Balthasar and the strike team crouched in the lee of the weapons turret, jump packs idling at their backs. His helmet destroyed in the opening battle with the orks, the first sergeant was forced to consult the tiny chron display mag-locked to his wrist as it counted down the seconds to the Astra Militarum counter-attack. With less than ten seconds to go, he signalled to the other Dark Angels to take up their ready positions.
At the precise moment the timer reached zero, the city erupted in violent noise, tank fire swiftly joined by the sound of thousands of ork guns. On top of the outer wall, greenskins rushed to reinforce the occupying force down below in response to orders snarled at them by the warboss. As Balthasar had anticipated, only a few hundred of the xenos remained to guard their general. The odds had just swung slightly towards the Dark Angels.
‘Now!’ Balthasar ordered, the roar of his own jump pack joining the chorus of battle. The strike team rose high into the air, spraying the orks on the outer wall with indiscriminate bolter fire, returned tenfold by those quickest to react. The Dark Angels adeptly manoeuvred through the air, continuing their own barrage as they avoided the orks’ fusillade. As they reached the parabola of their arc, each of them drew their melee weapons, continuing to fire as they revved up chainswords or activated power weapons. Increasing thrust, they dived headlong towards the rapidly thinning enemy ranks.
As they landed, the Dark Angels set about bifurcating any greenskin within reach, the ramparts quickly becoming a charnel house; it was the killing by rote of an enemy unable to muster any effective response. Seeing that their leader’s life was under threat, several of the orks rushing down to the plaza turned around and started back up the steps, only to find their advance halted by a tank shell ripping the steps away from beneath their feet.
A roar sounded from further along the wall, loud and vicious enough to give each of the Space Marines pause, if only for the briefest of moments. In the wake of the battle-cry came the warboss, smashing his troops out of the way with the looted power fist crudely attached to his right arm.
‘Keep the rest of them back,’ Balthasar ordered, raising his chainsword and striding to meet his foe. ‘This one’s mine.’
Ladbon had only been dead a few hours and, although this was the squad’s first taste of combat without him, Allix was starting to believe that perhaps he hadn’t been their lucky charm after all. They had all made it unscathed through the plaza where tens of thousands of their compatriots lay dead or dying, so maybe it had been one of the others all along. Kas? He never seemed to lose much in the dice and card games that went on after lights out, Mute neither. The brothers? The unluckiest thing to ever happen to them was that both of them had to enlist through their own stubbornness. Dmitri? He had never taken anything more than a flesh wound.
Allix’s opinion quickly changed when they reached the blockade.
Three Leman Russ tanks were jammed tight together at the mouth of the street, their front-facing weapons running hot thinning out the orks futilely attempting to charge their position. A Dark Angel crouched on top of the turret of one of the tanks, bolter raised to his shoulder picking off key targets among the massed greenskins. Around him, every inch of hull was covered by Vostroyans using the elevated position to lend their own fire to the cause. As they fell, other Guardsmen clambered aboard to take their place.
Eventually, the tank guns fell silent and the Vostroyans jumped down from the hulls, scrambling over the morass of dead orks underfoot, finally able to enter the street without fear of being shot by their own side. Hatches popped open and the Leman Russ crews joined their infantry counterparts, wrenches and hammers used as makeshift weapons by those without sidearms.
Back in the plaza, the awaiting Vostroyans who had been nothing more than stationary targets for the orks above, finally began to file forwards. The squad had become separated but Allix had eyes on all of them, Marita too. Gaspar was the first to reach the tanks. He was also the first to die.
Crouching low to make himself a small target, Gaspar was edging around the side of a dormant turret when a high-calibre round hit him clean in the midriff, throwing him backwards in a shower of blood. Fighting their way through the crowd, Allix and Grigori were by his side in seconds.
‘You’re going to be all right, brother,’ Grigori said, calmer than he had any right to be given the situation. ‘I will get you to the medicae. They’ll patch you up good as new.’
