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

by Warhammer 40K

  It was a vision of hell that would have tested the courage of any mortal, but Kantor was a Crimson Fist, first among the shield-hands of Dorn, and he knew no fear. The Chapter Master answered the orks' war cries with a furious shout of his own and waded into the storm. Heavy shells buzzed past his helmet, or caromed off the curved surfaces of his ancient battle armour. One round flattened against his chest with a dull clang, leaving a shallow, circular dent just over his primary heart. Kantor shrugged off the impacts as though they were little more than raindrops. His left gauntlet came up in a sweeping arc, trailing linked ammunition feeds that fed the relic weapon mounted on his forearm. Dorn's Arrow thundered, the twin barrels of the venerated storm bolter glowing red as it unleashed a withering burst of mass-reactive shells into the ranks of the charging orks. The burst scythed into the oncoming greenskins, the explosive rounds burying themselves deep in the xenos's dense flesh before blowing apart. Four of the onrushing orks toppled to the ground, their smoking corpses trampled in an instant by the onrushing mob.

  A warning icon flashed in Kantor's helmet display. Dorn's Arrow consumed ammunition at a prodigious rate, and it had been eighty-seven days since the patrol's last resupply. The Chapter Master reckoned that he had one or two bursts left before the weapon ran dry.

  The greenskin mob was growing by the moment, as more and more of the xenos were drawn to the sound of battle. They came at Kantor in a howling tide of muscle and iron, their beady eyes glint­ing with bloodlust. The Chapter Master raised his crackling power fist in reply - and orange tongues of flame stabbed from the dark­ness at his back.

  Sergeant Edrys Phrenotas and his Sternguard veterans fired as they advanced, ripping into the ork mob with precise bursts from their drum-fed Phobos-pattem boltguns. In better times, each of the Sternguard would have been armed with an array of special ammu­nition, from searing Hellfire rounds to armour-piercing Vengeance bolts, but the stores of those rare and prized shells had long since been used up. The veterans were reduced to using common bolt-gun rounds; nonetheless, every shot found its mark in the head or chest of a charging ork, hurling the corpses of the front rank back upon the mob and causing them to falter. Phrenotas took position at Kantor's right, firing his combi-bolter one-handed at the xenos. Blood and bits of green flesh sizzled from the knuckles of the sergeant's power fist.

  'Now, Artos!' the veteran sergeant commanded.

  To Kantor's left, one of the Sternguard took a step forwards and levelled the hissing projectors of a heavy flamer at the mob. There was a draconic roar of superheated air as twin streams of searing promethium engulfed the tangled mob. Bellows of rage turned to shrieks of agony as the liquid fire ate through flesh and bone. Ammunition in the orks' guns cooked off in the intense heat, filling the air with shrapnel and adding to the carnage. The momentary pyre lit the night like a flare, casting ghoulish shadows against the sides of the orks' ramshackle huts and painting the canted belly of the crashed transport ship that loomed above the south end of the camp.

  Kantor tasted the acrid, earthy stink of burning ork through his helmet's olfactory receptors. The few greenskins that had escaped the flames had been driven back the way they had come. One of the Sternguard to the Chapter Master's right sighted down the scope mounted on his boltgun and snapped off a single shot at a retreat­ing ork. A moment later the crump of the exploding round and a harsh, gurgling scream told that the veteran's bolt had found its mark.

  More sounds of boltgun fire thundered off in the darkness to the Chapter Master's right, forming a wide arc to the east and south-east. The far end of the arc was anchored by Sergeant Victurix and his Terminators, with the ten Space Marines of Sergeant Daecor's. Tactical squad in the centre. Kantor had decided to strike the ork camp from three sides, to sow confusion and force the greenskins to fight on a broad front. Now it was time to drive the xenos into the trap.

  The Chapter Master keyed his vox-link. 'Squads Daecor and Victurix, begin your advance,' he ordered. 'Keep moving. Don't give the beasts time to react.' He glanced to his right. 'Phrenotas?'

  'Right flank is clear, my lord,' the veteran sergeant answered sharply. The Stemguards' armour, like their Chapter Master's, was battered and scarred from nearly two years of relentless combat against the ork invaders of Rynn's World, but their hearts were hard as iron. They were among the finest of the Chapter's elite Crusade Company, and they lived and died at their Chapter Master's com­mand. 'Awaiting your order.'

