It hit the ground north of Cortez’s position.
The ork fighter peeled off. In the heat of battle, its pilot failed to notice the line of Space Marines on the ground below, or so Kantor hoped.
‘Pedro,’ said Cortez over the comm-link. He didn’t need to say anymore.
‘Go, Alessio,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘The rest of us will follow.’
The land was strewn with shining pieces of metal. The Lightning had cut a great furrow in the ground and had come to rest with its nose half-buried.
Cortez crouched by the body of the pilot and read the name tag under the winged skull patch on his chest.
‘Keanos,’ he said. ‘That’s your name? I am Captain Cortez of the Crimson Fists. If you can hear me, Keanos, speak your first name.’
The wounded man stirred. His flight-suit was soaked with blood. The smell of it was thick on the air, mixing with the acrid stink of burnt metal. ‘Galen,’ he said at last. ‘My name is… Galen… K-Keanos.’
Cortez lifted a canteen to the man’s lips. ‘Can you drink, Galen Keanos? It is water.’
Keanos managed a sip, but a second started him coughing, and the coughing was agony to him, so Cortez removed the canteen, stoppered it, and stowed it on his belt.
Heavy footsteps crunched the dirt and rock behind him, and he knew instinctively that the Chapter Master was there. Without turning, Cortez said, ‘He is in a bad way, Pedro. He will not last long. Let me give him final mercy.’
Kantor lowered into a crouch beside the Rynnite pilot and gestured for Cortez to move back a little. ‘We must have information first.’
‘His name is Galen Keanos,’ said Cortez.
‘Galen,’ said the Chapter Master with a nod. Then he turned his eyes to the dying man and said, ‘Galen, can you hear me?’
Keanos looked up in the direction of the voice, but his eyes were unfocussed.
‘I am Pedro Kantor, Lord Hellblade, Chapter Master of the Crimson Fists.’
‘My… my lord,’ gasped Keanos. He struggled, as if trying to rise.
‘No, Galen,’ said Kantor, placing his right hand gently on Keanos’s shoulder. ‘Lie back. You must not move. Your pain will end soon, but if you honour me, and if you honour the Emperor, you must bear it a little longer. We need information.’
‘I will try to… answer, lord.’
‘Did you fly from Scar Lake?’
‘Yes. My… my squadron was sent to investigate a light in the mountains. We thought it was over Arx Tyrannus, but long-range comms were down. The orks hit our… our vox-masts in the first wave. We needed help, but there was no way to… My wife and child… were evacuated south. Oric. My Oric.’
‘He’s fading,’ said Cortez.
‘There will be a medical pack in the cockpit, Alessio. Get it quickly.’
Cortez shook his head. ‘I checked after I pulled him out. It was shredded. The whole cockpit was shot to pieces.’
‘Galen,’ said Kantor, ‘is Scar Lake still operational? Is it still resisting?’
Keanos coughed, and blood flecked the corners of his mouth. ‘The… orks attacked the perimeter but… we… we turned them back twice. Then General Mazius was… killed.’
‘What about the cities? What word from the capital? From Caltara, or Sagarro?’
They waited for Keanos’s answer, but the man’s face was slack now. His eyes no longer blinked.
‘He is gone,’ said Cortez. ‘Scar Lake must have fallen by now.’
‘Almost certainly,’ said Kantor, still looking down at the dead man. ‘Nothing Snagrod has done so far seems to be random. It’s almost… systematic.’
‘We can’t know that yet,’ protested Cortez.
Kantor locked eyes with him. ‘No, Alessio? The deep-space relay station strikes, the concentrated assaults on our surface communications arrays, the immediate targeting of military installations. This one isn’t waging war like an ork. He is fighting like the Imperium. This Snagrod has learned from us.’
Cortez narrowed his eyes, unsure whether to believe that or not. Long experience had taught him that what the orks boasted in strength, they more than lacked in brains. Their low intelligence was what really kept them in check, not the forces arrayed against them. Smart orks – the kind of smart that Kantor was suggesting – were a foe of a different order altogether, a foe that perhaps no one could hope to stop.
