The War for Rynn's World - Steve Parker & Mike Lee

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Go,’ said Kantor. ‘Report what you see.’

  Around him, the other Astartes stopped to await his command, bolters rising to the ready position by force of habit.

  ‘All squads, hold position,’ Kantor ordered over the link.

  Cortez sprinted up the slope, his heavy boots crushing small rocks to powder beneath him and causing a miniature landslide of dirt and pebbles. Just below the ridgeline, mindful of his silhouette, he stopped, crouched, and peered over.

  ‘You were right, lord,’ he reported. ‘Three Lightnings vectoring in towards the mountains. The orks have seen them. Their fighters are breaking off to engage. I don’t like the look of it. Those Lightnings are outnumbered three to one.’

  Ork flying machines might look clumsy, nose-heavy, and just about as aerodynamic as a Dreadnought, but therein lay the trick. Despite appearances, they were often lethally effective. No Rynnsguard air unit in active service had ever faced orks before. Imperial Lightnings, armed with autocannon and lascannon as standard, were crafted for performance, not durability. And ork pilots were as liable to ram them head-on as to fire on them.

  ‘They must have been sent here to investigate the explosion,’ said Kantor.

  It made sense. The blast that had obliterated Arx Tyrannus would have been visible across almost the entire continent. Contact with Scar Lake Airbase had been lost hours ago, during the first ork strikes on the planet, but the appearance of the Lightnings suggested a slim possibility the airbase itself was still under Rynnsguard control. Kantor hoped so, but there was little he could do about it either way.

  To Cortez, he said, ‘We cannot aid them from here, Alessio. Not with the weapons we have. Keep moving. Their arrival will buy us time to put more ground under our feet. Hurry.’

  Though reluctant to turn his eyes from the imminent dogfight, Cortez left the ridge and half-skidded, half-strode back to Kantor’s position.

  ‘All squads, move out,’ ordered the Chapter Master.

  ‘Emperor be with them,’ said Cortez as he fell into step.

  Five

  Three thousand metres above the Hellblade Mountains

  ‘Falcon One, this is Falcon Three,’ said Lieutenant Keanos over the vox. ‘I have a lock.’

  ‘Falcon Three, you are clear to fire,’ came the reply. ‘Falcon squadron, engage, engage!’

  Keanos flipped the red toggle on his stick and thumbed the fire button. From a pylon under his right wing, white fire flashed and raced off, painting an arc of smoke that curved in towards his still-distant target.

  Two seconds later, a little ball of fire bloomed in the distance. Black trails fell from it towards the ground.

  ‘That’s a kill,’ said the voice on the vox. ‘First blood to Falcon Three.’

  Keanos felt a surge of elation. He had just destroyed an alien aircraft. In all his ten years as a Rynnsguard pilot, he had never actually imagined he would see real combat. Most of the flight time he had logged was routine patrol or war games. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife, Azela, and their son, Oric, about this. It would have to wait until after the war, of course, when they could be together again.

  He would have to embellish the telling a little, mind you. It was the AF-9 Airstrike missile that had done most of the real work. He had one left, slung under his left wing, and he hoped to gain another kill with it before the skirmish was over. The orks hadn’t opened fire yet, so it looked like they didn’t have missiles with the kind of range the Airstrikes had. But there were still eight of them left according to his forward auspex. Even if he and the rest of Falcon squad made a kill with every missile at their disposal, there would still be three ork fighters which they would have to eliminate in gun range, and that was another kind of combat altogether.

  Up ahead, the ork fighters were banking to face him now. The numbers on his auspex’s rangefinder display were dropping fast, far too fast for comfort. The orks were making a beeline directly for the Imperial Fighters. A familiar alarm sounded in Keanos’s cockpit. Keanos spoke over the vox. ‘Falcon One, I have another lock. Alpha-Six. I repeat, I have a lock on target Alpha-Six.’

  As he spoke, he saw two white trails streak out towards the orks, one from each of the Lightnings on either side of him. Keanos hoped they hadn’t fired at Alpha-Six. He wanted the kill for himself.

  One of the missile trails started corkscrewing a second before it plunged towards the ground. A frustrated voice announced, ‘This is Falcon One. Missile malfunction. No hit. No hit. Falcon Three, cleared to fire. Light him up.’

