“Stavin. What’s yours?”
“I’m Kovo, Fourth Platoon. My squad came in from the north-east and joined up with your lot at the crossroads, remember? I saw you drop the two traitors manning that bolter.”
“Oh,” said Stavin simply.
“Aye, good kills. Some of the others said you’re from Hive Tzurka. That right?”
Stavin nodded.
“Me, too, the Merchant’s Quarter. Can’t say I miss it much. Anyway, don’t worry about the others ragging on you. All the shinies get it. Just so you know, we saw how you toasted those rebels. You’re bloodied now, proper Fifth Company. You won’t get any grief from us.”
“How long have you been with the regiment, Kovo?” interjected Karif.
Stavin jumped as if he’d been stung, and only just realised that the commissar was listening to their exchange.
Kovo gave a shallow bow before answering. “I’ve been with the Sixty-Eighth for over eight years, commissar. I’m proud to serve under the White Boar. Never thought we’d be hit this hard. Curse Old Hungry for the fat has—”
Suddenly reminded that he was talking to a political officer, Kovo’s cheeks flushed, but he held Karif’s gaze.
Karif let his smile put the trooper at ease. “I haven’t met the man myself, but I’ve heard he could do with a few laps around the compound, so to speak.”
A few of the soldiers listening offered polite laughs, but Sergeant Basch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said, “It’s a common misconception, commissar, that the name Old Hungry refers to the general’s physical appearance. It doesn’t. Captain Sebastev never intended for the name to be taken like that. He calls the man Old Hungry on account of all the Vostroyan lives his career has needed to sustain itself. Look under ‘attritionist’ in a lexicanum and you’ll see a picture of General Vogor Vlastan. I won’t deny he’s a wretched figure of a man, mind you, but that’s hardly his fault. We were fighting dark eldar pirates on Kalgrathis twenty-five years ago when an assassin managed to slip poison into his food. Together, the Medicae and the Mechanicus managed to save his life. Whether they should have bothered is open to debate, I reckon.”
A trooper with a face criss-crossed by white scar tissue spoke up from Karif s left side. “If it weren’t for Vlastan’s political connections with the Administratum and the bigwigs out of Cypra Mundi, he’d never have made general in a million years.”
Someone on the right, hidden from Karif’s eyes by the press of bodies, decided to add a few comments of their own. “Man’s a bloody fool. We should have swept on the hive-cities as soon as we made planetfall.”
“Hestor’s balls!” another called out. “Who knew the orks were here, too? If you ask me, it’s hardly the general’s fault. The Twelfth Army was undermanned from the start. Look to the Lord-Marshal if you want to blame someone.”
More voices chipped in. “Khek off! It was Old Hungry ordered us to hold Korris when the rest pulled out. Nhalich might have been a different story for the rest of our regiment and the 701st if the White Boar had been there to lead them.”
“You really think he could have saved them?” asked someone.
“Nothing saved Vamkin,” said a man with First Platoon insignia.
“Or Blemski,” added someone else, “or Makarov.”
Other voices joined in, adding to the cacophony, half of the men battling to be heard, the other half shaking their heads in silent anger at the loss of their brother Firstborn.
Vostroyan truculence, thought Karif. Is this to happen every time I sit amongst them? Their battlefield discipline is impeccable, but the moment the enemy is overcome, they turn to arguing with each other. Well, I’ve got my own way of dealing with such things.
He took his laspistol from the holster at his hip and aimed the barrel at the floor of the passenger compartment. A sharp crack rang out, killing the raised voices in mid-sentence. The odour of ionised air and metal reached out to every nose in the cramped space. Wisps of smoke rose from a circular scorch mark in the floor.
Karif spoke quietly, knowing it would force the men to concentrate just to hear him. “Before I joined this company,” he said, “I heard many great things about Vostroyan discipline. I heard of victories other Guard regiments could scarcely imagine. I heard of a fighting force dedicated to the Emperor’s service in every way.”
He turned his head and saw every eye on him. Those farthest from him, near the hatch at the back, craned forward to watch him as he spoke.
