The Purging of Kadillus

by Gav Thorpe

  ‘Help me,’ he begged, falling down just in front of Nestor.

  ‘What is your name, trooper?’

  The Apothecary rolled the Free Militiaman to his back, ignoring his cries of pain. His left thigh was a gory mess, broken bone jutting through the flesh. As Nestor’s fingers twitched at the controls of the narthecium, a scalpel blade snicked from his index finger. Holding the struggling man down with his other hand, Nestor sliced open the wound on the trooper’s inner leg. Magnifying his autosenses, the Apothecary examined the blood flow and concluded that the soldier’s femoral artery was intact. He was suffering from an oblique fracture in the distal zone of his femur. He could be saved.

  ‘Your name?’ Nestor asked again.

  ‘Lemmit, sir,’ the man said between haggard gasps.

  ‘Do not be afraid, Trooper Lemmit,’ Nestor said calmly. ‘What I am about to do will hurt a lot, but it will save your leg. Do you understand?’

  Lemmit nodded, eyes wide with fear.

  None of the painkillers in the narthecium could be used; they would put any non-Astartes into a coma if they didn’t kill Lemmit outright. With his free hand, Nestor ripped Lemmit’s belt from his waist and thrust it between the trooper’s teeth.

  ‘Bite on this if you need to,’ said Nestor.

  The Apothecary fixed the bone first, pulling apart the fracture and resetting it while Lemmit howled in agony. Nestor cut the audio-feed on his helmet to blank out the distraction. Selecting the medical riveter, he worked the narthecium along the broken bone, fixing the two pieces in place. It only took a few seconds, but when Nestor glanced at Lemmit he saw the man had passed out. As with the painkillers, the stimulants in Nestor’s possession were too strong for a normal human.

  Quickly checking that Lemmit’s breathing and pulse were still within tolerable limits, Nestor decided to let him stay unconscious. Using a quick-sealing resin, the Apothecary bonded the riveted pieces of thigh bone. Switching attachments, he sprayed a fine mist of biological adhesive on the wound and pulled together the sides of the incision he had made, holding them together for a few more seconds until the adhesive had dried. Retracting the adhesive dispenser, he made double-sure by stitching along the wound with the auto-suture.

  Checking that the man had no other acute surface injuries or internal damage, Nestor picked up Lemmit and carried him to a wall of dirt-filled boxes and leant him against the crates, propping up the damaged leg with a rock.

  ‘Wake him up and give him some water,’ the Apothecary instructed a passing sergeant, who accepted the Space Marine’s order without question and knelt beside Lemmit, uncapping his canteen.

  Nestor moved on, the experience of the procedure filed away in his memory for future reference. He came across a badly burned trooper who stared at the Apothecary with one eye from a blackened, twisted face. Lowering to one knee, Nestor could see that the man’s chest was burnt through to the sternum and showed the line of ribs down his left-hand side. Subdermal burns extended over a third of his torso, a purplish fluid leaking from the open wounds. Death was a certainty. He placed his left hand across the trooper’s face, obscuring his view. With his right hand, Nestor pulled his combat knife from his belt and punched it quickly but smoothly through the exposed ribs, puncturing the heart. The unfortunate trooper trembled for a moment and fell still.

  The Apothecary wiped his knife clean on the man’s tunic and sheathed it. He stood up and looked around for someone else needing his aid. He saw a cluster of men gathered around another lying on the ground, one of them thumping the trooper’s chest to get his heart started. Nestor took a step towards this group when the comm chime sounded.

  ‘Brother Nestor, infantry assault imminent. Return to combat position,’ instructed Brother Sarpedon.

  ‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain,’ replied Nestor. He gave the dead and the wounded one last look and turned away, heading back to the Devastators.

  As he strode along the ridge, he could see that the orks had paid heavily for their tactical naiveté. Dozens of vehicles smoked along the ridgeside, the bodies of those orks that had tried to escape lying next to their wrecked bikes and buggies. Other than the breakthrough at the site of the rocket strike, the orks had not managed to get closer than a couple of hundred metres from the defence line.

  Now the mass of the orks poured forwards, hundreds if not thousands of green-skinned warriors hurrying up the slope as their cannons boomed behind and the catapult launched bombs that exploded in the air above the defenders, raining down red-hot metal shards.

