by Marc
He fired a single round from the shotgun, aimed right into the face of the immense ork leader. With a roar like the end of the world the autocannon shell lodged in its jaw detonated, blowing the beast’s head clean off, tearing a huge chunk out of its monstrous body. It swayed, as if it hadn’t realised it was dead – then it fell.
Knowing that he had died giving as good as he had got, his heart pumping sheer glory through his veins, Samiel fell under the heaving mass of greenskins and felt no more.
‘YOU’RE A LUCKY swine.’ said the voice. It wasn’t Savlar – the accent was different. ‘Well enough to talk?’
‘Just.’ Samiel was surprised to hear his own voice replying. He opened his eyes – Jaegersweld’s sunlight was never very bright, but he still squinted after so long…
Asleep? Unconscious? Dead?
The shadow in front of him became the shape of a man. A lined face and grey hair, dressed in Cadian fatigues. A colonel, Samiel saw from the chevrons on his shoulder.
‘You mind telling me what happened here, son?’
‘Ran into some orks, sir.’ Samiel could hardly believe he was speaking. He had thought he must be dead before, twice… but this time he had been certain. He had been there waiting for it, and when it came he faced it and refused to let it take him without a fight.
He straggled into a sitting position. Behind the colonel was the smoking shell of the Defixio. He wouldn’t have recognised it as a tank at all had he not spent the last, greatest moments of its life inside it. Skeletons surrounded it, just as charred.
The massive jawbones and beetling craniums of orks were everywhere, with a couple of human skulls that had once belonged to his comrades.
‘Took a lot of them with you. Must’ve thought you were dead, eh?’
‘I was sort of counting on it, sir.’
‘Like I said, one lucky swine. Fuel tanks went up and threw you clear. Week or two with the Sisters in the field hospital and you’ll be back in action.’ The colonel looked over Samiel’s tattered fatigues, and the gas mask that hung round his neck. ‘You from Savlar?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Steal anything and we’ll hang you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Samiel could sit up but he couldn’t walk – one leg was busted so bad he couldn’t feel it. As he was loaded onto a stretcher he could see the rest of the Cadians clearing up the debris of the ork camp they had overran in recapturing their HQ. The ork totem was being taken down from the roof of the command bunker, and the bodies lined up in mass graves.
Nothing Karra-Vrass had said was true. His friends (they were his friends in those final hours, without a doubt) had died no better deaths than the hundreds of Cadians days earlier, or the poor souls killed when the convoy was hit. They hadn’t achieved anything, not really – the war on Jaegersweld would carry on without them. The Imperium was exactly the same as it would have been had none of them ever lived.
But that wasn’t the point. They felt they were achieving something in death. Even Karra-Vrass believed his own words, of that Samiel was sure. They believed they were dying for a cause, they had been allowed to confront their deaths head-on and not have it finding them without warning as they cowered alone. How many Guardsmen on Jaergersweld could say that?
It was a terrible place, this galaxy, that ate up the lives of men. But sometimes, there was hope. Sometimes, there was something you could salvage from it, some dignity and pride, even if it was right at the end. It was more than most men got in the Guard, or on the Dead Moons, or anywhere else. Samiel couldn’t properly understand it himself. But the crew of the Defixio had won a fine and noble victory of their own.
Now, of course, Samiel was a sole survivor twice over, and it would be a miracle if anyone would ever so much as look at him without muttering something dark under their breaths about how that man had used up enough luck for a hundred men. But there were worse things. In fact, he had something to be proud of – he had died a total of three times now, and two of those were pretty good send-offs. That wasn’t a bad strike rate.
The Cadians began to carry him back to the HQ compound, through the wreckage of the ork camp. One of the stretcher-bearers glanced round at him, and must have wondered why, when he had a shattered leg and every one of his friends was dead, all this crazy Savlar kid could do was smile to himself.
ANCIENT LANCES
Alex Hammond
A DRY HEAT slid over the barren wastes with the rising of the sun. As light pushed at the edges of the darkness, the shadows fell away to reveal the dead in their many hundreds. Dakat City was nothing but rabble and corpses. Broken steel and concrete lay spread out on the baking sand. Only carrion insects moved about the devastation, nibbling on flesh, darting across dead eyes.
