V
“Fall back! Fall back now!”
Renzo’s voice thundered through his mouth grill, amplified a dozen times by the enclosed space. Sewage splashed up his greaves as the Orks charged for them. His bolter flashed in the darkness and mingled with Ragnar’s bolter and the large calibre weaponry of the Greenskins. Vengeance Rounds pattered harmless off the heavy steel suits with a shower of purple sparks, the flux cores detonating harmless on the surface. Seuss swung his enormous powerfist at the nearest Meganob, ripping a chunk from its headpiece and exposing the creature’s bestial maw. It roared in its alien tongue, mouth filled with fangs as thick as a man’s fist. It clamped its claw around the Iron Hand’s fist and unleashed its shoota at point blank into his chest. The large calibre rounds ricocheted harmlessly from his plate but another Ork moved behind the Terminator and raised its claw. Unable to move, Seuss was helpless to stop the Ork from ripping through his arm, tearing it off just below the elbow. His wrathful roar was audible even over the firefight, followed by a searing hiss as Seuss unleashed the fury of his meltagun on the Meganob holding him. Flesh, bone and rolled steel evaporated instantly by the blast, Seuss turned and slammed his fist into the beast who took his arm, punching straight through its armoured torso and into the wall behind it. Seuss roared again as he ripped back and let the disruptive power field annihilate the beast.
“Seuss, fall back now!” Renzo yelled again. “There are too many to face alone, we must retreat to a stronger position!”
Seuss clumsily bent to pick up his severed arm, plodding backwards in the sewer tunnel. A krak missile from his cyclone launcher rocketed down the tunnel and smashed into the roof, pulling chunks of debris down on the Xenos. The meganobs began to tear apart the obstruction with their claws as the Killteam turned back down the tunnel. Raimos’ Bolt Pistol barked as he fired a final burst and then he too turned and followed his brothers.
“How dare you order my Killteam to retreat!” Myschor said on the open channel. “Killteam Myschor never retreats!”
“With due respect, Captain,” Ragnar shouted back, “I’ve no desire to meet the Emperor today!”
“Nor I, sir!” H’ghar agreed, his enormous hammer utterly obliterating a smaller Ork.
Myschor grunted as he smote another in two. His crimson cloak was mucky at the hem where the sewage had splashed over him, and his white and black shoulder pad was covered in Xenos gore. He booted a fallen Ork in the head and ran another through, impaling it on his blade. He made no attempt to hide his frustration or annoyance.
“Captain, stay here if you wish, but you will do so alone!” Renzo shouted. Myschor slammed his blade into the enormous sheath that Killian carried, the squire’s Laspistol unleashing ruby streams of energy at the Orks who assailed them.
“When this is over, Sergeant, there will be a reckoning!” the Black Templar grunted. “Killteam, fall back!”
As one the Deathwatch turned back down the way they came. Renzo slung his bolter and knelt next to Maximus, who was propped against the wall. His pistol lay beside him, spent, and blood spurted uncontrolled from the wound in his neck. Whatever toxin the Orks used was stopping the Larraman’s Organ from clotting the Ultramarine’s blood. Renzo reached down to pull his fellow up but the veteran shoved away his hand.
“Just go, Varus. I can buy time.”
Renzo stared at his compatriot for a moment, then nodded. The Ultramarine pulled a trio of krak grenades from his belt as Renzo ran after the Killteam. The sounds of the Orks’ mechanised warplate faded out as he caught up to the rest of the Killteam. Seuss was still cradling his severed limb; however, he had ripped the flesh inside out of the gauntlet. Mordrad was far up ahead, He listened briefly for the distinctive thwomp of the grenade. None came.
“How did this happen?” Raimos asked. “How in the Emperor’s name did we get ambushed like that?!”
