by Nick Kyme
‘Omnissiah…’ he gasped.
It was insectile, metallic, its leaf-shaped carapace glazed in oily pink. And it moved. Fast. He pinned it to the bone as it scuttled across the skull, apparently seeking fresh matter to infest. The tiny carapace cracked against the scalpel, briefly revealing the minuscule workings of a machine before it dissolved in a crackling flare of light.
It wasn’t alone. The emergence of one led to a swarm of the creatures, flowing like mercury from the cavities in the brain. Haephestus reached for his tools, his fingers closing around the grip of a hand flamer.
He knew what this was. What its presence meant.
He burned everything, every scrap of flesh, hair and cloth until there was nothing left but ash. He had to warn the others and be damned what the natives made of the Thunderhawk. The ones he had fought earlier had left a trail that he could track with the ship’s instruments. He gambled on it leading him to Sicarius.
Sitting in the cockpit again, Haephestus murmured the rites of function, imploring the gunship’s machine-spirit to ignition. A low whirr sounded through the airframe, growing to a drone as the turbofans started up. A boost of thrust let out a roar and the ship began to vibrate, eager to be aloft once more.
‘Fly swift…’ said Haephestus, easing the throttle and lurching into the sky.
An old enemy had returned, one they had buried years ago.
AGAINST THE HORDE
Thunder rolled through the gorge, overlapping and magnifying, channelled by its narrow sides. It was the beat of colossal drums and six hundred bestial voices bellowing as one. The orks roared their challenge to the sky and saw it answered in streaks of incandescent lightning. The entire heavens were in ferment, the clouds churning and boiling like a turbulent ocean. The dawning sun was swallowed by it. Ghoulish faces leered in the shadowy depths of cumulus and cumulonimbus. They roared too, the echoes of their words unintelligible, but it was the belligerent speech of gods.
A moment of silence fell at the raised hand of the chieftain. He let the sky rage and listened to the bestial deities as the flashes above cast his scarred features into cold relief. It is said the ork has two faces, one for each of its gods: one bellicose and warlike, the other cunning and deadly. Here, the orks embraced the first, eyes gleaming like blood-red rubies, eager with the promise of violence.
Five warriors stood at the mouth of the gorge watching the ritual play out. It was narrow enough that they could fill the gap with their single rank. Cliffs rose up either side, impassable and too sheer to climb. The warriors had to face them here, where the violence of the horde could be funnelled into this single, deadly choke point.
No one spoke at first. Vorolanus and Vandius had described what they had found and Sicarius and the others had listened. Their objectives had converged; a twist of fate or the simple arithmetic of probability? It didn’t matter. The orks were here, and so too was the power source that would get them back to the crusade. Kill the enemy, claim the prize. How often did it come to this? Except here they were outnumbered by more than a hundred to one. The Ultramarines were amongst the finest and bravest warriors in the galaxy, but even they had limits. So they simply watched and waited, swords drawn and low by their sides. The orks needed to come to them for the plan to succeed.
Sicarius decided to give them some encouragement. He raised the Tempest Blade and rapped the hilt against his chest.
‘Ah ugh!’
No sense in wasting words on these animals. They respected only brawn and aggression. Let them have it, then.
‘Ah ugh!’
It was a drop of noise in a roiling, cacophonous sea.
‘Ah ugh!’
Louder this time. The blow against his chest resonated like a chime.
‘Ah ugh!’
Daceus joined him, and then Vandius.
‘Ah ugh!’
Then Vorolanus and Fennion.
The rhythm pealed faster and louder, as urgent as a heartbeat, as belligerent as a war drum. The orks at the back of the horde, the ones closest to the warriors, turned first. They snarled and pulled at their tusks. They squealed and spat porcine curses at the interlopers. They bellowed and beat their chests. One jabbed a finger, grasping at another greenskin to get its attention. It died with an axe head buried in its skull, the one it had interrupted slathered in the dead ork’s blood. The sudden rush of violence drew more greenskins as if they scented it on the breeze, potent as any drug. Some foamed at the mouth, others died coughing up slugs of crackling green phlegm. A minor skirmish broke through the mob and twenty or thirty orks lay maimed or butchered by the end of it. This was but a prelude.
