by C. S. Goto
The door to the shrine creaked open behind Isador, and Gabriel stepped out into the night air, stooping slightly as he passed under the mantel. He nodded a quick greeting to Isador and glanced down at Brom before turning swiftly to Sergeant Corallis, who stood crisply at the side of the doorway. Isador took a couple of steps towards Gabriel to join the briefing, leaving Brom standing on his own in the gathering dark.
“Sergeant, what news?” asked Gabriel.
“We found the trail of two mobs of retreating orks, captain. They appear to be heading on intersecting trajectories, presumably towards a rallying point deeper in the forest. If we leave now, we should be able to catch one of the mobs before it reaches that point.” reported Corallis.
“Understood,” said Gabriel. “But what of the other mob?”
Corallis looked slightly uneasy. “We caught up with it on our bikes, captain, or what was left of it.”
“Explain.”
“Something had already taken care of the bulk of the mob, and we had no problems cleaning up the remnants, captain,” explained the sergeant.
“‘Something?’ sergeant? What? Who? The Tartarans?” asked Gabriel.
“With all due respect,” said Corallis, flicking a glance towards the dim figure of Brom, “that is most unlikely. The attack was incredibly precise and the attackers left no trail at all. It is as though they just vanished after the battle. Not that there was much of a battle, it seems. More like a slaughter.”
“Marines?” asked Gabriel with some concern.
“No, captain. The wounds on the orks were too delicate to have been caused by bolter fire. It was as though they had been shredded by thousands of tiny projectiles. I’ve never seen anything like it. When we caught up with the stragglers, they were so dazed and confused that it was hardly worth wasting ammunition on them.” The report clearly disturbed Corallis as much as it did his captain.
“Very good, Corallis, thank you,” said Gabriel turning to face Isador. “Isador, what does the good colonel want?”
“Brother-Captain, the colonel wishes an audience with you,” replied Isador, stepping back and sweeping his arm to indicate that Brom should approach.
“Captain Angelos. I wish to place the Tartarans at the disposal of the Blood Ravens. As you know, we have suffered many casualties, but between the fifth and seventh we can offer an entire regiment. They stand ready to serve you in the protection of the city. I realise what you may have seen, but my men wish to make amends for-”
“The Tartarans will have many opportunities to prove themselves warriors worthy to serve the Emperor, colonel. The Blood Ravens are leaving the city, and we are leaving its protection in your hands,” said Gabriel, already on his way to organise the departure.
“Very good, captain,” said Brom with a slight bow. “I will ready my men. May I ask what your next course of action might be?”
Gabriel stopped walking and turned to face Brom directly. “Orks respect only strength,” he said deliberately, “and I intend to show them that we have it in ample supply. The Blood Ravens are going hunting.”
Hidden in the depths of the forest, a safe distance down the valley away from Magna Bonum, the orks had stopped their retreat. The clearing was already cluttered with spluttering machines and slicks of oil. A terrible stench filled the air and wafted up into the sky, forming dark, pungent clouds that obscured the moonlight. Groups of mekboyz pushed each other around, smashing their wrenches into wartrukks and warbikes, punching rivets through their armoured plates to keep them in place. Snivelling gretchin sat in packs, chained into little circles so that they couldn’t run off into the forest. Some of the stormboyz poked about at their jump packs experimentally, pretending that they were testing their components, while the flashgitz spat saliva onto their shootas and buffed them with the hair from decapitated heads.
In the centre of the clearing, Orkamungus was standing beside his crumpled trukk, yelling at the mekboyz who fussed around it nervously, trying to winch up the back wheels in order to fix a broken axle. The wartrukk was so huge and so badly damaged that it seemed an almost impossible task, and the mekboyz kept recruiting more and more orks into service-partly to help them lift the immense machine, and partly to share the blame when they failed to fix it.
The warboss himself was stomping up and down alongside his trukk, screeching and hollering, slapping the back of his hand across the heads of any boyz who looked like they weren’t trying hard enough.