+ 30 hours earlier +
The Strike Cruiser
Darkstorm hurtled through the Warp en route to Cretacium I, capital world of the Quaxel Sub-sector and base of operations to the Ork horde. It was one of hundreds of Hive Worlds in the Pandora Sector, subject to numerous attacks by the Ork empire of Charadon over the millennia. It was home to the Cretacia Light Infantry Corps, a regiment of Imperial Guard with a penchant for close quarters firefights and closed environments. The entire planet was covered in Hive structures, its chief export being labour and manpower to its neighbours. It would only take a few hours to reach the planet. One of the primary reasons for Constan’s selection as the headquarters of the Pandora Deathwatch was the extremely stable routes through the Warp. However, on this day, the Warp seemed to lash out at the ship as it passed, and 2nd Lt. Annis swallowed nervously as the ship shuddered into the Immaterium. He had always hated interstellar travel, from the moment he enrolled was enrolled in the Imperial Navy by the Schola. There was something unnatural about the Warp, like an itch on the brain he couldn’t scratch. It was just so unreal in its very nature. Annis muttered a blessing upon the Machine God and the Emperor that this wouldn’t be the time that the Gellar Field finally failed. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A sudden whoosh of air from his right, followed by the unmistakable sound of Space Marine boots, had him spring from his seat and stand rigid on display. He looked straight ahead by he knew without doubt that the oarsmen and gunners behind him were doing the same.
The hulking warriors stomped into the cockpit, Captain Myschor leading them. His latest squire followed in his wake, carrying the Captain’s enormous blade on his back, carapace armour polished to an onyx sheen. Myschor approached the command throne, next to which stood Captain Jerum, the
Darkstorm’s commanding officer. Unlike himself, Jerum wore the black cloak of an Imperial Navy officer. Jerum’s word was law, and his law decreed that only himself could wear the ceremonial outfit when not on parade. All other personnel were to don only functional black bodysuits when on duty, and grey when not. Jerum saluted sharply to the Space Marine commander, who nodded assent. They briefly exchanged words that Annis couldn’t hear before Jerum told them to stand at ease. His appearance was repugnant. Greasy haired, greasy skin covered in spots, and going soft in the middle. His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. But no finer Captain could be found in the entire Segmentum. He was harsh but fair, rewarding success duly, punishing failure or dissent without mercy, and a master of diplomacy and void warfare like no other. Annis was about to retake his seat when Jerum waived him over. Myschor swept past him, a crimson cloak whipping the Lieutenant in the face as he passed. The rest of the squad filed past him, leaving a single Space Marine he did not recognised. The new arrival bore a sculpted bird on his shoulder, black with a ruby at its heart. His armour was mostly unadorned, and he appeared ordinary. An Iron Skull marking was stamped onto the forehead of his helmet, which covered his face. Annis approached the pair by the command throne.
“Captain Jerum, Lord Astartes, how may I be of service?” he asked automatically. Jerum was meticulous about the manners of his crewmen when addressing superiors.
“This, Lieutenant, is Sergeant Renzo,” the captain answered. “The sergeant has been detached to Captain Myschor’s squad and is in need of quarters and a guide around the ship.”
Internally, Annis sighed. Although he was technically speaking third in command of the
Darkstorm, Jerum seemed to think he was some sort of all-purpose fetch-monkey. Any and all command tasks were delegated to 1st Lieutenant Camu, a pale and lithe figure with a hooked nose. Annis’ main duty was fetching port, delivering messages and acting as a glorified, overqualified tour guide.
“Aye Captain, as you command!” was his simple response. He turned to the newest member of the Deathwatch. “Greetings Sergeant, a pleasure to serve. Please follow me.”
The Sergeant followed him out of the bridge and to the nearest stairwell. Annis was a tall man, but his head barely came level with the sergeant’s chest. The Astartes walked slowly, him quickly, his many steps barely keeping pace with the Sergeant before he realised who was following who. Annis scurried up the next few flights of stairs, the black-armoured warrior striding powerfully behind him. He quickly turned a corner, trying to end the tour as quickly as possible. The Astartes loped along beside him, scanning the corridors ahead with quick glances.
He’s scanning for potential threats, Annis realised. It’s in his DNA. Always on guard. Always at war.
“Lieutenant Annis, correct?” Renzo said suddenly. Annis jumped at the booming voice, the tension in his shoulders and back returning swiftly. The Astartes noticed his unease. “Apologies Lieutenant, I merely wished to properly acquaint myself.”
