It sagged to one, side, its foreleg hanging by gory ribbons of torn muscle. Dark blood gouted from the wound, flooding the trenches below and melting the ice with its heat. A split opened along the sac of its belly, tearing wider as the screaming monster continued to drag itself towards the Capitol Imperialis. Thousands of leaping, snapping creatures and bloated egg sacs tumbled from the wound, only to be crushed beneath the massive beast’s weight.
‘Come on, come on,’ hissed Rabelaq as he watched the indicator lights on the main panel charting the reloading process far below on the gun decks. He willed the gunnery overseer to whip his men harder and get the damn gun loaded. Forcing himself to look away from the panel, he watched in horror as the tyranid monster reared up again, the flesh already reknitting where their shells had struck it. Ichor no longer spilled from its belly and already new strands of muscle and tissue were slithering along the wounded leg to reconnect severed tendons and bone.
‘Sir, hull breaches on decks two, three and five!’
‘Sir, engine room reports intruders!’
‘Colonel, close-in defences are out of ammunition!’
Rabelaq listened to more incoming reports, each more damning than the last, and knew that his career as a soldier in the Emperor’s armies was finally over. This was one battle he would not walk away from and raise a toast to in the officers’ mess in years to come.
Strangely, the thought did not discomfort him as much as he thought it might.
He felt a terrific impact rock the command bridge as the gigantic tyranid creature slammed into the side of the Capitol
Imperialis. He grabbed onto the brass rail that surrounded the holo-map table as the deck lurched sickeningly.
Servitors slid from their chairs, dangling on the cables that attached them to the deck, and his fellow officers screamed as they were thrown to the walls as the mighty leviathan was pushed over. He could see nothing through the viewing bay, simply a heaving mass of purulent flesh. Warning bells chimed and flames leapt from shattered consoles. Glass splinters flew as buckled metal fell onto the map table and steam spurted from ruptured pipes.
The deck continued to tilt and Rabelaq snatched the vox-handset from the side of the sparking map table.
‘This is Colonel Octavius Rabelaq,’ he said calmly. ‘Colonel Stagier, if you can hear this, then you know what to do. Rabelaq out.’
The colonel dropped the handset, finally losing his grip on the map table as the Capitol Imperialis passed its centre of gravity and slammed into the ice. He sailed across the control room and smashed into the corner of a twisted console. He lay immobile in the exploding control bridge, blood and brain leaking from his raptured cranium.
The only thing that consoled him as he slipped into unconsciousness was the fact that they would talk of his death for years to come in the regimental messes.
URIEL WATCHED THE enormous bulk of the bio-titan attacking the fallen Capitol Imperialis with a mixture of horror and sorrow. Colonel Rabelaq had been a good man and the soldiers of the Logres regiment would feel his loss keenly.
They had all heard Colonel Rabelaq’s valedictory order and watched as Colonel Stagier passed the order to fire to the gun towers. Alien shrieks echoed from the valley sides as the bio-titan ripped open the toppled Capitol Imperialis with its gigantic claws, tearing open its thick armour as easily as a child might unwrap a gift.
Then the dusk was transformed into daylight as every heavy artillery piece on the walls opened fire on the fallen vehicle’s engine section. Fiery explosions blasted from the shattered wreck, incinerating hundreds of the smaller creatures as they clawed their way inside the vehicle. Uriel knew that there may have been survivors within, but knew that
this was a more merciful death than anything the tyranids would offer.
A huge mushroom cloud blossomed skyward as the combined weight of fire finally penetrated into the heart of the Capitol Imperialis and detonated the plasma reactor deep inside.
Streamers of unbearably bright light streaked from the wreck as the plasma chambers ignited and vaporised everything within half a kilometre. As the light faded, Uriel saw a deep crater, filled with hissing, molten flesh. The fatally wounded bio-titan floundered in a magma-hot soup of plasma, ice flashing to superheated steam and scalding its bones bare of flesh. Not even this monster’s fearsome regenerative capabilities could save it and it screeched in agony, thrashing madly in its death throes.
