Traitor's Gorge

by Mike Lee

  Phrenotas fell to his knees, tucking in his arms and bending his head in preparation for the shockwave. The Sternguard had followed suit as well. The Chapter Master watched the ork war machines and their crews vanish in an expanding wall of fire and then bent his head as well, bracing himself for the storm.

  As the roaring flames washed over him, incinerating the rest of the ork camp, Pedro Kantor knew a fleeting moment of peace.

  THE JAGGED, BLACKENED remnant of the processing tower was still wreathed in boiling green and orange flames hours later, sending up a column of greasy black smoke into a morning sky already thick with the ash of ruined cities and scorched fields. The hull plates of the crashed transport had buckled under the relentless heat, allowing the licking flames to penetrate the belly of the ship. Its guts had been rumbling with random explosions since shortly after dawn.

  The crashed ship's hull had also reflected much of the heat and shock of the initial blast down the valley, as Kantor had intended. The huge ork trucks had been flung through the air like toys, careen­ing end-for-end through the camp and crushing everything in their path. The smaller buggies and attack bikes had simply disintegrated in the blast, scattering molten debris for hundreds of metres downslope. Most of the orks' sheet metal huts - made from deck plate scavenged from the transport - had been flattened by the shock- wave. Small fires still burned amongst the trash piles and cesspools partially buried by the debris.

  Every living thing not sealed into Imperial power armour perished in the firestorm following the initial blast, either burned to ash or suffocated as the storm sucked the oxygen from their lungs. Like any warrior of the Adeptus Astartes, Kantor knew the tolerances of his blessed armour to a tenth of a degree. He and the Crimson Fists trusted the spirits of their venerable wargear to shield them from the wrath of the storm, and their faith had been rewarded.

  Since dawn the combat patrol had been combing the ruins of the camp, counting greenskin bodies and dragging them up the slope to the fire. Kantor stood on the blackened ground below the proc­essor tower, not far from where he had grappled with the ork boss. The Chapter Master listened to the tolling of his armour's locator beacon as he studied the ashen sky.

  Sergeant Phrenotas made his way downslope towards Kantor. His deep blue armour was mottled with patches of bright silver where the searing heat had eaten away the decorative enamel. The rest of the Sternguard were still clustered about the roaring fire, finishing the night's work.

  'That's the last of them, my lord,' Phrenotas said. Damage to his helmet's vox-unit lent his voice a sharp, static rasp. Victurix and his squad just finished their search of the transport. No signs of xenos on the upper decks.'

  Kantor nodded. 'What was the final count?'

  'Two hundred and seven,' the sergeant replied. 'Plus fifty or sixty runts.' Phrenotas hefted his combi-bolter and surveyed the smouldering ruins of the camp. 'A fair night's work.'

  'That's the largest number of stragglers yet, by a wide margin,' the Chapter Master said. 'Would that account for the number of aban­doned camps we've found over the last few weeks?'

  The Crimson Fists had begun their hunt almost as soon as the last ork ship had left orbit. Kantor had led his patrol up into the Anshar Mountains north of New Rynn City for the first two months, then shifted his attention to the distant continent of Magalan after receiving reports of ork scavengers outside the ruins of Port Calina. The hunt had led west, up into the Jaden Mountains, where the patrol had spent the last four months working their way south from peak to peak and valley to valley, eliminating every ork camp they found. The campaign had been a difficult one, until only just recently. After weeks of hard fighting, the patrol had come upon one abandoned camp after another - some deserted only days before the Space Marines' arrival.

  Phrenotas considered the question for a long moment. The veteran sergeant had forged an illustrious career during his three hundred and twenty years as a Crimson Fist, and in his time had distinguished himself as a Scout, a line battle-brother and a long-serving member of the Deathwatch, the chamber militant of the Ordo Xenos.

  'I do not think so,' the sergeant said at length. 'All these ork vehicles have been here for months. It's clear that the camp grew up around them. Lack of fuel is probably the main reason they haven't left like all the rest.'

  'But left to where?' Kantor prodded. 'And for what reason?'

