Traitor's Gorge

by Mike Lee

  One by one, the rune stones dropped into her palm. She mur­mured a command into her helmet, opening the comm-link.

  'Take up your rifles, sons and daughters of Alaitoc,' she said. 'Strike, and be the salvation of your people.'

  The farseer raised her witchblade and etched a trio of burning runes in the hazy air.

  SHANIEL LIFTED HER gaze from the sight of her long rifle and glanced across the gorge. She could just make out the slim figure of the farseer, black against the grey of the mountainside. Strike? Strike whom?

  The second wave of greenskins were on the move, smashing aside the last few retreating orks and heading up the slope. Most of the Space Marines were in the open, their barricades reduced to charred flesh and piles of brittle bones. None of them were firing at the oncoming orks, which told her that the humans had used up the last of their ammunition. This time the fighting would be hand-to-hand, and it would not end until one side or the other was destroyed.

  Did Sethyr mean for them to kill all of the orks? It was not pos­sible. There was not enough time.

  Her eyes narrowed. Was that a glimmer of light next to the farseer?

  One of her rangers murmured in surprise. Scowling, the pathfinder peered through her scope. All she saw were orks—

  A flicker of light caught her eye. She centred her scope over it. A wisp of blue-green flame danced a few centimetres above the head of one of the larger orks.

  Fracture points, she recalled the farseer telling her. You will know them when the time comes.

  A slow, predatory smile stole over Shaniel's face. She laid the aim­ing point of her sight on the back of the ork's head and caressed the trigger.

  THE ORKS HAD pushed the last of the stragglers aside and were picking up speed. 'Close in!' Kantor ordered his warriors. 'We anchor the line on the Sternguard! Squad Daecor will cover the left flank and keep the xenos from circling around to our rear!'

  Squad Victurix shifted their formation further right, coming into contact with the Sternguard. Phrenotas and his Space Marines had set their prized boltguns aside and drawn their combat knives. Once again, Kantor took up position between Squads Daecor and Victurix. Sergeant Daecor himself was at the far end of the line - a refused flank that curved back towards the north.

  The Chapter Master hoped to take the brunt of the charge upon himself and the Terminators. If the orks got past him and fell upon Squad Daecor, the Space Marines would not be able to hold out for very long. Once the greenskins got behind the Terminators, they would eventually fall as well, and then it would just be Phrenotas and the Sternguard against the horde.

  The taste of defeat was bitter on Kantor's tongue. There was nothing left to do now but to die with as much honour as possible, so that the memory of the Chapter might live on in the annals of the Imperium.

  Shame and anger swelled up inside him as he watched his doom approach. It was not the prospect of death that troubled him, nor was it even the extinction of his Chapter, for it was the purpose and the privilege of the Adeptus Astartes to fight and die in the Emperor's name. It was the senselessness of it all that galled him to the core. We survived Snagrod and his hordes, he thought, only to meet our end in this dusty gorge over a matter of personal pride.

  Kantor raised his power fist in challenge to the orks, and the greenskins responded, brandishing their weapons and howling for blood - and then, as he watched, one of the larger orks stumbled, dropping its weapon and falling onto its face.

  Another greenskin let out an agonised scream and lurched side­ways, one hand clapping against the side of its neck as though stung. A second later, Kantor saw a flicker of intense, blue-green light blossom at the back of the greenskin's head, and the brute's face went slack. As the ork boss fell to the ground, the baying of the horde gave way to shouts of confusion and dismay.

  'Snipers!' Phrenotas called out. 'The orks' are taking fire from Widow's Spire and Darkridge!'

  Kantor saw them at nearly the same moment: lithe figures, armed with long-barrelled rifles, dashing nimbly from cover to cover and targeting the largest warriors of the ork assault with precise bolts of las-fire. They were not Crimson Fists, the Chapter Master saw at once. Given their uncanny grace and speed, Kantor did not think they were even human.

  Whoever the surprise attackers were, their effect on the orks was immediate and obvious. The assault had ground to a halt on the slopes of the hill, its members thrown into disarray by the deadly fire.