‘We must push on,’ said the Chapter Master. ‘That ork pilot missed us the first time, but it might not miss us on another pass. There will be a scavenger party on its way to salvage scrap from the kill.’ Anticipating his friend’s next words, he added, ‘No, Alessio. We will not wait to ambush them.’
The Chapter Master turned and began to walk away, calling for the battle-brothers guarding the perimeter of the downed Lightning to fall in behind him. He was five metres from Cortez when he half-turned and said over his shoulder, ‘You may rig the wreckage with some of our melta charges, brother. I’m sure the orks will appreciate the surprise.’
That, at least, made Cortez grin. Minutes later, it was done. He and his squad hurried to rejoin the rest of the group, taking their place now as rearguard.
They marched hard. The land underfoot changed, becoming greener by degrees until, hours later, they found themselves crossing lush grassy plains. They had descended thousands of metres since leaving the ruin of their home. So much closer to sea level, the land seemed to be enjoying a different season altogether from the wintry heights of the mountains. The air was warmer, its pressure and humidity higher.
As the sibling suns began to set in the west, casting everything in hues of red and gold, there came a great boom that echoed off the mountains and out over the plains.
Looking back the way he had come, Cortez squinted, and made out a column of smoke rising from the final resting place of Galen Keanos.
He resumed his march, wondering how many stinking xenos he had just killed and swearing to himself that he was just getting started.
Eight
Zona 6 Industria, New Rynn City
Brother Jerian was death incarnate, and there was little the orks could do against the fury of his weapons. Not at first. The roving ork units that had attempted to flank the Crimson Fists position made a third attempt just minutes after Jerian had shown up behind the barricade, and they soon found themselves faced with an enemy utterly invulnerable to their stubbers and bladed weapons. Jerian did not need cover. He was cover. He stomped out in full view of the roaring alien filth and began cycling his assault cannon.
When he fired, the torrent of shells was so intense, so destructive, that it cut the orks in half. Even the greenskins at the very back of the charging mass could not avoid the hail of sharp-nosed slugs as they punched through body after body until the street was awash with blood and steaming viscera.
Jerian let out a battle cry that resonated over the whole south-eastern quarter, audible even above the distant boom of Basilisk self-propelled guns and Earthshaker batteries. Few alien battle cries could have matched it.
As the sound faded, Alvez suspected some of the orks nearby would be turning to flee. The larger greenskins were not typically fearful of anything, but they were highly superstitious, wary of the unknown, and they were not above breaking from a fight in the face of obvious defeat. It was the clearest sign of intelligence they typically showed.
‘To me!’ Jerian roared as he thundered down the street in the direction of the manufactorum and the crashed ork lander. Strong-smelling smoke wafted from the barrels of his assault cannon. The massive hydraulic pistons that powered his legs hissed and clanked as he moved, and oily black smoke poured from two large exhaust stacks on his broad metal back.
‘Squads Rectris and Gualan,’ said Alvez over the comm-link, ‘move up behind Brother Jerian. Cover his blind spots. Squads Grimm and Ulias flank left. Squads Anto and Haleos, you have the right flank. Move!’
Alvez marched with Maurillo Rectris and his squad. Greenskins rushed out from corners to i
ntercept them, but they were cut down the moment they showed their ugly flat faces. Within minutes, Jerian had led the others close to the manufactorum, and a hail of stubber and pistol-fire began pouring out of shattered black windows high in the building’s side wall.
The Crimson Fists did not hesitate. They raised their bolters, took aim, and loosed a deadly torrent of rounds at the windows. Jerian added his own fire, the raw destructive power of it quickly making the well-aimed bursts of his battle-brothers superfluous. The manufactorum’s upper walls were being ripped apart. A rain of brass shell casings fell around his sturdy metal feet.
The orks pulled back from the windows rather than face such a lethal fusillade.
‘Jerian,’ called Alvez, but the Dreadnought either didn’t hear him, or didn’t wish to.
‘Brother Jerian,’ Alvez barked again, this time with more force. ‘Cease fire, now. Move up. Secure the north wall. We will blow our way in.’
