Legends of the dark ange.., p.113
Legends Of The Dark Angels, page 113
Tarrick broke formation and got closer to Regan. He lifted his rebreather slightly to keep his voice at the barest minimum. ‘Way I see it, we should just sit tight here and then head back to the trench in a couple of hours. We’ll just tell the colonel that’s there’s lots of the enemy and they’re all big ones too. What’s he going to do? Stroll out here himself to double-check?’
Regan pulled his own rebreather to one side to reply.
‘Too risky. The enemy have probably got patrols out here too and if we encounter one, I’d rather we were on our feet and ready to react.’
Tarrick nodded and resumed his position in their formation without any protest. Though the three men were all of the same rank and inexperienced soldiers, Regan had emerged as their de facto leader during their time in the trenches. Murtock and Tarrick had grown to trust him implicitly and it had kept them both alive so far. If they were going to survive a pointless patrol in no-man’s-land then following Regan was the best way to achieve it.
Hours passed with nothing more than the occasional corpse or discarded weapon to break the monotonous terrain when, just as they were beginning to doubt the existence of an enemy trench, the mist began to thin out and the landscape took on a different aspect. Carefully striding over a length of razor wire, Regan signalled for them to hit the ground and, for the next few minutes, progress was painfully slow as they practically swam through the mud. With every metre they advanced, the mist became thinner and Regan was convinced that it was the enemy themselves who were controlling the weather. What other explanation was there for the poisonous fog hanging only over Amadis and the trenches dug to defend it?
The silence also gave way the nearer they encroached on the enemy position and the three men grew more concerned about being spotted than being heard. Ordering them to stop, Regan pulled out a set of field magnoculars. While the Imperial trenches were crowded, those of the arch-enemy looked more like a cattle container, such was the volume of bodies crammed into such a tight space. Regan now realised why they were able to send so many attack waves against the defenders’ positions – sheer weight of numbers meant they were content to gradually whittle down the Imperial forces until taking Amadis became a formality.
Cultists and mutants unloaded crates from armoured vehicles and lowered them down to waiting arms. Occasionally, a bigger, better armoured soldier would shout orders and several of the subordinates would scurry off and unload a freshly arrived vehicle or lug ammo containers further along the trench. To Regan, it looked like they were preparing for an advance, one bigger than the Imperial forces had experienced thus far.
When Regan turned the magnoculars on the once-green plains that lay beyond the vast brown gash that had been gouged from the earth, what he saw there made him realise that when the enemy’s next advance came, it would probably be for the final time.
‘Artillery pieces?’ Colonel Telomian asked.
‘Yes, sir. About two dozen,’ Regan replied. ‘Some of them looked primitive – catapults, ballistae, that sort of thing – but a lot of it was modern stuff.’
‘And they were still in the process of moving them into position?’
‘The big guns? Yes.’
The command bunker of Forward Nineteen, normally a hive of activity, grew quiet and the eyes of every adjutant and Guardsman in the cramped earthen shelter were on the conversation going on between the colonel and the three bedraggled men who had just hauled themselves back across no-man’s-land. So far the war had been one of attrition, but the introduction of artillery on the side of the arch-enemy rendered the Imperial forces impotent. No longer would the Chaos forces need to rely on manpower alone and no matter how many Guardsmen manned the thousands of kilometres of trench, there wasn’t much they could do against artillery shells flying overhead and reducing Amadis to scrap.
‘And how long do you estimate before those guns will be operational, trooper?’ Telomian asked, studying a tactical map on the bunker wall.
‘A couple of hours, tops.’
A murmur of concern sounded from those working in the command bunker.
‘Of course, the low-tech stuff is already up and running, if they wanted to–’ Tarrick added.
‘A thief and an expert tactician now, trooper?’ the colonel said, turning away from the map. ‘I am well aware of the capabilities of their archaic weaponry, but quite frankly I’m more concerned about those siege engines that are about to start pounding the city. Linkmel, get me a line to Amadis Command.’
