ExodusThe hills were alive with the sound of guttural voices raised in song, an ancient tune passed down through generations of the owners’ race. “’Ere
we go, ‘ere we go, ‘ere we go…” Speeding across the plains towards the singing multitude were a small group of motorcycles, seventeen in all, ten in black power armour, six in black-and-white carapaces and combats, one in highly ornate artificer armour, black and gold, covered in baroque ornamentation, and with a gold-bladed power axe resting at his side. “’Ere
we go, ‘ere we go, throo da cosmos…” Among them drove two armoured vehicles – one fitted with a light turret containing a lascannon mount, the other much heavier and armed with a long-barrelled autocannon. “’Ere
we go, ‘ere we go, throo infinity…” And above the Emperor’s retribution flew a squadron of three land speeders, anti-grav engines whining with the effort of speed, heavy bolters tracking across the horizon. “Dunno
where till we get there!” The Black Templars were coming – the orks were as good as doomed. In
the heart of the ork fortress, an old man sat alone in the darkness, cursing the
day he ever came to Babel. He was trapped in a pit of greenskin vermin, his
treasured, ancient, irreplaceable weaponry stolen and displayed as trophy by the
leader of the alien brutes. The leader who even now was carousing with his
cronies on the surface, drinking, cursing, and indulging in all the crudity of
the orkoid race. His mind was disturbed by the huge ork shambling down the
tunnel towards him, axe held loosely in one massive paw. Skargrim grunted
unintelligibly at the hangers-on behind him, waving the axe for good measure,
and then turned on the old man in the small cave next to his stinking quarters. “You
still ‘wake, humie?” the ork groaned. “Well don’ wake me up, I’z gonna
‘ave da muvva of all ‘angovaz tomorrer, an’ woe betide ‘ooever bovvers
me first. Got that?” Met with grim silence, Skargrim shrugged and lumbered
into his quarters. The force sword was so close! The old man could sense
his weapon on the other side of the wall, but to get to it he’d have to fight
that immense greenskin, and he didn’t feel up to kicking a cat right now.
Instead he cursed Skargrim a little more. How the feral ork had managed to learn
Gothic he didn’t know, but Skargrim took great delight in tormenting his
prisoner in his own language – in fact, the old man thought, the whole
business of these ork raiders didn’t quite fit together. Not that he’d be
able to tell anyone. The
orks’ fortress was a great ugly lump of metal, crudely welded over the ruins
of buildings dragged into the hills. Made up of three tall, rusty towers and
thick walls between them, bodged into the rocky face of the tor behind it, it
was a monument to the primitive, savage but undeniably dangerous aliens who had
bashed it together from scrap. The orks weren’t intelligent as such, but they
were ingenious. When they ran out of artillery, they used crude catapults that
fired burning waste. When their vehicles grew so overworked that they failed,
they stole and rebuilt the enemy’s. And they were vicious fighters, even the
small feral specimens who plagued Babel had their massive elite Brutes – not
that the limited numbers of these monsters weakened them, of course – feral
orks were much better shots than their cosmic cousins, and just as numerous. The
Black Templars came upon them with the dawn, a torrent of black and white
armoured warriors, weapons silent save for the brakka-brakka-brakka of the heavy
bolters fitted to the land speeders and the occasional boom from the
Predator’s autocannon. The speeders swept low over the fort, strafing the
defenders with heavy weapon fire – seven drunken sentries plunged into the
courtyard, and the sporadic shots from within bounced off the speeders as they
banked through the cloud layer. With the suppression provided, one of the bike
squads dismounted, drawing chainswords and bolt pistols and running for the
gates, supported by the Razorback, while Voss and the second bike squad turned
and drove for the furthest tower – the one that housed the ork support weapon,
a catapult the size of a dreadnought fixed to a crude turntable and manned by
half a dozen gretchin and a scrawny whip-wielding ork. “What
da zog is goin’ on?” Skargrim staggered out of the tunnel entrance, his
weapons held loosely at his side. “Humies!”
