by Nick Kyme
The plan was to allow all of the humans still upright to stay moving until they got to the wall, where they’d stop and have a final bit of fun. But seeing the bare head of the human bastard who’d knocked the standard in the dirt convinced Rotgrim that maybe one or two of them could still fall along the way. The few who reached the wall would have to be enough fun for the others. Rotgrim whirled his axe overhead, signalling the other biker boy. A quick jab of his finger, first at the pair of humans, then at his own massive chest, was a simple enough message to carry even over the dust-filled air: These humans were his.
ZATORI CAUGHT A glimpse of Scouts du Queste and s’Tonan veering in from the right, pursued by a trio of warbuggies. It was clear he’d been right, and that the greenskins were herding them, steering their advance towards the west. He just hoped the orks were driving them where Hilts thought they were heading.
He and Hilts were riding side by side now, jinking back and forth to dodge the ever-growing number of rocky protuberances and outcroppings, ever larger as they continued eastward, the largest of them now taller than Zatori when astride his bike.
There had been two greenskin bikes in their wake, but when Zatori chanced a glance back to see how close they had come, one of the orks was peeling off to cover their left flank. Only the warband’s leader, the red of Kelso’s blood still staining his axe blade the same shade as his leathers and ride, was still in pursuit, and closing fast.
‘Zatori to Hilts,’ he voxed. ‘The leader is gaining.’
Hilts spared an instant to look back over his shoulder, then turned back to face forward. ‘Tighten up, Zatori. This may get bumpy.’
THE MOUNTAINS ON the eastern edge of the salt flats now towered before them. The sun was nearing its zenith, and the shadows had shrunk almost to nothing, making it more difficult to spot some of the smaller rocks in their path.
As they headed into the maze-like network of rocks and ridges that stretched out from the base of the mountains, Rotgrim gauged it impossible to pull up between the two humans, as he’d intended, laying about him on both sides with his axe. And since the human who’d disgraced the standard was now riding slightly ahead of the other one with the power fist, it meant that Rotgrim would have to get through him first before taking out his vengeance on the human bastard.
An evil grin tugged up the corners of Rotgrim’s wide mouth as an idea struck. He hung his axe on his belt, then reached behind him and snapped off the broken spar which was all that remained of the stanchion that had once held the Evil Sunz banner aloft. As the two humans pulled into a relatively open stretch of ground, Rotgrim punched his warbike into a sudden burst of speed, pulling up alongside them on the right. As the human on the right turned to grab at Rotgrim with his power fist, the ork leaned over as far over to the left as he could go without tipping his bike over, and drove the broken spar like a lance between the spokes of the human’s front wheel.
The power fist closed on empty air as the front wheel pegged, and with a squeal of metal on metal the human’s bike flipped end over end.
Before Rotgrim even had a chance to savour the destruction, though, a blast of superheated air shot right across his path, and he was forced to veer off hard to the right to avoid the next shot from the twice-damned human’s heat gun.
‘SQUAD! COVER NEEDED!’ Zatori voxed urgently, as he watched Veteran Sergeant Hilts tumbling through the air. A melta blast had been enough to drive the ork leader away, if only for a moment, but it wouldn’t keep him off Zatori’s back for long. And if their mission had any hope for success, Zatori couldn’t let Hilts lie wherever he fell.
In response to Zatori’s call, the other two scouts, du Queste and s’Tonan, came roaring over at speed, swords swinging and bolts flashing from their twin-linked bolters. They threw themselves at the ork leader, slewing in between him and Zatori, giving the latter a few moments grace to act.
While the ork leader was occupied with du Queste and s’Tonan, Zatori ground to a halt where Hilts had come to rest. The sergeant was pinned between the massive rock that had arrested his forward motion and the heavy bike that had arrived a split second after. The bike itself was a mangled mess, bent out of its true shape, the forward forks snapped off and the tyre still trundling away in the dust. Hilts was in little better shape. At the speeds they’d been travelling, the force of the impact with the massive rock outcropping had been enough to dent his ceramite armour in several places, and he was bleeding generously from wounds that his Larraman cells had not yet been able to staunch. One leg was bent forwards at an obscene angle, and his left arm appeared to be pulled completely from its socket. The impact of the bike had only worsened the damage.
