“We’re out of high-ex, sarge,” replied Siegler. “Only armour-piercing left, and not many of ’em.”
“Damn it,” spat Wulfe. “AP it is. Load her up. Aim well, Beans.”
“Locked and lit,” shouted Siegler.
“Do it,” said Wulfe, “and may the Emperor guide your shot!”
Beans stamped on the floor trigger.
Last Rites II shuddered as exploding propellant burst from her muzzle brake. The shot zipped straight in towards The Fortress of Arrogance. Wulfe held his breath, praying that the ork leader would disintegrate in a shower of blood and bone shards.
The shot curved low and smacked straight into the Baneblade’s turret instead.
Another massive armoured plate fell away, revealing more of the black and gold that lay underneath.
The reaction on the vox was immediate. Wulfe heard General deViers screeching at the top of his voice. “Who fired that shot? Identify yourself at once. You are disobeying a direct order from your general!”
Wulfe was about to respond when another voice cut in. It was Major General Bergen.
“Frak it!” said Bergen. “This is a direct order from 10th Division Command. All tanks, open up on that monstrosity with everything you have. We won’t lose anyone else to it. You hear me? Fire at will.”
Wulfe knew that the general’s orders overrode Bergen’s, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. “Siegler, load. Beans, do what you do best, son!”
Thunderclaps echoed from the rusting metal walls all around as the surviving tanks of the 10th Armoured Division blasted the bastardised Baneblade with everything they had. Fire blossomed all over it and heavy pieces of armour spun away in all directions.
“Stop!” yelled deViers over the vox, but nobody was listening. “I command you to stop!”
The Adeptus Mechanicus also added their protestations, overriding the Cadian vox-comms to issue warnings of their own, but to no avail.
Again and again, the tanks fired. More and more of the true shape of The Fortress of Arrogance was revealed. Then one shot struck the raging warboss that stood atop the turret. There was a sudden burst of bright blue light and a loud cracking sound as the energy field generated by the warboss’ armour straggled to absorb the blast. Against lesser weapons like lascannons, it might have held indefinitely, but it simply wasn’t powerful enough to repel the sheer force of a tank round impacting at full velocity. The field collapsed and the beast’s right arm vanished completely in a fine red mist.
The warboss staggered and looked sideways at the ragged, bleeding stump of flesh with an expression of slack-jawed disbelief. That was when a second round, an armour-piercing shell from Captain Immrich’s Vanquisher, Firemane, struck it dead centre in the torso. The round punched straight through the ork’s power armour, blew its guts out its back, and blasted it from its feet.
A great cheer went up from the Cadian soldiers, and they rallied for the third time that day. Wulfe marvelled at them. He knew how tired they were, but they were Cadians, all of them. They would rather die of exhaustion than give up the fight. It was their planetary heritage, this discipline and strength.
“Cease fire,” shouted deViers again. “Cease fire, at once!”
The tankers stopped firing. The Baneblade still rumbled forward, but without their commander, the crew were confused and lost. The ork foot soldiers were distracted by the sound of the Cadian cheer and turned to find that their warboss had been slain. Without his overwhelming strength and dominance, the unity of the ork force collapsed. Old factions that had once been rivals were suddenly free to wage war against each other again, and the entire force fell into absolute and immediate disarray. Greenskins began hacking and firing at other greenskins just as fiercely as they were fighting with the Cadians. It didn’t take the Guardsmen long to capitalise on this.
The clashing of heavy blades and the barking of large calibre stubbers and pistols gradually gave way to the ordered crack of las and hellgun volleys.
Within the hour, the sounds of fighting died off altogether.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Get those men down from there,” deViers stormed. “Get back all of you. Damn your eyes, I’d have some of you shot but for the fact that we have our prize at last. Gruber, give me that vox-amp unit. And you there! Yes, you. Help me up at once.”
A young trooper bearing the insignia of the 110th Mechanised Regiment gave General deViers a boost up onto the track-guards of The Fortress of Arrogance.
