Dark Hunters: Umbra Sumus Page 14

  They changed lifters, Dietrich yawning to try to get his ears to pop after the swift ascent, and travelled through a tech-level where the priests were incanting their prayers and the air was redolent of incense. They were blessing a series of massive shells larger than a man – some of the ammunition which had come up from the Armaments District in the last hours. As soon as the priests had made the holy prayers and anointed the shells, the ammunition was trundled off on low-loaders, to be taken to the gun-caverns. Another kind of food for the war.

  Dietrich was staggering with tiredness, whereas beside him Von Arnim seemed a creature sculpted out of tireless bone and leather. He was watching and noting everything, and he questioned the young lieutenant who was their escort constantly. Questions Dietrich should have asked perhaps, about ammunition levels, casualty rates, food supplies, generator power.

  But Dietrich was saving his questions for one who might be able to answer them more fully than some flustered lieutenant of militia. Ismail might seem as impassive and unperturbed as a snake, but his impatience and apprehension showed in the way he interrogated the young man until the lieutenant had to beg utter ignorance and apologise profusely.

  The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, and they stepped out.

  ‘Feel better?’ Dietrich muttered to Von Arnim.

  ‘It was that or butt my head against the wall, Pavul.’

  ‘I hear you, brother.’

  They were in the palace, that gaudy scrap of tinsel at the very summit of the citadel. It was less opulent than it had been – one could see by the state of the floor that real soldiers had been coming and going.

  ‘At least we know the way,’ Dietrich said. Although it seemed a very long time ago now that he had trod the corridors of this place in a time of complacent peace, with gaudily uniformed bodyguards at every corner.

  These were gone now. In fact, the whole place was eerily deserted. Waiting for them, Marshal Veigh stood alone in the Audience Room in an old-fashioned soldier’s grey cloak, and with a laspistol in a weathered leather holster at his waist. Under the cloak, he wore not the battered fatigues of a field officer, but the rich ceremonial uniform of a marshal of Ras Hanem, the decorations glittering at his ribs and throat, catching the light of the overheads. An odd combination of campaign and parade ground which made Dietrich raise his eyebrows.

  The marshal had aged twenty years in as many days.

  I suppose we all have, Dietrich thought, and he strode forward with his hand outstretched. Veigh’s grip was clammy, skeletal. He almost outdid Ismail in the cadaverous stakes, but whereas the commissar radiated energy and impatience and passion, Veigh seemed like a coal burned past flame and holding together only as an outline of ash.

  ‘It is good to see you, general,’ Veigh said with the ghost of a genuine smile. ‘And you, commissar. I am particularly glad to see you here.’

  Von Arnim bowed slightly, his forehead creasing in a moment’s puzzlement.

  ‘Gentlemen, I would appreciate it if you indulged me in a glass of wine. It is a good vintage – the last from Cypra Mundi itself. I should like to toast our recent successes against the Great Enemy.’

  He led them to a large table, which judging by the marks on the floor, had been dragged here from an antechamber. Upon the table were heaps of cogitator readouts and data-slates and a large map of soiled plasment – and a crystal decanter surrounded by glasses.

  Veigh filled these, and offered them to his guests.

  ‘To the Emperor, may he guide us always.’

  ‘To the Emperor,’ Dietrich and Von Arnim echoed. Dietrich downed his wine in one gulp, though the commissar merely sipped at his before setting the glass firmly down again.

  Veigh looked at the map on the table.

  ‘Old-fashioned, I know, but when I plot the locations of our forces, it sticks in my mind better to draw them myself, rather than let a signaller plot them on a pict screen. I just updated it, general – the positions and strengths marked here are accurate as of one hour ago.’

  Dietrich bent over the table in sudden interest, scanning the plasment. It was the outline of Askai and all the land up to the Koi-Niro Mountains in the east. Marked out in red and blue, like the monitors in his Baneblade, what he saw thereon made him whistle.

  ‘Are you sure of these positions?’ he asked Veigh.

  ‘Our augurs here, on these heights, are far-ranged and exceedingly precise, general.’

  ‘And the enemy strengths?’

