‘If the orks make it this far,’ he said.
‘When they do,’ she corrected.
Rehkopf pressed his lips together, but he didn’t contradict her. He rubbed an augmetic ear. ‘When they do,’ he said.
‘I’m no defeatist, colonel.’
‘I know you aren’t.’
Not enough, Brenken thought again. She gazed at the piers, looking for more to do. Helsreach was prepared in a way Volcanus had not been. The defences were deep and strong, but so was the readiness for street warfare. The population was more than braced. Brenken swept her gaze over the piers. The echoes of Setheno’s exhortations reached the water, and the canoness was igniting religious anger. The orks would be met by fanaticism.
Still not enough.
It was the cry of the millions of dead of Tempestora, of Volcanus, of Death Mire, of Infernus. It was the pain of the uncountable refugees, abandoned to their fates in the wastelands of Armageddon, dying of exposure, of thirst, of heat, or run down by the exuberant warbikers. She had heard the cries as the Steel Legion regiments pulled ahead of the southbound refugees. Were any of them still alive? Unlikely. The orks had come behind them, the great tide of boots and wheels and treads. Brenken pictured what must have happened: the huge sound of the approaching army, the panic, the hopeless flight. The trampling.
She had heard their cries, and she heard them still.
Not enough.
Setheno’s brutal sanctity made her incapable of empathy. Brenken did not consider herself a sentimentalist, but prolonged exposure to the Canoness Errant’s void of mercy had made her more conscious of the doomed populations. She would never let civilian concerns affect tactical decisions. At the same time, there was worth in saving the citizens of the Imperium where possible.
Brenken pointed to the great tankers that brought fuel and water to Helsreach. They were docked and idle. They should be useful instead. ‘Colonel,’ she said to Rehkopf. ‘We need a civilian construction detail. I want those ships converted to take passengers.’
‘For evacuation?’ He looked towards the streets and towers where the rage to kill was being stoked.
‘Anticipating a partial one. The people will fight, but not all of them can. If we wait until a retreat is necessary, it will be too late.’
‘Where would they go? The Deadlands?’
Brenken shrugged. ‘Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps they’ll be able to return. At least they’ll be out of the greenskins’ path.’
Rehkopf nodded.
Brenken wondered if he could hear the cries too.
5. Von Strab
He was dining in the company of Lord Erich Rittau, the governor of Tartarus, and Seroff when the message came from Syranax. A serf, one of the Rittau family retainers, entered the dining hall with apologetic bobs of the head. All the guards in the room were von Strab’s. He nodded to them, and the serf approached with a data-slate. Von Strab took it. He read the message. He grinned.
‘Good news?’ Rittau asked from the other end of the table. There were no other diners at present.
‘Very,’ von Strab said. He read further. He started to laugh. ‘Very good indeed.’
‘Oh?’ said Seroff.
‘The orks are at the gates of Helsreach and Hades.’
Rittau’s fork trembled against his plate. ‘How is that good news?’
‘Because I can now put an end to this troublesome war.’
Seroff gazed into his amasec. To von Strab’s disappointment, he didn’t ask how the miracle would be accomplished. He had the air of a man who was unhappy with the path he had chosen, yet would react with fury against anyone who suggested an alternative.
Von Strab shrugged. He tapped a reply to Syranax’s message. It consisted of a single word.
Launch.
6. Yarrick
As soon as the orks came into sight, I headed underground. The enemy was where I had expected. After crossing the Diablo Mountains, the orks had used the Eumenides Bridge to the east of Hades Hive. Now they moved towards the gates along the highway. We could have slowed them down by blowing the bridge. At most we would have gained a few pointless hours. We were as ready as we would be. Leaving the bridge intact was an invitation, one the orks accepted. For the first time in this war, the enemy had done as we desired. We had the initiative.
