Armageddon Saint - Gav Thorpe

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘I’d say closer to dozens than hundreds,’ I say, handing back the magnoculars. ‘But that makes no difference, it’s still too many.’

  Our force numbers thirty-two armed folks and about the same number again of unarmed. We left them a few hundred metres back down the slope where we’re spying on the ork fort, a few wasters as sentries. I slither sideways through the ash to look at Nazrek. As well as the choppa-hand, the ork is armed with a bolter that Grot treated to unkind attentions. There’s a long blade welded to the front and somehow the little alien has managed to reassemble the loading mechanism so that the gun is fed from two magazines now. I’m not sure what difference that makes but Nazrek seemed very pleased with it when it showed me. ‘More dakka,’ it said, whatever that is.

  ‘You’re sure there’s a weirdboy in there?’ I ask the ork.

  ‘Yeah, big green. Knocking in my head. Dom-dom, dom-dom. Warp­head bang real good in space hole.’

  Grot sniggers, mimicking an exploding head with little fingers.

  ‘Which does us no good unless we can get to it,’ says the Colonel from behind me. ‘Orskya, your people lived near here?’

  She nods.

  ‘Not come too close, but we hunt these dunes before rok lands.’

  ‘Is there a way past the towers, one where we won’t be seen?’

  ‘Could be. I’ll talk to others.’

  She pushes up to a crouch and sort of slides back down the slope to where the other scouts and wasters are waiting, a knot of hivers and the last few troopers a little further away.

  ‘Me got idea,’ rumbles Nazrek. ‘We buy warphead.’

  ‘How…?’ I begin.

  ‘Give people to orks. Get warphead.’

  ‘Swap the people?’ says the Colonel, glancing back towards the distant huddle of children and other civilians, a few Sisters Hospitaller, warp-broken and orderlies among them. Deniumenialis is with them too, the armoured form of Sister Superior Aladia close at hand, watching over her charge. The wind is picking up again, casting swirls of dust across the barren landscape.

  ‘I don’t think we should do that, Nazrek,’ I say carefully. ‘We’re not really meant to sell our own people into slavery.’

  The ork looks at me for several seconds, perplexed by the idea. Then it nods and grins.

  ‘Me have good idea.’ The ork taps the side of its helmet with a thick green finger’s broken nail. ‘We pretend sell people?’

  ‘How would that work?’ asks Schaeffer. ‘How do you pretend to sell someone?’

  ‘We take people to gate. Make noise. Orks come and see. Other Emperor people not seen. Go in. Take warphead.’

  I’m about to start picking holes in the plan but stop myself. Thinking about it again, there probably is a good idea there. I share a glance with the Colonel, who’s obviously thinking the same. I scramble a bit of the way back down the slope and cup my hands around my mouth.

  ‘Oahebs! Up here!’

  I can tell which one of the coat-swathed figures is him by the distance the others keep away. He turns and trudges up towards us, face hidden between scarf and a cowl. I back away as he gets closer, and Nazrek grunts uncomfortably.

  ‘Nazrek, can you feel the green still?’

  ‘Green still here,’ the ork continues.

  ‘Oahebs, go and stand next to Nazrek.’

  The trooper shoots me a frown but does as I ask, reluctantly pulling himself up the slope to a few paces away from the alien. Nazrek bares long fangs, lip rippling in anger.

  ‘What about now, Nazrek?’

  ‘No green,’ moans the ork. It prods at Oahebs with the tip of its improvised bayonet, forcing the null further away. ‘Small green.’

  ‘Then you can dull the warphead’s powers,’ I say, giving Oahebs a meaningful look.

  ‘You know that means I’ve got to get close,’ he says, moving even further from Nazrek. ‘Like, punching-and-stabbing-distance close?’

  Grot scampers over to us, chattering in its squeaky voice. Nazrek grunts something back. The smaller alien lifts up the bag of fungi it’s been carrying around since the underhive. I look at Oahebs and we both shake our heads, clueless. Grot delves into the bag, searching for something. It pulls out a handful of vibrant green fungus, which looks a little bit like wrinkled skin.