‘Hot hands and ready swords…’ murmured Daceus.
‘War calls…’ said Sicarius.
‘We answer,’ Vandius replied.
Sicarius raised his sword in mimicry of the distant chieftain who bellowed atop his rocky dais. The war chant stopped. Discordant grunting rushed to fill the silence, thickening air already fouled by ork stink. The sky vented its wrath and a bone club lifted to the heavens caught a flash of light. When it fell, the stampede began.
The orks exploded through the gorge in an unruly mob, clawing and biting at each other to be first. Several were crushed against the walls or smashed against the jutting crags of narrow canyons. The blood only seemed to invigorate them further. Sixty feet separated them from the line of Ultramarines.
Then fifty.
Then forty.
Sicarius cast off his cloak, prompting the others to do the same.
Then thirty.
He charged. He leapt. Then he set about the enemy with the fury of a storm unleashed. He barrelled into one, impaling it through the chest and riding its corpse to the ground. A flash of storm-wrack adamantium and a head slipped free of its shoulders. A lunge disembowelled another, a savage kick to sweep it from his murderous path before he hacked right to split an ork’s head in two and then left to cleave through shoulder to hip.
Daceus was closest on his heels, and lightning flashes lit the gloom with every blow, casting gruesome shadows. He pierced an ork through the eye, before pulling out the blade to parry a clumsy axe swipe. He hacked down, severing the wielder’s wrist before Vandius stepped in to cut off the beast’s leg. It squealed before Vandius stabbed down in a two-handed grip.
Vorolanus and Fennion fought together. The latter fought one-handed, his right arm a petrified metal limb curled in to his body. Fennion jabbed a gladius through an ork’s neck. It was a pugilist’s blow, fast, efficient and designed to inflict the maximum damage for the least effort. The beast was still clutching ineffectually at the wound and spewing blood as Vorolanus thrust a blade through its heart and ended it.
They moved quickly, the Ultramarines. It was ugly but it got the job done.
After less than two minutes they stood alone again. Twenty-three dead orks lay around them.
The first of the orks to reach the gorge mouth had been cut down like swine. It was a culling, plain and simple. A second ragged throng followed the first and met the same fate. This time the Ultramarines stood their ground, fighting with discipline and restraint, inspired by their captain. Greenskin corpses began to amass and it was over again in short order.
Daceus wiped his red blade on one of the bodies.
‘Dregs,’ he said, scowling at the stench, disdainful of the orks’ reckless abandon.
‘Just the opening skirmish,’ Sicarius replied. ‘The overeager and the foolish. We’ve bloodied them. Now let’s see what strength they really have.’
A second gap had formed between Ultramarines and greenskins as the horde was brought to heel by a band of larger, veteran orks. These beasts wore scraps of bone armour, their faces daubed with crude bloody markings. The horde started to coalesce and the chieftain joined them, descending from his rocky plinth to shove his way through the masses.
As the orks began to stomp towards them, Sicarius exchanged a look with Vorolanus.
The sergeant eyed the ridge line on bot
h sides of the gorge.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Closer.’
Sicarius nodded.
‘What now then?’ asked Daceus. They were slowly retreating back to the very mouth of the gorge.
‘We stand here at the mouth of the defile and let none pass.’ He nodded to Vandius, who pulled out the spear that had been strapped to his back. He rammed the haft into the earth then untied the bundle bound to his belt. The Second Company’s banner unfurled, its fringed edges catching on the wind and snapping. He tied it off quickly, the movements deft but reverent. Then he grasped the spear, snatching it from the ground with a rapid swipe of his arm, and held the great banner aloft.
‘Guardians of the Temple!’ he bellowed, vying with the lightning and the booming voices of greenskin gods, and brought his sword up to his face in a sharp salute.
As one, the other Ultramarines matched him.
TWO FACES
‘Who are you?’ Reda demanded.
The man in chains who claimed he knew of the Imperium lowered his eyes.
