by Gav Thorpe
One of the orks leapt in front of its leader, blazing away with a pistol. Boreas swayed, taking the brunt of the salvo on his left shoulder pad, ceramite cracking and showering to the floor. The Chaplain glanced down at his rosarius and saw the power crystal glowing fitfully. Another fifteen or more orks crowded down the stairs behind their leader, jeering as Boreas backed into the doorway leading to the rose window. He ripped another frag grenade from his belt. He held it above his head for the orks to see and thumbed the activation switch.
‘Kill the alien!’ he snarled, the words roaring from the external speakers of his helmet. He tossed the grenade into the orks as they scrambled and shoved each other back up the stairs; all except the leader, who launched itself at the Chaplain with its axe held overhead.
Boreas met the ork with a step, crashing his armoured fist into its broad chin as the grenade exploded on the stair. The blow barely slowed the creature’s charge, but was enough to make the axe blow swing harmlessly past Boreas’s left shoulder. The ork’s momentum carried it forwards, crashing into Boreas, sending both sprawling to the floor.
As the Chaplain pushed himself to his feet in the doorway, the surviving orks thundered down the steps, leaping and tripping over the mounds of their dead, firing their guns. The wall and doorframe splintered with bullet impacts. The ork leader hauled itself upright and took a fresh grip on its weapon. It grunted something Boreas could not understand and heaved its blade at the Chaplain’s head. Boreas ducked back as the crackling axe head sliced into the doorway, ripping through wood and plascrete before becoming stuck. The Chaplain brought up his crozius under the beast’s straightened arm, smashing into the ork’s elbow. Bone shattered and the arm bent strangely. The ork gave a howl of rage and pain, let go of the axe and smashed a fist into Boreas’s face, cracking an eye lens, the blow tearing away a breathing pipe.
Forced back by the punch, Boreas found himself trapped in the window room. Crowding around their wounded leader, the orks pressed through the door; Boreas could hear pounding feet as others chased after Dannael. The Chaplain’s crozius opened up the face of the first to lunge at him, smashing teeth and bone.
With his free hand, Boreas pulled the last grenade from his belt.
‘I am Astartes, warrior of the Emperor!’ he barked, tossing the frag grenade into the centre of the room. As it left his hand, the ork leader surged through the press, clamping an iron-strong arm around Boreas’s neck.
The grenade detonated. The blast combined with the ork’s impetus to send Boreas and his foe crashing through the rose window. They tumbled head-over-heels through the air, locked together in a violent embrace. The ork tried to bite Boreas’s face through the wreckage of his helmet, breaking a tooth, while the Chaplain battered at its back with his crozius.
Spinning and fighting, the two fell thirty metres to the open square below, crashing into the ferromac ground. The ork took most of the impact, chest crushed by Boreas’s weight, head smashed to a bloody pulp on the hard surface. The Chaplain’s right shoulder pad disintegrated into flying shards and he felt something snap in his arm just above the elbow. His neck wrenched from side to side as he bounced heavily, backpack carving a furrow through the reinforced bitumen. Red indicators flashed across his vision, warning of widespread damage to the power armour’s systems.
Even before he could focus again, Boreas felt adrenal fluids pushed through his veins as his twin hearts pounded and blood raced through reinforced arteries and veins. He felt the pain as a distant sensation, something witnessed rather than experienced, and lay still for a moment, analysing the situation.
Only a few seconds had passed since he had fallen, but he realised the danger he was in. The city square was contested ground, held by the orks to the east and the Imperial forces to the west. As if on cue, the buildings to his right were illuminated by firing; the orks had moved some of their field guns into a half-ruined Administratum tithe house and now shells erupted just to Boreas’s left. He gave silent thanks that the orks were notoriously poor shots.
Gritting his teeth, the Chaplain pushed to his feet and broke into a limping run, explosions tearing up fresh craters in the ferromac around him. He reached sanctuary behind one of the basilica’s buttresses as counterfire screamed and screeched from the other side of the square. Las-fire rippled through the air; the Piscina Free Militia must have taken up the guard duties from the hard-pressed Dark Angels.