Linkmel removed the vox-unit from his back and, setting it upon a table strewn with battle maps and order sheets, began manipulating the dials in an attempt to get a clear signal.
‘He has that look in his eye again. What do you think he’s going to do?’ Murtock whispered to Regan.
‘What can he do?’ Regan replied. ‘The city is surrounded by the enemy so an evacuation or retreat is out of the question. Amadis command won’t have time to press-gang any more bodies to reinforce and besides, what good would it do if they did? A bigger audience for the pyrotechnics display?’
’You’ve been spending too much time around Tarrick. You sound just as callous as he does.’
Their tattooed comrade bristled at this and narrowed his eyes at the chubby Guardsman. Murtock’s usual shock of auburn hair was camouflaged under a layer of rapidly drying mud and, like the other two men, he was covered in wounds picked up on their rapid dash back across the kilometres of mire. Patches of crimson blood were all that broke the monotony of brown their uniforms had become.
‘I have a line, sir. It’s a weak one though and I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to maintain it,’ said Linkmel, holding up the receiver.
The colonel grabbed the handset from the vox-trooper and through static cracks and pops he was able to deliver his warning. After several tense moments of Linkmel twiddling dials a faint reply carried across the airwaves.
’…aintain your position. …inforcement… on way. Hold… line. Repeat. …the line.’
‘Please repeat, Amadis Command. What kind of reinforcements? How long before they get here?’ The colonel was practically shouting, as if raising his voice would somehow make the signal clearer.
‘…artes …nings …hold–’
The garbled signal cut off abruptly and this time Linkmel couldn’t reinstate it. After several tense minutes he abandoned trying to raise Amadis command and shook his head in the colonel’s direction. The lithe officer simply ran a hand through his beard and stared off into the distance at nothing in particular, deep in contemplation. Then, his reverie suddenly broken as if struck between the eyes by an invisible pellet, he addressed the anticipative soldiers in the bunker.
‘It seems obvious to me, men, that there is only one course of action open to us now. We’re going over the top.’
‘I don’t like this, Tar. It’s been hours. Surely we should have had some kind of signal by now?’ said Murtock.
‘They haven’t stepped out to the commerica district to pick up pastries and a hot canteen of recaff,’ Tarrick replied. ‘They’re storming an enemy position, for Throne’s sake. I’m pretty sure we’ll know if they’ve taken it but I’m even more certain that if they haven’t, the enemy will let us know soon enough.’
Several dozen men stood on the wall of the trench gazing out across no-man’s-land, desperately hoping to see a flare or signal fire informing them of victory. As yet, the only lights in the sky they’d seen were the occasional flashes of lightning that accompanied the unnatural storm that had swept in shortly after colonel Telomian had led the bulk of the Irregulars in the direction of the enemy trenches. The sky glowed purple and green in short, percussive bursts before the blanket of darkness descended again and a peal of thunder rang out. Shivering under their standard-issue ponchos, the skeleton force of wounded and sick that the colonel had deigned to leave behind took little comfort that the penetrating downpour had finally washed away the ground layer of mist that had clung to no-man’s-land since the Chaos invasion began.
‘Do you see anything?’ Tarrick had to yell to be heard over the rain and thunder. Regan, standing in an elevated redoubt ten metres further along than the ganger, was peering out across the mired expanse through his magnoculars.
‘Nothing yet,’ Regan answered.
The sky flashed again with an aberrant purple light and for the briefest instant Regan thought he could see something. He pointed the magnoculars skywards desperately trying to track the shape in the pitch-black night. As if sensing his frustration, the sky lit up again for the scantest time and Regan had a horrifying revelation as to what was heading towards the Imperial trenches.
‘Down! Down! Incoming!’ Regan managed to throw himself to the floor of the trench just in time, as did most of the other Irregulars. One man wasn’t so lucky and, unable to move at any great speed due to an injured leg, took the full force of colonel Telomian’s lifeless corpse that had been fired by catapult from the enemy’s position. Body parts and viscera cascaded down the trench and ponchos already wet with rainwater became slick with blood.