  ‘As accurate as my technicians can make out.’

  ‘Ismail, look at this.’

  But Von Arnim had ignored the map. He was watching Marshal Veigh closely.

  ‘According to this,’ Dietrich said, scratching his bald scalp, ‘the enemy is currently present in far less strength than we had supposed.’

  ‘He has been sending formations out to the west for several days,’ Veigh said. ‘Transports have landed and taken off by the dozen, out in the western badlands. I believe he has been shipping the best of his troops off-world, back up to his fleet.’

  ‘That’s why the attack yesterday was successful,’ Dietrich said, straightening. ‘He’s just holding us here, keeping the pressure on – he has other fish in a pot elsewhere. But this is the last Imperial presence in the system, here in Askai, and this city is the key strategic objective. What else could he be planning?’

  ‘Did Governor Riedling know of this?’ Von Arnim asked suddenly, as sharp as a viper.

  ‘Yes,’ Veigh said. ‘He knew. It was another reason for him to hole up here and await events, rather than try and aid you and your men in their assaults on the ground below.’

  ‘What happened to Governor Riedling?’ Von Arnim demanded.

  Veigh looked very tired. He looked back and forth at the general and the commissar who now both stood watching him.

  ‘I think you know,’ he said simply.

  Dietrich sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘I had hoped it was otherwise.’

  ‘There was no other way, general. He would have sat here and watched you fail, seen you and all your command destroyed. I could not let that happen. I am a soldier too. I am a soldier first and foremost – it may be I have not seen the battlefields you have, but it has been my calling also, and I have followed it all my life.’

  ‘Then you should know how to obey orders,’ Von Arnim said harshly. ‘The Imperium is built on loyalty and obedience. Without those, we are nothing. Without those, the Emperor turns his face from us.’

  ‘Would you rather I let you and your men perish, commissar?’ Veigh asked, and there was genuine surprise in his voice.

  ‘Yes. We would have died honourably. Now our victory is tainted by your crime. You must summon the Adeptus Arbites here, now, to this room.’

  ‘We are under martial law – the Adeptus Arbites no longer has jurisdiction here, commissar. I am the supreme commander of all forces, military and civilian, on this planet.’

  ‘You have forfeited that position with your treason.’ Von Arnim drew his laspistol. ‘I am sworn to uphold the authority of the Imperium. By my life, I cannot see that authority flouted, no matter the conditions or the circumstances.’

  Strangely, Marshal Veigh smiled. There was almost a kind of relief on his face. ‘I expected no less of you, commissar. Will you indulge me for one more minute?’

  ‘Hear him out, Ismail,’ Dietrich said, eyes like stone. He set a hand on his commissar’s pistol and lowered the barrel gently. ‘He isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Veigh said. He reached for the table and lifted a data-slate.

  ‘On this is a document I had drawn up this morning. It has already been uploaded to the banks of every cogitator and voxponder in the citadel, and it has been sent in burst traffic to Cypra Mundi itself.’

  ‘What is it – a confession?’ Von Arnim sneered.

  ‘Yes,’ Veigh said quietly. ‘I set out my case for killing Governor Riedling, a murder in which no one else of my command had any part. I also
formally relinquish command of all forces and other authorities here on Ras Hanem and throughout the system.’

  Veigh’s voice was stronger now, and he had straightened. It was possible to see a glimmer of the man he must once have been, a leader to look up to.

  ‘There is no excuse for my crime, not in the Imperium in which we exist. But I believe it was a necessary act.

  ‘And that is irrelevant now.’

  Slowly, he opened the flap of his holster, and drew out his pistol. He looked down upon it.

  ‘This was my father’s.’ He handed it to Dietrich, butt-first. ‘It is yours now, general, and with it, the supreme command here on this planet and within this system, until the Emperor or some higher authority relieves you.’

  Dietrich took the pistol with great care, as though it were a relic of some saint.

  ‘I will speak for you, Veigh, when it comes to it,’ he said softly.