“I was honoured to be placed among you. As we fought in Nhalich, I was honoured to recite words from the Treads Elatii to spur you on. But twice I’ve sat with you in the back of these transports, and twice your discussions have degenerated into disordered shouting. I wonder if I should feel quite as honoured as I did before.”
Karif looked to his left and met Sergeant Basch’s hard eyes as he continued. “You are the last hundred men of the Sixty-Eighth Infantry Regiment, and on your shoulders rest the future of the regiment sand the honour of both Captain Sebastev and Colonel Kabanov. You owe the very best you can give to these men dedicated to leading you through this struggle. You owe them unquestioning loyalty, just as every man here owes it to the Emperor. Recent arrival I may be, but I have pledged to see this thing through. Fifth Company has fought hard and will need to do so again before this is finished. One last fight to secure our passage to safety. One last fight to fulfil your duties and preserve the honour of the regiment.
“What say you? Will you join me in asking the spirits of our fallen comrades to aid us, to galvanise our hearts for the coming fight? On your damned knees, every last one of you.”
All the troopers in the transport shuffled their backsides off the benches and knelt on the hard, steel floor facing Karif. Some were slower than others, but a glare from Sergeant Basch enlisted even the: most reluctant.
Standing before them, Karif made the aquila on his chest and watched the men before him copy the gesture. “In the name of the Holy Emperor, Majesty Most High, saints we beseech you.”
“Ave Imperator,” came the response.
“For the glory of the Imperium and the tireless efforts of all who sustain it, we beseech you.”
“Ave Imperator.”
“He who gave his life, He who suffers the eternal agonies of undeath that we might live, to Him we pray. Let the souls of our brothers be commended to His side, to offer their essence in death as they died in life.”
“None die in vain that die in His name,” intoned the soldiers as one.
Karif smiled inwardly.
They’re a bloody-minded rabble when left to their own devices, he said to himself, but see how pious they are then the moment calls for it. I had thought there would be trouble, a struggle between their loyalty to the Cult Mechanicus and their faith in the Imperial Creed. But no. Over the millennium, they’ve found a balance between both. It’s remarkable.
“Let us commend the souls of the fallen faithful to His side by naming them.”
Between them, the men present made sure that not one fallen soldier from Fifth Company was forgotten in their prayers.
In the early hours of the morning, in the darkness, the driving snows and the howling winds, Fifth Company’s vehicles began their steep climb up into the Varanesian Peaks.
The massive Pathcutter at the front of the column hugged the mountainsides, following the pass that connected the Valles Carcavia in the north with the lowlands in the south. The pass was buried under metres of snow, but it was well mapped and had been marked out with beacons placed at regular intervals. The beacons repeatedly transmitted short bursts of noise that could be followed using a standard cockpit auspex. Even so, between the black of night and the relentless snowfall, visibility was extremely poor, and there was no margin for error.
After hours of treacherous climbing, the road finally levelled out. Fifth Company had reached the apex of its journey through the pass. Soon they’d be heading downhill into the valley and straight towards Grazzen.
Trooper Gavlin Rhaiko, the driver of the lead vehicle, gave a sigh of relief when he noticed that the sky over the mountains was beginning to grow lighter. For the first time in long, stressful hours, he could see beyond the plex bubble of his cockpit. He still needed the auspex to guide him through the falling snow, but every few moments, he raised his head from the green monitor screen to peer outside. It was while doing so that he noticed irregular, flickering lights on the road up ahead.
A firefight!
His finger was halfway to the vox-bead in his ear when a bright red rocket flashed straight towards him, smashed through the plex bubble and detonated, killing him instantly.
Sebastev winced as shouting erupted from his vox-bead, sending a jolt of pain into his left ear. “Get your khekking transports off the road, warp-damn it. You’re wide open out there.”
The voice over the vox had the sharp tone of a Vostroyan officer, but Sebastev didn’t recognise it. The man wasn’t one of his.
“This is Captain Sebastev, Firstborn Sixty-Eighth Regiment, Fifth Company. Identify yourself at once.”
