The Ultramarines Omnibus

  Once again they were entering harm’s way and Tiberius felt the familiar exultation that they would soon be bringing the Emperor’s fiery sword of retribution to His enemies. It had been a long time since the Vae Victus had tasted battle against the eldar and though he hated their alien ways with a zealot’s passion, he was forced to admit that he had a grudging respect for their mastery of hit-and-run tactics.

  Tiberius knew the devious eldar would rarely engage in a ship-to-ship fight under any but the most favourable terms since their ships were absurdly fragile and did not have the divine protection of void shields. They relied on stealth and cunning to close with their target, then blasphemous alien magicks to confound the targeting cogitators of their foes’ weapons. Tiberius knew that often the first warning of such an attack was the impact of prow lances that disabled a ship’s manoeuvring thrusters. After that it was academic who had the biggest guns: the eldar ship would run rings around its more ponderous opponent, taking it apart piece by piece.

  Tiberius vowed that such a fate would not befall his ship.

  IN THE DARKNESS of space, six hours ahead of the Vae Victus, an elegantly deadly craft slipped from the shadows of its asteroid base. Its segmented prow tapered to a needle point and jagged, scimitar-like solar sails gracefully unfurled, soaring from the cunningly wrought engines at its rear. Joining the engines and prow was a slender, domed command section, and it was from here that the captain of this lethal craft ruled his ship.

  That captain of the graceful vessel, the Stormrider, now stared with undisguised relish at the return signal on the display before him. At last, a foe worthy of his talents. A ship of the Adeptus Astartes! Archon Kesharq of the Kabal of the Sundered Blade had grown tired of ambushing lumbering merchantmen, outwitting system defence ships and raiding primitive mon-keigh settlements. Kesharq cared not for the spoils of these raids, and even torturing the screaming souls aboard the captured vessels beyond the known limits of pain had grown stale to his dulled senses.

  Such poor sport had not even begun to stretch the limit of his abilities.

  A thin line of blood dribbled from the corners of his mouth and Kesharq tipped his head back, pulling the lifeless skin of his face taut over his skull and hooking the ragged edges over the sutures at the back of his neck. He had grander dreams than this and had begun to fear that his pact with the kyerzak was a mistake.

  But now came worthy meat indeed.

  THREE DECKS BELOW the command bridge of the Vae Victus, the chapel of Fourth Company echoed softly to the sounds of Space Marines at their prayers. The chamber was wide and high ceilinged, easily capable of holding the assembled battle brethren of the company. A polished, stone-flagged nave led towards a glassy black altar and wooden lectern at the far end of the chapel.

  Stained glass windows of wondrous colour and majesty dominated the upper reaches of the chapel. Each window sat within a leaf shaped archway, electro-flambeaux set behind them casting ghostly illumination upon the assembled warriors. Each window depicted a portion of the Imperium’s long history: the Age of Strife, the Age of Apostasy, the Emperor Deified and the Emperor Victorious. Battle honours the company had won in a dozen crusades hung below the windows, each testament to a tradition of bravery and courage that stretched back ten thousand years.

  The company stood at parade rest in the flickering light of the flambeaux, eyes cast down at the smooth floor of the chapel. Each chanted a litany of thanks to Him on Earth, contemplating their holy duty to the God-Emperor.

  Silence descended on the chapel as the iron bound door at the far end of the nave opened and two figures entered. The Space Marines snapped to attention as one.

  The captain of Fourth Company, Uriel Ventris, marched down the wide nave, his ceremonial cape flaring. A pale, grim-faced warrior led him with a milky white cloak trawling behind.

  Fourth Company’s chaplain, Judd Clausel, wore midnight black power armour embossed with fanged skulls. Brass and gold trims on his cuirass and greaves winked in the dim light. His grinning, skull faced helmet was hooked to his hip belt alongside a voluminous tome, bound in faded green ork hide.

  In his left arm he swung a smoking censer, aromatic herbs and sacred oils filling the chapel with the wild, intoxicating scent of the highlands of Macragge. His right fist gripped the crozius arcanum, his weapon and the symbol of office of a chaplain. The crozius arcanum was a carved adamantium rod surmounted with a glittering golden eagle, its spread wings razor edged. A grinning skull topped the crozius, its eyes jewelled and blood red.