Annis stopped and forced himself to meet the marine’s gaze. The black helmet peered down at him, great iron studs pressed into its temple next to the Iron Skull and baleful, red eyes staring back. Renzo reached up and there was a hiss as he removed the helmet. The face beneath was blocky and scarred, just like every other Astartes he had ever seen. Muddy-brown hair cut close to the scalp. Seven, small, silver beads had been riveted to the Astartes forehead. He had a crooked nose. Broken noses were extremely common in the Deathwatch’s line of work. A thin mouth was pulled up into a grimace by his many scars. The mouth twitched and the same booming voice assailed Annis’ ears.
“I am Varus Renzo, battle-brother of the Blood Ravens chapter and Sergeant of the Deathwatch. A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant,” Renzo said proudly, extended a hand towards the Navy officer. The lieutenant glanced nervously at the extended hand, then cautiously took it. Rather, he placed his hand inside Renzo’s grip, the mighty fist closing completely over the human one.
“You are afraid of me, Lieutenant?” Renzo asked suddenly. Annis looked up in panic.
“No my lord! I-I-I-I-I- ” he stammered, feeling the breath tighten in his chest and his heart quicken. He stopped as the Blood Raven held up a hand.
“Lieutenant, if you were not afraid of me I would name you a madman.” Annis breathed out finally, confused but relieved that he had not drawn the sergeant’s ire. “You have nothing to fear from me, Lieutenant.”
“Forgive me, my lord -”
“Sergeant will suffice.”
“Forgive me, Sergeant,” he nodded, “I did not mean offense, but the Astartes have always terrified me.”
“May I ask why, Lieutenant?”
“My name is Viktor Annis, Sergeant. I care little for my rank as it seems to hold little meaning aboard this ship. Annis will suffice.” The Blood Raven nodded assent. “The reason is that you are all so tall, and menacing. You shake my hand like a child grasps its parent’s finger. If you were inclined, you could crush me in one hand in the blink of an eye. There’s nothing I nor anyone else on this ship could do about it.”
“You speak about us as if we were traitors. Have you ever seen a heretic?”
“Aye, Sergeant. Twelve years ago, a heretic fleet appeared from nowhere and ransacked our battlegroup. They boarded the ship I was on. I’ll never forget that day.”
“You are lucky to have survived, Annis.”
Annis closed his eyes as they reached their first destination. He opened the door for Renzo, inscribed with the Astartes’ name, rank and insignia on the cold steel door. The room inside was dim and bare, consisting only of a cot, armour and weapons wrack, a desk and a sanitary chamber. The cot was identical to those found in Annis’ quarters and the quarters of every Naval officer, Guardsman and crewman across the galaxy. A simple steel slab hung from a chain on the wall, and was topped with a thin mattress and a scrap of pillow. The only difference was that Renzo’s cot was large enough to accommodate two or even three other men.
Renzo strode past him into the room, and the lieutenant watched him unbuckle a sword from his waist and place it on the wall. Renzo placed his helmet in the alcove next to it and spun around to face him.
“The mess is straight down this corridor on the left, the armoury and training area on the right,” Annis said.
“Thank you, Annis. This shall be sufficient for my needs. Shall we continue around the ship?”
“Forgive me, Sergeant but I don’t understand, what more would you like to see?” The Deathwatch logo glinted in the poor lighting, the red eyes of the helmet watching him over the Astartes’ shoulder.
“I wish to familiarise myself with the layout of the ship. The engine rooms, weapons deck, flight deck, the chief engineers and crewman as well. I will be with this Killteam for the foreseeable future and I wish to learn all I can about your vessel.”
“As you wish, Sergeant.”
The pair exited the room and headed right towards the training area. Renzo scanned the corridor as they walked, his head swivelling just slightly. The metal corridor echoed faintly with the sounds of the groaning ship as it rocked in the Warp. The floor swayed faintly and the lieutenant felt his stomach heave as it did. The tapping of his military boots was drowned by the crashing ceramite feet of the Astartes who followed him. A pair of maintenance serfs wearing grey uniforms turned the corner and walked towards them, stopping to salute the passing officer and Space Marine. The pair continued past them into the armoury only to find it empty. Renzo shrugged and suggested they carry on. They left via the nearby stairwell, heading upwards. Just as they reached the next floor, the ship lurched to port as the Immaterium lashed out at them again. Annis grabbed the wall to keep from falling, taking in short, quick breaths to calm his racing heart.
