Traitor's Gorge Page 6

  Sethyr Tuannan knelt upon a small carpet woven of rich silks and inlaid with patterns of fine, glassy threads extruded from warp-reactive crystal. A small lamp rested on a delicate metal tripod nearby, bathing the alcove in its soft glow. At the very back of the alcove, half hidden in shadow, the five Warp Spiders sat facing one another in a meditative circle. The eerie song of their jump generators echoed faintly off the rough stone walls.

  Shaniel knelt beside the farseer, her long rifle resting across her bent knee. 'The battle has begun,' she said quietly.

  Sethyr nodded, her expression hidden beneath her war-mask. 'For some minutes now, yes,' she agreed.

  The pathfinder frowned. 'And nothing has changed? We must still take no part?'

  'Not yet.' The pale mask turned to regard her. 'Do you doubt me, Shaniel?'

  'I do not.' The pathfinder paused, considering her words carefully. 'But I can hear the war cries of the greenskins. The gorge carries their bestial shouts for kilometres, even through the clamour of thunder and the hissing sheets of rain.'

  'You have a flair for the poetic,' Sethyr observed.'But I fail to see how this is relevant—'

  Shaniel interrupted the farseer with a brusque wave of her hand. Nuance and circumspection were well and good in the tearoom or the garden, but not upon the eve of battle. 'Just how large is the greenskin force arrayed against us?'

  Sethyr straightened slightly, but conceded the pathfinder's point with a curt nod. 'Pedro Kantor has been fighting the orks here for many cycles,' she explained. 'He hunts them relentlessly, driven by guilt and the demands of honour, and he is rightly feared by his foes. Those he has not killed have fled before him, retreating through the mountains in hopes of escaping his reach.

  'Here they have found good terrain to fight in, and a leader who has united them against Kantor and his warriors,' the farseer said. 'There are tunnels and deep caverns within the depths of this mountain, large enough to hide an army, and the orks have made good use of them.'

  Shaniel let out a slow breath. 'And Kantor does not suspect?'

  Sethyr shook her head. 'His hunger for revenge made him incautious. He hastened into the gorge, believing he faced no more than a hundred greenskins. The true number is closer to a thousand.'

  The pathfinder felt a chill race along her spine. She leaned in close to Sethyr. 'Kantor does not stand a chance,' she hissed. 'The fate of Alaitoc rests in his hands. Surely we must aid him!'

  The farseer's gaze fell to the meditation carpet. She laid a palm atop its surface, causing the crystal threads to glimmer beneath her touch. 'He is not ready for our help just yet,' she said softly. 'Not until he stands upon the edge of the abyss. Only then will he listen. Only then will he believe.'

  LIGHTNING, STARK AND white, knifed across the underbelly of the clouds and unleashed a torrent of pounding rain. The hiss of falling water, and the crash of thunder that followed, were swallowed up in the pulsing wall of bloodthirsty noise bearing down on the Crimson Fists from the west.

  'WAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!'

  'Brother Victurix!' the Chapter Master called, but the Terminators needed no prompting. They were already on the move, forming a firing line to receive the greenskin charge. Daecor's warriors were following suit, taking up position beside Squad Victurix and extending the line in a slight curve to the south. Phrenotas and his Sternguard ran up and took position behind the Terminators, ready to fire through the gaps between the Tactical Dreadnought suits and counter-charge the enemy if needed.

  Kantor placed himself at the juncture where Squad Victurix and Squad Daecor met. From there he could gauge the strength of the ork counter-attack and be in a position to support any of the three squads if necessary. His mind raced as the greenskins bore down on them, considering his force's options in the face of the new threat. He wasted no time wondering where this new horde of orks had come from; all that mattered was how many there were, and whether his Space Marines could kill them before they were overwhelmed.

  The Chapter Master checked the ammo load for Dorn's Arrow. The rumble of pounding feet was louder than the rain, more constant than the thunder. Another flash of lightning raked the sky overhead, and in that cold flash of light Kantor saw the leading edge of the charge.