‘My name’s Yabor. I’m a colonist.’ He seemed to calm down now he was able to share what he knew with someone who might actually believe him.
‘As I said,’ Cwen whispered sadly, a furtive look at the man she said was her husband, ‘madness. I had to chain him down here, keep him hidden. If the vizier ever found out…’
Reda glared at her as if she’d just stabbed at a nerve. Her own soldier’s instincts were suddenly firing off a warning. ‘What’s the vizier got to do with any of this?’
‘He advised the baron to use this place to imprison anyone ever stricken by the malady.’
Now Reda turned on her.
‘Please,’ said the man, raising his eyes, ‘she didn’t know. None of them know. They had no choice.’
‘What’s the malady?’ she asked Cwen, who looked from Reda to her husband and back again. She seemed confused, afraid.
‘There have been people, citizens that would say or do things. Insane things.’
‘What things?’
‘About the Emperor, the Throne,’ said the man. ‘The Imperium.’
Cwen snapped. ‘Stop it! Stop saying these things.’
‘It’s true,’ said Reda.
Cwen turned. ‘What? You have the malady too.’
Reda seized her by the arms, forcing a grimace onto Cwen’s face. She struggled initially, but Reda gripped her firmly and held her angry gaze.
‘It’s true,’ she repeated. ‘The Imperium, the Emperor, the sky ships – it’s all real. There is no land called Macragge. It’s a world, one of several in a galactic realm called Ultramar. We did not travel here across the wilds or over the ocean. We came in a ship, a starship. We call it the void, a great dark sea of stars. I don’t expect you to take this in straight away, but I think I am starting to understand. You’ve been manipulated, Cwen. I don’t know how, or why, but ever since we’ve arrived something has been off about this place. You have a single city, and no knowledge of any others. You have a ruler but no social structure to speak off. You are fighting a war that none of you really remembers starting and you have no damn history. Nothing. No archive, no library. And our language,’ said Reda. ‘It’s the same.’
‘But you’re from the south…’ said Cwen, clinging desperately to anything that made sense, but Reda could see through the fear, through the abject confusion, that deep down she knew. ‘We could speak the same tongue.’
‘Except I’m not. None of us are. The language you’re speaking is called Gothic, and it’s the universal tongue of the Imperium, an effort at linguistic hegemony.’
‘I can’t… I don’t. This is not…’ She squirmed loose, backing away until her husband held her. She fought him at first, but then settled into his gentle embrace. He murmured something into her ear, something reassuring. She wept then, but stopped fighting it.
‘This was, still is, a colony,’ the man who had identified himself as Yabor said to Reda. ‘Not a large one. We were meant to be agri-farmers, but something changed.’
‘Changed how?’ asked Vanko.
Yabor frowned, his face pained. ‘I don’t exactly know. My memory… there are gaps. I only know that this isn’t real. We aren’t blacksmiths or farriers or masons. We are colonists and servants of the God-Emperor of Mankind, but something has been done to us.’
‘You were afraid they’d kill him to silence him,’ Reda said to Cwen.
‘Reda…’ Vanko’s voice interrupted the interrogation. Reda turned sharply, about to snap at him when she saw the look on his face. ‘You smell that? That foulness on the air?’ he said.
He was right, the stench had worsened. She’d almost forgotten about it what with Yabor’s bizarre confession, but now her attention had been drawn to it again she realised it had grown so much more potent. She also heard scratching, as of clawed feet treading lightly across the ground, trying not to be heard.
‘It’s the greenskins,’ she realised. ‘They must have infiltrated the city, got in somehow and hid out down here until… Oh no.’
‘What is it?’ asked Cwen, pulling from Yabor’s arms, still reeling but coping.
‘Sicarius and the others. They’re gone, left for the gorge.’ She looked down at the chains. ‘We have to get these off.’
‘We can’t release him,’ Cwen said.
‘You still don’t get it, do you? None of this is real. It’s a falsehood, all of it. But what is real are those orks. They’re here, medicus. In this catacomb. How far do these tunnels run?’
Cwen blinked but didn’t reply.
‘How far?’ Reda demanded.
