Calgar's Siege Page 11

  ‘Heavily damaged, when last I saw. I told them to make a warp jump. If they succeeded, it will have sucked in or damaged most of the enemy ships surrounding them. That may buy us a little time. That, and my conviction that they do not know who was on the Alexiad.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, my lord?’ Orhan asked.

  ‘Nothing is sure in this world except birth and death,’ Calgar told him. ‘All that lies between is uncertainty. But they would have pursued the Alexiad with everything they had if they knew I was aboard. That much I know.’

  ‘I suppose we should try and contact the planetary authorities,’ Orhan said. But Calgar held up a hand.

  ‘No long-range vox, for now. The orks are primitive, but they are not above monitoring the planetary frequencies. We do not want to draw them here any sooner than the crash already has.’

  He looked up at the bright sky. ‘My guess is they think the crash left no survivors. They will arrive here at some point, if only to pick over the wreckage. But at present I think they have other things on their mind. This is no mere raid, brothers. It is an all-out invasion.’

  Eleven of Lieutenant Janus’ storm troopers had been killed in the Rubicon’s crash, and four more were too injured to walk. These wounded were loaded on two of the tracked gun-servitors that had survived. Two more were laden with every scrap of ammunition and provision that could be saved from the two downed Thunderhawks. Brother Parsifal administered the Emperor’s Peace to two of the critically wounded whose condition was hopeless, murmuring a prayer over each before ending their agony with opiates from his stores. The dead were buried outside the clearing the Thunderhawks had created in the jungle, and Proxis and Orhan felled several trees over the shallow graves with their power axes, the better to protect their bones.

  The Thunderhawks enginseer had died in the crash along with Markos and his crew, so it was up to Mathias and Orhan to help Calgar on with the Gauntlets of Ultramar. Massive power fists, they radiated a shimmer of might, and had storm bolters attached to their undersides.

  Calgar cocked these powerful weapons with a blink on his heads-up display, and the artificer armour he wore readjusted power levels to maintain the extra energy drain. He could not keep the fists at full power indefinitely; they would drain even the superlative power pack of the armour over time. But for now, he flexed his fingers in them and for a moment let the anger in him flood his brain.

  He thought of Brother Markos and the four other dead Ultramarines of the gunship crews, whose gene-seeds were now in a capsule on Parsifal’s belt. He thought of the storm troopers who had died unworthy deaths in the chaos of the Rubicon’s crash, good men all. And he thought of the Fidelis, burning in the void. All down to the implacable hatred of the orks.

  Hatred, he thought. I will show you what it is to arouse the hatred of the Ultramarines.

  There would be a reckoning for this. He looked forward to it. He wanted it as keenly as if he were some neophyte out to prove himself in his first skirmish. That feeling never left him, and not even the fault line of tiredness in his psyche could dampen his fury. The difference now was that his anger was cold, analytical, a searchlight shone upon every tactical and strategic situation. The anger lit up the way for him. Occasionally it took him wrong, as it had upon Cold Steel Ridge, a half-century before. But he had learned to trust it all the same.

  He flashed up a map of the planet in his mind. It was crude and incomplete, the result of amateur surveys carried out over a period of decades, but it was the best data he had. There were no satellites left overhead to guide him, but he studied the Zalidar star, measured its distance from the horizon and overlaid it with a star map of the system. Then he factored in the re-entry angle of the Alexiad, the craft’s speed and angle of descent. Some rough calculations, a juggle of longitudes and an approximation of latitude followed. And he had their location to within a hundred miles or so.

  All this he did in the space of a few seconds.

  They were far to the south of the capital, Zalathras, deep in what the natives called the Tagus, the primary rainforest of Zalidar.

  Calgar looked around. Sergeant Avila’s reinforced squad of Ultramarines was holding a loose perimeter, each of the battle-brothers weighed down with packs of extra ammunition and other stores. Janus’ surviving Guardsmen were standing by the tracked servitors that bore their wounded comrades and the heavier equipment. Closer to, Proxis, Orhan, Mathias, Valerian and Parsifal stood waiting.

