by C. L. Werner
Taofang wasn’t the only one who saw Algol’s withdrawal. Colonel Nehring’s stern voice rose above the crackle of gunfire, calling for the Scorpion Brigade to fall back to the trucks. Judging by the number of orks between most of the men and their transports, it was unlikely more than half of them would make it.
The janissary turned to make his way back to the ramp, but as he did so the tearing sound swelled to a deafening din, the ozone-stink so profound he fumbled for the respirator hanging from his belt. Whichever way he turned his eyes, he saw the same spectral image, the mammoth room with the scrap-metal walls and strange machines. And he saw orks. Not one or two, not dozens, not even hundreds. There were thousands of the aliens, their fanged mouths open in noiseless roars.
A blinding blast of light exploded through the factory, this time accompanied by an electrical crackle that set every hair on Taofang’s body standing upright. The janissary gave small notice to even this strange effect, instead clapping his hands to his ears as a thunderous clamour resounded through the factory. It was the bestial cry of a thousand savages, the primordial bellow of mindless brutality.
‘Waaagh!’
His clearing vision displayed a factory that had been torn to shreds, mangled and twisted as though the funnel of a tremendous ash-storm had rampaged inside the building. Walkways had been wrenched from their foundations, curled into knots by the malignant force. Pillars and beams had been toppled, bringing with them great sections of roof and wall. Conveyor belts had been flattened, stamps and presses twisted into jumbles of unrecognizable wreckage. Dripping heaps of meat gave loathsome evidence that the same havoc had been visited on flesh as well as metal and ferrocrete.
Taofang had only an instant to gauge the destruction, for the flash of light had brought more than simple carnage. It had brought the cause of that monstrous bellow. Massed among the wreckage was a horde of greenskinned aliens, their hulking bodies draped in ragged armour and tattered rags, their fists wrapped about a crazed assemblage of weaponry, from crude stub guns to complex meltas and everything between.
The city was infested with aliens now. The brutes hadn’t penetrated the defences, they had bypassed them entirely. It was teleportation, that most mysterious and esoteric of human technology, but on a scale so vast that even the most crazed tech-priest would balk at the possibility. Taofang had heard stories of boarding parties of five or six Adeptus Astartes appearing inside a raider during an engagement against the Imperium, but this went far beyond. The orks had teleported thousands of their loathsome breed from orbit to the surface of Castellax.
There was ghastly evidence of the hazards of the ramshackle alien technology all around. Many orks had been fused into pieces of the factory, their bodies melted into gantries and pillars. Hundreds of orks at the very fringe of the teleportation’s effect had only partially reformed, their horribly translucent bodies collapsing into puddles of quivering mash after a few abominable moments of agonised animation. Where some of the strange machines had failed to materialise along with the ork horde, at least two had been caught in the area of effect, emerging as sputtering, smoking towers of runaway energy.
Yet, however crude the process, there was no denying the brutal fact that the orks had circumvented all of Dirgas’s complex defences. The xenos invaders had gained a beachhead within the very walls of the city!
Algol’s Rhino was firing into the massed orks as it hurriedly backed down the ramp. With the Iron Warrior’s withdrawal, the trucks weren’t far behind, their drivers scarcely waiting for the frantic janissaries scrambling to climb onto them. Most of the orks were too disoriented by their transference to react to the fleeing humans, but enough of them opened fire to turn the retreat into a complete rout.
Taofang raced down the ramp, climbing onto the running board of a truck as it made a crazed three-point turn and tore out of the factory. The janissary was spun around as the truck turned, clinging to the massive door panel to maintain his footing. Behind him, he could see fleeing soldiers being cut down by the deranged marksmanship of the orks. He watched as a smoke-belching missile rose from the massed aliens and slammed into one of the trucks. The vehicle exploded in a burst of flame and shrapnel, shredding the janissaries racing after it.
The sight of the blazing wreckage was Taofang’s last view inside the factory. In the next instant, his truck lunged out into the streets of Dirgas and was racing along the desolate lanes.
Behind him, Taofang could hear the vicious aliens raise their croaking voices in another guttural howl.
‘Waaagh!’
