n. pl. in·cu·nab·u·la (-l)1. A book printed before 1501; an incunable.
2. An artifact of an early period.
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‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for his throne! Let nothing li…’ A clawed alien hand decapitated the crimson-armoured warrior with a single blow, sending his head bouncing and spinning across the roiling terrain and out of sight amongst the heavingarmoured bodies of his charging comrades. The dead warrior’s
battle-brethren roared in anger and surged forward as one to crash against
the advancing aliens like a tidal surge, their bloodlust and hatred
consuming them so utterly as to make them heedless to the encroaching
danger of the alien horde. Chainblades sang and bolt pistols thundered
as the blood-slicked, power armoured horde met the advance of the alien
mass without fear or hesitation. The night skies above the vast desolate plains of the Anubis Gulf were angry now, blackened with the countless falling seeds of the swarming alien invasion force. The cloudless sky boiled and flashed as if in protest to the living rainfall, the countless seeding spores of the attacking aliens saturating the horizon as far as the eye could see. Set against the backdrop of Contu Prime, largest of the planet’s moons, the vast hiveships hung like giant living dirigibles, each one the size of a small city, visible even from the ground. Far above the surface of
the planet Daedalus huge, leather-winged monstrosities blocked out the
stars as they slid ponderously through the night skies, wave after wave
of smaller creatures detaching themselves from thearmoured bellies of
the huge beasts to descend like a rain of death amid a deafening cacophony
of screeching hatred. The air above Phrennec Mantris
flashed and burned with a pale emerald iridescence as the pylons plucked
the spores from the skies, their ethereal energies whickering and snaking
across the falling mass relentlessly. Soon the mindless alien scum would
realize that their efforts were futile. Soon they would abandon their
attempts to take the city and instead concentrate their forces on the
World Eaters. None of this mattered, for he knew of lord Karkattamorg’s
plans for this blighted planet. The suit lights of the giant World Eater terminators probed the closing darkness malevolently as they advanced through the twisted wreckage, the ancient storm bolters in their hands flaring as they belched death. All around them the multitudinous, many-limbed monstrosities of the attacking hormagaunt wave swarmed like insects, their swift, chitinous march resounding like hailstones on glass, countless legs skittering across the dusty rocks underfoot. The creatures moved like a shoal of fish, twisting and turning as one, altering their course in a heartbeat as they spied the advancing warriors. Within seconds the vanguard was upon them, leaping high in the air amid screams of intended malice. The first wave disappeared in a hail of ichor, atomized by the wall of auto-reactive shells that slammed into them, the momentum of their attack coating the ancient armour of the traitor marines with a film of foul alien matter. High-pitched shrieks and screams rose from inhuman throats as the chattering advance was halted time and time again, as wave after wave of living weaponry was blown apart leaving nothing behind except a scattering of barbed limbs and a pungent mist of drifting blood-substance. Horgotha turned as the huge
armoured warriors lumbered through the twisted wreckage, battering aside
crooked girders and crumbling walls with gore-splattered power fists
as they found their lord. Stood atop the blackened, smoking wreckage
of an upturned rhino APC Horgotha roared at the angry skies, his powerful
arms outstretched. ‘My brothers!’ he roared, a twisted smile splitting his bloodstained lips. ‘Let us flood this wretched planet with the blood of the alien! Let us douse the fires of this battlefield as we open the veins of every damned tyranid on the surface of this world! We will take their skulls, every last one of them, in tribute to Khorne! Nothing else but death! Nothing else but blood! For the Blood God!’ ‘For the Blood God!’
the warriors echoed as one, thrusting their powerful arms into the air.
‘Thecolour of blood
matters not, brethren!’ He thundered, his voice a terrifying and
rending thing, almost god-like in its hoarse yet enhanced amplification.
A hissing, slithering shape burst forth from the darkness, nothing more than a flash of movement passing across the eyes of the champion. Within seconds it was upon him, snapping and hissing malevolently, all slashing claws and snapping teeth. Horgotha felt the hardarmoured shell of the rhino slam into his back as he toppled, the weight of his attacker throwing him back. He threw his head forward instinctively and smashed his head into the face of the creature, the blow spraying chitin and fluid as it connected. Dazed, the creature withdrew only for a moment, more than enough time for the champion to bring his chainaxes up and into the beast. The ravener came apart amid a welter of blood, its lithe, armoured body trisected by the screaming blades. The parted alien tumbled away and Horgotha hauled himself to his feet, the thick hull of the rhino buckling under his immense weight. He pushed himself free of the wreckage and glanced around, his glowing eyes scouring the whispering darkness. He turned his gaze towards the distant city and smiled as he saw the powerful, impassible pylons begin to sputter and die. The Manflayer had made good his promise to Karkattamorg. The tyranids had all but aborted their attack on the city. By the time they realized that the pylons had fallen silent it would be too late, Karkattamorg and the others would have taken the city and the defences would be reactivated. Even now he could see the tiny, distant pinpricks of light descending towards the distant walls. The city was as good as taken. Despite this, he knew that within moments the defences would be reactivated in order to ensure that the attacking tyranids would not be able to follow. He and his brethren would have to leave this place soon if they were to follow their lord to glory within the walls of the doomed city. As soon as the aliens realized that the city’s defences had fallen silent they would renew the attack. He would have to move fast. ‘To the thunderhawk!’
he bellowed, gesturing for the crimson armoured behemoths to follow
him. A swift glance at the skies warned of a change in the pattern of
the descending swarm. The great harridans had begun to turn their massive
bulks away from the city and were headed his way, sensing the presence
of the remaining World Eater forces. Horgotha and the remainder
of the World Eater invaders would suffer the wrath of the tyranids.