  They were nineteen Space Marines and fourteen unwounded human soldiers in total. Not much of an army, but it would have to suffice. Calgar smiled inside his helm.

  ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘follow me.’

  He slashed the vegetation out of his way with the power fists, the ancient artefacts emitting a humming crackle as the disruptive field about them shattered creepers, vines and minor trees. Insects sizzled in the field and died in tiny white sparks of flame. Calgar lowered the energy input into the fists and used more of his own brute strength to hack a way forward. At the same time, he opened up the receivers on his suit’s vox systems and listened over the aether for any nearby transmissions.

  The rest of the company tramped behind him in silence. Proxis and Orhan were at his back, as they had been for so many years, and then Sergeant Avila and a half-squad, then the servitors and guardsmen. Mathias, Valerian and Parsifal came next, and another half-squad of Ultramarines brought up the rear under Brother Gamelan, who bore a combi-bolter-flamer and had the wound-seal of the Behemoth campaign painted on one shoulder guard.

  They made just over a mile in the first hour, the ground under their heavy armoured forms sinking into a moist mire. Soon the bright ceremonial gold of the honour guard’s armour was obscured by mud and sap and green dust from the trees, and the Guardsmen’s uniforms stuck dark and soaked to their backs as they helped the heavy gun servitors follow the path that Calgar blazed.

  No one spoke. The wounded had been tranquillised by Parsifal, and the rest were too disciplined for idle chatter. Calgar consulted his chrono, paused and looked back. Seconds later there was a boom that shocked the jungle, muffled by distance and the suffocating vegetation. The self-destruct charges they had laid on the Alexiad and the Rubicon had finally gone off. There would be nothing left of those noble Thunderhawks now save smoking shards of metal. The orks would find no booty at the crash sites, and with luck the explosion would help conceal the origin of the path that Calgar was slashing through the undergrowth.

  They marched on. The trees grew taller, becoming giants of their kind, and overhead the canopy drew together, until the company was walking in a dim twilight. There was less vegetation growing here, and they made better time. Proxis took over on point, power axe in hand, and Calgar dropped back down the column to keep an eye on things.

  They marched for five hours before the Chapter Master called a halt. The Guardsmen were staggering with fatigue, drained by the heat and the moisture-laden air and the pace that the Chapter Master had set.

  It was becoming darker. Night was approaching, and around them the jungle noises took on a raucous intensity, howling in the canopy of the immense trees. They had made a good pace, considering the terrain; Calgar had been counting his strides and knew that they were now some seven miles from the crash site.

  ‘We will set up camp here,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Avila, I want half your squad at full battle readiness at all times during the night. Two-man posts in a fifty-yard perimeter, optics set in passive infrared. Lieutenant Janus, your men will not stand guard – they need to rest. They also need water. You will find that by slashing the thicker vines it can be obtained in some quantity, with patience. Brother Parsifal, how goes it with the wounded?’

  Parsifal’s blue and white helm stared at him. ‘Fading fast, lord. The climate is enervating, and their injuries are putrefying with remarkable speed.’

  ‘Do what you can. Brother Valerian?’

/>   ‘Yes, lord.’ The Librarian’s hood was once more glowing pale blue, but it flickered every now and again, like a candle flame in a draught.

  ‘I want some information, brother. Anything you can give me.’

  ‘What I can tell you, my lord, is not much more than I am sure you already know. I have a distant impression of souls in conflict and torment, far to the north, a great flux occurring in the immaterium, that which is always associated with large-scale warfare. I believe that the main settlement of this planet, Zalathras, is under heavy attack.’

  Calgar took off his helm. At once, his bionic implant took over the input and automatically switched to infrared in the dimming light. The company was gathered together in a rough circle at the foot of a gargantuan forest tree, and Avila’s squad were already setting up firing positions around them, scraping low depressions in the thick humus of the jungle floor and clearing fields of fire. The red eyes of the gun-servitors gleamed, and the wounded moaned faintly as Parsifal administered to them.

  ‘That much I could have told you myself,’ Proxis grunted, leaning on his axe. He too had doffed his ornate helm, and the implants in his organic eyes glittered now and then as his head turned, studying the jungle.