“You dislike Warp travel?” Renzo asked.
Annis nodded slowly, exhaling.
“Hate it. Always have.”
“Why so?”
Annis looked up at the him. He saw only calmness on Renzo’s face, totally unfazed by the ship’s movements.
“When I’m on the bridge, I look out through the pictfeeds into the Warp. It doesn’t look like much, just a barrage of colour. But it sets my teeth on edge. When I look out into the Warp, I feel it staring back at me. I know that sounds ridiculous, downright lunacy, actually, but I can’t help feeling like its watching me too.”
Renzo’s expression didn’t change.
“When we make the jump into the Warp, it feels like we’re invading some enormous beast. Like we’re a virus or disease infesting it. And it knows. Sometimes, when the ship rocks like that, I’m afraid that its finally decided to purge us from its body.”
Renzo still didn’t change. He only stared back. Whether in curiosity or contempt, Annis did not know.
“Anyway, my fears are but my own, and not something you would understand, Sergeant. Space Marines don’t feel fear, right?”
“True,” Renzo admitted, continuing after the lieutenant. “We do not feel fear. But I understand well enough. Sometimes I stare out into the void also, and feel all the malignant eyes of the Xenos starring back. They hunger for our flesh, our blood, our galaxy. But it is my responsibility to stop them, and Emperor damn me if I don’t stare right back.”
The pair continued in silence for a little while before Renzo spoke again.
“You mentioned before that your ship was boarding by traitor Astartes. If you don’t mind my asking, how did you survive?”
Annis smiled.
“At that point I had been assigned to Battlegroup Delta of the Ultima Fleet. We were transporting several squads of Space Sharks back to their homeworld after their own ship had been destroyed. They cut down the enemy and saved many lives that day.”
“And yet, you still fear us?”
The lieutenant stopped dead and looked up at the Sergeant in defiance. He felt his face flush briefly before quelling his anger.
“It is because them, I fear you. I was there. I have never seen something so savage, so terrifying, in all my years aboard a vessel. The butchered the traitors, tore them apart. Such fury, bloodlust. I’ve had a hard time being around Space Marines since seeing that.”
“The Carcharadons Astra are something else, Annis,” Renzo retorted. “Not all of us display such ferocity in battle.”
“A shark in a raven’s feathers is still a shark,” he grunted. “I must admit though, I have never met one of your Chapter before.”
“You surprise me lieutenant. I’d assume one of your rank would be more knowledgeable about his allies.”
“Regretfully not, Sergeant.”
Renzo stopped and looked up over Annis’ shoulder. He turned and saw a second Space Marine, behind him.
“Sergeant Maximus, forgive me, my lord, I did not realise you were there!” he said quickly, stepping back to allow the pair to speak. He bowed his head as the two giants conversed.
“Fear not, Annis, you have caused no offense,” Maximus said in a smooth, even tone. “I must simply speak with Sergeant Renzo for a moment.”
“Is something wrong, Achilles?” Renzo asked, confused.
“No, Varus, though I wanted to invite you to the sparring cages before we reached Cretacium.”
“An invitation I would gladly accept, but surely there is little time to spar before we get there?”
“There is still a few hours yet, and I’m eager to test your mettle, brother!” Maximus laughed. Renzo laughed too. Their powerful voices sent vibrations through the enclosed space and rattled Annis’ chest. The Blood Raven turned to him.
“Perhaps we best finish this tour another time, Annis?”
“Of course, Sergeant. I will take my leave to the bridge, then,” he said, saluting to the two Space Marines.
“Hold on!”
Annis held.
“In the meantime, I would ask a favour, Lieutenant. Could you draft a list for my own reading?” Renzo asked politely. Annis looked at him pointedly. He was not used to doing favours, only giving out orders and following his own.
“Of course, Sergeant, as you wish. What should this list entail?”
