Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 96
From the heavens they fell, cruciform shapes spearing towards the ground. Flaming contrails burned off wedged prows, punching through thickening atmosphere with all the grace of a hurled brick. Stealth was not required this day, no covert infiltration, this was a combat deployment in full force, the Angels of Death bringing divine vengeance from on high.
In the troop bay Damchak checked his helmet seals were fixed and his gear was in pristine condition. All was in order, his armour purred in eagerness for the fray and his lightning claw flexed with every motion of his fingers. He checked his bolt pistol was fixed, but one of his ammo pouches was empty. He tilted his head a fraction and found it floating just outside the restraint cage, hanging perfectly in mid-air. With a scowl he snagged it and slotted it back into place, then closed the clasp tight.
The interior of the Shadowhawk Shade Walker was in free-fall, the gunship plummeting groundward in a vertical dive that completely negated any sense of gravity. It was no bother, the Smoke Jaguars were long accustomed to Zero-G, and the fact they were hurtling towards obliteration barely made their hearts quiver. If anything this was leisurely, a drop-pod was far more violent, but their Rogue Trader host had no means to deploy such craft, so ShadowHawks it was. Umbral Flame and Bone Gnawer Prowls were with him, Night Caller and Ghost Cry Prowls had the second while Aapo had his own craft. The Raven Guard had their own transports, but would deploy simultaneously.
"The dawning sun rises from its long slumber," Abizil chuckled in the next cage.
"Gothic, my blood brother," Damchak warned, "Speak Gothic in combat."
"The Jade Foot cannot mock what he does not hear!"
"I hear," Damchak admonished, "We learn from our Raven kin this day, watch how they wage war, eat their wisdom and inhale their scent. All that is theirs, shall be ours."
Abizil snorted under his breath, but patted the missile launcher at his side. Across from him Nizca checked the canisters on his Meltagun, weapons chosen for this field of battle in the 'Tactical role'. Damchak had been surprised to find much commonality between Testimony and Codex, in small-unit tactics at least. The Raven Guard's philosophy was bland, lacking in flair and esteem, but the fundamentals were broadly similar. Damchak was eager to see how these subtle differences played out in the field, he was self-aware enough to accept not every enemy was an Orruk, these lessons he would take back to Copan for all to hear.
A shudder ran through Shade Walker as the gunship pulled out of its death-dive. Enormous forces piled on Damchak's head as the plummet bottomed out, far sharper than any mortal pilot would dare. Heavy clunks of missiles streaking away sounded from the wings and a deep boom over his head told of the main battlecannon firing. They were already engaging, truly the Ravens believed in wasting no time.
Damchak drew in a breath to make a fine speech but then the whole craft lurched wildly left. He was thrown into the cage, the whole fuselage rattling as the chugging of flares resounded from the hull. A bone-shaking role to the right, then suddenly they were braking, the whole craft pulling its belly up to shed speed.
"Missiles?!" Nizca ventured.
"A fine greeting from our new enemies!" Damchak hollered.
"Orruk don't have missiles to waste, they prefer flak... lots and lots of flak," Nizca spat.
"Lest ye forget the missile-grots on Marajo," Abizil snorted.
"Before my time, old hunter."
"Old?! Your tongue shall be licking my boots for that!"
Any further talk was cut off as the landing claws slammed home. Damchak was already running before his mind registered it, pushing out of the cage and bounding down the short ladder to the dropping ramp. He was the first Smoke Jaguar to set foot on Tellaris, and what a sight it was. Flaming ruins were everywhere, tents and prefab buildings smashed and torn apart. Bodies lay in pieces, blood stained the ground and his autosenses were hammered by the sound of explosions and screams. How familiar, just like an Orruk rampage in the Boscage, perhaps galactic war was not so different after all.
The vox crackled, "All squads advance and eliminate hostiles, the rebels are spreading out. We must thwart their advance."
Damchak voxed back, "We hear, but they number as many as the grains of sand on the beach."
