Editing Trip Into Hell (Warhammer High) (section)

===First Taste of Combat===

Julius was sitting with Flynn, listening to him wax lyrical about the Vulcanor 16 Twin-Coupled Multi-Burn engine mounted in the Chimera, wondering how anyone could find Tank Engines so interesting in a situation of literal life and death. It must have been his way of coping, of forgetting what could all too easily happen to him, to both of them.

The Orks were now close enough to be engaged with Lasguns, and the constant bellows of “First rank, fire! Second rank, fire!” was accompanied by the ‘crack’ of Lasgun volleys, and the ‘whizz’ of Ork Big Shoota rounds flying overhead as the Orks returned fire. It was loud, hectic and chaotic. Julius had no idea what was going on in the wider battle, or whether the Orks were winning, or the Imperials.

Above the roar of weapons and scream of soldiers a voice came down from the wall, loud and clear above the din.

“All right civilians, time to earn your keep. We need six crates of M-K 214 Krak Missiles, eighteen Lascannon Powerpacks and four crates of Battlecannon APHE shells, on the double.”

“Right everybody, this is what we signed up for, lets to it!” Scvott yelled.

They all bundled into the C-80, and with a loud hum it took off and headed for the nearest Ammo Bunker. Flynn was a wild driver, roaring through the deserted streets of the outer city with reckless abandon. If it was a conventional ground car, Julius suspected they would have had an accident, and he felt sick for the entire trip, added to the sick feeling brought upon by the war raging around him. Flynn’s speed notably slackened when they reached the inner walls, and were waved through the inner gates by several PDF troopers. The Bunker was hectic, surrounded by C-80s being loaded with ammo and soldiers standing guard, and the silhouette of a Hydra providing cover. Every few seconds, a C-80 sped off for the walls with another load of bullets and shells.

The wide passageways of the bunker were full of CDA volunteers and some PDF and Army troopers carrying weapons and ammo back and forth.

“Six crates of M-K 214 Krak Missiles, eighteen Lascannon Powerpacks and four crates of Battlecannon APHE shells!” Scvott yelled at the Munitions officer. He typed into a Holopad, and half an agonising minute later several Servitors rolled up, each carrying a crate or box of Ammunition.

It took three trips to get it all into the C-80, Julius paired with Dyllion as usual. Dyllion was relentless, no sooner had he dropped of one crate then he’d headed back for another, and Julius found himself hard-pressed to keep up, let alone hold the heavy boxes off the ground. As a dock worker, he must have handled worse before, though not under these circumstances. No sooner was the munitions in the Truck, then Flynn kick-started the engine and took off, Julius hanging on for dear life.

Julius and Dyllion sat in the back, trying to keep the ammunition steady as Flynn cut every corner and broke every speed limit getting the ammo to the walls. From what he could see, Flynn wasn’t the only one cutting corners to get his cargo into the fight.

By the time they reached the walls the widening battle’s effects were being felt, there were several bodies lying upon the walls, and the sounds of battle were augmented by the screams of the wounded, a sound which thoroughly innerved Julius. With practiced efficiency, they swiftly unloaded the crates from the hovertruck and carried them over to the wall mounted ammo elevators. Once the platform was fully loaded, it took the crates up to the walls where the solders could distribute it themselves.

One of the PDF Troopers on the walls suddenly fell back and landed with a ‘thump’ beside Julius. Julius stared at him for a second, long enough to notice the ruin where his face was, 
the empty cavity splashed with blood and brain matter, before he started to retch. He may have felt bad when Flynn was driving, but now he really was sick. If he hadn’t forgone eating that morning, he would have vomited his guts out. Even so, he was heaving and retching. The stories his father had told him never mentioned this, never mentioned retching your guts out over a man with his face blown off, never mentioned the screams of the wounded and moans of the dying. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and it was Scvott.