  There were hundreds of them. Beady eyes glinted in the blue glare. Tusks gleamed, and jagged blades flickered like serpents' tongues. They were pouring down the narrow lanes and crashing headlong through the camp's flimsy huts, goaded on by their bosses and bellowing at the tops of their lungs.

  The orks were just over fifty metres away. Less than a minute, Kantor thought. If the Crimson Fists could not break the greenskins' charge within that time, their chances of survival were slim.

  'Victory or death!' Kantor cried, raising his fist to the churning sky. 'Squad leaders, mark your targets and fire at will!'

  A half-second later the thin blue line roared its defiance at the oncoming horde. Muzzle blasts strobed yellow and orange in the darkness, pouring streams of mass-reactive shells into the oncoming orks. Against such a large force, it was nearly impossible to miss. Orks toppled by the score, cut down by the merciless storm of fire. Rank after rank fell, their bodies trampled beneath the feet of those behind them. Within seconds the xenos were charging over a carpet of their own dead to get at the Space Marines.

  The raging of the heavens was nothing to the man-made thunder of the battlefield. The air shook with the thunder of the guns and the screams of the dying. Kantor added to the storm, seeking out the largest and fiercest of the oncoming greenskins and cutting them down with devastating bursts of fire. Yet the tide of death crept closer. The mire of blood and tom flesh beneath the greenskins' feet only seemed to inflame them further.

  The Crimson Fists kept up their fire, working with the cool efficiency of butchers at the slaughter. Spent shell casings flashed and tumbled across the muddy ground. When a weapon ran dry, the spent clip was ejected and another rammed home in less than a second. Raindrops hissed against the barrels of boltguns and storm bolters alike, wreathing the Crimson Fists in angry plumes of steam.

  Thirty metres. Twenty. The orks were returning fire now, blaz­ing away with their crude guns in the general direction of the Space Marines. Loose streams of tracer shells buzzed through tile Imperial firing lines. Most of the greenskins managed only a single burst before they were cut down. Kantor could not say how many of the xenos had fallen. A hundred? A hundred and fifty? He fired another burst, catching an oncoming boss in the throat. The brute toppled, but the rest of its mob scarcely noticed. They ran on, eyes fixed on the Space Marines that were now almost within reach.

  Ten metres. Both sides traded shots at point-blank range. Several of the Crimson Fists staggered as shells ricocheted off their thick armour. The orks were so close that their screaming faces were lit by the flickering orange glow of the muzzle flashes. Their eyes were wild and their teeth bared in a berserk rictus of fury.

  There was no stopping them. The horde was too big, too fren­zied to break. In those last moments, as the tide of flesh and steel rushed in, Kantor came to a cold realisation. If we die here, the Chapter dies with us.

  The Crimson Fists met the ork charge with shouted oaths and the resounding clash of metal on metal. Cleavers and axes rang against the Space Marines' scarred plate. Chainblades screeched and spat hissing streams of orange sparks. Combat knives jabbed and sliced, and power fists crackled. Blood, thick and hot, sprayed across battle-brother and greenskin alike.

  Kantor felled a charging ork with a backhand blow to its skull, and cut down another with a quick burst from Dorn's Arrow. The Crimson Fists fought back against the xenos onslaught with disci­pline and teamwork, creating a wall of fists and blades that the orks could not break through. But the sheer number of attackers would soon tell against them, Kantor knew. Even now the ork horde was sweeping north and south, threatening to engulf the beleaguered Space Marines.

  'Defensive formation omega!' Kantor ordered. An ork blade struck his upper chest. Anoth
er stabbed at his eye, missing by scant mil­limetres. He let the thrust slide past and took the greenskins head from its shoulders. 'Brother Artos, cover the gaps!'

  The Space Marines reacted instantly, executing the formation drill without conscious thought. Squad Phrenotas swung north and east, anchoring their line on Squad Victurix to their left. At the same time, Squad Daecor drew back, connecting the far end of their line with Squad Phrenotas, creating a hollow triangle with Kantor in the centre. Brother Artos stepped out of the line and took position next to the Chapter Master, ready to cover any gaps with bursts from his heavy flamer.

