Crimson fists, p.68
Crimson Fists, page 68
Moments later, Galleas’ assertion was proven correct. As the truck emerged from the tractor works, the Imperials caught sight of a vast horde of greenskins, some in vehicles, some on foot, all racing north towards the city. Behind them came the towering forms of the gargants, their exhaust stacks belching clouds of thick, black smoke as they marched in a ragged line towards the distant citadel.
Galleas and Juno could not help but stare in awe at the behemoths. Even for the battle-hardened Crimson Fists, the sight of the massive war machines was terrible to behold.
As soon as they were clear of the complex, Royas altered his course, intending to give the behemoths a wide berth. Galleas climbed to his feet, observing the gargants and comparing their course and speed against the layout of the southern half of the city.
Mitra joined him, staring up at the distant war machines with a look of undisguised dread. ‘You still haven’t explained how we’re going to stop them,’ she said.
Galleas glanced down at her. ‘Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to capture one of the gargants and turn its guns on the rest.’
They had left the slow-moving gargants behind and were almost to the outer wall when the plasma reactor blew. For a fraction of an instant, the southern horizon flashed a searing white, brighter than the twin suns combined, and transformed the gargants into sharp-edged silhouettes against the deep, blue sky. Once again, the earth shook under a mighty hammer blow, followed by a thunderous, apocalyptic roar that rolled over the city like a harbinger of doom.
The Imperials followed in the wake of the rampaging horde, remaining far enough behind that their battered truck drew little notice from the orks. Daring greatly, they trailed behind a ragged band of trucks and battlewagons that veered east as they approached the outer wall and sped through one of the ork-held gates. The greenskins holding the strongpoint bellowed curses and scattered as the lead battlewagon smashed through their crude barricades and barrelled down the ruined motorway towards the river. By the time the raiders reached the gate, less than a minute later, there was no one left to stand in their way.
Royas pushed the truck as far as it would go, gaining them almost two more kilometres before the fuel ran out. Time was of the essence. Galleas estimated they had less than two and a half hours before the gargants were in position for them to spring the trap.
They took to the tunnels at once, moving as fast as they dared through the near-darkness. The tread of the gargants could be felt even there, sending ripples through the scummy pools and shaking dust from the ancient stones with every step, urging the Imperials on.
While his brothers watched their flanks and listened for the sound of ork hunting parties, Galleas’ mind was ranging far ahead, refining the next steps of his plan. Every civilian that could lift a pack would be put to work carrying explosives. Combined with the surviving guerrillas, they could have everything in place with half an hour to spare.
The veteran sergeant was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he was halfway down the base’s entrance tunnel before he caught the smell: the telltale stench of fyceline propellant and the reek of spilled blood.
The outer partition had been torn halfway from its mountings, its folds streaked with red. Beyond, Tomas Zapeta still sat at his post, lascarbine clenched in his hands. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders was riddled with bloody holes, and his cloudy eyes stared sightlessly into the gloom. Near the inner partition, just a metre away, one of Vila’s squad mates lay face down on the ferrocrete amid a scattering of spent casings and a pool of drying gore.
They found Vega’s body near the entrance to the commons area, with a dozen dead civilians at his back. The healer had died fighting, a heavy ork pistol on the floor by his side. Beyond, the carnage inside the commons was terrible. Nearly two-thirds of the non-combatants – the old, the sick and the very young – had been slain, their bodies torn apart by automatic fire. The rest were simply gone.
The guerrillas picked their way through the room, stunned and sickened by the sight of the massacre. Mitra’s face was stricken. ‘The orks–’
‘If the xenos had done this, they would still be here,’ Galleas said, his voice tight with rage. ‘This was done by someone else.’
‘That faithless coward Bergand is missing,’ Royas spat. ‘Along with Vila and most of his squad.’
Galleas’ lips drew back in a grimace. ‘The void trader must have been planning this for some time,’ he said. The signs, he realised, had been there all along. ‘He won Vila over, and some of the civilians, and once we’d left for the power plant, he made his move. When Vega and the others tried to stop him…’
Tauros shook his head. ‘The fools,’ he said, his voice thick with emotion. ‘The damned fools. Rottshrek must have them by now.’
