Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 117
Explosions rocked the bunker, making reinforced Ferrocrete shiver. Dust trickled from the roof in a most worrying fashion and the floor trembled with every crash. Fearful men clung to their lasguns with pinched expressions, expecting any second that the walls would cave in and bury them alive. Only the presence of the Space Marines kept their courage from breaking, four Raven Guard standing idly, as if waiting upon the parade ground for inspection.
Captain Nemkir counted the crashing explosions and deemed the time to deploy was near. Praetor launchers, mobile artillery, fast and vicious but lacking the range of Earthshakers. The Tellarites were pounding the trenches ahead of their main assault, counting on keeping the defenders in their bunkers. An old tactic and never effective, all it did was give away their intent. Surprise and stealth were far more advantageous in the field, but Nemkir's options were limited.
"I wish we were out there," Sergeant Oroton muttered.
"As do I, but power armour will do little to avert an artillery rocket," Nemkir sighed.
"This whole plan is backwards," Oroton rejoined, "Stand in the enemy's path and wait for them to come to us. This is Imperial Fist thinking, not Raven Guard."
"It is the only viable option," Nemkir refuted, "We cannot infiltrate a moving Capitol Imperialis without being noted, even we are not that good. We must draw it to a time and place of our choosing."
Oroton snorted, "I wonder what Lord Corax would say about this plan?"
Nemkir replied briskly, "He would say the first Axiom of Stealth is to be other than where the enemy expects you to be."
"Right in their path, I can't argue that it's the last place in the galaxy the enemy will think to find us."
The explosions reached a furious crescendo and Nemkir knew it signalled the final assault was at hand. Still he held his stern bearing, turning to the mortals, "What regiment are you?"
"85th Ventrillan," a young lieutenant with terrified eyes, squeaky clean boots and a jaunty feather in his polished helm, replied in a wavering voice, "Lieutenant Kasppar."
"Kasppar, is Ventrillia a leal world?" Nemkir asked.
"Our devotion to the God-Emperor is unbreakable!"
"And your world's virtues are to be commended?"
Kasppar straightened, "Our planet is beautiful and productive. Our lands are fecund and our people devout. Ventrillia would never turn against the God-Emperor as the treacherous Heretics of Tellaris have. The Nobles would stamp out any hint of dissension. Ventrillia shall never rebel!"
Nemkir addressed the platoon, "Remember that! Remember your homes and your families. They are proud to know you fight for them, so far from their hearths and halls. They entrusted you with the finest of Ventrillia's virtues, and do not doubt that you will uphold them today. The Heretics embraced the lowest impulses of the spirit: greed, treachery and self-aggrandisement. They are cowards at heart, but you will teach them to fear the anger of righteous Ventrillia!"
A thin cheer rang out just as the bombardment stopped. Nemkir nodded and the hatch was thrown open as the Raven Guard led the way. Outside the ground was smoking, cratered badly and torn up by showers of mud. Steaming clouds arose all along the trench line, a miasma so thick even autosenses struggled to make out anything. The sun was a vague smear of yellow and behind them loomed a series of bulky storage tanks, ten stories tall, left exposed to draw the Heretics in. They took the bait, bulky forms tore through the smoke, closing on the line at top speed. Crassus transports, bearing tens of thousands of rebels.
"Have your men take their positions," Nemkir advised.
"To your guns!" Kasppar hollered, "Don't wait for the order, shoot as soon as you have a target!"
Guardsmen raced to gunports and pulled aside piled sandbags to reveal sheltered heavy weapons. In moments Lascannons, Autocannons and Heavy bolters were set up, pointed outwards. Already the sounds of firing echoed from further down the line, contact had been made. Nemkir knew it wouldn't be long till he was in the thick of it too.
Kasppar stepped to the trench lintel but his foot went through a broken floorboard, "My boots!"
"Ignore it," Nemkir hissed.
"Pah, trenches are for ignobles. No true Ventrillian would be caught dead in a trench, we march with our heads high under the noonday..."
A flash of light in the murk and mass reactives pummelled the trench. Mud sprayed high as they burst, tearing through the thin protection with ease. The upper half of Kasppar disappeared, blown apart by a direct hit. Nemkir's front was painted with arterial spray but he discounted it, for the return fire had begun. Lascannons blazed, Autocannons chugged and Heavy bolters let their wroth be known, slamming the incoming Crassus with shots.
"Sergeant, enfilading fire," Nemkir ordered.
"Maximise yields, let them taste sunfury!" Oroton barked to his squad.
The Sternguard stepped up, combi-plasmas shining from steaming charge coils. They angled right and sighted a looming transport closing through the mist. Flaming orbs of plasma left smoke trails through the dense smog as they crashed into the side of the Crassus, blowing out its tracks. The machine ground to a halt as vague figures dismounted, only to be cut apart by hails of shots. Oroton pivoted left and his gun blew steam in great clouds as he targeted and immobilised another transport. Their guns were glowing cherry-red, burning hot enough to scald bare flesh, but again they fired, crippling a third transport.
Nemkir judged his section of the line was reaping a considerable tally, but not enough. A draw of breath, the pounding of boots and a rushing squelch as hundreds of boots churned wet mud. Nemkir was calm in the face of the charge, merely lighting his power fist, allowing chained energy to wreath his digits and drew back his arm. He drew in a breath and yelled, "Here they come!"
