[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  Isopho smiled back, but Mir glanced at his food without expression.

  “I’m sure it’s divine, my lady,” he said without much conviction. Perhaps it was too rich for his tastes, Maia thought. He picked up his fork, but he didn’t take a mouthful until Maia herself had done so. Among the Rynnite upper classes, no man ate before a lady seated at the same table took her first bite.

  Maia lifted a small forkful of the eggs and swallowed, breaking the spell. The others began to eat.

  “I asked you to join me, gentlemen,” she said, “because there is much to discuss, and I would do it here where the constant interruptions of the Upper Rynnhouse will not bother us. I want you to speak frankly about our situation.”

  “What do you wish to know, lady?” said Mir, lifting a goblet of chilled water. “The essentials were already covered in yesterday’s final session.”

  “True,” said Maia, “but you’ve had a night to reassess. I’d like to hear your current thoughts.”

  “It is as the Astartes said it would be,” said Mir. “The greenskin assaults eased off during the hours of darkness. Captain Alvez had our artillery targeting enemy light sources close to the walls. We dim our own lights, naturally. Without a visible target, the orks are unfocussed and have nothing to attack. If last night was anything to go by, our forces will have ample time for rearming and recovery before each dawn. That will be crucial if we’re to hold long enough for aid to arrive. And we will hold, but there is no room for complacency. The Space Marine Scouts maintain a constant vigil, no matter the hour. Our own Scouts do likewise, though at shorter range. I’ve heard that a subset of the greenskin horde utilise night-vision equipment and stealth tactics, but they are a tiny minority. If they seek to infiltrate the city, we will respond with lethal force.”

  Maia nodded. “Then it is the hours of daylight we must worry about. Has our anti-air defence been strengthened in accordance with the captain’s decree?”

  “To the best of our ability, yes,” said Mir, gulping down a mouthful of valphid heart before continuing. “Our Hydras and missile batteries have been repositioned to counter the greatest areas of threat, but it leaves certain other sections of the wall at risk, mostly to the east, west and northwest. Of course, the Shield Range offers us a measure of cover on the latter. The mountains are relatively free of the foe.”

  “Surely we can’t afford any weak points at all?” said Isopho.

  Mir turned to him. “I’m afraid our tactical choices are rather limited, viscount. We face greatest pressure from the south and southeast. Most of the ork ships in this region landed there. Given the size of the capital, our defence has to be somewhat reactive. The Crimson Fists have organised their Land Speeders, bikes and transports into rapid response units. I’ve done the same with our Sentinels and Chimeras. They will move to hold any gaps the orks try to exploit. Together with our infantry and artillery regiments, the main bulk of the Space Marine force will hold the walls and gates where we face the most continuous pressure. We shall do everything we can to maintain the territory we have. I only wish we’d had time to organise a trenchworks on the outskirts of the city before the xenos landed. We might have held far more ground that way than we did.”

  Maia raised her goblet in Mir’s direction. “You did exceptionally well under the circumstances, general. But it’s imperative we lose no more ground. Bishop Galenda visited me personally after yesterday’s session to demand extra protection for the Zona Sanctum and the churches in the other districts.”

  “He shouldn’t be bringing that to you, my lady,” said Isopho with a scowl.

  Mir nodded. “If the bishop wishes to discuss the defence of the Great Basilica, send him my way.”

  Maia looked out from the balcony across the city. Her city. In the distance, where the fighting was, columns of smoke stood like dark towers against the sky.

  “He plans to petition the Astartes,” she said. “But I doubt he will find Captain Alvez a willing ear.”

  Isopho and Mir shared a look. “The Crimson Fists are not as people think them to be,” said Isopho. “Our protectors are as cold and hard as the armour they wear. I sometimes wonder if there is a human being inside at all.”

  “They are not human,” said Maia, returning her eyes to her plate and spearing another slice of marsh-melon.

  “They are something greater, and it makes them distant, yes, but we should love them all the more for that. Perhaps loss of humanity is the price of such strength.”

  There was an unmistakeable sadness in her tone.

