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Trip Into Hell (Warhammer High)
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===28 Days Later=== Twenty-eight days later. Twenty-eight days of war and siege, since the Hulk came down and the skies ran with fire. Ahriman stood upon the inner walls, watching the smog clouding the lower city, and knew another attack was imminent. He could feel the psychic tempest generated by the Orks being whipped into a renewed frenzy, a sure sign the Orks were up to something. After nearly a month of constant conflict, he had grown used to how the Ork Psy-Field worked, and had learned a myriad of ways to use it to his advantage. He could tell when the Orks were massing for an assault, fighting amongst themselves, or trying to sneak up on the walls, and react appropriately. The outer city before him was in ruins, pounded by Ork and now Imperial Artillery. Any buildings too close to the inner wall had been levelled to deny the Orks cover, leaving twisted piles of metal and plascrete where they had once stood. Were Ahriman human, he could have wept at how the once beautiful city had fallen. But he wasn’t. He was Astartes; his only goal was holding out and killing as many Orks as possible. Imperial casualties had been light considering the constant state of siege, but another five thousand had died in the twenty-three days since the outer walls had come tumbling down under the fury of the Rok. Since the Orks had come, twelve thousand Imperial Soldiers and PDF Troopers had given their lives to defend the planet. And still there was no word of the impending relief, no clue yet as to their salvation. “They on the way?” Commissar Lord Günter asked laconically, resting on the haft of his Chainsword. He’d healed of his injury defending the breach, and had been in the thick of it for the past few weeks. There was a nasty burn on his left arm from when his Plasma Pistol had overheated and damn near exploded during one engagement, and a scar across his ankle where a sneaky Grot had tried to hamstring him. Ahriman had fought alongside humans before, but none had won his respect like this one. He was fearless, devoted to his men, and had not yet executed a single soldier for cowardice, for none of his men had ever let him down. Ahriman nodded, and gestured with his heqa staff. In the distance they could see shapes as Orks tried to creep as close to the walls as possible. They could try, but none could escape Ahriman’s aethersight. “Before we get in the thick of it, there was another explosion in the outer city yesterday afternoon my lord. Sector G this time.” Ahriman had noticed the first explosion twelve days into the siege, a small blast on one of the side roads. It was only later he learned that an Ork Convoy carrying war material had been destroyed in that blast. Since then there had been fourteen further incidents in the outer city, of Ork convoys being attacked and destroyed behind Ork lines. There was no doubting it; there were humans out there, a resistance movement operating behind Ork lines. How they had been left behind Ahriman didn’t know, he’d checked the casualty reports thoroughly, and there were none reported missing, but they were there, and trying to help the troops on the wall. There was nothing he could do for them here; he had tried to make contact to no avail, and the Orks had thwarted their attempts to make a supply drop. All he could do was hope that whoever the poor, brave bastards were, they were safe and well. There would be plenty of medals for them, if they survived of course. Fat chance of that. “Here they come again!” the yell echoed across the walls, and the weary defenders prepared for another blistering moment of bloodshed. Artillery and Mortar bombs began to fall in a shrieking rain of steel as the Orks poured forth, some carrying rickety ladders, others with grappling claws and ropes. They were met by a torrent of las-fire, Heavy Bolter rounds, Missiles and Autocannon shells as the defenders poured it upon them. However as they had now learnt, not even that much fire could keep the Orks at bay for long. There was a faint shriek growing steadily stronger as Ork Aircraft swooped in for the kill. With the outer walls and their AA Autocannons silenced, enemy aircraft were free to raid the city, which they did infrequently. The Caorstian Hydras which supplied the only air cover opened up, and several of the Ork aircraft came down in flames. The others dropped their loads haphazardly, some missing by miles, while a few met their mark and chipped at the walls and the men upon them. As fast as they appeared they were gone, roaring off pursued by the chatter of Autocannon fire. All across the walls, rappelling lines were flung up and Orks began yet another attempt to storm the walls. The inner walls were low enough and sloped enough to allow the Orks the chance to scale them, a foolish design flaw the Imperials were now paying for. All over the walls scaling parties swarmed up them, towards the bayonets of the Imperial Defenders. Several grappling hooks clattered onto the battlements where Ahriman was standing, and the Tanith troopers around him drew their ‘Straight Silver’ bayonets in unison. Commissar Günter drew and prepped his Plasma Pistol, and Ahriman did likewise with his Bolt Pistol. Ahriman incinerated the first two to come over with balls of aether fire from his gauntlets, blew the third one’s head off with his bolt pistol, and cut the fourth in half with his heqa staff. After that it all blurred into one, the fluidity of combat flowing like a river, with himself as the pebble which altered the rivers flow. He could feel every Ork as the climbed up, know their every move before they made it, and kill them before they realised who they were fighting. As