by Toby Frost
Tanner reached the end of the bus and looked round. He could run to the wall, where the siren was, and if he went quickly, the orks probably wouldn’t notice him before he had cut the wires. It wasn’t ideal, but–
Something lurched out of the shadows before him. Tanner ducked back, but the glimpse he got was enough: a red monster, scaled like a grox. It was a weird, unfinished looking beast with a stubby tail and a head that was all fangs and tiny, malicious eyes. It was a fighting-squig, the ork equivalent of a guard dog.
A small pile of empty cans lay at the end of the bus. From the looks of it, the gretchin had been living in there. Tanner picked up one of the cans and tossed it underarm, hearing it rattle across the ground. A moment later, the squig jumped on the can, scooped it into its maw and lumbered into the shadows to devour it.
Tanner ran out, ducked left and rolled into cover. He crouched down behind a rusty generator, hearing the squig start to growl like an engine coming to life.
It didn’t matter; he was near enough to the siren. He reached out and slid the knife through the cabling and the plastic sleeve protecting it. Tanner grabbed the loose end and yanked it out of the wall for good measure. With no alarm, and his team covering the exits, the orks would never leave the enclosure, and would never be able to call for help.
Shadow flickered across Tanner’s hands. He glanced up and saw a skinny green form squatting above him. The gretchin screeched a warning as Tanner lunged for it. He grabbed the beast, stabbed it, but it screamed before he could cover its mouth. He tossed the corpse down as noise broke out: hard ork speech, and the squig snarling through a mouthful of spit.
Tanner leaped out of cover. A voice cried out – a hulking shape pointed and bellowed – and he darted between the vehicles. The orks shouted, and a chain clinked on stone. Then Tanner sprinted for the exit, as the slavering racket behind him rose and rose. The squig’s claws clattered; there was no way he was fighting that head-on, knife or not. The exit came into sight. Tanner pushed himself on and shouted, ‘Go, go!’
A man stepped into view, gun raised. The lasgun cracked out and the squig yelped. Tanner whipped round and leaped on it, stabbing and carving. His squad ran past him into the compound. Tanner clung on to the squig as if to throttle it, twisting the knife, and it squealed. Hot purple gore ran onto his hands. The red, stinking body shuddered in his arms, and he let it drop. He stood up, ready to keep on fighting, but his men were done.
‘Compound’s cleared,’ a trooper called.
‘Nothing left for me?’ Tanner demanded. ‘Come on. Let’s find Iron Hand.’
Lavant looked across the row of buildings ahead of him, and saw nobody. He did not expect to, but the urge to check was impossible to resist. Someday, he thought, he will be there, and I will be in his sights. And if he wants to take his revenge on me, well…
‘Sir?’ Someone tapped his shoulder. He whipped around, half expecting a looming, reaper-like figure to be there, sniper rifle held up in place of a scythe. Instead, Corporal Cardrik looked back, a little surprised by the captain’s response.
‘Cardrik,’ Lavant said. ‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry, sir. The bombs are all ready. I thought you might like to check them over.’
‘Thanks.’ It had become a ritual, over the last year or so, that Lavant would check everything himself. To begin with, the men had found it pernickety and strange, but nobody said anything now, especially since Lavant had been promoted to captain.
He crept back through the building and into the kitchen at the rear, where the rest of his team awaited him. A prayer-scroll had been pinned over the table in the centre; half a dozen packs of explosives now sat where food had once been prepared. Lavant went over each one, turning it over in his hands. He saw one of the men glance at his chrono and tried to hurry up, aware that they needed to get to work. But he couldn’t rush himself, couldn’t take the risk. Eventually he took a bulky satchel charge and a smaller bomb, both triggered by remote control. He slipped the controllers into his thigh pocket and buttoned it closed.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
There were only a dozen men in his team, with a stripped-down heavy bolter for support. It was old jungle-fighting dogma: go in fast and quiet, hit the target spot-on, and get away as light and quickly as possible. They advanced through looted shops, past shelves of spoiled, luxury food and racks of coats in guild colours, towards the broad street. Lavant carefully opened a door marked ‘Private: staff and servitors only’ and looked through wide, smashed windows across the road.