Melting snow and ice poured into the crater, forming a lake of rapidly freezing water. Hissing clouds of steam billowed as the plasma boiled away much of the water, but within minutes there was nothing left to mark this titanic encounter save a frozen, ice-filled crater entombing the bodies of thousands of aliens and the mortal remains of Colonel Octavius Rabelaq.
‘In Mortis est Gloria,’ whispered Uriel.
TWELVE
FOR THE NEXT four days the tyranids threw themselves at the walls of the city, each time losing thousands of their number, but their attacks never diminished in volume or ferocity. Ramps of dead aliens were piled so high at the base of the wall that their mass cracked the ice of the moat. Flamer units torched their remains as best they could, but the sheer volume of corpses could never be cleared in time before the next attack.
Each assault would begin with a barrage of crackling bio-shells fired from bloated creatures with pumping bony frills around their heads, whose fused forelimbs had evolved into vast, ribbed cannons. Huge chunks of the wall were blown away, but as it was built as a stepped structure into the slope of the ground, these did little more than blast the bedrock of the mountain. Following this, a rain of fleshy pods fired from the back of lumpen monsters with long, bony limbs would fall on the defenders.
Each missile would explode in the air, disgorging drifting clouds of poison that engulfed the front line and killed scores of soldiers and wounded hundreds more. As the medicae facilities filled with troopers blinded by corrosive fumes or coughing up their dissolving lungs, it became necessary for the first assaults to be met by the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes. They alone could hope to withstand the deadly toxins in the opening moments of the attack.
Following the bombardment, the plain before the city rapidly filled with hissing alien killers as they emerged from their snow caves, scooped out by sightless, burrowing creatures. Few tyranid species could survive at night without protection when the temperature plummeted to forty below zero, and the darkness was the only respite from the horror for the defenders of Erebus.
Electrical fires and gouts of poisonous flame, chittering devourer creatures and bony shrapnel bombs pounded the walls relentlessly and as casualties spiralled into the tens of thousands, the decision was made to abandon the first wall.
Barely anything remained of its parapet and the smaller creatures had entered another evolutionary iteration, spontaneously developing fleshy tendons equipped with jagged hooks that enabled them to scale the sheer surfaces of the walls. The many guns mounted on the sides of the valley were keeping the majority of the aerial creatures at bay, and after the ambush at the city wall, no one was dismissing the possibility of the tyranids attacking from avenues previously considered impossible.
Pockets of aliens had penetrated the city through drainage culverts, forgotten caves and even over the high peaks of the mountains, and, while they were wreaking havoc among the civilian population, not a single man from the front line could be spared to hunt them down.
For now, the people of Erebus would need to look to their own defence.
URIEL FELT THE cold against his skin as a burning sensation, but welcomed the pain as a sign he was still alive. His armour was dented, torn and gashed in innumerable places, stained with so much alien blood that its original colour was scarcely visible. The actuators in his left shoulder guard wheezed as he walked, the result of the none-too-tender ministrations of a gigantic tyranid warrior organism. Techmarine Harkus had done what he could to allow the auto-reactive shoulder guard
to move fr
eely, but without the proper blessed instruments, he had been forced to beg the armour’s forgiveness and effect a temporary repair.
He had not slept since the destruction of Colonel Rabelaq’s Capitol Imperialis, and while his catalepsean node had allowed him to continue to function, influencing the circadian rhythms of his brain and his response to sleep deprivation, he felt a marrow-deep tiredness saturate his body.
Looking at the thousands of men gathered around the lines of flaming braziers he felt his respect for them soar. If he was this tired, he could not imagine what the human soldiers must be feeling. Learchus, his armour similarly brutalised, looked well rested, his eyes bright and his stride sure as he marched beside his captain.
‘Guilliman’s oath, these men are weary,’ said Uriel.