  The enemy had, for the moment, lost their momentum. Kantor's battlefield instincts, honed by training and centuries of combat, told him that the outcome of the battle hung in the balance.

  'Forwards, brothers,' he said. 'Forwards! If we charge now, we can put the greenskins to flight!'

  Kantor broke into a run, heading straight for the centre of the milling orks. Fierce shouts filled the air behind him as the Crimson Fists joined their Chapter Master. In moments, the ground shook with the force of their charge.

  With their bosses slain, and more orks falling with each pass­ing moment the greenskins' attention was divided between the oncoming Space Marines and the death raining down on them from behind. Those xenos closest to the charging warriors tried to warn the rest, but Kantor and the Crimson Fists gave them little time to react. They struck the greenskin mobs like a hammer, crushing those in the front ranks and scattering those behind.

  The unexpected onslaught was too much for the orks. They broke and fled down the slope, raked all along the way by bolts of brilliant light from the snipers overlooking the gorge. Their panic infected the rest of the horde, and within minutes, several hundred greenskins were in full flight, retreating back down the gorge in the direction of their camp. By the time the Crimson Fists reached the bottom of the hill, the last of the orks had disappeared behind the next set of low hills to the south.

  The Space Marines stood amidst the slaughter, silent and some­what stunned by the reversal of fortunes. Phrenotas and Daecor joined the Chapter Master, who was studying the figures on Widow's Spire.

  'Thank the Emperor,' Daecor said solemnly, 'that we may live to fight another day.'

  'You should be thanking them,' Phrenotas said, nodding towards the distant peaks. 'Though first I'd like to know what they're doing here, and why they chose to aid us.'

  Kantor watched one of their saviours, darker and taller than the rest, break off from its companions and descend the steep side of the mountain with unnerving grace and speed. He was torn between competing emotions of relief and apprehension.

  The Crimson Fists had survived a second brush with annihilation, but at what price?

  SETHYR DREW ANOTHER burning rune in the air and leapt from the ledge, dropping the last ten metres to the bottom of the gorge as lightly as a leaf on the breeze. The bodies of dead greenskins were not so thick here as upon the slope of the nearby hill; she picked her way between them easily as she approached Kantor.

  The Chapter Master stood like a statue amongst the corpses of his foes, his expression hidden, like hers, by the helmet that he wore. Most of Kantor's warriors had fallen back, busying themselves with searching for wounded greenskins and slitting their throats. The largest of them, the ones called Terminators, formed a single rank just a few metres behind Kantor, their bestial helmets turned towards her in stony silence.

  Each and every one of them, down to the lowest-ranking battle-brother, was a living testament to the wrack and ruin of combat. Their armour was battered and scarred, its enamel chipped and covered with splashes of dust, blood and viscera. Where fluttering ribbons had once been attached by thick coins of wax, there were only scorched fragments or fading red stains. Tabards had been shredded and stained, many reduced to little more than rags. When they moved, the farseer's keen hearing detected the faint whine of overtaxed power plants and the rope-like creak of damaged pseudo-musculature. And not all of the gore caking their wargear belong to their foes. Every one of the Space Marines bore wounds that individually would have been the death of a mere human. They e
ndured by virtue of their physical and mental conditioning and an iron will that bordered on the supernatural.

  The threads of fate lay heavily on these warriors - Sethyr could feel their vibrations like plucked cords - but none so much as Kantor himself. More and more wove about him with every passing moment, as the great skein adjusted to his continued existence. Now, instead of dying upon the summit of yonder hill, Pedro Kantor would rise from this world, and the cosmos would tremble beneath his feet. Not for the first time, Sethyr wondered if perhaps she had done the right thing by sparing him, even to save her beloved craftworld.

  She approached him without preamble, her witchblade tucked beneath her arm and pointed at the ground. Tell him no more than necessary, the farseer reminded herself. Humans were too volatile to take chances with.

  Kantor nodded her way in wary greeting. 'On behalf of the Crimson Fists, you have my thanks,' he said. His voice was deep and resonant, gripping in its intensity. It surprised Sethyr, who had never seen one of the Imperium's elite warriors up close.