‘The Emperor protects,’ he muttered, heaving out of cover and dashing for the corner of the basilica, dust and plascrete raining down on him from impacts on the wall above.
He rounded the corner to see Sergeant Peliel and the survivors of his squad firing at some foe inside the main nave, their bolts flashing through the open side doors and ruined stained-glass windows. Knowing that he was in no position to fight for the moment, Boreas sought the cover of the buildings on the opposite side of the street and found the remnants of Squad Lemael waiting for him. They stood guard at the windows, bolters ready for any orks that dared to leave the sanctuary of the basilica. There was no sign of Dannael.
Straightening proudly, Boreas walked calmly to one of the windows and looked at the ravaged cathedral. Smoke was billowing from an upper floor, no doubt a flare-up from Zamiel’s flamer. He turned to the other Space Marines.
‘Never fear, brothers. We are not yet ready to surrender our shrine to the orks. We will give them no respite. We will return!’
Tracer fire and explosions illuminated the streets and rooftops of Kadillus Harbour, except where thick banks of smoke choked the twisting roads and drifted slowly up from the docks. Next to Sergeant Peliel, Boreas looked at the silhouette of the basilica from the roof terrace of a worker tenement two streets away, one of the higher vantage points in the city still in the hands of Dark Angels and the Piscina forces. The neat flower beds had been churned up by a procession of armoured boots, the balustrade rail pocked by stray bullet holes from long-range ork shooting.
With a sub-vocal command, Boreas increased the magnification of his autosenses, zooming in on the spire of the basilica. He linked his view through the short-range command channel so that it displayed in Peliel’s helm.
‘It is not just a matter of our Chapter heritage, brother, though that is reason enough to retake the shrine,’ the Chaplain said quietly. ‘The view provided by the basilica is of strategic importance. When we regain the position, local forces will be able to deploy their artillery observers and bring down heavy fire on the ork positions around the docks.’
The thud of boots heralded the arrival of Techmarine Hephaestus, followed by two robed and cowled Chapter serfs. They carried replacement parts for Boreas’s broken armour. He flexed his arm without thought, testing the re-set bone and subdermal bracing performed by Apothecary Nestor a little earlier. The joint was stiff, but he felt no discomfort.
‘I have had to retro-fit some Mark VI parts for your armour,’ said the Techmarine. One of the four servo-arms extending from his backpack whined forwards, a tubular section of arm plate in its grip. ‘I will do my best, but you should be wary of taking too many blows to your right side.’
‘I understand, brother,’ replied Boreas. ‘I am sure that your best will be more than sufficient.’
The Techmarine and his attendants set to work restoring Boreas’s armour, arc torches sparking, ceramite-welders hissing. The Chaplain pushed the activity from his thoughts and addressed Peliel.
‘You are reluctant, brother-sergeant.’
‘I am,’ replied Peliel. ‘Four times we have occupied the basilica and four times we have suffered assault and been expelled. I do not believe it is prudent to expend further energy on a direct assault. We should drive the orks from the main square and surround the basilica from all sides.’
‘We lack the numbers for such a cordon,’ said Boreas. ‘Shock assault – that is what we do best, brother. Once we have total possession of the basilica, the orks will not be able to retake it.’
‘The Planetary Defen
ce Forces have plenty of soldiers for an encirclement, Brother-Chaplain.’ Peliel waved a hand to the east. ‘More forces arrive from the outlying fortifications.’
‘Delay, delay, delay!’ spat Boreas. ‘I find your lack of fervour for this battle unsettling, brother-sergeant. I will not have it recorded in the Chapter history that I allowed the basilica of Piscina to fall into ork hands and then required the Planetary Defence Force to retake it! Would you have your name put beside such an entry?’
‘No, Brother-Chaplain, I would not.’ Peliel bowed his head in apology. ‘I do not wish to be judged reluctant for battle. I hope only to aid you in assessing your strategy. Forgive any impudence on my part.’
‘When Kadillus is retaken, we shall discuss your penitence in the basilica,’ said Boreas.
‘Perhaps it would be wise to consult with Master Belial on the best course of action?’ suggested Peliel.