  Power palpably radiated from the man. Clausel did not just deserve respect, he demanded it. His build was enormous, bigger even than that of Uriel, and his stern, unflinching gaze missed nothing. One flinty grey eye searched every face for weakness, while his remaining eye regarded his surroundings through the soulless mechanics of a crudely grafted blinking red orb.

  His skull was a shaven dome save for a gleaming silver topknot that trailed from the crown of his head to his shoulders. A thick face, heavily scarred and twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile, surveyed the Space Marines before him.

  ‘Kneel!’ he commanded. The order was instantly obeyed, the sound of armoured knees reverberating around the chamber as they slammed down in unison. Uriel stepped forwards to receive the smoking censer and the crozius. He moved behind the massive chaplain, his head bowed.

  ‘Today is a day of joy!’ Clausel bellowed. ‘For today we are offered the chance to take the Emperor’s light into the darkness and to destroy those who would stand in the way of His servants. We are not yet a full company again, my brothers. Many of our comrades met their deaths on Thracia, but we know that they did not die in vain. They will take their place at the side of the Emperor and tell the tales of their bravery and honour until the final days.’

  Clausel extended his gauntleted fist then slammed it into his breastplate twice in rapid succession.

  ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum!’ intoned the chaplain, reclaiming the censer from Uriel.

  Chaplain Clausel strode from the altar towards the kneeling Marines, dipping his hands into the smoking umber ash. As he passed each warrior, he drew protective hexes and ritual symbols of battle on the armour of each man, chanting the Litany of Purity as he went. As he anointed the last man, he turned back to the altar and said, ‘The Rites of Battle are complete, my captain.’

  ‘We are honoured by your words, Chaplain Clausel. Perhaps now you will lead us in prayer?’

  ‘That I will, captain,’ replied Clausel.

  Striding to the fore, he mounted the steps, knelt and kissed the basalt surface of the altar, mouthing the Catechism of Affirmation.

  Rising to his feet, he began to chant as the Ultramarines bowed their heads.

  ‘Divine Master of Mankind. We, your humble servants offer our thanks to you for this new day. As we steer our might to honourable battle, we rejoice in the opportunity you offer us to use our skills and strengths in your name. The world of Pavonis is plagued by degenerate aliens and riven with strife. With your grace and blessing, Imperial wisdom shall soon prevail in your name once more. For this we give thanks and ask for nothing, save the chance to serve. This we pray in your name. Guilliman, praise it!’

  ‘Guilliman, praise it!’ echoed the Space Marines.

  Clausel lowered his arms and stood aside, arms folded across his chest as Captain Uriel Ventris stood before his men. He was nervous at addressing his company for the first time and he mentally chided himself for his lack of focus. He had faced the enemies of mankind for over a century and now he fretted over speaking to a company of Space Marines?

  Uriel let his gaze wander over the assembled battle-brothers of his company, these greatest of men, and nodded in recognition towards the giant, bear-like Sergeant Pasanius. His friend from youth had continued to grow during their training and was, far and away, the strongest Space Marine in the Chapter. His massive form dwarfed most of his battle-brothers and, early in his training, the Tech-marines had been force
d to craft a unique suit of armour for his giant frame composed of parts cannibalised from an irreparably damaged suit of Terminator armour.

  Pasanius gave Uriel a tiny nod and he felt his confidence soar. The veteran sergeant had been a rock for Uriel to anchor himself to in his rise through the ranks and he was proud to call him a true friend. Behind Pasanius, he saw the regal, sculpted features of Sergeant Learchus and his compatriot, Cleander.

  They had all grown far beyond any childish rivalry and had saved each other’s lives on more than one occasion, but they had never become friends nor formed the bond of brotherhood that permeated the rest of the Chapter.

