Dashour fired a melta round at his feet, his last act of spite for an enemy twice faced and twice feared. The blast vaporised his lower body along with his attackers, and his lifeless torso fell off the wall into the courtyard below.
Major Hussari saw Dashour plummet from the walls, and wished him peace in the Emperor’s care. Hussari was one of the last Guardsmen left on the wall, with Kortan standing at the entrance to the fire-direction centre, trying to get the remaining men inside. The Guardsmen trapped in the courtyard skirmish circles were stranded, the tyranids pouring into the compound and cutting them off from retreat. One soldier pressed his laspistol to his temple and fired, dropping immediately. The others continued firing at anything that approached them. Runners, centipede floor skimmers and frog-like leapers rushed a smaller skirmish circle of three men, and dragged them down with claw swipes and tail stings.
“Go inside and close that door!” Hussari cried into his micro-bead. Kortan saw him and motioned him over, but it was too late, there were too many tyranids on the wall between him and sanctuary. He waved Kortan off and continued firing his lasgun. “Go! That’s an order!”
Not waiting to see if Kortan obeyed, Hussari made a run for the nearby roof of the vehicle stable. He’d planned this route out a few hours ago, not to save himself, but to inflict as much punishment on his foes as possible. He landed on the metal roof, a storey below the battlements, and continued running for the edge. He felt the roof shake and the metal groan as tyranids leapt after him. He didn’t bother looking behind. Either he’d make it or he wouldn’t.
Hussari glanced up once and was glad to see the door to the fire-direction centre close, the FDC’s ball-mounted guns still blazing. He leapt off the roof and onto the metal frame of Damask’s idling Sentinel, left next to the vehicle stable. With practiced ease, he slipped into the cockpit and revved the engine. The barrel of the multi-laser began spinning, and within seconds, unleashed a steady torrent of electrified las-fire. Hussari strode into the courtyard, crushing smaller tyranids underfoot, while raking the area with crackling blasts. For the first time, the tyranids scattered, the Sentinel a surprising arrival.
The Sentinel continued moving around, trying to help the three or four skirmish circles fighting for dear life. They fought with renewed vigour at the sign of the bird, its gun blazing, but the tyranids showed no hesitation as they clambered over the walls. Several leapt for the Sentinel’s cockpit, but Hussari was faster. He sidestepped them entirely, or blasted them from the air. Still, it was growing more difficult to move, the tyranids swamping at his feet, many of them trying to clamber up the moving legs.
Hussari saw one skirmish circle overran, a brood of tyranids breaking through the soldiers and cutting them down with their scythes and sprays of acid. The circle crumbled. There was nothing he could do, except continue holding down the trigger and obliterating as many of them as he could. He squeezed the trigger hard, his fingers aching. He squeezed it after his Sentinel could no longer move through the bodies of the enemies; he squeezed it as a half-snake tyranid pulled itself up to eye level with him, its pincer tail poised above its head; he squeezed it as the tail slammed into his chest, and broke through his sternum and spine with a loud crack.
Still the multi-laser fired as the Sentinel pivoted, Hussari’s dead fingers unwilling to release the trigger or the pivot lever. The tyranids had to rip him out of the cockpit, before the laser whined to a stop and the Sentinel stopped turning.
Fifteen Guardsmen, including Abantu, were inside the centre when Kortan shut the doors. Several men, with nothing left to hold the strength in their legs, collapsed to the ground, exhausted. The gunners on the ball mounts continued firing at the enemy below. They were safe for the moment, but this was their end. Everyone knew it.
“The charges,” Kortan said, stumbling over to Captain Abantu.
“Not yet,” Abantu said. He pointed to the periscope at the centre of the room. Kortan stared through the rubber-ribbed eyepiece, and was startled by the giant tyranid that seemed to engulf the magnocular enhanced view. At first, he thought he was staring at something standing right in front of the hooded prism on the rooftop, but then he realised that he was staring at something that measured the plateau in height, something that was lumbering straight for them like some unstoppable juggernaut.
