The Purging of Kadillus

by Gav Thorpe

  Damas pushed through the bushes and disappeared while Naaman scanned the rising ground for any sign of movement. He saw nothing and it seemed likely the orks had settled into their camps for the night. Naaman was unhappy that the wind had shifted direction; in the darkness the stench of the greenskins would have been just as much a warning as anything that might be seen. As it was, they would have to carry on in the same cautious manner. The slowness of their infiltration irked Naaman, as he was sure that come sunrise, the orks would move west again, and that could be very dangerous.

  Padding silently through the night, the Scouts picked their way between the campsites. Concealed by the darkness and their cloaks, there was little chance the orks, night-blinded by their fires, would see the Dark Angels Scouts moving wraith-like from gulley to hill to winding river bank. Damas led them on a course that kept them as low as possible, avoiding high ground. The soil underfoot grew thinner and the rocky subsurface of Kadillus broke through in patches scattered with rocks and pebbles. The Scouts moved around these areas, keeping to the dwindling grass where possible.

  Just after midnight Damas’s barely audible whisper over the comm halted the squad. Naaman glided through the night, bolt pistol in hand, and joined the other sergeant at the head of the advance. He saw immediately what had caused the stop.

  A little more than a hundred metres ahead, a diminutive figure sat on a rock, a flare-muzzled gun in its lap. It was a gretchin, one of the orks’ small slave-companions. At first Naaman thought it was dozing, but there came a flash of red from its eyes in the growing moonlight as the wiry creature looked this way and that.

  ‘There’s another one over there,’ hissed Damas, pointing a little to Naaman’s right. ‘And a third up on that hill.’

  Over the wind, Naaman caught a brief flurry of sound: two high-pitched voices that seemed to be arguing. They were close, within fifty metres, to the left and almost behind the Scouts. Dropping to his belly, Naaman crawled through the grass in the direction of the noise, bolt pistol held out in front of him.

  His course brought him to the lip of a shallow dell. In the middle of the depression two gretchin were ineffectually fighting, wrestling with each other and biting at each other’s long, pointed ears. Naaman had no idea what they were saying but guessed that the source of the dispute was the thick-barrelled pistol that kept swapping between them during the scuffle.

  Naaman slid closer, parting the grass with his free hand, eyes fixed on the squabbling sentries. As he rose to a crouch, cloak folded around him, Naaman aimed at the pair. They were so close he could have thrown his pistol at them, but they kept moving back and forth in their struggle, occasionally one or the other tumbling to the dirt before leaping back to its feet to resume the fight. Naaman’s pistol followed them.

  For a split-second, the two gretchin were locked together. One had its back to him, holding the pistol behind its back, a clawed hand in the face of the other, which had its skinny fingers tightening around its opponent’s throat.

  With barely a puff of decompressing gas, Naaman fired. The silenced bolt-round struck the closest gretchin in the back of the skull, blowing its head apart. The other stared wide-eyed at Naaman through the bubbling mess of blood and brains, bony hands still clasped around the throat of its companion’s corpse. Naaman’s second shot took the survivor in the eye and two headless bodies flopped to the ground.

  Creeping up the far side of the depression, Naaman checked to the east. He could see glimmers of movement as the third of Piscina’s moons slid above the horizon, casting a pale blue glow through the clouds. Despite the extra light it was hard to see the gretchin as they wandered about on their erratic patrols or stood sentry between the dozens of campfires. As the ground rose steadily into the next ridge, it undulated steeply, making it hard to see over the next lip.

  ‘Thermis tapeta,’ Naaman whispered to the squad via the comm. He pulled down his autosight goggles and thumbed through the spectral modes until he reached the far-infrared setting. The Barrens became a shifting landscape of dark blues and purples, broken by the bright yellow and white of flames. Here and there he saw the dark red blobs of the gretchin and the slightly brighter silhouettes of the orks heated by the fires.

  There seemed to be no certain way through the cluster of campfires directly eastwards, but a detour to the south would add several kilometres to the journey. Naaman checked the chronometer display. Total moonfall would occur within three hours. In the utter darkness, it would be easier to slip through the ork camps. He reached a decision.

  ‘Assemble on my position,’ he told the squad.

