Captain Taelos batted one daemon aside with a blow from his gauntleted fist, spearing another on the point of his power sword. “Onwards to the hatch, Sons of Dorn!” the captain called out to Scouts s’Tonan and Fulgencio, his voice booming out even over the daemons’ maddening song. “Fight onwards!”
Thinking of his father reminded Taloc that the one who had killed Tonan still lived.
Another daemon was before Taloc, eyes turning their murderous gaze upon him. Taloc did not hesitate, but surged forwards, swinging his combat blade with all his might.
Taloc recalled that he still had a blood-debt to pay, but he would need to survive the present moment before he could worry about that.
Scout Zatori Zan stood at the breach in the barricades, the main hatch at his back. He’d positioned himself as far back from the lip of the ledge on the far side of the breach as he was tall, making it all but impossible for the ranged weapons of the Chaos army below to target him. Within this narrow zone of safety, he was able to contend with the enemy as they appeared in the breach, with the combat blade in his hands the only weapon available for his use.
A Roaring Blade crested the ledge’s edge, rushing into the breach with a long curved sabre in hand and an animalistic howl of pain and pleasure on his lips. Zatori lunged, keeping his body low to the ground, just as the Roaring Blade’s head and shoulders appeared in the breach. He pitted the heretic’s head on his sword, driving the blade straight through the enemy’s mouth with the point punching out through the back of his head. Then Zatori whipped the blade free as he slid back to the relative safety of the spot a little under two paces from the edge.
The Roaring Blade, the confused expression that had momentarily flitted across his face replaced by a brief flash of ecstasy as the pain of the killing stroke was transformed by his re-engineered nervous system into pleasure, fell in a heap atop the bodies of his slain brethren who already lay at Zatori’s feet.
There were already more than half a dozen bodies littering the ground just inside the breach, their blood staining the grey rockcrete black. Another two or three had fallen backwards and tumbled down the ramp, or perhaps even over the ramp’s edge and down the steep slope, Zatori wasn’t sure which. With another enemy bested, Zatori’s tally would come to ten Roaring Blades down, he estimated, and so far he himself had received only the most superficial of wounds.
But Zatori knew it was only a matter of time before the enemy numbers overwhelmed him. Already it had been a close thing on several occasions as the Roaring Blades had burst through the breach armed not only with blades but also with firearms, and it had only been the advantage of the high ground and familiarity with the immediate surroundings that had let Zatori escape a burst of las-fire or a shotgun blast to the face. All it would take for the enemy to eliminate the hatch’s last defender would be for a Roaring Blade with a bolt pistol—or worse yet, a Noise Marine with a sonic weapon—to follow right on the heels of one of the sword-wielding Roaring Blades; while Zatori was still involved in dispatching the latter with his blade, the former could fire at him at will, provided they were not concerned with the possibility of also hitting their brethren.
Another Roaring Blade appeared at the breach, but unlike the others who had preceded him by rushing headlong into the breach, this one sidled his way through the opening, his sabre held defensively before him. As a result, Zatori could not simply strike before the Roaring Blade even knew the blow was coming, and the heretic had the opportunity to attempt a block when Zatori launched his attack.
Sure enough, as Zatori’s combat blade whistled through the air towards the Roaring Blade’s neck, the heretic swung his sabre up in a sweeping arc, turning Zatori’s blade aside. Then, as Zatori laboured to bring his combat blade back in line, the Roaring Blade thrust his own sabre forwards, the point aimed unerringly at Zatori’s chest.
Zatori leapt to one side, in time to avoid the Roaring Blade’s thrust but not quickly enough to completely escape injury. The heretic’s sabre dug into the bare flesh of Zatori’s sword arm at the biceps, in that narrow band of vulnerability between the bottom edge of his shoulder-guard and the protection of the vambrace that covered from elbow to wrist.
Blood sprayed from the fresh wound on Zatori’s right arm before the Larraman cells could seal the gash, and Zatori could feel that the muscles themselves were cut. His grip on the combat blade lessened, and it seemed possible that he might actually drop the sword before his system overcame the pain and shock.
