Path of the Warrior (17 page)

A sudden movement—or rather the sudden stillness of the rest of the squad—alerted Korlandril to something amiss. He froze in place, poised in the stance of Leaf that Cuts.

A ripple disturbed the placid surface of the water, trailed by a thin stream of bubbles. Something was moving towards the squad, just under the waterline. With a thought, Korlandril brought up the wide-spectrum view of his helmet and gazed beneath the water’s reflective surface. The “something” was large and snake-like, five times as long as an eldar is tall, with three pairs of flippers and a wide-fluked tail.

Two large hearts beat beside each other in its chest and Korlandril could see strings of cartilage running the length of its body overlaid with a labyrinth of arteries and strange organs. Korlandril could see the flow of heat from these out to the extremities as the creature swished lazily past, within easy pistol shot.

It gave not a first glance towards the Striking Scorpions swathed from the moonlight by the trees shrouding the bank. Korlandril watched it glide behind him and nodded to Kenainath, signalling that it was safe to continue.

Under the cover of the thickening cloud—the light of the moons now all but gone—the squad made swift progress and were soon within sight of the arcing bridge that connected to the two parts of Hirith-Hreslain. On the far bank—the webward side closest to the eldar army—tall towers rose from amongst the trees. Smoke billowed from narrow windows and soot stained pale walls. On the nearer side the buildings were more widely spaced and a great clearing had been cut into the forest. This had once been pastureland for the grazing beasts of the Exodites. Now it was a ruin, the carcasses of the great reptilian herbivores heaped onto roaring pyres or left in the trampled mud where they had been slaughtered. Crude standards of flat metal icons and ragged banners had been driven into the soil and lashed to the cracked tiled roofs of the outbuildings.

Ramshackle, wheeled vehicles rumbled across the turf, their thick tyres churning up swathes of dirt, cutting gashes into the fertile ground. The air was choked with their fumes. Metal-sided and roofed sheds had been erected over the ruins of farmsteads and barns, where clanging echoed through the night sky and the bright spark of welding torches mingled with the flicker of naked flames and the stark light of artificial lamps. Piles of junk littered the open ground: twisted mechanical workings, badly hewn logs, shredded tyres, the bones of dead food and heaps of steaming dung. Haphazard chimneys jutted from the worksheds spewing oily smoke, leaving a cloud of smog lingering over the filthy campsite.

Through the murk, with the aid of his lens-filters, Korlandril could see the orks, the first he had encountered though he had heard tales from the others of the squad. If anything, their horrific stories did not do justice to the brutal aliens.

There were several dozen of the green-skinned monsters. Most of them were far larger than Korlandril, even hunched and crouching around the fires. Some were enormous, perhaps half again as tall as the Aspect Warriors, and three or four times as broad. They growled and cackled to each other in their brutish tongue, striking out to emphasise their points.

Around and about the encampment scurried a host of smaller creatures, carrying food and weapons, or simply scrabbling about with each other in petty conflicts. Their higher-pitched voices added a dissonant cut through the rumble of the orks’ bellows and roars, jarring in Korlandril’s ears.

Without thought, Korlandril raised his weapons, disgusted by what he saw.

“It is not yet time, temper your anger and hate, vengeance will come soon,” warned Kenainath.

The moments crept past as the Striking Scorpions lay in wait. Korlandril watched the orks, wary of discovery, but not a single greenskin warrior or their diminutive servants spared a glance towards the river. He turned his attention back to the towers of the main settlement. Here the destruction of the orks was even more evident.

The bucket-jawed monstrosities had set up their camp in the ruins of the settlement. Walls had been smashed in to widen doorways and windows, and the detritus of the alien invaders was piled everywhere. They had been here for a short while and had made ugly repairs and “improvements” with sheets of metal riveted into the elegant stone buildings, and planks of untreated wood lashed into place to form balconies and battlements.

Hundreds of the creatures milled about, arguing and fighting, eating and shouting. With each heartbeat Korlandril came to despise them more. They were an affront to everything he had learnt to appreciate and love. They were an oafish, unsubtle, ill-disciplined rabble. They were incarnations of anarchy and violence, having nothing of culture, wit or art. Their brutality was their strength, their ignorance their armour against the darker things of the universe that preyed on more civilised species.