  ‘Do not. I will not taint your career. It is enough to have destroyed my own and to have soiled my family’s good name with my crime.’ Veigh drew himself up, and straightened the medal which hung at his throat. He turned from Dietrich to Von Arnim.

  ‘Commissar, do your duty.’

  Von Arnim paused a moment. ‘A traitor you may be, Veigh,’ he said, ‘but you are a man, at least.’

  Then he shot Marshal Veigh through the heart.

  TWELVE

  Adventu Venantium

  The great starship and its consorts moved through the blackness like a vast reptilian predator surrounded by its young. Four kilometres long, a small world in itself, the Ogadai cruised through the Kargad system at manoeuvring speed with the three angular destroyers, the Arbion, the Beynish and the Caracalla, sweeping the emptiness before it for signs of life and death, foe and friend.

  The Dark Hunters had arrived at last.

  ‘Come round to course six three mark nine,’ Tomas Massaron, the shipmaster, said, and his voice echoed in the lofty nave of the Ogadai’s command centre. He stood upon the dais with the instruments of the ship towering on three sides about him like the altar-screen in a cathedral, and beyond them the tall void-shielded viewports were full of stars, and far off, a larger shining sphere of light that was a planetoid or moon.

  The ship servitors muttered to themselves in an unending stream of binaric data. Junior officers clad in Hunters blue came and went with the hushed reverence of worshippers at a shrine. Some chose to glance at the giant standing next to Massaron, but most averted their eyes from the bright flint-glare of his unblinking eyes.

  ‘Arbion reports debris fifteen thousand kilometres on her left flank, sir,’ one of the human officers said.

  ‘Analyse,’ Massaron told him, his gaze sweeping the dials and monitors like a man scanning a regicide board for openings. ‘Enginseer Miranich, extend augur range to our left flank, towards the moon.’

  A metallic click, and the embedded servitor said ‘Acknowledged. Extending range. Range complete. Augur reads no returns.’

  ‘Very well. Quinn – word from Arbion?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Debris consistent with small attack craft.’ The young officer raised his head. ‘Not ours, sir. Their composition is inconsistent with anything in our files.’

  ‘Very well. Signal all escorts, spread out another ten kilometres and extend augur systems to maximum range. I want no surprises, gentlemen.’

  The giant at Massaron’s side chose this moment to break his silence at last.

  ‘How long until we are in high orbit about Ras Hanem?’

  ‘Approximately seven hours, captain. Do you wish me to sound battle stations?’

  Jonah Kerne considered. ‘Negative.’ Battle stations would entail the loading of his warriors into the Thunderhawks and drop pods down on the troop decks. It was too early for that. In a ship-to-ship fight, were it to occur in the next few hours, he needed his brothers to be flexible, not sitting cooped up in their launch-harness. He needed to know what they faced first.

  ‘As you were, shipmaster. The Ogadai is yours to do with as you will. I am merely here to observe.’

  It did not seem that way. The towering Adeptus Astartes in the midnight-damascened power armour dominated the command dais like the statue of a god in a temple. But Massaron nodded, seemingly pleased.

  ‘My lord, as soon as is practicable, I promise you I will give you and your brethren fair warning of all eventualities.’

  He wants me off his bridge, Kerne thought with a small, interior smile. Well, I would be the same. But I want to be here, to see it, not hear about it over the vox on the troop decks.

  ‘Am I in your way, shipmaster?’

  Massaron paled slightly. ‘Not in the least, my lord.’

  ‘Then proceed.’

  There was a smell of machine-incense in the air. Kerne had allowed a blessing of the nave by the tech-priests as they had entered the system the day before. That much was tradition, and was adhered to even by the Dark Hunters.

  More than that, the human crews expected such blessings and ceremonies before going into battle. The ships needed them, and it was considered unlucky to forgo the rituals.

  Another thing I have grown accustomed to in the last months, Kerne thought. How long has it been? He stretched slightly, widening his shoulders in the armour, the plates moving with his bones.

  Far too long. Three and a half months of shooting target servitors and studying maps and battle simulations and listening to Malchai preach. Mortai was heartily sick of shipboard life, not because it was in any way a burden, but because of the tediousness of the routine. Not a bolt fired in anger in over three months.