  Isopho shifted in his seat as if suddenly uncomfortable. He had heard the rumours about the statue in Maia’s room. He had heard whispers of her infatuation with the Chapter Master. He had hoped it was just talk, but now he felt certain it was more than that.

  “I doubt we will ever understand them,” Maia continued, somewhat wistfully, “but I know I’m glad they’re here.”

  General Mir voiced his agreement. As they ate, the fighting continued all along the defensive line. Out there on the walls, men and Astartes alike fought and died to hold back the xenos hordes.

  It was still early, but already many had begun to pray for night to return.

  ELEVEN

  The Azcalan Rainforest, Rynnland Province

  “Something is wrong here, lord,” said Sergeant Viejo to the Chapter Master.

  Upon reaching the forest, the Crimson Fists had pushed inwards a few hundred metres and spread out, establishing a small perimeter, making sure that no surprises lurked in the dense shadows under the thickly clustered trees.

  Now they stood in a circle, weapons held ready, eyes outward, their light-boosting visors helping to pierce the shade beneath the dense canopy.

  The forest was deathly quiet, as if there were no animals of any kind. With winter over, the thin shafts of light that penetrated the canopy and dappled the forest floor should have been alive with clouds of needlewings and scallopbacks, the predators that feasted on them, and all the other forms of life that flourished here.

  But there were none.

  No ornithids cried out from the treetops. No brachiodonts brayed from the banks of the River Rynn that cut through the forest deeps. No kynids growled and spat from their burrow entrances among the tangled roots and vines.

  Kantor drew a deep lungful of the cool air and focussed his mind on processing the molecular messages within it. Some of the scents were his own: metal, ceramite, the hot ionised air which constantly vented from the exhaust ports of his back-mounted generator.

  On his armour, Kantor also smelled traces of the skin and sweat of the woman, Jilenne, whom he had set down against the bole of a thick tree once it was clear that there was no immediate danger in the area. She was resting now, sleeping with her children after consuming some of the forest fruit that Brother Alcador had found for them.

  The scent of vegetation dominated, of course. Kantor could smell the thick spongy bark of the trees, the leaves overhead, the weeds and shoots underfoot. The soil was rich with nutrients and minerals.

  And there was something else, faint but familiar. He had last smelled it just three hours ago.

  Ork.

  The other Crimson Fists detected it at almost the exact same moment Kantor did, their fingers ready on triggers as they scanned the foliage for the source. Though their faces were covered by their helmets, Kantor could read the sudden tension in their moments easily enough.

  “There is no breeze here,” said Sergeant Segala. “Hard to track them by scent alone.”

  Sergeant Viejo concurred. “Difficult to pinpoint. There’s no sign that they have passed this way. No footprints. No blade-marks on the trees.”

  Orks would not have passed through here without hacking at the tree-trunks with their blades. Such mindless displays of aggression were as natural to them as breathing. Their tiny minds constantly drove them to express their violent natures.

  “West,” said Cortez, removing his helmet to take a deeper draught of the air. �
��I cannot be sure, but it seems slightly stronger from the west.”

  “The Tecala River is that way,” said Kantor. “So is the bridge we must cross.”

  Brother Delgahn spoke up, the first time anyone had heard him do so since they had left the ruins of Arx Tyrannus behind.

  “My lord, permit me the honour of reconnaissance. If there are orks west of here, I will find them.”

  Now another of Cortez’s squad added his voice. It was Brother Fenestra. “Perhaps my lord will consent to send both of us.”

  What is this, thought Kantor? Do they think I hold them responsible for the battle at the farm? I displayed no anger towards them. They were merely following Alessio.

  Even so, Kantor decided he would send someone else. Let them think what they would of that.

  “Denied,” he said flatly. “Sergeant Viejo, pick two members of your squad. They will scout ahead. I want them to secure the bridge first, then move out from there. Have them report back to me within the hour. Captain Cortez, your squad has not rested since seeing combat. They will clean their armour and weapons, then enter a full sleep state for one hour. Sergeant Segala’s squad will patrol our perimeter. That is all.”

  “Teves, Galica,” barked Viejo. “Forward eyes. The rest of you are on overwatch.”

