by Mark Clapham
Others had it worse. The pilot was dead, corpse burning, while Skartz was wailing incoherently, his face covered in the poisonous muck. A choking vapour filled the air, and Tothsen covered his primary mouth with his good hand.
Through his delirium, he realised the Stalker had stopped.
Looking out of the viewing slit, he could see that the deck was entirely ablaze. Nothing would be fired from there, and deep gashes had been blown out of the deck itself, allowing flaming liquid to seep into the lower decks. Further still Tothsen could see black dots against the white of the valley converging on the stricken galleon, ready to finish it off.
They would succeed, he was sure. The Stalker was almost dead, but Tothsen would not allow it to go down just yet.
He scrambled across to Skartz’s station. The poison had done its work and the officer was dead. Tothsen pushed his corpse away and hit a vox rune.
‘Engine room, all power to engines,’ Tothsen snapped into one channel, then hit another rune to communicate with the entire crew. ‘Enemy incoming, open all gunports. Fire at will.’
Then Tothsen ran to the pilot’s station, lame arm hanging to one side, and took the station himself. He was the last one alive on the bridge, and he would pilot the Stalker in its vital final moments.
Anju’s horse reared in terror as they approached the galleon, and she whispered soothing words to it. As fellow Tallarn riders threw grenades into the wheels of the galleon to try to halt it, and missiles from the Whirlwinds tore into the higher sections of the ship’s hull, the sturdy Tallarn horses, veterans themselves of countless battlefields, did not flinch, but they recoiled at approaching the galleon too closely.
‘They’re spooked,’ Ejad called to Anju over the roar of battle. He was one of the youngest riders in her squad. A fine rider and a good fighter, he was raw but had good instincts. ‘There’s something of the ghoul about this thing.’
Ghouls were a Tallarn myth, horrors of the desert, and there was something similarly monstrous and unnerving about the galleon, the way its blackness seemed to drink in light.
‘Gunners!’ someone shouted, and Anju looked up to see hatches open in the hull of the galleon and las-fire spit down on the riders below.
Squeezing her horse with her knees, Anju took her hands off the reins and lifted her lasrifle, raising it at a high angle. Compensating for the rhythm of her mount, she closed one eye and looked down the barrel, finding a ragged figure leaning out of a hatch.
She fired, and the figure tumbled out of the hatch, a barely human shape landing lifelessly in the snow.
The riders alongside her cheered as they found similar targets. They would bring this beast low one crew member at a time if necessary, and show that these great machines were no match for the furies of the desert.
‘Move in and finish that abomination off,’ ordered Folkvar from his command throne. Somehow, the galleon was still crawling on, though its deck was ablaze and the fiery liquid from the dragonracers was streaking down its hull. The other surviving Whirlwinds were firing too, missiles pounding into the galleon lower down, tearing into its hull and causing fragments of smouldering metal to rain down from its side.
Yet still it refused to die, and it had almost extracted itself from the mountain pass.
Folkvar himself controlled the Frost’s Godhammer-pattern lascannons, which pumped bursts of las-fire into the side of the galleon. The Tallarns were also moving in, but it would take a more brutal and direct approach to take down the galleon.
‘Tooth, Claw,’ Folkvar ordered. ‘Break those tracks.’
‘With pleasure,’ snarled Eluf, commander of Broken Claw, and the tank roared forwards.
Eluf didn’t need to check the auspex to know that close by Shattered Tooth was doing the same. Within the company these two tanks were known as ‘the twins’. Built in distant times, Shattered Tooth and Broken Claw were Vindicators, stubby, slow vehicles compared to the looming power of a Land Raider or the mobility of a Whirlwind, but equipped with a front-mounted demolisher cannon capable of dealing incredible damage to even the strongest armour. Deployed together in countless battles, their crews came from the same intake of new brothers, and often from the same Fenrisian tribes. Separate vehicles, separate crews, they nonetheless acted with one mind.
As the dark monstrosity ahead rolled further into the open valley, Tooth and Claw converged on it from different directions.
‘Ugly beast, isn’t it?’ said Hagen, Shattered Tooth’s commander, over the vox.