Kasrkin storm troopers had already popped her hatches and slaughtered her greenskin crew, and her engines had stopped rumbling. She stood still and silent as the general climbed up to stand on the top of the turret. It had been a pulpit once, a place from which Commissar Yarrick had given his rousing speeches to Imperial troops before leading them into battle. DeViers could feel it now, all that glory settling on his shoulders like a fine heavy cloak. He glanced down at the body of the warboss where it lay on its back.
Disgusting beast, he thought.
The stench from its innards made his nose crinkle, but it would take much more than that to ruin the moment. He turned and faced out towards the ordered ranks of troopers. There were so damned few of them. Had he really started all this with over twenty thousand men? The losses seemed incredible, but Yarrick had demanded victory at any cost. DeViers had held to that remark, and now he had his victory.
He saw Magos Sennesdiar and his tech-adepts moving towards the front, their robes stained dark at the hem by all the blood that soaked the ground.
DeViers lifted the microphone of his vox-amp unit and began, “Men of Exolon and of the Adeptus Mechanicus, let us always remember this day. It has taken time, resources and the sacrifice of many of our Cadian brothers to make this dream a reality. But here we stand, victorious, and the greatest prize in all the Imperium of Man is finally in our hands. I stand upon it, and I feel its holy spirit all around me: The Fortress of Arrogance, a holy relic the likes of which few men could ever hope to see. Come forward if you wish. Lay your hands on it. Feel its holy spirit wash over you and inspire you. Even in this wretched state, desecrated by our enemies, robbed of its true glory, it still exudes a power that surely embodies something of the Emperor Himself.”
On he went, talking of a glory that would never be forgotten. He believed every word that came out of his mouth, and the strength of his conviction convinced many of the men who listened.
Caught up in the moment with all those eyes fixed on him, all those ears hanging on his every word, General deViers didn’t hear the scrape of metal on metal.
He didn’t know anything was wrong until he felt hot, stinking breath on the back of his neck.
His blood ran cold as ice and he moved to turn, but it was a motion he never finished. The ork warboss was barely alive, able to stand only by virtue of a central nervous system that had been developed to work through indescribable levels of physical pain; that, and the all-consuming hatred it felt for weak, pathetic humans.
It closed its remaining power claw around the general’s middle and, with the briefest twitch of its fingers, cut the man in half.
Colonel Stromm of The Fighting 98th was in the front row, standing just a few metres in front of the Baneblade’s hull. He was moving before the general’s upper body tumbled sideways from the turret.
“Kasrkin!” he yelled to his men as he tore his hellpistol from its holster. Together, he and his storm troopers began blazing away at the giant swaying ork.
It shuddered as it was peppered with searing shots. Then it fell backwards again.
The firing stopped.
Magos Sennesdiar wasted no time. He surged forward, leaping onto the front of the Baneblade with an agility that was totally at odds with his bulk. His adepts immediately climbed up after him. As they hurried onto the top of the turret, Armadron said,
Sennesdiar was the firs
t to reach the body of the ork. The creature was breathing no more. There, around its tree-trunk neck, he saw a glimmer of green and gold.
The fragments he told his adepts.
“Is the damned thing dead?” asked a gruff voice.
Sennesdiar quickly tugged the fragment from around the warboss’ neck, breaking the leather cord that held it there, and hid it within the deep folds of his robe. Then he rose and turned to face the speaker.
“Colonel Stromm. The ork leader no longer lives. Adepts,” he said, addressing his subordinates in Low Gothic, “it is time we launched our beacon.”
Together, the three Martian priests climbed down from The Fortress of Arrogance, and strode towards their Chimera, passing Major Generals Bergen, Killian and Rennkamp on the way. All three men looked drawn and exhausted, and they were speechless as the tech-priests passed.
When Sennesdiar was within a few metres of them, he said, “One of our lifters can be expected to arrive within the hour, major generals. My servitors will tend to the Baneblade, but I suggest we all make haste in our preparations to leave. Golgotha is still home to a vast population of orks. Tarrying too long could prove to be a grave mistake.”
The magos moved off, but he had only gone about ten metres when Bergen called out to him.