The veteran sergeant nodded. ‘If any of them lived long enough to be tortured, then the warboss knows the location of the hideout,’ he said grimly. ‘The orks could be here at any moment.’ He turned to Mitra and the rest of the humans. ‘Grab as many explosives as you can carry. Hurry!’
The guerrillas put aside their horror and grief and went to work, filling sacks with explosives, detonators and wire. Within minutes, nearly a third of their stockpile was loaded and ready to move. It was little enough, Galleas thought with a frown, but it would have to do. He turned to Mitra, who was bent like a crone with the heavy bag of explosives on her back.
‘Get back to the Via Tempestus as quickly as you can,’ he ordered. ‘Set charges on every third column from the M Twenty-six junction to Chandler’s Square. If the orks come, we’ll buy you as much time as we can. Now go!’
The guerrillas left without a word, saving their breath for the arduous trip back to the old aqueduct. As soon as they were gone, Galleas wired the rest of the explosives with a handful of detonators and synched them to his helmet display. ‘Let’s go,’ he told his brothers, and led them back out into the tunnels.
The Crimson Fists had no sooner left the hideout than their enhanced hearing picked up a distant murmur of sound. The noise grew in volume with each passing moment, echoing down the main tunnel like the rumble of a spring flood.
‘WAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHH!!!’
Tauros sighed, readying his boltgun and drawing his combat knife. He glanced at Galleas. ‘Sometimes I hate it when you’re right, brother.’
‘On the bright side, it means Bergand and that traitor Vila got what they deserved,’ Royas muttered.
‘Leave it to you to find the silver lining,’ Juno observed drily.
The orks were coming up fast. Galleas gestured down the tunnel with his sword. ‘Back to the next major junction,’ he said. ‘Formation Omicron.’
The Space Marines withdrew thirty metres down the tunnel and took up position. By now the xenos’ bloodthirsty shouts were almost deafening. Galleas switched to thermal imaging and saw the leading edge of the warband a hundred metres distant, charging headlong down the main tunnel from the north.
The greenskins knew exactly where they were going. Galleas watched grimly as they turned off from the main tunnel into the base’s entrance, brandishing cleavers and axes, their toothy jaws agape at the prospect of slaughter. More than a hundred orks disappeared down the side tunnel. Still more followed, baying at their heels.
‘Vengeance for the fallen,’ he said softly, and keyed the detonator rune on his display.
There was a muted roar, and the main tunnel seemed to lurch beneath the Space Marines’ feet. A plume of dirt and debris jetted from the side tunnel, flinging greenskin bodies against the far wall and dropping them into the empty storm channel below.
For several long moments, chaos reigned. Orks howled in frustration and pain. Then, a small pack of runts emerged from the billowing clouds of dust. Their long, pointed noses sniffed the air. One of them drew back its lips in a feral grin and screeched in triumph, pointing down the tunnel where the Space Marines waited.
‘They’ve got the guerrillas’ scent,’ Galleas snarled. ‘Open fire!’
Five boltguns thundered, spitting a stream of mass-reactive shells down the length of the tunnel. The pack of runts was torn apart, spraying the curved walls with blood, and more dead greenskins tumbled over the rail into the depths of the storm channel. But the sound of the gunfire energised the rest of the warband, giving them an enemy to focus on at last.
‘WAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!’ the greenskins bellowed, the noise swelling as more and more of the xenos took up the shout.
As the first orks came charging out of the murk the Crimson Fists fired again, cutting down the front rank and creating an obstacle for the rest. Galleas signalled to his brothers and the Space Marines swiftly and silently withdrew, drawing the furious greenskins after them.
For the next half an hour they led the xenos on a bloody chase, using their intimate knowledge of the tunnel network to confound the greenskins and hit them from unexpected directions. Galleas and his brothers would fire a few well-placed shots, kill the closest orks, then withdraw to the next junction down the line. They had rehearsed such tactics for months in case their base was discovered and they were forced to relocate, and now they put their plans into brutal effect.