  Keanos hit the button on his stick and felt the last Airstrike drop away from below his left wing. The white trail curved off ahead and, a second later, a churning ball of red fire and black smoke started dropping from the sky.

  ‘That’s two for two, Falcon Three,’ said the squadron leader.

  Keanos wanted to jump up and down. Second only to Oric’s birth, this was turning into one of the best days of his life. Two kills! How many more would he make by the end of the war?

  With his main ordnance spent, he switched his targeting systems over to manual. Looking at his display, he saw that both his autocannon and lascannon were primed and ready, ammo counters at max. Up ahead, the rest of the ork fighters were almost in gun-range.

  Come on, you alien bastards, he thought. I’ll be an ace for sure.

  Six

  Zona 6 Industria, New Rynn City

  The fighting in the streets around the damaged manufactorum was already heavy when Alvez and Grimm arrived behind the hastily erected barricades. The moment the captain arrived, those not engaged in direct fire turned and threw him short, sharp salutes. He nodded, but did not salute back. Though he was a rigid traditionalist, he knew, too, that there was a time and a place to reinforce proper conduct and discipline, and here, under heavy fire from a large, confident warband, was not that time.

  Solid slugs whined over his head as he strode across to Squad Anto where they were hunkered down behind thick sections of Aegis pre-fabricated walls.

  A fellow Blackwaterite, Faradis Anto had served under Alvez for more than a century. He was relatively short for a Crimson Fist, but he had a quick mind, and was known for being decisive. Alvez had once considered Anto for Grimm’s position, but Anto and the captain were too similar in many ways. Huron Grimm was a contrast, and Alvez had opted for the balance that their dynamic allowed, though he had never said so to Grimm. So far, he’d had no cause to regret that choice.

  As he approached Anto, he told Grimm, ‘Go, sergeant. Command your squad, but keep this channel open should I need you.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Grimm. He turned from Alvez, and crossed to greet his squad brothers where they sheltered behind the concrete corner of a processing mill that was being peppered by ork stubber-fire.

  Anto saluted Alvez. ‘It is good to see you, lord.’

  ‘Status report, Faradis.’

  ‘The transport was large and very full. A great deal of damage was done to the manufactorum, but the superstructure remains intact. There are orks holed up inside. We estimate their number to be between sixty and eighty. Others are using the wreckage of their craft as cover. Still more are moving through the streets, killing all they find. They have attempted to flank us on this side of the district twice, but we have turned them back both times. If we are to dislodge them, we will need to storm their positions with a full frontal assault.’

  Here, Anto paused, before adding, ‘It could be costly, my lord. The orks taking cover in the wreckage and the manufactorum have significant firepower. Scouts from Squad Bariax are acting as our forward eyes. They have reported signs of las and plasma analogues, and a number of xenos weapon types. The orks are highly alert, too. Sergeant Bariax and his men attempted to infiltrate the manufactorum eleven minutes ago. It was hoped he and his squad might be able to eliminate the warboss and throw the entrenched forces into confusion. I’m afraid it did not work, my lord.’

  ‘Losses?’ asked Alvez.

  ‘Two S
couts, good men I’m told.’

  Not good enough, thought Alvez. We can’t afford to lose anyone, not if we are all that is left of the Chapter.

  He still hadn’t made Deguerro’s dark revelation common knowledge, partly because he hoped it could still prove to be false, partly because there had been no time.

  ‘Do we have schematics for the area?’ he asked. ‘We need an access plan.’

  There was a tremendous pounding from behind them, like a god hammering on a vast door, and Alvez and Anto turned to look for the source. They could hardly have missed it. There before them stood a gargantuan figure, his every angular surface etched with the deeds and glories of his past. On the right side of his massive armoured carapace, he bore the Chapter icon set within the stone cross of a Crux Terminatus, a symbol permitted only to those who had earned their place in the Crusade Company. Between his piston-like legs, a white tabard rippled in the breeze, decorated with an aquila embroidered in gold thread. And on his left leg, he wore a sculpted arc of silver laurel leaves surrounding a golden skull, yet another of the great honours he had gained throughout his six centuries as a member of the Crimson Fists.