“Details of the personnel aboard the cruiser. Names are unimportant, I need numbers of Armsmen, weapon loaders, Tech-Priests, auxiliary personnel. The ships armament, defences and capabilities as well. Can you do this for me?”
Annis was confused as to why a Deathwatch Sergeant would need such a list, but he had long forgotten how to say no to his superiors.
“It will be as you command, Sergeant. If that will be all, I will return to my station.”
Renzo nodded, and Annis saluted the sergeants began to head back to the bridge. As he disappeared into the bowels of the ship, the two Astartes headed back down where Renzo had just come from. They thumped down the steps two at a time, the newer sergeant a little glad he did not have to slow his pace anymore. They made quick time through the ship.
“Pray tell, Varus, what do you need such a list for?” Maximus asked as they walked.
Renzo grinned.
“Are you familiar with the motto of my chapter, brother?” Maximus shook his head.
“I’m afraid not.”
“‘Knowledge is Power. It is an old Terran saying, and one my chapter uses as both creed and warcry.”
“Ah, yes, I recognise it.
Ipsa scientia potestas est.”
“The very same. The low gothic translation is not as impressive, of course, but the meaning is the same. The Blood Ravens believe that by studying our enemy in depth, learning all his secrets and weaknesses, you can defeat him in a single stroke. The Great Father Azariah Vidya taught us such tactics. He used his psychic gifts to find all the weaknesses of the foe and then struck with such timing, such precision, that the enemy war effort collapsed almost immediately.”
“An ingenious strategy, the Codex was founded on such principles. On Macragge I was taught that under our Primarch, the Ultramarines of old would develop theoretical scenarios for fighting all manner of foes, even brother Astartes, a system that Lord Guilliman would use to develop the Codex. The marine who developed the anti-astartes theoretical was censured for it, but his musings helps the Legion survive the Battle of Calth.”
Renzo grinned at the story.
“Thus, proving our tenets true. If that marine had dared not to consider the option, and learn a strategy to defeat them, neither you nor I might be stood here today. Who was the marine in question?”
“His name has long since been forgotten. But his legacy lives on in every Ultramarine who bears the rank of Sergeant.”
“Pray tell, Achilles.”
“The marine in question was a sergeant. Due to his theoretical he wore a red helm of censure when the fighting commenced. Supposedly, Lord Guilliman ordered his men to cut vox communications in case those thrice-damned traitors were listening, and instead ordered officers and sergeants to paint their helmets with the blood of the fallen to identify themselves as commanders. The Ultramarines would know who to follow, but to the Word Bearers they would look like miscreants and disgraced, not worthy of targeting. It is said that when he wrote the codex, he decreed that Sergeants bear a red helm in this method.”
“Fascinating!” Renzo exclaimed. They had reached the training hall and servitors began to carefully remove their armour. Beneath, they wore identical black bodygloves, covered in plug sockets where their power armour connected to their nervous system. Renzo shuddered as the connector between his shoulder blades slide out of his skin. “I would love to hear more of this!”
“Surely you must have heard the storied history of the Ultramarines?!” Maximus laughed in disbelief, rubbing his wrists and forearms.
“Shockingly, no.”
“How is that possible?”
“Macragge is not the centre of the universe, brother!”
“That depends on who you ask,” he grinned back.
Renzo opened the door to the sparring cage on the left, stepping inside and relishing the feel of the practice pads beneath his feet. The rest of the Killteam were too occupied with their own training to pay any attention. He spied Gascoigne, Seuss, Barachial and Bharbo at the shooting range, each taking down the holographic Eldar with precision shots, reloading and switching weapons with lightning speed. The Chaplain was not switching weapon, his deactivated Plasma Pistol firing holographic bolts down the range, each one evaporating its target’s head. H’ghar and Ragnar were fighting a combat servitor with short gladii, parrying its razor-sharp blade-arms with flawless synchronisation. Mordrad trained alone against another hologram system, attempting to corral a brood of Tyranids with his shield, thrusting with his spear at any that came too close. Myschor and Raimos were duelling in the adjacent cage. They wielded a sword apiece, cutting and thrusting with grace and fury. They were almost evenly matched, until Myschor feinted to the left and then scored a thin scratch on the Blood Angel’s torso.