  Something clanged from Nestor’s shoulder just before he reached Squad Scalprum. He glanced to his left and saw the white paint on his pad scraped away, revealing the grey ceramite beneath. Something hissed at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, examining the fragment between thumb and forefinger. It appeared to be a piece of bolt, the thread melted, head warped by the explosion that had thrown it against the Apothecary.

  Nestor tossed the piece of shrapnel away. If that was the worst threat the orks had to offer, it would only be the lightly armoured troopers that would need his attention.

  As the orks died in their hundreds, Nestor did not think of it as a massacre. It was simply a cleansing, as one might purge a wound of infection. The Free Militia and Dark Angels purged Koth Ridge of the ork infection with lascannon and autocannon, mortar and heavy bolter, plasma cannon and heavy stubber. The Apothecary had not even fired his weapon yet: no ork had survived to come within range.

  ‘This is Interrogator-Chaplain Sarpedon to all defence forces. Those without eye protection should avert their gaze from the east. Incoming bombardment from orbit. I repeat, incoming orbital bombardment includes plasma attack. Do not look at the attack site with unprotected eyes. Attack to commence in one hundred and eighty seconds.’

  ‘This should be worth seeing,’ said Scalprum.

  Nestor nodded and increased his autosense visual filtration to maximum. Koth Ridge darkened in his eyes, the swarm of aliens clambering over gulleys and running through clusters of rocks becoming a darker shadow in the gloom.

  ‘This is Brother Sarpedon,’ the Chaplain said over the Dark Angels’ ciphered comm channel. ‘The Unrelenting Fury is cleared for a short pass only. Orks are still in control of the defence laser site at Kadillus Harbour. If the bombardment does not break the ork attack, we cannot expect further orbital support. Ready your weapons and your souls and believe in the purity of our cause.’

  ‘Confirm, Brother-Chaplain,’ Nestor heard Sergeant Vigilus reply. ‘Any further information on the arrival of reinforcements from the city?’

  ‘Transports and armoured vehicles have left Kadillus Harbour. Time of relief estimated at four hours. Expect to hold until dusk.’

  ‘Understood, Brother-Chaplain,’ said Vigilus. ‘We shall be the shield of Kadillus.’

  Nestor looked up into the grey sky. Even without the cloud, he would have been able to see nothing of the Dark Angels battle-barge manoeuvring into firing position hundreds of kilometres above. The Unrelenting Fury would be dipping down towards Piscina’s atmosphere, rotating about its axis to bring the dorsal bombardment cannons to the correct angle. Shells the size of buildings were being loaded into massive breeches – much of the size and weight was ablative shielding that would melt away during entry into the planet’s atmosphere – while armoured turrets like small city blocks turned slowly into position.

  The first salvo appeared as two blurs barely visible through Nestor’s darkened autosenses. They streaked groundwards, punching out of the cloud at ultrasonic speed. The warheads had been set to airburst, exploding five hundred metres above the orks, two kilometres from the defenders of Koth Ridge. Two stars burst into life against the darkened vista. Even through the filter of his autosenses the blossoms of plasma were bright enough to make Nestor’s surgically improved eyes water. The explosions scorched the sky, raining down fire, a shockwave advancing ahead of a sheet of flame, obliterating everything in its path. Molten destruction rained dow
n on the orks, consuming a swathe of the advancing greenskins in a bright conflagration. Nestor heard the strangely high-pitched shrieks of the orks; the cries of blinded troopers too stupid to have heeded Sarpedon’s warning; an ear-splitting crack of air and water molecules being ripped apart.

  An area half a kilometre across was devastated in three seconds, shattered rocks turned to glass, orks reduced to a haze of ash and dust, patches of grass and stands of bushes no more. Two overlapping smooth-sided craters were all that remained of the hundreds of orks that had been beneath the twin detonations.

  Rocked by the suddenness of the attack, the ork advance stopped in its tracks. There were fearful shouts, while a few of the greenskins fired their guns vainly at the clouds, yelling defiance. Some of the orks were evidently clever enough to realise the bombardment could not strike too close to the ridgeline without hitting the defenders. This orkish wisdom spread through the lines and the army broke into a charge, striking up the slope in their hundreds. Ranting and panting, the orks closed on the Dark Angels and the Piscina troopers, but it was not to their benefit. Although safe from death from above, the orks now plunged into range of the bolters and lasguns of the Koth Ridge defenders.