Jerian stopped firing, and his assault cannon cycled down with a whine that sounded almost disappointed. He lurched forward as ordered. Squads Rectris and Gualan moved up quickly to take position along the north wall of the building. On the other side, the south side, the spiked hull of the ork transport still lay half-buried in tumbled brick, pouring trails of thick black smoke into the air.
Alvez opened a link to Huron Grimm. ‘Are you in position, sergeant?’
‘We are, my lord,’ replied Grimm. ‘We encountered some resistance on the south access, but we have cover with a clear view of the downed ship. Significant enemy activity to the north-west and west of us.’
‘Hold for further orders,’ Alvez commanded. Then, he opened a link to Sergeant Anto. ‘Report your status, brother.’
‘Both squads in position, my lord, awaiting your command to attack. There is no breach here, but there are four large loading bays through which we are observing the orks. They are Deathskulls.’
Alvez thought about this. The Deathskull clan were notorious looters and took their obsession with scavenging machines to murderous levels. ‘If they are Deathskulls,’ he told Anto, ‘all the better. Their attentions will be split between us and the machines inside. As soon as Rectris and Gualan breach the north wall, I want all flanking squads to give suppressing fire. Confirm.’
‘Affirmative, lord. We await the signal.’
Closing the comm-link, Alvez turned to Maurillo Rectris, who stood on his left, backpack pressed tight to the manufactorum’s brick wall. ‘Have your men plant the charges, sergeant. Twenty seconds should be enough.’
‘My lord,’ said Rectris. He stepped out from the wall, called two members of his squad to him, and began issuing orders of his own.
Just a few metres away from Alvez, Brother Jerian growled. ‘You should let me rip the wall open, captain.’ He flexed his power fist restlessly.
‘I need a good clean breach, brother,’ said Alvez. ‘It must be wide and instantaneous. I’m sure you could rip this entire place apart single-handed, given time, but I would prefer you focused on smashing orks, not walls. Just be ready to go in. You will be the first.’
Jerian stopped flexing his fist. ‘In that, at least, you show great wisdom.’
Alvez did not miss the barb in the comment. He felt a flash of anger, just briefly, but it soon subsided. The Chapter’s Old Ones, as the Dreadnoughts were collectively known, were widely understood to be a gruff, cantankerous lot. One did not try to change a personality forged in battle over six hundred years. Not unless one enjoyed courting failure. Besides, Jerian and his machine-entombed fellows had, by their long history of heroic endeavour, earned a level of tolerance Alvez accorded few others.
There was a hiss of static on the comm-link, followed by the voice of Sergeant Salvador Ulias. ‘Lord captain,’ he said. ‘We have orks moving around the perimeter of the building. They are heading your way. Twenty of them with heavy-stubbers and blades. They’ll be on you soon. Permission to engage?’
‘Rectris?’ said Alvez.
‘Ten seconds. Setting the last of the charges now.’
Judging by the report from Ulias, ten seconds was too long. Alvez raised his storm bolter.
‘All squads, fire at will!’
‘For Dorn and the Emperor,’ replied Anto over the comm.
The sharp crack and rattle of gunfire erupted on the other three sides of the structure, immediately answered from inside by the deep drumbeat of ork heavy weaponry.
‘Charges set,’ Rectris announced. ‘Back away!’
Squads Rectris and Gualan pressed themselves flat against the wall. Brother Jerian merely took two steps backwards and waited for the blast. Watching him, Alvez noted how fearless he was. Any normal Space Marine would have risked serious injury, perhaps even death, standing so close to so much high explosive. Not so Jerian.
There was a deep, ear-splitting bang and a gush of dust and stone. Jerian was obscured from Alvez’s vision, but the captain could hear the rain of stone chips bouncing off the Dreadnought’s armour plate.
‘Forward,’ Jerian boomed. ‘We are their death!’
The dust cloud swirled and Alvez knew that Jerian had charged inside. He heard the distinctive whine of an assault cannon as it strafed the interior.
‘Kill them all,’ Alvez roared over the comm-link before he, too, charged through the gaping wound in the brick surface. His battle-brothers followed him in without hesitation.