  He watched the Scouts approaching through his thermal vision. Naaman glimpsed only an occasional patch of face or exposed wrist, the cameleoline diffusing the heat signature of the Scouts’ bodies. Like will o’ the wisps the squad gathered on the edge of the depression.

  ‘We have to wait until moonfall before we carry on,’ Naaman said. ‘We are too exposed here. Have any of you seen a suitable defensive position?’

  ‘There is a shallow gulley a few hundred metres to the south-east, sergeant,’ replied Scout Luthor. He pointed out the direction. ‘It is less than two hundred metres from one of the camps, but it seems to curve southwards of them and there is not another camp within half a kilometre.’

  Naaman’s gaze followed the Scout’s finger. He could not see much of the gulley that had been mentioned, but he could see two campfires, about fifty metres apart. Other than the dancing flames, which were growing weak, he could see little activity from the greenskins.

  ‘That will be suitable,’ he said with a nod. ‘We will approach from the south, twenty metres dispersal. Follow me.’

  Naaman led the way, rising out of the depression at a stoop, darting over the open ground with his bolt pistol ready. He spotted a flash of red to his left and turned his path south, ducking into the shadow of a monolithic boulder. Peering around the rock, he saw nothing between him and the gulley, which he could now see forming between two shallow, bush-strewn ridges. After another check on the position of the sentries, he set off at a comfortable run, crossing the few hundred metres to the head of the gulley without stopping. Flicking up his goggles, he drew out his monocular and examined the narrow split in the rocky hillside. Naaman could see nothing and waved the rest of the squad to take cover inside.

  While Damas split the Scouts to their observation positions, Naaman crawled out of the shallow defile and wormed his way towards the closest ork camp.

  The greenskins had chosen to spend the night near some grass-filled ruins. Naaman could not tell what the buildings had once been, but they were now overgrown with thorny branches, their walls toppled to form slopes and hillocks of broken brick. A rise to his right obscured one camp, the light of its fire creating a dim aura beyond the crest. To the left, looking between the hill and one of the ruins, Naaman could see another blaze. He watched the orks around the flames for a few seconds. Some were lying down, probably sleeping. Others sat on crates and upturned barrels or simply squatted in the grass. He counted seven in total. There was no way to tell if a similar number had gathered around the other fire, but it seemed unlikely there would be many more.

  A handful of gretchin mooched around the ruins and the jutting rocks, kicking at stones, sometimes calling to each other in their squeaky voices. Naaman studied them for a while, trying to discern any pattern to their movements, but concluded that there was no regular rhythm or path to their patrols. The gretchin seemed reluctant to move away from the light of the fires, but now and then one of the orks would rouse itself and shout at the closest sentries, waving them further out.

  The erratic behaviour of the picket was a problem. Although Naaman could see an obvious route to the north of the camps, passing through the leftmost ruins, it would be too risky to use while there was any moonlight. By the time moonfall came, who could say where the gretchin would be? The Scouts’ infiltration would have to be opportunistic and speedy.

  Content that h
e was following the best course of action, Naaman slipped back to the others. He found them laying up at the lips of the gulley, Damas and two others keeping watch to the east, the other two Scouts watching to the south-east and north-west. Naaman stayed close to the head of the gulley and found a spot under the branches of a bush with low, twisted branches. From here he could see the left-most camp and the ruined building behind which the closest fire was burning low.

  All they had to do now was wait for the moons to go down.

  ‘Sergeant!’

  Naaman glanced along the gulley, the whispered warning instantly breaking the trance-like state that had come over him during the watch. In the darkness he saw Luthor raise a hand and point to the camp next to the closest ruined building. Three small silhouettes emerged against the low orange glow of the fire, slowly walking straight for the gulley.

  ‘Hold fire,’ Damas whispered. The squad sergeant quietly slid sideways, towards Naaman. He stopped within reaching distance. ‘What do you think? Should we eliminate them, brother?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Naaman replied, his words barely more than a breath. ‘Let us wait to see what they do.’

  Naaman checked the chronometer. It was twenty-seven minutes to total moonfall, though only one of the three remained in the sky and it was perhaps dark enough to move out. If the sentries changed course, they would wait for complete night. If not, Naaman would have a decision to make.