‘We’ve hunted worse,’ replied Eluf with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel as the Claw moved towards the enemy ship. The shadow of its hulk was a spreading patch of darkness seeping towards the approaching Claw. From hatches in its hull, las-fire rained down on the tanks.
‘A beast with fleas,’ said Hagen. Eluf just grunted.
Las-fire bounded off Broken Claw’s armoured exterior. More serious was a rocket that chewed up the ground before Shattered Tooth, forcing Hagen and his men to take evasive manoeuvres.
‘Looks like it’s up to us, brother,’ Eluf said over the vox, to cheers within the Claw. It was Hagen’s turn to express his displeasure.
Broken Claw had a clear path, moving alongside the giant enemy vehicle. As Broken Claw levelled with it, Eluf could see wheels and tracks taller than the tank itself.
‘Stay close, aim for that wheel,’ Eluf ordered. ‘That should slow them down. Fire!’
The demolisher cannon fired once. The Space Wolves shell smashed into the track of the galleon, but exploded in the narrow space underneath the huge ship. While the galleon shook, and Eluf could see that it had suffered hull damage, its progress was not halted and it continued to roll on.
‘Damn this thing,’ snarled Eluf. ‘Prepare to fire again.’
Broken Claw did not get the chance to take another shot. While the front of the tank was heavily protected by a siege shield that locked around the barrel of the demolisher cannon, the armour on the top of the vehicle was less resistant. The severe angle from which the crew of the galleon looked down upon the ground below afforded an excellent view of Broken Claw’s relatively vulnerable roof.
Screaming foul oaths in a heretical tongue, a ragged figure threw itself from a hatch above, landing on the roof of the Claw with a thump. Whether the figure survived the fall was moot, as the explosives strapped to its body detonated, tearing through the roof and into the cabin.
As he and his crew died, Eluf cursed this hellish ship and swore for the Tooth to avenge them.
Broken Claw, a tank that had fought in countless battles over the long centuries, was reduced to a blackened, smoking shell.
Anju rode around the smoking wreckage of the Space Wolves tank, a foul burning stench seeping through the scarf over her mouth and causing her eyes to water. Even the sudden burst of heat in the cold valley was unwelcome in these circumstances.
‘This thing just won’t die,’ shouted Ejad in frustration.
The moribund galleon was still rolling, slow but persistent. It was aflame, smoke pouring out of every firing slit, porthole and hatch on its hull, its armour cracked… and yet it rolled on. The crew fired down on the Tallarns and tanks riding alongside the galleon even as missiles and las-fire tore further rents in its structure.
In Burning Frost, Folkvar cursed. The Godhammers were overheated and needed to cool down. The enemy galleon was nearly out of the mountain pass. The immediate rout he had hoped for, driving the enemy back, was not to be. Soon the other galleons would roll out into the Valley of Blades, and he had lost two tanks already.
Victory would still be possible, but a long painful battle lay ahead.
‘The galleon is out into the valley,’ said Garik.
Folkvar leaned forwards to see what followed it. Even on his viewscreen, the visuals were cloudy with the smoke coming from the slowing galleon in the valley, and it was h
ard to see what followed. It took a short while for him to realise that there was nothing there.
Even as that first galleon rolled free of the mountain pass, leaving plentiful space for another to follow, nothing came.
As the Implacable Stalker continued across the Valley of Blades, suffering constant bombardment, the Unyielding Fist held back.
On the deck of the Fist, Huron Blackheart looked down from his prow to the mountain pass ahead of him. The Valley of Blades was out of sight to him so far, around a curve in the pass.
‘My lord,’ said Garreon, approaching. ‘The Stalker has entered the valley. The shipmaster believes they will not survive long out there. Shall the Fist follow?’
‘Shall I proceed, Lord Huron?’ asked Valthex, finger hovering on a rune on his auspex.
‘Wait, both of you,’ replied Blackheart. ‘We will take this Valley of Blades soon enough. Let us not squander another galleon to do so.’