Al’Kahan looked out across the sea of carnage. His eye did not blink. Heavy artillery must have pounded the city for hours. The bunkers were torn open. The network of hives beneath the city would be running with blood. It would pool in the lower places. The smell of it would remain there forever.
His mare stirred beneath him. She had a heart of iron but liked the slaughter of innocents no more than he. Al’Kahan turned to face his men. Veteran tribesmen all, they were the best sons his home world had to offer. Each should know his steed as well as his steel. The philosophy of his people. The horse was their kin, their companion. Without it they could never prevail.
The battalion looked across at Al’Kahan, their dark eyes and rough hearts moved by the scene before them. They wore the marks of their clans upon their cloaks, carved from bone and stitched onto the hides of great bison. Beads of honour hung from their beards, holding the complex plaits in place. Al’Kahan spoke, his voice breaking the stillness of the spent battlefield.
‘This is our first and last day. Last, for we shall no longer be sworn to the sword of the Imperium. First, for we shall die or succeed. To die is to pass on to the plains of our ancestors, to join them in the great hunt. To succeed is to be given a world to make our own.’
Al’Kahan stood upon the back of his horse, so that he could see the entire body of men. Lifting his eye patch he spoke. ‘We own each battle. It has cost us one and all, brother man and brother horse. We are the Sons of Atilla. Our destiny stands before us.’
Al’Kahan dropped into his saddle and pulled hard on his reins. His mare stood high on her hind legs and kicked at the air. In a second, the silence was broken for the last time on that day. Two hundred hooves struck the ground in unison, sending carrion beetles scrabbling and used shells flying. Al’Kahan’s Atillan Rough Riders were on the move again.
They swept over the broken lands, skirting between battlefields. As they rode, they found only the dead, but the tracks of their enemies were all too clear. Heavy tanks and many infantry: this was an enemy unconcerned with subterfuge, an army of fire and iron.
‘Honourable Al’Kahan?’ A giant tribesman, Tulk, rode beside him, livid face scars denoting many kills.
‘Speak, brother.’
‘Those who lead the Prakash XIIth have made contact. They’re being surrounded. Cut off on the salt flats. They will make their stand there.’ Tulk grunted in disdain.
‘They will fall if surrounded.’
‘If the spirit of the hawk is with us, we may have speed enough to aid them.’ the large tribesman said, looking to the sky.
‘Indeed, if we fight with our ancestors by our side we could break the enemy’s line. Create a weak point, from which they may make their push. Use the communicator: let them know that the sons of Atilla will save their hideless backs once again.’
CRESTING AN EMBANKMENT, the riders looked out over the Great Lake. Its life blood dried up, it shimmered in the haze of a high sun. A dark column snaked like a viper across the salt flats, heading inexorably for a much smaller, ragged mass. Al’Kahan paused briefly, his men arriving close beside him as he looked through binoculars at the forces ahead. He turned and called out.
‘The enemy artillery is their key. Like a
fist from heaven it has smashed every settlement we have passed. We must outflank it and destroy it. Our ancestors are with us today, this I know for a wind has travelled with us across this barren land. Feel it at your heels when you strike for their heart.’ Al’Kahan raised his lance and readied it in the harness of his saddle. ‘Save your lances for their artillery. Do not engage their main force. Ride like the wind, my brothers.’
Al’Kahan let out a deep, wordless cry, his voice holding strong. The riders followed suit, their voices rising high above the thick heat. Al’Kahan felt a shiver pass through his bones, electric like the thrill of a kill. His lance felt good in his hand, like it had always been there. He was first to break the war cry and set his steed to battle. The pounding of the hooves rang about the great expanse. Tulk screamed their position down the communicator array on his back. A flare from the Prakash XIIth rose high into the air. A reply signal, they were prepared.
Al’Kahan’s heart felt as though it was keeping pace with the rushing horses. The closer the enemy, the tighter he gripped his reins. His cloak spun and twisted in the air about him. His eyes wept with the sting of the rising salt from the flats and the wind in his eyes.
