from behind and yelled as Cleander pushed him from the track. He fell hard, cracking his broken nose on the hard packed earth. He heard laughter and a terrible rage engulfed him.

  Uriel groggily tried to push himself to his feet, wiping blood from his nose and jaw, but dizziness swamped him and he collapsed. Through the haze of pain he could make out other recruits passing him, loping after his attackers to the top of the mountain.

  A hand gripped his bare arm and hauled him to his feet. Uriel blinked away tears of pain, seeing his squad mate Pasanius, and gripped his friend’s shoulders as he steadied himself.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Pasanius breathlessly. ‘Learchus???
?

  Uriel could only nod, glaring up the side of the mountain. Learchus was far ahead now, nearly at the top.

  ‘Are you fit to run?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll run,’ snarled Uriel. ‘Straight to the top and punch that cheating animal’s face in!’

  He shrugged off Pasanius’s hand and set off once more, each thud of his bare feet against the ground lancing hot spikes of pain through his face. Blood ran freely from his nose and he welcomed the bitter, metallic taste in his mouth as his rage built. He passed runners, barely even noticing them, his head filling with thoughts of vengeance.

  Uriel crested the top of the peak and stumbled to the cairn at the centre of the small, rocky plateau. He touched the column of boulders and turned to where Learchus and Cleander sat. Ragged black mountains stretched as far as the eye could see, but Uriel paid the spectacular view no heed as he marched towards the lounging Learchus, who watched him approach with a wary eye. Cleander stood to move between the pair as Uriel approached, and he caught a flash of annoyance cross Learchus’s face. Cleander was younger than Uriel, but half a head taller, with great slabs of muscle across his sweat-streaked chest.

  Uriel stopped and met the larger boy’s stare, then punched him hard in the solar plexus with the heel of his palm.

  Cleander sagged and Uriel followed with powerful uppercuts to his face and neck, finishing with a thunderous right cross. The larger boy dropped and Uriel stepped over his moaning form towards Learchus. The boy rose, backing off and assuming a boxer’s position, fists raised before him.

  ‘You cheated,’ accused Uriel, also raising his fists.

  Learchus shrugged. ‘I won the race,’ he pointed out.

  ‘And you think that is all that matters? The winning?’

  ‘Of course,’ sneered Learchus. ‘You are a fool to believe anything else.’

  The pair circled, feinting with jabs as the last of the recruits reached the mountaintop.

  ‘Did you learn nothing at Agiselus, Learchus? A victory counts for nothing if you do not retain your honour.’

  ‘Don’t presume to lecture me, farm boy!’ snapped Learchus. ‘You should not even have been there. I at least earned my place. I was not granted one by virtue of my ancestry.’

  ‘I also won my place fairly, Learchus,’ replied Uriel darkly. ‘Lucian had nothing to do with my choosing.’

  ‘Horse dung! I know the truth of the matter,’ hissed Learchus, darting in and hammering a blow to Uriel’s temple. Uriel rolled with the punch, reaching up to wrap both hands around his opponent’s wrist. He spun, pulling Learchus off balance and dropped to one knee, throwing him over his shoulder.

  Learchus yelled as he flew through the air and grunted as the breath was driven from his lungs on impact with the ground. Uriel wrenched the boy’s arm backwards and felt the wrist break, hearing the splintered ends of snapped bone grinding together over Learchus’s scream of pain.

  Uriel released his grip and walked back to the cairn. He slumped against it, his exhaustion and pain returning with a vengeance.

  A group of boys moved to help the fallen recruits and Uriel was suddenly filled with shame. Learchus was well liked and Uriel would gain nothing from besting him.

  But he could not take back the deed and must endure the consequences. A shadow fell across him and he saw Pasanius standing over him, his face reproachful.

  His friend sat beside him and said, ‘You should not have done that, Uriel.’

  ‘I know. I wish it could be undone, I truly do.’

  ‘Learchus will hate you for this.’

  ‘You think I should apologise?’

  ‘Yes, but not now. You have publicly shamed him and he will refuse such an apology just now. Speak to him when we return to the fortress and his wrist has been set by the apothecaries.’

  ‘I will do as you say, my friend. It was foolish – I was blinded by my rage.’

  ‘At least you realise it was foolish. Perhaps they did get something through that thick fanner’s skull of yours at Agiselus after all,’ smiled Pasanius.

  ‘Careful,’ warned Uriel, ‘or I might have to knock you flat as well.’

  ‘You could try, farm boy, but it will take more man you’ve got to put me down.’

  Uriel laughed, knowing Pasanius was right. His friend was a giant of a lad. Though he had just entered his fifteenth summer, Pasanius was already taller than most fully-grown men. His muscles stood out like steel cables against his tanned skin and none of the other recruits had yet bested him in feats of strength.

  ‘Come,’ said Pasanius, pushing himself to his feet, ‘we should get moving. You know Clausel seals the gate at sunset and I for one do not relish yet another night on the mountains.’

