Dark Hunters: Umbra Sumus

THREE

Benedictio

The final blessing had been intoned by the Chief Reclusiarch, and the brothers of the Dark Hunters were filing out of the chapel. Almost the entire complement of the Chapter was present, close on six hundred Adeptus Astartes in the midnight-blue robes with the Axe of Justice stark upon the breast.

They filed out in silence, the final notes of the Te Deum hanging in the cavernous air above their heads. Banners and flags from a hundred different campaigns hung from the cantilevered stone beams that supported the chapel’s immense roof, and power-glims dialled low caught the faded colours that swayed back and forth as the Hunters passed beneath.

Jonah Kerne looked up as he passed down the nave. There was a tattered banner hung high inside the west transept of the immense building. Not much more than a rag, even his augmented eyesight could barely make out the device upon it.

Mortai’s Cerebrum et Haliaetum, Skull and Scales, hacked and pierced and burned, and stained with old blood. His blood, and Fornix’s, and Kharne Al Murzim’s. They had stood together under that banner at the Last Stand of the Third Company, and had held their ground in the ruins of this very chapel, until their brethren in the Brazen Fists had landed. They had started the day with sixty Adeptus Astartes, and by evening there were eighteen of them still standing.

How glorious it had been.

He entered the side-chapel, exchanging wordless nods with the faces that lifted to him as they passed.

There was Finn March of Primus, steady as a stone; Orsus, sergeant of Tertius Squad, the strongest Space Marine he had ever known. Nureddin of Secundus, his scalp-lock grey as hoar-frost, who had lost an arm in the Border battles two years before. Apothecary Passarion, his blue robe edged with saffron, the twisted snake-staff of his calling tattooed on his massive face. If there was a reason why Mortai had not missed having a Chaplain these last years, it was because of Passarion, whose piety went hand in hand with the skills of his calling.

And lastly there was Fornix, who smiled at Jonah as he brought up the rear of Third Company.

Mortai Company, the Fated Ones.

‘I will see you tonight,’ Kerne told his first sergeant, ‘after the Orders Conclave. We arm at sunrise, and embark straight after.’

‘It’s all in hand, captain,’ Fornix said.

‘Ambros’s new recruits?’

‘Distributed through the squads. We’ll shake down the company on the voyage.’

Kerne took Fornix by the arm, his pale face stern. ‘You spoke to the Forge-Master?’

‘Breughal will see the thing done handsomely. He is even seconding us some of his gun-servitors. And there is a small manufactorium on the Ogadai which he assures me is up and running.’

Kerne nodded, and was about to turn away when Fornix caught his eye.

‘What is it?’

‘Captain, Breughal is willing to embark a detachment of heavy armour if the Kharne will allow it.’

Kerne raised an eyebrow. ‘Generosity indeed. But it should not be necessary.’

‘Are we so sure of that, Jonah?’

‘The Kharne’s manifest has already been implemented, and Castellan Rubio carried it out to perfection. Besides that, the Chapter is so short of vehicles that it has been decided to conserve their use for emergencies.’

Fornix frowned. ‘The Kharne’s caution is–’

‘It is wisdom, Fornix. Phobian must retain the ability for a strong counter-strike after we depart.’

‘You think history is about to repeat itself?’

‘I think you need not worry about the Kharne’s strategic reasoning. Concentrate on Mortai.’

Fornix’s mouth twisted in a rueful grin. ‘At times like these I am glad to be a mere sergeant.’ He bowed his head and walked on.

The side-chapel was octagonal, and in the middle of its stone floor a raised plinth stood, intricately carved and run through and through with the sinuous snake of insulated cabling.

Pockmarks in the stone spoke of the long-ago battle for Phobian which had passed through here like a gale, and higher up in the vaulted ceiling the acid scars shone pale. They riddled certain flagstones of the floor in rounded depressions, as though the stone had been showered with molten tears.

When that battle had been won, all the surviving battle-brothers of the Chapter had congregated here to be blessed by the sole surviving Reclusiarch, Jord Malchai, for the rest of the chapel had lain in ruin.

There had been room for them all, because fewer than two hundred of them had remained.

Malchai stood here now, his robe black as the gaps between stars, his crozius grasped in one fist. His senior, Biron Amadai, had been slain not five metres from where he now stood, and Malchai was now the Chapter’s Master of Sanctity in all but name. He had refused the title out of respect for his mentor, who had been widely loved throughout the Chapter.

Many senior Chaplains were figures of fear even to their fellow battle-brothers, but Amadai had generated something more than that – a respect bordering on awe. He had slain a Bloodthirster daemon almost single-handed on the last day of the war, but the wounds the beast inflicted on him were too great to heal. He had died in Malchai’s arms in the rubble of the nave outside, and the Reclusiarch had wept.

