[Imperial Guard 03] - Rebel Winter

by Steve Parker - (ebook by Undead)

  “Lieutenant Kuritsin,” he shouted. “Where in the warp is my damned armour support?”

  Kuritsin was close enough to hear. “Sorry, sir. The vox-channels are absolutely choked. I can’t get through.”

  Colonel Kabanov knew they were choked. He could hear the panicked transmissions of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment’s armour platoons in his own ear. His vox-bead insisted on telling him just how grim things were for Vostroyan soldiers all across this doomed half of the city. As he listened, he recognized the voice of Sergeant Svemir.

  “This is Svemir to Fifth Company command,” voxed the medic. “Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Svemir,” replied Kabanov. “What’s your status? Where is the Pathcutter now?”

  “We’ve been crippled, sir. We’re stuck out on the highway. The orks are cutting their way in. I just wanted to say good luck, sir. I’m giving our wounded something to send them on. I’m sure you understand, sir. I couldn’t let the orks kill helpless men. For my part, I intend to go down fighting.”

  There was little Kabanov could say to that except, “You’re a brave man, sergeant. The Grey Lady waits to take you to the Emperor’s side. Have no doubt about that.”

  “Thank you, sir,” voxed the medic. “They’ve broken through now.”

  At the sergeant’s end, the vox went dead. Kabanov felt his stomach twist with anger at the foul xenos. He wouldn’t allow this to be the end. “We have to press north,” he shouted. “We have to cut through them. Maro, I want you to move into the centre of our circle and start throwing grenades ahead of us. We must thin the ork ranks there if we want to push through.”

  Lieutenant Maro did so without question. From the centre of the circle, he began lobbing hand grenades into the packed orks. The resulting explosions showered Fifth Company with hot blood and sent broken green bodies tumbling through the air. The momentary gaps these explosions created lessened the pressure on the circle’s north side and allowed Fifth Company to push towards their goal a little at a time. But it was far from enough.

  There were fresh screams from the southern and eastern sides of the circle. Fifth Company was losing more men all the time. Pain flared in Kabanov’s leg as a cleaver whistled past, tearing a red slash above his knee.

  “Fight on, Firstborn!” he roared. “The sons of Vostroya will never fall!”

  But he knew, even as he said it, that he was tiring fast. The fire in his lungs was returning. He started wheezing again. Adrenaline and natural endorphins couldn’t hold the pain of his illness at bay any longer.

  Just a little more, he thought. Emperor help me. Just give me a little more time.

  More screaming sounded behind him and the Vostroyan circle grew smaller and smaller.

  “You’re in charge?” asked Karif, eyeing the tall, slim officer that stood before him, resplendent in Vostroyan finery that remained unsullied by battle.

  “Of this particular platoon, commissar, yes I am. Lieutenant Vemko Orodrov, commanding officer of the Vostroyan Firstborn 41st Armoured Regiment’s Second Tank Platoon, at your service.”

  “Excellent, lieutenant,” replied Karif, “It’s your services that I require. You arrived here yesterday from Seddisvarr with very specific orders from General Vlastan, is that not so?”

  “It is. We’re to hold the bridge open for as long as possible so that your Fifth Company might cross with an important prisoner. I see you and your men, commissar, but I don’t see any prisoner. I’m afraid there is little time left before the ork horde forces us to fall back. We’ll have to withdraw in the next few minutes if we’re to be clear before the bridge is blown. The orks mustn’t set one foot on Theqis under any circumstances. The general was very clear about that. You may cross with us, commissar, but you won’t find a warm welcome in Seddisvarr with your mission unfulfilled. The general will be displeased.”

  “Displeased with you, lieutenant, if you don’t do everything in your power to aid me now, particularly with the prisoner in question so close at hand.”

  “He’s close by?”

  “Very,” said the commissar. “Colonel Kabanov and the rest of the company are attempting to force their way through the ork lines as we speak, but I’m sure you’ve seen how many orks they’re up against.”

  “They’re trying to cut a path through on foot?” asked the lieutenant incredulously. “It’s impossible, commissar. They’re dead men for sure.”

  “They will be, unless you assign me three tanks and their crews to help open a corridor for them.”

