Hammer and Bolter 14

by Christian Dunn

  ‘Now listen to me. We can still get out of this.’ The men looked to each other, then back to Barrabas. ‘We’re still on our bellies, we’re still in shadow, but we have a chance to serve the God-Emperor and perhaps even survive in the process. One thing’s for sure – if we stay here, we will die. Eutychus?’

  The younger man’s head snapped up, shocked by the unusually sharp tone in his captain’s voice. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘How long do you think we have?’

  Eutychus rubbed his chin, Toah’s blood flaking away from his still-smooth face. ‘Eight hours, perhaps less. They couldn’t get any of their vehicles out of the swamp around them so they’ll be on foot. If anyone survived Haddar’s last stand, they could be even–’

  The explosion was ear-splitting. Rock showered onto the ground from the smoking hole created by the ork mortar round above their heads and a distant muzzle flash attracted everyone’s eye. Despite the greenskins’ poor marksmanship, they would hit someone or something given enough time and shells, a belief clearly shared by the wheeling flock of banshees that had appeared as if from nowhere.

  ‘Move!’ screamed Barrabas, and they scattered back into the safety of the cave as the soft, black ground erupted at the base of the slope before them. The greenskins had over-corrected the trajectory and, mercifully, the shell fell short. Inside the cave, the men grabbed their gear and swiftly threw on packs, weapons and helmets, orchestrated by a furious Abdiel who pushed most of them out towards the escape route at the rear of the cavern.

  Taking up the tail-end of the ragged line, alongside Barat, he ran towards the figure of Barrabas who stood to the side of a wide fissure in a sheer rock wall. The first of the men disappeared into the corridor as, far above, the banshees suddenly dropped. They fell short of descending onto the moving feast below. Instead, their wingtips loosened spikes of rock at the top of the canyon’s walls, spilling debris down upon the fleeing crew.

  The ground erupted with a roar, throwing soil and stones in a filthy hail. Abdiel looked behind him and saw Barat lying on his side, one hand spasmodically clutching the air. Despite the obvious danger from another lucky shell, the commissar ran back to the mortally-wounded man, the side of his chest oozing life from a protruding dagger of shrapnel.

  ‘Commissar… leave me. They’re right behind us. You have to…’ Barat gritted his teeth, overwhelmed with pain. Abdiel looked down at the man with pity and fury. But Barat’s eyes were focused on the rocks raining down into the chasm and, with a sudden burst of adrenaline-fuelled strength, he grabbed Abdiel’s overcoat.

  ‘Get me… to the passageway, sir… I can stop… the greenskins.’ Barrabas was shouting, gesticulating wildly into a crack in the rock face, but his words were drowned out by a shrieking whistle. A smouldering mortar round thumped into the ground a few metres away, its battered shaft fizzing and sputtering menacingly. Despite his frailness, Abdiel hauled the wheezing first mate to his feet, ignoring the blood fountaining from the gaping hole in Barat’s side. With painful slowness, they approached an incredulous Barrabas as a live round exploded in the distance.

  ‘We can’t take him with us, Abdiel. He’ll–’

  ‘I’m not… going anywhere, captain.’

  Barrabas blinked, then nodded. Turning on his heel, he shielded his head from the increasingly heavy rain of dust and small stones as Abdiel laid the man gently into a sitting position, his legs nearly touching the other side of the slender corridor. The creatures could be seen in the narrow crack of light high above. They had spotted their next meal and were whipping themselves into a frenzy. A boulder bounced between the sides of the chasm, pounding dust and chunks out of either side as it crashed its way down.

  ‘For the Emperor, commissar.’

  ‘For the Emperor, First Mate Barat.’

  Abdiel ducked under the wedged lump of stone while Barat shielded his eyes from the dust and grit showering down on him. Behind him, another shell exploded and he could hear the thud of ork movement. The banshees needed a little more encouragement to carry out the first mate’s suicidal plan, so he wiped his hands into the warm, wet blood leaking from his body, feebly pushed out his hands and screamed skywards.

  ‘Come and get it!’

