Despite all the measures to combat it, the death toll among the Rynnsguard, and the lack of any sign whatsoever that aid was coming, continued to eat away at the defenders’ morale. Individual Crimson Fists began patrolling sections of the wall on which they had, so far, not been seen. This was done at the suggestion of a young Astartes Chaplain called Argo, and it worked. The sight of the glorious armoured giants, radiant and splendid despite all they had endured, still exerted a powerful effect on the ordinary people. The Astartes inspired faith and dedication wherever they walked. They spoke encouragement to the troopers, and fought shoulder-to-shoulder with them. The number of suicides dropped. The walls held. Snagrod and his forces found themselves at a temporary impasse, but they had already begun work on the weapons that would end this war.
When winter came, the warlord and his savage lieutenants had committed even greater numbers to the construction of their forts and war factories. The human forces could only watch with mounting fear and apprehension as, slowly and inexorably, the mightiest engines of war they had ever seen began to take shape.
Most had never heard of a gargant. Few men on Rynn’s World had the kind of clearance that would grant them access to the Munitorum archives in which accounts of such near-indestructible metal monstrosities could be found. But the surviving Rynnsguard commanders knew what was coming, and so did the Crimson Fists.
They considered the viability of launching surgical strikes on the massive engines of doom before they were completed, before they could bring their unstoppable weapons to bear on the gates and walls. Considered then rejected.
Such a strike would risk everything. Many battle-brothers would be lost. Forces critical to the continued deadlock would be fatally diminished. The orks would only begin construction again. With the rest of the planet being, to all extents and purposes, dominated by the greenskin race, their resources were near limitless.
Exchanging Astartes lives for a little more time?
Chapter Master Kantor could not sanction it. Whichever way he looked at it, the losses outweighed the gains.
Deep winter came. Snow was a thing unheard of in the capital. New Rynn City lay close to the equator, and did not suffer winter like the mountain regions did.
When the first snows came, the emaciated children of the capital shuffled out into the streets to gaze up at the sky in wonder. Few remembered such a beautiful sight. Beautiful, yes, but deadly, too. Within days, the first casualties of the freak winter were reported. This season, in its own way, was as harsh as the brutal heat of summer had been, and took just as many lives. The weakest children died in droves, leaving grief-wracked parents who were barely capable of standing, let alone firing on the foe. Many of the elderly perished, too. Again, the commissars and Ecclesiarchs went out among the grieving people, threatening or consoling them, whichever was their way.
Again, it was the presence of the Space Marines that made the greater difference. It was now, with things darkest of all, that Pedro Kantor turned his eyes from the daily casualty reports and tactical hololiths, and went out among the ordinary people.
He saw a populace beaten to nothing, both mentally and physically, and felt their grief as if it were his own. He could not help but recall the tragedy that had struck Arx Tyrannus. It had haunted him every day since. It also gave him a keen sense of empathy with those who gathered around him, all those who had lost the things they loved most.
He stood before them, gleaming helmet under his left arm, and swore to them that the fight was far from over. He told them of The Crusader and of her escape the previous year. Warp travel was unpredictable, but help would come, he assured them. The Crusader would not fail.
They listened. They looked up from where they knelt in front of him, and he saw the hope in their eyes. They wanted to believe, and he let them. Somewhere deep down, he still believed it himself.
Spring came. The snows melted. The morning air became crisp, then eventually warm. The hope that Kantor spread was sustained as the climate became gentle again.
But, beyond the walls, things were different. A new wave of excitement whipped the orks to violent frenzy.
Soon, the gargants would be complete.
Soon the planet would shudder under their massive feet. Gods of death and destruction would wade towards the final Imperial stronghold, crushing everything to powder beneath them.
For almost eighteen months, the defenders of New Rynn City had endured everything Snagrod’s foul orks had thrown at them.
But they would not survive the march of the gargants.
