Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 22
His hands wouldn't stop shaking; no matter what he did the tremors persisted. It was a constant nagging, the quiver making him look nervous and unsettled. Sometimes he could force it down with sheer will but the second he was distracted the shaking would start again, constant as the stench of an open sewer. Lieutenant Arbet clenched his hands hard, trying to make the shaking stop but that only made him break out into sweats, a hot rush accompanied by laboured breathing and gasping breaths. In frustration he shoved his hands into the packed earth before him, feeling the coolness of soil and roots press against his skin.
Arbet was currently crouched behind a bush, separating him from his platoon. He had ordered them to stop for a latrine break, and hastened away himself but that had just been an act. Arbet had felt an overwhelming sense of doom creeping over him and had needed someplace to calm his nerves, somewhere the other Brownshirts couldn't see his panic attack. The Lieutenant knew all too well what was causing this; it was the mutant, the vile creature that haunted his nightmares.
Arbet hadn't slept in ages, his nights filled with sweating terrors and his days afflicted with panic attacks. He hadn't managed more than an hour or two of sleep before awakening, desperately grabbing for his weapons to fend off the horrors lurking in his dreams. He had been forced to hang his pistol above the door, out of reach lest he draw his weapon and shoot himself in his dazed stupor. After three days of torture the call had finally come, the People's Liberation Army were ready, the attack was about to begin. Arbet had hurriedly gathered his platoon together and bustled them into the Devilfish, more than a few grumbling about being hauled from the brothels where they had been loitering. He had packed them up and driven them out, headed for the front, only to be forced to stop half-way.
Arbet knew he was no state to be leading men into war but he couldn't bring himself to present himself as unfit for duty. The mutant was out there, the vile abomination was waiting for him and if he didn't find the monster it would surely find him. Arbet was a soldier, it was all he knew, hiding in fear was anathema to his nature. He had to find the mutant and kill it, only then could he be free of this fear. In a detached, rational part of his mind a thought lingered, that maybe this was all a consequence of his upbringing in the Imperial Cult. When he was young the Preachers had filled his head with visions of hell, as they did with all Imperial boys and girls, he had been taught to abhor mutants and aliens, a violent reaction being instilled from the earliest possible age. Maraha had broken with the Imperium, even sided with Xenos, but such indoctrination ran deep and perhaps this was all a result of his actions conflicting with his upbringing, unbalancing his reason. Sadly such thoughts were mere wisps of cloud before the tornado of his emotions, casting aside all misgivings and driving him on.
Arbet's thoughts were interrupted by a soft scuffle behind the bush and he saw a flash of movement through the leaves. Before he knew what was happening he was on his feet, pulse pistol in hand. As he rose he thought he saw scales and those red slitted eyes, coming out of nowhere. The mutant had found him, it had come for him and he was wasn't ready. Arbet desperately fumbled with his pistol, trying to draw a bead before those sharp fangs killed him. At the last possible instant his vision cleared and he saw the brown fatigues and worn face of his sergeant, eyes going wide in shock at the pistol being shoved in his face. Egar threw up his hands and cried, "Holy Frak!"
Arbet realised he was lashing out at shadows and forced his hand down to holster his weapon, his breathing was fast but he knew he couldn't let the troopers see his anxiety. He made a show of jangling his belt buckle as if he had just finished his ablutions and then said, "Bescumber, don't sneak up on a man when he's communing with nature."
Egar sighed out and said, "Bit jumpy aren't you, Sir?"
Arbet forced his pistol into his holster and deflected, "We're in enemy country; don't forget what happened to Trooper Gerri."
"Aye," Egar muttered, "Shot in the back with his pants down, that's no way to die."
Arbet shoved his shaking hands into his pockets and asked, "Is the platoon ready?"
"Just waiting for you," Egar replied.
"Come on," Arbet declared striding off, "War won't wait forever."
Swiftly they made their way back to the Devilfish, where the squads were waiting. Arbet wasted not a moment to bustle inside and then hammered his fist on the driver's compartment before sticking his head out the top so no one could see his anxiety. With a smooth whine the transport set off, followed by four others and the three Piranhas. Arbet looked about and saw the majestic Kalcha Mountains climbing above him, their steep flanks covered in woods and the snow-capped tops gleaming in the hot sun.
The Brownshirts were running parallel to those mountains, headed in a rough line towards another ridge of the mountains that together described a 'V' shape. Between those ranges was a wide valley, though to call it such barely covered the vastness of the land. Rolling hills described the geography, covered in farmlands and paved roads. The Devilfish coasted over them all, smooth and untroubled and Arbet saw small farmsteads flash by as they cruised onwards.
The rushing air and sure power under his feet steadied his nerves and Arbet was able to enjoy the ride, forgetting his nightmares for a few moments. He let the wind tussle his hair and imagined the war was over, that the Imperium had been driven off and Maraha was freed. Yet his vision was interrupted as they crested the rise of a hill and saw the army before them.
