‘You are to be congratulated, shipmaster.’
‘I lost seven thousand men today, captain, and placed this flagship in extreme jeopardy. I do not warrant your congratulations.’
‘You are only human.’ Kerne smiled slightly. ‘Any word from the ground?’
‘Now that the enemy fleet is dispersed, vox transmissions to and from the surface should begin to filter through.’
‘Very well. If any do, have them forwarded to me on the flight deck at once. Phase two is about to begin. I will take Mortai down onto Ras Hanem in the next two hours, the first wave in drop pods, the second in the Thunderhawks. I want your destroyers detailed to assist with orbital bombardment as soon as I am on the ground and able to identify viable targets. Is that clear?’
‘Perfectly, captain.’
Jonah Kerne looked down on the tight face of the human before him.
‘Your daughter died well,’ he said.
Massaron looked away. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘Be worthy of her life, and death,’ Kerne told him. Then he turned and left the shadowed room, and strode out into the grandeur of the Ogadai’s nave without a backward glance.
The flight deck was frantic with activity. Jonah Kerne strode along it like a dark titan. The Thunderhawks were on their sleds, already warming up their engines, and the din was ear-splitting. Steam from the coolant systems hazed the air, and low-loaders piled high with shells were still pulling up to the rear of some of the gunships; Space Marines and human personnel alike were working steadily to pile more ammunition within the square-bellied craft.
There was no telling when they would be resupplied, once they were on the ground, so every Thunderhawk was carrying extra pallets of shells and ammo and energy-packs as well as its flight crew and a squad of Space Marines. Safety procedures were being quietly ignored. A small gamble, amid much bigger ones.
Kerne found Nureddin of Secundus supervising the loading of the transports. He was in a foul humour, having missed out on a place in the first wave because of the boarding casualties. Kerne thumped his shoulder-guard to get his attention. He had to shout to be heard above the clamour of the packed, echoing deck.
‘Wait for my word before you put down, brother – remember!’
‘I remember, Jonah. Try to land on your feet and not flat on your back.’ Nureddin grinned, and twitched his grey scalp-lock out of his eyes.
They shook hands in the ancient warrior grip, grasping each other’s forearms, the metal of their armour clinking together.
‘Good hunting, brother,’ Kerne said.
‘Good hunting, Jonah. Leave some of the killing for me.’
‘Always.’
He walked on down the deck. Out of the chaos, there was order coming. He nodded to Sergeant Rusei of Sextius, and Corvo of Septus, and they thumped their fists against the aquila on their breastplates. They had over a century in Mortai between them, and yet they looked as eager as new recruits.
Down the dank shaft of the elevator, to the drop pod holsters below. Here, it was darker, and the noise was cut off. This part of the ship was newer than the rest, the result of a refit some fifty years before. The Ogadai had been reworked and repaired so many times that Kerne doubted there was much of the original four-thousand year-old metal remaining. Like the Chapter itself, the composition of the thing changed, but its function remained.
The three lead squads of the assault had already embarked, and only the command pod still had one of the tall, leaf-shaped hatches open for entry. He clambered inside, thumping the door controls, and the ramp reared up and then hissed shut.
Pods, he thought. They were well named. Inside, there was little room for manoeuvre, and the light was a low red glow. He found his place at the central stanchion, the spine of the teardrop-shaped craft, and snapped himself into the restraints, finding the vox-link and plugging it into his helm.
They were all here. Heinos the Techmarine in his specially adapted harness. Fornix, his armour marked by the scabs of hasty repairs. He had never been vain about his appearance, but Kerne noted that his first sergeant had procured a power fist from somewhere and now his right hand ended in a mass of metal almost a metre across. No more chainswords then.
Passarion was there in his white armour, and next to him Jord Malchai in his sinister skull-helm. And lastly Elijah Kass, the psychic hood above his own helmet glowing faint blue.
Kerne touched the leather pouch he had strapped at his side. In it was a tattered rag upon which was woven a skull and weighing scales. Cerebrum et Haliaetum: Mortai’s banner since time immemorial.
He would unfurl it on the ground. The Dark Hunters did not have specified banner-bearers. As the battle unfolded, the company captain would single out a battle-brother he thought worthy of the honour and bestow the company symbol upon him, to carry for as long as he was able.
Kerne himself had carried that flag; it had been given to him by Al Murzim more than two centuries before. And Fornix had carried it through the first half of the Phobian battles, until promoted to sergeant. Then it had gone to three more Space Marines, all of whom had died carrying it.
More would die carrying it in the days to come. But the banner would rise up again every time, as it always had.
It endured. Mortai endured. The Dark Hunters remained, despite all the crises and wars of the last three thousand years.
Umbra Sumus, Kerne thought. We are shadows.
Nothing more than shadows and dust.
‘Launch in thirty seconds,’ the vox spoke into his ear.
‘Acknowledged.’ He raised a fist with three fingers out. The others strapped into the pod saluted him.
Lord, in Thy glory and Thy goodness, send me worthy foes to kill.
‘Ten seconds.’
The green light flicked on, and there was a tremendous jerk and crash as the drop pod was ejected from the hull of the Ogadai like a grape pip being spat out of a man’s mouth. Gravity faded, and Kerne rose in his restraints.
Three seconds later, the onboard nav systems kicked in and the thrusters fired. The Space Marines within were jolted once more as the tapered craft was nudged towards the atmosphere of Ras Hanem. The details of the descent were fed into Kerne’s helm display, and he watched as the numbers changed almost too quickly to be read. The blinking sigils of the other three pods were steady and green.
Then a series of other cursors flashed up on the display. The Thunderhawks were launching now. All of Mortai was in the air.
Jonah Kerne was taking ninety-eight Adeptus Astartes to the planet below, and they were bringing hell with them.
Part Three
Wrath of the Hunters
FOURTEEN
Cadems in Terram
The vox crackled and hissed in Kerne’s helm. ‘Captain, this is shipmaster Diez of the Arbion. Do you read me?’
Thirty-six seconds to impact. The drop pod was shunting and rattling like a tin can rolling down a cliff face, and gravity had kicked in once more. The three hundred kilos of Kerne’s armoured frame were fighting the restraints and the G-forces were compressing the blood in his chest. It was no time for pleasantries.
‘Send, over.’
‘We have contact with the ground. Imperial forces are still in possession of the citadel and the Armaments District. The spaceport is damaged, but may be serviceable, though it is under fire. Do you read?’
‘I read!’ he snapped. He was already readjusting his tactical plans as the information was absorbed. His pods were en route to Sol Square, the largest open space in the city of Askai, and the ungainly craft were not designed to be navigable once they were in the atmosphere. It would be like trying to make an arrow change direction when it was in mid-flight.