  Kantor took a bearing on their objective, just a few hundred metres north-west, and nodded. 'Fire pattern epsilon! Follow me!'

  The Chapter Master pressed onwards, his armoured boots scattering red-hot fragments of metal and bits of blackened bone as he tramped through the remnants of the pyre. Beyond, the narrow lane wound past another cluster of rusting, sheet metal huts before curving sharply to the south. Kantor followed the path only as far as it led towards his goal, then raised his power fist and ploughed on ahead, smashing through a reeking hut made from scavenged deck plate and bits of refuse. The Crimson Fists burst through the far side into a small cleared area that was crowded with the skeletons of derelict ork bikes. A pack of vicious, diminutive greenskins scattered like rats at the Space Marines' sudden appearance, brandishing oversized pistols and knives as they took cover behind and beneath the bikes. Kantor and the Sternguard scarcely broke stride, kicking over the derelict vehicles and crushing the screeching xenos beneath their boots. A handful of the creatures escaped, firing wildly over their knobby shoulders as they fled along another crooked lane to the south-west, towards the crashed transport.

  The camp was the largest that the patrol had encountered yet, high up in the Jaden Mountains and more than four hundred kilo­metres from the smouldering ruins of Port Calina. When Snagrod had invaded Rynn's World, the orks had descended upon the planet in their tens of millions, and for eighteen brutal months they had raged across the beleaguered planet. By the time an Imperial relief force arrived, only the capital, New Rynn City, remained in human hands. Everything else - every city, every settlement, every agri-combine and grox-ranch - had fallen to the xenos horde. What the orks could not kill, they looted, and what they could not loot, they burned. Only a tiny fraction of the planet's two hundred million, citizens had survived.

  Retribution had been swift and merciless. Companies from no less than six Space Marine Chapters, including large detachment from the Imperial Fists and the Black Templars, plus Titan war engines and dozens of regiments of the Imperial Guard, broke the siege of New Rynn City and crushed Snagrod's horde over the course of a savage two-week campaign. Finally, the ork warlord had had enough, and ordered what was left of his invasion force back to their transports. Many escaped, fleeing back to Charadon, but hundreds - perhaps thousands - of greenskins had been left behind, cut off from their ships by the presence of Imperial troops. Those remnant bands had gone into hiding, scattering to the farthest and darkest corners of the planet to lick their wounds and wait until they were strong enough to plague Rynn's World once again.

  Rynn's World had been the home of the Crimson Fists for thou­sands of years, and the Chapter took in aspirants from neighbouring feral worlds across the subsector. Snagrod had invaded the planet with the express purpose of destroying the Chapter, and, by the cruellest twist of fate, had nearly succeeded. During the early stages of the ork invasion, a missile launched from one of the Crimson Fists own defensive batteries had malfunctioned, falling back upon the Chapter's fortress-monastery and penetrating deep into its vitals. The explosion detonated the monastery's vast magazines blasting the fortress apart and killing six hundred Space Marines – more than half of the Chapter - in one fell stroke. Only Kantor and a bare handful of his battle-brothers survived the blast.

  The Chapter Master led the survivors from the ruin and across ork-held territory to rally what was left of the Chapter in the defence of New Rynn City. Standing upon the brink of annihilation, they had remained true to their oaths and fought the xenos in the Emperor's name, and wh
en the hour of their deliverance was finally at hand, it had been Kantor and the Crimson Fists who had retaken the city's star port and opened the way for Imperial forces to reach the surface. The Chapter's honour remained intact, but the price it had paid was almost too terrible to contemplate. By the time the siege of New Rynn City was broken, less than a hundred of the Chapter's battle-brothers remained. Their losses had been so great that Kantor and the Crimson Fists had been unable to take part in the campaign to liberate their own home world. Force Commander Geryon, leader of the Imperial Fists and overall commander of the relief force, had respectfully delegated the survivors to the reserves, and given them a place of honour defending what was left of the capital. It had been the correct decision, Kantor knew, with the future of the Chapter hanging by the slimmest of threads but a galling one nonetheless.