“Sennesdiar,” he said. “Tell me, will you answer a question?”
Sennesdiar turned. “Ask it.”
Bergen’s eyes were hard. “Did you get what you were looking for?”
The magos paused for the briefest instant, and Bergen found himself imagining that, had Sennesdiar still possessed a face capable of it, he would be wearing a smile.
“Didn’t we all?” said the magos. Then he turned and moved off again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The sky was turning from red to murky brown. It would be night soon, but Wulfe and the others wouldn’t be here to see it. They were leaving. What remained of the 18th Army Group’s vehicles had already been rolled or towed up the ramps and into the gaping holds of the Mechanicus lifter. On the battlefield, the fires had gone out in most of the wrecks. Men moved among the dead, collecting dog tags from the necks of their fallen brothers, and retrieving lasguns, pistols, grenades and anything else that Munitorum procedure said was too valuable to leave behind.
Wulfe’s crew was already onboard the lifter, tying Last Rites II down in preparation for the flight. Wulfe had asked Siegler to come and fetch him when the last call to board went out. Then he had come, alone, to the place where Gossefried van Droi had died.
He stood looking at the twisted, burnt-out wreck that had once been the man’s pride and joy: Foe-Breaker. The bodies of her brave crew were still inside her. There was no Confessor Friedrich here to take care of them. The confessor had almost certainly died in the ork siege at Balkar, another good man lost.
Wulfe’s heart felt like it was made of lead. He had known van Droi for almost all of his fighting life. He trusted few people as much as he had trusted the lieutenant. That he was suddenly gone, after so many years of beating the odds, just didn’t seem real, neither did the loss of Holtz or Viess. These were men he had respected, men he had liked, not just fellow troopers, but friends.
That thought threw up another name, and a shiver ran the length of his spine, despite the heat. He remembered a whispering voice he had heard on his intercom once, and a hollow-eyed face that looked anything but peaceful: Corporal Borscht.
Wulfe prayed that van Droi and the others would not appear to him inexplicably like his former driver had. Surely the Emperor had already welcomed them to his side. They had more than earned it.
Footsteps sounded on the sand behind him.
“Time to ship out, right Sig?” asked Wulfe without turning.
“In a hurry to leave?” replied Voeder Lenck.
Wulfe turned, his brows drawing down into a scowl. “What are you doing here?”
Lenck grinned, but his eyes were dark and cold as he said, “Came to pay my respects, didn’t I? Think you’ve got a monopoly on that?”
Wulfe’s eyes narrowed. There was something about Lenck’s stance that he didn’t like. The wiry corporal looked loose and relaxed, but it seemed forced somehow.
Silence hung between them on the warm, still air.
“What are you really doing out here, corporal?”
Lenck shifted, stepping forward, bringing his hands around from behind his back. Wulfe saw a glimmer of metal in the corporal’s right hand. “I’m doing what your mother should have done at birth, you grox-rutter.”
Lenck settled into a fighting stance, well balanced on the balls of his feet, blade ready in his lead hand.
Wulfe immediately reached for his own knife, but it wasn’t there. It was lodged in the forearm of a dead ork.
“You’re frakking insane,” he spat. “Put that blade away, corporal. You’re making one hell of a mistake.”
Lenck laughed. “The way I hear it, Wulfe, you’ve quite a thing for ghosts. Well, guess what. Now you get to be one. You’ve had it in for me since the day we met, you self-righteous prick. But you didn’t know who you were messing with. Time to show you.”
Lenck lunged at Wulfe in a blur, thrusting the knife out towards his belly. Wulfe barely managed to twist away in time. He heard the ripping of fabric and looked down to see a wide cut in his tunic.
Lenck reset his stance, and then lunged again, this time with a high-to-low backhand slash that caught Wulfe on the right forearm. The blade bit into his flesh and sent a flare of pain along his nerves.
“Damn you, Lenck. Are you insane? How do you expect to get away with this?”
Lenck laughed. “You were out here grieving for van Droi when a wounded ork stumbled out of the shadows, surprised you and cut you down. Siegler will find your body.”