  The two battle-brothers chosen by the sergeant saluted Kantor, turned, and melted into the shadows to the west, moving a few metres apart, weapons held ready, fat muzzles sweeping left to right, each covering the angles outside the arc of the other.

  Kantor watched them go, then turned and glanced at Jilenne and her children where they lay sleeping against the tree. Their muscles would be stiff and painful when they woke. That would not help their speed.

  I have turned my peerless warriors into child minders, he thought bitterly. And the enemy is somewhere nearby, somewhere in this forest. Unburdened and unchallenged, we might have made the capital within three, maybe four, days. How long will it take us now?

  Looking at the sleeping family, he felt a mix of emotions. Could he leave them here? It was the smart move, he knew, the right move. There was food in the forest. Water was abundant. They could make their own way to the capital by following the waters of the River Rynn. There was a chance they would survive, so long as the orks didn’t stumble across them.

  He remembered words spoken to him by High Chaplain Tomasi after the Battle of Braxa Gorge, frank words, but well-meaning, spoken with a rare half smile some two-hundred-and-forty-seven years ago.

  “I applaud your unbending sense of honour, Pedro,” the High Chaplain had told him. Kantor had been a sergeant back then. He had risked his life and the lives of his squad brothers in holding the gorge open for a final convoy of refugee vehicles. Thousands had been saved. “But sometimes honourable men must do dishonourable things. What is morally right must bow before what is tactically sound. I fear the standards you impose on yourself are impossibly high. Unless you give them up, they will be the death of you one day.”

  Kantor was glad those words had come from the High Chaplain and not from the Chief Librarian. From Eustace Mendoza, he would have taken them as dark prophecy. From Tomasi, they were advice.

  Advice I never learned to follow, he thought.

  From the tree line, Kantor could now see what Galica and Teves had reported and then, at his request, had drawn in the dirt with their knives. There, about two hundred metres northwest of his position, was the crumpled hull of an ork transport. The craft had plunged from the sky, smashing a great hole in the forest, creating a clearing that was now filled with the greenskins that had survived the crash. The treetop canopy had been ripped wide open. The ruined ship lay belly up with the Rynnite suns blazing down on it. Smashed tree trunks lay at all angles on the ground. Some had been hacked up to fuel the fires that dotted the clearing. It was around these fires that knots of big, powerful orks sat gorging themselves on hunks of roasted meat.

  Kantor sniffed the air. At least the meat was not human. He tracked its scent north and found its source, the corpse of a bull brachiodont, its pale body ripped open, thick sections of muscle cut away, its wounds black with clouds of feasting flies.

  Despite measuring over twelve metres in length, the creature hadn’t stood a chance against armed orks. Neither had the people stuffed into crude cages on the southwestern edge of the camp. These were no Rynnsguard soldiers. Judging by the colour of their stained and torn attire, they were simple pilgrims. Most likely they had been on the road to Ivestra’s Shrine in the north-east when they had run into the ork invaders. Now they huddled together in the tight confines of their cages, whimpering and soiling themselves, each praying he or she wouldn’t be the next one picked.

  What happened to those that were picked was all too clear. From the lower branches of nearby trees, lifeless bodies hung, their flesh covered in deep red gashes, their clothes reduced to blood-soaked tatters. These wounds were not the worst of it. Each of the dead had suffered a further, greater cruelty. Their faces had been entirely removed. Not messily, not brutally, but with chilling surgical precision. The dead swayed and turned in the occasional light breeze, their rictus grins taunting those that had yet to follow.

  “All squads in position,” Captain Cortez reported over the link.

  “Good,” said Kantor. “We go on my command.”

  He knew he couldn’t avoid this. At first, he had wished for another way, but then he had seen the slave cages, and his mind had been made up.

  Besides, he rationalised, there are close to a hundred orks here. We couldn’t press on simply hoping they wouldn’t give chase. They would have hit us from behind the moment they picked up our trail.

