Sebastev held his pistol in the air again. “Steady, Firstborn. Steady. On my mark…”
The musty stink of unwashed ork bodies pushed ahead of the charging mass. An ork round whistled past Sebastev’s head, punching into the frozen dirt of the trench wall behind him. Then the second wave came into lethal range.
“Now!” he voxed.
All along the trench, the sharp report of the Vostroyan lasguns drowned out the alien battle cries. From foxholes and pillboxes up and down the line, heavy bolters resumed fire, beating a deep tattoo that resonated in Sebastev’s lungs. Mortars sent a deadly explosive hail at any cluster of orks that held together for even a moment. The explosions hurled massive bodies into the air, spinning them end over end, and breaking them open.
Gouts of blood splashed to the snow, the only rain these frozen lands had known for two millennia. But the death of their fellows did nothing to stop the horde. The orks trampled the bodies of their dead and kept coming.
As much as Sebastev detested them, he couldn’t deny a grudging respect.
“Hestor led his people across the plains,” droned Father Olov over the vox, “thirsty and tired, but hungry no more for the knowledge he had sought. The fate of the cluster was clear to him. His hands, stained with blood, carried chalice and censer. Behind him marched the faithful, dedicated to glory, and to a worthy death in the final battle.”
A deep voice broke through the priest’s reading. “Second Platoon to Company Command. We’ve located two grot sniper teams lying low in the drifts.” It was Sergeant Basch.
“Good work, sergeant,” replied Sebastev. “Lieutenant Vassilo, did you hear that? Second Platoon has coordinates for you. I want Third Platoon mortars on those grot sniper positions now. Sergeant Basch will advise.”
“Understood, sir.” Vassilo voxed back.
Sebastev turned his attention back to the killing field. He fired bolt after bolt into the disordered ranks of the orks as they neared, felling a few with carefully placed headshots. But there were just too many. It was clear to him that the second wave was about to breach the trenches.
When that happens, thought Sebastev, we’re-
His bolt pistol gave a loud click. The magazine was spent. The orks came on, waving their massive chipped blades. No point reloading, things were about to get very close and very bloody.
Sebastev knew he had to give the call his men dreaded. “Fix bayonets!” he yelled over the vox. There was no escaping it. This battle would be won or lost at close quarters.
He holstered his pistol and grasped the hilt of the power sabre at his left hip, but when he moved to draw it, he found the sword frozen in its scabbard. Cursing loudly, he tried to tug the blade free.
He could hear his officers calling for courage as the orks leapt over the banks of razorwire and sandbags. Some of the orks became snagged. Others simply trampled over them, using their backs as bridges over the vicious barbs.
“Everyone back to the cover trench,” yelled Sebastev. “The firing trench is lost.”
As the first of the orks leapt down into the trenches, the Vostroyans turned and raced off down the communications trenches that led to their fallback positions.
“I want flamers at the trench mouths,” voxed Sebastev. “We can burn them as they follow us in.”
Sebastev, Kuritsin and the others from his section sprinted along the passage that led back to their secondary defensive positions. He didn’t need to turn round to know just how close the orks were. He could hear their heavy boots thundering on the frozen planks as they gave chase.
Trench walls flashed past him as he ran a few metres behind his adjutant. Then, suddenly, the walls on either side ended, and Sebastev found himself in the cover trench, surrounded by his troopers. He spun around and yelled, “Get me a khekking flamer, now!”
Trooper Kovo of Fourth Platoon stepped across Sebastev’s field of vision just as the pursuing orks rounded the last bend. Sebastev’s eyes went wide as he saw the enemy. They were monstrous, even for orks, towering hulks of savage muscle far bigger than even the largest of Sebastev’s men. He only saw them for an instant before Kovo opened fire. A jet of blazing promethium blasted down the passage, searing away the flesh of the enemy. A moment later, the only evidence that the orks had ever existed was the molten metal that had been their armour, boots and weapons.
“More coming down on us,” yelled Trooper Kovo over his shoulder. “I’m down to a quarter tank. Get ready.”
