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

by Warhammer 40K

  As the elevator lowered them, Kantor told his Astartes, ‘The air defence control room is in the tower east of this one. There is a walkway linking the towers on the forty-eighth floor. We cross that gantry, take another elevator sixteen floors up, and secure that room. After that… well, all else is in the Emperor’s hands.’

  ‘We should destroy this elevator once we get off,’ said Daecor. ‘We should cut the cables.’

  Lodric Lician turned to look at him. ‘We have three battle-brothers up there. You think we should trap them? Trust me. Brother Padilla will not let the orks retake that room.’

  ‘It is not a question of trust,’ said Daecor.

  Orange lights flashed past them, marking the rapid progress of their descent.

  ‘It is a matter of practicality,’ Daecor continued. ‘Once the reinforcements arrive, there will be time to extract Ruzco, Padilla and Lucevo. But for now, all of us are best served by cutting off the orks’ only route into that room. Yes?’

  Lician grunted in disapproval, but he could not argue against Daecor’s logic.

  ‘We cut the cables,’ said Kantor, ending further debate. ‘Our brothers will be safer, and so will our ability to communicate with the fleet.’

  He looked at numbers changing on the elevator’s small green data-screen, and added, ‘Check your ammunition, all of you. Bless your weapons. This ride is almost over.’

  They emerged into the same large circular chamber where they had gotten on the elevator for the journey up. Kantor stepped out first, cautiously, quietly. His eyes passed over the dim hallway in which Segala had fallen. He could just make out the edge of a dark blue pauldron among the xenos corpses, could just see the uppermost red knuckles of the icon of his Chapter.

  Then pain exploded in his arm and the world flipped over. He found himself flying through the air and landed hard, sliding to a stop against a pillar of white stone decorated with fine gold-leaf filigree.

  The chamber filled with the most deafening inhuman roar, so loud it shook dead leaves from the plants and trees that had once decorated the place, but now only testified further to its state of ruin and decay.

  Kantor looked up and something hard and heavy hit him directly in the face, ringing against his helmet. It fell into his lap, and he looked down.

  He knew this thing, ancient and so familiar.

  It was polished red, chased with gold, inlaid with the finest gems and black pearls.

  Skulls decorated its knuckles. The crest on the back was a single fist formed from rubies set between feathered wings of shining gold. Beneath it, a laurel wreath encircled a grinning skull, the brow of which was decorated with the two-headed eagle, the aquila of the Imperium of Man.

  It was Alessio Cortez’s personal crest, and this was his power fist.

  Cortez’s severed arm was still inside it, edges raw and bloody, white bone poking up through the meat, the cut almost surgically clean.

  Kantor was frozen for a moment, reeling, desperately trying to rally himself, to steer his mind away from what this meant.

  He looked up and saw the massive yellow-armoured warboss, Urzog Mag Kull, roaring at him in triumph, its left side absolutely drenched in blood. He saw that one of its eyes had been gouged out. A great flap of green flesh hung from its head, showing the bright bone beneath. Sparks flashed and spat from ruptured power-cables in its right leg. Cortez had punished the beast before he had succumbed to its superior strength. It roared again, raised its twin-linked heavy-stubbers, pointed the barrels at Kantor and fired.

  There was a loud click and the whine of cycling ammo-feeds, but no armour-piercing rounds leapt out, no deadly hail. Kantor glanced at the weapon and saw that its barrels were badly crushed and mangled. Somehow, during the fight, Cortez had put the weapon out of commission. Had he not, Pedro Kantor might have been torn apart right then.

  ‘Xenos filth!’ spat the Chapter Master, pushing his old friend’s arm from his lap and rising to his feet. ‘You will pay!’

  He broke into a run, racing directly for the towering two-tonne creature, peppering its armoured bulk with torrents of fire from his storm-bolter as he moved. In just over a second, he crossed the gap, and found himself mere metres from it, scowling up into that terrible fang-toothed face, power fist crackling with electrical arcs, diamond-edged combat blade held ready in his left hand.

  ‘Let’s have you, wretch!’ he hissed, drawing a last howl of threat from the beast before it lunged straight at him with its blood-splashed power claw.

