“An aerial assault. Ariseth argues that the xenos believe the venting towers to be a series of abandoned bastions. They are not aware of the true function of the structures. A well-placed attack could collapse the vents, causing the pressure to build up very quickly,” said Daed, glancing at Theseon, who was standing to one side of the small group, staring out across the icy plain.
“And the ensuing explosion would topple the tower, killing all of the greenskins within,” concluded Caedus. “It might work.”
Daed nodded. “More than that, the build up of pressure could cause a chain reaction, causing the neighbouring towers to blow in concert, taking out the entire xenos force.”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Aramus. “We’ve little chance of being able to strike with such accuracy, particularly if we are harried by the enemy as we close in. We know they have surface-to-air capabilities at the very least.”
“It’s our only option,” replied Daed, as if that were the end of the matter.
“What of the enemy’s ability to predict the movements of the Guard? Do they have a spy amongst the humans?” said Caedus.
Daed shook his head. “Mere superstition. There is nothing to it. It is simply that Grakka understands the strategies of the Imperial Guard, as he has encountered them so many times before. These humans rely solely on their training. They cannot flex. They have forgotten how to surprise the enemy.”
“Forgive me, captain, but we are all aware of what happened on Praxis. I cannot blame you for seeking to have your revenge upon the beast that bested you there—indeed, I would gladly join you in such a quest—but can you be sure that you are not allowing the matter to colour your judgement?” Throle looked to the others for support. “I fear Aramus is correct. Our chances of victory are slim.”
Daed fixed Throle with a firm stare. “I will take those odds, Throle, and we will do our duty. Grakka has burned entire worlds—Imperial worlds—and we do the Emperor’s bidding when we set out to destroy him. We do this to avenge the dead, and to prevent the spread of his foul greenskins any further. My experience of Grakka has taught me one thing: that he must be stopped. If I seek vengeance, it is for the many who have tasted his axe and not survived, as well as for myself. For our fallen brothers.”
Throle nodded. “As you command, captain.”
“For Tauron!” bellowed Caedus.
“For Tauron!” echoed the others, save for Theseon, who remained silent, studying Daed from afar.
17.32 hrs
“You are distracted, Theseon. Something troubles you.”
Theseon raised his head to look up at Daed, who towered over him, resplendent in his bronze armour, power axe clutched tightly in his fist, the pelt of a black Tauronic lion draped over his shoulders.
“I am tired, captain. I sense... another mind. A confused mind. It is watchful. It saps my strength.”
“Another psyker?” asked Daed, his voice low.
Theseon nodded. “A xenos.”
“The truth of the matter becomes clear to me, Theseon. If Grakka is aided by a psyker, then it explains how he has so far been able to predict the movements of the Guard. We must strike soon, before he has chance to gather his forces in preparation for our attack.”
“I advise caution, captain. You must not allow your judgement to become clouded by thoughts of personal vendetta,” said Theseon. “We are not here simply to settle a score, but to liberate an Imperial world.”
“I know that, Librarian,” spat Daed, turning to glance at Throle, who had entered the small underground chamber while Theseon had been talking.
“Theseon speaks sense, captain. If the greenskins are able to anticipate our strategies, then we might look to uncover new ways to surprise them. Perhaps the assault on the venting tower has already been compromised.”
“No,” said Daed. “The attack must go ahead as planned. It is our best chance to neutralise the threat. If we can take out their command post, we might yet ignite a chain reaction that will envelop their entire force. I see no alternative.”
“But captain—” began Throle.
“The captain is right, Throle,” interrupted Theseon. “The assault on the tower must go ahead as planned.”
“And the psyker?” asked Throle, clearly restraining himself.
“I shall see to the psyker,” said Theseon.
“Very well,” said Daed. “I shall instruct the others to prepare for the attack.” He turned and strode from the room, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.
Theseon turned to Throle, holding up a hand until the sound of the captain’s footsteps had died away down the passage. “Here is what we must do...” he said, quietly.
