Forlorn Hope

Angel Forge, Southern Front, Day 100

Ornoff was positively beaming as he walked along the RIP detail's section of trench. It only served to make the old bastard's ragged mug more ugly. Vornas barely glanced up from the hand pump he was using to drain the trench. "Colonel's coming today, gents," said the commissar in a poor imitation of the lowborn Vendolanders.. "Surprise visit. I hear he does that on the eve of an offensive, so looks like we've got something to look forward to!"

"Yeah, sure he does," Towser muttered after Ornoff moved on. He was stripped down to his trousers, shoveling muck with his spade. "I was in 1st Battalion when Crassus was still the Major. Tight ass, yes, but he doesn't mess with his troops. Ornoff's blowing smoke."

"Preaching to the choir on that one," Vornas said. Like Vornas, Towser was in for punishment. Oddly, he was also one of the few who didn't despise the big grenadier.

"That a new lash?" Towser asked. Vornas's wet shirt clung to him, blood weeping into the fabric. Towser had several lashes himself. He wore the scars proudly, as if being a repeat offender was something to be proud of. Vornas just nodded. Towser didn't pry further.

This close to the forge, it was suicidal to peer above the parapet, but if Vornas lay down with his back pressed against the rear wall of the trench, he could make out the huge puncture marks in the void shield. Raw energy spilled out of the broken latticework. Despite Ornoff's arrogance, he was right. They would be moving out soon.

A few hours later, the commissar returned to their section. "Fall out, gents, back to the reserve line. Colonel's here."

As the shift change rotated into the fire trench, the RIP detail left their berths and moved back to the rear line. Vornas. The hundred troopers from the RIP detail assembled in a wider section of the trench, forming two straggly lines. The motley collection hardly looked fit for duty, something Ornoff took glee in pointing out.

"You call yourself soldiers?" he said, picking at their uniforms. The sneer never left his face. "I wouldn't let you organize a shit detail in this state. Trash, all of you. To think, this is what I have to show to our beloved Colonel."

Colonel Ertrand Crassus appeared at the left end of the line, followed closely by Major Lester and a handful of orderlies. His trench coat billowed behind him, making the small, unassuming man appear much larger. The taller Lester shadowed his commanding officer, scanning the prisoners. The major's stare stopped at Vornas for a half second. Vornas knew what he was thinking.

Crassus stopped halfway along the line, and spoke to the center man, "Do you know why I am here, soldier?"

"Sir, no sir," the offender said.

Crassus took his stick, and pointed towards Angel Forge. "You see that, soldier? That is our way in. Those breaches in the wall are the anvil upon which the hammer of the Emperor shall strike. If we take those points, Angel Forge will soon follow, and we can be rid of these traitors once and for all." The colonel took a step back and raised his voice for all to hear. "I need the best men in the regiment for this task."

"I will gladly volunteer my company for the honour, Colonel," Ornoff said. "I offer them as a courtesy to you."

"And I appreciate it," said Crassus, glancing over his shoulder at the Commissar. "I know you could do what you please with these men. I merely ask as a matter of protocol." He looked back to the soldiers, "This is a chance for redemption. Any man who takes part in this action shall be absolved of their transgression in the eyes of the Emperor. Should you survive, your sins shall be forgiven and your rights as Guardsmen reinstated. Will you accept this offer?"

"Yes, sir!" shouted the RIP detail. With nothing to go back to but menial labour or the barrel of Ornoff's pistol, the answer was obvious and immediate. The colonel smiled grimly.

"Prepare yourselves, then. The first wave moves out at midnight. Emperor protect you, and may he have mercy on your souls."

Worker's Habitation Block AA23

Long abandoned, the outer hab blocks within the Forge had fallen into a state of disrepair. The bunkhouses remained sealed behind a thick layer of rust and creaky door mechanisms. Forcing their way into one of these houses, the soldiers of 226 Commando took shelter in its dusty blackness. After loading their wounded onto the transports for medevac, the remaining commandos had resupplied and then pressed on into the forge.

