Traitor's Gorge Page 7

Kantor hoped to be upon the orks before they knew what was happening. Their dark armour rendered them almost invisible, and their heavy footfalls were masked by the constant hammering of gunfire and the greenskins' shouts. But a sudden flash of lightning directly overhead betrayed the Crimson Fists more than twenty metres from their goal. The orks caught sight of the armoured warri­ors bearing down on them and let out a wild roar, opening fire with every weapon they had as they charged to meet their foes.

  Bursts of glowing tracers whipped through the narrowing gap between greenskins and Space Marines. Several of the Crimson Fists were hit. One, a warrior from Squad Daecor by the name of Velas, staggered in mid-stride and fell forward into the mud. By ill chance, an ork round had struck his occularium, passing through his right eye and into his brain.

  Rage burned at the edges of Kantor's brain. He longed to bellow his fury at the orks, but iron self-discipline held his emotions in check, as it did for his remaining battle-brothers. They shouted no oaths or righteous imprecations, calling no attention to themselves from the larger horde in the last few seconds before they crashed into the greenskin mob.

  Kantor swept his power fist in a wide arc as he ran past the first of the orks, catching one of the xenos under its chin and flipping the brute's body end-for-end before it hit the ground. An axe smashed heavily into his shoulder, but the Chapter Master ignored the blow, pushing deeper into the mob. He clipped another passing ork on the hip, shattering the joint in a spray of blood and dropping it as well.

  Onwards he went, step by step, dealing death to any greenskin he passed. His Space Marines did the same, slitting throats, slash­ing bellies and ripping hamstrings with their saw-backed knives. Another ork leapt directly into Kantor's path, hacking at him with a cleaver. The Chapter Master took the blow against his breastplate, stiff-armed the ork in the throat, and stomped down with the full weight of his armoured body on the ork's chest as it fell back against the ground. Bones crunched, and the ork's angry roar turned into a blood-choked scream.

  Kantor glanced left and right, searching for the leader of the mob, and caught sight of Phrenotas squaring off with a massive greenskin wielding a chain-axe. The ork howled in fury, raining a flurry of blows down on the veteran Space Marine. One stroke raked across Phrenotas's breastplate, just millimetres below his throat; another caught him across the left forearm and left a jagged scar across his battered vambrace. The third stroke was a lightning reversal aimed for the damaged side of the sergeant's helm. Phrenotas ducked smoothly beneath the blow, his power fist pistoning downwards in the same motion to shatter the ork's right knee. Unbalanced, the ork boss spun about with a howl of pain - until the sergeant's backhand stroke blasted its skull to bloody flinders.

  The orks' shouts turned from bellows of rage to cries of panic. More than a dozen of the greenskins had been killed, and the sur­vivors scattered into the darkness. Kantor halted, his boots sliding a bit on the muddy ground. 'That's enough,' he said over the vox-net. 'Those stragglers will be looking for other mobs to join. I want to be a few kilometres away before they can point anyone in our direction.'

  The Chapter Master surveyed his warriors as they turned silently and began jogging back up the slope. Their wargear was etched with new scars and wet with rain and fresh gore. They were battered but unbowed, beleaguered but still defiant. The sight of them filled Kantor with pride, and a bitter ache for all that had been lost.

  The deaths of Santoval and Velas brought them two steps closer to annihilation. As he ran, Kantor wondered if his Chapter would survive to see the dawn.

  THE FIGHTING WAS drawing nearer. Shaniel had been listening to the running battle for hours, crouched with her rifle at the mouth of the cave. The storm had moved off to the north-east, leaving behind the first clear sky she had seen since coming to the human world. With­out the muffling effects of the rain and wind, the sounds of combat were sharply defined, echoing along the twisting course of the gorge, and to Shaniel's experienced ear they spoke volumes about the strug­gles taking place just a few kilometres to the south.

  'Kantor has escaped the cauldron.'

  The pathfinder stirred, glancing up at Sethyr. She had not heard the farseer approach.

  'You sound as though you admire him,' Shaniel said coolly.