Huron walked to the prow, leaning over to look at the amassed forces below, revving engines as they awaited orders: Rhinos, bikers, mutated mortal soldiers on ramshackle vehicles with weapons bolted to the frames, and three red-painted Predator tanks.
He spoke into his vox-bead, addressing the massed vehicles in the shadow of the Fist.
‘Take the valley for me,’ he said to the massed riders. ‘Bring me the heads of these Space Wolves.’
There was a roar from below, both from voices and engines, the two noises mingling into one as the forces of Huron Blackheart drove out to engage their enemies.
Sixteen
‘You will be my eyes in that valley,’ Huron Blackheart had said, addressing Rotaka and his squad on the deck of the Unyielding Fist. ‘For each blow to fall as it should requires you to see clearly. Do not think I will hesitate to pluck out an eye that offends me.’
Huron’s words echoed in Rotaka’s minds as his squad rode out of the mountain pass on their bikes. To be handed such responsibility gave Rotaka a feeling of pride, to have his master put faith in him.
The bikes they rode were powerful, robust vehicles, engines roaring and spiked wheels churning the snow as they shot ahead of the Rhinos, tanks and other vehicles.
‘Beautiful!’ enthused Malinko over the vox as they rode out into a wide valley surrounded by tall, icy mountains. It was not the scenery that attracted Malinko’s attention, but the carnage. The Implacable Stalker struggled on like a wounded animal, bleeding fire and smoke, a blackened carcass somehow managing to keep staggering forwards, while enemies bombarded it from all sides. Great grey Land Raiders and nimble Vindicators encircled the collapsing galleon, while riders on horseback exchanged fire with the crew of the Stalker.
‘Rotaka, report,’ hissed Garreon’s voice in Rotaka’s ear, reminding him that while his squad had been cut loose on the battlefield, they were being kept on a very short leash.
‘The Stalker still functions,’ Rotaka replied. ‘Though not for long.’
‘You have your orders,’ said Garreon. ‘Follow them as Lord Huron expects, and keep me informed.’
Rotaka suppressed the urge to tell the Corpsemaster exactly how little he needed his counsel, and surveyed the battlefield.
‘Let’s cause a little mayhem,’ he voxed his squad. ‘Target the mortals, but keep a distance from the tanks. Evasive swerve once their fire is drawn – let’s pull the big guns back towards the pass, then hand them off to the Predators.’
‘Targeting now,’ said Wuhrsk, spinning around and loosing a volley of bolts towards the nearest riders.
Badya felt the impact as the bolt slammed into her horse’s body, and felt it doubly so when the bolt exploded, burning her leg.
The horse bucked and jolted, almost throwing her off. Agony shot through her leg – her calf was scorched, and the horse’s blood was gushing out of its side.
Anju glanced across to see five terrifying apparitions sweeping across the Valley of Blades, bulky armoured figures on two-wheeled vehicles firing at the Tallarns.
‘Bikers incoming,’ she shouted over the vox. ‘Bikers inco–’
Then there was another burst of fire and a bolt exploded in her horse’s neck; then horse and rider alike were tumbling into the cold snow, and Anju lost consciousness.
‘Garik, get me close to those bikers,’ said Folkvar, before pressing a vox rune. ‘Shattered Tooth, Curved Fang, with me. Tallarns withdraw – the Rout will deal with this.’
Ahead, the bikers were swerving and weaving, unleashing bursts of fire on the Tallarns, who were having difficulty getting a bead on the fast moving bikes.
Folkvar didn’t need a clear shot; the Frost’s Godhammer lasers could strafe a wide swathe and scorch the bikers and anything between them.
‘Moving into range,’ reported Garik.
The Vindicators Shattered Tooth and Curved Fang were matching the Frost’s speed on either side of the Land Raider. Folkvar hit the vox. ‘Tooth, Fang, spread out and drive them inwards. These bikers are mine.’
The heavy shell that exploded near Malinko nearly flipped his bike altogether, the explosion throwing dirt and snow into the air, leaving a wide smoking crater. The pressure of the blast caught the tail of his bike, spinning him around in the snow.
He let out a huge laugh. ‘Which of these dogs wants to play?’ he shouted.