  A storm of red las-beams streaked down the hillside while bolters and storm bolters coughed death at the oncoming wave of greenskins. As the most headstrong orks were cut down by the volleys of fire, two more shells plunged down from orbit, this time set for a ground burst. The whole of Koth Ridge jolted underfoot as the pair of shells exploded inside the rock of the slope. Thousands of tons of debris erupted into the air with all the violence of one of Kadillus’s many volcanoes. Bloodied and battered ork bodies fell like rain. A long stretch of the slope sheared away and tumbled down into the East Barrens as a massive landslide of rocks and corpses.

  A beam as blindingly bright as the plasma detonations lanced into the sky from many kilometres behind Nestor. The power of the shot boiled a hole through the clouds and a few seconds later there came a sharp rumbling like a compressed crack of thunder.

  The orks had worked out how to fire the defence laser.

  ‘Did they hit?’ barked Nestor.

  The comm stayed silent for several seconds, during which the Apothecary and the other Dark Angels nearby looked at each other.

  ‘Negative,’ replied Sarpedon. ‘Close miss. The shields took the brunt of the residual radiation. Master Belial is withdrawing the Unrelenting Fury. He does not wish to gamble on the orks improving their aim. It is just us now. Give the enemy no respite! Pour our wrath upon this foul horde and remember that we defend one of the Emperor’s worlds!’

  The chaos and confusion of close battle engulfed Koth Ridge. To the north, Piscina troopers unleashed disciplined volleys of lasgun fire into the charging orks while their heavy weapons continued to pound away with las-bolt and shell and bomb. Scalprum’s Devastators added their bolter fire to that of the plasma cannons and heavy bolters, reaping a harvest of death through the packed mobs of the greenskins. With bullets whipping past over the barricade, Nestor added his own fire to the fusillade, picking off those few orks that managed to struggle through the storm of plasma blasts and bolts.

  Despite the heavy casualties, the greenskins pushed up the slope into the teeth of the onslaught, using what patches of cover remained to close with their enemies. Barely a hundred metres from the Free Militia were the clustered remains of a building compound, abandoned for centuries, partly swallowed up by grass and bushes. Within the tumbled walls and half-destroyed outhouses, several dozen orks found shelter. They fired over the tumbled-down bricks at the Piscina troopers with little accuracy but a considerable weight of fire. As soldiers were forced behind their barricades, more orks streamed forwards into the lessened fire, scrambling up the steep slope to take cover behind rocks and in gulleys and hollows.

  Nestor heard Sarpedon barking orders over the comm, demanding that the Free Militia draw more troops into the fight from further north to ensure the line held. While ork rockets and bombs fell amongst them, the troopers were reluctant to leave their slit trenches and emplacements. Exasperated, Sarpedon ran from the Dark Angels’ position, his robes fluttering behind him, a glowing power sword in his hand.

  ‘Squad Vigilus, Brother Acutus, with me!’ bellowed the Interrogator-Chaplain. ‘Into the enemy! Drive them back!’

  The Deathwing Terminators of Squad Vigilus stomped down the slope, storm-bolter fire exploding across the rocks and walls protecting the orks. From the midst of the squad emerged Brother-Lexicanium Acutus, wearing the distinctive blue robes of the Librarium. In one hand he carried an ornate carved staff, topped with a marble carving shaped as the winged sword of the Chapter. With the Terminators gathered close to shield him against the bullets and blasts of energy flying from the guns of the orks, Acutus raised the staff above his head, grasping it in both hands. Psychic energy flared along the length of the staff, crackling from crystal symbols embedded into the haft. Dirt and stones circled the Librarian in a psychic gale. Sparks erupted from the ornate structure of crystalline wires around his head.

  Acutus swept the staff down in front of him. A short distance in front of the Terminators, molecules tore apart with a shrill screech. The Librarian cleaved a rent in the fabric of reality, opening up a gash between the material and immaterial. Colours and sounds swirled from the breach, scintillating and blinding. Following the Librarian, the Deathwing stepped into the vortex and disappeared.