“We cannot detonate the charges yet,” Abantu said. “We must wait.”
The creature was huge, its head topped with the wicked spike of a ramming horn. Rows of sharp teeth, each the size of a man, filled its distended mouth, while a thick shell from which protruded an assortment of bone ridges protected its back. It walked hunched over, two gigantic scythes of its upper arms capable of splitting a tank in two. Wicked-looking claws stretched out from its lower hands, which were opening and closing in anticipation of the slaughter. Tentacles writhed from the gaps in its armour.
Kortan’s throat went dry, the hope sucked out of him. He stepped away from the periscope. “How long?” he asked.
“A few minutes longer,” Abantu said, “and then paradise awaits us for our great deeds.”
Kortan nodded and silently prayed that he was indeed meant for such a place. Unfortunately, the tyranids had other plans.
The ground shook and rumbled. Suddenly, the floor ruptured. Half-snake tyranids had bored through the rockcrete floor from the lower levels, and burst up to grab anyone close to them. Captain Abantu and two others vanished into the large hole, pulled down by long claws and scythes that skewered them through. The men resting on the floor scrambled to their feet, and opened fire on the tyranid centipedes skittering up through the hole. The ball mount gunners abandoned their position and followed suit. They pumped round after round of las-shot and bolter fire at whatever horror tried crawling up. Everyone was screaming, venting their anger and fury at what they knew to be their last stand.
Kortan backed up against the wall, his left hand with his thumb poised over the detonator and his right firing his laspistol. One of the walls simply melted, its edges gummed by some substance that hissed and popped, and several of the smaller tyranids dragged another soldier out. The room seemed to be haemorrhaging monsters from the floor, walls and finally, the ceiling.
Guardsmen died quickly. Several dog-like hunters ran for Kortan’s corner. He fired his last-shot, bringing one down, before he brought the switch up, ready to flip it.
The floor evaporated from beneath him before he could, however, and something pulled him down with its sharp claws.
Kortan was dazed. He was distantly aware of some sharp, intense pain at his feet and a horrid shucking noise. Something was stabbing his legs with millions of needles, each one tipped white hot. His mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. He squeezed his fingers, desperately trying to flick the detonator switch, but his hand was empty. The sickening realisation hit him, and the pain at his feet turned into searing agony. He looked, and through the wash of tears, realised that a giant slug-like creature with plated armour had devoured his legs up to his knees. Articulated lobster arms ringed the creature’s head and slowly fed Kortan’s body into its maw, piercing and pulling, piercing and pulling.
Through the haze of pain, Kortan could see large leathery pouches lining the creature’s flanks. The pouches undulated and writhed, and Kortan saw the acid-eaten hands and faces of his fellow soldiers pressed against the skin. They were being devoured slowly while the other tyranids watched.
Kortan screamed and fought the blackness that tried to claim his senses. Something caught his eye, something familiar, in the rubble next to him. He grabbed for it, unable to remember through the pain what it did. A switch gleamed on the box. There was a loud rumble outside, the foot tremors of something huge.
Kortan remembered and forgot, and then remembered again through the fire that ate at his every nerve.
He flipped the switch, and saw the first explosion blossom. It seemed to erupt in silence, the light and heat driven through him, pushing away all sound. The bow-wave of air
broke him; the fire consumed him; everything went black and mercifully cool.
CHAPTER NINE
“Write your misery in sand, but carve your blessings in marble.”
—The Accounts of the Tallarn by Remembrancer Tremault
1
Turk and Nisri waited in the command Chimera, which sat inside the mouth of Cavern Apostle, alongside a handful of other vehicles. Two Sentinels stood guard over them, ready to provide heavy fire support when the time came. Drums of fuel stood nearby, alongside ammo crates, explosives and any other supplies deemed necessary to the defence of the caverns.
The two men listened to the vox-chatter coming from the Sentinel pilots still outside the caves. The explosion that engulfed the compound was massive, the stock of artillery shells enough to prove devastating. The top of the plateau looked like a burnt cigar, ash, smoke and all.