He thrust one huge axe up at the night skies and his retinue lifted their gaze, watching in silence as the thousands upon thousands of descending spores enveloped the stars themselves directly above them. ‘We will not survive this fight!’ Horgotha announced, not a single hint of fear or sorrow in his sonorous voice. The terminators heard this and turned their attention back to their champion. ‘It matters not if we fall this day! Lord Karkattamorg has shown us the way forward! His glorious vision shall be realised here on Daedalus! Our lord will ascend to greater glory and bring the wretched Imperium to its knees! He will become an unstoppable force of destruction against which no power in this galaxy will be able to stand! He will stride unopposed through the Eternity Gate on Terra and tear the desiccated corpse of the Emperor from its resting place! The Golden Throne shall be his, and all the skulls of the servants of Man shall be heaped at his feet! Glory to Karkattamorg! Glory to Khorne!’ The World Eater terminators thrust their arms into the air and howled, elated by the prospect of the coming conflict. Dread Horgotha threw back his head and roared an inaudible challenge at the approaching abomination. A heartbeat later the mighty champion turned and thundered off into the night, uttering blasphemous curses as the shadows enveloped him. Horgotha’s terminator retinue watched as their lord flung himself into oblivion, his sonorous voice echoing through the darkness long after he disappeared from sight. Within seconds the sound of his chainaxes could be heard, screaming in the darkness as they met with the ominous, unseen threat. Something nameless and terrifying roared in response, its inhuman cry shaking the loose rubble underfoot. As one they surged forward to meet the threat, the crackling power weapons they carried raised and ready to deal death. The death-bellow of their aspiring champion howled across the archaic vox-link of their headsets, the noise serving only to incite their bloodlust further. The ground beneath them now began to shake more violently as the thunder of approaching hooves echoed through the dead space beyond. The sound grew louder and louder, the tremors increasing as each moment passed. Something was approaching. Something big. The terminators began to lock and load the storm bolters in their right hands, ready for whatever approached them. Fierce, guttural growls of blasphemous challenge echoed through the air as each huge warrior readied himself to meet the unseen threat and a burning fire of exhilaration coursed through the squad, lighting every nerve. As one they began to chant, their broken, inhuman voices loud and powerful as they carried across the battlefield in perfect unison. ‘Blessed be Khorne, the lord of death. Let all before Him be split asunder, let none survive. Death in the name of Khorne! Death in the name of Lord Karkattamorg, Chosen of the Blood God! All shall become trophies at the feet of the Blood God’s throne!’ The roaring chant continued,
audible even over the crescendo of white noise surrounding them. The
broken terrain before them exploded and shook, random detonations and
pinpricks of incandescence illuminating the huge, bounding shape fast
approaching them, moving with a swiftness that far belied its hulking
size. At this point any lesser being would have turned tail and fled
in sheer terror or through survival instinct, but not the terminators
of the World Eaters. The insatiable bloodlust within them could be contained
no longer. Driving the heels of the mighty armour they wore into the
ashen soil, they counter-charged. Suddenly the gigantic living battering ram was struck from behind by a blow powerful enough to stagger a squiggoth. The creature bellowed in pain and staggered forward, lashing out in instinctive retaliation as it did so. The blind sweep parted the attacking World Eater below the shoulders and sent his body flailing across the loose sand underfoot, the storm bolter in his hand still firing wildly out into the darkness as his arms and head hit the floor. The remains of the terminator lurched backwards, hissing and crackling as the ancient suit’s protective field overloaded in a shower of sparks, unable to cope with the extreme force of the blow. The death of the warrior had bought the others time enough to recover and they attacked, surrounding the monstrosity The carnifex lowered its huge head and roared, the hot steam of its breath pouring from its cavernous mouth like a geyser. The terminator before it strode forward and punched it full in the face, shattering teeth and crushing the armoured layers of chitin like eggshell. The furious nightmare responded
by clamping its huge mouth around the head of the World Eater and shaking
him violently before flinging him through the air and into a nearby
wall, his body disappearing under an avalanche of rubble. The others
closed in on the beast and began to punch and pummel its vast body,
the potent weapon-fists of their armoured suits flashing and crackling
with each blow. The carnifex threw itself around and drove a talon through
the chest of another of the armoured berserkers, impaling him without
effort. ‘Karkattamorg.’ one of the terminators uttered reverently, taking a step back. As the monstrous carnifex swung its huge head around to gaze into the numbing darkness its marine opponents fell to their knees as one, their heads bowed in respect. For them, no greater honour could be bestowed than an audience with the dread lord himself. An acrid stench of charnel and death drifted through the hot, tangy air, an odour that seemed to emanate from nowhere and yet surround and envelop them. This sudden scent seemed to excite the carnifex and the massive monstrosity flexed its talon limbs, its blood-thirst roused once again. The vast alien killing machine opened its maw and roared at the shifting darkness, rolling its oversized head from side to side as if in challenge. From somewhere in the black distance and closing fast, the challenge was answered. The huge dark shape snorted and bellowed as it bounded through the murky gloom like a charging bull, each heavy footfall shaking the ground as it landed. The sound of squealing metal and splintering glass rang through the cold night air as the approaching monstrosity relentlessly crushed everything in its path as it advanced. Men, aliens and tanks alike were batted aside or crushed underfoot as the raging beast thundered across the battle-scarred terrain, its quarry located. Emitting a roar of pure hatred the massive figure took to the air, the mighty leap carrying it across the remaining expanse in seconds. Karkattamorg, daemon prince, lord of the World Eaters landed heavily before the carnifex, his crimson armoured bulk smashing into the ground like a falling meteorite. The alien monster took a step back, momentarily bewildered by the new arrival’s bold challenge. The monstrous abominationslowly
rose to his feet, the eerie light of his glowing red eyes shining through
the long strands of blood-encrusted hair covering his face. His entire
frame seemed to creak like the flexing hull of a ship as he rose up,
the vast plates of ancient armour strapped to his body grinding together.