More corpses followed the colonel’s and those still able to pressed themselves against the front wall as body after body – both Imperial Guardsmen and enemy troops – landed in the trench.
‘Is this signal clear enough for you?’ Tarrick sneered at Murtock, who was clinging to the wall of the trench like it was his wet nurse.
With every impact, human shrapnel skittled along the dugout until the floor resembled that of an abattoir, such was the volume of blood and body parts. Regan let out a scream as a section of tibia speared him in the back of the calf and he turned to the man next to him for aid. Puzzled when he didn’t receive a response, he spun the man around only to realise that the other part of the tibia had embedded itself in the unfortunate Irregular’s chest, killing him instantly.
For what seemed like an eternity, the unholy deluge of corpses rained down on the last few surviving Irregulars huddled together in their trench. Some of the men were weeping and wailing, this latest horror too much to bear on top of the many they’d already endured over the preceding months. Then, just when it seemed there would be no end to it, the barrage slowed before coming to a halt altogether as the Chaos forces ran out of their grisly ammo.
Many still shaking and crying, the Guardsmen extracted themselves from the shelter of the trench walls and looked around dumbfounded. Whichever way they looked, men they once called friends and comrades lay in ruin, one final act of desecration inflicted upon them by an enemy that was both relentless and ruthless in equal measure. One of the survivors began babbling incoherently and attempted to scramble up the back wall of the trench in the vain hope of fleeing back towards Amadis. Battling through the pain in his leg, Regan grabbed the back of the man’s poncho and hauled him from the side of the trench, unceremoniously depositing him in the charnel pit below where he curled up into a ball and sobbed gently.
‘What the hell did you do that for? He’s got the right idea. There’s nothing we can do here except become sport for the kind of monster that can do this.’ Tarrick held both arms out and gestured all around him.
‘We all swore solemn oaths when we took the Emperor’s coin that we would defend the Imperium even in death,’ Regan said, as much to the other surviving Irregulars as to Tarrick. ‘If those reinforcements are on the way then we owe it to them and to the people cowering in that city behind us to fulfil that oath.’
‘You’re as mad as Telomian. There aren’t any reinforcements coming just like there wasn’t any food, water or ammo. You can stay here and end up as a plaything for the enemy, but I’m getting out.’
The ganger made to pick up his lasrifle when as suddenly as it began, the torrential rain stopped falling and a muffled crump sounded in the distance.
‘That didn’t sound like thunder to me,’ Regan said.
Silence.
Then the pause gave birth.
The handful of men in the trench were thrown to the ground by the impact of the first artillery blast and struggled to regain their footing as their position was bombarded by further shelling. Regan grabbed the hood of Tarrick’s poncho and lifted him back onto his feet.
‘Still want to try and make it back to Amadis?’ Regan said through a mouthful of mud.
‘I’ll take my chances here, thanks,’ replied the former ganger.
‘Good. You can help me take some of these bastards down then.’ Tarrick turned to see where Regan was pointing.
He soon wished he hadn’t when he saw the horde of cultists and mutants that were using the cover of the artillery barrage to make their way across no-man’s-land.
’Keep firing! Those of you too wounded to fight act as loaders for those who aren‘t. Don’t let the enemy breach the trenches!’
With no officers to lead them, the Irregulars had turned to Regan for leadership and, in spite of his age, he had rallied the men and formed some semblance of an organised defence. He’d spread the lines thinner than Telomian had on previous attacks and because there were lasrifles to spare due to casualties incurred during the bombardment, each shooter had two rifles; one to fire while the other was being reloaded by an injured comrade. Though not ideal, the constant stream of las-fire was keeping the predominantly close-combat armed enemy at bay.
‘What’s the ammo situation like, Mur?’ asked Regan.