  When one was sharpening a knife, at a certain point one had to stop, because the fine edge was made blunt again by the very act of sharpening.

  Mortai was as sharp as Kerne could make it. Now it needed to be used. What was it Fornix always said? The blade grows blunt in the scabbard – that was it. Yes, it was high time Mortai was unsheathed.

  There were nineteen Thunderhawks on the troop decks, ready to be launched, and a dozen drop pods for a quick coup de main, should that be needed.

  Seventy-eight Adeptus Astartes from Mortai, who had been clad in their armour by the servitors two days ago, and forty gun-servitors bearing heavy metal, ready to support the line company, as well as the two Devastator squads on loan from Ninth Company under Brother-Sergeant Nieman Stahl, and two squads of Scout Marines, the Haradai, under Fell Ambros’s young protégé, Brother-Sergeant Laufey, a warrior who at times rivalled Fornix in his insouciant attitude to discipline.

  And what fun Malchai has had, trying to iron out the creases in their faith, Kerne mused. Then he thought also of the regular despatches that the Reclusiarch had been sending back to Mors Angnar, and his face darkened.

  Part of him – the deep, savage part which had been wholly human before the Dark Hunters claimed his soul – had a feeling that this would be his last campaign.

  If so, he prayed, then Bright Lord of Hosts and Battle, let it be a worthy fight, and let me do my duty by my brothers, and to you and the Imperium before I join your Peace.

  Amen.

  ‘Sir!’ The young ship-lieutenant’s face was suddenly urgent. ‘Comms from Caracalla, priority-code. Unknown vessels twenty thousand kilometres out bearing eight seven mark three.’

  ‘Composition?’ Massaron snapped. He joined the lieutenant at his console bank, from which a trio of servitors muttered to themselves and extended a dozen mechanical limbs to touch controls and switches as though playing on some absurdly intricate musical instrument.

  ‘Vox on speaker, sir – it’s Shipmaster Miraneis.’

  A woman’s voice rang out hollow across the command dais, crackling slightly.

  ‘Ogadai, this is Caracalla, we have torpedoes locked on us from four enemy ships, Falchion class at best estimate. Am evading, and launching countermeasures.’

  Massaron leaned over the console. ‘Caracalla, break off and lead them back to us. Battle speed. Acknowledge.’


  ‘Acknowledged, Ogadai. Breaking off – enemy is on our stern, spreading into attack formation. We’ll do our best to lure them in, over.’

  Massaron straightened. ‘A picket-line. These are the sentries for the main force.‘

  He looked at Jonah Kerne, and the towering Space Marine nodded.

  ‘Put me shipwide,’ Massaron said to a servitor, and then: ‘All stations, this is the Master of the Ship. Go to battle stations. I repeat, go to battle stations.’

  Klaxons began to echo throughout the immense length of the Ogadai, and there was a perceptible vibration in the hull.

  ‘Voidsunders being run out, sir,’ the flag lieutenant said.

  ‘Open all gun-doors. All batteries are to wait for my signal to engage.’

  He turned to another servitor. ‘Key in the location of the destroyers, and flag up the enemy. I want no friendly fire here today.’

  A sizzle, and the servitor’s steel claws clicked and clacked across its keyboards.

  ‘Arbion, Beynish, this is the flag. Close in to four thousand and prepare to engage broadsides. Stand clear of the lances. Acknowledge.’

  The captains of the other two escort destroyers sent static bursts in affirmation.

  ‘Captain,’ Massaron said, turning to the Adeptus Astartes on the dais. Kerne held up one gauntleted hand.

  ‘I am going to the troop decks now, shipmaster. Keep me informed.’

  Massaron smiled. ‘Thank you, my lord. This is my ship – I know how to fight her.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. Good hunting, Massaron.’

  Kerne strode from the command dais, lifting his helm and setting it on his head. It clicked into the collar-ring and hissed closed. At once, the readouts sprang up in his vision, and in the corner of his sight was the blinking sigil which was the command-vox, his private channel with Massaron and the workings of the command dais.