N’keln would reach the warboss after them. Dak’ir upped his pace, determined he would face the beast at his captain’s side.
Torquing the throttle of his wartrike, the ork warboss tore across the dunes and straight at the Firedrakes.
The spoiling force the ork had sent ahead was all but destroyed. Bikers lay in mangled heaps, entwined with the wreckage of their mechanical steeds. The Terminators had hit them like a battering ram. Any orks that survived the suicidal run, through either fluke or cowardice, were cut up by Tsu’gan’s and his squad’s bolters.
Chaplain Elysius took great pleasure in despatching the riders, scything them down as they sped past, screams of glee turning to horror and ultimately agony as he shattered bones and severed heads with his crozius. Every ork death was punctuated with a different tirade. The clan orks still endured though and they barrelled after their leader in a raging mob as the warboss surged ahead of them.
Meaty fists clenched around the fat triggers of the trike’s chainguns, the warboss cackled, the throaty sound emulating the cracking report of the front-mounts. White muzzle flashes lit up the beast’s snarling visage as the cannons barked loudly.
A hail of slugs rattled against the armour of the Terminators ineffectually, little more deterrent than an insect swarm. Hastily, Praetor ordered them to form a shield wall to block the ork’s charge. The Firedrakes locked together and presented a stout barrier of ceramite.
This only seemed to drive the beast into a greater frenzy, hooting and bellowing as the hot air rushed past it, spittle drooling from the corner of its mouth in a long stream.
Tsu’gan smiled grimly when he saw the warboss commit to the charge. It’ll be smashed into oblivion.
Then he noticed the mass of incendiaries packed around the trike. His smile turned into a horrified grimace. Sticks of dynamite were strapped around the frame, other more volatile explosives piled up in lashed-together canisters and dull grey packets.
The wartrike was a giant, moving bomb.
Insane chuckling from the warboss preceded a gout of fire erupting from hidden boosters below. As the beast was launched into the air, Tsu’gan noticed the crude endeavours of orkish science; the warboss’ legs were largely mechanical and a single-shot rocket burst was fashioned into them that lifted it free of the trike, igniting the incendiaries at the same time.
The sergeant didn’t even have time to shout a warning as the explosives went up in a huge mushroom cloud, tearing the trike apart in a maelstrom of fire and frag. The blast wave alone smashed Tsu’gan off his feet. He and his squad were flattened by it. Pain, like white fire, engulfed them.
Even the hardy Terminators staggered, appearing as vague silhouettes through the dirty cloud that expanded outwards voraciously.
Several orks died in the blast, those at the head of the charging mob. They were spun into the air like sticks and landed gracelessly in broken heaps. Amidst this orkoid rain, the warboss came down too. It landed heavily, a tremor rippling outwards from its impact on the densely-packed ash dunes, as the rocket fuel in its boosters bled away to extinction.
Though still groggy from the explosion, Brother Namor of the Firedrakes came at the landed warboss, thunder hammer swinging. He’d lost his storm shield, severed in two halves by the destroyed ork war engine. The warboss laughed, and smacked Namor’s blow aside, before tearing a hole through his Terminator armour with its power claw. Despite all its proofs, the venerable suit was badly rent, and Namor with it. The Firedrake was spilling blood and intestine as he fell forwards into the ash and lay still.
Brother Clyten charged in from the opposite flank, hoping to catch the beast off-guard. Reacting to the destruction at different speeds, the Firedrakes were attacking piecemeal. The oath of vengeance on Clyten’s lips died abruptly when the warboss lunged forward and head-butted him. The blow was so powerful it cracked open the Firedrake’s helmet and he too fell.
A cry of anguish ripped from Praetor’s mouth when he saw his brothers falling. He tried to marshal his remaining warriors and close with the beast but by now the ork mob had caught up. Greenskin bodies swamped them, a multitude of crude blades, cudgels and chains flashing out at the Firedrakes. It was like using a rubber hammer to bring down a bastion wall. But then the orks were not necessarily intending to kill, only to delay.
All the while, the warboss laughed loudly, revelling in the carnage it was wreaking.