“Come on Oll, we all feel the same, but we have a job to do, a duty to perform.”
Duty. The constant in Julius’s life, and even now its grip upon him was still as tight as ever. As he retched, that face, the face of Isis Lupercal entered his mind, and with her in his thoughts, he steeled himself. She would have stood, regardless of what was happening around her, and so would he. She had always been his inspiration, the steel in his backbone even now when she was cut off from him, and maybe no longer with him anymore. 

He staggered to his feet, paused to try and catch his breath, and with Scvott helping him, he returned to the C-80. He would make many more runs that day, but he’d survived his first taste of real war, and seen the horror.



The assault had begun barely an hour ago, and despite everything the Imperium had thrown at them, the Orks had reached the walls. Now up and down the walls sheets of Lasgun fire was being directed at the horde, and the Orks were firing back as the real battle begun. Close range fire had toppled and gutted two more towers, but three of the Siege Towers were going to reach the walls, and the Orks would spill from them like water from a burst dam. Fortunately Ahriman always had a backup plan, and with a few code words spoken into his Vox, it was implemented. Barely fifty metres north, one of the siege towers loomed over the walls, so close you could almost touch it, its shadow lying heavy across the walls. The troopers on the walls were blazing away at it with their Lasguns, Plasma Guns and more, to little effect apart from some scorching on the armoured boarding ramp. The tower mounted big shootas were providing covering fire, and already there were several bodes splayed out on the wall, the blood oozing away in red rivers while their comrades fought for their lives.

“Commissar, who holds that section of the wall?” Ahriman gestured at the tower.

“Captain McCollum’s D Company my Lord.”

“Come with me, they will need our assistance. Bring as many troops as possible with us, they will be needed.”

The troops stopped firing madly the moment they saw the towering Astartes standing before them, ignoring the Big Shoota shells whizzing past him.
“Don’t waste your ammo shooting at the tower; it can’t be destroyed this way. We will have to blow it up from the inside, once the ramp lowers. Form a perimeter, and when the Orks try to disembark we cut them down. Then a few demolition charges into the tower and the tower is destroyed.”

The troops swiftly gathered around the tower, carefully concealing themselves for the Big Shootas mounted on it. The tower creaked forwards, until it was leaning against the wall. From inside, the guttural chants of the Orks could clearly be heard.

With a creaking smash, the tower’s ramp dropped onto the battlements. “WAAAGH!” came the cry from within, raw and primal, and the Orks emerged, weapons held high. The Aetheric blaze of their energy came with them, buffeting the auras of the troops on the walls, sapping their will. Not for long. 

Ahriman raised his bolt pistol and opened fire, followed by Commissar Günter’s plasma pistol and the Lasguns of the Tanith in a sheet of las-fire. The leading Orks were cut down, and as more and more stormed out of the Tower, they were cut to shreds. Soon the ramp was slick with blood. One lucky Ork made it through, and cut an unlucky Tanith Trooper in half with its Choppa before it took a frag grenade to the face. But for every Ork killed, two more took its place, and soon more and more reached the Tanith lines before being killed. The toll began to mount.

Ahriman’s Bolt Pistol clicked empty, and he realised that was his last magazine. He was empty, out of rounds. Holstering his pistol, he took up his heqa staff and reached for the Great Ocean. A pulse of destructive energy channelled along the length of his heqa staff tore into the leading Orks, tearing them to shreds. He began to throw blast after blast into them, but even that could do little to stop the torrent now pouring from the tower.

“Troopers, fix bayonets!” Commissar Günter bellowed. He activated his Chainsword and leapt at the nearest Ork. The Tanith troops around him also charged into the fray. Were they trying to get themselves killed? No Prosperine Spireguard would ever do something so rash. Ahriman had to help them, save them from themselves.

The first swing of his heqa staff took three Orks to pieces and his second blow tore another from skull to crotch in one fluid move. He threw himself into the thick of the fighting, a whirlwind of Aetheric fury. A Nob, one of the Ork minor warleaders tore a Tanith trooper in two with its Power Claw, and turned towards the Commissar. Ahriman’s heqa staff swept out, its copper and gold bands rippling with fire, and cleaved the Ork in two with a single blow, his return thrust taking the arm off another Ork about to kill a Tanith. He tore through the Orks with blazing swipes of his staff and bursts of aether-fire from his gauntlets, his crimson armour now splattered with gore. The Tanith troopers had never seen its like before, and they fought even more fiercely beside him, stabbing with their ‘straight silver’ bayonets and clubbing with the butts of their Lasguns. Though they were slight compared to the Orks, they fought with a strength and fury which made Ahriman proud. 

