Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 20
It began with a series of detonations, rippling around the perimeter of the Ork encampment in a wave of destruction. Carefully placed charges blew in a linked pattern, tearing down the wall that ringed the industrial hub and sending scything shrapnel hurtling everywhere. Nearby buildings were peppered with daggers of shorn barricade, while watchtowers toppled, their supports blown to send them tumbling to the ground. Scores of Greenskins died in the first moments, filleted to bits or burnt into charred statues. The rest rallied, grabbing weapons that were never far from their hands to find the attackers, but here they were stymied, there was no lone direction to face, the explosions were coming from everywhere. Greenskins stumbled about looking for an enemy to fight, and then they came, striding out of the fires marched figures in midnight-clad: Night Lords.
Xavaar sensed flickering fires wafting over his exposed musculature, he had no nerves in his face to feel pain but the spells that wrapped him resonated in a manner he could describe as hot, letting him know he walked through an inferno. By his side two Claws marched, bolters levelled and faceplates lit as devilish caricatures in the dancing firelight. Greul and Cantus, with their comrades in arms, bringing the murderlust of Nostramo with them. They strode through the flames with heads held high and then their bolters began to bark as they cried, "We have come for you!"
Xavaar watched as mass-reactives slammed into nearby Orks, blowing them apart with internal detonations. Reeling Boyz fell in bits, as their comrades gawped. Inevitably the Greenskins reacted the only way they knew how, by rallying and charging into the teeth of incoming fire. They did not get far. Concentrated bursts of bolt rounds cleaved them apart, gunning down any who dared show their faces. Cantus' fire was terrifyingly exact, every shot finding a windpipe or eye, one shot, one kill, all while firing repeatedly on full auto. The wave of Orks was decimated, only one making it through the onslaught, a bigger Ork with black skin. Greul stepped forward to meet it, drawing a notched and bloody sabre from his belt. He leapt to meet the Ork head-on, ramming his blade into its jaw and through the brain, killing it before it could land a single blow.
"Fine killing, sons of the midnight world," Xavaar cried, "Drive into the heart of them, break their spirits!"
"Quit making overblown speeches and do your conjuring trick," snarled Greul testily.
Xavaar knew the bloody warrior had little patience for the Psyker's art but refused to be hurried. Languidly he set his staff upon the ground and called upon his connection to the warp, summoning its energies and forging them with his mind to cast an enchantment. Part Psychic exertion, part spellcraft, it was a projection he had performed many times. By his will a corona of black fire erupted from the skull attached to his staff, wreathing it in onyx flame. Strange shapes writhed in those flames, before erupting forth to fly over the roofs of the camp. Ghostly apparitions and phantasmal warriors, Night Lords made of shade and lightning, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, cackling evilly as they ran amok.
This was only an illusion, of no physical consequence, but the confusion they would sow should be more than enough. Other Night Lord echelons were attacking elsewhere, five assaults made simultaneously from all directions, a claw wrapped around the base and clenching it in a fist of iron. Fear did not come naturally to Orks but they had their own version, they took strength from outright conflict, but rob them of a clear fight, surround them with suggestions of foes and rob them of a chance to spill blood and their will could be made to break.
Xavaar lifted his staff and proclaimed, "The spell is cast, proceed to next phase."
"About bloody time," Greul snorted.
"Press on," Cantus agreed, "Before they see through the Skinned Man's tricks."
Xavaar strode on, heading deeper into the complex. Ahead he spied the outline of Ork Stompas, a threat that needed eliminating, but that was only part of the reason they were here. At the foot of the nearest they found a huge crowd of Orks, a hundred at least, all thrashing about in confusion. The Greenskins were firing upwards, blazing away at ghostly shapes that capered over rooftops and laughed tauntingly at their impotence. Nothing hit, for there was no foe to be hit, but the Orks roared furiously as they blazed away with abandon.