His breathing was deep and heavy, like that of some huge primeval beast,
hot steam pouring from his nose and mouth. ‘At last.’ He
uttered, his inhuman voice heavy and ageless as it rumbled across the
scene like a peal of thunder. The carnifex roared in challenge
and lunged forward. Karkattamorg saw this and thrust his arms out by
his sides, revealing the two ancient and terrible weapons he wielded.
In a blur of motion and colour the two titans met, the thick, scythed
talons of the alien battering ram cleaving the air as they descended.
The daemon prince swung his immense bulk around and swept his mighty
chainaxe through the air, batting the blades aside and sending whickering
chunks of shattered chitin spinning away. The two combatants began
to circle one another; the terminators surrounding them moving back
even further. The carnifex began to visibly sag, its thick, sinuous
legs shaking as they struggled to support its vast weight. The sword
of the daemon prince had caused it more damage than was immediately
visible. Nevertheless, its unshakeable thirst for destruction kept it
on its feet, its primal instincts driving it on. Karkattamorg roared with delight and with a flick of the wrist turned the shimmering sword in his hand and drove it deep into the cracked rockcrete at his feet. The living blade quivered and screamed as it pierced the ground, the thick road surrounding it shattering and splitting like the web of a spider under the potent power of the daemonic essence bound within. The mighty daemon prince
turned and lunged at the smouldering remains of the crushed rhino, driving
the fingers of his free hand deep into the thick armoured hull. The
kneeling terminators looked on in reverent silence as the daemon prince
lifted the squealing, groaning wreck high above his head and hurled
it at the emerging juggernaut. The daemonic World Eater’s gigantic chainaxe flashed through the air before him, driving down with the force of a crash-landing drop pod into the armoured shell of the thrashing alien. Shards of chitin and organic juices sprayed upwards into the air as the screaming blade drove itself deep into armoured flesh, then again and again as the immensely powerful thrust was repeated three, four, five times. The carnifex bellowed more through anger than pain and kicked its hooves in desperation, throwing the daemon prince momentarily off-balance. Karkattamorg stumbled back, reeling from the blow. His alien opponent roared defiantly and hauled itself up onto it feet, bloodied steam escaping from the huge gaping rends torn across its thick armoured hide. Though grievously injured it drove its heels into the ground and bounded towards the daemon prince, far from defeated. Karkattamorg raised his right hand and swept the terrible captured daemon sword Na’Gzetchh before him, the writhing blade screaming with rage and bloodlust. The air itself glittered and shimmered in its wake and the sword bit home, cutting a deep groove through the charging behemoth’s chest and all the way through to its back armour in one single pass. No matter how thick its armoured hide was, no protection in the galaxy could withstand a blow from a weapon designed to ignore the laws of the material universe. More through shock than pain the screaming beast slammed into the floor beside the daemon prince, kicking and writhing as its huge frame became enveloped in a swirling miasma of blue and pink chaos power, the sword’s warping powers beginning to attack the monster at a cellular level almost immediately. The downed carnifex began to warp and shudder, its vast frame cracking and shattering as it transformed into something twisted and indistinct, its body stolen by some nameless horror of the warp. Only when the victorious daemon prince brought his huge war axe down across the beast’s neck did the alien juggernaut fall silent, its torment ended. A roar of triumph rose from
the great immortal beast as he thrust his head back and bellowed into
the dark night, victorious in the name of Khorne, the huge head of the
carnifex impaled upon the chattering blade of his sword. This was the promise of the World Eaters. Karkattamorg, immortal champion of the Blood God, the Great Chieftain of the Crimson Tide turned and surveyed his surroundings. He watched in silence for a moment as the endless tyranid rain continued to fall about him, saturating the vast plains of the Anubis Gulf with its vile, pervasive stain. His glowing eyes burned with an ageless balefire as he watched the advance of the swarm, his altered eyes able to pierce the roiling darkness with ease. He smiled a terrible predatory
smile, exposing a mouth full of yellowed canine fangs. The tyranids
were as nothing to him, less than a swarm of scrabbling ants at his
feet. Invigorated by the glorious, chaotic carnage spread out before him, he ran his dark, glistening tongue across yellowed teeth, savouring the heady scent of death as it drifted in from the devastated industrial regions of the Anubis Gulf. The whole district burned, ravaged by the attentions of both the World Eaters and their tyranid pursuers alike. He smiled, his ancient eyes surveying the distant scene. The Devourer of Worlds had come, just as he had predicted, drawn like moths to a flame by the call of the dying mother. The intrusive, knowledge-seeking fools of the mechanicus didn’t have a clue as to what they held here in secret, deep beneath the surface of the city. They were little more than naïve children, trying in vain to understand and contain a force more powerful and vast than any member of the Imperium would ever be able to do so. Now they were dead and gone,
their labours unfinished, their quest for knowledge incomplete. So illicit
were their activities here beneath the city that they were unable to
rely on the rest of their so-called Imperial ‘allies’ above
to defend them when he had descended like an avatar of retribution to
claim their efforts as his own. He and his Nephilim had taken the facility with all the ease of a member of the vaunted astartes stealing from the smallest child, and he had ensured that they had been made to suffer greatly for their mistake. He knew of the secret that lay in wait far beneath this damned city. He knew of the true potential of what had lain dormant beneath his feet for an age. It had taken nigh on seven years of ceaseless toil but now the final stages of the plan were starting to take shape. The host was almost ready. Karkattamorg and his World Eaters had come, lured by the promise of that which the daemon prince had sought for centuries. He would surpass himself this time and Daedalus would fall, no matter the cost. Damn the blunt Khornate mastodon and his blundering stampede across the worlds of the Imperium. Theirs was not a meeting of equals, a combining of resources in order to reach a mutually beneficial goal. Karkattamorg was just another
senseless, narrow-minded tool to be pointed in the right direction,
to be used as he alone saw fit. The galaxy would burn and in its death
throes it would scream his unholy name. A tide of death would come to
sweep the countless worlds of both man and xenos alike clean of the
filth that infested them, a scouring, cleansing cataclysm like the hand
of some mighty god. His Imperium.