  His breaths coming long and shallow, Naaman kept his eyes fixed firmly on the gretchin. There was a scattering of debris between the scrawny aliens and the lip of the gulley: crates, rusted pieces of old machinery and a small slag pile. Each of the sentries carried a rifle of some sort. They probably wouldn’t do much damage if they hit, but the sound of gunfire would surely alert the nearby orks, which were a far more dangerous proposition than the gretchin.

  The group kept on their course, heading towards the Scouts. They were about seventy metres away when they stopped and began to pick through the junk scattered around the slagheap. Naaman didn’t like them being so close even though they were currently distracted. A rattle of a stone, the clink of a weapon on rock or even a break in the cloud to let through more moonlight might attract the sentries’ attention.

  It was time to get moving again.

  ‘Brother Damas,’ Naaman whispered. ‘Move your squad into the outskirts of the camp and eliminate those sentries. I’ll swing around the north and make sure the flank is secure.’

  ‘Confirm, brother,’ said Damas. ‘I’ll have Luthor move in to cover the closest camp with his heavy bolter while we eliminate the gretchin.’

  ‘Confirm,’ replied Naaman. ‘If the alarm is raised, concentrate your shooting on that camp. I will intercept any reinforcements coming through from the other fire.’

  The two sergeants nodded to each other and parted. Naaman heard Damas’s whispered commands and left the gulley, using the rise of the hill between the two ruined buildings to conceal his path northwards. Heading towards the farther of the two ruins, Naaman heard the skritch-skritch-skritch of footsteps on gravel. The veteran threw himself down on instinct, bolt pistol ready, eyes darting left and right, searching for the source of the noise. With his other hand, he tugged his cloak into position, covering himself from scalp to knees, peering under the rim of the hood.

  Naaman saw the gretchin come around the corner of the building, a stout blunderbuss-like shotgun over its shoulder. He caught the strange, mouldy whiff of the greenskin as it sat down on a broken lump of masonry and pulled something from the pocket of its ragged jerkin. Something squirmed in its bony fingers before being popped into a fanged mouth. The sounds of loud chewing broke the stillness.

  The gretchin was looking in Naaman’s direction. He lay absolutely still, bolt pistol sighted on the creature’s chest. Finishing its snack, the gretchin stood up and continued to wander on, passing a few metres in front of the prone Space Marine.

  As soon as the gretchin had passed, Naaman surged to his feet, slipping his combat knife from his belt with his left hand. Two swift steps brought him up behind the creature. Hearing the quiet thud of Naaman’s boots, the gretchin started to turn, but was far too slow. Naaman hooked his arm over the gretchin’s shoulder and plunged the knife upwards into its throat, puncturing the windpipe. The sentry spasmed limply in Naaman’s grasp, burbling blood as the Space Marine quickly sawed the knife out of the gretchin’s throat, slicing through muscle and veins.

  It fell limp in his grasp. Glancing around to assure himself he had not been seen, Naaman sheathed his knife and hefted the small creature under his arm. A few dozen strides brought him to the shelter of the ruin, where he laid the body down in a corner of the broken walls. Naaman passed through the roofless rooms until he came to the eastern side of the building. Crouched beneath the sill of a glassless window, he stopped again and watched the orks around the northern campfire.

  As he waited, Naaman’s attention was drawn to his right by a high-pitched wail, which suddenly fell silent. One of the gretchin had spotted the Scouts!

  Suddenly the air was split by the thumping detonations of Luthor’s heavy bolter. Naaman heard the shrieks of dying gretchin and the angry bellows of the orks. The greenskins in front of him roused slowly, startled by the sudden attack. There were more shouts and fire from the south where the orks ahead of Naaman grabbed their weapons and loped away from their camp.

  Naaman unhooked his chainsword but did not start up the motor. His cloak flapping behind him, the sergeant vaulted through the window, heading directly for the campfire. The orks were completely unaware of his presence as they rushed to the aid of their companions. Less than twenty metres from the greenskins, Naaman opened fire. Silenced bolts ripped through the back of the rearmost ork, chewing through muscle and vertebrae. One of the other orks noticed its demise and swung around to see what had happened; by the time the creature looked in his direction Naaman was already in the shelter of a tall rock, cameleoline swathing his form. As soon as the ork’s red eyes roved elsewhere, Naaman rose up and fired three bolts into the creature’s face and chest, felling it instantly.