Xavaar led his claws into the square with confidence, marching openly as if strolling his own fortress and not a battlefield. The Orks saw them coming and turned to engage, gleefully roaring as a true enemy emerged at last. A hundred shootas came to bear, against twenty bolters, an equation with only one result, but Xavaar was not concerned. He looked upon his enemy and let his power flow, imposing the cold imperiousness of his gaze upon them. The result was profound, any whom looked upon him felt the icy grip of eternity seize their souls, entropy and the heat death of the universe draining their auras. All agency was robbed from his victims, any trace of will or determination sucked from their marrow, leaving them utterly bereft of motivation. Muscles went limp and hands became slack as Orks collapsed wherever they stood, left paralysed by his gaze. Xavaar was skilled in the arts of telepathy, astral projection and conjuration but his true gift lay in his gaze, a power that set him apart and had made him noted among the ranks of the Night Lords. His first and greatest gift and he revelled in the power as he cried, "We have come for you!"
"Bind them quickly!" Cantus barked at his Clawmates, "They'll be out for hours but take no chances. We want prisoners, not corpses."
"You deal with that, I'll take down the Stompa," Greul hissed with relish.
"No, leave it," Xavaar countered.
"You want to let it stand?!" Greul snapped, "We should level it and teach this scum to fear us."
"I have a better use for it," Xavaar retorted.
Xavaar gripped his staff in both hands and lifted it high as he let the power of the Warp flow free. The black flames danced, casting eerie shadows across the front of the Stompa, the giant effigy seeming to shift and move under the illusion. Somehow hard angles became alive, moving in a lifelike fashion as the two-story face set atop grinned mockingly at the camp spread at its feet. Under Xavaar's deft touch the Stompa became alive, leering at the world and its lips moved as ethereal words heard in the mind and not the ear echoed far and wide. Orks across the camp stared up in horror as their god-idol looked upon them and jeered, "Gork and Mork abandon you!"
It was too much, attacked on all sides, beset by ghostly apparitions and now their gods forsook them, the Greenskin's fickle courage snapped. With wailing terror they turned and fled, rushing away from the horrors tormenting them. Many fled straight into flaming pits or clubbed each other to death over bikes or buggies but all turned to flee, thinking only of escape. Xavaar saw their flight and knew they were broken, their brittle will destroyed by the fear he had unleashed. He now had all the time he needed to snare more prisoners, then level this place before they left.
It was in this moment of triumph that a buzzing sniper round came out of nowhere and blew apart the head of one of Greul's Claw. Xavaar spun about in dismay, thinking an Ork Kommando had snuck up on them unseen but the reality was far more shocking. Emerging from the ramshackle buildings were figures in black armour, moving with subtle grace quite unlike the haughty imperiousness of his kin. Some wore carapace plate, others smooth power armour lacking the embellishments of the VIIIth, but shadows clung to them all as gossamer wisps of confusion. Xavaar hadn't seen that sleek grace since the Dropsite Massacre but he recognised it instantly: Raven Guard.
Shock and dismay, confusion and denial, these things would have frozen mortal soldiers for precious seconds, leaving them exposed to be gunned down, but for all their treachery the Night Lords remained Space Marines and reacted with blinding speed. Even as fingers tightened on triggers they were moving, diving out of the way to find cover behind bulky machines, bulbous pipes or even piles of Ork prisoners. Xavaar felt a bolt round clip his pauldron as he dove for cover, leaving a deep groove in the Ceramite. He ducked in behind a pipe as thick as he was tall, drawing a bolt pistol as he did so, against this foe illusion alone would not be enough.
Flurries of bolt rounds hammered home, shaking the pipe and gouging into other warrior's cover with relentless onslaughts. Xavaar dared not peek out but voxed, "Claws of the VIIIth beware, Raven Guard attack our position!"
Savare replied, "We bloody well know, they're here too!"
Certa snarled, "They came out of nowhere, we're pinned!"
Xavaar saw instantly the trap they'd walked into but ordered, "We're outgunned and surrounded, we need to evacuate immediately!"
"Easier said than done!" Savare snarled.
"Call in the Stormbirds for aerial extraction," Xavaar barked, "Weapons free, tell them to burn this place to the ground to clear us some space!"
He cut off the vox as he heard the tone of fire shifting. The Raven Guard were repositioning, moving to flank them. His genhanced ears picked out the difference in angles, the inclines and pauses that signalled motion between bursts. Unable to risk sticking his head out he instead slipped his astral form free, leaving his body for a single heartbeat to peer beyond. He instantly memorised every figure's position and trajectory, then dove back into his body and called out, "Cantus, shoot at your eleven o'clock in four seconds!"