19.46 hrs
The tension in the repaired Thunderhawk was palpable as it roared above the ice-shrouded ruins. The five Brazen Minotaurs sat in silence, lashed to their webbing. The Thunderhawk was flanked by two Storm Eagles and a battery of Stormtalons, which would work to draw fire away from the command ship as they approached the venting tower, engaging the greenskins whilst Daed set about taking out the vents themselves.
They had left the ground vehicles and a second Thunderhawk posted to the ramshackle base of the Guardsmen. If the mission was successful, they would be needed to help mop up any remaining xenos; if the mission failed... Well, they would be needed to protect the remaining humans from the tide of alien beasts that would soon follow. Daed was aware of the risks.
“Five kilometres and counting,” said Caedus from the pilot’s pit. “And here comes the first response.”
The Thunderhawk took a sudden evasive manoeuvre, dipping low to avoid artillery fire from below. The orks, it seemed, were ready for them.
“Return fire,” ordered Daed, and Throle set the battlecannons ablaze, churning up the ice in long furrows ahead of them. Through the viewing port, Daed could see the Storm Eagles doing the same, unleashing a barrage on the massed ranks of orks far below.
Daed consulted his auspex. “Something is wrong. The orks are pulling back. They have amassed around the command tower.”
He was interrupted by the bark of heavy surface-to-air fire and the sound of a nearby Stormtalon detonating. Caedus banked sharply, and then levelled again, attempting to avoid becoming the weapon’s next target.
“Librarian!” Daed growled. “You said you would see to the alien psyker. But now this,” he turned the display of his auspex to present the screen to Theseon, who sat opposite him, silently regarding his captain. “The xenos are aware of our attack. They have formed a defensive perimeter around the tower. There must be thousands of them...” He trailed off, accusation in his tone.
“Two kilometres,” came the report from Caedus.
“We’ll never get through such a barrier,” said Daed, angrily. “We’ll have to turn back, remount our attack.”
“Now, Caedus!” called Theseon, and in response the Thunderhawk dipped and turned sharply to the left. Daed, glancing out of the viewing port, saw that the other vessels were following suit, pulling away from the target.
“What in the name of the Emperor?”
“Trust me, captain,” said Theseon. “This is how I will see to the psyker.”
The chatter of the ork weapons stuttered and died as the Thunderhawk shot away at speed. “I do not know what game you are playing, Librarian, but I expect answers,” said Daed, a warning note in his voice.
“Everything will become clear in a moment, captain,” replied Theseon, distracted, as he leaned forward, straining in his webbing in order to see out of the forward viewing ports. “There!” he said, triumphantly. “The second tower. That is our target, Throle. Collapse those vents.”
The battlecannons burst to life once again, chewing holes in the plasteel flank of the tower as Caedus brought the Thunderhawk around in a wide arc. Daed watched as the venting shafts shattered and collapsed in upon themselves in a cloud of steam, dust and debris.
The Thunderhawk banked again, pulling up higher and away from the tower.
/> “It should take only a few moments...” said Theseon.
The first sign of the coming eruption came in the form of a deep rumble that grew slowly until it reached fever pitch. As Daed watched, the ice around the tower began to fracture, opening large rents in the bedrock beneath. Steam hissed from the tectonic wounds, gushing forth as the pressure attempted to find a way out and was instead forced along through the underground channels of the old thermal hive, once inhabited by humans, and now the domain of the orks.
Caedus followed the fracturing landmass as it raced across the landscape, tracking it towards the gathered mob of unsuspecting xenos. By now the Thunderhawk was too high to be able to see clearly how the greenskins were reacting, but Daed knew they would be attempting to scatter.
And then, the mounting pressure finally found its outlet—the second venting tower. The command post of the ork warlord, Grakka.
The tower detonated in a blossom of steam and light, erupting like a thunderclap. Debris billowed into the air as the very ground around the orks began to subside, the foundations of the tower collapsing, dragging the gathered xenos down into the depths of the fractured hive, cooking them alive in the gushing steam or crushing them beneath the shattered bedrock.