  Now, six months later, the relief force was gone, its forces sum­moned to new wars and new undertakings across the subsector and beyond. Kantor and the Crimson Fists had been forced to stand aside while others liberated Rynn's World, but as far as the Chapter Master was concerned, the war was far from over. Neither he nor his brothers would rest until every last trace of the greenskin taint had been scoured from the surface of the planet.

  The sound of boltgun fire swelled to the east and south-east, punc­tuated by the ripping snarl of an assault cannon. Off in the distance, something - possibly an ork bike or war buggy - exploded with a dull thud and sent a rolling cloud of smoke and flame rising into the overcast sky. The firefight was moving rapidly westwards now, as the greenskins withdrew in the face of the Space Marines' advance. Gauging the relative positions of his three squads, Kantor redoubled his pace, leading the Sternguard onwards through the thickening gloom.

  Thr lane wound south and west for more than a hundred metres. Their enhanced senses unhindered by the smoke and the darkness, the Crimson Fists raced along the track at a dead run, overtaking the squalling gretchin and crushing them into the mud. Kantor never slowed his pace focusing solely on the objective up ahead. He took each corner at a pounding run sweeping the path ahead for targets. After a few minutes, the trail veered sharply to the east then, just as abruptly cut back to the south. The Chapter Master and the veteran squad swung around the final turn - and found themselves in the midst of a greenskin mob retreating along another, wider path running due west.

  There was no lime for oaths or shouted commands, the Adeptus Astartes reacted without hesitation, their superhuman reflexes honed by decades of unrelenting war. Boltguns barked out single shots as the Sternguard fired point-blank into the mob; the range was so close that the rocket-propelled rounds tore clean through their targets before they could arm themselves. Crimson power fists flashed and thundered, hulling the smashed bodies of greenskins into the air. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, the Crimson Fists carved a path of carnage through the mob.

  Then the greenskins were all around them, howling their battle-cries and chopping at the Space Marines with cleavers and saw-toothed axes. A trio of orks leapt at Kantor, their beady eyes burning with bloodlust. The Chapter Master was a blur of motion, catching the blow of one cleaver on the thick plate of his left gauntlet, just to the side of Dorn's Arrow. An axe plunged downwards, aiming to split Kantor's helmet, but he slipped fractionally to one side and let the blow fall harmlessly onto his thickly armoured pauldron.

  The third ork was slightly cleverer. The beast lunged forwards, wrapping an arm around Kantor's waist and digging a shoulder into the Chapter Master's chest, even as it jabbed a chisel-pointed blade under the Space Marine's chin. The impact staggered Kantor, but he did not fall. Without conscious thought, he lifted his right arm high and brought his elbow down onto the third ork's skull. Bone crunched, and the greenskin collapsed in a spray of gore. Twisting at the waist, the Chapter Master punched at the axe-wielding ork with his power fist and connected with the creature's midsection, ripping the xenos in half. The ork with the cleaver chopped at Kantor again, this time adding another deep scar to the Chapter Master's breast­plate. Snarling, the Crimson Fist jammed the barrels of Dorn's Arrow beneath the beast's chin and sent a precise neuromuscular signal that fired a pair of single shots into the greenskin's misshapen skull.

  A shrieking hiss and a flash of orange light beat back the dark­ness at Kantor's side, and the screams of burning orks rent the air. Kantor glanced quickly about. The Sternguard surrounded him in a rough circle, their armour spattered with xenos blood and bits of flesh. Greenskin bodies were heaped about them. A pool of fire and a heap of burning corpses blocked the path to the east.

  The Chapter Master checked his bearings once more. They were very close now. 'Keep moving!' he ordered, pointing up the path to the west. The veterans fell in behind Kantor once more, boltguns sweeping their flanks and Artos's heavy flamer covering the rear.

  Less than a minute later, the path emptied onto a track of churned, blackened earth some forty metres across and a hun­dred metres long, stretching up the slope to the canted hull of the crashed transport. The craft's bulbous engines and scarred belly were pocked with scores of ragged holes, many streaked with bright patterns of rust from leaking fuel and other corrosives. The Chapter Master reckoned it had come down in the early hours of the inva­sion of Rynn's World, riddled by anti-aircraft fire as it thundered in low over Port Calina, far to the east. Any crew on board that had survived the murderous anti-aircraft fire had probably been turned to pulp by the force of the crash.