But the orks were relentless, and with every ambush, the distance between them and the Space Marines dwindled, until finally there was no room left to run.
Galleas knew the moment was coming, and had planned for it. By the time it was down to blades and point-blank fire the Space Marines were in a long, narrow tunnel a little over a kilometre from Chandler’s Square. The Crimson Fists worked in pairs, alternating to keep up their strength and making the greenskins pay for every metre in blood. For almost another half an hour they held the warband at bay, tangling the feet of the xenos with the bodies of their dead.
Slowly, stubbornly, the Space Marines withdrew. After three hundred metres of brutal, close-quarters fighting, Galleas risked a glance over his shoulder and spied a dark side tunnel just a couple of metres away. The timing had worked out just as he’d planned. Juno and Royas were trading places at the front with Tauros and Olivar, falling back past Galleas for a moment’s respite. The veteran sergeant stowed his bolter and pulled his last grenade from his belt. Another few moments, and it would be time to disengage.
‘Get ready!’ he called over the vox as the group came within reach of the side tunnel. ‘When I give the signal–’
The rest was lost in a chorus of triumphant howls as a mob of greenskins burst from the side tunnel into the Space Marines’ midst.
A pair of orks crashed into Galleas, driving him back against the side of the tunnel. A blade glanced off his helmet’s cheek, narrowly missing his eyes. Without thinking, the veteran sergeant smashed one of the orks across the face with the grenade in his hand and drove the point of Night’s Edge into the other greenskin’s chest.
Seeing their ambush sprung, the orks in the main tunnel renewed their assault, pressing Tauros and Olivar hard. Still more greenskins were pouring from the side tunnel, creating gaps between the Crimson Fists and driving them further apart. In the space of seconds, their orderly withdrawal had dissolved into five separate battles, each one just a metre or two apart.
There was barely any room to swing a blade. Night’s Edge was trapped in the torso of the dead ork, which was still standing upright amidst the press. Juno was having better luck with his short sword, the blade darting like a needle into green throats and snarling faces. He was working his way left to try to link up with Royas, who was fighting with his back against the far wall.
A cleaver crashed against the side of Galleas’ helmet. Snarling, he hooked the pin of the ork grenade with his thumb and pulled it, flipping the sputtering bomb over the heads of the mob and into the mouth of the side tunnel. Then he dropped his hand and went for the bolt pistol at his hip.
To his right, Olivar and Tauros had been separated, beset both from the front and from behind. Olivar had turned, trying to cover Tauros’ back, and the greenskins had driven him against the tunnel wall. Galleas watched the one-eyed Space Marine open an ork’s throat with his combat knife, then twist suddenly as a greenskin blade found a weak spot in the side of his breastplate. Blood poured from the puncture for almost a full second before Olivar’s Larraman cells could seal off the ruptured blood vessels.
Tauros was now almost six metres away, standing alone against the onslaught of the ork warband. Rather than retreat, the veteran Space Marine advanced into the teeth of the enemy attack, fighting to create room for his brothers to free themselves from the ambush. His boltgun swept across the mass of greenskins, the explosive shells sowing death amongst the enemy.
The grenade detonated, its lethal blast almost smothered by the crowd. Orks screamed in agony, and the press of bodies against Galleas suddenly ebbed. He pulled the bolt pistol from its holster and shot the two closest orks through the belly, then snapped a quick shot into the head of the greenskin that had stabbed Olivar.
Juno had reached Royas’ side, and the two Crimson Fists began to work their way towards Galleas. Another few seconds and they would be able to withdraw.
‘Tauros!’ Galleas shouted over the vox.
There were now almost eight metres between Tauros and the rest of the squad. The Crimson Fist fought like the hero of legend that he was, and the orks howled in dismay as he carved his way through their ranks.
But the veteran Space Marine was losing speed, his precise shots and his deadly blows fractionally slower by the moment as the bullet wounds he suffered at the power plant began to take their toll.
It was at that moment that the tunnel shook with a furious shout, and the greenskins facing Tauros were crushed against either wall as Rottshrek bore down upon his foes.