The troops were already in place, a company of the 97th mechanised infantry led by Captain Genath. Lanner was heading one of the squads. The legionnaires weren’t alone. The Heirs of Grevenberg were part of the trap too. There were more than a hundred of them, headed up by Beil. They wore armbands bearing crude aquila designs, the sign that I had deputised them. The measure was provisional at best. The urgency of the moment was ensuring a guarded cooperation between the Steel Legion and the Grevenbergs. I could count on a united effort against the common foe. But I had a great task ahead of me. I had to forge the Grevenbergs and the other underhive gangers into something more coherent and more permanent. There was no chance of a quick victory against the orks. Our only hope, then, lay in a long campaign. That meant using the gangers. They knew the underground warren even better than the likes of Lanner. So now, while Helm oversaw the initial defence of the walls, I would be at the forward emplacement, ensuring the first joint operation of the Steel Legion and the underhive denizens was as lethal to the orks as it should be.
I descended into the crypt of the Chapel of the Martyrs Militant. The Tritten family’s escape route had turned out to be much more developed than we had expected. It must have been expanded and refined over the course of generations. It seemed Matthias Tritten’s duplicity and cowardice was bred in the bone. Not only did the tunnels at the bottom of the shaft lead to a network extending through the underhive and into the mining complexes outside the walls, a surprising number of corridors in the web appeared to have been built for this express purpose, rather than adapted from existing passages. It was possible to go from the chapel to any of a score of exit points, some far on the other side of the Eumenides River, without ever being seen in either the mines or the underhive. There was even a maglev track. Its train, no more than a platform with benches, could carry up to fifty passengers. The Trittens had planned to escape with a full retinue, whenever the time to run had come. The preparations were so involved, I was surprised they had never been used. I wondered if the last Lord Tritten’s ancestors would be pleased that he had decided to remain in Hades to the last, or if they would be disgusted by his stupidity.
Now I rode their train. Rather than escaping, I was travelling towards war. The journey, a rattling, jinking trip through total darkness, took less than half an hour, and gradually headed uphill. I used the train’s simple lever control to stop it at our ambush point, just to the west of the bridge.
I ran down mining tunnels until I reached the company and the gang. The troopers and underhivers eyed each other suspiciously, but they hadn’t come to blows. More troopers than Lanner had their roots in the underhive. There was likely old and bad blood in the air. But no one was acting on it. I had made it clear anyone who chose a target other than an ork would become my target next.
The cave we were in was not part of the Trittens’ private warren. It was part of the mine. It ended at a wide crevasse descending hundreds of metres into the dark. A rung ladder in the wall to my right climbed up a shaft to the surface ten metres above.
Captain Genath came to meet me. ‘The charges are ready,’ he said. He had to shout. The rumble of the start of the orks’ passing was tremendous, and the long-range guns on the walls had begun their bombardment.
‘Good,’ I said.
‘So we attack?’ Beil asked.
‘When we can do the most damage. Wait for my word.’ I climbed the ladder. My right arm was still shooting with pain, but I moved fast, an old man energised by righteous war. The ladder ended at a hatch set at an angle into the rock. I slid it to the side.
I was looking out of a low rise towards the highway a few dozen metres away. Ork infantry and transports rolled by. My instinct was to attack at once. Even a single step the xenos took towards an Imperial city was intolerable. But these targets weren’t important enough. Our attack had to count for more than a few battlewagons. I looked to my right, east along the endless stream of greenskins. As I waited for a worthy victim, I heard the chanting of the orks. They repeated the same guttural syllables again and again. A name gave rhythm to their march. Not Ghazghkull this time.
Ugulhard. Ugulhard. Ugulhard.
One of the prophet’s lieutenants. A warlord strong enough to lead an army of this size. But not Ghazghkull. If I am honest with myself, I was disappointed. I wanted to come to grips with the orks’ prophet. I wanted to destroy the beast that had brought devastation, humiliation and shame to Armageddon.
Emerging from the gloom, I saw the great hulks of gargants. They had cleared the bridge, though they were still some distance from our position.