+++++ To: Ordo Malleus Inquisitor
Lord Vorkohnen Its countless factories have produced munitions, fuel and armour for the Imperial war machine for centuries. Daedalus is the lynchpin that holds the Borteth subsystem and indeed the entire Profundo Cluster together, its importance and strategic value within this sector of space paramount to the Imperium. All lines of communication
with the planet have been suddenly and inexplicably lost. Way stations
across the subsystem have fallen silent, one after another, without
warning or explanation. All outgoing traffic from the manufactorum world
has abruptly ceased. We can only assume some terrible, unknown disaster
has befallen the planet. Something dark and evil transpires within the Borteth system, inquisitor, something so terrible it must be brought to your expert attention. The ancient and insidious forces of foul chaos are behind this, of that much we can be sure. The first indications we had of this was when the Astropathic council of Terra detected a strong and incredibly powerful psychic presence emanating from somewhere at the system’s centre, most likely originating from the capital world, Daedalus. One solar month ago, two weeks after the detection of the psychic presence a defence outpost stationed on Contu Prime informed high command that what seemed to be a large invasion force of vile traitor marines had emerged from the warp and had taken up orbit around Daedalus. Communications were soon lost but not before they had managed to confirm that the commander of the warband had insolently identified himself as an individual named ‘Karkattamorg’. Sources provided by your
esteemed colleagues within the ordo malleus indicate that Karkattamorg
is one of our most ancient of enemies and has been hunted with utmost
vigour since the days of foul Horus’s treachery. Five naval reconnaissance
vessels and three escort carriers under Admiral Quasdathe were sent
out to investigate. No one has heard from them since. During that time
it came to our attention that all Astropathic communication with the
Borteth system had been rendered impossible and that the Astronomicon
was unable to penetrate the sector. This is an occurrence that the adepts
know as the Shadow in the Warp. This is grave news indeed. How or why the hive fleets seem to have specifically sought out this isolated world we cannot say, though it would seem that their actions are driven by something more than a simple desire to consume the planet’s bio-mass. The High Council have authorised military action in the Borteth system with immediate effect and command has been given to me. As we speak I am mobilising a large and powerful invasion force with which to take back the stricken planet and as such am in the process of enlisting the best forces and individuals I can muster. Even now I am receiving word of yet more insidious presences upon the system’s capital world and as such have been taking steps to ensure that they meet with the ultimate resistance when we arrive. I have sent numerous spies ahead of us to assess the situation as best they can and it was while waiting for their response that your name was passed on to me. It was brought to my attention
that you are among the most fervent and zealous of the ordo malleus
daemonhunters and that for years you have made it your life’s
holy work to seek out and destroy the foulest of the Imperium’s
heretic foes. Word of your exploits in pursuing the Arch-heretic Xaxxarfon
the Perverse soon reached me and I can think of no better individual
to deal with the foul Karkattamorg. Today, inquisitor, I give you that chance. I humbly ask that you join us in liberating Daedalus and putting an end to whatever foul and insidious plans the ruinous powers have for the planet. The Emperor Himself has called for this war, inquisitor, and it is our duty to answer. I look forward to your response. Lord General Jophius Garant Bombola, Supreme Commander of the Borteth Crusade. +++++ To: Warmaster General Bombola Lord General, I thank you for choosing to seek my help in despatching this most foulest and terrible of the Immortal Emperor’s ancient foes. Karkattamorg is as good as dead. Lord Inquisitor Devan Vorkohnen.
CHAPTER 2: DAEDALUS. Sergeant Moneth Hastor looked on in stark, horrified silence, the thick shielded glass of the viewing port frosting under his hot breath. The huge battleship Incursus
shook once more and began to list slightly, the rumbling vibrations
dimming the lights above his head as they passed through the massive
leviathan. He swallowed hard and his
heart raced as he looked upon the hive ship for the first time, an air
of utter disbelief hovering over him. He had felt bile rise in
his throat as men had described the passing of the swarm, of how entire
worlds were stripped to the very bedrock of everything. Animals, plant
life, even water and atmosphere, nothing was left behind in their wake.