  Despite the creature’s speed, the blow was telegraphed, the ork taking a fraction of a second to shift its weight forward into the lunge. It was enough. Kantor slid aside just as the claw slashed towards his abdominal plates. He struck at the extended arm with his power fist. Had he connected properly, he might well have sheared straight through the arm, but the ork was blisteringly fast. It did not leave its arm extended long after the blow, but recoiled it as quickly as a striking snake recoils its head.

  Kantor’s fist passed through thin air, putting him ever so slightly off-balance for an instant. That was when the ork whipped its battered twin stubbers at him. There was no evading the blow. Instead, Kantor raised his left arm, couched his head against his inner forearm, and tried to absorb the impact.

  The force was stunning, slamming into him and hurling him from his feet despite his best efforts to resist. He landed hard on his right side and slid six metres across the floor.

  He cursed as he pushed himself up and tried to shake off a momentary dizziness.

  He saw Sergeant Daecor, Brother Verna and Brother Bacar try to surround the beast, Daecor taunting it from the front while the other two each took a flank. It looked like it was working. The monster hurled itself at Daecor, its massive claw hammering into the marble flooring as the sergeant leapt backwards. Verna and Bacar moved the instant the blow missed their new squad leader. Verna thrust his combat blade into the workings of the left leg and yanked back hard, ripping cables from their housings and spraying himself with oil and hydraulic fluids. Bacar tried to lever his knife up underneath the monster’s armpit where mobility demanded there be a gap in its armour.

  The monster’s remaining eye was its right one, and it saw Bacar move in its peripheral vision. In a flash, it spun on him, striking his helmeted head with the battered barrels of its twin stubbers. With Bacar momentarily stunned, hands thrown out to stop himself from toppling, the creature torqued the left side of its body and hacked him into three with a great diagonal slash of its power claw.

  Bacar’s body, power armour and all, slid into three parts. His head and left arm flopped to the floor. Great gouts of blood geysered upwards from his open torso.

  That was when brothers Lician and Anais tried to enter the fray.

  ‘No!’ bellowed Kantor. ‘Brother Anais, get back in the elevator. Lician, defend him with your life. We cannot lose him!’ The Chapter Master raced towards the beast that had just killed another of his beloved Crimson Fists.

  How many more did he have to lose before Urzog Mag Kull would die?

  Daecor had Mag Kull’s left flank now, but, as he lunged, the beast turned and clipped his breastplate with a savage backhand blow. The upwards angle of the blow sent the sergeant metres into the air. He crashed down on his back, bolter skittering away from him.

  Verna, finding himself behind the beast, threw himself at the back of its piston-powered knees and tried to take it to the floor, but it was hopeless. Even in full Astartes plate, he weighed a fraction of what Mag Kull did.

  He managed to confuse the creature for a second, allowing Kantor to launch himself into the air, power fisted right hand held high for a deadly downwards blow.

  For a moment, the Chapter Master literally flew, all his prodigious power and strength, all his athletic ability, invested into the attack.

  Mag Kull managed to kick Verna away, shattering the armour of the Crimson Fist’s left arm in the process and breaking the bone beneath. It turned in time to see Kantor’s
attack, but not quickly enough to avoid it. Instead, it could only try to minimise the damage from the blistering overhand strike.

  It rolled its massive metal shoulder in front of its face at the last instant. There was a massive crack, like sharp thunder, as Kantor’s fist struck the beast’s armoured plate, shearing straight through the metal and pulverising the dense bone and muscle beneath. The force of the impact launched the beast backwards and sent Kantor crashing to the ground.

  The ork raged. The sparks from its malfunctioning legs ignited the oil leaking from its cables, and fire engulfed its lower body. But it was not finished with the Crimson Fists. Its right arm, the one bearing the useless heavy stubber, now hung from its shoulder by little more than a thin bundle of nerves and sinew. It slapped uselessly against the burning monster’s side as it struggled forwards in Kantor’s direction. Irritated, the beast raised its huge power claw across its body and, with one motion, snipped the useless arm away completely.

