~Siege of San Leor~
~804. M30~
~Segmentum Ultima~
~San Leor~
~Goga Whiteface, Warboss of the Rukus-Maker Waaagh, The biggest Ork within a few sectors~
The Weirdboss was right, this world was a right proper place for a good scrap. Not much in the way of good looting, what with all the zappas that these humies were using, but the krumping was more than good enough to make up for it.
From the moment their Rok landed on this world, they had been in a constant scrap with all the humies and skinnies around, everywhere he or his boyz walked, they found humies with zappas and a few long-dakkas in the back shooting down his runtier boyz.
Which was fine, those boyz went down fighting, which means they didn't really lose. He had sent them out to buy time to put all their heavy metal back together. He had made a good choice in painting everything black, most of their stuff only needing a bit of a spitshine by the meks to get running again after impact.
It was a well known fact that black was the hardest color, hardest to damage. Of course, that much black paint cost him lots of teef, he had to krump quite a few grots to get that many. It was more than paying off here. These humies were actually good for a scrap.
Most humies just ran away, downright unsportsorklike behavior. Had to chase them down to get a mediocre krumping for all the effort. These humies were cunning, they were wearing mostly white armor.
White was well-known as the Killa color, very final. Like fresh bones. You couldn't scare bones, but bones could scare you. White meant that you were winding up for a real slugfest, krump or be krumped, and that running away to come back for another go later wasn't going to happen. It's why he had painted his own face white.
Goga Whiteface thought this whole 'come back for another go' business sounded like a pain in his arse, he'd rather not waste the effort and just krump or be krumped right off the bat. And he hasn't been krumped yet, so he must be doing something right.
Sitting down, legs and arms crossed on the back of good ol Grond itself, Goga looked over to the horizon and waited for the Gargant to make it to the humies. In front of him, about as far as he could see and a little bit more, his WAAAGH marched forwards. Squiggy Beasts, Boyz, Nobz, Dreds, Kans, Nauts, Stompas, the whole affair.
All the grots had gotten krumped on impact, which was just about typical for a grot. He didn't even bother checking what happened to the snots, they probably got krumped just thinking about landing.
They were snots, they got krumped too often to be worth the effort of checking on. You could leave a snot alone in a room with a stick and the stick would krump it by the time you looked away and looked back. More would be back in a few days anyways.
Grond was a right proper Gargant. Stompy and dead shooty, with lots of guns all over. It took half the paint he had bought, and half the paint that he had stolen, to get it all black and face painted white. Grond was tough as Gargants came, and the massive rumble of the big boiler in its belly was downright pleasant to feel as it stomped forwards. All around him, for as far as he could see, thick walka smokestacks pumped good soot up into the air. The sky itself was turning black from all the fumes, and that meant a good long krumping was gonna follow.
Good that the flyboyz were doing their jobs, keeping all the humie fliers flapping around somewheres else, that way they didn't have to waste any effort shootin em down.
A squiggy-like screech brought his focus onto a flying thing that wasn't a flyboy, and thus something he didn't want to talk to. Wingbeats in the air as the big old squigdrake swooped down to land on the head, carrying the Weirdboss on it. It stomped on a few of his smaller boys running around, and clamored up to look him in the eyes.
The weirdboss attempted to look impressive with his fancy black coat and mask. But he was also 'bout half Goga's height, so the effect was mostly lost. Goga squinted down and grumbled out a polite question.
"Whatcha wont, ya weird grot? Ain't I tellz ya to go get krumped first?" It was something of an honor for an Ork to be told to go on the front lines. Goga was more clever than the average ork, however. He had told the weirdboss that he was in charge of all the weirdboys, and that they got to go to the front lines so he wouldn't have to deal with them. Weirdboys were weird, after all, and did very unorky things at times.
The Weirdboss was notable for his weirdness, in that he painted all of his skin camouflage. Goga had to squint to make out anything except his black coat and choppa in hand.
"Theyz got meks of dere own. Ya need ta tell the boyz elsewheres to stop mucking about and get ovah ere." The weirdboss gave a reasonable response, shouting with the proper pronunciations and advising Goga on the strategic overview of the WAAAGH (The capitalization was important to the correct pronunciation).
Goga gave the Weirdboss a reprimanding slap on the head for attempting to order him around, before raising a hand up to his wide orkish chin. "Dey got meks eh…? How stompy is they?"
The Weirdboss pocketed the few teef that Goga knocked out of his face with the slap, before thinking hard on the question. After an impatient moment, he answered. "Feet a bit smallah than a Stompa, and they don't got much dakka. It's more zappas."
Not good for looting then. It was well known that if you had to use a zappa, you were a very financially misfortunate ork. Zappas didn't have a good feeling to them, made it real wimpy to shoot.