Zatori danced back a pace as the Roaring Blade advanced, howling his insane song of praise to the Despoiler. Not for the first time was Zatori glad that his hearing had not yet completely recovered from the effects of the plasma gun’s explosion. Zatori shifted his combat blade from his right hand to his left before he lost his grip on it entirely. He’d been trained to use the blade in either hand, as a matter of course, but was much less comfortable wielding it in his left. He could handle the sword one-handed in his left, but his movements were far less assured, his accuracy considerably lowered.
But it was not as if he had any choice. In another few moments, perhaps, the flesh and muscles of his right arm would heal sufficiently for him to be able to wield the sword in his right hand, but at that instant it wasn’t an option.
The Roaring Blade advanced warily, seeking an opening in Zatori’s defences.
Zatori could see that the Roaring Blade put far too much faith in the thought that the wounded right arm was debilitating, or that Zatori was in some way overwhelmed by his injuries. After the careful and sidling way that the Roaring Blade had slid through the breach, he now moved with a cocky overconfidence, it seemed, as though Zatori was already fallen.
It would be his final mistake.
Zatori feinted by swinging his empty right hand in a wide arc parallel to the ground, sending the blood that seeped down his arm flinging away in droplets that arced directly towards the Roaring Blade’s eyes. Instinctually, the Roaring Blade blinked, and that was when Zatori made his move. He lunged forwards, driving the point of his blade into the meat of the renegade’s shoulder, then wrenched the blade sideways and up, slicing back across the Roaring Blade’s neck and jawline.
As the Roaring Blade fell to the ground, blood shooting from his shoulder and neck like water from a geyser, Zatori allowed himself the faintest fluttering of self-satisfaction for a duel well-won. But that sense of satisfaction immediately faded when he saw what had followed the fallen Roaring Blade into the breach.
It was Zatori’s darkest expectations made flesh. Close on the heels of the sidling Roaring Blade came another, armed not with a blade but with a las-carbine. And the gun-wielding newcomer was not doing Zatori the favour of advancing through the breach into the range of Zatori’s sword-arm, but had halted just the other side of the breach and was already taking careful aim with his lascarbine.
Zatori tensed, in that fraction of a second considering his options. If he rushed through the breach and pressed an attack on the Roaring Blade he might be able to avoid a fatal shot of las-fire, but by clearing the barricade and emerging out on the ramp he’d be exposing himself to the ranged weapons fire of all of the enemy forces below, to say nothing of the Roaring Blades and Noise Marines currently coming up the ramp. But if he held still he would surely be dropped by las-fire, if not this first shot then the next or the one after that or another to follow.
There was no choice. Zatori began to rush forwards, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet and lowering his head to the ground. It was the only reasonable option in the circumstances.
But in the next instant, his circumstances changed. Before Zatori had taken even a single step forwards, the Roaring Blade suddenly danced to one side, shaking violently as though he were being rocked by high vibrations, leaning awkwardly towards the southern ramp as bits of blood and gore and scraps of clothing went flying off him in all directions. It was only after another heartbeat had passed that Zatori’s damaged hearing picked up the faint sou
nd of bolter-fire.
As the Roaring Blade fell to the ground, his las-carbine clattering down unfired and skidding out of sight, Captain Taelos appeared in the breach, bolter uncharacteristically held in a one-handed grip and a power sword in the other.
“Retreat within the hatch!” Taelos called out as he leapt through the breach, followed closely by Scout Fulgencio, who limped along with sword in hand and melta gun slung across his back, and Scout s’Tonan who backed into the breach covering their flanks with bolt pistol and blade. “We shall defend the hatch from within, and fill the gap with the enemy dead!”
Down in the subterranean passages deep below the Bastion, Scout Jean-Robur du Queste was muttering a humble oath to the Emperor and the Primarch Rogal Dorn and the god of the Caritaigne and any other beneficent agencies that might be listening.