  The sergeant shrugged his armoured shoulders. 'We knew that sooner or later the xenos would realise we were hunting them. I suspect the mobs are fleeing through the mountains further to the south-east, trying to stay a step or two ahead of us. Once we've had time for re-arming and repair, it should be easy enough to pick up their trail.'

  A low rumble echoed through the hazy sky off to the west. The sound grew louder and nearer with each passing moment, until the ground trembled beneath the Space Marines' feet. An icon in Kantor's helmet turned from amber to bright green.

  'They can run until the mountains meet the sea,' the Chapter Master said grimly. 'It will make no difference in the end. Their days on this world are numbered.'

  The source of the earth-shaking noise passed directly over the Crimson Fists, before slowing to a stop. The ashen sky began to roil as the deep-throated rumble rose in pitch to a harsh, metallic shriek. Moments later, the huge, boxy shape of a Thunderhawk gunship took shape through the haze, descending on vortices of ash churned by the force of its thrusters.

  The gunship was one of the few that had survived the destruction of the Arx Tyrannus, and the desperate fighting that followed. Its armoured flanks were as battered and scarred as that of the Space Marines themselves. Patches on the wings and thruster cowlings spoke of hasty repairs to try and keep the massive craft flying. The Thunderhawks had been kept in nearly constant service during the invasion, and were continuing to fly almost around the clock on crucial tasks for the Chapter. Kantor watched as the Thunderhawk's pilot rotated the craft so that its blunt nose faced upslope, and then lowered the craft carefully onto its squat landing gear.

  Kantor switched off his locator beacon. There was an explosive hiss of pressurised air and a groan of hydraulics as the forward assault ramp opened. 'All squads, form on me,' the Chapter Master called over the vox, and went to meet the transport.

  As he walked, Kantor reached up and unlocked his helmet. As ever, for a fleeting instant his perceptions felt slightly dulled after disconnecting from his armour's complex sensory gear. A hot breeze blew against the back of his neck and through his close-cropped black hair. The sensation felt strange after so many months sealed inside his armour.

  Motion inside the transport's forward bay drew Kantor's eye. He glanced up as Brother Olivos, the gunship's co-pilot, descended the port-side ladder from the cockpit and limped to the top of the ramp. Like the Chapter Master, Olivos had dispensed with his hel­met. He had a long, chisel-shaped face and deep-set eyes that lent him a permanently mournful expression. A stack of grey data-slates was clutched in his left hand. At the sight of Kantor, the Space Marine bowed respectfully. 'My lord,' he said in greeting.

  'Well met, brother,' Kantor said, climbing the ramp. 'My apologies for not making the rendezvous point as planned.' He gestured with his helmet at the destruction outside. 'We were otherwise engaged. Did you have any trouble picking up the beacon?'

  A ghost of a smile crossed the co-pilot's sombre face. 'Hardly nec­essary, my lord,' Olivos replied. 'That fire can be seen for a hundred kilometres on thermal.'

  Kantor grunted an acknowledgement. 'How is the leg?'

  Olivos glanced down at his right thigh. An ork chain-axe had nearly severed the leg during the bloody assault on New Rynn space port, six months ago. 'That? Scarcely a scratch now, my lord. Apothecary Salis had time to look at it a few days ago. The bone's knit, and the muscles are growing back as they should. I should be fit to join the others at the site in no time.'

  The Chapter Master smiled gravely and laid a hand on Olivos's shoulder. The vast crater where the Chapter fortress-monas
tery once stood was no longer called the Arx Tyrannus; the great fortress was gone forever, and speaking of it only reminded the survivorы of the magnitude of their loss. It was now just ''the site'', the scene of a mas­sive excavation effort led by the Chapter's remaining Techmarines, and supplemented by several thousand labourers from New Rynn City. They worked day and night recovering bodies and equipment, salvaging everything they could. As far as Kantor was concerned, the work would continue until every square centimetre of rubble had been searched and carted away. They owed it to their brethren who had died there, and to the memories of all those who had preceded them, down through the millennia.

  'I'm glad to hear it,' Kantor said. 'And I'm certain they will be glad to have you, though you are doing your brothers a great service already by flying with the transport crews.'

