Or had it?
Gallacus was about to begin verbally sparring with Phrenotas when the doors of the Strategium swept open and three more Astartes strode into the room.
“What is going on here?” demanded the figure in the centre of the trio. “Why are you wasting time? You should be on the walls, marshalling our forces. What is the meaning of this?”
Despite the harsh tone of the voice and a sudden dark change in the air, Grimm found himself suppressing a half-smile. Here was a swift resolution after all. The figure in the middle was Epistolary Deguerro. He was flanked by Codiciers Terraro and Corda.
“We are in the process of selecting a temporary commander,” explained a Vanguard Squad sergeant by the name of Hurien Thanator. He thrust his chin at Sergeant Anto, and added, “But our brothers in Second Company seem incapable of respecting the proper chain of command.”
Deguerro stopped beside Thanator’s chair and glared down at him. “Just as well, then, that I am here to simplify matters for you all.”
He looked over at Grimm, meeting his eyes, and said, “I will be taking temporary command of our forces. No!”—he held up a hand towards Sergeant Gallacus, palm out—“Do not waste your breath attempting to debate it. There is clear precedent. You may check the archives in the Librarium downstairs. Sergeant Gallacus, I am placing you in charge of all Crusade Company assets. Sergeant Grimm, you will be responsible for Second and Third Company assets. Both of you will follow my orders to the letter. Is that clear?”
Gallacus worked the muscles in his jaw angrily, but he knew well enough that Deguerro was right. In the absence of a captain, a senior member of the Librarius ultimately held highest rank. After a moment, he nodded.
“Clear, brother.”
“Sergeant Grimm?” said Deguerro.
“As you command, brother,” said Grimm, and he meant it.
“Excellent, then there is no more call for you to linger here. Your brothers need you on the walls. Gallacus, Brother-Codicier Terraro will accompany you. My liaison, if you will. Likewise, Brother-Codicier Cordo will assist Sergeant Grimm.”
The Astartes seated around the table rose from their chairs and saluted with fist on breastplate, some begrudgingly, others with sincerity.
Deguerro saluted back. “Thank you, my brothers. May the primarch go with you.”
The sergeants filed out the broad ebonwood doors in silence.
Grimm was about to join them, the last to leave, when a hand on his upper arm stopped him. He turned.
“A moment, brother-sergeant,” said Deguerro, and Grimm noted the anxious look that had appeared in his eyes.
“Do you wish me to leave, brother?” asked Codicier Corda.
“No,” said Deguerro without taking his eyes from Grimm. “You already know what I wish to say to the sergeant.”
Corda nodded and stood patiently.
Grimm raised an eyebrow in silent query.
“Huron Grimm,” said Deguerro. “There are two things I must ask you to do. The first is to trust me. The second is perhaps the harder of the two. It will be dangerous, and your success or failure may well affect the lives of all who have survived thus far.”
“Go on, brother,” said Grimm, not bothering to cover his sudden sense of apprehension. The psyker would see through any mask.
Deguerro’s eyes were intense. “We of the Librarius have divined certain possibilities. Potentialities, if you will. We believe a number of strong… presences… are coming to New Rynn City. If they survive the final stages of their journey, their arrival may have a most significant impact on the outcome of this war.”
“You don’t sound very sure,” said Grimm.
Deguerro smiled humourlessly. “That is the way of witch-sight. It is frustratingly vague at times. We know something is about to change. We are approaching a major branching point, a juncture in time where the paths to the future diverge in very different directions. We must do everything we can to guide this reality, our reality, along the correct path.”
Grimm squinted back at the Librarian and, after a moment, shook his head. “Matters of the empyrean are best left in your hands, brother. I need no explanations, only your orders. Tell me what you require of me, and I promise you, it will be done.”