One could not imagine that savage sternness bent in grief, not now. Malchai was a formidable figure, one to whom even the Kharne himself sometimes deferred. He and Jonah Kerne had clashed many times down the years, in arguments over orthodoxy, and the proper application of the Codex Astartes. Their relations were respectful, and proper, but Kerne knew that Malchai disliked him.

He could not return that dislike. The man was too brave not to admire, and it had been Sergeant Kerne who had saved the Reclusiarch’s life when the grief-blinded Chaplain had refused to leave his master’s body to the Punisher hordes. Kerne and a single squad of Space Marines, the remnants of several companies, had fought around Amadai’s corpse and so preserved it from defilement.

Ever since, Malchai had seemed to resent Jonah, as though he could not bear having a witness to his own moment of weakness.

The Reclusiarch afforded Kerne a cold nod as he entered the side-chapel, no more. The other captains were greeted formally, by name. Last to enter were Ares Thuraman of Ardunai Company, the senior captain in the Chapter, and finally the Kharne himself.

Al Murzim was not the tallest or the strongest of them all, but there was, as always, that quiet about him which engaged their attentions at once.

Breughal Paine had once observed that the Kharne said more in a moment of silence than others did with long speeches, and so it seemed now as he gazed around the plinth at his assembled captains and senior staff.

In addition to the Space Marines, there were normal human figures present also. They had entered through the side door, and stood dwarfed by their superhuman colleagues. Kerne knew them by sight.

Isa Garakis, a lean, grey man, the chief navigator of the Chapter, who had been finding a way through the warp for all of his adult life. The pain of every one of those journeys was etched into the deep lines of his face. His eyes were sunken grey flints buried in his skull. He looked like a man who no longer knew how to sleep.

The castellan, Asa Rubio, a robust man in his sixties who would have seemed large and formidable in any other company, despite his white beard. He was responsible for the day-to-day administration of Mors Angnar, and commanded a human staff of several thousands. An Aspirant to the Adeptus Astartes, his body had rejected most of the key genetic implants necessary in the process of becoming a Space Marine, but the Kharne had recognised the analytical brilliance of the young man’s mind and had taken him on to the staff of the Chapter Administratum. That had been nearly fifty years ago, and Rubio had repaid his master’s faith in him many times over. The Kharne had relied heavily on him in the rebuilding of Mors Angnar and the restocking of the Chapter’s magazines and transport pool.

Finally, there was Tomas Massaron, captain of the Ogadai, and the senior shipmaster of the fleet.

It was Massaron that Kerne regarded with most interest. This officer commanded the ship upon which Mortai would live for the long voyage to the Kargad system, and to a great extent the success or failure of the expedition would depend on Massaron as much as on Jonah himself.

Massaron returned his stare, unabashed, seemingly fascinated. The shipmaster had been around the Adeptus Astartes long enough to lose most of the awe with which normal humanity regarded the giant warriors of the Emperor, and Kerne felt himself being sized up with open curiosity.

They had met before, but only fleetingly. The Ogadai had been undergoing one of its never-ending refits when Kerne had last led Mortai out to do battle with the Gulbec Pirates in the Border Systems two years before, and Massaron had not seen action since the wars against the ork marauders of the Long Bleed a decade previous. He had done well though, taking on two ork cruisers in the old Ogadai and reducing them to glowing scrap in the space of an afternoon.

He had a reputation as a calm, unflappable officer, and his appearance did not belie it. Short, even for a human, he had brown eyes and a shock of stiff, salt and pepper hair above a curiously young face. He stood at ease, dressed in the night-blue livery of the Dark Hunters fleet personnel, the triple axe-heads of his rank gleaming on his sleeves.

Kerne’s gaze flicked across other, better-known faces.

Graes Venann, the senior Librarian, no doubt still annoyed that he had been finagled into promoting young Kass. Well, one had to crack eggshells to eat eggs. They locked eyes for a second, and Venann tilted his head to one side and smiled, inscrutable as a lizard.

The other line company captains, Kerne knew well. Shaef Darric of Fourth had come up through Mortai like himself. Nortan Blask of Seventh had covered his retreat from the landing pads on the day the Punishers arrived, losing half his men. Fell Ambros, leader of the Haradai, the Scout Company, was the wiliest fighter Kerne had ever known, with an evil sense of humour. He and Fornix were great friends.

The Scout Master sported a jutting, plaited beard and bore the ritual scars which had long died out in the Chapter. Some said there was a future Kharne in him. He had already done much to modify the Dark Hunters Codex, in the face of Malchai’s opposition. Jonah had worked closely with him in the campaign against the Long Bleed Waaagh! In that war, Ambros’s Scouts had slain as many of the foe as the line companies had, and there were voices in the Chapter which said that the role of the Dark Hunters Scouts should be expanded even further.