The podgy Guardsman had taken a shrapnel wound to the shoulder during the artillery barrage and had been acting as Regan’s loader ever since. He held up a single power pack and shook his head.
‘Last one.’
Regan depressed the firing stud on his rifle and drew a blank. He tossed it back to Murtock and took the proffered replacement.
‘Keep that one for yourself.’
Murtock looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Because even without a power pack, Imperial Guard lasrifles makes pretty handy clubs and I have a feeling we’ll be needing those soon. If you do have to fire it, make sure you keep enough juice back for one final shot.’
Murtock was just about to repeat his previous question when understanding crept up on him. ‘Oh.’
Along the length of the trench, the Irregulars’ weapons ran dry and as the enemy breached the Imperial lines, the battle became up close and personal. Fastening on his bayonet attachment, Regan stabbed out at the first two cultists to make it to his position. The first took the full length of the steel blade in his thigh while the second attacker found himself impaled upon it and hefted backwards against the back of the trench. Murtock put a las-round through the head of the first cultist before making to do the same with the second, only to stop himself when from wasting the shot when he realised that Regan had finished the job first time around. He knelt down to pilfer the knife sheathed in the Chaos worshipper’s belt and only after moving aside what he thought to be a cloak did he realise the cultist was clad in a second skin, one stitched together from the flayed corpses of his enemies.
‘Holy Throne,’ he gasped.
‘Man up, Mur. I need you with me for this. C’mon – let’s make sure that they don’t do that to the people of Amadis!’ Regan said, grabbing his friend by the collar and hauling him to his feet.
The hand-to-hand fighting was intense and, although the Chaos forces possessed strength in numbers, the close confines of the Imperial trench made it difficult to press that advantage. Just as the months of trench warfare had been about softening up and reducing the numbers of the Imperial Guard, the endgame followed a similar pattern. For every cultist or mutant that fell, another appeared to take his place while the Irregulars’ numbers slowly dwindled.
Murtock and Regan fought back-to-back, swinging with bayonet and rifle butt, trying to keep a clear zone around them. The stench of the enemy was almost as dangerous as their weapons and there were times when both men found themselves fighting one-handed, the other used to cover their mouths and noses to prevent being overcome.
Two maggot-infested cultists they’d been battling against collapsed backwards, the backs of their skulls disintegrating from a pair of shots to the head.
‘Looked like you needed a hand,’ Tarrick spat through a mouth full of blood.
The erstwhile ganger was virtually unrecognisable from the Tarrick they’d last seen only minutes earlier. A vicious wound had opened up his cheek and the flesh hung loose, exposing his teeth and part of his upper jaw. His face was streaked with thick blood from a pumping head wound and the remains of an enemy blade jutted from his right thigh.
‘Ready to make good on that oath we swore?’ Regan asked.
‘We’ve all got to go sometime. Might as well go out fighting.’ The cockiness was still evident in Tarrick’s voice despite his grievous injuries.
The three men formed a circle as a ceaseless tide of enemy troops swarmed the trench. With a combination of las-fire, blade and improvised club they made their last stand. Cultist after cultist fell until, exhaustion and blood loss finally taking its toll, Tarrick lost consciousness. Regan and Murtock put themselves between the enemy and the body of their friend and fought like the Emperor himself was at their back to prevent him from being further mutilated.
Murtock fell next. A hulking mutant launched itself over the lip of the trench, knocking over the two Guardsmen and half a dozen of his co-fighters. Regan quickly scrambled back to his feet and shot the mutant clean through the side of the head, but the brute fell forwards onto the insensate Murtock, trapping him beneath his bulk.
Distracted, several pairs of hands tried to pull Regan to the ground, but his damaged leg finally gave way and he splashed back into the mud and viscera carpet of the trench floor. He lay there stunned for a second before he felt cold blades sliding under his flesh as the cultists started to flense his skin as part of their gruesome ritual. He threw back his head to scream, but no sound came.