FIFTEEN
The Azcalan Rainforest, Rynnland Province
The river curved, and, following its slippery bank, Kantor and his battered fellow survivors saw Jadeberry Hill rising over the treetops in the near distance. The Hill was symbolic, representing, to Kantor’s mind at least, the coming end of a journey that should never have taken place. How different would things now be had the fortress-monastery not been sundered? How hard might the Chapter have been able to strike back at the xenos? He would never know, just as he would never know exactly how a single missile from the Laculum battery had managed to wreak such raw devastation on all he held dear.
Cortez, too, noted the profile of the hill as it became visible around the curve of the river and the trees on its bank. Opening a channel to Kantor, he said, “We are closing at last, Pedro. But I’ll wager the hardest part still lies ahead of us.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” replied Kantor. “The lack of communications bothers me. At this range, we should at least be able to hear some kind of traffic, even if it is weak and fragmented.”
“Viejo reports nothing yet,” said Cortez. Squad Viejo were on point, ranging ahead of the rest by half a kilometre. “It’s as if every wide-area transmitter on the planet was taken out of commission. Either that, or the orks are employing some kind of communications suppressor. We have encountered the like before.”
Kantor looked up at the sky over the wide expanse of the river. It was a mix of bright gold and dark grey. The Season of Rains would be here soon. How would the orks respond to it? Would it alter their behaviour somehow? He realised there was a gap in his knowledge. Documentation on the effects of weather patterns on the greenskin race was practically nonexistent. If he lived through this, he would commission such a study by the Adeptus Mechanicus’ biologis arm. Such science was their exclusive domain, and forces throughout the Imperium would surely benefit by it.
Across the grey-gold sky, ork craft still occasionally roared, leaving smoky black trails like banners proclaiming this world as theirs. The very sight of them sent waves of anger and disgust through him. The thick forest canopy of the Azcalan had, until now, kept such things from plain view.
Jadeberry Hill loomed closer by the minute, its summit topped with clusters of grey mausoleums and white marble angels. They would reach its base within the hour. Peering at it, Kantor realised that there was movement on its summit. Even at full magnification, it was not yet clear what was going on, but he knew signs of a firefight when he saw them, no matter the distance.
He opened a general channel and said, “We must hurry, brothers. Conflict rages up ahead. Our brothers have need of us. Be ready.”
All along the muddy bank, the marching Astartes prepared their weapons for battle once again, locking the last of their magazines into their trusty bolters and cocking them. Their pace increased, and the refugees behind them had to hurry to keep up.
Whatever lay ahead, Kantor and his battle-brothers would overcome it, or die trying.
It was the only way they knew.
SIXTEEN
Jadeberry Hill, New Rynn City
Grimm had only four squads with which to hold the Jadeberry Underpass. It was here, to the mouth of the underpass, that Epistolary Duegerro had sent him, adamant that those approaching, whoever they were, would enter the city through it, or not at all. Even through the psychic haze, the roiling clouds of alien thought that billowed out from the minds of the ork psykers, the Crimson Fists Librarians had read this much clearly in the currents of the immaterial realm. Deguerro had not said who he believed the approaching presences to be, perhaps so as not to raise anyone’s hopes, but Grimm couldn’t suppress his own fervent hopes. Surely it was a group of survivors from Arx Tyrannus.
Some of the Crimson Fists had to have survived. Dare he hope that the Chapter Master was among them?
From the underpass, the base of Jadeberry Hill was only two hundred metres away, just north, a pale, stony path snaking up its dark southern flank leading to the cemetery at the top. To the northwest of the hill, the waters of the Pakomac River split from those of the River Rynn. They meandered south then southwest, feeding a network of canals within the city limits before spreading out towards the farmlands where they followed countless irrigation ditches. Finally, the Pakomac split into a thousand smaller tributaries before it met the mighty Medean Sea.
The orks had not let the rivers and canals stop them from spreading into the region in force. In fact, they thrived with such an abundance of water. They used it in the massive steam-driven machines which filled the foundries they had hastily established, taking their cue from the manufactora they had already overrun. Their position was strong. They had encircled the city as completely as they could.
