Kantor realised that Cortez was right. He recognised this monster from the sensorium uploads of the Krugerport survivors. This was the beast that had ended Captain Drakken’s life. It was right here, right now, right in front of them, glaring straight at Alessio Cortez.
Urzog Mag Kull!
The beast laughed and clashed its pincers.
It had already killed one Crimson Fists captain. Now it wanted another.
Seven
The Upper Levels, Coronado Tower
Cortez watched Mag Kull take step after stair-shuddering step, its massive feet, encased in iron, almost too big for the broad stairs to support. The stone cracked. For a moment, it even looked like the whole stairway might collapse, but it did not.
Beside him, he heard Daecor.
‘This one is going to be a handful.’
An understatement, thought Cortez.
The beast turned and roared at its smaller kin. They were still firing in the direction of the Space Marines. When they heard the monster roar, they stopped.
To Cortez, the message couldn’t have been clearer. Like the ork in front of the Jadeberry Hill barricade, this one was laying down a personal challenge. Deciding to test his theory, he stepped slowly, carefully, out from behind the cover of the statue’s base.
A few stubber shells whined in his direction, and the massive ork roared again.
No other fire came his way.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Daecor. ‘Have you lost your damned mind, brother?’
Maybe I have, thought Cortez, but it didn’t change the course of his actions.
The ork monstrosity was at the bottom of the stairs now, and it turned to face him.
Cortez spoke to the others. ‘This is between me and the beast. Do you hear? Just get yourselves up to the roof. Time is running out. Get to the damned control centres and do what needs doing.’
The others looked to Kantor for guidance, for a sign of confirmation. They knew what honour demanded, but surely not here, not now.
‘You kill it, brother,’ Kantor told Cortez. ‘Do you understand? You kill it, and you catch up. That’s an order.’
Cortez nodded once, eyes never moving from his new greenskin nemesis.
Kantor addressed the others. ‘On the captain’s signal,’ he said, ‘we break for the stair and the landing above.’
‘My lord…’ protested Sergeant Lician.
‘By my command, brother-sergeant,’ snapped Kantor. ‘The captain wants this, and we need to break through.’
‘Then get ready to move now,’ said Cortez. ‘Because I’m going to rip this one’s head off!’
Whether Urzog Mag Kull understood the actual words or not, the beast recognised the aggression in Cortez’s tone. It spun and splayed its arms, once again giving vent to a blood-chilling battle cry. Great gobs of spit flew from its mouth.
Cortez holstered his bolt pistol and drew his combat knife. He knew the blade wouldn’t pierce the beast’s bright yellow armour, but he had already identified several areas where the blade might slip in to pierce flesh or sever the suit’s control cables.
Having issued its final challenge, the monster began sidestepping to the left, circling Cortez on the open floor at the base of the stair. It gnashed the pincers of its power claw, and Cortez caught a glimmer of light. Not only was the thing crackling with an energy field, it looked like it might have been treated with synthetic diamond, much like the blade of his own knife. If so, those pincers would be able to cut through his ceramite armour like it was wet paper.
This should be interesting, Cortez told himself.
With a battle cry of his own, he charged forward, and the air rang with the clash of blades and armoured fists.
It was not easy to leave his old friend there, locked in combat with a beast twice his size, but Kantor knew he would receive no thanks for interfering. Individual combat was a sacred thing, a thing that had to be respected. It seemed even orks could agree on that. So, while blows rang out again and again in the air of the atrium, and sparks flashed from ork and Adeptus Astartes armour alike, Kantor made the best of the opening his friend’s life-and-death struggle had bought him. He and the others dashed onto the stairs and up to the landing above.
Stubber-fire from the orks on the gallery chased them as they moved, and shells struck ceramite, but they were standard ork shells and didn’t penetrate.
‘Keep moving,’ Kantor snapped as Squads Lician and Segala pounded up the marble steps behind him. Ferragamos Daecor ran at Kantor’s side, the two Techmarines just behind him. Without his squadmates, all of which lay dead, he no longer held a command. Instead, he had taken Cortez’s place as the Chapter Master’s second, at least while Cortez was otherwise engaged.