Vast swathes of the valley were covered in marching regiments, Brownshirts slogging along with weary gazes. Here and there were tanks, chimeras and even the occasional Tau machine, but the vast majority were on foot. They were formed in regimental blocks, huge clumps of men thousands strong all headed in the same direction, while overhead swirling contrails described complicated knot works in the sky declarations that far above the aerial battle was already underway. They filled the valley side to side and stretched back as far as the eye could see, more men than Arbet could possibly count. Far ahead of these men lay the borders of the capital city itself, sitting smugly under the looming bulk of great dam. It looked proud and strong but Arbet knew that was a hollow boast, the city had no great walls or macrocannon batteries, merely a pitiful ring of trenches set between it and the closing army. The Brownshirts would sweep those defences aside with ease and take the city beyond, Arbet knew numbers such as this could not be resisted.
Swiftly the Devilfish closed upon a field tent, filled with busy vox operators and they were guided to a halt by stern looking armsmen. The guards watched suspiciously as the platoon dismounted, seemingly unimpressed by a mere lieutenant daring to approach but a voice called out from within, "Let them through!"
Arbet stepped smugly past the watching guards and found Colonel Westerfield pouring over a map table, the tent doing little to hold back the glaring sunshine. He saluted the leader of the rebels and noticed O'Dea lurking around the vox operators, but paid him no mind.
Westerfield straightened up and then said, "Glorious isn't it?"
"Sir?" Arbet uttered hesitantly.
"The Big Push," Westerfield exclaimed, "Here at last, the day of liberation is upon us!"
"That is good news," Arbet agreed, "A glorious day indeed."
Westerfield seemed jubilant as he said, "Look at that, the oldest city on Maraha, the place our forefathers first set foot upon this world. Look at that dam, the product of our people's blood and sweat and tears. It belongs to us, not the Imperials and I like to think our forefathers would be proud to see us reclaim it."
Behind Arbet Sergeant Egar muttered, "Only the little matter of an enemy army being in the way."
Westerfield grinned, "Ah, the honest wit of the footsore soldier, I do enjoy your sharp words. But remember who you're talking to… Sergeant."
Egar promptly shut up at the rebuke and Arbet stepped in to say, "How can we serve?"
O'Dea stepped forward at that and said, "The Imperials are digging in for their last stand. They seek to hold us off with trenches and artillery, but they must know they are outnumbered and outgunned. Any defiance will be short-lived."
Arbet's eyes narrowed as he said, "Sounds good… too good. This is a bad place to make a last stand, which raises the question why retreat here?"
Westerfield agreed, "Exactly my thoughts, in my experience when everything is going right it is usually a sign you're walking into a trap. The Imperials aren't stupid and they must have a strategy but the real wild card is the Space Marines; we don't know what they will do. You've had the most experience with them, I want your eyes on this."
Westerfield gestured at a map of the valley and Arbet stepped closer to examine it. Before him he could see the dispositions of the People's Army and the lines of defences set out like regicide pieces on a board. The formations were orderly and efficient, able to advance and withdraw on command. Unfortunately he had seen enough battles to know war was not a game, units didn't behave like pieces to be picked up and set down. When the firing started all those tidy formations would fall apart.
Arbet sighed, "Looks like a meat grinder to me."
Westerfield agreed, "A bloody slog into the teeth of prepared defences, but our numbers are still too great to resist. Plus we have friends in the right places, the Imperials aren't so secure as they would like to think."
O'Dea added, "Our recon parties have spotted Gue'ron'sha among the trenches, they seek to hold the outer perimeter."
"How many?" Arbet inquired.
"A handful, but we assume more are nearby," Westerfield added.
Arbet rubbed his chin and stared at the map, considering all he knew. Above all else he thought of the mutant, trying to picture that monster standing in a trench, next to good honest soldiers. It didn't seem right, the defenders would never tolerate such an abomination to stand among them, something was definitely off.
Westerfield looked at him and asked, "What are you thinking?"
Arbet didn't want to answer so fudged by saying, "This is all too neat and straightforward. When we fought them in the field they were masters of confusion and misdirection, never being where we expected them to be. They came at us from odd angles, using feints and lures to draw our eye. Like a Clanker-snake, rattling its tail to distract attention from its deadly fangs. We couldn't predict their moves at all, then just when we thought we had them, they withdrew."
Westerfield grinned and said, "I knew you'd see something we missed. What is your recommendation?"
Arbet's eye travelled over the map to the contours of the mountains and he stated, "I'd watch our flanks for counter attacks and not commit everything in one big rush."
Westerfield stated thoughtfully, "Assault plan Gamma-2 then, wear them down with successive waves, but keep a few forces to sweep the foothills clean. The last thing we want is an army coming to stab us in the back."
Suddenly Arbet declared, "My Platoon volunteers to guard the flanks!"
Westerfield blinked in surprise and stated, "I need you at the front."
"Sir, I think I can do the most good on the flank," Arbet insisted, "I know this foe, I know how they think."
"You smell an opportunity eh?" Westerfield said with a grin, "Very well, your Devilfish are bested suited for it anyway, you'll make short work of those goat trails."
Arbet nodded in acceptance but inside he was itching to be off. The mutant was in those hills, Arbet knew it in his bones. He would find the monster in those mountains and then this would all be over.