“Captain, get your men out of those bloody transports and off the road now! You’re gift shots, the lot of you.”
Sebastev turned to look at Colonel Kabanov. The colonel had jumped awake at the sound of the explosion up ahead. “I repeat,” he voxed to the stranger, “identify yourself at once.”
“This is Captain Yegor Chelnikov, Thirty-Fifth Regiment, Second Company. I have orders from Twelfth Army Command to rendezvous with your company and accompany you into Grazzen.”
The sound of gunfire rattled from the snow covered road ahead, loud even through the hull of the Chimera. You must get your men out of those transports, Captain Sebastev. It sounds insane, I know, but the orks are fielding a type of guided missile. You… you won’t believe it until you see it.”
Colonel Kabanov gave Sebastev a nod and the captain turned to Lieutenant Kuritsin. “Rits,” he said, “get our lads out of the transports and into cover. This is a combat zone. There are orks ahead on the road.”
“Aye, sir,” said Kuritsin and voxed the order across to the others.
“I think, captain,” said Kabanov as he stood, “that we’d better lead by example.”
Maro was already helping the colonel don his fur hat and cloak. Everyone else in the Chimera began readying themselves to disembark as fast as they could. Sebastev looked down at their Danikkin prisoner. “What about this idiot?” he asked.
“Cut the bonds at his ankles,” said Colonel Kabanov. “Maro, keep your laspistol at the prisoner’s back. There’s nowhere for him to go. If he tries to run, the orks will get him. If they don’t, the deep winter will.”
Brammon Gusseff, still gagged and with his hands tightly bound, stood at a gesture from Lieutenant Maro. A few moments later, Lieutenant Kuritsin cracked the rear hatch open and they dashed out into the snow, one after the other.
Sebastev raced to the side of the Chimera the moment his boots hit the snow, eager to assess the situation up ahead. The lead vehicle poured roiling black smoke into the sky. Vostroyan Firstborn poured down the ramp in the damaged Pathcutter’s belly, shaken by the impact, but unharmed thanks to the shielding between the cockpit and the troop compartment.
Sebastev could see Commissar Karif at the rear of the column, ushering other Firstborn down the ramp of their last operational Pathcutter. The troopers moved in pairs, immediately taking up covering positions to allow the rest of their squads to deploy safely.
Gunfire sounded close by. Ork shells began to zip past. The lead transport rattled with the impact of fat metal slugs from ork stubbers. On either side of the road, rising up the snow covered slopes, thick forests of pine seemed to offer some shadowy cover.
“Get our fighters into the trees, captain,” ordered Colonel Kabanov. “I want to push up as fast as possible. Perhaps we can flank the orks while their attention is centred on our vehicles.”
“To the trees, Firstborn,” yelled Sebastev into his vox. “Flanking manoeuvres on both sides of the road.” Then, to Captain Chelnikov, he voxed, “Captain, we’re moving up under cover of the trees. What’s your status?”
“I’ve got two squads with me. We’re pinned down between the treeline on the east slope and a depression by the side of the road.” Sebastev could hear the rapid crack of Vostroyan lasguns in the cold evening air as the squads from the Thirty-Fifth fought for their lives.
He was about to respond to Chelnikov when another explosion shook the lead Pathcutter. The giant vehicle erupted into a roaring ball of flames. Sebastev fought the urge to rub his eyes. It was difficult to believe what he’d seen just before the rocket hit.
For just a fraction of a second, he’d glimpsed a little green figure sitting near the nose of the rocket before it smashed into its target. The creature’s face was twisted and insane with glee, baring needle-like teeth in mad laughter as it raced towards death.
They’re using gretchin to guide their rockets, thought Sebastev.
Colonel Kabanov was leading men into the trees on the left of the road, huffing clouds of breath into the air as his boots kicked through the deep drifts. Men from Second and Fourth Platoons took up defensive positions around him.