TWO
The Cassar, Zona Regis, New Rynn City
Within the void-shielded walls of the Silver Citadel, the Cassar, last fortress stronghold of the Crimson Fists, stood so far unmarked by the ravages of war. Atop its roofs and towers, great gun batteries stood, whining smoothly on their cogged mounts as they tracked left and right, scanning the sky for aerial threats. Below them, on a broad balcony facing south, Pedro Kantor stood looking out at the haze-shrouded horizon. Black smoke billowed into the air from a score of sites in ork-held land. Noxious green and brown fumes poured upwards from towering cylindrical stacks. Far out, beyond the reach of the Imperial guns and missile batteries, greenskin transports and aerial war machines buzzed and rumbled, always audible, even this far away.
Alessio Cortez grumbled something from Kantor’s left where he, too, stood surveying the horizon in the light of the morning.
“Again, brother,” said Kantor. “I’m afraid I was not paying attention.”
“I said they’ve even turned the blasted air against us.”
Kantor nodded. Among his reports, he had seen those of the medicae. Allergic reactions, breathing disorders, cancers, deaths by airborne toxins, all had increased since the end of winter. This had once been such a beautiful world, so green and fertile, so rich and diverse in its animal and plant life.
The orks had raped it. They had poisoned and burned and scarred its face. Even if, by some miracle, the xenos were at last fully purged, the likelihood that Rynn’s World could ever be restored to its former glory was a thing beyond even his ability to hope for.
The planet’s scars, like the battle scars on his own body, would always remain.
“The next session of the Upper Rynnhouse will begin in an hour,” said Cortez. “Have you thought about what you will tell them?”
“I have considered your proposal, Alessio, but I’ll not send the last of my Crimson Fists out to die. As I grow weary of telling you, the Chapter must endure, no matter what. I will not be remembered as the last master of the Crimson Fists. Our order must survive this.”
Cortez snorted derisively. “Nothing will survive the gargants, and we both know it. They’ll march soon. Once the last few districts fall, they’ll turn their guns on the Silver Citadel, and, when the void shields finally fail, we will be cornered and killed.” He raised a hand. “Please, Pedro. I know you think aid is coming, but how long are we to sit and wait? Grant me the fight I want, for the sake of all we’ve been through together.”
Kantor looked away to the east, but the haze was thick today. He could see the river where it flowed towards the waters of the Medean, but he could not see the ocean itself.
“You ask to overturn the Ceres Protocol so you can lead a suicide charge,” he said, his voice low and angry. “You ask me to throw away my best fighters for the sake of a moment’s glory. Did you hit your head, Alessio?”
Cortez scowled and stepped forward, gripping the stonework lip of the balcony wall. “Do you know how many of our brothers have expressed to me their support for a last glorious charge?” he asked.
Kantor nodded. “Almost half,” he said. “And they are wrong, all of them. There is more to consider here than an honourable death.”
Cortez spun, his eyes blazing. “We are Crimson Fists! Honour is everything!”
Kantor met his friend’s harsh stare with his own.
Fire and ice, he thought. We were always so different.
Fire and ice.
“I tell you our honour is served best in protecting the people. Would you have history remember us as the Chapter that left them to die?”
“They will die anyway,” hissed Cortez.
Kantor flashed forward. As fast as Cortez was, the speed of the Chapter Master surprised him, and he found himself gripped tight by his upper arms.
For a moment, they stood that way, frozen, the tension crackling like static electricity between them. Kantor’s eyes held the fury of a winter blizzard, but no words came from his lips. He could not deny that his hope was fading fast. He knew only too well what the first steps of the gargants would mean, and he knew it would start the moment the metal leviathans were complete. Snagrod would not wait. He had waited long enough for this. Perhaps he was even bored, already hungering for fresh battles on new worlds.
Perhaps he had only stayed this long at all because the Crimson Fists fought on, refusing to die.
At last, Kantor released his grip. Sorrow stole over his face. “Such a wedge between us, Alessio,” he said. “In all our centuries, we never fought quite like this. What happened, I wonder?”