Maximus stepped into the cage behind him. He had stripped off the shirt of his bodyglove, revealing a broad chest of muscle and knotted scars. Renzo copied him and removed his shirt. He was not as broad as the Ultramarine but taller and with a longer reach. An ugly lump of scar tissue covered his stomach where a squiggoth had gored him decades earlier. More scars covered his chest and back, each one marking a victory in the field, earned by blood and pain.
“Don’t hold back, Raven!” Maximus called playfully, aiming a fist right for his head. Renzo saw the feint coming from a mile away, easily avoiding the opening and blocking the follow up strike with his forearm. He quickly pulled Maximus towards him, pushing him down and bringing his knee up towards his chest. The simple counter was blocked and Maximus switched his stance, breaking free of his grasp and swinging a foot towards Renzo’s head. Renzo blocked the strike and then they were in full flow, punches and kicks being exchanged at superhuman speed, blocking and dodging each attack the other made. They switched stance and style, both Sergeants trying to figure out the style and flow of the other. Renzo tried a push kick after Maximus missed with an uppercut, putting all his force behind it and catching the Ultramarine clean in the chest. Maximus was flung against the steel cage but rolled away from the flying knee that followed. Renzo grunted as his knee crashed full force into the reinforced post that held the cage. Wasting no time, he felt hands grip him by the shoulder and hurl him to the ground. His vision blacked for a split second as his head hit the ground, and returned just in time for him to roll away from a stomp aimed at his face. He kicked out and caught the veteran on the ankle, dropping him. Renzo leapt on top, trying to capitalise on the opening. Maximus wrapped his legs around his waist and covered up as Renzo launched a flurry of elbows and punches, aiming for the ribs and throat. He grunted with each strike, putting maximum force behind each blow. Maximus pushed his incoming rib punch aside and tried an armbar. Not wishing to test his joint against Astartes strength, he jumped to his feet, lifting the Ultramarine up and slamming him into the side of the cage. The Ultramarine let go and dropped to the floor, quickly rising with a punch to the inner thigh. Renzo stepped back and twisted to avoid the Ultramarine’s powerful punch. The veteran had miscalculated however, and overextended himself. He stepped in behind and wrapped his arm around his opponent’s neck, one hand on the back of his head. Maximus slammed an elbow into his ribs but Renzo ignored the pain and locked the hold in, pressing his knee into the back of Maximus’ and breaking his stance. They paused, holding completely still. Then Renzo let Maximus drop to the floor.
He stepped back and breathed deeply. Maximus rose, rubbing his bruised neck.
“You aren’t half bad, Blood Raven!” he laughed. “Although I would say you got lucky but –”
“But you would be lying through your teeth, Ultramarine!” Renzo quipped back. “You aren’t half bad though. You almost had me with the armlock before.”
“I don’t see why you are commemorating him, Renzo,” came the gruff voice of their Captain. He stood outside the cage, watching them with annoyance written on his dull features. His brow furrowed as he glared at them, his lip twisted by the ragged scar on his cheek. “Maximus knows better than to go for the submission.”
Myschor opened the cage and stepped inside. He surveyed the two sergeants, moving his gaze between them. He stepped between them, staring Maximus dead in the eye. Maximus’ jaw tightened as he stared down the Templar, ready for the abuse he was about to receive.
“If Achilles had any fight in him,” Myschor continued, still addressing Renzo, “he would have snapped your arm without hesitation. Better yet, he shouldn’t have been in the position he was in to start with. If he ever listened to me, Achilles would have finished you in the first instance.”
The pair stared each other down for a long time, daring each other to make a move.
“And in doing so, rendered me useless and crippled for the forthcoming mission, an idiotic move on anyone’s part,” Renzo stated bluntly, feeling his temper rise. He did not like Myschor. Not one bit. Myschor turned slowly to him. He quickly became aware of the rest of the Killteam watching him, having ceased their own training to watch the confrontation. He could see both shock and glee on their faces.
“My sincerest apologies, Sergeant!” Myschor said icily. “I was not aware mastery of hand to hand combat was one of the many, many, talents on your extensive resume!”