As he fought, struggling to maintain the Enumerations and keep himself detached, he imagined what Magnus would say if he could see him now. ‘Very subtle Ahzek, very subtle’ he would say in that wisely amused voice of his. Of course, if he was he he’d have torn that Hulk to pieces in orbit, long before it could land troops. No point thinking of might-has-beens, not now.

Ahriman fought with rigidly controlled discipline, each blow precisely measured and weighted to cause the maximum amount of damage for the minimum effort and exertion. That was the secret to the Thousand Sons, they did not waste energy the way the Wolves or World Eaters did. Everything was done with perfect focus, and precise effort.
Ahriman swung his staff in a two-handed grip, laying about himself with crushing strokes, tearing the Orks asunder. There seemed no end to them, no stopping the horde pouring forth. Ahriman normally fought divorced from the concerns of emotion that compromised his clarity of combat, but that hadn’t been the case for a long time, and right now his mind was swamped with the competing fires of anger and hate. Anger at his weakness, and hate for the foes despoiling this world.

The fight wore on, and Ahriman began to slacken. His every movement was leaden, his thoughts dull and slow, his armour now covered in gashes where he had been too slow to avoid a blow. The Great Ocean was a potent force in combat, but the toll it took upon a warrior was equally potent, and that toll was weakening him the longer the battle continued. His focus was now on simple survival, his consciousness stretching no further than the next enemy to be slain.

Ahriman’s concentration slipped, and a blow from an Ork boy knocked him down, throwing his heqa staff aside. He barely dodged a blow from the Ork’s axe, and struggled to regain his staff. He grimly realised that he could die here. He had hoped that the Tower would act as a bottleneck, allowing them to hold off the Orks long enough to destroy it, but he had been mistaken. Too many times these last few months he had been mistaken, ever since the vision of a cackling god and a fateful bullet came into his mind. An Ork jumped onto him, and he struggled to free himself from the green brute’s grip.

Suddenly a massive explosion knocked him flat, threw the Ork off of him. As the smoke cleared, he struggled to his feet, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Was it a Bomb Squig? An Artillery shell gone wrong? When the smoke finally faded, he saw for himself.
The Tower was gone, twisted metal girders all that were left of it. It slowly sank onto his battered mind. It was gone! Someone had blown it has he had planned!

The few Orks left on the walls were swiftly dispatched by the vengeful Tanith. Commissar Günter came over to him; his longcoat tattered, face bleeding from a cut to his jaw and smoke emitting from his Chainsword’s motor.

“My Lord, the Tower is down. Trooper MacIntyre sacrificed himself to blow it sky high. I intend to request he get a Posthumous Honourifica Imperialis, and I hope you will countersign that. Permission to give the men some rest?”

“Permission granted. The Orks can’t climb the walls; they can’t get in here now. They’ve earned that rest.”

Of the other two towers Ahriman learned when he reviewed the after action reports that evening. The southern tower hit the wall in the Belladon Sector, and after nearly an hour of back and forth fighting, finally the Belladon troops succeeded in demolishing the upper tower section with Demo Charges. The northern tower hit an area manned by the PDF, where after a bloody fight the Orks succeeded in carving a foothold. If it wasn’t for the intervention of a company of dismounted Caorst Charxergrenadieres, the walls could nearly have been lost. Over four thousand Imperial troops were killed that day, a drop in the bucket compared to the losses on other worlds and in other campaigns, but Ahriman felt every loss. It was men and women like MacIntyre who saved the city that day, those who were willing to sacrifice everything to deny the Orks their victory. They were the ones the Imperium was built for, they were the ones he was fighting for, and they were the ones who would win or lose this war.