Hearing these words, Cortez’s fury cooled fast, like a glowing, fresh-forged blade suddenly thrust into cold water. “You are the Chapter Master,” he replied. “Before the coming of the orks, we had not served together on the field of battle since I took command of Fourth Company. You gave me that honour, Pedro, and the latitude I needed to execute your will in your absence. The battles I won for you were fought my way. And I never lost. Now, I want Snagrod’s head… my way. I want vengeance for all the Fists he has killed. If it costs me my own life, it is a small price to pay for the honour of our dead. Every brother who wishes to go with me has asked the same question of himself, and has found the same answer in his heart. His life for vengeance. We await only your blessing. Let us all go out as warriors should. Lead us out yourself. The future be damned!”
Kantor’s features darkened again. He turned to go from the balcony.
Cortez gripped him by the right vambrace, stopping him momentarily.
Kantor looked down at his old friend’s hand, then slowly turned his eyes upwards with a warning glare.
Cortez released his grip.
“I am the Chapter,” said Kantor coldly as he turned away again. “The honour of the Crimson Fists is served only by serving me.”
He passed beyond the balcony’s arched doors and into the shadowy chamber beyond. At the back of his mind was the urge to pray for guidance in the Reclusiam before the session of the Upper Rynnhouse began. And there was something else he wanted to pray for, too.
The very thought of Alessio Cortez’s death chilled him far deeper than the thought of his own. Cortez the Immortal, the Chapter’s greatest living legend. Without him, how could there be hope for any of them?
As the Chapter Master’s footsteps echoed along the torch-lit stone corridor ahead of him, he looked back on his life, and saw it defined, not by his status or martial achievements, but by the centuries-long bond of brotherhood with the 4th Company captain. Ever since the fall of Arx Tyrannus, that bond was the rock he had clung hardest to, the only certainty he had in this never-ending storm of death and loss, and the breaking of that bond was something he knew his hearts would not be able to bear.
As he entered the quiet, sanctified space of the Cassar’s Reclusiam, he thought of the final trials ahead, and knew there were many prayers he must offer today.
Epistolary Deguerro’s personal serf, Ufrien Kofax, waited anxiously outside the Reclusiam for the Chapter Master to emerge. Every second seemed like an hour, but Kofax would wait as long as he had to. He could not enter, of course. That would mean death. Instead, he turned his eyes to the portal’s etched surfaces and saw images of Chapter heroes overcoming all manner of foes. Disgusting alien and daemonic forms lay in heaps at the feet of armoured giants. The giants stood with weapons aloft, holy light blazing in stylised sunbursts from the halos encircling their helmeted heads.
Heavy footsteps announced the approach of one such giant now. The Chapter Master’s prayers had ended.
Kofax straightened his robes and prepared to give his message.
Minutes later, Pedro Kantor found himself seated on a great stone chair in the speaking chamber of the Librarium, listening to Deguerro and his brothers as they updated him with everything they had gleaned from the warp so far. The words were so unexpected, so uplifting, that the Chapter Master’s body actually went numb.
Hope, he thought. Slim, granted, but hope nonetheless. Praise Dorn that we stood against them this long.
“A great many, my lord,” said Deguerro, a rare grin brightening his typically dour features. “We detected the psychic bow waves of over two thousand ships.”
“Two thousand?” echoed Kantor. “And you are certain these are Imperial ships?”
“We were not certain at first,” said a Librarius Codicier. It was Ruthio Terraro. “At first we thought it might be another ork wave, and a big one at that, though an increasing number of their smaller long-range ships have been detected leaving the system in the last few months.”
Why this might be the case hardly needed voicing aloud. The orks believed they had won here. Snagrod would be sending advance scouts out into the warp to search for other challenges now. That he was so assured of his victory here was further insult to the Chapter and all it stood for.