  Olivos frowned. 'At the rate things are going we'll soon have more crews than ships,' the Space Marine replied. 'Another two Thunderhawks had to be grounded yesterday for repairs, and there are no spare parts to be had.'

  'How many does that leave us?'

  'Four, counting this one,' the co-pilot replied. Olivos offered the stack of data-slates to Kantor. 'It's all here in the reports.'

  Kantor took the slates. They seemed heavier in his hand than he knew they truly were. The weight of command, he thought. 'Thank you, brother.'

  Olivos bowed his head again and backed away. 'We're ready to return to New Rynn space port on your order, my lord,' he said, and returned to the ladder. Despite his injury, the co-pilot disappeared quickly into the upper decks.

  Kantor stood to one side of the ramp as Phrenotas and the first members of his squad came aboard. The veteran sergeant had removed his damaged helmet as well, revealing the alabaster skin, white-blond hair and pale blue eyes of a man born on the barbar­ian world of Jotun. A long, thin red line running from the corner of his right eye back to his ear showed how deep the ork cleaver had bit into his helm before the armour stopped the blow. Kantor met the warrior's gaze for a moment, and the Chapter Master saw the strain etched there. The invasion had left its mark on all of them. Kantor knew. In better times, he could have rotated the Sternguard squad back to the Arx Tyrannus, and given the Space Marines the opportunity to cleanse their spirits in the Reclusiam, or purge the ill humours with hours of vigorous training. Now, the closest Phrenotas and his squad would get to actual rest was a few days of hurried repair and re-arming back at the Cassar in New Rynn City before returning to the Jaden Mountains and embarking on another three-month patrol.

  The Chapter Master turned his attention to the data-slates in his hand, thumbing the first one to life and rapidly scanning the reams of information contained within. Since the invasion, the loss of the planet's communication satellite network, coupled with the tons of ash in the upper atmosphere and the ionisation caused by orbital strikes, meant that long-range vox communication would be impossible for months, or even years to come. While in the field; Kantor kept abreast of his Chapter's operations and the planet's reconstruction efforts by data-slate, delivered during each scheduled supply drop or redeployment. He began with the roll of brethren still serving the Chapter, committing to memory their current sta­tus, location and readiness. One of the first things that the Imperial relief force had accomplished after defeating the ork invasion was to re-establish the astropathic relay in the system, and reports were coming in from the Crimson Fists who were on undertakings across the Imperium. First among the reports was news that Delevan Deguerro, now the Chapter's Chief Librarian, and Captain Alessio Cortez had safely reached Terra aboard the strike cruiser Crusader. Kantor had despatched them with all haste to convince the High Lords of Terra that the Chapter remained viable, despite the losses it had suffered. A Chapter reduced to less than a hundred battle brothers was typically disbanded, as the pool of viable gene-seed was considered too limited to survive. Force Commander Geryon had even suggested as such, telling Kantor that he and his brethren would be welcome amongst the ranks of the Imperial Fists. But Kantor would have none of it. He trusted that Deguerro's persua­siveness and Cortez's fiery charisma would sway the High Lords to give the Chapter another chance at survival.

  There was also news that the Bellator and her escorts had arrived in-system, and would reach orbit within the week. She was one of the handful of strike cruisers left to the Chapter; the rest, along with the battle-barges Tigurius and the Sabre of Scarus, had been lost dur­ing the titanic space battle against Snagrod's massive invasion force. When the recall order had gone out in the weeks before the attack, Bellator and her strike group had been far to the galactic east on an undertaking against the Corsair Worlds. Her return brought vital supplies, medicae facilities, and, most important of all, twenty-five battle-brothers to aid in the recovery effort. Another dozen or so smaller ships were still en route back to the home world, to add their strength to the Chapter's severely depleted fleet. The Crimson Fists would need every ship they had left; with the Arx Tyrannus gone, they had little choice but to become a fleet-based Chapter once more.

  The rest of the reports dealt with the minutiae of an Adeptus Astartes Chapter: weapons and armour inventories, ammunition stocks, supply lists, logistical tables - on and on it went. He checked the entries against those committed to memory, analysing patterns and gauging the effectiveness of the Chapter's operations. In truth, the analyses were not very complex. There simply was not that much left to work with.