  Moments later, the Crimson Fists were surrounded. The Space Marines took a heavy toll on the greenskins, but in close combat the odds began to swing in the enemy's favour. Though they could not withstand a hit from a Terminator's power fist, the greenskins scarcely felt the bite of a combat knife, or the butt end of a swung bolter. And the damage to the Crimson Fists' armour was mount­ing steadily. Within minutes, nearly half of Kantor's warriors were sporting minor wounds as they struggled with the orks.

  The Chapter Master stayed on the move, darting from one side of the formation to the next and lending support where it was needed most. He slew orks with swift jabs from his power fist, or blew them apart with point-blank bursts of fire. But for every greenskin he slew, three more appeared to take its place, and the Crimson Fists formation was squeezed tighter and tighter by the mounting press of bodies. Kantor knew from experience that the sheer weight of attackers would continue to drive the Space Marines back upon one another until they scarcely had room to swing their weapons. When that happened, they would start to fall, one by one, until finally the last few survivors were overwhelmed.

  A furious bellow shook the air behind Kantor. He whirled to see a huge ork boss shoulder his way through the mob towards Squad Daecor. Brother Santoval, a Space Marine of only fifty years' service, stood squarely in the brute's path. The warrior held his ground,

  shouting an oath to Dorn as he fired point-blank into the ork boss's chest, but the range was so close that the rounds tore through the xenos's body before they had time to detonate. Blood poured from the wounds, but the boss scarcely seemed to feel them. Roaring with rage, the brute swung a massive, two-handed axe and split Santoval's helmet from crown to chin. Moments later the ork boss was engulfed in a burst of searing promethium as Brother Artos moved to seal the gap.

  Kantor swallowed his anguish as Artos dragged Santoval's body into the centre of the formation. He would be damned before he stood here and watched his Chapter die before his eyes. They had to break out of the encirclement, and quickly, before the numbers surrounding them grew too great to overcome.

  There were only two options. Kantor considered them and reached a swift decision.

  'Brothers, stand ready!' Kantor called over the vox-net. 'We're fighting our way out of here! Brother Artos, rejoin your squad. On my command, we will form a wedge with Squad Phrenotas on point, facing north. Squad Daecor will form the flanks. Squad Victurix will form the rear and cover our withdrawal.'

  'North, my lord?' Phrenotas said. 'That leads us deeper into the gorge.'

  'We have no choice,' Kantor replied. 'The walls of the gorge nar­row to the south. If we push that way, we'll just drive the orks ahead of us into the gap, and then we'll be trapped. There's high ground to the north. We can stage a fighting withdrawal and bleed the green- skins for kilometres. Swing the odds in our favour.'

  'Understood,' the veteran sergeant said, though it was clear from the tone of his voice that Phrenotas had misgivings about the plan.

  'Squad Phrenotas stands ready.'

  'Daecor?' the Chapter Master called.

  'Ready.'

  'Victurix?'

  'Ready.'

  'Execute!'

  At the command, Brother Artos laid down a broad arc of burning promethium in front of the Sternguard squad. Nearly a dozen orks were caught in the blast; they recoiled, screaming from the flames, and Squad Phrenotas drove forwards into the gap. Kantor followed close behind, covering the flanks of the squad with bursts from Dorn's Arrow. Squad Victurix moved next, falling back a step and turning their guns to the south. That was the cue for Squad Daecor. They fell back, passing between the Terminators and fanning out to left and right to form the sides of the wedge. The Imperials com­pleted the evolution in less than five seconds, firing all the while to keep the xenos at bay.

  'Go!' Kantor ordered, moving up to join Phrenotas's veterans. He fired a long burst at a knot of orks lingering just beyond the flames, killing two and driving the rest back. 'Don't let up!'

  The Crimson Fists drove like a spear tip into the mass of orks, burning those directly in front and shoving the rest to either side. The Sternguard and the warriors of Squad Daecor fired on the move, keeping the greenskins from pressing the formation too closely. At the base of the wedge, Squad Victurix had the hardest task, keeping the growing mass of orks behind them at bay with a steady hail of fire from their storm bolters and assault cannon. Every few minutes a large band of frenzied greenskins would brave the hail of shells and charge the Terminators, only to be crushed beneath the blows of their crackling power fists.