  'The surviving beasts cower in the shadows below, ensnared in a web of our devising,' she declared. 'Pursue them into the darkness, and a great victory shall be yours.'

  Despite the layers of heavy armour, the farseer could see Kantor stiffen at her tone. Like most human leaders, he was not accus­tomed to being spoken to in such a fashion. A stir went through the Terminators as they watched the exchange. Sethyr gripped the haft of her spear lightly, feeling the threads of fate shifting around her.

  The Chapter Master stared down at her in silence. She stared back unflinchingly.

  'And should I choose not to do so?' the human said at last.

  Had the farseer not been wearing her helmet, her jaw might have dropped in an unseemly display of shock. Such arrogance! She and her people had crossed the stars to save him.

  'Then they will escape and grow ever stronger in the darkness,' she replied, speaking as though to an insolent child. 'In fifty of your years a shadow of their making will rise to envelop this area of space which, unopposed, shall be the doom of your people and mine. Catastrophe will reign, and you shall lament your inaction this day.'

  That seemed to get the Chapter Master's attention. Kantor turned and considered his warriors for a moment. 'Will you aid us in the gorge as you did here?'

  'Be not so swift to embrace us as allies,' Sethyr snapped. She was saying too much. She knew that on one level, but she also knew Kantor's future - the future that she had just made possible - and how it would ultimately run its course. The words came pouring out of her in an angry flood. 'Auspicious fate dictated that we should fight side-by-side this day, but fate is a fickle creature. At our next encounter, it will be my fists that bear the stain of your blood.'

  She spun on her heel and stalked away before Kantor could reply, fearful that her outburst might have compromised everything she had worked so hard to arrange. Whatever she might feel, her duty to the craftworld came first.

  Sethyr opened her comm-link. 'There is nothing more to be done,' she told her companions. 'Withdraw from your positions and return to the cave.'

  Shaniel and her rangers complied at once, rising from cover and vanishing into the shadows. Sethyr raised her witchblade and inscribed a rune in the air, then danced lightly up the side of the gorge. In moments she had slipped into a narrow cleft in the flank of the mountain and was hidden from view.

  Now it fell to the Warp Spiders to do their part.

  KILOMETRES TO THE south, the ork horde was still on the run. The gutless humans had somehow done it again. Ever since the attack in camp the night before, the hard-shells had done nothing but pretend to put up a fight then flee further up the gorge. It had gone on for so long that by the time they had finally cornered the enemy in the foothills, the horde was almost berserk with thwarted bloodlust. And then, just when it seemed like they were about to give the hard-shells the kicking they deserved, death came raining down on the horde from above. The gorge, which had served them so well these past few months, had been turned against them. Now, instead of a refuge, it had become a trap.

  Howling and cursing at the steep, uncaring slopes, the greenskins reached the smouldering remains of their camp and kept on going. Their only thought was to escape the trap, to scatter across the fertile lands to the south and survive until Snagrod sent a ship to retrieve them. That is what they had been told when the fleet had left for Charadon: lay low, pick a fight or two, and wait. Raiders would return soon to pick up whoever was left.

  It was those thoughts of escape that drove the remnants of the horde into the eldar's next ambush.

  South of the camp lay the narrow place, where the walls of the gorge came together so close that only three orks could walk it side-by-side. A handful of greenskins could hold that gap against an army, they had all thought. Now the choke point worked against them, bringing the panicking mobs to a grinding halt while they filtered through the narrow lane like sands through an hourglass.

  Silent and patient as their namesakes, the Warp Spiders were waiting for them. The first dozen orks died without realising their peril, racing headlong into monofilament webs spat by the eldar deathspinners. Screams of pain and the reek of spilled blood filled the air, drowning out the thin, whistling sound of the spinners as they created a glittering, killing ground before the greenskins.

  Another two dozen orks died, thrashing and struggling as the weight of the horde behind them drove them inexorably into the gleaming strands.