Brother Elysius aimed to sour the beast’s ebullient mood. Stepping into a void in the aftermath of the explosion, he brandished his crozius. Lightning crackled over the surface of the weapon, emulating the Chaplain’s hatred. The bile-filled litany was already half-formed as it passed his lips.
“…and the perfidy of the alien shall be met with cleansing fire and burning blade. Its form, reviled and repugnant, shall be cast down into the pit of damnation.”
Elysius swung his crozius in a short arc, making a jagged trail of sparking energy that hung for a few seconds in the air. It was meant as a goad.
“Face me, xenos filth,” he snarled.
Recognising another challenger, the warboss beat its chest in anticipation of a good fight.
Tsu’gan was still getting to his feet when he saw Elysius facing off against the beast. The Chaplain, ordinarily imposing, looked small against the sheer bulk of the massive ork. It was easily several heads taller, and almost twice as wide. Tsu’gan felt dazed; his ears were still ringing from the blast and black clouds circled menacingly at the periphery of his vision. He shook them away through force of will.
He must have been thrown from the blast. A skid furrow in the ash in the shape of his body, several metres long, bore testament to the sergeant’s supposition.
Putting his foot forward, Tsu’gan realised he was bleeding. He felt it, wet heat behind his battle-plate, and bit back a rush of agony.
“To the Chaplain,” he croaked, tasting copper in his mouth and forged towards where man and beast faced off in uneven contest.
N’keln was becoming a distant figure. Dak’ir slew a greenskin at almost every stroke, his chainsword clogged with churned flesh, but still the captain bested him. A bloody path, ragged and limb-strewn, described his passage through the orks. It made following him easier, and as the carnage wore on, fewer and fewer greenskins filled the void left in N’keln’s wake.
The Inferno Guard were closest, Shen’kar cutting down swathes of orks with his flamer, whilst Malicant held the company banner aloft. Fugis, Dak’ir had lost from sight. He had been left behind, ministering to the fallen even as he killed the enemy, the ultimate dichotomy of life and death expressed through an individual.
Dak’ir judged he was roughly four paces behind the Inferno Guard, and they four paces behind N’keln. The brother-sergeant had Emek at his side with Apion and Romulus. Ba’ken had opted to lag back and try to protect the settlers. Dak’ir lauded his heroism, but wished the bulky trooper was with him now.
Shattering an orkoid clavicle with a blow from his chainsword before burning a hole through its torso with his plasma pistol, Dak’ir saw the black armour of Chaplain Elysius in the gap left by the greenskin’s falling body.
He faced off against the ork warboss. The shadow of its horrifying stature eclipsed him. Others were rushing in support; Dak’ir saw Praetor and two of his Firedrakes free themselves from a swarm of greenskins. Tsu’gan, too, was staggering towards him, his squad belatedly in tow.
Even from distance, Dak’ir could tell they would not reach Elysius in time. The Chaplain would have to fight the beast alone.
An ork truck exploded somewhere off to Tsu’gan’s right, a roiling smoke cloud obscuring his vision as he lost Elysius from view.
By the time it cleared, he saw the Chaplain was bent down to one knee. The beast loomed above him, pressing Elysius down into the ash by grinding his chainblade against the Chaplain’s upraised crozius. There was a dark welt above the ork’s left eye and an angry black scorch mark where the crozius had stung him.
E
lysius was buckling.
Tsu’gan struggled to reach him, pain anchoring his legs and weighing them down. He watched, almost transfixed, as the Chaplain aimed his bolt pistol through a gap in the crackling arcs thrown off by the crozius, only for the warboss to lash down with its power claw.
The ground trembled as another tremor wracked Scoria. Elysius screamed in unison with it, and his anguish seemed to shake the world. His arm was severed at the elbow. Blood was gushing from the wound, creating an ugly red mire around the Chaplain’s feet and bended knee. Elysius seemed to sink into it, the beast pressing down relentlessly as it stepped forward to crush the severed forearm into paste in a wanton act of mutilation.
He was only a few metres away, but Tsu’gan could taste the death blow coming, feel it like a change in the wind or a lurch in his stomach.
