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

by Warhammer 40K

  Argo went to his knees, crouching by the old man. The ceaseless hum of his active power armour set Esca’s gums itching. Even the smallest movements made the suit of black ceramite growl and snarl.

  ‘This,’ the Chaplain said softly, ‘is the graveyard of the Crimson Fists. We return here ourselves, on very rare occasions, to perform pilgrimages of our own. We come home to pray, to reflect, to remember, before we journey back to the stars. Hatred keeps us crusading. Regret brings us home. Shame always calls us back.’

  Argo helped the old man rise, and escorted him a few steps away. ‘You wish something for your archives? Something less sterile and dry than a mere name?’ The warrior gestured to the abandoned, unfinished parchment etching.

  ‘I’d be honoured, lord.’

  ‘Argo,’ the Chaplain corrected with a half-smile.

  One of the others stepped forward. This one wore a shoulder guard of shining silver, with his left arm painted to match. He was marked with the symbol of the Holy Inquisition.

  ‘I am Toma. The warrior whose grave you are etching was Athren. Let it be known in your off-world archive that Athren was a murderous shot with a bolter. I never saw him miss.’

  ‘I am Imrich,’ said the next, the warrior with the bandolier of alien skulls. ‘Athren once beat me in a fistfight. I never forgave him for that.’

  The next to step forward was the warrior with the white helm. ‘I am Vayne. I was the one to harvest Athren’s gene-seed. He lives on, at the genetic level, within the Chapter. Let that be known in your archive, Esca of Teresh.’

  The last to step forward was the axe-bearer in the scarlet toga. ‘I am Demetrian. Athren’s laughter banished all doubt among his brothers. Let it be known that he is among those missed most by we who survived.’

  Esca was writing frantically, heedless of his arthritic knuckles. At last, he looked at Argo. ‘And you, lord?’

  The Chaplain said nothing. Something passed between him and the old man, some silent understanding. Argo turned, unlocking his gauntlet and drawing a gladius from a sheath at his thigh. He drew the sword across his palm – a clean, bloodletting slice that painted the blade red. Without a word, he pressed his bleeding hand to the statue’s chest.

  The other four warriors did the same. All five of them honoured their fallen brother with their crimson hands pressed to his cold chest. Unity, even beyond death. The kind of kinship that so easily survives the grave.

  ‘Solus…’ Esca whispered.

  ‘Compliance,’ replied the servitor, interpreting its master’s need. Its imagifier ticked and clicked as it recorded this rarest, most precious of moments. Few souls in the Imperium ever bore witness to the intimate privacy of the Adeptus Astartes honouring their fallen. In a long life of service, travelling to three dozen worlds, Esca had never even seen traces of such a moment in any of his order’s archives.

  His recording would be the first.

  The Crimson Fists withdrew their hands, and replaced their gauntlets.

  Argo made the sign of the Aquila, his gloved hands forming the Imperial eagle over his chestplate.

  ‘Remember us, Esca of Teresh. Remember Rynn’s World, and remember Athren of Fifth Company.’

  ‘I will, my lord.’ He could barely speak. ‘I will.’

  ‘Die well,’ the Chaplain said, as he replaced his helm. The last words left his skullish faceplate as a vicious vox-snarl. ‘But live well before that happens.’

  CULLING THE HORDE

  by Steve Parker

  They crested the ridge an hour before sundown and stopped, dropping into the cover of the trees and bushes, five of them in all – four in full battleplate, the other only lightly armoured, yet to earn the requisite honour.

  This latter was Riallo, the Scout, youngest of the five and bearer of the fewest scars. He dropped into a crouch by Sergeant Grimm, pressed his magnoculars to his dark brown eyes and scanned the valley floor.

  Ghosts of grey smoke drifted lazily upwards from the south-facing windows of the farmhouse below. The doors of the barn had been smashed to splinters. Broad, jagged rents had been cut in the metal skin of the grain silos. The corn had spilled out, forming huge mounds, but how long ago? The flow had stopped. It was impossible to tell.

  Riallo shifted his gaze to the pasture on the far side of the farmhouse, the north side. There on the short-cropped grass lay three hulking bodies, each over two tonnes of muscle and bone.