Together, Kantor, Daecor, Anais, Ruzco, and the two five-man squads from Second Company reached the top of the landing and immediately sprinted to the right. At the end of the hall, there was a large archway and, beyond it, the slope of a ramp that would take them up to the floor above. A grunting mob of ork footsoldiers gave chase, surging out from cover and up the stairs behind the Adeptus Astartes. Squad Segala stopped, each battle-brother dropping to one knee in a tight line, and returned fire, putting a number of well-placed rounds into the skulls of the fastest pursuers. Sergeant Segala barked out an order and the squad was up again, running to catch up with Kantor and the others.
Kantor had reached the ramp now, and was racing up it towards a rectangle of open sky. Seconds later, he and the others emerged into the open air, and found themselves standing on the vast Coronado Plate.
It was a flat disk, six hundred and forty metres in diameter, capable of berthing ships up to five hundred and fifty metres across. Like all of the landing plates at the New Rynn space port, it employed anti-gravitic suspension systems related to the grav-plates used on most space-faring vessels. Such powerful suspension allowed the plate to accept burdens of millions of tonnes without compromising the integrity of the structure below. And there was a lot of structure below. The Coronado Plate was three hundred metres tall and from its edge, the view of the surrounding lands was astounding. Kantor didn’t have time to appreciate the view now, though. As he and his Adeptus Astartes emerged onto the plate, there were shouts and grunts from a dozen alien throats.
Kantor spun in the direction of the sound. To his left, in a rough line that circled around all the way behind him, he saw a score of bright red ork fighter-bombers. There were ork and gretchin ground-crews fitting fresh munitions to their under-wing pylons. In front of the ugly, blunt-nosed craft, he saw a knot of big greenskins orks in leather caps and coats, flight goggles dangling around their necks. The moment he locked eyes with them, they started forward, drawing large-bore pistols from holsters at their sides.
‘Kill them!’ Kantor shouted, and the air filled with the bark of bolters.
Lodric Lician spotted a trolley stacked high with bombs and missiles, and immediately ordered Brother Ramos to bring his plasma cannon to bear.
Kantor heard the roar of blazing plasma just before he blinked in the blinding flash of light. The ork munitions exploded with such force that they sent two of the fighter-bombers plummeting over the edge of the plate. Others burst into flames and, shortly after that, their exploding fuel tanks ripped them apart, showering the Space Marines with burning junk.
The ork pilots which had not yet been killed by Squad Segala turned to look at their beloved machines reduced to wrecks. Great rolls of black smoke swept across the plate. Orange fires danced and crackled. The gretchin scattered, desperately looking for any kind of cover at all, but there was nothing they could reach before the Space Marines cut them down. Daecor and the men of Squad Segala picked off the last of the ork pilots as they charged straight at the Adeptus Astartes with their pistols blazing.
The fight lasted only seconds.
‘Clear, lord,’ said Daecor.
Kantor scanned the landing plate. ‘Reload and follow me.’
He directed their attent
ion to a tight cluster of three slim, black towers linked to the Coronado Plate by a covered bridge.
‘Both our objectives are in there,’ he told them.
Lights could be seen in the tower windows, shining out from rooms on a hundred floors that may or may not have been occupied by the greenskins. Kantor knew exactly where he and his men had to go. He hoped resistance would be minimal. Despite the extra magazines and charge-packs he and his assault force had brought with them, he knew their ammunition must be starting to run low. He checked a readout on his visor and saw that Dorn’s Arrow still had exactly four hundred and eighteen rounds left to fire before the belt feeds ran dry. After that, he would be down to his sword and power fist. Close-quarters would be the only option, and the orks were far more formidable at that range.
As he led his Fists towards the bridge that linked the Coronado Plate to the central towers, he tried not to worry about Cortez. The Fourth Company Captain hadn’t joined them yet, but it had barely been two minutes. Kantor glanced back to check the access ramp. No. There was no sign of him. Either he was still locked in combat, or he had shrugged off the legend of his immortality at last.
