The War for Rynn's World - Steve Parker & Mike Lee

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Get moving,’ growled Alvez. ‘Get to the gate, Huron. You have to close it before they get through. I won’t lose another district today.’

  ‘And I won’t leave your side,’ Grimm argued, voice shaking with the recoil from his bolter as he fired burst after burst at the horde. His left hand flashed to his belt and pulled a krak grenade free. He primed it with his thumb and tossed it at the closest knot of greenskins.

  There was a deep boom, and the luckless orks at the front exploded in a shower of red flesh and bright bone. Grimm tossed another, killed a dozen more of the savages, and that was it. His grenades were spent.

  The roar of the ork horde was joined by the sound of engines now. Buggies and bikes revved noisily, eager to get through, but there was no room for them, the streets were so thick with greenskin infantry.

  ‘Don’t you disobey me, sergeant,’ Alvez barked between shots. ‘Don’t you start that now. I need those gates closed before the orks push through. You can get there a lot faster than I can. Start the mechanism. I will slip through just before they shut. We’re operating under the Ceres Protocol, remember. I’m not about to die at the hands of this filth.’

  He strafed the orks to his left with storm-bolter fire and cut several apart, but there were so many of them, and they kept coming, stampeding over their dead.

  Grimm had his orders. He didn’t have to like them, but they were orders just the same. Firing a last burst from his bolter, he turned and sprinted for the Verano Gate. As he ran, he told his captain over the link, ‘I’m not letting them close until you’re through.’

  Alvez ignored that. He was busy picking his targets, walking backwards, his storm-bolter keeping the orks at bay. In his left hand was a glowing power sword, a relic blade called Riad. Its blade, forged with technology long-forgotten, could cut through tank armour with ease. If, no, when the orks got within range, Alvez would cut through them like they weren’t even there.

  He did not feel even the slightest fear as the horde closed on him. Glancing back, he saw that Huron Grimm was through the gate now, and he had only fifty metres to go. But the damned gate was still wide open.

  ‘Grimm?’ he bellowed over the link. ‘What in Dorn’s name is going on?’

  ‘The mechanism, my lord,’ Grimm answered. ‘It’s jammed. We’ll have to close the gates manually.’

  ‘Then do it,’ Alvez snapped. The orks were almost on him now. He hefted Riad in his hand, ready to swing. ‘And hurry up!’

  Grimm could hardly believe this. He wanted someone to blame, someone to rip apart with his bare hands. The Rynnsguard troopers manning the walls were firing down into the ork horde that was closing around his captain, but their lasguns were pathetically inadequate. Only their heavy weapons – the autocannon, lascannon and heavy bolters they employed – had anything but a negligible effect on the xenos mob, and there weren’t nearly enough of those to turn the orks back.

  Grimm’s squadmates were on the walls, too, and had been firing in support of him, but the moment he discovered the gate mechanism was malfunctioning, he had called them down from the walls to help him. Closing the gate manually meant pushing each of the two gate sections together. Thick metal bars stuck out from the rear of each section to make this possible, but it would have taken the Rynnsguard many men and far too much time even to budge the gate a centimetre. Instead, Grimm’s squad went to work, even while, on the other side of the gate, their brave captain cut a path of gory destruction through his enemies.

  Grimm heard him on the link, breathing hard despite the capabilities of his gene-boosted body.

  ‘Progress report, sergeant!’

  Grimm answered through gritted teeth as he pushed with all his strength against the handle in front of him, desperate to get the gate moving. ‘Doing our best, captain.’ He managed, but that was all.

  ‘Not good enough,’ Alvez answered. ‘Work faster!’

  Grimm grunted and put everything he had into pushing the gates closed. Beside him, two of his brothers also pushed. The other two worked the opposite section. The sound of gunfire was loud and constant from atop the wall.

  ‘We can’t keep them off him!’ shouted a Rynnsguard officer. ‘There’s too damned many!’

  Grimm howled with rage. He wanted to be out there beside his captain. What in the blasted warp was he doing here, about to lock Drigo Alvez out there with the enemy?