‘Set the bolter up here,’ he said.
The shop had once sold local tea made from Barabo plants and overpriced food, probably brought in from off-planet. It was long-since looted, but its chief advantage remained: it overlooked Millennial Square.
A dozen ork bikes were parked in the square, in the shadow of what had been a public pulpit. Next to them stood a scout tank, its wheels as high as a man, the flanks covered in rivets the size of coins. The bikes had that tough, ramshackle look of all ork vehicles, as if cobbled together by an ingenious barbarian from whatever was at hand. The metalwork glinted with grease and oil. Lavant hoped it was flammable.
One of his men approached and handed over a demo charge. Lavant tested the circuitry, tested it again, and crept towards the door. Behind the bikes, at the far end of the square, the orks had set up a cook-house in an old civic building. Lavant could see figures lumbering about inside: ork bikers, looking for food. Emperor only knew what they were cooking in there, but it stank. Probably rotting meat, Lavant thought. The aliens would eat anything.
He crept out of the shop and scurried across the road, using the scout tank as cover. The street felt incredibly exposed. Across the city, a long way off, gunfire crackled. Up ahead, voices grunted and laughed. Lavant sped up, running now, and reached the bikes. He dropped behind a row of red-painted machines and got to work.
It was easy to attach the bomb to the nearest bike. Despite the oil, the tape stuck fast to the bulbous promethium tank. The bikes, he saw, were built for xenos proportions, for bodies broader than those of men.
An ork snarled above him.
He froze. Two and a half metres away, a brute in a steel helmet spat into its hand and rubbed the gloved palm on the goggles it wore. Lavant held his breath. His hand crept to the knife at his side.
The biker gargled, coughed and spat a wad of phlegm onto the seat of a black bike decorated with a chequerboard pattern, presumably belonging to a rival. Then it turned and walked away. Lavant breathed again. He crept forwards, to the edge of the cook-house. Carefully, he slid the satchel charge into his hands and laid it against one of the support joists. He flicked the switch to activate it and crept back.
He stopped behind the scout tank. Newsen was wiring a krak grenade to the front axle. Sergeant Dhoi discreetly pushed a wad of soft explosive against the engine vents, where it would heat up once the tank started to move. They nodded to him, and the three hurried back to the looted shop.
The rest of the team had taken up positions facing the cook-house. Lavant checked that they were all set. He took out the remote for the explosive he’d attached to the bike, spoke a quick grace to the Emperor and to the Machine-God, and pressed the button.
The bike exploded. It broke at the handlebars and blew three metres into the air as its fuel tank ignited, thrown up on a billowing cloud of fire. Other machines were knocked aside, toppling onto one another. Suddenly they looked like a heap of scrap.
‘Ride that,’ one of the demo team muttered at Lavant’s side.
Orks spilled out of the cook-house, grunting and bellowing. The owner of the ruined bike – the chipped paint on its armour matched that of its ride – went into a fit of bellowing. It kicked and stamped the wreckage as if it were a prisoner, and Lavant allowed himself a small smile. Another ork, yellow flames painted over its helmet, pointed and roared with laughter.
The cook-house was almost empty now. Lavant watched as
the orks argued, laughed and shoved each other, in preparation for the inevitable squabbling. One or two, more shrewd than the rest, hauled their bikes out and looked around, suspicious.
Best not let them get away, Lavant thought. He slipped the detonator out for the satchel charge, and hit the switch.
The second explosion was much bigger. The front of the building burst, showering the orks in shards of rock. It took out three bikers in a booming ripple of fire, throwing chunks of machine and rider across the square.
‘Fire!’ Lavant shouted. The crack of lasguns and the roar of the heavy bolter rose around him. The surviving orks were mown down as they tried to get away. Two clambered onto the tank – one was shot to pieces, but the other managed to throw itself inside. Moments later, the tank’s front wheel burst in a cascade of scrap.
Lavant glanced at Dhoi. ‘Nice work,’ he said.