The Unerring Eye didn't question the order but hefted his bolter as Xavaar lifted his own pistol over the pipe and let rip. Mass-reactives flew free, unaimed but going exactly where he needed them to. The bolts slammed into the walls next to a Raven who had just started to move, forcing him to change direction and step out of cover. At that exact second Cantus opened fire, hosing the loyalist with rounds. A half-clip he emptied into the Astartes, punching through Ceramite and blowing innards across the walls. One Raven was down, but some score remained, moving to encircle the Night Lords. A member of Cantus' claw leaned out of cover to fire a burst, only to be caught by a warrior with a combi-bolter. A soft cough of his gun saw a small charge fly away, hitting squarely in the chest before erupting with melta-fire, reducing the Night Lord to steaming gore.
Greul let off a blind volley as he snarled a gang-curse, "Jur'en Kathi!"
"Can't argue with that," Cantus yelled, "We're not walking out of this, we need a Stormbird now!"
Xavaar pulled his staff close and called, "No, I'll provide cover. Break contact and disengage... now!"
He reached into the warp and formed the power into a spell of deception, making his staff flare like an Obsidian firecracker. As the Night Lords rose from cover shadow images peeled off, false seemings exactly identical to the eye. For every Night Lord who rose to flee, two illusionary shades bolted away, running in varied directions. Nineteen Chaos Marines suddenly became fifty-seven, all running in different directions. The Ravens were taken off guard, reduced to firing wildly in hopes of hitting something. They hosed the square with bolt rounds, riddling paralysed Orks, as their leader roared in furious denial at his true targets slipping away.
Xavaar didn't stay to listen, he bolted from cover and ran, bounding towards a tangled knot of pipes. If he could reach it then he could break contact and disappear. Beyond that he had no plan save to grab a Stormbird and get out of here. He crossed the square in moments, only to nearly die to a swinging axe. From nowhere a roaring chainblade came at his head, a warrior in mismatched plate bounding from cover to ambush him. Xavaar reversed direction at the last moment, missing death by the slimmest of margins. The warrior gave chase, swinging a bulky storm shield about as he spat from under a Mark II helm, "Thinking to escape me, oh no you don't!"
Xavaar sensed bolters turning towards his back and hissed, "I don't have time for this!" He dodged a third swing and then exerted his gaze. There was resistance, an Astartes' mind was defended better than an Ork's, but by focusing all his efforts into a laser-precise lance he drilled through the walls and struck at the soul within. The loyalist collapsed into a heap, drained of animus, and Xavaar would dearly have loved to put a bolt round in his head but had no time to dawdle. He dove into the tangled maze of pipes, squirming his bulk through a small gap just as a hail of rounds smashed into the metalwork.
He felt pipes shuddering under the impacts but forged ahead, pressing through the tight confines seeking a way through. A bolt round smashed a pipe open, spilling some noxious fuel over the ground, then it detonated, setting everything alight. Xavaar found his legs suddenly on fire, liquid flames licking up his thighs, trying to cook his head. His armour wailed as temperatures soared and he knew seconds remained, but the sight made him shudder more. Flames were everywhere, a sea of fire, just like his prophesied vision. Was this the moment he had foreseen, was this the moment of his death, he could only trust he was wrong and forge on, looking for a way out.
An opening appeared and he threw himself into it, stumbling out of the pipework into a narrow alley between buildings. He'd done it, he'd escaped the fires and loyalist vengeance. Relief surged wildly, he'd made it, the vision was wrong. He didn't die here, not today, he was going to live. It was then a shadow fell over him and a sick dread seized his guts as another figure emerged from the flames. He spun about to confront the newcomer, only for his hearts to turn to stone.
Emerging from the bonfire was a midnight-clad killer, with twin-claws extended over the left wrist and a plasma pistol in the right hand. Flames clung to the plate but the killer was untroubled, marching with a predatory aura billowing about like a cloak. Xavaar's throat tightened as he gazed upon his prophesied murderer and that feline-skull helm fixed him in a pitiless glare as a sibilant voice hissed, "I have come for you."