  ‘Aurochs,’ Riallo reported. ‘Typical wound patterns. Mix of close range gunfire and bladed weapons. It looks like they’ve been dragged a little. Perhaps the orks gave them up as too heavy. The fence to the north-east has been trampled. It looks like the rest of the herd fled.’

  Grimm’s voice was a muzzle-modulated growl through the vocaliser of his battle-helm. ‘Did the damned greenskins follow them? That is the question.’

  ‘I cannot tell from here, brother-sergeant,’ said Riallo. He scanned the farm buildings again. ‘No sign of movement.’

  ‘Then we proceed,’ said Grimm. He stood and gestured for the others to descend with him into the valley. ‘Safeties off, my brothers,’ he told them. ‘Let us be cautious.’

  The slope was not overly steep and the footing was good, the ground hard and dry. The Space Marines soon reached the valley floor. Riallo ranged ahead now, moving in a crouch, scanning the ground for tracks.

  Huron Grimm scanned his surroundings too, bolter held ready, thinking to himself that the rains were later this year than ever before. In fact, all over Rynn’s World, weather systems had been kicked out of kilter by the war.

  The orks had been routed at New Rynn City over a year ago now. Alessio Cortez had left, surrounded by much controversy, to lead a small team off-world. He and the four battle-brothers chosen to accompany him had all made a death-pact. They would hunt down and destroy the warlord Snagrod, the greenskin warlord responsible for all the murder and misery that had engulfed this land, or they would not return at all. Master Kantor had relocated the Chapter headquarters to the Cassar, the Crimson Fists keep in the planetary capital. Throne knew when, or even if, the Chapter’s noble fortress-monastery, Arx Tyrannus, would ever be rebuilt. The purge had to take priority for now. The purge had to be absolute. Riallo’s voice sounded over the link. ‘Definite ork-sign, brother-sergeant. At least ten of the bastards, all of them grown bulls judging by the prints.’

  ‘When, Riallo?’

  ‘One second, sergeant. I’ve found some spoor.’

  Up ahead, Grimm saw Riallo prod something on the ground then press his finger to his tongue.

  ‘This is less than one hour old.’

  ‘They could still be inside,’ rumbled Grimm, half to himself.

  One of the armoured squad members stepped to Grimm’s side. His proud blue ceramite was coated with clinging brown dust after the long march from the last purge site. ‘No solid cover on approach. How do you want to handle this, sergeant?’

  It was Mandell.

  ‘Two twos,’ said Grimm. ‘You and Corella will flank left and come at the barn from the eight o’clock position. Veristan and I will approach head-on. Riallo,’ he called out over the link, ‘I want you on high ground providing cover. Make sure you have solid angles on both the barn and the farmhouse.’

  Riallo rose and trotted back towards the others. He holstered his bolt pistol on his thigh, unslung the sniper rifle from his back, and nodded towards the grassy slope east. ‘You see that fallen tree about two hundred metres up, sergeant?’

  Grimm followed the Scout’s gaze and nodded. ‘It looks fine. Go.’

  Riallo dipped his head in a short bow and ran off, moving with all the speed and natural grace of a predatory cat. Within moments he was in place.

  ‘Let’s move,’ said Grimm. ‘Veristan, you’re with me.’

  The four armoured Space Marines split into their fire-teams and made for the barn. Not long till sundown now. So quiet. Eerily quiet. Grimm could hear the wind, though it was hardly strong. A trio of crows cawed to each
other as they flew out from the treetops on the western ridge and settled in the pasture to gorge themselves on the dead aurochs. Carrion beetles scuttled away nervously. The barn loomed closer and closer, and still nothing. Grimm and Veristan took positions on either side of the gaping door and waited for Mandell and Corella to converge with them.

  The shadows inside the barn were ink-black.

  Once all were in place, Grimm ordered them to switch to low-light vision mode, then he gave the ‘go’ command.

  Heavily armoured as they were, the four Space Marines nevertheless moved like lightning. In a coordinated blur, they entered the barn and took up position, weapons raised, ready to fire.

  But nothing stirred in the barn. It was a scene of gruesome slaughter, but that slaughter was over. The blood splashed copiously over the walls and wooden beams and straw-covered floor was cold.