By the Holy Throne, thought Kantor, do not let it be the latter.
Short of returning to the atrium and interfering in the fight, there was nothing he could do for his old friend. He needed the spaceport. He needed the Imperial fleet.
The air traffic control tower, he told himself. The defence grid. If you die, Alessio, I promise you, it will not be in vain.
As Kantor ran for the covered bridge at the edge of the landing plate, he looked up at the triple towers. The outer stonework of each was studded with gargoyles which held pulsating red lights, the kind of lights that all tall buildings employed to warn incoming air traffic of their presence. They pulsed in sequence, creating a kind of wave effect that travelled to the summit, then started from the bottom again.
Kantor’s eyes followed the waves for a moment as he ran, and he found himself looking up at a sky filled with stars. Night had fallen fast, as it always did so near the equator. Here, three hundred metres above ground level, the air was clearer, less dominated by the haze of ork pollution and clouds of flies attracted by their open cesspits. The stars were sharp and bright.
And some of them were moving.
Kantor stopped and held out a hand.
‘Wait,’ he told the others. ‘Look up.’
As they looked, some of the moving stars flashed brightly and disappeared. Others shot out hair-thin beams of white and blue light. Some seemed to travel in formation, others in random patterns.
‘I hope we’re winning,’ said Sergeant Daecor.
Kantor hoped so, too.
He began to lead them in a run again, and soon they reached the covered bridge.
Access to the central towers had to be fought for. No sooner had Kantor and his men reached its near edge than a stream of orks began pouring out of the doors on its far side. The bridge was narrow, only eight metres across. It forced the orks to bunch together, a fact that favoured the employment of Squad Lician’s heavy weapons once again. Brother Morai stepped forward onto the bridge, heavy bolter in hand, and began cutting the orks down six at a time with tight scything sprays of fire. Anything he missed was picked off by the brothers of Squad Segala, some of whom soon reported that they were down to their last full magazine.
Even as Morai continued to clear the way ahead, Kantor heard bestial shouts from behind him. The ork footsoldiers from the atrium began pouring up onto the surface of the landing plate via the access ramp he and his men had used. They charged, and the Crimson Fists found themselves assaulted from two sides with no cover to speak of.
For all the orks’ lack of accuracy, they managed to pepper the Adeptus Astartes armour with fat metal slugs simply by virtue of firing so many. Kantor felt his armour struck again and again, each impact sending brief sparks up around him. His armour had once been beautiful, etched, engraved and chased with gems and gold detailing like no other. Now, it was spattered with alien gore, and chipped and blackened in places by the impact of their bullets.
‘Daecor,’ shouted the Chapter Master. ‘You and I will cover the rear.’
Daecor spun and opened fire with his bolter, sending the lead ork stumbling to the ground, headless, a great red river spilling out from its neck. Kantor brought Dorn’s Arrow level with his shoulder and willed the weapon to fire, controlling it by neural command. The command flashed down through his nervous system, through the sockets in his flesh, along the cables that made his body and armour one. Muzzle fire leapt out from the relic’s twin barrels and a stream of brass casings began to pour to the ground. Kantor watched the ammunition counter on his visor fall, cursing as it reached three hundred and fifty rounds, then three hundred. Orks crumpled before him. Every time they rushed upwards from the access ramp, he angled his left fist towards them, and Dorn’s Arrow, mounted on the back of it, cut them into lifeless, blood-sodden chunks.
More were still coming when he heard Sergeant Segala on the link.
‘The bridge is clear, for now.’
‘Segala,’ said Kantor. ‘Get your men across and secure the first room on the other side. Lician, have Brother Morai and Brother Ramos take position on either side of the bridge and cover Segala’s men. Send Brothers Oro and Padilla to me. Do it now. Move.’
‘As you command, lord,’ said Lician. ‘You heard him, brothers. Get moving!’
Brothers Morai and Ramos moved to the left and right respectively, and zeroed their heavy bolter and plasma cannon on the doors at the far end of the bridge. Ork bodies littered the smooth metal surface there. Slicks of blood reflected the light of the room beyond, its interior just visible through tinted armaplas windows.