he flew and slew, gliding across the battlements like a force of nature leaving nothing but dead Orks in his wake, a new Ork clambered up to meet him. This one was immense, one arm encased in a power claw, the other clutching a big shoota with a chainblade attachment. A Warboss, one of the Warlord’s many Lieutenants, overseeing the effort in person. It levelled the big shoota and unleashed a fusillade of fat stubby bullets, cutting several Tanith Troopers down and throwing Ahriman off his feet. As Ahriman struggled to get up the warboss swung at him with its claw, missing him by inches. Again and again it tried to strike him, and again and again he dodged them. He couldn’t find a space to strike back, and the flow of time was too twisted for him to do anything about it aetherically. Finally he was smashed flat by a well placed blow, and the Ork raised its claw for a final strike. Before Ahriman could do anything, Commissar Günter put himself between Ahriman and the Warboss, pistol raised. The Plasma Pistol shot sank into the beast’s shoulder, melting the armoured plate with a loud hiss and throwing it off balance. But the Ork shrugged off the shot and slashed at him with the claw. He should have seen it coming, see the strands of fate twisting, weaving themselves out towards this end. The Power Claw fell, its edge crackling with energy, and with a single blow it split Günter’s side off, literally. Ahriman could hear the ribs shatter and the collar bone split, and see the torrent of blood spill forth as the Commissar fell. His control of the Enumerations was lost, his concentration broken in the face of the mortal blow to the Commissar. Roaring with rage, he threw himself at the Warboss the way a Space Wolf or World Eater would. He hacked and slashed at it with not a thought given to tactics or strategies, only that it should die, and die fast. His furious assault told, as blow after blow was rained down upon the Warboss. Soon it was bleeding from half a hundred wounds, trying to hit him back but missing every time. Finally Ahriman sliced its claw arm off with a single blow, and it fell to its knees before him, blood streaming from a thousand cuts. And yet Ahriman wasn’t finished with it, not yet. Ahriman rammed the bladed end of his heqa staff into the burn hole where Günter’s Plasma Pistol had hit, poured aether energy into it, and discharged it into the Warboss. The result was spectacular, the warboss exploding in a shower of gore which repainted Ahriman’s already crimson armour. Ahriman’s senses returned to him, pushing through the angry red mist which had enveloped him, and he was appalled at what he had done. He was a Thousand Son, a scion of Magnus, not some wild wolf-kin or lobotomised berserker. The Orks were retreating, falling back as fast as their legs could carry them, harried by weapons fire. Another storming attempt failed, another few hundred Imperial trooper’s dead. They could not keep this up indefinitely. Ahriman went straight over to Günter, and even though he wasn’t a Pavoni he could see that the Commissar was in a bad way. The Tanith troopers backed away from him, some gesturing at the gore which still coated his armour. They had seen an angel of death, and they had known fear. “Lord Commissar, Günter, please lie still. Your injuries are grave, but not necessarily life threatening. The one they call ‘Iron Hand’ suffered worse, and lived to tell the tale.” “My Lord...I am not…” He coughed great wads of blood and mucus, before spluttering on. “I am not Iron Hand. He might have been able to walk away from a wound like this, but I cannot. I’m done for, I’ve brought the farm.” He reached for his cap, and slowly pulled it onto his head. “The city…can’t fall. Enough of us have given our lives for it. Hold it my lord, hold it…” The last word turned into a bloody gurgle as he finally gave out. Around him the Tanith troopers removed their helmets or forage caps, and recognising the old Terran mourning ritual, Ahriman reached up and unclasped his own helmet, tucking it under his arm. Feelings he hadn’t felt in millennia came back to him, memories of his twin brother flitted at the edge of his mind. He stood there, a silent vigil, as the rains began to softly fall. This was a loss they could ill afford. Another day, another mission, another chance to get killed. Such was life on Seadelant, invasion day twenty-seven. Julius crouched beside the open window of someone’s house, Hellpistol in one hand and Satchel charge in the other, waiting for another few minutes of adrenalin and hectic action. On the other side of the same window crouched Dyllion and his Heavy Stubber, methodically checking the belt feed system like a Mechanicus automaton. Even after all this time spent among his squadmates he still didn’t know much about Dyllion, he rarely spoke and never seemed to open himself up, unlike the others. Though most surprisingly of all was the change that had come between Dyllion and Scvott. Dyllion no longer pointedly ignored Scvott’s every command, and Scvott’s enthusiasm had simmered down, and he was actually proving himself to be a good commander. Julius had never expected those two to become friendly towards one another; it seemed another example of how the world had turned upside down. Over the many long weeks they had been fighting the Orks, they had grown canny. The Orks knew they were out here, and often tried to bait them with seemingly unguarded convoys. But they had learned how to identify these traps, and turn the tables on the Orks. This was one of those times. Five Trukks were about to roll down this road, with two buggies riding shotgun. But secretly a further three Trukks full of Orks were driving behind, ready to pile in the moment the ambush was sprung. However they had been expecting that, and