He loosed another jet of flame. Sebastev could hear ork screams over the flamer’s roar, but they were cut off as the burning promethium consumed all.
Then, with more orks pouring down the passage, Kovo’s fuel ran out. “Incoming,” he shouted as he darted out of the way. Lasgunners moved in to take his place.
“Listen up, fighters,” barked Sebastev over the vox. “We’ve got them in bottlenecks. The trenches are too narrow for them to fight properly. I want lasguns on them until they get within bayonet range. You know what to do after that. Hold the line, and remember the Emperor protects.”
Shouts filled the air all along the trench. “The Emperor protects!”
The greenskins were charging straight down the communications trench. With a last hard tug, Sebastev’s power sabre came free of its scabbard. He thumbed the rune that activated its deadly energy field just as a trio of massive orks barrelled forwards, howling in rage as Vostroyan lasfire strafed their bodies. Agony didn’t slow them. They slammed troopers aside with ease as they broke into the cover trench.
One of the beasts lunged straight at Sebastev, laughing madly as it raised a huge cleaver above its head. The trench didn’t offer any room to avoid the engagement, but that suited Sebastev fine.
As the crude blade came whistling down towards his head, propelled by green arms as thick as his torso, Sebastev darted forward into the blow, throwing his left arm up at the last moment. The ork’s wrists clashed with the golden bracer that shielded his arm. The impact was bone-jarring, but Sebastev weathered it. Thanks to the bracer, his arm didn’t break. The instant he caught the blow, he rammed his power sabre up into the ork’s unprotected sternum.
The effect was immediate, but less than Sebastev had hoped for. The monster’s expression shifted from delinquent glee to abject hate and rage, but it didn’t die. Instead, it dropped the huge cleaver and wrapped its arms around Sebastev, pulling him into a crashing bear hug. It was a bad move on the ork’s part, the motion forcing Sebastev’s blade deeper inside its body. Howling in pain, it craned its head forward and tried to snap at him.
Sebastev gagged on the beast’s stinking, rotten-meat breath, and reared his head back just in time. Massive yellow tusks slammed together scant centimetres from his face. Making use of the distance he’d created to gain momentum, Sebastev rammed his head forward with all his strength, smashing the metal insignia on his hat straight into the ork’s nose.
As the monster reeled backwards, it loosened its grip. Sebastev yanked the hilt of his power sabre hard to left and right, causing massive internal injuries to his foe. Reeking gore poured out over his greatcoat. When the ork’s misshapen face finally went slack, Sebastev pushed free and kicked the big body from the end of his blade.
There was no time to revel in the victory. He heard screams and calls for aid from nearby. Close combat raged all around him. Sebastev spun, looking for his adjutant, suddenly aware that they’d been separated.
There! There was Kuritsin, ten paces further up the trench, thrusting his gleaming bayonet at the face of an ork that had just cut down a trooper from First Platoon.
Sebastev ran to join him, and began hacking at the ork’s wide back. The broad wounds he carved in the dark green muscle steamed in the freezing air.
Assaulted on two sides, the ork was swiftly overcome, and went down with a final bestial scream. “Thank you, sir,” said Kuritsin, “but there’s no time for a breather.” He pointed over Sebastev’s shoulder. More orks were pushing their way into the cover trench,
hacking at Sebastev’s men as they came, stomping the bodies of those that fell. Sebastev and Kuritsin both rushed forward to engage, calling others nearby to assist.
“You’re not going to horde all the glory for yourself, are you, captain?” someone shouted.
Sebastev looked in the direction of the voice and saw a black figure standing on the lip of the trench, looking down into the mayhem below.
“For the Emperor and Holy Terra!” yelled the stranger. He launched himself into the trench, crashing into Sebastev and barrelling him from his feet. There was a flash of gold at collar and sleeve as the figure spun to face the orks. Sebastev heard the greedy purring of a chainsword before it buried itself in green meat, stressing the motor, changing its pitch.
Sebastev leapt back to his feet with a growl.
“Your wait has ended, captain,” yelled the stranger as he hacked the orks apart with deadly efficiency. “Your new commissar is here at last. Now, secure the area behind me, for Throne’s sake.”