‘Too late for that,’ Gaspar rasped, his blond moustache growing redder with every word he uttered. ‘Stay safe, big brother.’ Gaspar managed to raise one last smile before he closed his eyes forever.
‘Come on,’ Allix said, grabbing Grigori under the arm. ‘Don’t let his death be in vain.’
The pair of them barged their way through the mass of Guardsmen to where Kas was helping Marita scramble over the hull of one of the Leman Russ tanks. Mute and Dmitri were already on the other side laying down covering fire for the troops advancing into the street.
‘Gaspar?’ Kas asked as he held out his massive hand to help Grigori climb up. The smaller Vostroyan said nothing, simply shook his head.
In spite of the xenos’ vastly superior numbers, the close confines of the street proved to be a great leveller, a huge number of orks armed only with clubs and blades eliminated before they could get close enough to the Guardsmen to use them, those with ranged weapons targeted by the Space Marines and Vostroyans still perched on the tanks. The price in blood was expensive but it was starting to pay off. Yard by grisly yard the forces of the Imperium began to take back the city.
The first indication that the tide of battle was turning against them was when Allix’s tunic became covered in the Space Marine’s grey matter.
One moment he was directing the Astra Militarum fire, the next he was slumped over the long barrel of the tank’s gun, half his helmet and head missing. In the streets, scores of Vostroyans similarly fell to unseen assailants.
‘Up above!’ Allix yelled, pointing to the buildings flanking the streets. ‘They’re firing from the windows.’
In unison, thousands of lasrifles angled upwards, unleashing their fury, but to no effect. The orks were firing from the very highest floor of the buildings, the angle alone providing ample cover from street level fire. The Vostroyans were dying in their droves, powerless to stop the onslaught.
‘Follow me,’ Allix called, jumping down from the tank. The rest of the squad followed suit and, along with Marita, followed the lieutenant over to the side of the street, where they took shelter in a doorway.
‘Can you get them open?’ Allix asked Kas, motioning to the set of double doors behind them. A thick chain was bound around the handles, secured with a chunky combination lock.
‘Stand back,’ the big man said. The others obliged, hugging the wall for cover. Kas raised the heavy bolter and squeezed off a single round, not only destroying the lock and chain but a sizeable portion of the metal doors too.
‘Careful,’ Allix said as she waved the rest of them in. ‘They’re probably expecting us.’
Balthasar dodged the first swing of the power fist, angling his torso away from the blow. He raised his bolter, unable to miss at such close range, but before he could get the shot away, the ork’s double-headed axe came around in an uppercut motion, forcing him to lose balance to avoid it and with it the killshot.
The power fist came around again, this time batting the bolter from Balthasar’s hand and over the ramparts. The Dark Angel countered with a swipe of his chainsword, but the warboss was alert to it, the axe coming up to meet it in a shower of sparks. The two weapons locked, Space Marine and ork warboss engaged in a test of raw strength. There could only be one winner, and Balthasar knew it.
Waiting until the ork was at full exertion, he jerked the chainsword away, the axe falling to the floor in a shallow arc and embedding in the stone. Balthasar gripped his blade with both hands, leaping into the air with assistance from his jump pack and raising the weapon over his head. He cut the thrust and dropped towards the ork, its back exposed as it leaned over to retrieve its axe. Just as the death blow was about to land, the ork freed its weapon, raising it to block the Dark Angel’s snarling blade. Before Balthasar’s feet could touch the floor, the ork threw out a leg, its foot catching the Space Marine just below the breastplate, cracking open the already damaged armour and sending him crashing against the rampart wall.
Balthasar’s battle-brothers fighting with him on the outer wall were powerless to aid their commander, each of them engaged in their own battles with the warboss’ personal guard. In the previous duel, both Zadakiel and Puriel had shown the ork general too much respect, had tried to duel him with honour. Balthasar had learned from their mistakes, was prepared to employ any tactic to defeat this foe. Tapping on the vox-bead in his ear, he opened a link to Serpicus, poised with his bolter on the roof of the inner citadel.