While Kippler and Duschesne watched the doorways, Sarthis gathered the other thirty men around the hololith chart set up on the grated floor panels. Next to him, Alek had unloaded his vox pack and set up the narrowband receiver. Due to the Skitarii's superiority in communications, the Vendolanders and other guard regiments had resorted to closed channel communications only for security reasons. The signal frequencies changed twice daily, so it took Alek time to finally isolate the new frequency.

"Got it, sir," he finally said, handing the speaker to Sarthis. The lieutenant pulled the vox grill up to his face.

"Major? This is 226, come in."

"Read you loud and clear, 226," Lester responded, "Is your connection secure?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"I see your handiwork has paid off."

"Copy that, Major," Sarthis replied.

"Excellent work, lieutenant. Proceed at your own discretion. Be advised, an offensive has been scheduled for midnight against the breach. The Scions will use the attack as cover for their infiltration, so I'd suggest not being there when they arrive."

"Where should we be, sir?" Sarthis asked.

"I'll leave that up to you, lieutenant," Lester said plainly. Before Sarthis could respond, the major cut the vox line.

"Merrick," Sarthis said, "when you and Hurst were here last, you went in through an exhaust vent, right?"

"Yes. There's big fan ports that blast the excess heat out from the underground manufactories. That would be our best way in."

"Can you get us there?" Sarthis gestured to the chart. Merrick leaned forward and pointed to the secondary manufactorum district.

"That would be the best point. If we moved on the primary district, it would be us against the whole damned cult. I say we wait for nightfall and strike when the offensive starts. Much as they're arrogant pricks, the storm troopers have the right idea. Luckily for us, we're already inside, so we've got the head start."

Sarthis pulled his scowl into a half smile. "Then let's not waste it. Have the supplies divvied up between each man, sergeant major. We move at nightfall."

Angel Forge, Southern Front, Day 101

Following a full day of heavy bombardment, the soldiers leading the forlorn hope had crept forward under cover of darkness. The fire trenches were filled with soldiers, while beyond even these, entire companies rested in the no man's land that ran towards the broken walls of the forge. Guardsmen from a dozen regiments: Kydorans, Maverons, Vendolanders and Narkamians and others, all waited for the signal to advance. Myrmidons from the Mechanicus ranks attached themselves to the assault units, refusing to be held back from their hated foes.

Bayonets were fixed. Power cells were checked. Ammo belts were prepped. Priests wandered the trenches, offering blessings to the guardsmen in hushed tones. Commissars stalked behind the front, offering their own 'encouragement'. Officers speechified, instilling visions of glory in the minds of the younger troopers. They would be going in with the first wave, and to the victors would go the spoils. Commissions, rewards and prestige would be theirs.

But the older veterans knew better. At the head of the vanguard, the Vendoland RIP were tense. Vornas knew full well what was coming, something the inexperienced Maverons had yet to witness. Trench warfare was brutal, but the forlorn hope would be a slaughter. All tactics and strategy would be thrown aside for a battle of sheer attrition. There was no other way to take the walls short of flattening the entire forge, something the Mechanicus were adamantly opposed to. Angel Forge would be bought with blood.

Towser drew a cigar from his pocket and attempted to light it. Vornas could not believe his eyes. He tried to conceal the open flame, but before he could reach Towser, a searing energy bolt struck the guardsman squarely between the eyes. The rest of the men dropped to the ground, weapons scanning for the sniper. Smoke wafted from the hole in Towser's head, the cigar dropped from his mouth onto the muddy ground.

"Light discipline, light discipline you bloody fools!" hissed Ornoff, plodding through the puddles towards the sight of the incident. He looked down at Towser's lifeless body. "It seems our enemy has done my job," the commissar cursed. He glared at all the troops around him. "If I catch anyone with an open light, they will suffer the same fate."