A shell landed close by. It sent a horse and rider spiralling through the air, the mare whinnying as it slammed to the ground. It died on impact. Its rider fell beneath a hundred hooves. Honed in battle craft the men spread wide. Another shell fell amidst them, its shrapnel slicing flesh and fur. But artillery fire could not compete with the riders’ speed.
They were closing on their greatest threat. Ahead, foul Chaos Marines, their ancient armour warped and corrupt, skirted like giant cockroaches behind their machines. Here they nested, chittering, calling and screaming in a language that bore into Al’Kahan’s skull, as though it was trying to devour him. All around them, screaming hordes of cultists howled insane hymns to their warped masters.
Al’Kahan’s warrior’s heart shuddered to look upon them all. He gripped his studded reins tighter, letting the iron studs tug at his flesh. The pain helped distract him from the abominations ahead. Airborne jet bikes tore the sky apart as they ripped forward from within the enemy’s column. Lasfire and bolter shells began to rain down upon the riders. Men were thrown from their horses, the beasts remaining riderless within the charge. Al’Kahan leapt the body of a dead horse, its skull raptured, a rider trapped beneath it.
The first of the riders had reached the enemy’s line. They did well, their steeds ploughing through the line of cultists. Some were cut down, spurts of blood slicing through the air like jets of steam.
Tulk led a second wave. His men had stowed their lances in favour of lasguns. Every shot rang true, but few penetrated. In answer, hot metal shells ploughed into his unit. Horses fell, colliding with one another on their way to the ground. A few riders were able to leap free, but most were cut down or crushed beneath their mounts, their bodies dropping like building blocks smashed aside by a child. Their momentum had been stopped. Men had to take cover behind the dead and dying. The Chaos hordes cared only for the spilling of blood, and rained fire upon dead and living alike.
Al’Kahan wheeled around and drove his unit hard towards his fallen comrades. To remain stationary in battle was to offer victory to the enemy. Vaulting the piled dead, Al’Kahan rode along the Chaos line. He swung his lance like a staff, keeping its explosive tip from striking. The fallen raiders took his cue and charged at the enemy. Atillans rushed the armoured Chaos Marines, their furs soaked in blood. Many were thrown high by the sheer force of the enemy’s powered armour, but a few blows found their mark.
‘We’re slowing!’ Al’Kahan cried, circling the fray and rounding up those riders who remained mounted. The ground shook, and for all but a moment, cultist and rough rider alike paused. Barbed tanks, bristling with weapons and equipped with savage scythes and ploughs, began to advance upon the Imperial Guard.
‘Pull out! Move, damn you!’ Al’Kahan called, leaning down from his saddle to snatch at the grasping hand of a fallen raider.
‘Thank you, brother.’
Tulk, Al’Kahan’s lieutenant grinned back at him, his sharpened teeth streaked with his own blood. It welled up from a gash on his tattooed face, a fresh memento of this battle and one that Tulk would certainly cherish.
‘They’re not too tough once you’ve cracked them open!’ he grinned.
The enemy tanks were almost upon them. Men were still trying to scramble free of the fray onto stray horses and the backs of their colleagues.
Al’Kahan swore. ‘We need time.’
‘It would be an honour, Al’Kahan.’ Tulk said.
Al’Kahan kicked hard into the flanks of his horse and rode high over the mounting dead. He charged straight towards the first of the tanks. Flanks dripping with sweat and blood, Al’Kahan’s mare struggled forward, irregular hoof falls alerting him to her waning strength.
‘One more charge, daughter of Atilla,’ he called to her.
Tulk stood upon the horse’s back, arms steadying himself against Al’Kahan. He snatched a bulging satchel from the saddle and crouched. Al’Kahan rode alongside the approaching tank, its cruel blades spinning but an arm’s distance away. Tulk paused for a moment only, then the giant tribesman flung himself forwards onto the grinding vehicle. Al’Kahan kicked at his mount and they burst forwards, throwing salt high into the air as they galloped around the rear of the machine. Tulk scrabbled up the top of the tank and threw himself back as a hatch burst open. Al’Kahan snatched a throwing disc from his belt. He threw the blade with abandon, not caring whether he cut down the Marine or gave Tulk a painless death. It ricocheted off the hull and up into the cultist’s face. The man fell, gun pumping, back into the tank’s innards. Amid screams, the vehicle spun wide and bucketed right. Tulk pulled a grenade from the satchel and popped its pin. He threw it deep into the machine and looked about, wild frenzy in his eyes.