bellowed the nob at the gates, Gofsnik, one of Skargrim’s most trusted
minions. Power claw at the ready, the towering ork was marshalling his brute
squad together ready to sally out. The gates shook under the impact of a heavy
weapon shot, and the sound shook Skargrim into action. Bellowing orders at the
confused junka mobs, he waved the brutes out. “Give
‘em wot for, Gofsnik! Da skum woke me up!” Darius
winced as the lascannon fired again, rocking the Razorback on its tracks. What
they were shooting at he couldn’t guess – it was hard to see anything on the
tiny scanner window, and he was crammed into the tank with Carracus and four
other Templar veterans, the tiny troop compartment filled to bursting with
battle-hungry space marines. He heard the gunner cheer above and the driver
turned and shouted “Dismount and attack!” Carracus
threw the right hatch open, a marine who had been introduced as Moriens the
left, and jumped out as the tank slewed to a halt. Darius and a Templar he
didn’t know, but who carried a plasma gun in his worn hands, jumped out
second, and the last two troopers followed. They
emerged into the blazing hell of a siege battle, taking in the broken gates and
iron-clad walls of the fort, the dismounted bikers charging the main entrance
and the lumbering, whining wartrukk that drove out of them in a few seconds,
overtaking the brutes who were still gathering within. Drawing the Black Sword
and swinging the ancient weapon through the air with a smooth hum of power,
clasping it in both hands, Darius lead the veterans in a charge. “No
pity!” he cried out, and the five marines replied in a chorus of battle-ready
voices. “No
remorse! No fear!” The
orks countered with a hoarse, wordless cry of their own, a rolling “Waaagh!”
that drowned out even the whine of the land speeders sweeping overhead. The
junkas gunned their engine and ploughed into the first squad they saw, two of
them swinging a massive ball and chain that hung on a hydraulic arm no doubt
looted from some long-ago battlefield, swinging it into the chest of the squad
senior and smashing it open, carrying the eviscerated marine several metres
through the air. As the survivors charged the trukk with renewed vigour, the
dozen or so orks squashed on the flatbed leapt over the side, hefting axes and
heavy pistols in gnarly green fists. A hail of gunfire from the fort blasted two
more marines off their feet just as they were coming to terms with the close
combat, but the superhuman warriors of the Emperor still managed to cut down
five orks – and then the leader, a giant among greenskins, swinging an axe in
each massive paw, split the skulls of two neophytes, and his followers began
pulling Templars off their feet and smashing armour open with wicked knives and
axes. His
battlecry changed to a wordless scream of rage and vengeance, Darius crashed
into the ork leader, lashing up with the Black Sword, piercing the huge nob’s
left shoulder. It glared at him with ugly red eyes and laughed, hauling itself
backwards, raising its good arm to strike – staring into the mocking fanged
chops of the alien, Darius froze, fixated on the guttural snarling face. As the
axe began to fall, time slowed, the blade sweeping down – a bolt pistol shot
blowing a neat hole through the hand and head of the nob at once. Darius saw the
veteran Moriens calmly turn and blast another ork from its feet, and he returned
the favour as he saw the ball and chain sweeping back towards Moriens’ head,
cleaving the huge lump of steel in half, grabbing the chain and letting himself
be carried onto the trukk. Raising his sword over his head, he plunged it into
the engines. There was a hiss and a sudden roaring blast of flame and then
Darius leapt clear as the trukk’s bed blew apart. “For
the Emperor!” Still
raging at his awful luck, the old man squinted down the corridor. There were
only a few guards, but he doubted he could overcome the burly brutes unarmed. He
was still a prisoner even though his tormentor had shambled off to the surface,
presumably to berate his followers still further. Yet up there he could hear the
sounds of orkish voices yelling and guns blasting, good Imperial bolters, not
the shoddy things the greenskins used. Was there someone up there who was on his
side – someone human? He had to find out. Leaning out of his small squalid
chamber, he called querulously out to the nearest brute. “Excuse
me?” The
greenskin lumbered towards him, grinning, and stopped at the entrance to the
room. “Yeah?