Kuritsin was by Sebastev’s side, unwilling to move off without his captain. Another rocket screamed past the smoking transport, heading towards their unprotected position. Both men instinctively ducked, but Sebastev had a much better view this time. His eyes met those of the mad gretchin pilot. The diminutive ork cackled and yanked hard on its guidance levers, but it was too late to adjust the rocket’s trajectory enough to hit the vulnerable Vostroyans. Sebastev thought he could hear the frustrated scream of the mad pilot as the rocket blazed a smoky trail over their heads and disappeared into the screen of falling snow.
“Damn us for fools, Rits,” he barked, angered by the close call. “Let’s get our backsides into the cover of those trees, right now!”
They dashed off, using the tracks gouged in the snow by the other men to add speed to their steps. Just as they reached the treeline, chilling screams erupted from both sides of the pass.
“Those are human screams,” gasped Kuritsin.
“What the hell is going on?” voxed Sebastev desperately. “Someone report at once.”
“It’s the woods, sir,” voxed a breathless soldier from the trees up ahead. Cries of agony, shouted orders and the crack of lasguns sounded from between the black trunks.
“What about the damned woods?” snapped Sebastev.
“They’re infested, sir,” replied the trooper, “with squigs!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Day 688
Varanesian Pass — 08:42hrs, -26°C
Karif yelled into the cold air as he swept his growling chainsword left and right, chewing through the multitude of brightly coloured spherical bodies that leapt towards him. Thick orkoid blood soaked the carpet of pine needles that littered the ground beneath the trees. For every ten squigs he carved up like pieces of fruit, twenty more poured forward to snap at him with jaws rimmed by long yellow fangs.
There was a powerful smell of ork spores, like rotting flesh, from the mass of squig corpses that were piling up. It had begun to crowd out the scent of the pine. Knowing the woods meant close combat, the Firstborn had fixed bayonets to the ends of their lasgun barrels and were sweeping the deadly mono-molecular-edged blades through the tide of strange foes.
The vicious little beasts were knee high and hopped forward on short, powerful limbs. The jabbering noises they made assaulted the senses. There were too many of them to count.
Karif, Stavin and a trooper called Rubrikov had pressed their backs together, emulating the small knots of troopers nearby, eager not to leave their flanks naked to the savage swarm.
Sergeant Basch of Second Platoon wasn’t far from Karif’s position, just a little ahead and to the left, partially hidden from view by the trees. “Keep fighting, you lot,” he yelled. “We’re thinning t
hem out. Press forward!”
It was true, Karif realised. The squigs were still attacking in force, but the space between each round body was widening. More of the blood-sodden ground was showing through with each passing moment.
An orange ball of fungal flesh with a face from a child’s nightmare leapt into the air in front of Karif and opened its cavernous mouth, eager to sink its rows of razor sharp teeth into his face. It was a close thing, but the commissar’s swordsmanship had been tested by many foes both deadlier and more cunning. He swept his whirring blade upwards with both hands firm on the hilt, shearing straight through the orange body. Two symmetrical pieces flopped to the ground and lay there, quivering. A spray of stinking blood spattered Karif’s clothes.
Before he had a chance to curse, searing pain raced up his leg.
He called out in agony and Stavin twisted around to face him, ramming the point of his bayonet into the slimy, pink sphere that had fixed itself to the commissar’s lower leg.
“Son-of-a-grox,” roared Karif. Even dead, the squig’s jaws were shut tight. There was no time to prise the corpse’s teeth from his screaming calf muscle. More of the hopping fiends surged towards them.
Immediately behind Karif, so close it almost deafened him, an agonised scream sounded from Trooper Rubrikov’s lips. Karif and Stavin both spun away at the same time, turning to face the howling man who’d been covering their backs.
Rubrikov’s face was hidden from view by a fat yellow squig. Blood streamed from the troopers head where the beast’s fangs had punched through flesh and into bone. Blinded by the creature, Rubrikov couldn’t see to defend himself from the other squigs that crowded him, leaping up to bite great mouthfuls of warm flesh from those parts of him that were unarmoured.
A bright green squig closed its mouth over Rubrikov’s flailing left hand, severing it completely. The trooper’s horrifically shortened arm spouted a river of steaming blood as he stumbled to the ground, thrashing hopelessly at the swarming orks.
[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter Page 18