  The lieutenant shook his head emphatically. “I- I can’t, commissar. The ork armour is rolling right towards us. We need every machine we’ve got just to withdraw safely. No, you… you’re asking the impossible.”

  Before the lieutenant could blink, Karif whipped his chainsword from its scabbard and up to the officer’s neck, thumbing the power nine in mid-motion. The weapon purred threateningly into the young officer’s left ear.

  Karif smiled. “Impossible is not a word they teach at the Schola Excubitos, lieutenant.”

  Sebastev couldn’t risk a glance behind him, but he heard Lieutenant Maro cry out and knew that something was wrong. A trooper yelled, “The White Boar is wounded!”

  As those words filled the air, there was a roar of anger from the surviving men. The fighting intensified as if every single ork they faced was personally responsible. More orks fell, and yet more pressed forward. The Vostroyans were few, and each moment was met by the screams of another man as he was cleaved apart by laughing alien brutes.

  A monstrous black ork pushed its way through the front ranks and roared at Sebastev, spraying thick mucus into the air. It tossed its head and gnashed its massive yellow tusks together, lifting its axe to launch a horizontal stroke that missed by a hair. The blade of the axe lodged deep in the body of another ork on the right. Before the monster had time to pull his weapon free, Sebastev leapt forward, placed his boot on the bent knee of the ork’s lead leg, and stepped up to plunge his blade down through the top of the ork’s head.

  As the giant body collapsed, Sebastev jumped backwards, returning to his position in the circle. “Lieutenant Tarkarov is down!” shouted someone.

  Hestor’s balls, thought Sebastev, not Tarkarov!

  “Captain Chelnikov is dead!” shouted another.

  “Captain Sebastev,” yelled Lieutenant Maro, “you have to take command. The White Boar is wounded. The prisoner must get through.”

  Khek the prisoner, thought Sebastev, but he knew Maro was right.

  “Aronov?” yelled Sebastev. “Aronov, are you alive?”

  A laspistol appeared at Sebastev’s shoulder and burned the face from the ork right in front of him. “I am, sir,” growled the big scout in his ear. “I won’t be for much longer if this keeps up. We can’t thin the bastards out, sir. Let me drop the traitor and fight unhindered alongside the rest of you.”

  It was a fair request. Aronov wanted to die giving his very best. He clearly believed they couldn’t prevail. Sebastev could only agree. Perhaps it had been hopeless from the start. There were just too many orks and every single man who’d fallen so far had sold his life dear. He was proud of them, proud to be their captain.

  This is how a Guardsman is meant to die, he thought. There’s no dishonour in this, not in fighting with all you’ve got until your very last breath.

  “Fair enough, trooper,” said Sebastev. “Drop the pris—”

  The air was ripped by a mighty explosion. Just a hundred metres or so to Sebastev’s left a great cloud of dirt and green bodies erupted into the air. It was deafening. Moments later another cloud burst upwards, throwing hunks of ork meat down onto the Vostroyans. It was much closer this time. The ground shook.

  “Armour!” shouted Lieutenant Kuritsin. “Leman Russ tanks on the north side.”

  A cheer went up from the remaining Vostroyans as the sound of heavy bolter fire filled the air. The vicious buzz of lascannons followed before the ground shook again at the impact of another
shell from the tank’s demolisher cannon.

  The orks started to turn their heads.

  Sebastev was too short to see over them, but from the frequency of the cannon-fire he counted three separate tanks firing on the ork horde.

  “I don’t have all day,” voxed a familiar voice.

  “Commissar,” voxed Sebastev, “we thought…”

  “I don’t care what you thought, captain. We’ve got the orks blindsided and we’re thinning their ranks for you, but if you and your men don’t get a bloody move on, it’ll be for nothing. The orks have got armour moving in from the east at speed. You’ve got minutes until the north bridge is sent to the riverbed.”

  More explosions rocked the street. “Maro,” shouted Sebastev, “get the colonel up and get ready to move. Aronov, don’t you dare drop that prisoner. We’re getting out of here, now.”

  Sebastev stopped shouting long enough to sever the hands of an ork wielding two iron clubs. Then he drove the point of his blade through the beast’s throat. A flick of his wrist sent the ork’s head rolling to the surface of the street.