Suddenly he sprang into the air and crashed down onto the back of the wartrukk, thinking to use its elevation to help him see where the rest of the mobs had gone. The thicket of mekboyz working on the rear axle were instantly squashed into the ground as the orks that were already struggling to support the weight of the massive truck collapsed under the additional weight of the monstrous warboss. The trukk jolted back down into the earth with a crash that made Orkamungus stumble. He roared in displeasure and spun the rickety shoota turret to face the cowering orks at the side of the vehicle. They looked up at him with a mixture of resignation and terror, but then Orkamungus merely cackled his throat, pretending to riddle them with shot, sputtering and whooping with the imaginary report from the gun.
The clearing was not even nearly full, although Orkamungus could see more and more of his orks spilling out of the forest around the perimeter, barging their way through the thinning trees as their noses caught the scent of cooking meat. Fires were blazing all around, and the orks were roasting various creatures in the flames. The burning flesh sent thick clouds of black smoke billowing into the sky, and the gretchin strained to breathe it in, as though it was the only food they would get that night.
The warboss scanned the scene with his tiny red eyes. Still not enough. Wait more. He spun the shoota turret round to face the growing crowd and angled the barrel up into the sky, spraying slugs in a barrage of fire and crying out into the night. “Waaaaaaaaagh!”
Only half an hour after leaving the spaceport, the Blood Ravens caught the scent of the orks. In the distance was the echo of gunfire, and Corallis could make out the faint haze of fires on the horizon. But that was not their target tonight. The sergeant was at the head of the hunting squad, guiding them along the path that he had taken with the scouts earlier that evening.
The dark forest was littered with mutilated human corpses and the burnt out remains of woodsmen’s huts. Not even these wilds had been spared the ravages of the ork invasion-although Gabriel could not imagine that the greenskins had found much satisfaction in the slaughter of these defenceless farmers. They were probably just venting their frustration and hatred after being repelled by the Blood Ravens at the spaceport. Orks in retreat were just as destructive as orks on the advance-they are always on the rampage. War for its own sake, thought Gabriel with a heavy heart.
The Marines moved swiftly and quietly through the shadows, pausing occasionally for Corallis to pick up the trail. It was not hard to follow. Scattered along the ground were discarded plates of armour, broken machine parts that must have fallen from rumbling wartrukks, pools of blood and slicks of oil. The Marines could have followed the stench even in perfect darkness-even without their enhanced night-vision.
With an abrupt motion, Corallis brought the group to a halt, raising his fist into the air as he stooped to the ground. The moonlight dappled his armour through the canopy, making his image swim and shift before Gabriel’s eyes.
There was silence as the Marines waited for the sergeant to draw his conclusions. He was tracing a pattern on the ground with his hand and staring out into the darkness of the thick forest off to the side of the vulgar trail of debris and destruction. It seemed pretty obvious where the orks had gone, so Gabriel was concerned. He made his way up along side Corallis and rested his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Corallis. What is it?”
“I’m not sure, captain,” whispered Corallis in response. “There are some faint markings here, running alongside the ork trail. They are hardly here at all, as though made by
feet that barely touch the ground. But there is definitely something-something swifter and stealthier than we are.”
“Were they following the orks?” asked Gabriel, as the significance of Corallis’ last words sunk in. “Or are they following us?”
“I’m not sure, captain. The marks are too vague to render much information about when they were made.” But the sergeant was staring out into the forest again, making it clear that he suspected that whatever had made the marks was still out there. Gabriel followed his gaze, scanning the moon-dappled foliage for signs of movement.
“The moonlight and shadows would hide anything tonight-even an ork,” said Corallis, shaking his head.
“Yes, sergeant-or even us,” replied Gabriel with half a smile, pressing down on Corallis’ shoulder as he stood and waved a signal to the hunting party. He clicked the vox-channel in his armour and whispered his directions to the squad. “Let’s take it off road. Keep to the thick foliage and trace this ork trail in a parallel motion. Silence, understood.”
Without a word, the squad of Blood Ravens dispersed into the trees, slipping into the shadows and the natural camouflage provided by the broken pools of moonlight.