  It irked Uriel that he still found such difficulty in connecting to his men in the way that truly great officers did. Idaeus had been a natural leader, who had frequently relied on his own solutions to fight his battles rather than turning to the holy Codex Astartes, the tome of war penned by the great Roboute Guilliman himself. He had led his men with an instinctive ease that Uriel found difficult to match. He drew himself up to his full height as he resolved he would take Idaeus’s advice and be his own man. Fourth Company was his now and he would make sure they knew it.

  ‘At ease!’ he called and his warriors relaxed a fraction. ‘You all know me. I have fought beside most of you for over a century. And it is with this wisdom that I say, be thankful for this chance to display our devotion to our primarch and the Emperor.’

  Uriel deliberately placed his fist on the pommel of Idaeus’s sword, reinforcing the fact that the company’s former captain had passed it to him.

  ‘I know that I have not been your leader long and I also know that some of you would prefer it if I was not your captain,’ continued Uriel.

  Uriel paused, gauging his next words carefully. ‘Captain Idaeus was a great man, and the hardest thing I have ever done was to watch him die. No one grieves for him more than I, but he is dead and I am here now. I have taken the Emperor’s light to every corner of this galaxy. I have fought the tyranids in burning hive ships, I have killed the dread warriors of Chaos on worlds of unspeakable horrors and I have defeated orks on barren deserts of ice. I have fought alongside some of the greatest warriors of the Imperium, so know this: I am captain of this Company. I am Uriel Ventris of the Ultramarines and I will die before I dishonour the Chapter. I am honoured to be part of this brotherhood and had I the choice of any warrior by my side, I could choose no better men than those of Fourth Company. Every man here and every one of our honoured dead acquitted themselves in a manner our kin would be proud of. I salute you all!’

  At this, Uriel drew Idaeus’s power sword from his side with a flourish and raised it high above his head.

  Sapphire coils of energy coruscated along the length of the master-crafted sword, catching the light thrown by the electro-flambeaux.

  The Marines rose to their feet and slammed their clenched fists to their breastplates, a deafening boom that echoed round the chapel.

  ‘We are Ultramarines,’ called Uriel. ‘And no foe can stand against us while we keep faith with the Emperor.’

  Uriel crossed to stand behind the wooden lectern and consulted the data slate cunningly fashioned into its surface. He did not need to read from the slate: he had memorised the details of their mission in the week spent travelling through warp space, but to have the details near was reassuring.

  ‘We travel to a world named Pavonis and have been entrusted with the task of bringing it back within the fold of the Imperium. Pavonis has failed in its duty to the Emperor. It does not provide Him that which is His due. To rectify this situation, we have been entrusted with the protection of an adept of the Administratum who will instruct the rulers of Pavonis in the proper execution of their duty. The rulers of Pavonis appear to think they are exempt from the Emperor’s laws. Together we will show them that they are not. Blessed be the primarch.’

  ‘Blessed be the primarch,’ repeated the Space Marines.

  Uriel paused before continuing, wishing he knew more about this adept they were supposed to guard. He had not even met the man he had been entrusted with protecting by Marneus Calgar. Thus far, the adept had spent the entire voyage in his chambers, attended only by his entourage of scribes, clerics and valets.

  Well, he would have to come out soon: the Vae Victus was only a day’s travel from her destination.

  Uriel lowered his voice as he moved onto the next point of his briefing.

  ‘Perhaps as a result of Pavonis’s leaders’ failure to properly enforce the Emperor’s rule, a group calling themselves the Church of Ancient Ways has been allowed to emerge. These heretics have embarked upon a campaign of terror bombings, seeking a return to the times before the coming of the glorious Imperium.’

  A murmur of disbelief rippled through the ranks.

  ‘To date, they have killed three hundred and fifty-nine servants of the Emperor and caused untold damage. They bomb His manufactorum. They kill His priests and they burn His temples. Together we will stop them. Blessed be the primarch.’

  ‘Blessed be the primarch.’

  ‘But, brothers, not only does the world of Pavonis suffer the evil of heretics within. No, the heretical scourge of the alien is upon Pavonis. For years now, the eldar, a race so arrogant they believe they can plunder our space and steal the chattels that are rightfully the Emperor’s with impunity, have plagued this region of space. Together we will show them that they cannot. Blessed be the primarch.’