  The severed arm fell to the ground with a clatter of metal.

  Verna lay groaning, fighting to rally himself. Daecor, too, was struggling to get to his feet. Kantor rose, his whole body aching, damned if he was going to let the monster get the better of him. But the creature was unnaturally tough, tougher than any Astartes. It was not just the armour, it was the nature of the ork race. Pain hardly slowed them, fear rarely stopped them in their tracks, they were addicted to war, addicted to slaughter, and they would never stop coming.

  On burning metal legs, the creature staggered towards him, gnashing the blades of its only remaining weapon, its deadly power claw, as if they were a second set of jaws.

  Kantor loosed a burst of bolt rounds at it, aiming for the beast’s head, but the massive metal gorget of long tusk-like spikes protected the creature’s face. The bolts detonated on the armour without penetrating, though they certainly angered the beast.

  Four metres away from him now, it raised its massive claw into the air, and he readied to try to block or slip the blow. His entire awareness was focussed on that gleaming razor-edged weapon, as if it were the only thing in the universe right now. So, at first, he did not understand what happened next. Though his eyes saw it all, he was not sure he could believe it.

  A harsh voice barked out, ‘We are not finished, xenos!’

  An armoured figure leapt up from behind, throwing itself on the creature’s back, gripping with only its blue, ceramite-plated legs. The figure’s left hand, its only hand, raised a small metal object.

  The monster tried to turn to face its new attacker, but, no matter how it tried to twist and turn, the blue figure was always behind it, holding fast to its back by leg power alone.

  The beast bellowed in frustration and, the moment its mouth was open as wide as it could surely go, the attacker leaned forward and placed the metal object deep inside the creature’s mouth.

  On reflex, the ork swallowed, confused, not realising what had just happened.

  It thrashed again and, finally, the blue figure released its grip and was flung backwards, crashing to the ground and skidding away.

  The monster turned to pursue, but it only managed two steps. It was about to take a third then the krak grenade detonated inside it. Where its head had poked out of its armoured shell, a fountain of blood and shattered bone erupted. For a second, the armour stayed upright, apparently undamaged by the explosion in the creature’s body. Then, slowly, like a falling ebonwood tree, it tumbled forwards and smashed to the floor.

  Kantor realised he was breathing hard and consciously tried to relax his body. He was still not entirely sure what had just happened. Then he heard dry laughter somewhere off to his right. A figure in battered Crimson Fist armour sat up, still chuckling, covered in blood, beaten almost beyond recognition.

  Almost, but not quite.

  ‘Alessio,’ breathed Kantor, numb with relief. ‘Alessio.’

  It was Cortez, though he was in a worse state of repair than Kantor could remember seeing him for at least a century.

  ‘You’re alive! By Dorn, you’re alive!’

  ‘I’ve a legend to live up to,’ said Cortez. He coughed, and his face betrayed a hint of his pain. ‘Damn, but that bastard was tough.’

  Kantor crossed the floor to help his friend rise. Lician and Anais had emerged to help Daecor and Verna to their feet.

  Reaching down and offering his hand to Cortez, the Chapter Master grimaced, noting the blood-crusted stump which was all that remained of his friend’s right arm. Cortez reached up with his left, gripped Kantor’s hand, and hauled himself to his feet. Throughout the movement, Kantor could see just how badly injured his old friend was. He grunted in pain as he moved, and his speed was gone.

  ‘What’s next?’ said Cortez once he was on his feet. He turned his head to look across at the others.

  ‘Nothing for you,’ said Kantor. ‘You’ll rest until we can get an Apothecary here.’

  ‘Not likely,’ protested Cortez. ‘I’m still in this. I’m fine.’

  ‘No,’ Kantor boomed. ‘You lost an arm, Alessio. By the mercy of the Emperor alone, you’re lucky you didn’t lose your life.’

  Cortez gestured over Kantor’s shoulder. ‘I haven’t lost an arm, brother. It’s right over there.’

  It was. His severed arm, still wearing the glorious power fist that bore his personal arms, was exactly where Kantor had left it, close to the pillar against which the creature had thrown him.