“What of the tyranids?” Nisri asked.
“They were dealt a heavy blow,” the pilot reported. “Major Hussari and the others managed to anger a second group heading your way. The explosion destroyed over a quarter of their forces along with a giant beast that measured the plateau’s height.”
Nisri and Turk exchanged glances, but Nisri nodded. Yes, he had heard of tyranids growing to such proportions.
“They’re more siege engine than beast. It’s good the creature was never allowed to reach us, or it would have peeled open this mountain.”
Turk nodded. “What are the tyranids doing now?” Turk asked, speaking into the vox.
“Regrouping, by the looks of it, but it’s slow going. They seem… sluggish.”
Nisri cupped the mouthpiece of the vox-caster. A smile crept across his face, some of the tension evaporating. This was a reprieve, a small one at best, but a reprieve nonetheless. “The major must have dealt a blow to the tyranids’ hive-mind by killing some of the lynchpins,” he told Turk. “They are trying to reorganise, but it’s bought us the time we need.”
Turk understood. “I’ll tell the men that the sacrifice was not in vain.” With that, he headed out of the Chimera and raced off to pass the word around.
“Let me know the minute they begin moving. Are you or your men in any danger?”
“Negative, sir. We’re far enough away so that, even if they give chase, we’ll reach the caves before they do.”
“Even from the flyers?” Nisri asked. He remembered the gargoyle-like tyranids, their quick strikes lightning fast and more than enough to scatter a properly mounted defence.
“Most of the flyers died in the explosion. We’re more than a match for the handful we can see.”
“Very well. Keep your eyes and vox-channel open. Nisri out.”
He patted the vox-operator on the shoulder and instructed him to report every bit of data that came over the line. Nisri then left the Chimera to oversee the cave’s defences. At the very least, a glimmer of hope was peaking through the storm of recent events. The base camp had given them breathing space to prepare, and they proved that the tyranids were not limitless. The regiment was fortunate that only one ship landed, and Nisri hoped that whatever battle had forced them to make planetfall alone, would also be the source of their rescue.
2
Turk moved past the men laying down another bundle of explosives, through to the tunnel where Nubis was briefing the squad leaders on the planned defences for the cave, while sixteen Guardsmen milled about. Nearby, a group of men was sandbagging a gunnery nest pointing down the throat of a chokepoint. The new quartermaster, Sabaak, was moving past them when he spotted Turk.
“Sir,” Sabaak said, tapping the rolled up cloth tied to his back on Y-ring straps. “I was given the 892nd’s banner. Should I hang it in the cavern? You know, to inspire the men?”
“Killing your share of tyranids will inspire the men. We’ll fly the banner when the time comes.” With that, he moved further down the corridor.
The tunnel was wide enough to fit a Chimera through, though the twists and turns, rise and fall of the passage would have prevented most vehicles from successfully navigating it. The chokepoint was a straight way that ended at an intersection. Turk knew, from the initial briefing, that this corridor and the one to the left of them branched away from the main passage. It was a “Y” intersection with each side tunnel sandbagged, mined and protected by two tripod-mounted stub cannons. Any creature entering the junction would be caught in a lethal crossfire with no cover.
Nubis paused, but Turk nodded for him to continue his briefing. He was quite curious as to the defences Nubis’ men emplaced. Nubis returned to the wall, where he’d painted a crude schematic to the tunnels in lume-paint.
“We know the tyranids have a sharp sense of smell, so we’ve slaughtered some of the dromad and muukali and left them in the dead-ends,” he said, pointing to several tunnels that simply stopped. “Anything that goes after the carcasses will trip the explosives and collapse the caves on top of them.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to simply collapse all the tunnels before they get here and wait for rescue?” Captain Lakoom Nehari asked. He was a slight man with ebony-skin, his frame more suited to keeping ledgers than fighting wars.
“Strange question coming from a Turenag officer,” Nubis said. “I’m being practical.”
