Exitus Ultima Chapter 33

"I don't like the sound of that wind," Persion muttered.

Furion concurred, "Indeed, a mortal man would have been stripped to the bone by now."

"I'm more worried about the gears," Smyth observed, "They keep slipping."

"It will hold, Toran assured them, "Pride of Lujan has come through worse than this. The machine Spirit has never failed us before, it will not fail us today."

Toran wished he was as confident as he sounded, for the Land Raider was struggling. Seven hours out from the swirling vortex that was once Dramacus and they'd barely covered fifty kilometres. Travelling on flat ground as they were they should practically be at Vaticer city-state by now, instead they moved at a crawl. A howling wind screeched over armoured plates, salt particles moving so fast in the gale they acted as a sand-blaster, scouring the hull ceaselessly. Toran tried not to imagine what the coarse particles were doing to the heraldry, and the tank's Machine Spirit made its displeasure known in slipped gears and chugging coughs from the multi-fuel engine. Tracks whined as they spun, stripped of all lubrication as toothed gears ground on exposed metal. The Techmarines would pitch a fit when they inspected the damage.

To distract himself Toran moved to Arvael. The Librarian's pain had not diminished, he stood with his head on a rattling wall, eyes squeezed shut in torment. Toran knew the psyker would have felt Dramacus' death throes, the wails of mortal lives being extinguished sensed in ways no other could know. Toran dearly wished he could leave the Librarian to rest, but there were more pressing matters.

He stepped over to Arvael and asked, "Brother-Librarian, are you hale?"

"I endure," Arvael breathed.

"The death toll, it hurt you?"

"Dramacus did more than die, it was excised from reality, dropped into the hungry depths of the Warp. The living souls we left behind, they shall burn for eternity, made playthings of Daemons. Truly those who died early were the lucky ones."

"Damn Agrippa," Toran snarled, "The Marines Malevolent have no honour!"

Arvael lifted his head, "Captain Agrippa did what he had to do. He made a hard call, and it was the right one."

"You call slaughtering innocent righteous?!" Toran growled irately.

"I call it necessary," Arvael sighed, "I am no stranger to dark choices, I too have had to make stern judgements in my time. It is a heavy burden."

Toran shook his head, "I would never make such a choice as he did."

"I have seen you order the deaths of those exposed to Chaos," Arvael pointed out.

"The tainted and corrupt, those shown the true face of the enemy. Even the risk of Heresy cannot be countenanced, but to gun down people simply for fleeing? To shoot the innocents in the back, it is an insult to the principles of the Storm Heralds."

"Principles are a fine thing," Arvael agreed, "But none are higher than duty. You are a fine Captain, you would die for your principles, but know there are choices you will never be forced to make, because others make sure the situation does not arise."

"So, you would cross any line to achieve your ends?!" Toran hissed.

"Not any line," Arvael muttered glancing at Jediah, "Some boundaries are too great to cross."

"Some days I do not recognise you as the young boy who came to us."

"That boy is long dead, I am who I must be. And you can tell Furion to take his hand off his Crozius, I am not possessed."

Toran stepped back and saw Furion had indeed been listening in. The Chaplain seemed concerned and his hand was on his weapon's handle. As a Chaplain it was his duty to watch the Librarians, and execute them at the first sign of Daemonic possession. But today he seemed content that Arvael was not corrupted.

Toran sniffed, "We must move faster."

"We move as fast as we can," Furion replied, "Unless you wish to get out and push?"

"At this rate it will be days to Vaticer."

"And there is no guarantee we can find a craft capable of taking us to orbit when we get there."

Toran eyed him, "That's not exactly inspiring."

"You would prefer comforting lies?" Furion questioned, "The harsh truth may be unpalatable, but is a firmer foundation for eventual victory."

"You think there is a victory to be found in this catastrophe?"

Furion pursed his lips, "Two attempts have the forces of Chaos made on our Gene-father's life, two attempts have failed, thanks in no small part to you. Roboute Guilliman yet lives and so long as he does then we remain ahead of the enemy's ploys. To win the foe must end his life and so long as his hearts beat victory remains possible. The Traitors and the Daemons may kill millions in their fumbling efforts, but until they terminate the Primarch they have not defeated us."

"Spoken like a Master of Sanctity," Toran said with a wry smile.

"Do not hasten that day by wishing for it," Furion chided "I will be with you till this is done."

Their conversation came to a halt as Pride of Lujan bucked hard. They'd hit something, throwing everyone forward with an unexpected jolt. Toran's boots did not move but his ligaments stretched as he swayed wildly, nearly overbalancing. He recovered swiftly but the Land Raider jolted again as the Brother-Driver cursed loudly.

"What happened?!" Toran barked.

"We ran into the vehicle ahead, they've broken down in our path!" Mesquit snarled.

"Go around!" Furion barked.

"I can barely see out the pict-lens, if we veer off from the convoy we'll never find them again."

"Everyone out!" Toran commanded as he donned his helm. The side hatches slid open and the wind howled inside. Toran had never been struck so harshly by the elements, not even during the Emperor's Storm that bedevilled his homeworld. Claws of wind tried to snatch him off his feet and his cloak billowed out like a sail, trying to fling him away. Salt particles hit his plate like bullets, pinging off Ceramite with a constant rattle. Autosenses were nearly blind, barely able to see two metres beyond the hatch and his ears hissed static as the vox screeched in disrupted frequencies.

"Frak," Persin snarled as he blocked his eyes with an augmetic hand, "This isn't normal weather!"