Inside the manufactorum, the orks retaliated at once, pouring fire down on the Space Marines from raised gantries of metal mesh, or from behind the conveyors of the huge automated assembly lines. Gretchin skittered from shadow to shadow, terrified for their lives, turning to fire their large-bore pistols only when they found the safety of good cover. Their oversized kin fought without any such fear. Scores of them charged madly forward, their chainaxes whirring, only to be blown apart by mass-reactive explosive rounds from the boltguns of the Crimson Fists.
Brother Jerian ran out of ammunition soon after entering, but it did not slow him. He stormed forward, smashing idle machinery aside in his eagerness to spill the blood of the Chapter’s foes. Then he was right in among them, an awesome sight to behold. With every whistling arc of his mighty metal fist, he smashed ork bodies aside. Moving deeper into the mass of aliens that flowed out of the shadows to surround him, his heavy feet pulped and crunched the bodies of the fallen.
Alvez heard the Dreadnought’s mechanical laughter, and the sound was as far from human as it could possibly be.
Three orks dropped from an upper walkway right in front of Alvez, no more than three metres from him, close enough to lash out at once. But Alvez was fast, even in Terminator armour. His finger squeezed the trigger of his ancient gun, and the largest of the three orks reeled backwards, struck directly in the forehead before it could take its opening swing. The bolt detonated, blowing brain and skull outwards in all directions, and the creature collapsed to the floor as limp as a sack of meat.
The others did not wait to meet the same fate. The closest of the two lunged with a large, chipped blade, more cleaver than sword or knife. The blow struck Alvez’s storm bolter aside, but did not knock it from his grip. The creature raised its other weapon, a spiked club of solid iron, and brought it down with blinding speed, but the blow bounced from Alvez’s ceramite-plated shoulder with a clang.
‘Die,’ spat the captain. The power sword in his left hand was a glowing blur. It crackled and hummed as it slid through the beast’s belly, cutting the ork in two.
Each half slapped wetly to the floor as Alvez turned to face the third of his attackers. But there was no third. Sergeant Gualan had gunned the creature down, firing into its back at point-blank range. Its chest cavity lay open to the air, blown out by a triple burst of explosive bolt rounds. Gualan, like the rest of his squad, was already moving on to other prey.
‘Huron,’ said Alvez over the link, ‘report status.’
‘Thirty-eight targets confirmed dead on the south side, my lord,’ said Grimm. ‘The orks
taking refuge in the crashed ship are severely depleted. Suggest squads Grimm and Ulias move in and finish the job.’
Alvez could hear bolter fire over the link as the sergeant spoke, but it sounded sporadic, as if foes were getting harder to come by.
‘Do it,’ Alvez ordered. Then, switching channels, he said, ‘Faradis, status.’
Sergeant Anto’s report was likewise given against a background of lessening gunfire. He, too, reported a significant reduction in live targets in his sector and, like Grimm, requested permission to move in. It came as no surprise. What true Crimson Fist could stand to hold back when there were orks in close proximity? There would be little sport for either Grimm or Anto. The fight inside the manufactorum was well in hand, due in no small part to the unstoppable fury of Brother Jerian.
‘Request denied, Faradis,’ said Alvez, making a quick assessment. ‘I need you and Haleos to hold the outer perimeter. There may yet be ork cells in this district. Squads Grimm and Ulias are purging the ork wreck. Rectris and Gualan have the facility under control. This is over. I am coming outside.’
And that was what he did. He handed command of the mop-up operation to Maurillo Rectris, then emerged back into the last of the fading daylight.
In the sky above, ork ships were still painting dirty black trails across the darkening blue. Pillars of dense smoke rose hundreds of metres into the air. He could see them towering above the city walls like vast ghosts slowly clawing their way towards the heavens. He did not know if they represented dead orks or dead men, but death, certainly.
He caught sight of Sergeant Anto and his squad sweeping a row of ore silos to the east and began striding towards him. He was about to hail him over the comm-link when the ground under his feet trembled. He heard the sound of a great explosion out beyond the districts defensive walls. Anto looked up at the same time. An insistent voice sounded in his ear, overriding all other channels on the emergency band. ‘This is Squad Thanator to Captain Alvez,’ said the voice. ‘I repeat, this is Squad Thanator to Captain Alvez. Please respond.’
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 83