"Hurrr…" Goga groaned in consideration, squinting hard and brow furrowed as he considered this. "What color is dere zappas?
"White again, but they shoot red."
"We'll paint em yellow, then sell em for da teef." Goga decided. That would give them more teef to buy more dakka, and some orks were unorky enough to actually use zappas. Only yellow zappas though, they still had some decency. Yellow, as was obvious, was the flashiest color.
"You gonna call the boyz up?"
Goga grumbled for a moment, before standing up from his big throne.
Taking a deep breath for several long seconds, he held it, and gave a broad announcement to all his boyz.
"WAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
—
~Roboute, High King of Albion, Crown Prince of Mankind~
"WAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The roar in the distance told him where the Ork warboss was. As he had been suspecting, directly on top of the biggest ork war-walker. A completely obvious and therefore perfectly orkish place to be.
The roar washed over the planet, practically a physical effect as the local Waagh field responded to the bellows of its current lynchpin. The soldiers of Albion standing ready at the prepared war-fortress stood, but he knew war well enough that most of them had been shaken by such.
The orks in the distance stopped marching forwards just outside the effective ranges of his biggest guns, and the ork war-walkers slowly plodded forwards to stand in vast rows that stretched from one end of the horizon to the other.
This mountain pass was where he had chosen to set up the primary killing field, and a fortress of guns and wraithbone walls had been erected for the planned defense. Behind, further up on the mountain, the largest atmo-ships of Albion sat as backline fortresses, their guns constantly firing up into the air to destroy orkish artillery as it approached.
Behind these adhoc fortresses, all of his own artillery stood ready to fire upon command. In front of these fortresses, the lines and lines of defenders stood with longest guns in the back and shortest guns behind walls and trenches in the front.
Interspersed with these defenders were his armor elements, and in front of all else were rows of his knight-armors, their ion-shields ready to defend his more fragile units behind them. This quickly-erected fortress looked to be where the warboss had decided to push the bulk of his forces against.
Which would group them up quite nicely for the ortillery once the warboss was dead.
The real issue, of course, were the war-walkers.
That was significantly more than he had been expecting.
"Aurelia. Where do you think you should be deployed?" He asked, looking out to the kilometers of black smog filling the sky and snuffing out the sun above.
"With the planetary militia." She answered almost immediately, bringing his attention to her. Firm in her mannerisms, she continued. "They're irregular troops of feudal nature. They'll break almost immediately if they have to fight the orks, and then they'll be useless. I'll need to be present for the sake of maintaining morale."
He had actually been intending on sending her to help guard the flanks. Orks almost never bother going for alternative paths, and so she'd be safest there. Frowning, he considered her answer.
He hadn't actually been accounting for the planetary militia achieving much of anything other than pulling a few orks their way, hence their placement almost to the side of the battlefield. If they manage to hold long enough, they'll be in a good position to ride out and hit the orkish backline once the front pushes that far forwards.
The issue being, of course, that they were primarily armed with black-powder firearms, steel armor, steel weapons, and some manner of local martial arts. San Leor had quite a few sisterhoods present already, much to his surprise, cults dedicated to some manner of local goddess of war and love. One of which had been destroyed when the ork asteroid landed directly on their central temple, which had been a good incentive for the others to rally just in case.
Convincing them to evacuate their temples had been more trouble than it probably was worth, considering their comparatively dismissive attitude towards him. Apparently it was local wisdom on San Leor that men made for poor warriors, as they got 'distracted with their swords'. He had loomed over the woman who said that with an unimpressed look on his face until she awkwardly broke the staring contest.
Being very tall was useful sometimes.
He looked at Aurelia, firm in her declaration still. Internally, he sighed, externally, he nodded and replied. "Very well, have the webway directors send you to them, and link up with their local commander."
Aurelia grinned, and it almost made him forget that she was mostly untested and about to go up against a significantly more mechanized ork waagh than he had been anticipating.
Enough of that Roboute, she's a Primarch, she'll do fine.
She gave a proper salute and moved to open a vox channel with the webway gate-makers, as he turned his gaze towards the horizon once more. The horizon was rippling with movement, as if a thousand insects were swarming over a corpse. Such was the constant foot-stamping of the orks as they waited for their war-walkers to get up to speed with the rest of their forces.
The ability to wait indicated orks significantly more clever than average.
He crossed his arms, and leaned back on his chair, staring at the horizon and listening to the many lines of chatter Albion forces were currently organizing with. The battlefield was set, all that was left was the waiting for the orks to charge forwards.
Behind him, Arik grumbled as he waited for orders to deploy again. Roboute was keeping him reserved for the time being. "They're not going to charge until their biggest walker is here."
"I know." Roboute responded.
"It's got a big ol fucking gun on its belly. The forcefields of the knights aren't going to be enough to handle it. You want me and my boys to drop in and sabotage?"