“It is done,” said Theseon, as the Thunderhawk swept over the ruins of the ork invasion force. “Return us to the base, Caedus.”
Daed stared angrily out of the viewing port as the Thunderhawk came about, offering him his last view of the ruination they had caused below.
21.06 hrs
Almost as soon as they disembarked from the Thunderhawk, Daed turned on Theseon. “You disobeyed a direct order,” he barked. “Explain yourself, Librarian.”
Theseon nodded calmly, and laid a hand upon the captain’s pauldron. “Your plan was sound, captain. I knew that destroying the venting tower would work, and the chain reaction was likely. Yet the greenskin psyker... Your anger was like a beacon to him, drawing him in. Your mind was open to him. Grakka knew you were here, and that you would come for him. His forces massed in defence around his command post as a consequence, waiting for our attack.”
“It was your duty to tell me,” said Daed. His hands were bunched into fists as he attempted to contain his anger.
Theseon shook his head. “It was imperative that I did not. Doing so would have telegraphed our intentions to the enemy. You had to continue to believe that our goal was the command tower. It was the only way for the misdirection to work. We drew them away from the second tower, safe in the knowledge that the eruption caused by our attack would be enough to destroy the command post too.”
“I do not approve of your subterfuge,” said Daed, levelly. “Although I grant you, Theseon—your audacity matches only my own. The beast is dead, and Karos is liberated.”
“And old scars are finally healed,” said Theseon.
Daed was silent for a moment. “You did what was necessary, in the name of the Emperor. We shall speak no more of the matter.”
Theseon nodded. “I see the ground troops are already deployed, mopping up the last of the enemy. Will you join them?”
Daed grinned. “My axe hungers for xenos blood,” he said.
“Then lend them your strength, captain,” said Theseon. “When you return from the field of battle, we must speak. There is a storm gathering in the Sargassion Reach, close to this system. Traitors mass.”
“Very well,” said Daed, gravely. “It seems there may yet be even older scores to settle.”
“Indeed,” replied Theseon, but Daed had already turned away, hefting his axe high above his head.
“For Tauron!” called Theseon.
“For Tauron!” echoed Daed, disappearing into the maelstrom of churned ice and fog.
Theseon looked to the skies: a clear, dark blanket, peppered with scattered diamonds. “Soon, Gideous Krall. Soon I shall come for you.”
Gentlemen, councillors, and esteemed professors of the Universities of Nuln, we gather here today at the behest of our noble Elector Countess and chancellor herself—the greatest academic minds of our time, alike in dignity and united in purpose. This symposium will deliberate upon the evidence and testimonials to be presented by our speakers, so that we might advise her upon the best course of action in the current plight. I speak, of course, of the depredations of the nomad-brute kingdoms of the east: the transient and ravenous ogres.
The recent collapse of our long-standing mercenary arrangement with the ‘Bonecruncher’ tribe has resulted in an escalation of hostilities in the eastern provinces. It is said, amongst other ill tidings, that the ogre champion known as Gurthodd now controls the Old Dwarf Road out from Averland, and that his thugs are demanding ever-greater tolls and taxes from the villages thereabouts.
Under the terms of the old arrangement, many Bonecruncher warriors were under the command of the... rather forthright Baron Helmut von Streissen. Ever known to speak his mind, he was reportedly unenamoured by the prospect of enduring yet another campaign season in the company of the ogre mercenaries. We are still unsure of the exact remark to which Gurthodd took offence, but given that he has threatened—nay, promised—to send word to yet more of his cousins in the Red Fist and Eyebiter tribes for reinforcements, we can assume that the late baron’s conduct on that day constituted a most regrettable breach of diplomacy. That is to say, a fairly major cultural misunderstanding which looks set to precipitate a new war between ogres and men, within the borders of the Empire itself.