These were creatures more truly alien than any other he had encountered
in all the years of his service, insidious and terrifying predators
from beyond the boundaries of known space, the tyranids were a foe unlike
any other. ‘Heads up everyone! We are under attack! Tyranid assault craft inbound!’ someone hollered, the owner of the voice lost amongst the packed bodies of the massive main hold. Hastor leapt to his feet as yet another huge blow shook the Incursus to its very core, the jolt so powerful that it shook bolts loose from the bulkhead above. The shockwave vibrations sent him flying backwards and it was only by the grace of his practised reflexes that he managed to turn and grab the handhold behind him, his face stopping a hair’s breadth short of the thick glass of the viewing port. ‘By the Golden Throne…’ He breathed, his gaze falling upon the space beyond the window. Three huge organic shapes swept past, tracer fire hot on their heels. Huge, ugly scythe-nosed creatures screamed past, twisting and turning skilfully as they evaded the multitude defence guns of the giant battlecruiser. Sweat began to moisten his
brow and he backed away from the port, almost as if he were afraid that
the creatures would spot him and view him as a potential target. Surprised by the voice Hastor turned, his gaze falling upon a familiar face. The man’s trademark, half-moon scar ran the length of his features from the left of his temple down to his top lip. His hair was shaved into a single, neat line, further augmenting his already fearsome appearance. The officer stared back at him, his cold gaze hiding a familiar warmth that few who knew him recognised. Hastor, however, knew this man better than most and he smiled weakly, moving his arm in the beginnings of a salute. ‘At ease, sergeant.’ The officer whispered with a lopsided grin, waving him aside so as to get a better look at the circling creature-ships. ‘Colonel Vorpax, sir. All hell seems to be breaking loose out there. I-I didn’t even know the Tyranids had such monstrosities at their disposal.’ ‘The first and foremost
rule of warfare, sergeant. Know your enemy.’ The colonel barked
gruffly, smoothing down his padded Elysian drop troop battle-dress as
he pushed himself away from the viewing port. ‘Shouldn’t be
long now, sergeant.’ He announced, turning away from the turbulent
skirmish beyond. ‘What then, sir?’ Hastor asked, unsure of what to expect once the mighty ships of the invasion force finally broke through the living blockade. Vorpax turned to leave,
an expression of stone setting his features rigid. Hastor settled back uneasily against the hard backrest of the seat as he watched the colonel leave, trying as best he could to drown out the blaring sirens that still resounded throughout the massive ship. He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the massive bulk of the huge vessel shift as it began to pick up speed, sliding forward through the cold vastness of space. He muttered a silent prayer to the sleeping Emperor, praying for his benevolence. Trying as best he could to block all thoughts of the monstrous foe from his mind, he began to recount the mission briefing he and the other officers had received before they had dropped into realspace little more than half a solar day ago. The plan seemed simple by all accounts. The Elysian 3rd, 6th and 11th were part of a massed invasion force on their way to liberate the fifth planet of the Borteth system from a two-pronged attack by the foul forces of chaos and a large tyranid invasion fleet. They were to form part of a huge ground counter-offensive, their primary mission to provide the first stages of the main Imperial assault with a base of fast-moving, hard-hitting shock troops in their efforts to liberate the planet’s main population centre, the city of Phrennec Mantris. Together with the Juntan 15th and 16th War Hawks, the 51st Vortan Paras and the fearsome zealots of the Centotrine Penitors, the Elysian regiments would provide the drop ships of the main Imperial assault with a solid core of swift, hard-hitting ground-based infantry in order to facilitate as safer landfall as could be provided for the larger, more vulnerable carriers. It was Bombola’s plan
to saturate the main landing site with light assault infantry prior
to the arrival of the main attack force. A desperate plan by all accounts, and one that in his personal opinion would no doubt result in heavy casualties throughout the advance force. Still, he was as faithful a servant of the Emperor as any, and as such would carry out his mission to the letter, no matter the cost. ‘Your thoughts, sergeant?’ He opened his eyes to see
a friendly face before him, another storm trooper sergeant whom he immediately
recognised to be his one of his oldest friends, Deucius Bellanor. ‘Praying to the Emperor already, Moneth? By the light of the Throne, that’s not like you. Mind, you always were one of the more superstitious among us.’ He laughed, landing a heavy slap on the sergeant’s knee. Hastor smiled. Bellanor referred to the time they spent together in the Schola Progenium back on St. Pinita’s World, the orphanage where the two friends had been raised. It was rare these days to see his old comrade. Indeed, it was a rarity for more than one squad to be sent to any war zone at one time. ‘It is good to see
you alive after all these years, brother.’ He smiled, extending
his hand. Bellanor took it and the two men exchanged a warrior’s
handshake, hands clasped around each other’s arm. Hastor smiled and released
his grip, flexing the fingers of his fleshless hand proudly. Bellanor shook his head,
a wide grin spread across his face. Bellanor’s expression
changed as he listened to Hastor and he fell quiet. Hastor could see
almost immediately that his old comrade shared his opinion. Hastor wiped the sweat from his face, realising perhaps for the first time just how stifling the packed hold of the Incursus was. In this chamber alone, upwards of eleven hundred men sat in wait, each one in silent, nervous anticipation of the horror to come. Whether storm trooper or guardsman, every single member of the Elysian 3rd was a hardened and seasoned veteran, the survivor of countless battles with the multitudinous enemies of the Imperium. Each and every one of them had already seen more death and conflict than most other guardsmen see in a lifetime. They had been to hell and back and they had survived. Despite this, the cavernous chamber was filled with the quiet murmur of prayer as eleven hundred souls waited uneasily for the slaughter to begin. ‘I was speaking to
Finnis earlier.’ Bellanor continued, referring to the Elysian
tactical officer’s adjutant, another of their close friends and
one whom they grew up with on St. Pinita’s World. Hastor shook his head gently;
biting his bottom lip as yet another blast rocked the huge cruiser.