  Kantor shook his head, bewildered that his friend could consider this a time for levity.

  Daecor, Verna and the others stopped beside them. ‘Your legend grows, Fourth captain,’ said Daecor with a salute.

  Cortez kept glaring at Kantor, but the Chapter Master turned to the others and said, ‘Daecor, Lician, Anais… we proceed to the air defence control centre. Brother-Captain Cortez and Brother Verna will take the elevator up to the air traffic control room and wait with Lucevo, Padilla and Ruzco.’

  ‘With respect, lord,’ said Cortez angrily, ‘I told you I can still fight.’

  Kantor shook his head. ‘Three brothers are holding the air traffic control room alone. It is critical to our success that it remains held. I am giving you an order, and you will obey it.’

  I have granted you far too many liberties already, Alessio, Kantor thought, and the last was nearly the end of you. It is enough for today.

  Cortez’s body language managed to convey his deep dissatisfaction and resentment without the need for words, but he did as commanded. He turned and led the limping Verna to the elevator.

  ‘I thought we were going to cut the cables,’ said Daecor to the Chapter Master.

  ‘It is just as well we did not,’ replied Kantor. ‘Neither of them are in any shape to fight now.’

  ‘Incredible,’ murmured Daecor. ‘Incredible that Cortez survived at all.’

  Just as Cortez was about to close the elevator gate behind him, Kantor shouted after him. ‘What of Brother Oro? Did you see him?’

  The doors had begun to close, but Cortez thrust out his hand and stopped them. He leaned out of the elevator and said, ‘He came back into the atrium and tried to aid me in my fight. I told him not to interfere, but he wouldn’t listen.’ He paused, then added, ‘For what it’s worth, he died bravely.’

  Silence reigned for a moment.

  Cortez let the door of the elevator slide shut. Seconds later, the winches whined and it began to ascend.

  ‘Gather up your weapons,’ said Kantor. He looked at the remains of Bacar, nothing more than three grisly parts clustered together on the floor to his right. ‘Take his ammunition. We may need it.’

  Saying this, he turned and began walking towards a grand archway on the chamber’s south-eastern side. ‘Hurry,’ he told the Fists following behind him. ‘The gargants may even now have broken through.’

  Nine

  Air Defence Tower, New Rynn Spaceport

  Nothing else they encountered was quite as deadly as the ork boss Cortez had finally killed. Though
Kantor moved with so few of his battle-brothers in support, they moved fast, killing the orks they came across with cold, ruthless efficiency. Inside, the south-east tower was much like the one they had just come from. Once they had crossed the connecting walkway, and had navigated their way through a series of filthy rooms and ruined hallways, they found themselves in a large chamber dominated by a central elevator shaft. The only difference between this chamber and the other seemed to be the absence of dead foliage here.

  The air defence control centre was close to the very top of the tower, almost a full kilometre above ground level. Like the air traffic control room, it was occupied by orks and gretchin. Like those in the air traffic control room, they were unprepared for a sudden and decisive assault. Moments after they emerged from the elevator, Kantor and his makeshift squad found themselves pulling ruined bodies from the tops of the consoles.

  The layout of the room was similar to that of the air traffic control centre, though fewer of the windows were smashed. Despite the season, it was cold up here. Night leached the heat away. Kantor ignored the temperature. Inside his power armour, it was well-regulated, almost constant. Some of the gretchin bodies on the floor wore raumas-wool coats and hats, spoils taken from the bodies of the Rynnite dead which must once have littered this place just as the gretchin themselves did now. Their larger ork brethren wore no such items. Their great swollen musculatures made the wearing of human clothes impossible.

  Once the consoles were free of dead aliens, Brother Anais began his systems checks. Moments later, he crossed to the Chapter Master’s side. ‘The news is good, lord. They seem to have done little in the way of irreparable damage.’

  ‘How long until we have full control over the surface-to-orbit batteries?’

  Anais tapped runes in front of him. Figures spooled across a green screen. ‘A number of weapons are out of commission. We shall need time to bring them back online. We can begin firing the others within the hour, perhaps even less.’