Though every part of Korlandril strained to unleash the wrath of Khaine, to wipe out these barbaric figures that had survived from the earliest legends of the eldar, a small, reasoning part of his brain told him that it would never be so. If the eldar had been unable to remove the blight of the orks from the galaxy when their civilisation had been at the height of its power, before the darkness of the Fall, they had little hope now. They were so few, so scattered, in comparison to the grunting, seething hordes that now held sway over so many worlds that had once belonged to the eldar.

Korlandril found comfort in a singular thought: by the time the next dawn came, there would be fewer orks to despoil the stars. With skill and determination, some would die by his own hand. The prospect renewed his thrill of being in battle, even though not a shot had yet been fired or a blade swung in anger.

He focussed on visualisations of the combat techniques he would employ against the ungainly monsters. He imagined eluding their clumsy blows while his own weapons cut them down with ease. These brutes had slain other eldar—admittedly backward Exodites, but eldar all the same—and he was in a position to exact red payment for that crime.

No more orders came or were needed. The exarchs knew their roles and the warriors knew how to fight. The only announcement of the battle commencing was a thunderous explosion on the webward side of the river. Thin vapour trails marked the passage of missiles from the Dark Reapers as blossoms of incandescent ruin engulfed the orks. The soft whickering of shuriken catapult fire was soon lost in the tumult of the orks’ alarms—blaring mechanical horns, resounding metallic drums and deafening bellows.

Korlandril wanted to join the fray and eased himself forwards to stand beside Kenainath. The water lapped gently at the exarch’s knees as he stood motionless in the shallows of the river, eyes fixed on the orks on the right-hand bank. Korlandril turned his attention there and saw the greenskins organising quickly. For all their unsophisticated ways, they responded rapidly to the attack; the promise of bloodshed roused them into a unity of destructive purpose.

Buggies with heavy weapons on pivots slewed back and forth, gathering in makeshift squadrons as they headed towards the bridge. Behind them, two clanking, half-track war engines rumbled into life, each as large as the worksheds and of similar crude construction. Huge tyres kicked up clods of dirt, tracks clanked over rusting wheels as the machines lurched towards the bridge.

The burliest orks clambered up steps and ladders onto their open transport beds while others chased behind. Belts of ammunition were slapped into large-bore guns while smaller weapons dotted across the mobile fortresses were pivoted towards the river. Some of the greenskins wildly shot their weapons into the sky in their excitement, all of them hooted and hollered war cries. The armoured carriers belched forth spumes of thick smoke from their many exhausts, the smog washing heavily towards the river on the brisk wind. The mechanical beasts ground forwards implacably, churning through the piles of rotting carcasses and debris.

The first of the war buggies reached the bridge and raced across, two more not far behind. At the webward end of the bridge, concealed in the shattered ruins of a towering gatehouse that arched over the span, Firuthein and his Fire Dragons moved forwards.

The exarch stepped up to the jagged remains of a window and levelled his lance-like firepike.

A glaring burst of energy erupted from the weapon and hurtled towards the lead buggy. It caught the light vehicle on the nearside above its front wheel, exploding with the power of a miniature sun. Front axle ripped asunder, the buggy flipped dramatically, screeching along the retaining wall of the arcing bridge, trailing a storm of sparks. Korlandril smiled as he saw the buggy’s driver dashed against the wall, flopping like a child’s doll, while the gunner was broken and smeared along the white stone of the barrier.

The oncoming vehicles swerved around the smoking remnants, their heavy guns chattering, muzzle flare illuminating the orks’ yelling, fanged faces. The bullets tore chunks from the walls of the gatehouse, but Firuthein’s warriors stood their ground against the wild, sporadic fire. As the closest buggy came within range, the Fire Dragons unleashed their deadly breath, the air churning with white-hot radiation from their fusion guns.

The gunner of the next buggy exploded in a mist of rapidly evaporating organs and blood, his legs and lower torso spilling from the cradle in which he had been sat. The engine of the buggy burst into flames, swiftly followed by a detonation in the fuel tank, turning the vehicle into a careening fireball that ploughed into the ruined gatehouse before exploding into a cloud of debris and mechanical parts.

The larger transports had picked up speed. The nearest had a great plough-like ram on its front and hurled aside the ruins of the first destroyed buggy.

From its back, its cargo of warriors spewed forth a hail of inaccurate fire from their barking guns, streaming bullets in all directions in a frenzy of violence. Heavier arms spat a more staccato beat, thudding their shells purposefully towards the Fire Dragons.