A hand-cranked siren rose up and wailed over the rooftops. Gunfire rang out to the east. Orks bellowed in the surrounding streets.
Lavant gave the sign to slip away. With a bit of luck, he thought, he and his team had just started a tribal war.
Straken heard the explosions, and a moment later saw filthy black smoke rise above the city, swirling towards the cave roof. Ork gunfire crackled out in the distance like snapping twigs.
Mayne turned from the vox-comm. ‘Colonel, Captain Lavant says it’s all go. He’s blown up barracks and a load of bikes. Now he’s moving up towards an ammo dump. Says they’ve not seen him.’
‘Let’s move.’ Straken raised his metal arm, knowing that the snipers and missile teams would be watching him. He brought it down, as if to throw fire onto the gatehouse.
Rockets hissed and roared out of cover. One went wide, three tore straight into the gatehouse doors with a boom that rippled out across the avenue. The doors gaped open, wreathed in smoke. Straken heard orks bellowing in surprise.
He turned to the men around him. ‘Guardsmen, follow me!’
They yelled behind him, their voices rising in a wave of noise, and several hundred men rushed the gatehouse.
Figures moved in the upstairs windows, lumbering to man the guns, and the Catachan snipers got to work. Orks fell back, clutching their heads and chests. Few were killed outright, but it didn’t matter – what counted was that they were pinned in place until Straken could get his troops inside.
His boots pounded on the cracked stone. Straken raced between two trees, hearing ork weapons bark out overhead, and a frag missile shot into the third floor window and blew the offices apart. Smashed furniture and pieces of ork fell into the street. Straken levelled his shotgun as he reached the gatehouse.
He rushed up the front steps, saw something move in the doorway and blasted it. The figure dropped away, but despite the missiles, the doors had not opened wide enough: they were chained from behind. Straken threw himself against a statue beside the doors, pumped his gun and saw the horde of men behind him. They hit the building and tore at the boarded windows with bayonets and lasgun butts. A chainsword howled as it struck metal, throwing up an arc of sparks.
He heard grunts and snarls from inside the gatehouse. Something heavy hit the doors from behind, almost slamming them closed. The Guardsmen had only seconds before the orks reinforced their position.
‘Sentinel!’ Straken yelled, beckoning. All around him men shouted and battered the ork defences in. Someone tossed a grenade into an upstairs window. An ork fell from the second floor and disappeared amidst a flurry of Catachan fists and knives.
The Sentinel came striding through the men like a great predatory bird, hydraulics whining. A jointed arm folded down under the canopy, and at the end of it an immense chainsaw whirred into action. Men leaped aside and it waded through. At the last ten metres it suddenly accelerated, and it bounded up the steps and smashed into the doors. The whirling blade screamed against the plasteel doors, metal creaked, and suddenly the doors burst apart and Straken saw into the hallway beyond.
Light sparked at the front of the Sentinel and its heavy flamer blew a great jet of fire into the entrance hall. Liquid promethium turned three orks into staggering, spinning torches, and they fell, thrashed and lay still. Flames lapped at paintings and furniture, and the stone hall was clear.
The Sentinel stepped backwards carefully. Sergeant Pharranis waited on the far side of the doorway, plasma gun raised. He nodded to Straken.
‘With me!’ Straken cried, and he ran into the hall.
It was empty. An ork struggled on the floor, rolling in flames; Straken shot it immediately. The hall had been lavishly decorated, an ideal point to welcome overground dignitaries to Excelsis City, but there was no indication of where the gate controls might be. A grand wooden staircase stretched up towards some kind of lounge. Doors led off to the left and right.
‘Throne,’ Straken spat. ‘Pharranis, split up and spread out. I want teams in every room. Don’t let any of the xenos get away, understand?’
‘Right,’ the sergeant growled, and as he started to shout orders at the men, orks ran onto the staircase from above.