  Nazrek says something else and Grot rolls its eyes in annoyance. The little creature pretends to eat the green mushroom, then goes cross-eyed and walks dizzily back and forth a little bit before melodramatically spiralling to the floor in a fake swoon.

  ‘This fungus will knock out the warphead?’ I say, pointing to the mushroom as Grot revives itself from its mimicked stupor. ‘If it eats this, we can take it away?’

  Grot gives me a bony thumbs up and stuffs the fungus back into the small sack.

  The return of Orskya ends the small theatrical performance and Grot scurries back to Nazrek to receive a clumsy pat on the head.

  ‘Nobody know way into fort,’ the duneseer tells us, ‘but can get close. There is rock gap. Old, old water cut under dunes. We go up gap, close to base of fort.’

  She points and gives me the magnoculars again. I can kind of see a darker line in the grey, perhaps a few rocky outcrops close to the base of the rok fort.

  ‘Good enough,’ I say and hand her the magnoculars. My eye is drawn back to the whorl of insanity polluting the sky. ‘I’d wait for nightfall but this feels like we need to get it done as soon as possible.’

  ‘I agree,’ says the Colonel. ‘We need to decide who is going to be in the raiding party and who goes with the ork.’

  There’s a decision, typical of life in the Last Chancers. On the one hand I could walk up to the orks with Nazrek, right under their guns, and hope they don’t open fire as soon as they see us. On the other hand, I could try to sneak into the middle of their fort while the other group is hopefully keeping them busy. Either way, there’s no point trying to guess what’s going to happen. Like so many of these missions it’s all about moments of improvisation and directed stupidity.

  Sixteen

  THE ROK FORT

  I’ve been around enough orks these last months to know that their eyesight isn’t as good as ours most of the time, but their sense of smell is as sharp as a tracker hound’s. Fortunately, the crevasse that Orskya has us following approaches the rok fort from downwind. Also, the wind starts kicking up a storm, so dust clouds reduce visibility to about eighty or ninety metres at best. That does mean we’re not likely to be seen, but also that if there are any orks wandering around outside the fort, we’ll be nearly on top of them.

  The wind brings the familiar-but-unwelcome smell of fungus, dung and death. As strong as the underhive, surprising given that this fort was only repopulated in the last few days. Imperial purge teams would have gone through every nook and cranny with flamers and anti-ork toxins to make sure there was nothing of them left, but it smells as bad as the infestations in the underhive.

  The gulley is about five metres deep and a couple of metres wide, following the erratic course of some dried-up river, carved through the underlying rock in an age past. Most of it is compacted ash and grit underfoot, but it’s still drifting and shifting, so we follow the waster guides’ footsteps precisely, walking two by two along the defile.

  It broadens a bit and then is cut off by the impact ripple of the asteroid, joining with the crater wall about thirty metres from the dark surface of the fort. Orskya signals the halt and we hunker down in the lee of the rok walls while one of the duneseer’s people checks the way out into the crater. I shuffle along the edge of the crevasse to come alongside Orskya and together we climb up the side so that we can look out towards the split cavern that serves as the fort’s main gate.

  Natural formation and addition by the orks’ labour has created an upside-down ‘v’ about four metres high and six wide in the base of the fort,
facing south-westerly as far as I can make out. A ramp of ash silt smooths up to the entrance, crossed with tyre tracks, tread marks and footprints in both directions. This curves to the west between two watchtowers at the crater’s edge – about fifty metres from the gate, about a hundred and twenty metres from where we are.

  Through the drifting clouds a couple of buggies leave dust trails as they patrol around the crater edge. I grab Orskya’s arm and nod towards them, but they’re moving in the other direction, away from us at the moment. It won’t be too long before they circle all the way around.

  ‘They go into crater, not jump over crack,’ she says, pointing to the disturbed lines of ash about fifteen metres from where we are, just in front of the scout squatting at the limits of the gully.