  He was a Dreadnought. His name was Brother Jerian and, when he spoke, his modulated voice was so deep, like the bellow of a massive bull brachiodont, that the air around him trembled. ‘You need no access plans, honoured captain.’

  He raised his left arm into the air and spun his monstrous metal power fist through three hundred and sixty degrees.

  ‘Where you require a doorway, I shall make one.’

  Now, he raised his right arm, and the air filled with a mechanical whine as he cycled the clustered barrels of his auto-cannon.

  ‘Where you require death, I shall dispense it.’

  Alvez looked up at the ancient warrior. Inside the walking metal sarcophagus, there was a battle-brother much like himself. Or rather, he had been once. Jerian had been a hero of the Chapter before Alvez had known life. But the hero had fallen in the Battle for Emerald Sands, his body eaten away almost to nothing by the concentrated bio-acids of the despicable tyranid race. It was a slow, painful death, no death for a Space Marine. The Apothecaries had saved what they could of him, and the Techmarines had interred him in this venerable and ancient apparatus. If death ever tried to claim him again, it would find him a hard target. Alvez was sure of that.

  Every brother in the Chapter knew the tales of Jerian‘s victories and heroics. Clearly, the Dreadnought sought to add to that list now.

  Alvez walked towards the boxy metal giant, stopping five metres in front of him and fixing his eyes on the rectangular vision slit cut high on the hulking frame.

  ‘Very well, Brother Jerian,’ he said. ‘You will provide our heavy support. We will push in directly and slaughter the foe where they stand. Obey my orders. This will unfold as I command it. No other way.’

  Alvez felt wrong addressing such a legendary figure in this manner, but he had to be sure that all, even Jerian, recognised his authority here as absolute.

  If Pedro Kantor is gone, he told himself, the future of the Chapter is in my hands.

  The thought was sour. It gave him no pride.

  ‘You understand, Old One?’ he said to the Dreadnought. ‘We will do this my way.’

  ‘We may do this any way you please,’ rumbled Jerian, ‘so long as I get to kill orks.’

  Seven

  The Western Foothills, Hellblade Mountains

  Kantor and his Fists emerged from Yanna Gorge onto a shallow slope that wound its way between the last of the foothills. The Eastern Steppes spread out before them, bright and glaring in the midday sunlight. To the west, smoke from a thousand fires rose into the air. The roiling black pillars were so large, the Astartes could see them from a hundred kilometres away, rising just beyond the curve of the horizon. They did not know if the smoke represented crashed ork craft or burning townships. Kantor hoped it was the former.

  As he ordered his Astartes to continue north-west across the steppes, he heard explosions behind him. He turned, but his view was blocked by the bent backs of the hills. He hoped the explosion was not the death rattle of a Lightning fighter.

  To the east, back the way they had come, the Hellblades rose up like a wall of jagged tusks, their sharp peaks bone white, their roots and ridges almost black. He had known these mountains almost all his life. Why did he feel that he was saying goodbye to them? Arx Tyrannus was gone, but the mountains would endure. He couldn’t explain the feeling.

  Cortez’s squad had moved up, a kilometre ahead, to take its turn as the party’s forward eyes. Sergeant Segala and his squad had fallen back to march beside Kantor, but the men kept a respectful distance. They did not want to bother their Chapter Master, perhaps recognising the burden he now bore.

  They knew he would call them to him when and if he needed them.

  There was a sudden scream of rocket engines as one of the Lightnings streaked by barely a hundred metres above Kantor’s head. Sixteen pairs of visored eyes whipped up to follow it. A heavy-looking ork fighter roared past just a second later, spewing a hail of lead and las-fire from a bristle of forward guns. Kantor saw the Lightning dance from right to left, trying to shake its pursuer, but the ork was stuck to its tail. The Lightning pilot tried to swerve left, following the gradient of the land downwards, but the ork must have anticipated the move. The Lightning turned directly into a stream of shells that ripped its metal body apart.

  It hit the ground north of Cortez’s position.

  The ork fighter peeled off. In the heat of battle, its pilot failed to notice the line of Space Marines on the ground below, or so Kantor hoped.