  The farseer gazed out at the winding gorge. 'Kantor is fighting for the honour of his brethren, and the survival of his people. Is that not admira­ble, Shaniel?' The farseer's voice was grave. 'I have seen the foes he must face, and understand the sacrifices he is willing to make.'

  The pathfinder shrugged. 'They are fighting well, I will grant you that. By the sound of things, they have been staging an expert fighting withdrawal. But their pursuers have grown in number with each passing hour, and the humans are running out of room to manoeuvre.'

  Sethyr nodded. 'Even so.' The ribbons tied to her spear haft flut­tered in the breeze as she pointed off to the east. 'Dawm is fast approaching. It is time we took our places upon the stage.'

  Shaniel rose smoothly to her feet. Her face was composed, but inwardly she was eager at the prospect of action. Her rangers took notice and stirred from their meditations. Rifles were readied, and concealing cloaks were dropped into place.

  The pathfinder gestured to the squad she had chosen to accom­pany her. The second squad, including Teuthas, would remain with the farseer.

  As she made ready to lead her warriors from the cave, she realised that the Warp Spiders were nowhere to be seen. They had already activated their jump generators and slipped away, on whatever mis­sion Sethyr had assigned them.

  HERE THEY COME, brothers!' Kantor called out. 'Stand ready!'

  Dawn had given way to a grey-orange haze that hung close to the mountaintops and left the air humid and close. The last hill, at the farthest end of the gorge, was tall and possessed of a long, gradually steepening slope that had made difficult going for the ork horde. Eight times the greenskins had come howling up the slope, and eight times the Crimson Fists had hurled them back. They had left behind hundreds of corpses, heaped in bleeding mounds all down the length of the hill. There were so many that the Space Marines had made barricades from the dead, piling them up all along the summit to provide cover from ork bombs and rockets. It was a vista of carnage grim enough to give the fiercest warrior pause. But not the orks. The sight of the growing slaughter only seemed to excite them further.

  It had been a long night of ambush and retreat, stretching for twenty kilometres up the course of Traitor's Gorge. The Crimson Fists found defensible terrain, let their pursuers charge into a punishing crossfire, and when the orks fell back in disarray they would withdraw in search of the next ambush point. They had killed scores of the enemy along the way, but the number of orks pursuing them had only seemed to grow larger and more deter­mined with every passing hour.

  Once dawn had broken, the greenskins' accuracy had improved as well. They lost Artos just after the last ambush. The veteran warrior had waited until the last moment to withdraw, covering the rest of his battle-brothers with the dregs of his weapon's promethium tank. Just as he had been about to break off, a sputtering ork rocket came corkscrewing through the air and struck him full in the chest. Every other Space Marine had been wounded along the way, some mul­tiple times, by the bite of axe, cleaver and shell. The Crimson Fists fought on by virtue of their superhuman stamina and rapid healing abilities, but even they had been taxed to their limits.

  And now the orks were getting ready to charge again.

  Kantor had chosen their position carefully, positioning his warri­ors atop the hill so that the orks could not outflank them. Victurix's Terminators formed the centre of the line, a fearsome bulwark that had broken the enemy's assault again and again. Phrenotas and the Sternguard covered the right flank, standing upon a rocky out­cropping that allowed them to pour enfilading fire down on their attackers. Kantor stood with Daecor and his tactical squad on the left. The worst injured amongst the Crimson Fists sat some distance behind the battle line, emp
loying rest and meditative techniques to boost their bodies' healing abilities. At Kantor's warning they stirred themselves and rose slowly to their feet, taking their places beside their brethren.

  Kantor turned to the Terminator squad. 'Sergeant Victurix, what's the status of the assault cannon?' Limited maintenance and hours of sustained fire had caused the multi-barrelled weapon to jam with increasing frequency.

  'Ready, my lord,' Victurix replied. 'But Brother Silva says ammuni­tion is running very low.'

  'The same can be said for all of us,' Kantor said grimly. Dorn's Arrow was down to its last few bursts. They had killed hundreds of the xenos over the course of the night, but still there seemed to be hundreds more. 'Make each shot count, brothers.'