Korlandril watched with horror as one salvo found its mark, tearing great shards of armour from one of the Fire Dragons. The warrior’s body—lifeless Korlandril assumed—was flung out of sight into the mangle of the ruined tower.

Korlandril was conflicted for a moment. He was not sure what to think. A distant, whispering doubt told him that this was horrific. He had just seen another eldar brutally slain. Such a thing was perhaps the most traumatic sight he might witness. This quiet voice was drowned out by an altogether more feral roaring, which bayed for Korlandril to avenge the death of the fallen Fire Dragon.

In those few heartbeats of uncertainty, much had happened. At the near end of the bridge the ram-fronted transport had fire licking from under its tracks, gears turned to a molten slurry by Firuthein’s firepike. The orks were tumbling over the sides and from the tailgate, gathering around a particularly vast creature with a metal banner pole tied to its back and a necklace of cracked skulls hanging on a chain around its neck. In one hand it carried a short but heavy pistol, in the other a double-headed axe with whirring chainblades.

“The warlord comes out, now it is time to strike swift, and bring down the beast!” cried Kenainath. The exarch was surging forwards through the water even as he gave the shout. Korlandril followed on his heel and the others close behind.

In the darkness and smoke, the Striking Scorpions arrived at the bridge quickly and unseen. The orks had laboured to shove aside the remnants of their transport, urged on by the bellows of their leader and threats from his pistol and axe.

Sudden glimmers of brightness attracted Korlandril’s gaze to his right, past the ork warlord and his bodyguard. Like miniature supernovae, sparkling portals were opening up around the orks. Guided by spirit beacons placed by the rangers, the rest of the eldar force was arriving from the webway, surrounding the brutes to ensure none escaped. Squads burst from the ether with their weapons firing; squads of jetbike-riding Shining Spears charged out of the glimmering portals, their laser lances bright with power; caught between the converging squads, the orks died in droves.

Under the bridge Korlandril saw dark shapes, and at first thought they were foes. On closer inspection, he saw more Striking Scorpions: Aranarha’s Fall of the Deadly Rain. They moved to cut off the orks’ progress at the webward end of the bridge while the Deadly Shadow advanced from the rear.

Beyond Aranarha’s squad, battle raged. Bolts of energy and screaming bullets criss-crossed the Exodite towers. The Aspect Warriors attacked with sure and deliberate violence, cutting down all in their path, following in the wake of the Avatar. The shriek of Banshee masks mixed with an unearthly, deafening ululation.

The Avatar of Khaine strode into the orks, the chilling sound coming from the fire-tipped spear in its right hand—the
Suin Daellae,
the Doom that Wails. Twice as tall as the Aspect Warriors surrounding it, the incarnation of the Bloody-Handed One was a nightmarish vision of metal and fire. Its unearthly flesh glowed with a ruddy light from within, its face a moulded visage of pure rage, eyes burning slits of white heat. The Avatar cast its spear through the bodies of a dozen foes before the weapon circled fully and returned to its grasp. Artificial lightning blasts from strange ork weapons crackled across the Avatar’s metal hide while bullets pattered and ricocheted all around.

Korlandril had no more time to watch the ongoing orgy of violence—his own desire to shed blood heightened by the sight—for they had reached the winding steps up to the bridge. Kenainath broke into a run, mounting the stairwell swiftly, the rest of the squad following eagerly.

The steps brought them out not far behind the warlord as it advanced towards the main eldar attack, still unaware of the threat emerging from behind. Seven of its brutal subordinates clustered around the alien, shouting encouragement to their smaller minions who were being cut down in swathes by the eldar attack.

Kenainath closed in at a run, his shuriken pistol spitting a hail of razor-sharp discs. Korlandril followed suit, spraying a volley at the closest ork mentor, the salvo leaving a line of shredded flesh across the back of the creature’s left shoulder. It turned and glared at Korlandril with beady eyes beneath a heavy, furrowed brow and then opened its fang-filled mouth in a bellow of warning. Its teeth were as long as Korlandril’s fingers, spittle flying in heavy gobbets. The creature hefted a large cleaver in both hands, a shimmer of energy playing along its jagged blade. From its eyes to its posture to its roar, everything about the ork signalled murderous intent.