  Orders, said a voice in his head. You can never disobey your orders.

  ‘Captain,’ Grimm grunted. ‘How close to the gate are you? It’s almost shut. We’ve only three metres to go!’

  It was true. The Rynnsguard would later tell of the Space Marines’ incredible strength that day. It shouldn’t have been possible. The gate’s sections weighed several tonnes each and were only ever meant to be manually closed with the aid of powerful trucks that could shunt them together.

  ‘Close the gates,’ ordered Alvez.

  Grimm stopped pushing immediately, his squad brothers following suit.

  ‘My lord–’

  ‘I said close the damned gates, sergeant. Are you deaf? They’re all around me now. There’s far too many of them and if they get through, Dorn help me, you’ll have disobeyed a direct order. You’ll no longer be Astartes, I promise you. I am commanding you to save that district, and you will do it. How many hundreds of thousands of people are sheltering behind those walls? Do it, Huron!’

  The conscious part of Grimm’s mind railed against it, but his psycho-conditioning was incredibly deep and, through a strange numbness, he felt his body once more put all its strength into the effort of sealing the gate.

  Again, his squad brothers took their cue from his example.

  Before he knew it, the task was done, and he stood gasping, helmet pressed to thick metal surface.

  He ordered his squad brothers back onto the ramparts to lend their Rynnsguard their firepower, but he knew it was too late. He felt the loss inside him already.

  A moment later, Brother Kifa hailed him on the link, and his tone was enough to tell Grimm everything. Even Terminator armour had its limits. Against such overwhelming numbers, the captain could not have fought longer than he did.

  He was gone.

  Grimm allowed himself to fall to his knees. He had never felt like this in all his life. He hoped he never would again.

  His left hand sought something on his belt and he tugged it free with a snap, raised his hand in front of his visor and looked at it.

  It was a tiny wooden aquila, the charm that the old Rynnite woman had tried to give Captain Alvez as they marched through her street.

  Grimm stared at it, the relentless noise of battle all around him dimming to mere background static. This pathetic little trinket was supposed to protect people. It was supposed to have some power, yes? The woman, filled with reverence for the Crimson Fists, had wanted the charm to protect Drigo Alvez. But it was he, Huron Grimm, that had carried it with him. And it was he who lived.

  What did that mean, he wondered?

  Nothing, answered a voice in Grimm’s mind.

  It sounded so much like the captain’s.

  It means nothing at all, Huron, the voice repeated. It is just a piece of wood. Destroy it!

  Numbly, automatically, Grimm closed his armoured fist over the tiny icon, and crushed it to splinters.

  Now get up, said the voice. Get back in the fight. Honour me. Honour the Chapter as you were taught to do.

  Grimm got up as the voice commanded, slammed a fresh magazine in his bolter, climbed to the top of the ramparts, and went back to war.

  Thirteen

  The Azcalan Rainforest, Rynnland Province

  Cortez’s pistol clicked empty, and there wasn’t time to change the magazine. Rearing up in front of him was a huge ork with skin the colour of coal. In each clawed hand, the slavering beast held a cleaver over a metre long, each blade viciously serrated like the jaws of a Medean killfish. There was a blur of motion. Cortez’s reflexes shifted him a step to the left b
efore his conscious mind even had time to register the angle of the blow, his response time the product of centuries of diligent training.

  The greenskin berserker’s blades bit deep into the soil where Cortez had been standing. In the half-second that the creature took to reverse its momentum and wrench its weapons up again, Cortez’s power fist flashed forward in an arcing blur. It was a body shot, a thunderous strike to the monster’s exposed side, and the crack of lethal energies ionised the air, giving it a sharp metallic smell. The ork howled and crumpled to its knees, a great spherical section of its torso utterly destroyed. Gore poured forth, and it sank forward, but Cortez wasn’t finished. One did not leave a wounded ork breathing on the battlefield. These were hardy creatures, far hardier than any living thing had a right to be. Wounds that would have killed even a Space Marine might only cripple an ork until its incredibly resilient algae-infused system could put it back together. He had seen it happen before.