  A dozen white bodies lay in raw tatters. These were Magalanian sheep, a large and sturdy breed with four long curving horns, but they had been no match for their killers. Grimm turned the nearest over with his boot. There was a massive ragged hole in its side.

  ‘That’s an ork bite pattern alright,’ said Corella. ‘It just took a big mouthful right out of it, wool and all.’

  ‘Up in the rafters,’ said Veristan.

  Grimm raised his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. He had seen enough horrors since the damned greenskin filth had invaded. He didn’t need any more to compound his anger and hatred. Still, here were two – the bodies of young male farm-hands, skinned and hung from the barn’s central crossbeam. He blink-clicked his visor’s zoom function and noted the bullet wounds on the bodies and the stray rounds that had hit the wooden beams around them or had punched neat holes in the ceiling. These latter glowed with the day’s dying light.

  ‘The orks used them for target practice,’ he spat. ‘Look at the blood trails. They skinned them, hung them up, then shot at them.’

  Mandell muttered an old Sorrocan curse. The others scowled in silence.

  ‘All right,’ said Grimm. ‘Sweep the barn for anything else. When we are clear, we storm the farmhouse.’

  Outside, from his position by the fallen tree, Riallo watched the others emerge from the barn and move in pairs towards the farmhouse. The sun was extremely low now, and the valley’s tall western slope cast black shadows down on its floor. Riallo switched his magnoculars to low-light mode. He saw Sergeant Grimm and Veristan take up position on either side of the main doorway in the south wall of the building. Mandell and Corella did likewise at a smaller side entrance on the structure’s west side. Both doors had been smashed in by the orks.

  ‘In position,’ said Mandell over the link. ‘I don’t see anything in there.’

  ‘Riallo,’ said Grimm. ‘Any sign of movement from your position?’

  ‘Just the feasting crows, brother-sergeant,’ answered Riallo. Then something caught his eye. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What is it?’

  Riallo zoomed in with his magnoculars, muscles tense for a moment. Then he relaxed. ‘No, it’s nothing. Just the wind causing a slide on one of the big corn spills.’

  ‘Something’s not right about this,’ said Veristan. ‘It feels... off.’

  ‘Just follow the pattern,’ said Grimm. ‘We enter and clear in three... two... one...’

  Riallo’s brothers vanished into the shadows within the farmhouse. Above him, the first stars began to appear as evening crept westwards across the sky.

  The interior was a mess. No piece of furniture had escaped the violent nature of the orks. Everything was either reduced to splinters or rags, or had been overturned. Embers still smouldered where fire had licked the walls and window frames black. Large calibre slugs had pocked the plaster-covered stone, biting great craters in it.

  Carefully, the squad moved through each room, checking and clearing, but all they found were the butchered bodies of the people who had lived there. With the sweep done, the Space Marines regrouped in the main room.

  ‘Three generations dead,’ said Veristan. ‘Grandparents, parents, a teenage son.’

  ‘From the looks of things, the men tried to fight back with kitchen blades,’ added Corella. ‘Not that it made any difference.’

  ‘How many more times do we have to bear witness?’ spat Mandell, lowering the muzzle of his flamer. ‘All over Rynn’s World, the greenskins are butchering our people like this. A year since the tide was turned, and still they suffer. What must they think of us? Master Kantor should have petitioned the other Chapters for more aid. We should be rebuilding already.’

  ‘And Captain Cortez,’ added Corella, ‘off on a mission of personal vengeance when he is needed–’

  ‘Enough!’ barked Grimm. ‘Alessio Cortez seeks vengeance for our fallen, not for himself. I, for one, would have him return to a world cleansed of our enemies. Is it not so with all of you? Or am I mistaken?’

  There was a moment thick with silence.

  ‘No, brother-sergeant,’ said Mandell with genuine contrition. ‘You are not wrong.’

  Veristan sighed in agreement and looked up at the ceiling. Suddenly, he tensed. ‘What in Throne’s name...’

  A series of great gouges had been cut in the wood and plaster above the Space Marines. The cuts formed almost a complete circle, but at three equidistant points the lines broke, just enough to keep the ceiling from falling in.

  Grimm followed Veristan’s gaze.