The Dark Hunters, like all the varied Chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, were a compact, combined-arms force of immense power. They were an army, yes, but they were more than that.

Looking over the assembled captains, Kerne knew that any one of them would die for him, as he would for them. It was not a matter of personal likes and dislikes. They were, in the last analysis, kin to each other, brothers even in the genetic sense of the word, comrades-in-arms, and believers in a single, unforgiving faith.

It was what made a Space Marine Chapter something close to invincible. Even in defeat, they did not abandon that faith, in the Emperor and in one another. That belief enabled them to face annihilation without a qualm.

Kerne was not the most pious of his kind, but as his brothers gathered about the Chapter Master and the hum of talk died down, he found himself giving thanks that he was here, now, with these like-minded comrades. He could not have chosen any better fate for himself than to stand here in this place.

Among his brothers.

‘I ask the chief Reclusiarch to lead us in a moment of prayer,’ Kharne Al Murzim said quietly.

In the silence that followed they could all hear the roar of the winter wind outside, and vying with it, the thunder of transport engines from the landing pads.

Malchai raised his crozius, and kissed it.

‘Lord of Hosts,’ he said, ‘In thy Glory, and thy Goodness, let us be worthy of our blood and those who have gone before us into your peace. We are here to do thy bidding, to kill and be killed, all with thy blessing upon us.

‘In the Emperor’s name.’

‘By the Throne,’ all those in the chamber said.

A blue light sizzled into being, hovering above the chamber’s central plinth. It flickered like a winded flame, before steadying and assuming other colours. A series of orbs wheeled in orbit around a bright central sphere. Some of them were spattered with tiny flashing red lights.

Kharne Al Murzim gestured his brothers closer, and the flickering lights played across their faces.

‘The situation in the Kargad System has been somewhat clarified since our last communication from Cypra Mundi,’ he said. ‘Segmentum Command has received various semi-garbled vox transmissions from several planets and moons in the system.’

He punched a series of keypoints on the holo-display. ‘Peronnen and Asranak, two small moons with mining manufactoria and minor settlements, have been heavily attacked and it is probable that the Imperial presence there has been destroyed. It only amounted to a few companies of the Guard in any case. The mining bases on the Tellik Asteroids are also gone.

‘Militarily speaking, these places are of no consequence to us, though at some point in the future they will of course have to be scoured of all Chaos remnants.

‘No, brothers, it is the central planet which concerns us. Ras Hanem, the High Gate. This is a long-settled world with a history in the Imperium and some major industries which the sector cannot afford to lose.

‘Population, some three hundred million, mostly concentrated in a few major cities. The capital, Askai, population fifty million, is home to a series of manufactoria which are key to Titan production on Cypra Mundi, quite apart from other armament industries.’

‘What is the garrison?’ Ares Thuraman asked. The senior captain in the Chapter had long ago lost his vocal chords to corrosive atmosphere, and his voice came out through a vox-speaker in his throat, flat and harsh as a nail scoring iron.

‘The defenders vary in composition. There is the Hanemite Guard, trained up to something like the usual imperial level. Numerous, fairly competent by imperial standards, and numbering some seven divisions. They man fixed emplacements around the major cities, and are hence scattered about the planet. There is also a militia of part-timers numbering in the tens of thousands which is called up in emergencies, but which is of doubtful utility in a real war.

‘But Ras Hanem is lucky in one thing, brothers. The last vox transmissions we have had from the planet were sent by an Imperial Guard General, one Pavul Dietrich, who seems to have involved himself in the defence. Dietrich’s unit is the 387th Armoured, which was en route to Cypra Mundi but left to kick its heels on Ras Hanem for several weeks because of a lack of transport ships. The 387th is heavy armour, Basilisks, Baneblades, Chimeras – a full regiment.’

‘What was the last situation report we had from the system, my lord?’ Jonah Kerne asked, staring at the shimmering hololith as though if he stared hard enough it might tell him everything he craved to know.

‘The last vox from Dietrich’s staff stated that communications with the outlying moons and planets of the system were being lost one after another. So far, his comms specialists have been able to get through enemy jamming frequencies, but we cannot expect that to last. There are no astropaths of any note upon the planet who could get a message through the warp, either.

‘We can expect the assault on Ras Hanem itself to begin quite soon. The planet has a full complement of orbital defences and some light defensive craft, but they cannot be expected to win a protracted engagement with a mobile fleet. A ground assault is inevitable.’