"No," Arvael concurred, "The Dark Gods summon a storm to stop us, "We shall be tested."

"Smyth, hold tight to that Standard," Toran ordered.

"It'll take more than wind to break my grip," Smyth growled as he wrapped both hands around the pole.

Toran gripped his sword's hilt tight as he stepped through the door. Blackness engulfed him, deeper than the murk that haunted the bottom of ocean trenches. Even Space Marine eyes could barely make out the vehicle ahead, a Land Raider Redeemer in colours indistinguishable. Shadowy forms laboured over it, trying to clear fused salt from the tracks, but obviously struggling. Toran was aghast, Land Raiders drove through acid fog and ammonia seas untroubled, but this tempest had bested them. Arvael was right, there was foul magic in the air.

Furion's skull helm turned to him and yelled, "..."

"What?!" Toran barked.

"... tracks..." Furion repeated.

Toran saw Mesquit had exited too, hacking at the gears of Pride of Lujan. Salt was accumulating fast, fusing the mechanisms into a solid mass. Toran's hearts fell, the machine had carried them through war and calamity and never faltered, never failed. It had stood in battle with the Third and was counted a Brother for its stern resolve and unflagging endurance. It had been Pride of Lujan's Lascannons that banished the Daemon Harbinger, on another world and in another war. Now it was stuck solid.

"Clear the tracks!" Toran yelled.

"..." Smyth cried.

Toran grimaced in frustration, "Persion, boost the vox!"

Persion replied, "..."

"Damnation, where's Novak?!"

"..." Furion barked.

"Novak?!" Toran called, "Novak!"

"Here!" a deep growl roared. Through the storm a towering bulk waded. Novak, pushing through the tempest. He walked in a crouch, shield held low over his legs and angled into the wind. It was all that was keeping his pistons from jamming as the vehicles had, an awkward pose but at least he could move.

"Novak, can you push the Land Raider clear?" Toran called.

Novak booming voice was just discernible, "Maybe but it won't... everyone's... the whole convoy... dead stuck..."

Toran gasped, "We can't leave the noble Pride of Lujan here."

"...think we have a choice, this bloody storm is... up. We can't..."

Toran spied a swirl of motion closing and lifted a hand to shield his eye lens. Through the howling muck Phalros approached, stomping along with one hand counting vehicle hulls. The Chapter Master caused flurries of salt to fly away as motes crashed off the edges of his armour, creating a flurry of white as if surrounded by a snowstorm. He spied Toran's cloak flapping in the wind and came nearer, calling, "..."

"I can't hear you!" Toran barked. Phalros reached out with his non-power-fist hand and grabbed the Captain's gorget. The Chapter Master heaved and smacked their helms together. He spoke and vibration communicated through the Ceramite, "We've broken down!"

"Yes, my lord," Toran replied, "We need time to clear the tracks."

"We have no time," Phalros retorted, "The storm builds in fury. Rhinos can't move, Land Raiders will be buried soon. Even Repulsors fall short, their grav-fields failing in the tempest. If we stay we will be buried in salt! Cato Sicarius demands we abandoned the vehicles and press forward on foot."

"Abandon our machines?!" Toran gasped, "Noble steeds of many centuries service!"

"We will mark this location for later retrieval, but we must go, else be buried forever on this desolate plain."

"I... yes my lord," Toran conceded, "It will take time to spread the word to everyone."

Phalros let go Toran and reached for Arvael. The Librarian seemed to understand and took the proffered hand as his voice rang in Toran's mind, "The power of the Librarius is with you."

Phalros' voice rang clear as a bell, conveyed by telepathic impulse, "Brothers, cousins, kinsman all. Our machines have ground down in this tempest and can carry us no further. It is decided we must continue on foot. It is a harsh blow to lose our noble steeds but one that must be endured. The Primarch must reach Vaticer no matter what, so we must carry him ourselves. Move forward and follow the line of hulls. Maintain physical contact at all times, the Regent expects each and every one of you to be there when he wakes up."

Arvael let go as Phalros turned and marched forward. Shadowy figures loped by, Space Marines of many orders moving front. Toran saw his comrades join them, but paused to put a hand on Pride of Lujan's hull. Already salt was climbing over the lower hull and soon it would be buried entirely. It deserved better care than this, it had served loyally and well but it would be abandoned to cruel fate regardless. Toran knew sorrow, but forbore with stoic determination.

He moved up the convoy, hand always on a vehicle's hull. Novak laboured behind, shielding his legs at all times. At the front he found the others forming twin lines, each an arm's length apart, one hand on the backpack of the Marine in front. Visibility was shrinking as the storm built-in power and if they did not move soon they would be lost forever. Toran fell in behind Jediah and placed a hand on his backpack, as someone he could not see grasped his.

Presumably Guilliman was near the front and Arvael must be near for Cato Sicarius' voice rang in his mind, "Form up, stay in contact at all times. It's is three hundred kilometres to Vaticer and it's likely to be storms all the way. By the left foot, march!"

Hundreds of boots rose and fell as the column set forth, pressing into the wind with heads down. Toran could barely see his own hand now and could only march in procession as they moved off. Salt piled at their feet but they drove through, never slowing, never tiring. They would not stop till they reached the city-state, walking blind for many days. Behind they abandoned their vehicles to the tempest, as piles of salt grit built over their hulls. They would be entirely buried soon, leaving no trace the Space Marines had ever been here. Yet one more sacrifice that had to be made if they were to deny the enemy's ultimate victory.