The brutes crowded down the stairs, leaping over the banisters. Straken rushed straight at them, shotgun raised. He met them head on. A thick green arm swung down, and Straken ducked past the ork’s cleaver, shoved the shotgun under its jaw and blew out its brains. A second monster hacked at him with an axe, and Straken blocked the axe-shaft with his gun. The ork paused, surprised by Straken’s speed, and he punched it in the chest with his metal fist. Straken felt the ork’s ribs give way and it staggered back, coughing. His men rushed in beside him, knocking down the injured ork and two more. He turned, and saw a scar-faced beast toss one of the Guardsmen off the staircase. Straken ran over, kicked its leg out and sank his mechanical fingers into its throat. He ripped his hand away in a spray of ork blood, and around him his men slaughtered the rest of the aliens.
Halfway up the stairs, Straken passed a Guardsman, lying on the landing. The man rolled onto his side and groaned. ‘You all right?’ Straken asked.
The man sat up, wincing. ‘It’s nothing, sir.’
‘Then stop lying down on the job and help me clear this place out. Mayne, get that vox up here. The rest of you – we’ll take the upstairs. Let’s go!’
Morrell heard the chaos at the gates, and knew that the city was about to come alive. Seconds later, orks rushed out of the buildings to join their comrades at the gatehouse, and Zandro’s team opened fire. The aliens had not expected a rearguard, and at once they were cut to pieces. The Catachans fired from the barricades, from windows and rooftops, and turned the avenue leading to the gates into a killing-ground. The orks had no plan, just the knowledge that there was fighting to be done elsewhere, and as they raced in to join the battle, the support team shot the xenos apart.
Morrell did his own share of the killing. A mortar bomb landed by the side of an ork truck, flipping it over. The vehicle slid into the front of an administratum office and stopped. As a dozen alien brutes dragged themselves free, Morrell took careful aim with his bolt pistol and finished them with an executioner’s skill, placing a single shell into each green head.
Straken strode into the control room. A massive ork turned from the gate controls. Its left arm was wholly mechanical, ending in a mass of blades and tools.
The alien grinned and lunged at Straken. He sidestepped and fired in the same motion, and his shotgun threw the ork against the far wall. It hauled itself up, bloody and snarling, but Straken was too quick. The last thing it saw was his metal fist, crashing into its thick skull. The brute fell half-through the window, and Straken’s second blow sent it tumbling headfirst into the stone below. Outside, soldiers cheered.
The Catachan Second swept through the gatehouse. Although the xenos fought like wild beasts, there was no organised defence – the attack on the gatehouse had taken them by surprise. Half a dozen orks had even been ambushed whilst playing some sort of gambling game, surrounded by little piles of canine teeth. Now it was just a matter
of clearing the place. Lasguns cracked and men shouted as they moved from room to room. At the far end of the building, an injured ork roared and grunted like an angry bull, and then fell silent.
Tanner and Lavant waited in the lobby. Both men looked keen and angry, and Tanner’s chest was striped with dark xenos blood. Straken checked his chrono and turned to his captains. ‘Lavant, I want the gate doors checked for booby traps – maybe the orks got smart around here.’
‘I wouldn’t put money on it,’ Tanner said. ‘Not that lot.’ Someone chuckled.
‘Tanner, pipe down and get the street cleared. Pull the barricades away. We’re on time for the rendezvous, but it’s tight. I want our tanks to have a nice clear road in. Get some men in the buildings flanking the main street and check the windows in case there’re any orks left. Lavant, get your men scanning the doors, just in case the orks have rigged them. And somebody tell Halda to come up here. I want the colours ready to fly.’
He watched them go. Straken looked out the smashed window, the frame still edged with shards of glass like fangs in a monster’s mouth, and reloaded his shotgun as his men got to work in the street below. On top of a civic building one of the scouts signalled across the road with a piece of mirror. A moment later, another flash came back. Straken knew the signs. The orks were fighting the rearguard.
It wouldn’t be long, though, until the xenos mustered for a counter-attack. They’d never let the Catachans hold the gates; none of the green savages would be able to resist the chance for a fight. The sooner there were some tanks in place, some artillery heavier than the Sentinels could carry, the better.
Halda came bounding up the stairs, the banner pole held in both hands like a spear. His vest was sticky with ork blood and some of the stuff had splashed into his beard. ‘It’s not mine,’ he said as Straken looked him over.