  Streams of ork shells raked the wedge from all sides, but in the darkness and the rain most of the shots went wild. More than one ork fell in the crossfire, and soon there were mobs blazing away at one another from opposite sides of the gorge.

  At the tip of the wedge, Kantor and Sergeant Phrenotas flanked Brother Artos, cutting down any orks bold enough to risk the flames.

  The greenskins were hungry for battle, but found themselves inexora­bly pushed to the sides of the wedge by the Space Marines' relentless advance. Despite their overwhelming numbers, the xenos lacked coordination and leadership, and could not mass their strength in such a way as to halt the Crimson Fists. While the warriors of the Adeptus Astartes were masters in every aspect of battlefield tactics, it was mobile warfare at which they excelled above all others. They could move faster, hit harder and more accurately, and coordinate their manoeuvres more effectively than their enemies. The orks had tried to deprive them of those advantages, and had Kantor hesitated even a few minutes, they might well have succeeded.

  More shells tore through the Space Marine formation. Rounds glanced off Kantor's right pauldron and sped on, ricocheting wildly amongst the armoured warriors. A sputtering ork grenade flew out of the darkness and got tangled up between his feet before exploding. Shrapnel scored bright scratches across his leg armour, and a sharp flare of pain behind his right knee nearly caused him to stumble. Kantor took a step, found that the splinter did not greatly impede his range of motion, and put it out of his mind.

  Artos raised his heavy flamer and unleashed another, hissing blast. There were only a handful of screams this time. The press ahead was thinning out. 'We're almost clear!' Kantor called out

  The Crimson Fists plunged ahead, through the fire and the driv­ing rain. The jellied promethium clinging to the ground splashed beneath their tread, kicking up sprays of ferocious yellow-orange light. Then they were through, and Kantor found himself look­ing out upon a rocky, desolate slope that ran for nearly a hundred metres before disappearing around a slight bend to the east. They had fought their way clear of the camp and the greenskin horde. Now came the difficult part.

  'Squads Phrenotas and Daecor, flank left and right. Skirmish order. I want harassing fire to the south. Squad Victurix, head north at the double. Find us good, defensive ground and take up position there. Go!'

  'Acknowledged,' Sergeant Victurix replied. The Terminators fired off another volley at the milling orks and headed north, into the darkness. The Space Marines, in their massive Tactical Dreadnought suits, could manage little more than a lumbering trot. Kantor and the other squads would have to buy them as much time as possible.

  The Chapter Master watched the Terminators go, and then turned his full attention to the south. The scene inside the camp was one of total pandemonium. The greenskin horde had
broken down into separate mobs, blundering into one another and trading blows in the darkness. Tracer fire zipped back and forth across the gorge, punching through grox-hide shelters and, occasionally, ork flesh. The hot tracers and Artos's promethium had started a number of fires amongst the rubbish, which burned stubbornly despite the pounding rain. Kantor looked upon his foes in disarray and cursed in frustration. With a single, well-equipped tactical company at his back, he could have destroyed the greenskins in the space of an hour. As it was, he knew that the orks would sort themselves out sooner rather than later, and then they would come swarming up the gorge. It would be all he and his hunting party could do just to survive. With a growl, Kantor banished such grim thoughts from his mind. The situation was what it was. He had to work with what was at hand. And his immediate problem was the hundred or so orks gathering less than a hundred metres south of him.

  The one advantage to being surrounded by the greenskins was that the Space Marines only had to concern themselves with the xenos immediately in front of them. Now the orks had the entire width of the gorge to spread out and attack their enemy. Kantor knew that the orks did not see well in the darkness, and were easily distracted when their blood was up. For the moment, only those closest to the breakout had any real idea where the Crimson Fists were. That mob was pushing up the slope, roaring and shooting and trying to get the attention of the rest.

  Kantor pointed at the oncoming orks. 'Those are the ones we have to deal with, and quickly, before the rest of the horde begins paying attention. We hit them hard, scatter them, and break contact. No shooting. I don't want to give away our location to the rest.'

  Without waiting for an acknowledgement, the Chapter Master broke into a run. Squads Phrenotas and Daecor fell into step a moment later, readying their combat knives.