A bright streak against the sullen red of the clouds caught my eye. Then another. They were arcing contrails. Whatever it was appeared to be heading towards Hades. I frowned. It did not come from the orks. The other end of the contrail disappeared beyond the horizon to the south-east.
Human missiles?
Launched from where? By whom?
Von Strab.
I slammed the hatch shut and climbed down the rungs as fast as I could. ‘Missile attack!’ I yelled. ‘Get back down the tunnels! As deep as we can!’ I jumped from the last few rungs. The company and the Grevenbergs were already moving. ‘Vox!’ I shouted.
I didn’t know how long we had. Minutes at most, and the seconds were flooding away.
What kind of missile? What has von Strab been hiding?
We pounded down the tunnels, taking the first slope down. A vox operator caught up to me. I grabbed the unit and contacted Helm. ‘Missiles incoming,’ I warned him. ‘Get to shelter. Get everyone to shelter.’
He was shouting orders before the connection broke.
We ran into darkness. The slope was steep. We put tonnes of rock between us and the surface.
I imagined the worst. I imagined a forbidden, lunatic deployment of Deathstrike missiles.
I had already underestimated Ghazghkull’s intelligence. Now I had underestimated von Strab’s madness.
1. Yarrick
It would be months before I pieced together all the details of the horror. Some knowledge came quickly, though. I would realise the nature of the weapon when I first saw the aftermath of the bombardment. When I saw the swamp of liquefied flesh.
Virus bombs. That deluded, treacherous, megalomaniacal scoundrel unleashed virus bombs. Weren’t the orks bad enough? Even they must have been taken aback. Even they stopped short of such suicidal folly. In the history of the galaxy, has any sentient being other than Herman von Strab unleashed an Exterminatus-level attack while still on the very planet being attacked?
And while having dinner, no less.
The origin of the vault to the east of Tartarus is lost in the shadows of Armageddon’s history. It was there for millennia, and I am grateful for its great age. The Emperor protects, even when mankind does all it can to strip itself of His protection. Von Strab ordered every rocket launched. The targets were the hives either captured or under siege. He reserved one each for Tempestora, Volcanus, Death Mire and Infernus, but he decided the greatest number should be hurled at the locations under siege, where the greatest concentration of the orks would be found.
I can follow his logic to that extent, mad though it was. If the virus bombs had functioned as designed, von Strab would have done more than end the war. He would have scoured Armageddon clean of all life. And he stood on a balcony to watch the launches. He stood outside, with the wind blowing against him. His survival on that day is one of the more malevolent quirks of fate of that war.
The Emperor protects. Not all the missiles launched. The enginseers working at von Strab’s behest had laboured hard, but what he asked of them was impossible. There were flaws deep within the mechanisms thousands of years old. I wish with all the hatred I bear for von Strab that the faulty rockets had been the first to launch. When their engines ignited, they exploded. I don’t know if it was one missile or several that malfunctioned. The result was the same. The fuel detonation incinerated everything and everyone within the vault. Von Strab might have been able to see the fireball from where he stood. If he did, he saw his burning salvation. The explosion destroyed the virus. In the region of Tartarus, the destruction was limited to the vault. Beyond it, all was ash. There was nothing there to kill.
The other missiles flew. The guidance of the one heading for Death Mire failed. It fell to earth in the Plain of Anthrand. Tempestora and Volcanus were out of range for the degraded engines.
The Emperor protects.
Infernus, Hades and Helsreach were hit. Those impacts would have been enough to destroy Armageddon, but it was not only the casing, mechanism and fuel of the missiles that had degraded. So had the virus. It was a faint echo of its original potency. And that was disastrous enough.
I heard the crump of the air bursts. The sound was deceptively faint. That it reached us at all through the rock meant the blast was massive. A deep thrum ran through the tunnels. In the light of our torches, dust fell from the ceiling. We knew nothing more of what was happening on the surface. We kept going down, and waited for word from Helm.