Brothers Oro and Padilla, both wielding heavy multi-meltas, jogged up to Kantor’s side. Oro, the taller and older of the two, said, ‘You wish us to cover the rear, my lord?’
The orks, never particularly quick to learn, had finally grown cautious in their pursuit of the Crimson Fists. Rather than racing headlong from the ramp with guns blazing, they emerged slowly and carefully, poking their heads up first to find the opening surrounded by the fallen bodies of their xenos kin. Keeping to cover now, they fired their stubbers in short bursts before ducking back down. A triple-burst of shells rattled off Kantor’s right pauldron as he addressed Oro and Padilla.
‘You will have to hold the plate alone, brothers,’ he said, ‘but the ramp is a bottleneck, a perfect chokepoint, well-suited to your weapons. How much power do your meltas have left?’
‘I have half a charge left on this module, my lord, and two spare,’ said Padilla.
‘And you?’ the Chapter Master said to Oro.
At his side, Sergeant Daecor’s boltgun barked. Another ork slumped dead at the top of the ramp.
‘Almost a full charge left on this one,’ said Oro, patting the power module currently fixed in place under the weapon’s thick metal frame. ‘I have no spares though.’
Kantor turned to Padilla and said, ‘Then you know what to do.’
Padilla nodded, unclipped one of the heavy modules from his belt, and handed it to Oro, who took it with a grunt of thanks.
‘With respect, my lord,’ said Oro, turning to face the Chapter Master again. ‘I can cover the ramp well enough alone. Take Brother Padilla with you.’ He thrust his chin in the direction of the winking towers on the other side of the bridge. ‘I have a feeling you will need all the firepower you can muster in there.’
Kantor hoped not, but, in fact, he had the same feeling. ‘Very well, but if they manage to break out of there, you fall back and rejoin us.’
Daecor’s bolter barked again. ‘With respect, my lord,’ said the sergeant, ‘the more time we spend here, the more time the orks in the tower have to prepare a defence. One multi-melta should indeed be enough.’
Kantor had already left Cortez to fight alone, and did not relish the idea of another of his brothers being left to do so n
ow. There were so few left as it was. But both Oro and Daecor were right. He couldn’t spare two bodies here. Oro would hold the plate.
‘Padilla,’ he said, ‘you are with us. Brother Oro, may Dorn watch over you. If Captain Cortez survives his battle with the beast below, do not cook him by mistake on his way up.’
Kantor had wanted to say when, not if, but, as the minutes went by, he could not deny his growing doubts. The only good sign so far was that the monstrous warboss, Mag Kull, had not yet emerged from the top of the ramp.
On the link, they heard the voice of Sergeant Segala. ‘We have secured the lobby on the other side of the bridge. Access points are covered. Awaiting your orders, lord.’
Kantor saluted Brother Oro, fist to breastplate, received a sharp salute in return, and turned to lead Daecor and Padilla towards the bridge. ‘Hold the room, sergeant,’ he told Segala. ‘Lician, start moving your men across now.’
‘My lord,’ said Lician.
Kantor half-turned and looked back at Oro. A group of orks waving large black cleavers tried to rush him from below. At the top of the ramp, Oro met them calmly, setting his feet shoulder-width apart and levelling the multi-melta at them. There was a crack and whoosh of ionised air as the weapon cooked the aliens’ bodies, turning everything black, bone and muscle alike. The orks barely had time to scream. Their armour and weapons dropped to the ground, losing their shape, forming little heaps of hot slag. The stench of cooked flesh became strong on the air, then gusting winds tugged it away.
Kantor turned and kept moving. He had faith in all of his Adeptus Astartes. The training programmes and psycho-conditioning they had endured were second to none. Oro would hold the plate. He would hold it until Alessio emerged, bloody perhaps, but alive. He had to believe that. As his feet took him across the titanium-alloy plates of the bridge, he kept telling himself that Alessio would survive.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 97