  ‘Damn it!’ he shouted. ‘Backs to the walls, br–’

  He didn’t get to finish. There was a deafening boom, a sudden hard hail of rubble, and the circle of ceiling dropped straight down into the room.

  Grimm and the others dived backwards and escaped most of the impact, but Mandell, closest to the centre, couldn’t get clear in time. The circle of ceiling struck him hard and flattened him to the ground. The darkness was filled with a great billowing cloud of dust, swirling green in the low-light vision of the Space Marine helms.

  From within that cloud came a deep, bestial roar.

  Huge, savage shapes emerged, rushing straight forward with weapons raised, frenzied for a fight. They were monstrous hulks of green muscle, armed with heavy chain-bladed axes and swords.

  ‘Open fire, brothers!’ yelled Grimm even as he pulled the trigger of his bolter and strobed the room with muzzle flare. ‘Damn it, open fire! Kill them all!’

  From his sniping position on the valley slope, Riallo heard the detonation of the ork charges. The feasting crows scattered into the air at once. Then Riallo had heard the greenskin roars and the deep bark of bolters. He saw flashes of gunfire strobing the broken windows and doorways of the farmhouse. But he had no line of sight. There was nothing he could do from here to help his fellows.

  ‘Dorn’s blood!’ he spat, and almost rose from his position to sprint to their aid.

  It was well he did not. In the last of the day’s dying ambient light, he saw a sudden flurry of movement. Whipping his magnoculars back to his eyes, he saw two huge, blade-wielding orks explode from the hills of spilled corn. Two others ripped their way out of the damaged grain silos, forcing back the jagged metal with powerful gnarled fists. The aurochs carcasses suddenly shifted, too. They lurched as blood-covered orks scrambled out from pits they had dug underneath them.

  Ambush, though Riallo bitterly. When will we stop underestimating them!

  He may have only been a Tenth Company Scout, yet to grow into his full potential, but he was already seeing much that needed to change if the Chapter was ever to reclaim its former glory.

  The orks were converging swiftly on the farmhouse. Riallo knew he wouldn’t be able to get all of them, but, pressing his right eye to his rifle’s powerful scope, he swore he’d take as many down as he could.

  ‘More greenskins converging on your position, brothers! I count seven.’

  He squeezed his trigger. A gruesome green head exploded. The body stumbled forward and fell hard. The sound of the shot echoed from the opposite valley wall.

&nb
sp; ‘Six,’ said Riallo.

  He lined up a shot on the next nearest ork, a monstrous brute with a heavy pistol in one hand and a preposterously large iron cleaver in the other. On powerful, tree-thick legs it was thundering towards the farmhouse.

  Again, Riallo’s rifle kicked against his plated shoulder.

  The round punched a hole in the monster’s clavicle. When it detonated, it cored the beast like an apple. The ork hit the ground dead, dark blood gushing from its slack jaw.

  ‘Five,’ said Riallo.

  I can take one more of them.

  They were almost at the farmhouse now. He had perhaps two seconds, but they were moving so fast.

  Riallo exhaled and squeezed. His next shot took his third and final target in the leg, just above the knee. The detonation of the round blew off the lower half of the beast’s limb and it fell, weapons spinning away as it hit the dirt. The others ran on and vanished into the farmhouse.

  ‘They’re on you!’ the Scout called out over the link.

  He settled his crosshairs on the head of the ork that was now crawling frantically towards its fallen blades.

  See how it craves violence, he thought. So desperate to join the fight, even crippled!

  Once again, the sound of a powerful, high-velocity round echoed off the valley walls.

  ‘Four,’ muttered Riallo to himself. Then he was up and moving. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder and drawing his bolt pistol, he raced down the slope towards the farmhouse, desperate to give his brothers any aid he could.

  The farmhouse interior was a maelstrom of noise and flame, smoke and dust, and huge heavy bodies locked in mortal combat.

  Three massive orks had dropped from the ceiling. Two had been cut down with bolter fire as they charged, but the third had got in too close and knocked Corella’s weapon aside. Corella’s trusty armour had absorbed most of the impact of the follow-up blow, but the experienced warrior was still smashed so hard by the flat of the monster’s axe that he flew into the wall behind him and exploded through it, landing on his back in a pile of rubble.