“Please hear me…” Jean-Robur said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
It appeared that of the two tunnels whose fortifications had been removed, the enemy was only emerging from one. But the tunnel mouth was at the far end of the passageway, and the numbers of Roaring Blades who had so far poured out of the tunnel had already taken up defensive positions up and down the length of the passageway. The fact that the far end of the passageway was blocked by a dead-end meant that the enemy could not go that route and gain access to the chambers and corridors above, but while Veteran-Sergeant Hilts and the two Scouts had so far managed to keep the Roaring Blades contained within the passageway by standing fast at the nearer end, they were not yet having any success in sealing off the tunnel and preventing even more Roaring Blades from climbing out.
“…send us a melta…”
Jean-Robur’s prayer was interrupted when yet another Roaring Blade came rushing out of the darkness, firing a shotgun blindly into the shadows with one hand and waving a scimitar wildly in the other. Jean-Robur dropped him with a single round from his bolt pistol. Then Scout du Queste dropped back behind the corner to take cover as the Roaring Blades from further up the passageway filled the air with las-fire.
Scout du Queste, Veteran-Sergeant Hilts and Scout Rhomec had taken up defensive positions at a point where the passageway intersected with another. Using the sharp corners as cover, the three were laying down suppressing fire as the Roaring Blades attempted to make their way up the passageway and into the rest of the Bastion. So far, none of the enemy had got past the intersection, the bodies beginning to pile higher and higher on the rockcrete floor of the passageway. But while this tactic was working as a temporary containment measure, it was not a solution.
“We need to seal that tunnel up,” Scout Rhomec voxed. Vocal communication was proving all but impossible, with the echoes of the Roaring Blades’ discordant chants and songs echoing up and down the passageway and drowning out all other sounds.
“We need a melta gun,” Scout du Queste voxed in reply. “We could blast straight up the passageway and mow the enemy down, and then melt the barricade to slag at the tunnel mouth when we get close enough. These Emperor-forsaken bastards might be limber enough to squeeze through gaps in the wreckage now, but I don’t like their chances doing so when the metal and machinery are flowing like burning syrup all over them.”
“Good plan,” Rhomec voxed, and across the intersection Jean-Robur caught sight of Rhomec’s scarred cheeks and their perpetual grin. But somehow now it looked more, like a sneer. “Except that we don’t have a melta.”
“But s’Tonan’s team does, fool,” Jean-Robur shot back.
“Enough!” Hilts broadcast to both of them. “You are both correct, for all that it matters. A melta is exactly what we need, but we don’t have one, and it doesn’t seem likely we are to get one any time soon. So are there any more suggestions?”
Jean-Robur and Rhomec exchanged a glance, then broke off as a trio of Roaring Blades came charging up the passageway, swords in hand. The two Scouts calmly sighted around their respective corners and dropped all three heretics with a total of four rounds from their bolt pistols.
In response to the Scouts’ silence, Hilts voxed, “Do either of you have any grenades left?”
“No,” Jean-Robur voxed back, firing a bolt at another Roaring Blade rushing the intersection.
“Neither have I,” Rhomec answered.
The first waves to rush up the passageway had been dropped with frag grenades, which had the advantage of taking out several of the enemy at once as the shrapnel dispersed, but after the grenades had run out bolter-fire seemed to be doing just as effective a job of stopping the Roaring Blades’ advance. But again, it was merely a temporary containment, not a permanent solution.
“In that case…” Hilts began, before another vox-communication cut across him and interrupted his next words.
“Brother-Sergeant Hilts, this is Taelos transmitting. Do you receive?”
The two Scouts exchanged another look as Hilts slammed a full clip into the base of his bolter. “Acknowledged, brother-captain, this is Hilts.”
“The surviving Scouts and I are setting up a defensive position just inside the main hatch. What is your situation?”
“We are holding fast in the subterranean passageways, and have prevented the enemy incursion from spreading into the Bastion. But we have been unable to stem the tide as yet.” A slow grin tugged up the corners of the veteran-sergeant’s mouth. “But if you should happen to have a melta gun on hand…”
“Understood, Hilts,” the captain voxed in reply. “I’m sending Scout Fulgencio your way now with the melta. He’s sustained some injuries, but should be able to assist you with the weapon’s operation. We’re short-handed here, though, so when you can send one of your Scouts to the main hatch to take Fulgencio’s place. Acknowledged?”