  ‘Blessed be the primarch.’

  Uriel moved away from the lectern.

  ‘Return to your cells, my brothers. Honour your battle gear that it may protect you in the days of war to come. The Emperor be with you all.’

  ‘And with you, captain,’ said Pasanius, stepping from the ranks and bowing to Uriel.

  Hesitantly at first, but witnessing Pasanius’s acceptance of Uriel, the company took a step forward and bowed to their new captain before filing from the chapel.

  Pasanius was the last to leave and turned to face him.

  Uriel nodded his thanks to his oldest friend.

  ARCHON KESHARQ NODDED to his second-in-command.

  ‘Bring main power up slowly and be ready to activate the mimic engines on my order,’ he commanded, his voice wetly rasping and ugly.

  ‘Yes, dread archon.’

  Kesharq dabbed at his weeping neck with a scented cloth, coughing a froth of bloody matter into a goblet beside him. Even speech was becoming difficult for him now and he swallowed hard, once more cursing the Life of a Thousand Pains upon the name of Asdrubael Vect.

  The suppurating wounds on his neck would never seal. Vect’s haemonculus had seen to that in the torture chambers beneath the palace of his kabal. Kesharq’s bid for command of the kabal had been planned in minute detail, but Vect had

  known of his treachery and the coup had failed before it had begun.

  Months of torture had followed. He had begged for oblivion, but the haemonculus had kept him always just at the brink of the death before dragging him back to their hell of infinite pain.

  He had expected to die there, but Vect had ordered him released and his suit of skin sutured back to the wreckage of his musculature. He remembered Vect’s beautifully cruel face smiling down upon him as he lay in a rare moment of sanity and coherence. He tried to close his eyes, to shut out Vect’s gloating smile, but his eyelids had been neatly sliced off a week ago.

  ‘You think you will die here?’ enquired the supreme lord of the Kabal of the Black Heart. Without waiting for an answer, the dark eldar lord shook his head slowly and continued.

  ‘You shall not. I will not allow you that luxury,’ promised Vect, tracing his perfectly manicured nails along the exposed bone of Kesharq’s ribs. ‘You were a vain fool, Kesharq, boasting of your plans for my death when you must have known my spies would tell me everything you uttered before the words were even cold.’

  Vect had sighed then, as though he were more disappointed than angry. ‘Treachery and deceit I can understand, even fo
rgive. But stupidity and incompetence merely irritate me. Your colossal vanity and rampant ego were your undoing and I think it only fitting that they be your constant companions in failure. I shall exile you from Commorragh, send you from our dark city and cast you into the wilderness with the prey species.’

  Kesharq had not believed Vect, thinking that this was some elaborate ruse to raise his hopes that he might yet live, only to have them dashed before him.

  But Vect had not lied. Less than a week later, he and the surviving members of his splinter kabal had limped from Commorragh in humiliation and disgrace. Kesharq had sworn vengeance on the house of Asdrubael Vect, but his former lord had merely laughed and the sounds of his mirth were whips of fire on his soul.

  Vect would not be laughing soon as Kesharq thought once more of the prize that awaited him once he had outwitted the foolish kyerzak. But first he must take care of this newly arrived threat to the carefully orchestrated scheme.

  The kill was so close that Kesharq could almost taste the blood of the Space Marines on his nerveless lips. He rose from his command chair and strode to the main screen, his movements as lithe as a dancer’s despite the looseness of his skin and the wide bladed axe slung across his back. His segmented green armour shone like polished jade, highlighting the pallid dead skin mask of his face. Lifeless white hair, streaked with violet, spilled around his shoulders, held in place by a crimson circlet at his brow. He moistened his lid-less eyes with a fine spray from a tiny atomiser and studied the view before him.

  Slithering at his heels came a snapping pack of grotesque creatures, each constructed from scraps of random flesh sewn together to form a heaving mass of razor claws and fangs. These were the excrents, Kesharq’s pets, shat into existence by a whim of his chief haemonculus. They swarmed around their master’s legs, hissing mindless malevolence with their yellowed, venomous fangs at anything and anyone that dared come near.