Bellanor rose to his feet,
the Imperial winged skull crest of his dull grey carapace chest armour
glinting under the pale light of the chamber, his face a mask of proud
determination. Both his fists were curled tightly, not in anger but
pride. Hastor sat up as he heard this, his morale slowly returning. ‘That’s right,
Moneth, and I haven’t even begun to list the heavy support. The
Cadian 28th, 29th and 30th Armoured Fist, the Phyressian 2nd, the Macraleusian
Bombardiers, the hellhounds of the Fire Drakes…’ ‘There’s more.’ Bellanor whispered, taking a seat beside Hastor, his eyes burning with vigour. ‘Astartes, Moneth, space marines. Here, fighting alongside us. It seems high command consider the combined threat we face too great for the guard to face alone. The warriors of at least three companies follow us in, my friend. White Scars, Crimson Fists and Thunder Dragons, all lending their might to the mass assault. Yet still the intrigue runs deeper.’ Bellanor moved closer still,
his weathered features creasing as he looked deep into his old comrade’s
eyes. Hastor inhaled sharply through bared teeth, the very mention of such a being freezing his heart. He had heard tell of these unfeeling monsters, the Imperium’s ultimate killer. Fearsome unstoppable killing machines fuelled by burning hatred, the legend of the eversor was a popular story amongst the guard. To think that one of these bio-enhanced fiends would be stalking the killing fields with them sent a shudder down his spine and he mouthed a silent oath to the Emperor. That an agent of the Imperium could evoke such fear and revulsion throughout those it fought alongside was testament indeed to the terrifying reputation of the eversor temple. ‘They seek out Chaos
then.’ Hastor concluded, trying as best he could to push all thoughts
of the assassin aside. The lights of the immense chamber suddenly shifted in spectrum from pale white to red, cutting the conversation between the two sergeants short. Both men stood sharply, the carapace armour they wore grating together under the sudden movement. ‘Orders are orders, Moneth, and we have ours. We are to support the main Elysian deployment as ordered. Our primary task is to locate and destroy the enemy’s bio-artillery. We cannot allow the armour and infantry of the main assault force to fall victim to the enemy’s spore mines before they have a chance to disperse. Stay focused on the task at hand, old friend, we will win this planet back soon enough, and we will do so in the name of the blessed Emperor. May He watch over you on the field of battle.’ Bellanor extended a padded
gauntlet that Hastor gripped eagerly in his own and the two soldiers
exchanged a nod, both their faces set in a grimace of determination. He watched his old friend depart, thinking back to the days when the two of them served in the same squad. That both of them had come so far had been as much a blessing as a curse. Men who fought together shared a bond unlike any other, a bond that surpassed that of even siblings. Bellanor was more than a friend, he was a brother, linked not by their own blood but rather the blood that they had shed together in the service of the Imperium. Promotion had done what all the enemies of the Emperor could not, it had seen them separated, taken away from the familiar, enduring faces of their own squad in order to command another. Such was life within the
armies of the guard; a life filled with none of the simple comforts
afforded the other citizens of the Imperium. ‘Sir!’ Hastor looked up to see a number of familiar figures approaching him, arms laden with weaponry and equipment, pushing their way through the packed bodies of the Elysian 3rd. Nesker, Tessok, Brandbaar, Regan, Autis, Fordar, Corpo, Zith and Moranith, the men under his command. ‘Sarge, we have to go. The valkyries are prepped and ready for launch.’ Nesker announced, the old, grizzled veteran shoving his way roughly through the two-tone blue Elysian armour. Hastor snatched his equipment
from the floor of the hold and broke into a jog as he heard this, heading
out towards the rest of his men, the pace of his heart beginning to
quicken.
Hastor gripped the belt-mounted adjuster-rune of his grav-chute tightly, ready to slow his descent the moment he gave the order. His other hand braced his hellgun tight to his chest, the weapon primed and ready for the conflict ahead. Behind him the shrinking armoured hull of the Valkyrie span away, still bleeding bodies from its gaping back end. The rest of specialist squad Validus followed their commander out into the vast upper atmosphere of Daedalus, adding to the thick precipitation of bodies already plummeting towards the barren, distant ground. Staring past the screen of tactical displays and status readings that flashed across the visor of his helmet he could see nothing but thick, moisture-darkened cloud, broad and endless, obese and grey with moisture evaporated by the scorching sun. That such a barren planet as Daedalus would even have such contradictory weather conditions seemed strange to him, though in truth he didn’t give this a second thought. Bombola had chosen this site personally; recognizing the advantages the usually sparse rains of the northern hemisphere would provide his advance force with. Better that the enemy remain unaware of the presence of the attackers until they were right on top of them. A sound plan, by all accounts. Water droplets began to form in rivulets before him, streaking across the thick glass of the protective rebreather. His suit’s communicatons
array came alive at once with streaming vox-link chatter, so profuse
and fast he could scarcely make out a single audible word amongst the
auditory tumult. He began to cycle through the frequencies until he
found the familiar channel used by his own squad. He listened and for a moment
there was nothing but silence, that and the constant vibrating rumble
of the passing air. Seconds later a steady stream of voices began to
bark back in answer. Regan. Autis. Fordar. Corpo. Brandbaar. Moranith.
Zith. Nesker. Tessok. One by one they answered the sergeant’s
request, the sound of each recognisable voice bringing with it some
small flourish of relief. Thank the Emperor, his entire squad had deployed
successfully. A sudden flash of movement by his side caught his attention as something larger than a man cast its shadow across him, blotting out the glaring sun. He turned his head slowly to the left so as to prevent injury to his neck and his eyes found the source of the dark shadow. He found himself reflected in the wide, mirrored full-face pilot goggles of an Elysian, the trademark blue-grey of his fatigues instantly recognisable. The man shook and rocked as he descended, the air resisting his fall much more than Hastor’s own, encased as he was in the thick, squat armour plating of his modified bipedal Sentinel walker, surrounded and ensconced by the thick roll bars of the vehicle’s cockpit. He nodded his head and shook a fist of greeting at the sergeant as he slowly slid away out of sight, the heavy scout walker dragging him towards the planet far faster than any single soldier would find himself falling. Hastor watched as the sentinel and its human heart plummeted away out of range of his sight, the pop-burst of its specially fitted descent stabilisers sending out micro-plumes of turbo thrust all across its armoured hide as they constantly worked to keep the vehicle in its upright position. The fat grey cloud stretched as far as he was able to see now, a telltale indication of its proximity. He pushed his head forward so as to look upon the vast, moisture-laden strata below him and managed to catch a glimpse at the swirling puncture hole vortices of those who fell below him, their hurtling bodies already obscured by the thick strata. Hastor braced himself as
he prepared to do the same; not through fear of injuring himself in
connecting with the thick mists below but rather in preparation for
what would meet him beyond. Then the hell would begin. An immeasurable hail of bodies descended below him, countless squads falling through the vast lower atmosphere of Daedalus, filling the horizon as far as the eye could see. No matter how many times he had witnessed this spectacle, it never failed to take his breath away. The regal blue and grey
shock armour of the massed Elysian regiments dotted the skyline in every
direction as far as the eye could see. The vaunted, rapid-response troops
of Elysia fell in ten man squads, their practiced descent perfect and
immaculate. The contrasting reds and
oranges of the feared Centotrine Penitors, the vicious headhunting zealots
of Centotri Primus, added flashes of bright colour to the packed blue-grey
mass. He shifted his gaze and
met the descent of the Juntan Warhawks. Thousands of bodies filled the
horizon to his left with a white and violet haze as they fell, their
para-gliders catching the updrafts as they broke the thick cloud cover,
their numbers looking for all the world like some huge avian migration.