‘Aye,’ agreed Learchus. ‘That they are, but they’ll hold. I know they will.’
‘You trained them well, brother-sergeant.’
‘As well as the codex demands,’ said Learchus, a hint of reproach in his tone.
Uriel ignored his sergeant’s gentle rebuke as they emerged from the buildings of District Quatros and onto the rained plain before the second wall.
Where once the area had been thronged with factories, production hangars and dwellings, there was now only iced rockcrete rectangles to indicate where they had once stood. Lines of burning oil drums packed with whatever flammable materials were to hand burned and kept the air just above freezing. Already scores of soldiers had perished in the cold nights, frozen to death where they lay, their comrades forced to pry their corpses from the ground as dawn broke.
The council of Erebus, initially supporting Learchus’s decision to demolish the buildings so as to deny the tyranids cover between the walls had balked as the reality of the proposition had hit home. Simon van Gelder led the most vocal group of opposition and, in a move of surprising boldness, Sebastien Montante had dissolved the council of Erebus, giving command of his city to Colonel Stagier until such time as the tyranids were driven off.
It amazed Uriel to think that on the brink of annihilation, men could still squabble over such petty concerns as property
and wealth. This world might bear the name of the Ultramarines, but its leaders had long since forsaken the teachings of the primarch.
But as he and Learchus marched towards the wall, he was filled with love for the soldiers who stood defiant before the tide of alien invaders. Here was the spirit of Ultramar best exemplified. In the common man, who stood tall against the horrors of the galaxy and was willing to die to protect what he believed in.
The two Space Marines stopped by one of the blazing fires on the edge of the wall, nodding in greeting to the soldiers clustered around its fleeting warmth. Uriel cast his gaze out over the ruined ground between the first two walls at the masses of aliens gathered before him. The collective exhalations of millions of creatures breathing in concert filled the valley, sounding like a single slumbering monster.
It would likely not be that simple, but if Lord Admiral Tiberius’s plan succeeded then there was a chance that it might be. He had conferred with Sebastien Montante following his dissolution of the council, finding him awkwardly climbing into a suit of thermal overwhites and pulling on a webbing belt of ammunition.
‘What are you doing, Fabricator Montante?’ Uriel had asked.
‘Well, now that the council has been dissolved, I think it’s about time I picked up a gun and started fighting, don’t you?’
Uriel folded his arms and said, ‘When was the last time you fired a weapon, fabricator?’
‘Ah, now let me think… probably during basic training, when I did my regulation service in the Defence Legion.’
‘And how many years ago was that?’ pressed Uriel.
Montante had the decency to look abashed as he said, ‘About thirty years ago, but I need to fight, don’t you understand?’
‘I do, Sebastien, have no fear of that. You are one of the finest logisticians I have met, and your place is here. You have kept the soldiers supplied with food and ammunition, invested time, effort and money to ensure that all our military needs are met. But you are not a soldier, Sebastien, and you will die in the first minutes of an assault.’
‘But—’
‘No,’ said Uriel firmly, but not unkindly, ‘You can best serve your city in other ways.’
‘Like how?’
‘Well, you can start by telling me all about the orbital defences of Erebus: where they are, their status and how we get them firing again.’
Montante looked confused, ‘But there’s nothing left of them, Uriel. The torpedo silos expended their stocks of ordnance and the defence lasers fired until their power capacitors were dry.’
‘Indulge me,’ said Uriel.
And he had. Uriel and Montante spent the next two hours poring over maps, computing ranges, fuel to weight ratios, introducing all manner of variables into their discussions until they settled on the optimum course of action. Satisfied that the admiral’s plan was indeed workable, Uriel had left, forcing Montante to swear an oath that he would not attempt to join the fighting men on the walls until the end came.
Then he had explained his idea to the other commanders. Initially sceptical, a cautious excitement gripped the senior officers as he outlined the results of his and Montante’s labours, and they began to appreciate the scope of the plan.