‘Take… take it…’ Zatori heard Hilts say, not over the vox – the sergeant’s ability to transmit no doubt compromised by the crash – but the words instead rasping out through Hilts’s damaged visor.
The sergeant raised his power fist, and Zatori could see the small device affixed to the gauntlet’s cuff.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Zatori said, leaping off his bike and rushing to Hilts’s side. With a grunt of effort, he heaved the mangled bike off of the sergeant. ‘We’re already a rider down, and I can’t conscience leaving another behind.’
Slipping both hands beneath the sergeant’s battered form, Zatori straightened and lifted Hilts into the air.
Hurrying to his bike, Zatori draped the sergeant over the back like saddlebags, and after securing him in place jumped back into the seat.
‘Scout…’ Hilts said, as Zatori gunned the engine, his voice scarcely audible. Zatori knew that, in the face of such massive injuries, Hilts would be going into a fugue state as his body attempted to repair itself. ‘Press on… No matter what… Press…’
The sergeant slipped into unconsciousness, his body’s full attention on its injuries.
‘Squad!’ Zatori voxed, as he kicked his bike into motion, driving towards the mountains which now loomed before them. ‘The sergeant’s with me. Now let’s end this race!’
THEY THUNDERED TO the east, the Scouts pulling just ahead of the Evil Sunz, and as they neared the foothills of the mountains, the rocky protuberances and outcrop-pings grew larger and more numerous, rising like ghost ships above the dead seabed. The way forward was difficult, and Scouts and orks alike were forced to jink constantly back and forth to avoid running aground.
And with each passing instant the mountains grew ever closer, ever larger, swelling to fill the horizon as far as the eye could see.
ROTGRIM RUMBLED IN grim satisfaction as he saw the three human bikers approach the end of the race.
There was nowhere for them to run. Just as Rotgrim had ordered, the warband had herded the humans across the salt flats, through the maze of stones, to a defile that ran a hundred or so metres deep into the living rock of a mountain before ending at a solid rock face. And it was to this wall of stone that the humans had run their bikes.
Rotgrim ground his bike to a halt, and the rest of the warband skidded in behind him. He snarled, hefting his axe.
The three humans were on their feet now, swords and guns in hand, ringed protectively around the fallen human draped over one of the bikes.
It was almost funny, Rotgrim thought. The humans acted like they even had a chance. And who knows, against Rotgrim and his crew of biker boyz, maybe they might have.
But what the humans didn’t know was that it wasn’t just Rotgrim and his crew they had to worry about.
Now the fun would start, Rotgrim thought, climbing off his warbike. He hit the transmitter on his belt, signalling that they had arrived.
The humans turned at the sound of the hidden hatch opening in the rock face behind them. Even before the hatch was clear a dozen orks were spilling through, axes, guns, and pistols armed and ready.
THERE WERE DOZENS at first, then hundreds, pouring out of the hatch that led to the passages and caverns hidden beneath the mountain.
Zatori kept close to his bike, with Veteran Sergeant Hilts still drape
d over the back like saddlebags, his massive power fist dangling just centimetres above the hard packed dirt.
The Scout could hear the hideous laughter of the green-skinned monsters, and knew that they must find some humour in the fact that the squad had failed to outrun them.
But what the orks did not know was that Zatori and the others never meant to outrun them, but merely outpace them. And now they had reached the end of the run.
Zatori smiled as he reached down and detached the small device attached to the power fist’s cuff. He held it aloft, and as he thumbed the switch the miniature teleport homer began to hum faintly.
There was a flash of light and a sudden, deafening boom, and before Zatori stood a towering Space Marine, his ceramite armour finished golden yellow and jet black, a storm shield on one arm and a massive thunder hammer in his other hand. A cloak fluttered behind him in the dry, hot wind, and above the Space Marine’s shoulders rose a stanchion surmounted by a wreathed death’s-head, bearing a scroll-shaped crossbar on which was emblazoned his name: LYSANDER.
‘Primarch!’ Captain Lysander shouted, swinging his thunder hammer the Fist of Dorn overhead. ‘To your glory and the glory of Him on Terra!’