  The slaughter went on for several minutes before the rest of the orks realised their peril. They were trapped! Other orks caught glimpses of dark figures along the sides of the gorge as well: bulky, armoured silhouettes carrying huge weapons that appeared and disappeared along the high slopes. It was only a matter of time before those weapons - whatever they were - opened fire on the packed ranks of the horde.

  Faced with threats from every direction, the orks cast about for some place - any place - where they could take refuge. Finally, one of them remembered the caves. The caves! The shooters on the slopes could not reach them there! The shouts went up from one end of the diminished horde to the other. Within moments, the greenskins were stampeding for five dark tunnel mouths, hidden beneath a wide, rocky ledge along the western side of the gorge.

  The mountain swallowed them up as quickly as it had spat them out, almost twelve hours before. Not long after the last of greenskins disappeared inside, the five Warp Spiders blinked into existence along the top of the ledge and stood watch, ensuring that none of the orks tried to come out again.

  NO BODIES ON the far side of the choke point,' Sergeant Phrenotas reported. The veteran paced across the churned ground, reading the marks left there by the greenskins' boots. 'Judging by the tracks, I'd say the rest of the orks panicked when they hit the ambush and headed into those caves to the west.'

  The Crimson Fists stood at the southern edge of the orks' camp. They had made their way carefully down the gorge, collecting their dead along the way. Every piece of wargear - even the fragments of Brother Artos's breastplate - was recovered. They had so little now, Kantor mused, that they could afford to waste nothing.

  He had had hours to think on what the eldar had told him as the hunting party worked its way down the gorge. The Chapter's brush with annihilation weighed heavily on him, but the alien's warning could not be ignored.

  Kantor beckoned for Phrenotas to join him. Sergeants Victurix and Daecor waited close at hand. When they were all together, the Chapter Master turned to Daecor.

  'Sergeant I want you to select the three most fit members of you, squad. The rest will escort our dead back to Gueras-403 with Squad Victurix.'

  The squad leaders shared surprised looks. Rogo Victurix shook his head in bewilderment. 'I do not understand, my lord.'

  Kantor pointed to the distant caves. 'I'm taking the Sternguard and Daecor's men in there to finish what we started.'

  Victurix was taken aback. 'Then you'll need my squad more than ever—'


  The Chapter Master silenced the Terminator sergeant with a raised hand. 'Not for the sort of battle I have in mind,' he explained. 'And I expect that the tunnels beyond are barely wide enough for orkcs, much less Tactical Dreadnought armour. No. You will serve me best by escorting the wounded and the dead to Gueras-403 and awaiting pick-up. Tell the Cassar where we've gone, and prepare a relief force.'

  'That could take weeks,' Victurix protested.

  Kantor nodded. 'For what I have planned, we'll be in there at least that long.'

  Phrenotas folded his arms. 'What about ammunition? My squad is down to just our combat knives.'

  'Mine as well,' Daecor added. 'And our armour is in need of repair.'

  The Chapter Master turned, taking in the deserted ork camp with a sweep of his arm. 'If there is one thing the orks never lack for, its weapons and ammunition. We'll make use of theirs.'

  Now it was Phrenotas's turn to be shocked. 'The Codex specifically forbids it, my lord.'

  'The Codex was written by Guilliman with full strength Chapters in mind, operating under ideal conditions,' Kantor replied. 'Not a handful of battle-brothers facing a dire threat with empty weapons and no support. That's one lesson this damnable gorge has taught me.'

  Phrenotas shook his head. 'But—'

  'Forget about the Codex, Phrenotas.' Kantor declared. 'We don't have a choice. If we are to continue to serve the Imperium, we will have to make up for our lost strength with whatever tools are at hand, and fight our enemies in ways they do not expect. And we will continue to serve, brothers. We will uphold the honour of our primarch, and prove beyond any doubt that our Chapter remains a force to be reckoned with. Do I make myself clear?'

  Chastened, Phrenotas bowed his head. But Daecor was not molli­fied. 'You are trusting the word of a xenos,' he cautioned.

  'Under the circumstances, I do not see as we have a choice. The warning was a dire one. We must take it seriously, regardless of the source.'