Nemkir replied, "They have a tunnel opening inside the lines, we must seal it and cut off reinforcements. Stay close to us, support our efforts."
"Lead on Jade Foot," Damchak replied.
The Raven Guard gunships had set down nearby, but between them massed an army of foes. As Shade Walker took off Damchak led his kinsmen forth, racing to engage the foe before they realised what was happening. Ashen fog was thick in the air, the noise incredible, it was doubtful the enemy would see them coming and even more unlikely they could do anything about it.
Damchak's boots sprayed mud as he pounded forward, then he met his first Tellarite. A mere man in a long coat and trailing gas-mask, he held a lasgun with a bayonet on the end, slowly bringing it around to confront the shapes emerging from the fog of war. Damchak's relic weapon flared as he swept the man from hip to shoulder, disruption fields parting molecules without a whisper of resistance. The man fell into chunks, slain before he saw what killed him. All too easy, Damchak thirsted for a foe of better quality, what he found instead was quantity.
A screaming mob came at them, bayonets flashing. The Smoke Jaguars piled in, Obsidian Blades gleaming darkly. Damchak grinned as sharp points nicked his plate and scores of fists and boots hammered home. This was more like it. Damchak smashed a skull in with a backhand, his claw removed the face of another, leaving them dying in the mud. His knees folded chests inwards, his elbows shattered collar bones and his sheer bulk bowled foes over as he crashed into them. These mortals were far less hearty than a full-grown Orruk, he found little trouble in killing them, until a tracked machine rolled out of the fog.
A rising prow emerged like an iceberg in the night, bearing down on an unsuspecting boat. Heavy Bolters at the corners thundered, firing into the melee, uncaring that they were culling their own men. Damchak was nearly crushed by a rolling tread, his claw flashed out but merely scored the hull, unable to penetrate. A Krak missile bloomed against its hide but merely dislodged a shower of debris, leaving it unharmed.
The Crassus rolled into the fray, intent on crushing the Space Marines under its treads. Damchak had seen Orruk cut down their own in eagerness to close but this was something else. The drivers seemed not to care what damage they caused to their own men, only that they hurt the Space Marines. No bellowing challenges, no laughing gunners or raging drivers, merely the cold hard intent to inflict damage. This was not the raging fury of heated blood, it was cold calculation and Damchak was disgusted.
"Nizca!" Damchak bellowed, "Bring the fury!"
"High or low?!" Nizca yelled as he ran forward.
"High, give me the hunt-kill!"
The meltagun in Nizca's hands roared, flashing water molecules in the air to nothingness. The side of the Crassus glowed for a moment, then rippled like wax under a flamethrower, fusion fire peeling aside armour in seconds. Searing heat filled the interior, but not enough to kill the crew outright, the angle was too poor, but Damchak raced forward, readying to pounce.
The First leapt high, his free hand snagging a protruding nut. He got his boot on a loose plate and surged upwards, bringing himself to the dripping hole. Even with Meltafire the gap was too narrow for him to squeeze through, and it would take much time for him to widen it, but that was not his intent. Instead he placed the nozzle of his flamer attachment to the gap and made the Crassus into a cauldron of horror. Searing fires gushed into the transport, gutting the interior with black flames. The crew were consumed utterly, sent into the embrace of death on wings of fire. Flames poured out of every vent and exhaust, the visions slit cracked and leaked wisps of gossamer and the whole transport ground to a shuddering halt.
Damchak dropped to the ground, satisfied with his kill but while he was engaged another transport had rolled into the fight. The fresh Crassus bore down on Bone Gnawer Prowl and Damchak was wrong footed, but then a shining ball of plasma flew from the fog. It splashed over the tracks and melted clean through. The transport slewed sideways, crushing a dozen of its own men as it did so. Another plasma bolt struck a heavy bolter clean off, another melted a vision slit into charred slag then two more punched through sagging metal and turned the interior into a charnel house. The Crassus rolled to a halt, its engine dying, as the Smoke Jaguars finished off the rest.