The Chaplain was about to die, and there was nothing Tsu’gan could do to prevent it. Another hero of the company slain, just like—
Then N’keln was there, drakescale cloak billowing with the rush of his charge, twin-bladed power sword gleaming, and fate was reversed. Bellowing Vulkan’s name, he rammed the master-crafted sword into the ork’s neck and drew it out in a welter of dark blood. The beast roared; a ragged cry emitted from its ruined throat where the gore was pumping readily. Elysius was forgotten and the Chaplain collapsed from shock and blood loss. N’keln took a blow from the ork’s power claw against the flat of his blade and the air around them became electrified.
Tsu’gan tasted the ozone. It numbed his lips and tanged his tongue as if it were on fire. Despite the pain, he was running. His bolter was out, the promethium canister for the flamer attachment long spent too, so he drew his spatha.
The earth shook again, in eerie synergy with the titanic battle unfolding upon it. The ork warboss rained down blows upon the Salamander captain like an angry giant. Each was like a comet, skull-bound and destined to kill before N’keln’s sword skill diffused or deflected it. A dark and viscous tabard of blood coated the ork’s chest now, a second mouth cut by N’keln’s power sword in its neck frothing crimson. Digging furrows in the ground, the Salamander captain was pushed back by the ork’s fury, finding no purchase in ash.
Slow exsanguination was making the warboss sluggish. Its movements were heavier; its prodigious strength fading. The more it exerted itself, the faster its blood spilled from its body. N’keln knew it and based his combat strategy on attrition — it was a gloriously Promethean way to slay an enemy. None could match a Salamander for sheer tenacity. Fire-born never knew when they were beaten.
The warboss slipped, its intended death blow failing to connect, and N’keln took his chance. Having dodged the downward swipe of the ork’s power claw, he stepped into its fighting arc and cut off the wrist holding the chainblade. N’keln then reversed the cut and brought it up into the beast’s exposed flank. The mono-molecular edge of the power-charged blades melted metal and overloaded the narrow-field force generator rippling energy across the greenskins armour. It howled as the sword bit into hide then flesh and finally bone.
The stink of cooking meat assailed Tsu’gan’s nostrils as he came at the ork from its blind side, ramming his spatha into an exposed patch of green skin between the plates and the chain links.
N’keln drove his sword deeper, searching for organs and grisly ways to ruin this monster from within. The beast lifted its power claw, a heavy burden, in attempted retaliation. Praetor smashed it down again with a blow from his thunder hammer, the sergeant and his warriors having joined the battle at last. One of his Firedrakes, Brother Ma’nubian, rammed the edge of his storm shield into the ork’s screaming maw.
Still it refused to die, its tiny eyes like malevolent red suns making false promises of retribution. The warboss bowed, the weight of its body dragging it downwards. A plasma blast seared its shoulder, Dak’ir shooting through a gap in the melee.
A dark figure loomed before the near-dead ork.
It was Elysius. He was bent-backed too, agony creasing his features behind the skull-faced grimace of his battle-helm. The cleaved forearm had clotted almost, the Larraman cells working hard to staunch the wound. A fine drizzle of blood issued from the ragged stump where at first there had been a torrent, and the Chaplain cradled it close to his body protectively. Despite his passing out, he had maintained his grip on his crozius arcanum.
“Death to the ork!” he rasped, bringing the crackling mace down and staving in the beast’s skull.
It was to prove the final blow in the greenskins’ defeat. Without their warboss to unify them, the clans broke apart fully. Ill-disciplined, fighting amongst themselves, the orks were soon destroyed. Many fled across the dunes into oblivion in the face of the Salamanders’ victory.
The beast’s own clan fought to the end, but the Firedrakes and the newly arrived squads of Dak’ir and Tsu’gan, together with other reinforcements, quickly vanquished them. The Inferno Guard went to their lord’s side. Brother Malicant passed the company banner to N’keln who thrust it into the gloaming sky and roared.
“Glory to Prometheus! Glory to Vulkan and the Emperor!”
The Salamanders cheered, as did the human settlers, though they didn’t know what they were cheering about, only that they were alive and the swine-tusks were dead.