‘Throughout the city, I think. Most have been closed off.’
‘Most?’
‘Some are still intact.’
‘Then they’re coming. The orks are coming. That thrice-damned stench is them. Their odour. He’s dead if we don’t get him loose. Now, step the hell back,’ she said to Yabor, who shuffled against the wall.
‘They’re getting close, Arna,’ Gerrant warned.
‘I know, Vanko, but I’m not leaving him.’
Reda struck the chain, a solid blow with the maul that bent the lock but didn’t break it. She swung again. The scratching sounds coming from deeper in the catacombs were getting louder. After three heavy hits, she broke the lock. With Reda’s help, Yabor slid the length of chain through the metal loop on his ankle. ‘Do you have any weapons? A lasgun?’
‘You can use one?’
‘I’m trained as a colonial fusilier, so yes.’
‘No lasguns.’ She showed him the maul. ‘This is all we’ve got.’
Yabor gave the solitary weapon a rueful look. ‘Then we need to get moving. I’ll take her,’ he said with a tender glance at Cwen.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked in a quiet voice. ‘I don’t… None of this makes any sense…’
Yabor gently touched her face. ‘The bone-swine are coming, my love. And we have to go.’
Cwen nodded and that was that.
Reda only realised she was staring, longing for the same kind of understanding between her and Vanko, when Yabor said, ‘We need to move now.’
They ran, Reda leading them out as Cwen and Gerrant helped Yabor, whose stiff legs had atrophied during his incarceration.
Behind them, the orks were closing. They must have realised they had been discovered, for they threw off all caution now and an echoing chorus of squealing, grunting voices chased Reda and the others through the darkness.
Reda only slowed as she passed the cells where the other madmen were still screaming.
Yabor was breathing hard, his body not used to the physical exertion, but he looked eager to be away from the old keep.
‘They’re not far off,’ he said. ‘We can’t save these men.’
‘We have to try,’ said Reda. ‘Maybe we can–’
‘They are safer behind those cell doors than we are in the open,’ said Gerrant. ‘You saved one, Arna. Let that be enough or we’re all dea
d.’
The orks had reached the stairs; she could hear them bellowing and hooting to each other, their heavy feet slapping loudly against the steps.
‘Throne forgive us…’ Reda whispered, and ran on.
She cast a glance over her shoulder just as the orks burst into the corridor. A host of red eyes glared back. They looked hungry.
A light rain was falling and cast a grey pall across the sky as they staggered out of the old keep. It felt cool against her skin after the heat of the catacombs. Reda dragged in a lungful of air. She bellowed a warning but the streets were near deserted, no soldiers in sight.
‘Where the hell is everyone?’
Shutters were closed, doors locked. They were alone and backing away across a muddy square when the first ork emerged, blinking and snorting, into the drab dawn.
It was alone for now, and at first looked lost but excited, a raider who had just made landfall and was eager for the pillaging to come. It clapped its porcine eyes on Reda, who swung her maul in readiness, and pushed out a roar.
It looked rangier than the other greenskins, its leathery flesh crosshatched with numerous scars. A stone axe hung lazily in its grip. Reda noted the edge was notched with blood, and suddenly she understood why the other greenskins had yet to appear.
Vanko came to her side, a borrowed sword in hand.
‘We die together,’ he said.
Pain, anguish, anger, hope, they all warred for supremacy in Reda’s heart. She nodded, ‘Together…’ and ran at the greenskin.
It swung at her, the notched axe cutting the air overhead as Reda ducked and cracked her maul against its leg. Vanko hacked into the ork’s side but the blow did nothing. The beast lashed out with a claw, ripping Vanko’s old armour to shreds. Four red lines blossomed against his ragged shirt. He staggered and almost fell.
Taking advantage of the brief distraction, Reda hit the ork as hard as she could across the back. She felt something yield to her blow and crack. The ork squealed, turning savagely, saliva flying and a curse spitting from its mouth. Reda didn’t see the kick. It was fast and caught her so unawares that she sprawled back across the mud, tumbling like a drunken clown, the maul flying from her grasp.