Warsmith Andraaz glowered at the liveried slave trembling beside his diamond throne. The Space Marine’s eye smouldered with cold hate as he digested the report the man had brought into the Iron Bastion’s war room. It was news that sat ill with the overlord of Castellax, news that demanded an appropriate response.
In a blur of motion, the gigantic Warsmith surged from his chair. Before the slave could even blink an eye, Andraaz closed the armoured fingers of his gauntlet around the man’s throat. With a savage wrench, he twisted the messenger’s head, snapping his neck like a twig. Arrogantly, he let the corpse flop to the floor and turned to regard the Iron Warriors gathered about the great table. One of the Rending Guard stepped away from the diamond throne and dragged the carcass out of view.
‘The orks are in Dirgas,’ Andraaz repeated, his voice an angry growl. ‘Algol says the local janissaries are unable to contain the aliens to the manufacturing district. He requests extraction of all portable resources.’
Sergeant Ipos nodded in agreement. ‘As distasteful as it is, the Skintaker may be right. If Dirgas is lost to us then it would be prudent to remove whatever we can while we can. There is no knowing how long the xenos will lay siege to Castellax or what measures will be necessary…’
‘Pull out and flatten the city from the sky,’ Over-Captain Vallax declared, slamming his fist against the table. ‘Let the orks taste a few hundred megatons of vengeance from our bombers. That will make them think twice before using their teleporters again.’
‘Wasteful and impetuous,’ scoffed Captain Morax. ‘You couldn’t drive a thought into an ork’s brain with a power maul. All bombing Dirgas will do is destroy valuable infrastructure and material. By my calculations, losing the city will reduce overall production by fifteen per cent. We will have a hard time meeting our tithe to Medrengard if we turn the city into a cinder.’
‘What do you propose, Skylord?’ Admiral Nostraz sneered. ‘Leave the aliens to establish a foothold in Dirgas?’
‘There is something to be said for such a tactic,’ Morax said. ‘Dirgas is the other side of the Mare Ossius and the Witch Wall. If we can contain the orks on that side of the sea, we can fortify Vorago and our other strongholds.’
‘Which will disrupt our production even further,’ said Vallax. ‘If you are so set against bombing Dirgas, then maybe a deep strike is in order.’
From his place at the end of the table, Captain Rhodaan turned to face his commander. ‘You have heard Algol’s report. The ork numbers are already formidable. There is no telling how many more they might still be teleporting down into the city.’
‘Allowing that the xenos technology continues to function,’ came the mechanised voice of Oriax’s servitor, voicing its master’s objection. ‘Ork machinery is wildly unpredictable. The more complex the mechanism, the less likely it is to maintain integrity after repeated use. The xenos do not understand the necessity of placating the machine-spirit.’
Rhodaan shook his head and ignored the servitor. ‘Attacking Dirgas will be costly,’ he said.
‘Necessary losses,’ Vallax countered.
Rhodaan felt his blood begin to boil. ‘And whose squad will suffer these losses?’ he hissed through clenched teeth. The two Assault Marines locked eyes, each of them glaring deep into the blackened soul of the other. Centuries of rivalry and hate pounded inside their hearts and sent adrenaline coursing through their veins.
‘There will
be no attack on Dirgas,’ Warsmith Andraaz declared. ‘Captain Morax is right. If we allow the orks to concentrate in the city, we will be able to more easily contain and monitor them. Moreover, until we can be certain this teleportation machine is no longer a threat, a direct assault would benefit us nothing.’ Andraaz shifted his gaze to Oriax’s cyborg mouthpiece. ‘The teleporter is your area of expertise, Fabricator. Whatever it takes, I want to know if it is still in operation.’
A cruel smile crawled onto the Warsmith’s scarred face. He stared at Vallax, then shifted his attention to Rhodaan. ‘If the teleporter is non-functional, then you will have your chance for glory. But do not be so eager to claim it that you forget your obligation to the Third Grand Company and the Legion.
‘No Iron Warrior dies unless I allow him to. Forget that, and the orks are the least of your worries.’
