by C. L. Werner
‘Squad Kyrith,’ Rhodaan growled into his vox. ‘Make your way into the central superstructure. This machine is based on the deckplan of a Dictator-class cruiser. Our objective will likely have established itself in the section analogous to the command deck.’
Rhodaan ducked back through the egress as a howling ork tried to incinerate him with a blast from a flamer. Sheets of fire exploded through the doorway as he pressed himself against the hull. As soon as the flames subsided, he thumbed a grenade from his belt and tossed it down the corridor. No smoke grenade this time but a deadly explosive designed to send tiny shrapnel fragments into the enemy. In the aftermath of the ensuing explosion, pained shrieks sounded from the corridor.
‘Converge upon the wardroom,’ Rhodaan ordered as he strode back into the hallway, marching through the dead and dying wreckage of orks. ‘We will assemble there before making our attack on the command deck.’
A wounded ork clawed at Rhodaan’s boot, its fanged face leering at him vengefully. The Iron Warrior glared down at the alien. Viciously, he pressed the barrel of his plasma pistol against its forehead, using the white-hot heat of the gun itself to burn a hole through the ork’s head.
‘Keep a watch for Squad Vidarna,’ he hissed, watching with satisfaction as the ork thrashed beneath him, struggling to remove the heated gun barrel searing through its skull. ‘This objective belongs to us. I will not share the glory with anyone.’ The tortured ork at last became still beneath Rhodaan’s grip. The Iron Warrior rose, staring at its bleeding husk.
How much more satisfying, he thought, if he could do the same to Over-Captain Vallax.
After the mission was accomplished, of course. Anything before then would be more than premature.
It could be construed as treacherous.
Chapter XIII
I-Day Plus Ninety-Three
With a deafening roar, the massive ork charged across the debris-littered ‘wardroom’ of the battlefortress. The huge alien was easily head and shoulders above any of the Iron Warriors, its bulky build making it vastly more massive as well. Despite the crudity of the mega-armour which encased its body, there was a sensation of power behind it that was undeniable. The brute smashed its way through the bullet-scarred wreckage of a steel-plated workbench and machinist’s shop, sending a weird assembly of tools clattering about the chamber.
Bolt-shells smacked into the onrushing juggernaut, gouging craters in its heavy armour and sending a spray of molten metal blobs flying in every direction. The brute simply grunted, its face locked behind the fanged mask of its helmet, speakers mounted in its shoulder plates magnifying the sound into a pulsating bellow. Lifting one of its enormous arms, the ork sent a withering stream of fire crashing across the room, blasting apart piles of scrap metal and coils of wire, pulverising heaps of scavenged machinery and the husks of half-formed armaments.
The Iron Warriors of Squad Vidarna were there, amid the junkyard confusion, seizing whatever cover they could to protect themselves from the crazed ork’s barrage. For once, Vallax and his Faceless didn’t dare show their own faces.
From the doorway, Captain Rhodaan watched as the chaotic mixture of bullets, shells and slugs erupting from the ork’s combi-weapon chewed away Vallax’s cover. The Over-Captain had chosen a solid refuge, a jumble of armour plate looted by the orks from a mag-lev train. The solidity of his shelter, however, wasn’t doing him much good as the seemingly inexhaustible barrage sent slivers of metal flying in every direction. The other Raptors of Squad Vidarna were likewise pinned down, kept in check by the ork warriors supporting their massive champion, chief among them a cigar-chomping creature with a heavy bolter clutched in its paws, a hopper lashed to its side feeding a continuous belt of ammunition into the gun.
It was a sore temptation to leave Vallax and his Raptors to their fate. The Over-Captain or one of his henchmen had listened in on Squad Kyrith’s frequency and attempted to beat them to the prize. Rhodaan wondered how they were enjoying their stolen glory now. Vallax had made one severe error in his calculations. He’d taken the reference to a wardroom too literally. Instead of finding a bivouac for the ork warboss and its lieutenants, he’d instead stumbled onto a makeshift machine shop, a catch-all armoury and repair centre for the clique of alien mekaniks who maintained the battlefortress.