Worrizit?” “This
is nothing personal, my dear ugly dead sir.” “Wot?” By
the time the ork had figured that out, he had already cast his mind into the
warp, calling on his mind to give him strength. Punching out, his
psychically-enhanced blow hit the ork right in the chest and blasted clean
through it, sending it staggered to the floor. He grabbed its pistol, hefted it
in both hands and shot the second in the eye, the chest and the thigh, squeezing
the whole clip into it. The brute fell over and lay moaning on the floor,
bleeding everywhere and clutching at its ruined leg. The third looked around for
the man who had shot his friend Blagrot, and saw a purple blur whirring into
Skargrim’s room. For a moment he wanted to chase the human, but fear of
Skargrim took over and he turned to run. He realised how stupid he’d been to
turn his back on the enemy just before the arms locked around his throat and
squeezed. Throwing his weapons down, he raised his hands and battered at the old
man who was grabbing at him, slowly falling to the floor. Then his neck broke. The
orks’ gunfire faded as Darius and the four surviving veterans – one, brother
Carvos, had fallen pursuing the green scum who had fled with the loss of their
truck – stormed through the gates, followed by the remaining infantry, a hail
of pistol shots blowing snarling faces open, shattering ribcages, blasting
scurrying gretchin to pulp. In a great column of fire and smoke, the mortar
tower collapsed inwards, scattering and crushing artillery crew, scouring chunks
out of the fortress walls. Marshal Voss stamped through the gap, plasma pistol
in hand, finger pulling back hard on the trigger, sending gouts of white light
into the a group of about sixteen large, burly greenskins – more like the orks
Darius remembered from Korros, not the scrawny feral things he was reduced to
fighting here – immolating two on the spot. Five bikers roared past him,
bolters blazing, and crashed into the brute squad, but the sixth, a neophyte,
jammed his wheels on the rubble and Darius watched in horror as it flipped over
and crashed into the fallen tower, smashing the marine apart in a messy crunch
of blood and bone. Skargrim
snarled as he watched the brutes get it in the neck from those blasted bikeboyz… “Wot
does I ‘ave to do to get summat done right round ‘ere?” he growled, waving
his axe at the last mob of orks in his fort, and cursing his boss’ orders that
had sent most of his boyz off on raids into human territory. He was goin’ to
‘ave words with that useless git an’ no mistake. The
old man sighed as he heaved yet another crate over, breaking the crude lid off,
and began to search the mess of scavenged equipment for his sword. “Where
the hells are you?” he muttered over and over again, as his search turned up
only ork guns and rusty trinkets from wrecked vehicles, food looted from
caravans, scraps of uniform the ork warboss was keeping as trophies… but no
force sword. The sounds of gunfire overhead were abating from the ragged fire of
orks to steady, controlled bursts – it sounded as though the attackers were
winning. But were they allies or enemies? Could it be that Skargrim’s
mysterious master had no more need for him, and had sent his minions to wipe out
the orks? If that was true he could kiss his future goodbye; whoever was
ordering the orks was utterly merciless, and it was only his status that had
saved him from being slain with the rest of the caravan. He knew where the ore
the greenskins stole was being sent – now all he had to do was escape with
that knowledge. Groaning, he broke off the lid of another crate and delved
amongst a mound of old, yellowed human bones, muttering the few appropriate
prayers he could remember. Within
perhaps another fifteen minutes, it was over. The brutes had broken and fled,
and the large crowd of gun-armed orks had scattered into the hills or run for a
crude central building, not much more than a staircase down into the ground,
surrounded by walls with a canvas roof. Darius turned to Voss and bowed his head
as the fuming Marshal stamped up to the low building and cursed. “What
now, sir?” “Now,
brother Darius, I intend to do something I vowed never to consider again. I am
going to trust you with command of a mission. You are going to take what remains
of Carracus’ veteran squad and enter the drops below the fortress.” “Why
me, sir?” He was genuinely confused. Why would Voss send the Emperor’s
Champion into a stinking maze? “The
orks’ leader fled down there, into those loathsome tunnels. Your duty is to
find the beast and destroy him, avenge the human traders he’s killed. I’m
sparing you the veterans to take with you and the Razorback to hold the surface,
but the rest of us are returning to the city to regroup with the heavy
support.” “Understood.