With a snarl on his lips, Captain Lysander charged towards the orks massed before the open hatch, without hesitation, without pause. Just as the captain cleared the patch of dirt upon which he had appeared, another Space Marine flashed into existence, and then another, and another, all with thundering war cries on their lips, all with their swords drawn and ready for blood. An entire squad of Veterans of the Imperial Fists, each of them in Terminator armour, each of them rushing to close with the ork invaders. The Veterans of the First Company tore into the massed greenskins, swords biting. Already Captain Lysander was plunging into the hidden underground complex beyond the open hatch, laying waste to all he found.
ROTGRIM STOOD DUMBLY for a moment, watching the armoured humans smashing into his brother orks. And all he could think was that this was all the fault of the humans he’d been chasing, and of that twice-damned human in particular. He could picture the standard of the Evil Sunz laying somewhere out there in the salty dust.
He tightened his grip on his axe, rubbery lips curling in a snarl.
This race wasn’t over yet, he realised. Not until he’d got his vengeance.
ZATORI AND THE other two Scouts gathered around the supine form of Veteran Sergeant Hilts at the extraction point, waiting for the gunship that was thundering in to extract them. From where they stood, some distance from the base of the mountain, they could hear the sound of battle as the Veteran squad clashed with the orks, the greenskins ill-prepared for such an assault.
‘I would have liked to stay and watch the Terminator squad in action,’ s’Tonan said, eyeing the horizon.
The bike squad’s run across the desert had been a subterfuge all along, to get the homer deep enough into the enemy ranks for the Terminators to take them out from within, in one fell swoop.
‘And I would like to get clear of the greenskins’ stench,’ answered du Queste, picking bugs from his teeth.
Zatori didn’t have a chance to say just what he would like, as they were interrupted by a bellowing roar coming from the direction of the mountains.
It was the red-clad leader of the warband, rushing towards them at full tilt, his enormous axe held high overhead. He was driving straight at Zatori with murder in his eyes, an animalistic howl reverberating from between his cracked and massive teeth.
Zatori didn’t waste an instant by dropping into a defensive posture, or by reciting the abbreviated Litany of the Blade,or by raising his sword into the en garde position. Instead, he simply drew his melta gun, squeezed the trigger, and melted the oncoming ork into a puddle of ooze and charred bone with a single prolonged blast.
‘And what would Rhetoricus say about that manoeuvre?’ du Queste asked, eyes narrowed and a slight smile tugging the corners of his lips.
‘Simple,’ Zatori answered. ‘I ascertained the opponent’s state,’ he hefted his melta gun, ‘and seized the advantage by changing my approach.’
RENEGADES
Gav Thorpe
THE GROWLING OF engines and the roar of battle cannons reverberated around the massive hall, the echoes overlapping into a constant thunder of destruction. Intricately designed mosaics upon the wall shattered into thousands of multi-coloured shards under the impact of shells and las-fire. The marble tiles of the flooring cracked and heaved under iron treads as battle tanks lumbered forwards. Soldiers garbed in long black overcoats hurried from cover to cover; sheltering behind the immense pillars supporting the ceiling, scurrying to and fro behind mounds of rubble and leaping into craters gouged into the once-gleaming floor. The tumult of war drowned out the shouted commands of the rebels’ leaders, who waved forward their men from atop the blasted remains of armoured transports and the plinths of ravaged statues of former Imperial commanders. Their men chanted new slogans in defiance of their ousted commanders; battle cries filled with hate and calls for justice.
All along the mile-long hall the forces of the insurrectionists surged forwards under the cover of their tanks’ guns.
Ahead of them the Astartes of the Avenging Sons Chapter stood defiant, their blue armour covered in dust and grime. They had come to quell a rebellion, only to find a world gripped by civil war. They had arrived to execute the rebel leaders and restore the rule of the Imperial commander, now they defended the same man against a whole world risen up against the tyranny of their ruler. The fighting had taken a bloody toll. There were thirty of them left; thirty Space Marines of the one hundred and three who had first come to Helmabad.