There was always a danger of underestimating the ork as an enemy. Crude, primitive, often near mindless in its brutality, there existed within the hordes aberrant individuals of terrible potency. Some of these orks exhibited their advanced mentality through use of specialised tactics, others were potent psykers who tapped into the gestalt consciousness of their breed to manifest hideous exhibitions of witchery. The mekboyz were another example of the same aberrancy, cobbling together machines and weapons of astounding capability from nothing but scraps and oddments. Their weaponry might be laughably slapdash in appearance, but at the same time exhibit qualities unrivalled by anything to emerge from the manufactorum of a tech-priest.
Vallax was finding that out now. So eager to prevent his rival from accomplishing the objective, he was now faced with a bigger fight than he had anticipated.
Rhodaan thumbed the intensity setting on his plasma pistol to its highest node, then glanced back at the other members of Squad Kyrith. Brother Uzraal had yet to rendezvous with them, but had encountered the others while making his way to the wardroom. He could feel their eyes studying him, could almost read the thoughts stirring in their heads. They would stand beside him if he chose to abandon Squad Vidarna, he knew that, it would be their secret. But that secret would become a taint from which there could be no recovery. He would lose their respect, and with that respect his squad would lose its discipline and cohesiveness. It would become like Squad Vidarna, a pack of cut-throat opportunists always on the lookout for some advantage to exploit for their own personal benefit. Which of them, he wondered, would be the first to plot against him the way the half-breed Uhlan intrigued against Vallax.
‘On my mark,’ Rhodaan told his Raptors. ‘Gomorie, your initial target is the ork with the heavy bolter. Pazuriel, you take the one in red flak armour with the stubber. Baelfegor, the one with the flamer. After you eliminate your initial targets, employ your own discretion.’ He glanced back into the room. ‘Leave the big one to me.’
Without further preamble, the Iron Warriors of Squad Kyrith exploded into the room. Focused upon the Space Marines they had pinned down, the xenos were taken by surprise, their shock further increased when explosive bolt-shells detonated the bodies of their comrades. Rhodaan’s Raptors did not linger over their triumphs, but immediately dived for cover, firing as they went. Assaulting the alien flank, they caught many of the orks in the open, cutting them down before they had a chance to react.
Captain Rhodaan had only a dim impression of Squad Vidarna rallying to the changing situation, leaping from their own cover to charge the embattled xenos. In that initial burst of violence, his attention was focused on the hulking ork mekboy in the mega-armour. The supercharged shot from his plasma pistol seared across the room, sending a heat-haze ripple in its wake. At its highest intensity, Rhodaan had used his weapon to burn through the hatches of a battleship. However thick the ork’s armour, he knew it would make short work of the metal plates and quickly incinerate the alien inside.
It was the Iron Warrior’s turn to be surprised and curse himself for underestimating his foe. The shot from his plasma pistol struck true, directly into the ork’s side. At least the shot would have struck true, if not for the coruscating blue sheen that suddenly surrounded the creature, distorting the ball of energy and draining away much of its impetus. Instead of burning clean through the ork, by the time the shot passed through the force field, all it could manage was to blacken the garishly painted plates and melt a few exposed tubes.
The mekboy swung around, bellowing its war cry. Rhodaan threw himself flat as the brute opened fire, the deadly assortment of bullets and shells smacking into the floor around him. As he rolled behind t
he momentary shelter of a metal crate stuffed with scrap, he holstered his expended pistol. It would take the weapon nearly a minute to build another charge in its power coil. Until then, he would have to make do with his chainsword.
Slugs tore apart Rhodaan’s shelter, shredding the crate as though it had been cobbled together from sheet-tin. Instead of dodging around the side of the crate, The Raptor leapt over the top, using his demi-organic wings to hurl himself at the mekboy in a sudden pounce. His chainsword came whirling down at the ork’s head before the alien could react.
Again, the ork’s force field saved it. As the chainsword’s whirring edge descended along with Rhodaan’s lunge, its momentum was foiled by the resistance of the field. It was like trying to cleave through water, the crackling energy trying to throw back the blade. Only the tremendous strength of a Space Marine and the powerful servo-motors in Rhodaan’s armour could have prevailed. Even then the reward was scant. The edge of the chainsword clove through the mask of the ork’s helmet, exposing the alien’s scarred face and fanged leer.