  A few seconds later, Nestor glimpsed a second tear appear beside the walls of the ruined compound. The Deathwing advanced out of the void, the flare of storm bolters lighting the inside of the moss-covered walls. Brother Amediel let loose the fury of his heavy flamer, a burst of white fire roaring through the ruins, exploding from shattered doors and windows, roasting alive everything inside.

  The orks poured from their hiding holes, some with patches of flamer fuel still burning their flesh, clubbing and chopping at the Terminators. The Deathwing attacked back with glowing power fists and whirring chainfists, smashing bone, pulping organs and slashing through flesh. Acutus emerged from his warp-walk, staff tipped by a glowing scythe of psychic energy. A wide arcing blow sliced the heads from three orks; another cut the legs from beneath two more.

  The orks had seen enough and fled the ruins, the bolts of the Deathwing roaring after them. Nestor had no time to see what happened next as a warning shout from Scalprum heralded another ork push against the Devastators.

  The renewed attack began with the explosion of several shells around Nestor. Crates exploded into splinters that skittered from the Space Marines’ armour, scratching the paint of their dark green livery but doing little else. Spreading out to limit casualties from the devastating blasts of the plasma cannons, the orks snarled and yelled as they pounded up the slope, trusting to speed rather than cover.

  ‘Two reloads remaining,’ reported Brother Hasmal as he slammed another magazine into his heavy bolter.

  Beside Nestor, a plasma cannon blazed again, the blast erupting amongst the orks, charring flesh and burning bone. Still the orks came on, and past the green wave Nestor could see a bulkier shape advancing – some kind of walker twice the height of the orks, with claw-handed arms and heavy guns.

  ‘Enemy Dreadnought,’ warned Nestor.

  ‘I see it,’ replied Scalprum.

  The orks were less than fifty metres away, many of them passing into a dip in the ground that hid them from view.

  ‘Prepare for close quarters combat,’ said Scalprum, lifting up his power fist. A shimmering blue field wreathed the heavy gauntlet, crackling along reinforced knuckles.

  Nestor refreshed the magazine in his bolt pistol and slipped out the bone saw from his narthecium. There was a final hail of bolts as the orks rushed across the last few dozen metres of open ground, but it was not enough to stop their momentum.

  The Apothecary stayed behind the barricade and picked off orks with his bolt pistol as they came charging straight at the squad, fanged mouths
baying for blood, red eyes wild with alien ferocity. He fired into the face of an ork just a few metres away, the bolt shattering the creature’s skull. The Apothecary had time for one more shot – through the gut of another foe – before the orks were at the barricade, firing their pistols at point-blank range and swinging with their cleavers and mauls.

  Standing against the shock of the orks’ first rush, Nestor parried the first blows with the blade of his narthecium, keeping the greenskins from clambering over the battered wall of crates and sandbags. He fired into the press of green bodies until his pistol was empty. He dropped the empty weapon to the ground and punched his fist into the chin of a greenskin trying to climb over the barricade, hurling it back.

  Another ork swung an axe at Nestor. The Apothecary swayed back, avoiding the blow. The ork stumbled forwards as Nestor caught the creature’s wrist in his empty hand, bones cracking in the Space Marine’s superhuman grip. With a turn of the body, Nestor dragged the ork halfway across the crates and brought the whirring blade of the narthecium down onto its arm, shearing through just above the elbow. The ork barely noticed the injury, lifting its pistol to blaze a hail of bullets into Nestor’s chest. The Apothecary replied with a straight-arm jab that plunged the narthecium blade into the creature’s left eye, the spinning teeth chewing into its brain.

  As Nestor ripped the narthecium back, Scalprum appeared next to him, dark orkish blood steaming from his power fist and staining the golden eagle blazoned on his chest plastron.

  ‘Saboath is down,’ said the sergeant. ‘I’ll hold here.’

  Nestor pulled back out of the melee at the barricade and turned to see the plasma cannon-wielding Devastator on his side, his weapon lying in the grass a short distance away, still connected to Saboath by its power feed. The Dark Angel’s face plate and left arm were heavily cracked and blood leaked from a long gouge down the right side of his chest.