Sebastev’s first instinct was to cuff the man, once for knocking him down, twice for his verbal audacity. But there was no time for that. The trench was choked with orks and men fighting on every side. Kuritsin was helping First Platoon troopers to push back the orks attacking from the northern end. The southern end was likewise choked. There was nothing else for it, Sebastev would have to go up and over if he wanted to help his men. Sheathing his blade for a moment, he hauled himself out of the trench. The instant he scrambled to his feet, however, he found himself in trouble. To his right, a large slobbering ork with a black eye-patch had been looking for a place to jump down into the fray. On seeing Sebastev, it changed its mind, bellowed a challenge and stomped straight towards him, hefting a massive axe.
Sebastev drew his blade and hunkered down into his fighting stance, knees bent, sword ready in his lead hand.
The ork’s opening move was a sweeping lateral backhander aimed at Sebastev’s head. Sebastev ducked under the whistling blade with practiced ease, but the edge of the axe lopped a chunk from the top of his hat. Freezing air rushed into the hole, chilling his scalp. He didn’t wait for the second attack. His power sabre flicked out and sliced through the tendons of the ork’s thick wrist. Its fingers went limp and the axe spun to the snow. The ork gaped for the briefest moment, surprised and confused by the sudden uselessness of its hand. Sebastev took the opening without hesitation.
He stepped in with a powerful diagonal cut. The humming, crackling power sabre bit into the ork’s right trapezius muscle with such force that it passed straight through, exiting the beast’s torso below the left armpit.
The ork rolled quietly to the snow in two, lifeless pieces. Steam boiled up from a spreading pool of blood.
“Son of a grox!” cursed Sebastev to himself. Maro should have warned me there was a new commissar. That’s the last bloody thing I need.
He heard Lieutenant Vassilo’s voice over the vox, issuing orders to the men of his platoon. “The orks are packed in tight. Get up on the trench lip. Fire down into the bottlenecks.”
Behind Sebastev, dozens of men pulled themselves up onto the snowfield and raced along the trench lip, stopping to pour fire down onto the trapped greenskins.
With their numbers cut by the charge over open ground, and their close combat abilities hampered by the narrow trenches, the orks had fared badly once again. Sebastev thanked the Emperor that they didn’t learn quickly from their mistakes. But how long could it last? Sooner or later, the greenskins would surprise them.
Sebastev thumbed his power sabre off, giving thanks to the machine-spirit of the weapon before returning it to its scabbard.
Well done, my fighters, he thought. Let’s hope it’s the last attack before the rotation. But how many did we lose? Will I still call this a victory when the headcounts come in?
It seemed unlikely that the orks would launch a third wave. It wasn’t their habit to hold forces in reserve, and they’d waited too long to take advantage of any confusion or cover that the second wave might have offered. Still, it was hard to fathom the workings of the alien mind. From an official standpoint, it was heretical to even try. In all Sebastev’s experience with them, ork behaviour was rarely as simple and predictable as Imperial propaganda made it out to be.
Returning to the cover trench, Sebastev sought out his adjutant. He found him standing over the dismembered corpse of a fallen Firstborn.
“Bekislav,” said Kuritsin simply. “He got himself blind-sided.”
Sebastev bowed his head. Bekislav had been a good man. He’d served with Fifth Company for almost eight years.
Lieutenant Kuritsin bore only a few shallow cuts and scrapes, nothing serious. The vox-caster on his back, however, looked a little worse for wear. It bore a number of fresh dents.
Sebastev tapped it with a finger and said, “This thing still working?”
“About as well as before,” replied Kuritsin, “so far as I can tell. It’s temperamental, but it’s tough. A little bit like—”
“Fine,” said Sebastev, cutting him off. “Check in with the other companies. Tell them our sector is secure, and make sure the ork bodies are burned quickly. You know the drill.”
Left unattended, the ork corpses would shed their spores. They’d probably begun to do so already. It was best to burn them all as quickly as possible.