  ‘This is perfect terrain for them,’ he said in a low grate. ‘A jungle world, thinly settled, but rich in life and organic material. All the building blocks.’

  ‘Is it a Waaagh!?’ Calgar asked Valerian quietly.

  The Librarian shook his head. ‘Not yet. An ork Waaagh! is like a veritable psychic tsunami. Their forces have not yet made that crucial step. But it is close, I feel it. Soon the enemy host will reach critical mass. The more of their hordes they drop upon the planet, the greater the infestation becomes. We do not have much time, my lord.’

  ‘Zalathras is the key,’ Calgar mused. ‘They will concentrate their best forces there. As long as the city can hold out, there is hope for the planet. Tell me, Valerian, how do you rate your chances of getting a message through to Seventh?’

  The Librarian grimaced. ‘I have been trying all day. My hood is still damaged, and the violent currents in the immaterium are disrupting the aether.’

  ‘Continue to try, then. Captain Ixion must know what is afoot here, and the news must make its way to Macragge itself. An ork Waaagh! is a serious matter. It could engulf several systems before our forces even know what is going on.’

  We are too scattered, the thought came to him. I have spread the Chapter too thin.

  He cast off the thought. Regret was the most worthless emotion in life.

  ‘Can you tell if the Fidelis got away?’ he demanded of Valerian.

  ‘I can tell you that it is gone, my lord,’ Valerian replied. ‘That is all.’

  ‘Tyson is a good man. He’ll have got the ship out,’ Proxis said.

  Calgar was not sure that Tyson had still been alive during the last vox exchange with the ship, but he said nothing. Without firm evidence, there was no use in speculating. He said a quick, silent prayer, raising his eyes to the limbs of the primeval trees, and glimpsing the first stars in the tiny gaps between them.

  ‘Night routine,’ he said briskly. ‘No lights, no sound. I will allow thirty minutes for eating, drinking and all else that is necessary. After that, we will await events, and hope that the orks were sluggish at picking up our trail.’

  He stayed awake in the night, standing at the base of the great tree that dominated their campsite. All vox frequencies were silent, but he monitored them anyway as he stood there, an immobile giant. The Astra Militarum slept the deep slumber of tired men, but the Adeptus Astartes needed no sleep, and thanks to their power armour and their adamantine constitutions, they would not need it for some time to come. They held their positions in the jungle, barely moving, the blue of their armour faded to black by the night. Now and again a glitter of metal on a bolter would catch the light of some errant star, but the only sound in the camp was the occasional moan of one of the wounded.

  Calgar could smell the wounded men’s blood on the air. To his enhanced senses it seemed as clear as a scarlet flag in the night. When Proxis drew close he contacted the Ancient on their private frequency.

  ‘If some animal approaches the perimeter, it is to be killed silently. Blades and fists, Proxis. I want no gunfire.’

  ‘Acknowledged, lord. I will pass it along.’

  The night hours passed. Once, something large and dark padded all around the perimeter, sniffing loudly, but when it came close one of Avila’s battle-brothers rose to meet it with his combat knife and, as the massive Ultramarine reared up out of the forest floor before it, the beast took fright and slunk away again.

  One of the wounded sank near to death during the night. Calgar had Brother Parsifal release him from his last struggle just before dawn with drugs from his narthecium. As the light grew, Janus and his surviving comrades buried him, scooping out the grave with their bare hands. Then they stood and saluted silently, grim-faced and filthy, as the sun came up. Brak Justani of Macragge, twenty-six years old. Many Adeptus Astartes commanders would not have taken the trouble to learn his name, but Calgar knew every one of the Fidelis’ crew, human and otherwise.

  They moved out again with the swift and quiet efficiency of men who know their duty, and so the trek continued as the heat rose under the trees, and the insects rose with it, biting and buzzing in gauze-like clouds. The jungle came to life around them once more, the hooting and screeching growing with the climb of Zalidar’s hot yellow sun.