Chapter IV
I-Day Plus 9
The great doors of the assault hangar slowly descended, sinking into the ferrocrete floor of the Iron Bastion. Alarm claxons sounded as thousands of tons of reinforced steel and titanium shifted upwards, lifting the bulky assault boats from the arming bays deep beneath the hangar. Slaves in the cobalt-coloured livery of the Castellax Air Cohort scrambled to remove the restraining bolts from the missiles slung underneath each boat’s stubby wings. Other humans, garbed in the blue tunics and breeches of the Cohort proper, made a final examination of each craft before boarding.
‘It is a great honour to be chosen by the Warsmith himself,’ Brother Baelfegor said, his voice fairly crackling with pride. Captain Rhodaan didn’t even deign to look at him as they marched through the hangar towards their assault boat.
‘Any honour will be bestowed upon Over-Captain Vallax,’ Rhodaan growled. Across the hangar he could see Vallax and the Assault Marines of Squad Vidarna climbing the boarding ramp of their own craft. ‘We are to support them, nothing more.’
‘This raid upon Dirgas is too important to trust to Vallax,’ grumbled Brother Gomorie, the fingers of his afflicted hand unconsciously lengthening into knife-like claws.
Rhodaan rounded upon the other Iron Warrior. ‘You were not asked for opinions, only obedience.’ He pointed at Gomorie’s hand. ‘Perhaps the virus has spread its tendrils into your mind, brother. Perhaps soon you will be a berserk monstrosity like Brother Merihem.’
Gomorie stopped in his tracks, shifting uneasily under his commander’s reprimand. ‘Forgive me, captain. I know my obligations. I will not dishonour the Legion or Squad Kyrith.’
The other Iron Warriors continued to march towards the assault boat. Rhodaan remained behind with the chastened Gomorie. ‘See that you remember that,’ he warned. ‘I would hate to see one of my battle-brothers cast into the Oubliette with Merihem.’ His voice dropped to a vicious snarl. ‘In fact, I will not see such a thing. Do we understand each other, brother?’
‘Yes, captain!’ Gomorie cried, his hand crashing against his chest in salute. Rhodaan gestured for the Space Marine to join the rest of the squad. He turned to watch as Vallax’s assault boat finished its preparations and began to taxi onto the hangar’s launching catapult.
The raid upon Dirgas was a plan conceived by Warsmith Andraaz himself. The city had been the first to fall to the orks and in the days since the invasion’s start, the xenos had transformed it into a vital command and supply centre for their forces. Aerial reconnaissance showed that the orks were cannibalising the infrastructure of Dirgas for their own use, destroying valuable resources so they might cobble together their ramshackle war machines. Morax was especially dour in his predictions of how the damage would affect Castellax’s industry after the orks were repulsed. It was a prediction grim enough for the Warsmith to dispatch ten of his Iron Warriors against the alien beachhead, ten of a complement that numbered only sixty-four.
Ten demigods of death to capture a city infested by thousands of murderous aliens.
It would be a battle worth remembering.
The assault boat shuddered as it catapulted from the Bastion’s hangar. The human air crew were jounced violently by the craft’s rapid ascent into the skies of Vorago. Rhodaan could almost pity the men the weakness of their bodies. To be human was to be frail and inferior. To be an Iron Warrior was to walk among the gods.
Seated in the cargo compartment of the assault boat, the hulking Iron Warriors barely stirred as the craft gained momentum. Mag-clamps built into their boots and designed to thwart the vacuum of space kept each of them firmly fixed to the plasteel deck. A steady grip upon the metal guide-bar running the length of the compartment further restricted the effects of inertia to a minimum.
‘The Cohort does not spare itself,’ Brother Baelfegor observed. ‘We should make good time to Dirgas.’
‘Morax has probably promised them extra rations if they perform well,’ Brother Pazuriel said. He lowered his gaze to the chainaxe lying across his lap, his gauntlet caressing the diamond studs embedded in each tooth. ‘Or perhaps he has provided a different incentive should they fail his expectations.’
‘All humans are weak maggots,’ Brother Uzraal growled. ‘They exist only to serve the Legions and even in this they are found wanting.’ He turned his angry glare to the front of the compartment where a half-dozen Cohort auxiliaries sat in high-backed crash chairs. ‘Tell me, flesh-maggots,’ he barked at the men. ‘Tell me what gives you the right to breathe the same air as a legionary? What reason can you give me for not opening this door and feeding you to the wind? Why– Ow!’