Sporadic gunfire came from the walls. The element of surprise was gone, and so preparations were moved forward. The breach before Vornas was flanked on either side by half ruined bastions, doubtlessly filled with deadly Skitarii. The steep pile of rubble would be a killing field.

A single order issued across the vox channels. "Engage."

The RIP troopers rose up and advanced on the breach, bent half-over and completely silent. Commissar Ornoff brandished this chainsword in one hand and laspistol in the other. Both had been blackened with soot, as had his cuirass. As the Vendolanders ran, they were joined by further companies from adjoining regiments. The trickle of companies turned into a flood, and soon a thousand men were rushing towards the breach.

Ornoff began to yell. "I am the will of the Emperor. I am his hammer that will smite His foes. I am the avenger, the judge and the executioner. Traitors shall yield before me and face the Emperor's Mercy!"

The cry was picked up by the men around him. Despite himself, Vornas joined in. The cry became a roar, which was in turn drowned out by the spattering of their guns. The heavy thundering of the artillery took up again, bombarding further sections of the wall, targeting enemy gun emplacements.

The Skitarii returned fire on the Imperials with lethal precision. The guardsmen split up into their fire-teams, fanning out. The first men reached the breach, and began to climb. Vornas raised his lasgun, firing at the enemy above. Mortar shells arced overhead, whistling through the air. The grenadier could see the enemy's glowing eyes shining out from under their hoods.

The Skitarii were merciless. Squad after squad were cut down to a man. The rubble became slick with blood. Vornas had to climb over mounds of bodies, tripping and clawing his way up the breach. The air was thick with lasfire snapping past his head. Men were screaming and cursing. There were frantic calls for medics, but it was no use. Medics and surgeons hurried up to retrieve the wounded, but the Skitarii made no distinction for them. They were slain s quickly as the rest.

Half buried in corpses, Commissar Ornoff continued to climb, hacking his way free with his chainsword. He had no regard for the dead, they were merely an obstacle that he would overcome. He continued to hurl curses at the traitors, firing his pistol like an insolent child. "Fight, you cowards!" he yelled at the dead and dying. "A man who has nothing may still give his life! Onward and upward, wretches!"

Vornas lay face down among the dead, watching the bloody spectacle unfold. Guardsmen from other regiments were pushing past, meeting the same fate further up the slope. It was slaughter, total slaughter. Through the press of bodies, Vornas never lost sight of Ornoff. It was as if the dead were dragging the bastard down, but he kept hacking and chopping his way free. Vornas began to crawl towards him. A body fell on top of him, but he kept crawling.

He felt the same urge he had towards Connor. The blatant disregard for the fallen enraged Vornas. He would not let it pass, not again. Vornas pulled his lasgun to his chest. The Commissar needed to die. One more corpse adrift on a sea of blood. If Vornas was a murderer, then Ornoff was a butcher, no better than the Skitarii. The man traded in human lives.

Vornas rose to his knees, rifle in hand. As he did, the advance slowed to a trickle. The thousand men that had gone up had been gunned down, and the commanders below had called off the wave. Few still lived. As the gunfire quieted down, Ornoff turned and saw Vornas's weapon pointed at him. The Commissar was drenched in blood, some of it his own. He was breathing heavily, his breastplate punctured in many places.

"Soldier," he growled, blood pooling in his mouth. He was breathing heavily. "Drop the gun, Vornas."

Vornas didn't respond. He tightened his grip on the trigger. Ornoff swung around with his laspistol in hand. Vornas fired. His shot hit the Commissar in the abdomen, punching straight through the cuirass. He doubled over, clutching his latest wound. Ornoff's head snapped up, glaring at Vornas.

"You-" Ornoff was cut short by a shot from the battlements that blew his head away. Vornas was struck a moment later in the side, knocking him back into the corpses. His vision started to fade, and he tasted blood.

"Missed, sir" Vornas muttered. Above, he could see a small light from something miles above, hurtling over the wall. Then, he blacked out.