  This was too much for the banshees, who swooped down, heedless of the danger, towards the easy pickings below. Their wings beat against the crumbling walls, opening up ancient fissures and bringing down tonnes of rock, burying Barat and catching many of their brethren in a maelstrom of stone. The passageway was blocked, and all that the furious orks could do was bellow impotently at the now-impassable corridor.

  Two hours later, Barrabas’s men lay panting and exhausted on a rocky outcrop, dried mud caking their uniforms. Commissar Abdiel stared grimly into space, clearly upset at the loss of Barat, but unwilling – or unable – to discuss it with anybody. Sitting heavily next to Barrabas, Eutychus took off his cap, swigged from his canteen and wiped the back of his mouth with a filthy hand. ‘Captain, the men are in pretty bad shape. This seems like a good enough place to defend. What do you think?’ Eutychus still carried the loss of Haddar and Toah on his young shoulders, but Barrabas was pleased that the sub-lieutenant still had the condition of his men at the top of his agenda

  ‘We need open ground. Barat bought us some precious time, but if the orks get onto those ridges above us, they’ll flank us and we’ll be slaughtered. According to Abdiel, this valley flattens out a couple of miles ahead.’ Eutychus turned to look in the direction of the bloated red sun, shielding his eyes against the scarlet light despite the gathering clouds.

  ‘There are a lot of banshees over there, sir. Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘They’ve already done us one favour. Besides, it’s the best chance we’ve got for our landing beacon signal to be picked up. Ready the men. Our retreat’s nearly over. After this, we make a stand – and you get revenge.’ Eutychus nodded grimly. He’d aged a decade in a day.

  Reaching the end of the plateau, Barrabas and Eutychus halted the men and they surveyed the change in scenery. Eutychus gulped. Abdiel snorted derisively. Barrabas looked skywards.

  The ground stretched to the horizon on the left and right, sloping gently downwards in front of them to a ragged edge and a sheer drop to the floor below. Directly ahead was a narrow natural bridge leading to a wider soil-covered platform that angled upwards, terminating in a flat rocky ledge. It was a complete dead end, with no escape save for the fatal plunge surrounding it. Dozens of banshees circled high in the sky over the bridge, with new ones joining them every other second. Something was very, very wrong here but Barrabas smiled at the brilliant shaft of light breaking through the clouds like a scarlet spotlight, throwing the surface of the rocky projection into shining relief.

  What had the astropath said? ‘Crawl into the Emperor’s light. Into the light.’

  ‘That’s where we make our stand.’

  Eutychus stared at Barrabas and a soft gasp of disbelief hissed from the men assembled behind.

  ‘Captain… it’s a dead end. And the banshees–’

  Barrabas didn’t shift his gaze from the view ahead. He spoke with a calm assuredness that cut Eutychus off without a hint of chastisement.

  ‘Look closely. The creatures are very high. They’re waiting for something, and I think I know what it is. Get over the bridge, spread out, and keep to the edges as best you can. The rock at the back of that platform is perfect for a rescue ship to land on. The slope will help us fortify our position. We’re going to make a redoubt.’

  Abdiel barked a laugh. ‘What is this? Some exercise in ancient military tactics? This is suicide, Barrabas, and you know it.’

  Barrabas turned to Abdiel. He was beyond exhaustion and past caring.

  ‘Commissar, there’s no other ground around here that will support the weight of a drop-ship unless you want to spend precious hours reconnoitring the area, which means splitting our forces. We can’t stay here because it’s too exposed. Over there, we have t
he advantage of height and focus of fire. It’s also perfect for a homing beacon. We’ll be out of range of their small arms from this side and we’ve seen how good their artillery skills are.’

  Abdiel looked at him sharply.

  ‘You know what I mean. Barat was killed by a lucky shot, nothing more. Besides, orks will do anything to kill us up close and to do that, they have to come across that bridge.’

  The crew silently regarded the island of rock in front of them and the thickening blur of banshees whirling above. With a renewed self-belief, Barrabas turned to face the remains of his crew.

  ‘It’s time to get off our bellies, men. Look in front of you. For once we’ll be raised up, elevated above the dirt and filth, so we can stand like men in the light of the Emperor and take strength from it. The rescue ship could be on its way right now. All we have to do is hold out for as long as we can. What say you?’