  I look up. The sides of the asteroid are craggy, veined with darker grey and black. There are holes where field generators and engines used to sit, ripped out by the Imperial forces that overran the site during the attack against Acheron. It’s a big hunk of rock, but climbable. Getting in there isn’t my big concern. Getting around to find the warphead and getting out again is the real trick. As I hear buggy motors growing louder, the scout slips back and waves us further into the gully.

  We retreat, pushing into the cracks and folds in the black rock, our waster gear coated in the ash blending with the browns and greys and streaks of red around us. Hand on my brow to stop any sunlight glinting from my goggles, I risk the slightest of peeks around an outcrop as the engines start to echo down the defile.

  In clouds of disturbed dune, the two vehicles rumble past. I see broad tyres spraying dust, a driver and gunner on each buggy, but that’s it.

  As soon as they’re gone we move forward again, using the few minutes before the orks come round to the gully once more. When we regain our vantage point, Orskya uses the magnoculars to scan along the road at the rim, looking for the other part of the group, where the Colonel and Nazrek are going to try to draw out as many orks as possible.

  ‘They coming,’ she whispers, handing me the device.

  I find them straight away. A bedraggled huddle of folks in rags escorted by a handful of wasters. Nazrek leads them bold as anything, Grot hopping around at the alien’s heel. A clanging din erupts from both watchtowers and there’s movement in a couple of the caves above the entrance as orks appear from within, the barrels of long cannons sticking out from the defences. Nazrek leads its trading party right up to the tower with much waving of choppa-fist and gesticulations back to the apparent captives. A rumble echoes from within the entrance of the fort, followed by a stream of eager orks pouring down the ramp. Most of them look like hivers – one or two almost as big as Nazrek, but none bigger. Then, escorted by a cadre of fierce-looking warriors in heavier armour, the boss appears, flanked by a procession of smaller gretchin carrying flagpoles, pieces of loot and an assortment of improbable-looking weapons.

  This parade hurries along the road as the two buggies pull in by the watchtowers. A few stragglers – orks and gretchin – follow down the ramp, but everyone’s attention is firmly fixed on the trade delegation. It’s hard to put down the magnoculars and look away, so desperate am I to see what happens next, but now’s the best time to move before anyone gets bored or suspicious.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I say, tossing the magnoculars back to Orskya.

  As a group we scuttle out of the defile. I figure for this bit speed is better than stealth. There’s still lots of dust in the air from the buggies, and anyone keeping watch would have to be looking right at us to see our camouflaged figures moving through the murk.

  The ash has blown in a drift up to the sides of the fort, creating quite a steep, soft slope to negotiate. Orskya and her wasters zigzag up the bank and we follow, coming in a line against the hard stone surface. The rok seems molten in places, whether from entry or battle it’s impossible to know. Whatever the cause, the rivulets and folds of stone provide great handholds to follow and we swarm up the side of the fort, guns slung across our backs, heading for two openings just a few metres up.

  A scout approaches each hole and peers inside. It’s an agonising few seconds waiting for them to signal the all-clear, but we get a thumbs up eventually and follow them inside, one through each hole. Orskya heads to one entrance, I go to the other, but dropping through the squarish opening brings me into the same chamber as her – a carved room about five metres across, squared off in places and obviously made to hold a large machine of some kind.

  An opening, perfectly round, scooped out by some alien field cutter I suppose, takes us into a curving, uneven tunnel just about high enough to stand up in and wide enough to walk three abreast. A scout heads each way, staying just in sight around the turn of the passage.

  ‘Which way?’ asks Orskya.

  It would have been useful to have Nazrek here to guide us with the green, but that isn’t an option. Orks don’t do anything in a uniform way. Everything they make is a custom, one-off job, so no two things are ever exactly the same, unless they’ve got slaves working on a manufactory for them. The same’s true of their settlements, from what I’ve seen in the jungle and underhive. But considering that, there is a certain pattern to what they do, as if there’s an underlying template that’s driving what they make that’s only half-remembered. The exact layout of an ork lair is never the same as any other, but the general disposition of significant places – like where the warlord and its cronies live, where they heap their dung, the ‘mek’ workshops and the like – usually is.