Then he saw them. A Land Raider and two Vindicators, converging on the wide area in which the Corsairs were looping as they fired on the mortal riders.
‘Huh,’ said Malinko. ‘Big dogs.’
‘Shut up, Malinko,’ snapped Rotaka over the vox. ‘We have a bite. Get close to the valley walls and head back. Garreon, are you listening to this? We’re coming in hot.’
‘The others should intercept you at the valley mouth,’ said Garreon.
Malinko got his bike under control and followed Rotaka’s instructions. The others were a little ahead of him, pulling back as one of the Vindicators fired a shell into their path.
‘Damn it,’ snapped Rotaka. ‘This was a bad idea.’
‘I’ll be sure to relay your feedback to Lord Huron,’ whispered Garreon.
Bursts of heavy laser fire began to scorch the snow to mist behind Rotaka and his squad. Between the Vindicators and the Land Raider, they were being driven back, away from their destination.
‘Verbin, think you can knock the Vindicator to our right off course?’ Rotaka asked.
‘Or die trying,’ said Verbin, gunning his bike and racing ahead of the others, heading straight for one of the Vindicators, hauling the plasma cannon off his back as he did so.
‘That’s suicide!’ said Malinko. ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
As the Vindicator’s demolisher cannon fired, Verbin threw himself sideways and off the bike, which fell on its side and skidded right under the demolisher shell. Landing on his side, Verbin was clear of the Vindicator as it rolled past, firing at the bottom of its tracks and causing it to veer out of control.
‘That’s our gap,’ said Rotaka. ‘Verbin, stay alive and we’ll pick you up.’
The four remaining bikers shot past the Vindicator as it tried to course correct, heading straight for the mountain pass. Malinko looked enviously at where Verbin had rolled to a halt in the snow. He got all the fun.
‘You took your time,’ Rotaka said over the vox and Malinko looked ahead to see Red Corsairs tanks, Rhinos and dozens of smaller vehicles manned by mortals pouring out into the valley.
Narrowly avoiding a collision with Curved Fang, Burning Frost turned to pursue the bikers. From his command throne, Folkvar saw the mass of vehicles emerging from the mountain pass. He saw at least two Predators and three Rhinos driving out, along with smaller vehicles that looked like they were bound together with tape and dirt.
‘Traitors incoming,’ he voxed to the other tanks. ‘Space Wolves, concentrate fire on those Predators. Tallarns, take out the mo
rtals.’
Badya was trapped. Her steed had been gunned down, and she had briefly lost consciousness. Now she was awake and could barely move. Her horse was dying, bleeding out, eyes glazed, breath rapid and ragged.
Worse than the death of a mount she had come to feel was part of herself, Badya was pinned underneath it, the horse lying across her legs and waist. She could feel its hot blood soaking her trousers, and a gradual numbing within her legs. Her body was pushed down into the snow and she could feel the cold seeping in through her protective clothing. If she did not get out soon she would go into shock.
Anju tried to lift the almost-dead weight off her, but she couldn’t – the horse was just too heavy.
‘Sergeant,’ said a voice nearby, barely audible over the din of explosions and gunfire. From her position, trapped on the ground, Badya had very little idea what was going on in the valley now, but it didn’t sound good. She looked up, vision swimming after the blow she had received to her head, and saw a familiar silhouette looking down at her.
‘Sergeant,’ repeated Ejad. ‘Do you need assistance?’
Badya should have said yes, but with the caveat that he should only dismount if it was safe to do so, and if he was not needed, that he should fight the battle they came to fight rather than attempting a risky battlefield rescue. She should have said all of these things, but with the numbness in her legs giving way to excruciating pain, and her vision still blurry and head ringing, she found herself just nodding.
Later, she would reflect that she had given Ejad bad advice. It was her foolish, nodded request that he dismount and help that got him killed. It happened in seconds, a roar of approaching engines, and a hail of gunfire that tore into the bodies of both Ejad and his horse, bringing the animal to its knees.
The wounded rider and horse lurched groundwards, threatening to collapse on top of her, and she had a brief glimpse of Ejad’s mouth open in shock, pale face splattered with his own blood.