  The moment the creature’s head struck the dirt, Cortez raised his booted foot and hammered it down on the beast’s ugly head. Once, twice, three times. At first, the skull resisted the massive impact of the blows, but, by the third stomp, it gave way, the bone shattering at last, the brain turning to a jelly-like smear.

  There was no time to glory in the victory. All around Cortez, his battle-brothers were engaged at close quarters. It was here the orks were most dangerous. It was here they excelled. Their raw animal power and savagery were incomparable among all the alien races, save perhaps the disgusting tyranids. Individual combat would favour the Astartes, of course. No living being trained as relentlessly, nor mastered war to the same degree. But the orks were not fighting as individuals. Their strength was in their numbers. Hundreds poured forth, as if the forest was vomiting them out, like something poisonous eaten by mistake and rejected. ‘Stand fast!’ Cortez bellowed, drawing his combat knife. Its blade was long and keen, sharpened to the monomolecular level, treated with a coating of synthetic diamond, as were the knives of all the Crimson Fists. They cut through the flesh of the orks, carving great hunks of bleeding meat from the densely muscled bodies.

  Days had passed since the rescue of Dasat and his pilgrims from the slaver camp, and this was the third time since then that the contingent from Arx Tyrannus had run into wandering ork mobs. The two previous times, whichever squad was on point had quickly eliminated the problem. Those mobs had been relatively small. This one was far larger, and there had been no going around it. A pitched battle had been inevitable.

  Cortez heard Kantor on the link ordering Squad Viejo to break north with the refugees, to get them away from the edge skirmish as quickly as possible. Then the Chapter Master was in among the orks, a whirlwind of violence, felling all that tried to swarm on him.

  Cortez would have enjoyed watching his friend’s martial prowess in action, but two snarling orks, marginally smaller and lighter-skinned than the monster Cortez had just slain, lunged at him from both sides. Cortez slid backwards a single step, and the aliens’ crude blades cut empty air. He did not give them time to recover. Every blow they missed was an opening he was conditioned to exploit. Lunging to the right, he rammed his combat blade deep into the belly of one, so deep he felt its point catch on the inner surface of the beast’s vertebrae. Instantly, he yanked back on the knife’s grip. The serrations on the back of the blade caught on the creature’s innards, and ripped them out through the gaping hole in its skin. For an instant, the creature stood looking down at its own looped intestines, a look of dumb curiosity on its idiot face. Cortez had already turned to the other, kicking at its leading knee, hard enough to smash the kneecap to pieces. The ork went down on its other knee with a roar of anger and pain. Again, Cortez’s power fist flashed out. There was a sharp electrical crack, and the creature’s head vanished in a red mist.

  The lifeless, headless body fell forward on its chest, twitching and gushing hot blood.

  Cortez spun and caught the other ork, the one his knife had just gutted, on the side of its head with a backhand blow. It, too, collapsed headless to the soil, falling to rest atop its own slick viscera.

  Over the comm-link, Cortez heard himself addressed. ‘Alessio, try to draw them west. Crush them between your squad and Segala’s.’

  Easier said than done, thought Cortez as his power fist felled another green wretch.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the Chapter Master fighting only a dozen metres from his side. Fenestra and Benizar were beside him, giving their all. Cortez threw himself into the fight even harder, and became a blur of blue motion, slaughtering the brutish foe as quickly as they could emerge from the dark green shadows.

  Cortez relayed the Chapter Master’s orders to his squad between blows and, together, they began moving west even as they fought. Kantor moved with them, growling over the link, ‘That’s it. Keep them coming. North a little. Draw them on.’

  Cortez’s squad let the orks come to them, giving ground metre by metre as they backed away. The foliage thinned a little, cover for the orks began to lessen. Targeting the beasts became easier, and they went down in increasing numbers, their heads detonating in bright sprays as perfectly placed bolter rounds exploded inside their skulls.

  Any moment now, thought Cortez.

  And the moment was right. The orks took the bait, and Kantor ordered Squad Segala to swing in from the west flank and cut them down. Caught in a deadly crossfire, the greenskins were shredded to fleshy tatters. Those that survived fled back into the undergrowth, their green backs merging with the jungle.