From behind makeshift barricades of twisted metal, heaps of lumpen rockcrete and barriers of piled bodies the Astartes poured fire into their attackers. The air was alight with the flickering rocket trails of bolter rounds, while blinding lascannon blasts blazed out to sear through armoured hulls and flesh alike. The crunch of heavy bolter fire and the crackling roar of plasma howled the Space Marines’ fury.
Behind the wall of armoured giants cowered the relatively few men that still remained loyal to Commander Mu’shan, snapping off shots from their lasguns in scattered moments of bravery. Once they had been the elite, the lauded Sepulchre Guard of Helmabad. Now the ire of those they had once sworn to protect had humbled them. Their death’s head masks seemed comical rather than grim. Their gold brocade and epaulettes were tattered and their black carapace armour pitted, scarred and filthy.
Amidst the fire and devastation strode Brother-Captain Gessart of the Avenging Sons. Like his battle-brothers he wore armour marked from much fighting. Its blue paint was burnt and cracked ceramite showed through his livery in dozens of places. His left shoulder pad was a plain, dull white; a hasty replacement for the one he had lost two days ago. His golden helmet was slicked with a layer of dust, and blood stained the silver eagle upon his chest; the blood of enemies a better badge of honour than the symbol it obscured.
Gessart barked commands as he led the defenders, each order punctuated by a salvo of shots from the storm bolter in his hands. ‘Dispersive fire on the left,’ he growled, loosing off three rounds that tore through a junior officer half-hidden behind the tangled remains of an iron bench. The men the dead officer had been attempting to rally melted away into the dust clouds and smoke. Just behind the captain stood Librarian Zacherys, a nimbus of energy glowing from the Librarian’s psychic hood, the force sword in his right fist blazing with power. Helmetless, Zacherys’s face was a mask of strain as he projected an invisible wall of force around the Space Marines. With sparks of warp energy, las-bolts and auto-gun rounds crackled into oblivion around the psyker. ‘Show them no mercy!’ bellowed Herdain, the Company Chaplain, as he stepped up onto a pile of rubble and loosed a succession of plasma bolts from his pistol. The conversion field hidden within the Chaplain’s rosarius intermittently blazed into blinding life as enemy fire converged on the grim custodian.
‘How can s
o many be so misguided?’ said Rykhel, his bolter raised to his shoulder, his shots controlled and precise. ‘They are blind to their doom.’
‘Pick your targets,’ said Gessart. ‘Make every shot count.’
‘It’s hard to miss,’ laughed Lehenhart, his bolter spewing rounds that chewed through a rebel squad dashing across the open area directly in front of the Space Marines. ‘We haven’t had such easy targets since those orks charged us on Caraphis.’
‘You’ll lead us to victory, captain,’ said Willusch. ‘The primarch favours you.’
‘Just stay focused,’ said Gessart as he loosed off another burst of fire.
The firefight continued for several more minutes, the Space Marines manoeuvring and concentrating their fire wherever the rebels looked to be gathering in numbers.
‘Recon walkers on the right flank; three, possibly four,’ warned Willusch. He swung his heavy bolter in a slow arc, his volley hammering through plasteel and rockcrete at the rebels cowering behind. ‘I can’t draw on them from here.’
‘Lehenhart, Herdain, Nicz and Rykhel with me,’ Gessart snapped. ‘Ready grenades for counterattack.’
The five Space Marines pounded to the right along the barricade line. A long gallery ran alongside this side of the hall, the wall between cracked and holed in places, through which the captain saw the gawky forms of the Sentinel walkers advancing. If they were allowed to continue they would reach the end of the line and would be able to pour fire from behind the defence works. ‘Breach on my signal,’ Gessart called out.
They were less than a dozen paces from the wall when Gessart unleashed a long burst from his storm bolter, the rounds punching into the rockcrete and gouging great holes with their detonations. The others did the same, ripping up the wall with their fire.
‘Breach!’ shouted Gessart, lowering his left shoulder and charging full speed at the damaged rockcrete. The blasted wall shattered under the impact of the massive Space Marine and the captain smashed through into the gallery beyond amidst a cloud of stone splinters and crumbling plaster. To his left and right the others made similarly dramatic entrances.