Flynn and Summer were going to be giving them a little surprise of their own. Once again he heard the Orks long before he saw them, and having been doing this for so long he could clearly differentiate the growl of Trukk engines from the yammer of buggies, and the clatter of Half Trakks. A skill he could have done without. It all seemed like routine now, lighting the fuse, waiting for the right moment, throwing it as hard as possible, counting the seconds. The roadside bomb Scvott hand planted earlier threw the lead buggy high into the air, the blast turning the lead Trukk onto its side. Seconds later the Satchel Charges and pipe bombs detonated amidst the convoy in a chain of fire and destruction. Homemade roadside bombs and mines had become an important part of their arsenal, and a vital way of ensuring as much destruction as possible, though they only had a few remote detonators left for the bombs. Once again Julius began to pick off the Ork crew with his Hellpistol, while Dyllion filled the air with lead from his Heavy Stubber. On the other side of the road the sharp crack sound of Scvott’s Lasgun was barely audible. In the distance another explosion marked the relief convoy, as Flynn and Summer took care of it. It was a dangerous idea, splitting their already low numbers like this, but it was the only way to ensure they weren’t swamped by a hundred or more Orks. Julius coolly picked and killed his targets, noting the numbers one by one as he put them down. He no longer felt anything every time he killed something, he no longer cared. If he survived, he would have to ask his father is this was natural, was this how you were supposed to feel? Dyllion fiddled with his comm-link, muttering into it. “What is it?” “Bad news. Flynn and Summer are pinned down, there were far more Orks than they’d expected and the bombs didn’t take out all of them. Poor sods, I hope…” he noticed Julius stripping much of his spare equipment off. “What the hell are you doing?” “Going to help the others.” “They are only a distraction, the real work is here.” “I can’t leave them to die!” “They chose to be the distraction, they knew the risks. We have a job to do here Oll. Oll? Oll!” Julius didn’t wait for any more; he leapt out of the building and dashed down the street, ignoring the yells from Scvott and Dyllion and the confused grunts from the remaining Orks. Nothing mattered but getting to them, to her, before the Orks did. He passed the tail Trukk, finishing a few Orks as he ran, and he set off down the ruined road. His heart pounded within his chest, and his muscles ached as he pushed them to their limit. The building they were sheltering in was surrounded by nearly forty Orks, howling as they tried to break in. A Buggy with a pair of twin Shootas was hammering the building, and a few black scorch-marks marked where the Orks had thrown Stick Bombs at the building, and missed. But Orks didn’t always miss, and it would take only one to finish them. They would be dead in a few minutes, if he didn’t do something now. Julius didn’t hesitate; he put the Buggy gunner down with a shot to the back, and set about blasting at the Orks from close range, ignoring the Slugga and Shoota shells fired back at him by the surprised greenskins. He shot and dodged, drew his bayonet and rammed it into the chest of a charging Slugga Boy, before pulling it out and impaling another. He couldn’t see beyond his next target, a red fog of rage clouding his senses. All he could see was his next target, his next victim. His bodyglove was soon wet from blood, both Ork and his own. Abruptly he heard a faint voice calling to him, and blinking he felt the fog dissipate. He was alone, stabbing repeatedly at the corpse of one of the Orks. Summer stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. “Oll, are you alright? What just happened to you?” Julius shuddered as he realised what had happened to him, he could have all too easily died acting like such a fool, it was a miracle he hadn’t been. He found he couldn’t stop shaking. She helped him up and embraced him, and that simple act helped calm him down and stopped his shaking. They stayed that way until the footsteps of the others reached their ears and they broke off. The other two were running down the street towards them. They stopped, and straight away Dyllion laid into Julius. “You bloody dick Oll.” Dyllion growled. “Were you were trying to get yourself killed?” “Dyllion is right.” Scvott added. “You cut and ran to ‘help’ them, leaving us to face the fugging Orks alone.” Julius tried to keep the air in his lungs. “I…drew their fire away from you, and…saved their lives. Surely that counts for something?” “Did they even need saving?” “Scvott.” Summer interjected. “We were outnumbered at least ten to one when he came in. I don’t know if we needed saving or not, but he helped us in a big way. Right, Flynn.” Flynn took a deep breath. “I see what you mean, but we can debate this another time.” As they headed back for the sewers, Scvott took Julius aside. “Oll, we aren’t deaf, dumb, blind or stupid. We can all see how you look at her; we all know you go to her room every night. There’s nothing wrong with that, hell I could almost be jealous of you. Summer is a strong and beautiful woman, and any man would be lucky to have her. But when you let your feelings for her overcome your judgement in the middle of a mission, that’s when there is a problem. You’re the one who removed my doubts about command, so I feel I owe you this. When we’re in battle, forget about her. Forget about everything. Focus only on the mission. Hell, you’re the one who taught me that in the first place, how can you forget your own lesson?” his words carried with Julius the rest of the way back.
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