  Still, he was anxious about pitting all the Astartes he had against so numerous a foe when ammunition and supplies were running dangerously low. His assault plan called for only the minimum expenditure of bolter rounds, but it would also put his Fists in close range with the orks, something he would have preferred to avoid given the choice.

  He had hoped to identify the mob’s leader, too, before launching the attack, but so far none of the orks in view seemed to be in charge. None were that much larger or darker than the others, and it was these two signs, above any other, that usually indicated which greenskin dominated.

  Kantor’s eyed flicked back to the twisted wreckage of the ork craft.

  The leader must be inside, he thought, but the fighting will bring it out.

  He keyed an open comm-channel and addressed the three squads at his disposal. “Crimson Fists,” he told them. “Give vent to your rage. Do me proud. Open fire!”

  From the tree line all around the ork camp, the bark of bolter-fire sounded in short, sharp, tightly-controlled bursts. Each of the Crimson Fists had already picked his target and lined it up before the order was given. On Kantor’s command, the first lives were taken. Explosive headshots sent a dozen carcasses slumping to the ground, blood pumping out in great fountains.

  The other orks, seeing their kin slaughtered in front of them, swept their weapons up and cocked them. They had seen the muzzle flashes from the inky shadows beneath the trees. Now they swung their broad stubber muzzles around to open fire.

  “Smoke!” Kantor commanded over the link.

  Small metal canisters glinted in the Rynnite sunlight as they arced out from the trees and in towards the densest knots of orks. Some of the orks stared at them dumbly as they landed by their feet. Others opened fire at the trees with typically poor aim. The canisters began hissing and spewing out a thick, choking blanket of grey smoke that soon clogged the air over the entire clearing. It was impossible to see anything but the bright muzzle flashes of the ork guns as they fired madly at nothing.

  “Switch to thermal sight,” said Kantor over the link, simultaneously sending the thought along the neuro-connectors that linked his brain to the systems of his armour. His helmet’s vision mode flickered to the appropriate filter, showing him a noisy grey image with fat white silhouettes firing wildly in all direction. �
��Move in!” he ordered.

  It went exactly as he had planned. The orks could see nothing at all, and cut down a good many of their own number with torrents of lethal, undisciplined fire, while the Astartes pressed into to the smoke-filled clearing, killing as they went. Bestial roars of frustration and anger echoed back from the tree trunks on all sides, merging with the deep rattle of so many guns.

  Kantor strode forward with Dorn’s Arrow raised at shoulder height. Every bellowing xenos shape that loomed out of the smoke received two lethal storm-bolter rounds in the head. Huge bodies dropped to the forest floor, their weapons clattering on rocks and fallen trees. The greenskins were blind, and the Astartes were not, and it was more a massacre than a true fight.

  Kantor lowered Dorn’s Arrow and flicked on the energy field of his power fist, feeling its lethal aura prick the skin of his arm as it crackled to life. All over the clearing, his Astartes were doing the same in a bid to conserve rounds. Cortez, Viejo and Segala each bore power fists of their own, and they employed them to deadly effect now, punching and ripping at anything that came within range. The other Fists carried long combat blades with monomolecular edges and cruel serrations. These they wielded with the cold efficiency that many decades of daily practice had given them. They slashed and stabbed at the arteries and vital organs of enemies who still could not see them.

  The cover of the smoke wouldn’t last much longer. There was a slight breeze from the north-east and the veils of grey began to dissipate. How many of the orks had already fallen? Sixty? Seventy? Kantor didn’t know.

  The nature of the battle changed. The smoke no longer offered adequate cover. Kantor cycled his visor back to standard vision mode and saw a huge, battle-scarred beast surging straight towards him with iron axes in both meaty hands. The beast roared as it came, mad red eyes burning with bloodlust. Kantor felt his centuries-honed combat instincts take over, moving him into position without conscious thought. He slipped the ork’s first whistling slash easily, stepped in, and caught the second on his left vambrace before it fell. For just an instant, he and the monster stood locked in that position, the creature’s breath sour and hot and utterly foul, reaching Kantor’s nose through the ducts in his faceplate. There were thick gobbets of brachiodont flesh lodged between the monster’s teeth, rotting remnants of its last meal.