Nubis sighed. The tyranids have diggers? Collapse the tunnels and they’ll dig us out. Only… we won’t know where they’ll be coming from. Which tunnel? Above us from the roof? Below us from the ground? This way, we control the fight for as long as possible, kill as many as we can in the collapse, and hope it’s enough to frighten them off.
“Now, speaking of explosives,” Nubis continued, “each of the four skirmish tunnels are marked at intervals. Look,” he said, shutting off the light perched on the sandbags next to him. Darkness fell across the corridor, the walls illuminated by green patches of lume-paint. Further down the tunnel, however, at intervals of ten metres or so, were painted rings. “We’ve placed explosive charges at each interval. Two of my men will be with each platoon, to trigger the explosives if… when the tyranids advance that far.”
“Won’t the tunnels collapse?” Captain Toria asked.
“Only if I want them to,” Nubis snapped. “The charges are shaped fragmentation charges, designed to kill anything in their path. They have nothing to do with the charges that we drilled into the walls.”
“And the last circle?” Toria asked, undeterred and pointing to the ring a few metres from them.
“That’s your signal to make your peace with the Emperor.”
Nubis dismissed the other officers with a nod, but held back the group of sixteen soldiers. Turk did not know them by name, but he knew them to be Nubis’ anti-armour and mortar support squads, men whose expertise in the caves was practically useless.
“You know what is expected of you?” Nubis asked.
The men nodded.
“I want you to operate in crews of two. Once the explosives detonate, you’ll be trapped outside with them… or worse.”
“We war for the Emperor,” one said. “We understand.”
“Aya,” the others said quietly, almost as if they were sharing a joke.
“Good. Grab your gear and find somewhere to hide.”
Nubis dismissed the men and caught Turk’s eye. He glanced away, his eyes barely hiding the storm of his thoughts. He removed his shirt and went to help the Guardsmen add more sandbags to the heavy stubber nest.
“I heard,” Nubis said, adding a sandbag to the wall. Shirtless, his ebony black skin glistened, and the old lash scars on his back stood out like rough ropes. “The camp bought us more time. Hussari and the others are heroes to the Emperor.”
“Yes,” Turk said. “Stop a moment. Let me see your eyes when you speak.”
Nubis sat against the sandbags, his fierce black eyes glittering. Turk knew that there was no animosity in them, at least none towards him, but he knew when the Master Gunnery Sergeant was angry or on the warpath His eyes shone with a fierce determination to get
the job done right, and to inflict as much pain as possible while doing it.
“What passed between Kortan and you?” Turk asked. “Did it have anything to do with that night? When Anuman and the others died?”
“Sir,” Nubis replied, “the quartermaster died a hero to the regiment, and I am the last one who speaks ill of the dead. It invites bad luck.”
Turk nodded. “I understand, my friend.” He sat down beside Nubis and dismissed the other Guardsmen with a nod. After they’d left, he fished a worn metal container out of a pouch on his belt rigging and flipped it open Three hand-rolled, brown ash sticks were tucked under an elastic band.
Nubis smiled. “You’ve been holding out on me, Iban Salid,” he said, slipping out one of the offered sticks. “Thank you. From that old man in the Kufai bazaar?”
“He hand-rolled them just for me,” Turk said. He pulled out a small box of matchsticks.
“Ah,” Nubis said with an appreciative smile.
“The old man was specific,” Turk said, striking a long match, and letting it burn a moment. He cupped it and offered it to Nubis, who dipped his stick in the flame. “Let the cedar-rose match burn for two seconds to draw out the flavour,” he said before bringing the match to his own stick.
“Mmm,” Nubis replied, drawing in a long drag of the rich flavour, and letting the smoke curl away. “This is good. It tastes like—”
“Home,” Turk replied. “I know… I miss it too.”
They smoked for a while, each man lost to his private thoughts, the smoky haze a pleasant diversion, and an even more pleasant reminder of better days. Finally, as their sticks approached that last pinch of breath, Turk said, “I wanted to thank you, my friend.”
[Imperial Guard 04] - Desert raiders Page 15