Captain Rhodaan leaned back in his seat, the little motors built into his gauntlet making tiny whirring noises after their abrupt impact against the side of Uzraal’s helmet. The stricken Iron Warrior turned about in a display of wolfish fury. His anger quickly faded when he saw it was his captain who had struck him.
‘Focus on the objective,’ Rhodaan warned. ‘These distractions are beneath an Iron Warrior.’ He turned his fanged helm in the direction of the ashen-faced auxiliaries. ‘They will perform what is demanded of them. They understand their purpose.’
Suddenly, the assault boat shook with violence far greater than might be occasioned by turbulence in Vorago’s polluted sky. The auxiliaries appeared to hop and squirm in their seats, their helmets cracking against the rests of their chairs. The Iron Warriors themselves were jounced from side to side, their hands sliding along the guide-bars.
‘By the walls of Medrengard!’ Pazuriel cursed. ‘What are those fools doing up there!’ The huge Iron Warrior turned towards the cockpit and started to rise from his seat, but a gesture from Rhodaan curbed his action.
The captain was listening to the Air Cohort frequency, and what he was hearing wasn’t good. Since the orks’ first assault on Castellax the relentless alien attacks had choked the stratosphere with a cloud of debris and chaff, effectively cutting the planet off from the network of observation satellites orbiting it. As a result, the Iron Warriors had been forced to rely upon fly-bys and ground-based intelligence stations to follow enemy movement and deployment. As Morax had complained loudly and frequently, it was like trying to fight with only half an eye open.
The Skylord’s fears were now being realised. The Castellax Air Cohort had been thrown into complete panic by the sudden descent of several hundred ork craft which had been orbiting the planet. Like a meteor storm, the armada was hurtling towards Vorago. Before the sub-orbital defences could be brought to bear against the invaders, the vanguard of the aliens was already over the city.
Rhodaan partitioned his concentration, letting only a fragment of his attention rest upon the Cohort vox reports. Humans were his emotional, frightened inferiors and he didn’t trust their observations. What he did trust were his own eyes. Rising from his seat, he marched over to the assault boat’s side door, rolling its armoured weight aside as though it wasn’t even there.
Beyond the door, the vast industrial sprawl of Vorago stretched before Rhodaan’s eyes. He could see plumes of fire belching from hundreds of blast furnaces, pillars of smoke sn
aking upwards from thousands of smoke stacks. But he could also see dozens of other scenes of fire and smoke, less regimented, scattered throughout the city. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what the fires represented. In their ferocious, headlong plunge from orbit, the orks had abandoned any pretensions of caution. Hundreds of their ramshackle craft must have found the descent too much for their air frames, cracking apart as they dived towards the city.
Yet even in death, the orks served the greater cause of their Waaagh! Each broken craft became a shower of shrapnel, hurtling at the city with a velocity that could shatter plasteel. They smashed into Vorago with the fury of an orbital bombardment, shaking the city to its foundations. Worse, the doomed attack ships acted as decoys for the other aliens. The panicked janissaries manning the defence batteries chose the closest of the descending craft as their targets, training their fire on already disabled ships rather than the still intact orks following behind them.
It was a mistake no Iron Warrior would have made. Bitterly, Rhodaan regretted the schism that had broken the Third Grand Company, reducing it from over a thousand battle-brothers to the tiny remnant occupying Castellax. With a full complement of legionaries manning every aspect of the city’s defences, no alien would have made planetfall.
Now, however, the sky was thick with a confusion of ork craft. Huge, fat-bodied bombers, their exhausts belching thick streams of smog and diesel fumes, lumbered over the city, disgorging tons of ordnance with reckless abandon. Scrap-metal fighters raced along the ferrocrete canyons, training their crude slug-throwers on anything that moved.
More troubling were the bulky transports. Looking like big boxes of pig-iron fitted with wings and a mad array of guns, they rumbled across the sky. While Rhodaan watched, the side of one of the transports bulged outwards, distorted by some violent impact from within. A moment later, a ten-metre section of the aircraft’s hull was sent hurtling away, kicked loose by the mob of frenzied orks within.