I’ll meet you at the spaceport with a warboss’ head, marshal.” Voss
scoffed and glared at Darius, his loathing for the young Champion obvious in his
posture if not his helmet’s empty eyes. “Make
sure you do!” he sneered, and turned for his bike. Darius shook his armoured
head and scanned the small groups of patrolling marines for Carracus. +
Veteran squad Carracus, report to me at the fortress centre for briefing. + Even
with space marine auto-senses blotting out the worst odours, the stench of the
ork drops was still utterly vile, months of filth and waste almost overpowering
the five Black Templars’ collective noses. It had only been twenty minutes,
but in this dark and noisome environment it felt like a lot longer, a timeless
trudge through mounds of refuse and discarded lumps of ore. Once or twice they
thought they’d spotted orks fleeing through the side-passages, but nothing the
size of a warboss. An ork leader, they knew, didn’t give up without a fight. He
was growing frantic now. The sword was still nowhere to be found and he’d
almost cleared out Skargrim’s quarters looking for it. The warboss had
evidently hidden it, lost it or was still carrying it around with him. Where
could it be? It wasn’t in the crates, in the alcove where Skargrim kept his
lucky skulls… the throne! As fast as his old legs would carry him, he
scrambled up to it and started to scrabble at the tough leather cover. No, he
realised with a rising sense of nausea. Human hides. Was there nothing this
monster wouldn’t steal from his enemies? Flesh, bones and skin… it was only
a mercy his warmongering gods didn’t want their souls too. The stuff was
tightly stitched together, and it was only at the expense of three fingernails
and a great deal of complaining from his cold-and-hunger ravished hands that he
managed to break it open at the back. Clouds of dust and rivers of crumbling
sackcloth fell away, and yes! In the very bottom of the throne was his sword! Drawing
the ancient weapon free from its ebony sheath, he turned it over and over in his
hands, admiring the fine blade as if he’d never seen it before. It wasn’t
particularly long, perhaps two-thirds of a metre in total, but it was amazingly
ornate, from the white-gold hilt with its single large sapphire to the tip of
the tarnished, well-used steel blade, wrapped with adamantium filigree that not
only supported its aging structure but served well as conduits for the psychic
force that made it such a fine weapon, made the dark silvery blade glow blue
with soulfire. Which reminded him… gripping it tight by the hilt, he held it
point-upwards, the hilt almost touching his lips, and intoned under his breath
the almost empty words that he spoke before every battle, insuring good luck and
blessing his weapon with blazing psychic fire. “Imperator
Lux, Spiritus Sancti, give me strength that I might smite thine enemies. Give me
wisdom that I might seek them out. Give me courage that I might face them down.