As Grimm looked out from behind the barricades he and his squads had erected around this, the mouth of the last Imperial-held underpass this side of the river, he cursed at all the greenskins had accomplished so far.
They were every bit as savage and violent as they had always been, but he couldn’t deny a certain brutal intelligence behind all they had achieved. Their elimination of Imperial communications at the very earliest had been a masterstroke, a strategy clearly learned over their countless clashes with the Emperor’s forces. The storm-trooper units of the Imperial Guard were regularly deployed early in war to achieve exactly such an objective. Astartes strike forces executed such operations as a matter of course. Someone should have realised that, sooner or later, the orks would learn from the tactics of their enemies. Such knowledge may have taken a long time to permeate the greenskins’ limited minds, but it had finally dawned on them, and here were the results.
The barricades—mostly Aegis prefab shield-walls, concrete-filled steel drums, razorwire and sandbags—were the best he and his men could manage in the time they’d had. So far, they had held against the last four attack waves, but that was as much to do with the gridwork of anti-vehicle and anti-personnel mines Grimm had ordered placed on the main access road as it was the strength of the Aegis plating.
The minefield was largely depleted now. How close would the next wave get?
If there were Astartes coming in from the east, they would soon discover the challenge they faced entering the city. The towering columns of black smoke and the endless drumbeat of heavy artillery would make it clear, long before they were within striking distance, that the orks controlled everything outside the walls. Everything, that is, except this last way in.
But how long do I wait, Grimm wondered?
He knew the enemy were already mustering for another run on his position. If his brothers from Arx Tyrannus were out there, they would have to hurry.
He turned his eyes left and up to the top of Jadeberry Hill. He had positioned a Devastator squad there, the only one he’d been assigned. It was a good spot for heavy fire support, as the last two hours had proven. The Devastators were fielding two lascannons, two missile launchers and a plasma cannon. Already, they had taken a staggering toll on the foe, ripping their vehicles to burning pieces from long range and atomising hundreds of alien infantry. But their ammunition was finite. If the attacks continued to intensify, they would soon run out.
The Ceres Protocol was still in effect. Deguerro hadn’t reversed it, knowing Alvez’s original decision was the right one. Grimm knew he would have to make a choice soon: risk the lives of all those under his temporary command for the sake of a mere psychic trace, or fall back when it became clear the barricades would no longer hold. He desperately wanted to hold the underpass to the last, giving whoever was out there every chance they could of making it back to the fold, but paying for it with the blood of his brothers was something he could not do.
No. Perhaps, if Deguerro had been sure, had named Pedro Kantor or one of his captains among the approaching party, it would have been an easier choice. Grimm would have stayed despite everything. The forces in New Rynn City needed a sign, needed one of their leaders, a member of the Chapter Council, to return to them. What might that do for morale?
But without a name, without certainty, could he really justify the death of any Crimson Fist? Such thoughts resolved the issue for him. If no prodigal Fists showed themselves by the end of the next attack wave, he would pull his brothers back and destroy the underpass. He could not risk the orks gaining access to the city that way. Librarians were not infallible. They were known to err from time to time, and Deguerro himself admitted that they were forced to constantly wrestle against the psychic fog that emanated from the undisciplined minds of the ork psykers.
Still looking at the summit of Jadeberry Hill, Grimm noticed sudden agitated movement there. Static crackled in his ear, broken by a voice that said, “Sergeant Grimm, the xenos are massing for another run on the barricades. They are behind the ruins to the southeast.” He paused. “There are many of them, brother. More than before.”
Of course there are, thought Grimm sourly.
The voice belonged to Sergeant Tirius, formerly of the late Captain Drakken’s 3rd Company. The hard-faced Tirius and his squad had survived the debacle at Badlanding only to find themselves here, appended to the 2nd Company, and in a far greater mess than any had expected. Grimm was glad to have them. Tirius was strong and true, with little ego to get in his way.