Hidden in the shadows and the foliage, the Blood Ravens pressed on through the forest. “There is something else in these woods, Gabriel,” said Isador, leaning closely to the captain’s ear as they slipped through the undergrowth. “Something unpleasant.”
“Besides us, you mean?” asked Gabriel with a faint smile, as he dropped to one knee and levelled his bolt pistol. The rest of the Blood Ravens followed suit, each bracing their weapons and falling into motionlessness. There was a fire burning in a small clearing about one hundred metres ahead of them, and the smell of burning flesh was beginning to become overpowering. Gabriel signalled to Corallis to go and check it out, and then turned back to Isador.
“What do you mean, brother?”
“I’m not sure, captain. But there are voices in these woods. Silent voices that press in at my mind so sweetly…” The Librarian trailed off, as though remembering something beautiful. “They are evil and heretical voices, Gabriel. But I do not know where they are from.”
Gabriel looked at his friend with concern, not knowing what to say. He simply nodded. “We will be careful.”
“I do not care for all this sneaking about,” continued Isador, as though that might explain everything.
“I know, old friend. You have always preferred the direct approach,” replied Gabriel, trying to lift the mood.
“What about the Tartarans? Why not send them after the orks, instead of treating them like glorified baby-sitters? Better still, why not take the entire regiment and meet the main ork force head-on? It could not possibly stand before us.” Isador’s voice was full of sudden venom.
“We have fought the orks a hundred times, Isador. And you told me yourself, they thrive on war. Nothing would please them more than a direct assault on their warboss. They would fight with greater passion than we have yet seen. Our casualties would be unacceptably high,” said Gabriel, explaining what Isador already knew.
“But what are the Imperial Guard for, if not to die for the Emperor?” He almost spat the words into the dirt. “At the very least, we should have brought a few squads with us on this hunt-we would not want to be remembered for our carelessness, would we?”
The words were laced with disgust, and Gabriel was momentarily stunned by Isador’s speech. There was more to this than a revulsion towards the cowardliness of some of the Tartarans. The Librarian was holding something back about Gabriel himself, as though not quite daring to challenge the judgement of his old friend.
“We, Isador? We, or me?” Gabriel was staring straight into the eyes of the Librarian, fierce with repressed pain. Isador stared back, meeting the captain’s bright eyes and immediately seeing his mistake. With a quiet sigh, he responded.
“I am sorry, Gabriel. I am not quite myself today,” said Isador, looking around into the forest as if expecting to see someone watching them. “I am not accusing you of anything, captain. And when I said ‘we’, I meant it-we are the Blood Ravens, battle-brothers until the end.”
“Perhaps you are right, old friend. Perhaps I have grown careless. We are battle-brothers, Isador, but I am the captain. Responsibility is mine,” said Gabriel, dropping his gaze from Isador’s face and shaking his head faintly. “I also have not been myself lately.”
“I have seen how you have changed since Cyrene, Gabriel. But there was nothing that you could have done to save it. You did what had to be done.” Isador’s tone was gentle again.
“Do not mention that place again, Isador!” One or two of the other squad members turned their heads as Gabriel raised his voice. He brought himself under control quickly and continued. “Cyrene was my homeworld… it was my responsibility,” he said, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.
“Captain.” It was Corallis, stooped under the cover of giant fern fronds just in front of them. Gabriel looked up and wondered how long the sergeant had been there. By his side, Isador was doing the same thing. They shared a quick glance and then Gabriel answered.
“What news, sergeant?”
“The orks have established a camp at an old pumping station in the forest. There is good cover around the perimeter, and they are unprepared for our assault.”
“Excellent,” said Gabriel, relieved and enthusiastic at the thought of combat at last. Nothing cleared his mind better than a righteous cleansing. “Then let us show these orks how Blood Ravens bring death to the enemies of the Emperor.”