I hear your words and obey them. I serve you and you alone. Imperator Lux,
Spiritus Sancti.” The
sword flared blue along its length, dancing flames illuminating his worn face
and white hair, then faded to a pale glow that served as torch and scanner
alike. It was time to meet his saviours, be they friend or foe. Skargrim
was furious beyond belief. His lads were all but wiped out, his boss had
deserted him and, as he turned into his chamber, he saw the old humie standing
sword in hand, moaning and groaning something in that stupid old tongue of
theirs. ‘Soon put a stop to that,’ he thought as he swung a fist back and
caught the old geezer right between the shoulders. He fell to his knees with a
cry of pain, and struggled to crawl away as Skargrim kicked him hard in the
ribs, then stomped on the base of his spine, feeling bones crunch under his
armoured boots. ‘Nothin’ quite so good as bashin’ humies, ‘specially
when they don’t fight back.’ Then
he remembered the other lot who had been outside in the drops, and he groaned
again. He was hung over; his boyz had lost the battle; and now there were five
marine-boyz come to duff him up. He’d finish this old git off later. After
he’d found his boss and given him what he deserved. Only
a dozen or so orks had challenged them, the old and the sick among their race,
left to fend for themselves or die among the scrap of their fitter fellows, and
the veterans had cut them all down without a single loss – but still no sign
of the warboss after an hour of searching. Then, up ahead, Darius heard a hoarse
cry of pain, followed by a guttural laugh and the sound of bones breaking. He
waved Carracus up alongside him and gestured down the tunnel towards a large,
dark orifice in the wall. “He’s
in there. I can as good as smell him.” “We’ll
cover you, brother. Good luck.” The veteran squatted into place behind Darius,
boltgun aimed round the Champion’s legs. The other marines took up places
around him, all training their weapons on the door. “Come
out and face me, greenscum!” Darius cried, letting the Black Sword’s whine
reach fever-pitch, swinging it two-handed about his head. “Whassat?” Skargrim
lurched out of the door and stood glaring into the darkness. Then he saw the
five marines facing him, four on their knees with guns and one with the biggest
sword he’d seen in a long time, nearly as big as his axe in fact. Raising that
axe now, he lumbered forward in a charge. The
biggest, ugliest ork Darius had ever seen broke into a shambling run at his
challenge. Easily a head taller than him, the ork was three or four times
broader, his long, strong arms grabbing at the hilt of an axe the size of s
small human, raising it back over his shoulder. Planting both feet square on the
ground, Darius brought the Black Sword around, crouching and shifting from side
to side, gauging the big greenskin’s defences. As it swung the axe lazily
around he flicked his sword up again and let the two blades catch, expecting the
power field of his sword to break this primitive weapon apart. It
didn’t. Instead the two blades caught and dragged Darius off his feet, sending
him crashing into the tunnel wall in a brief flash of sparks. Maybe he blacked
out for a couple of seconds, maybe not, but he saw the ork struggling to free
his blade and realised his chance had come. Releasing one hand from the sword,
he drew his bolt pistol and fired wildly at the greenskin’s barrel chest,
trying to ignore his straining arm as it heaved this way and that, trying to
free its axe. The explosive bolts stitched across its chest, along with the
larger-calibre bullets of the veterans. “No!”
he shouted. “This is my fight!” Staggered,
the ork dropped its axe, and Darius resumed his two-handed grip, swinging the
axe clear from the holy metal of the Black Sword, and lunged forward, plunging
it through the ork’s already bleeding ribcage. It growled in pain, but
didn’t fall. Instead it grabbed his helmet and started squeezing, shaking him
from side to side, and in doing so twisted the wound in its chest open wider. As he
was swung about, Darius lost any control over the Black Sword at all, and it
came free from the ork’s chest with a crunch, and began to scrape across the
flesh of its arms, forcing it to let go and drop him the short distance to the
floor and step back, snarling at him. On one knee, he tried to breathe more
slowly, not to pant, forcing himself to rise, to step forward and slash the
warboss’ lower jaw off in a splat of bone and green blood. With a throaty
gurgle of pain, it collapsed, quite dead, and Darius rammed his sword through
its heart, just to make sure. “See?”
he panted. “Told you… I could do it…” “Well
done, brother.” “Well
done indeed, marines. Well done indeed.” The
old man stood in the doorway, leaning on a black cane with a white-gold handle,
his other hand clutching at his hips. “I
thank you for my freedom, gentlemen, and an unexpected release it is too. To
whom do I owe the honour this time?” “Brother-Champion
Darius of the Black Templars,” he coughed back, “and who exactly have we
rescued?” “Inquisitor
Marius Gerallt.” “An
Inquisitor,” he wheezed. “Great.” |
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