  The thought made Kantor grimace. All at once, the magnitude of his Chapter's loss struck home again. Shame tore at his heart, as it had done so many times before. It is my burden to bear, he thought to himself, the words like a mantra to master his despair. I am the Chapter Master. The responsibility is mine. I will not break. I will not bend. I will rebuild. And, in time, I will make the xenos pay.

  He finished the reports from the Cassar as Sergeant Victurix and his Terminators came aboard. The heavy ramp and the deck of the Thunderhawk shook beneath the tread of the five warriors, clad in fearsome suits of Tactical Dreadnought armour. Phrenotas and the Sternguard had already relocated to the transport's upper hold to make room for the hulking Terminators. Sergeant Daecor and his tactical squad were already forming up at the foot of the ramp, waiting for their turn to embark. As the loading continued, Kantor turned to the next set of reports, summarising the state of the plan­etary government and the civilian population.

  The situation of Rynn's World's Imperial citizens was dire indeed. Though a census of survivors was still under way, it was believed that less than five million of the planet's original population of two hundred million people had survived. Much of New Rynn City was a charnel house, and disease was a constant threat to the popula­tion. Until the planet's agri-combines could be restored - a process that itself could take many years - Rynn's World would be forced to import its food from other worlds across the subsector. It was a bitter pill indeed for the planet's aristocracy to swallow, but better by far than the alternative. Even so, the prospect of starvation over the coming months was very real. Food stores were very low in the wake of the invasion, and food shipments were not keeping up with demand.

  Kantor paused. He went back and re-read the addendum he had just scanned, making certain that he had absorbed it correctly. A frown darkened his square-jawed features.

  'Is there a problem, my lord?' Sergeant Daecor asked. He had removed his helmet upon boarding the transport, and the artificial light of the forward hold gleamed on his shaven skull and the com­plex pattern of tribal scars etched across his forehead and around his eyes. Daecor had been born on the feral world of Blackwater, and even before Snagrod's invasion he was considered a fearsome ork fighter, like Phrenotas, the left pauldron of his armour bore the insignia of the Ordo Xenos's elite Deathwatch.

  The Chapter Master fought to control his anger. He understood at once what had happened, and why. It was even possible that the decision had been made for purely altruistic reasons, though he could not help but notice that the locations mentioned in the f
ile belonged to the most important aristocratic houses left on Rynn's World, and represented a significant portion of their wealth.

  'Two weeks ago, the Upper Rynnhouse ordered the despatch of a dozen expeditions to inspect agri-combines across the planet,' Kantor told the sergeant. 'The objective was to identify one or two combines that could be quickly brought back into operation, likely by scavenging equipment and raw materials from heavily damaged sites.'

  Daecor's expression darkened. 'They are defying the edict?'

  'Clearly.' Kantor scowled at the data-slate. He had told the aris­tocrats - ordered them, in fact - not to undertake any operations outside New Rynn City. 'Eleven of the teams have returned safely.'

  'And the twelfth?'

  'Seventy-two hours overdue,' Kantor replied. 'They were sent to inspect the facilities at Gueras-403.'

  A dozen skilled engineers, twenty militia troops, and four flight crew, he thought darkly. A trivial number compared to all the millions that have been lost. But we are responsible for them nonetheless.

  Daecor understood at once. 'Gueras-403 is in the Altera Basin.'

  The Chapter Master nodded. 'Eighty-five kilometres south-east of here, near Traitor's Gorge,' he said. 'Right in the path of the orks we've been hunting.'

  The last warrior in Daecor's squad triggered the ramp controls as he came aboard. Lift motors whined, and at once, the Thunderhawk's thrusters began to spool up for take-off.

  Kantor blanked the data-slate. Seventy-two hours. The expedi­tion's odds of survival were slim.

  The gunship's thrusters rose to a furious shriek. As the deck plates trembled beneath his feet, Kantor tapped his vox-bead. 'Brother Olivos,' he called.

  'My lord?' the co-pilot replied.

  'Do we have reserve ammunition aboard?'

  'Yes, my lord. A full load. Has there been a change of plans?'