Ba’ken caught up to Dak’ir and the rest, the slumped carcass of the ork warboss cooling slowly in front of them.
“The greenskins have broken,” he announced.
Dak’ir saw Illiad following behind him and was glad the human had survived. Seventeen other settlers accompanied him.
“They gave their lives for their home,” said Illiad as he approached, guessing the Salamander sergeant’s thoughts. “It is what they and their families would have wanted.” His mood was defiant, but sombre and grim too. The grief would come later.
“Akuma?” Dak’ir asked of the only other settler he knew the name of that had fought in the battle.
“He died with honour,” Ba’ken told him, and was struck by the sadness in his voice. “He is resting now, before I take him to the pyreum to join the other heroes who fell today.”
A sombre quietude followed, broken by the arrival of the captain.
“Well met, brothers,” said N’keln, handing the banner back to Malicant and going to stand amongst them.
The assembled Salamanders bowed slightly, humbled by their captain’s courage and prowess.
Dak’ir felt emboldened by it and was gladdened that N’keln had found his strength through the fires of battle. The anvil had tested him and he had emerged reforged. His optimism was abruptly crushed when he caught the baleful gaze of Tsu’gan regarding him. The glow in the brother-sergeant’s eyes was dimmed as he moved awkwardly. Fresh scars crosshatched his face, the honour markings of a battle well fought. Others would be added in recognition of this day by the brander-priests. Tsu’gan’s look of ire was fleeting as he passed from Dak’ir to N’keln. Dak’ir was heartened to see respect there and surprised to admit to himself that perhaps Tsu’gan’s concerns were legitimate at first, that he desired what was best for the company and not some grab for glory. If his brother-sergeant could acknowledge his mistake in hasty judgement, then perhaps Dak’ir should do so also concerning Tsu’gan’s motives. It didn’t mean the enmity between them had lessened, though.
“Apothecary Fugis will tend to that,” N’keln told Elysius, his tone brooking no argument from the Chaplain.
Dak’ir was astounded the Chaplain was still standing given the severity of the wound, even for one as robust as an Astartes.
Elysius merely nodded. The adrenaline was leaving his body now, and he had to focus all of his efforts on staying on his feet and conscious.
“What now, my lord?” asked Praetor, carrying scars of his own. His gaze flicked briefly to the distance where Namor and Clyten had fallen. Two of their battle-brothers had dragged them together in readiness for Fugis’ reductor. Sadness shadowed Praetor’s face for a moment before the sternness returned. �
�The orks are defeated, but the Vulkan’s Wrath is grounded still and we are no closer to discovering why the Tome of Fire led us here.”
“And the tremors worsen by the hour,” said Tsu’gan, his voice a strained rasp. “How much longer before this world cracks apart and is sundered to galactic dust?”
A nerve trembled in Illiad’s cheek, just below his left eye, at Tsu’gan’s callous remark. The brother-sergeant neither appreciated or noticed the effect his referral to the imminent demise of Scoria had upon the human native.
Dak’ir stepped forward humbly, bowing his head in respect to Praetor and N’keln.
“I may have an answer to the second question,” he said.
“For now, it must wait,” Elysius interrupted. Fugis was now at his side and attending to the Chaplain’s severed arm.
With his other hand, Elysius gestured to the sky.
The Salamanders around N’keln followed his gaze to where the black rock throbbed like a malignant tumour. It seemed larger than before. The sun was now totally engulfed by it. Not even a ring of light remained, just blackness, empty and consumptive. Splinters were breaking off from it, like jagged, purposeful hail homing in on the planet.
Ork ships. Many more than before.
Despite the victory, the Salamanders were weakened. Though united, they had fought and paid much to defeat the greenskins. There were no further reinforcements, no way to replenish their numbers. All that they had was there before them, tired and battered upon the bloodied ash dunes.
“How long?” asked N’keln, his voice was deep and forbidding.
“A few hours,” answered Elysius. “That is all the time we have left.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I
Doomed
“Bring him out.”
The Chaplain’s severed arm was swathed in a bloody sling, and he hugged it close to his body subconsciously as he issued the curt order.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 34