  I need to find one of these landmarks. On the basis that I don’t want to get closer to the gate if possible, I point to the right, away from the main entrance. Leaving behind a couple of keen eyes and good shots to watch our backs, we move as quickly and quietly as possible behind a scouting party of three.

  Through a natural fissure about twice as tall as me, we clamber into another corridor, the walls showing the cut marks of some drill or digger. It’s a lot straighter, though not precise, sloping downwards with openings both natural and unnatural to each side. The ork smell is a lot stronger down the slope and we head towards it, wary of coming across any of the aliens.

  ‘Why is it quiet?’ I mutter, noticing the lack of usual clamour I associate with ork living. No engines, no shouting or laughing, and no banging or crashing.

  ‘Maybe all leave?’ suggests Orskya.

  A trickle of unease moves down my spine a second before Oahebs steps up behind us.

  ‘Let’s hope the warphead hasn’t left,’ he says. ‘If it’s gone to see what’s happening, we’re fragged.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ I grunt back, wishing the null wasn’t part of the plan.

  One of the scouts hisses and points through a wall crack into a chamber ahead. We hurry forward to see what the fuss is.

  The smell takes me back to the prison-capstan in the underhive, and I dread to look inside for a moment. Steeling myself against what I might see, I poke my head around the uneven edge of the cave opening.

  Bodies. Piles of ork bodies. Two dozen at least, plus the same or more of gretchin, dumped atop each other against the far wall of the chamber. All of them look pretty fresh, dark blood pooled on the ground, bodies torn and gouged. A few dune flies buzz around the corpses, but I don’t see any sign of eggs or maggots yet.

  ‘Dead in the last few hours, I reckon,’ I tell the others.

  ‘Warpborn,’ growls Orskya, making a protective sign. ‘They do this.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, easing back out of the room, glancing at Oahebs. ‘I guess the orks have a problem as much as we do. Come on, let’s get this done as quick as we can.’

  Through a series of caverns and burrowed tunnels we head towards the centre of the rok, climbing a little when we can – I figure that the boss usually has its quarters close to the centre of the settlement, its hench-orks nearby, and the fort will be no different. Engines and shield generators wou
ld have filled the outer chambers. Nazrek told me that weirdboys are kept away from the other orks. Orks generate green energy, so the more orks around, the more dangerous for the psyker. And for the other orks, since it seems the warphead will keep gathering up the energy and let it out in potentially lethal zaps without warning.

  ‘Feel anything?’ I ask Oahebs.

  ‘I’m a null,’ he snaps back. ‘I’m the opposite of a detector.’

  ‘Right, yeah,’ I say. ‘I think we need to go higher. I figure the orks want to come and go easily, so most of them will stick pretty close to the entrance. The warphead will be as far from that as possible.’

  Winding ramps and ladders take us up, still without the slightest sign of any inhabitants. It’s eerily empty. I was expecting a fight by now, and as we climb, the worry that our warphead isn’t here grows with each second. There’s only so long that Nazrek and the others can spin out the distraction before something bad happens.

  ‘It’ll be quicker if just a handful of us go,’ I say, waving for the rest of the group to stop. ‘If you hear shooting, come find us, but otherwise, let’s keep in mind that we have to get out quickly too. I need you, Oahebs. Orskya, do you want to come or stay?’

  ‘I stay. You bring Lanna, Kort and Bessda.’

  ‘You too, Fellkas,’ I say, seeing one of my former soldiers among the hooded huddle. ‘You’re handy in a tight spot.’

  ‘Yes, Burned Man,’ he says.

  It’s been a while since I’ve heard the title, and it gives me pause. It’s almost impossible to think that some of these people are the same ones that were following me in that other world, that other life of the underhive. I’m pretty sure that if I’d said this was where we’d all end up, I’d have been dangling by a wire noose or picking up my spilt guts shortly after.