As Kuritsin voxed the order over to the platoon leaders, Sebastev walked on, surveying the results of the carnage. It was a grim picture. The red fabric of Vostroyan greatcoats peeked out from beneath the heaped bodies of the foe.
Sebastev looked down at himself. His own coat was drenched with splashes of ork blood. He’d have to get inside soon. He was losing too much heat through the hole in his hat. Maybe he could stuff it with something in the meantime.
Warp damn this place, he thought. We can’t last like this. If Old Hungry doesn’t mobilise us soon, we’ll die out here for nothing. We can’t afford to play a numbers game with the orks, not with so few men.
Sebastev heard booted footsteps behind him and turned, expecting Kuritsin. But the man who faced him wasn’t his adjutant. He wasn’t even Vostroyan.
“You, captain,” said a tall, dark figure with a very distinctive cap, “are an absolute bloody mess.”
CHAPTER TWO
Day 681
Korris Trenchworks — 13:24hrs, -22°C
With the orks repulsed, the men of Fifth Company set about tending to their wounded, salvaging equipment from the dead, and repairing their defences. The snows abated for a while, and the air was filled with the black smoke of burning xenos corpses. Commissar Daridh Ahl Karif followed Captain Sebastev through the winding maze of communications trenches to the man’s dugout.
The captain’s sour mood was all too apparent to the commissar, and he resisted any attempts at conversation while they walked. Despite reminding himself not to judge the captain too swiftly, Commissar Karif couldn’t help it. First impressions hadn’t been good.
Moving south along the supply trench, they arrived at a flight of steps cut into the frozen earth. Captain Sebastev descended the steps and tapped a four-digit code into the rune pad on the doorframe. With a hiss, the door opened and the captain went inside.
Karif didn’t wait for an invitation. It was far too cold to observe such niceties. Instead, he hurried in after the captain, closed the door quickly behind them, and slapped the cold seal activation glyph on the door’s inner surface. When he turned, he found himself in a dimly lit room of dirt walls, with shabby furniture and a ceiling of wooden beams so low that they scraped the top of his cap.
The stocky Vostroyan had no such trouble. As the captain removed his damaged fur hat, Karif saw for the first time just how short Captain Sebastev was. The top of his head barely reached Karif’s shoulders. At just under two metres, the commissar would have been considered a fairly tall man on most worlds, but he’d met enough Vostroyans to know that Sebastev was below average height for his people. It seemed that this dugout, with it
s preposterously low ceiling, had been constructed with his exact proportions in mind.
Sebastev’s dugout may have been too small by half, but it was infinitely cosier than the freezing trenches outside. A quartet of small thermal coils, one in each corner, hummed as they struggled to take the chill from the air.
Both men removed their cloaks and scarves, and hung them on pegs hammered into the frozen, dirt wall. Karif felt so much lighter without the heavy fur cloak weighing him down, but he’d been glad of its warmth and protection in the open air. Not for the first time since planetfall, Karif cursed this world and the personal disaster that had brought him here.
Damn you, old man, he thought, remembering the gloating look on the face of Lord General Breggius as the man had informed him of his reassignment. I wasn’t to blame for your son’s death. You must’ve pulled some long strings to get me posted out here, but I’m determined to make the best of this. There must be some glory to be had in this campaign.
Captain Sebastev moved across the room and dropped himself onto the edge of a simple wooden bunk. “Sit if you’ve a mind to, commissar,” he rumbled as he began unfastening the clasps of his blood-covered boots.
Karif drew a rickety, wooden chair from beside a small, central table and sat down carefully, half-expecting the thing to collapse under him. When the chair had accepted his full weight, he placed his black cap on the table’s grubby surface and pulled a shining silver comb from his pocket. As was his habit whenever he removed his cap, he ran the comb through his oiled black hair, sweeping it back behind his ears.
Captain Sebastev grunted when he saw this.
Karif didn’t consider himself a vain man, but he believed that a position of authority brought with it certain requirements of appearance. It was a matter of self-respect. And if such an appearance happened to appeal to a particular class of lady, so much the better.
[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter Page 3