  Uriel nodded and stood, groaning as his muscles protested at the sudden activity. He realised he had neglected to stretch them after completing the run and cursed himself for a fool once more.

  The recruits set off with Pasanius at their head, taking it in turns to help the chalk-white Learchus when he stumbled with delayed shock and pain. The boy’s wrist had swollen to twice its usual size, the flesh a grotesque purple, and several times during the journey down the mountain he almost fainted. Uriel offered to help once, but the scowls of his fellow recruits had dissuaded him from offering again.

  When they had reached the Fortress of Hera, Learchus had told the apothecaries he had broken his wrist in a fall and in the days that followed Uriel found a gulf developing between him and the others. The realisation of its existence was not enough to prevent it widening, however, and only Pasanius remained a true friend to Uriel in the years that followed.

  IN THE TEMPLE of Correction, Uriel opened his eyes, shaking off the last vestiges of the memory and rose to his full height. He rarely thought back to his days as a cadet and was surprised he had done so today. Perhaps it was an omen, a message gifted to him by the blessed primarch. He raised his eyes and looked into the face of Roboute Guilliman, searching for a sign of what it might mean, but the dead primarch remained immobile on his throne.

  Uriel felt the weight of his command heavy on his shoulders and strode across the chamber to stand before a bronze-edged slab on the curved inner wall of the temple’s inner sanctum. The inner circumference of the temple was lined with enormous sheets of smooth black marble, each veined with lines of jade. Carved into the slabs with gold lettering were the names of every Ultramarine who had fallen in battle during their ten millennia history. Thousands upon thousands of names surrounded the primarch and Uriel wondered how many more would be added to it before he returned to this holy place. Would his own be one of them?

  His eyes scanned down the slab before him, dedicated to the hundred warriors of the First Company who had fought against the alien horror of the tyranids beneath Macragge’s northern defence fortresses, some two hundred and fifty years ago.

  Uriel’s eyes came to rest at a single name, carved just below the dedication to the heroic Captain Invictus of the First Company.

  Veteran Sergeant Lucian Ventris.

  Uriel’s finger traced the carved outline of his ancestor, proud to bear his name. His accidental relationship to a hero of the Chapter had granted Uriel the right to be trained at the prestigious Agiselus Barracks, but it had been his own skill and determination not to fail that had earned his selection by the Ultramarines.

  Uriel bowed, honouring his ancestor, then saluted smartly before turning on his heel and marching from the temple.

  He had a company to make ready for war.

  THREE

  THE CLAMOUR OF hundreds of shouting voices was deafening. Judge Virgil Ortega of the Pavonis Adeptus Arbites smashed his shield into the face of a screaming man in heavy overalls and brought his shock maul round in a brutal arc. Bodies pressed all around him as he struck left and right. Hands grabbed at him as he and his squad pushed back the heaving crowd. A screaming man grasped at his black uniform and he brought his shock maul down hard, shattering the bone. Screams of pain and rage tore the air, bu
t Ortega had only one priority, to prevent the rioters from reaching Governor Shonai. Already he could see that one of her party was down.

  Enforcer Sharben fought beside him, ducking the clumsy swipe of a massive wrench and slamming her maul into her attacker’s belly. Even amid the chaos of the riot, Ortega was impressed. For a rookie she was handling herself like a ten-year veteran. All around them, black-armoured judges clubbed screaming rioters back from the governor’s podium.

  This section of the plaza was a battlefield, as the angry workers of Brandon Gate lashed out. Against all reason and advice Governor Mykola Shonai and the senior cartel members had chosen to address a branch of the Workers’ Collective in public, to reassure them that the so-called ‘tithe tax’ was a purely temporary measure.

  Inevitably, tempers had flared and insults flew. Things quickly escalated as bottles and rocks were thrown. His men had taken most of this on their shields when, suddenly, a shot rang out, taking one of his squad in the leg.

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. More shots were fired and Ortega saw one of the cartel men collapse, the back of his head blown off. He had slumped forwards, carrying the governor to the ground. Ortega didn’t know if she’d been hit or where the shots had come from and couldn’t spare the time to find out. All that mattered was that some bastard out there with a firearm had upped the stakes. Well if that was the way these people wanted to play this game, then Virgil Ortega was only too willing.

  The governor’s personal guard were backing away from the epicentre of the riot, carrying her and the cartel members away from the violence, but Ortega saw they were heading in the wrong direction. They were falling back to the gates of the Imperial palace, but the damn fools couldn’t see that more rioters blocked the way. Elements of the crowd had swept around their flanks to envelop the podium. The Adeptus Arbites were holding the crowd back, and the water cannons of the crowd control vehicles were helping, but their line was bending and it was only a matter of time until the press of bodies became too great to hold. The governor’s guard were heading away from the protection of the Adeptus Arbites and, as far as Ortega could see, he and his men were all that would get the governor out of this mess alive.