Boreas stepped back – to a muttered complaint from Hephaestus labouring on his armour – and scowled at the sergeant.
‘The company master is in command of all the forces in the docks. He has entrusted the battle for the centre of the city to me, and needs no further distraction.’
‘I understand, Brother-Chaplain. But if–’
‘Enough!’ roared Boreas. ‘It is my command that we retake the basilica. You will restrict your comments to those that will improve the chances of success with that objective in mind. You have not been sergeant for long, Brother Peliel. Honour Master Belial by proving that his faith in you is well placed.’
‘Of course, Brother-Chaplain,’ said a chagrined Peliel. His next words were spoken with a growled conviction. ‘My squad will lead the next assault. I will deliver the basilica to you, Brother-Chaplain!’
‘That is good, brother-sergeant. Prove your courage and dedication not by your words, but by your deeds in battle. It is the orks that try to shame us; it is the orks that will suffer the punishment.’
Peliel looked long at the basilica. Nothing could be seen of his expression inside his helmet but his voice was edged with fervour.
‘No ork will live to rue the day they chose to test the might of the Dark Angels.’ Peliel placed a hand on the Chaplain’s chest. ‘Thank you for your guidance and patience, Brother Boreas. Your wisdom and integrity are examples to us all.’
‘Make your preparations well, brother-sergeant,’ said Boreas. ‘There will be hard fighting this night.’
‘None will fight harder than I,’ Peliel declared. He turned on his heel and strode down the steps leading into the tenement.
‘How much longer will this take?’ Belial asked Hephaestus.
‘Only one more thing, Brother-Chaplain,’ the Techmarine replied, his servo-arms recoiling behind his back. Hephaestus gestured to one of his serfs, who came forwards carrying Boreas’s skull-shaped helm. The cracks had been sealed and the broken lens replaced; fresh white paint glistened in the flickering light of the burning basilica.
Boreas put on the helmet and tightened the seals. He ran through a rapid series of autosenses checks and confirmed that all systems were working. Satisfied, the Chaplain tried out the replacement fibre bundles and armour on his right arm. His fist smashed through the stone of the balustrade without effort.
‘Good work, brother,’ Boreas said, smiling. ‘Now, if I could press upon you to find me a replacement pistol, I will cite you for the benedictions of the Chapter…’
The nave was strangely quiet. The footfalls of the Space Marines echoed coldly in the empty hall. Thermal vision could not detect any ork presence in the main chamber, and a sweep with his suit’s terrorsight confirmed to Boreas that the orks seemed content to hold the upper rooms.
‘Let us narrow the battlefield, brother-sergeant,’ Boreas said to Peliel.
The sergeant signalled to two of his squad, who carried between them a large demolition charge. Covered by two more of their battle-brothers, the Space Marines descended into the catacombs. The rest of the fifteen Space Marines took up overwatch positions around the stairwell, guns trained on the galleries overhead and the main door at the end of the nave.
‘Charge in place, Brother-Chaplain,’ came the report. ‘Timer set.’
‘Confirmed,’ replied Boreas. ‘Regroup with main force.’
The Space Marines pounded back up to the nave and the whole group took shelter at the far end, away from the catacomb entrance. A countdown timer running down in the right of Boreas’s view reached zero and the basilica shook with the detonation, a dense cloud of smoke and dust sweeping up from below, filling the hall. With a drawn-out rumbling, part of the floor gave way, burying the steps and barring any egress into the main hall.
The Chaplain detached five Space Marines to watch the remaining entrances and signalled to the others to follow him to the upper floors. This time the orks would not push the Dark Angels back.
The fight through the upper rooms was every bit as fierce as the previous encounters. The orks had received reinforcements through the breached vaults beneath the nave and defended every stairwell and doorway with a storm of bullets and a forest of blades. Hour by bloody hour the Dark Angels battled their way through the maze of rooms and tunnels, with bolter and grenade, missile launcher and flamer. In many places walls collapsed from the exchange of fire, opening up new avenues for the Space Marines to press forwards and the orks to counter-attack.