The next instant, the mekboy struck back, swatting Rhodaan with the enormous hammer clenched in its fist. The Raptor was dashed to the floor by the savage blow, his body shuddering from the impact despite the protective layers of plasteel and ceramite. Instantly, he tried to roll away, but before he could move, the mekboy’s steel-shod boot was pressing down on him.
A grotesque grin split the beast’s face as it aimed its combi-weapon at the Space Marine trapped under its heel.
It was the moment of a heartbeat before the ork’s expression changed. From sadistic triumph, the mekboy’s face collapsed into confused agony. Deep red blood oozed from the corners of its mouth, the hand holding the ponderous combi-weapon fell limp at its side. With a groan, the huge ork slumped to its knees, then crashed onto its face.
Over-Captain Vallax stood above the slaughtered ork, strips of shredded metal and green flesh clinging to the teeth of his chainaxe. For a moment, he stared down at Rhodaan.
Rhodaan stared back at his commander. There was no gratitude in his hearts for the other Iron Warrior’s assistance. He had come to Vallax’s aid out of a sense of duty and to maintain control over his squad. Vallax had helped him out of something even less noble. The Over-Captain simply wanted to show Rhodaan that he was still the better warrior.
The moment passed. Rhodaan regained his feet. The swift intervention of Squad Kyrith and the charge of Squad Vidarna had been too much for the orks to overcome. In short order, the room had been secured. Before Vallax’s chainaxe settled the mekboy, the lesser xenos were already being mopped up.
‘Our target should be behind that bulkhead,’ Vallax announced, gesturing with the still buzzing head of his axe at the left wall. ‘At least if your interpretation of the design of this place is correct.’
Inwardly, Rhodaan bristled under the hostile remark. There was no mistaking Vallax’s intention. If the warboss was on the other side, then the Over-Captain would take credit for its extermination. If the target wasn’t there, then he would lay the blame squarely on Rhodaan’s shoulders. Whichever way things turned out, he would be the loser.
Brother Uhlan stepped forwards, making a cursory examination of the bulkhead door. The half-breed shook his head in disgust as he inspected the crude locking mechanism, a deranged network of analogue locks requiring an equally deranged confusion of keys.
‘Step aside, half-seed,’ Uzraal’s voice snarled across the inter-squad channel. Uhlan didn’t hesitate, diving aside as the other Iron Warrior fired into the locks with a blast from his meltagun. In the blink of an eye, the mechanism was dripping down the face of the door.
Rhodaan turned and regarded the last member of his squad. Uzraal’s armour was spattered in gore, one of his pauldrons twisted and crumpled from some terrific impact. The Raptor favoured his left leg, displaying a noticeable limp as he marched across the chamber.
‘You are late, brother,’ Rhodaan reprimanded him.
Uzraal hesitated, glancing from Rhodaan to Vallax and back again. ‘I apologise, lord captain. I encountered more resistance in my descent than anticipated.’
‘An Iron Warrior makes no excuses,’ Vallax sneered. ‘Captain Rhodaan, you and this man will maintain this position and safeguard our withdrawal. The rest of Squad Kyrith will provide support for my assault against the command deck.’ The Over-Captain’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the grip of his chainaxe.
Rhodaan bit down on his offended pride. ‘I obey,’ he stated. ‘This position will be held.’
There was a slight swagger in Vallax’s motion as he turned away, the only hint of the victorious gloating that must be dominating the Over-Captain’s thoughts.
‘Malfas! Nazdrav!’ Vallax shouted. Two of his squad snapped to attention, rushing to the bulkhead when their commander gestured at it with his axe. ‘Help Uhlan get that door open!’
Before the Space Marines could converge upon the door and drag it open with their combined strength, the portal burst inwards in a shower of sparks and smoke. The mangled body of an ork crumpled across the fallen door.
Both squads drew back in alarm, levelling their weapons at the doorway, uncertain of what they should expect. Something immense and monstrous loomed out from the smoke.
‘Mission accomplished… brothers,’ the grisly tones of Merihem oozed across the vox. The Obliterator emerged from the smoke, his hideous body rippling with unclean life at each step. Arrogantly, the monster lifted his hand, displaying the decapitated head of a truly gigantic ork. ‘You may tell Andraaz that his opposite number has been subtracted.’ The black eyes in the little pallid face narrowed, lips exposing steel fangs. ‘I have honoured my obligations to the Legion.’