  For the moment, at least, the Space Marines had held them off.

  ‘North,’ said Kantor. ‘We’ll be closing on the capital soon. From here on in, we follow the River Rynn.’

  Squads Cortez and Segala followed him.

  Cortez gauged his remaining ammunition as he moved. He was running extremely low now. He would have to ask the others for extra rounds.

  They had better reach New Rynn City soon.

  Kantor had never intended for them to come this way. He had suspected from the beginning that the orks might use the River Rynn as a quick route to the capital from wherever their ships crash-landed. He re-assessed that decision now. He and his survivors looked out over the fast, cool waters and saw no sign of ork boats or rafts. They did see human corpses drifting by, floating spread-eagle, the wounded flesh of their backs just breaking the surface of the water. They were people who had been killed up-river, perhaps men and women from the small settlements in the foothills and mountain slopes where the river began its journey.

  Of the pilgrims Kantor had wished so desperately to save, three more had been killed, though not through wounds inflicted directly, but by all they had suffered in the camp. That and the march through the jungle were just too much. Somehow, old Dasat held on, though he looked weaker by the day. Kantor guessed the pilgrim’s leader still felt responsible for the safety of his people. He would see them to the capital, no matter what.

  This latest battle with the orks was something Kantor had desperately wished to avoid. Every encounter cost them time, valuable ammunition, and risked alerting even greater enemy forces to their presence. But he was proud of the three makeshift squads who travelled with him. With their backs to the proverbial wall since the destruction of their home, they had fought like swamp-tigers, leaving countless dead xenos in their wake.

  After an hour’s march, Kantor and the two squads with him finally caught up to Squad Viejo and the refugees who had already reached the riverbank. Viejo saluted when he saw the Chapter Master and gave him a quick update. No one had been injured, but some of the pilgrims were in shock, terrified by the fighting.

  Dasat waited behind Viejo until the sergeant had finished his report, then, when the sergeant moved off, he bowed deep and made the sign of the aquila on his chest. ‘Praise the Emperor, my lord,’ said the old man, ‘that the foe didn’t harm you.’

  Kantor took off his helmet and looked down at the man. ‘I’ve faced far worse,�
� he said. ‘And I will again.’

  Tears began to course down the old man’s cheeks. ‘You and your warriors continually risk your lives for ours. I can hardly tell you the shame I feel. I’ve never seen such selfless bravery, lord. Our worthless lives are not worth the burden we place on you. You have so much else to cope with.’

  Sobs of sorrow and guilt shook the man’s bony shoulders.

  Kantor reached out a massive hand and steadied him.

  ‘Enough, Dasat,’ he rumbled quietly. ‘No life lived in dedication to the Emperor should be cut short by filthy, mindless xenos. Besides, we are almost at the capital. Another day will see us there, if I have it right. The bank of this river will take us to Jadeberry Hill. Be strong a while longer. A battle awaits us there. My brothers will try their best to protect you, but you will need your strength. Drink from the river. Find food. Sleep till we wake you. It is your last chance to do so. By the Emperor’s grace, this journey ends soon.’

  Dasat nodded. ‘I’ll pray it ends well, lord. For all of us.’

  Kantor decided that he, too, would pray, not on his knees like those who followed the Imperial creed, but in the act of caring for his armour and his weapons. He would quietly chant the holy litanies of the Chapter, litanies to keep him strong, litanies to invoke the spirits of the wargear he relied on. He thought of the Emperor. The Crimson Fists, like many Astartes Chapters, did not revere the Master of Mankind as a god, per se, but as a father. Still, the gifted brothers of the Librarius had, since the dawn of the Chapter’s existence, always maintained that the Emperor was ever-present somehow, a shining psychic light, a beacon of hope that did indeed seem strengthened by the devotion of all those who laboured in His name.

  Kantor hoped He would hear Dasat’s prayers.

  He moved off towards the riverbank where Cortez and some of the others were cleaning xenos gore from their armour.

  Kantor waded into the shallows beside them and scooped water into his hands with which to clean his ancient suit.