  There were five more orks to deal with. Naaman broke from cover at a sprint, rushing up behind the greenskins as they lumbered towards the fighting at the other fire. Catching up with the orks, Naaman swung his chainsword at the neck of the closest, thumbing the starter mid-blow. Growling teeth sheared halfway into the ork’s neck before jamming on its thick spinal column. With a grunt, Naaman wrenched the blade free and fired his bolt pistol into the back of the creature’s head as it collapsed sideways.

  Taken off guard by the deadly shadow charging into their midst, the orks were thrown into confusion. The pale rays of the moon shimmering from his cameleoline, Naaman ducked beneath the hasty swing of an axe and brought the throbbing chainsword up into the ork’s gut, ramming it point first through the stomach and into the chest cavity. The creature shuddered with the vibrations of the weapon, spittle flying from its thick lips.

  A grunt of effort to Naaman’s right warned him of imminent attack and he ducked as he pulled his chainsword free, a cleaver-like blade cutting the corner from the sergeant’s swirling cloak. Naaman kicked the creature’s legs from under it as he spun beneath the swinging weapon. A second ork leapt to the attack, a heavy, serrated sword aimed at Naaman. He smashed aside the blade with his chainsword; at the same time he fired a bolt into the face of the downed ork, its brains splashing out across the cracked stone underfoot.

  The roar of the heavy bolter sounded closer and the ork with the serrated sword was hurled away from Naaman by multiple explosions across its chest and shoulders, ragged remains slapping into one of its companions. Naaman used the distraction to chop at the disorientated ork’s arm, hacking the limb away below the shoulder. Out of instinct, the alien tried to throw a punch with the bloody stump. It stared at the ragged wound in amazement when the expected blow failed to appear. Naaman shattered its knee with a bolt and brought his sword down on its back as it
fell forwards, hacking several times into the creature’s green flesh until the spine finally snapped.

  Having dealt with the other camp, Damas and his squad arrived, falling upon the orks with bolt pistol, chainsword and monomolecular-edged combat knives. Confused and partly blinded by the dark, the orks died swiftly, cut down in a few savage seconds.

  After the clamour of battle, silence descended again, broken by the sighing of the wind and the crackle of the fires. The whole fight had taken less than twenty seconds, from the first cry of the sentry to the choking death-rattle of the last ork.

  ‘Casualties?’ Naaman demanded, glancing at the others.

  ‘None, brother,’ Damas replied. The sergeant turned to his squad with a proud smile. ‘Not so much as a scratch. The advantage of surprise is the deadliest weapon in our arsenal.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Naaman.

  He flicked blood from his chainsword and wiped the weapon clean on the jacket of a dead ork. He checked his chronometer. There were two and a half hours until dawn and still many kilometres to cover before they reached the ridge overlooking the geothermal station.

  ‘Hide the bodies in the ruins, douse the fires,’ Damas told his squad as Naaman pulled out his monocular and looked to the east. He could see a stretch of two or three kilometres up the slope before there were more campfires. They could cover the next leg at a comfortable run.

  ‘Belay that,’ snapped Naaman. The Scouts dropped the ork bodies they had picked up and looked at him. ‘By the time the orks find them, if they ever do, we’ll be far away from here. We have to keep moving.’

  ‘As you say,’ said Damas, choosing not to argue the point. ‘Let’s get into our observation position before dawn.’

  Reloading their weapons, checking their cloaks, the Scouts ghosted into the night.

  Naaman kept the squad angling slightly to the south, avoiding the bulk of the camps ahead. Throughout the night Naaman could see mobs of greenskins and hear their vehicles, gathering north of the East Barrens station. For all their numbers, Naaman was surprised that there were not more greenskins. Certainly the forces he had seen advancing while he had retreated the day before had not been all accounted for by the assault on Koth Ridge. The orks were definitely on the move again, but it was impossible for Naaman to judge where they were heading.