Vallax advanced towards the Obliterator. ‘You are under my command, abomination,’ he said. ‘While you are, you will show Warsmith Andraaz proper respect.’
Merihem stalked forwards, his arm lengthening into a cluster of missile tubes. ‘Respect is earned… not given,’ the monster snarled.
‘Your obligations to the Legion have yet to be satisfied,’ Rhodaan declared. Vallax seemed oblivious to how close Merihem really was to completely losing control. In such close quarters, it was quite possible the Obliterator could kill all of them before the monster could be brought down.
Merihem transferred his angry glare from Vallax to Rhodaan. He hefted the ork head in his hand. ‘The warlord is dead,’ he stated.
‘But the Waaagh! itself has not been broken,’ Rhodaan pointed out. ‘While the aliens yet infest Castellax, it is your duty to destroy them.’
The Obliterator’s armoured body writhed in angry agitation, its hand lengthening into talons that pierced the ork’s head, then split it into sections with a twitch of his fingers. The gory fragments plopped to the floor, smashed into pulp as Merihem marched across them.
‘I can bide my time,’ Merihem promised. He paused beside the body of the mekboy. The missile launcher melted back into the substance of his arm as he reached down to the corpse. There was a cruel grin on the Obliterator’s face as he caressed the confused mess of the ork’s combi-weapon. Before the amazed eyes of the other Iron Warriors, the weapon began to disintegrate under Merihem’s touch, its every particle being absorbed back into the monster’s body. In less than a minute, the combi-weapon was gone. A few seconds later, something very much like it was taking shape on the Obliterator’s forearm.
Vallax stormed past the hulking Merihem, the rest of Squad Vidarna following close behind him. ‘Keep that abomination away from me, Rhodaan,’ he snarled.
Rhodaan smiled at the order. Even if he knew how, he didn’t think he would.
Some opportunities were too good to squander.
What little light filtered down into the cargo bed of the tractor was coloured a dull crimson by the blood dripping into Yuxiang’s eyes. It was the blood of dead men, stacked twelve high and five deep, a mangled monument to the savagery of the orks and the callousness of the Iron Warriors. The
stink of mortification threatened to choke the slave, turning each breath into an agony of nausea and disgust. The weight of the bodies piled above him threatened to crush him like a slag-roach.
Squirming through the carrion heap, worming his body between torn fragments of flesh, Yuxiang worked his way towards the light. His passage was eased somewhat by the knife he had discovered hidden in the boot of a dead janissary. One stroke of luck weighed against the hours of horror since his ordeal began.
The light became more vivid as Yuxiang thrust his head from the corpses. Immediately he drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that hadn’t been filtered through the stinking wreckage of men. Even the polluted taint of Vorago’s atmosphere was a welcome relief. He closed his eyes, savouring the moment, then drew a second breath. An anxious giggle slipped between his teeth as his mind joined his body in the indulgence.
It was the sound of the disposal crew that snapped Yuxiang back from his idyll, the first tentacles of madness slithering back into the depths of his brain. Quickly he lowered his head and tightened his grip on the knife, watching as the masked corpse-collectors came marching around the back of the slow-moving tractor.
Raising a face made monstrous by his gas mask, one of the disposers made a hurried examination of their surroundings. The tractor had trundled its way deep into the subterranean bowels of Vorago, driving along one of the massive underground roads that connected all of the city’s principal buildings. A great tunnel, fifty metres wide and half again as tall, the passage was formed from great slabs of ferrocrete reinforced with steel columns and braces. Light came from chemical lamps bolted into the ceiling at regular intervals, their illumination flickering in sympathy to the ork barrage, which could be felt even at this depth.
The disposer made his inspection, then raised a gloved hand. ‘All clear,’ he announced, his voice muffled by the mask. ‘No sign of Steel Blood.’
Mention of the gruesome skull-spies of the Iron Warriors caused the other disposer to shudder visibly beneath his plastic duster. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, then stared at his comrade. ‘Let’s be quick,’ he said, anxiety robbing his voice of all authority.