  “Fifth Company,” he yelled. “Move, now. For the White Boar and the Sixty-Eighth, go!”

  The circle broke and the men surged forward behind Sebastev. He heard Kuritsin urging them on. Father Olov charged ahead, cleaving a broad path through the orks now that there was more room to swing his huge eviscerator.

  “Get behind me,” bellowed the old priest. “I will cut a way through.”

  The eviscerator chainsword growled as it chewed through thick ork bodies. Dozens fell in front of the redoubtable priest. Troopers rushed in behind him to protect his back.

  Sebastev hacked and slashed as he moved, aware of Aronov beside him, the prisoner still slung over his shoulder. Maro, too, was close by. He carried the White Boar while troopers surrounded him, stabbing out at the greenskins with their bayonets.

  Sebastev realised that Maro was struggling to carry both the colonel and the traitor’s case. With his free hand, he wrestled the case from the adjutant. “I’ll take care of this thing. You just focus on getting the colonel to safety, Maro.”

  The lieutenant nodded.

  The ground exploded so close to Sebastev that he was almost knocked from his feet. “Watch your fire, commissar,” he voxed angrily. “You’ll kill us before the orks do.”

  As he uttered these words, more troopers fell howling at the rear of the charge, their bodies smashed apart by savage blows from the greenskins that harried them.

  Sebastev kept his sword moving as he pushed through. Everything was a high-speed blur of ugly alien faces and gleaming weapons. More explosions sounded close by and shook the rockcrete underfoot. He could feel the heat from lascannon beams where they strafed the ork line. Heavy bolters chugged as they cut down scores of unprotected greenskins with enfilading fire.

  Then, with an explosion that was too close for comfort and a yell of triumph from Father Olov, Fifth Company broke into the open. They’d made it through to the other side of the ork line. Sebastev could see the Leman Russ tanks just ahead. Commissar Karif could be seen at the hatch of the leading tank, manning a pintle-mounted heavy bolter and yelling orders to the crews inside.

  “Run to the tanks,” yelled Sebastev. “Give it all you’ve got!”

  His men raced forward as the Leman Russ continued to pour fire on the orks, dissuading them from pursuit. Orks weren’t easily dissuaded, however. They charged forward, unmindful of the horrendous casualties they were taking.

  Despite the weight of the prisoner, Sebastev saw Aronov racing ahead. The moment he reached the first Leman Russ, he threw the man up onto the back of the tank, turned, and began firing at the orks with his laspistol. “Someone, give me a proper bloody weapon,” he shouted.

  Other men reached the tanks: Sergeants Basch and Rahkman, Lieutenant Vassilo, Troopers Kovo, Kashr, Akmir: more, but still too few. The moment Sebastev reached the commissar’s tank, he threw the traitor’s case up beside the man, reloaded his bolt pistol, and turned to stand with Aronov, firing shot after shot back towards the orks, concentrating on those that threatened Lieutenant Maro as he carried Colonel Kabanov forward.

  “Don’t be fools,” shouted Commissar Karif. “Get up onto the tanks and hold on. We’ve got to make the bridge before they blow the damned thing.”

  Sebastev stopped firing long enough to help Maro and Kuritsin lift Colonel Kabanov up onto the vehicle. When the colonel was safely onboard, everyone else scrambled up onto the back.

  “Go, commissar,” called Sebastev over the drumming of the heavy bolters. “We’re all on board.”

  Each of the huge tanks was covered in Fifth Company survivors, clinging on for their lives as the tank drivers kicked their machines into high gear. Colonel Kabanov lay between Maro and Sebastev on the back of Commissar Karif’s machine. As the tank moved off, he gripped Sebastev’s sleeve and said, “Grenades, captain.”

  Blood was leaking from his mouth and nose. His skin had turned a ghostly white.

  “Good idea, sir,” said Sebastev. He pulled two grenades from his bandolier.

  The colonel struggled to sit up. “No, Sebastev. Give them to me, both of them.”

  Sebastev was confused, but he did as he was ordered.

  Colonel Kabanov faced Lieutenant Maro. “You’ll explain it to him?” he asked.

  Maro nodded sincerely, and Sebastev saw tears in the man’s eyes.