  At the base of the hill, the orks war cries grew louder and more intense. The leading edge of the horde began to shift, as one group of greenskins or another made to lunge up the hill towards the waiting Space Marines. Huge ork bosses waded through the frenzied mobs, goading their followers with snarls, punches and kicks. The brutes forced their way to the front of the horde. They looked up the corpse-strewn slope and smiled wicked, bloodthirsty smiles.

  'WAAAAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!' they roared, and the horde surged forwards. Gunfire erupted from the greenskin line as the orks opened fire with every weapon they had.

  The Crimson Fists crouched behind their makeshift barricades as the air filled with a hail of heavy-calibre shells. A trio of rockets came sputtering up the slope; two passed over Squad Victurix, miss­ing the kneeling Terminators by scant metres. The third struck the barricade of flesh shielding Squad Daecor, hurling up a fountain of charred flesh and fragments of bone.

  As ever, the gunfire from the orks was inaccurate, but the sheer volume kept Kantor and the Space Marines under cover as the horde clambered furiously up the slope. The air hummed with the constant passage of shells. Another pair of rockets streaked into the Space Marine positions, carving gory craters from the bar­ricades. And all the while, the baying of the horde drew nearer.

  The Chapter Master gritted his teeth. The orks were getting clever, employing basic tactics like suppressing fire to support their assault. After suffering punishing casualties the orks were starting to show signs of real leadership. Kantor would have given much to know who this new leader was - and to have a clear shot at the greenskin's head.

  The ork assault wave was close now. The air shook with their war cries. Consequently, the volume of suppressing fire began to diminish, as the greenskins risked hitting their own warriors as they approached the barricades.

  'On my command,' Kantor said over the vox-net, 'we throw the last of the grenades and then open fire. Aim for the bosses. If we can kill them, we might be able to break the rest.'

  Kantor listened. The pounding of feet rose to a crescendo. Twenty metres. Fifteen. Ten.

  'Now!' the Chapter Master cried. 'For Dorn and the Emperor!' Kantor rose from behind the barricade, bringing up Dorn's Arrow.

  'Wait!' Phrenotas shouted.

  Kantor had no sooner heard the warning than his world dissolved in an orange blast of fire.

  Seething flames and tongues of black smoke blotted out Kantor's helmet display. Temperature readings spiked; he could feel the intense heat seeping through layers of ceramite and adamantium plate. Instinct and training took over at once: the Chapter Master moved without conscious thought dropping down behind the barricade and pressing himself face-first into the ground in hopes of smothering the flames. The fluids leaking from the once-living barricades had turned the earth at their base into reeking mud, thick and dinging. After a few seconds, it put out the jellied vehicle fuel spat by the ork flamer.

  When Kantor could see again, the entire length of the barricade was ablaze, throwing plumes of greasy smoke into the hazy sky. Two flamers continued to pour fire on the centre of the line, trying to get at Victurix's Terminators. A third stream of liquid fire was playing over Phrenotas's position, likewise forcing the Sternguard to keep under cover.

  To Kantor's left, dozens of orks were overrunning the barricade, many leaping headlong through the flames to attack Daecor's Space Marines. The Chapter Master bit back a curse. The damned green­skins had planned well this time. He rose from his crouch, intending to aid Daecor's squad, and at the last second heard a thin, hungry hiss from the other side of the barricade. Instantly he dropped back behind cover, just in time to avoid another blast of fire.

  The Chapter Master could see the orks' tactics at once, they were using their flamers to keep most of the Space Marines under cover, while throwing most of their weight at just one segment of the line. From there they could work further along the barricade, wiping out the Crimson Fists one squad at a time.

  Kantor estimated that one of the ork flamers was just a few metres away, on the other side of the barricade from him. He could not stick his head up without drawing the greenskin's attention. Slowly, he turned about and looked down the far end of the battle line, past Squad Victurix. Through the swirling smoke he caught a glimpse of a streak of flame dousing the Sternguard position. If he leaned away from the barricade, he could just catch sight of the ork wielding the flamer. Without hesitation, he raised Dorn's Arrow and fired a long stuttering burst. The greenskin jerked and twitched as a dozen rounds struck home. One hit the flamer itself and detonated, spray­ing burning fuel in every direction.