Moments later the smoke parted and hundreds of Tellarites came charging right at them. Their heads were down, their guns swaying and every man had fixed his bayonet. Their faces were eager, flushed with a victory already won in their minds. No matter the cost, no matter how many of them died they were convinced this day belongs to the Land Leviathans. Nemkir was determined to prove them wrong.
Flurries of las-shot and bolt rounds punched dozens off their feet but it was Nemkir who landed the first melee blow. His power fist hammered forward and met a charging man with a blunt uppercut, the disruption field ruptured his molecules and the man burst like a popped balloon, reduced to an inverted waterfall of blood. Those behind had their eyes blinded by gore and in that moment Nemkir surged over the lintel and into them. The fight became close and bloody, chest to chest, with no room for manoeuvre or strategy. It was a brawl, fury and spite replacing skill and cunning. Surrounded, outnumbered and exposed Nemkir's spirit exulted. Here was the true might of the Space Marine revealed, here could his genic superiority carry the day.
Nemkir's bulk slammed into the front rank, shattering bones and skulls. His boot smote a man, sending him into the mud with a shattered hip, to be trampled by his friends. Nemkir swung his power fist wide, tearing men in half and his fist compacted a helm into the skull, deforming the brain beneath. The Tellarites did not falter in the face of his wroth, pushed forward by the men behind. They came at him with bayonets stabbing, seeking the smallest chink in his defence. Scores of blades, hundreds, coming at him from all directions. Nemkir knew the odds were against him, but he did not quiver in fear. He had faced worse at Miserth Keep, Traitors greater than he by far, he had bested them all, and he would be damned if he fell to this sorry rabble.
Nemkir drove on, crushing enemies with his weight and mass. His greaves were painted with blood and his power fist sparked from the mass of killing but he held true. In the corner of his eye he saw Sergeant Oroton's squad similarly engaged, creating a small but narrow dam against the flood of foes. The vox crackled, telling of heavy fighting all along the trenches, but there was little he could do about that. Marcher would do his part, Nemkir trusted his squads to do theirs.
The smoke parted again and a trio of machines rolled forward. Olyphants, with their Macroaccelerators loaded. They slammed their stabilisers down and the immense lengths of the barrels started to rise, preparing to fire. Nemkir hastened his pace, seeking to reach them first but the weight of foes dragged him down. His fist could breach those towering hulls but his charge was encumbered, yet he did not fight alone.
From nowhere a shining harpoon surged through the smoke, slamming into the side of an Olyphant. The trailing cable yanked taut and the machine lurched against its stabilisers. The barrel rocked madly, but a second draw crumpled the puny supports, then a third pulled the entire mass over, slamming it into the dirt. The other two hastily shifted their aim, but the Smoke Jaguars were on them. Damchak came surging out of the mist, darting past foes without engaging. His feet were light in the mud and his fleetness dazzling. He was no soldier in this moment, he was a hunter, chasing his prey, arm drawn back for the cast. It came with a flash of motion, a transonic mine slapped against the Olyphant's side. A momentary whine at the cusp of hearing, and then the hull imploded, spraying shrapnel into the interior and eviscerating the crew.
Nemkir put paid to the third, reaching it at last. His power fist sundered the driver's compartment, leaving a ragged hole, then he pulled out his bolt pistol and emptied half a clip into the interior. A series of hard bangs sent metallic debris flying like a frag grenade and the machine stopped still. Tellarites reeled, their conviction of victory shaken, then Umbral Flame Prowl was on them, Obsidian Blades reaping a fearful tally. The courage of the rebels broke and they ran for their lives, a small victory, but enough.
"My thanks," Nemkir said to Damchak.
"We can be fleet when we wish it," Damchak retorted.
"They'll be back," Nemkir observed.
"Bring them to my claw, I thirst for killing."
Aapo lumbered out of the mist, his bulky frame fitted with canisters long as a man. Breaching charges Nemkir assumed, for when the critical moment came. "The mortals sing your praises."
"Let them cheer, so long as they fight," Nemkir retorted.
"They do cheer loudly," Oroton remarked.
Damchak corrected. "Cheering it is not, the tread of the Great Byson is upon us."
The smoke of battle parted, revealing the approach of Invicta Nova. Massive tracks pummelled the world into submission, its armoured prow cleaved the air apart and the soaring bulk of its cannon pierced the sky above. Nemkir was momentarily taken aback, he'd seen Daemons and Titans in his lifetime, but this was more impressive yet. For a moment he saw what the Smoke Jaguars saw, not a war machine but a living beast, a towering giant of muscle and fat. Its face was blunt and ugly, its hooves tore at the dirt and the spearing length of the cannon was no gun but a horn. It lived, it breathed and it hated: it hated them all and wanted them to die.
"Drawn by the scent of war the Great Byson comes," Damchak growled.
"I trust you brought more of those mines," Oroton gulped.
"First the trap, then comes the hunt-kill."
Nemkir pushed aside his misgivings and said, "Trust it will work, we must position ourselves for the assault. Everything rides on this moment, Emperor be with us, we have only one shot at this."