Al’Kahan spurred his mount on. Tulk threw himself down a little ahead of his comrade. An explosion ripped the tank open, throwing Tulk into Al’Kahan’s horse’s flank. All three collapsed to the ground. Two more tanks pressed onwards. Dazed, Al’Kahan turned, trying to catch sight of his men. A dull pain at the base of his spine drew his attention to his legs, trapped beneath the horse.
‘Tulk?’ The tribesman did not stir. The tanks rambled on towards the Atillan commander. Al’Kahan scrabbled desperately at the satchel at Tulk’s side but could not reach it. He reached back and caught hold of his lance. Using it, the Atillan prodded gently at the satchel, praying the explosive tip would not trigger, setting the grenades off. The surface of the salt flats came away in large plates as the satchel dragged slowly towards him. The noise of the tank filled his entire body. Al’Kahan slowly drew the satchel close enough to open.
The shadow of the tank fell across him. Scythes and blades cut up the corpse of Tulk, harvesting flesh. Al’Kahan drove his hand deep into the satchel and pulled a pin. At the same moment, he braced the lance hard against the carved insignia on his armoured breastplate. Al’Kahan threw the satchel beneath the lead tank and let the vehicle’s plough catch the tip of his lance. Flame and sulphur engulfed him for an instant as the lance tip detonated, throwing him backwards and away from the exploding tanks.
Al’Kahan floundered, tumbling backwards across the salt flats, unable to slow his momentum. He prepared for the sharp, crushing pain of hooves. Instead he found himself wrapped in something soft. The smell of home… fried bison and corn bread. Was this the hereafter?
Al’Kahan opened his eyes. Wrapped about him was a thick fur cloak. He had been scooped from the ground, two young riders supporting him between horses.
‘We have you, honourable commander.’ a young rider with tangled braids said.
‘A steed! I need a fast mare. We must destroy their artillery.’ Al’Kahan wheezed.
‘Great commander—’
‘I know I’m wounded. My chest is pierced, my life blood falls to the soil. If we do not fight we will lose
this battle and my name will be dishonoured. Better to die than to live dishonoured.’
Ten more riders arrived to regroup, some carrying additional men.
‘Gather the lances! And get me a horse!’ Al’Kahan screamed.
An Atillan dismounted while others circled, sweeping down from their saddles to snatch up the unused lances of fallen riders. They lay, scattered like kindling, across the battlefield, daring the foolish to tread upon their explosive tips.
Al’Kahan propped himself up in a saddle. The sucking wound in his chest was like a blow hole, gouting forth blood and pain.
‘Son of Atilla,’ Al’Kahan called to the dismounted rider. ‘Get behind me. Take your clan tassels and hold them hard to my wound.’
The rider held Al’Kahan tight, his grip stemming the flow. ‘You hold my old life in your hands. Quite literally.’ Al’Kahan coughed, feeling his life’s blood wearing thin.
No cry was given. In this moment, actions spoke louder than any horn. Al’Kahan spurred the new steed forwards, the young warrior on his back bracing his wound and bearing several lances. The remaining riders followed suit, their steeds catching up with the old commander. They spread out with an unspoken synchronicity, pulling alongside one another. A line of riders, thirty strong, churned the earth as they flung themselves hard at the enemy.
‘Ready lances!’ Al’Kahan commanded. The artillery loomed closer. It was larger than he had expected. Giant cannons pointed skywards, seeming to stroke the bellies of the clouds. Mortars with gates as dark as the mouth of the warp grinned like daemons. Tracked platforms churned up the ground beneath them, ripping huge trenches into the ground. These machines were eager to belch their deadly shells upon the good men of the Emperor.
As they rode, the Atillans passed the lances from hand to hand with spider-grace. All were equipped twice over. The Chaos Marines and their cultist forces caught sight of the rough riders. They scrambled low across the ground, throwing themselves hard behind the rare pieces of cover that jutted, like blast craters, from the ground.