From the fog marched Nemkir, Power Fist crackling. With him were five glorious warriors, bearing steaming combi-plasmas. They strode like kings, utterly contemptuous of the foe. Pride radiated off them and Nemkir barked, "You took too long, so we came to you."
"Killing the enemy is consuming labour," Damchak retorted.
"Only when you showboat! Forget your ego, kill them and move on, we move thrice as fast as you laggards!"
Damchak was insulted but the Ravens were already past, pressing into the foe. The Smoke Jaguars were a step behind, racing to keep pace. Damchak was surprised at how quickly they moved, firing to clear a path, uninterested in looking into their enemy's eyes as they died. Into the fray, bolters culling any opposition, Nemkir's power fist obliterating anything he hit. The vox was alive with the orders of Tuun-Ok, the sound of gunships making firing runs overhead near constant, the Smoke Jaguars barely had anything to kill as they drove towards the source of the incursion. Damchak had to admire the ruthless drive and efficiency of the Codex way of war, but it was sterile and bland, not the Smoke Jaguar's way at all. Despite his earlier commands he found the Codex not to his tastes, he could not see how anyone could forge a deed-name fighting like this.
A fierce explosion ahead drew their attention and they diverted, thinking kinsmen needed aid, but it was the Tellarites who needed saving. They found a pair of artillery tanks, surrounded by torn-up bodies. One of the tanks was spinning on the spot, trying to crash its prow into its attacker, but Aapo the Eldest was having none of that. The Dreadnought swung his Chord claw and peeled open the side, exposing the crew within. Terrified men fired potshots at the slabs of armour bearing down but Aapo's long talons plunged within and when they pulled back were coated in blood. The machine ground to a halt, its arsenal unfired.
The other Praetor sought to clear distance, to target the war machine slaughtering Tellarites so easily. Aapo did not permit it. The Thundercoil harpoon on his right flank whined with charge, then fired. A spike long as a man slammed home, trailing thick hawsers. The Praetor's tracks spun backwards, trying to get free but Aapo planted his feet like a man reeling in a fish. Tracks spewed mud frantically, slipping in dirt made sodden with blood. It was no use, the Dreadnought was immovable, and then the coils began to retract. Slowly, inch by inch, he dragged the Praetor to him, the Eldest's feet sinking deep into the mud as he drew them together. Fighting futilely all the while the Praetor was brought near, then his Chord claw went to work, slicing apart the prow and mutilating all he found within.
Aapo finished off the crew then said smugly, "None can escape my wrath."
Nemkir seemed not impressed, "It seems you are all showboaters."
"Do they speak so insolently to your living-dead on Deliverance?" Aapo growled.
"Our Dreadnoughts know better than to waste precious time in a fight!" Nemkir snapped, "We are ninety-seconds behind, our chance to win this fight fritters away!"
Damchak spied something interesting and nodded to Abizil to cover. The missile armed Smoke Jaguar made a show of reloading while Nemkir was distracted, as Damchak moved to a fallen Tellarite. The one was still alive, legs broken, but what interested the First was the bulky vox-set at his side. This man was a comm-specialist, the 'tongue' of the rebels. Damchak saw a chance to demonstrate the worth of the Testimony in this sterile fight but had little time to make it so.
"You can speak to your Kinsmen?" Damchak hissed as he squatted by the injured man's side.
"Space Marines?!" the Tellarite whimpered, "But the preachers said the God-Emperor's Angels would be on our side!"
"You speak many words, but not the ones I require, pass on my message or die!"
"What message?!"
Damchak leaned in close to whisper, "Tell all with ears that the Astartes come with words of destiny upon our lips: We Have Come For You."
The man gulped but did as bid, frantically working the dials on his vox-set. Damchak didn't bother finishing him off, letting the man repeat his message. Nemkir was already urging the Space Marines on, demanding they redouble their pace. Damchak rejoined Umbral Flame with knowing nods, sure that news would spread fast. Let the Ravens demonstrate their way of doing things, and the Smoke Jaguars would do likewise. Nemkir wasn't the only one who knew how to win a battle.