  The roar of ‘Aye!’ was immediate and shouted with passion. Their long-desired chance to fight and serve had come. This was their battle, their chance for glory. They’d seen the ways this planet and its creatures could take their lives, and had survived. They would die fighting, for the Emperor, for their captain and for themselves.

  As Barrabas led the men down towards the bridge, Abdiel took up the rear and watched them carefully traverse the precarious channel. Despite his objections, Barrabas’s logic was sound and there was no denying that he’d energised his exhausted men as well as any commissar.

  It seemed he might be different to his predecessors after all.

  Three hours later, Barrabas stood on the broad rocky ledge at the rear of the platform, looking down at the thirty-five survivors digging and patting with their field spades below. Several hundred pairs of banshee eyes also watched from their unrivalled vantage point high above, having retreated swiftly upon realising there would be no easy pickings from the men crossing the bridge, even in the softest ground at its centre.

  The steps of the redoubt had shaped up quickly and would allow three rows of twelve men, each elevated behind the next, to concentrate fire on the same spot. To the left, a grime-covered Abdiel threw down his implement, wiped his brow and nodded in satisfaction at what they’d achieved, unaware Barrabas was watching with a rueful smile. Coming from the commissar, that was almost a compliment. Both men looked over at the shout from Eutychus – the orks were in sight, hammering down the canyon.

  ‘Throw everything you don’t need over the side. Narris, activate the landing beacon. Lubek, protect the transmitter as best you can. The rest of you, check and clean your weapons. Form ranks when ready.’

  The crew moved as one, stripping down to the bare minimum – weapons, ammunition, what body armour they’d salvaged from the Valkyries. Within twenty minutes, the orks stood at the ridge opposite, assessing the situation. Their stench drifted on the air, along with guttural laughter.

  ‘How many do you think, captain?’ Eutychus’s voice was level, without fear.

  ‘More than us.’

  It was obvious that the survivors had nothing like enough firepower to defeat the greenskins in open battle, but it should be adequate for his plan. He hoped.

  With a roar, the orks began their untidy dash towards the bridge, a ragged mass of hate-fuelled muscle, twenty lines deep. Shafts of red light caught their dull helmets and glinted off their keen axe blades, the thumping of a thousand boots shaking the ground beneath them. The men took their places, with Eutychus to the left of the front rank, Abdiel in the middle raised position and Barrabas at the top.

  High above the bridge, the banshee formation tightened, with only a couple darting down to take a closer look when, victims of their own fury, some particularly clumsy orks plunged straight off the side of the opposing cliff, such was their rush to be the first into combat. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t stop the sea of howling, mindless greenskins pouring onto the narrow bridge, its underside a rough arch thickening at the connections to the plateau and the rocky pillar on which the survivors stood. Its thinnest point was at the middle, and this would be where the men would concentrate their fire.

  The orks slowed on hitting the marshy surface of the bridge, with some of them disappearing into the quagmire as they were steamrollered by their kin. Within seconds the bridge was a seething mass of bulging muscle and grinding armour, wild firing and roars of fury. It looked like a living entity, a writhing sea of chaotic movement. One of the crew caught a blast in the arm and spun with the impact, and the men began to move restlessly.

  ‘Steady, lads. Steady. Front rank, make ready. Look to the front, pick your targets, wait for the order.’ Barrabas’s voice was strong as Engineer Narris helped the injured crewman back to his place in the line. The orks were now queuing to get onto the bridge, pushing and shoving the dozens in front of them along, their grunts and cries a wall of sound resonating across the chasm. Sheer strength and bloody-mindedness drove them on towards their quarry, fuelled by the predictable rage Barrabas had counted on and would use against them.

  ‘Front rank… fire!’

  A mix of lasguns and autoguns blasted in unison, hitting the lead orks with a lethal concentrated punch of beams and high velocity rounds. The beasts stumbled and looked down at the torn gashes in their bodies but the momentum of their fellows pushed them forwards still.

  ‘Middle ran, fire! Rear rank, fire!’