‘Take the shot,’ Balthasar ordered.
Its report lost amidst the cacophony of battle, a single bolter shot rang out, a lone round heading inexorably for the warboss’ head. The shot was true, the round striking it squarely on the temple, embedding itself amongst the spikes ridged along its skull.
The massive ork barely flinched, let alone went down.
It raised the head of its axe, looking at its own reflection in the polished surface, and then let forth a booming laugh, obviously impressed with the new adornment.
‘Space Marine fight dirty,’ the ork snarled, menacingly swinging his weapon with only one hand. ‘Groblonik enjoy killing Space Marine. Groblonik always enjoy killing Space Marine.’ He tapped the skull mask hanging from his waist, laughing louder than before.
‘Aim for its throat next time, Serpicus,’ Balthasar voxed.
‘Do you think that’s likely to kill it?’ Serpicus replied.
‘Probably not,’ Balthasar said, rising to his feet, fingering the ignition stud of his chainsword. ‘But at the very least it’ll shut the green bastard up.’
The Vostroyans heard the ork before it heard them.
Alerted by the sound of the doors being blasted open, it had ventured down the stairs to deal with whatever had come through them, the wooden steps audibly straining under its bulk. Allix and the others crept back into the shadows, waiting for it to pass them before they took it out. Dmitri silently unsheathed his knife, ready to stick it between the greenskin’s shoulder blades, but Allix put a hand on the albino’s to prevent him from using it. The time for subtlety had passed; they needed to make sure they killed the ork, not remain undetected.
It stepped out into the stairwell, oblivious to the presence of the Vostroyans, and headed for the next set of steps. Just as it was about to turn down them, its back was ripped open by a volley of las-fire. When it refused to go down, Kas finished it off with a blast from the heavy bolter.
The noise was still echoing around the enclosed stairwell when they heard more orks – three at least – heading downwards. Rather than hide in the darkened corners of the stairway, this time the squad waited at the foot of the next flight of steps, unleashing the full fury of their weapons the instant the greenskins hove into view. Scrambling over the fresh kills, they moved upwards, the sounds of the relentless ork guns getting louder the higher they went.
Allix was the first of them to reach the top floor, three quick shots to the head accounting for the first of the orks. Four more turned their attention away from firing out of the windows and opened fire on the Guardsmen, those already in the room ducking for cover, those yet to enter hanging back until the fire slackened. Within moments of each other, the orks ran dry of ammo, and the Vostroyans sprang up from the bales of fabric they were sheltered behind and recommenced shooting at the xenos, three of which had drawn blades and were rapidly eating up the distance to the Guardsmen. The fourth produced a pistol from the waistband of its filthy, ripped fatigues and took aim at Mute. The silent Vostroyan, wise to what was about to happen, raised his lasrifle. They both fired at the same time.
Mute’s shot hit the ork in the face, the flesh of its cheek blackening and blistering, causing it to emit an annoyed grunt. The ork’s round was more accurate, striking Mute in the torso, dropping him in a shower of blood.
‘Mute!’ Kas yelled, hefting his heavy bolter and blowing the head from Mute’s assailant’s shoulders. Two of the other greenskins still posed a threat and the big man kept his finger on the trigger, raking them both with heavy-calibre shells, dealing them the same fate. Ammunition belt exhausted, he threw the weapon to the ground and ran to Mute’s side. Marita was already crouched beside the semi-conscious Vostroyan, checking him over.
‘Move him over there,’ she said, checking his pulse. The factorum building they were in was some kind of garment manufacturing facility, large industrial stitchers and bolts of fabric filling the entire top floor. Kas carefully lifted Mute and carried him over to a pile of olive drab cloth, no doubt intended to be used for Honorian uniforms, which soon turned crimson.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Kas asked.