  How the orks had found the crash site, so far up in the mountains, was a mystery. From Kantor's experience, some greenskin mobs devoted themselves so completely to a certain kind of mayhem that it literally changed them, inside and out. Perhaps they had been drawn by the scent of leaking propellant from kilometres away.

  They had driven their fuel-starved vehicles up the mountain as far as they could go, and then set about scavenging the crashed ship for every bit of salvage they could find. Ork mechanics had dragged huge, rusting tanks out of the wreck and created a makeshift refinery in the shadow of the transport's hull. Segmented power cables and taut hoses as thick as a man's leg snaked through jagged rents in the ship's belly and connected to ponderous, clanking pumps. At the centre of the refinery rose a five-metre fuel processing tower, its stained surface lit by harsh flood lamps and wreathed in tendrils of toxic mist as it worked to convert the ship's propellant into something that the greenskins' vehicles could use.

  The slope to the east of the refinery was crowded with huge, hulk­ing ork vehicles. The biggest and meanest of the greenskin bosses had forced the mob to drag their vehicles up the valley to the processing tower for refuelling. Now those vehicles were swarming with activity as dozens of orks piled aboard and fought to complete the refuelling process. Still more greenskins were racing up the slope towards the big war trucks and squat, heavily-armed buggies, eager to find a working vehicle to ride.

  Boltgun fire still thundered behind Kantor and his veterans. Daecor's tactical squad and Victurix's Terminators were still a cou­ple of hundred metres to the east, driving the remainder of the orks in the direction of the refinery. The battle plan was not unfolding perfectly, but none ever truly did, Kantor knew. He was confident that the vast majority of the greenskins were upslope, between him and the processing tower. The battle was nearly won.

  Hoarse shouts rang out from a number of the ork trucks. Thick fingers pointed downslope at the Crimson Fists. Gunners bared their crooked fangs and slewed heavy, belt-fed guns around to aim at the oncoming Space Marines. A squat red-painted rocket launched from one of the trucks with a roar and went corkscrewing through the air over the Sternguard's heads before plunging into a duster of shacks further downslope.

  Thirty metres up the slope, a huge ork boss clad in massive armour-plates shambled to a halt and watched as the rocket howled overhead. He followed its course eastwards, until his one, good eye fixed on Kantor and his warriors.

  The boss's power claw twitched at the sight of the Crimson Fists. Kantor watched the be
ast glance back up at the rapidly filling war machines, then return to the oncoming Space Marines. A hungry grin spread across the boss's face.

  Kantor's eyes flicked to the fuel tower. It was still a dozen or so metres out of range.

  'Waaaaaaaaaaaggghhhhhhh!' the ork boss roared, and charged the Crimson Fists. A score of the greenskins surrounding the mas­sive xenos followed suit, galvanised by their boss's war cry.

  Answering cries rose from the east. 'More greenskins behind us,' Artos called out. 'They're coming up fast!'

  They would be surrounded in moments. Kantor knew there was only one course of action left. 'At them, brothers!' he ordered, and the Sternguard answered with a roar of their own, charging up the slope at the oncoming mob.

  Ork guns hammered at the oncoming Space Marines, filling the air with streams of buzzing green tracer shells. Kantor aimed Dorn's Arrow at the ork boss and let fly. The ancient storm bolter unleashed the last of its rounds in a quarter-second burst. The orks to either side of the boss were flung backwards, their torsos trans­formed into smoking craters by mass-reactive shells. More shells detonated in white bursts of flame across the boss's armoured form, but the heavy rounds failed to penetrate the thick metal plates. The Sternguard opened fire as well, pouring out precise, deadly bursts from their boltguns. More greenskins fell, dead or crippled by the barrage of fire, but the rest came on, spurred by their fearsome leader. The Crimson Fists managed only a few, quick volleys before the xenos were upon them.

  An ork charged in from Kantor's left side, swinging an axe. The blade clanged off the Chapter Master's hip. He ignored the blow, focusing his attention solely on the looming figure of the ork boss.

  The xenos was as large as Kantor himself, encased in crude power armour that was a mockery of the Crimson Fists' own. The ork's three-bladed power claw opened and shut with a sinister hiss of hydraulics. Dozens of yellowed human skulls swung from iron chains around the beast's shoulders.