  By the morning of the fourth day all the wounded were dead and buried, and one of the gun-servitors was throwing its track every few hours, entailing hurried and makeshift repairs. A competent Techmarine or even a decent enginseer would have been able to fix the servitor properly in a couple of hours, but neither was present, nor were the tools they used. But the stricken servitor was fitted with a heavy bolter, and was thus too valuable an asset to simply abandon. Calgar chafed at the delay. He estimated that they had marched over forty miles from the crash site, but the Tagus loomed as high and thick and unchanging as ever around them.

  It was one of Sergeant Avila’s brethren who noted it first. The rearmost Ultramarine, Brother Antigonus, informed them that he thought they were being followed. He said this matter-of-factly, and was firm in his conviction despite all evidence to the contrary. After that, Brothers Valerian and Mathias remained in the rear with him, but nothing materialised, and as they went into camp that night, Proxis made a caustic comment about brethren who had too much imagination for their own good.

  But Marneus Calgar had never been one to ignore the instincts of his own kind, so he was not entirely surprised when, around noon on the fifth day, a shattering rattle of automatic bolter fire erupted from the rear of the column.

  ‘All-round defence. Deploy heavy weapons,’ he snapped as he powered up his gauntlets and ran towards the sound of the firing.

  Proxis and Orhan came with him, snapping free their mag-locked bolters and cocking the weapons with blows of their fists. Calgar’s auto-senses brought to him the reek of cordite, and, below that, the thin splash of spilled blood. But not the blood of his own people.

  The gunfire came and went, single shots, and then a long, sustained burst. Then there was quiet again. Calgar found Mathias kneeling behind a tree with his crozius in his fist, Valerian beside him, and on the ground in front of them Brother Antigonus was crouched, changing his magazine. The jungle had fallen silent.

  ‘Movement, forty yards back, lord,’ Antigonus was saying. ‘Large movement, bearing round our left. I’m sure I hit something.’

  ‘Orks?’

  ‘They returned fire.’ Antigonus gestured to the divots torn out of the ground to his front. ‘Stubber rounds.’

  Calgar stood still, waiting. The sudden silence was deafening, eerie. It was if the jungle were watching them.

  ‘Valerian?’

&nb
sp; The Librarian nodded. ‘Orks. Quite a few.’

  ‘They have good skills, to remain silent so long,’ Proxis said. ‘Usually they roar their lungs out when the firing starts.’

  ‘They have been tracking us – for days perhaps,’ Calgar said. ‘Brother Antigonus, I was wrong to doubt you.’

  Antigonus shrugged. ‘It is of no matter, my lord.’

  There was suddenly a lot of movement out there – a dark riot of shapes that flickered through the vegetation. And now they could all hear the grunts, the growled orders, the soft clash of metal off in the trees. Calgar’s head snapped to right and left.

  ‘They’re on both our flanks. Looks like they’re going to try and surround us.’

  A far bellow, like that of a great angry beast, and a chorus of other voices gargled out a medley of rage and bloodlust.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Proxis said wryly.

  The Chaplain, Mathias, stood up and hefted his crozius.

  ‘May the Lord of Battle bless us with His grace,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Here they come,’ Valerian told his brothers.

  Calgar raised his voice to a shout. ‘Ultramarines!’ he cried. ‘We have enemy incoming!’

  Suddenly the jungle to their front and on all sides reared up in a wall of charging figures, roaring monstrosities as green as the jungle, taller even than the Adeptus Astartes before them. They came through the trees in a stampeding mass that made the earth quiver under them, dozens of flailing, snarling monsters firing wildly as they came, waving great swords and cleavers and axes, their maws agape and tusks protruding.

  ‘Short bursts. Fire at will,’ Calgar said over the vox, the Gauntlets of Ultramar clenching and unclenching on his fists, and from the embattled circle of the Ultramarines the bolters began to bark out, jumping against the shoulder-guards of his battle-brethren. The heavy bolters roared in staccato bursts, and amid their bright tracer-hedges lanced out the carmine-bright lasgun fire of the Guardsmen.

  ‘Head-shots, brothers,’ Proxis said. He sounded as though he were smiling as he said it. ‘Don’t waste ammunition on tickling these scum. I want to see their brains jump.’