  Two more volleys hit the same targets in the same spot; this time tearing into them and sending some spiralling off the sides of the bridge. Infuriated, the orks behind howled and pushed even harder, straight into the intense fire. The narrowness of the footway meant there was no room to avoid fallen compatriots, and the clumsy brutes staggered and slipped over each other, pummelling the dead or injured into the soil below.

  ‘Front rank, fire! Middle rank, fire! Rear rank, fire!’

  The three rows fired within seconds of each other, giving their weapons enough time to cycle, stop from overheating, or for magazines and power packs to be exchanged, without a pause in the hail of focused destruction. One man in the front rank fell, then another in the middle, but the others kept their positions and maintained disciplined fire as the pile of bodies on the bridge began to mount. The few faster, luckier orks who made it onto the platform were picked off by Abdiel with carefully aimed bolt pistol fire. Up above, the banshees circled, watching the carnage unfolding below them, avoiding stray fire with great beats of their leathery wings.

  The noise of human and ork weapons clattered deafeningly, but the first crack of the bridge cut through the din like a blade. Staying in line, Barrabas ducked to his left and saw rubble fall from the middle of its underside. He had hoped for this, but not the small group of infuriated orks currently rushing from the heaped dead at the bridge’s centre towards the front rank of defenders.

  Abdiel’s pistol had jammed, and the orks would be on him in seconds. Eutychus saw the problem too, and both men ran forwards, weapons blazing at the approaching greenskins. Barrabas ignored the volleys of fire hurtling overhead as he joined Abdiel at the mouth of the bridge, the added peril only adding to his fury. The loss of his crew and his ship, and years of self-loathing, overwhelmed him now. Bathed in the planet’s crimson light, he let rage course through him.

  An approaching ork took the brunt of his rage as he repeatedly shot it at point-blank range with his laspistol, venting his anger with a final kick to its bloody, gaping stomach, sending it spinning from the platform. That loss of control nearly cost him his life as one particularly stupid warrior seized the moment by leaping high into the air, intent on crushing the captain underfoot. His battle-cry turned from a shriek to a wet gurgle as a dozen lasguns neatly dissected his repulsive head from his thick body, spraying viscera over the other greenskins.

  Recovering his balance and wits, Barrabas drew his sword and fought back-to-back with Abdiel against a couple of grunting orks while Eutychus helped from the side, blooding his officer’s blade for the first time.

  ‘Suffer not the ali
en to live! Stand fast in the light of the Emperor’s glory!’

  Abdiel’s rage matched that of Barrabas and while three more men fell behind them on the redoubt, the withering fire continued. Good lads, thought Barrabas. Good lads. His reverie was cut short as a massive ork hand struck the side of his head, sending him reeling to the floor. He cursed himself for losing concentration once again and had it not been for the ground suddenly and violently shaking, he would have been stamped out of existence by the brute.

  Two thunderclap cracks boomed, and the trickle of rock from the bridge’s underside became a torrent. With a teeth-rattling crash it finally gave way under the weight of the orks, dead and alive. Fracturing at its weakest point, the whole of the bridge’s length fell away and a countless greenskin throats screamed as they hurtled to the earth below in a shower of rocks and dirt. A thrashing black smear of banshees followed them down, ready to gorge on the rich pickings at the bottom.

  The surviving men on the redoubt gave a spirited cheer which, as Barrabas struggled with a huge green hand around his throat, he felt to be premature. Repeated thrusts into the greenskin’s belly with his sword, and Eutychus’s frenzied slashing at its back, soon loosened the greenskin’s grip and, with a moan, it crashed lifelessly to the ground. As Barrabas pulled his blade free of the greenskin’s massive form, the transmitter suddenly crackled into life on the raised ridge behind.

  ‘Attention all survivors of salvage convoy two-three-ten. This is Captain Rale of the Genocide. We have your position and will be with you in minutes. Stand by.’

  The air was torn by the scream of missiles overhead, pulping most of the remaining orks as they frantically assembled a variety of decrepit mortars to fire across the chasm. Near the ledge of the platform, Eutychus bent over in an attempt to catch his breath, retching at the stench of spilt alien innards while Abdiel stood panting behind him, smoking bolt pistol in one hand and gore-covered chainsword in the other.