It falls to us, my wise and learned friends, to decide if an agreeable accord can be reached before we arrive at that point. As ever, those less enlightened souls within the military would cite the glory of Sigmar and grind our already overstretched armies against whatever forces the ogres might bring to bear against us.
We shall hear testimony from some of the baron’s camp officials in due course, but it seems most prudent that we examine our own understanding of the ogres’ culture and traditions if we are to pass judgment upon the words and actions of the man himself, may Morr keep his good soul!
As you are all doubtless aware, the ogres maintain no written history, no scrolls or archives that we might consult in pursuit of such knowledge. Rather, theirs is an oral tradition—and I hesitate to use the word ‘rich’—whereby the cultural legacy is passed down from generation to generation in gruff fireside tales, or by their brutish shamans over the near-constant ritual feasting in which the tribes indulge.
In fact, the only known document relating to the genesis of the ogre race is the infamous and highly suspect treatise Saga of the World-mouth, by the travelling Marienburg trader Yohan the Honest. Supposedly derived from his own translation of the pictographs he claims to have found daubed in caves high above the Vale of Woe, this narrow and thoroughly subjective view has nonetheless formed the basis of our understanding for centuries.
Now, some of you may have heard the name of Anya Nitikin, and...
No. No sir, and I would thank you not to take that tone with me. True enough, she is a daughter of the northern lands, yet her academic work is of outstanding quality—enough to gain tenure at your vaunted Ochsenbrücke College, I might add! I have been engaged in correspondence with her for almost a decade, and at my request she has sent me her own notes upon the subject of the ogres’ bleak and apocalyptic creed. It was some years ago that she travelled east in a great caravan attended by mercenary guards, many of them ogres; being fluent in their tongue, during the journey she was able to learn a great deal about their oldest customs and traditions.
If I may, I should like to read her drafted account to you all now, as I believe it throws astonishing new light upon the whole matter and may prove invaluable in our deliberations still to come.
She has named it, simply, The Children of the Maw.
The ogres were not always as they are now. It may come as a surprise to many that they were once a comparatively civil and prosperous race. In an age almost lost to legend, they dwelt as nomads upon the fertile plains in the east a
nd traded peaceably with their neighbours for thousands of years. In exchange for the secrets of fire and animal husbandry, the most gregarious ogre-kin pledged their loyalties to the Celestial Dragon Emperor of Cathay and fought many wars on his behalf, and their fearsome reputation spread far across the land.
One of the greatest ogre-kin warleaders was Rothyogg, chieftain of the Lass’ar. His warriors were fierce and brutal, and unrivalled upon the field of battle. Rothyogg had inherited leadership of the tribe from his father, and he from his father, and he from of old. It was naturally assumed that when the chieftain’s fighting days were over, his firstborn son, Groth, would don the mantle and lead the Lass’ar to further glories. From the day he was whelped, he seemed destined for greatness.
This was not to be. At least, not in the way anyone had expected.
As he grew, Groth had become an oddity among the tribes. Some said that he had listened to the cryptic riddles of the Dragon Emperor’s fighting monks, and others that he had simply stared for too long into the campfire. Nonetheless, his words were strange and unsettling to his father’s warriors, and he spoke often. Though too dull-witted to adopt even the most simple cuneiform, he knew every one of the old tales by heart—the parables of Li and Tsang and the grim prophecies of the Tengu were known to be among his favourites. As he grew, he showed little interest in the practicalities of war and tribal politics, but took instead to trying to educate his less philosophically-minded kin in the wisdom of the ancients.
The Emperor’s paymasters, who were always to be found in the mercenary trains, joked that Groth was an ogre who had dreamed that he was a man. Rothyogg was enraged by this perceived insult, but in despair he left his wayward son to his fanciful storytelling.
Over time, other youths had begun to compete for the chieftain’s attention, keen to prove themselves to him in battle and claim presumptive leadership of the tribe. Groth remained distant, lacking the brawn or prowess to meet the frequent challenges that they would bellow at him, only half in jest. It was not until the end of that last, fateful summer that his true strength was to be revealed.
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