Engines of War by Steve Lyons Read Free Book Online

themselves.
    There were seven of them, the Plague God’s favoured number: Plague Marines, kicking their way through mounds of rubble to intercept the new arrivals. In contrast to Galenus’s assault team, none of them were wearing their helmets. They showed off their scabrous faces, as if proud of them; proud of their flaking skin, disgusting boils and weeping sores.
    Each Plague Marine wielded an equally scabrous knife and a gun that looked as if it might fall apart if he tried to fire it. Galenus knew, however – from experience, hard-won, a long time ago – that each weapon would work well enough.
    He addressed his two squads over their vox-link. ‘Fewer of them than I expected. Ten of us should be able to take them down.’
    He asked Terserus to take point. The fibre bundles that powered his armour had just accomplished the arduous task of lifting him upright, and not only was he the most powerful warrior among them, he was also the one most protected against infection.
    The Dreadnought raised his left fist. It was wrapped in a gauntlet almost large enough to cover a man’s head. He called on the machine-spirits inside the glove, and it crackled with bright blue energy. He had no right hand or forearm; instead, a storm bolter – effectively, two regular bolters welded together, providing him with double the firepower – protruded from his right elbow joint.
    Galenus was harbouring no illusions. He had the Death Guard outnumbered, but each of them was more than a match for the average Space Marine. The captain figured that Terserus made them even. As the Dreadnought stamped forward – and his battle-brothers fell in behind him with their chainswords drawn – he addressed them all out loud. He cranked his vox-grille up to full volume, making sure the enemy heard him.
    ‘We are the Ultramarines, the Sons of Guilliman,’ he bellowed, quoting the famous words of Chapter Master Marneus Calgar. ‘Whilst we draw breath, we stand. Whilst we stand, we fight. Whilst we fight, we prevail. Nothing shall stay our wrath!’
    Sometimes, he forgot that he was no longer a field commander. Not that Galenus objected. Terserus had near-perfect recall of events from centuries ago; his grasp on recent days, on the other hand, was tenuous in the extreme.
    Most likely, he had already forgotten his conversation with Galenus in the Thunderhawk – and that was just how the captain liked it.
    Arkelius relayed the good news to his crew, who didn’t share his access to command frequencies: ‘The captain and his team have put down behind enemy lines.’
    ‘I hope they leave a few Death Guard for the rest of us,’ Corbin grunted.
    ‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Arkelius asked, sharply.
    ‘No disrespect, sergeant. I just meant that Captain Galenus is well-known for leading from the front. When Iunus and I – and the Scourge – were with the Eighth Company, we heard–’
    ‘I have another target lock,’ Iunus interrupted him. ‘No, damn it, I don’t. It’s veering in and out of my range.’
    Arkelius checked through his vision slits. The sky above his head was almost clear. Both sides in the aerial battle had taken casualties – he couldn’t tell which side had taken more – and the combat zone had shifted eastward. The daemon fliers, he imagined, were shying away from the Hunters and the Stalkers, having seen their capabilities.
    He voxed Captain Numitor, ‘Permission to break formation, sir, and seek a better firing position.’
    Permission was granted.
    Arkelius ordered Corbin to pull up the stabilisers and advance slowly. As usual, his driver anticipated him, and barely had the words left his throat when the Scourge of the Skies juddered into motion again. He suspected that Corbin thought he could have commanded the tank himself, and Iunus probably agreed with him.
    Arkelius had been warned that this could happen.
    Tank crews spent a great deal of time cooped up together. The bonds that formed between them were among the