“Yes, sir,” Hilts voxed with considerable relish. Then as the vox contact broke off, he turned to look from Jean-Robur to Rhomec. “Scout du Queste. As soon as Scout Fulgencio arrives with the melta, I want you off the line and up to the hatch quick as you can get there.”
“Yes, sir!” Jean-Robur nodded.
Scout s’Tonan held his combat blade in a two-handed grip, feet planted at shoulder-width with the right foot slightly forwards, facing the narrow opening of the main hatch. After Captain Taelos and the Scouts had retreated within, the hatch had been partially closed, so that it was just barely wide enough now for one of the Roaring Blades to slip through, but too narrow a gap for a Noise Marine in full power armour to enter. Locked in place with massive bolts housed in the ceiling above and floor below, the hatch could not be forced open wider from the outside, not even with the augmented strength of a Chaos Space Marine. They had not closed it entirely, though, so as not to allow the enemy an unchallenged approach. If they attempted to bore through the hatch itself, the Imperial Fists would be able to fire on them from the narrow gap. It was not a long-term solution, but it served a temporary stalemate, forcing the enemy to approach in smaller numbers.
A Roaring Blade slipped through the narrow gap, his howling song echoing in the vastness of the loading bay. Before he had taken more than three strides into the dim interior of the bay, Taloc swung his combat blade in a downward arc, the blade’s edge biting deep into the heretic’s neck and shoulder. As the Roaring Blade’s eyes rolled back in momentary ecstasy, Taloc yanked the blade free and with a second swing swept the heretic’s head clean off its shoulders. The Roaring Blade fell headless to the rockcrete floor to the right of the gap, his head continuing to roll off into the gloom within, disappearing from view.
At Taloc’s side stood Scout Zatori, whose stance mirrored Taloc’s own, but with his left foot leading instead of his right. And while Taloc gripped his combat blade in much the same way as his father and his grandfathers before him had wielded their ironbrands, with both hands at the hilt, the thumb and forefingers of his left hand pressing tight to the little finger and heel of his right hand, Zatori held his combat blade after the manner of the warrior-elites of Sipang, with his left hand gripping tightly at the hilt and the other holdi
ng the end of the handle in a loose grip.
It was perhaps a symbol of the way in which neophytes in the Chapter retained some of their cultural upbringing while adopting the warrior ethic of the Imperial Fists. As was the fact that, while both of them carried themselves as befitted Scouts of the Imperial Fists, Zatori’s dour expression made clear that he fought out of duty and a sense of honour, while Taloc could not help imagining the glory that would be theirs if they were to win the day.
Two Roaring Blades pushed their way into the gap, one right after the other. Both bore lascarbines that they fired wildly into the gloom, not yet having even sighted a target, eyes not having adjusted from the bright glare of the vernalian morning outside to the dim gloom of the loading bay within. Captain Taelos had instructed the Scouts to dim the lights inside as soon as the hatch had been locked in place, for just this effect. Before the two Roaring Blades even settled their gazes on the two Scouts, Taloc and Zatori attacked. Taloc swung his blade from high over his shoulder, bringing the edge down at an angle on the forearms of the Roaring Blade on the right. The renegade howled in ecstasy as his lascarbine and his severed hands fell to the floor, and then Taloc ended his delight by spitting him through the chest on his combat blade. Zatori dispatched the leftmost of the intruders with considerably more elegance and economy of motion, batting the lascarbine to one side with the flat of his combat blade and then thrusting forwards, driving the point deep into the heretic’s neck.
In the first few minutes after securing the hatch, the two Scouts had already dispatched some half-dozen of the Roaring Blades, whose bodies were already beginning to accumulate on the floor before the opening. Blood slicked the rockcrete underfoot, mixing with the stains of spilled petrochem and the tread-marks of ground transports stencilled in the grey dust of pulverised shale.
[Warhammer 40K] - Sons of Dorn Page 26