At that point, Renzo realised, he had made a grave miscalculation.
“Perhaps, Sergeant, you’d be so kind as to demonstrate your skills? I was actually quite impress with you a moment ago, may I ever so ask you to give me the courtesy of a sparring session?” the captain asked, sarcasm and ire dripping from his tone. He stepped towards Renzo, stopping mere inches from his face. Myschor’s nose was the only unblemished feature on his face. It was long and perfectly straight. His nostrils flairs as he glared at Renzo, looking up slightly towards the taller Astartes. It was only here than Renzo realised how short Myschor was compared to the average space marine. In fact, he was the shortest in the Killteam.
Neither of them moved. They just stared at each other, noses almost touching. Renzo felt his choler rise as he stared down the Templar, seeing the captain’s storm cloud eyes filled with loathing. He wasn’t prepared to back down from this challenge. He nodded.
The pair selected weapons from the nearby rack. Renzo chose a longsword, reckoning it to be similar to Remembrance in length and weight. Myschor stood opposite with an identical blade. Maximus slammed closed the cage door and bolted it. He went and stood between Seuss, who’s bionic legs made him intimidatingly tall, and Gascoigne. The Raptor Marine turned to Ragnar.
“Three to one, Renzo doesn’t last a minute?” he asked the Wolf.
“I calculate a ninety-two percent chance of Myschor’s victory,” Seuss rattled one.
“Trying to cheat me, Lautrec?” Ragnar muttered.
“Always,” he responded.
“Give Varus a chance,” Maximus cut in. “He’s better than he looks. And he’s been doing this a hell of a lot longer than Myschor.”
“Do you wish to bet your confectionary for the week?” Gascoigne asked him.
“Seussy says ninety-two percent, Achilles, it’s a no brainer.”
“Don’t call me Seussy,” the Iron Hand replied, his bionic eye locked on the combatants.
Maximus didn’t look away from the Astartes in the cage.
“To first blood?” he heard Renzo ask. Myschor nodded.
“What do you say, Achilles?” the Raptor asked.
He paused.
“Aye. A week’s confectionary on Renzo.”
Renzo raised his blade in salute, giving his captain a nod of respect. Myschor continued to glare at him, his trimmed, dark hair bringing dark shadows to his face. Renzo held his sword out, determined to receive the gesture in return before they began. He was normally not prideful enough to be stubborn, but Myschor’s arrogance rubbed him wrong and he was not prepared to back down. He held his sword out at the motionless captain, aiming the tip at him in defiance.
Without warning, Myschor batted away his blade and slashed. Renzo was stunned, staring at the slice on his pectoral muscle. The wound was thin and shallow, but a single droplet of blood splattered on the grey mats.
“Tough luck, sergeant!” he laughed. “I’ll enjoy that sticky bun you always get!”
Maximus grunted in annoyance but kept his eyes on the Blood Raven. Renzo stared at his cut on his chest. It barely even registered as pain but the wound to his pride hurt.
“Again,” Myschor said, flicking blood from his blade.
Renzo felt his heartrate spike.
“Not enough honour to salute before a fight?” he growled.
Myschor snorted.
“Would you give the same courtesy to the alien? They wouldn’t. Give an Ork or an Eldar and moment’s hesitation and they’ll cut you down. They’re stronger or faster than you, and they don’t have morality or honour like us.”
“What do you say, double or nothing?” Gascoigne grinned.
Maximus looked between the arguing space marines.
“Double or nothing, now shut up, Lautrec!”
“This is a sparring session, and I’m no Ork.” Renzo said angrily.
Myschor snorted for a second time.
“We’re training for the field, Renzo! Now stop your snivelling and fight!”
Renzo did, launching a flurry of overhead strikes, smashing down with as much force as his muscle could muster. Myschor stepped back calmly, catching and turning aside each strike with calmness and ease. Renzo next slash was also turned aside, but he twisted, using the extra momentum to spin into a side slash. He roared and put all his might behind it. Myschor casually stepped back and smashed his fist across his mouth. Renzo reeled, spitting out blood from his split mouth, a tooth coming free alongside it. He wiped his face and glared at Myschor, slashing widely at his opponent.