Preparations were already underway and all they could do was hold until the battered remnants of the fleet were in position to strike. The operation was planned for the day after tomorrow and Uriel was anxious to begin. For too long they had retreated before the aliens. Now they had a chance to strike back.
Kryptman’s pet Mechanicus had promised them a weapon to use against the tyranids, but had yet to deliver. Time was running out for Locard, and Uriel knew that the admiral’s plan was the best shot they had at ending this war. It was a long shot, but as he looked down at the immensity of the tyranid swarm, he knew it was the only one they had.
He turned from the wall to see Learchus standing beside the brazier, his palms outstretched towards the flames. Uriel’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, knowing Learchus was perfectly insulated from both the heat and cold within his power armour, before realising his sergeant was unconsciously copying the men around him. He smiled and listened to what Learchus was saying as he saw Chaplain Astador and Major Satria approach from further along the length of the wall. More men began drifting over from other fires as Learchus raised his voice to carry further.
‘You have fought with courage and honour,’ said Learchus, ‘giving your all for the fight and no man can do more than that. Vile aliens assail us from all sides, yet amidst the death and carnage not one amongst you is willing to take a backwards step. I am proud of you all.’
‘You taught us well, Sergeant Learchus,’ shouted Major Satria.
‘No, greatness was in all of you, I just knew where to look for it. You are known as the Erebus Defence Legion, the protectors of your people. But you are more than this. The oath of brotherhood sworn between your world and mine at the dawn of the Imperium binds us together more surely than the strongest chains of adamantium.’
Learchus raised his fist and shouted, ‘You are warriors of Ultramar, and I am proud to call you brothers.’
A huge cheer echoed from the sides of the valley.
SNOWDOG FISHED OUT the last pair of guns from a crate before kicking it to splinters. Tigerlily and Lex collected the smashed timbers in large plastic bags, for sale as firewood to the thousands of people that now filled the warehouse and its adjacent buildings. He handed a freshly stamped lasgun with a pair of power cells fixed to the stock with duct tape to Jonny Stomp. The weapon looked absurdly tiny in Jonny’s shovel-like hands and Snowdog grinned.
‘I’ll try and find something better for you soon, big man,’ he promised.
‘Good,’ grunted Jonny. These pipsqueak guns just don’t cut it, Snowdog.’
‘Hey, it’s all we got.’
T
he ammo for Jonny’s grenade launcher had long since ran out and he’d been unhappy with anything less destructive. And they could certainly do with something more powerful: the attacks on the warehouse had increased in ferocity and number over the last few days, as though the aliens knew there was a smorgasbord of prey just sitting here.
So far the guns they’d heisted from the Guard were doing the job adequately, and Lex’s bombs were proving to be as
effective against aliens as they were against the Arbites. But Snowdog knew that soon they’d need more.
He said, ‘Hey, Trask, catch,’ and tossed him a gleaming auto-gun with a bag of clips. Trask fumbled the catch, too busy scratching at an ugly red rash he’d developed on the side of his face and neck.
It made his dog-ugly features even more unpleasant to look at and he never stopped clawing at his flaking, mottled skin.
‘Damn it, Trask, you gotta pay more attention,’ said Snowdog.
Trask made an obscene gesture and turned away, heading back into the noisy interior of the warehouse. Snowdog put Trask from his mind and made his way to where those men he’d deemed relatively trustworthy were guarding the remainder of his purloined supplies.
Still plenty left and there were more people coming in every day. His stash was growing steadily as desperate people gave him all they had for what they needed. Analgesic spray? That’ll cost you. Ration packs to feed your children? That’ll cost you.
It was simple economics really, supply and demand.
They wanted his supplies, and he demanded their money.
When this was over, he was going to be rich, and then there’d be nothing he couldn’t do. Take the Nightcrawlers legit or dump them and move on – he didn’t know which yet, but with his pockets bulging with cash, there was no limit to the opportunities. Maybe even get off this planet and hit some virgin territory that was just waiting for a man with his talents to open it up.