Lenck stepped in with another vicious slash, but Wulfe saw it coming and kicked out at the corporal’s knife-hand.
He missed.
The knife sliced deep into the meat of his left shoulder.
Wulfe gritted his teeth and grasped Lenck’s wrist, but the corporal punched him in the face with his free hand and sent him reeling backwards.
“You’re a relic, Wulfe, like Yarrick’s tank. You’ve had your day.”
Wulfe knew he couldn’t beat Lenck’s speed. Lenck had proved that already, but Wulfe was bigger and stronger.
His only chance lay in clinching, but it was a huge gamble. At close range, the knife would slash him to pieces. If he could just wrestle it free.
With a sneer of triumph, Lenck said, “I can see the fear in—”
Wulfe didn’t let him finish. He bull-rushed him, ramming his wounded shoulder hard into Lenck’s abdomen. Pain exploded throughout Wulfe’s body, but it was worth it. Lenck hit the ground hard with Wulfe on top of him, the air rushing out of his lungs.
“Bastard,” he hissed and immediately slashed at Wulfe’s face. Wulfe blocked with his forearm again and took another painful cut for his troubles.
Wulfe roared at the pain through gritted teeth, but he noticed something, too. On the ground next to Lenck lay something long and white and familiar. It had fallen from Wulfe’s pocket when they had landed on the ground.
Still straddling his enemy, Wulfe snatched it up desperately.
Lenck saw Wulfe grab for something and lashed out again at his face, but this time, Wulfe caught his wrist firmly in one hand and stabbed the ork tusk straight down into Lenck’s biceps with the other. The corporal howled as Wulfe yanked the tusk left and right, doing as much tissue damage as possible.
Lenck’s fingers went weak. The blade dropped.
“All right, enough,” he whined, grasping at his wounded arm. “You win, sergeant. You win. Just don’t kill me. I wasn’t gonna kill you, I swear. I just wanted to teach you a lesson.”
Wulfe loomed over him, growling, baring his teeth. It would be so easy to murder this worthless wretch.
So many problems would be solved in an instant. So why did he hesitate? He wasn’t sure what it was at first. For a brief moment, he thought it might be that there were so few Gunheads left, and Lenck had been through the same hell as he had, but it wasn’t that. It was simply duty. Lenck was an Imperial Guardsman, whether he liked it or not. His life belonged to the Emperor. It wasn’t Wulfe’s to take.
“Listen carefully, you piece of groxshit,” he rumbled. “You walk around like some kind of hive-ganger boss and think it counts for something. It counts for nothing out here. You got that? I saw through you from the start, you little punker. You’ll never have another chance like you did just now. Do you hear me? This will never happen again. I know you, Lenck. And, whether I’m dead or alive, I’m going to haunt you for the rest of your worthless frakking life.”
Having said his piece, Wulfe threw his whole body weight forward into a crushing elbow strike that smashed Lenck’s nose and split both his lips wide open. The back of his head bounced hard off the ground. He was out cold.
Wulfe looked down at the corporal’s ruined face. “That one’s for you, Holtz,” he muttered.
Wulfe carried Lenck’s limp form back to the Mechanicus lifter, the corporal draped over one shoulder like a sack of grain, and was climbing the boarding ramp just as Siegler appeared at the top.
“I was coming to fetch you,” said the loader. “Six minutes till take-off.”
Wulfe nodded and walked past him, and Siegler fell into step behind.
“What happened to Lenck?” he asked without a trace of concern.
“He was born stupid,” replied Wulfe.
The Fortress of Arrogance sat in the middle of the hold, tied down with dozens of thick steel cables. She was swarming with tech-servitors and enginseers hell-bent on removing the ork modifications as soon as possible. On the far left, between a pair of half-tracks, Wulfe spotted the New Champion of Cerbera and its shifty, no-good crew. They looked anxious, and stood up nervously when Wulfe began striding towards them with their unconscious leader.
[Imperial Guard 06] - Gunheads Page 35