‘The orbital defences will take a toll, nonetheless,’ Thuraman rasped. ‘Especially if earlier reports were true, and the enemy has nothing heavier than Dauntless class.’

‘Agreed,’ the Kharne said.

Malchai spoke up, frowning, ‘Are there no Imperial warships closer to the system than us?’

‘None bar a few interceptors and frigates,’ the Kharne said grimly. ‘They are all off providing cover for the Wendakhen campaign, on the other side of the sector – which was where Dietrich and his men were en route to when they were stranded on Ras Hanem. The Waaagh! of Jurhat the Cursed is soaking up Imperial resources, and will do for a long time to come. Our brethren in the Dark Sons are aiding thirteen Guard divisions on Wendakhen.’

‘Emperor bless them,’ several of those present muttered. The Dark Sons had been one of the six Chapters which had come to the aid of the Hunters during the last Punisher incursion, and there were still close links between the two Chapters.

The Scoutmaster, Fell Ambros, spoke up. ‘When was this last vox transmission, lord?’

But it was the Chief Librarian who answered him.

‘Some two days ago,’ Graes Vennan said, the planets of the hologram circling in his black eyes. ‘One of my more talented specialists picked it up. I have been monitoring the Kargad System since this news first broke.’

‘And nothing since?’ Kerne asked him.

The Librarian’s strange gaze met Jonah flatly. ‘Nothing.’

Kerne rubbed his forehead. He did not want to speak up, but could not let it lie. Not even here.

‘My Kharne, I must ask you now, if I am to go to the aid of Ras Hanem, then let us trust to the warp for the voyage. I do not, with all respect, believe that we can afford the loss of time a normal-space journey will entail.’

There was a silence. To question the will of the Kharne in an Orders Conclave was boldness verging on insubordination. Brother Malchai frowned, and his fist tightened on his crozius.

Kharne Al Murzim remained staring into the heart of the circling hologram, his face unchanged. It was Ares Thuraman who replied, his voice a metallic snarl.

‘You forget yourself, Kerne.’

‘Forgive me, first captain. My Kharne, I meant no disrespect.’

‘I know you didn’t, Jonah,’ the Kharne said mildly. He straightened from his regard of the shimmering Kargad system.

‘I have been thinking on this very thing myself, and have spent hours in prayer, looking for guidance from He who guides us all. To trust to the lanes of normal space will entail a voyage of – Isa, enlighten us.’

The Chief Navigator cleared his throat and stepped into the ring of giants.

‘At least fifteen weeks, my lord.’

‘There you have it, brothers. Can the Guard hold out that long? There’s the rub.’

There was a crackle, and from a speaker buried in the central plinth they all suddenly heard the sepulchral tones of the Forge-Master, who was precluded by his bulk from attending the Conclave in person.

‘If they cannot, then what use are they? Brothers, humanity is frail, but not entirely without resource. And a full company of our kind is a loss we cannot afford to risk. To die in battle is one thing – but to be lost to the warp. That is waste, pure and simple.’

‘Chief Navigator, what think you?’ the Kharne asked. ‘Would you take to the warp for travel at this time?’

Isa Garakis exchanged glances with Brother Venann before he spoke, clearing his throat again.

‘Chapter Master, the warp is in a period of severe flux and turbulence, and has been for some months. If we took to it now, we could be in the Kargad System in a matter of days, or it might take weeks, or years, or we might re-enter normal space somewhere a thousand light years from our intended destination. There is simply no telling. The Wendakhen campaign is stirring up the immaterium at the moment, and rendering it extremely volatile, as all wars do.’

‘Psykers!’ Shaef Darric, captain of Fourth Company, snorted.

‘Thank you, Isa,’ the Kharne said gravely. He turned to face Kerne. ‘There is your answer, Jonah. I will not entrust Mortai to the warp. Whatever the situation you find when you reach Ras Hanem, I expect you to deal with it. Is that clear?’ We had discussed this, his eyes said.

Kerne bowed, knowing he had angered his Chapter Master, who was also his friend.

‘Very clear, my lord.’

‘If Mortai’s captain is in any apprehension about what lies before him, then perhaps he would welcome some support on his expedition,’ Brother Malchai said. A small, bleak smile played over his mouth.

‘Chapter Master, I would deem it an honour if you allowed me to act as Mortai Company’s Chaplain for the coming campaign, since it is currently lacking in spiritual guidance. Let me accompany Brother Kerne to Ras Hanem.’

‘An excellent idea,’ the Kharne said quietly. ‘I am sure Captain Kerne will welcome your assistance, Brother Malchai.’

Kerne bowed again, but said nothing. He was being punished, and he had earned it, but he still felt better for having aired his thoughts before his brothers.

Fornix is going to love this, he thought.