Marita checked the pulses at Mute’s wrist and throat before placing her hand on his forehead, the flesh already drained to the colour of Dmitri’s. She shook her head gently.
The others, aware of Mute’s plight but powerless to do anything about it, were at the factorum windows exchanging fire with the orks in the building opposite.
‘Kas?’ Allix called, ducking behind the shelter of a wall to avoid an ork volley. ‘They know we’re here now. Block the entrance with this machinery so we don’t get any surprises.’
Kas looked to Marita. The Honorian girl shook her head, letting him know there was nothing more he could do to help his friend.
Kas went to obey Allix’s order, throwing over one of the heavy stitchers in frustration.
‘And Marita?’ Allix added, moving out of cover to deliver a headshot to one of the orks across the street. ‘Unless you can do anything to save him, we could do with some help over here.’
Marita looked down at Mute’s midriff, blood spilling out of the deep gash with every breath he took, then over at the Vostroyan lieutenant.
Reluctantly, she picked up her lasrifle and took up position at one of the windows.
The duel between Balthasar and the ork warboss raged for over an hour with neither combatant able to gain the upper hand.
Both warriors bore the marks of combat. Balthasar’s previously damaged power armour now barely functioned, more akin to the heavy suits of plate that the Calibanite warriors of old had donned in battle than a one-man fortress. Even at a distance, the first sergeant could sense Serpicus’ hackles rise every time the greenskin laid a blow on him.
The warboss fared little better, blood oozing from two head wounds and a huge gouge taken out of his triceps thanks to a well-placed shot from the Techmarine. None of these injuries hindered the ork in the slightest, his strength and ferocity undiminished since the Dark Angels had first swooped over from the inner citadel.
Atop the battlements, the remainder of the strike team were too preoccupied handling the tide of orks spilling over from outside the walls to aid their acting commander, Serpicus, Diezen and the skitarii likewise controlling the greenskins’ numbers rather than trying to bring down the warboss.
The stalemate was holding but Balthasar knew that it could not persist much longer. Fuelled by the promise of battle, the orks were flooding into the city in ever-increasing numbers and the initial gains made by the Astra Militarum forces on the ground were being eroded by the minute. Unless something happened soon to turn the battle in the Imperial forces’ favour, all they would have achieved was the postponement of their own doom.
It was time to take a calculated risk.
Igniting the twin engines of his jump pack, Balthasar rose into the air, drawing fire from several of the orks on the outer wall. The majority missed, those that were on target bouncing harmlessly away or embedding in ceramite plate. Reaching his apex, Balthasar spun himself around in mid-air, diving back towards the ground head first, chainsword held out in front of him. Alert to the danger, the warboss swung its axe upwards to block the Dark Angel’s attack, but Balthasar suddenly spun around again, changing his angle of approach so that he dodged the ork’s weapon and planted both feet hard into the side of its head.
The warboss lost its footing, crashing backwards into one of the battlements with such force that tiny cracks formed in the surface of the thick stone. Balthasar was unrelenting, surging after the ork general with a powerful thrust from his jump pack, chainsword poised to claim the greenskin’s head. Instinctively, the ork threw up the power fist to protect its head, the metal teeth biting into the oversized glove and snagging there. Balthasar tried vainly to free his weapon but the ork brought its other arm up, grabbing the Dark Angel by the throat and squeezing hard. Balthasar relinquished his grip on the chainsword, its protesting motors grinding to a halt, and tried to prise the massive ork hand from around his neck.
‘Space Marine fly,’ the warboss said, carrying the struggling Space Marine over to the side of the wall that overlooked the city. He held Balthasar aloft for his troops down below to see. In response, they cheered and chanted their leader’s name. The ork smiled, his broken teeth and tusks coated in his own blood, and raised his looted power fist high.
Expecting the killing blow to land, Balthasar was surprised when the glove came down and tore his jump pack off rather than his face.
‘Now Space Marine really fly,’ the warboss chuckled, throwing Balthasar down to the baying mob below.