“I recalculate a 98.7% chance of defeat for Renzo,” Seuss droned from the side.
He thrust and cut, and was ready for Myschor’s counterattack. He caught the incoming blade on his own and twisted, ripping it free of the Templar’s grasp, but instead of retreating, Myschor stepped inside his arc and landed a torrent of punches at his unprotected abdomen. Unable to use his long blade, Renzo could only wrap his free arm around the captain’s head and push him down, slamming his knee up towards Myschor’s head. Myschor blocked it easily and wrapped his arms around Renzo’s waist, blocking all power from his legs. The Black Templar planted his feet and twisted, and flung the Blood Raven against the side of the cage with an almighty crash. He let to his feet, attempting to use his long blade to keep Myschor at bay. He tried another cut but Myschor just raised his forearm, the blade clattering off with a metallic clang. Stunned, Myschor was easily able to close the gap and punched him square in the jaw, before grabbing him again. Renzo slammed his elbow down but Myschor lifted him high into the air, slamming him down with his full Astartes strength. A space marine weighs about the same as a full grown bullgrox, and the impact of his landing shook the metal fencing and the floor. His landing knocked the sword from his hand and then Myschor was on top of him, raining blow after blow. His arm was trapped between Myschor’s legs and his other under a knee. Defenceless, he could only wait until the Captain decided to end the fight. Again and again, Myschor’s fist slammed into his face and he felt another tooth being knocked loose.
Myschor pulled his fist back for the finishing blow, but as he did, the ground beneath them heaved and the Templar was hurled off Renzo. On the ground, Renzo was barely affected, but the Killteam standing nearby we’re thrown to the ground. An ear-splitting screech of metal forced them to cover their sensitive ears. Another tremor rocked the ship and then was still. They cautiously rose to their feet. Seuss rose quickly and touched his ear, which Renzo now noticed had been replaced by a tiny metal box. The Iron Hand pressed the box and spoke into the tiny vox unit.
“Captain Jerum, report. What happened?”
The ship’s comms activated with a crackle of static and Annis’ even, Schola-raised accent played out over the training hall.
“Attention
Darkstorm crew and passengers. We have hit unexpected Warp turbulence and are currently investigating. Hold for further information.”
“On your feet, Sergeant,” Myschor said, standing over Renzo. He looked up at the offered hand, reaching out and grabbing it. Myschor hurled him to his feet. Renzo could feel the hand metal beneath his fingers and realised that Myschor had an augmetic arm. He looked the captain in the eye, seeing stormy eyes glaring back at him.
“What’s happening, Odyises?” H’ghar boomed from nearby. The Iron Hand was holding his vox unit and held one hand up for quiet. H’ghar stood next to him, almost as tall as Seuss with his long augmetic legs.
“They are talking to the Navigator now,” he replied simply. A burst of static came out of the comms and Annis spoke again.
“This is Annis. Our Navigator reports that the Warp has become unusually turbulent on our path. She is plotting a new course as I speak and we will continue momentarily. Our new path will require a slight detour. ETA to planet-side; thirty standard hours. Annis out.”
“By my arse cheeks, I’ll be stuck here another day with you lot?” Ragnar growled, barring his fangs.
“Quiet Ragnersson!” Barachial yelled. “This is not the time for joviality. We will be severely delayed in our battle plan. Captain!”
Myschor jumped down the steps of the cage, Renzo behind him.
“The Chaplain is correct,” he said bluntly. “Continue training or pray, rest in four hours. I will retire to revise my strategy. Barachial will accompany me.” He glanced angrily at Renzo, and then stormed out of the hall, the Chaplain hot on his heels.
“Who said I was joking?” Ragnar muttered, staring after the Chaplain. Maximus slapped him on the back of the head. They dispersed and resumed training.
Renzo stepped wiped blood from his mouth and chest and put his power armour back on. He walked slowly over to where Gascoigne and Bharbo were practising their shooting. He picked up his bolter from the wargear transport and took a spot in the middle. He ran his tongue along his teeth as he gunned down the holograms, playing with the hole where his teeth used to be.