"Not yet, I need you reserved to strike when the Warboss overextends. Your job will be to take him out. The main cannon of the Gargant will be simple enough to counter."
"Warboss eh? Leader types and all that. About how dangerous are we looking at?"
"With the waagh we're looking at? Fight like you're fighting me, and you should be able to handle it."
"That strong?"
Roboute shook his head. "Not likely to be, no. It takes a lot for an ork to grow that powerful. But just in case, assume that it is that powerful and use the tactics to match. I'll trust the finer details to you."
Another few moments of silence as the black soot grew denser and denser in the distance.
"You know if you can eat orks?"
Roboute paused, tilting his head.
After a moment, he responded. "Do not eat the orks."
"I'm going to try it." Arik idly informed him.
"You're going to get sick, and stuck in the decontamination ward for a while." Roboute half-warned, half-threatened.
"All the better then, there's a medicae with a plump rear who's been giving me glances. I'll have time to get to know her if you stick me in there."
At this point, Roboute decided to cut his losses and focus on the horizon once more.
—
~Kytan, Shield-Captain of the Custodian Guard, Most-Junior Warrior of the 300 Companions~
The Gargant, mightiest type of war-walker of the orks, stomped forwards relentlessly. It towered over its lesser kin, with guns far larger and belching towers of black smoke into the sky. Grond was its name, and the orks chanted war songs about its devastating power.
It overcame the horizon as it plodded forwards, one massive earth-shaking stomp at a time. All who looked upon it quaked in fear as the mountain of steel and fire came into view. The High King was unconcerned, for he wielded an Avalanche-Turning Tactic, and his armies had no need to fear a single titan so long as he was present.
From the side of the command-point, a peak that overlooked the whole of the battlefield, Kytan looked upon the forces of Albion and the Orks and waited for the critical moment. The point in which weapons began to fire and living things began to die in great numbers. The squigdrakes with riders wielding lightning-force, swooped about in the air. They did not attack, merely roar and taunt, and the morale of the men of Albion was shaken slightly with their dread cries.
The horizon-spanning line of orks with cleavers of steel and crude guns stomped their feet and eagerly anticipated the roar that would command them forwards to death and murder. The soldiery of Albion stood ready and waiting, clad in plates of bone and wielding guns of laserfire.
The smog above choked out the sun, and washed over the battlefield more and more with each moment.
The Gargant stomped forwards far enough to finally reveal the barrel of its primary gun, mounted on its distended stomach and plated with immense armoring. A gun the size of a macrocannon, fit more to be mounted on the kilometer-long ships than anything that moved along the ground. Nothing that walked save an Imperial Titan could possibly resist the force of such an immense weapon, and even the fortress erected on the mountain pass would fall with a single shot.
The Gargant paused to line up its gun. Stopping to aim indicated a brutal cunning in the orks, far in excess of their typical strategies of charging with wild abandon. That level of cunning was useless against Malum Caedo, for his tactic had been prepared well in advance.
"Ten seconds." The Eldar diviner next to Malum Caedo spoke, and he nodded in understanding. Pressing a button on a prepared console, a timer began to tick down.
Ten, Nine, Eight…
…
…Three, Two, One.
The main gun of the Gargant fired with a boom, the sound alone devastating enough to kill men that were too close to it, the rumble felt in bones and flesh and the ground beneath their feet.
The gun was useless.
A webway gate had opened in front of the fortress. It was aimed at another gate, which in turn looked down at the world below, view blocked by swirling black smog.
The belly-gun of the Gargant had fired. The sky above, filled with smog, was suddenly made clear as if a great hand had swept the smoke away.
In the distance, the walking mountain of steel and firepower lurched. A second boom washed over the army as the sound of the massive shell meeting the war-walker's armor finally caught up to them, and cheers began to ring out. A long few seconds followed as the Gargant slowly, with inevitable momentum, tipped over and crashed to the ground below, crushing many thousands of orks and several smaller war-walkers with its mass.
A third boom rang out as it finally made impact with the earth. A massive wave of ash and dust issued out, and hid the horizon behind a dense rolling cloud.
The armies of Albion started to quiet down once more, the enemy now hidden from their gaze.
A long few moments of silence and tension.
In the distance, the stomping of the orks could be heard.
Then, finally, another roar.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The Waagh-Field pulsed as the almost-physical sensation washed over the defenders. This roar was quickly followed by the roaring of their other, smaller cannons, and shells began to crash against the shields of the knight-armors.
"Begin the first artillery barrage." Malum Caedo ordered, and the thunderous applause of Albion's own long-guns began just in time to meet the forward wave of orkish vehicles that came screaming out of the dustcloud, firing with wild abandon.
The battle proper had begun.