The under-strength Dark Angels squads broke and reformed as the flow of battle dictated, sometimes a solitary Space Marine holding up a mob of aliens, other times Boreas’s warriors coming together to break through particularly strong resistance. At times the fighting became so chaotic that even Boreas was not sure whether an adjacent room contained friends or foe; a constant stream of reports across the comm gave only half the picture as the fortunes of the Space Marines and their enemies ebbed and flowed.
Boreas fought for the most part with his thermal vision, falling upon the orks through the night-shrouded, smoke-filled corridors like the mythical angel of vengeance that featured on so many of the Chapter’s banners and murals. Any other warrior would have described the dark rooms and flickering of flames as hell; to the Space Marines they were simply the perfect environment for their style of warfare. Though the orks were not to be underestimated at close quarters – they were savage fighters who relished hand-to-hand combat – the experience, coordination and armour of the Space Marines proved decisive. One room at a time, one floor at a time, the Dark Angels drove back the orks until only a knot of resistance remained at the top of the spire.
Boreas gathered his Space Marines for a final attack. Peliel was amongst those eight that joined the Chaplain at the foot of the final flight of stairs.
‘One last push for victory, Brother-Chaplain,’ said the sergeant. ‘Let us be at the foe and finish this!’
‘Your zeal is noted, brother-sergeant,’ replied Boreas. ‘You may have the honour of leading the attack.’
Peliel raised a fist in thanks. The sergeant turned to the five members of his squad that were present. Boreas listened intently to Peliel’s words, searching for any hint of reluctance. There was none.
‘The enemy have nowhere left to run, brothers. Executium non capitula. We will strike like the sword of the Lion, swift and deadly. No mercy!’
‘No mercy!’ chorused the Space Marines.
Peliel and his warriors headed up the stairs at a run, feet crashing on the stone steps. Boreas followed at a steadier pace, reaching the foot of the stairs as the first flashes and roars of bolter fire sprang into life above. The remaining three Space Marines followed him with their weapons levelled, ready to spring into action if needed. Judging by the remarks over the comm, Peliel had the situation well in hand, his orders echoed by the rattle of fire and crump of grenades in the spire chamber.
For several minutes the firefight continued. Boreas gripped his crozius tightly, resisting the urge to bound up the steps and join Peliel. It was the sergeant’s resolve that had caused him concern, not his a
bility, and it was important he was given the chance to prove himself. The ragtag orks that had survived the Space Marines’ onslaught would be little threat. As the echoes of the last shots died down and silence descended, Boreas addressed his companions through the external vocalisers.
‘Move back to the nave and join with your brothers there. We will rendezvous with you shortly and prepare the defences.’
He ascended the steps quickly as the three Dark Angels set off back the way they had come. The stairs emerged in the centre of the upper spire room. Green-skinned bodies were piled all around, at least two dozen; more than Boreas had expected. The gouges in Peliel’s armour and that of his squad told their own testament to the fury of the trapped orks. The sergeant prowled the dark room with his power sword in hand, decapitating every corpse that still had a head. It was standard doctrine when facing orks, who had a distinct ability to recover from seemingly fatal wounds, sometimes rising up from mounds of their fallen to strike when unexpected.
A thick-runged ladder led to an open trapdoor in the ceiling, through which gleamed the first ruddy hue of dawn. Boreas glanced at the opening with suspicion. Peliel must have noticed his look.
‘The roof is clear of foes, Brother-Chaplain,’ said the sergeant. ‘None have escaped.’
‘That is good. Send your squad to the others and follow me.’
Boreas climbed through the trapdoor and pulled himself up to the roof atop the spire. From this vantage point he could see far across Kadillus Harbour, all the way to the curtain wall in the east and the docks in the west. It was possible to trace the path of the ork attack by the ruined buildings and smouldering fires. It told of a strange, single-minded purpose. Rather than spreading out through the city in all directions, as Boreas would have expected looting orks to do, a line of devastation arrowed almost directly from one of the outer gates to the power plant at the heart of the dock workings.
Why the orks had been so determined to seize the harbour was beyond Boreas. Not knowing the orks’ motivation was an aberration that niggled at him, as had their behaviour during some of the fighting in the basilica.