The missiles struck just to the west of our position. They spread their cloud for thousands of metres in either direction. A grey mist descended on orks and hive. At full potency, there would have been no protection against the virus, except being in a shelter completely sealed from the outside world. But the Emperor protects. The payload of at least one of the missiles was inert. Underground, we were safe. In Hades, most of the defenders were able to reach shelter before the blast. Most, but not all. Some were too far from a refuge, some were too slow, and others never heard the warning. For once, the corrosive nature of Armageddon’s atmosphere was a blessing. Few of Hades’ streets ever saw daylight. Much of the city was enclosed. The stink of industry was inescapable. The air was close to unbreathable even with filters and scrubbers at work. But it was enough. The worst of the virus fell against the walls and roofs of Hades, an invisible slick of death sliding down the facades. Where the virus did not find organic material, it died immediately.
It did find victims, though. Many. On the ramparts and in the streets, in gun turrets where the viewing slits were open, and wherever the wind could reach, the virus took its prey. A cry rose from the rockcrete canyons of Hades. It ended quickly. All organic matter broke down. Flesh and organs and bone deliquesced. People convulsed in agony and fear. They had the time to know they were rotting inside and out. They had the time to experience the full horror of that end. Human beings turned into dark muck.
Orks did too. They had no shelter. In the region of the blasts, from the gates to a few hundred metres east of the ambush point, their casualty rate was total. Infantry on foot and in transports disintegrated into green sludge. The battlewagons stopped dead, turned into tombs for their passengers. A stompa caught at the edge of the cloud lost its crew. It kept walking until untended machinery blew up and it toppled over, blocking a portion of the highway.
It was here, then, at Hades, that von Strab’s action caused the greatest enemy losses. He succeeded in destroying that portion of the ork army that I had decided was unworthy of the potential of our ambush. It was a contingent I knew the conventional defences on the walls could handle.
At least the ork dead outnumbered ours.
Helsreach was not so fortunate.
2. Setheno
She was facing west, within sight of the outer wall. She was standing in the balcony of the Chapel of Sacred Mortification, in mid-exhortation. That was when she s
aw the contrails. The orks had begun the siege with their leading elements, but the stompas and gargants were still some distance away. Setheno called a warning. It went out over the full expanse of Helsreach. She saw troops and civilians scramble for cover, but there was too little time. She stayed where she was. The kind of blasts she expected would kill her or not regardless of whether she was on the other side of armourglass doors.
The explosions were something different. They unleashed clouds that reached like claws over Helsreach. The wind from the west pushed them far into the hive, away from the orks. The clouds descended, tendrils trailing over the streets and habs like the fingers of a sickly, murderous god. At their touch, Helsreach erupted with a wet scream that became a choking gurgle, and then a sudden quiet. The wave of the cry swept towards Setheno, and she knew what had come upon the hive. She left the balcony. She closed the doors behind her, and put on her helmet. There was no other precaution she could take.
She waited.
She could hear the rise and fall of the liquefying shriek through the armourglass. She watched the mist drape itself against the door. She breathed evenly, waiting for the end, and cursing von Strab for hurling Armageddon into defeat and extinction. The end did not come. The wave of cries moved on, fading. Setheno gave thanks her war for the Emperor was not finished. She did not move yet. There was something else to come. Though the virus had lost the potency that struck through all but the most hermetic seals, the death toll on the streets had been massive. Hundreds of thousands had perished. The roads were awash with the thick stew of broken down bodies. The air was charged with the instant decomposition’s sudden release of gas.
The inevitable took almost a full minute to arrive. The orks nearest the gates had losses of their own, she guessed. They regrouped. The attack resumed. A shell landed over the wall. Its explosion was more than enough. The gas ignited. A wall of flame erupted before Setheno as the western region of Helsreach became an exploding caldera. The heat shattered the chapel’s armourglass. The flames roared through the doorway. They swept through the gallery behind her, incinerating carpets and tapestries. The fire enveloped her. She stood her ground. Her power armour absorbed the heat, absorbed still more, and then its warning runes began to flash.
Yarrick: The Pyres of Armageddon Page 27