The spaceport was shrouded in darkness as the thick black clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring the stars and filtering the moonlight into a dirty grey. A thin drizzle of rain fell continuously, coating everything in a slick, oily ichor as the smoky clouds spat their residue to the ground. campfires were scattered reassuringly over the deck, with groups of Guardsmen huddled around them for warmth and companionship. Others were hard at work on the port’s fortifications, tugging the ruins of Sentinels and Leman Russ tanks into banks around the perimeter that faced out into the wilderness. Auto-cannon, heavy bolter and lascannon emplacements were being dug into the barricades at regular intervals, facing out across the plain. That is where the orks would come from, if Captain Angelos had been right about their renewed offensive.
Colonel Brom stood on the tracks of a Leman Russ that had been slid into the barricade on its side. He was scanning the horizon for signs of movement, but there was nothing except the faint orange glow of distant fires. That’s where the warboss must be, he thought. Captain Angelos was right after all. They’re regrouping, out of range of our gun emplacements. But somehow the hazy glow was reassuring; if the orks were playing by their campfires, then they were not about to launch their second attack tonight.
The dull, misted moonlight bathed the afternoon’s battlefield in monochrome, and Brom slouched down onto the side of the tank to sit and consider it. He sighed deeply and shook his head, patting each of his pockets in turn in a quest for a lho-stick. Finding one in his left breast pocket, he tapped it methodically against the armour of the Leman Russ and then flicked it into life.
Taking a long draw and letting the smoke blossom into his lungs, Brom tried to get the events of the day into some kind of perspective.
Behind him, he could hear the industry of his Tartarans. Most of them had recovered from the shocks of the day already, and they were struggling to prepare for tomorrow. There were whispers of excitement about the arrival of the Space Marines and occasional shouts of awe as stories were shared about the incredible feats they had accomplished on the battlefields of a thousand planets. Rumours and legends flooded the camp like a contagious disease, inflecting everyone with a new vigour and a thrill of excitement.
Not everyone. Brom sat on his own, staring out across the silvering corpses of his Guardsmen as they lay unrecovered where they fell, intermingled with the ork-dead, their blood mixing in the soaked earth. Hundr
eds of them. Almost half the Fifth and more than half the Seventh had been killed in one afternoon. And these were his men. Good men with whom he had fought on numberless occasions in the past.
And the Blood Ravens had called them cowards.
Taking another draw on his lho-stick, Brom blew a wispy thread of cloud out into the night air. It was a good weed-locally grown in the rich, fertile soil of Tartarus. For a moment, he thought that he could taste the blood-drenched soil seeping into the smoke, but he shut out the thought in a wave of nausea.
Cowards. The word stuck in his mind and cycled through his thoughts like a hot coal, scorching at his soul. Something had happened. Some of his men had turned and run. He had dealt with many of them himself-executing men who had saved his own life countless times. The guilt gnawed at his conscience, making his head hurt from within.
Glancing up and down the line of the barricade, Brom could see little pockets of men sitting in silence. They had obviously moved away from their comrades to be alone with their thoughts, gazing out over the carnage of the day. Not for them the naive excitement about the Space Marines. Tiny little embers of fire marked them out as smokers, speckling the imposing weight of the barricade with the touches of fireflies.
Brom didn’t have the heart to bust them for skipping work. The fortifications were going up quickly, as the most enthusiastic of the men laboured under a haze of optimism. He was happy to let his men deal with the events of the day in their own ways-the last thing they needed now was their commanding officer to yell at them about treachery and cowardice. Everyone knew what had happened. Some were trying to forget, to make the approaching battle less horrifying. Others had fallen into themselves, searching for their last scraps of resolve. But some, suspected Brom, would simply find the terrible truth-they were cowards after all.
Anger and confusion curdled together in Brom’s head. The Blood Ravens had treated him like a lackey, and they had cast a slur on the honour of the Tartarans. He was a colonel of the Emperor’s Imperial Guard, and should be treated as such. And it wasn’t as if the Blood Ravens were beyond reproach themselves: mighty though they may be in battle, inside those giant suits of power amour there was the heart and soul of a man. They could make mistakes too, just like the Tartarans. And they had. He knew that they had.