  ‘Pedro,’ said Cortez over the comm-link. He didn’t need to say anymore.

  ‘Go, Alessio,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The rest of us will follow.’

  The land was strewn with shining pieces of metal. The Lightning had cut a great furrow in the ground and had come to rest with its nose half-buried.

  Cortez crouched by the body of the pilot and read the name tag under the winged skull patch on his chest.

  ‘Keanos,’ he said. ‘That’s your name? I am Captain Cortez of the Crimson Fists. If you can hear me, Keanos, speak your first name.’

  The wounded man stirred. His flight-suit was soaked with blood. The smell of it was thick on the air, mixing with the acrid stink of burnt metal. ‘Galen,’ he said at last. ‘My name is… Galen…

  K-Keanos.’

  Cortez lifted a canteen to the man’s lips. ‘Can you drink, Galen Keanos? It is water.’

  Keanos managed a sip, but a second started him coughing, and the coughing was agony to him, so Cortez removed the canteen, stoppered it, and stowed it on his belt.

  Heavy footsteps crunched the dirt and rock behind him, and he knew instinctively that the Chapter Master was there. Without turning, Cortez said, ‘He is in a bad way, Pedro. He will not last long. Let me give him final mercy.’

  Kantor lowered into a crouch beside the Rynnite pilot and gestured for Cortez to move back a little. ‘We must have information first.’

  ‘His name is Galen Keanos,’ said Cortez.

  ‘Galen,’ said the Chapter Master with a nod. Then he turned his eyes to the dying man and said, ‘Galen, can you hear me?’

  Keanos looked up in the direction of the voice, but his eyes were unfocussed.

  ‘I am Pedro Kantor, Lord Hellblade, Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists.’

  ‘My… my lord,’ gasped Keanos. He struggled, as if trying to rise.

  ‘No, Galen,’ said Kantor, placing his right hand gently on Keanos’s shoulder. ‘Lie back. You must not move. Your pain will end soon, but if you honour me, and if you honour the Emperor, you must bear it a little longer. We need information.’

  ‘I will try to… answer, lord.’

  ‘Did you fly from Scar Lake?’

  ‘Yes. My… my squadron was sent to investigate a light in the mountains. We thought it was over Arx Tyrannus, but long-range comms were down.
The orks hit our… our vox-masts in the first wave. We needed help, but there was no way to… My wife and child… were evacuated south. Oric. My Oric.’

  ‘He’s fading,’ said Cortez.

  ‘There will be a medical pack in the cockpit, Alessio. Get it quickly.’

  Cortez shook his head. ‘I checked after I pulled him out. It was shredded. The whole cockpit was shot to pieces.’

  ‘Galen,’ said Kantor, ‘is Scar Lake still operational? Is it still resisting?’

  Keanos coughed, and blood flecked the corners of his mouth. ‘The… orks attacked the perimeter but… we… we turned them back twice. Then General Mazius was… killed.’

  ‘What about the cities? What word from the capital? From Caltara, or Sagarro?’

  They waited for Keanos’s answer, but the man’s face was slack now. His eyes no longer blinked.

  ‘He is gone,’ said Cortez. ‘Scar Lake must have fallen by now.’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ said Kantor, still looking down at the dead man. ‘Nothing Snagrod has done so far seems to be random. It’s almost… systematic.’

  ‘We can’t know that yet,’ protested Cortez.

  Kantor locked eyes with him. ‘No, Alessio? The deep-space relay station strikes, the concentrated assaults on our surface communications arrays, the immediate targeting of military installations. This one isn’t waging war like an ork. He is fighting like the Imperium. This Snagrod has learned from us.’

  Cortez narrowed his eyes, unsure whether to believe that or not. Long experience had taught him that what the orks boasted in strength, they more than lacked in brains. Their low intelligence was what really kept them in check, not the forces arrayed against them. Smart orks – the kind of smart that Kantor was suggesting – were a foe of a different order altogether, a foe that perhaps no one could hope to stop.

  ‘We must push on,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘That ork pilot missed us the first time, but it might not miss us on another pass. There will be a scavenger party on its way to salvage scrap from the kill.’ Anticipating his friend’s next words, he added, ‘No, Alessio. We will not wait to ambush them.’