“Armour?” Grimm asked over the link, hoping the answer would be none.
“I count five tanks,” said Tirius. “Looted Leman Russ. The turrets have been modified. I can’t begin to guess at their range or power now, but if they get within range of our lascannon and missile launchers, we will render them into scrap. You have my word.”
Grimm was reassured, but the mere presence of the tanks meant that the orks were escalating their efforts to take this area. It was the greenskin way. They would throw progressively heavier concentrations of forces at a problem until they overcame it by virtue of brute force. Eventually they would overcome the Astartes defenders. Grimm was no defeatist. He merely had to be realistic. Lives depended on it.
“Ready your weapons, brothers,” he called out over the comm-link. “Dorn watch over us all. They are no match for the sons of the Chapter. Nor shall they ever be.”
Further words came unbidden into his mind, words he had heard on a score of battlefields out there among the stars, the words so favoured by the Chaplains of the Crimson Fists.
There is only the Emperor, the Chaplains would intone before battle was joined.
He is our shield and our protector, the ranks would reply.
Grimm spoke that first line to his battle-brothers now, spoke it with feeling, and received an equally impassioned response. On his left and right, weapons were cocked and readied.
Hulking figures appeared over the mounds of rubble to the southeast, great dark shapes with horned helms and flapping banners of flayed human skin. Severed heads bobbed and swung from their belts and from the poles that supported those crudely painted banners. Some were boxy, angular figures, weighed down by thick armour, but so impossibly strong that they were still fast enough to lead the charge.
One, Grimm saw, was by far the largest. The horns that sprouted from either side of his helm curved outwards, then inwards with a twist, like those of a bull raumas, but plated in sharpened steel.
The horned warboss raised a massive growling chainaxe into the air and roared long and deep, a battle cry that was taken up by its thousands of followers.
They looked fearless standing there, all those orks, and well they might, for they faced only forty. But did they realise how much fight was left in that forty? Every Crimson Fist at the barricade was ready to fight like it was the last hour of his life.
Perhaps it would be.
The looted tanks rumbled into view now, clanking between the skeletons of fire-gutted buil
dings, turning their stout ugly modified turrets towards the Astartes. One fired a shot, a great gout of fire and smoke erupted from its barrel.
The shell landed a hundred metres short, packed with so much explosive that it blew a crater in the rockcrete road two metres deep.
This was the beginning, the sign the orks were waiting for. They charged forward, filling the air with war cries. They surged around the tanks, mindful not to be crushed by the grinding treads.
“Steady!” Grimm ordered. “Make every bolt count!”
From the top of Jadeberry Hill, something streaked towards the leading tank on a trail of white and yellow fire. It struck the tank right on the gun mantlet, punching deep into the metal. The tank jerked to a stop. A second later, red fire erupted from its hatches. Burning bodies tumbled out, thrashing and screaming.
One down, thought Grimm.
The ork footsoldiers were almost in range. Grimm could see the gleam of bloodlust in the eyes of the massive warboss.
All right, you foul bastard, cursed the sergeant. You’ve got my attention. It’s time you tasted the fury of the Crimson Fists.
“Open fire!” he yelled over the link. The sudden rattle of bolters drowned out all else.
Battle was joined.
If you are out there, brothers, thought Grimm as he loosed shot after flesh-searing shot from his plasma pistol, then in Dorn’s name, hurry up. Because it looks like this is your very last chance.
The sight that greeted Alessio Cortez as he exited from the trees of the Azcalan rainforest was one of absolute mayhem. The city burned. He could see ork ships half-buried in the outer sections of collapsed city walls. Artillery flashed and boomed all along the remaining ramparts, but far more answered back from the ground, the shells exploding on the walls, weakening them little by little, piece by piece.
The mad beasts had even breached the city walls in places by ramming them with aircraft!
[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Page 26