The hulking warboss was a terrifying sight, filling the tunnel before the embattled Tauros. Sneering a challenge in the greenskins’ savage tongue, Rottshrek lunged at Tauros with its fearsome power claw.
The orks surrounding Galleas bellowed in triumph at the sight of the warboss. Olivar was still beset on two sides, and Juno and Royas were three metres further down the tunnel. Desperate, Galleas twisted at the waist and ripped Night’s Edge free from the greenskin’s corpse.
Tauros met the warboss’ charge with one of his own, sliding past the outstretched power claw and stabbing at Rottshrek’s throat. The blow struck the ork’s metal gorget and glanced aside, leaving no more than a bright scratch across its curved surface.
Rottshrek responded to the blow with one of its own, dropping its horned head and butting Tauros full in the face. The force of the impact stunned the veteran Space Marine, driving him back a step.
The power claw lunged for Tauros again, reaching for his throat. At the last moment, the Crimson Fist realised his peril and dodged to the right – but again, his wounded body betrayed him, and the move was a fraction of a second too late. With a malevolent hiss of hydraulic fluids, the scythe-like blades of Rottshrek’s claw snapped shut around Tauros’ neck. For a terrible moment, he struggled in Rottshrek’s grip, uttering a choked cry of defiance and firing his bolter point-blank into the warboss’ chest. Then, with a shriek of parting metal, Tauros’ head separated from his neck, dropping his decapitated body to the tunnel floor.
A wordless, feral cry of rage tore its way from Galleas’ throat. Night’s Edge flashed in a burning arc, slicing through a pair of orks in his path. Consumed with fury, he cut and stabbed at every greenskin he could reach, driving the survivors before him until finally they broke and ran, retreating down the tunnel to where their warboss was stooping to collect his new trophy.
Within moments, Galleas had reached Olivar’s side. Juno came up beside them, his short sword gleaming with greenskin blood. His eyes never left the gloating warboss.
‘This beast and I have unfinished business,’ the Crimson Fist said calmly. ‘You three go on now. I’ll deal with this lot.’
‘You’ll not go alone!’ Galleas snarled.
‘Don’t be stupid, brother.’ Juno stowed his boltgun and plucked an ork cleaver from the floor. ‘You clumsy oafs would just get in my way.’
‘Juno–’
The Crimson Fist turned to Galleas. ‘I said get out of here, brother. Mitra’s waiting. You don’t expect her to take that gargant all by herself, do you?’
Before Galleas could reply, Juno was gone, striding swiftly down the tunnel towards the greenskins.
Royas gripped Galleas’ arm. ‘He’s right, brother. This is our only chance. We’ve got to go.’
Tormented by grief, Galleas spun on his heel and led Olivar and Royas down the tunnel. Seeing the Space Marines retreating, the orks howled like daemons and broke into a run. Titus Juno was waiting, his arms spread wide as if to welcome them, twin blades glinting in his hands.
The Crimson Fists reached Chandler’s Square without a minute to spare. The gargants were very close now, the thunder of their footfalls reverberating through the ancient tunnels.
Mitra and the others were waiting. A flicker of pain shone in her eyes when she saw that Tauros and Juno were missing, but she made no mention of their absence. ‘Charges are set,’ she reported, her voice cracking with exhaustion. She handed Galleas a remote detonator with its safety engaged.
The veteran sergeant accepted the device with a curt nod. ‘Follow me,’ he said, and led his battered force a dozen metres east along the high, arched tunnel, where a rusting metal ladder offered access to the world above.
They emerged from beneath a heavy street cover on the far side of the square. Galleas searched the ruined skyline from east to west, getting his bearings. The gargants were almost upon them, their misshapen hulls towering over the burned-out structures less than a hundred metres to the south.
The veteran sergeant saw at once that the ork war machines were not where he’d expected them to be. Their rough battle line now stretched almost five hundred metres further east than he’d expected. Only a single gargant, anchoring the western end of the line, was heading into the trap they’d sacrificed so much to create.