  “Good,” said Colonel Kabanov. “Then it’s time the White Boar looked after himself for a change.”

  With that, he slid off the back of the Leman Russ.

  Sebastev immediately reached out to grab for him, but Maro restrained him. “You know it already, captain. This is what he wants. Would you have him wither and die in some hospital bed? I don’t think so.”

  Sebastev wanted to deny it. He wanted to order the Leman Russ to a stop and go back for the man who’d been his hero since the day he’d joined the Sixty-Eighth Regiment, but he knew Maro was right. Legends like the White Boar were meant to die in battle. When his own time came, he wished no less for himself.

  As he watched Colonel Kabanov walk back to meet the orks, Sebastev saluted.

  “To me, you filthy devils!” shouted the old man as he staggered towards the foe. He pulled the pins on his grenades. “One last gift from the Emperor of Mankind!”

  Sebastev forced himself to watch. He owed the colonel that much and more. He couldn’t be sure of the exact number, but it looked like the White Boar took a good many of the green khekkers with him as he died.

  The tanks rumbled around a corner and the scene shifted from view.

  “Almost there,” said Commissar Karif from behind Sebastev. “The bridge is just up ahead.”

  Captain Grigorius Sebastev and the scant remains of his Fifth Company crossed Grazzen’s north bridge at 16.02 hours on the 688th day of the Danikkin Campaign. The north bridge was destroyed precisely two minutes later, sending a significant number of pursuing Venomhead orks and their vehicles to the bottom of the Solenne.

  Patriot-Captain Brammon Gusseff, known to personnel with the appropriate clearance as Asset 6, was delivered to Twelfth Army Command HQ in Seddisvarr in the early hours of the following day.

  Captain Grigorius Sebastev was placed under arrest at that time.

  A TRIAL ENDS

  Thirteen days.

  For thirteen days, Sebastev had listened with furrowed brow and gritted teeth as men who’d never set foot on the Eastern Front berated him, belittled the valorous efforts of his men, and placed the responsibility for each and every death firmly at his booted feet.

  The trial reached its conclusion. There was General Vogor Vlastan, Old Hungry himself, strapped into his life preserving mechanical chair behind the judges’ bench. He would pass sentence personally. Sebastev figured the general must have been anticipating this moment for quite some time. The spectators were anticipating it, too. The grand hall had gone deathly quiet.

  The council of judges end
ed their whispered conversation and turned back to face Sebastev in the dock. Servo-skulls, yellowed with age and bristling with sensors and recording devices, descended from above, drifting through the air on suspensor engines that hummed softly. They registered every word spoken in the hall, by officials and spectators alike. The records would be carefully checked later to help identify dissenting voices and potential troublemakers.

  “Stand,” ordered a wizened old major on General Vlastan’s immediate left. “Stand, Captain Sebastev. The general wishes to pronounce.”

  Sebastev got heavily to his feet, mentally fatigued by so many days of endless talk, of recounting over and over again the events that had transpired since leaving Korris. He saw, there on the far right, in the shadows below the hanging balcony, the figure of Commissar Karif, dressed, as always, in black. He’d attended the court martial every single day since the beginning, and had given evidence of his own on eight of those days, though Sebastev had been ordered out of the court on those occasions, and knew not what the commissar had reported.

  Just as it had on every previous day, the hanging balcony that jutted out over the seats of the spectators contained the same two bizarre, inscrutable occupants.

  Sebastev’s blood chilled inexplicably every time he looked in their direction. He could feel the eyes of the hunched old woman on him, burning into him as if she sought to scorch away his flesh and view the naked soul beneath. The incredible alabaster giant, whose blood-red eyes missed nothing, sat next to her.

  And no one can tell me who the khek they are, he thought.

  The general coughed and began burbling through a vox-amp attached to his chair. “We’ve heard, honoured attendants, from a broad range of witnesses, analysts and assessors over the course of this trial.” The general’s small, black eyes panned across the assembly. “We’ve heard how the accused conducted himself throughout the period in question, the ways in which he influenced Vostroyan men of both higher and lower rank. And we’ve heard in great detail how the events that transpired after the loss of the Twelfth Army’s dominion over Korris have affected the status of this war.”