  A roaring tongue of flame arced over the barricade opposite Kantor, forcing him to duck away from the blast. Moments later, bolter fire began to pound away from the outcropping where Phrenotas's veterans stood. Orks screamed in pain, and another flamer exploded with a hollow whoomp. The fiery barrage cover­ing Squad Victurix suddenly ceased, and within moments the Terminators were back in action, blasting away with their storm bolters. Kantor could hear the shells bursting on the far side of the barrier opposite him.

  Trusting in his battle-brothers, Kantor surged to his feet. All four of the flamers had been knocked out, and the ork assault was over-extended, funnelled in a long line towards the far end of Daecor's position. Fire from the Sternguard and Victurix's squad was raking the orks' vulnerable flank. As Kantor watched, the Terminator's assault cannon went into action, scything down ranks of greenskins in a hail of high-velocity shells. The Chapter Master added his own fire to onslaught, triggering a long burst at the head of the line.

  Three orks were cut down before the twin bolts of the ancient storm bolter locked back on empty chambers. The weapon's capacious magazine had finally run dry.

  Roaring a battle-oath, Kantor raced down the line to aid Daecor and his squad. The Space Marines were hard-pressed. but fighting furiously against the ork onslaught. Sergeant Daecor himself was being attacked from all sides by a group of five orks. The Chapter Master fell upon them and slew three of the xenos with sweeps of his power fist before the others realised their danger. Daecor despatched them both before they could recover their wits.

  The Sternguard continued to rain down fire on the orks while Victurix's Terminators had left the burning barricade and were pushing towards the orks' extended flank. Daecor rallied his squad and with Kantor's aid the Space Marines began to push the greenskins back. For a moment, the horde wavered, and the battle hung in the balance. Then the Terminators crashed into the ork line, crushing nearly a dozen greenskins beneath their power fists, and the enemy assault collapsed. Within moments, the surviving xenos were pulling back firing wildly in their wake as they retreated back down the corpse strewn hill. Victurix's Terminators withdrew to the centre of the battle line, though with the barricade still engulfed in flames there was little cover to make use of. Kantor surveyed the tactical squad.

  'Casualties?'

  'Nothing serious, my lord.' Daecor's left pauldron was askew. He reached under the curved plate and, with a grunt, pulled out the broken tip of an ork cleaver. The sergeant tossed the red-stained length of metal aside and picked his bolter up from the ground. His left arm hung limp at his side. The other members of his squad looked to be in little better sha
pe.

  The Chapter Master nodded gravely. 'What about ammunition?'

  Daecor shook his head. 'We fired off our last ten rounds just before the assault hit. If they come again, we'll just have to kick the greenskins to death.'

  Kantor could not help but smile at the defiance in Sergeant Daecor's voice. Every one of his Space Marines had fought like heroes, each one accounting for scores of the enemy since the battle of the gorge began. But knives and fists would not be enough. When the orks came again, Squad Daecor would be hard-pressed to survive.

  'The Sternguard may have some spare ammunition left,' Kantor said, though he knew it unlikely. 'Get your squad to work building another barricade. We will need the cover when the orks—'

  Kantor was interrupted by a furious roar from the bottom of the hill. The sound surprised him. How could the orks have possibly rallied so quickly? He turned and stared down the slope.

  The lower third of the hillside was still crowded with orks retreat­ing from the last assault. Beyond them, at the base of the hill, waited a force of some two hundred greenskins. They were by far the largest and best-armed warriors of the horde, led by a collection of huge, ferocious bosses. They were bellowing in rage, not at the Space Marines, but at the greenskins who blocked their path to the summit.

  Kantor saw the orks' strategy at once. The whole point of the last assault had been to soak up the last of the Space Marines' ammu­nition and break up their barricades with the flamers. The weaker members of the horde had been sent up as boltgun fodder, while the real assault force waited to finish the job.

  The realisation struck him like a dagger to the heart. This is the end of us, he thought, as the final assault began.

  SETHYR STUDIED THE weavings of fate. In the space of a single moment, the continuum of potentialities resolved into the pattern she had so long sought. The future lay within her grasp. The moment was at hand.