A glance to his right confirmed the presence of the feared Paras of
the Vortan 51st, yet another of the regiments involved in the landing,
the contingent responsible for the famous storming of the Dexar Moon
Palace. The air below shimmered with the collective spin of a thousand
heli-packs, their communal drone low and subsonic below him.
He cursed as a blue and grey body hurtled past, almost smashing him to a pulp as it seemed to rocket skywards. Such was the utter shock of the sudden occurrence that he found himself struggling to maintain his practiced fall and instead fought to stop himself tumbling hopelessly out of control. Much to his utter dismay others began to follow, their descent buffers whining as, one by one, the Elysian 3rd began to slow their descent. Within seconds the skies above Daedalus became an obstacle course of human bullets threatening to break him to pieces as they tore past. The Elysians were already beginning to slow their approach and in doing so, they were making a terrible mistake. Hastor cursed his guard
brethren. It was too soon! The enemy was as thick as ants down there
and by now surely knew that the assault had begun. Though the tyranids
seemed nothing more than mindless drones he knew that they shared some
deep, unfathomable intelligence, a single hive mind coordinating them
flawlessly in every move they made. Plumes of orange-red fire
blossomed far below as the preliminary bombardment of the orbiting Imperial
ships impacted with the surface of Daedalus, the vanguard of the drop
troop assault. Columns of bright explosions spread out before his eyes,
erupting across the surface of the planet beneath him, still so distant
that the thunderous cacophony of their combustion was lost to the distance.
The bombardment wouldn’t last much longer; he knew this from experience. The shelling would have to subside in order to allow the troops to land, and Hastor knew he didn’t have long. He knew that as soon as the shelling seized the attacking Imperial forces would answer to a violent retaliatory response. ‘Hastor to Validus!
Do not be swayed by the Elysian deceleration!’ he yelled desperately,
unwilling to allow those under his command to make the same inaccuracy
of judgement. Somewhere below him the sky exploded, a dull whistling detonation sending shockwaves washing over his falling form, a sound that managed to penetrate even the thick layers of protection around his ears. He rocketed past a screaming Elysian; the man’s arms flailing wildly as he came apart mid-descent. A fine mist of red particles spattered his carapace armour and something bounced wildly off his shoulder, a ragged, spinning arm that threatened to throw him into a violent spin. He cursed under his breath, his pulse quickening. It was already happening. Another explosion below him seared the arid air of the lower atmosphere, sending fragments of chitin and Elysian body armour alike into his path. The debris pinged and bounced off his carapace armour, hissing as it scorched away the paint on contact. The retaliation of the enemy had begun in earnest. He knew now that the wave of attacking guardsman didn’t have long to make landfall. The Hive Mind had sensed their approach and the living artillery had already begun to send their accursed spore mines high into the air. Though the aim of the massed creatures below was clumsy and rushed, he knew that it was only a matter of time until they began to saturate the skies with their vile living shells and exact heavy casualties amongst the lightly-armoured attackers. ‘Validus, remain calm!
Keep your heads and do not slow your descent!’ he screamed, the
sound of his own elevated voice causing his head to shudder. The return fire intensified,
shaking the breath from the startled sergeant mid-sentence. All around
him the air was burning, innumerable explosions throwing out blistering
heat and tumultuous noise as they ripped apart the Imperial descent.
He braced himself and thrust
one arm out before his eyes as one of the enemy’s spore mines
found a small Elysian mortar squad. The hurtling orb slammed into the
cylindrical drum at their centre and detonated, bathing the surrounding
soldiers in a wash of scorching heat. He opened his eyes again
and glanced around him and his gaze found the cloud of drifting explosive
orbs of the enemy artillery for the first time. Intelligence had reported
that the Tyranid spore mines were unlike any other form of bombardment
ordinance ever encountered. Instead of exploding through impact or timing
sequence the mines were proximity activated. As they drifted into the
Imperial descent they probed the surrounding air with long, tentacle-like
protrusions, detonating only when in close proximity to the enemy. The
others didn’t seem to realise that by slowing their descent, they
were increasing the chances of activating the drifting mines. The skies above Daedaulus became a living hell. They exploded and burned, filled with the screams of the dying. Hastor’s entire body shook violently as he plummeted towards the heaving ground below; his eyes squeezed tight shut. Suddenly, almost instantaneously,
the roaring explosions around him seemed to quiet and subside. He opened
his eyes again; unsure of whether or not his hearing had been affected
by the raucous din. Sure enough, scarcely able to believe his own eyes,
he saw nonetheless that the explosions about him had ceased. A shadow crept across the
skies above him, blocking out the light of the harsh Borteth sun. He
turned his head back to see a huge flapping shape gliding underneath
the bombardment above, its armoured bulk the size of a drop-shuttle.