“But they are not orks,” said Kantor. Despite the burgeoning hope in his chest, he knew he had to be absolutely sure. “You are sure you are not mistaken? Could they be other xenos? The eldar perhaps? Those capricious cowards have been known to observe the battles of other races from the edge of the combat zone.”
“It is not the eldar, lord,” said Deguerro. “The ships are indeed human, and, in the minutes before you arrived, we received confirmation that they are loyalists. The Crusader is among them. Dorn and the Emperor have answered our prayers. The Imperium has come at last.”
“How did you detect them?” Kantor asked, craning forward. “I was under the impression that the ork psykers were so numerous that their presence somehow smothered your… gifts.”
“True, my lord,” said Deguerro. “They are perhaps even more numerous now than before. But there are powerful psykers aboard these Imperial ships, several dozen of them registered as alpha-class, and they are doing all they can to hold the psychic channels open. There are Space Marine Librarians with them, too, from half a dozen Chapters. They have come with their battle-brothers, all swearing oaths of succour in our time of need. Even the psychic noise of the orks cannot entirely drown out our communication with them. We have been able to engage in limited two-way communication.”
“And what have they told you?” Kantor asked.
Deguerro nodded to a Codicier named Thracio, whose fingers activated a series of nines set in the armrest of his own stone chair. In the air above them, a shimmering, ghostly solar system appeared. Its two suns, one large and yellow, one tiny and white, spun slowly in the centre. Kantor recognised Rynn’s World and her two moons, Dantienne and Eloix. She was the third planet out, situated perfectly in the middle of her star’s life zone, much like Holy Terra Herself.
Hololithic green triangles appeared above her cloud-masked surface. These were the orks’ ships at anchor in high orbit. There were still thousands of them.
Deguerro directed Kantor’s attention to the orbital plane of the Rynnstar system’s outermost planet, Phraecos, a barren, moonless world with a surface of frozen methane. Just within the hololithic ring of the planet’s orbital path, a formation of glowing blue triangles flickered into existence, attendant streams of digital data spooling through the air beside them.
“Two thousand two hundred and sixteen warp-capable ships,” said Deguerro, “and nothing smaller than a Dauntless-class light cruiser. There are several Space Marine battle-barges, but the main bulk of the fleet’s firepower is comprised of that aboard the Imperial Navy’s Emperor-and Retribution-cla
ss battleships. There are four each of these, a significant commitment from Segmentum Headquarters.”
Kantor looked again at the swarm of triangles representing the orks fleet around Rynn’s World. He thought for a moment, then said, “This Imperial force is enough to break through and land troops, but it is not enough to eliminate the enemy fleet outright.”
“True,” said Deguerro. “But we have been assured that further support is on the way.”
“To arrive when, exactly?” Kantor asked.
There was an uncomfortable pause before Codicier Thracio answered, “We cannot be sure. Best estimates say two days from now, but the warp…”
Deguerro gestured again at the cluster of blue triangles above. “This fleet is under the command of Lord Admiral Prioce Galtaire the Fourth. His combat record is exemplary.”
“I know of him,” said Kantor, lifting a hand in interruption. “What I wish to know is whether he intends to keep his fleet at anchor outside ork striking range until the other elements arrive. Our need for support here on the ground is desperate.”
“He knows this,” said Deguerro. “The fleet is moving in-system as we speak. Naturally, we wished to consult with you before coordinating further action.”
Kantor rose from his stone chair, and stood eyeing his psychic brothers.
He thought of Eustace Mendoza, and of how much he missed him, of how comforting the presence of the Master of the Librarius would have been in recent days. Tomasi, too, should have been here.
“I regret how short we must cut this,” said Kantor, “but I must attend a session of the Upper Rynnhouse, and I am already late. The ministers will be overjoyed when I share your news. Spread word among our brothers. Let them know the pendulum of fate is, at last, on the verge of swinging our way once more.”
[Space Marine Battles 01] - Rynn's World Page 29