It was a trap. The alien bastards were picking off the survivors of the spore mine attack as they fell beneath the bombardment zone. He has passed by the trap only through chance, due to his accelerated fall. The Imperial numbers beneath him were now almost nonexistent, a fact that set the alarm bells ringing inside his skull. Sooner or later he would find himself the centre of an unwelcome attention. He purged his mind of all
thoughts of the danger surrounding him and began to count, calculating
the speed of his descent and the distance between him and the surface.
He slammed his fist into
the rune on his belt and, tipping his head harshly so that the shock
pistons of his suit’s neck absorbers activated, twisted it harshly,
activating the chute’s descent buffer. Almost immediately his
entire body was slammed backwards as the grav-chute slowed his fall,
its elongated arms screeching and quivering as they fought the incredible
forces of the sudden manoeuvre. He screamed the order for his squad
to do the same, his eyelids snapping open in the same instant. Even
as his keen eyes fell across the first target he brought the hellgun’s
sight up to his face with immense effort, training the digital crosshairs
upon the rapidly growing lump of xenos mass below him. As the writhing form of the thickset creature slumped lifelessly into the soft sandy ground sergeant Hastor rose to his full height and ripped the grav-chute’s release mechanism from its housing. The heavy chute thudded to the ground behind him, no longer of any use. The emplacement’s remaining creature roared a terrible, guttural roar and began to lurch towards him, its huge paws driving into the soft earth as it advanced. He watched as the cannon on its back began to shudder, the spore within its thick trunk squirming and writhing as it matured. He clutched at the line of grenades hanging from his belt, plucked one free and primed it, ripping the safety pin out with his teeth. As his squad began to land all around him he hurled the krak grenade at the surprised beast and turned, shielding himself from the resultant explosion. ‘Fan out and find cover,
double-time!’ he roared, another nest of the foul aliens already
in his sights. The rest of his squad began to search the surrounding terrain for cover, quickly taking advantage of any they could find. Within seconds of landing on the surface of Daedalus, the men of squad Validus began to hunt. Behind him trooper Brogann
Autis broke into a hunched run the moment his feet landed, the prize
Ryzan plasma gun in his hand spitting round after round of searing death
into the nearest emplacement. He dropped a trio of the monsters in quick
succession as each hissing round thumped free of the glowing muzzle.
Barril Fordar had dropped almost right on top of an emplacement, surprising the nest of alien artillery as he landed. The intense heat of his melta-gun cooked the air as it melted and fused the unfortunate creatures together. Alien flesh ran like water as Fordar swept his meltagun across the nest again and again until nothing remained of the enemy but blackened, liquefied ash. By the time his spent grav-chute had touched the ground, another emplacement had been cleared. The grizzled veteran Fen Nesker landed amid a flurry of frag grenades, hollering and roaring as he pumped out a stream of explosive cylinders into the nearest beasts, his eyes wide with zeal. He only stopped firing when the grenade launcher in his hands ceased in its bucking convulsions, empty. Tark Regan threw himself behind a collapsed section of wall, skidding across the loose ash as he ground to a halt behind the flaking rock-crete. He glanced over the waist-high section for no more than a second; quickly ducking his head back down as he spied enemy movement. ‘We have an emplacement
here!’ he hollered, the fingers of one hand pressed against the
vox-activator fastened to the opposite wrist. He slid the flamer strapped
to his shoulder round in order to reach his belt and plucking a brace
of krak-grenades from their holding straps like fruit from the branches
of a tree. He tossed the primed grenades up and over the wall, shoving himself flat against the ground in preparation. Seconds later the crumbling partition shook as the grenades exploded, silencing another bio-artillery emplacement. For good measure the storm trooper leapt from his hiding place and scoured the smoking nest with gouts of blue-orange flame, incinerating any survivors. No enemy creature was to be allowed to live. Hastor looked about him for a moment, assessing his surroundings as methodically and logically as any storm trooper sergeant worth his salt would. They had hit paydirt. They had fallen into the enemy’s artillery line, far away from the main tyranid force. If they could hit these bastards hard and fast enough they should be able to punch a crippling hole in the enemy’s ranged attack, allowing the other elements of the invasion force to establish a strong ground deployment. All around him the other drop troops were beginning to touch down, slowly carving a gouge into the biovore line. Despite the initial heavy losses, the attack was going to plan. ‘Validus, this is Hastor.’ He voxed. ‘Let’s keep it neat and tight. We’re the first through the door and the others are right behind us, so let’s try and remember our manners. I want everyone to finish up and converge on my position, a.s.a.p. Hastor out.’ The rest of his team began
to emerge from the surrounding rubble as the first few Elysian survivors
began to touch down, their bodies low and hunched. The alien biovores
were thick on the ground here and, though they had cleared a good space
around them, there were still plenty of enemy units to throw themselves
upon. He turned his eyes skyward and watched as the shrieking mines
continued to hurtle upwards in untold numbers, vile inhuman tentacles
trailing behind like multitudinous vermin tails. Nesker stood beside him,
his chest heaving with effort. Foul gore and smouldering grenade fragments
peppered his uniform. He reached up to his face and tore his rebreather
free, casting it aside as if it were more of a hindrance than a piece
of vital equipment. Hastor was about to answer
when another of his men fell into line beside him, his rebreather already
gone. Hastor turned as he heard
this, his eyes widening. Hastor nodded in agreement.
Zith knew their foe better than other member of the squad. Before his
recruitment by the Elysian officials Zith had been a veteran trooper
serving with the Entian 15th. The rest of the squad had
begun to join them, one by one, and it was clear that each member of
Validus had seen action in the few minutes that had passed since they
had landed on the planet’s surface. Hastor had heard enough. ‘Okay, let’s
do this! Corpo, you heard the man! Get the damn navy down here to support
us!’ He barked, slinging his hellgun over his shoulder. The others b |
